Condition Zebra: The Next War - 2025

Chapter 34

Fedorov remembered a time when Karpov would have hovered over Samsonov at the CIC, even insisting on toggling the switch to fire the missiles, wanting to make sure it was his hand sending out the fire and steel. Yet now he seemed a changed man. With every hit, he had turned to Samsonov, praising him, handing him the laurels. In truth, he thought, neither man killed that ship. It was Kirov. The great battlecruiser had received the targetign information from the American Sentry, and Samsonov had merely seen that it was correctly transferred to the fire control system. Yet he had programmed in the three turns required to move the missiles where Karpov wanted them. After that, it was all Kirov, the mindless ship that had carried them so far, into so many battles, and without ever suffering defeat.

I wonder, thought Fedorov. Was Kirov just an extension of our will? After all, it did nothing unless the officers and crew told it to. Then again, were we merely the means the ship used to impose its steely will on the sea? You could look at it that way, he thought. Now we must brace for the inevitable counterattack, never an easy time on the bridge when the missiles come for us. Let’s hope we can pull through, as we always have. Karpov has always kept us safe.

Has he? Again, wasn’t it Kirov that has kept us safe? The ship has radar eyes that see things none of us know. All we do is give the command to fire. From that moment forward, our lives and fate are solely in the hands of this ship. It seems a living thing, with a computer mind of its own. Yes, a great Sea Dragon, Mizuchi, and we are just riding its scaly back, watching it breathe fire in battle, and hoping we live to find calm and safe water yet again….

Aboard the carrier Taifeng, Admiral Wu was mortified. Shandong was gone…. He knew that ship and crew, having moved his flag there after Zhendong was torpedoed. Now he was on the finest carrier in the navy, Taifeng. Pass like thunder and lightning, he thought. Move like wind. We open the battle by striking at Singapore, and within minutes, Shandong is gone….

How can I live down the shame? This is the third time I have been ordered to command the waters off Singapore, and while I have driven off the Royal Navy, two precious aircraft carriers that were under my command have suffered hard fates. Without them, we cannot sail far from our shores, no matter how many destroyers we build.

That thought sat on his shoulder like a dark and noisome crow. This war is not going well for us. It may seem so in a strategic sense. Yes, we have closed Suez, and still dominate the Arabian Sea, but when Sun Wei came north, our watch ended on the sea lanes between the Cape and Diego Garcia. Yes, the plan to seize Saudi Arabia is well underway, but there is a limit to what the Iraqi Army can do. With the Siberian front still dangerous, can we afford to send military aid there? Yes, we have the Ryukyus, but the Americans have backed Japan, and that issue is not resolved. Yes, I have driven the British from Singapore, but something tells me the Americans and Siberians will not leave so quickly.

In the broader sense, look at what we have lost! We have had to abandon all our bases in the Mediterranean, and along the West African coast. Sun Wei has been wrestling with the British and Americans, and now he withdraws to the Gulf of Oman. I cannot even secure the waters off Singapore and maintain a fleet there, and the loss of Shandong burns….

Consider our naval losses. Half our carriers are laid up with two on the bottom of the sea. Eight of 25 Type 055 destroyers have been sunk. We have lost 22 other destroyers, and 18 frigates! This does not even include the five Korean destroyers lost, and the single ship from Vietnam. So add those and we have lost 56 ships!

The Americans? We managed to put damage on one of their new destroyers, and a scratch or two on their battlecruiser, but not a single ship in their navy has been sunk! We can only console ourselves with the fact that we could easily master the Royal Navy, sinking a submarine, two of their carriers, five destroyers and 13 frigates, with six more sunk from the Singapore fleet. That makes 27 warships, but we lost twice as many ships as our enemies. This does not bode well.

Sun Wei was unable to match even a single American carrier group in the Arabian Sea, and he had over 30 ships! The Americans strike him time and again with their fighters, and he can do nothing in return. I think we have been fooled by the success of our YJ-18 against the British. That missile killed their ships easily enough, but against the Americans, it cannot reach their speedy aircraft carriers. Yes… They can stay outside our range, and hound us with fighters day and night. We should have loaded out with a preponderance of YJ-100’s instead of the YJ-18. Those have a 430 mile range, and they would push that carrier farther off, perhaps to the limit of its fighter strike radius. I must inform Beijing of this. Surely they must see it as well. Yet how many more of these missiles do we still have?

I suppose I should be more realistic. War is war. We must expect losses, but right now, Beijing must be getting concerned, particularly after the loss of Shandong. It was that damnable Siberian battlecruiser. It sunk the Sea God, Haishen. It damaged Shandong earlier, and now it finished the job…. So what to do?

