Nexus Deep (Kirov Series Book 31)

by Schettler, John

  It would begin on the 1st of August, 1860, and the action this time would mainly involve the landing of troops near the forts to then make an overland march and attack. General Grant was quite meticulous, a tall thin man, well-schooled, artistic, and an excellent musician as well. The men said he looked like a scrawny old lady, and often called him that, but he was a professional officer, through and through, and he would make short work of the “3rd Battle of the Taku Forts.”

  The Chinese, mostly commanded by the Chinese local Governor Hengfu now, had mustered a small army of 5000 infantry and 2000 horsemen to confront the Western Barbarians. This force was not able to stop the allied advance, and Grant then ordered fascines to be built to house and protect his artillery. They would bring six field pieces, three 8-inch mortars, four more 8-in guns (two being howitzers), a pair of 32 pounders, and six more of the newer “Armstrong Guns.” They would pound the forts into submission in a four-hour barrage on the 18th of August, 1860.

  With the fall of those forts, Tianjin would fall soon after, and the considerable force that Lord Elgin had assembled would begin its march inland, towards Peking. Only then did the Chinese send ministers proposing peace talks. The Imperial Emissary first encountered Harry Parkes, the man who had first heard the grievances of the hapless master of the Arrow . Parkes had been complaining about the French.

  “They dawdled about in that action,” he said, “unless it came to them planting a flag on some bastion or another. Then our own men went all out to see that we got there first. The French…” he shook his head. “Not one of them could tell you what they have come here to fight for. The result is that they have done nothing but hamper and delay us. Their commander grandstands, and his men do the same—full of pride it seems, but this is really nothing more than a lack of proper military restraint. Mark my words, if we take them inland with us, we’ll have more of the same.”

  When the Chinese emissaries finally arrived, Parkes was immediately suspicious. Having a keen understanding of the Mandarins, it did not seem to him that the ministers were sufficiently empowered to conduct any agreement. In fact, he began to suspect that they were only sent to delay, buy time for the enemy to gather another army, or for the Emperor himself to leave his palaces in Peking and flee to other quarters.

  Lord Elgin therefore resumed his advance on Peking, and reaching Tongzhou, 12 miles southeast of the Capitol, new Chinese ministers appeared and pleaded for talks to be held there in that city. Parkes was in the delegation sent to see to the preliminaries, with 25 other British men, and 13 French. The talks became a squabble over protocols, and the Chinese claimed the manner and deportment of the English was insulting. As the Allied delegation withdrew, it was set upon by Chinese soldiers, and all were taken prisoner. Word soon came to Lord Elgin that they would only be released if the Europeans withdrew, and the following day, an army of 30,000 Chinese soldiers suddenly appeared. Parkes’ suspicions had been completely correct.

  Over the next week, it was war again, with two large battles fought. Once again, the Armstrong Guns and the martial prowess of the British and French prevailed over the Mongol infantry and horsemen, and by the 21st of September, the road to Peking lay open and undefended, and Lord Elgin advanced. Emperor Xianfeng fled to the north, beyond the Great Wall to palaces at Chengde. The Chinese had only one chip left on the table—the hostages they had seized, among them a correspondent for the London Times, and a personal friend of Lord Elgin, Thomas Bowlby.

  The prisoners were tortured, an all too common occurrence where Westerners fell into the hands of “Barbarians.” Lord Elgin’s reaction was pure template—revenge, particularly since the methods of torture used were quite cruel. The bodies of many were found so badly mutilated that they were unrecognizable. Parkes had been one of the very few that were released unharmed, and ever resentful of the Chinese authorities, he urged Lord Elgin to make reprisal.

  Indeed, Lord Elgin would pen his report on the matter to the British government, writing that he was about to “mark by a solemn act of retribution, the horror and indignation with which we were inspired by the perpetration of a great crime.” He would take his indignation to the famous Yuanmingyuan , the sprawling garden estates of the Emperor in Peking. The Europeans thought they were the Emperor’s “Summer Palaces,” but that was not true. The palaces in Peking were his primary residence, and the center of his government, and those in Chengde where he had fled were his real summer retreat.

