Second Front

Chapter 31

Karpov was pacing, as he often did when something was bothering him. Now he was having second thoughts about Fedorov’s operation, and wondering what could possibly happen if he let it be.

He tells me he must act, he thought, or this world has no basis to exist. He says it will wither away, warp, fracture, but God only knows how. In that instance, my little steel reign here comes to an eventual end. If he warns Kirov, that only buys us a little more time before the next paradox raises its ugly head. If he kills Kirov, then things should look much different for me here as well, particularly if we are correct and we get Stalin back.

I’m supposed to put that damnable control rod back in the system and run the procedure at the precise moment Fedorov goes down those steps with my brother self. Everything must be in play, he tells me. Time must have all the cards in her greedy hands before she shuffles the deck. But what kind of hand will I be dealt this time? I worked damn hard to get where I am. Now all this will simply vanish, fall apart, or I’ll end up playing second fiddle to Stalin. He’ll be much more difficult to deal with than Sergei Kirov, in spite of my boast to Fedorov on that score. What am I doing here?

And yet… If this does work as Fedorov believes, then a good many problems on my desk get resolved. Stalin would probably settle accounts with Volkov, and the Japanese will get their comeuppance. Since I’m not taking the ship back to 1908 as before, then they have no reason to invade Siberian territory. We could come out of the shift and find we already have Vladivostok back, with no need to bully the Japanese further, unless I decide to help the Americans here.

Should I? They get very powerful here in the Pacific by 1945, and enforce their own steel reign for decades after. Remember how Captain Tanner bragged about that. He as much as told me that the Pacific was his beat, until I put my missiles up his ass. He smiled at that, a little consolation in the midst of his worrisome muse. Then he sighed, looking ahead, thinking hard about the future that might arise from this meridian.

I’ll beat the Japanese, he thought. There was no Midway disaster last May, but I can arrange for that. I could get after the carriers here easily enough, and smash each and every last one. But what about this damn Japanese missile destroyer? I suppose their SM-2s might be able to hold us off for a while, but they can’t stop torpedoes, can they? One way or another, I’ll get their carriers, and I’ll get that damn destroyer as well.

But can the Soviets hold off Germany. Can I stop Volkov on the ground? It will be years before the action in the west presents any real threat to the Germans. This so called Second Front will be futzing about in North Africa for a good long while. Until then, the war in the east will be the real crisis point. Can we win? Supposing we do, even if it takes the use of my special warheads. Then what does the post war world look like?

I suppose Russia gets reunified. Do I then see the Free Siberian State folded under Sergei Kirov’s reign? I have ample room to negotiate there, and well before the war ends. If Kirov reneges, I’ve always got Ilanskiy… Assuming I survive this whole affair.

That was what was really bothering him, as selfish as it seemed. The world could all go to hell, get twisted back on itself like a pretzel, but none of that would matter to Karpov as long as he was still in power, still lording it over the oceans of the world aboard his invincible battlecruiser. He could not see how things could simply change here all at once, or vanish. He had no idea what Fedorov was talking about with his dire warnings, but he was deathly worried about his own sad fate.

If what Fedorov says is true, he realized, I should not be here. In order for me to be in this position, I must first go to 1908, and then come forward again as I did. I’m gloating that Volkov never arises here, but what about me? What about my Free Siberian State? If we kill Sergei Kirov, how do I still end up controlling any of this? Siberia will be Soviet territory, Stalin’s little Gulag farm. And what happens to my airship fleet; my brother?

Then something struck him like a hammer. Just a moment, he thought. This world is the result of actions we took earlier, when the ship first vanished in the Norwegian Sea. It’s the result of Fedorov’s little hunt for Orlov, and my unexpected visit to 1908, all of it. Fedorov’s rescue mission gives us Sergei Kirov and Ivan Volkov, and my sortie in 1908 sets up this entire situation in the Pacific. But those things didn’t happen here. Not on this meridian. We went north to Murmansk, not south to the Denmark Strait. So in this time line, we never fought the British, never went to the Med, and never fought the Japanese as I did when I pounded Yamato before we shifted home again. None of that ever happens here!

But it clearly did happen, because I remember each and every minute of it. By God, I’ve even got that damn magazine we found in the Pacific that told us how the war started in 2021. I’ve got a real and tangible thing from that sequence of events. How is that possible? Clearly, all those other events happened on another time line, not this one. This is just the altered reality those events created, and the ship that caused all this has vanished. But here I am, a remnant from that other time line, just like that magazine!

The realization struck him deeply now. He was mere flotsam, just as he was when time dropped him into the Sea of Japan in 1938. Why? How did this happen? How come I appeared here, and how could that magazine exist here?

Time makes mistakes.

That was all he could think of. Time isn’t perfect, and the chaos we caused was so great, that she slipped a few stitches. That satisfied where the magazine was concerned, but not for his own personal fate.

