“It is the past that tells us who we are.

Without it, we lose our identity.”

 

—Steven Hawking

 

 

Part I

 

Revelations

 

“Nothing in this world is hidden forever. The gold which has lain for centuries unsuspected in the ground, reveals itself one day on the surface. Sand turns traitor, and betrays the footstep that has passed over it. Fire itself leaves the confession, in ashes, of the substance consumed in it… Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.”

― Wilkie Collins

Chapter 1

 

The Faroe Islands was a lonesome outpost on the wild and windy frontier that marked the boundary between the Norwegian Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. A place that aspired to be nothing more than a quiet backwater settlement of fishermen and sheep herders, it had become a vital watch on those contested waters, a border outpost in a sea of war that would soon prove to be a hinge of fate.

 Presently under the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Denmark, the small island group had been chosen as the meeting place between two nations that now stood in the darkening shadows of war. The tall brown cliffs of the islands were crowned with broad green pastures, where sheep grazed in unknowing bliss. At places, soaring spires of rock rose like stony sails along the ragged coast, and pristine falls of water plummeted to the sea in pearly white columns. Small hamlets crowded the coastline in sheltered bays, the bright red and blue rooftops of the buildings adding a splash of color to the pastoral scene.

Some said the hardy folk that lived there had first come from the Viking outposts in the seas around Ireland, while others claimed that the settlers first came from Norway and Scandinavia. They were called the Eyja-Skeggjar, the Island-Beards of old, doughty, dour faced men with hands as hard as stone. Following the invasion of Denmark by Nazi Germany, the Faroe Islands were occupied by British troops in Operation Valentine, on April 12, 1940.

Two destroyers, Halvant and Hesperus, formed the vanguard of British occupation, politely arranging a meeting with the Danish Prefect, Carl Aage Hilbert. The next day the Royal Navy cruiser HMS Suffolk arrived at Tórshavn, the seat of authority on the island archipelago, bringing Frederick Mason, the appointed British Consul, along with 250 Royal Marines. A passing protest was duly filed, but then the locals welcomed the British, realizing that their fate could be a good deal worse if German Falschirmjaegers were landing that day in place of the British troops.

Churchill made the announcement to the House of Commons just as the operation was getting underway: “We are also at this moment occupying the Faroe Islands, which belong to Denmark and which are a strategic point of high importance, and whose people showed every disposition to receive us with warm regard. We shall shield the Faroe Islands from all the severities of war and establish ourselves there conveniently by sea and air until the moment comes when they will be handed back to Denmark, liberated from the foul thralldom into which they have been plunged by German aggression.”

The British quickly set up a naval base at Skálafjørður, a craggy outpost just south of the main Faroe Island near Torshavn, where they established their headquarters in the old fortress of Havnar Skansin. Naval guns were emplaced there for defense. The garrison was beefed up when the Royal Marines were replaced by 500 Lovat Scouts from Scotland, landing from the transport ship Ulster Prince. Just west of the main island, an airfield was constructed on Vagar Island, and heavily fortified. While the base was under construction, a long lake adjacent to the site served as a kind of water aerodrome, where seaplanes could land to deliver supplies and personnel. The base would allow the British to keep watchful eyes in the air over the vital passage to the Atlantic, a windy frontier outpost that was ever vigilant against the rising threat of the Kriegsmarine.

It was here, at the fledgling R.A.F. Vagar, that the meeting between Admiral Tovey and the Russians would be held. Tovey had been wise enough to say nothing to Dudley Pound of the startling revelations discovered by Alan Turing in the dusty archives of Bletchley Park. Instead he focused on the necessity of establishing a high level friendship and understanding of cooperation between the Russians and England, and he made his appeal directly to the Admiralty, saying he was in receipt of a message pointedly requesting his presence, and his alone, at the meeting to be arranged on the Faroe Islands.

Admiral Pound fluttered that British Admirals were not negotiators and diplomats, but men of war, and the prospect seemed in doubt due to his opposition, until a quiet knock on the door delivered a message from Churchill himself. Sergie Kirov had communicated directly with the Prime Minister, and asked, in no uncertain terms, that Tovey and Volsky make the first official contact concerning the matter. It was said that Admiral Volsky was now carrying a most important message, and Tovey was specifically named as the recipient.

Kirov anchored off the small islet of Gasholmur, seeing the proud silhouette of HMS Invincible and three destroyers waiting just south of the sheer rocky outcrop known as Tinholmur, rising over 200 meters above the sea. Admiral Volsky, Fedorov, and Nikolin took the Admiral’s launch up a long, narrow fiord that led them to a muddy landing where a small concrete quay protected a tiny harbor. They stepped ashore, greeted by an honor guard of Royal Marines to escort them to the meeting site at a simple home near the airfield. It was a warm, comfortable place, with chairs arranged around a hearth where the glow of a fire cast its welcoming heat and light on all present.

Tovey was there with his translator and a few other officers, and they all stood to offer a cordial greeting as the Russians came in. “I have the very great pleasure to meet with you again,” said Tovey, shaking Volsky’s hand.

After smiles, handshakes, and an offering of hot tea, the men seated themselves, whereupon Tovey turned and asked every other man in his party to leave the room. “I shall be happy to rely on the translation provided by your mister Nikolin,” he said, “as I have no doubt that he will faithfully communicate the essence of what we must now discuss with one another.”

Volsky smiled, appreciating the candor and gesture of good will on Tovey’s part, but also perceiving something more in the dismissal of the other men. Better this way, he thought. This British Admiral wants to get down to business, and so shall we.

“Well Admiral Volsky, the last time we met under rather trying circumstances, and though we were not quick to accept your offer of support at that time, the actions you took during the engagement in the Denmark Strait did not go unnoticed, or unappreciated by the British government.”

“We were pleased to offer any assistance we could,” said Volsky as Nikolin translated. “I only wish we could have done more, but we remained uncertain at that time as to how much intervention would be wise, given the fact that I was flying the colors of a neutral state. While the weapons we employed could certainly not have been overlooked by anyone present, particularly the unfortunate German sailors we were forced to fire upon, we believe our ship was never properly identified by the German navy during that engagement.”

“All the better if that is the case.” Tovey rubbed his hands. “As to those weapons you speak of, they proved most startling. We have never seen such advanced application of rocketry, both in the role of an anti-ship weapon as well as air defense. It was truly astounding.”

“These weapons are, in fact, the primary armament of my ship, Admiral. The deck guns you noted in our first meeting being nothing more than secondary weapons systems, as you surmised. Yet we find them very useful at times, and they are every bit as accurate as the rocketry you observed.”

“May I ask how you achieve this?”

“I’m afraid that would be a very long discussion. Let us simply say that we have developed a means of directing this fire by radar. You are aware of this technology?”

“Of course, though it is a relatively new development. Your systems must be very powerful to achieve this level of accuracy. If I am not being presumptuous, our government would be very much interested in learning more about this achievement. Is it common to all naval ships now deployed by Soviet Russia?”

“It is not. Our ship is unique in that respect. We were a secret project, a prototype.” Volsky adopted the cover Sergie Kirov had given him on the matter, thinking it a convenient way to avoid an explanation that might never be understood or accepted by Tovey. He was still having enough trouble understanding and accepting it himself.

“I see,” said Tovey. “Then this technology is in trials. Well, I should think you would be rather pleased with the results, and we would be eager to discuss these weapons further with you, if you would ever be so inclined. Great Britain is prepared to offer much in exchange for the friendship I hope you have brought here today.”

“And we would be pleased to offer much in return,” said Volsky. “That is exactly what I am now empowered to offer you, Admiral Tovey. I have met with Sergei Kirov in person, and I am also aware that back channel negotiations are now underway between his government and your own. But I am pleased and honored to be the first to formally confirm that Soviet Russia will now propose a general alliance and eternal friendship with Great Britain.”

Tovey beamed at that, as it was exactly what he hoped to secure here. “Admiral, I am grateful to be the man that receives this news, and I have no doubt that my government will eagerly embrace this offer. England stands alone in the West, yet Soviet Russia stands alone in the East. Between us lies a darkness spinning out a deadly gyre of war that now threatens to devour us both. It is my firm belief, and that of my government, that only by joining arms together can either of us have any hope to survive.”

“Agreed, Admiral Tovey. And I will also say that together we can, and must, prevail.”

Tovey proposed a brief toast to the alliance, which would be formalized within days in London where Soviet negotiators were waiting on the outcome of this initial meeting. As the brandy warmed all present, Tovey looked at the Russians, the clear light of another matter now glowing in his eyes.

“Admiral Volsky,” he said quietly. “When I first met with you I had the distinct feeling that I had done so once before. Of course I dismissed it as the empty headedness of an old man, but I must confess that I remain somewhat haunted by this. I must now share with you a discovery that was made by our intelligence services. Frankly, I did not know what to make of it when it was first revealed to me. I found it quite shocking. If you will pardon the mystery for a moment, perhaps the best way I might proceed here would be to hand you this envelope.”

Tovey reached over to a side table where he had placed his briefcase, opening it to produce a plain Manila envelope. He stood, with some sense of gravity apparent in his features, and slowly handed it to Admiral Volsky.

Tovey had received the envelope from Alan Turing, as he had requested, and it contained five startling photographs of the Russian battlecruiser, all with those mysterious labels affixed to the back, all misdated one or two years hence. He sat down watching closely to gauge Volsky’s initial reaction as he opened the envelope. Just as he expected, the Russian Admiral’s eyes widened with great surprise. Then a look of bewilderment passed over his heavy features, and he looked immediately to his attending Captain, the man named Fedorov, who was equally astonished as he took the photographs, slowly flipping from one to the next. The Russians spoke to one another, an urgent energy in their voices. Nikolin did not know whether he should translate, but Volsky quickly told him to ask where the photographs had come from. The answer he received was equally perplexing.

“You may immediately come to believe that those photographs were taken in the course of our earlier meeting, but I assure you, they were not. I must also be frank in saying that the authenticity of these images has been questioned, though they would have to be the work of a real expert if they are fraudulent. Is there any light you might possibly shed on that question?” There, Tovey had tossed the hot potato to the Russians and watched them pass it back and forth, with much discussion between Fedorov and Volsky that went untranslated until the Admiral apologized.

“My Admiral asks you to forgive him for a very brief moment, sir,” said Nikolin. “He needs to discuss something with Mister Fedorov.”

“Well Fedorov?” said Volsky. “What do you make of all this? We both know what those photos show. This one is that attack we suffered in the Tyrrhenian Sea, the very same one that sent me plummeting from that ladder and into a lengthy stay with Doctor Zolkin. I am certain of it. And this one here is clearly the moment of our departure from the Straits of Gibraltar, under the flag of truce I negotiated with this very same man! How could this be? That was in 1942!”

“I’m as shocked to see these as you are, sir,” said Fedorov. “But even more shocking is the notion that these could have been forged. That could not happen. How could anyone of this day and time, of this world, be privy to knowledge of those specific events to create something like this? Those landforms are very telling. That is Cape Spartel west of Tangier. And look at this one, sir! It was obviously taken from the shore, and note the ships in the background. Those are King George V class battleships, and I count four!”

Volsky raised a hand. “Forgive us, Admiral Tovey. Just a moment more.” He nodded to Nikolin to translate that. Then to Fedorov he said, “You are correct Fedorov. No one in this world could think to create such photographs as a forgery. And I must tell you that last image of the British fleet in the Western approaches is stunning. It is my very own recollection of that moment, made real in this photograph. I must conclude that these images are authentic, but how?”

“I don’t know how it could be possible, sir.” Fedorov seemed completely flummoxed. Beyond that, how could they possibly explain this to Admiral Tovey? It was a profound mystery. “I can only propose one thing, sir. Remember what Kamenski said when I revealed the strange properties of that stairway at Ilanskiy? He said there may be other places on earth where these rifts in time persisted. Could someone have brought this material from another time? After all, the existence of these photographs is no more startling than our own presence in this room at this moment.”

Volsky nodded. “Agreed. But now I think we have been impolite long enough.” He turned to Admiral Tovey, fixing him with a lingering look, deciding something in a tense moment that might open the doors of mayhem and madness here. But there was no other course as he saw it then. To deny the images would plant a seed of suspicion, which was not what he had come to do. What did Tovey know about them? He had to explore the matter further.

“Please translate everything said from this moment forward, Mister Nikolin. Admiral Tovey, I ask your forgiveness again, but I needed to consult with Mister Fedorov here. As you may have seen, these photographs are somewhat surprising, but you will now be equally astonished to learn that they do, indeed, appear to present moments I have personally experienced. We do not think they are forgeries. Please tell me how you came by them?”

Even though Tovey half expected and hoped he might hear such an answer, it nonetheless came as a shock. The Russian Admiral was telling him these photographs were authentic? How? How could that be so? He hesitated, ever so slightly, then spoke, resolved to dig yet a little deeper into the mystery.

“Well, to answer your question, Admiral, these images came from material collected by our intelligence networks—at least it gives every appearance of that. They were all carefully labeled and organized in a file box—all arranged according to our normal formats and protocols. If you happened to review the labels on the back of those photos you will see one thing that gave me reason to believe this was all an elaborate hoax. You see, they are all date stamped in the years 1941 and 1942. This being an impossibility, I came to suggest that these photos were fabrications. Are you telling me now that you believe them to be genuine?”

“That is exactly the case. They clearly depict events that remain fresh in my memory, and that fact alone is convincing evidence that they could not be forgeries. Who could anticipate or dream up events as shown in these photos with such accuracy?”

That set Tovey back a moment. “Were they taken earlier this year? I was not aware you were in the Mediterranean.”

“Not this year,” said Volsky with just the hint of some unspoken truth in his tone.

Tovey did not quite know what he meant by that. His thought was that these were photos of the ship taken by some other intelligence service or military arm earlier this year, and then tampered with through some darkroom witchery as he had proposed it to Turing. The four King George V class battleships and the deliberate misdating were damning evidence to that effect. Then the Russian Admiral spoke again, and his next words burst open the dike Tovey had his finger of disbelief firmly planted in since he had first seen the images himself.

“Now I will reveal something that you may find to be quite disturbing, Admiral Tovey. A moment ago you told me that you had the feeling that we had met before. That is so. You may now think me a crazy old fool, but the meeting we had in the Denmark Strait some weeks ago was not the first time you and I have spoken with each other, strange as that may sound to you now. We have, indeed, met before. This photo was taken some hours after that very meeting, which occurred on a small island near your base at Gibraltar.”

The minute that Volsky said that, Tovey was struck with a powerful sensation of déjà vu, a shadow of a deeply hidden memory upwelling in his mind, yet one he could simply not grasp. The barest fragment emerged in his consciousness, a place, a name.

“Las Palomas,” he said quietly. “That was the place, wasn’t it?”

Volsky smiled.

Chapter 2

 

Tovey’s pulse began to quicken as Nikolin translated, the yawning realization opening in his mind now that was pushing this whole matter to the edge of oblivion—sheer lunacy! For one other thing that Alan Turing had included in that Manila envelope had been a copy of the report Tovey had written summing up the very same meeting and discussion that Admiral Volsky had just mentioned! He thought it all part of the carefully contrived deception, but here was an independent source, having no connection to British intelligence whatsoever, calmly referencing the meeting his report labored to describe! A meeting that he would swear had never happened, yet one he felt on some inner level to be a reality.