I have 112 of those longer range YJ-100’s, but look, the enemy ships have disappeared from our radar screens again, and now I must re-acquire them. At least Shandong was able to launch most of her J-31’s before it went down. Yet now I must find a place to base them. I will have to transfer all ten of my helicopters to ships that do not have one assigned. Then I can make room for more J-31’s. I will order my fighters to sweep south, destroy the enemy CAP, and find those damn ships again! To aid in that, the Vietnamese group will continue to pound their airfields.

Beijing cannot be happy with what I have done here. I may have but one chance to redeem myself, and I can only do that by sinking enemy ships and driving them off. And at the top of my list I must kill that Siberian ship—Kirov, the demon no one even knew about until it suddenly appeared. Yes… That ship must die.

Admiral Wu Jinlong was a very determined man.

“Whalesign Three, Come in. Whalesign Four, do you copy? Please acknowledge. Over.”

The pilot of Whalesign One was confused. He had been ordered to investigate the sea ahead, a dangerous mission, because he would be flying right into the potent SAM envelope of the contacts ahead. They were registering as destroyers, and that meant HQ-9’s, with an 80 mile range. Thus far, the F-35 had been able to penetrate that deadly airspace unseen, but there was always a chance of being detected.

Yet now he had lost contact with the two other planes in his flight, which was most unusual. He had detected no missile firings, and all his equipment seemed to be functioning normally—but was it? Those ghostly radar emissions ahead kept moving, disappearing, returning. The radar had never acted like that. His first thought was that he was being heavily jammed, but that wasn’t the case here, the radio spectrum was quiet and clear. He should be getting pristine returns on those surface ships. Was his radar dodgy?

The radar may be fouled, he said, but why the difficulty making radio contact? They had to hear those calls…. “Whalesign Leader, this is number one. Come in please….”

Silence….

His plane suddenly ran into turbulence, and he decided to climb a bit. Then he would point the nose down and have a look at the sea from good elevation. The radar continued to show hazy uncertainty on the contacts ahead, and then there came a bright light, and seconds later a strong jolt. It was as if his plane had been hit with a shock wave, buffeted by a strong force that saw him struggling to recover control. Turbulence was never really anything that mattered to most pilots, but this was something different.

Now his radars saw what it was, and the tried and true Mark-1 eyeball confirmed it.

“Damn,” he said aloud. “Someone threw a nuke!”

He could see the angry fire of a massive mushroom cloud ahead off his left wing, climbing into the sky with its terrible wrath. What in the world was happening? Was that ours? Did we throw one at the fleet I was out here to investigate? Nice of them to clue me in on it. Damn!

“Flight leader, this is Whalesign One—Firebright! I repeat Firebright! I have eyes on the mushroom. Over. Whalesign Three, come in!”

There, down on the sea, he saw what he had come to find, ships, ships, ships —glowing red and gold in the evil light of that detonation. Now his missile warning came on, and the blood chilling warning told him he was under attack. He turned left into a barrel roll, then came around and dove for the sea. Both maneuvers were good for befuddling missiles, which could not track a barrel rolling plane easily, or turn as tightly as a fighter could. Diving for lower altitude would also force the missile’s radar to fight clutter from the sea if it was trying to reacquire the plane. The dive gave the plane much needed speed, and speed was your friend when under attack like this. If he had to, he would turn again, putting the missile at his three o’clock position, and forcing it to make a continuous turn to follow him. The intention was to bleed energy from the missile as it tried to track and close on his plane.

The maneuver seemed to work, and now he poured on the power. Missile range decreased at lower altitude and for every 100 knots he threw on the fire, that missile would have to work all that harder to catch him, further bleeding off its energy.

He was up over 700 knots, felt another hard jolt, more turbulence, and then clear air. His warning light went dark, alarms quiet, and he seemed to be completely alone on that cold December morning. He pulled into another turn, radar active, looking for that broiling mushroom cloud again, still wary of that missile…. But both were gone.

WTF?

“Whalesign Leader, this is Whalesign One. Come in! Whalesign Leader, do you copy?”

No one came back.

It was as if he was the only living man within a thousand miles. The mushroom was gone, the ships were gone. There was no missile after him, only the dark morning sky, glittering with stars.

“Now this is downright bonkers,” he said aloud. “Where’s that bloody nuke?”

He circled, scanning every horizon visually, and he knew he had not gone too far from what he had seen, but nothing was there. Yes, it was bonkers. What was he, away with the fairies out here? Rats in the attic? A screw or two loose? Things like this just did not happen.

