Tigers East

Chapter 34

How do you explain what just happened to a man like Symenko? You don’t. The scourge of fire, the blackness in the scorched earth behind it, were enough reason to make that turn and flee. At some point in the next hour, when they had put the devastated zone behind them, and the crew had time to recover, words were needed. Something had to be said, but Fedorov had decided it would be foolish to try and lay it all out and feed Symenko the whole truth.

“Then you mean to stay on this course?” asked Symenko. “We’ll never make it to the Dolphin’s Head this way.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You think Karpov’s ships will all just bow and curtsey when they see us darken the sky at Ilanskiy?”

“They won’t be there.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Look behind you, Captain. See that glow on the horizon? Look at the sky. That will be seen for thousands of kilometers. Whatever this was, it was a massive event, and it fell right here in Karpov’s Siberia. If he’s here, he’ll damn well be curious about it. Don’t worry, this airship is the least of his problems now.”

Fedorov knew Karpov wasn’t out there anywhere, not yet. He might be soon, for he had first arrived in 1908 on the10th day of July, on the old ship, the vessel he took out from Vladivostok. Was that the history he now found himself in again? It just might be. That had been the Prime Meridian before we started changing everything. When I first went down the stairs in Ilanskiy in 1942, I reached this very time and place—probably yesterday, the day of the event itself. I was there that morning when it happened, but did not stay long. I know that Mironov was there as well, so he just might be waiting for me off the bow of this ship. It’s only a matter of time now before I know the answers to these things. But there’s no way I can explain all this to Symenko.

“Captain,” he said. “You might want to make up for lost sleep. In another six or seven hours you’ll have your answers, at least in part.”

“Sleep? After that?” he thumbed the red glow on the horizon behind them. “No, I’d better walk the ship and see to the men. If we might have a fight ahead of us, then they’ll need to be ready. And they’ll have questions too—like how we go from the dark of night into that mess back there, and all in the blink of an eye. What do I tell them? And another thing—you were right about that moon. How do we go from no moon, to that sliver of a moon we spotted, and in the wrong place, all in the blink of an eye? Then it ups and disappears altogether. Its broad daylight. That’s the sun up there in all that smoke and haze, not another moon. This is insane.”

“Captain… Things are going to be … somewhat strange for a time. I could tell you what I think has happened, but you won’t believe a word I said.”

“Try me.” Symenko wanted something, any explanation that could help him make sense of what he was experiencing now.

“Alright, let me put it to you this way. The sun and moon don’t lie, they mark the time each day, and when they change like that, it can mean only one thing—the time has changed right along with it. Look at the sun. See how high up it is? It wouldn’t be up like that in September, not in this latitude, and not at this hour. But there it is. That’s a summer sun, and you know it as well as I do. So if the moon was wrong, and that sun out there is up like that, we aren’t where we were when that gibbous moon last set. We’re somewhere else—not another place, but another time. That’s my explanation. If you have a better one, let me know.”

“Another time?” Symenko shook his head, starting for the ladder up. “God almighty, what a load of crap that is. Karpov will straighten you and your lot out soon enough. Just you wait.”

“Zykov,” said Fedorov. “Go with him and make sure all is well with the other men.”

Fedorov knew Symenko had a volatile temper, and he didn’t want the Captain stirring up anything with the rest of his crew. When they had gone up, and the hatch was closed, he looked at Troyak and Orlov. The other four Marines were stationed in pairs, two in the engineer’s compartment aft, two more watching the local contingent of Naval Marines that Symenko had with him.

When they had gone, Orlov came over, wanting more from Fedorov. “Was that a load of bull you just fed the Captain, or are you on the level?”

“I was quite serious, Chief.” He looked at Troyak as well, bringing him in on what he had to say. “We’ve moved. We aren’t in the same time as before. That event out there is the Tunguska Event. That’s what we were overflying, only in 1942. Well… It isn’t 1942 any longer. I can tell the two of you that, because at least you’ve been through it once before, and you, Orlov, remember going through it a good many other times. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Well, I very much doubt that another asteroid fell right there again, right where the thing fell at Tunguska. I already know that events like this bend and break time. 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?” Orlov gave him a blank look.

“So you see why I didn’t want to get into it with Symenko,” said Fedorov. “As for you two, you need to know the truth. It’s 1908, and probably the first of July, the day after Tunguska. I’ve changed our heading and we’re going to Ilanskiy, just east of Kansk. There’s someone there I have to…. Speak with.”