Tovey was dazed, beside himself with the implications that gathered like ravenous wolves about the fading campfire of his mind. Yet even though he thought he was doing nothing more than courting folly, he ventured another question. “If such a meeting took place, Admiral, might you tell me what was agreed between us there?”

“Of course. The same thing we have just set our minds to here—a truce. We found ourselves at odds, and rather than continue a struggle that could do neither of us any good, I agreed to proceed to the Island of St. Helena in the South Atlantic in exchange for free passage of the Straits of Gibraltar and a pledge of non-belligerency in the war that is before us both now.”

There it was, chapter and verse as Tovey’s own report had described the meeting, and the agreement that was negotiated—a meeting he knew he had never taken with this man, particularly on the dates listed! Yet Tovey persisted, if only to test the fullness of the mayhem that was now before him.

“I must tell you that I am a very busy man, and one sometimes given to forgetfulness, but I could never put from my mind a meeting of such importance. I have no recollection of ever seeing you, or ever speaking with you before we first met aboard HMS Invincible, though I have harbored, as I confessed, a lingering feeling that we had met. Now you sit there and describe the very substance and purpose of that meeting, and it corresponds precisely with this report on the matter—a report supposedly written by my own hand by all appearances, but one I would swear before any court that I have never contemplated, let alone produced. It would seem logical for me to assume you are somehow connected to this document, and perhaps to all the others found in the box I have mentioned. One more question, before I certify myself as hopelessly insane, or conclude that you are a part of a grand deception. The date… Do you recall just when this meeting was supposed to have occurred between us? Even if my own memory has failed me, my whereabouts are fairly well documented.”

Fedorov leaned over and whispered something to Admiral Volsky now, and he nodded. “My Captain here informs me now, as my recollection is a bit like Swiss cheese at times as well. But there will be no record you can produce documenting your whereabouts in this regard—except perhaps that report you have referred to. The date… Forgive me if what I now say gives you every reason to think that I, too, am insane, or playing some macabre game with you here. I assure you that I am not guilty on both counts. The date of this meeting was August 14, and a little after 17:00, in the year 1942.”

The log on the fire popped loudly, as if in protest to the facts that Admiral Volsky asserted. It was the very same information documented in the report Turing had forwarded. They all jumped at the sound, then sat there, looking at one another like marked men, and certainly bound for the only place where any of this would make even the slightest bit if sense—bedlam.

Tovey gave the Russians a narrow eyed look. Could these men, this ship, all be part and parcel with the same plot that produced that box of material Turing fished out of the archives? Why would anyone contrive a story like this? He could think of no reason, but reason was not the order of the day, or the moment here. This was all entirely unreasonable, completely irrational, some perverse joke the world was playing on them, or a devious plot that Turing may have inadvertently stumbled upon.

He shored up his will, resolved to get to the bottom of this here and now. “The date you have given me is exactly what I see noted here on this report—yet preposterous. I have read the popular novel by our own Mister H. G. Wells on the matter of time travel, gentlemen. In fact I read it many years ago, as a young boy of ten when it was first published. But I am not given to such flights of fancy, so it should be clear to us all here that this notion that we have met at some future time is poppycock… And yet…. I have had a long look at the material in this archive, and I find it all rather disconcerting in a way that is difficult to explain. It documents that our first meeting was in combat, with me aboard a battleship that we have only just commissioned into the fleet. So this entire box is either a wonderful work of fiction, like our Mister Wells’ story, or I’m a bullfrog. Then I sit here and look at those photographs, note your own astonished reactions to the same, and am I to assume you are all in league with the perpetrator of this fiction?”

Admiral Volsky sighed. He could either agree now that this was all a hoax and spare this man the trip down the rabbit hole he had been forced to take, or he could reveal the impossible truth that he had lived with and would continue to live with here—a truth that could simply not be hidden any longer as he saw things. Then he thought of Ivan Volkov, Vladimir Karpov, and even Sergei Kirov, all men who had also taken that same impossible journey through time, all key players now in the shattered reality of this world. The truth, as impossible as it seemed, was his only recourse.

“Admiral Tovey, I could spend hours trying to explain what I am now about to tell you, but I think there is a better way. You were kind enough to invite me aboard your ship. May I suggest now that you take a moment to visit me aboard Kirov? There you will have the answer to all your questions, and if the evidence of your own eyes is not something you can believe, then I will join you in happy retirement to your Bethlem Royal Hospital, and the two of us can sit out the remainder of this war as a pair of crazy old fools.”

 

* * *

 

‘Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky,          Like a patient etherized upon a table…’ Tovey ran the words of T. S. Eliot through his mind now as they made their way through the small settlement towards the Admiral’s launch by the quay. ‘There will be time, there will be time… time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea…’

 The ship loomed in the lee of the tall stony sail of Tinholmur rock, thrust up from the hidden depths below in some upwelling of chaos in the earth itself, its sharp, jagged edge still unweathered by wind and rain over the centuries. As he looked at the ship he felt that its sharp metallic lines were also the product of chaos, something wholly unaccountable, out of place, a misfit in time. It was as if this strange ship had haunted his nightmares all his life.

He thought once that his recollection of that harrowing moment aboard King Alfred in the Pacific had been the source of this long steeped anxiety. One moment he was charging ahead into battle, leading in the British China Squadron, his forward cannon blasting away at the ominous shadow on the sea. The next moment the distant ship seemed to be enveloped in haze, a green mist, luminescent, like the artful and eerie dance of Saint Elmo’s Fire in the high mast at the edge of a storm.

The ship just seemed to vanish, presumed sunk, but with no wreckage ever found in the shallow waters near Iki Island in the Tsushima Strait. So the official report would state that it was obliterated, though Tovey could recall no explosion big enough to destroy a ship of that size. It was a deep mystery, and the report was since lost to the weathering of time and events. Yet he always thought about it, the ship that took the Captain’s life and thrust him into his first daring moment of command.

Now as he drew near to the broad hull of the battlecruiser Kirov, he felt a strange magnetism, a connection, linking his life and fate to the cold metal hull and decks and battlements of this vessel. The closer he came, the more he felt that compelling sense of discovery, as if he was finally to have the answer to a stubborn question that had lingered in his mind all his life. It was here… It was this ship… It was Geronimo.

He could stop now, just here beneath the lowering curve of the ship’s hull, the edge of uncertainty. ‘Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.’

The growl of the small boat’s engine stilled and they came along side. Seamen at the bow of the boat tossed up the rope to tie it off. Tovey felt his arms and legs moving almost mechanically as he climbed up from the Admiral’s launch, onto the metal stairwell that had been lowered from above. It was as if he was crossing some barrier now, between the real world he had known and lived in all his life, and a world of twilight and mystery where everything he had ever learned was to be called into question.

He could feel the old and familiar slipping from his grasp with every step he took, as if he was forfeiting the safety and comfort of his old life, and the innocence of unknowing that had been his before this moment, the propriety and civility of an English gentleman’s life, the calm, rational framework that was the core of his personality. ‘For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons…’

Who was he, really? What was he? How did he come to be here? These were questions that one asked of the night and stars above, in quiet moments alone, in the solitude of inner thought. Now it would all be called into question and profound doubt. Step beyond that gunwale and onto the deck of chaos and uncertainty, he thought, but he pressed on nonetheless.

He heard the familiar high strain of the boatswain’s pipe. Not one, but two Admirals would now walk the decks of the mighty Kirov. An honor guard in dress whites awaited him, and the Marines snapped to attention, bayonets gleaming at the end of their rifles.

Admiral Volsky had gone first, so as to welcome him again with another hearty handshake when he came up. “Please walk with me, Admiral Tovey,” he said. “I will now give you a tour of the most marvelous ship in the world—in this world or any other. You will see much here that is familiar to your eye, the men below decks in their dungarees and striped naval shirts, the sweat and toil of the matros, that we call our able seamen, the mishman, or midshipman, the starshini, or petty officers all falling to their evolutions to keep this ship running smoothly. The bulkheads and hatches and ladders up and down will all feel like any ship to you, but the places they lead you to will be quite different, quite astonishing.”

They walked the ship, touring the outer decks first as Volsky pointed out the broad domes covering radars and communications equipment, and the ceaseless rotation of the Fregat system high above them.

“With that we can see out to a range of 300 kilometers. You may not believe this but it is quite true.”

“But that would be well over the horizon, Admiral. How is this possible?”

“I wish I could tell you that. All I know is what I hear when my radar man, who is now the Starpom of this ship, tells me when he reports a new contact.”

“Starpom?”

“Ah, that would be the name we give to our Executive Officer, “Mister Rodenko. You will meet him when we visit the bridge. But first, let us have a little stroll on the forward deck.”

Fedorov could hear the pride in the Admiral’s voice as he led Tovey on, and he felt it as well. This was, indeed, the finest ship in the world. While he had passed moments of real trepidation when Volsky proposed he would reveal their true nature and origin to the British Admiral, now he had come to realize that this was inevitable from the first moment they decided to remain here and intervene instead of taking their chances again with the control rods.

Admiral Volsky had the men attending their party summon a missile deck engineer, and open one of the many hatches there. The sharp, dangerous nose of a Moskit-II was seen waiting silently in its vertical silo, like a sleeping monster waiting to be called to life.

“That is one of the missiles you witnessed—actually not this particular model. This one is much bigger than the rockets we used against the Germans. And now you will hear what I say next with disbelief, but I will tell you the truth. This rocket can hit a fly on a wall, and at a range of 222 kilometers, that is 120 of your English miles. The warhead is 450 kilograms, nearly a thousand English pounds.”

Tovey was more than impressed. The interior of the silo was immaculate, the missile threatening in every line and aspect. There was clearly technology and knowhow on this ship far in excess of anything he could imagine possible. Was the admiral merely boasting to make an impression? Could this missile hit its target over a hundred miles away? How would it see it? He asked this, and got an answer.

“Those radars tell it the general location of the target, and then when it is in flight it uses its own radar, right there in the nose, to have a look for itself. It is extremely accurate.”

“My God, your advances in radar technology must be very far ahead of our own.”

“Come, now I will show you my bridge.”

They made their way up, climbing ladders and stairways, and in time came in through the aft hatch of the main citadel.

“Admiral on the bridge!” Rodenko’s voice was sharp and clear, and Tovey needed no translation to know what he had said when every officer and watchstander snapped to attention.

“As you were, gentlemen. Admiral, may I present the ship’s Executive Officer, Grigori Rodenko, a very able man. He will show you the control interfaces and systems we use to receive the data those big radar dishes send here.”

Rodenko walked them from station to station, describing the equipment as Nikolin translated, and noting its basic purpose. They toured Radar and then Sonar, where Tasarov waited quietly beneath his headset.

“We could hear the approach of a German U-Boat from over twenty kilometers away, and if we were simply listening for your ship, we would hear it coming at many times that range.”

Then came to the combat information center, aglow with lights and status panels, where the Admiral introduced Victor Samsonov. “Here is my strong right arm, Admiral Tovey. This man executes battle orders to deliver the appropriate ordnance on the target, and he is very efficient, as the German navy has already seen.”

Tovey was taking this all in, one amazing fact after another. The electronic devices that seemed to be everywhere hummed with quiet energy. There were no telescopes for sighting on distant ships, no voice pipes for the officer of the watch to bawl out orders to stations below. Instead there was an enormous flat black panel overhead that suddenly came to life with the image of his own ship, HMS Invincible, where it road at anchor behind a screen of destroyers hundreds of yards away. To his utter astonishment the image was zoomed in at Admiral Volsky’s request, and Tovey gaped when he clearly saw men he recognized standing on the weather deck at their watches. The resolution and clarity of the image was impeccable.

“Now let us retire to the officer’s dining room for dinner. I am eager to repay your hospitality in hosting us for lunch some weeks ago, and there is much we have to discuss.”

 

 

Chapter 3

 

If a man could eat the finest cut of steak and not taste it, that was Tovey’s experience that night, so focused as he was on what the Russian Admiral was telling him.

“So you have seen this ship, and I can imagine you find it more than uncommon.” Volsky set down his napkin, taking a sip of wine as he finished. “Your next question is obvious. How could Soviet Russia build such a ship, develop such advanced weaponry, electronics, radar, and more? There are things hidden behind those glowing consoles and screens that I have not mentioned, Admiral. We have a machine that allows us to make precise calculations, faster than the speed of thought itself. The application of these weapons requires it, the hand of man being simply too slow to adequately manage these weapons once they are unleashed. The world I come from demands such precision, and a matter of even a few seconds could make the difference between life or death in battle there.”

“The world you come from? I will admit that the nature and capabilities of the weapons and machinery you have shown me here seems otherworldly, but what do you mean by that?”

“Consider it yourself, Admiral. You have seen the development of military science, and know it can be plodding at times, and take great leaps at others. But how long do you think it would be before you might have missiles that can do what you have seen us demonstrate?”

Tovey was a realist, and knew that Britain had very little to show by way of rocket development. “I must say it would take us a good number of years.”

“Precisely, decades in fact. By the end of this war you will see the emergence of this technology. After that it will grow and grow until it can do things you would not imagine now.”

“You speak of this as though you have already lived through this war and well beyond,” said Tovey with a smile. “Surely this is mere conjecture. Your engineers and scientists have developed this technology, and ours will as well one day. Perhaps you might hasten that day with a gesture of friendship and give us a leg up in that regard.”

“We would be happy to do so, but these weapons and the machinery that controls them are very complex, as you might imagine. They require advances in many fields, aviation, flight mechanics, ballistics, metallurgy, solid fuel development, guidance mechanisms, and so on. These things all take time…”

He leaned on that last word, clearly intending it to matter and convey something more than he had said. Nikolin caught the innuendo, and did his best to translate it in a way that Tovey would understand.

The British Admiral waited, saying nothing, arms folded as he listened. Then Admiral Volsky gave him a long, serious look, and exhaled, resigned to what he must now do.

“Admiral Tovey, nothing I have shown you here could be built by any engineering firm of this day. You could set your entire war effort to the task, the Germans as well, and that of every other nation on earth, including Soviet Russia. Together they would labor to produce just a fraction of the capability we now possess. These things take time, and that is the heart of the matter. A ship this size would take years to design and build, would it not? It would take enormous resources, but I must tell you now that this ship was not built in the last five years as you might think. There are things aboard that could not be built, even if we were to wait fifty years. This ship was not built by the Soviet Russia you now know. It was built in the distant future… There. I have finally said it.”

“The future? Are we to discuss H. G. Wells and his Time Machine now?” Tovey felt a mixture of surprise, outrage and shock, but behind it was a throbbing pulse of anxiety that warned of the truth, a dangerous and deadly truth in everything this man was now saying. It was something he had known once, discovered once, set a long and guarded watch on. Yes… the Watch! That word resonated within him now, and he could feel that awful sense that he knew something that he could simply not clarify and grasp, like the fading recollection of a dream as it fled from his waking mind. He knew…

“Time machine? That would hit very close to the bone,” said Volsky. “This ship was commissioned into the Russian Navy in the year 2020. An accident occurred while we were underway in the Norwegian Sea, something we now believe is associated with our highly advanced propulsion system, and we found ourselves strangely marooned, lost, adrift in the seas of the year 1941.”