“I must be as barmy as the bloody radar,” he breathed. “Best wing for home.”

He came around, to a heading that should take him home to the carrier, and announced his intention to return on the radio, but there was no response. There was still plenty of fuel, and he was bound to find the fleet in any case. Yes, the whole bloody fleet was out there ahead.

Or so he believed….

“Strange,” said Karpov. “Every get a feeling that something was wrong, but you can’t seem to put your finger on it?”

“Is that why you’ve been checking the radar and sonar stations every half hour,” said Fedorov.

“Have I? Well, I suppose I have. Got this itch, Fedorov. Something is amiss, but I’m not sure what it is. Rodenko reports nothing unusual in the radar field. Tasarov says all is quiet below, but I can still feel it. Something is wrong.”

Fedorov gave him a look. “Perhaps a meal would do some good. I can hold the watch if you want an early lunch.”

“At a time like this?” said Karpov. “We’re likely to have a missile storm heading our way. The American battleship just put in an attack on that leading task force, the one with Vietnamese ships that was firing cruise missiles at the airfields on Singapore. Now there’s another small package coming in for Ranai airfield, air launched.”

“Rodenko says he thought the Chinese were recovering the planes they scrambled off that carrier we sunk.”

“Indeed? Well, we’re lucky the Chinese J-31 doesn’t load out much in the way of anti-surface ordnance. Strange. The Chinese are quick studies. You would think they would have copied the American GBU-53 by now for their stealth fighters. That would give their carriers a little clout. At the moment, the best extended range bomb they can carry only has a range of 30 miles. They’re stealthy, but not that good. Get in that close to this ship and my Gargoyles will have a feast.”

“The Chinese are still coming south,” said Fedorov. “Is that what’s bugging you?”

“No, I expected they would. It just means we have to move south with them, and keep the range outside 300 miles so they can’t use their YJ-18’s. It’s a dance out here, Fedorov. They take a step forward. We take a step back. There’s plenty of sea room yet. So no, it’s no bother. I just feel like there’s something else going on… a feeling of presentiment, but with no clear danger in sight, aside from that Chinese fleet up north. That I can deal with, but this…. This inner feeling is something else.”

“You mean like that sound Troyak reported once on that mission to Siberia?”

“Sound? No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. It’s just an inner feeling, a hunch, but laced with adrenalin. Something is telling me to be wary, but it’s nothing I can see.”

“I’ll check with Tasarov. His ears are the best we have. Does it have to do with the ship? I could go down and see what Dobrynin thinks.”

“No, no, it’s probably nothing. Maybe I’ve been in combat too long. Could just be a case of raw nerves. I feel fine, but there’s something…. Something…”

Fedorov nodded. “Get some lunch, Admiral. Give me a shot at the big chair for a while. If they hit us, it will probably be with their YJ-100. Our SAM’s can track and kill those easily enough.”

“Alright, Fedorov. I’ll take your advice and see what’s on the boil in the officer’s mess. In fact, I have some business to attend to there. But yes… Check with Tasarov once in a while. They have subs out there too. They bushwhacked this Admiral Pearson the last time he showed the flag, and gutted all the RSN frigates that were good enough to sail with him.”

Karpov headed for the hatch and ladder down.

“Admiral off the bridge,” said Rodenko.

“I have the Con,” said Fedorov. “You are officer of the deck, Rodenko.”

“Aye sir.”

Chapter 35

Captain Samuel Wood had heard that his old friend Francis Drake had just made another kill, and now he was thinking to even the score and stay in the race. Drake had a very new boat, HMS Anson, and Wood had one of the first really good attack boats the Royal Navy commissioned, HMS Trafalgar. So he would show them the old girl could still dance.

He had been creeping up on the leading Chinese task force, and now had a frigate in his no escape kill zone, about five miles out. It was the Type 056 corvette Guangyuan, out well ahead of the Vietnamese group as a forward picket. Sonar had contacts on many other ships, but they were over 15 miles away.

Captain Wood briefly considered simply waiting there, allowing the frigate to go by, and then attacking the main group where he might get at many more targets.

“Sonar, can you confirm that this is a Type 056?”

“Yes sir, without question.”

That was a small 1500 ton vessel, usually used in littoral waters like this. The formation was just 50 miles west of the Riau main island. The ship had hull sonar, but no towed array, and it had slowed to just five knots.

“Con, reading active sonar from that ship.”

“Very well.” Wood now assumed the frigate might have heard them, and even though its only ASW defense was a pair of triple YU-7 torpedo mounts, it would have to get within two miles to use them. He decided he had better dispatch the ship quickly, and then maneuver. He gave the order to fire.