I’m not just anybody, he thought. I’m Vladimir Karpov. I built this entire world! I was the one who pissed off Orlov. Absent that, he never jumps ship. So all of this is my doing, because I am first cause for this world to exist. That is why I persist here—why I will continue to persist. Time might dearly love to get rid of me, but she can’t, I’m just too damn important. Without me, none of this ever happens.

But what about my brother?

Who is the pretender to the throne here, me or my brother? How could time allow him to enter my world while I was here? Ah… but I wasn’t here. That’s what all that travail was aboard Tunguska. I was somewhere else when my brother self appeared here aboard Kirov. My brother was supposed to replace me! Time was planning to crown my brother king here. That bitch was trying to eliminate me completely, but something happened. I eluded her grasp and survived.

My God! She had it all figured out. Kirov was supposed to appear here, and then time filled Fedorov’s head with the memory of everything we did in the first loop. He was supposed to steer the ship to a different course, which is exactly what he did. As for the world here, these altered states, that was history insofar as time was concerned. It all started rewriting everything back in 1908, and clearly, none of those other events when we fought the British and Italians and Japanese ever happened here. So time is quite content to let this time line persist—in fact, that is exactly what she is planning! There is only one errant thread in her loom as she weaves all this together again—me! So what would I do in her place?

Karpov swallowed hard now, for he knew exactly what he would do. He would find any way possible to get rid of the aberration, and that is exactly what he was, an aberration.

So if I do this, use that control rod as Fedorov planned it, then I throw my fate to the wind again. I place myself at Time’s mercy, and I have no reason whatsoever to believe that she will simply return me safely. Fedorov was talking about men simply vanishing—I’ll be the one to go next. Time doesn’t want me here—she wants my brother!

He gritted his teeth, inwardly shaking his head before it moved outwardly. Then he spoke aloud, to himself, to anyone who might hear it around him, and to time itself.

“To hell with that!”

“Sir?” Rodenko looked over at him.

“Mister Nikolin,” said Karpov firmly, ignoring Rodenko for the moment. “Signal the KA-40. Tell them the mission is aborted, and they are to return to the ship immediately. This is an emergency.”

They were up over the Sea of Okhotsk when the message came in, approaching the large desolate island of Bolshoy Shantar. Fedorov was in the co-pilot’s chair, looking over some charts. Orlov was behind him in the second row of the forward cabin with Troyak to his left. A group of five Marines were in the rear compartment.

Orlov was there because Fedorov had personally asked him to join the mission. He had come across him earlier that day, moody and disgruntled, as always, but it was the pistol he was wearing in a side holster that caught his eye. Fedorov was smart enough to put two plus two together, and he knew he did not want to leave Orlov on the ship with Karpov—not with the mood that was on the Chief that day, and not with Orlov carrying that sidearm. The best thing, he thought, would be to get him off the ship. He could take Orlov with him, and then leave him on the Zeppelin when they made the rendezvous with the Irkutsk. That was the ship they were meeting for the flight to Ilanskiy. Karpov’s other self would meet them there.

The Pilot, Sherenski, saw the comm-link light up and toggled a switch. Nikolin’s voice soon played over the overhead speaker.

“Mother One to Black Hawk, this is an emergency action message. Mission abort—I repeat. Mission abort. You are to return to the ship immediately—come back. Over.”

The pilot looked at Fedorov, who had a puzzled expression on his face, but the light of understanding was slowly growing in his eyes. He raised a hand, indicating that Sherenski should take no action.

“I’ll handle this,” he said, reaching for the radio handset. “Black Hawk to Mother One. What is the problem? What emergency? Over.”

“Black Hawk, Black Hawk—Mission abort. Repeat. Mission Abort. This is an order. Acknowledge on compliance. Over.”

Fedorov had a frustrated look on his face. “Mother One—Nikolin—is the Admiral on the bridge? Put him on. I wish to speak with him directly.”

Back on the bridge of Kirov, Karpov shook his head. He expected this, but there was no time to lose now. There was too much at stake.

“Rodenko,” he said sharply. “Range to contact?”

“Sir? They are 314 kilometers out, approaching the island of Bolshoy Shantar.”

“You have a telemetry link?”

“Yes sir, our link is good.”

“Feed that to the CIC.” Karpov spun about, his eyes finding Samsonov. The helo was slipping away. “Mister Samsonov. Key up an S-400. Target that helo and fire.”

The Weapon’s Chief gave him a blank look, hesitating, but not saying anything.

“Samsonov! Now! Now! This is imperative!”

“Aye sir!” Samsonov’s hands were a blur. “Sounding missile warning—forward deck. S-400 40N6 keyed for action. Waiting on system…”

“Go Samsonov. Fire!”

“Sir, this is the long range ballistic trajectory missile. It was not on ready alert status and will need time to prep for action. It’s the only missile we have with the range to get out that far.”

“Damn!”

