Devil's Garden

Chapter 16

Orlov ran down the stairs, hearing the sounds of battle outside, pistol in hand. He had done what he came here to do, and now it was time to get free of this place and find a life for himself. But what to do? He knew that men from the ship were looking for him. The sound of the helicopter he had heard was unmistakable, though it sounded deeper and more powerful than he ever remembered a KA-40. If they were here then they must have flown all the way in from the Black Sea, he reasoned. They must have lingered near Spain, searching for him, and then tracked the signal from his jacket all the way here.

Yet something did not quite add up in that equation. He kept his jacket computer off most of the time, and knew it would only broadcast its IFF signal five kilometers in that state. The journey he had taken across the Med was on a slow Turkish steamer. Kirov would have had ample time to find and intercept that ship, yet it sailed merrily across the Med and through the Aegean to Istanbul before he transferred to that trawler. And if a ship like Kirov had entered the Black Sea, forcing the Bosporus and Dardanelles, he would certainly have heard something about it.

He knew he had been using the jacket computer in active mode on the journey across the Black Sea in that trawler. That would have extended the range of the signal to fifty kilometers, yet the only thing that had bothered them there was that stupid German submarine. If they tracked him here, then they would have had to be within 50 kilometers of the Black Sea Coast when he made port there with his NKVD handlers. Why didn’t they come for him before he started his train ride east through Georgia to his Grandmother’s farm? It just did not make any sense.

Then he remembered something…that letter he had written in the journal, the note to Fedorov! He had lamented his fate at Kizlyar, and addressed Fedorov by name. Was it possible? Could that letter have survived the war and the long decades afterward to be discovered by Fedorov in the future? If that were true, then the ship made it home safely. If that were true then they must have had a real reason to try and come back for him in the Caspian. But how did they accomplish that? No one knew why the ship was marooned in time, or how it moved back and forth through the centuries-at least not at the time he jumped ship.

Fedorov, he thought. That little weasel would be the only one who could figure all this out. Fedorov… For some reason that man wanted to find him, and badly. The more he thought about things the more this search by Kirov seemed desperate. Why?

They know I have the computer jacket, he thought all this while he was sitting there in the Commissar’s office listening to the man trying to intimidate him with his pistol and stupid questions. Yes, Fedorov would know that jacket would give me tremendous power here. That’s why they came back. It’s not me they want-it’s the stupid jacket! They’re afraid I’ll use that power. They’re afraid of something I might do.

Then his brain fell through to yet another level of the problem and he realized that if the ship did move forward in time again, and they found his letter, then they might also know everything of major import that he did do in the years ahead. It would all be history to them. They could look it up!

So…that’s why they are so desperate to find me-maybe I do something big with that jacket, something spectacular, something that upsets Fedorov’s history books and causes trouble. Orlov smiled. The whole world is my garden now, he realized. I can sew and reap whatever I choose here, and I’m going to do something really big.

Now he breathed deeply knowing that he was a fated man, an important man with a destiny he was eager to find. If they wanted the damn computer jacket, then he would leave it here. He’d get on well enough without it. Commissar Molla and his pistol meant nothing now. He was going to slap it aside, choke the life out of that miserable man, and then stuff his damn computer jacket down his throat.

And that is exactly what he did.

Now he was running down the steps to reach the lower entry. Just outside he could hear shouts, gunfire. Someone yelled that the Germans were attacking. He could hear the growl of armored fighting vehicles getting closer.

He slipped into the outer yard, catching a glimpse of a tank slowly withdrawing towards the coast-but not just any tank-a PT-76! They brought tanks with them? How was this possible? There was no way they could have carried those vehicles aboard Kirov, and now he was amazed to also see two PT-60 armored personnel carriers loaded with modern day Russian Marines. He could hear them shouting to one another, the squad sergeants barking out orders.

Then, just as he made ready to turn and head for a side entrance in the outer wall, he heard a sharp voice behind him. “Stand where you are!”

Orlov turned and saw a Russian Marine, AK-74 leveled at him, face grim with the heat of recent battle. “Gennadi Orlov?”

The big Chief smiled. “Comrade!” He walked slowly toward the Marine. “Thank God you’ve found me. I was afraid the Germans would get to me first…”

* * *

Troyak was conducting an expert retreat, peeling off one squad at a time and moving them back under the covering fire of his remaining troops in place. All the while the last of his 82mm mortar teams popped off rounds at the oil tank farm, where German infantry had been infiltrating to see if they could put flanking fire on the main railway warehouse he had defended so stubbornly.

