Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14)

by John Schettler

  “Don’t worry about it, Bogrov. The Admiral just changed his mind, that is all. We have urgent business back home.”

  “Yes? Well kindly tell me why we cannot pick up any of our radio signals traffic?”

  “Don’t worry about that either. The Admiral wishes to maintain radio silence, particularly over the continent. You may have noticed there was a war on. Just get us back to Russia, but I have a new destination for you, direct from Karpov.”

  “New destination?” Bogrov rolled his eyes. “Where this time? Are we off to China?”

  “Calm down, Bogrov. No, we will be stopping off at Saratov on the way home to Ilanskiy.”

  “Saratov? But there is fighting there. The Federation may have a full squadron of airships assigned to that sector.”

  “Forget about the Orenburg Federation. Just get us to Saratov.”

  Bogrov shook his head. “One minute you remind me of the war, the next you tell me to forget about it. Which is it, Tyrenkov? After Saratov I will have to follow the Volga all the way north to Perm before turning east again. Am I to forget that there is tension all along that border as well?”

  “To be blunt about it, yes. Do not concern yourself with security, Air Commandant. That is my job. You just navigate the ship and, at the moment, our destination is Saratov—by the most direct route possible. After that you will get new instructions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Admiral wishes to see me at once.”

  “Very well, Tyrenkov. I should have known better than to complain to the Intelligence Chief, but I foolishly thought that if anyone might know what is going on here, it might be you.”

  “In that you are correct, Bogrov. And when it comes time for you to be briefed, the Admiral will speak with you. Until then, simply do your job—and one other thing. The Admiral wishes you to steer wide of any electrical storm we may encounter. Coordinate closely with our weather man. He wants no more wild rides like the one over the Channel.”

  “In that we finally find agreement,” said Bogrov. Then he turned to his navigator and gave him orders to plot a course to Saratov.

  * * *

  “Bogrov is none too happy over recent developments,” said Tyrenkov. He had come up from the bridge to the upper cabin level where the executive quarters were, and was now meeting with Karpov in his private ready room. The Admiral had been musing over a game of chess, though Tyrenkov could not imagine who he might have been playing with. No one had been in or out of the Admiral’s quarters, except for the orderlies bringing meals or tea. Yet something about that chess game had given the Admiral an idea, and now he would find out what it was.

  “Strange the things that come to mind over a good game of chess,” said Karpov. “This one certainly set me off in an unexpected direction, but I don’t think you realize where I am going just yet, or why.”

  “We seem to be cruising at 5000 meters above Poland. A remarkably easy trip thus far. There hasn’t been so much as a whisper of news concerning the war, which has Bogrov somewhat spooked. He’s been asking a lot of questions.”

  Karpov smiled. “A curious man, Bogrov. But for the moment we will keep things the way they are. You are the only one I have fully briefed, Tyrenkov. No one else knows this is actually 1909, and quite frankly, you took the matter rather well, considering you have little more than my assertion this is so.”

  “You are not a man to trifle with nonsense, sir,” said Tyrenkov. “If you tell me this, then I must assume you have given it careful thought and analysis. So of course, I accept your word on the matter, though I must admit it was somewhat alarming.”

  He was a quiet, careful man, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to smolder when he looked at you. Karpov appreciated his methodical nature, and calm temperament, and the seeming way he went about his job as Intelligence Master with no qualms. Tyrenkov was a man who would get things done, and not one to equivocate over useless things like morality, or consequences, and he made no excuses. He was just efficient, and somewhat ruthless when he needed to be, and this was a mindset that Karpov inherently understood, and respected. Tyrenkov didn’t fully grasp the why or how of their present position, but he accepted it when Karpov first briefed him on the situation, and he immediately began to determine what he needed to do now if this were true.

