Paradox Hour

Chapter 1

Karpov stood on the gondola bridge of Tunguska, riding the turbulence of the angry skies in the largest craft ever to fly above the earth. Everywhere on the ship, men were standing in taut readiness at their battle stations, the gunners behind the long steel barrels of their recoilless rifles, the flight engineers at their stations to watch speed, buoyancy, elevation and the trim and cut of Tunguska’s massive tail rudders. There was still a stunned silence on the bridge, and Captain Bogrov could still feel the sting of Karpov’s gloved hand on his cheek. They had all seen the agonizing death of Big Red, the awful searing fire of the explosion when Karpov launched every RS82 rocket that remained into the tail of the ship to ignite his terrible fire bomb.

The flagship of the enemy fleet was caught in that explosion, her sides rent open, canvass shell burned away, gas bags serrated by the fragments of Big Red’s shattered duralumin tail frame. Both ships had been struck a fatal blow with Karpov’s merciless order, and both would die in those last terrible minutes, suspended in the fires until the weight of their own twisted airframes overcame their buoyancy, and started the long plummeting fall to their doom. Down they went, like two massive smoking comets in the sky, crashing to earth with a thunder that challenged the storm above in its fury.

Yet out of that calamitous moment, a few souls were lucky enough to escape, leaping for their lives from the burning airships, and the men on the bridge of Tunguska watched in horror. Parachutes bloomed in the sky, and something fell like an evil seed from the deep underbelly of the Orenburg—a small metal sphere.

Karpov saw it fall, and immediately knew he was seeing the desperate retreat of his enemy, Ivan Volkov. His hard voice had broken the stillness on the bridge, the biting barb of orders forcing life and movement into hands, arms, and legs again, setting the crew to the task that was now uppermost in his mind—get Volkov. Get him before that seed fell to good ground and could sprout again in the Devil’s Garden he had made of this world. And so the Rudderman was hard on the wheel, then engines roared, and Tunguska lurched about in the sky, turning north by northwest, and riding the wind in feverish wrath.

Ports opened on the smooth brow and chin of the ship, and the concave Topaz radar dishes deployed, ready to search the grey lines of clouds for any sign of the enemy. Up ahead, Karpov could see a smaller silver fish diving into a cloud, the Abakan, slowly taking up position in the vanguard of his formation. This was all that remained of his fleet at the moment, unless Talmenka could hasten up from the south, or he could get help from his last two battleships to the east, Irkutsk and Novosibirsk.

Volkov believed he would destroy my entire fleet, thought Karpov. Instead he got a nasty little surprise here again. The tables are turned! Orenburg is a smoking wreck down there, and I’ve already killed or beaten off eight of his ships! Yes, we paid a heavy price for that. It was not easy for me to do what I had to do just now and sacrifice Big Red. So now I must be certain Volkov suffers. He’s down there somewhere, and if he managed to survive that fall, then he will be scrambling to make contact with his men on the ground and get to another airship as soon as possible.

Good, let him try.

“Topaz stations, report!” His voice was hard on the voice tubes, the thin reply barely discernible over the noise of Tunguska’s engines.

“Contact bearing zero-one-two degrees true. Large signal. Speed and elevation unknown.”

Rodenko would come in handy at a time like this, thought Karpov. But even he would have difficulty reading the signals from this antiquated equipment. Four enemy airships remained, and this could be nothing else than what it seemed. Volkov was planning to get there on the ground and gain the protection of those airships. His signalmen had been listening to the enemy on radio as orders were called out, ship to ship. In the heat of combat they had foolishly resorted to use of the open airwaves, instead of coded Morse signals. He knew he might now be facing these four enemy airships, and last reports had three at good elevation, at least 5000 meters, somewhere to the north. Now he finally had a good read on where they were.

They have two S-Class ships out there, Sarkand and Samarkand, and they’ll have no more than eight 76mm guns each. The other two ships were reported as A-Class, the Armavir and Anapa—eight guns each again, though they will have a single 105 on the main gondola. That’s 32 guns in all for the enemy. I’ve got 24 on Tunguska alone, and half of those are heavy 105s. Throw in the eight guns on Abakan and we match them easily enough. It will all come down to tactics and air maneuvers, and let them try to best me if they dare. One look at Tunguska will probably send them scattering like a flock of frightened birds.

So there you have it, Rudkin!

He spoke now to the unknown author of that precious little book Tyrenkov had inadvertently picked up on that trip up the back stairway at Ilanskiy. When Giants Fall—The Death of the Siberian Air Fleet. Well you can tear all that to pieces now, can’t you, Rudkin—just like I tore Volkov’s fleet apart here. Yes, this isn’t over yet. We’ve another good battle to fight, but I have little doubt as to the outcome. And one day, where ever you are, Rudkin, you’ll settle into a library chair and find out that everything you based your stupid little story on has been turned on its head! It will not be Ivan Volkov you glorify with that flowing prose. You have a good deal of editing to do. Try to write me out of the story? I don’t think so. No! I don’t go down so easily. So this time get it right. Remember my name—Vladimir Karpov. I’m going to re-write your entire book!