He couldn’t quite say the words that were lurking behind that conversation. There was someone there that he had to kill, an innocent young man that he had come here to murder. He just brought Orlov along to get him off the ship, and to keep an eye on him. Troyak and the Marines were just muscle, and they had already brought him this far—along with these incredible twists of fate. Yet even as he thought that, he was beginning to feel that Time herself had gotten him this far. Once he set his mind on what he had to do, she became a willing co-conspirator. Anything might have happened to them when they overflew the epicenter of that event. The anxiety, the feelings of doom and fear were all just harbingers. This had been the last thing he expected.

“You have to speak with someone?” said Orlov. “But you heard Symenko earlier—Karpov has the place locked down tight. We can’t get through.”

“Yes we can.”

“But what about those airships Symenko warned us about?”

“They were there in 1942, Orlov. I just told you that this is 1908!”

It took a while for things to get through Orlov’s thick skull. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. There wouldn’t be any airships, and none of Karpov’s men either.”

“Exactly.”

“Who’s the man you need to see there?”

“Mironov. Alright, I’d better tell you both this, and it will be a lot to swallow. It all started with you, Chief, and you remember it very well—when you decided to jump ship. Well I came after you to get you home again, and you, Sergeant, came right along with me.”

So he told them, the whole knotted tale of what had happened when he and Troyak got to Ilanskiy. Orlov grinned at times, nodding his head when a part of the story included him. He had all that inside his head now, clear memories of everything. He could still see those bulging eyes and purple lips as he choked the breath out of Commissar Molla.

“This young man,” Fedorov finished. “He was going by the name Mironov back then—right now, in 1908. Later he would change that name and take another—Kirov.” He folded his arms watching them both closely. He had told Troyak this once before, and when he said it again, something registered in the Sergeant’s eyes, a faded memory suddenly jogged to life. It was just as Fedorov was telling it, he knew, though he could not trace the memories with any clarity, as Orlov could.

“Sergei Kirov?” said Orlov. “The man we named our ship after?”

“That’s correct.”

“You came all this way to speak with him? He was right ahead of us on our old course. All we had to do was divert to Leningrad.”

“Yes, I could have gone to visit him in 1942 once we got our hands on this airship. But it’s here that matters. Now is the crucial time—1908. That’s why I was trying to get to Ilanskiy in the first place—to go down those stairs like I did before, and find him again.”

“Well what in God’s name do you want to speak with him about?”

“It was going to be more than that,” said Fedorov darkly, the feeling of guilt and shame already heavy on him again. “This was something that Karpov and I worked through for a very long time. This whole situation—back in 1942—well it’s my fault. You see, I told Mironov something, opened my big mouth, and I let something slip. That changed everything. It set up that whole crazy world, the war we were fighting, the Orenburg Federation, all of it.”

“Mironov set that up? I thought Volkov did all that.”

“Yes, he did, but he might not have ever succeeded if I had kept my mouth shut. When we’re this far back in time, any little slip can have major consequences to the events that follow. One little slip could end up becoming something very big. Well, I made a mistake, and now I have to correct it—at least I’m going to try.”

Orlov nodded. “But didn’t you already make that mistake?” Orlov could work things out if given time. He had been following what Fedorov was telling him very closely. “You said you appeared here on the morning of the event—that shit back there we flew right over a while back. That’s when you met this Mironov—Sergei Kirov. So you’ve already made your mistake—yesterday if this is July first like you think it is.”

“No,” said Fedorov, “I didn’t make the mistake here, not in 1908 when I first met Mironov. Shocked as I was to see what was happening there, I had the presence of mind to reverse my path and go back up those stairs. The problem was, Mironov got curious, and he followed me.”

“Ah,” said Orlov.

“He came upstairs!” said Troyak, remembering that now, and not guessing about it. His eyes narrowed, for the rest had slipped away like a dream does when you awake in the morning.

Fedorov gave him a sudden look. “Yes, he came up the stairway after me, and I sent him back. But before I did that, I told him something, and that changed everything.”

“What was it?” Orlov was really curious now.

“I told him how he would die—not exactly—but I gave him a warning about Leningrad, about the day he would be assassinated.”

