Thor's Anvil

Chapter 13

The sensation of emptiness surrounded him, like a man suddenly thrown into water, with no place to hold and no footing beneath him. Fedorov groped frantically ahead of him for Orlov, but he felt nothing. Then a swooning moment overcame him, and he felt as though he might lose consciousness. At last, the vaporous feeling that had taken him subsided. He could feel solidity in his arms and legs again, and light dispelled the darkness.

He literally stumbled, his feet on something solid once more, and then came tumbling through the upper landing of the stairway. There he blinked stupidly, his vision clearing to see Sergeant Troyak staring at him, and all the other Marines.

“Sir,” said Troyak. “Are you all right?”

Troyak had been the first to reach that upper floor, shouldering his way through a closed door to see a startled man with a rifle there. Secure the upper landing, those had been his orders. He quickly took care of the matter, moving faster than that man could believe, and putting him down for a long sleep.

One by one, the other Marines stumbled up through the doorway, some still with their hand on the shoulder of the man in front, though that was no longer necessary after they had passed the crucial mid-point on the stairway where an inexplicable rift in time existed, a crack in Fedorov’s mirror of history, and one that ran from 1908, to 1942, and then on to 2021.

At last Fedorov came up, bleary eyed, confused, but slowly regaining his senses. He had felt that strange sensation before when he walked those stairs, but it was much worse this time. Still, Time had delivered him to this place, along with all his team, save one. He looked around the room, Troyak still watching him closely, a concerned expression on his face.

“Orlov,” he said. “Where is Orlov?”

“He was right behind me,” said Private Gomel.

“And right in front of me,” said Fedorov. “Sergeant. Did he come up?”

“No sir, I thought he was behind you.”

Eyes wide, Fedorov turned to the doorway looking down the stairs, but there was no one there. The dusty steps descended into shadows.

“Orlov!” he called. “Chief? Are you down there?”

“Sir,” said Troyak. “You know Orlov. He’s probably still in the foyer, flirting with that maid.”

“I tell you he was right in front of me!” Fedorov had a frantic look on his face, then he stopped. “Until he sneezed…. Did you hear that, Private Gomel?”

“Aye sir, that big nose of his must have gotten a whiff of that dust. Don’t they ever clean this place?”

My god, thought Fedorov, realizing what must have happened. Lord no, this can’t be happening now. Yes, he sneezed, and what if he reflexively moved his hand to his face, the hand he had on Gomel’s shoulder. He was carrying a duffel bag in the other hand. That had to be what happened.

It was.

At that crucial moment, just as Orlov reached that fissure in time, he had sneezed, moved his hand as anyone might, and the human chain had been broken. Fedorov now knew that he had literally felt Orlov vanish, felt the man disappear. In that dizzying moment where he felt himself to be untethered from all reality, Orlov had slipped through that crack in the mirror, but obviously to another place and time.

But what about me, thought Fedorov? I was right there with him when he vanished. Why did time allow me to reach this place, but not Orlov? He knew this was a futile question. He would never really know the why of it, or for that matter, why this rift persisted here at all. Perhaps it was some ineffable gravity that saw him carry on through to this place, and another riptide of destiny that took Orlov elsewhere. Lord, not again, he thought. Now how will I find that man?

Before he could think anything further, there was the sound of footsteps coming up the main stairway. Acting on instinct and reflex, Troyak gave a hand signal to his Marines, and they moved quickly into rooms on either side of that landing, weapons at the ready. Fedorov was still standing and staring down those stairs, trying to decide whether he should go back and see if Orlov might still be there, perhaps experiencing that same moment of chaos; perhaps retreating to the lower level, still in 1908.

Now it was Troyak’s hand heavy on his shoulder that snapped him back to the present. “Sir!” he hissed in a low whisper. “Someone is coming!”

He got Fedorov to move, out of the landing to that stairway, and into an adjacent room. Zykov had pulled the body of the fallen sentry inside just in time, for a group of soldiers in black uniforms came cautiously around the corner at the far end of the hall.

“What is going on up here,” came a voice. “Skolov? Where are you?”

Then silence, but to Troyak’s well trained ear, he knew those men were now slowly advancing down that hallway, weapons at the ready.

“Sir,” he whispered to Fedorov. “These are most likely the security men you briefed us about. What do you want done here?”

