Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 7

The madness that overtook him was a raging storm, yet something within him struggled to restrain it. End it! End it! The shame was too great, welling up like bile in his throat, and he raised the gun to his head. At that moment Admiral Tovey intervened, steady at the wheel of HMS King Alfred, bearing down on the ominous shadow ahead. A shell from his guns fell very near the ship, sending a hail of splinters up when it exploded, one scoring Karpov’s face even as he began to squeeze the trigger. The pain and blood shocked him to the realization of life, harsh, stunning blood-red life that was still pulsing in his veins.

The ship lurched and he was thrown off balance, careening against the gunwale as Kirov rolled, and he was thrown completely over, falling from the weather bridge and scudding off the Korall BN-3 space communications system dome cover, which sent him flying right off the ship and headfirst into the sea! He plunged into the water with a hard thump, dazed and yet moving with an instinctive frantic impulse to save himself.

Beneath the frothing sea, he opened his eyes in a moment of panic, gaping at the shadow of fear itself in the shape of a submarine, like a phantom from his own private hell. There it was, lurking like a predatory shark very close to the ship! It was as if he had been flung into his worst nightmare, and he flailed, nearly gasping in the seawater as he struggled to reach the surface.

The broad hull of the ship had passed on, looming up as it slid away on the turbulent waters. He found himself batted about in the swirling wash of the ship’s wake, the sea suddenly alive with energy, a scintillating seafoam green radiating out in every direction. Only his adrenaline kept his limbs moving, thrashing and flopping to keep his head above water. In one last terrible moment he saw the horizon studded with the squat iron shapes of the enemy ships, dark and threatening, iron monsters churning forward, their bows biting into the waves as they converged on the scene.

From the bridge of Kirov, with the power of the ship at his command, they were no more than heedless targets for his anger and ambition to squash on a whim. But here, alone in the wild sea, they loomed as steely devils, belching steam and black smoke, their guns training and firing, booming out reprisal.

It was over, he realized in a sudden moment of lucid thought. This was his end. Death waited for him here in the cold, merciless sea. Then he closed his eyes, his struggle finished, feeling a sensation of feathery lightness, his skin tingling as with the prickle of a thousand needles. There was no pain, only the strange sensation that he was slipping, falling, sliding away into the unseen depths-the infinite sea of time itself. His vision faded to grey, his consciousness fleeing as he lay in the hand of fate that moment. Yet its resolute grasp did not choose to close upon him with the finality of its crushing weight. Not yet… not now… not this day…

It was not over. Death was not waiting hungrily for him as he hoped it might, and when he finally awoke he felt himself adrift, still floating, his body moved by some unfathomable power beneath him that he instinctively recognized as the rise and swell of the sea. Karpov was alive. The sun was warm on his face, but something else was there. Eyes closed, he reached his hand, still feeling the soreness in his shoulder where he had fallen against the ship… coarse cloth… a bandage on his face. He opened his eyes, squinting up at the azure sky, studded with fluffy white clouds and resounding with the call of seabirds. A quiet bell rang, very close. The salty marine smell and an odor of fish was all about him. Then a shadow loomed over him, and he saw a face.

The eyes held a smile beneath cinder brows, the face of an old Asian man. The sudden memory of that headlong fall from grace and power to what seemed a clear and imminent death was on him again, and he struggled to sit up, almost as if to flee from the vision in his mind- Kirov, the guns and missiles firing, the faces of the crew, Samsonov and Rodenko, stony, adamant, full of recrimination. Doctor Zolkin slumped against the bulkhead… the blood… then the wild fall into the nightmare sea and his vision of the one thing that sent chills through his frame and haunted his thinking whenever he stood at the helm-a submarine! His breath came faster.

He felt gentle hands on his shoulder, pressing him down, bidding him to lay still, then the cool splash of water from an old tin ladle on his face and lips. He stared at the face again, an old man with charcoal brows, grey hair tied off on a short topknot, clearly Japanese. The only way he could place this element into any sensible context was to think he had been found adrift and captured by one of Admiral Togo’s ships. The rhythm of the tide was evident, yet when he opened his eyes again he could see that he was not aboard a cold metal ship, but lying on the sun-bleached teak deck of a weathered fishing boat.