“Sookin Sym!” Orlov gave him a wide grin. “Good job, Fedorov. It looks like he took your advice, because he lived, and he’s a damn sight better than Stalin.”

Now Fedorov lowered his head, the shame heavy on him again. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I suppose he is.”

“So you want to make sure he gets the message,” Orlov guessed. “You want to speak with him again and leave nothing to chance. I Understand now. But Fedorov, how do we get back after this? Have you worked that out yet?”

Fedorov gave him an anguished look. Orlov thought he just wanted to make sure his hero lived. It would never once enter his mind that I had come here to achieve just the opposite—to kill Sergei Kirov with the pistol on my hip. He would never think that of me….

“Get back?” said Fedorov slowly. “Well, the stairway will be right there, won’t it? The last time I went up, it delivered me right back to the time I left—1942—the very same day, only a few hours later. The good Sergeant here said he had been looking for me for some time, though for me, it was only a matter of minutes that passed. I think that stairway works like that. You get right back to where you started, as if you were walking a circle. It always takes you back to where you began.”

“Only this time we didn’t come by the stairs. We got here on this damn airship,” said Orlov. “Will it still work?”

“We can try,” said Fedorov glumly. “We all go together, right up those stairs.”

“What about Symenko and his crew? He’s got 30 men aboard. We gonna all file up those stairs, nuts to butts, like a string of blind men, and then what? Do we all come out in 1942 on the second floor of that inn? Excuse me, party of 35 checking in, but we don’t have a reservation.”

Now that Orlov put it to him that way, Fedorov scratched his head, thinking. Yes, what to do about Symenko and his men? It had been easy enough when he thought it would just be his own small group, but Orlov had painted a fairly difficult picture just now. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Timely cruelty… He had come here to wield that sword, and he could have no scruples if he was actually going to do this. They were knee deep in the borscht now, and he knew he could leave no loose ends here—no dangling threads that would spoil the loom of time in the days ahead.

“I’ll… think of something,” he said, but those thoughts were very dark and troublesome for him.

“Well now,” said Orlov glibly. “This will be like shuffling the deck right in the middle of the goddamn poker game! And guess who is sitting across the table—with a fist full of high cards? That bastard, Karpov, and that ham fisted brute of his, Grilikov, he’s the dealer. What will happen when he catches us in his precious railway inn?”

Fedorov knew more than he could say just then. He hadn’t told Orlov the whole story. The Chief thought he was wanting to make certain Kirov lived, not that he had come there to murder him. The Chief thought Karpov’s security men would be waiting for them at the top of those stairs if they all filed up, and had no inkling that none of that was likely to ever take form and shape if he killed Kirov. If he did what he had come here to do, then the whole world would be different when they climbed those steps. Stalin would be back, the Orenburg Federation likely gone, and Volkov dead or in a gulag if he tried to buck the man of steel. If there was one man who could handle Volkov, it would be Josef Stalin.

So there wouldn’t be any Free Siberian State either, and it would not be likely that Karpov ever seized power there. These airships would have gone the way of many other old inventions of history, and so airship Captains like Symenko, and the Irkutsk itself, would have no place in Stalin’s world. The ship and its crew were here, and that thought caused him some trepidation. How would Time account for them if they did try to return to 1942? They might not have a place in the changed future they would be returning to, and now that he thought of it, the airship itself remained a huge unsolved problem. He certainly could not leave it here, with radio sets, rudimentary radar equipment, WWII era guns and engineering. It would simply have to be destroyed, and he made a mental note to have a talk with Troyak about how they might accomplish that.

There was so much on his list to now. Be careful what you wish for, he thought. I got my wish to get through to Ilanskiy and reach this very time. Well, here I am. Now what do I do?

Chapter 35

The black rain was behind them now, but the sky was still alight with that strange astral light. It would be seen as far away as Moscow, where the night was illuminated to near daytime brightness. In Europe and England, people saw the horizon lit by a luminescent red glow, and some reported they could read a book by that light in the dead of night. The next hours saw Fedorov’s mind surrounded by so many questions.

He was reasonably sure of the time, believing this was late on the day after Tunguska, July 1, 1908. Now he struggled to remember the events that took place here earlier. Karpov told him they determined their arrival date when the met a clipper ship at sea. That was on July 10, so if he was correct, and they were back on the old Prime Meridian, then Karpov would appear here in a few days—in the Pacific. Then Fedorov appeared here a week later, shifting back with both Orlov, Troyak and others on the Anatoly Alexandrov. They determined that they arrived on 17 July, staying only briefly, and shifting forward again on 19 July to reach the year 2021.

