Steel Reign

Chapter 1

The Admiral sat in the quiet of his quarters, a rare and private moment alone, away from the workings of the ship, the burden of command that he had shouldered for so very long. He could never really set it down, he knew, for even now some deep inner sense was hearing the ship, instinctively processing the sounds, knowing the rhythm of it all like a mechanic might listen to a finely tuned engine. He could hear the movement of the crew in the corridors, up and down the ladders, and always there was that feeling of their eyes on him when he stood on the bridge, or passed them in the long narrow halls.

Dobrynin once had his fine tuned ear on the reactors, but Volsky listened to the entire ship, all of it, the sound of the radar systems, the thrum of the turbines turning the screws, the mutter of voices, the movement of heavy booted feet on the metal decks. When it moved, rolling in an unexpected swell, his body instinctively compensated, sea legs tensing and shifting his balance, a reflex born of thousands of hours at sea. The thought that it was all his to govern and manage was sometimes heavy on him, as it was this night, with his heart burned again with loss.

It had been seven hours now, and there had been no further sign of Fedorov. His faithful Navigator had been out on the weather deck, a place the young Captain often went to clear his head, and then, when Rodenko came up to relieve him that morning, he simply could not be found.

There followed the inevitable sequence of events, innocuous reflex at the beginning as Rodenko put out an all points call on the ship’s P.A. for the Captain, but it was not returned. Long minutes passed, a distended period that saw two other P.A. calls unanswered. Then it all came to Volsky where he had been walking the lower decks. He had heard the P.A. calls, yet gave them no thought, thinking Fedorov had lost himself in some business or another. Yet as the messages repeated, there came an inner thrum of anxiety that was carried in the silence. Something was wrong. Volsky could feel it, sense it, and he knew it on some deep inner level. Fedorov was not lost in his history books, or wandering in a place below decks where he could not hear the P.A. system. No.

Fedorov was gone.

As soon as Volsky heard the next plaintive call, he knew that to a certainty. “Admiral Volsky, please come to the bridge. This is the Executive Officer…” The hot potato was about to be quietly tossed into the Admiral’s lap, as it inevitably was. They were going to discuss it, initiate an all points search on the ship, circling in place as it had been for endless hours, with the watchmen puckering their eyes from every deck and mast. They might even launch boats to scour the seas around them, though Volsky knew they would not find any sign of the man adrift at sea. It was no good trying to use the helicopter, for that damnable fog remained stolidly impenetrable all around them.

Yes, the minute Volsky heard that first call, he knew Fedorov would never be seen again; his calm and reassuring voice never heard again on the bridge. He was gone, and Volsky knew it with a heaviness akin to grief. He would go up to the bridge, huddling with Rodenko to begin the search. There would be Fedorov’s boots, still stuck in the deck plating near that odd depression, but the man would never fill them again.

“I do not think we will find him,” said Volsky quietly to Rodenko, his voice hushed so none of the other bridge crew might hear him.

“But sir… Where could he be?”

“That is a very good question,” Volsky remembered his words to the XO. “We are still asking it about Mister Orlov, and Mister Tasarov, and Chief Dobrynin, and Director Kamenski, are we not? And God only knows who else is missing, and without a soul aboard remembering they were ever here.”

“But this is different,” said Rodenko. “Fedorov… we all remember him. I spoke with every man on the bridge crew. They all know him. It’s not like the others, Tasarov, Kamenski, Orlov. We haven’t forgotten him. Could he have simply fallen overboard?”

“I very much doubt that,” Volsky remembered how heavy hearted he felt when he said that, knowing Fedorov was gone, missing him already, mourning his loss from the very first report with a quiet inner grief. But Rodenko was correct. This time there was no hazy memory loss concerning the man. It was not like Tasarov, when only one man on the ship could remember he ever existed, his best friend Nikolin. Perhaps it was like that now with Fedorov, he thought. I was very fond of that young man, very close to him. He was at the center of everything that has happened to the ship and crew all these long months. Perhaps he simply has too much gravity to be easily forgotten.

It had taken them some time, like men shaking off a dream and embracing reality, before they finally remembered the others, Dobrynin, Kamenski, Orlov. Fedorov said something about gophers, and that set everything loose in Volsky’s mind. That single thread of memory had rippled with fire, the energy leaping through one synapse after another in his tired brain, and the soft glow of recollection rekindled as it went. Places in his mind that had been stilled, as though misted over with that same heavy fog that now surrounded the ship, were now suddenly awake again, remembering… remembering…

Yet with Fedorov, I knew it from the very first. I could never forget that man, he thought. It was just like that moment when they realized Orlov was gone as well. They had been huddled on the bridge, with Fedorov trying to jog everyone’s memories concerning these missing men. He could still hear the Captain’s voice….

