Paradox Hour

Chapter 19

Lieutenant Commander Wellings’ advice on that new heading was very timely, because the Germans were coming. Kapitan Friedrich Karl Topp, a stalwart Prussian who had joined the Kriegsmarine in 1914, was leading Group North aboard the Tirpitz. He had served in the U-boat force during WWI as a first officer, and then assisted Raeder with the administration of the new ship building program he was now trying to save from oblivion. He had his eye on the Tirpitz for some time, and was elated when they gave him the ship. He sat on the bridge, feeling the surging power of the warship beneath him, all of 53,500 tons when fully loaded for battle, as it was now. In spite of that weight, the ship could run easily at 30 knots, and had even bettered that speed once in trials.

The ship was a marvel of refined engineering, raw power and sheer beauty in design. When launched, Frau von Hassel, the daughter of the famous Admiral the ship was named for, attended the ceremony, along with Adolf Hitler. Dubbed the King of the North, the ship had been based in Norway rather than the Baltic, and now it was the centerpiece of a strong battlegroup that had no difficulty breaking out into the Atlantic.

The British dilemma was obvious. Their fast warships had to be divided to cover every possible exit the Germans might use, and with both Scharnhorst and Gneisenau along, not to mention Graf Zeppelin, the Germans again had a real fleet task force at sea, not a lone raider that could be easily harried and hunted down by cruisers.

There had been a brief air action in the Faeroes-Iceland Gap, where the Stukas off the Graf Zeppelin had succeeded in posing a considerable threat to the two British battleships that had tried to challenge the Germans. King George V and Prince of Wales had fought a sharp duel, where their lavish suite of anti-aircraft guns had proven to be life savers, until fighters off the Ark Royal and Illustrious had arrived on the scene. There were two near misses as the Stukas came in, and King George V bore a few scratches from the bomb shrapnel, but the thirty Fulmars of 806 and 807 Squadrons had been enough to drive the Germans off.

It looked as though the British battle squadron, under Captain Patterson aboard King George V, was going to intercept the Germans, but the enemy suddenly turned after sunset on the 6th of May. The last of the British fighters had picked up the maneuver, and radioed Patterson, who quickly ordered his ships, and the carriers supporting him, onto a parallel course. The maneuver had surprised him, for it had been the British belief that the Tirpitz group was intending to effect a rendezvous with the Hindenburg, now well out to sea after emerging from the Med.

Kapitan Topp was equally befuddled when he got the orders to turn from Wilhelmshaven. He was to assume a new course of 135 degrees southeast, and directed to seek and engage any British forces encountered, with specific orders to find and sink HMS Rodney, if at all possible. It was the same order that had so puzzled Lütjens. The reluctant Admiral had steered north, then northwest, then north again, jogging up to get into a perfect position to effect a rendezvous with Tirpitz, but now he finally turned to the east, still muttering under his breath when he gave the order, much to the delight of his Kapitan Adler. Soon every warship within a thousand miles was angled on a new heading, with their bows all pointing Rodney’s way.

“What do we have ahead of us,” Topp said to his staff aide, Muller.

“Everything that was once behind us,” said Muller, with a shrug. “Those two British battlecruisers will be out there now. Spotters off the Graf Zeppelin have them maneuvering to head off our approach to this British convoy we are supposed to find. It seems we have just had a little help. One of our U-boats found that ship we’re after, and put a torpedo into it!”

“The Rodney? Excellent. It was slow enough before, but now we should have no difficulty running it down. Has Lütjens been informed?”

“Most likely, sir.”

“This turn leaves that British battleship squadron in our wake now. They are also most likely pulling their ships down from the Denmark Strait, but they won’t catch us before we get to this wounded British battleship. I wonder why Wilhelmshaven is so obsessed with this single ship?”

“Who can say, sir? The signal indicated it was escorting a big troopship liner. Maybe that is our real quarry.”

“You read the signal as well as I did, Muller. It specifically instructs us to engage and sink the Rodney. Yet I can see no reason why. We had two perfectly good British battleships we could have sunk on our old heading. What’s so important about this one?”

“I did a little digging, sir,” said Muller. “It seems this ship was scheduled for a refit in Boston. In fact, our operatives in the UK reported she took on a considerable store of cargo, including many crated boiler tubes.”

“That old ship is a relic from the interwar period,” said Topp. “It has bad lungs and bad legs, and probably a nice little belly ache now that one of our U-Boats got that torpedo hit. Very well, we will sink it, and then we turn to deal with the rest.”

“There is one other squadron we might be wary of, sir.” Muller was looking at the plotting board now.”

“Show me.” Topp came over, eyeing the charts as his staffer pointed out a thinly drawn course plotting.

“Here sir,” said Muller. “This is that British squadron that had the audacity to run the Straits of Gibraltar. Neither the Italians nor the French lifted a finger to stop them, and now they are in the western approaches to Gibraltar.”

“Astounding,” said Topp. “What about the Luftwaffe? Didn’t we have planes at Gibraltar?”

“Six Stukas,” said Muller. “All shot down in the attack. And we lost two U-boats in the straits.”