“1941? It hasn’t happened yet!” Tovey’s rational mind voiced the obvious protest, but his inner mind knew it had happened, he had lived it through. Everything in that damnable box Turing had wrestled away from the cobwebs in the archive of BP—it was all true!

“No it hasn’t happened here yet. Not for you, Admiral, but for us, for every man aboard this ship, this war is very old history that we have studied at school and long forgotten. Now I will tell you what happened to us. We were spotted by one of your Royal Navy task forces. Appearing as we did in the Norwegian Sea, I believe they assumed we were a German raider. At that time we were struggling, even as you must be now, to come to grips with what had happened to us. It simply could not be, we thought. It was impossible for us to find ourselves displaced to another time, like the story you have mentioned. But, little by little, the evidence of our own eyes persuaded us that it was the truth, an impossible truth, and a very dangerous one. Mister Fedorov, who was the Admiral commanding the task force that first discovered us?”

“Admiral Wake-Walker, sir.”

“There—a man you may know personally, Admiral Tovey. Well, I am sad to report that the misunderstanding and confusion of mind on both sides led to a situation where we were forced to defend ourselves. It was a small disagreement in the beginning. This Wake-Walker wanted to see if we were, indeed, a new German ship, and we could not allow him to make a close approach to our vessel. I was forced to fire on one of your destroyers, and the rest, as happens all too often in war, was a sad repetition of that mistake. Your Royal Navy is quite efficient, and in fact, you were in command at that time, even as you are now. Your pursuit of my ship was dogged and determined, and it resulted in some rather difficult moments for us both.”

Tovey could almost see all this in his mind’s eye as Admiral Volsky described it, feel the anxiety of the chase, the impact of a rocket against the armor of his flagship.

“Then we were enemies?”

“Sadly true,” said Volsky. “We made our way to the Mediterranean Sea, and even fought a duel with your own battleships there… What were their names, Mister Fedorov?”

“Nelson and Rodney, sir”

“Yes. I was indisposed at the time, because the photograph of one of your planes strafing this ship was real, Admiral, and I was seriously injured during that attack. Mister Fedorov here was in command at the time. And so you see, all the material you presented to me ashore was very surprising for us to see, for we knew it was authentic, moments we have fought and lived through, at great cost to both sides. Yes, men died on this ship in action against your fleet, and I am afraid a good many more died on your ships. I could spend hours talking about it, but in an effort to return to our own day, we tried a procedure with our propulsion system, and were able to move again in time. Unfortunately, the end of that journey now finds us here, where we appeared just weeks ago very near one of your convoys south of Iceland. Mister Fedorov?”

“Convoy HX-49, sir, just off Cape Farewell.”

Tovey sat in stunned silence, his mind laboring to protest this lunacy, but muted now by the awful weight of the feeling he had carried that all this was true. Finally he spoke… “I have read my Dickens as well, Admiral Tovey. Are you saying you now appear to me like the Ghost of Christmas yet to come? That all these engagements you say we have fought are fated to re-occur?”

“No. That need not be the case. Quite frankly, the world as it now stands does not seem to be the one we left. This will also be difficult for you to grasp, but the history we knew did not see our homeland divided in civil war as it is. The Soviet Union was exactly that, a strong union of all the states that now make up what was once Imperial Russia under the Romanov dynasty. No… We now believe the actions we took in the events documented in that box of yours are responsible for the radical changes to the history we have learned about since our arrival here—in 1940. We tried, many times, to clean up the mess we had made and set things right, but you have a nursery rhyme about a fat egg man that falls off a wall, do you not?”

“Humpty Dumpty?”

“That is the one. Well, we, too, learned that all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men could not put the world back together again as it was. We are living in an altered reality now—a world we helped to shape with our own damnable incompetence and short-sightedness. So this time when we appeared here I realized it was no good trying to mend things again, but a man my age will not easily make the same mistake twice. You and I were adversaries in that other world. This time I decided things differently. Yes, Admiral, we did meet once before, and we found reason and good will could trump our enmity. We made peace, you and I. This time I wanted to make a friend of the Royal Navy, and not have to relive the events we had already experienced. So here we are.” He smiled, holding up his glass and taking a long sip of much needed wine. “Here we are at dinner with the Admiral of the British Home Fleet!”

Now Fedorov spoke, wanting to voice a matter he had puzzled over since Tovey first handed them those photographs. “If I may, Admiral, we find ourselves equally bemused by all of this. As you may have seen, we were quite shocked to see the photographs in that envelope you handed us, and I cannot think of how that material, this box you say you have, ever came into your possession at all! It stands as a deep mystery, for those are images from the world we came from—not this world.”

“They certainly could not have been taken in the world I know,” Tovey agreed as Nikolin quickly translated.

“Yes, you yourself know that you have only two ships ready in the King George V class now, yet that photo you handed me clearly showed four. That photo is a remnant from another time, and it images an event that now may never occur. The thought that photograph could even exist now is most disturbing; completely inexplicable. So you see, while we tell you now the seemingly impossible truth concerning our own displacement in time, we must confess that we are no masters of that. Our control over what happened to us is very limited, and the existence of these photographs, and things like that report you mentioned to us regarding the meeting Admiral Volsky had with you in 1942, well they are quite troubling, maddeningly unsettling to us, even as this outrageous tale must prey upon your own mind. How could images of events we lived through in 1941 and 1942 be here, a year before any of that ever happened, in the year 1940? Unless—and this is the only possibility we could grasp at—unless they were brought here, from some future year, and by someone we have yet to identify who is also capable of moving in time.”

“Like our Mister Wells,” said Tovey, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, just like old H. G. Wells with his Time Machine.”

Even as Tovey said that he realized how stupid and foolish it sounded, but this man was suggesting it as a real possibility. If the material Turing had dredged up in that box was authentic, then it had to come from somewhere. These men had just told him that was so. The next question was obvious to them all.

“Brought here, you say?” said Tovey. “By who? For what reason? Was it meant as a warning of some kind? As you have just confessed, we were apparently at each other’s throats the first time around this merry-go-round.”

“We have not had time to think this through,” said Volsky. “I am sure Mister Fedorov here will have a bit of a sleepless night over this matter.”

“That is an understatement,” said Tovey. “I’ve been sitting here pinching myself, gentlemen, thinking I should wake up from a nightmare and find myself back in Scapa Flow with nothing to worry about but the Hindenburg.”

Fedorov smiled. “You may be surprised to know that ship was never built by Germany in the history we knew—nor was your own ship anchored just a few hundred yards from us this evening, HMS Invincible.”

“Never built?”

“No sir. The history we know records that the G3 class battlecruisers were cancelled due to the limitations imposed by the Washington Naval Treaty. That ship does displace somewhat over 35,000 tons, does it not? All four planned ships were cancelled, so imagine my surprise when we arrived here and I laid eyes on your ship. This world has things in it that amaze us as well.”

“Astounding…” It was all Tovey could say. It was all simply astounding. Then something occurred to him that struck him like a thunderclap. “Then you know,” he said. “You know everything—the history, the war, how it all ends.” He looked at them, his eyes open wide with the possibilities hidden within his question.

“Yes, we know how it turned out… once upon a time. But, as the existence of your own ship testifies, this world is a new reality. Everything is different here now, at least to us. It could all turn out quite differently as well.”

Tovey was silent, lost in the deep gravity of all this, yet pulled by the irresistible urge to know more. “Did I know this in the time where we last met?”

“We were never sure what you knew, though I had my suspicions that you were slowly realizing something was terribly amiss in regards to our ship.”

“Geronimo….” Tovey had a distant look in his eye now, as if he were seeing ghostly, vaporous images of a past life, always present in the hidden recesses of his mind, yet ever fleeing from the powerful light of his conscious attention, like fitful shadows. “We called your ship Geronimo. I don’t know how I know that, but I would swear that is so.”

Fedorov looked at Volsky, not knowing what to say. This was all so completely confounding that he had no way to grasp it. Photos here before the things they imaged ever had a chance to be lived, and from another reality. And here was a man who seemed to sense the truth of all this, as though the imprint of those experiences remained branded on his soul, a remnant or shadow from that other world, like a man remembering a past life. It was an anomaly of profound importance. How could this John Tovey have any recollection of events he had never lived in this time line?

Now Admiral Volsky said the one thing that seemed to make some sense. “We struggled for some time over whether or not any of this should ever be revealed, to you or anyone else from this time. It is said that the truth eventually emerges no matter how long we struggle to hide it.”

“Yes,” said Tovey with a smile. “Our own Mister Churchill has said that ‘men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.’ Well this is a revelation that I will have to sit with for a very long while, more than a stumble, gentlemen.”

“Seeing those photographs was a blow to my soul as well,” said Volsky. “In some ways I hope what we do here now will make certain none of them can ever come into being. Yes, we know how things once were, but something tells me the changes to the history of these momentous events are only just beginning, even as this war is only just beginning. I spoke to give you hope that things might turn out favorably, but I must also tell you that this war will not be the last, Admiral Tovey, and the next great war leads us to the edge of complete annihilation.” He let that sit there as Nikolin translated slowly.

 “Can we avoid that future?” Volsky continued. “This is what we wonder now, but there is no way for us to know this for certain. The only way we will know how it all turns out is to live it all through, one day at a time.”

 

 

 

 

 

Part II

 

Confrontation

 

“Brinkmanship is the art of bringing a situation to the edge of the abyss.”

—Adlai Stevenson

 

Chapter 4

 

After his harrowing experience on that stairway at Ilanskiy, Karpov had plenty of time to think things over. Now he knew he must have been seeing events from his home world, the year 2021. It was the great war, he thought, the last great war. We wondered how long we had until the missiles would fly, and it seems they have. So that stairway must be some kind of passage in time! How was that possible? Was it only because of the nearby nuclear detonation he had witnessed? Volkov said nothing about this, so he must have gone down those steps well before the missiles were fired. How could he have moved in time—and all the way to 1908?

No, he thought. He did not get that far. He came here, to the 1940s. What was all this talk about meeting men who claimed they were NKVD? If that was so then he must have gone down those stairs a second time if he ended up in 1908. And why would that passage in time lead there? Rod-25 had done the same thing. It moved the ship from 2021 to 1941, and took us on that journey forward and back again many times. Then, for some reason, a hole in time had opened to the year 1908. He could not yet understand why this was, or even how Fedorov had managed to move from 1942 to find him in 1908, and on two occasions. What was so special about that year?

He thought about that for some time, until he revisited what had happened when that Demon Volcano had erupted in 2021. Large explosive events… yes, something about the shattering power of these events was affecting the integrity of time. That volcano blasted the ship into the 1940s, and then his own use of nuclear weapons had sent Kirov even farther back in time.

Why not Orlan, he thought? That ship was steaming just a few thousand meters ahead of me, even closer to the source of the detonation, did it move in time as well? It certainly did not move to 1908. Could it have gone somewhere else? None of the American ships or planes were affected either, as least as far as I know. We thought it was something unique to Kirov—Rod-25—but could it have been something more, something in the ship’s reactor core that Rod-25 was only catalyzing? And what did any of that have to do with that stairway at Ilanskiy? There were no nuclear reactors or detonations of any kind there. He could make no sense of it, but then again his life had been one impossibility after another since Kirov first disappeared in the Norwegian Sea. He had come to accept the impossible as commonplace now. Yet there had to be an answer to all of this, something he was not seeing. Fedorov was trying to figure all this out long ago. I must do the same, he thought.

Why did the ship move to 1908? It was also the year where Volkov appeared when he went down those stairs. And Fedorov was able to get there using Rod-25 on both the Anatoly Alexandrov and Kazan. Why that year? Was it mere coincidence? The ship seemed to move in and out of the 1940s numerous times. First we arrive in 1941, then move to 1942 on two separate occasions. He said it was as if our position in time was unstable, like a rock skipping on a pond, and we always moved forward—until that last shift from 1945 to 1908. Was that a random event or was there something significant about that year?

He thought about that, reaching for a volume of the history of the Siberian State, and scouring information for the year 1908 to see if he could turn up any clues. Here I am sitting like Fedorov with my nose in the history books, he realized. Then he saw a reference to the strange event in late June of 1908. Yes! That must be it! Tunguska! June 30, 1908.

He read the account of an eye witness named Semedec:

“... I was sitting in the porch of the house at the trading station of Vadecara at breakfast time... when suddenly in the north... the sky was split in two and high above the forest the whole northern part of the sky appeared to be covered with fire. At that moment I felt great heat as if my shirt had caught fire; this heat came from the north side. I wanted to pull off my shirt and throw it away, but at that moment there was a bang in the sky, and a mighty crash was heard. I was thrown to the ground …”

A large explosive event—Tunguska! There he saw the map of the presumed location of the event, and a report in the Irkutsk newspaper dated July 2, 1908, published two days after the explosion. What if that event had somehow caused this rift in time, a permanent effect, instead of the transient effects they had experienced aboard Kirov? The fact that this phenomenon persisted even to the year 2021 was very telling. The impact of the Tunguska event must have been so severe that it opened this permanent hole in time, and it must have been so aligned in space as to run right along that stairway. What other explanation was possible?

He did not yet know why this happened, only that it did happen. Facts were facts. There it was, a gateway, a bridge between three separate eras. Why it seemed to involve the 1940s was as yet a mystery he could not answer. But I don’t need to know why it happens just now, he thought. Knowing that it does happen is quite enough! Now I must set my mind on how to best use it. Going back up those stairs from here is fruitless. A visit to the naval arsenal at Kansk might have allowed me to pick some nice cherries off the tree, but not any longer. The arsenal, and probably Kansk itself, has been obliterated in 2021. Yet what about going down that stairway? Yes, that was the real threat now.

That’s what happened to Volkov. He must have gone down twice, and found himself in 1908, at the source of the rift. He was probably so disoriented and confused that he never made the connection between his madness and that staircase. Too bad for him.

Yes, I could go down those stairs myself now, but what would I find? Would I find Volkov there in 1908? Did the stairway deliver each traveler to the same time? Imagine it. If I went there and did find him, I suppose I could easily convince him to come back with me. What then? Would we arrive at the top of that landing in 1940 again? Would we find that there was no “Orenburg Federation?”

The more he thought on this, the more he realized how precarious his own fate was now. Someone had killed Josef Stalin in 1908. Who? Was it Volkov? Kirov? Volkov would certainly have a motive, but Kirov? How would Sergie Kirov have known Stalin would become the monster he was? Could it have only been happenstance, a random change when these events replayed in the history?

I remember how plaintive and urgent Fedorov sounded when he learned of my decision to remain in 1908. He knew that I could topple the base pillars of the entire modern world from there. Now, with this stairway, I could do the very same thing. I could go back and get rid of Volkov, Stalin too if he’s still around. Then I could position myself within the revolutionary elite when the Tsar falls, and perhaps I would be the Secretary General instead of Sergie Kirov.

He smiled to think that he had the power to become the new Stalin of this world, right there on that back stairway. Then he considered the life he had now, a rising star in the Siberian Free State and certainly destined to rule here in time. Kolchak is old and tired, Kozolnikov easily dealt with. I could get rid of Volkov, but chances are I would find that someone took his place if I decided to return to this year. Now I am still young, while Kirov and Volkov are both over 50. This war is the hinge of fate. It will decide how the modern world looks after 1945, and from here I have a chance to shape that world.