He smiled, his thin lips tight as he gloated inwardly at his victory. Now to make that victory complete. Now to get up north to those last few ships and finish them off before Volkov could get to one and escape. Three at good elevation… That will mean they are standing on overwatch, while that fourth ship goes to ground to lower a cargo basket and haul up Volkov’s sorry ass. If I try to descend to get that fourth ship, the other three will all be well above me, and Abakan will not have the guns to hold them off. So I must send Abakan down after Volkov. It’s the only way. Only Tunguska has the firepower to stand with their top cover. Yes, I hate to hand off this task to Abakan. I’d much rather be the one to get down there after Volkov, but tactics first.

“Signal Abakan,” he said calmly. “Tell them they are to bear on that enemy contact, but begin a gradual descent. They are to look for any enemy ship near ground level, and destroy it. We will hold elevation at 5000 meters. After that, get word to Tyrenkov on the ground. Tell him I want a flying column assembled as soon as possible. Get them north to the coordinates of that contact. As to our remaining ships. They are to make for Ilanskiy, and stand on overwatch there. One ship may descend for ground support fires, but only one. I want at least two of the three ships up at 4000 meters, preferably Irkutsk and Novosibirsk, if they ever get here.”

Those last two ships were both good battleships, 16-guns, and in the same basic size class as old Big Red. They were aging, but still had the firepower for a good fight. Once they arrived, Karpov knew he would have complete air superiority here. Yes, there were still twelve more airships in Volkov’s fleet, and two others that were detached after that first fight with Yakutsk. But many of those ships will be far away, some as far south as the Caucasus where Sergei Kirov’s troops were struggling with Volkov’s 6th Army. So in Karpov’s mind, the situation was looking very good here, very good indeed. He had a firm rein on things now, and was convinced that final victory was also within his grasp.

Yet he did not have command of all the facts. Those two ships that had been detached because of damage sustained in that first fleet battle had returned—Pavlodar and Talgar—and with them was yet a third ship, another 8-gun heavy cruiser, the Krasnodar. Of the three, the best of the lot was Pavlodar, a 160 cubic meter lift battlecruiser with twelve guns. And Ivan Volkov was not heading north to try and reach the four ships Karpov now had on his radar screens. Yes, the reports had been accurate. There were three ships on overwatch, and one at low elevation, the Armavir, but that was only because the ship had been fighting a bad tail fire suffered in that hot ambush when Tunguska had first come on the scene and nearly destroyed Admiral Zorki’s entire four ship division.

The grey skies and limited range of the radars had all conspired to hide the arrival of Pavlodar and Talgar to the west, where they had also brought in two much needed companies to reinforce Volkov’s ground force. As such, they were both at low elevation to land those troops, and not seen by the rudimentary Topaz radar systems.

Volkov, his devious mind still sharp enough to read the situation, knew he would be a fool to try and reach the airships to the north. The land was broken with stands of trees, and occasional marshy clearings, and he would never get his motorbikes through all that in any good time. But he would get west on the good road to Kansk where Pavlodar was still hovering low, if the Siberian Tartars did not get him first.

Volkov looked up to see the massive shape of Tunkuska high above, a dark blight in the skies, slowly swallowed by the thickening clouds.

I have one great advantage, he thought. I can see that bastard easily enough when he’s up there lording about in that monstrosity, but the inverse is not true. He knows I may be down here—at least he must assume as much. Now he’ll be trying to read my mind, and he knows I’ll want to get airborne again as soon as possible. In that he will be correct. I cannot take the chance of lingering here like a common soldier. I can see now that the decision to detach Pavlodar and Talgar was premature. I was overconfident, too brash, and I underestimated that son-of-a-bitch Karpov yet again. Now there is no further room for error.

He looked west, along the road to Kansk where the situation on the ground still remained very confused. Some of his men had landed there earlier, thinking to surprise the enemy at Kansk and quickly seize that town. There they were to have set up a blocking position to stop any rail traffic from the Ob River line front from reaching Ilanskiy. But the situation in the main battle had compelled Colonel Levkin to recall those troops, leaving only his motorcycle platoon astride the road as a rear guard. They had been surprised by squadrons of Karpov’s Siberian Tartar cavalry, and those who could, fled east along the road.

All this was happenstance, thought Volkov. All of it—Kymchek’s failure to read the enemy strength on the ground, the cavalry ambush that sent those motor bikes to me here, and now that decision to detach those two airships pays me an unexpected dividend! So I head west, right down this road. I should find two companies up ahead, and Pavlodar waiting for me at ground level. No sense wasting any further time here. I must get to that airship!

“Sergeant! Lead the way!”

There were no more than twelve men left from the Motorcycle Platoon, but they would have to do. It seemed a feeble escort for the General Secretary of the Orenburg Federation at that moment, and the noisome bikes would be easily heard by any Tartars still lurking in the woodlands flanking the road ahead. This was going to be very dangerous, perhaps the most dangerous thing Volkov had done in many years. A man in his early sixties, he was still fit, and his mind was as sharp as ever. Now the thrill of danger seemed to catalyze him, and his eyes gleamed as the column started off.

Sergeant Beckov led the way, with three bike-mounted troopers. Then came the only sidecar bike in the squad, where a gunner was manning a DT-28 ‘record player’ machinegun. Behind this went Volkov, flanked by a man on either side, with the last section of four men following. The motor bikes were quick and very agile, and easy to ride on the good road surface. They roared off, leaving a thin trail of dust behind them, and Volkov glanced up warily, thinking he might see the dark shadow of Tunguska looming above him at any moment.