The 80 knot Spearfish crossed the four miles to the target in little time, and the 300kg warhead blew that corvette off the sea. Seconds later, the sound of active sonars reverberated through the depths, a moaning chorus under the sea.

“Helm, come right to 130 degrees and give me ten knots.”

“Con, sonobuoy drop detected.”

“Come left to zero-seven-five.”

“Zero-seven-five Aye, sir.”

“Con, main contact group has changed heading. Now on 270 west. Speed 18 knots. More sonobuoys in the water, I read four now.”

Sonar updated their report, and Captain Wood knew this was a dangerous situation. He was being hunted by a Z-18, not the less efficient Z-9, which only had short range dipping sonar. The Z-18 was bigger, and would be able to lay a web of sonobuoys to help locate his boat, so he had turned to the north east, trying to get into the wake noise of all those surface ships.

“Sir, sonobuoy drop, very close off the port side.”

“Helm come to five knots, and steady on.”

They would hear three more buoys drop, this time off the starboard side of the boat, as Trafalgar slowly crept on at five knots, sweating. The water here was very shallow, with the bottom just 240 feet down. Wood was hugging that bottom, also hoping to take advantage of ground clutter to make it more difficult for sonar to get a reading on him.

“Buoy drops progressing to the southwest,” came sonar.

“Steady on,” said Wood. He had killed the Mountain God, Type 055 destroyer Shanshen, sunk Type 052D class destroyers Changsha and Hefei, killed the older Type 051 destroyer Shenzhen, and 054 class frigate Xuchang. Now Guangyuan was the smallest fish to become ensnared by his undersea net, but he would take the credit for his seventh confirmed kill, and still glowed with the knowledge that he had also put two torpedoes into the carrier Zhendong, and drove it to port. That outstanding record had just brough him neck and neck with Captain Drake on HMS Anson, and from the sound of all that active sonar looking for him, there were still plenty of fish in the sea.

Orlov had not been well the last few days, and after toughing it out, he eventually went to see Doctor Zolkin. The diagnosis was merely fatigue. War needed many servants, and Orlov was Chief among them on the ship, assigning all the work details, training evolutions, inspection teams. The only things below deck he didn’t have to worry about were the reactor section, which was Dobrynin’s realm, the Damage Control teams, which came under Byko and the engineers, and of course, the Marines. That said, he was still often in and out of the Helo Bay, to see to some loadout required or make sure the ordnance teams had moved things where they belonged.

Whenever the ship made port, his work continued, and sometimes redoubled, because he was supervising all the missile reloads and replenishment of the main magazines. It seemed there was never any time for rest, but now Zolkin admonished him to take some time off, and get a good meal. He gave him something to help him sleep better, which was another thing that was often difficult any time the ship was in a battle zone. Missiles could be fired off at any hour, and the ship would quaver with alarms and the sound of men moving to battle stations. It seemed to him that Karpov’s wars would never end.

Get a good meal….

That was what sent him to the Officer’s Mess early that day, but much to his chagrin, there was Admiral Karpov, at his usual table, leaning heavily over a deep bowl of soup.

Orlov remembered that it was only a few weeks ago in real time since he had conspired with Sergeant Silenko, and Ivan Volkov, deep in the can with them as they plotted to remove Karpov from command. It had been that visit to the Northern Shamrock that changed things.

Karpov must have gotten wind of the plan, he thought as he eyed the buffet. Yes, he must have known that Voronin was coming for the ship that night in Severomorsk. And Volkov made me a lot of promises, but what does it matter now? I was to have my salary doubled, and bumped up to Captain of the 1st Rank, but none of that happened. Volkov was just using me. He had no real authority to promote me, and even if I did get that extra money, what would I do with it? It seems we are forever at sea, always looking for a fight somewhere; always looking for war.

He took some cold cuts, fresh bread and cheese, and a smaller bowl of the soup, which was really a beef stew that day. Then he tromped over to a table, and was thinking to sit with his back to the Admiral, before he thought twice. He then sat down, twenty feet across the room, and dipped his bread into the thick soup. It seemed the Admiral was lost in something he was reading on a pad device, oblivious to the fact that Orlov was even there. That, of course, reflected the resentment the Chief had long harbored with Karpov, who seldom ever spoke with him, unless there was something extra he wanted done that day—more work. He was very surprised, then, when he heard the Admiral call out his name.

“Ah, Chief Orlov! The soup is very good today, yes?”

