“So you say if we all agree, then our combined will forces things?”
“Correct,” said Karpov.
Volsky smiled. “Unless a Japanese task force has a modern carrier with F-35 stealth fighters. Didn’t we all agree on the previous plan? What happened to your Absolute Certainty in that?”
“Interesting,” said Fedorov, looking at Karpov. “That’s a good point. We did set our minds on one goal, but now we’ve come to the conclusion that it is fruitless.”
“So the same thing could happen with this new plan,” said Volsky.
“No…” Karpov’s voice was quite firm. “The previous plan failed because I knew it was futile from the beginning. I was merely paying it lip service. In fact, I simply wanted to use Gromyko and Kazan to help me get rid of Takami. Then we got… complications.”
“Quite a confession,” said Volsky. “So you were never really on board. This is what you say now? And this is why there was no real combined intention on our part that could win through.”
“Admiral, you are very astute.”
“But now you are convinced that this new plan—1908—is the only solution.”
“Well can you think of anything else? Solve it then. You come up with a plan that gets Volkov, removes his Orenburg Federation, expels the Japanese from Vladivostok and all our other territories. And don’t forget beating the Germans in that too.”
“Alright… I admit that 1908 is a decisive year, and that from there we can have a profound effect on how the timeline moves forward.”
“I knew that the moment I first found myself there,” said Karpov. “And if we decide to go, we’ll get there. Hell, Fedorov got there all on his own, even against my direct order, and with no Kirov, and no Rod-25 at his command. He got there on a goddamned blimp! How’s that for willpower? Well, I could do the same. In fact, I could get there in seventeen little steps, if I wanted. You forget about Ilanskiy.”
“Suppose this is true,” said Volsky. “Suppose we do get there. When do we arrive? Fedorov has said we cannot go to a time where we already exist, so how could he go back there again?”
“I was only there very briefly,” said Fedorov. “I was there on June 30th, the day of the Tunguska Event, perhaps for just an hour. And I returned again, present through July 1st, and with a mission very much like the one Karpov suggests in mind. But…. I failed.”
“And you were also there on Anatoly Alexandrov, and then we were all there for those unfortunate events off Iki Island.”
“We’ve worked out the dates,” said Karpov. “I arrived on the 10th of July, 1908. To my great surprise, Fedorov contacted me by shortwave on the 17th of July.”
“Yes, the Anatoly Alexandrov shifted back on that day, and for another 48 hour period. That’s how we discovered where you were.”
“And I was there through the 25th of that month,” said Karpov, “so those dates are out for me.”
“Then when would we appear if we attempted this?” asked Volsky. “Assuming time cooperates with us as you believe.”
“We would have that window, from July 2 through the 10th,” said Fedorov. “Then the next opportunity would not occur until after we finally attempted our shift home, late July of 1908.”
“And where would Volkov and Mironov be by then? You both may think we have all the time in the world, but we could do this thing and still show up late…”
Part II
Yasawa
“Time is everything; five minutes make the difference between victory and defeat... And in battle, something must always be left to chance; nothing is sure in a sea fight.”
Chapter 4
The day would start very early for the Japanese carrier forces. The order sent down to awaken the crew would go out as early as 03:00 that morning. Service crews, plane mechanics, ordnance handlers would all take their brief morning meals in the mess halls before filing into the broad open spaces of the inner hangar deck. Their work awaited them in the seeming haphazard jumble of planes—white winged Zeroes, the deep green and dull earth tones of the torpedo bombers all sitting in silent repose. There were no neat lines, but there was a method to the seeming disorder, for the planes were all carefully positioned and aligned with white painted markers on the hangar deck, and meticulously anchored in position by cables fed through eye bolts. Sometimes as little as 5 centimeters separated the upward folded wingtips on the D5-A’s from one another, and crewmen would stoop to dip beneath the wings as they moved about.
Some were fetching tools, others looking for spare parts, but they all worked together like a well-oiled machine. The Sebichos, petty officers of the maintenance deck, barked orders, seeing that each mechanic was at his assigned plane, and with the correct tooling required for any work that plane needed before being certified for operations. They would all labor in the slowly rising heat by mid-day, but now the cool pre-dawn hours were the time to get everything ready, and it promised to be a very busy day.
In effect, all these men, over 2,400 of them spread across the various carriers, were filling orders determined the previous evening by the ship’s Air Officer and Squadron Leaders. Once given the authorization to operate by the ship’s commanding officer, lists of aircraft and assigned pilots would be sent down to the hangar deck, and the Sebichos would identify specific planes for each Chutai leader by their brightly colored tail markings.
The first action of the day was going to be a long range armed reconnaissance, flown off by one squadron of torpedo bombers to be escorted by a dozen Zeroes out to conduct a fighter sweep. Sighting reports from the previous day’s recon sorties had all been digested by the Air Officer, and now he intended to confirm the information. So only the planes assigned to this mission would be fueled and armed that morning, and it would be the first real sortie that might result in combat since the fleet had left Rabaul.
The Nakajima B6N was selected for the mission, for it had a range of slightly over 1,600 nautical miles. The Japanese had only been receiving these new planes in recent months, the replacement for their venerable B5N’s. They called the new planes the Tenzan, or “Heavenly Mountain,” but to the U.S. pilots on the other side, they were demoted to the common code handle of “Jill.” Four would go up, one heavy Shotai, where the flight leader would fly slightly above and behind the traditional trio of planes that would normally make up that formation. The Zeroes would be higher up, watching for enemy scout planes or fighters.
It was nothing more than a small probing sortie, intended to scout towards the last reported sighting made the previous day by a big seaplane out of Luganville. To make even this small mission possible, those mechanics and service crews had to be up and at their work well before dawn. Some were making last minute tune-ups on the engine of a Zero, others pulling the large drop tanks from the storage areas along the outer walls of the deck and getting them mounted on the planes. The whole scene was awash with the smell of aviation fuel, motor oil, lubricants of every kind. The ventilation fans were already at work to clear out the vapors, which could be deadly if ignited in the confined space of the hangar deck.