“My god—might there be more men missing? I was talking with Gagarin in the workshops, and he seemed very troubled, thinking he had a short shift, with a man missing. It was as if his old habits were at odds with the reality around him. I think he was struggling to remember something, just as I was, and Nikolin. Just as you did Admiral.”

“Who else?” said Volsky. “Might there be other men missing? What if none of us remembers? We’ll have to find a way to go over the entire crew with a fine toothed comb and count our heads.”

“Orlov would be the man for that,” said Fedorov, fingering the pocket compass the Chief had given him, suddenly remembering the man.

“Orlov?”

Now Fedorov gave the Admiral another cautious look. “Gennadi Orlov,” he said. “The Chief. He’s the one who found that thing I threw over the side—the Devil’s Teardrop….”

“He reached for the dangling intercom handset again, grasping it and raising it to speak. “Chief Orlov, please respond immediately. This is Captain Fedorov.”

They waited, each man looking from one to the other, wondering, held in suspense, as if they were waiting at the edge of infinity itself. They had all climbed to this place together, and the rope of their recollection and memory was still dangling over that precipice, as they waited for the last man to come up.

But he never came. Fedorov repeated the call, but it went unanswered, his voice echoing plaintively through the ship, hollow, forlorn, lost.

Orlov was gone.

And this time it was Fedorov.

Volsky sighed, turning when he heard the soft knock at his cabin door. He knew it was Rodenko, at least he hoped that was the case. He had asked the XO to come to his cabin, and was relieved when the hatch opened and he saw Rodenko’s face.

“You wanted to see me, Admiral?”

“Yes, come in, Mister Rodenko. I don’t suppose you have any further news concerning Fedorov.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’ve had no word from the search details.”

Volsky nodded heavily. “Are the men still out in the launches?”

“We have three boats out sir, all tethered to the ship by rope, but they’ve seen nothing in the water.”

“And I do not think they will,” said Volsky. “Have Nikolin signal them to return to the ship… Assuming we still have a man named Nikolin at communications.” He gave Rodenko a searching look.

“Yes sir, Nikolin is still with us.”

“Good.” Volsky forced a half smile. “Well Mister Rodenko, it seems you are due for a promotion. A ship must have a Captain, and with Fedorov gone, you are next in line, the only other man I can rely on now. We will have to give some thought as to who we will put in your place as Executive Officer. Zolkin is a good man, with a good head on his shoulders, but he does not know ship’s operations. Any suggestions?”

“I’ll give it some thought sir. Byko might stand in, though he’s been very busy of late checking for any further damage to the ship.”

“Yes,” Volsky nodded. “Byko. He’s a steady hand, and just what we may need. He can coordinate his engineering crews from the bridge easily enough. I’ll speak with him.”

“Very good sir.”

Volsky had a vacant expression on his face, and Rodenko knew it well enough. Toska, sadness, loss, a melancholy that was too deep for words. It was anguish, heartache, a longing and regret. It was a restless uncertainty, anxiety, but also a nostalgia that was a cousin to grief, but behind all that there was love, and a quiet hope for better times.

“Mister Rodenko,” said Volsky. “I must tell you that I have felt very odd of late.”

“We all have, sir.”

“No,” said Volsky with a wag of his thick finger. “It is more than this confusing madness that has been plaguing us. It is very strange… I feel… empty.”

“Losing a man like Fedorov will do that to you sir. And we’ve lost so many other good men.”

“Yes, but that is not what I mean. It is as though I was just not all here. I’m forgetful, listless, and very fatigued. The other day I was on my way to the bridge and found myself on the wrong deck.”

“It’s just the whole situation, sir, this fog, the missing men, Lenkov’s legs.”

“It’s more than that. Mister Rodenko, I must tell you that you should not be surprised if I am the man who fails to make his next assigned shift. I feel all thin and stretched… I feel like something is pulling at me, reaching for me, but I cannot see it or understand it. If I should suffer the same fate as our good Mister Fedorov, then realize that all this business will then be on your shoulders. Understand?”

Rodenko sighed, and nodded. He remembered the day his grandfather had spoken to him like this, telling him that he felt old and all used up, with nothing more to do on this earth, and nowhere to go. Three days later he died.

“I will do my best sir,” he said.

“I’m sure you will. The crew is having a difficult time as it stands. My presence here has done some good in holding things together, and Fedorov, god bless the man, was a very great help. If I turn up missing next, things may get very difficult…”

Rodenko nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“Do you? Well, I think you should have a talk with Sergeant Troyak. Should the crew become disturbed, he is another man that can help you pull things together. Use your best judgment when it comes to posting his Marines, but it may come to that in time.”