It was only his fear whispering to him. That airship was far too high to spot him here on the ground, and the heavy cloud cover was providing a good cloak against observation from the air. They sped down the road, until Sergeant Beckov raised his right arm, fist clenched, bringing the column to a halt. He looked over his shoulder, shouting back to Volkov.

“Cavalry up ahead. Not many, but they are blocking the road.”

“Well don’t just sit there, Sergeant. Clear them off!”

Beckov waved at the MG mounted sidecar, wanting it to come forward, and then gathered together five men with SMGs to make his attack. They gunned their engines, speeding forward in a mad charge, firing as they went. There he saw that they were greatly outnumbered, as there had to be at least twenty Tartars up ahead all wearing black overcoats and heavy woolen Ushankas. His squad engaged, their sub-machineguns spitting fire at the enemy, and the DT-28 hacking away from the sidecar. The horsemen had not expected this bold attack from the same men they had recently sent fleeing east on this road, and they were surprised.

The gunners shot seven dead in the first wild seconds of the duel, with three others falling from stricken horses and running for the cover of the nearby woods. The rest thought to mount a counter charge, with their leader drawing his sabre and shouting out deep throated orders. His horse reared up as he waved the flashing sabre overhead, until the DT-28 shot his mount right out from under him and he tumbled to the ground in a hard fall. This sent the remaining ten men scattering in all directions, vanishing into the treeland to either side of the road. Beckov had cleared the way and waved for the remaining bikers to surge ahead. They rode forward, SMGs still spitting out cover fire to make certain the enemy could not reorganize for an attack, and soon the squad was well away, speeding down the road.

They rounded a bend, elated, thinking the way was clear, but they were wrong. The twenty men they had surprised were just an outlying squadron of the Tartar formation. A large group of enemy cavalry was assembled up ahead, the men quickly mounting their horses when they heard the sound of the firefight to the east. Now they were shaking out in to a long line, many with bolt action rifles, and others with those cruel sabres. They saw the commotion up ahead, their leader grinning balefully when he watched the small squad of motorbikes come to a sudden halt, shrouded in their own road dust.

“What now?” Volkov shouted, but Sergeant Becker had only to point. Now they could hear the sound of rifles in the distance, and a machinegun firing.

“Damn!” said Volkov. “Is there any way around them to the south?”

The road was following the rail line here, in a wide clearing. There were heavy woodlands to their right, and a small hill that was another obstacle to any movement to the south. Volkov gritted his teeth. He had twelve men here, and there looked to be a hundred horsemen forming up ahead. He could see his men ridden down in his mind, trampled beneath the charge that was sure to come any moment now. And these barbarians would not even know who was in front of them, Ivan Volkov, a prize so great that they might all be given their weight in gold to capture him. They would roll over his little squad in a heartbeat, and leave him dead on this god forsaken road, slashed to pieces by those sabres. It was no way for the General Secretary of the Orenburg Federation to die.

He saw the horses rear up, heard the sound of more gunfire to the west, but it was not what was in front of them that concerned the Tartars now. To his astonishment, he saw the cavalry turn and charge west, away from them, leaving only a single squadron which was dismounting and taking up a blocking position on the road ahead. What was happening?

My troops, he suddenly realized! That gunfire must be the men off Pavlodar and Talgar on the road to the west. That’s why they turned. We’re a threat they have already sized up, and of no apparent concern to them now. But I have two full companies on the road up ahead, though we’re on the wrong side of the action here. He nudged his motorbike up to the MG mounted sidecar, which also had a small field radio, as this was his reconnaissance unit off the Orenburg, and well equipped for their role as fast moving scouts.

“Corporal! See if you can raise the men on the ground up there. Tell them a senior officer is here, and I need to get to them as soon as possible—but do not mention my name.”

“Yes sir!”

Now the sound of rifle fire and the throaty shouts of the Tartars was heard, and Volkov knew that the commander up ahead was going to have his hands full soon enough.

“Belay that order. Send to Pavlodar instead. Tell them to maneuver along this road and look for us here! Have them make ready to lower a cargo basket and take on ground troops. Talgar is also to stay at low elevation and provide ground support fire for those troops up ahead. Understand? They are not to climb under any circumstances until I am safely aboard Pavlodar.”

That’s my only chance now, he thought. The sight of an airship low over this road will hearten my men, and Pavlodar can give those ruffian Tartars a taste of her heavy rifles. If they stay low, then it’s likely Karpov won’t be able to spot us here. He’s off north to my diversion, and let him deal with my Admirals. If Gomel and Zorki can buy me a little time, then I can turn this situation around.

A little time…

I thought I would have eternity within my grasp by now, and look at me here, counting on a few hot minutes, and these twelve men, to save my skin. Heads will roll after this. Yes, heads will roll when I get back to Orenburg and pull together the rest of my fleet.

This is far from over.

Chapter 2

Colonel Levkin could see that his battle for Ilanskiy was not going to end well. After three hours of hard fighting, they still had no support from the airship fleet, and the Siberians out gunned them badly, with good artillery and heavy rail guns pounding his positions outside the town. The sudden appearance of armored cars and light tanks had also been a shock, as his troops had little more than old AT rifles to try and fend them off. One section had some AP rounds for one of the recoilless rifles, which they put to good use, disabling two of the nine enemy armored cars, and forcing the rest to withdraw.