“How big is this squadron? Were there destroyers along?”

“Three ships were spotted, the battleship Invincible, another battlecruiser, and a heavy cruiser—at least this is what was reported.”

“Another battlecruiser? You say that like the British have been growing ships on trees. The only three battlecruisers they have are out here looking for us. What do you mean?”

“That’s all the report indicated, sir. It was a large ship, the size of Hood, but not well armed. We are waiting for conformation on what it might be. The other ship was smaller, but it engaged our planes with rocketry.”

Topp shook his head slowly, his eyes registering some inner conclusion. That was exactly the way Hoffmann had described it to Lindemann. He recalled the meeting of fleet Kapitans they had nearly a year ago, when they had first encountered a strange ship in the Denmark Strait. They were all there, Hoffmann of Scharnhorst, Lindemann from Bismarck, Fein from Gneisenau…

“To be honest, Kapitan,” Hoffmann had said. “I thought it was the size of HMS Hood. In fact at first blush we thought it might actually be Hood, but the silhouette was all wrong.”

“It had no stacks as Hood should have,” Fein put in.

“That was another thing,” Hoffmann held out his cigar, letting the thin trails of smoke curl their way up from the ashen tip. “No smoke either. The ship was cruising at probably fifteen knots, but making no visible smoke.”

“You engaged this ship?” asked Lindemann.

“We did. I fired a warning shot across the bow thinking this might be an American ship. That is the last time I act as a gentleman in these waters,” said Hoffmann. “But I wasn’t quite sure what I had in front of me. It’s what came back that we must now discuss.” Topp still remembered the grim expression on Hoffmann’s face.

“Your dispatch said something about a rocket,” Lindemann pressed. “I assumed you were writing poetry, Hoffmann. You say this ship had no big guns but it obviously returned enough fire to blast that hole in Gneisenau.”

“Oh it returned fire, Kapitan Lindemann, but not with its guns. We were hit by something else, something quite extraordinary, and every man here would be wise to heed my words on this, because if the rest of the British fleet has this weaponry, the entire nature of warfare at sea has just sailed into new waters, and we have missed the boat.”

Topp looked at Muller, a glint in his eye. “These are the ships the British rushed to the Mediterranean. They gave the Italians and French fits, not to mention the damage that was put on Hindenburg and Bismarck. Kurt Hofmann says he was almost certain the British had another large warship in that last big engagement we fought north of Iceland. He’s seen this rocketry first hand, and so have I. The damn things claw through the sky like shooting stars, high up, and then descend like meteors. They come in right on the water, and never miss. If this is the same ship we encountered before, the same ship that struck Bismarck again in the Med, then it is nothing to be trifled with.”

“True, sir, but we hurt the Royal Navy badly in that first engagement.”

“Yes, and it has taken both sides a year to repair all the damage. Now we’re out for round two. Let us hope we do a little better this time, or we may find that the Führer will order our ships scrapped as well!”

Muller nodded, knowing that Topp was referring to the order to cancel all further work on the Oldenburg. “Yet we have seen no sign of those rocket weapons thus far, sir.”

“Be glad for that, Muller. But I think you may be correct. Those weapons are on the Invincible, this is what the Abwehr now believes. They may have one or two other ships with these new anti-aircraft rockets, and this is most likely what we are looking at in that squadron you point out here. Invincible is their fleet flagship. I have little doubt that we may soon make its acquaintance.”

“Excellent sir,” said Muller. “Sinking the Invincible will teach the British to name their ships more carefully.”

“That may be more easily said than done,” said Topp. “For the moment, let us keep our eyes on this Rodney. With any luck we can get to that ship before the British flagship does.”

“Two for the price of one if they get there first, sir.”

Topp smiled. “I appreciate your confidence, but don’t underestimate the British. They’ve been out here for generations—professionals to a man. They will fight, and give a damn good account of themselves, and this is the first time the bow of this ship has tasted the salt of the Atlantic. This may not be as easy as you think.”

“Well sir, Admiral Lütjens and Hindenburg have turned as well.”

“Have they? Well don’t forget the British will still have another four battleships and two aircraft carriers behind us. Contact Kapitan Böhmer on Graf Zeppelin. I want to know how their air wing looks after that last engagement.”

“Right away sir.”

Muller was off to the wireless room, leaving Topp to mull over the navigation plots. He could see the course tracks twisted on to new headings, and the predictive plots all pointing to what might be a massive engagement off to the east. It was as if some strange gravity was pulling on all these ships now, the lines of fate bending under its influence. What was so damn important about this single British battleship that Raeder orders the entire fleet to reverse course and go hunting? Well, we probably would have had our battle with those battleships behind us tomorrow. Now that will have to wait. Rodney is limping south, and we will visit her soon enough. She’ll have no speed, but still has heavy arms with those 16-inch guns…

I’ll have to be careful here.

Wellings made his way forward, past squads of sailors, and gritty damage control teams that were none too happy to see him there, as Captain Hamilton had warned. One spied his dress whites and officer’s cap, without even realizing he was an American.