“Waiting on system… Waiting…” The time seemed eternal. “Sir, I have the ready light. Firing now.” The reflex was well honed, the order, the movement, the missile on its way in a billow of white smoke and yellow fire. The P-400 was so named because this version, the 40N6, had that range in kilometers, but it had a long way to go before its own internal systems would detect and lock on to the KA-40. Yet it was very fast, and it was going to get there very quickly, climbing to high altitude, and then tipping over to make a target approach from above, whereupon its active radar would switch to seek and destroy mode. It’s speed in that climb would reach Mach 7 at the apex, but as it tipped over and dove, it would accelerate to near Mach 12. At that speed it would be moving four kilometers per second.

The tension on the bridge was thick. Karpov was trying to kill the KA-40, with Fedorov, Orlov, Troyak and others aboard. The bridge crew was clearly shocked, some with eyes wide, not knowing what was happening or why. Samsonov had done his job, but his brow was wet with sweat, and he seemed clearly upset. Rodenko’s pulse was up. As senior officer on the ship now under Karpov, he felt he needed to speak up here.

“Admiral, sir, what are we doing?”

“Don’t worry, Rodenko. That goes for the rest of you. This is merely a warning shot. I need to reinforce my order. That mission must abort!”

“You mean you will self-destruct this missile? Sir, it will acquire in another minute. Time on target is 120 seconds!”

“I am well aware of that, Mister Rodenko. Calm yourself. Nikolin. Repeat my order. Tell them if they do not abort and assume a homeward bound heading immediately. They will be shot down.”

“Missile warning!” Sherenski looked at Fedorov, a mix of shock, surprise and fear in his eyes.

“That bastard!” said Orlov. “He’s trying to kill us all this time.”

If that were true, thought Fedorov, then it was sloppy, and not like anything Karpov would have premeditated. They were almost beyond missile range. If Karpov wanted them dead, he should have fired long ago, when his missiles would have a much better chance of hitting them. No, something had happened. Something was wrong. But what?

Fedorov thumbed the handset hard. “Karpov! What in God’s name are you doing? Explain this!”

All that came back was Nikolin again, repeating Karpov’s order.

“Should we turn?” Sherenski looked at him.

“They can’t be seeing us on the Fregat system this far out. They have to be relying on our transponder to fix our position. Turn it off, Shut down all radar and dive! Get down as low as you can. Take evasive maneuvers and be prepared to fire any ECM we have.”

Survival first.

There was a fast killer out there, and it had already acquired their position. There was another killer behind that weapon, and what could have possessed Karpov to fire on them rather than simply getting on the radio was now something that left Fedorov feeling very cold.

This is exactly what I did when we thought Orlov was escaping on the KA-226, thought Fedorov. We’re slipping away. Another few minutes and he won’t have anything that can hit us this far out. But what is he thinking? We might only have another minute left.

The KA-40 was a nice fat target, easy to see on radar, and it was not agile. The S-400 had already crossed half the distance to its target before the radars on the KA-40 even acquired it and sounded that missile warning. Now it was coming on like a runaway train, hurtling down from the apex of its long range flight path, its engine roaring in its wake, radar eyes searching… searching….

Chapter 32

The helo plummeted down, the missile lock warning barking, jangling raw nerves as instinct took hold and they all struggled for hand holds to keep from being thrown about. Sherenski, toggled three switches, pushed hard and sent the KA-40 into a steep dive, accelerating as he did to full military throttle on the engines.

They were right at the edge of the S-400s engagement envelope, and it was very nearly out of fuel. But down it came, its speed intense, like a bolt of lightning from the heavens above. All the chaff and flares were fired to try and spoof it, but it was not fooled. Its radar eyes and cold chip mind could clearly see the fluttering moth below, and it was locked on, relentless, boring in for the kill… until its fuel load was suddenly expended, flaming out in a last sputter of fire, and now it would be moving on momentum only, losing most of its power to maneuver.

Sherenski pulled hard on his controls, sending the helo wildly off in another direction. The missile saw the target move, tried to compensate, but the back end had moved off angle when the thrust cut out. The computer tried to compensate, making tiny adjustments to the fins to attempt a recovery, but it did not work. The missile began to tumble, and the internal program, sensing all fuel expended and loss of control, simply detonated the warhead with its self-destruct module. Even so, they heard the sharp clink of shrapnel strike one of the rotors. It had been that close.

Back aboard Kirov, Karpov had come over to Samsonov’s station to personally take charge of the self-destruct command, and for that tense last thirty seconds, the Missile Chief sat stolidly in his chair, one eye watching the missile telemetry readings, the other stealing glances at the self destruct switch. When the telemetry cut out, a strong sign of successful detonation, he thought he heard Karpov swear under his breath. Then, looking at the Admiral’s hand, he could see the command to destroy the missile was never sent.

Karpov cast a dark, narrow eyed glance his way, and the Chief looked away, saying nothing, and checking his telemetry reading again. “Missile destroyed,” he said in a low voice.

Karpov closed the plastic cover over the missile abort switch, moving like a wraith to Rodenko’s station. “You see,” he breathed. “Nothing to get all bothered about. But I certainly got their attention. Yes?” He flashed a pale faced smile.

Now Nikolin spoke. “I have Captain Fedorov again sir. He is asking to speak with you.”