He had finally driven the stubborn defenders from the farm house, and cleared most of Sverdlova. Now his men were within sight of the rail yards, but the fighting in the town itself was fierce, and his companies had taken heavy casualties. The Siberians were dug into well prepared positions, with machine guns well sighted, mortars, and squads of tenacious infantry holding buildings from the cellar to the attic. It had taken his best unit, the guard legionnaire company, all of forty minutes to take a large brick warehouse and foundry on the southern edge of the town, and now they were clinging to the position under heavy fire.

The unexpected arrival of the General Secretary had been another surprise. That meant the tumultuous wreckage that had fallen south of the town was the fleet flagship! It was no wonder the remainder of the fleet had withdrawn to the north. Now Volkov was trying to get west on the road to Kansk and reach Pavlodar. That was going to be dangerous, and he knew that those two companies he was expecting as reinforcements might not reach him any time soon, if at all. So what to do here?

I can’t take the damn place, he thought. Even if we do push through to the rail yard, there’s that damn armored train sitting there to deal with. Taking that out will be a nightmare, but suppose I do. Then what? I’ll be sitting there trying to hold an old railway inn that is half demolished as it is. There will be no cover in a light wood building like that. They’ll be getting up reinforcements from all compass headings, and that will be that.

He looked at his map, realizing that his only real move now was to pull out and get his men into the woodland north of the town. At least there we will have room to maneuver, he thought, and a chance to link up with our airships, assuming we still have a fleet out there somewhere. This whole operation was mere vanity on Volkov’s part. We’re just sacrificial lambs to his voracious appetite for power. Why he needed this place is still beyond me. We’ve paid dearly in blood and material here, and for what, that damn farm house?

“Sergeant Major!”

“Sir!”

“The brigade will execute a phased withdrawal to the north. We will regroup in the woodland. Get on the radio and pull our men back from that hamlet south of the town. Once they are here, wheel the line back, and reinforce the hinge on that road to Kansk. This ends now.”

He strode off, looking for another radio man to get a message to the fleet. As far as he knew, they still had airships up there. Admiral Gomel was supposed to be parked right over the town, and if he was, that would put a speedy end to those damnable rail guns. If wishes were horses…

“Ships ahead! Watchman on the forward bow has sighted three airships. They looked to be about 500 meters below us sir. We have the advantage of elevation!”

“Excellent,” said Karpov. “Do we still have rockets?”

“No sir,” said his master of arms. “We expended the last of those on… in that last attack.”

Karpov noted how the man stumbled with that. Yes, we fired everything we had at old Big Red, but the ship was doomed as it was. I just made a speedy end to things, and took down Orenburg in the bargain.

“Very well. Ahead full. Ruddermen will prepare to make a hard turn to port on my command. All gondola mounted guns to bear on the nearest ship.”

Karpov stepped to the viewports, his field glasses up as he looked for the enemy ships. There they were, hanging over the charcoal cotton of a rising thunderhead, their noses up now, with the telltale drool of water from the front of the ships indicating they had just dropped ballast. Three heavy cruisers, he thought—easy prey. Each one mounted a pair of 76mm guns on the top platform. Their remaining six guns would all be on the gondolas, and therefore out of the action unless they could make a rapid ascent and gain elevation on Tunguska. That wasn’t going to happen.

“Get the nose up, Bogrov. Match their elevation gain. Let’s see how high they’re willing to climb.”

He would surge in at his best speed, over 120kph, and then execute his turn to bring his ship broadside to the enemy formation. That would bring all twelve of his bigger 105mm gondola mounted guns to bear on the target. All his remaining guns, the lighter 76mm caliber, were airframe mounted, two in the nose, four on each of the two top gun platforms, and two more in the tail. It was a configuration that made the ship a deadly foe at any elevation relative to the enemy.

Karpov had as much firepower topside as all the guns on one of these enemy heavy cruisers. And the fact that he had built his top gun platforms perpendicular to the long trim of the ship also allowed them to depress downward, and engage targets at lower elevation. It was a design of his own making, unique in the airship fleet. Most ships would mount their topside platforms right over the center of the long fuselage. But Karpov built in reinforced platforms on either side of the rounded fuselage, mounting his guns a few meters down the long curve of the ship to allow for this downward firing angle.

Even though they had less sheer lifting capacity, the heavy cruisers were lighter, and would gain elevation quicker than Tunguska. But let them try, thought Karpov. I’ll blast any ship that climbs right out of the sky.

They were trying, but it soon became evident to Karpov that his enemy wanted no part of a real fight with Tunguska here. They were already turning as they climbed, their engines straining in the wind. Yet they were rising fast, the convection of the thunderheads beneath them aiding their climb. The long years at sea had given him an uncanny sense for range. He estimated they were no more than five kilometers off now, turning tail and revving their engines for all they were worth. Even though Tunguska was bigger and heavier, it had six powerful engines, and could actually out-run the small airships in good air. Yet they would be some time closing to decent firing range if they ran, and now his thoughts turned again to Volkov.