“No worries, sir,” he said gruffly. “You can attend to your business topside. We’ve the situation well in hand here.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Wellings. “Where was the hit taken man?”

“Right ahead, sir. In the cargo hold. We were lucky with that, as the torpedo tube and magazines were missed by a whisker.”

“Can I get in there?”

“Not on your life,” said the Chief. “We’ve had to shut watertight doors in those compartments. It’s all sealed off until the lads get here with the hull plates and welding torches. Then we’ll have to rig the pumps. The worst of it is in hold B. A lot of that cargo will be well submerged. But a few of the other holds may only have minor flooding.”

“I see,” said Wellings, cursing his bad luck. Was it his luck? Something told him more was at work here than that. He could feel the heavy hand of fate on the bulkheads around him, and knew that key must have something to do with it.

“Any chance we may go down?” he asked. “Is the ship in danger?”

“No sir, like I say, we’ll manage well enough. You’d be better up topside. It’s tight enough down here as it stands with the hoses coming forward now.”

“Very good. Carry on, Chief.”

Wellings shrugged and turned about, casting one last glance at that sealed hatch on the near bulkhead behind him. No way to get in there now, at least not from this deck.

“Chief,” he said, one hand on a hand rail to steady himself as the ship rolled. “Are there any ladders down into those holds?”

“Sir? Well, I suppose there are. But you’d have to get up to number four deck. That’s where the survey teams are working now to see what’s what. You don’t want to be anywhere near there now sir. The lads are probably knee deep in water and grease if any managed to get in there.”

“Thank you Chief. Good advice.”

Wellings turned and was on his way, looking for the nearest ladder up. He was going to number four deck strait away, but now he realized that the sight of his dress white officer’s uniform would likely be greeted with the same unwelcome reaction as he had here. The man was polite, deferring to his obvious rank, but it was clear he wasn’t happy to see an officer here now.

I might do better looking more like a grease monkey down here. In fact, if I shed this officer’s coat and get myself into some dungarees… Yes, he thought. It was very likely he’d be swept up in anything that was going on, and if there was any way he could get into that cargo hold, he had to try.

He started off, thinking to find the nearest crew’s quarters. The men would be at their stations. He might find what he needed easily enough. Then again, the ship’s laundry would have everything he needed. Another work party appeared in the corridor, and he hailed one man.

“Dirty business down here,” he said lightly. “Which way to the ship’s laundry, seaman? I’ve gone and soiled my jacket.”

“Oh? Right that way, sir, another deck up and amidships.”

Wellings was on his way with a grateful smile, but the man just shook his head.

Chapter 20

Volkov stormed down the long hallway, his footfalls hard on the marble as he went. Before him the great doors of the grand gallery loomed, the lacquered mahogany easily ten feet tall. Two guards waited like stolid statues, their boots clicking sharply at the heels as the General Secretary approached, hands taut on their rifles, elbows jutting at perfect angles, chins up. They moved, robot like, opening the doors and then standing stiffly at attention as Volkov blew past them like bad weather, oblivious. The instant the doors closed behind him it began.

There was a moment of breathless silence, then the guards herd the harsh clatter of a chair being thrown across the gallery floor. There came a shattering noise of a chandelier being smashed, then the smoking urn, table lamps, more chairs, and the mirror on the far wall all fell before the wrath of Ivan Volkov. Not knowing what was happening, a steward came rushing in, to see the General Secretary at the height of his rage. Volkov turned, his eyes white with anger, then simply reached into his grey jacket pocket, pulled out a revolver, and shot the man dead.

Outside the doors the two guards knew better than to move a single muscle in response. This was the inner sanctum, the heart of Volkov’s secure command center in Orenburg. Layer after layer of security cordoned off these chambers, and it would be impossible for any person to have entered with a weapon here. They immediately knew who had fired that pistol, and only the cautious sideward glance of one to another marked their response. Then, as quickly as the tumult had started, a heavy silence fell. Moments later they heard the hard footfalls recede deeper into the complex. Apparently things had not gone well in the operation recently mounted against the Siberians.

After his jousting duel of words with Karpov, Volkov had pointed Pavlodar west and ran at the highest speed he could achieve at that elevation, his eyes warily scanning the underbelly of the rolling storm clouds above, like a submarine Captain might fearfully regard the imminent attack of a hunting destroyer. He knew that if Karpov pursued, there was every chance that he might out run his ship. Tunguska was a massive adversary, with six powerful engines, and at higher elevation he might catch a jet stream and race ahead.

But not this time. The weather system he had emerged from would not allow that, with the winds swinging round, and now blowing from the west. Pavlodar raced away, and for a moment Volkov thought a rain of bombs might soon fall from above like depth charges, but nothing came. It was long hours in his cabin alone before they finally reached the city his fleet flagship had been named for. Officers of every stripe saw the formation come in, shocked and surprised when Pavlodar finally tethered to the main mooring tower near the complex, and the rattle of the elevator slowly descended. Where was the Orenburg?

Volkov had moved like a grey shadow, in through the concentric layers of security, layer after layer, onion like about the center of his command bunker. He had not spoken a word, and no man had been bold enough or foolish enough to approach him. As he passed, men stiffened to a stony silence, for they knew what was coming at the end.