He heard himself say that, and smiled inwardly… In time…

“Sir,” said Rodenko haltingly. “What’s happening to everyone, the men. Where are they going?”

“Better men than me have tried to answer that question, including Fedorov. I cannot help you any more than they could. Fedorov said it was this Paradox business, the same thing that’s been causing all the other problems around the ship, including Lenkov’s legs. We don’t belong here, Mister Rodenko. That is the simplest way I can put it. Time has no place for us, and so now we pay the price for our meddling.”

“We don’t belong where, sir? Are we still in the Atlantic of 1941?”

“We seem to be in the Atlantic, though we have never verified that. If we shifted again, as Fedorov believed we would, then most of the time we stayed right where we were, except for the time difference. There was that one occasion when we moved from the Pacific to the Atlantic, Fedorov said it was like someone picked the ship up, like a toy in a bathtub, and the earth simply turned beneath us. Well, here we are… somewhere. We’ve been circling in place like a restless shark. Fedorov advised it, in the event we sailed right up on land in this heavy fog.”

“It’s been days now sir. Why doesn’t it lift?”

“You’ve been in the doldrums before, Rodenko. These conditions can persist for weeks.”

“Then perhaps we should move on some more definite course. It might take us out of this mess.”

“It might. If you wish to do so, you can choose any heading you desire. I think we can assume we start from our last known position. Yes, let us go then, and see if we can find the stars, or perhaps the moon. That’s what Fedorov might do.”

“Very well sir. Will you be taking your regular bridge rotation, or would you prefer some time to rest? I’m sure Zolkin would have something that might help.”

“Yes, I think I’ll go see the good doctor. He’ll probably want me chained to a cot down in sick bay, so I think I’ll visit the galley first. That’s another thing. The ship will need fresh food and water soon. Put that on your list if we find a good heading. Steer for safe ground so we might put men ashore to take on supplies.”

“I’ll take care of everything sir, don’t worry.”

“And the other officers… See that you have a line of succession well established. Just in case….”

“I will, sir.” Rodenko felt as though Volsky was very worried he would be the next man to vanish. He was running down some mental checklist with him, still tending to all the things that would have to be done to see to the safety of the ship and crew.

“Well,” said Volsky. “How does it feel now, Captain? You’ll be filling Fedorov’s shoes, but not the ones he left stuck in the deck please.”

Rodenko smiled. “I don’t think they’d fit me, sir, and I can only hope I can measure up to the job your handing me.”

“Just use your head,” Volsky pointed. “And sometimes your heart as well. Don’t forget the men, Rodenko. They’ve been through so very much….”

Chapter 2

Orlov sat in the officer’s mess, a sour expression on his face. He was Chief of Operations, but now he felt diminished in the hulking shadow of Grilikov. That man was never far from Karpov, a brooding presence always lingering at the edge of the Admiral’s business. And that was another thing that bothered him—Admiral Karpov. How did he get so high? Volsky was much easier to get along with than Karpov ever was. The ship put into Murmansk, Karpov disappears for a time, and Volsky never returns. Then word came that the Admiral had died while fighting aboard a British battleship in the Atlantic. Captain Karpov was bad enough, but Admiral Karpov was something else altogether.

He kept thinking about that, and the strange way he felt whenever Karpov was near. The man gave him the chills, but Karpov was still just the same little weasel he always had been.

Why should I feel so put off by the man, he thought? Surely not because he posed any physical threat. I’m a full head taller, and if I wanted to I could bust Karpov up any time I wished—Grilikov aside. Yet when Karpov looks at me now, it’s as if he was seeing right through me, seeing every little dirty plan and scheme I ever came up with. It’s as if he knows what I might do before I even get the notion in my own head, and by god, that man’s eyes can freeze your blood.

Why was he so different now, not just the scar on his face, but everything about him? It’s as if he wakes each day and puts on his own shadow. There’s a darkness about him, a coldness, a ruthless soul, that one. Before, he was always looking to find some angle, or work his way into some favorable position, and with three or four reasons why some other man was to blame for anything that ever went wrong. Now, the thought of competing for a position would never enter his mind. If he wants something, he just takes it—like this goddamn ship!

He was different, truly changed since this revelation that the ship had come through a hole in time. How in hell could that happen, he thought? I’ve been round and round with Chief Dobrynin about it, but he doesn’t know anything. That little shit Fedorov knows something, more than he lets on. I was supposed to watch him. Karpov explained it all to me in gangland terms. He said he was going to give me a promotion…

“I’m bumping you up to Kassir, the man of authority, the bookmaker, the man who collects from all the Brigadiers. And guess what, you won’t be running a small group of six to ten cells, like you might back home in Saint Petersburg with the Grekov Group. No. Beneath you is the entire crew of this ship, and you are Kassir, Chief of the Boat. Understand? The other officers like Rodenko and Samsonov, and even Troyak, well, they are your Brigadiers, and the men beneath them are all Boeviks and Shestyorkas in those Brigades, the warriors, runners, messenger boys, you get the drift. We call them mishman and matocks. Some are torpedo men, missile men, and you know who they are. Others are messenger boys like Nikolin.”