The Germans had learned the hard way that the Russian anti-tank defense was too good to be overcome. They no longer attempted to get AFVs up close to participate in the action. Instead, they were relying on the skill and sheer mass of their infantry. Troyak was impressed with both their tactics and bravery and knew he was dealing with a real professional force here, disciplined, experienced and well trained men. They were slowly using the weight of their superior numbers to infiltrate forward, pausing when the Russian suppressive fire was too hot, advancing doggedly when it slackened for any reason. All the while 105mm rounds continue to fall in and around the Russian position.

At one point the withdrawal seemed to spur the Germans on, and they rolled forward more quickly. Troyak was forced to put together an assault squad to stem the tide. He had his men lay down a barrage of rifle grenades, then the Marines moved forward in a counterattack, moving, firing, moving, and all with the weight of the tremendous volume of fire their AK-74s could put out. They stopped the Germans again, set radio controlled charges in the building they had just cleared and retaken, then with a whistle from Troyak they began a stealthy retreat.

Troyak ordered the men back to his newly established main line of resistance, and watched intently through his infrared night vision goggles as the Germans regrouped and rushed forward again. They were plastering the building with suppressive fire from an MG-42, and the infantry stormed in, taking it back and unaware that the Russians had left them a nasty surprise.

The gritty Sergeant raised his fist and pulled down hard to give the order to detonate the charges. The radioman gave the signal and the building erupted with a series of six well staggered explosions, gutting the interior, and anyone unfortunate enough to be inside.

That will teach them to be more cautious, Troyak thought with an evil grin. Then he was all business again, whistling to order his number one squad to peel off and fall back to the next line of withdrawal. In this way the Marines displaced, adopted new firing positions, launched occasional sharp counterattacks, and skillfully fell back again, leaving booby-trapped positions behind them each time.

There was a brief lull in the fighting as the Germans assessed their situation, and Troyak heard the rumble of trucks from the far side of the main rail yard. He knew more reinforcements were coming up, and one look through his IR binoculars told him the Germans were bringing un an engineer company with flame throwers and satchel charges.

It wasn’t until the NKVD units on the high hill to the west of the city fell that Troyak knew it was time to tell Fedorov they should complete their withdrawal. The sudden appearance of the young officer, riding in the ZSU-23, had provided just the firepower he needed to stop the last German attack.

“If you want to get all these troops and equipment safely back to the Anatoly Alexandrov, then we need to move now, Colonel,” said Troyak, still referring to Fedorov by the NKVD Colonel rank he had assumed for their mission. “The Germans are bringing up assault engineers.”

“But we don’t have Orlov yet! That was the whole reason we landed here!” Fedorov had a determined look on his face, but he could see the concern in Troyak’s eyes and knew that they could be at great risk here. “Start your withdrawal, Sergeant. Perhaps Zykov can locate him before we have to pull his team out.”

“Very well, sir. We should need half an hour. I’ll buy you as much time as I can beyond that. I think we can hold them off and continue a good fighting withdrawal. As for that,” he pointed at the ZSU-Shilka, “you had better get it back to the Aist hovercraft near the main harbor at once. It’s not amphibious, and could take much longer to load. The other vehicles can swim off shore and we can load them there, if need be.”

Fedorov nodded, and ordered the driver to get them back, but his heart was heavy. What was Orlov doing? He had to know we were here to rescue him. He did not have long to wait for an answer. Zykov called him on his jacket microphone and had good news.

“Fedorov! My men picked up Orlov five minutes ago, we’re heading for the coast now!”

“Great news, Corporal. Get him to the Anatoly Alexandrov!”

At last! They had found him! Now it was just a matter of getting everyone else off shore as quickly as possible. He radioed Troyak and gave him the go sign for a full and speedy withdrawal, elated now that the long mission offered them prospects of success.

What next, he thought? Now we get to the Anatoly Alexandrov and take inventory. It would be stupid to leave and then find we’re still missing a man or two. He radioed ahead to Dobrynin and told him they were beginning their withdrawal, and to have everything ready to utilize Rod-25 at his command. The desperate shift back from the Primorskiy Engineering center had worked! They got their man, and more-the mission had paid him a mysterious dividend with the discovery of the strange effects he had experienced on the back stairs of Ilanskiy. He knew that if they made it safely back to 2021, one of the first things they would need to do is get men to secure that inn.