Now the silence again. Sometimes long days would pass before Volkov emerged from his hidden chambers. Then, one by one, the warden of the gate would call out names, Generals, Admirals, Captains and Colonels, each one summoned to answer for the holes they had left in the planning. There would be questions, interrogations, the hard whip of Volkov’s voice as he shouted his displeasure. And sometimes there came again the harsh crack of that pistol, and a gilded body would be carried out by two stretcher bearers, their faces white with fear. The fallen Captains, usually cogs in Volkov’s vast security apparatus, were simply carried to a deep trench outside the main complex walls, and summarily dumped, like so much unwanted trash.

Then the orders would come, new orders that would begin moving divisions on the land, airships in the heavy skies. The long front with Soviet Russia was now teeming with men and machines as the hour drew near for the real war to begin. Volkov’s forces stretched from the city of Ufa well north of his capitol near the lower Urals, then west along the winding Belaya River until it joined the Kama, that soon merged into the mighty flows of the upper Volga. Troops from either side manned outposts along that river, reaching down to the great knobby bend of Samara, which was a hard fortified city controlled by Volkov’s 2nd Army. From there it flowed down through Balakovo and Saratov, eventually reaching the vast Soviet stronghold of Volgograd, the city that had been called Stalingrad in another telling of these events.

Divisions of his 3rd Army faced off against the bristling gun forts of the Soviet forces there, with each side routinely shelling the other across the wide expanse of the river. The Volga dog-legged east, then splayed through the thick marshlands as it made its way down to Volkov’s main base on the Caspian at Astrakhan. He had tried for a decade to take Volgograd and secure the lower Volga region, but the city was now an impregnable stronghold, where Kirov posted some of his best divisions.

So a new strategy would have to be devised, one that would soon see Volkov’s armies strike across the Volga to the north, between Saratov and Volgograd. There were only a few suitable crossing points in that region, and it was difficult to achieve surprise. The Soviet controlled west bank of that mighty river had higher ground, and steep ridges in places, while the east bank lay on open, exposed flat ground. But years ago, the Grey Legions had fought for a bridgehead near Samara, which they stubbornly defended, and now they would use it to make a daring attack timed with the great onslaught the German Army was about to unleash.

When he learned trains had come, taking some second echelon Soviet divisions west to the main European front, Volkov had smiled, knowing he would not have to face the full strength of the Red Army any longer. With vast manpower resources, and most of the heavy industry, Sergei Kirov could have rolled east into the Orenburg Federation if he had been willing to pay the price in blood. Volkov’s armies had been strong enough to pose a credible defense, but not strong enough to mount a real offensive against Soviet territory. But now, with most of the better divisions moving west to man the main front against the Germans, the Grey Legions could again contemplate the prospect of a successful attack.

2nd and 3rd Armies would make the push from Samara. Their intention was to make a bold thrust aimed at the long, sweeping bend of the Don. The previous year, just after Volkov signed his accord with Adolf Hitler, the Soviets had begun an offensive into the Caucasus. They crossed the lower Don from Soviet controlled Rostov, overran the Krasnodar District, cutting off the Taman peninsula in thirty days. Then Volkov’s defense had stiffened near Novorossiysk, and in the tumbling foothills near the rich oil production center at Maykop. This had been Sergei Kirov’s real objective, for all the ground he had taken between that place and Rostov was little more than useless steppe land.

There was now fighting along the wide bend of the Kuban River, near Kropotkin, and Volkov was slowly marshalling his reserve divisions from the vast hinterland provinces he controlled. From Kazakhstan came the heavy rifle brigades and swarthy cavalry. From Turkmenistan, the hard mountain troops that would be perfect defenders in the highlands if Kirov’s troops tried to push further. Volkov had also called up his Georgian reserve, and when the German attack began, it was his intention to begin a long planned counteroffensive.

After he had been back in his inner offices for some days, the livid anger over what had happened with his second raid on Ilanskiy slowly subsided. He had bigger operations to plan now, men to move, armies to command. In the vast scheme of things now about to unfold, Vladimir Karpov and his Siberian Free State was a small concern. It would have been that way in his mind all along, if not for one thing—Ilanskiy.

He could still hear Karpov’s last taunting argument… “You’re forgetting one thing,” Karpov came at him. “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!”

That sent the rising bile of anger loose in Volkov’s gut again. Yes, Ilanskiy. It’s clear what Karpov was doing there now. He said as much. He’s trying to rebuild that stairway, just as it was before. Will he succeed? What if he does? Can he really use those stairs to reach our own time again, in 2021? Could he find me there, and prevent me from ever discovering that damn railway inn?

That thought returned him to the threat he had made as the two men parted. He said he would summon his entire fleet, return and crush the last of Karpov’s little Airship navy. He’s lost Yakutsk, Tomsk, Krasnoyarsk. And we put damage on a few other ships there as well, though we paid a very heavy price for that. I lost six damn airships in that operation, with damage on three more, not to mention Colonel Levkin’s troops. After we repair the damage, I still have sixteen more airships, and if Karpov can patch up the ships we hurt, then the Siberian fleet is now reduced to six, I outnumber that bastard by nearly three to one, but that would mean I would have to pull in every airship on the front.