Fedorov had to think quickly, still shaken by all that had happened to him. He had gone from the tension of that moment with Mironov, the desperation and torment he felt, knowing he could not kill this man, and that everything else was his own damn fault. End it, a voice had whispered to him from deep within. Make certain you can never do any further harm.

That was when he had raised his trembling hand, intending to use that pistol and do just that—end it, end it all right then and there. It had been Mironov that stayed his hand, young Sergei Kirov, and that changed everything.

From that moment to this one was only a matter of fifteen minutes, but long years had intervened. Then came the shock of losing Orlov, and now this. If they had reached the 1940s again, then these men were most likely Tyrenkov’s elite security team, charged with the 24 hour watch on the railway inn. Fedorov realized that they were perhaps seconds from a real crisis here that would erupt in a firefight.

Think!

In a brief few seconds he sorted it all through. If his assumption was correct, then a firefight would soon leave men dead on both sides, and if his team prevailed here, it would only be a short interval before this building was completely surrounded by Tyrenkov’s men. There was too much he did not know. They had not even ascertained whether they had reached the 1940s yet. He simply could not allow more bloodshed at this juncture, and made a snap decision.

“I will handle this,” he said. “You men, stand fast. Take no action unless you hear a direct order from me.” Then he turned toward the half opened door and spoke in a loud voice. “Coming out!” he called. “Do not shoot! I am here to speak with your commanding officer!”

Fedorov stepped out of the room and into the hall, as Troyak grimaced, his hand tighter on the assault rifle he held. They had come all this way, first in the helo, and then in that odd airship, which then encountered that terrible devastation. Fedorov had tried to explain it to him: “We’ve moved,” he had said. “We aren’t in the same time as before. That event out there is the Tunguska Event. That’s what we were overflying, only not in 1942. It isn’t 1942 any longer…. So if I’m right, then this is 1908, and just a day or so after that thing fell back there on the 30th of June.”

1908? The Sergeant had a rough time swallowing that, though Orlov seemed to get it down easily enough. Then Fedorov had told him this long incredible tale, about Orlov jumping ship, and a long mission to find him. The longer he spoke, the more Troyak came to feel that everything Fedorov was saying was true. It was almost as if he could remember it, though the images remained just beyond his grasp. But like that deep sound that you could not hear, but feel, Troyak knew it to be true—he could just feel it in his bones.

Then Fedorov had told him about the stairway, and what they were now going to attempt. Apparently it had worked! They were obviously not in the same place they were before. After he put down that single guard at the upper landing, Troyak caught a glimpse of the town through the window where a small table rested in a nook, with a few books. It was not the same town they had been in moments before.

So Troyak knew who the men were coming down that hall, and he was prepared to do what was necessary, for as long as it was necessary, until he and his men either ran out of ammunition, or were all dead. But Fedorov had other ideas. The fact that Orlov was now missing had shaken him, and he still did not really know what had happened down there with that young man he was speaking to in the dining room—Mironov.

Now the moment of crisis was at hand. Fedorov stepped out into the lighted hallway. Damn brave, thought Troyak. But how will he get us out of this mess now?

“You there!” came a hard voice. “Don’t move. Let me see your hands!”

“Don’t shoot, Lieutenant. Are you one of Tyrenkov’s men?”

“I’ll ask the questions. Where is my guard? Is there anyone else with you up here? Goddammit, speak, before I put a bullet through you!”

Fedorov recognized the man’s uniform, just like the men Karpov had brought onto the ship. So they had made it back to that same world, he thought, though he did not yet know the year and day.

“Lieutenant, I would not do that if I were you. Tyrenkov would boil you alive. I am Anton Fedorov, Starpom off the battlecruiser Kirov, and I was sent here on a special mission by Vladimir Karpov, on his direct orders. Are you familiar with that name?”

“Karpov?” That name had obviously put the fear of the lord into the man, and Fedorov could see it in his manner. “You were sent here by Karpov? Who did you say you are?”

“Anton Fedorov. Now I will need to speak directly with your commanding officer, and quickly. You must find him at once.”

“Oh you’ll speak with him soon alright, but you may not like it. You’re the man we were told to be on the lookout for. How in God’s name did you get through my security?”

There came the sharp sound of fingers snapping, and the Lieutenant and Fedorov looked to see a tall man in a jet black overcoat at the far end of the hallway.

It was Tyrenkov.

“So here you are, Fedorov,” he said. “Quite a little hat trick you’ve pulled.” The Lieutenant immediately came to attention, saluting when he saw Tyrenkov, who had a drawn pistol in his black gloved hand.