He must be down there trying to get aboard that last ship. In fact, these three here may be trying to lead me on a wild bear hunt, while Volkov slips away.

“Signal Abakan,” he said coldly. “Ask them if they have that fourth ship in sight yet.”

Minutes later he had his answer. “Sir, that last ship has been identified. It’s the Armavir, part of that same division we ambushed on arrival. Abakan says they’ve grounded the ship, but there’s no sign of a loading operation underway. They’re still fighting that tail fire.”

A tail fire? That was always a difficult thing to overcome, as the crucial rudders and stabilizing rear fins were at stake there. Was Volkov down there? Did he scramble here only to find another burning airship that would be useless to him? If he is there, he’s seen Abakan by now, and he’ll know there’s no way Armavir will ever get airborne. I’ll make it simple for him.

“Tell Abakan to engage. Pound that ship to a smoking wreck, and then climb to 5000 meters.”

“Topaz station two reporting,” said the signals watchman. “contact reported west over the rail line to Kansk!”

“West? Could that be Talmenka?”

“No sir. That ship is still well to the south. They estimate another three hours flying time to reach us.”

Karpov’s eyes narrowed. Then Volkov has brought in reinforcements. Either those were the two ships he detached earlier, or they are new arrivals. Remember, Volkov has twelve more airships out there somewhere. What to do here? He knew that his enemy could not be on any of those three heavy cruisers running north. And if he was on Armavir, he would be having a very bad afternoon to go with the morning I gave him today. Then he thought, striding over to his map table and throwing the charts aside to get at a map of the local area.

“What’s happening on the ground, Signalman?”

“Sir, last reports indicated the enemy was attempting to disengage. They’ve pulled out of Sverdlova, and they are falling back to the north of the rail line to Kansk.”

So we’ve beaten them, thought Karpov. Either that or Volkov managed to make contact with them and the whole lot is forming a security perimeter around him. In any case, this attack on Ilanskiy has failed, just like the first one.

“Is that contact to the west approaching the town?”

“No sir. It appears static, and at low elevation. We only just picked it out of ground clutter returns.”

That could mean only one of two things, thought Karpov. They were offloading fresh troops, or… Volkov didn’t run north as I first suspected. Of course! Look at the terrain down there. It’s impossible for vehicles, and can you imagine sixty year old Ivan Volkov huffing it all the way up here on foot? No. He’s either down there with his troops near Ilanskiy, or else he ran west instead, along the road to Kansk!

“Helmsman, execute a hard turn to port. Steer for that new contact!”

“Hard to port!” The helmsman was heavy on the wheel, and Tunguska rolled with the turn as Karpov braced himself on the plotting table.

Damn you, Volkov. So you can read a map after all! You nearly fooled me, didn’t you. But I’m on to you now. Of course! There was no way you could get this far north. What was I thinking? You had to run west on the road to Kansk. You knew you had ships there waiting. Well I have men there as well.

“Don’t we have Semenko on that road to the west?” He said that as much to himself as to anyone on the bridge. He had three squadrons of Tartar cavalry at Kansk when this began, and they had been given orders to move east along that road and rail line. Perhaps they’ve run afoul of this little maneuver by Volkov. I’ve got to get there as soon as I possibly can.

He smiled now, realizing how desperate Volkov must be in this situation. He can probably still smell the smoke and fire from Orenburg’s fall, he thought. Well I have news for him now, even if he does manage to slip away here. This war is only beginning. I have an entire Army up north of the Ob river line, and we’ve finally mended fences with Sergei Kirov over Perm. Now those troops can join the Soviets there and move south. Together we’ll have enough force to cross the upper Volga and actually begin an offensive there. That will force him to abandon his campaign on the Ob and fall back west. Yet all that in good time. I’m coming for you, Volkov. I’m coming as sure as winter, and my revenge will be harder and more biting than a Siberian blizzard. Just you wait.

Ivan Volkov was waiting, feverishly pacing behind the thin screen of his small security detail, even though his Sergeant was pleading for him to get low and out of harm’s way.

“We’re well within their rifle range here sir!”

“Damn their rifles,” said Volkov. “I’ll not wallow on the ground like a common pig. Just keep them busy until Pavlodar gets here.”

The recon squad had formed a makeshift line astride the road, actually using their motorbikes for cover as they fired at the blocking force that had been left to stop their approach. Then Volkov finally saw what he had been hoping for, the looming shape of a great airship rising over the small hillock to the south. The hard crack of a recoilless rifle split the air, and shells began to fall on the road near the enemy cavalry.

“Sergeant! Show our colors!”

His men quickly deployed a flag, emblazoned with the black eagle and red V symbol of the Orenburg Federation. The Captain on the airship spied it easily enough, and at this elevation they could also make out the dark sable uniforms of the recon section below. The heavy gunfire easily dispersed the last of the Tartars blocking the road, and Volkov smiled again when he saw there were more of his men up ahead now. His two reserve companies had made short work of the more lightly armed cavalry. Bravery aside, sabres and rifles could not stand long against the heavy machineguns his men could deploy in well practiced drills.

Already he could see the men on the airship above preparing to lower a cargo basket. Down it came, the pulley wheels squeaking, engines buzzing fitfully as the basket lowered. Then the airship above revved its smaller maneuvering engines, slowing to come to a stable hover point above the scene. The movement of the basket slowed, then it came scudding along the ground, right on the road. The shadow of the great airship darkened the scene, and Volkov strode boldly forward into that shadow, making for the container.