He thought about that. He could carry another sixteen battalions, actually companies, as his Generals kept reminding him. That’s just one light brigade, and Karpov was correct. He could post three divisions around Ilanskiy, and all I would do is throw my troops away again. So he has that railway inn, and if he can ever rebuild those stairs and use them …

He did not want to contemplate that. The thought that in spite of the power he wielded, there was really nothing he could do now about Ilanskiy, was infuriating. Karpov was infuriating. That impudent ship’s Captain had been a foil ever since the two men first met. What was it he said about that lunch he served us aboard Kirov? Like revenge, it was a dish best served cold. Should I muster enough muscle on the Ob river line to really push through and take that place? It’s 750 kilometers, through some of the most murderous country in Asia. I would need twenty divisions, and those troops will be required for Operation Don. I’ve made promises to another little devil here, Adolf Hitler, and I must not disappoint.

So I must make the west front my primary operations now, an deploy just enough troops in the Caucasus to fend off Kirov’s offensive there. Then, after the Germans break through, and the smoke has settled, I’ll deal with the Siberians and this piss pot of a man with his big fat airship. I’ve half a mind to carry out my threat and go back there right now, just to smash what remains of Karpov’s fleet. How enjoyable it would be to see that monstrosity of his surrounded by six or eight of my ships, and to pound the damn thing to a flaming wreck.

All things in time. Until then, I have chosen to smash furniture here instead, and a few heads in the process as well. It’s very good theater. I wonder if Kymchek got off that damn airship alive? He was supposed to go in with the troops to take care of things, but I wonder if I’ll ever hear anything from him again? A pity… In the meantime, I shall have to appoint a replacement as head of security and intelligence soon, and then make sure Karpov hears about it. I need him to believe that Kymchek was no more important to me than an overcoat I might leave in a cloak room. Grechenko is competent, if uninspired, and thankfully he had nothing to do with the intelligence work on this last operation, so he can’t be blamed for anything. Yes, time is on my side now, as much as Karpov believes he can master it. His days here, are numbered.

The hard fist came in answer to Volkov’s inner query, smashing right into Kymchek’s already bloodied face. He was tied in a chair, beneath a single bare light bulb under a conical metal shade hanging from the ceiling. A burly Sergeant was standing in front of him, sleeves rolled back over well muscled arms, the bare dome of his head gleaming with the effort of his work—a good beating for Kymchek, head of Volkov’s Internal Security, and Intelligence Master. He had been rounded up by Karpov’s men on the ground just south of Ilanskiy, not far from the burning hulks of Big Red and Orenburg. One arm was already broken, as was his nose now after a few hard blows from the Sergeant’s meaty fist. His eyes were bruised, and a dark weal scarred his right cheek. Blood trickled from his lower lip after that last blow, and his head lolled.

“That will do, Sergeant.” Karpov strode in, wearing well polished knee high black boots, and a dark overcoat covering his service jacket, and the precious computer embedded in its lining. It held the history of all the days to come, whispered in his ear just as it had been with Orlov after he jumped ship.

Yet Orlov was an idiot, thought Karpov. He would never have known what to do with the knowledge he took with him. And here is another little intelligence windfall, Volkov’s number one man in that sprawling network of thieves, villains, and saboteurs he’s created. It was said in many circles that Volkov’s intelligence was the best in the world, though they missed this little maneuver I just pulled. He smiled.

“So… you thought I was dead and long gone, eh Kymchek? You thought I was fish food in the English Channel. I can imagine the look on your face when Volkov asked you what I was doing here with Tunguska. That must have been priceless!”

Kymchek knew he would likely endure hours of this, so he cut to the quick. “Get on with it, Karpov. I’d rather let the Sergeant finish than sit here and listen to you gloat for another few hours.”

“The Sergeant? Yes, Grilikov is very good, though he’s hardly broken a sweat. But enough is enough.” He nodded to the Sergeant, dismissing him so he could be alone with his newly caught fish.

“I have no intention of calling him back, Kymchek, that is unless you get stupid here and prefer death. Yes, that beating was necessary, a little thank you for helping to plan this ridiculous operation against Ilanskiy. That said, I can find you very useful. Yes?”

Kymchek raised his head, trying to force a grin onto his wounded face. “You expect me to sing like a morning dove here? You think I’ll do any less than what I expect of my men should they ever be captured?”

“Quite frankly, I do. Look, Kymchek, you are not an ignorant man, even if you did plan a very stupid operation here. That said, were it not for my timely arrival, you might have succeeded! You just factored me out of your equations a little too soon, that’s all. So Now I will give you a chance to redeem yourself—a chance to make a few choices on the kind of life you want to lead in the years remaining to you. Those years can be long, productive, rich, and full of comfort. You can take a position here with authority, become part of the inner circle of the Free Siberian State, enjoy the luxuries of power and privilege, good food, better women, and a little respect.”

“You want me to turn?”

