Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series)

by Schettler, John

  “But if I had not warned him as I did, he might have died as in our history.”

  “If, maybe, perhaps.” Kamenski held up his hands. “Nothing is certain, Fedorov. Things happen, and all this history we now find ourselves reading about in those books and newspapers is the result of millions of tiny choices and actions taken by people all over the world. Yes, we single out a few and claim they are the ones that matter, but I have not found that to be the case. We want certainty. We make big plans and hope things will all turn out well, but life seldom cooperates. Just when you think you have it all tied off and ready to slip into a drawer, the story continues. It resists resolution. It evolves to something new.”

  “But I must be responsible for the things I caused,” said Fedorov.

  “Did you cause them? I wonder. This is where you make your mistake in thinking about all of this. The dots seem to be connected. You want to move from point A to point B and feel that one thing caused another, but it does not work like that. It’s human nature, I suppose. We want everything tidy, with a nice beginning, middle and end. Believe me, I was in the same distress you were in when I first found my history books were telling me lies. Things change, Mister Fedorov. Things begin from unseen causes. They spin off in unexpected directions. They end up places no one ever thinks they could go. Look at this ship and crew for the truth of that. You see, there are no happy endings in stories like this. Things just continue. They go on and on, just like this little adventure you have all found yourselves in these many months. This isn’t just your story, Mister Fedorov. It’s everyone’s story, yours, mine, the whole world’s. Yes, you have your part to play, but there are other actors on the stage, and they speak for themselves.”

  He folded his arms, satisfied that he had done what he could to relieve the other man’s burden, but knowing that it was entirely up to Fedorov as to whether he would continue carrying it.

  “Now,” said Kamenski. “This Karpov is back again. It appears his part in the story is not yet finished. In fact it seems he never left the story at all! The only question we have before us is what do we do about it?”

  Volsky nodded. “What can we do about it? I do not believe I can simply send a radio message and tell Karpov to return to the ship!”

  “No, it is clear that he has made good use of his time since he arrived, whenever that was. This is a man who aspires to reach the top. He will always be uncomfortable standing in any other man’s shadow, so trying to bring him back into our family here may be useless.”

  “Karpov is Karpov,” said Zolkin with finality. “We were foolish to ever think he would really change. The man is a megalomaniac!”

  “A very dangerous one,” said Fedorov. “What you say is true, Director. He is a bit of a wild card in the deck now, as is the Free Siberian State. I’ve been reading those books we got from the Russians at Murmansk. Last winter Volkov’s regime made a major incursion east and took the city of Omsk. It has been a point of contention between the Siberians and Orenburg ever since, but now Nikolin tells me he has received news feeds indicating that the Grey Legion is withdrawing from the city.”

  “The Grey Legion?” Zolkin had not heard any of this.

  “That is what the troops under Volkov’s regime call themselves. Yet, from what I can see, Volkov could have held on to Omsk easily enough. The fact that he is pulling out could hint at an accommodation with the Free Siberian State.”

  “You believe they may have negotiated a settlement?” said Volsky, knowing where this might be leading them.

  “It is very possible, sir. Volkov is already at war with Kirov’s Soviet Russia. The last thing anyone wants is enemies on two fronts. He may have chosen to end his operation at Omsk to appease Kolchak and the Siberians. Kolchak had a residence in that city for many years, and I do not think the Siberians would have given it up easily.”

  “My God,” said Volsky. “Do you think the two of them might ever get together?”

  “Karpov and Volkov?” Zolkin smiled. “They would mix like gin and vermouth, eh? What a nice little martini they would make together.”

  “Yes,” said Fedorov, “and the olive would be the outcome of this war. If those two states ally, then Soviet Russia is isolated. They are already at war with Volkov on one front. If he is reinforced by the Siberians that will be a major strain on Soviet resources and manpower. Add to that the fact that Germany could invade Russia at any time, and I do not think Kirov’s Red state can survive.”