“Send it to my ready room.” Karpov strode off, closing the hatch behind him with a hard clank.

Rodenko looked at the other members of the bridge crew, who sat in silence, a bit stunned by what had just happened, but no one spoke. Then Grilikov came stomping up the main stairway to the bridge and loomed in the hatch, stepping inside, his big heavy-booted feet hard on the deck. He had been told by Karpov that whenever the alarm for combat of any sort was heard on the ship, he was to drop anything he was doing and get to the bridge at once. The silence among the bridge crew deepened.

Inside his ready room Karpov was struggling with his own inner anger. I was stupid just now, he chided himself. That was a goddamned knee jerk reaction on my part, something my brother self might have done, impulsive, wasteful and just plain stupid. Yes, I wasted a good missile just now, and all I did was put Fedorov on his guard. There’s another way to handle this. Where can they go? That helo has limited fuel, and it must either make its rendezvous with Irkutsk, return to the ship, or simply land somewhere. Any of those alternatives would have ended this scenario. The missile wasn’t necessary.

He reached for the handset, and thumbed it to speak. “Karpov here. Get the wax out of your ears, Fedorov. You’ve been ordered to return to the ship immediately. This mission is aborted.”

“What in the name of heaven is going on, Karpov? Why the missile? We took damage just now, and you could have killed us!”

“That was just a little theatrics to get your attention and make it stick. Now turn that helo around and get back here. We certainly can’t discuss this on the radio, encrypted or not.”

“But we’ve so little time,” said Fedorov. “If I don’t act before the 30th of September—”

“Bullshit, Fedorov. Understand? Bullshit! Turn that helo and get back here. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.”

Fedorov’s pulse was up, a heat on him even in the cold Siberian air. That missile had been very close. The outer limit of its engagement envelope was variable, and it had failed to reach them, but just barely. What could have possibly compelled Karpov to make this call? Didn’t he understand what was at stake here? The Admiral’s voice came back, a little breathless, as though he had been struggling to control himself, an enforced composure evident in his tone, though Fedorov could perceive the tension in every word he spoke.

“Look Fedorov, where else can you go? You’ll run out a fuel yourself soon, and have to land somewhere in Siberia—my Siberia, I might add. Make your rendezvous with the Irkutsk and I’ll have you arrested then and there. So just be smart now and turn back while you can. There’s more to this than we contemplated—very much more.”

He’s afraid, thought Fedorov. He’s afraid of something, but he can’t come right out and say it. How can I convince him that this mission is imperative. “Admiral,” he said. “If we abort now, we may not have time to get back and complete the mission.”

“There isn’t going to be any mission!” The anger was back.

“But you know what’s at stake. We went over everything, for hours and hours.”

“Yes, I know what’s at stake—but you don’t, Fedorov. Now stop arguing and obey orders!”

Fedorov thought quickly. He needed time, so he decided to allay the Admiral’s fears, whatever they were, and tell him what he wanted to hear. “Very well, Admiral. We will return to the ship as ordered. I just hope to God you know what you’re doing here. Fedorov out.”

“Get up to altitude so Rodenko can see you,” said Karpov back. “I can promise you safe passage home. Then I’ll explain everything. Karpov out.”

“Turn now and climb sir?” Sherenski gave Fedorov a wide-eyed look.

“And give that bastard another shot at us?” said Orlov. “Sookin Sym! He’ll kill us, Fedorov. Don’t believe a word he says. We should take the helo and get as far away from here as we can.”

Fedorov gritted his teeth. “Pilot, put us back on course for the Irkutsk rendezvous.”

“Sir? You will not obey the Admiral’s order?”

“Damn right he won’t obey the bloody Admiral’s order,” Orlov growled.

“Just turn and make that rendezvous,” said Fedorov, and keep us low. Keep the transponder off, and disengage the radio as well. I can’t have them tracking us that way, but first… I need to buy us some time.” He thumbed the send switch.

“Black Hawk to Mother, that missile did more damage than we thought. We have a fuel leak and I’ve determined we cannot make the ship.” He reached over, and cranked the frequency modulator, and flipped a switch for ECM jamming as well, all while he continued sending. “Come in, Kirov, we cannot read your link…. Breaking up…” Then he switched the radio set off.

Aboard Kirov, Nikolin received the message, but it didn’t sound anything like genuine interference to his trained ear. To make certain, he checked his data log on the frequency integrity, and looking that over he was immediately convinced that they had tried to spoof radio failure on the other end. It was deliberate.

He swallowed, thinking, his eyes moving this way and that. Then he reported. “Sir, that last communication was cut off. Their radio sounded like it was fried. I’ve lost the com link.”

Fedorov had at least one collaborator there in Nikolin. But would he now have the time he needed to carry out his plan? He looked around the cabin, realizing he was going to ask a great deal of all these men. His eyes met Troyak’s.