“Of course! You’re a very valuable man. You can think, and I need men who know how to use their heads in a crisis. Face it… Suppose I send you back to Volkov tomorrow. What do you think he has waiting for you after this little debacle here? A firing squad may be the best you find back in Orenburg. Your General Secretary just got his fleet flagship blown up right beneath his ass, and went falling from the sky in his little metal escape pod. Well, some snakes can be very hard to kill. He’s alive. He made it to Pavlodar and scurried off west instead of facing my ship in a good honest fight. I don’t blame him. Once burned, twice shy.”

He stepped forward, the cone of light on the soiled floor gleaming off his dark boots now. “Yet in your case Kymchek, he’s been burned twice. Didn’t you also help plan the first raid on Ilanskiy? Of course you did. Volkov threw two airships away in that raid, and all his men, This time the price was three times higher—including you! Yes, you’ve probably been written off by now, along with your Colonel Levkin and all his men. You want to be a write off? I can arrange that. My Sergeant Grilikov is very good at taking out unwanted trash. So now it’s time you did some hard thinking about that, and made your choice.”

Chapter 21

It was a long, cold night in the room where they left Kymchek to think about his fate. A pack of Siberian Huskies was tethered just outside the small shack in Ilanskiy where he was being interrogated. A train rolled in with a low rumble just after midnight, sent there by Karpov to haul off all the prisoners from Levkin’s forsaken 22nd Air Mobile Brigade. They would be taken east, to a “rehabilitation camp” where some would die, while others would eventually be offered the chance to fight with the Free Siberian Army. Those that refused would be sentenced to 20 years hard labor, as enemies of the state.

Kymchek knew that he would surely suffer a similar fate. The pain in his broken arm was very bad that night, and he shivered with the cold. He knew he had the stamina to endure many days like this, a beating from Grilikov in the morning, and a long, empty day on that chair beneath the light bulb, listening to the snarling of the Huskies and Malamutes outside. Yet how many days before his body would just give out, and then how long to die after that?

These thoughts pulsed in his brain like the throbbing pain, and behind it all was the livid visage of Ivan Volkov. He had served Volkov for the last five years as his intelligence chief, an inner circle confidant that saw him come to know a great deal about the man. Volkov was a pig at heart, or so he thought. He was devious, ruthless, determined, yet mindless at times. The objections Kymchek had raised to this latest operation had not been heard, but the blame would surely be waiting for him in wheel barrows if he were ever so lucky to escape his fate here and get back to Orenburg.

The demands of his position had left Kymchek no time for family. He was an only son, and at the age of 40 both parents were already gone. He had taken up with women at times, but never allowed any real attachment to form, and was unmarried. So who will miss me, he wondered, or mourn me when they get the news I was executed here, or died in a prison cell?

And yes, they would certainly get the news, wouldn’t they? He could already name at least three other men in this very town that were operatives in his vast spy network. He had labored to recruit the men, infiltrate them, and now he sat at the center of the web, a lost spider, feeding on the flies that he would catch, day by day. He knew that his capture was an amazing windfall for Karpov.

I know Volkov’s operation chapter and verse, he thought, every division, every brigade, the officers, equipment, men. I know what Volkov knows, because I was the man responsible for telling it to him. I know what offensives he’s planned, and where, and the orders of battle right down to battalion level. I can tell you what weapons he has in development, their progress, all his new construction programs, how many divisions he can raise in Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, when they can arrive, all of it. And that is just a thimble full of what I know. My principle activity was in sounding out all that same information about the Soviets, the Germans, the British and all the rest—even the Siberians.

That’s a lot of chips on my side of the table if it comes to bargaining with Karpov here. Yet, amazingly, he hasn’t asked me a single question about any of that. I was given three days to think about things, and this is day three. Who comes through that door this morning? Will Karpov be back again? Will the real interrogation finally begin now? Yes, after Grilikov has had a little time to soften up the ground, the real digging will begin, and with each shovel full of information they extract, the hole will grow bigger—my own grave.

He shook his head, inwardly, because it would take too much effort and hurt too much to shake it outwardly. So I die here, painfully, in another week or two at best. In the meantime, Volkov will have already appointed someone to fill my shoes, probably that fat fool Grechenko. He was an accountant, good with numbers, but with no real intuition. He can tell Volkov how much and how many, but never why. His reports will be well drafted, yet starchy and dry. He’ll never take a risk, and always play things safe. That’s Grechenko, the clerk become too fat for his own britches, and now he will try to squeeze himself into my job. Yes, that was all part of the plan, but it doesn’t make this any easier at the moment. It’s not his fat ass in this chair—it’s mine.

He could think of that no longer. The door opening brought relief with the thought that Sergeant Grilikov was back again this morning, but the footfalls on the floor behind him were not heavy. He could feel someone there, a shadow darkening his shoulder, then he started with a sudden touch, thinking Grilikov was going to position his head and box his ears again for his morning greeting.