Karpov was finishing up, standing and going to the bar for a little more tea. He filled his glass, and Orlov thought he would just leave, but he was very surprised, and somewhat let down, when Karpov approached his table.

“May I join you?”

“Of course, Admiral,” said Orlov, wondering how much extra work Karpov was going to dump on him this time.

“Chief… I was meaning to sit with you a while, and talk. In fact, when I learned you had been to sick bay, I told Zolkin to send you here for an early meal. Things have been… difficult these last weeks, and particularly since I got that news of my brother from Siberia.”

“Understandable,” said Orlov, taking a big spoonful of soup.

“But that is not the only reason,” said Karpov. “Nor will I lay it all on the Gods of War, though we have been a little busy since the Chinese came south again. No… It was this business with Voronin, and Volkov, and yes, with Sergeant Silenko and yourself.”

The silence after that was thicker than the soup. Orlov shifted uncomfortably. Not knowing what was coming next. He thought he had skated out of that situation, because Karpov never imposed any disciplinary measures on him for his part in all of that. Here it comes, he thought, pursing his lips and waiting for Karpov to continue, his eyelids narrowed.

“Chief, Fedorov came to me and let me know what happened. It was that damn Ivan Volkov. He’s the man that was behind that business all along. First he tried to get rid of Troyak, and managed to move in some security men disguised as Marines in Silenko’s squad. Then he sent Voronin, that pompous ass, but he soon learned that he wasn’t going to throw his weight around here, not on this ship. Orlov, it was Volkov behind it all, and he tried to recruit you to his side of the fence with a lot of promises. Yes? He wanted to use you to get more men on this ship.”

“That he did,” said Orlov. “Look Admiral, if you are here to discipline me, just get it done. I know what I did, and why.”

“Do you? Do you really know what you did? Chief, when Voronin stuck his ass in my chair on the bridge, and refused to budge, I had to order Samsonov to remove him. And by God, the man pulled his service pistol—right there on the bridge! You know what happened next? Every man on that bridge stood up and squared off to Voronin, and you could see fire in their eyes. Yes, a lot of clenched fists up there, even with the junior officers. I’ll tell you what, Chief. That felt damn good. I did not expect it—not Voronin with his pistol, or all those men standing to back me up. I never realized how the crew felt about it all, about me I suppose, until they stood up like that. Loyalty, Orlov. On a ship like this, if the officers and crew give that to me, it’s Gold.”

Orlov dipped his bread, eyes averted. “You’re going to rub my nose in it now?” he said sourly. “You’re going to tell me how disloyal I was to let Volkov bend my ear?”

“No Chief, quite the contrary. I’m going to ask you to stand up here as well, just like the others. If you have issues with me, so be it, but you’re a senior officer here. If you can’t stand up for me, then stand for the men, for the ship, for Kirov. I know I give you the short end of the stick, as they say, and all too often here. There’s a lot of work to be done, and I look to you for most of it. Aside from this business with Volkov, I have no complaints—you get things done. But every man on this ship has to really stand up now, because every other day we’ve got missiles out there with our names on them.”

Orlov nodded, but said nothing. Karpov stroked his chin, thinking a moment. “Chief… We call you that, but you are really a Captain of the 2nd Rank. I hear Volkov promised you a leg up to Captain of the 1st Rank. Then you learned he had no authority to do that. Clever man, Volkov, but he’s also a liar. Well, I think I’ve overlooked you too long, undervalued you. Yes, I’ve taken you for granted, and you never got the respect you deserved for the things you get done—for all the hard work you do. That changes now. So I came over here to tell you this. For the outstanding manner in which you perform your duties as Chief of Operations, you are hereby given that promotion that Volkov never really had in his pocket, but I have the authority, and I even went to Admiral Volsky with this as well. Yes, you can trade those four thin stripes on your cuff for one nice thick one now, and you can put a third star on your shoulder. From this moment on, you are officially Captain of the 1st Rank.”

Orlov looked at him. “You are promoting me?”

“Exactly, and with Volsky’s hearty approval.”

“I am first rank now?”

“Indeed, and that comes with a new cabin in the officers’ quarters section. Choose any vacant room you wish. It also comes with a raise in salary, and that will be retroactive two months, so it will be enough to double your normal pay next period. I know it isn’t much, but some day we may actually get to go ashore again like we did in Japan, and actually spend some of that money. Chief, I want you at my side. I want to know I can rely on you, and that the ship and crew can all rely on you as well. You can have a tough hand on occasion, but now that third star is going to give you just a little bit more of the respect you deserve.”