Yet a thousand miles away, another man was already on the job there-Captain Ivan Volkov where he sat being interrogated by the NKVD Colonel and Lieutenant Surinov, and events were about to take yet another twist in a strange new direction.

* * *

Volkov had given the man his last warning. He didn’t know what these idiots thought they were doing, masquerading in these old uniforms and holding a Russian Naval officer at gunpoint like this. He looked the Colonel right in the eye…

There were three other men in the room, one holding a weapon loosely aimed at him, the other with his rifle shouldered on a strap. The last was the Lieutenant that had fingered him as somehow having something to do with Fedorov. That man, Lieutenant Surinov, was fidgeting with his glasses, trying to clean one of the lenses as Colonel Lysenko conducted the interrogation. Clearly none of the men expected any real resistance from their captive, as irascible and uncooperative as Volkov was. Yet that worked in the Captain’s favor. The NKVD men were not prepared for what happened next.

Just as Orlov had swiped the pistol from Commissar Molla’s hand, Volkov lashed out again, doing the same to Lysenko. The weapon went flying across the room, and Volkov kicked hard at the knee of the one NKVD guard who had his weapon at the ready, toppling the man while the Captain wrenched at his sub machine gun. The safety was off, and he squeezed off a burst of fire, killing the other guard.

Surinov staggered backwards, but a quick step and Volkov was able to use the butt of his weapon to deliver a sharp blow to his head, dropping him unconscious as his spectacles clattered to the hard wood floor. There were shouts and hard footfalls when the last two guards came running into the room. Another burst of well aimed fire was enough to end their rush. Now it was Volkov and Lysenko.

Lysenko dove to retrieve the pistol, but not fast enough. Bullets from a PPSh-41 are much faster, and the Colonel joined his guards splayed out on the floor of the dining hall for a long, eternal sleep. The arrogance of power and the brutality with which he would treat countless innocent men and women in all the days ahead died with him. Volkov’s single act of violence had done a great deal to ease the suffering of many, just as Orlov’s hands had choked a good measure of despair and degradation to death when the Commissar died, though neither man knew this.

I warned them, Volkov thought in the heat of the moment. Now to get that witless Englishman. He had the presence of mind to retrieve his service pistol from one of the dead guards, then he moved quickly, out of the dining room and into the foyer where the serving girl cowered behind the front desk. The Englishman gave him a wide eyed look, obviously afraid.

“You!” Volkov pointed his weapon at the man. “Come with me.”

The Captain prodded the man, goading him up the main stairway to the second floor until they reached the upper landing.

“Where is the room you were staying in?”

“There, sir… The second door on the right I think.” The man looked confused, frightened, and out of place in his odd clothing; almost archaic.

Volkov forced open the door, easing in carefully before he pushed the young reporter inside. “Russian Naval Intelligence!” he shouted, leaping in behind the man, but the room was dark and silent. Volkov’s eyes narrowed as he methodically scanned the nightstand, made up bed, and then he walked to inspect the closet and restroom to make certain no one was concealed there.

“Well it doesn’t seem that anyone has stayed in this room for some time.” It was clear that he remained very suspicious of the man. “Very well, come with me. Let’s find that old proprietor and see what he has to say about things. What was your name again?”

Thomas Byrne, sir. I’m a Reporter for the London Times-here to cover the great race is all, sir.”

“Well, Mister Byrne, your name should be on the register of this inn, yes? You had better hope I find it there. Now move!” He wanted to get back downstairs to look for his men and then phone in this incident. Someone would have to come and collect the bodies he left in the dining room. He would have to file a report, but first he wanted to see about this stranger.

They were out into the hall, very near the back stairwell, and Volkov steered the man that way with one hand on his shoulder. “So you say you were meeting with friends in the dining hall, eh? Some associates? I trust you saw what happened to them when they presumed to trifle with me. Bear that in mind. Now get down those stairs!”

If the Captain thought he was confused by his first journey down the back stairwell at Ilanskiy, the second would bring him to the edge of insanity itself. He would soon find his security detail was entirely missing, the inn itself entirely different again, and the station and town of Ilanskiy itself nothing like he remembered. They started down, and along the way he heard what sounded like thunder, an ominous rumble reverberating in the narrow passage. The young man in front of him was suddenly silhouetted by a strange amber glow. Three more steps to the lower landing and they were in the dining room, but it was nothing like the room where Volkov had just killed the NKVD who were interrogating him…It was nothing like that at all.