To his great surprise, the touch was soft, lingering, comforting. He slowly turned his head, wincing with the pain and squinting at the garish light. There stood a tall, slim woman, with long curls of brunette hair, almond eyes, and a face any man would call beautiful. The woman moved, with silky softness, coming round to stand before him. She was dressed in a plain brown dress, and tan blouse, with an army blazer over it, and the rank and insignia of a Major. In her hand she held a brown leather bag, and now she stooped down, her eyes always on his as she opened the bag. They were eyes a man could drown himself in, and she gave him a warm smile.

It was a medical bag, and the woman was a nurse. For the next half hour she cleaned his face, and then tended to his painful right arm. It took several swigs of good vodka, but Kymchek knew this pain was a vital prerequisite to his healing, if he ever could. At times, when she leaned close, her scent was captivating, like violets in summer, and her blouse was conveniently loose on her ample chest to allow him a glimpse of what lay beneath that plain brown uniform.

When she had bandaged his face and secured his arm in a splint, she just walked slowly across the room, sitting quietly in a plain wood chair, her skirt riding a little above the knee, when she crossed her legs, ever so invitingly. Then the door opened, and this time it was Karpov.

“Good morning, Kymchek. I trust you were able to get some sleep, in spite of the dogs and that light bulb there.” He tapped the hanging bulb, setting it to move, pendulum like, and creating a strange effect as the light fled from the woman, then returned. She seemed to recede into shadows, appearing again, angel-like, her dark eyes always on his, her face always pleasant, smiling, promising.

“I see you have met Major Yana, as we call her. Grilikov is still having his breakfast, and none too happy that we were out of sausages until the next train. He’ll be here shortly, and probably in a very bad mood. But before that, I thought I would check on you and see if you have given any thought to our previous discussion.”

Kymchek blinked as the light slowly settled, leaving most of the Major wreathed in shadow, except those long, long, legs. He knew what was happening now, first the gruel, then the honey. It was nothing unexpected.

“Well then,” said Karpov. “What shall it be, Kymchek? You can have it either way, Grilikov with his bad temper, big fists in your face again, and then more long nights with the dogs. We’ll feed you, because you know too damn much to simply let you die here. Then we’ll have to let Grilikov get serious to get the answers to a lot of the questions you know will be coming your way. He has a fetish for very sharp knives, and I’m told he starts with fingers and toes, just for openers. It won’t be pleasant, you know that, and it won’t be brief. Eventually you will tell us what we want to know, but that will be a long, painful process, and the questions may never end. Understand?”

Now Karpov stepped into the light again, his uniform immaculate, boots shined, hand resting on a the pistol in his side holster. The door opened and another man came in, stepping to Karpov’s side, hands folded behind him, his uniform equally smart and dressed out. He was holding a small bundle, and a pair of military boots. Kymchek recognized him through bleary, bandaged eyes. It was Tyrenkov, Karpov’s own master of intelligence and security. The two men had been rivals for some years now, each one trying to out-maneuver the other to get the best information. They were as different as yin and yang, Kymchek fair skinned, with short cropped grey hair and pale blue eyes, Tyrenkov dark haired, steely lean, the light of his quick mind seeming to glow his eyes. They were fire and ice, yet both grimly calculating in their own way, and with devious intelligence.

“You know this man?” asked Karpov. “Of course you do. Well he is here to welcome you to our side of the game, if you so choose. You will be working directly with Tyrenkov, and together you will make an unbeatable intelligence team. See those boots he is holding? The bundle there is a uniform—with the rank of Major General in the Free Siberian Army. It’s yours. Step into those boots and stand with us. This war is only beginning, and there is much you have to learn about what will soon happen to our dear Mother Russia. Yes, even you, the man who knows everything. Well, you will soon learn that is not the case.”

Karpov was pacing now. “I need you, Kymchek. I need your mind, your skills, your competence. I would embrace you as a friend here, if you so choose. As I have said, you will have rank, the power and privilege that comes with it, and the pleasures. Yes, Major Yana there will gladly tend to more than that broken arm, whenever you desire, and there are a hundred others just like her. So face the reality here, the information you have will come to us one way or another. I would prefer to sit with you over a good meal and discuss things like a gentlemen. We have plans to make, and battles to fight. Join us.”

The logic of Karpov’s appeal was hard. “Together with Tyrenkov, we can settle the matter of Ivan Volkov once and for all, “ he said. “He’s an aberration, a blight in history, and an insult. Curse that man for shaking hands with Hitler, and curse him for raising his hand against his brothers, and shedding Russian blood so wantonly in this hour of our greatest need. I’m going to destroy him, just like I destroyed his damn flagship out there, one way or another. That is inevitable. So the choice before you now is very simple. Do you hold with him, Kymchek? Is that the kind of man you will sit there and endure this shit for? What will it be, Major Yana or Sergeant Grilikov? Don’t think you’ll be a hero if you see some warped sense of virtue in being loyal to a man like Volkov. But choose otherwise, and you can be a hero—not for me, but for your country. Decide.”

The door opened again, the snarl of the dogs louder as Grilikov finally came tramping in, his hard soled boots soiled with mud. He yelled at one of the dogs over his shoulder, slamming the door as he cursed.

“Sorry, sir. Breakfast was late.”