That was when he hatched the plan to use Rod-25 on Kazan and try to return to 1908. It was a bumpy ride, taking them first to 1945, but they eventually shifted back, right on the eve of Karpov’s big showdown with Admiral Togo. That was July 25-26, 1908. So whatever I decide to do here now must be accomplished before Karpov arrives on 17 July. I have a little over two weeks here, and then I must be gone. Otherwise I could never arrive here on the Anatoly Alexandrov as I did. He realized the incredible danger he was in by arriving in this narrow window between his two appearances in 1908. The threat of Paradox loomed like a cold shadow in his mind.

Now his thoughts moved to Mironov. It was likely that he might still be at the railway inn. He told me he was traveling somewhere, but where? Ah, I remember now. He was traveling to visit relatives at Irkutsk. It was just blind chance that he found himself at the railway inn at Ilanskiy on the 30th of June. I researched that time after that encounter. That was right in the middle of the Great Race, the teams of men from various countries trying to race around the globe in a custom auto. In fact, the German team had just arrived at Ilanskiy, behind the Americans by a couple hundred miles. They were staying right there at the inn on the second floor. I bumped into them near the front desk before I retraced my steps up the back stairway. That was when I realized where I was. I saw the calendar at the front desk—1908!

He closed his eyes, summoning up the memory of that brief adventure. Mironov had two other men with him, a tall man with a Ushanka, and then that stranger—yes—the Englishman. After he got over his suspicion that I was working for the Okhrana, Mironov told me that second fellow was a reporter working for the Times of London, covering the Great Race, a man named Byrne. He might still be there as well.

I also know that Volkov used that stairway to get to 1908, but the details on that are fuzzy. I have no way of knowing how he did that. Or when he appeared—what day. He could be there this very day, or he might not appear for months. One thing I do know, Mironov followed me up those stairs on June 30th of his time, and like Orlov said, that was where I made my mistake and warned him of his fate. Kamenski didn’t think I was fully responsible. He argued that anything Mironov did after that warning was of his own free will, but would he have done those things if not for my warning?

So there he was, approaching that same fateful moment in time again, and wondering if the same actors would be on the stage. Would Mironov still be at the inn? If not, then Fedorov would be in a most difficult position. Mironov should be close, but it might take time to find him.

If he boarded a train for Irkutsk, thought Fedorov, then I suppose I could use the airship to find it, but that would be a very awkward rendezvous. Lord, I hope he hasn’t left the inn to travel by other means. It could take days to locate him, and I have so little time here. He tried to recall if there was a train there in 1908, but it was too fuzzy. The only thing to do was to get there, get on the ground, and then sort the situation out, but he had a lot of loose ends to deal with, and the thoughts in his mind about them weighed heavily on him.

What if I simply cannot locate him? Then what? I have one last play here—Karpov’s arrival in the Pacific. We have just enough fuel, and just enough time to get there. He was in the Sea of Japan, and I could simply radio him. He’ll certainly be surprised to hear from me, won’t he? But what would I be doing? I have no Rod-25 with me, and there would be no way to get him back to 2021. So there I would be, counting out the hours and minutes before the Anatoly Alexandrov appeared in 1908, and I was on that platform.

There it was—Paradox.

He had a very limited life span here, and now he knew he had no play in the Sea of Japan looking for Karpov. All he could do would be to try and persuade him not to take the actions he was planning, and to wait for the Alexandrov—to wait for his own arrival, and most likely his own death by Paradox. No. His only solution had to be here, at Ilanskiy. It was Mironov, just as he had reasoned it out with Karpov. It was Mironov’s death, or nothing. At least he had the stairway up to escape the Paradox, but that presented other problems.

How to resolve the issue of the Irkutsk?

I can’t very well leave that airship here, he thought. Suppose I do what is necessary at Ilanskiy, then we re-embark on the Irkutsk. If I took it back to the epicenter, would we shift again? Would Time deliver us back to 1942? That sounded all too convenient. While he had good reason to assert his travel up and down the stairway would always deliver the walker back to the approximate time he last left, that same logic did not necessarily apply to his travel on that airship.