“What about Fedorov?”

“Funny you should mention him,” Karpov smiled. “He’s too damn smart to be a Shestyorka, but he doesn’t have the temperament to be a warrior, or even a Brigadier. He might make a good Soveitnik, a councilor for me once I vet the man thoroughly. So you get another job in that for me. You are my spy keeping an eye on Fedorov.”

Yes, Fedorov was smart, too smart. He had already worked his way into Karpov’s good graces. Now he struts about on the bridge like he was born there—Captain Fedorov—Starpom of the whole goddamned ship. So what am I supposed to do with that? I get passed over for a one time Lieutenant Navigator, and now Fedorov lords it over me as Starpom. Karpov told me it was all about stars and bars, all in the chain of command. Then he goes and makes Fedorov his goddamned Starpom!

Every time he thought about Fedorov, he had a sour feeling. It was as if the man had done something personally to him to offend, though he could not think of what it was, beyond having the temerity to stand up to him that one time in the mess hall.

Karpov says I’m Kassir, but what am I supposed to do with that? Karpov says I’m to spy on Fedorov, but he’s too damn clever. Now he just whispers in Karpov’s ear, and the two of them sit up there on the bridge while I just bounce about below decks and knock heads together on the crew rotations. I should be up on the bridge, in the regular watch rotations there. I should be in on all the little discussions those two have now. Karpov says he came out here to bust up the Japanese, well he should see me about that, not Fedorov.

He mulled and muttered inwardly over that, stirring in some gravy to warm his mashed potatoes. Fedorov and Karpov, like two little peas in a pod now. And that wasn’t the worst of it. It was those strange dreams that were plaguing him these days, impossible dreams. He had one the other night again, same as last week. He was up high, falling through the clouds, adrift, and his heart was pounding with fear. He saw the clouds seared by the hot white fingers of missile trails, as if a steely hand was reaching for him, clawing at him, seeking his life.

That was the way it always started, the pulse pounding fear, then that awful sensation of falling. It didn’t end that way though. It got better. The longer he fell, the more he experienced a tremendous sensation of freedom. He was not plummeting down to some inescapable doom, but soaring free, alive, and with some newfound purpose. He was leaving the ship behind, out on his own, and yet here, in this world, he knew things that would make him a very rich and powerful man in no time at all.

Soon he was brawling in bars, drinking himself to sleep, rolling hapless derelict passersby on the quays of some big harbor, and taking whatever he wanted. Karpov said a little brawn was necessary at times, and Orlov was quick to agree.

Strange dreams… always the same, falling, falling into the sea, adrift until he found himself on a fishing boat. After that it just got better and better. He would go where he wanted, take what he wanted, and with everything he knew, he would be rich in no time. Then came that strange dream with another nosy Captain ruining his game, this time a barrel chested British officer with a cane he kept tapping on the deck of his antiquated old destroyer. The next thing he knew he was sitting in a dark room, with a single light above, and someone was getting pushy, asking him questions. Yes… Too many questions.

They came every night now, dreams of riding the wide sea in a freighter, then on a much smaller old trawler… Dreams of laughing aloud as he opened up on a submarine with a machinegun. What was that all about? Then he had the weirdest dream of all. It was just the face of a man, choking, eyes bulging red, a look of constricted pain on his face. Orlov realized he had the man by the neck, and he was choking the life out of him, enjoying every last second of the experience, watching his lips turn purple, eyes roll over like a shark, and hearing that last desperate wheezing attempt to save himself. Then it was over.

That was one hell of a dream, and it had fisted up like a bad storm in his mind three times in the last ten days. He couldn’t wait to see if he would dream it again that night. Or maybe he would dream the other wild flight he made, dangling from some massive hulk in the sky above, suspended inside a small steel capsule on a long cable. It was another wild free moment, only this time it ended in that terrible wrenching experience of icy cold fear. The sound… The goddamned sound… the sound you could feel, but not hear… That bright shiny thing he found on the ground when he turned to run for his life….

He kept that dream in his pocket for some time, wondering about it. Then, as if to mock him, it returned to plague his sleep yet again, a strange object, silver bright, perfectly smooth, and in the shape of a metal teardrop, about the size of an egg. It made no sense, but the next thing he dreamt was the swirling of silt and sand, as if driven by a fitful wind. He looked in his hand, saw the object he had found with a strange glow about it. Suddenly it was very hot and he dropped it with a yelp of pain. After that it was Fedorov again, sticking his nose in the situation and demanding the object, whatever it was.