“Yes, and you’re probably wondering just what the Lieutenant here was saying—how could I have possibly gotten through your security net. Well, let us sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. I suppose Karpov will want to know as well, and I will report to him in good time.”

“Precisely,” said Tyrenkov. “Step this way, please, and if you don’t mind, I must have the Lieutenant search you.”

“If you must,” said Fedorov. “And you should know that I have a squad of Marines with me.”

“Indeed,” said Tyrenkov.

“And they are carrying things… How should I put this? They are carrying things that I do not think Karpov would want anyone to see, let alone handle in any way. If you will take my word on it, I will vouch for these men, and absolutely guarantee they will pose no threat to you, your men, or these premises.”

“I would certainly hope not, because we have a full Siberian rifle division posted here, and another at Kansk. Let me see then…. Alright Fedorov, I’m going to take your word on this. Bring your men out. They can’t stay here, of course, but I can have the Lieutenant here arrange an escort to quarters on this very block, and they can wait there until we sort all this business out.”

“Agreed,” said Fedorov. “Do you wish to have your man search me now, or shall I bring out my men? I did have a service pistol, but my Sergeant is carrying it now.”

“Never mind, Fedorov. We can forego the formalities here. Something tells me that if you came here to do anything, it has already happened. So bring your men out, and let’s get moving.”

Fedorov gave orders to Troyak, stating that he wanted them followed to the letter, without exception, and any man causing the least bit of trouble would be stewed. He wanted the Sergeant to take the squad to the quarters arranged and wait there for his return. They were not to interact with the locals, nor were they to openly display or handle their weapons. Each man was permitted a sidearm and his knife, but all their rifles and other equipment should be stowed in the duffel bags, and no one was to touch it, except by Fedorov’s direct order, or an order given by Troyak on Fedorov’s approval. They would remain in contact hourly through their service jacket comm-link, and there was to be no trouble. If guards were posted outside their quarters, they were to be ignored and left alone.

“Good enough?” said Fedorov, looking at Tyrenkov.

“Good enough. I’ll have food sent over for your men, and they will be considered our guests, unless I hear otherwise from Karpov. By the way…” Tyrenkov leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only Fedorov could hear. “Which one did you need to speak to?” He smiled.

They were led out, and Tyrenkov and Fedorov crossed the street to a building that had once been a school. He remembered it from the raid they had conducted here, right in the middle of one of Volkov’s attacks. Soon they were seated in a room that had been comfortably appointed with chairs, a coffee table, and a bar. Tyrenkov sat down, slowly removing his gloves, and had an adjutant bring in a plate of cold cuts, cheese, nuts, and two glasses. He poured them a nice vodka.

“I’m famished,” said Fedorov. “Thank you for your hospitality, and for treating me this way, though you may have every reason to do otherwise.”

“That gets tedious, unless I know a man is clearly my enemy,” said Tyrenkov. “Then I can be a heartless and cruel as any brute, though we usually have Grilikov to look after that business. Are you my enemy, Mister Fedorov? Are you Karpov’s enemy now, as he might think after this little theater you’ve pulled?”

“What theater? Let me explain what happened. As you may know, I was ordered here by Karpov.”

“Yes, and ordered back to his ship as well.”

“We got that message, and I confirmed, but we then had difficulties with the helicopter.”

“We found it, of course,” said Tyrenkov. “Right where you left it. But it seems we are missing an airship now.” He folded his hands, waiting, watching Fedorov closely.

“I suppose I should tell you the entire story,” said Fedorov.

Chapter 14

“So you elected to carry on with your mission, in spite of the recall order you received, and even after Karpov took a shot at you with one of those missiles?”

“I did. I am not just anyone, Tyrenkov. I am Captain of that ship, given that post by our Admiral Volsky himself. You may have hoodwinked us in Murmansk, and yes, Karpov had his way there, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am, and what authority I have. I agreed to cooperate with Karpov, until he fired that missile. Let’s just say that if you had used that pistol in your hand when you first appeared a moment ago, we might not be sitting here for this nice little conversation. The moment Karpov refused to treat me like the man I am, was the moment he forfeited his authority over me. I did what any sane man would have done at that moment—I saved that helo, my men, and my mission.”

“Laudable, but I don’t think Karpov will see things quite that way, neither one of them. Big Brother is quite upset with what he now perceives as your deliberate insubordination, and he’s been riding Little Brother to find you, not to mention his airship.”

