Part V
Only Yesterday
“The timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.”
— Kahil Gibran
Chapter 13
The sensation of emptiness surrounded him, like a man suddenly thrown into water, with no place to hold and no footing beneath him. Fedorov groped frantically ahead of him for Orlov, but he felt nothing. Then a swooning moment overcame him, and he felt as though he might lose consciousness. At last, the vaporous feeling that had taken him subsided. He could feel solidity in his arms and legs again, and light dispelled the darkness.
He literally stumbled, his feet on something solid once more, and then came tumbling through the upper landing of the stairway. There he blinked stupidly, his vision clearing to see Sergeant Troyak staring at him, and all the other Marines.
“Sir,” said Troyak. “Are you all right?”
Troyak had been the first to reach that upper floor, shouldering his way through a closed door to see a startled man with a rifle there. Secure the upper landing, those had been his orders. He quickly took care of the matter, moving faster than that man could believe, and putting him down for a long sleep.
One by one, the other Marines stumbled up through the doorway, some still with their hand on the shoulder of the man in front, though that was no longer necessary after they had passed the crucial mid-point on the stairway where an inexplicable rift in time existed, a crack in Fedorov’s mirror of history, and one that ran from 1908, to 1942, and then on to 2021.
At last Fedorov came up, bleary eyed, confused, but slowly regaining his senses. He had felt that strange sensation before when he walked those stairs, but it was much worse this time. Still, Time had delivered him to this place, along with all his team, save one. He looked around the room, Troyak still watching him closely, a concerned expression on his face.
“Orlov,” he said. “Where is Orlov?”
“He was right behind me,” said Private Gomel.
“And right in front of me,” said Fedorov. “Sergeant. Did he come up?”
“No sir, I thought he was behind you.”
Eyes wide, Fedorov turned to the doorway looking down the stairs, but there was no one there. The dusty steps descended into shadows.
“Orlov!” he called. “Chief? Are you down there?”
“Sir,” said Troyak. “You know Orlov. He’s probably still in the foyer, flirting with that maid.”
“I tell you he was right in front of me!” Fedorov had a frantic look on his face, then he stopped. “Until he sneezed…. Did you hear that, Private Gomel?”
“Aye sir, that big nose of his must have gotten a whiff of that dust. Don’t they ever clean this place?”
My god, thought Fedorov, realizing what must have happened. Lord no, this can’t be happening now. Yes, he sneezed, and what if he reflexively moved his hand to his face, the hand he had on Gomel’s shoulder. He was carrying a duffel bag in the other hand. That had to be what happened.
It was.
At that crucial moment, just as Orlov reached that fissure in time, he had sneezed, moved his hand as anyone might, and the human chain had been broken. Fedorov now knew that he had literally felt Orlov vanish, felt the man disappear. In that dizzying moment where he felt himself to be untethered from all reality, Orlov had slipped through that crack in the mirror, but obviously to another place and time.
But what about me, thought Fedorov? I was right there with him when he vanished. Why did time allow me to reach this place, but not Orlov? He knew this was a futile question. He would never really know the why of it, or for that matter, why this rift persisted here at all. Perhaps it was some ineffable gravity that saw him carry on through to this place, and another riptide of destiny that took Orlov elsewhere. Lord, not again, he thought. Now how will I find that man?
Before he could think anything further, there was the sound of footsteps coming up the main stairway. Acting on instinct and reflex, Troyak gave a hand signal to his Marines, and they moved quickly into rooms on either side of that landing, weapons at the ready. Fedorov was still standing and staring down those stairs, trying to decide whether he should go back and see if Orlov might still be there, perhaps experiencing that same moment of chaos; perhaps retreating to the lower level, still in 1908.
Now it was Troyak’s hand heavy on his shoulder that snapped him back to the present. “Sir!” he hissed in a low whisper. “Someone is coming!”