He didn’t like that dream, the one where Fedorov appeared and took that thing from him—put it right in his pocket and walked away. Why would he ever let that little shit get away with something like that? What did all this mean?

He shook his head, as if to dispell the recollection of the dreams, but he knew they would bother him again that night. Maybe he’d choke that bastard to death again, or ride that steel capsule, or fall like a fiery angel from the sky into the sea. Then again, maybe he’d hear that sound again, there but not there, deep and chilling, so goddamn unnerving that the only response was to run, run for your sorry ass life. Then he’d awaken into that life, remembering he was safe on the ship again, one sorry ass indeed. He’d get up, forget to shave, grumble on below decks as always, checking the duty rosters. And he’d see Karpov climbing the ladder up to the goddamned bridge, his eyes on him a very long time as he went, sallow, vengeful eyes. What the hell am I doing on this god forsaken ship, he thought? Why do I put up with all this shit?

That night, however, he got quite a shock. He had been sitting in the officer’s mess, thinking about all of this—Karpov, Grilikov, Fedorov, the dreams. Then in walked the fresh little Starpom himself! Orlov gave him a sallow grin.

“Look what the bear dug up,” he said, the Russian equivalent of ‘look what the cat dragged in.’

“Good evening, Chief. How’s the fare tonight?”

“Miserable,” said Orlov, “just like last night. But you’re a senior officer now, eh? You can just go back and ask the chef for specials.”

“Well, you’re a senior officer as well, Orlov. Is that what you do?”

“I wrangled some gravy, but it didn’t help much.”

“I see… Mind if I join you?”

Orlov was thinking he had to see what Fedorov was up to tonight, as he had been somewhat remiss, so he simply nodded his head. Maybe he could learn something.

“How’s the air up there on the bridge these days,” he said with just an edge of resentment.

“Same as always,” said Fedorov. “Karpov casts a pretty thick shadow. The man practically lives on the bridge now, and Grilikov gets a permanent post up there too. Samsonov is training him on CIC operations.”

“The two of them should get along fairly well.” Orlov shrugged, his expression hiding nothing of his sour inner mood.

“Something bothering you tonight, Chief?”

“Tonight, last night, every night.” He didn’t know why he offered that, but once he had enjoyed talking with Fedorov—before, when he was just the ship’s Navigator. He secretly admired the other man’s intelligence, even though he could never understand how he could bury his nose in those boring books all the time.

“What do you mean?” asked Fedorov.

“Nothing… Just bad dreams. Probably because of all this lousy food. A man can’t sleep with a belly full of cold potatoes. That’s what this whole deployment has turned into, eh Fedorov? Cold potatoes.”

“It’s certainly difficult. You losing sleep over it? What’s with these bad dreams?”

Questions… Just like that dream he had from time to time. Dark rooms and questions. Now here was Fedorov asking them this time, like he was Doctor Zolkin, only without any medicine to dispense. He gave the new Starpom a sour look.

“Tell you what,” he said gruffly. “I was dreaming I was choking the life out of someone the other night. I had these nice big hands on his scrawny little neck and I was watching his eyes bug out. He was asking me too many questions too, just like you. So maybe I’ll dream you into that little nightmare next time it comes around, eh? And where do you get off taking anything from me?”

Even as he said that, Orlov realized it was stupid. It had just popped out, as he had been thinking about that last dream, where Fedorov demanded that silver teardrop, pocketed the damn thing and then just walked away.

“Taking something from you?” Fedorov could sense Orlov’s hostility, and his instinct was to mend fences. “Have I done anything to offend you Chief? I can’t recall ever taking anything of yours.”

“Never mind,” said Orlov. “It was just another dream.”

Strange, thought Fedorov. Orlov is clearly in a bad mood tonight. Dreams are dreams, and I realize he may bear me a good deal of resentment, seeing as though I was promoted to Starpom over him. He’s never liked that, but… I did take something from him once, though he couldn’t possibly know about that. Just the same…

“Sorry Chief. I don’t mean to pry into your affairs, but what was it you thought I took from you?”

Orlov leaned back, folding his arms. “Nosy little runt, aren’t you. Want to know what the Chief does in his sleep, do you? You want to get cozy with me now, Fedorov? Well I’ll tell you what. I’ve been dreaming I was off this damn ship, that’s what. Dreamt I jumped so far that none of you would ever see me again. Found bars, beer, babushkas, and better food. And when someone got nosy with me I choked the breath right out of him. You want to get nosy with me now?”