  The implications of what Fedorov was saying were now evident to them all. “And there is one other thing,” he said, his face betraying real fear now. “Karpov knows about us—the ship. He knows we are adrift in time, and a possible player in all these events. I have little doubt that he has wondered often what happened to us. If he suspects that Rod-25 was used as we planned it, then he also knows that control rod has a habit of stopping off in the 1940s on the way to 2021.”

  “Yes, I have worried about this,” said Volsky.

  “Well sir,” Fedorov continued. “He may be watching for us… waiting, and looking out for any sign of our appearance.”

  “But would he not assume we were still in the Pacific?”

  “Perhaps, but this ship can move. He obviously made his way to Siberia somehow, so he learned that his plans all backfired and that the Japanese Empire controls Vladivostok and the far east now. He would realize we would have discovered that as well. Then where would we go?”

  “I see your point,” said Zolkin.

  “He may not know we are here yet,” said Fedorov. “We have only been here a few weeks, and I do not think much news has leaked out on us yet, but it will. The British intelligence has good photos of this ship already, and so do the Soviets. In time our presence here will be known, and don’t forget that Volkov was a Russian Naval Intelligence officer too.”

  “The bear is out of his cave,” said Kamenski. “Yes, they will soon learn we are out on the tundra looking for fish and berries.”

  “But that is not all I’m worried about,” said Fedorov. “There is something else we have to consider now. What if they discover that stairway at Ilanskiy?”

  “Ilanskiy?” Volsky spoke up. “But Karpov knows nothing about that. He was out to sea with the Pacific Fleet when you launched the operation to rescue Orlov.”

  “What about Volkov?” said Fedorov. “He went down those stairs too. Might he not wonder about that place?”

  They were all silent, thinking it through. Then Kamenski spoke.

  “Gentlemen, the young Captain here makes a very telling point. That stairway at Ilanskiy may still exist in this world. If it does, it might even still connect the year 1908 to this time, and even extend to the year 2021. It did that in the world we came from, and it may do so here. Think about this for a moment. If we could go back up those stairs, to our time…” The implications were blooming in all their minds like black roses in the Devil’s Garden.

  “What would a man like Karpov, or Volkov do with the power that stairway represents?” Kamenski was thinking out loud now. “Would they go forward to escape this mad world? Yet what if they had grown all too comfortable running things here, then what? Would they go up those stairs and bring things back… Weapons? Technology? Or perhaps they might simply have a look at how things might turn out?”

  “Or worse,” said Fedorov. “What if someone goes down those stairs, returning to 1908 to start this all over again? That stairway represents a very grave risk. It must not be discovered or ever used again by either of these men.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Volsky.

  “We must destroy it,” said Fedorov. “Destroy it and forever close the breach in time there, if we can. Or God help us if we cannot, because that will either become the stairway to heaven, or the stairway to hell.”

  Chapter 27

  The airship emerged from thick overhead clouds, a monstrous thing in the sky, big as an ocean liner, brooding over the sallow landscape as it slowly descended. Abakan glide
d gently down, following the steel railway line as it wound its way through stands of pine. Behind it came a second zeppelin, lighter in color than the dull slate grey of Abakan, the Angara. It followed in the air wake of the command ship, a pair of bulbous behemoths gliding through the lowering sky.

  Negotiations at the Omsk meeting had dragged on for days on the lower levels as arrangements were made for the withdrawal of Volkov’s forces, and re-occupation of the city by Siberian troops. Karpov supervised everything, tirelessly seeing to the smallest detail to assure that there were no hidden cadres left behind in the city, and that adequate security was in place. Then, satisfied that all was in order, he boarded Abakan and turned east for Novosibirsk.

  There Karpov disembarked to rejoin his commiserate headquarters. After working late, filing his report and communicating with Kolchak in Irkutsk via telephone, he took a fitful sleep, rising early to make ready for a another secret foray into the skies, his curiosity driving him east with the wind.