He got Fedorov to move, out of the landing to that stairway, and into an adjacent room. Zykov had pulled the body of the fallen sentry inside just in time, for a group of soldiers in black uniforms came cautiously around the corner at the far end of the hall.
“What is going on up here,” came a voice. “Skolov? Where are you?”
Then silence, but to Troyak’s well trained ear, he knew those men were now slowly advancing down that hallway, weapons at the ready.
“Sir,” he whispered to Fedorov. “These are most likely the security men you briefed us about. What do you want done here?”
Fedorov had to think quickly, still shaken by all that had happened to him. He had gone from the tension of that moment with Mironov, the desperation and torment he felt, knowing he could not kill this man, and that everything else was his own damn fault. End it, a voice had whispered to him from deep within. Make certain you can never do any further harm.
That was when he had raised his trembling hand, intending to use that pistol and do just that—end it, end it all right then and there. It had been Mironov that stayed his hand, young Sergei Kirov, and that changed everything.
From that moment to this one was only a matter of fifteen minutes, but long years had intervened. Then came the shock of losing Orlov, and now this. If they had reached the 1940s again, then these men were most likely Tyrenkov’s elite security team, charged with the 24 hour watch on the railway inn. Fedorov realized that they were perhaps seconds from a real crisis here that would erupt in a firefight.
Think!
In a brief few seconds he sorted it all through. If his assumption was correct, then a firefight would soon leave men dead on both sides, and if his team prevailed here, it would only be a short interval before this building was completely surrounded by Tyrenkov’s men. There was too much he did not know. They had not even ascertained whether they had reached the 1940s yet. He simply could not allow more bloodshed at this juncture, and made a snap decision.
“I will handle this,” he said. “You men, stand fast. Take no action unless you hear a direct order from me.” Then he turned toward the half opened door and spoke in a loud voice. “Coming out!” he called. “Do not shoot! I am here to speak with your commanding officer!”
Fedorov stepped out of the room and into the hall, as Troyak grimaced, his hand tighter on the assault rifle he held. They had come all this way, first in the helo, and then in that odd airship, which then encountered that terrible devastation. Fedorov had tried to explain it to him: “We’ve moved,” he had said. “We aren’t in the same time as before. That event out there is the Tunguska Event. That’s what we were overflying, only not in 1942. It isn’t 1942 any longer…. So if I’m right, then this is 1908, and just a day or so after that thing fell back there on the 30th of June.”
1908? The Sergeant had a rough time swallowing that, though Orlov seemed to get it down easily enough. Then Fedorov had told him this long incredible tale, about Orlov jumping ship, and a long mission to find him. The longer he spoke, the more Troyak came to feel that everything Fedorov was saying was true. It was almost as if he could remember it, though the images remained just beyond his grasp. But like that deep sound that you could not hear, but feel, Troyak knew it to be true—he could just feel it in his bones.
Then Fedorov had told him about the stairway, and what they were now going to attempt. Apparently it had worked! They were obviously not in the same place they were before. After he put down that single
guard at the upper landing, Troyak caught a glimpse of the town through the window where a small table rested in a nook, with a few books. It was not the same town they had been in moments before.
So Troyak knew who the men were coming down that hall, and he was prepared to do what was necessary, for as long as it was necessary, until he and his men either ran out of ammunition, or were all dead. But Fedorov had other ideas. The fact that Orlov was now missing had shaken him, and he still did not really know what had happened down there with that young man he was speaking to in the dining room—Mironov.
Now the moment of crisis was at hand. Fedorov stepped out into the lighted hallway. Damn brave, thought Troyak. But how will he get us out of this mess now?
“You there!” came a hard voice. “Don’t move. Let me see your hands!”
“Don’t shoot, Lieutenant. Are you one of Tyrenkov’s men?”
“I’ll ask the questions. Where is my guard? Is there anyone else with you up here? Goddammit, speak, before I put a bullet through you!”
Fedorov recognized the man’s uniform, just like the men Karpov had brought onto the ship. So they had made it back to that same world, he thought, though he did not yet know the year and day.