Orlov raised his eyebrows, slowly realizing what was happening here. Yes, Karpov did have the authority to do this, and Volsky put his name to it too. He had been six years working up from Captain of the first rank, stuck on the second rung of the ladder for a good long time. Now he would finally get to the top, and be a real Captain.

Karpov continued.

“Ivan Volkov said the same thing to you, yes? Well now I say it, only this time, I can make it stick. I gave the quartermaster orders this morning to send you a new service jacket, dress uniform, and Captain’s cap. And Chief, if there is anything you want, any request you might wish to make, feel free. You have my ear, any time you have anything to say. Come to me here, and we’ll eat together sometime. Or if you are on the bridge, sound off when you have something in mind. You’re a full Captain now, and your opinion matters. Please act like one. Make us all proud.”

Orlov was really quite surprised. This was the last thing he expected, and he didn’t quite know how to react.

“One more thing,” said Karpov. “You are now at the top rank for senior officers, and just one more step up to a Rear Admiral. As you will still be Chief of Operations, I am thinking you need some support. So I want you to look over the roster. You know the men well enough. Select candidates for your operations staff, and then start delegating some of the drudgery of the work load you carry to them. Be careful, and thoughtful. Choose men you know you can rely on. Then start moving things off your shoulders, and task those men as you see fit. You are a supervisor, and that should be more the way you see yourself now with this promotion. I know I can count on you, and I will count on you. Come to me with five names, and Volsky and I will look them over and select three—but I want your recommendation on that, first and foremost. If there is one you feel strongly about, let me know.”

Orlov nodded, still not knowing what to say. But there is one thing that always serves well enough: “Thank you, Admiral,” he said, and smiled for the first time in a very long while.

Karpov extended his hand. “Congratulations, Chief. I will make a general announcement to the crew regarding this promotion as soon as I get back to the bridge.”

Chapter 36

It was cold, too cold in the Arctic winter, and colder yet if they took the airship to any higher elevation. So Volkov had stayed low after the storm, and he knew he had to find a safe harbor now, somewhere to hover over the icy landscape, cable the ship and get the engineers out to have a look at the outer shell. They had inspected the interior framework, and made a few repairs, tightening cables and making a few welds on the duralumin beams.

Tunguska was a fine ship, particularly now after the addition of modern radars and defensive missiles…. And the other things he had loaded. Bigger than the Orenburg, he thought, a vague memory rising from some unknown furrow of his brain. Strange how that happened. Chilling to think that other versions of himself had lived out their lives, and one in particular had risen to the top of a loose federation of breakaway republics from the Soviet Union—the Orenburg Federation.

Because of these lost memories embedded in his mind, he knew Tunguska was a very special beast, one that could literally move in time. Its duralumin bones held strange residues mined near Vanavara, a site very near the epicenter of the event this ship was named for. When he learned Tyrenkov had ordered the airship destroyed, along with its sister ship, Siberia, he immediately sent men to stop the demolition, and just in time. Then he moved his personal effects aboard, munitions, food, comfort items, and the two airships took to the sky, heading north over the desolate Arctic ice.

A chat with a Yeoman had led him to believe that Karpov had deliberately hunted storms with this ship, an odd thing to do at first take, until he realized how much power a typical thunderstorm could generate. He then suspected that they were using that energy to catalyze the duralumin frame. They had even installed a long antenna to help with the harvest of that energy, grounding it right into the frame of the ship.

So he had loaded up the ships, and then he went north, on a little storm safari. So many questions plagued him as they cast off. What if this plan worked as he suspected, and this ship did move in time. Where would they end up? How could he exert any control over the damn thing? There were no rudders here for steering the currents of time. The last thing he wanted was to slip back into the past. Even though he could get himself into a very powerful position there, the notion was fraught with danger. He knew another version of himself had lived, and most likely died there, the memories of that life still haunting him from time to time. Better in the future, he thought. Better after this nasty war here has run its course. Then I can appear and begin picking up the pieces.

In the end, he realized the future was the easiest place he might land if he moved. It was unmarred by all the other versions of himself, free of complications that could lead to paradox, unconquered territory. He reasoned that Time would have to work very hard to send him to the past, but moving him forward would be relatively effortless.

So he settled in with Trushin, his personal aid, and Voronin, the bothersome security man. Of course he had to bring them in on what he was planning, and get them over the hump of incredulity and utter astonishment when he told them he was going to try to move in time. Voronin listened, half believing, yet harboring doubts and inwardly thinking I was daft, he thought.

But now he’s finally a believer.