I can see how we might have been pulled here to this time by the sheer gravity of the Tunguska Event. I’ve thought that all along, when Kirov shifted here after Karpov set off that nuke in 1945 and killed the Iowa. Things seem to fall through to 1908 easily enough, perhaps pulled by that time gravity I’m speculating on. But would the inverse be true? I was able to get the Anatoly Alexandrov from 1908 back to 2021 again, but that was the work of Rod-25 and possibly Chief Dobrynin’s magic as well. Something tells me that I would only be courting further disaster if I took Irkutsk back to that epicenter. It’s just too risky. So what do I do?

The words that spoke now in his mind might have easily been uttered by Karpov. He would have the solution easily enough, but for Fedorov, getting there was an agony—the Irkutsk had to be destroyed, and not just the airship itself, but perhaps Symenko and the entire crew as well. Orlov had come out with his comical description of the whole damn crew, all packed into the downstairs dining room at the railway inn, and filing up that stairway, one after another. Would it work? He would have to try, because his only alternative would be Karpov’s solution—take down the airship, crew and all.

To do this, we would have to anchor the airship at Ilanskiy, a nice eyeful for anyone there to see. I’d need Symenko’s cooperation, and then the crew would have to disembark, probably using the same basket they hauled us up on. What a scene, and what effect would it have on the locals here, particularly when I give Troyak the go ahead to take that airship down? Could he? I haven’t even spoken with him on this.

“Sergeant Troyak?

“Sir?”

“A word with you please. We have a situation here… I can’t allow this airship to remain at large here, and I don’t think we can navigate back with it the way we came. Understand?”

Troyak merely nodded, waiting.

“Can you destroy it? Is there any weapon you have that could do that?”

“Yes sir. We have a handheld ATGM, and three thermobaric rounds.”

“Thermobaric? You’re talking about fire now.”

“Aye sir, and it would wreak havoc on this airship if we hit it from the ground. I could also rig up grenades at a few key places, the engineering section, engines. It would bust up the equipment.”

“Yes,” said Fedorov. “Nothing could be left for the locals to find or use. All the equipment, radars, radio sets, even the guns would have to be destroyed.”

“Most of the ship would die in the fires,” said Troyak, “but the bigger guns might have to be revisited on the ground and we could pop grenades down the barrels, or into the breech. That should do it.”

“You brought all this with you?”

“Standard weapons loadout. We assembled these things in packs, then we can just grab them and deploy.”

“I see. Well, that airship coming down would make quite a scene. Perhaps we should plan to do this at some distance from Ilanskiy, then we move to the town on foot. I have business at the inn, and I’ll need to get there as soon as possible. I suppose you could lead the crew to the railway inn after the demolition. It would be very important that this gets done flawlessly. No useable equipment could be left behind, and each and every last crewman would have to be herded to the town, and right to the railway inn. We can’t lose a single man. Otherwise they’d be stranded here.”

Even as he said all this, he realized how insane it was going to sound to Symenko. There was no way he could get him to understand and accept what was involved here. He was still under the assumption that this was 1942, and his fate was sailing towards a safe haven in Soviet Russia. Trying to explain that he needed his entire crew to assemble in that railway inn was going to be quite a challenge.

“Sergeant,” he said. “It’s occurred to me that Captain Symenko may not be cooperative in all of this. But neither he, nor any of his crew, can remain here, and that airship has to be destroyed. I may have to make a very tough decision here.”

“Aye sir,” said Troyak. He knew what Fedorov was saying now, hard as it sounded.

“This is 1908,” Fedorov went on, looking for the rhyme and reason. “If any of them fail to come with us… well, they can’t remain here. The impact that could have on future days would be impossible to calculate, and I cannot allow it to happen, not under any circumstances.”

“I understand, sir,” said Troyak stoically. “You give the order. My men and I will do whatever is necessary.”

Troyak could see that this was bothering Fedorov a good deal, but he was a soldier, signed on in the service of the Black Death. It was therefore no problem for him to know that he would become death in that service, and it would not be the first time he had taken lives, and for reasons, under orders, that would be trivial compared to what Fedorov was explaining here. He tapped his collar, where the comm-link microphone was embedded in all their service jackets. “Sir, pinch off that collar mike you have there, and give the order ‘Downfall.’ My men will handle the rest.”

Fedorov could say nothing more, simply nodding, but the look of guilt was plain on his face. In another hour they would make their approach to Ilanskiy. Now he had to see what he could do about Symenko.