“Alright…” Fedorov held up a hand. “Like I say, I don’t mean to offend. Just making conversation, that’s all. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the cold potatoes.” He stood up, taking his plate and intending to go to the buffet that had been set out tonight. Yet even as he did so, the things the Chief had just said to him struck an odd chord in his mind. That was what Orlov had done—jumped ship, and from his old story, he had quite a time in the bars and brothels of Spain thereafter. Orlov said I took something from him….

A sudden memory returned to him now, of those first strange moments after the ship last vanished in the Atlantic. Orlov had been below decks seeing to the work crews, which were scouring the ship to see if any further damage had been sustained.

“Chief on the bridge!” came the boatswain’s call, and Orlov huffed through the side hatch in a grumpy mood. “Top to bottom,” he said gruffly. “The men are going over the whole damn ship!”

“I trust you are well, Chief,” said Volsky.

“Not bad,” said Orlov. “But we found another stair missing on the lower engineering level. They had to rig a ladder there. Damn thing was half there, three steps, the rest gone. What’s going on around here, Fedorov?” Even Orlov turned to the ex-navigator for answers now, but Fedorov could only speculate.

“We’re shifting, yet in an uncontrolled state,” said Fedorov. “Remember my example with magnetism? The ship may have acquired some kind of phantom energy throughout its travels. It may be causing these effects. How were the final mast inspections, Chief?”

“Everything seems to be working on the main masts and radar decks. The Tin Man optical units checked out fine too. An Engineering team is on the way to fix that mess.” He thumbed the main bridge hatch. “Speaking of magnetism, there’s just one other thing gone haywire.” He smiled, handing Fedorov his pocket compass.

Fedorov took it, and to his amazement, the needle was completely lost. It spun left and right, then twirled about, unable to find magnetic north, a useless flutter, no matter which way he held it.

“Keep it,” said Orlov. “It’s no good to me.” He tramped over to the coffee station near the plotting table, and looked for a mug. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe the coffee will taste better for a while.”

…Half way to the buffet, Fedorov stopped, an odd impulse sending his hand into his jacket pocket. His heart leapt as his fingers settled on a small object, and he slowly drew it out.

It was Orlov’s compass!

Chapter 3

How could it be here? That was the first question burning in Fedorov’s mind. Orlov gave this to me on the other ship, the ship I still remember with complete clarity. Yet this is more than a memory, it’s a physical object, and I clearly remember that moment when Orlov handed it to me. In fact, he disappeared shortly after that, which is why I was so surprised when I first encountered him here on this ship.

It was a remnant of that other life, he thought, just like that bandage Doctor Zolkin discovered down in sick bay, and the data on his computer with the names of the missing crew—just like that magazine Karpov found, the one we recovered from that island off the northern coast of Australia. My god… that seems so long ago now, and we were just about to enter the Pacific at that time. All these things were odd remnants from the life I experienced before. Yet how could they be here, on this ship?

Now he remembered the strange documents Alan Turing had found in the archive of Bletchley Park. They were detailed accounts of experiences from that other life, that other meridian of time we were sailing on before we shifted and manifested here in June of 1940. But this isn’t the same ship. It doesn’t make any sense. How could these things exist here?

A sudden thought occurred to him. If Orlov gave me this compass once before, might he have a similar one now? He hesitated briefly, seeing the Chief’s surly mood, but decided to ask anyway.

“Chief,” he said. “Were you in the habit of using a pocket compass?”

“What?” Orlov gave him a blank look. “Pocket compass? I suppose I have one somewhere. What’s the matter, Fedorov? You lost all of a sudden, or do you just miss your post at navigation?” He gave him a wry grin.

“Once a navigator, you always have your nose in the charts. Yeah, I’m missing my compass. If you’re not needing yours…”

“I’ll look for it.” Orlov said nothing more, getting up and bussing his tray over to the dirty dish counter.

Fedorov was very confused about all of this as he slowly made his way back to the buffet. The boundaries between these two meridians of time seemed strangely permeable. Admiral Tovey has been right at the edge of recollection from that first encounter we had with him after we shifted here. Now Zolkin seems to be struggling with memories from those earlier experiences. I wonder if Orlov is too.

“Say Chief,” he said tentatively. “This may sound odd, but do you ever get the feeling that we’ve done this before?”

“You mean that slop they’ve been serving at the buffet the last three days?”

Fedorov smiled. “No, not the food. I mean this whole situation—the ship, this incredible shift in time. Ever have what they call déjà vu?”

“What’s that, some kind of French cologne?”

“No, no. It’s a feeling that comes where you think you’ve already lived through some present moment before—maybe like you’re stuck in some kind of loop or something, and you keep going over and over events of the past, reliving them.”