“Sergeant,” he said quietly. “You and I need to have a word or two. We’re going to make that rendezvous with the Siberian airship, and Karpov is likely to learn we aren’t returning to the ship soon. In that event, he will certainly contact the Irkutsk, so when we get there, we’ll likely face a hostile reception. I know I’m asking you to be complicit in what is really my decision to disobey Karpov’s orders now. Believe me, I have an urgent reason to do so, and very little time. I’m asking you and your men to support me now. Can I rely on you.”

Troyak thought for a moment. He had received no orders of any kind from Karpov. He was asked to accompany this sortie by the ship’s first officer, and it was not his business to intervene and tell the Starpom what he should or should not do. If Fedorov was bucking Karpov here, that would be business between him and the Admiral.

“Sir,” he said quietly. “As I have no other orders, your word remains final here unless I hear otherwise.”

“Good enough,” said Fedorov. “I will take full responsibility, rest assured, but this is the situation we may soon be facing…”

Miles to the east, the Airship Irkutsk was hovering at the rendezvous point, and her Captain was chewing on the orders he had just received, the taste bitter in his mouth. Symenko was once the senior officer aboard Alexandra, a scout ship in Volkov’s Orenburg Fleet. He had also been a Squadron Commandant in Volkov’s Eastern Airship Division, but no longer. He had turned, angry when he felt he had been sent on a mission to Ilanskiy just so Volkov could get rid of him. He had once been promised the Governorate of Omsk, but when Volkov signed his accord with the Siberians ceding that city back, Symenko became a nuisance. His trouble with Volkov went back years before that. He had opposed him when Denikin was still alive in the White Movement, and he knew Volkov had a long memory. The General Secretary had used him to deliver a message to Karpov, intending it to be his last service in the Orenburg fleet.

A surly man, ill tempered by nature, Symenko was even more irascible when he realized he had been thrown to the wolves. Karpov had interrogated him, extracting as much information as possible, and then made a startling offer.

“So you’re just the messenger, is it Symenko? You want to claim diplomatic immunity and have me kiss your backside and send you merrily on your way? I should drag your ass into that spy basket and cut the damn thing loose. That would be a nice long ride to hell, right Symenko? We are at 4500 meters up here. But before I do that, let me test what you have said. You tell me Volkov has betrayed you as well? Then join me.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so stupid. If it is true that Volkov considers you expendable and sends you into the bear’s den with that pouch, then how eager can you be to fight for him now?”

A very good point, thought Symenko, particularly when the other man was holding a gun to your head. He thought quickly. Join him? Why not? It was either that or a bullet to the head. He would cover his bet for a while, feed Karpov any information that seemed suitable, and secretly plan to get back to his ship and contact Petrov on the Oskemen. But Karpov got to him first, blowing Oskemen and Petrov to hell. Symenko stewed in the Brig aboard Karpov’s ship, and days later, the Siberian repeated his offer. Knowing he could never go back to Orenburg and survive, Symenko had agreed to serve the Siberians.

He was given secondary roles at first, Starpom in one of Karpov’s cruisers, but he swallowed his pride, knuckled down and proved himself reliable. Then again to his surprise, Karpov had summoned him to is big new airship, the Tunguska, and given him his first real command—the Irkutsk. It was a fine ship, former flagship of the Eastern Siberian Division, 180,000 cubic meter lift, with ten 76ers and six more 105s. That was a choice command, much better than anything he had ever had under his boots with Volkov’s fleet, and he was very appreciative. It had gone a long way in tamping down his temper, but it turned out that Irkutsk was mostly on overwatch and recon duty over Lake Baikal. He would spent his time peering through binoculars at the Japanese outposts on the other side of that great barrier lake, and duly noting any changes in his reports to Karpov.

Then, out of the blue, comes this order to proceed to the Tokko Lake, about 200 miles inland from the Sea of Okhotsk. He was to rendezvous with an aircraft there, take on passengers, and ferry them another 1300 miles west to Ilanskiy. That alone was surprising, he thought. Who could these passengers be? Then, when he got this last communication from Karpov, his blood ran cold. He was ordered to take the passengers aboard, and hold them in protective custody. Then fly immediately to his home city, Irkutsk.

What was going on here, he wondered? Who were these passengers, and what had happened in the last hours to suddenly change the reception he was ordered to make for them. One minute I’m going to Ilanskiy, the next it’s back to Irkutsk. Karpov is up to something, he knew, and it boded nothing good.

“Captain,” said his Radarman Chunskiy. “We have a signal, low and slow. I make it about 2000 meters and approaching the lake on the expected heading.”

The helo would land on the banks of this isolated lake, with nary a soul to ever see what would happen there. This has been very hush, hush, thought Symenko. And it’s no wonder—Ilanskiy. That place has been a witches brew for years. It’s what first got me into this stew here, and something tells me there’s trouble ahead. Take these passengers into custody, is it. Very well.

“Make ready to rendezvous as planned,” he ordered. “Sergeant of the Marines, I’ll want the bin ready to be lowered smartly on my command. Go yourself, and with three good men. The passengers are to be disarmed and brought directly to my stateroom. If you get any trouble, ring the bridge on the field phone. Bridge gondola gunners will stand to, and cover that aircraft when it lands—and god help them here.” He could see no suitable airfield, and wondered just how a plane could ever land here. That was a detail he had been told not to worry about, but now these passengers were details that would most likely be trouble for him.