“Osore o shiranai,” the old man said, then gestured to his own chest. “Watashi wa Tanakadesu. Ima yasumu. Ima iyasu. Suripu.” He pantomimed sleep, his clasped hands forming what might have been a pillow, eyes closed.

Karpov did not have to be persuaded. A weariness was on him that felt leaden, a lethargy of the mind and soul that seemed to paralyze him. He lolled back, closing his eyes, and drifted off, lulled by the quiet ding of the boat’s bell, the call of the sea birds, the warmth of the sun. Sleep…

Sometime later, he knew not how long, his senses roused him again, this time with the smell of something cooking on charcoal. He ate, receiving small morsels of grilled fish and rice, more water, then warm tea. The old man was dutiful in tending to his needs, and then sleep came again, night and day blending in a seamless wash, his mind adrift on a sea of fitful dreams.

The images and the faces would not leave him for many days, long days at sea on the tiny fishing boat where he slept, ate, drank and slowly revived himself. Another day passed. Watching the stars, he knew the boat was headed north, though he did not know where it was going, or why. They came to an island and the old man threw a stone tied to a rope over as a makeshift anchor, then he went ashore, speaking to Karpov in his unintelligible language, but gesturing that the Captain should remain where he was. Karpov was still too weary to be curious. The long weeks of stress and tension had sapped his vitality. Now all he wanted was rest and sleep, so he lingered in the boat, sheltered by a flat tin roof in a small compartment beneath the mast and sail.

The old man returned, with gourds of fresh water and something just a little stronger, which Karpov soon came to know as Sake. But in his wake there soon came other men, uniformed, looking official. They carried a stretcher and the Captain found himself lifted and carried away by these newcomers, who spoke to one another as they walked. Some of the words fell into his memory through languorous, drowsy sleep… Oshima… Nagata Maru… Urajio…

Soon they came to a small bay, and when he opened his eyes Karpov could see a squat tramp steamer tethered to a wooden dock. He was carried aboard, his eyes catching the name on the hull in faded block letters. Nagata Maru. They would sail another four days, always north, the seas accommodating and calm. He was quartered in a room below decks, given simple meals, and a Japanese man who seemed to be a physician called on his room once to give him a cursory examination, seemingly satisfied that he was not seriously ill. On the fourth day another man appeared, tall and swarthy, and obviously European. The sound of his voice speaking Russian was a welcome relief.

“Wake up!” The man strode into the room after the barest knock on the door. “No more free loading for you my friend.” He introduced himself as Koslov, a pilot aboard the ship, and planted himself on the old wood chair as Karpov sat up, shifting his feet off the simple cot where he lay and onto the floor. He was glad to see someone at last that he could talk to.

“Where am I?”

“You’re on my ship, the Nagata Maru. God only knows what you were about. They tell me a fisherman plucked your hide out of the sea way down south off Iki Island. Said they found themselves a Russki. What were you doing there, mate?”

Karpov frowned, giving the man a cursory glance, noting what looked to be military grade boots, a waistcoat, thick leather belt and fleece cap, but no sign of insignia or rank. He could obviously not tell this man anything resembling the truth, so a little vranyo was in order here, and he easily served it up.

“I was out in a launch and got caught in weather. A big wave swamped the damn boat and I went into the sea. Didn’t think I had a chance then, the next thing I know, I’m on a fishing boat, and turn up here. Where the hell are we now?”

“Urajio,” the man folded his arms. “That’s the Japanese name for Vladivostok. They told me you were here, but we get more than a few vagrants thrown aboard on a typical run. Don’t mind those bandages. You had a bit of a nick, but it’s healing well, or so the medic tells me. But don’t be surprised the next time you look in the mirror to shave. You’ll have a scar.”

Karpov touched the bandage on the left side of his face, remembering now, the pain, the blood, life in his veins that stayed his hand on the trigger. I spared Key West, he thought, and I spared my own life as well.

“This here is Nagato Maru out of Sasebo,” said Koslov. “We came up on our weekly run. Not anything glamorous, but a fairly new ship-commissioned last year in fact. I was lucky to make pilot, cause I know the waters here well. Golden Horn Harbor was home to me for many years. You look to be military. I know a Captain’s stripe when I see one. Who are you?”