“That won’t be found again. I had to destroy it, along with everyone aboard, and I’ll take full responsibility for that.”

“I see… Quite ballsy of you, Fedorov. Little Brother won’t like that one bit. He’s taken to his fleet like a fish to water, just like the first one did. Volkov still outnumbers us in that area, and now the Germans are getting into the act, and with ships carrying some very dangerous armament. It could upset the entire balance of power in terms of air superiority. So then, you had your men fry that airship. But what of the mission?”

“As you can see, I got through to the target, though not in any way I expected. To be quite honest with you, after Karpov took that shot at my helo, all bets were off. I elected to try and get to neutral ground, and plotted a course for Soviet territory. As it happened, that course took me over some very dangerous ground.”

He told Tyrenkov what had happened to them over the Stony Tunguska, and where they ended up. With each passing moment, he could see Tyrenkov’s detached manner melt away, and he leaned closer.

“You got all the way back to 1908?” he said, his voice lowered.

“July 1st, to be precise,” said Fedorov, “which was exactly where I hoped to go by first coming here in this time—here to that railway inn. I assume you know all about it. Well, I’ve been down those stairs before, and it was my assertion that a connection exists there between this time and 1908.”

“Karpov has told me all about this,” said Tyrenkov. “And he’s also told me what you were attempting to do there, and why it was so imperative that your mission be stopped, by any and every means at our disposal. We’ve been looking for you ever since, but I never thought I would find you right there as I did, like a bear with his paw in the honey pot.” He paused, looking around, then focusing on Fedorov again.

“Everything here looks the same,” he said, “even that painting over there of the Flying Dutchman that I’m fond of. I had it hung there myself six months ago. So may I assume your assassination attempt failed?”

Now it was time to introduce a little whitewash to the picture he was painting, thought Fedorov. “Assassination attempt? You mean Sergei Kirov? I had direct orders from Karpov to abort that mission. I wanted to know why, and got a missile instead. Then one thing led to another, as I have told you. However, when I did find that fate had brought me to the precise place I intended to go, I had… second thoughts. Karpov had to have a reason for aborting the mission, even if he would not take the time to trust me with it, or trust I would comply. That was his mistake. For my part, while I had every intention of finding Mironov and ending this nightmare, I relented.”

That sounded a good deal better than the truth, thought Fedorov. I was alone with Mironov, and no other living soul knows what happened there. So that reality is how I frame it now. Tyrenkov doesn’t need to know that I was too weak to go through with my mission; that I was ready to end my own life rather than face up to the consequences of my actions here. He doesn’t have to know what really happened, and that I will now probably bear a scar on my chin, just like the one on Karpov’s cheek. No one ever needs to know how that happened, or why.

“You relented….” said Tyrenkov, studying him closely.

“Call it a change of heart, or you can also think that I was just being a loyal servant of the man you serve as well. In any case, Sergei Kirov lived. I hope I’m correct in that. Frankly, I have no way of knowing what we may have inadvertently changed this time. Every step we took there was perilous to every hour and day that followed. Did he live?”

“Kirov? He certainly did. Everything is as it was before you boarded your helicopter. At least it seems that way, but how would I know that for sure?”

Fedorov’s face showed obvious relief, but knew that it might be impossible for Tyrenkov to detect anything that may have changed.

“And Stalin?”

“Who is that?” Tyrenkov smiled. “No, I’m afraid he died as a very young man, and well before he got down to business with Sergo, Mikoyan, Beria and all the rest. Yes, Karpov has told me all about him. But I am curious. From what I have learned, Volkov also used that stairway to get to 1908. Are you saying that I could do that, this moment, and end up there myself, just by walking down those stairs?”

“That would be a very dangerous thing to do,” said Fedorov.

“Yes, I suppose it would. But would it happen, Fedorov?”

“Possibly. Every man gets somewhere, to some time other than the one he leaves behind him. Where you might end up is anyone’s guess, but it could be no earlier than the 30th of June, 1908.”

“Because you believe the event you witnessed from the Irkutsk—at Tunguska—was the root cause of that fissure in time?”

“Exactly. So you see, that stairway represents power of a kind that no man on this earth has ever had at his disposal. The first time I went down those stairs it was an accident, and I caused a good deal of harm, which I don’t think I can ever really atone for. I thought my mission might change that—we both did, Karpov and I. He changed his mind, called off the mission, but did so in a rather disrespectful and boorish way. I carried on, with a little help from chance and fate, but I changed my mind as well. So, Tyrenkov, you will have to answer your own question now. Am I your enemy? And what might you have done differently in my place?”