Karpov… That was all that need be said about this matter. The bloody Admiral was up to something again, plain and simple. Only what was all this about?

Chapter 33

When Symenko saw the aircraft, he was amazed. It had no wings to speak of, and two big rotors above the bulbous main airframe. It made a loud chopping sound as it approached, and he realized this must be one of those helicopters that had been spoken up by airmen of the fleet these last months. It hovered like an angry, noisome bee, and then made a perfect soft landing on a spit of turf extending out into the eastern shore of Lake Tokko.

Shaking his head, he maneuvered Irkutsk overhead, his recoilless rifles covering the strange craft below as ordered. Then they lowered the basket, a square metal cargo lifter, with Sergeant Klykov and three other armed Marines.

Down in the KA-40, Fedorov was watching the basket lower, his pulse up. They could see the heads of four men in the basket, peering down at them from above as it lowered. He had told Troyak that they would likely meet with trouble here. “These men will want to apprehend us,” he said, “but I cannot allow that to happen. I will want you and your Marines to handle the situation, but without bloodshed. Can you do that?”

Troyak simply nodded, asking no questions, and then looking over at Zykov, who nodded back. Then Fedorov explained what he was going to do.

“The KA-40 doesn’t have the range to get me to Ilanskiy,” he said. “This was as far inland as we could go, and Lake Tokko here was an easy landmark for this rendezvous. But now I need that airship.”

“Sir?” Troyak looked up at the massive shape in the sky, growing larger with each moment as it descended, its shadow deepening on the ground around them.

“I want to take that airship. Can you disarm any men they send down in that basket?”

Troyak nodded.

“Good…” Fedorov was thinking all this through on the fly. He stared up. “Those guns look somewhat threatening. If we take action down here, those gunners will certainly see it. So I want you and your men to stow your weapons in that duffel bag. We’ll let them take us up to the airship. Then, on my signal, I want you and the Marines to take the situation in hand. Is that possible?”

“I understand sir. We’ll handle it.”

“And we can’t have anyone at the receiving end sending a warning to their bridge. So if you can overpower those men, disarm them, we can then have your men suit up in their uniforms. Then we find our way to the bridge, but make it look like you are escorting me and Orlov there as prisoners. I know this is chancy, but it’s the only thing I can think of now.”

“Damn,” said Orlov with a smile. “You’ve got some balls Fedorov. Sookin Sym!”

That was what they did, and it was an almost comical moment when Sergeant Klykov off the Irkutsk found himself staring at the likes of these tough strange men, off that equally strange aircraft. One looked to be a Siberian, rough hewn, all muscle, and with an aspect that was so threatening that Klykov instinctively stepped back when he drew close, reaching for his pistol. But the big man simply smiled, and all the others seemed to be cooperating. So they herded everyone into the cargo basket, including three duffel bags, which he checked, seeing it was all the weapons these men must have had with them. He reached for the crank on the field phone, one eye still on Troyak, who stood there, brawny arms folded over his broad chest. Orlov was chewing on something, eyeing Klykov and his men with unfriendly glances.

“The party has surrendered their weapons and we are ready to come up,” said Klykov. Seconds later the basket creaked and swayed as it slowly lifted off the ground. As for Sherenski and one other crewmen, they kept their heads down, remaining unseen in the KA-40 as Fedorov had ordered, and thankfully, this Marine Sergeant had no compulsion to search the helo.

Up they went, and unexpectedly, Troyak began speaking to the Sergeant in a Siberian dialect. “You are a Khabarovski,” he said. “I can see it in the cut of your chin. Where are you from?”

“Chumikan on the coast,” said Krykov. “And you are from this region as well?”

“Chiukchi Province. Good fishing at Chumikan. I used to fish the mouth of the Uda River as a boy there.”

Krykov gave him a nod and wan smile. The basket was up, and Troyak looked over the landing area, seeing a hatch or opening above in the outer shell of the airship, and a ladder up. Two other men off Irkutsk secured the basket and then Troyak spoke again in the same dialect.

“Sergeant,” he said. “May I have your pistol, please?”

“What?”

“No questions. Just your pistol, and if your men will hand over their rifles, then we can all get up that ladder and warm up.”

“Just a moment here,” Krykov’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for his sidearm, which was then snatched so quickly by Troyak’s sudden move that Krykov looked down at his hand, stunned to see it empty. The other men started to brandish their rifles, but that got them nowhere. Troyak’s Marines just stared them down, cold merciless stares from the Black Death.

“You might want to chamber a round before you point that at someone,” said Troyak, snatching the first rifle away as Zykov suddenly produced a pistol and leveled it at their faces.

“And you might take the time to search a man you plan to take as a prisoner,” said Zykov with a cold smile.

“Now then,” said Troyak. “We will also require your uniforms….”