  Yuanmingyuan was rumored to be a place of legendary splendor, miles of gardens, where pathways meandered along the shores of serene, tree shaded lakes, through flowerbeds, past splendid fountains and sculpture. Then there were gilded halls, ornate reception rooms, elegant residences, opulent museums, libraries, amazing galleries adorned with paintings, and fine examples of artwork in the tens of thousands. There was gold, silver, precious stones of every sort, and delicate porcelain. It was the collective artistry of an entire people and culture, all concentrated in that one place. Lord Elgin knew that he had to make some demonstration here, an act so audacious that it would forever intimidate and humble the Chinese, and shock them so deeply that they would never again give challenge to the mighty British Empire.

  There was the Yuanmingyuan, and he had a secret interest in the place. So it was with some misgiving that he learned what had happened when the French troops scaled the 15 foot walls and entered the palaces. Looting had long been a common practice for victorious armies, and if ever there could be found anything that so completely defined the essence of available “loot,” the Yuanmingyuan was the epitome of that. There were hundreds of enchanted places there, with exotic names like the Pavilion of Blessed Shade, Pavilion of Forgotten Desires, the Halls of Virtue, Longevity, Serenity, Magnanimity, and the Pagoda of a Thousand Treasures. That one word described it all to the European soldiers when they first looked upon it—treasures . They would soon become other words—loot, swag, plunder, booty.

  It began as a simple way of rewarding a few chosen officers. The French General Montauban was properly awed by the palaces, and he placed guards at key buildings to prevent what was now about to happen. Yet he made one mistake, allowing his senior officers to find and take one object as a reward and memento of their campaign, and that was the match that lit the fire. When the rank and file saw what these officers had, they passed a sleepless night outside the walls, and then many began to slip away to find treasures of their own.

  This treasure hunt soon escalated to wholesale looting, where even the guards posted to protect the artwork began to take part. The soldiers rampaged through the galleries, some finding and donning the silk robes of the Emperor himself. They paraded about in mad dances, tore down tapestries, curtains, silkscreens and paintings. They took the precious Ming porcelain vases and simply threw them to the ground, smashing sculptured jade ornaments and other art to pieces. It was an insane orgy of destruction; a madness, a furious rampage, utter mayhem that went on for three days. Even the Emperor’s Pekinese dog was seized, later presented to Queen Victoria and appropriately named “Looty.”

  When Lord Elgin finally arrived to see what they had done on the afternoon of October 7th, 1860, he was aghast, immediately giving orders that the remaining artwork should be rounded up and collected in a secure place.

  It’s here, he thought, somewhere, but how in the world will I ever find the place now after all this pillaging? Father was quite specific. I must get to the area near the European styled palaces. Having failed in Egypt, I simply cannot let this moment pass without finding it. But the place is a disaster! This is criminal! No wonder the Chinese think of us as barbarians.

  There before him, was “everything in the way of sculpture, medals and curious marbles” that he could possibly imagine. And none of it had to be found by first suffering the labors of “assiduous and indefatigable excavation.”

  What in the world was he thinking? What had his father, the fabled 7th Earl of Elgin and procurer of the “curious marbles” of the Acr
opolis confided to him? Indeed, before he arrived at Hong Kong, the 8th Earl of Elgin had made a particular point to stop off in Cairo, where he insisted on touring the Great Pyramids. Then, at night, he made a secret visit to the Sphinx, standing between its massive paws, where a stele had once been erected—the “Dream Stele” of the ancient Pharaoh, Thutmose IV.

  He stood there, not knowing what those hieroglyphs meant, for they would not be translated for another 20 years. It was, in part, an appeal by the father for his son to restore the sad condition of that monument, as if the original writer had hoped to make his son the caretaker of that ancient stone sculpture.

