Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seventeen steps…

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

The sound was very loud now, and he saw an eerie red-yellow glow. He slipped through the broken door, squinting in the light, and was completely astounded by what he saw.

The entire upper floor had been mostly blown away. He found himself on a tenuous perch, a part of the upper floor that still remained standing. There were loose shards of shattered glass under his feet, dust everywhere, blown by a foul wind that seemed to chill his soul with its heartless sound. What had happened?

There! He saw the source of the angry light as the dust cleared, shielding his eyes. There! It rose up in a seething dark column of destruction, unmistakable in its shape and form, a broiling mushroom cloud with a livid white top, lit by an evil glow. He knew what it was at once, for he had set loose that same hammer hand of doom on the world many times himself. Yet this was impossible! How could this be happening, here in 1940? Nuclear weapons would not be developed for years and he knew there were no such projects underway in the wild lands of Siberia.

Then it struck him-jarred loose by the sight of that terrible mushroom cloud. He had come here looking for the reason Volkov might have shifted in time, and he had found it! Yes, that could not be happening in 1940, which meant…

With a sense of rising panic Karpov looked over his shoulder, staring back at the broken door, aghast. He took one last look at the roiling detonation, knowing it would have been right over the Naval Arsenal near Kansk. Then, like a man who had stumbled upon the entry way to hell itself, he took one backward step, edging slowly away, back to the broken door, back to the darkened stairs.

Shaking with fear and shock, he turned and hurtled down the steps, shouting for Tyrenkov. Half way down the awful rumble of the explosion diminished, becoming a muffled background sound, and then fading away altogether when he reached the bottom landing.

He stood there, shivering, his eyes still wide with fear. The sound of a barking dog came from far off, and he took two steps, out from the shadowy alcove on unsteady legs. Then he started, reflexively jerking his hand to see that he still had hold of his cigarette, and the ash had burned down to singe his fingers. The sound of men shouting…

He stepped into the dining room, making his way slowly toward the front desk of the inn, and seeing there the same calendar, the same date: 8 DEC 28. As he stepped outside he saw one of his guards, who turned, face alight when he saw Karpov.

“Commandant!” The man looked over his shoulder, waving at someone. “Lieutenant! I have found the Commandant!”

Karpov heard men running, fast booted footfalls on the ruddy ground. Then up came Lieutenant Tyrenkov, his dour face registering surprise and relief.

“There you are, sir. We thought something had happened to you. I’ve had men searching for you the last hour.” Now he looked at Karpov, somewhat shocked. The Commandant’s uniform was soiled, a sheen of chalky dust on his shoulders. Karpov just stared at him, his mind finally starting to function and think again. The sound… that distant rumble, the stairway.

“Tyrenkov,” he said, his voice hoarse. Karpov looked over his shoulder, to the northwest, the place where he had seen the terrible mushroom cloud just minutes ago. There was nothing there, only the pallid sky and the distant shape of Abakan gleaming from the tether at Kansk, the sunlight finally breaking through and reflecting off the airship’s smooth surface.

“You say you have been searching an hour?”

“Yes, sir. I came to give you my report. The town is abandoned, but you were not where I left you at the inn.” He noted the diminishing ash on the Commandant’s cigarette, a strange look on his face now.

“Sir, what happened to your uniform?”

Karpov now took notice of the dust that lay on him, his shoulders and cap all covered with a sheen of chalky white. He removed his cap, slapping it on his pants leg to clear the soot, and brushing off his shoulders.

“Filthy place,” he said. “That damn back stairwell. Cobwebs everywhere!”

Tyrenkov surmised that the Commandant must have gone up those stairs, but where he had been the last hour still befuddled him. He had a man up there, searching every room, and he had shouted into that stairwell calling for the Commandant himself. Why did he not answer? Perhaps he was simply enjoying his smoke and did not wish to be disturbed, he thought. The sight of the cigarette still burning in Karpov’s hand drew his gaze again, and he remembered that it had been the last one in the pack when Karpov offered it to him an hour ago. He dismissed the thought, realizing the Commandant must have had another pack in his coat pocket.

Karpov could feel his weight on his feet again. His breath calmed, eyes narrowed. That damn stairway, he thought. One minute I am here, and the next I am somewhere else! This is the madness that Volkov described. What did he say? He struggled to remember the man’s exact words.

“The little railway inn just east of Kansk near the old naval munitions center. That's when the madness started. I was searching the premises with my guards, and thought I discovered a hidden stairway at the back of that inn. I found someone was hiding there, and herded the rascal down to the dining hall. The next thing I know I encountered men who seemed completely out of place…”

Tyrenkov saw Karpov reach into his jacket, fishing out the cigarette pack. He found it empty and threw it away, then turned and walked slowly to the waiting car.

Karpov looked at his Lieutenant. “Bar the entry to this inn-every door and every window. Leave two men here and no one is to enter-absolutely no one. And get me some cigarettes. Understood?”