Here we are again, right back in the New Siberian Islands, the Northern Shamrock. Only one look at the place is enough to tell me this is not the same time we were in before. We could clearly see the crater where that errant missile landed, the lance I had aimed at Tyrenkov’s heart. There is the plane he used to come here that very hour, and make good his escape. Yes, he had to get aboard Kirov to do that. Oh, he might have tried what I just accomplished, these old airships, but Kirov would have been a much safer play, and far more comfortable.

He smiled, realizing that Tyrenkov thought he had burned all the bridges. He had been very lucky to get to these airships before they were destroyed, but where had that luck delivered him after they finally found their Arctic cyclone? It was clearly the future, he knew.

That impact crater is well weathered, certainly not fresh. So yes, it was as I suspected. We have gone forward, but how far? It may take some doing to answer that question. I have had men listening to the radio round the clock, but they hear nothing. The world seems as quiet and desolate as this Arctic wasteland around me here.

So I think the war has ended…. Yes, it’s come to its fiery, bloody end, probably taken most of the world with it. We were such mindless fools. We built those terrible bombs and missiles because they represented absolute power, a means for even a small and backward country like North Korea to be able to spit in the eyes of the other world powers. And when push came to shove, it was too easy to use them.

Well then… What should I do here? We will anchor here briefly and see to external repairs. I must be certain the solar fabric is well, and able to provide backup power when we need it. It appears that the nuke I ordered here was the only one to touch this place—a near miss, because all the buildings are still standing, and there is Tyrenkov’s plane. Yet there is no ship out there in the bay; no sign of Kirov.

“Sir!”

Trushin came rushing into the stateroom.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Report from the ground party. They went down in the sub-cloud car an hour ago. They say the compound is deserted, except for a few wandering packs of wolves.”

“Wolves? Interesting. Tell the men to catch me a few.”

“Catch them, sir?”

“You heard me clearly enough the first time, Trushin. Don’t make me repeat myself. Rig out some kind of cage, and have them find me a couple tough old beasts. I once kept dogs, but taming a few wolves would be quite interesting. Yes? Here, give these to one of the Sergeants.”

“Pills, sir?”

“Tranquilizers. Tell them to stick them in a hunk of meat and throw it to the wolves. In another hour, they’ll be able to get a few caged up. Otherwise, we’d have to shoot the dam things to capture them.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll tell Voronin and the guards. But what has happened here, sir? Where is everybody?”

“What has happened? World War Three, Trushin, that’s what happened here. What else? We won’t be long here in the Arctic. It’s just too goddamn cold. No, I think we will be heading south soon. Have the ground party see if there’s anything useful on that plane down near the airstrip, and search every building. Then get me a pair of wolves and we’ll be on our way. That is all.”

Trushin nodded, and backed out through the door, closing it quietly. Wolves, he thought. Well, the man’s name is Volkov. So, the war is over, or so it seems. I wonder what’s left out there? I suppose we will soon find out. Amazing to think that we skipped out on the worst of it. Just where are we now? Volkov says we moved forward in time, as impossible as that sounds. How far forward? This place is eerie, scary. I’m glad I won’t be the one trying to collar those wolves out there.

They spent a long Arctic day at the Northern Shamrock, and by that evening, Volkov had a pair of strapping, snarling Arctic wolves caged in a nook off the main stateroom of Tunguska. He let them sit there, growling, biting at the wired cage, threatening to attack if they could, but there was nothing they could do to escape. One was a great grey beast, with an orange glow in his eyes when they caught the light. The other was ghostly white, with fur meant to blend in with the snowy terrain, and just a hint of tallowy yellow.

When the sun finally lowered and dipped just beneath the horizon, it was bloody red outside, the landscape painted auburn and crimson by the last fading light. Volkov had been dining, and he set aside a portion of choice steak for the wolves. They had settled down, smelling the food, still eyeing him darkly from their cage, and with hunger in their eyes.

“Well now, that is much better. Yes? We’re all friends here. We are three of a kind, are we not, brothers? Here, see if you enjoy al little I kept for you from my table.”

When he stood up, they took to snarling, growling and baring their teeth again, hackles raised and shoulders hunched as though they were about to jump right through the cage to get at him.

He stood there, calm as a rock, and then stared at them, right in their wolfen eyes. Long minutes passed when he met the angry fire of their eyes with his own, but his stare was unremitting. Things might have gone differently if the beasts had not been caged, but in time, the wolves began to quiet, stared down by the steely will of Ivan Volkov.

Then he threw the beasts food, enough for two so they would not fight with one another. He saw that both had all they might want, nice raw chunks of freshly thawed steak.