  The sun rose at a little after 5:00 in the morning of July 27th to begin its long journey, climbing up through the low clouds and arcing high overhead. It would not set that day until two hours before midnight, and the weather and winds out of the west seemed favorable for a speedy journey. Talmenka, the third zeppelin in Karpov’s flotilla, remained at Novosibirsk. The other two airships replenished and carefully checked for any maintenance needs before their next flight. They continued east, following a course that would take them over Kamenka and Krasnoyarsk to Kansk, some 800 kilometers distant.

  The airships slipped their mooring cables, rose into the sky and were on their way an hour after dawn, rising up to pierce the cloud deck like whales breaching the surface of the ocean. The upper level winds were very steady, allowing Air Commandant Bogrov to make a hundred KPH and cut their flight time to just eight hours. Karpov had spent most of that time in his air cabin, thinking, planning, wondering.

  So now Volkov and I are two peas in a pod, he thought. Be careful. That man is not to be trusted. That theater at the end of our discussion was good warning. Pull a revolver on me, will he? No doubt he was infuriated by the fact that his security men had failed to find my own weapon. But he would not have killed me, any more than I would have killed him. It would have upset everything he was planning. Yes, I think he took Omsk last winter simply to give it back this summer and buy himself a tentative peace.

  Yet we are stronger together than either state could be alone. Siberia has just dragged itself up off its knees, and we still see the shadow of the Japanese Empire darkening our borders. Volkov knows that is our primary concern for the moment. That vranyo I gave him about putting half a million Tartar cavalry in the field was enough to give him pause. He really may not know how strong we are just now. One day he will find that out.

  Yet how shocking it was to learn who this man really is! Ivan Volkov, Kapustin’s lapdog. It seems the dog has become a wolf here, even as I have become a bit of a Siberian Tiger in these two short years. Volkov’s presence here was shocking, completely unexpected. Once I had time to think about it, I knew what my next move was at once. Here… this place.

  He had come onto the gondola bridge after taking a light breakfast. “Where will we tether, Air Commandant Bogrov?”

  “Sir? We could use the tower at Kansk by the river. I have radioed ahead to arrange for a car. It is just a twenty kilometer drive east from that point.”

  “Good enough. I will want a full rifle squad in escort, as always. And scout the road ahead with the motorcycle platoon.”

  Twenty minutes later the Abakan was tethered to the tall steel tower near the river at Kansk, while Angara continued on. It would arrive at their planned destination first, hovering on overwatch, the eyes of its watchmen scanning the surrounding countryside, gunners at the ready. One never knew when a roving band of raiders might emerge from the thick woodlands.

  Karpov made the long walk along the keelway of the ship to the nose. Being a minor air receiving station, this was a small tower, with no elevator, so he had to make the climb down some 200 feet using the interior metal ladder. His security detachment went before him, and he was pleased to see that Bogrov had doubled the guard by having men from the Kansk militia at the ready as well. There were two trucks and a motor car waiting. His Siberian Rifles took the lead truck, his car following with his personal guard of two men, the militia following behind.

  A small motorcycle detachment had been lowered by winch and cables and was already well ahead, scouring the road east by the time Karpov settled into his motorcar. It was a short, bumpy ride over a plain dirt road, but it had not rained in recent days and so the mud was not a problem.

  They pulled into the small hamlet of Ilanskiy half an hour later, the security men leaping from the lead truck and fanning out, eyes dark and threatening as they began to search the warehouses by the rail yard. This was the very same place Fedorov had come to with Troyak and Zykov, the place where he had faced down Lieutenant Surinov and tried to secure just a little fair treatment and comfort for the prisoners moving east on the railway cars. This time there were no NKVD men, and no prison camps, and not even a train car to be found in the desolate little town. Stalin’s gulags were not blighting the land as they did in Fedorov’s journey. Stalin was dead.