“No bother, Sergeant. Stand there, will you?”

“Certainly sir.” The big Sergeant took his place at the edge of the light, the shadows rising up his stolid form, legs planted wide, heavy arms crossed over his chest. He was slowly rolling up his sleeves. At a nod from Karpov, Major Yana stood, and walked sinuously to the edge of the light, the same shadows fingering the curved lines of her body. They stood there, two ends of a choice that would now decide Kymchek’s future life. Tyrenkov slowly handed the bundled uniform and boots to the woman, and then stepped to Karpov’s side.

“Come now, Tyrenkov. We’re off to the officer’s dining room. I think your breakfast was late, Sergeant, because the chef was too busy preparing our meal. I’ll make that up to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good enough.” Karpov started away, with Tyrenkov in his wake, then he stopped, just short of the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Oh yes, there is a third table setting and a chair for you, Kymchek. Come over dressed in that uniform and join us, and let’s put this unfortunate incident behind us and talk about the Rodina. There is more to be healed here than that right arm of yours, and we men must do that work. Our nation stands or falls in the years ahead, and now you get a chance that comes to few—a chance to right the wrongs you have done in this world. Decide, this very hour, and join us. There will be more than Major Yana’s smile in that choice for you. History will smile on you as well.”

He turned, and stepped through the doorway. The dogs saw the door opening and were up with a snarl, but one look at Karpov and they were immediately stilled.

Kymchek never forgot that.

Across the way, Karpov sat at the breakfast table, the white linen cloth lending a pristine quality to the setting. The silver was laid out next to well folded napkins, the tea hot in the polished samovar, the smell of the blini and porridge enticing. The sausages Grilikov had been missing were here in abundance.

“That was quite a find, Tyrenkov. You are to be congratulated. What do you think Kymchek will do in this situation?”

“That’s anyone’s guess, sir. You were very persuasive. A punch in the nose and a kiss on the cheek is old hat when it comes to interrogation. Kymchek knows that, but your other arguments were very convincing.”

“He would be a fool to die here out of some misplaced and foolish loyalty to Volkov,” said Karpov. “I might expect you to do this for me, so believe me, it was not easy asking Kymchek to throw away those years he stood by Volkov. Why should he? Only to save his skin, and perhaps do what I suggested, right some wrongs, and salvage what remains of his life, his pride, his sense of being a useful man. We all want to be useful, don’t we? The information he has will be vital in the campaign ahead, but the man is also a great asset. You can use him, a very able addition to your team.”

“No question about that, sir.”

“And Tyrenkov, I also want you to know that your position as head of security and intelligence is completely secure. Don’t entertain the slightest thought that Kymchek might ever replace you. You’ve proven yourself to me many times, and I will never do what Volkov has just done here to Kymchek. The man was simply thrown to the wolves. This is why I had those dogs tethered right outside his door—a little subliminal message to that effect. Well… I wonder if the blini is getting cold. Perhaps we should begin.”

At that moment there came a quiet knock on the door. Karpov had given both the Sergeant and Major Yana very specific orders. Should Kymchek remain obstinate, or fail to choose within one half hour, the Sergeant was to come over and report this, and get Karpov’s approval to begin more intensive interrogations. Should Kymchek choose to side with the Siberian State, then Major Yana was to accompany him to the Officer’s Dining room.

“Come…” Karpov turned, wondering who he would see when that door opened, and hoping he would not have to grind Kymchek like so much meat in the days ahead. He was not disappointed.

There stood Kymchek, dressed out in the uniform and boots that had been tailored for him, his General’s cap under his good left arm, where Major Yana guided him with a smile. As much as he wanted to smile himself, Karpov maintained a well practiced decorum. He stood up, gesturing to the third place at the table, his hand extended graciously.

“General Kymchek,” said Karpov politely. “I am very glad you have chosen to dine with us this morning, very glad indeed. Every choice makes a difference in this world, and I know that in a way that few men understand. This next choice will be a little easier for you… Do you prefer honey with your tea? And will it be boiled eggs, sausage, or black bread and cold cuts?”

It was only then that Karpov allowed himself a smile, not to taunt the man, but to welcome him. Kymchek never forgot that either. There was another side of this man, though he knew Karpov had good reason to be accommodating here.

I hope I didn’t make this look too easy, thought Kymchek. Volkov was very insistent about that, and I told him that two or three days, and a good beating, would be the norm. But Karpov was certainly eager to get me here to his table. So here I am, you conniving little bastard. Did you really think I would turn so easily? Yes, the walk over here with Major Yana cradling that wounded arm of mine was much to be preferred over Grilikov breaking the other one. But that had little to do with anything. As you said yourself, Volkov is an aberration, but so are you—a little weed that needs plucking out, and I’ve been sent to till the garden. So I’ll play your game now, and tell you anything you might care to know. Then, one day, when the time is right, I’ll find a way to do what we came here to do in the first place, and make an end of your little theater on the taiga.

Tonight he would consider how best to contact his operatives in Ilanskiy, and discretely have them get a message to Volkov, telling him all was well, and everything was going exactly as they had planned it.