Back and forth he went with all this in his mind. Should he stay here, and live into the modern era, or go back to 1908 and rewrite all the history he had just come to know? Karpov was still brooding over all this in his ready room aboard Abakan when a signalman came to him, startling him with alarm and surprise. Something had been seen on the airship’s long range early warning radar.

The early system was primitive, but just enough to do the job it was designed for that day. The Leningrad Electro-Physics Institute had pioneered development of rudimentary continuous wave radio emission sets to replace the old listening posts that required a human ear to actually hear incoming planes. Continuous wave was capable of detection and bearing location of an incoming threat, but could not determine range until it was converted to a pulse system in 1934. Others argued that higher frequency or microwave systems would better serve the purpose desired. The first equipment, dubbed Bistro (Rapid) and Buraya (Storm) used microwaves and became truck mounted radar, designated RUS-1. These advances eventually became the Redut (Redoubt) pulse radar tested in 1939 and entering service by 1940.

Designated RUS-2, it could detect high flying targets out to 100 kilometers, and lower level targets at 10 to 30 kilometers. Most of this development remained in Kirov’s Soviet Russia, but there were equivalent systems developed under Volkov’s regime in Orenburg. Even so, there were no more than fifty RUS-2 sets in all of Soviet Russia as the storm clouds of war gathered, though two had fallen into hands of independent Tartar cavalry units who had captured them near Perm during a raid on the border zone there.

Realizing the importance of radar, Karpov moved heaven and earth to secure the two systems when he learned of them in early 1940. One was posted in the frontier bastion city of Omsk, and summarily withdrawn to Novosibirsk when that city was lost. The second was in Irkutsk. There the Siberian Technical Corps had managed to reverse engineer the system and, with considerable guidance from Karpov, they were making rapid improvements. No one knew how this remarkable man possessed such a breadth of technical and scientific knowledge, but he was able to catalyze the research and remove false starts and roadblocks to set it all on the proper course. The information in his service jacket computer proved to be a limitless resource, which Karpov kept very secret. A new system, code named “Topaz” appeared in the mid-1940, and Karpov insisted that the first sets were mounted on all his airships.

The problem was where to place the new equipment for maximum effect? Mounting it on the gondolas allowed for good low level search capability, but the mass of the airship above was a major obstacle. Placing it in the nose only allowed coverage of the forward arcs, and there were too few systems available to have nose and tail mounted units. In the end, a small platform was extended from the interior frame on the forehead of the ship, and it was able to see incoming aircraft at altitude well enough, forsaking low level approaches in the bargain.

The threat of enemy planes coming in at low level could be mitigated as they would have to first cross the border zone where ground based systems could detect them. Few enemy planes had the range to venture into the vast interior of Siberia in any case. Yet Karpov was not satisfied with that. He ordered two Topaz sets for each of his airships, and mounted a second on the forward gondola to scan downward.

So it was that the fledgling Topaz system operator on the brow of Abakan spotted something he did not expect to see that day, sitting up stiffly and double checking his equipment to make certain he was not tracking the sudden onset of a storm. He squinted, adjusted his dials, and was then convinced this was something much more. His hand was on the crank to his voice set moments later, ringing the receiver in main control gondola below. The runner was off with the contact report, straight to Karpov, as he had insisted in his standing orders.

“Airborne contact, sir. Topaz operator reports a signal about seventy kilometers north, and closing.”

“Airborne contact? North of our location?” Karpov’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, his mind working like a computer. He knew the locations of all his airships, which mostly operated from the home cities they were named for. None were north of his position now, and it was 2000 kilometers to Volkov’s airfields at Chelyabinsk to the West. Only another airship could cover such distance and return.

“Volkov!” he said aloud with some alarm. “Sound action stations and tell Bogrov to cast off and climb to the highest altitude he can get to. Never mind. I’ll go there myself. You get to the wireless room and signal Talmenka and Novosibirsk. Tell them to make ready for immediate operations, and rig for air combat. Then signal Krasnoyarsk airfield. I want fighters up, and heading this way at once!”

So, he thought, Volkov finally put two and two together. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn if he has been tracking the whereabouts of my airships ever since I left Omsk. He has men everywhere, and if he learned I had come here, with two airships, it would have certainly aroused his suspicions. Of course he would have had to take a roundabout course well to the north. All they had to do was swing well north of Tomsk to avoid our Topaz system there and then follow the Yenisey River south. But how many ships did he send?

Karpov was up at the run, and heading to the forward gondola, hastening along the mesh metal keelway until he came to the ladder down.

“Admiral on the bridge!”

He emerged to see Air Commandant Bogrov snapping off orders to a midshipman. The man saluted as Karpov strode in, all business. “Has the battalion debarked?”

“Yes sir. The last two platoons went down the ladders a half hour ago. They are all assembling at Kansk.”

“Get them to Ilanskiy.”

“Ilanskiy? But there is nothing there.” Karpov gave him an irritated look and Bogrov knew enough to keep his mouth shut and simply repeat the order. He turned quickly and collared a watchstander. “Pipe to the wireless room. The ground force is ordered to proceed to Ilanskiy immediately.”

“Have them establish a strong defensive perimeter all around that rail station.” Karpov reinforced the order gruffly. “Understood?”

The man was off at a run, and everyone on the gondola bridge was suddenly alert. They had seen Karpov this way before, and knew he was ruthlessly efficient when he set his mind to military matters.

“Are we at actions stations?”

“Yes sir. All guns manned.”

“Then what are we doing still tethered to the mooring tower, Bogrov? Get us up there. Get me altitude! Signal Angara that if they have not off loaded their troop detachment they must do so immediately and climb.”

Altitude in any air duel between zeppelins was the key factor. As most guns were mounted on the lower gondolas, whoever had the advantage in altitude was going to have nice fat targets below them, and only a few guns could be mounted on the top of the airframe. Karpov knew he was already at a disadvantage. The other side was undoubtedly well up at higher altitudes and it would take time for him to shed ballast and climb.

Bogrov could read the Admiral’s concern clearly enough, and spoke reassuringly. “Don’t worry sir,” he said. “We are very light now after off loading all those men and their equipment. We’ll climb like an eagle and be up there in no time. The weather is low today, with cloud cover at 3000 feet. We’ll pierce that shortly and then make a very rapid ascent.”

He turned and barked orders to the Elevatorman and Rudderman, and soon they were casting off from the tower, the mooring cables retracting as the airship eased away.

“Orenburg?” Bogrov asked.

“What else?”

“What could they be doing out here?”

“Someone is getting curious.” Karpov’s eyes narrowed.

“Let’s hope this is nothing more than a probe.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Karpov. “Someone tipped Volkov off as to my whereabouts. If he had the balls to violate our airspace like this, than he sent at least two or three airships.”

“But why, sir? There’s nothing of value here? Kansk is a deep reserve supply depot, but Ilanskiy is barely on the map. I don’t understand.”

“Oh really? Well open your eyes Air Commandant. Look who is standing in front of you. I am here, correct?”

“Of course sir, but if Volkov wanted you why didn’t he act earlier? They had us outnumbered five ships to three at Omsk. Why risk coming all this way here to get into a fight?”

“Just climb, Bogrov. Leave the where and why of things to me.”

“Yes sir.” The Air Commandant folded his arms, eyeing the inclinometer and seeing they were now nosing up. “Fifteen degrees up bubble,” he shouted to his Elevatorman, and saw him rapidly spinning the big metal wheel.

So up we go, he thought with some misgivings. Yes, up we go, and if Volkov has sent more than we can handle, we may just come down in a flaming wreck!

 

Chapter 5

 

Air Commandant Bogrov watched the status board as the Abakan began to ease away from the mooring tower, nose up. The ship had gained a lot of potential buoyancy when the troop contingent debarked, and to compensate for the sudden loss of weight, water was pumped into the ballast tanks from hoses at the top of the mooring tower. Now the weight balance was restored to “neutral buoyancy” allowing the ship to operate normally, but it had a lot of ballast that could be jettisoned to gain altitude if needed.

 “Five degrees up elevator,” he said. “Engines one and three ahead one third.”

"Aye sir, one and three ahead one third.”

Bogrov keyed the airship’s internal intercom. “All hands,” he announced, “prepare to lift ship. Moorings away and ascending now.”

An Airman called out their status.“Climbing through 500 feet. Wind steady at five knots. All mooring lines secured.”

Abakan rose through the serried cloud deck and emerged like a behemoth, a massive silver fish in the sky. Sunlight gleamed on the long graceful curve of the hull, her sides and tail trailing white vaporous mist as the airship broke into clear skies.

Karpov was standing on the bridge near his chart table, one hand clasping the wall rail to steady himself as the ship continued to climb. What was Volkov up to with this maneuver, he thought? Here we have just reached an understanding at Omsk. He goes so far as to withdraw from the city, and now he has the temerity to run airships about like this—into Free Siberian airspace! Is he doing this to test my resolve?

The more he thought about that, the more he realized that there was something else behind this maneuver. Volkov clearly knows I am here, and Bogrov is correct, why would he be trying to threaten me when he had me three feet away just last week with a revolver pointed at my chest? That was theater, but the threat was real. I took a very great risk with that meeting. No, there is something more to this. He is curious. His intelligence services don’t know what I’m about here, so he is sending a reconnaissance in force.

This is a very risky thing to do. How many airships did he send? He must know that I have both Abakan and Angara here. That means he most likely sent three airships on this mission, and they could be transporting a full regiment between them. But why? What good would it do him to put troops down here? Even if he could take Ilanskiy or Kansk, how could he hold them? His men would be isolated and we can bring up reserves on the rail line from both directions. Our main defense line is west, anchored on Novosibirsk, and I have a full division in reserve at Krasnoyarsk, and the latter is no more than 200 kilometers away by rail. Kolchak’s army at Irkutsk is just 700 kilometers away to the southeast. What is he doing here? It just doesn’t make any sense. Unless…

Now Karpov began to entertain even more suspicions. If Volkov wanted to mount a further offensive on the border zone he would definitely want to cut the Trans-Siberian rail, and an isolated place like Kansk is a perfect place to do that. We’ve moved the whole 18th Siberian Rifle Division into Omsk, except for this battalion I have with me here. If Volkov cuts the rail line here, and manages to also tie down two or three of my airships in this little spat, then everything we have east of Kansk is cut off from Kolchak at Irkutsk until we re-open the rail line. He could have five or six more airships loaded with troops and ready to swing across the border zone at any time. What if this whole mission is aimed at pulling in all our mobile and ready reserves here, well away from the front?

Technically a state of extended truce is now in force after the Omsk accords. Is Volkov going to throw that all out the window? If so there would have to be a major operation in the works. Could he be coordinating with the Japanese on this? There’s been a considerable buildup in Mongolia in the last three weeks. Damn! Too many questions and not enough answers. I need to know what’s going on out west.

“Signalman!”

“Sir!” The young mishman rushed to Karpov’s side and saluted crisply, ready for orders.

“Signal all western frontier stations to report any unusual troop movements on the border, anything at all. And all Topaz stations are to report to me over the military fleet channel every half hour. I want to know if any airship movement is detected. Cable Tomsk. I want that airship to move north and scout along the Ob River line as far as the Chulym tributary. ”

The man saluted again and was off at a run.

Karpov walked to his map room, leaning over the table where he had set up the current strategic situation. Volkov was very accommodating to give us Omsk back like that. With his troops there the entire region between that city and Novosibirsk had been a no man’s land for the last three months. Karpov had pushed his 82nd Motorized Division forward to keep a wary eye on the border with Orenburg, and his tough 2nd Siberian Cavalry was patrolling well north of Omsk itself. But the bulk of his forces had remained in their defensive positions along the Ob River from Tomsk through Novosibirsk, and then in the wide bend the river made as it came north from Barnaul, and the high mountains south of that city.

He had four divisions along that line, though they were under the nominal control of Kozolnikov. As far as his intelligence served, Volkov’s troops were all still in their old winter line positions as well, six divisions at intervals along the long border zone from Oskemen in the south to Tyumen in the north. These were largely infantry formations, though there were undoubtedly more mobile formations behind that line somewhere.

Yet now that Volkov had openly joined with Nazi Germany, what were his plans for the main front along the Volga? That had to be the reason he took that meeting with me at Omsk in the first place. He wants to quiet his eastern sector down so he can move those mobile reserves to the Volga, and perhaps even pull one or two infantry divisions off his line here in the bargain. Then why make a move like this? Why risk a provocation, unless he is finally seeing the connection to his strange fate and Ilanskiy. He certainly knows I got real curious. I was foolish to come here so directly. I should have busied myself with routine matters, and then worked my way here in due course. Volkov saw me make a beeline to this place, and now he wants to know why.

Now Abakan was nose up and still climbing to reach that favored position of superior altitude in the event things should come to a fight. There were twenty helium gas bags within the main enclosure of the airship, each one nested within an air sack called a ballonet. The air in these external sacks could be vented and refilled by pumps, a procedure that was essential in managing the altitude of the airship. Venting air from a ballonet decreased the ratio of lighter than air helium to that of the heavier air inside the ship. A positive helium ratio meant the ship would rise, lighter than the surrounding air. Venting air from the forward ballonets lightened the ship there, and helped get the nose pointed up for a climb while the Elevatorman was working his wheel.

Because the helium expanded as the ship gained altitude the ballonets also had to be vented to allow for that expansion. The procedure required careful monitoring to avoid a situation where the helium gas bags would reach maximum expansion, known as the “pressure height” of the ship, also called the “design ballonet ceiling.” For Abakan that ceiling was about 7000 meters, or 23,000 feet. Climbing beyond that point risked a rupture of the gas bag, and so emergency valves could vent helium to prevent that, which was never desirable. The engines and horizontal fins could also incline to assist the ascent, and in this case where an emergency ascent had been ordered, ballast was dropped from the forward sections as well.

The procedure was reversed during a descent. All they had to do was take in more air from the atmosphere and pump it to the ballonets until there was more heavy air relative to the helium. If necessary, helium could also be pumped to steel storage tanks. At this point the airship would become negatively buoyant and begin the descent. Once at a desired cruising altitude, manipulation of the elevator controls and minor venting or inflation of the ballonets would be enough to make trim adjustments. These methods eliminated the necessity of venting any helium gas, which was a commodity that was simply too rare and valuable to lose in typical operations.

Abakan had dropped off all but a single platoon retained aboard the ship for a security detail. One of the airship fleet’s greatest utilities was its ability to move troops and supplies rapidly from one place to another. Every airship carried at least a platoon of 25 men, but they had enough lifting power to accommodate ten to twelve times that, a full battalion.

Debarking the men at a mooring tower was accomplished easily enough, but for deploying them in the field where no facilities were available, another procedure was necessary. It involved more significant pumping of the helium in the main gas bags to smaller pressurized tanks spaced at intervals along the keel. When pressurized, helium became heavier than air to help compensate for the sudden gain in positive buoyancy when the men deployed. The airship stored a small amount of this helium as a reserve in highly pressurized tanks that could be sent to the main gas bags in the event of a helium loss that threatened the buoyancy of the ship, yet this was only for emergency situations.

Heavier ballast could also be taken on in the form of water from the air moisture condensers and rain collectors if necessary, but there were limits to both these technologies in 1940. For practical purposes, it was risky to try and debark more than a single company, or 120 men at any given time without being properly moored to a tower with a ground anchor.