“Look,” said Symenko, “I don’t have to know your business here. All I was to do was ferry your ass to Irkutsk! Now look at me. So now it’s back to plan A, and we’re coming up on Ilanskiy. Strange that we haven’t been spotted and challenged yet. I suppose that wreck off to the northeast has the radios all fouled up, but that doesn’t matter. Riga and Narva might be waiting there to blow us to hell.”

“They won’t be there,” said Fedorov, “I can assure you, but here’s my plan. There’s good clear ground just west of Ilanskiy. We can come in real low. The sun set two hours ago at 21:40. It won’t rise until a whisker after 03:00. We’ll come in before that and go to ground to drop land anchors. Then I’ll make my way to Ilanskiy on foot from there. All I ask is that you wait there.”

“What for? You won’t be coming back. Karpov’s men will have you in no time at all.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Symenko just grinned at him. “Alright, assuming we get anywhere near the place, I’ll hover shallow for you. Since you parlayed a safe harbor for me and my men with the Soviets, I owe you one. But if I catch even a glimpse of another airship, I’ll be up and on my way. You’ll be on your own down there. Understand? I’ve told you that I’m a dead man if Karpov gets me, and there it is.”

“Deal,” said Fedorov, realizing he was making one hell of a devil’s bargain here, and he was the devil! But what else could he do? The mission before him was all important. Everything depended on him now—everything. The moods and whims of Symenko could not be allowed to interfere. That didn’t make what he was doing here any easier. He still felt the weight of this man’s life, the lives of his entire crew, all piled on his weary back. But they were nothing compared to the weight of the whole world. That’s what he was carrying now, the weight of the whole goddamned world.

It was a world that was still strangely alight when they arrived, even in the dead of night. At this latitude, the sun would not be gone long, and even at its darkest, they could see easily, as if it were a grey, overcast day. Yet the horizon to the northeast still glowed eerily red, and the sky above it was strangely alight. The forest was still burning there, as now Fedorov reckoned these must be the pre-dawn hours of July 2nd.

Symenko was very surprised, but just as Fedorov had told him, there had been no sign at all of the Riga or Narva. So the Irkutsk was able to sneak in low, to an open field about four kilometers east of the town. They put down a light ground anchor, but Symenko remained edgy, and requested that Fedorov and his party use the basket. In his mind, that was the safest and quickest way to get these intruders off his ship, once and for all.

“Symenko,” Fedorov told him before they lowered. “The radios are clear, and I will send you a signal if I have success. I’ll ask you to do something more, you and your crew, and it will be a matter of life or death for you all. Do as I say, will you? Your life, and the lives of your entire crew, will depend on it.”

“Fine,” said Symenko, wanting nothing more than to get this man and his Marines off his ship. I’d promise to kiss your ass if you asked nicely, he thought, but that doesn’t mean I’d really pucker up. Once you and those thugs of yours are on the ground, then I’ve got only one thing in mind. I’m taking this ship up into that red sky, and we’re running for Soviet territory. We don’t have to make it all the way to the Dolphin’s Head to rendezvous with that damn submarine. No, all I have to do is get my own ass to Soviet territory, then we can go to ground, hand over Irkutsk, or simply abandon her, and disappear.

That was what he was planning to do now, and so Fedorov would never make that plaintive call on the radio, asking Symenko to disembark his entire crew and foot it to Ilanskiy. Instead, it would be a call that came the other way as Fedorov, Orlov and Troyak approached the town, very near the inn. Zykov and the other four Marines were in the trees opposite the clearing where Irkutsk had been hovering. He called Fedorov over their service jacket comm-link, warning that the Irkutsk was pulling up its land anchors and making ready to depart, already drifting up and away. Fedorov knew what Symenko was doing, what he had obviously decided, and that he had no time to argue with him now. He took a deep breath and looked at Troyak heavily.

“Sergeant,” he said grimly. “Send Zykov the code: Downfall.”

Chapter 36

On the 30th of June, 1908, Train 92 was heading east on the Trans-Siberian Rail when it was jolted by the intense shock of the fiery blast above the Stony Tunguska. Even though the event was nearly 400 miles away, the train shook so violently that the Engineers brought it to a halt. Many on that train saw the terrible tail of fire in the sky as the object surged in from the southeast with a terrible roar. The air quavered with its massive sonic boom. The shock wave would circle the entire earth, vibrating instruments at meteorological stations as far away as London.