  Yes, if this were true then there was no war to be jangling on the airwaves with the codes and radio calls of generals on every side. If it was 1909, then the revolution had not even happened yet! Ivan Volkov would not have risen to power, or started his breakaway war with the Bolsheviks. Russia was still whole, the single domain of the Czar, and the Romanovs held sway from the gilded palaces in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Sergei Kirov did not even go by that name yet, and was a young revolutionary in the making. In short, it was an entirely different world, and Tyrenkov realized that, his present title aside, he was really master of nothing now.

  His entire intelligence apparatus back in Siberia, all the agents he had posted throughout the world, had not yet come into being—he had not even come into being. Tyrenkov was a man of 28 years, and would not be born until 1913. The same could be said for every man on the crew, most still in their twenties, some even in their teens—except those three men they had found, Konev, Symkovich, Lavrov, all older men, in the service for many long years. Konev was fifty two, a surly Chief who ran the upper rigging crews. But he was dead now, and Karpov seemed to know why, though he had said nothing about the incident, until now.

  “You want to know why Konev died,” said Karpov matter of factly, “and the other two? It is easy if you think about it—and no, it wasn’t their bad health or frailty. Konev was a hardy man, was he not? I checked the records on the others, and they were both in good shape. Well, I will tell you why they died now—simply because of their age.”

  “Their age?” Tyrenkov took that in. “Konev was older, but the other two were only in their thirties, sir, and you just said they were also in good health.”

  “They were in their later thirties, and that was their undoing,” said Karpov, holding up a finger. “Think, Tyrenkov. Konev was 52. That means he was born in the year 1889, and this year, 1909, he would be a young man of twenty years. The other two men were 38 and 39 respectively, born in the years 1902 and 1903. They would be young children now…” Karpov gave Tyrenkov a penetrating look. “In fact, they most likely are young children, and Konev is probably out there somewhere as that 20 year old man. You see? When Tunguska moved in that storm—to this year—those three men were already here. They already existed, so they could not survive the journey here. There cannot be two Konevs alive at the same moment in time, one a young man of 20, the other a grizzled Chief of 52 years. Understand?”

  Tyrenkov raised an eyebrow, finally realizing what the Admiral was telling him. Yes, he thought, it was a grim logic, but it made sense. Everyone else on the crew was just like him, unborn in this year of 1909. No one else on the ship was over 30, except Karpov himself, which prompted him to question the Admiral about that.

  “What about you, sir? Surely you are more than 32 years, a well seasoned man in the prime of life.”

  “Yes, but I’m creeping up on 40, Tyrenkov.”

  “Then how is it you have survived? Is there not another young man out there—your very self?”

  Now Karpov smiled, walking slowly over to the wetbar where he pour two snifters of brandy, handing one to Tyrenkov and gesturing that he should have a seat on the comfortable sofa.

  “If you thought I was going to say I was an exception, you are wrong,” said Karpov. “I may be an exceptional man, but I am mortal like everyone else, and subject to the same laws of time and fate. No, if I had been born before this year, like those others, then I would be dead as well.” He gave Tyrenkov a wry smile.

  “Excuse me, sir… You are saying you were not born before 1909? A moment ago you just said you were creeping up on 40 years of age…” Now Tyrenkov’s eyes widened, suddenly alight, and then he fixed his smoldering gaze on Karpov, the realization ev
ident on his face. “Then you were born later… You were born in the future!”

  “Excellent, Tyrenkov. I knew you would surmise the truth. Yes, either I was born, and died, well before this year, a lifetime earlier, or well after this time. Either case would allow me to survive here in this moment. In this case, however, the latter is true. If you want to know the truth, I was born in the late 20th Century, and now your next question is an obvious one. If that is so, then how did I come to be found in the middle of that century, in 1938 when I first came to Siberia? Well that, my friend, is a very long story.”

  “The late twentieth century? Well after the conclusion of the war? Why, that would mean you know how it ended.”

  “Correct. I know all the victories and defeats, and the course of days following that war.”

  “Then you came here deliberately? But why?”