Orlov looked over his shoulder, giving Fedorov a nod. “Maybe I know this. You mean like a dream—like those nice little nightmares I told you about?”

“Something like that, only it tends to happen while you’re awake. You walk into a room, and you suddenly think to yourself—I’ve been here before, done all this before.”

Orlov grinned again. “Yes, every time I go to take a shit.”

“Seriously. Ever get odd feelings like that—things repeating, odd memories returning over and over?”

“Well… Like I told you, I see things in my sleep—dreams—and yes, they repeat over and over. What of it?”

“What kind of dreams? What is it that repeats? You said you were choking someone?”

“You some kind of shrink now? What is it with you, Fedorov? Alright, I have this nice little dream where I’m choking someone to death. I can see his face, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who he is.”

“Are you sure?” Now a memory returned to Fedorov, a conversation he had with Orlov in this very room, just shortly after the ship appeared in June of 1940. He had been reading one of the history books Sergei Kirov had given to him, trying to get a grasp on all that had changed. A weariness overcame him, and the tea he was drinking was not helping. He was just about to finish up and get some sleep when Orlov happened along….

“What are you doing, Fedorov? Nose in the books again? You should have been promoted to the ship’s librarian.” Orlov said that with a grin, realizing, after all, that he was speaking to the ship’s Captain now, and remembering the humiliating lesson Troyak had taught him about showing due respect when he had been busted to the Marine detachment. He had come to the officer’s dining hall for a cup of coffee before going on duty, and found Fedorov sitting at a table reading.

“The world has changed, Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I did not realize just how much has gone awry.”

“I know you are wanting to blame me for that, yes?”

“What? No Chief. I think I got to you in time, or at least those British commandos did. Besides, most anything you may have changed would have had to occur after 1942. The altered state of affairs I am reading about now all happened well before that. I think it was Karpov who had a great deal to do with some of the changes, and I must also confess that I am equally to blame.”

“You, Fedorov? What did you do?”

Fedorov confessed his crime, that errant whisper, and he told Orlov that it ended up resulting in the death of Joseph Stalin himself.

“My god!” Orlov exclaimed. “Here I was worried a bit about choking Commissar Molla, and you took a contract out on Stalin!” As always, Orlov interpreted the events in light of his own life experience, running with the Russian mob for so many years before he had joined the navy had left him very jaded.

“So you see, Orlov, you can sleep easy now. I’m the real culprit.”

“And that bastard Karpov. He sleeps easy too—with the fishes!” Orlov grinned again.

“Yes, I suppose so. In fact, as to that Commissar you speak of, remember, in this world now it is only 1940, so he may still be alive out there somewhere, though if he is, he will be working for Volkov, and not the Bolsheviks.”

At that Orlov’s face and mood darkened. “Still alive? But I killed him.”

“In 1942, but that world, those events that saw you make your way to the Caucasus… well, they might never occur. This is a new world, Chief. Another life altogether, for you, and I suppose for Commissar Molla as well.”

“Sookin syn!” Orlov swore, clearly unhappy with what he was learning now.

“Orlov… That man you say you dream about. Can you remember anything about how he looks? I mean, did he have a uniform? Was he in the service?”

Orlov’s eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it…. Yes… He had on some kind of military cap, with a red star.”

“Navy?”

“No… Not Navy. But it was just a goddamned dream, Fedorov.”

Now Fedorov decided to take a leap here, and asked Orlov something he didn’t expect.

“Chief… Ever hear of a man named Molla? A Russian Commissar.”

That hit Orlov like a bucket of cold water. He turned, a look of confused surprise on his face. Commissar Molla. Yes, he had heard that name before. He knew the man… But how? Where? That was the face in his dream, Molla’s hound dog face wrenched with pain. Something seemed to snap in his mind, like a window breaking in a storm, and a flood of memory rushed in like cold wind. Commissar Molla!

“Sookin syn! The bastard thought he would have his way with the women, rounding them up like cattle. Well he picked up more than he knew. Bothered my grandmother, that sick, demented son-of-a-bitch. Then he started asking questions—put that pistol of his right in my face.” Then the memories came in a great torrent. It all came back to him, with crystalline clarity, icy cold, and chilling to the bone. He remembered it all….

Orlov heard the footsteps in the hall, and smiled inwardly. At last, he thought. The Commissar was finally here. Once inside the prison they had taken his overcoat, cap and service jacket, just as he expected, and they were hanging on the coat rack in the corner, objects of curiosity or evidence to be fodder for the interrogation that was coming next. Orlov was suddenly reminded of that first session with Loban under the Rock of Gibraltar. He wondered if this Molla would get curious and meet Svetlana the way Loban had?