“Carry on, Sergeant,” he said perfunctorily. Then he stepped through the open gate and into the basket, where two men saluted stiffly, their eyes wide behind their black rimmed goggles. They knew who they were saluting, and were stunned to find the General Secretary here on this lonesome road to nowhere.

“Take us up!” said Volkov sharply. “And call up on the field wire and tell the bridge to climb. Set a course west for Orenburg at once.”

As to the men he left behind on the ground, they were as far from his thought now as the capitol was. All he could think of was getting safely away from this place, and back to his gilded stateroom in Orenburg. The men he left here would hang on in the woodland. He would see about trying to pull them out later, but first things first.

I need to get back home and gather the rest of my fleet. Karpov got the best of me here, damn his soul. He was waiting there for me, hidden in that storm like he knew exactly what we were up to. It was as if he had read my entire operational plan right out of a book! Kymchek was correct. Those reports of that crash over the English Channel were a complete ruse, but he should have seen this ambush coming. If he made it to the ground, I hope he remembers what we came here to do—our little fallback plan. We shall see.

Then the weight of all that had happened that day fell on him, the sudden ambush of the enemy, savaging his Caspian Division. Then that horrific explosion when they turned to engage old Krasny, and his harrowing fall in the escape pod. The sound of Orenburg falling from the sky as a burning wreck still gored him. His jaw was tight, eyes puckered, face set and grim, smudged and soiled with the dirt and mud of this place. His trousers and overcoat were sodden and wet, and he smelled like a peasant.

But I’m so much more, he thought. I’m Ivan Volkov, and still alive, by god. And I’m going to light this whole front on fire when I get back home. It’s war at long last! The Germans are crossing the Soviet frontier even now. It’s general mobilization, and I’ll call every man who can hold a rifle to the fight, from as far away as Turkmenistan if I have to. This little skirmish here is nothing. It was ill planned, and I won’t be so stupid again.

You want war, Karpov? I’ll give you one.

The long cables slowly retracted, pulling Volkov up and up, until the Sergeant below saw the basket reach the hard duralumin under-keel of the airship. It was the last time he would ever see friendly forces again, though he did not know that just then. He blinked, staring up at the hulking shape of Pavlodar, taking heart from the sight of the guns bristling from the gondolas. Then he turned to his men, still waiting near their motor bike barricade.

“You heard the General Secretary,” he said. “Carry on. Who knows, maybe we’ll get a medal for dying here.”

Chapter 3

Karpov was pacing on the bridge, making everyone there more and more edgy as he did so. The Elevatorman and Rudderman were giving him sidelong glances, then watching the Air Commandant to see how he was reacting, but Bogrov stewed in silence. He was still sullen and angry over what Karpov had done, blasting Big Red like that, sending all those men to an agonizing death.

I thought he was trying to hit the Orenburg, but I could see easily enough that would be impossible. My god, it never entered my mind that he was targeting Big Red all along. That’s why he asked about those fire bombs. He was gambling that he could detonate that wizards brew of his, and do exactly what he did. Wizard’s brew? No. That came straight from hell itself, and this man is a devil if ever there was one. He didn’t hesitate one second. The men on Big Red were just an expedient to him, just a means to that terrible end he had planned for the Orenburg. He gave them no more than a minute or two to escape before firing. Maybe the gunners got out, and the bridge crew, if they had the parachutes handy in the lockers. As for the riggers and bag men, the engineers, top gunners, cargo crews…

That wasn’t all… Then he had the temerity to strike me, right here in front of the entire bridge crew! Alright, I cursed the man for what he did, and they all heard that as well. But to lay hands on me like that was wrong. He may be Admiral of the Fleet, but I’m Air Commandant, chief of all flying operations. Titles aside, I would have made him pay dearly for that little insult, and I may still find a way. Yes, I’m getting on in years, but I’m still fit, and by god I stand a head taller than that rascal. One day…

Be careful, another inner voice spoke to him. Don’t judge this man by his size or the cut of his shoulders. He’s a cold hearted beast of a man, this one. He’s dangerous. Yes, I’ve held my tongue for good reason, because with a man like Karpov, you never really know what he might do from one minute to the next. He was willing to take down Big Red like that without a second thought. This man could do anything. He has no remorse, and less concern for the men he killed today. Something tells me he killed a good many more before he ever darkened my bridge with that odd uniform and jacket of his.

The man is strange. The way he paces, the way he goes off to a corner and whispers to himself, that look in his eye when the ship goes to battle stations. So what is he up to now with this maneuver? We had damn good elevation on those three heavy cruisers, and we had the speed to close on them if he wanted to engage. Then he pulls this turn hard to port, and off we go after that second contact. What’s he up to? Volkov… Karpov thinks he’s down there, and trying to escape. That’s what this was all about from the beginning, wasn’t it?

Bogrov shook his head, still trying to understand what had been happening these last hours. There we were, sitting right over Ilanskiy, though the place didn’t look right. It was too small! None of the outlying hamlets were there. It looked as though the surrounding woodland had just swallowed them whole! I know this ground like the back of my hand, and there was something very wrong here. That tree line there. Why, two hours ago it was creeping right up on the rail line. Now it’s well back as it should be. And where was the mooring tower at Kansk? Something is very odd here.