  Lord Elgin would later write of that moment: “The mystical light and deep shadows cast by the moon, gave to it an intensity which I cannot attempt to describe. To me it seemed to look, earnest, searching, but unsatisfied. For a long time, I remained transfixed, endeavoring to read the meaning conveyed by this wonderful eye of the Sphinx…”

  Strangely, Lord Elgin was there in Egypt only because of a similar charge delivered to him by his own father. That was why the Earl was so keen to survey these ancient ruins, as if searching for something hidden there long ago, but frustrated when he could not find it. Now, standing amid the smashed and littered artwork of the Old “Summer Palace” in Peking, he was equally intent upon fulfilling his quest. “We have the one,” his father had told him. “We must now find the others.”

  Like father, like son…. James Bruce eventually found his way to one place within those sprawling estates, through the “Temple of Heaven,” past the “Hall of Eternal Ages,” into a small garden in the “House of Endless Consciousness,” and there it was, just where his Father had told him it would be, one small object that had been overlooked by the hordes of looting soldiers.

  “I would like a great many things that the palace contains,” Elgin had said to General Montauban, “but I am not a thief.” No, he was not a thief. He was a collector, and he had come here, riding the currents of political conflict and discontent, to find a thing that needed to be collected.

  He sighed, closing his eyes, and tucked it away in the pocket of his greatcoat. With this in hand, he thought, the entire campaign is a complete success. Now then… The Chinese… Yes, this was all quite regrettable, the destruction and looting. It will reflect very badly on us, and yet, it may not be enough of an example of our retribution. It may take something more.

  He looked around, seeing hundreds of buildings, mostly constructed with cedar, and came to a decision he had been deliberating for several days. A few days later, the Old “Summer Palace” would be burned. No one else would ever be able to retrace his footsteps and find this place again, he thought. Now that I have what I came for, nothing else matters, so let it burn….

  Part XII

  Balance of Terror

  “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

  —Albert Einstein

  Chapter 34

  Ivan Volkov was confused. Nothing appeared as it should. He had reached Kansk, where he thought he might be able to get information on what was happening. The city itself looked to be half its proper size. The massive weapons arsenal north of the river was gone, along with the Naval Marine Cadet school on its southern edge. The military barracks facilities were missing, and all the buildings he could see looked antiquated. There was no sign of modernity, no restaurants offering fast food, billboards, advertisements of any kind. His thought was to find a military plane and get to some safe location before a missile found the place, but there was no airfield! Kansk West was gone, along with the older civil airfield south of the city. It was as if he was in an entirely different place, yet the twisting flow of the river was the one thing that was unmistakable. This was certainly Kansk, yet like nothing he had ever seen.

  His mind briefly considered the possibility that the city had already been struck, but he could see no outward signs of damage. The people, also oddly dressed, seemed to be fussing over the arrival of a few old cars, and asking a passerby what was happening, he was told the race cars had arrived. Perplexed and confused, he made one last attempt to locate his security team. Where could they have gone? But when he broadcast his message on the designated navy short range channel, no one answered.

  Then he realized he had been a fool. The technology built into his service jacket had been born from new small unit equipment designed for the Russian Marines. It had been designed as a field jacket, running on solar power from light sensitive threads in the outer lining, with a thin flexible battery pack the was infinitely rechargeable, and special computer chips embedded in water tight pouches in the lining, wrapped with a Kevlar like protective shell that was also shielded from EMP pulse.

  The jacket had many capabilities. In addition to short range radio, it could also store enormous amounts of data, and also had both GPS and cellular connection capability. Originally designed to link field operatives in a team, it could also broadcast a signal that might reach any other field jacket in range, a kind of ping that would then be answered by that suit to indicate the presence of a friendly operative in the immediate vicinity. In the heat of the moment, he had only used his radio to call for his guards. Now he settled down and got a grip on himself. Use the damn suit!