Airship operations were all a careful balance of buoyancy, pressure, ballast, fuel and cargo weight, elevator and rudder control, and engine thrust, but in the hands of a well trained crew, the airship was easily maneuvered.

Air Commandant Bogrov watched carefully as Abakan passed through 1000 meters. The Airship was a “high climber,” which was a designation that arose during the First World War when the Germans built high flying airships that could operate well above the flight ceilings of British fighters of that day. He would take the airship up to 5000 meters, which was normal combat altitude by 1940, a little over 16,400 feet. If necessary he could climb another 2000 meters after that if the situation demanded such a maneuver, and reach a ceiling pressure height of 23,000 feet.

At such heights there were a whole new set of challenges for the crew—oxygen deprivation and altitude dizziness, bitter cold that could affect weapons, engines, oil and lubricant lines. Even the viewport windows could frost over and crack.

“Take us north at your best speed, Commandant.” Karpov wanted to see what he was up against as soon as possible.

“15 degrees right rudder, and coming around to zero-one-zero north.” Bogrov gave the order, and the ship began to turn as it climbed, nosing up into the endless skies.

“Have our fighters scrambled?”

“We got a report from Krasnoyarsk, sir. They have three I-15 bi-planes and another three I-16s available. Most everything else is farther west near the main front.”

“They will have to do,” said Karpov, making a mental note to increase fighter deployments to the Krasnoyarsk airfield. The I-15 and I-16 fighters were old models, some flying in Spain in the mid 1930s, but mostly getting their combat experience against the Japanese where they dueled with Ki-27 fighters over Mongolia. The newer Yak-1 had just been introduced by Soviet Russia in January of that year, but in spite of efforts to purchase them, the Free Siberian State had not been able to acquire any. Air power was limited in the eastern state, though newer models were in production at Novosibirsk as the war began to heat up. In 1940, however, they had ten to twelve squadrons of these older fighters, and few squadrons of Tupolov twin engine bombers or Ilushin-2 and Ilushin-4 fighter-bombers.

The I-15s could reach 7000 meters, but their four 7.62mm machine guns would not bother a Vulcanized airship much, if at all. They did carry six RS-82mm rockets that could do a little more damage if they scored a hit, though they were notoriously inaccurate. Even fired from a range of only 500 meters, only about one in a hundred RS-82’s could hit a stationary target on the ground. While the massive bulk of a zeppelin made for an enticing target, the pilot would still have to get very close to fire those rockets, braving the intense anti-aircraft fire from the airships to do so.

Abakan had five MG dimples along each side where twin 12.7mm heavy machine guns could rattle out a fairly lethal fire out to 2000 meters. This meant a fighter hoping to deliver its RS-82s would have to run that gauntlet to get close enough to have any chance of scoring a hit. To make matters worse, there were four ShVAK 20mm autocannons mounted atop the airship on a reinforced open air firing platform.

Against a formation of airships, this handful of fighters would be good for little more than reconnaissance, thought Karpov. Yet they can get around much easier, and if they find a target, I can order them to shadow it and radio back the enemy course and altitude. Then we’ll get up to a good firing position above that, and see if they want any trouble here.

Using instincts long honed in combat at sea, Karpov knew information was his first weapon. Find the enemy, get into the best firing position, kill the enemy. It was a lethal formula that he had used time and time again. It wasn’t long before his fighters had found something and his battle plan could take more definite shape.

“Sir, we have fighter reconnaissance reports of two large airships bearing 290 from our current position, about 110 kilometers out.” The signalman had just rushed in from the wireless room. “We should have them on our Topaz radar soon.”

“Two? Only two contacts?”

“Yes sir.”

Very interesting, thought Karpov. If Volkov knew I was here with Abakan, then he certainly knew that I had Angara with me as well. If he meant to make a power play here, why send only two airships? He knows I’ll see them long before they get anywhere near Kansk. He’s either being very overconfident or acting stupidly. There is no way those airships could be bringing enough men and equipment to threaten my position, but he’s certainly checking up on me, isn’t he. Something tells me he wants a much closer look at my operation here than his intelligence arm can give him. He turned to his signalman.

“Altitude?” The look of displeasure on Karpov’s face was enough of a lesson to the young midshipman.

“I’m sorry sir. The contacts are at 3500 meters.”

Karpov raised an eyebrow at that. “Let me know the minute that changes.” Then to Bogrov he said: “Make your altitude 4000 meters, Commandant. But be ready to climb again on short notice.”

He was going to show these interlopers his gondolas, and let them get a good long look at the guns there for their trouble in coming all this way. But even as he thought that, he suspected there was something more to this move by Volkov than it seemed at first glance.

 

Chapter 6

 

The Airships hung in the grey sky, as if suspended from the heavens on unseen cables. Karpov was standing on the main gondola bridge of Abakan, his eyes lost in a pair of field glasses as he studied the enemy ships, noting tail numbers, the training of their top mounted guns, the thin wisps of exhaust at the engines, the trim on the big tail rudders and elevator fins. Abakan was 500 meters above, and broadside to the intruding ships. From their tail numbers he soon knew what he was up against.

The lead ship, about a thousand meters in the van, was the very same ship he had protested over at the conference—the ship that had been brazenly named Omsk. Yet now he saw the bright fresh white paint that had been applied and the newly stenciled lettering: Alexandra—Symenko’s ship. He had heard of the man, a veteran Captain, and a bit hot under the collar from all accounts. Symenko was a Squadron Commandant in the Eastern Airship Division of the Orenburg fleet, a surly man, ill tempered, too eager to find trouble. He was probably not happy to put his painters back to work so soon. Karpov smiled, thinking. Why send this man?

The second ship was the Oskemen, named for the big city on the southern border zone, and both ships were in the same class as Karpov’s airships, about 100,000 cubic meter lift, maximum airspeed at about 120 knots, and each with six recoilless rifles mounted on the gondolas, with two more top mounted on the rigid gun platforms there. Yet Karpov knew he had the edge for the moment as the airships squared off, because even though he was presently outnumbered two ships to one while Angara was hastening to the scene from her recon sweep to the northeast, Abakan could bring all six of its gondola mounted guns into action, while the two opposing airships could only train their two top mounted rifles at the moment. He had the Orenburg ships outgunned six to four. They would have to climb 500 meters quickly to get any of their gondola mounted guns into action, and Karpov wasn’t about to let them even try. He had them outgunned, and he intended to keep things that way until Angara reached the scene.

The niceties of protocol had already begun. Karpov sent over a challenge, requesting both ships hover in place and make no change in altitude. He asked them to state their business in Siberian airspace in no uncertain terms. Now he moved to the radio for a two way conversation with Symenko to take the measure of the man.

“What are you doing here, Symenko? You’re a long way from home.”

“Begging your pardon to barge in like this,” came the voice on the headset. It was a harsh, gravelly voice that matched the man’s temperament, and there was no real apology in his tone. “This is a diplomatic mission, and I come bearing a pouch for your eyes only.”

“From Volkov? Papers to sign? I thought we settled all that at Omsk.”

“I’m not privy to the contents, but I’m told to deliver it to you, Karpov, and so here I am. You want it, or not? If so then I’ll request permission to heave to over your tower on the river.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this mission? I could have put my guns on you the moment we sailed up, Symenko. You’ve a lot of nerve violating Siberian airspace like this.”

“Set off alarm bells all along the rail line from here to Novosibirsk, did we? Well like I said—I have orders and I follow them. You want to complain about the violation of your precious airspace? Then you can write Volkov a nice long letter about it and I’ll happily carry it home and deliver it personally.”

Karpov frowned. The man was a real smartass, he thought, just the type he enjoyed goading from time to time. So he stuck in a barb, just for the pleasure of it.

“Nice paint job, Symenko. A lot more letters now, eh? Were you eager to drop your ground anchors at Omsk? What’s the matter. Weather doesn’t suit you at Alexandra?”

“Try that tone with me when I’m sitting 500 meters above your prow and see what it gets you, Karpov.”

“Yes? Well it looks like I’m the one sitting on your nose, Captain, and don’t think to move a muscle or you’ll soon find out that I can be a most disagreeable man.”

“That so? Well I can drop ballast and pop up there in three minutes if you’d care to do this eye to eye.”

“Drop ballast? If I so much as see anyone take a piss off that ship of yours to lighten your load I’ll put a nice fat 105mm round into your forward gas bags, and that will slow you down, won’t it? Look, Symenko. Enough with the pleasantries. You can dock at Kansk, but we’ve only room for one ship there. Deliver your pouch and then get the hell out of my airspace.”

There was a long pause before Symenko came back on the line again. “I’m told this is to be hand delivered, by me personally, and directly to you, Karpov. No intermediaries. I’m to wait here for your answer.”

Most unusual, thought Karpov. What was Volkov thinking? What could he possibly want? There was no way he was going to ground himself with this man now. He was up in fighting trim, and with good position on these brigands, and he meant to stay there.

“I’m a busy man, Symenko. It will take you an hour to dock at Kansk and then move off so we can do the same, and there’s no way I’d ever allow this ship to do that under your guns in any case. So we’ll do this another way. I’ll ease over and send down a sub-cloud car. You want to hand off that pouch, then you can climb aboard and we’ll reel you in.”

The sub-cloud car, also call the “spy basket” or “observation car,” was first developed by the Germans as a means of anchoring their radio antenna, and then later made into a small finned gondola that could hold one or two men. It could be lowered up to 200 meters on a cable, dipped through a heavy obscuring cloud deck to allow for observation of the ground. A “man in the basket” could spot landmarks on the ground and call them up to the main gondola on a telephone line. In this case Symenko could climb aboard and be hauled up to the Abakan to make his delivery.

“Very well, Karpov. We’ll do it your way. You can ease on down and send us a basket. But I’d feel a whole lot better to see those gondola guns of yours trained elsewhere.”

“Of course you would, Captain, but you and I both know that isn’t going to happen either. We’ll wait here until Angara arrives to keep an eye on the Oskemen. Then you and I will get cozy and you can come on up with your pouch. Karpov out.”

Karpov switched off abruptly, removed his earphones and stood up, fetching his leather gloves from a jacket pocket. He pulled on the gloves slowly, flexing his fingers into a fist to tighten the fit.

“Bogrov,” he said tersely. “The minute Angara arrives have them take position off the tail of that second airship out there. Make ready on the spy basket. We’re going to have a visitor!” He gave the Air Commandant an evil grin.

 

* * *

 

Symenko was not happy. He had been told to slip in as close to the rail junction at Ilanskiy and off load a couple companies of infantry. He was to take Kansk, tear up the rail lines there, and then knock down the airship tower—that is if he could manage to get in there and achieve surprise. Should he be discovered prematurely, then he was to ease in slowly and hand off the diplomatic pouch to Karpov personally. What was the Governor General thinking? He obviously knew Karpov would be here, and with at least one airship equipped with their new Topaz radar sets. He knew damn well I wasn’t going to sneak in above the clouds and get my troops landward easily.

He shook his head, not understanding why he had been sent here. Why not send some young buck like Petrov on the Oskemen? I’m division commander! You don’t send someone like me out on a mission like this. Volkov had it in his mind to get something here, he thought. This was supposed to be a snatch and grab. Yes? And he wanted to make damn sure I had enough men with me to do the grabbing. A full goddamn battalion on each ship? Now I’m damn near maximum weight and slow as molasses if it comes to a gunfight here. Karpov already has altitude on me, and he has his guns bore sighted on my forehead as it stands.

But be polite, I’m told. Be diplomatic. Say everything I was told to say, but nothing more. That was never my calling card. If Volkov wanted me to run in here and raise hell, then he should have let me do it rigged for air operations—ship to ship. Instead I’m lugging these troops around for some kind of land assault, and Karpov will know it easily enough. It makes sense to take out the rail yard at Kansk and knock down that tower, but these orders concerning Ilanskiy—what is that all about? What could be there that would be of any interest? It wasn’t his place to question orders, he knew, but he wasn’t the sort not to do so when they didn’t suit him.

It was bad enough they took Omsk from me. I was to be City Commandant! I had good men die taking that god-forsaken place last winter. It was to be mine, and I was to be provincial Governor there. Now Volkov chokes and hands the whole city over to Karpov! For what? To keep that scrawny little bastard off our ass while we deal with Sergei Kirov? Why couldn’t Volkov pay the price out of his own purse? I made arrangements, plans, promises to a lot of men, and now look at me, still watching the paint dry on this ship. To make matters worse, Volkov has made me a red faced errand boy in thanks for losing Omsk, adding insult to injury. I’ve half a mind to tell Volkov to fuck off and take my ship north and go rogue.

He was pacing on the bridge, restless and angry as he felt the overweening shadow of Abakan as the airship moved slowly into position to lower their spy basket. He knew he could never get away with that—going rogue. Volkov was not a man to make an enemy of. If I tried anything Pavlov on the Oskemen would never go along with it, and then Volkov would spare no effort to hunt my ass down and roast me over a slow fire.

So here I am—following goddamned orders—and in ten minutes I’ll be dangling from a cable and reeled in like a fat tuna for Karpov to grin at me and rub salt in the wounds. I should put a bullet in that man. He’s going to be more trouble out here than anyone knows, and believe me, I’m a man who knows trouble. But Karpov is too damn careful. Yes. He’ll have his men grope my bung hole for any sign of a weapon before I get anywhere near him, so no point bringing one.

And that thought did nothing whatsoever to settle his mood.

Yes, Symenko was in a foul mood today, and he had every reason to be the surly choleric airship Captain he was known to be. To say he was a short tempered man, crusty and quick to anger, was an understatement. But he was still Captain here. He still had the Alexandra, which was the only consolation he could take from this sudden turn of misfortune. Now nobody was getting those nice fat mansions in Omsk, and all the favors he was planning to call in as he doled out land and title there had blown away on the Siberian mist. He wasn’t City Commandant at Omsk, and he wasn’t regional Governor either. Now he was only Captain Symenko, First Squadron of the Eastern Airship Division, Volkov’s messenger boy.

He shook his head, slowly heading aft to find the main ladder up to the top gun platform, and thinking how much more satisfying it would be to get behind one of the 76mm recoilless rifles there and blow a hole in Abakan—blow their forward bridge gondola to hell. But he didn’t do that. Instead he climbed the long ladder up, steamed on the cold open air platform, and grunted as he hauled himself precariously up the rope ladder dangling from the Abakan’s spy basket, just a nice fat fish on Karpov’s line now.

His eyes betrayed the murderous rage in him, barely controlled as he was slowly reeled in and the basket was tucked under the main gondola of the other airship. The cold air had cleared his head, and given him just a little time to settle down, but he was still in a foul mood when they pried open the basket hatch. He grunted, his jaw tightening as he realized how Karpov was going to lord it over him now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.

Then, to his great surprise, he eased out of the basket and heard a Marine Sergeant issue a sharp, bawling order, calling his security detail to attention. The men stiffened, their black polished boots stomping the metal deck in a brisk movement. They were wearing dress uniforms, and the detail Sergeant was holding a drawn saber, squared off right along the line of his nose. Another man held a flag of the Free Siberian State.

“Sir!” The Marine Sergeant spoke in a deep voice. “Welcome aboard the Abakan.” The man nodded to a private, and he piped the Captain aboard in traditional naval style.

Symenko was more than surprised, and stood just a little taller at the greeting. Karpov had him dangling from his little finger. After hearing him taunt me over the loss of Omsk on the radio I expected nothing more than humiliation here, and yet… the man has shown me a little respect. It was not something he expected, but it did much to tamp down his sallow and ill-tempered mood.