The door opened and a man stepped in, medium build, and dressed in a plain NKVD uniform with side pistol holstered and two thin leather straps crossed on his chest. Right over the place where the man’s heart was missing, thought Orlov. Yet as nondescript as his dress was, the man’s face and eyes were quite revealing. He was much younger than Orlov had expected him to be, and there was a cold, arrogant air about him, the character of a young man who had come into too much authority and power before he had lived enough to know how to use it. His eyes seemed to squint as he looked Orlov over, narrowed slits with obsidian ice behind them.

The Commissar walked to his desk, his footfalls loud on the old wood floor, but he did not sit down. He stood, regarding Orlov with those cold black eyes, one hand on his left hip. Then he calmly drew his pistol, raising it to the level of his cheek to take aim square at Orlov’s head.

“Name.” Molla’s voice was flat and terse, edged with impatience.

“Orlov.”

“Where did you get that uniform?”

Orlov looked at him, a glow of defiance on his cheeks as he sized up the situation. He needed to get the man closer to him.

“I took it from a dead man. He had little use for it, and I thought it would get me to my destination a little easier.”

“Dead man? You killed this man?”

“Of course,” Orlov returned quickly. “I don’t think he would have given me his uniform otherwise.”

“You killed an NKVD Officer?” Molla’s voice was loaded with recrimination now, the slits of his eyes more pronounced.

“Yes, I killed him. He insisted on taking me to Novorossiysk, and I did not wish to go there.”

Molla’s hand never wavered as he held the pistol, and now he slowly moved his finger tight on the trigger. It was a Nagant M1895, an old, reliable revolver dating back to the days of the last Tsar. Orlov could clearly see the bullet laden cylinder, and knew a round was chambered and ready to fire with one squeeze of Molla’s finger, but he was heedless of the danger. All he could think of was getting Molla closer.

“They say you claimed to have orders for me?”

“That was a lie.”

“Of course it was. No one gives me orders here, except perhaps Beria, and he is not around at the moment.”

“Lucky for us both,” said Orlov with a shrug.

Molla sensed something in the man, a strange kinship that was evident in his devil may care attitude. He was holding a pistol on the man, and yet he did not think the frank and direct answers he was receiving were born of fear. Most men would be clearly intimidated, eyes averted, with that pathetic pleading look as they struggled to find a way to prove their innocence. But not this man. No. He’s unlike any man we’ve hauled in for a good long while now. This one is a fallen angel, just like me, dark seraphim, bound for hell and determined to start the fires now while he lives. It’s as if he thought he was invulnerable!

“Just where did you think you were going, Orlov? What were you doing at Kizlyar? Are you a German sympathizer? A Spy? Were you trying to get through our lines to get to those pigs?”

“Of course not,” said Orlov hotly. “I’m Russian! I was looking for the pigs on this side of the wire, men who roust women and children out of their homes and truck them off to places like this in the night. Men like you, Commissar.”

Molla stepped closer, his hand tight on the revolver again. He had killed a hundred men for far less cause than this man just gave him; interrogated thousands more with seared and severed flesh. He was brash, young, and full of himself, and now he had a strong sense that the man he had before him was of the same dark order, a demon of a man who could kill without remorse, without conscience. These were the most dangerous men in the world, he thought. I could use a man like this… if I could control him. Then his righteous anger flared, as he realized just what the man had said to him. Bound for hell or not, we still keep order.

“You stinking piece of shit!” Molla swore at Orlov now. “Tell me… Which eye should I put the first bullet through?” He raised his pistol again, pointing it right at Orlov’s forehead.

“Tell me,” Orlov said darkly, looking him square in those icy black eyes. “How long can you breathe when I get both hands around your neck?”

It was very difficult to speak while you were choking, and that was what was happening to Molla now as he listened to Orlov’s last taunting rebuke.

The big Russian had moved so quickly that the Commissar could not even squeeze the trigger of his pistol! In an instant Orlov batted the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm and had a murderous hold on the other man’s neck, forcing him back on the desk where he had been sitting and tightening his big hands on the man’s throat. Molla’s pallid cheeks quickly reddened as he strained for breath….

“My God! Fedorov….” Orlov gave him a look of profound amazement. Molla! Yes, I know the man. I hunted the bastard down—choked the life out of him for what he did. Then, the next thing I remember I’m on some kind of….” He hesitated, as if struggling to recall something, the memory right at the edge of his mind, yet wreathed in shadow. “You came back for me!” The Chief pointed a thick finger at Fedorov, a look approaching anguish on his face.

Fedorov was watching him very closely, a light of excited awareness in his eyes. Orlov remembered! He was aware of experiences he lived through after he jumped ship. He knows!