Tyrenkov merely smiled, thinking.

“I might suggest you make your report to Big Brother on all of this. Little Brother is a good deal more irascible these days.”

“I understand.”

“Abakan is tethered to the number two docking tower outside. It’s a fairly fast ship. I’m prepared to put you and your men on it tonight, and you can leave under cover of darkness. Little Brother has been informed that we have you in custody. He’s well to the north on Tunguska, pulling in his long range patrols now. I can tell you exactly where every ship in the fleet is at this moment. So listen here, Anton Fedorov, once Captain and now Starpom of the battlecruiser Kirov. I can put you and your men on Abakan, and you can go wherever you wish.”

“Wherever I wish?”

“Oh, I’ll have to say that I ordered Abakan to fly you directly to the Sea of Okhotsk. That’s where your ship still is. Yet you have already hijacked one airship, so I suppose you could do the same with this one given the things your Marines might be packing in those duffel bags. So then, if daring do is still on your mind, be my guest. Continue your journey to Soviet territory if you wish. Go find Sergei Kirov and make your mind known to him. Of course, he might just send you right back to Karpov. You see, he’s somewhat indebted to us. If Karpov were to ask, he would likely get you extradited in a heartbeat, just like he got his ship back. And of course, I’ll have to deny I ever said any of this. If you do take that course, I’ll have a good bit of trouble on my hands. I might even lose my job.”

“Rest easy,” said Fedorov. “What you offer is very tempting, but I’ve only just spoken with Sergei Kirov—not two hours ago, or thirty-four years ago from your perspective. We’ve had our little chat for the time being, so no, I think I’ll go right back to my ship and see the Admiral himself. He deserves an explanation, and to know what I’ve told you here direct from me. Then again, I won’t be too happy if he elects to put a missile into Abakan the minute we get within range.”

“I suppose that is a risk you’ll have to take. I’ve taken one here by not locking you up and turning you over to Little Brother and his louts. Yes, he has his own security men now. It was inevitable, I suppose, but my people keep a close eye on things.”

“Considering that,” said Fedorov, “I have a little problem, and it could become a very big one soon. There was one other man with us, Chief Orlov off the ship. I insisted he come with me on that mission, because let’s just say he’s someone I need to keep an eye on. Well, something happened as we came up the stairs. He was right in front of me. In fact, I had my hand on his shoulder—until he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Vanished, from right under my palm.” Fedorov held up his right hand. “He didn’t make it to this time, and I think it is because he lost physical contact with the man in front of him, and…. Ended up somewhere else.”

“You say he was right in front of you?”

“Yes. I was the last man in the line as we came up.”

“Then how is it you made it here—to this precise time? If he lost contact, wouldn’t that affect you as well?”

“I thought as much, but it seems Time wanted me here. That’s the only way I can explain it. Yet Orlov is gone—missing—and I have absolutely no idea what may have happened to him.”

“Might he have stayed right there in 1908?”

“I certainly hope not. I was trying to ascertain that when your Lieutenant came along. From what I could see, he was not on the stairs, and he didn’t get by me. At least I don’t think he did.”

“Then where did he go?”

“Using the tortured logic I’ve come to embrace concerning all of this movement in time,” said Fedorov, “he could not appear in any time where he already existed.”

“Karpov did.”

“Yes, but those were very strange circumstances.”

“Events on that stairway could hardly be described otherwise,” said Tyrenkov.

“True, but this particular fissure through time has been very consistent. The connection it makes to 1908 has persisted over decades. Orlov was going up the stairs, and any movement in that direction has always produced a movement forward in time. Who knows where he may end up, but I think it will have to be a time after the arrival of our ship, and after the time we vanished over the hypocenter of Tunguska. I could be wrong. I suppose he could have appeared prior to the 30th of June, 1940 as well, and I intend to look into that. Orlov has a way of blundering about—a bit of a bull in a china closet. If he did appear before that hour and day, then I might find out about it in the history. Your intelligence network would be very useful.”

“My network is at your service,” said Tyrenkov. “In fact, once Big Brother hears about this, I know what my orders will be already.”