“This way, if you please, Captain.” The Marine Sergeant gestured with a white gloved hand, and the detail filed off behind the two men as they made their way out of the receiving chamber and into the main gondola. They came to a door on the right side and the Sergeant opened it, beckoning Symenko to enter. There the Captain was surprised again to see a table laid out with fine white linen, plates of cold cuts and cheese, a flask of brandy with elegant crystal glasses, and two cigars sitting quietly on a silver platter like the two airships riding in tandem now for this meeting.

Respect, thought Symenko. Yes, just a little respect for a change, and more in the last five minutes than I got from Volkov in the last month. Brandy and cigars are hardly compensation for everything Volkov just took from me and handed to Karpov…

But it’s a start.

 

 

Part III

 

Tunguska

 

“All large trees on the mountains were leveled in dense rows, whereas in the valleys one could see both roots and trunks of age-old giants of the taiga broken like reeds. The tops of the fallen trees were directed to us. We were going north towards the super-hurricane that had raged here years ago… I climbed Shakrama mountain and for the first time saw the unbelievable land of dead forest… everything has been leveled and scorched in the Great Hollow… and in the center of it all, a cluster of trees were still standing upright like bare telegraph poles, all devoid of leaf and branch.”

 

—Leonid Kulik: Tunguska

 

 

Chapter 7

 

Evgeny Krinov handed the young staffer a large box, a solemn look on his face.

“Take these as well,” he said matter of factly. “They’re just cluttering up the storage room and have become a fire hazard. So let us put them to the fire and be done with it. See that they go directly to the incinerator.”

“As you wish, sir.” The staffer took the box and hastened away, and Krinov watched him go, his eyes dark and thoughtful. That is the last of them, he thought. That will put an end to Kulik’s nonsense once and for all.

An astronomer and geologist, Krinov was a well known scientific researcher with an expertise in meteorite falls. Born in 1906, he was a two year old child when the greatest fall of his lifetime, perhaps the greatest in modern history, occurred in the strange event on the morning of June 30, 1908, just north of the Stony Tunguska River in Siberia. As it happened, however, Krinov was working at the meteor division of the Mineralogy Museum of the Soviet Academy of Sciences between 1926 and 1930, when the intrepid Leonid Kulik mounted his first expeditions to the Tunguska region to try and discover the cause of the event.

It was very strange, but Kulik had uncovered a number of key findings that could lead to the answer to the enigma. The first were the awesome physical evidence of a massive explosion in the Great Hollow. Thirty million trees were felled there, in a radial pattern where each fallen tree pointed back to the epicenter of the cataclysmic event. The second key finding had been thermal—the clear scorching of the trees, even beyond the fallen zone which covered all of 1400 square kilometers. A blinding flash of light had left its imprint in the dead wood, and searing flames left their mark well beyond the Great Hollow.

The next key clue was more enigmatic, a magnetic footprint that seemed to lay on the land, ranging 1400 square kilometers. The soil itself exhibited the effects of some strange magnetic anomaly, and it was later learned that disturbances in the earth’s magnetic field had both preceded and followed the event. Auroras and strange noctilucent clouds appeared for days after.

This was not all. There were botanic effects in the plants, mutations in the animals, strange genetic effects that caused trees to enter a period of accelerated growth at the edge of the event, while others were twisted and stunted into malformed shapes, some flecked with small embedded nodules of glass. Exotic materials were found in the soil, and there was a measurable radiation effect, ionizing radiation that became thermo-luminescent at night, creating an eerie glow at times over the land.

Krinov got very interested in the matter, and resolved to accompany Kulik on a return expedition years later, in 1930. He still bore the scars of that journey, and in more than one way. Braving the Siberian winter was always dangerous, and he had suffered a severe frostbite on his feet that compelled him to withdraw and spend a lengthy time in the hospital. The doctors had been forced to amputate a big toe, and now Krinov walked with a characteristic limp, though that was not the worst mark the trip to Tunguska had left on him.

Kulik was convinced that the site he had discovered, that haunting swath of utter destruction in the Great Hollow, was hiding the hidden remains of a meteorite, though no evidence was ever found to support this claim. Yet Kulik’s ardor would not abate. He set himself to draining and digging up one swampy bog hole after another, disheartened to find a broken tree stump in his favored prospect, which proved it could not be the site of an impact. Anything big enough to cause the devastation that stretched for kilometers in all directions would certainly not have left a tree stump standing at the bottom of its impact crater. Kulik had forbidden any photographs of that stump, but Krinov had secretly taken several to use as evidence in the heated scientific debate that he knew would soon follow on the heels of the expedition.

Kulik remained determined to continue looking for the meteorite, and it was said that he eventually found something very strange during one of his excavations. When questioned about his findings one day the bristly Kulik just looked at Krinov from behind those dark round eyeglasses of his, his eyes strangely alight. Then he did something that astounded Krinov. He reached into his pocket and handed his associate a small hand compass.

“Find north for me please,” Kulik had said quietly.

Krinov blinked, but indulged his colleague and stood in the center of the room, consulting the compass until he could point himself north. Then Kulik got up and walked slowly to Krinov’s side, a wry smile on his face.

“Are you sure?” he said.

To his amazement, Krinov looked down at his compass and saw it spinning in mad circles. He looked at Kulik, who then stepped back, taking his seat again, gesturing that his associate should consult his compass again. Sure enough, the reading was normal now. Krinov tapped it, looking at the compass with some suspicion.

“Oh yes, I thought you would jump to that conclusion,” said Kulik. “It’s quite proper. Keep it and see for yourself.” Then he got up and slowly headed for the door, turning with a smile as he left. “Good day, Evgeny.”

Krinov never forgot that, or anything else he had learned on that expedition. He tested the compass for long years after that, and it always read true. But nothing else ever read true concerning Tunguska. It was most disturbing. Kulik had labored to take aerial photographs of the whole disaster site and delivered them to the academy to fuel the debate. There were 1500 in all, and Krinov spent a long time studying them… until they became a fire hazard.

One day, his soul still shadowed by the strange events of that brief time he had spent in the wild lands of the Siberian north, he gathered up each and every one of the negatives, put them in a sturdy box with a bunch of old newspapers, and handed them off to a staffer with the order to take them directly to the incinerator. There, he thought with just the barest sigh of relief. Now no one else will ever know…

Yet others did know, though what they had discovered in that forsaken place was kept a well guarded secret, known only to a very few. One of them was a man who followed in Krinov’s footsteps, one Nikolai Vladimirovic Vasilyev, who later assumed the title Krinov once held as Deputy Chairman of the Commission on meteorites and cosmic dust at the Russian Academy of Sciences. It was Vasilyev who had come across a hidden cache of positive photographs made by the very same negatives Krinov had destroyed that day.

It was Vasilyev who then devoted his life to the study of the Tunguska event, becoming the director of the Interdisciplinary Independent Tunguska Expeditions society, and collecting data and writing about the event to his dying day. And it was Vasilyev who penned the cryptic notes into his literature concerning the many “oddities” surrounding the event, claiming it was evidence of something much more than a simple meteorite strike, something vast and deeply significant, and a warning concerning the possibility of a collision with earth threatening “aliens” from outer space. What had he discovered in those photographs? What was Krinov really trying to hide by destroying the negatives?

Mainstream science had long ago dismissed the notion that the explosion in 1908 had been caused by a UFO, but there are other “aliens” that come from space, and the earth had been visited by them many times before.

 

* * *

 

Aboard the airship Narva, Captain Selikov wanted to get as far away from that river as he could, but he also knew it was dangerous to do so until they had a firm fix on their location.

“This weather is clouding over again,” he said as he shook his head, clearly unhappy. “The cloud deck is very low and it extends for what looks to be two hundred kilometers in every direction. We can’t see a thing up here, and I’m not inclined to take the ship down until I can determine how thick that deck is. But we might get down right on top of the clouds and use the sub-cloud car.”

“What is that?” Orlov had never heard of such a thing.

“Think of it as a bit of an amusement park ride, Mister Orlov,” said Selikov. And he explained how they would lower a device, a spy basket, that looked like a big hollow bomb suspended on a long cable, complete with tail fins to aid its movement through the air.

“A man with good eyes in there can call up the land forms and then we can find the river again and navigate. Otherwise we could drift about up here and get even more lost than we already are. If the deck isn’t too low, we’ll reel you in and come on down.”

“Good then,” said Orlov. “Let me be the man in the basket. It’s boring shuffling about up here trying to stay warm.”

“I’m afraid you won’t get any help on keeping warm if you volunteer here,” Selikov warned. “There’s no heat in the car.”

“Well, there’s no heat up here either, so what’s the difference?”

“You can read a navigation chart?”

“Of course,” said Orlov, with just a hint of irritation. So it was decided, and Orlov was led off to the rear gondola by a mishman. When he saw the contraption he was about to ride in, he grinned from ear to ear. It was exactly as Selikov had described it, the shape of a huge bomb, with windows in the nose and four fins on the narrow tail. A man could lay prone inside, his head in the nose, and make observations that he could call up to the airship bridge gondola above on a hand cranked telephone.

“Here,” said the man, handing him a pair of binoculars and a chart book. “You’ll need these.”

Minutes later they were lowering the pod on the long steel cable and Orlov thrilled to the sound of the wind whistling on the tail fins, though its cold fingers found their way into every seam and hollow, chilling him at once.

Down he went, trailing behind the great mass of Narva until the airship was lost from sight and, in spite of the chilling cold, Orlov found the ride thrilling, laughing as he was swallowed by the heavy vapors of the cloud deck. He was to call up the moment he broke through the deck, but it took much longer than he expected. Finally, when the cable was near its maximum extension, the mist and cloud thinned and the pod broke through into clear air.

Now Orlov thrilled to the sight of the vast landscape beneath him, the endless green forest of the Taiga as far as the eye could see. Small lakes and marshy peat bogs dotted the landscape, and he caught the dull gleam of water everywhere. The last time he had seen anything so exhilarating was when he had leapt from the KA-226 helicopter over the Mediterranean, and came parachuting down off the Spanish coast. Soon he spied a wandering ribbon of grey water off his starboard side, and he consulted his chart book, looking for some telltale bend or curve in the river’s course that he could match up to the drawings.

He called up the sighting, cranking up the box that operated like a military field phone and sending navigation orders to the helm. Little by little he maneuvered the airship to starboard, until they were directly over the river, and slowly heading northeast.

Then he saw it, something winking like sunlight on a diamond in the distance. He watched it for some time, then decided to steer the airship a few more points to starboard to get closer. Yes, there could be no doubt now. It was no random reflection where the sun might have broken through a hole in the clouds to find water. Could it be deliberate? Was someone was down there with a mirror or some other shiny metal, perhaps even a lantern, trying to catch his eye? He called up to notify Captain Selikov to see what he wanted to do.

“Good news,” said Selikov on the phone. “Keep us close to that signal. We’ll hover here and see what we can find out about it. That may be a local Evenik hunter who can put us on the map.”

The airship hovered and they soon began the slow process of reeling in the sub-cloud car, until Orlov was hauled up through the cloud deck and his pod was recovered. Then Narva achieved a slight change in her gas bag pressure balance using the pumps to move helium and inflate the ballonets to reduce buoyancy. It was just enough to allow the ship to slowly descend through the thick, grey clouds until her vast bulk emerged like a great alien spacecraft, slowly descending towards the forest below.

Now they could all see the glint of something on the tundra beneath them, a bright object in a clearing that occasionally caught the sunlight that was able to pierce the weather in thin golden shafts. It was not a man after all, not a local hunter, and Captain Selikov was disheartened.

“Well at least you got us to the river again,” he said. “I had hoped we would find someone out here, but what are the chances of that?”

“You mean to move on?” Orlov seemed eager to explore the finding and see what they had discovered.

“Why not?”

“Look at this,” said the Chief, with a wry grin. He handed Selikov his compass and the hands were making a wild spin, much more erratic than they had seen before.

“Yes? So the compass is still useless. What of it?”

“It was never this bad,” said Orlov. “Whatever that thing is it may be the source of this interference. Why don’t I go down with a few men to have a look.”

Selikov seemed restless, and clearly uneasy with the proposition. He had heard too many stories of this region, the stuff of horror tales and nightmares. Besides that, he felt an unaccountable anxiety here, a chill along his spine that was not from the Siberian cold. He had been watching the ship’s elevator panel to note the airship’s pitch, and was surprised by the odd vibration he had noted in the glass leveling tube. It was not the engines, he knew. Like Dobrynin with his reactors, Selikov had come to know every sound and vibration of his airship over the years, and his engines had been running smoothly.

No. It was something else, and it gave him a feeling of profound unease. There was something wrong here. He could see it in the glint of light from the clearing below, and feel it in the air all about him. Yet he could not grasp what it was, like a sound just below the threshold of hearing that nonetheless could be subtly perceived, a ghostly cantata that for him was a dirge from hell itself.

“It looks metallic,” said Orlov, his curiosity obvious as he studied the light source through a pair of binoculars. “If this is the source of that magnetic interference, we ought to have a look.”

It was only Orlov’s insistence as the nominal mission leader that compelled the Captain to relent and hover in place, descending into a clearing not far from the source of the light and hovering the ship at 100 meters.

“Alright, Orlov,” he said quickly. “We’re wasting time here. That’s probably nothing more than an aircraft that got lost out here and crashed. If you must go see for yourself, then be quick about it. We can lower you and a few men in the main cargo basket aft.”

“Good enough,” said Orlov. “Hey Troyak,” he shouted. “Bring your equipment!”

The Chief decided to go down with Troyak and another Marine, a man named Chenko, and they would do a brief ground reconnaissance to see what Orlov had discovered. Orlov did not believe in fairy tales and ghost stories, though he had to admit that Selikov’s dark mood, and the almost palpable edginess and fear displayed by many of the crew members, was somewhat infectious. His curiosity drove him on that day, though he would come to regret his little fishing expedition here in more ways than one.

 

Chapter 8

 

It was the sound that undid them as they approached, a sound they could not hear. Acoustic trauma was a well known phenomenon. Humans were accustomed to a range of acceptable sound in the 20-20 scale, from 20 Hz to 20KHz. Even within that range, sound had long been a means of warning, from the clatter of swords deliberately beating on metal shields in a formation of ancient soldiers, to the harsh warning of a siren, alarm, or claxon on the ship before a missile fired. Sound we could hear might grate upon us, like fingernails scratching a blackboard, a dentist’s drill grinding through the enamel of the tooth ever closer to the pulsing infection of a swollen nerve in the abscess. The sound we could hear could be used to soothe, or to torture, to give pleasure or pain, to lure like the siren song, or give warning of imminent harm.

Beneath the threshold of human hearing, however, sound seemed to take on other mysterious properties. Animals with keener senses used it well enough. Pigeons could navigate by ultra low level sound, it was thought that other migrating birds could hear the low infrasound of air masses passing over distant mountains and move towards it as well. Elephants could emit low sounds that could migrate through the earth itself and range out as far as ten kilometers to coordinate with other herd members. And the growl of a Siberian Tiger was said to exhibit vibrations in the range of 16Hz, below the threshold of human hearing, but nonetheless perceived as the deep, threatening warning that it was.