“What’s taking them so long to get forward?” said Symenko, still on the bridge of the Irkutsk. “Alright, Helmsman, take us up to 2000 meters, and set course for home. Ahead two thirds when you reach elevation. I’ll be in my stateroom above,” he finished.

He took the ladder up, entering the vast interior of the airship, and then saw a clump of men on the main central walkway along the spine of the ship, coming forward from the tail section where the cargo basket had been lowered. He could see the uniforms of his Marines, and two other men being herded along. In the darkness he could not get a head count, and he just growled over his shoulder.

“You men follow me to the stateroom, and step lively.”

That was exactly what Troyak and the others did, with himself, Zykov, Chenko and Durbin all decked out in the other men’s uniforms, the last carrying their own digs in a small duffel bag, along with their weapons. At the moment, they simply used the rifles they had taken from Krykov’s men to look as authentic as possible to anyone who might have seen them. Zykov looked up into the massive overhead interior of the airship, impressed by the huge airbags, and seeing men on the riggings above, some on ladders, others walking on horizontal metal walkways between them.

They reached the door to the Captain’s stateroom, seeing Symenko tramp in without so much as a casual glance behind him. He walked straight to the far wall, flipped a switch to start a small heater, and then slowly began pulling off his gloves, his back still turned to the party as he warmed his hands.

“I’ll never get used to this cold out here,” he muttered. “Alright Sergeant Krykov. Make your report.”

“The Sergeant is otherwise disposed,” said Fedorov, which prompted Symenko to turn, a startled look on his face. He saw the group of strangers, the tough looking men in ill fitting uniforms, and tumblers clicked in his mind, unlocking his pent up anger.

“God almighty, what the hell is this about?” He looked them over, his suspicions growing. “If that bastard Karpov has double crossed me again… Where are my men?”

“Safe in that cargo basket, though I daresay they might need some blankets. You are Captain of this ship?”

“Damn right I’m the Captain, but who the hell are you. Karpov sent you to do this? Well, he might have saved himself the trouble if he wanted me relieved. Damn that man—yes, I’ll say it right here to your faces. Who the hell are you?”

He could see that Fedorov clearly wore a naval uniform, as did the big man behind him. As for Fedorov, his mind was lightning quick. “Captain, I’m sorry to say that I will be relieving you—at least for the time being. But I’ll need your cooperation.”

“Cooperation?”

“Correct. I need to get to Ilanskiy, and as quickly as possible. Isn’t that where you were bound from here?”

“We’re making for Irkutsk, on orders from his highness.”

“I’m countermanding those orders?”

“You? Well I can’t say Karpov will take a liking to that.”

“Nor I, but it’s imperative that I get to Ilanskiy.”

“Karpov’s there—or at least I’m told he will be. I hope you’re prepared to deal with that when you get there. Was this his doing? To pull me about by the nose like this, and then relieve me? I never thought the bastard really trusted me. Once a Volkov man, always a Volkov man, or so I’ve heard him mutter at times. I should have known better when he gave me this ship. He’s pulled the same thing that Volkov did, just using me for his devices and then, here you come, in that nice new uniform, to take it all away.”

“Captain,” said Fedorov. “I have no designs on making a career in the Siberian airship fleet, nor did I really come here to relieve you. I am Captain Anton Fedorov, off the battlecruiser Kirov, presently operating off Sakhalin Island. I just need your ship to get to Ilanskiy.”

“Battlecruiser Kirov—that’s the ship we’ve heard all the rumors about. Men say it has the Japanese all riled up. I’ve had the watch over Lake Baikal for three months, and they’ve doubled down on their troop deployments there, that’s for sure. So you need my ship? Why not fly off in that contraption you came in on?”

“It hasn’t got the range. We’ve already come all this way from the Sea of Okhotsk, and can go no further. So I need this airship, but I’ll want your cooperation in managing it, and your crew. I can navigate, but I’m no airship Captain, rest assured. I don’t want your job.”

“Mother of God,” said Symenko, a light of understanding in his eyes now. “You’ve gone and pulled a fast one on his lordship, is that so? It’s true that he wants the lot of you rounded up and hauled off to Irkutsk, isn’t it.”

“Is that where he wanted us? It doesn’t surprise me, but I have another mission, and it simply won’t wait. Now… I’ll need this airship turned around and headed to Ilanskiy—right now. Will you give the order on that telephone to the bridge? If not, I’ll have to send Sergeant Troyak and Mister Orlov here to see that it gets done, and that could get… uncomfortable. You get me to Ilanskiy, and this ship is yours to do whatever you please, but now please. Give that order.” He gestured to the telephone.”

“He says please, does he? No pistol at my head, is it? I rather like your style, Captain. Why are you so hot and bothered to get to Ilanskiy, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Later. I’ll explain everything on the way there.” He waited.

“You realize you’ll meet his Lordship there, and aboard that bloody fleet flagship of his—Tunguska.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“And if he doesn’t take a fancy to my docking on the tower?”