The Captain could see no reason to lie, so he gave his name. Who would know him here if this was still 1908? He realized he needed to confirm that as soon as possible. “Karpov,” he said. “Yes, I shipped out from Severomorsk on another steamer. Went ashore on that damn island, got drunk, and missed my boat!” Another convenient lie to close that door of inquiry. Then he quickly angled for more information. “Was so woozy with rum and seawater after I went into the drink that I don’t even know what year it is any more. Must have hit my head on the gunwale when that storm swamped me. What day is it? What year, for that matter?”

Koslov gave him a narrow eyed smile. A cagey one, this one. Nothing he says makes much sense. Came here on a steamer? What ship? Where was he bound? What’s the man doing in that garb with those stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia?

“Tenth of June, thirty-eight. Get your wits about you Captain, if you are a Captain. Something tells me there’s more to your story than you’re telling, but I could care less. It’s not my watch. I just came down here to say we’ve made port. If your ship was headed here, you’ve made it. If not, too bad for you. Jappos round up any Russki they find these days and ship them here-at least those without any papers. So here you are.”

“Tenth of June… did you say thirty-eight? You mean 1938?”

“Of course that’s what I mean. Are you daft or still groggy? Doctor says you’ve a clean bill of health. They watch for fevers and such. No sense shipping in a plague, eh? Well, you’re clean, he says, and you’re here. But now you’re a landlubber again mate, unless you can find another ship to jump. You’re lucky that old fisherman found a steamer like this one to turn you in, and not a military ship. Otherwise there would have been a good many more questions than the lot here would care to ask. As it stands, I’d think twice about parading about Urajio in that uniform. Russian military comes under a good deal of scrutiny here these days. There’s a war on, you know.”

Karpov did not understand. The news he had already heard was jarring enough-1938? What was this man saying now? “War? Here? The Japanese and Russians?”

“The Japanese and whoever they damn well take a dislike to. No, they’ve finished with us-at least for the time being. Now it’s the Chinese they’re after. Troop ships coming in and out of Urajio every week now and shipping out on the rail line through Harbin into Manchuko. You want out and can’t find a steamer here, then you might try that. You can get all the way down to Ryojun from here, but it will be risky.”

“Ryojun?”

“Port Arthur. Get used to calling it that way too, Captain. Jappos hear you speak of Vladivostok or Port Arthur and they get damn foul tempered about it since they took the place. Best be watching your manners here, if you know what I mean. That uniform of yours is going to be trouble, I can tell you that much. If you want some good advice, throw on an overcoat and be less conspicuous here. Then head inland if you’re trying to get anywhere where one good Russian can speak to another. Siberia is the same as it always was, but there’s Jappo military all the way out to the Amur river now, and don’t you forget that. They find you wandering about in a uniform like that and you could be shot out there. That’s mean wild country out on the river zone. Then again-if you are a sea faring man, you might get lucky like I did and get work on a steamer here. You’ll need to learn some Japanese now, and how to bow and scrape and all, but it isn’t a bad living. I’m seven years at it now and they gave me a new ship just last year-Pilot of the Nagata Maru, eh?” He thumped his chest, smiling through his bristly black beard.

“What do you mean-The Japanese have invaded here? Their army is on the Amur River?”

“What, have you had your head in the sand the last thirty years-or maybe in that jug of rum? Japanese kicked us out of Vladivostok long ago and we never got it back. You know that. In fact, we may never get it back now with another war brewing. It’s too damn important to them now, right at the heart of their empire. Some say Ryujun is a better port-warmer waters there and not so much trouble with the ice in winter. But the Sea of Japan is well named now, isn’t it? It’s nothing more than a Japanese lake, and the route here is a whole lot safer than in through the Yellow Sea to Ryujun. Chinese haven’t much of a navy, but pirates and Wakos still raise hell between Shanghai and Ryujun along the Chinese coast. Jappos have to escort most shipping there in convoys with military ships to keep watch, but not on the run up here. No sir. From Urajio you can throw a stone six hundred miles in any direction and it will still land in Imperial territory.”

“Six hundred miles?”

“You must be European. You ship in from Kirov’s lot? I suppose they’re too busy with the fighting on the Volga to worry about what happens out here. Well, there’s a lot happening, and you’ll soon find out.”