“Lieutenant, I would not do that if I were you. Tyrenkov would boil you alive. I am Anton Fedorov, Starpom off the battlecruiser Kirov, and I was sent here on a special mission by Vladimir Karpov, on his direct orders. Are you familiar with that name?”
“Karpov?” That name had obviously put the fear of the lord into the man, and Fedorov could see it in his manner. “You were sent here by Karpov? Who did you say you are?”
“Anton Fedorov. Now I will need to speak directly with your commanding officer, and quickly. You must find him at once.”
“Oh you’ll speak with him soon alright, but you may not like it. You’re the man we were told to be on the lookout for. How in God’s name did you get through my security?”
There came the sharp sound of fingers snapping, and the Lieutenant and Fedorov looked to see a tall man in a jet black overcoat at the far end of the hallway.
It was Tyrenkov.
“So here you are, Fedorov,” he said. “Quite a little hat trick you’ve pulled.” The Lieutenant immediately came to attention, saluting when he saw Tyrenkov, who had a drawn pistol in his black gloved hand.
“Yes, and you’re probably wondering just what the Lieutenant here was saying—how could I have possibly gotten through your security net. Well, let us sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. I suppose Karpov will want to know as well, and I will report to him in good time.”
“Precisely,” said Tyrenkov. “Step this way, please, and if you don’t mind, I must have the Lieutenant search you.”
“If you must,” said Fedorov. “And you should know that I have a squad of Marines with me.”
“Indeed,” said Tyrenkov.
“And they are carrying things… How should I put this? They are carrying things that I do not think Karpov would want anyone to see, let alone handle in any way. If you will take my word on it, I will vouch for these men, and absolutely guarantee they will pose no threat to you, your men, or these premises.”
“I would certainly hope not, because we have a full Siberian rifle division posted here, and another at Kansk. Let me see then…. Alright Fedorov, I’m going to take your word on this. Bring your men out. They can’t stay here, of course, but I can have the Lieutenant here arrange an escort to quarters on this very block, and they can wait there until we sort all this business out.”
“Agreed,” said Fedorov. “Do you wish to have your man search me now, or shall I bring out my men? I did have a service pistol, but my Sergeant is carrying it now.”
“Never mind, Fedorov. We can forego the formalities here. Something tells me that if you came here to do anything, it has already happened. So bring your men out, and let’s get moving.”
Fedorov gave orders to Troyak, stating that he wanted them followed to the letter, without exception, and any man causing the least bit of trouble would be stewed. He wanted the Sergeant to take the squad to the quarters arranged and wait there for his return. They were not to interact with the locals, nor were they to openly display or handle their weapons. Each man was permitted a sidearm and his knife, but all their rifles and other equipment should be stowed in the duffel bags, and no one was to touch it, except by Fedorov’s direct order, or an order given by Troyak on Fedorov’s approval. They would remain in contact hourly through their service jacket comm-link, and there was to be no trouble. If guards were posted outside their quarters, they were to be ignored and left alone.
“Good enough?” said Fedorov, looking at Tyrenkov.
“Good enough. I’ll have food sent over for your men, and they will be considered our guests, unless I hear otherwise from Karpov. By the way…” Tyrenkov leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only Fedorov could hear. “Which one did you need to speak to?” He smiled.
They were led out, and Tyrenkov and Fedorov crossed the street to a building that had once been a school. He remembered it from the raid they had conducted here, right in the middle of one of Volkov’s attacks. Soon they were seated in a room that had been comfortably appointed with chairs, a coffee table, and a bar. Tyrenkov sat down, slowly removing his gloves, and had an adjutant bring in a plate of cold cuts, cheese, nuts, and two glasses. He poured them a nice vodka.
“I’m famished,” said Fedorov. “Thank you for your hospitality, and for treating me this way, though you may have every reason to do otherwise.”