“I’ll deal with that later. For now, Captain, if you please?”

Symenko gave him a narrow eyed smile. “You starting your own private war with Karpov out here? Good luck, Captain. Alright. I’ll give the order, so long as you have one of those Marines point a rifle my way. I’ll need to say it was done under duress, you understand. Because Karpov will want to see me about what happens here, won’t he, and I can’t very well just say I ferried you out here because you asked me so nicely.”

Symenko reached for the telephone and rang up the bridge. “Helmsman, this is the Captain. Come about and resume our original plotted course to Kansk. 3000 meters, and ahead full.”

Over 1800 kilometers to the west at Novosibirsk, Vladimir Karpov was clearly not happy. He had just received an emergency action message from his elder brother aboard Kirov. The planned rendezvous at Ilanskiy was cancelled. Instead he was to take Tunguska southeast to Irkutsk, but not until he could post a strong airship patrol over Ilanskiy. It had come in on the radio, and his brother had explained the problem.

“I’m still at Novosibirsk,” he said to the Siberian. “We were going to leave for Ilanskiy at 18:00 tomorrow.”

“Well, leave now,” his brother self insisted. “It’s Fedorov. You were right, brother. We can’t trust that bastard.”

“Fedorov? What has he done this time?”

“He’s up to his old tricks again.” The Siberian explained what had happened, and what he had ordered Symenko on the Irkutsk to do. “No one goes down that stairway at Ilanskiy. Understand? And we’ll need a strong airship patrol there.”

“That business with Angara got your dander up?” said the younger self. “Did you get my report on the wreckage? There was clear evidence they were hit with large caliber rounds.”

“Yes, yes, we can go over that later. For now, Ilanskiy must be adequately garrisoned against any similar incursion, and I want you to round up Fedorov and the others.”

“The others?”

“Orlov is with him, and Troyak with four Marines.”

“I see… That won’t be easy, brother. Troyak could be a problem.”

“Don’t worry about it, they are all already under custody on the Irkutsk. Just get over there, and bring the whole lot to our new base at Okha on Sakhalin island. We’ll talk privately there, and I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

“Alright, but I’ll need to take on more fuel. It’s 1400 kilometers to Irkutsk from here, but I can leave in two hours.”

“And Ilanskiy?”

“I have Riga and Narva with me. I’ll send them both.”

So even as Fedorov sped west towards Ilanskiy, Tunguska would be heading the opposite direction towards Irtutsk. Narva and Riga were much closer to Ilanskiy at Novosibirsk, but they were both in the process of replenishing, and planned to leave in two hours. It was going to take Fedorov just under 18 hours to reach Ilanskiy, and even with their delayed departure, those two airships would reach their defensive posting in just eight hours.

Miles to the north, another airship drifted through the grey mist over a long winding river. Hauptmann Karl Linz was studying his charts as he peered at the river below. They had been following the Yenisei for some time, waiting for it to branch off to the east in the Angara. If they continues south, it would take them to Krasnoyarsk, and only about 120 kilometers west of Kansk. But that route was always closely watched by flights of roving aircraft from the fields near Krasnoyarsk. Taking the Angara tributary would see them moving almost due east, about 230 to 250 kilometers north of Kansk. A good compass was all he needed to navigate south, and they had scouted the route earlier.

He was following charts that had been provided to him by Otto Kluge, the Kapitan of Fafnir, for he was commander of her sister ship, Fraenir, out on its maiden voyage.

Kluge got an airship out here on his first sortie, he thought. Maybe I’ll get lucky too. His chart says to follow this river and look for a knob like bend at the small village of Pinchuga. That’s where I make my turn. Perhaps we’ll sneak into Ilanskiy and give them a nasty little surprise.

What he did not know at that moment, was that a pair of good fighting battleships were already en route to Ilanskiy on Karpov’s orders, and when he got there the reception was likely to be none too cordial, particularly after the loss of the Angara. Even so, the presence of this massive new German airship was going to factor heavily in what was now to happen. Karpov’s bombing run over Germany would have repercussions he could have never imagined when he first ordered the bombs to fall.

As for Fedorov, he realized that he would likely meet opposition at Ilanskiy, both in the air and on the ground. So he had no intention of trying to take the airship in close to the town. He would leave it to Symenko, and take to the ground east of Ilanskiy, along the same route they had once planned for their raid. There was a full Siberian Division at Ilanskiy now, and that became his next problem. He would now be trying to do what Ivan Volkov, and all his legions and airships had failed to do over a long year of struggle. But they had slipped in once before, and with Troyak, they would try once again. Everything depended on them doing so successfully, or so he believed, even though his nemesis, Karpov, saw things in an entirely different light.

Yes, they would try once again, and he had a plan….

Even as he thought that, other men were thinking too, and asking questions, serious men, and very far away. He would never hear their voices; never know what they would say, but his life would be profoundly affected by what they concluded. For they, too, had plans of their own—plans that could put an end to the long debate and mounting tension between Fedorov and Karpov, but in a way neither of them would ever expect.