  “I would think how would still be the main question on your mind. We will get to that soon, but as to why, the truth is, my arrival here was completely unintentional. It was an accident, and one I do not yet completely understand, but here I am. And finding myself here, I have made the most of the knowledge I have to achieve this position—and this is only the beginning, Tyrenkov. There is so much more to be done. I do not yet know why time seems to favor me, but this is not the first time I have been here in these years before the revolution. I came from a distant year, all the way back to 1908. I was Captain of a powerful ship—in the future—with an advanced propulsion system. We believed some aberration in that engine was causing a rift in time, and the ship, and the entire crew, were sent to the past—to 1941 in fact—but our position there was very unstable. We kept moving back and forth and, the last time the ship moved, I was thrown free, arriving alone, in the year 1938. This time I seemed to stay put, for I was never able to remain in the past more than a few weeks before this occurrence. Yet here we have slipped again—not only me, but the Tunguska itself, and the entire crew, except for those three unfortunate men. It’s a game of musical chairs, Tyrenkov. When an incident occurs, and the music stops, leaving you in another time, there had better be an open chair there for you. Those men died because their younger selves were already sitting in those chairs. I survived here because I have never lived in this year before, in 1909.”

  It was all very confusing, the how and why of it all still looming as huge unanswered questions in Tyrenkov’s mind. Yet he intrinsically understood the advantages in Karpov’s position, and the power he could wield given his knowledge of future days to come. “Then you have more in mind than simply power, Admiral. You have been using your position here to change things—change the history?”

  “Quite so. In fact, it was all the previous blundering about that caused much of the dilemma we now face. I have tried to use the power I had many times to brighten Russia’s future, but I was always opposed, by officers on my own ship, and by men like Ivan Volkov.”

  “Volkov? You mean the fighting over Omsk?”

  “More than that. You see, Volkov is not a man from this time either. He was a petty Intelligence officer in my day, sent to inspect my ship when we finally made it home. Then something happened to him, and he slipped through one of the holes we must have poked in the history.”

  “Volkov was from your time? I see. Now it makes sense. He was able to outmaneuver Denikin so easily, and take power in Orenburg.”

  “That federation never even existed in the history I know from my time,” said Karpov. “In fact, this whole situation, the divided Russia we see, is an aberration. It was never supposed to happen. It was our meddling, perhaps my own doing, that may have led to it all. But Ivan Volkov certainly had a great deal to do with it. I thought to befriend him at one point, in that meeting at Omsk, but we have seen that a snake is a snake. His treachery is apparent, and now he has made a very bad mistake. He has made an enemy of me, and here I am, in 1909, by fate or chance, and in a perfect position to do something about Volkov before he ever gets started.”

  Tyrenkov nodded his head. “He is here? Now?”

  “Somewhere, even as we speak.”

  “You say he slipped through a hole in the history, but how did he do that, really?”

  “No one knows, exactly. It happened at Ilanskiy.” He told Tyrenkov the story Volkov had shared with him, and the other man slowly nodded, beginning to understand many of the strange things that had been happening concerning that railway station.

  “I could never understand why Volkov tried to seize that station, or why anyone would want to try and destroy it.”

  “Now you know. There is something there, Tyrenkov, a gateway of sorts.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “Ah…” Tyrenkov remembered now. “That back stairway. Something very strange happened there. You went up those stairs, and it seemed to me that you returned quite shaken. Even your uniform was soiled, though you tried to cover that up.” Now Tyrenkov remembered the cigarette he had noticed, still burning in Karpov’s hand when he returned. Time… Yes, that had to be it! That stairway was the hole in history. That was what everyone was fighting over at Ilanskiy, and that is why Karpov has been trying to rebuild it!

  “Very observant,” said Karpov. “Do you understand where we are going now?”

  “Yes sir. I think I do, at long last.”

  “Excellent! Because I plan to take you with me, Tyrenkov. You and I have much to do! But first, we need to make a little side trip to Saratov, and now I will tell you why.”