“That gets tedious, unless I know a man is clearly my enemy,” said Tyrenkov. “Then I can be a heartless and cruel as any brute, though we usually have Grilikov to look after that business. Are you my enemy, Mister Fedorov? Are you Karpov’s enemy now, as he might think after this little theater you’ve pulled?”
“What theater? Let me explain what happened. As you may know, I was ordered here by Karpov.”
“Yes, and ordered back to his ship as well.”
“We got that message, and I confirmed, but we then had difficulties with the helicopter.”
“We found it, of course,” said Tyrenkov. “Right where you left it. But it seems we are missing an airship now.” He folded his hands, waiting, watching Fedorov closely.
“I suppose I should tell you the entire story,” said Fedorov.
Chapter 14
“So you elected to carry on with your mission, in spite of the recall order you received, and even after Karpov took a shot at you with one of those missiles?”
“I did. I am not just anyone, Tyrenkov. I am Captain of that ship, given that post by our Admiral Volsky himself. You may have hoodwinked us in Murmansk, and yes, Karpov had his way there, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am, and what authority I have. I agreed to cooperate with Karpov, until he fired that missile. Let’s just say that if you had used that pistol in your hand when you first appeared a moment ago, we might not be sitting here for this nice little conversation. The moment Karpov refused to treat me like the man I am, was the moment he forfeited his authority over me. I did what any sane man would have done at that moment—I saved that helo, my men, and my mission.”
“Laudable, but I don’t think Karpov will see things quite that way, neither one of them. Big Brother is quite upset with what he now perceives as your deliberate insubordination, and he’s been riding Little Brother to find you, not to mention his airship.”
“That won’t be found again. I had to destroy it, along with everyone aboard, and I’ll take full responsibility for that.”
“I see… Quite ballsy of you, Fedorov. Little Brother won’t like that one bit. He’s taken to his fleet like a fish to water, just like the first one did. Volkov still outnumbers us in that area, and now the Germans are getting into the act, and with ships carrying some very dangerous armament. It could upset the entire balance of power in terms of air superiority. So then, you had your men fry that airship. But what of the mis
sion?”
“As you can see, I got through to the target, though not in any way I expected. To be quite honest with you, after Karpov took that shot at my helo, all bets were off. I elected to try and get to neutral ground, and plotted a course for Soviet territory. As it happened, that course took me over some very dangerous ground.”
He told Tyrenkov what had happened to them over the Stony Tunguska, and where they ended up. With each passing moment, he could see Tyrenkov’s detached manner melt away, and he leaned closer.
“You got all the way back to 1908?” he said, his voice lowered.
“July 1st, to be precise,” said Fedorov, “which was exactly where I hoped to go by first coming here in this time—here to that railway inn. I assume you know all about it. Well, I’ve been down those stairs before, and it was my assertion that a connection exists there between this time and 1908.”
“Karpov has told me all about this,” said Tyrenkov. “And he’s also told me what you were attempting to do there, and why it was so imperative that your mission be stopped, by any and every means at our disposal. We’ve been looking for you ever since, but I never thought I would find you right there as I did, like a bear with his paw in the honey pot.” He paused, looking around, then focusing on Fedorov again.
“Everything here looks the same,” he said, “even that painting over there of the Flying Dutchman that I’m fond of. I had it hung there myself six months ago. So may I assume your assassination attempt failed?”
Now it was time to introduce a little whitewash to the picture he was painting, thought Fedorov. “Assassination attempt? You mean Sergei Kirov? I had direct orders from Karpov to abort that mission. I wanted to know why, and got a missile instead. Then one thing led to another, as I have told you. However, when I did find that fate had brought me to the precise place I intended to go, I had… second thoughts. Karpov had to have a reason for aborting the mission, even if he would not take the time to trust me with it, or trust I would comply. That was his mistake. For my part, while I had every intention of finding Mironov and ending this nightmare, I relented.”
Thor's Anvil (Kirov Series Book 26) Page 12