  Karpov stepped out of the car, squinting at the dilapidated buildings. With so few trains making the run east to Irkutsk these days, places like this were like withered, leafless branches on a barren tree. There were few travelers in these dangerous lands, and therefore little business for the inn at Ilanskiy.

  “Where is it?” Karpov said to Tyrenkov, his lead security man.

  “Right this way, sir. That building there.” The man pointed to a squat two story inn, looking much like most other buildings clustered about the rail yard. In better times it would be a rail holiday house for the train workers, but these were not better times.

  Karpov tramped up to the front entry with three men, seeing it was boarded up. The building appeared to be completely abandoned.

  “Open it,” he said curtly to his men, and they set to work batting aside a few obstructing two-by-fours with their rifle butts. The way cleared, Tyrenkov tried the handle, then simply kicked the door open when he found it locked. He was through the entry and into what was once the front lobby of the inn.

  Karpov waited, while his men made certain no one was lurking inside, then stepped through the entry, noting the thick layer of dust on the floor, disturbed only by the footfalls of his men. No one had been there for some time. Pale light filtered from an overhead skylight. He walked up to the front counter, noting the date on the calendar there. 8 DEC 28. Apparently the inn had been abandoned for the last twelve years.

  He looked around, seeing nothing of interest here. What was so special about this place? Volkov said it had happened here—the madness, as he called it. It was here that he claimed he suddenly found himself lost in another time. He did not say the year and day. The story was fantastic, but Karpov knew better. Yes, he knew how easily a man could find himself in another world—just like this one.

  “There is no one here, Commandant,” said Tyrenkov, returning. “My men took the main stair way up. There are eight rooms, all empty, just like everything else.”

  Karpov said nothing, giving the receiving desk a frown and striding slowly into the next room, a dining hall where several bare wood tables sat without chairs. An empty stone hearth yawned in stony silence at the far end of the room.

  “What is there?” Karpov pointed to an alcove to the right of the hearth, sending Tyrenkov striding across the room towards the location. He found another locked door, but it soon gave way with a hard kick of his heavy booted foot. Karpov saw him peer inside, emerging with a scowl, brushing a cobweb from his face.

  “It is just an old back stairway, he said gruffly.”

  “Up or down?” Karpov was at his side now.

  “Up, Commandant. The men found an upper landing on the second floor. This is pro
bably the servants stairwell.”

  “Very well,” said Karpov, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a cigarette. It was a habit he had cultivated upon his return here, and he found it calming when he wanted to think quietly for a time. “Cigarette?” Karpov offered, but Tyrenkov saw it was the last one in the Commandant’s pack, and politely declined.

  “Find out if there is anyone else in this hovel of a town. Have the guards wait at the car. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Sir!” Tyrenkov saluted, off to round up his detachment, still searching buildings near the rail yard.

  Nothing here, thought Karpov. What did I expect? The place is just an old run down inn, and hardly worth the time and fuel I wasted coming here. What could have possibly happened to Volkov to send him back in time? That was 2021 when he arrived here. There was a war brewing. Who knows, perhaps it started. In that year there are several targets near this place that might have interested an American warhead. The 10th Naval Arsenal was just outside Kansk where Abakan was tethered. The 23rd Guards had bases here, and there were also mobile ICBM sites scattered around the area, the trucks waiting in underground bunkers… Eighty years from now.

  He passed a moment thinking about that, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Then he heard what sounded like a dull rumble. At first he thought it was coming from outside, but when he took a step or two away, he could immediately tell that the sound was echoing from the stairwell! Surprised and curious, he stepped closer to the broken door, leaning into the darkened stairwell. Yes… there was a distinct rumbling sound, a distant growl as from a broiling explosion. He thought the stairway might be focusing sound from above, and without thinking, he started edging up the stairs following the sound and noting that it grew more distinct, louder with every step he took.

  Seventeen steps…

  It was very dark, and he could feel the discomfiting, trailing caress of old cobwebs as he went. When he reached the top there was another door, split right down the middle, one half askew and broken as if it had sustained some powerful shock.