  He reached to the left inside jacket lining, moved a pocket flap, and there was the locator button, which he squeezed between thumb and forefinger to activate the suit ping. The results were almost immediate. His jacket broadcast its IFF signal, and then reported any returning ping it received.

  “One contact,” a woman’s synthesized voice on his collar speaker reported the results seconds later, but that only deepened the mystery. One contact? That was reassuring, but where were the rest of his men? He tried his radio set one more time.

  “Team Seven, this is team leader. Come in team seven, this is Volkov—over.”

  * * *

  “Well I’ll be a monkey’s ass,” Orlov said aloud. Volkov! This was the man that Fedorov seemed so worried about, that nosey intelligence officer that was inspecting the ship when they finally got back to Vladivostok. What was he doing here? Could it be the same man, or was the name just a coincidence? And what was this talk about Team Seven?

  Now Orlov looked around him, suddenly wary. This place was the same run-down hovel that he had seen when they arrived on that zeppelin. Fedorov had been keen to find this Mironov fellow, and the two of them had some kind of disagreement, then he simply rounded up the whole team and wanted to go up those stairs to the second floor. In fact, they could be up there right now. But how did this Volkov get here? Was this some part of the mission that Fedorov never explained?

  Sookin Sim! He swore inwardly . I’d better check upstairs first.

  He made his way up the main stairway, hoping to find the whole team waiting for him on the second floor. Fedorov had once told him something crazy about this place, about that back stairway as well. When the Captain had revealed the true nature of their mission, it was quite a shock., and he was still running all that over in his mind….

  “We’ve moved,” said Fedorov. “We aren’t in the same time as before. That event out there is the Tunguska Event. This is 1908, and just a day or so after that thing fell back there on the 30th of June.”

  “1908?” Orlov gave him a blank look.

  “So you see why I didn’t want to get into it with Symenko,” said Fedorov. “As for you two, you need to know the truth. It’s 1908, and probably the first of July, the day after Tunguska. I’ve changed our heading and we’re going to Ilanskiy, just east of Kansk. There’s someone there I have to…. Speak with.”

  It took a while for things to get through Orlov’s thick skull. He blinked, looking at Troyak. “Who’s the man you need to see there?” he had asked.

  “Mironov. Alright, I’d better tell you both this, and it will be a lot to swallow. It all started with you, Chief, and you remember it very well—when you decided to jump ship. Well I
came after you to get you home again, and you, Sergeant, came right along with me.”

  So he told them, the whole knotted tale of what had happened when he and Troyak first got to Ilanskiy. Orlov grinned at times, nodding his head when a part of the story included him. He had all that inside his head now, clear memories of everything. He could still see those bulging eyes and purple lips as he choked the breath out of Commissar Molla.

  “This young man,” Fedorov finished. “He was going by the name Mironov back then—right now, in 1908. Later he would change that name and take another—Kirov.” He folded his arms watching them both closely.

  “Sergei Kirov?” said Orlov. “The man we named our ship after?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You came all this way to speak with him? Well what in God’s name for?”

  “It was going to be more than that,” said Fedorov. “This was something that Karpov and I worked through for a very long time. This whole situation—back in 1942—well it’s my fault. You see, I told Mironov something, opened my big mouth, and I let something slip. That changed everything. It set up that whole crazy world, the war we were fighting, the Orenburg Federation, all of it.”

  “Mironov set that up? I thought Volkov did all that.”

  “Yes, he did, but he might not have ever succeeded if I had kept my mouth shut. When we’re this far back in time, any little slip can have major consequences to the events that follow. One little slip could end up becoming something very big. Well, I made a mistake, and now I have to correct it—at least I’m going to try…. I told him something, and that changed everything.”

  “What was it?” Orlov remembered how curious he had been.

  “I told him how he would die—not exactly—but I gave him a warning about Leningrad, about the day he would be assassinated.”