The Admiral has been completely phobic over this place for months now. He’s posting at least two airships here at all times, and keeping a good garrison on the ground as well. The men have been cutting trees for lumber and he’s brought in engineers. What is that demon up to down there? It all has something to do with that damn railway inn, the place where Volkov staged that raid earlier. And here he comes again with damn near half his fleet! We were lucky to come out of that storm as we did, and find ourselves right over those airships. I’ll give Karpov one thing—he can fight. I’ve never seen any man so ruthless and determined in battle. We were badly outnumbered here, and look now—Volkov’s boys are running for any wind they can find.

Yes, Volkov… That’s what this is all about.

Karpov is dead set on making sure Volkov goes down with his ship. Who could survive what we saw, but he’s taking no chances. If Volkov was there, then he’s probably lying in a pile of burning wreckage down below, but Karpov is maneuvering about like he’s still in the hunt. He thinks Volkov made it safely to ground, and if he did, the man would be trying to get airborne again as soon as he possibly could. That’s why Karpov pulled north after these cruisers. Now he’s pulled west for that second contact.

The Signalman came in again, and this time he went directly to Karpov, speaking quietly. Bogrov pretended to be checking his instruments and ballast board, but he was keeping a subtle eye on the two men, wondering.

“You have the bridge, Bogrov. Get us west over that contact. I will return shortly.”

“Aye sir.”

“Admiral off the bridge,” said the boatswain.

Aye, thought Bogrov. The bloody Admiral is off his bloody bridge, most likely off to the radio room for some business or another. Maybe its Kolchak this time. Maybe he wants to know why Karpov needs the entire goddamn fleet out here over this stinking little railway inn, while there’s a major offensive underway out west on the Ob, and we’ve no air cover there. When Karpov had gone, he looked around at the other men, and finally breathed a little easier.

“As you were,” he said quietly, glad for the opportunity to give an order up here once in a while. He was the goddamn Air Commandant of the entire goddamn fleet! Except when Karpov was here, and Karpov was always here, wasn’t he….

The Signalman had a handle on some odd radio traffic, ship to ship, and he thought the Admiral would want to listen in. Tunguska had been running west at good speed, and they were very near the contact the Topaz Station had reported, close enough to pick up the short range ship to ship radio sets used for fleet order transmission.

“It’s two ships, sir,” he told the Admiral, “Pavlodar and Talgar.”

“Can we break in on this channel?” asked Karpov.

“I don’t see why not.” The Signalman began to adjust his radio dials, and then handed the handset over to the Admiral.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

The man saluted and was out the door, leaving Karpov alone in the radio room. He pressed the send and began to speak, hailing the other ships out there beneath the cloud deck. They were very close, down there somewhere, lurking like submarines, and he had the same odd feeling as he might have aboard Kirov whenever Tasarov reported an undersea contact. All he wanted to do is find the damn thing, and kill it.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “This is Admiral Vladimir Karpov. Welcome to Siberia! My radar crew tells me you’re running west. Not very sporting of you to leave without paying the full bill.” He smiled at that, and waited, knowing that if Volkov was down there the temptation to get on the line with him would be overwhelming. He did not have long to wait.

“Greetings Admiral.” The voice was unmistakable. “So you’ve found me at last. I thought you had taken the bait and were up north after my cruiser squadron.”

“Volkov! You son-of–a-bitch! What do you think you’re doing here? Didn’t I teach you not to try and sneak through the back door like this? A pity I had to repeat the lesson.”

“Yes,” came Volkov’s voice. “A pity for the men on Krasny, and on Orenburg as well. You want to play with fire, Karpov? You think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing collecting all that coal dust? Well, let me tell you that two can play at that game. I had my service jacket on when I went down those stairs, and I’ve spent a good long while archiving every bit of information it contained. You hit me again with a thermobaric, and I’ll lay waste to every city on the Ob. Then you can sit up there and watch them burn.”

“Don’t threaten me,” said Karpov. “You’re in no position to do that or anything else here. If you haven’t noticed, a good number of your airships are missing, are they not?”

“Missing? Like Yakutsk, Tomsk, Angara, Krasnoyarsk? That’s half your fleet, Karpov. I meant to kill them all, but I’ll admit that while my intelligence is usually spot on, we missed this little maneuver you pulled here just now.”

“Oh? And did you also miss the fact that half of your fleet is missing as well? I took down six ships here today, including your precious fleet flagship, and put damage on at least three or four others. Now I’d like to finish the job.”

“Don’t quibble with me,” said Volkov. “Yes, we took our lumps here, but you can’t trade with me. This was only half my fleet, and you damn well know that. I can come back here with twelve more ships any time I choose, and next time there will be no mistakes. I’ll grind what’s left of your air fleet right under my left boot, including that monstrosity you float about in up there.”

“Your cruiser squadron took one look at us and ran north, Volkov. With men of that caliber at the helm, I have nothing to fear.”

“Don’t be stupid. They ran north because that is exactly what I ordered them to do.”

“Yes? Well I wasn’t stupid enough to take your bait, Volkov. I’m sitting up here at 5000 meters watching this lovely storm brewing. Why don’t you come up and we’ll settle this?”