“Find Orlov,” said Fedorov. “That’s been my own little bailiwick in all of this business. The last time he went missing—well let’s just say that a good many dominoes fell after that. He’s dangerous, what I might call a free radical in time. He changes things, not willfully, but unknowingly, and the effect he might have on events occurring after he appears is impossible to calculate, though I fear it would be profound.”

“I understand,” said Tyrenkov. “Yes, quite a nice little problem. I’ll put my men on this at once.”

Fedorov smiled. “Mister Tyrenkov,” he said quietly. “It seems that you are not just anyone either. I think we have come to an understanding here, but let me say one thing more. I’ll take your offer for a ride on the Abakan, and I’ve decided we’ll be going back to Kirov—the ship, not the man—because there’s a war on here, and I’ve decided it has to be won.”

Tyrenkov nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Big Brother will be happy to have you on board, Fedorov. He may bellow and berate you for a while, but he’ll soon see what was apparent to me from the moment I first saw you on that upper landing this evening. Yes, you are not just anybody when it comes to all of this. You have business to attend to here, and I hope you can manage it. Karpov needs you. This world needs you as well, so don’t forget that.”

“I’ll try to remember, and believe it,” said Fedorov, reaching for another piece of cheese. “Is there any more vodka?”

Chapter 15

The hand that had saved the life of Anton Fedorov would be the hand that would change all history from that moment forward. Mironov stood there, confused and still afraid when he saw those rough soldiers come back into the room. They lined up, one after another, each man with a hand on the shoulder of the one in front of him.

Up they went, and Mironov watched them go, listening to their hard boots on the creaky steps. He could not grasp why these men wanted to get up to the second floor, and why they would have to be so careful about it like this. Fedorov seemed intent on making sure that they left nothing behind, no sign of their presence. Perhaps he needed to go up to that room they were in before and fetch something, but why take the whole lot of them for that? He did not understand, but he would, and very soon.

He waited there, until the sound of those heavy boots stilled and was gone. That alone seemed odd to him, for he should be hearing them clomping about on the second floor, but all was silent. He walked slowly towards the alcove, that same curiosity tugging at him. There he listened in the hushed silence for some time, but resisted the urge to go any further. This time he would take that strange man’s advice, and also take no further chances that another of those hard Marines would bother him.

He walked briskly towards the front entrance, seeing that the proprietor had just returned. Almost everyone in the town had been off in a clearing beyond the rail yard to the west. There they had gathered to send off the German race team, all the tourists, the reporter Thomas Byrne and his translator, and all the locals as well. Mironov wanted no part of that. All he wanted to do now was get on that train when it arrived later that day, and get as far from this place as possible. As he slipped out the door, he cast a glance at the proprietor, who was watching him with a strange look in his eye. The poor man was probably wondering if they would arrest him too, thought Mironov, and he was out on Shkolnaya Street, thinking what to do next.

He briefly considered hiking back to Staynyy, but discarded that. There could be other soldiers about near the wreckage of that great airship. Boarding there, he would be easily noticed by any other operatives of the secret police who might be on that train. So instead he just went off to a restaurant, needing some good food, and just a little time to think about all that had happened to him just now. He took a window seat, and one with a view of the inn, and sat there for some time, fully expecting to see all those soldiers, and Fedorov, emerge and tramp off to some unknown destination, but they never came. They never left that inn.

That alone was a powerful mystery that begged to be solved. Men do not simply disappear into thin air. Where could they have gone? They were probably waiting for the train, he thought. I will most likely see them all again there, and I can only hope this Fedorov doesn’t have a change of heart. Who knows what he might do? He might get worried of reprisals from his superiors, and think twice about sending me on my way. He had that gun in his hand when we spoke for a reason, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do what he was ordered. Beneath that uniform, there is a good man, and with a good soul. I must take some solace in that.

Well then, the goddamned train is my only way out of here now. I certainly can’t hitch a ride with the German race team. I’ve got to go east, and Train 94 is the last ride that way for another week. So I’ll have to get on here, along with all the other passengers, and take my chances.

The German race team started on its way to a chorus of loud cheers, the drivers waving to the crowd as they fired up the engine and started off. The people waved and hooted for a time, then milled about, and the locals started to disperse back to their homes and businesses. Mironov watched them from a distance, thinking to spy out anyone else who looked suspicious. There was one other man with a uniform and jacket very much like Fedorov’s that he might have seen a few hours earlier, but Ivan Volkov had taken one of the carriages heading west to Kansk. It had all been that close.