When the worst of the blast had subsided, they moved on, the train cars buzzing with frightened conversations about what had happened. It was decided to halt the train at Kansk to inspect it for damage, or even something as nefarious as a bomb, but nothing was found. The Engineers inquired as to what may have happened, and the locals reported that they had felt the earth shake and a heavy blast of wind. Many windows were broken, which prompted local magistrate Pytor Sukhodaeff to cable the Seismic Commission in Saint Petersburg to report the event. Rumors had begun circulating that a meteor had fallen nearby, and some residents were already out in the countryside looking for it. One reported he had found something near the hamlet of Filimonovo, but it turned out to be nothing more than a large rock.

Train 92 was delayed there all that day, as the Engineers were told the tracks were blocked by debris ahead. They decided to go out on horseback to inspect the line as far as Ilanskiy, but found no blockage. The next morning, they would move on to Ilanskiy for a brief stop to pick up any passengers wanting to head east. That was the train that Mironov had been waiting for. It would continue on to Irkutsk, where he had relatives he could visit while he was laying low after his recent discharge from prison.

Yet the events of that day had been most unusual, the violent sound of explosion and rattling shock wave, the terrible red sky to the northeast, then came the strange man dressed in military garb that had suddenly appeared on the scene. Mironov had been very curious about him, and very suspicious. He would see the shadow of the Okhrana everywhere, and so, when he saw the man slip away up the back stairway, he decided to follow him, leaving the English reporter, Thomas Byrne, alone for a time in the dining room with his interpreter.

That man had been Fedorov himself, appearing there for the first time after he followed that curious rumbling sound during his hunt for Orlov. Following him up the stairs, Mironov had been apprehended by other soldiers, who took him to this Fedorov, as the man had called himself. While he was gone, to a place he only later came to know as the distant future of 1942, other things were happening at the railway inn.

Byrne, the reporter, had been sent there to cover the Great Race by the industrious owner of the Times of London, Alfred Harmsworth. A few days earlier he had interviewed the leading American team as it came through, and that day, the German team had been staying at that inn, making ready to move on west. Needless to say, the events of that day caused them to linger, but Byrne, hearing them near the front desk, believed they would soon depart. So he thanked his local interpreter with a hearty handshake, wanting to get up to his room on the second floor as soon as possible to gather his belongings.

He had seen Mironov go up the back stairs after that other strange man left them, the one who called himself Fedorov. Then Mironov appeared again, a troubled look of astonishment on his face. He said nothing, striding quickly across the dining hall and out the main entrance by the front desk.

Seeing the doorway still ajar in that nook near the hearth of the dining room, Byrne thought he would go that way to save time, but it was to be a most fateful decision. He started up the dark stairway, feeling very odd half way up, a prickly feeling sweeping over him, and with a sensation of slight nausea. He reckoned it was only the dark confined space, and sudden disorientation as he groped about in the shadows. When he finally reached the top, shuddering to feel the sticky brush of a cobweb on his brow, he heard voices. Trying the door, he found it locked, which was probably why Mironov had made such a hasty retreat, he thought. But rather than simply retreating back down those stairs as Mironov had, he decided to knock, and the sound of his knuckles on the door would reverberate through time like a great boom.

Mironov did not find the door locked on his journey up those stairs. Unbeknownst to him, it had taken him to 1942, where Fedorov and Troyak had collared him, questioning him briefly, before releasing him again. That whispered warning that had haunted Fedorov ever since had been made right there on that upper landing near the door where Byrne heard those voices, but 79 years earlier! For some unaccountable reason, Thomas Byrne’s journey up that stairway took him much farther forward in time, all the way to the year 2021. The voices he had heard were those of the modern day innkeeper and a very diligent Captain in the Russian Naval Intelligence Service, Ivan Volkov. He had been looking for Fedorov along the Trans-Siberian Rail in 2021, ordered to do so by Director Kamenski.

What happened next was a strange twist in the history, which never would have happened were it not for the presence of Thomas Byrne there that hour. Hearing that knock, and Byrne’s voice on the other side of the door, Volkov had forced the very edgy proprietor to unlock the door, seizing upon Byrne as a suspicious character. The pulse of history itself quickened in those moments, for Volkov thought he had found a hidden passage in the inn, and he forced Byrne back down those steps and back into the dining room, where his suspicions were confirmed by the sudden appearance of three men with guns.