Volkov laughed now, long and hard over the strained airwaves. “You’d like me to do exactly that, wouldn’t you? No thanks, Karpov. We’ll stay right where we are, and if you have the guts for another fight, then come on down and join me. We’ll lock horns down here, and then I’ll order those three cruisers to come in on top of you and put you out of your misery.”

Karpov nodded, realizing that was Volkov’s only play now. He had to stay low, and count on the fact that he still had those three cruisers up there to tip the scales in his favor if I drop elevation to engage here. I could call for Abakan to join me soon, but it would probably get here too late.

He decided to goad the man one last time, but he knew he could not indulge himself here, no matter how badly he wanted to get Volkov in another fight.

“So you’re running west now, are you? Well don’t wait for Armavir. We took care of that ship as well. And when we finish rounding up the men you left behind on the ground, the interrogations will be very thorough.”

There was just enough silence on the line for Karpov to realize he had drawn a little blood with that. He let Volkov stew a moment, then pressed on. “As for that little offensive you kicked off on the Ob, you and I both know that will lead you nowhere. Face it, Volkov. It’s 750 kilometers to your lines back west. You’ll never take Ilanskiy militarily—never. I’ll put three divisions here if I have to, and then you can bring every airship you have left, but they still won’t be enough to land anything more than a single brigade. And while you blunder about on the Ob, I’ve been making other plans.”

“Ha!” There was a challenge in Volkov’s tone now. “Where have you been, Karpov? Yes, you were hiding in that storm up there, but have you listened to the news lately? The Germans are about to cross the frontier into Sergei Kirov’s Soviet Union, or what’s left of it. It’s only a matter of time now. We’ve just been playing with you out here with a couple infantry corps, but now I’m mobilizing my entire army on the Volga. In two months time I’ll raise divisions from Kazakhstan to Turkmenistan, and raise a good deal of hell with them. This business on the Ob isn’t finished either. Once we shake hands with German troops on the Volga, and kick Kirov out of the Caucasus for good, then we come for you, Karpov.”

“Tough talk,” said Karpov. “You say you’ve archived your service jacket data files? Well why don’t you read a few. Germany lost this damn war. Have you forgotten that?”

“Not this time,” Volkov came back sharply. “No, not this time. It took every man that I can raise, and all your troops thrown in with Kirov to beat the Germans. You bet on the wrong horse, Karpov, and I’m going to enjoy these next few years as you struggle to raise troops out here. I had a good look at those Siberian Tartars you’re always crowing about. My men brushed them aside easily enough on the road to Kansk. The rest of your lot will get the same treatment.”

Time for the coup de grace, thought Karpov. Should I tell Volkov where I’ve been in recent days? Should I tell him I had a man staring at him from the upper window of the second floor at Ilanskiy, just hours ago? Hours, minutes, long decades. They were all the same now for Karpov. No matter what Volkov blustered about, the fact remained that he had lost this battle, and I still control Ilanskiy. That was going to make all the difference, and he decided to remind Volkov of that one important fact.

“Look here, Mister General Secretary. That was a nifty little trick you pulled with that escape pod, and yes, it looks as though you will make good your escape here as well. You and I both know I’m not giving up four thousand meters in elevation to settle this now, as much as I would love to see you leaping from another burning airship. Was the ride down comfortable last time? So, you can run your mouth all you want about the Germans. You think you can push all the right pawns, and king yourself on the back row before this game ends. But don’t forget me, Volkov. I’ll be sitting on the other side of the board now, right at Sergei Kirov’s shoulder. I know the history as well as you do.”

“Then let the game begin,” came the challenge. “Pawn to King four! You can castle to King side or Queen side. It won’t matter. The Germans will get through, in the south. They drove all the way to the Terek River, and that was with no help from me! So they’ll get through, and there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Karpov came back. “You’re forgetting the very reason you tried to pull this little maneuver here again—Ilanskiy. I beat you here, Volkov, and decisively, no matter how many airships we traded. I control Ilanskiy, and that’s the end of it. Do you realize what I can do when I complete the reconstruction of that back stairway? Yes, I’ve got all the original plans now.” He let an interval of silence play on the airwaves before he finished, then spoke only one word. “Checkmate!”

No response came back for some time, and there was static on the line from the storm. Then he heard Volkov’s voice again, a distant crackle on the speaker.

“See you in hell, Karpov. I’ll see you in hell.”

“I suppose you will,” said Karpov. “Yes, I’ll be sitting on Lucifer’s throne down there one day, so please come and pay your respects. Karpov out.”

He switched off the radio set, folding his arms and smiling. Let Volkov think long and hard about Ilanskiy. Let him wonder just what I might do when that stairway is complete again. He hasn’t the foggiest idea where I was these last few weeks and days, what I can do now with this ship, where I can go when I have need. I am no longer a simple fleet Admiral here. I’m not merely Kolchak’s lieutenant and Minister of all Western Siberia. No. I am so very much more now. I’m the master of time itself, and I can count the hours, minutes and seconds Volkov may have to live at my leisure. I can figure a way to put an end to that man, and a way to do the job myself instead of sending Tyrenkov. So let him raise his army here, while I raise mine.

For now, it was time to get back to the bridge.