“Good… Good…” he breathed softly, which caused them to growl again. But he persisted, and then began to speak to them in a calm and steady voice.

“I have fire in my eyes like you do,” he said as they were eating. “Yes, and I have brought fire with me on this airship. This will be a first for the two of you, eh? Soon we will take to the skies again, and you will see and do what few of your kind have ever experienced. Yes, I have fire, and wrath in my heart as well. Tyrenkov thought he was clever, stealing away aboard that ship, but he neglected one thing—when you give an order to kill someone, be sure you see the dead body. In this case that pertains to this airship. You were just too hasty, Tyrenkov. Not like you. Very sloppy, but through your kindness, here I sit in this gilded stateroom, and with two new friends.”

He smiled, watching the wolves eat, and occasionally throwing them a few more choice chunks of meat from his feeding bowl.

“Eat well tonight,” he told them. “Oh, your meals won’t always be so sumptuous and filling. It is always best to feed a newcomer well the first night, so that they remember just how gracious I can be. But there will be days when you will wait, and be hungry, and days when the meals will be lean. Yes, every man must learn that—how to wait, and how to ride out the lean time, until the fat is rich again.”

He threw them yet another morsel as he spoke, knowing that they were now associating this satisfying meal with the sound of his voice.

“This is lean time for me, if you want to know the truth. The war was most inconvenient, destroying the country I was conspiring to rule just when it seemed I could finally grasp the reins of power. Yet there are other days, other places, other lands out there for the conquering, and with this airship, other times as well. Tunguska is tremendous power, is it not, but that is not all. You see, I have stolen some of the fire that just consumed the world I came from. Yes, three little eggs, all quietly nested here on this ship. Intelligence and a ruthless nature can take a man far, and determination, but with three nuclear weapons… well, that can take a man so much farther.”

The wolves had literally “wolfed” down the last of the meat from his bowl, a better meal than they had taken for many weeks. He poured out two generous bowls of water, and slid them through the special opening at the bottom of the cage. The engineers had done a very good job, he thought, and on short notice. They might get some meat thrown their way tonight too.

“Three little eggs, but big enough to make for a very bad day in places like Berlin, or Paris, or London or New York. That would certainly get someone’s attention, but I must use these little eggs wisely. Better to plant them, like seeds, and then wait for the proper time to use the first. Once that goes off, then I could say I had any number of them, deep in the bowels of the great metropolitan cities of my enemies. Let’s put Shanghai on the list too, and Beijing. And then what would they do when I light my hidden candles? How would they find me? All I would be is a voice on the radio, and I can be very clever in the way that signal is transmitted, so as never to give them my true location. Yes, I can make my demands, endure their laughter, until my first little egg goes off. If necessary, I’ll use number two, and then they might just believe me when I tell them I have twenty.”

He smiled. Looking at his wolves, who now watched him to see what else might come their way this night.

“My friends, we are going to cause a good deal of mischief… but not here, not now. No, this cannot be the place where Karpov and Tyrenkov ended up, not at all. They would never suffer the desolation that must be out there now, all those smoking radioactive cities. Such a waste. There is clearly evidence out there in the snow that they were here. Yes, they were here, but fled in that ship of theirs, and to who knows where? So I must try again. Tonight we rest here, and you can listen to your brothers braying and howling at the moon. That should give you some comfort. But tomorrow we take to the skies again, to find another storm, and you will find another life—at my side, my faithful wolfhounds.”

He stepped closer, and this time there was no snarling. The beasts were wary, yet they had already learned how to wait.

“You will be called Greyback,” he said to the biggest of the two, his eyes locked with the beast. “And you will be called Ghost,” he finished, shifting his gaze to the other.

“I haven’t time for dredging up fancier names, and those will do well enough. We will have a good deal of time up here together, won’t we? Soon you will come to see your situation as quite favorable. In fact, aside from the cage, you’ll get better treatment than Trushin. Yes, you will be fed well, only by me, of course. And we will sit with one another for hours at a time, and you will listen to all I may have to say, the sound of my voice, its soft, quiet, and reflective side, its hard and angry tones, and you will learn them well. Yes, you will come to know when I am frustrated, eager, excited, sleepy, and oh yes, when I am raging with anger. Soon you will learn your new names, and heed my call. Yes, you’ll become as faithful and true as any dog I have ever kept. Oh, you will never really be tamed. The wild is in your blood from birth, and it will never leave you. But you will be mine… And as long as we are meeting like this for the very first time, allow me to introduce myself.”

He gave them an evil smile.

“My name is Volkov, brothers. Ivan Volkov….”