Volkov had never been to Ilanskiy, but he was already shaken by what he had seen of the place. It was clearly not the same train station he had come to earlier, and the madness that fell on him would redouble when he reached Kansk, a town he knew quite well. Nothing there was as it should have been. Most of the city was gone, as was the big arsenal north of the river that would make this place a target if the war was underway. The biochemical plant was missing, all the buildings and houses seemed antiquated.

He would head south, wandering like a zombie, thinking to reach the Kansk Airbase where he might catch a plane out of this place. There was no airbase, but also no sign of any attack that might have destroyed it. What was happening? How could any of this be possible? With each passing hour, those questions would multiply, the madness blooming with them, and it would be months before Ivan Volkov fully accepted what had happened to him, and realized just where he was, or rather when.

So as Mironov headed east to Irkutsk, Volkov headed west, and the two men would never get close enough to meet again, except on the field of battle. Mironov spent time in Irkutsk, eventually contacting his comrade Popov, and then deciding to go to the Caucasus. It was on that journey west again that he stopped at Ilanskiy, throwing caution to the wind. Venturing up the back stairway, he saw the world that would come in the years ahead, and determined what he could do to prevent that terrible vision from ever arising in his homeland.

Now Fedorov’s warning finally made sense, and he determined what he must do—what Fedorov could not bring himself to do, and made that fateful visit to Baku, killing Josef Stalin before he ever had a chance to fatten himself as the dark spider in the center of the Bolshevik web that was now being spun throughout the land.

Mironov would stay in the Caucasus for some time, and end up a journalist and editor for the newspaper Terek, secretly taking on the code name he would be known by ever after—the very same name that strange man Fedorov had called him—Kirov. He was eventually arrested again on the same old charges surrounding the existence of that illegal printing press. He was in and out of prison, and then the revolution came, and the civil war soon after.

Active in the founding of the Terek Republic, Kirov was at first a subordinate to another strong man with an impossible name, Commissar Grigory Konstantinovich Ordzhonikidze. Most simply called him Sergo. With him, and another man named Mikoyan, Kirov was part of the Bolshevik resistance, securing supplies, uniforms, and weapons from Moscow, and floating them down the Volga on barges to Astrakhan. There was no other way to get them there, for the leader of the White movement, Denikin, had seized control of all the rail lines that led that way.

It was there, in the Caucasus, that Sergei Kirov cut his teeth in the business of war. He teamed up with Sergo and Mikoyan, battled Denikin’s forces, and even those of Kolchak emerging from Siberia. The struggle in that region contributed much to his stubbornness later, refusing to abandon his holdings in the Kuban, and tenaciously ordering the defense of old Tsaritsyn on the Volga, the city that would now never come to be called ‘Stalingrad.’ There, and at the other stronghold of the region, Astrakhan, Kirov fought the White Army with the 11th and 12th Red Armies.

Then came an event unlooked for in the history, when a man named Volkov secretly plotted the demise of Denikin, and seized control of the White movement. The chaos that caused allowed the Reds to consolidate their gains, and eventually drive the Whites from the Ukraine. They fled south, into the Caucasus, and east of the Volga into the provinces of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and the region around the Caspian Basin. There the White movement, nearly extinguished, was revitalized by Ivan Volkov, eventually posing a threat strong enough to again begin driving north and east. They took Orenburg, making it the center of their government, and pushed on through Ufa to reach the Volga.

Kirov, now rising to the top of the Bolshevik movement, stopped them there, controlling Volgograd, and most of the Kuban region, where the lines of battle shifted back and forth with each new offensive mounted by either side. Volkov tried to take Volgograd three times, and cities like Saratov and Samara as well, but could only get the last. Kirov stubbornly held the White armies at bay, defending the line of the Volga, and made it a point to keep strong pressure on Volkov’s armies in the Caucasus. It was not just for the oil there, but for the fact that the lower Caucasus, the Terek Region and Baku, were all places where young Sergei Kirov had begun his revolutionary career, and he wanted them back again.

Volkov took and held Astrakhan, but Kirov held Volgograd, and he would continue to hold it throughout the long, never-ending civil war with Volkov that kept Russia divided into the late 1930s. Then war came in 1939, and the Germans came shortly thereafter. Volkov was quick to see his opportunity, and allied himself with Nazi Germany, elated to see the Wehrmacht slowly consuming his long time enemy. Then, in late 1942, the White Armies finally linked up with the Germans on the lower Don, cutting off Kirov’s forces in the Kuban, and threatening the city he had defended so tenaciously over the decades against Volkov—Volgograd.