There was something growling on the taiga that day. They could not hear it, but they could feel it, a discomfort in the chest, a thoracic sense of doom. It was a thrumming vibration that seemed to invade their very being with the warning of injury, and the closer the three men came to the clearing, the more uneasy they felt.

“Glubokiy zvuk,” said Troyak, feeling the disturbance around them in a palpable way now. It was Russian for “deep sound,” and the gritty Sergeant had undergone special training where he was exposed to dangerously low infrasound in the range of 8-10 Hz, and challenged to perform normal routine duties—assembling and disassembling his rifle, loading ammunition, calculating target coordinates and keying the information for a presumed artillery fire.

Orlov was not so well conditioned, and he immediately began to regret his impulsive urge to come down and see what was shining at them from the clearing. They were out of the cargo basket, once used in decades past for men to stand and throw bomblets at ground targets in the older zeppelin models. Now it was an easy way to put down a squad sized contingent from heights up to 200 meters.

A stand of trees separated their clearing from low depression in the ground, a thicket of larch and pine that seemed oddly twisted and stunted in places as they passed through, with strange burls on the trunks of the trees that appeared to be odd boils in the wood, some genetic malformation that had caused a cancerous growth on the trunks. There, in that moment of suspended anticipation, Orlov could feel his disquiet redouble with each step he took. Something was wrong here, he knew, deep in his bones. Something was ugly, and bad, and vile here, and he had to resist the urge to turn and simply retrace his steps, yearning for the relative security of the metal cargo basket now, yearning for the cold interior of the airship again, his curiosity quashed by this strange, unfathomable fear.

Yes, it was fear—a fear they could almost hear quavering in the air about them, as though something was hidden in the marshy ground ahead, waiting to emerge like a demon from hell and devour them. They would hear it, and then not hear it, and the absence of the sound had an equally chilling effect on Orlov. Silence could choke a man too. It enveloped him like a shroud, utter silence, a soundless quiet that spoke of an uttermost void, where no life of any kind could ever live. There would come a moment of absolute silence when they stopped, all three men at once, where nothing could be heard. Nothing at all…

Then Troyak stepped forward, the sound of his heavy boots on the duff of rotting wood branches and pine needles in the thicket becoming a welcome balm… until the sound came at them again—a sound they could not hear, but yet one that assaulted them as they stepped to the edge of the tree line, intruding on every sense, bone deep sound that penetrated into their minds like a throbbing vibration of something old, something primal, something lost and forlorn.

For Orlov it was pure fear that he felt at that indefinable boundary’s edge. It brought a choking or gagging sensation to his throat that made him want to wretch, yet froze his larynx to the point where he could not speak. Beyond the edge of those trees lay the clearing, and there was something there that seemed to take him by the throat with the intent to choke the life from him. Strange visions emerged in his mind, the purple face of Commissar Molla, his eyes bulging, as Orlov choked him to death. Now the memory of an old story his grandmother had told him as a child emerged in this thoughts—the devil’s bone yard—the story he never believed, until that moment… “A bright star fell in the far away land, and tall grey phantoms were seen to haunt the woodlands in the days after, hunting the living and dragging their souls through the fens and moors of the taiga, to the gateway of Hell…”

For Chenko it was a deep feeling of sadness that came over him, like the melancholy of Russian Toska, the feeling that could not be truly described to anyone who was not Russian. There was no escaping it, for it became one’s entire thought process when it arose. Yet here it seemed to come from without, emanating from the center of that clearing and forcibly entering his mind, as if it had crawled out of the ground and entered his soul through the bones of his leg. His hands tingled and the air seemed to thicken as he struggled to breathe, as though he were drowning.

Troyak could clearly feel the same effects he had endured in his training. It was a resonance of doom, a sonic violence that some believed could rupture the organs of the body itself at very low frequencies around 7Hz, a frequency of the brain’s own theta wave rhythm associated with fear and anger. He could not hear the sound, yet he knew, on some inner level, that he was under attack. It prompted him to instinctively prime his automatic rifle, leveling it at the open clearing as though it were filled with some unseen enemy. It was “Glubokiy zvuk,” deep sound, body sound that entered not through the ears, but the body itself.

Chenko saw this and immediately raised his own weapon, and the three men stood there, a few feet into the clearing, in the pulsing dissonance of annihilating silence alternating with that dreadful vibrato, the devil’s whisper, the sound of death itself.

There, ahead of them, something lay gleaming in the wan sunlight, but none of them ventured to take one further step. The ground all about the clearing was littered with the dead, bleached skeletons of fallen animals—the devil’s bone yard if ever there was one. The unheard sound came again, and Orlov was the first man to break, turning and running back into the comforting closeness of the trees, yet tripping over a fallen branch and going down with a hard thump. There, right before his eyes he saw another shiny thing, what looked to be a small chunk of metal, which he impulsively grasped in the palm of his hand. He would not go back into that clearing to see what was there—to hell with that—but he would at least have this much to show for their foray into the Siberian wilds of Tunguska.

Chenko was soon at his side, eager to help him if only to get himself farther away from that god forsaken clearing. Only Troyak stood his ground, his eyes puckered as he scanned the distant tree line on the far side of the clearing, mindless so his mind could not unnerve him, his every movement no more than a well honed military reflex. A man who was afraid could not fight well, and Troyak was fearless. He knelt, shifting the pack on his back to off shoulder the equipment he had brought along. His shielded military field radio set had a mode that could detect electromagnetic interference and store the measurement level in memory. He also had a Geiger counter set that could see if there was any unseen radiation in the area. Both readings convinced him that this was no place to linger. He completed his survey, took a soil sample and sealed it off in a special container, and then turned to join the others.

He found them back in the main clearing, hastening towards the safety of the zeppelin basket.

“Orlov!” he called. “Don’t you want to have a look at that damn thing back there?” The Sergeant thumbed over his shoulder.

“Leave it!” Orlov was no longer curious. He had a chunk of something shiny enough in his pocket, and now all he wanted to do was to get back up to the zeppelin and get something hot to drink, followed by something much stronger.

Troyak looked back over his shoulder and stared at the object protruding from the matted duff of the tundra. He had heard so many tales of these hidden dens from his youth, and he knew what this must be. Kheldyu, he said to himself, a word from the Yakut Siberian dialect that meant “Iron House.” There was a vale nearby, between two rivers, that was known as Kheliugur, the “Place of the Iron People.” Others simply called them “Cauldrons” due to their concave, circular shape.

The regional lore was rich with tales of these strange dome like structures, overturned cauldrons, half buried in the marshy ground. Place names all throughout the region testified to their existence. He knew of a stream called Algy Timirbit, which meant “the large cauldron sank.” Another was called the Olguidakh, or “Cauldron Stream.” Some said they were orange in color, like copper, but made of a strange metal that no tool could cut, a metal that could not be chipped, scratched or hammered. They were thought to be the haunts of tall demons who roved the taiga looking for the souls of wayward hunters.

Usually covered by frost and snow in the winter, they seemed like nothing more than small hills to the unwary traveler. But some of the local peoples had stumbled upon them, and those that returned claimed there was a small opening in the top, and a winding stair that led down, where a series of metal rooms were arrayed about a central core, the home of Niurgun Bootur, a demon of the taiga called the “Fiery Champion.” Shamans warned the people to stay away from such things, or they would be stricken with incurable ailments. He had finally found one, and from the feeling in his gut now, the deep thrumming sensation of peril, he knew all the old legends and tales of the Valley of Death were true. He would do what any shaman of the taiga would advise—get away from this place, and as fast as possible.

When they were all secured aboard the Narva again, Corporal Zykov came in and brewed up a pot of good coffee, spiked with a brandy. “Trouble?” he asked of Troyak, who nodded, saying only one word: “Siberia.”

“Ah,” said Zykov. “Don’t tell me you ran across old Chuchuna, the hairy wild man of the taiga.” Legends held that there was a remnant of a strange Siberian hominoid, Siberia’s Bigfoot, still lingering in a region that was completely uninhabited by humans. Even into modern times there were hundreds of thousands of square miles of land where no human had ever ventured. The name was related to the Yakut Turkic word for “fugitive” or “outcast,” and in the Siberian Evenki language it meant “bandit.”

Described as a heavily built giant of a man that stood up to seven feet tall, Chuchuna was said to have long arms and an ape like aspect. Some thought they might have been remnants of the ancient Neanderthals, surviving to modern times. The creature had many other names, but in the West they came to be called “Yeti.”

“Who knows,” said Troyak. “Maybe a demon house, maybe a cauldron, maybe nothing at all.” He had seen what looked like a round metallic dome protruding from the mossy duff of the clearing.

Other legends spoke of unseen creatures that lurked in the depths of the bogs, dragging reindeer and other animals beneath the dark waters there in the summer. Another told of an alien creature that wandered into the cemetery of a small village near Chelyabinsk, less than a foot tall but with grey skin, blotched with small brown spots, claws on its hands, huge eyes, and only two tiny holes where the ears should be. The creature had been called the Siberian Chupacabra, but the woman who found it called it Aleshenka.

Yakut legends held that there were places in the wilderness where tall whirlwinds of fire would emerge from the ground, and massive circular structures would appear, described as “rotating metal islands” that would fly off into the sky. They had all heard them, some old stories, some new, none believed, all feared.

“Nothing at all?” Zykov shook his head. “Look at Orlov there! I haven’t seen him look so glum since we hauled him off that trawler in the Caspian Sea.”

“Yob tvoyu mat!” Orlov swore, telling Zykov what he could do with his mother, not wanting to be reminded of his ill-fated capture during Fedorov’s expedition. “Maybe we should stick you in that metal basket and send you down there, eh? Did you see all those bones, Chenko? That place was evil.”

Troyak shifted his equipment pack. “Whatever it was, it was radioactive,” he said quietly. “We got a low dosage in the time we were there, not enough to worry about anything, but better to be somewhere else.”

“Anywhere else,” said Orlov with a shrug. “That damn place is so thick a man can’t even walk. I fell right on my face.” He covered for the embarrassment of having turned to run for the tree line, but neither Troyak or Chenko held it against him. They knew what he had felt.

Then Orlov remembered the small shiny metal he had found by chance, wondering if it was silently burning him with a radioactive emission. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, holding it up to see that it glittered with an unnatural light. “Test this,” he said.

“Where did you get that?” Zykov leaned his way to get a better look at the fragment.

“It was right in front of my face when I tripped up. Is it radioactive, Troyak?”

The Sergeant grunted, pulling out his Geiger counter and doing a scan of the object, eventually shaking his head.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Keep it as a little souvenir.”

Orlov pocketed the object returning to his coffee, the memory of that unheard sound still deeply troubling. They were cruising at 500 meters now, but he still felt uneasy, and he could sense the other men were equally discomfited.

They all lapsed into silence until Captain Selikov came back to the aft cargo gondola and saw them all huddled with their mugs of hot spiked coffee.

“Well?” He was understandably curious as to what the men had found, but Orlov just kept staring into his coffee mug. No one else said anything, and the Captain nodded, inwardly knowing that they had just had a taste of the reason he wanted to get the ship as far from this place as possible.

“We’re low enough to navigate beneath this cloud deck,” Selikov said at last. “I could follow this river northwest, and with any luck we may get back to the main branch of the Yenisei River and find our way to the Angara. But that is 400 to 600 kilometers out of our way, and we might just as easily head south from this point. The Tunguska river bends that way here. If I follow it for a little while it will point us towards the Angara, which is where we were supposed to be all along, before that storm took us off course. In fact, the Tunguska River is pointing us right at our objective at the moment.”

“Let’s hope the damn ship’s compass settles down,” said Zykov. “How do you know you can keep us heading south? What if we get lost again?”

“I think I know where we are on the chart now. The river splits here, and one branch leads south for a while. There should be a little Evenik village called Kuyumba soon. Then it will begin to jog east again, and If you think you have seen the real nightmare in Siberia, let me tell you that you have seen nothing yet. That way leads to hell on earth. There’s a place there where every tree has been blown to the ground, for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. I think you know of what I speak.”

Selikov folded his arms, considering. “Shall we try to get south from here?”

No one objected.

 

Chapter 9

 

They eventually found the small village Selikov had mentioned, no more than a few log cabins and wood sheds by the winding Tunguska River. Even though their compass was still quivering, the effects were less pronounced, and the Captain was confident that he had the nose of the airship pointed south. So they left the river, vanishing over the green wilderness, where small rivulets formed a web that wandered through the taiga forest, aimless waterways to nowhere. It was another three hours at about 80KPH before Selikov was heartened to see what looked to be a substantial river, running perpendicular to his present course, just as he had hoped.

“There is the Angara,” he said jubilantly. “With steady weather and a nudge in the right direction I can still navigate without a compass. Look,” he pointed for Orlov to see. “The needle still can’t seem to find its way north.”

“So how do we find Ilanskiy?”

“It should be about another 275 kilometers, due south on our present heading. Look there,” he pointed at the river below. “That’s the village of Boguchany on the Angara River. Another three hours should do it. The only problem is that we still have this odd interference on many of the ship’s systems, including our RUS-1 radar. What about that thing you mounted on the gondola?”

“The Oko panel? That is our radar,” said Orlov. “But Troyak says it suffers the same effects. We’re getting a signal but not at the ranges we would expect. It’s very strange. That is a heavily shielded system, very resistant to jamming or any other disturbances. All the radio equipment is cloudy as well. I thought it would abate when we got farther south, but it persists.”

“Well I don’t like going in blind like this,” Selikov warned.

“Don’t worry,” Orlov admonished. “This place is still out in the middle of nowhere—just a backwater stop along the Trans-Siberian rail, and I’m told there are very few trains these days. This should be a quick in and out. Troyak is very efficient.”

Selikov shook his head. He didn’t even really know why he was on this mission, or why Ilanskiy was in any way important. He had simply been told to ferry the Marines to the location, set them down, and provide air cover while they were on the ground. Once they were recovered, then he was to bring them home. A little over an hour later, however, they were about to find out that there was more going on at Ilanskiy than any of them could have believed.

The Oko panel radar finally began to pick up a number of airborne contacts to the south, one at very close range. It was clearly an aircraft, though it did not approach. Zykov was monitoring the system with his mobile equipment pack, and reported.

“That plane was probably close enough to spot us,” he said. “As for the other contacts, they have to be airships. There is no movement. I believe they are hovering in place.”

“How many?” Captain Selikov turned his head as Zykov reported.

“I count four main contacts, and there appear to be a few aircraft up as well.”

Selikov was not happy to hear this, and quickly convened a meeting with Troyak and Orlov. “Well gentlemen,” he said. “Either someone has wind of this little mission or they have just decided to throw a party out here in the middle of nowhere. Your man here says there are four airships to the south, and if we can see them, then they will certainly see us if we continue.”

“Four airships? Sookin Syn! What have we gotten ourselves into here? Could they have been sent here to stop us?”

“I doubt anyone knew of this mission. Spies could have seen us depart from Severomorsk, or even Port Dikson, but after that we’ve been lost in Siberia, and there would be no way anyone could predict our final destination like this. No. This has to be something more, but I certainly did not expect this here at a small rail depot like Ilanskiy. What do we do?”

Orlov thought for a moment. “Can we get through to Kirov on your military radio now, Troyak?”

“Interference is still clouding over the signals, but I will try.”