  Chapter 29

  Karpov looked again at his chess set, smiling. “Petrov’s defense,” he said. “It was played out by a namesake of mine against a young man named Magnus Carlsen—quite a chess prodigy. But never mind the game itself. I was merely passing time with it to rest my mind. It is what occurred to me while I was playing it through that matters now. It was nothing about the game itself, just the chance association of names.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, Admiral.”

  “Of course not… In that game, a man named Anatoly Karpov, no relation, was playing out the well known defense devised by a former chess master, Alexander Petrov. They call it the Russian Defense now. Well, those names suddenly struck a hard note in my mind—Petrov, Karpov. You see Petrov was also the name of a well known early revolutionary, and the reason I bother with this at all will soon be obvious to you. This man, Alexander Petrov, the revolutionary, not the chess master, seems to have his fate line tangled with my own. He was attempting to infiltrate the Czar’s secret police.”

  “The Okhrana? That would be very dangerous.”

  “Indeed! Well he very nearly succeeded. In fact, he was being actively recruited by high level officers in the Okhrana. They had arrested Petrov and had him in prison, when the man thought to ingratiate himself with the authorities, saying he wished to join and support the activities of the secret police. So he was approached by a man named Sergei, and slowly recruited. The Okhrana wanted to use him as an agent to uncover more activists in the revolution, and the inverse was also true. The revolution wanted to use Petrov to get a look at the inside workings of the Okhrana. A most unfortunate incident occurred, however, and it all came apart, the whole scheme. Petrov’s handler was in Saint Petersburg, and learning his protégé was there, he made a call, saying he would soon be there to meet with him. No one knows why, but Petrov used that brief interval of time to plant a bomb under the table where they were to meet, then he excused himself, and boom, the bomb went off, killing the handler, but also ending Petrov’s ploy at infiltrating any further into the Okhrana. That was apparently no matter to him, for he seemed to have accomplished what he set out to do. You see, the man he killed was no mere handler, but really a highly placed officer in the Okhrana. His name was colonel Sergei Karpov, and he was my Great Grandfather…”

  Tyrenkov was very surprised to hear this, but remained outwardly calm. “When did this happen?” he asked.

  “A good question. I have found different sources w
ith different dates, but they all agree that it was in the month of December, in this very year, 1909. So we are going to see about it. Because at this very moment that revolutionary is still stewing in Saratov prison, trying to finagle his way out to take the path that will eventually lead him to that meeting with my Great Grandfather. Only this time things will be different.”

  “I believe they will, sir,” said Tyrenkov, and now he allowed himself a smile. Something told him that a good many other things were going to be different in the days ahead.

  * * *

  It was a simple matter to gain entrance to the prison at Saratov. Once the massive hulk of Tunguska appeared in the sky, the authorities in the city were quite shaken. The airship hovered low over the site, bristling with guns, and soon the cabled cargo baskets were used to lower squads of Tyrenkov’s security personnel. Karpov had given him his marching orders, and Tyrenkov did not disappoint. The men landed right inside the prison, and he sent several platoons of black-clad special service troops, well armed with sub-machineguns, to find the warden. Even as Orlov had found his target in the Prison of Baku, and as Sergei Kirov had found Stalin, the history was again to turn on another visit to a dank prison cell by knowing men from another time. Tyrenkov found the man in question, and without so much as a brief announcement, he concluded the matter.

  “Alexander Petrov?” he said.

  Petrov looked at him through bleary eyes, thinking that this could only be one of two things. Either it was yet another interrogation, and most likely a beating ordered by the local police, or perhaps, he hoped, this might be the authorities from Saint Petersburg he had appealed to, offering his services to the Okhrana in exchange for freedom.

  It was neither. It was simply his most unexpected appointment with death.

  “You are hereby condemned for the conspiracy and assassination of Colonel Sergie Karpov.”