Zhukov had pleaded with Kirov to get those armies out of the Caucasus, but he had refused. Zhukov had told him that Volgograd was useless from a military standpoint now, and certainly from an economic one if the last rail line into the place were ever to be cut, but that did not matter. Kirov ordered the city held, and four Soviet armies were committed there to try and stop the whirlwind German advance under General Manstein and the SS Commander Felix Steiner. They delayed it a good long while, but in the end, those SS troops broke through. Eventually, only Shumilov’s 66th and Chuikov’s 62nd were still on the line to defend the city, and there was great danger that they might soon be cut off and face annihilation.

If they die, thought Kirov, then all those years of my struggle in the south die with them. Zhukov doesn’t understand that, but there’s more at stake there than brick and mortar. It’s my roots there, the roots of the revolution itself, the symbol of the entire struggle I’ve fought with Volkov over the years. Volgograd must be held. We must not lose it. I won’t hear Volkov clucking on Radio Orenburg that he’s taken it. I won’t!

Then he remembered that day in 1908, the day the red sky came in the northeast, and the sun rose twice. He remembered Ilanskiy, and everything Fedorov had said and done there. Only this time, there was an extra twist to those memories that had never been there before. This time he remembered that last conversation with Fedorov, the look in the man’s eyes, the desperation and fear that seemed to be kindled there, and the despair. He remembered how he lunged, impulsively, to stay the other man’s hand when he put that gun to his head, one good man at his core trying to save another.

He did save Fedorov, and in more ways than he could know just then. In saving him, he also saved a good deal more. Fedorov would live, with a scar on his chin to remind him of that moment. And Fedorov would take Tyrenkov’s offer and board Abakan that night, with Troyak, and all his men—save one—Gennadi Orlov.

That was going to matter a great deal in the days ahead, for Orlov had been a stone in Fedorov’s shoe for some time. With Tyrenkov’s network to help him, Fedorov hoped he could quickly tie off that loose thread in the loom of these events, but Orlov was Orlov, and anything could happen when he was involved.

As for Troyak, he kept thinking and thinking about the things Fedorov had told him, and about that trek up the strange stairway that made truth of his assertions. They were back in 1942, or so it seemed, but Troyak was not quite the same man that began this mission. He was different. He was thinking more now, and he was remembering, and so was someone else that night.

Berzin’s own network would also pick up hints and bits of the strange doings at Ilanskiy. He came in to make his evening intelligence report to Sergei Kirov, scratching his bristly haired head.

“It looks like they found those men that went missing on Karpov’s airship,” he said, reporting the latest information he had from a man he infiltrated into Tyrenkov’s security forces.

“Did they?” said Kirov, staring out on the city of Leningrad from his office chair, lost in the darkness, for no light would burn after dark.

“It’s very strange,” said Berzin. “They were apprehended right inside that damn railway inn at Ilanskiy, up on the second floor.”

A light kindled in Kirov’s eyes, and there was just the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And the airship? The Irkutsk?”

“It still hasn’t been found,” said Berzin. “And damn if that isn’t odd. How do you hide a thing that size? Where could it possibly be, seeing as though the men who made off with it have already been found? This Captain Symenko was once Orlov’s man. Do you think he might have defected with that ship to Orenburg?”

“No,” said Kirov. “No, I don’t think so. Don’t worry about the airship, Grishin. It is of no further concern.”

“Karpov won’t like that. He lost the Angara a few weeks back to a German airship.”

“Did he? Then send him Archangelsk. It’s just been sitting up there for months and months patrolling the Kara Sea. Winter is coming, and there won’t be much for it to see or do. I’ll want a letter delivered with it, for Karpov’s eyes only.”

“Very good sir. As you wish.”

Sergei Kirov leaned back in his chair, rocking very slowly, and raised a small glass of vodka to his lips. He would make a direct request to the Siberians, asking that if Anton Fedorov were to be found, he should be treated with utmost leniency, and respect. Then he closed his eyes, and summoned up the memory of that day, so long ago it seemed now, when he had left the bench in the depot where he spent a cold uncomfortable night, and let his curiosity get the better of him. He could still see that airship burning as it fell from the sky, the Irkutsk, as he now reckoned it to be. It was as clear in his mind as if it had happened only yesterday….