“You can’t count on getting through,” said Selikov. “You have to decide whether to push this mission forward, or abort. If they are on to us, those four airships will make an end of us in short order. I’m hovering in place. Moving south now would be suicide. You want to go on with this, then you will have to do it on the ground.”

“On the ground? How far are we from Ilanskiy?

“Well over 120 kilometers! It will have to be a very long walk if you go, and there is no way I can get you out in that event, not with four goddamn airships south. We should turn tail and head north again at once.”

 

* * *

 

Karpov sat across from Air Commandant Symenko, a self satisfied look on his face as he poured them both a glass of brandy.

“Just something to warm you up,” he said. “I regret that caution dictated I take a fairly hard line with you, Captain. But you will see that I am not uncouth, or even spiteful. Forgive my remarks concerning Omsk. They were uncalled for, but understand that city was never Volkov’s to take or give away. It was ours, the Free Siberian State, and now the border is back where it belongs, west of Isilkul.”

Symenko accepted the apology, such as it was, and took a lingering sip of the brandy, finding it very good, particularly with the fresh summer sausage and a bit of aged cheese and crackers to go along with it.

“You have a delivery to make?”

“That I do.”

“What was so important that it could not be handed off to a Lieutenant. There was no need for you to come up in that drafty spy basket.”

“Orders are orders,” Symenko said flatly, and he hefted the diplomatic pouch up onto the table.

Karpov gave it a long look, curious, but waiting. What was there? He summoned a Lieutenant, telling him to open the brief while he continued to eat his cold cuts, seemingly unconcerned, in spite of his curiosity. The man undid the leather straps, and pulled out a plain oversized envelope, placing it on the table near Karpov’s left arm. Then he saluted and withdrew.

Karpov gave it a sideward’s glance, finishing a morsel and taking another sip of brandy. “You were ordered to bring both airships, Symenko, or was that your idea?”

“Orders, plain and simple.”

“Then I suppose this must be important.” Karpov sighed, taking up the envelope and opening it to find a letter, addressed to him and signed by Ivan Volkov. As he read it silently, it was all he could do to keep the emotion from his face in front of Symenko.

It was information he had long wondered about, and now Volkov’s intelligence network had finally answered the question that had lingered in his mind for some time. They had found the ship—Kirov—his ship. It was spotted at Murmansk, but what were they doing there?

A moment’s thought answered that question. They obviously shifted, dragging him along with them as he suspected, but they would have found themselves in the Pacific. Knowing Fedorov, he would have quickly learned what had happened politically here. They certainly could not return to Vladivostok under these conditions, so they must have sailed home to Murmansk. My god, that will mean Sergei Kirov might have learned about the ship that bears his name. This opened door after door in his mind, dark yawning possibilities, and each portal filled with yet more questions.

Did that damn submarine go with them? What tremendous power they would have in that case. Kazan was even more of a threat than the battlecruiser insofar as any intervention in this war might be considered. A submarine like that would be completely invincible. It could operate undetected, delivering its lethal torpedoes unseen, like a whisper of death.

Volkov’s last notation was very cryptic. It read: “So Kirov is there, back home where it came from. My only question now is why are you there at Ilanskiy, and not on your ship?”

Yes, Volkov was getting very curious now, and justifiably so.

They were soon interrupted by the Lieutenant, who walked very quickly to Karpov’s side and bent to whisper something in his ear. Karpov could no longer control himself, sitting up stiffly, the light of alarm in his eyes.

“You are certain of this?”

“We have three border stations reporting now, sir. But the wireless room is still receiving signals.”

“Make certain this gets to Irkutsk. Then find out what is happening south of Pavlodar. That will be all.”

He waited until the Lieutenant had withdrawn, then slowly folded his hands on the table, his face set and deadly serious now. Symenko had been finishing his brandy and thinking how to ask for another glass when he perceived something was very wrong.

“Very clever, Symenko,” said Karpov, the edge of danger in his voice. “Nice little theater here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean! I should string you up and blow both your airships to hell, shouldn’t I. My, my. What have you done to so displease Volkov? It’s clear that he considers you expendable.”

“Expendable? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Symenko! Are you going to sit there and tell me you knew nothing of this treachery?”

“Treachery? What are you saying, Karpov? I‘ve told you why I am here, and treachery has nothing to do with it. Why else would I have allowed you to sit off my brow where you can bring most of your guns to bear? Now what is this about?” The Captain was getting angry as well, and the two men stared at one another until Karpov spoke.

“Three border stations have reported shooting incidents in the last hour, all along the western border. Volkov’s 17th, 21st and 9th rifle divisions have pushed into Free Siberian Territory and they are all moving on your little city—the one you hoped to get your greedy hands on Symenko. Yes, my intelligence services know more than you may think. So now you can tell me what you are really doing here before I have you shot as a hostile enemy behind our lines!”

Symenko was truly surprised, and he could not keep the emotion from his face. Karpov could see it, was still suspicious, but soon began to perceive that this Captain might have been no more than an unwitting pawn here.

“I tell you I had no knowledge of this. I was simply sent here to deliver that pouch, and I expect diplomatic immunity, even if what you say is true.”

“Oh, it’s true, Captain. I will not be surprised to learn that there is now another big operation underway out west. Very clever, this Volkov. He baits me with promises at Omsk, and we move in the 18th Siberian Rifles to occupy the place. Now he has pushed three divisions across the border, and probably more south of Pavlodar. He knows we still are sitting on our main defense line on the Ob River. So now he can take a bite and trap our 18th Division at Omsk, and all this after all those smiles and handshakes at our recent conference. I should have known better. So why should I not put a bullet through your head for your part in this?”

“I tell you I knew nothing of this! Nothing at all.”

“Does it feel good to be used, Symenko? Is that what you are telling me here?”

Symenko’s face reddened as he realized what had happened. Volkov, that son-of-a-bitch! He’s thrown me to the wolves. He reneged on his promise to post me as Governor in Omsk, and sends me here on the eve of his operation like this, knowing what Karpov would do to me. That’s why the bastard insisted I deliver that damn pouch personally. Sookin Syn!

“That bastard betrayed me as well! No wonder he refused my posting to the Governorship. He was just trying to get me out of the way so he could give the city to someone else. It all makes sense now, this whole charade—rousted out of bed at four in the morning with special orders. Deliver the pouch personally, that was what I was told, and now I see why. Well, don’t shoot the messenger, Karpov. I have as much of a bone to pick with Volkov as you do. I tell you I had no knowledge that any such operation was planned or even contemplated!”

Karpov looked at him. Symenko was a rough hewn man, brutal at times, plain and ill mannered at others. He had read the file on him to size the man up, and Symenko was hardly the sort to use in a role like this. No, Symenko was not the artful dodger, one to mince words and handle a matter of this nature. It was probably true what he said now. Volkov had sent him all this way to be certain he was out of the picture he was painting. But what about his airships? Did they have orders here too? Were they getting ready to engage here to tie me down. I’ve gone and pulled in most of our regional reserves with this Ilanskiy business. A thousand questions ran through Karpov’s mind in an instant, yet one overshadowed them all. What was Volkov really up to?

“So you’re just the messenger, is it? You want to claim diplomatic immunity and have me kiss your backside and send you merrily on your way? I should drag your ass into that spy basket and cut the damn thing loose. That would be a nice long ride to hell, right Symenko? We are at 4500 meters up here. But before I do that let me test what you have said here. You tell me Volkov has betrayed you as well? Then join me.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so stupid. If it is true that Volkov considers you expendable and sends you into the bear’s den with that pouch, then how eager can you be to fight for him now? Is that what your Executive officer is planning? Are you going to open your gun ports and climb any second as part of this diversion? Well the minute I hear the first round fired you are a dead man. But if you are innocent in this, then I won’t hear a thing. Yes? If you are innocent, then you will have every reason to want to screw Volkov for what he has just done to you. Right Symenko?”

The Captain steamed, his eyes looking this way and that, clearly beside himself, and struggling with both fear and anger here. Then a knock came and in rushed the young Lieutenant again, this time with no message in hand.

“Air alert sir! One of the planes scouting north has seen a large airborne contact to the northwest! There’s another airship bearing down on us!”

Karpov smiled, and slowly reached into his jacket to produce a revolver, which he pointed directly at Symenko’s forehead.

 

 

 

 

Part IV

 

Best Laid Plans

 

“The best laid schemes of Mice and Men
oft go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy.”

 

—Robert Burns: To A Mouse, (Paraphrased)

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

So there it was, and Orlov was now in the hot seat of command with a real decision to make. Of course he looked at Troyak to see what he advised.

“Troyak?”

The Sergeant thought for a moment. “I could take in a single squad from here. We will be a long day to get there, but perhaps this will have blown over by the time we do. If not, I can set up an observation on the site and report. One way or another, a chance may come up for us to execute the mission.”

“Or to get executed yourself!” Orlov was not convinced this was a good idea. The whole mission was meant to rely on stealth. This was supposed to be a backwater outpost, not a bustling hub of military activity.

“These damn airships, they carry troops like we can?”

“More than likely,” said Selikov. “They could have a full regiment there now with four airships. That’s half the entire Siberian Aero Corps! You don’t get a concentration like that without some muscle behind it. I tell you something is going on there. Either they are expecting us, and our cover was blown somehow, or this is happenstance, but your best play would be to wait here on the ship. I can get us north, and hopefully those airships will stay put where they are.”

“You want to get us lost again, Selikov?” Orlov grinned.

“Better than the alternative, which would most likely see us blown out of the sky if we try to go south. Narva is a good ship, well gunned. I can probably beat any ship they put against me, but not four damn airships in one throw.”

“My orders are to go at any cost,” said Troyak.

“What were your orders, Troyak?” Orlov frowned, folding his arms. He felt as though he had not been fully briefed, in spite of being the ranking officer aboard from Kirov.

Troyak hesitated briefly, remembering those last moments with Fedorov when he had asked the one question no one seemed to want to deal with: “And what if we encounter Karpov in one of his zeppelins?”

“You will have to use your best judgment, Troyak. The Admiral hopes to avoid engagement. We do not want to let Karpov know we are here just yet. Admiral Volsky is considering the matter. But you must protect the airship, and your men. This mission is very important. Coordinate with Captain Selikov. He knows how to fight the airship. You handle ground operations with your Marines. For the moment it is Volkov that we are worried about. If the situation allows you to reconnoiter down those steps and find him, report back. Admiral Volsky will give the final order. And Sergeant, no one needs to know about Karpov for the moment, particularly Orlov.”

“We were to secure the objective, then report our status to the ship,” said Troyak. “On the Admiral’s word, the mission would then proceed.”

“Well that’s it, then. They were not even sure if they could make a go of it, Troyak. We need to contact the goddamn ship and report this situation. So you do everything you possibly can to get the that radio working. Then we decide what to do.”

“And what if your radio will not work?” Selikov continued to play the devil’s advocate. “For that matter what if your compass remains fouled up on the ground? Then how will you find your way?”

Troyak simply smiled. “I could get there blind folded,” he said gruffly. “But what you say about the radio makes a good point. If we can’t raise the ship up here, it will be no different down there on the ground.”

He had his field map open, downloaded from the ship’s library and printed just for this mission. There was a village very near their position, labeled Aban. The word meant “backwater” and the place was well named, a forgotten outpost in the vast wilderness they had been drifting over. From there he saw makeshift roads and trails south towards the rail line. It would not be a difficult march.

“I will try some alternate bands on the radio, Captain. See if you can get me north of this village.”

 

* * *

 

Symenko thought quickly. Join him? Why not? It was either that or a bullet to the head. Isn’t that why Volkov sent me here in the first place? Then again, this could be my fire test. Volkov was fond of leaning heavily on an officer to test his mettle. Suppose I kill both birds with one stone. Let Karpov think I’m amenable to his proposal. Once I get back to my ship it will then be a simple matter to get to a better position and then stick it to Karpov here. But first, the theater. What about Captain Petrov aboard the Oskemen? He certainly won’t go along with this. Petrov is a straight shooter. In fact, he was probably sent along on this little foray to send back reports.

“That is not our airship,” he said quickly. “As far as I know we were sent alone. I know nothing about a third ship.”

“You don’t sound convincing.” Karpov was adamant. “In two minutes I’m going to blow your ships to pieces, Captain, but of course you won’t be alive to worry about that.”

“No! Wait! What you say makes sense to me. This is all Volkov’s doing. I swear it! I was told nothing of this—only to come here and deliver that pouch. But Volkov, damn his soul, he knew what would happen if we were caught here when he crossed the border. You are correct, Karpov. I have been thrown to the wolves. So why not join them? Yes? And why should you open fire on our ships when they might make a nice addition to your Aero Corps?”

“That sounds a little better, Symenko. You are starting to think now, but how can you be trusted? If you are willing to turn colors so easily, might you not do so again?”

“What would you do in my place, take a bullet in the head, or live to get a chance to stick it to Volkov for everything he has done? And to me, he has done more than you know. Yes, I was promised the governorate at Omsk. Why do you think my ship was renamed? That is the least of it. My trouble with Volkov goes back years. I opposed him when Denikin was still alive, and he knows that. He could not purge the ranks completely, but that is what he has been doing—rooting out all Denikin’s old followers one by one. I was one of the last, and always wondered how he would try to get rid of me.” That should sound convincing, thought Symenko.

“Now you need not wonder any longer…” Karpov lowered his revolver, eyes tight, thinking. “You will surrender your airships?”

“I would order it, but I cannot speak for what Petrov might do.”

“Petrov?”

“He’s Captain of the Oskemen, and one of Volkov’s boys. I’ve little doubt that he was sent here with me to prevent what we are now discussing, though I do not think he foresaw that you would haul me up here in a basket. We anticipated docking and meeting on the ground.”

“You have troops aboard?”

“Of course, two light battalions.”

“Why, Symenko? If this was simply a delivery run then why bring two battalions along?”

“You’ll have to ask Volkov that.”

“You had no orders to debark and operate on the ground?”

“Of course not. What would we do here?” A lie was best at this point, thought Symenko.

“You might try tearing up the rail line for a start.”

“Look, Karpov, if we wanted to do that then we would have done so between Krasnoyarsk and Novosibirsk. We know you have the 91st Division in reserve at Krasnoyarsk, and by god we knew you had airships right here! So why come here for a rail sabotage operation? No. It is just as I have told you. I was to come here, deliver that pouch and be done with it.”

That bit about hitting the rail line west of Krasnoyarsk made sense, thought Karpov. That would prevent the 91st from getting to the main front quickly, but yet, Symenko is here, red faced, big eyed and now ready to talk business. Let me see what he knows.

“Suppose I spare your life here—assuming you can deliver your airship intact. As for Petrov and the Oskemen, leave them to me. But what else do you know, Symenko? Are you telling me you had no idea this offensive was being planned? There would have been orders cut, munitions to be moved forward, and supplies. The roads would have been prepped and cleared. Sapper teams would have been training for cross border action for weeks. Beyond that, Volkov would need airship support. Your division would not have been enough. He would have had to cut orders and bring up units from the southern divisions. You heard nothing?”

Symenko stopped at that, thinking, remembering, his eyes suddenly registering recollection. “Yes! Pavlodar was detached south last week—right in the middle of your conference.”

“Pavlodar?”

“That’s ship number three in my division… But I had orders to take my ship up to Perm before this little venture was sprung on me.”