These were the NKVD Colonel and another henchman, with Lieutenant Surinov, the officer Fedorov had berated for the poor treatment of prisoners heading east to one of Stalin’s gulags in 1942. Seeing Volkov and Byrne, they immediately apprehended them at gunpoint, and Surinov was asked if this was the man that had caused all his trouble. The uniform was similar, but Surinov was not certain. The violence that followed that interrogation stunned Byrne, with Volkov gunning down all three of his captors and then seizing Byrne again, determined that he was behind some nefarious plot here.

“You!” Volkov pointed his weapon at Byrne. “Come with me.”

The Captain prodded him, goading him up the main stairway to the second floor this time, until they reached the upper landing.

“Where is the room you were staying in?”

“There, sir… The second door on the right, I think.” Byrne was very confused, frightened, and could not imagine who this man was, though his garb looked much like the uniform worn by that other man they had encountered, the man named Fedorov.

His captor forced open the door to his room, easing in carefully before he pushed Byrne inside. “Russian Naval Intelligence!” he shouted, leaping in behind him, but the room was dark and silent. Byrne was very surprised to see that none of his things were there, and he immediately thought that he had pointed out the wrong room in his haste and fear. The bed was facing the wrong direction, the bed clothing all different, the curtains on the window gone, the oil lamp on the night stand missing. He was, in fact, standing in the correct room, number 214, but it would never enter his head that it was the year 1942 at that moment.

His captor’s eyes narrowed as he methodically scanned the nightstand, made up bed, and then he walked to inspect the closet and restroom to make certain no one was concealed there.

“Well it doesn’t seem that anyone has stayed in this room for some time.” The suspicion was obvious in his tone. “Very well, come with me. Let’s find that old proprietor and see what he has to say about things. What was your name again?”

“Thomas Byrne, sir. I’m a Reporter for the London Times—just here to cover the great race, sir.”

“Well, Mister Byrne, your name should be on the register of this inn, yes? You had better hope I find it there. Now move!”

They were out into the hall, very near the back stairwell, and the hard hand of the man on his shoulder steered Byrne towards the entrance.

“So you say you were meeting with friends in the dining hall, eh? Some associates? I trust you saw what happened to them when they presumed to trifle with me. Bear that in mind. Now get down those stairs!”

And so down they went, the first downward movement by Byrne, the second for Volkov. As Fedorov had theorized, Byrne would get unerringly right back to the year and time where he started, 1908, and all the while, Volkov’s hand was tight on his shoulder, his pistol jabbed in the hollow of his back. And so he would take Volkov back, right along with him, each of those 17 steps down marking off the years, 34 in all. That was how Volkov got back to 1908, not because Fedorov had whispered anything to Mironov, but because an enterprising Newspaper man named Harmsworth had sent Thomas Byrne to far off Siberia, to look for news that might boost his circulation.

If Thomas Byrne had not been there at the railway inn that day to cover the arrival of the German race team, Volkov would have never reached that fateful year. But how far back did the line of causality go? Where was the real Pushpoint on that event? Was it Byrne’s decision to hasten up those stairs to fetch his belongings, or should the fault be laid on the desk of Harmsworth? Then again, the history of that man’s life led even further back, into the lives of the parents that had given birth to Harmsworth. Was the Pushpoint there, hidden in the romance that had given birth to Harmsworth? Or was it the school master he encountered later in life, one J. V. Milne, where Harmsworth was educated at Henley House School in Kilburn, London? It was he who had encouraged the young Harmsworth to start the school newspaper, setting him on a career track that would later see him found the Times, and send Thomas Byrne off to Siberia.

Strangely, one of Harmsworth’s teachers there at that very same school was someone who would later do a good deal of speculating and writing on the arcane possibility of traveling through time—a man named H. G. Wells….

One thing or another led Byrne to that railway inn, and it was he who led Volkov back to 1908. The dining room they found themselves in when they made that final descent was obviously the same room he had been in before. Byrne could tell by the shattered windows from that terrible blast, and the amber glow that was still illuminating the room. Yet his assailant seemed very confused and surprised. The bodies of the three men Volkov had murdered so violently were nowhere to be found.

Byrne could feel his captor’s hand tighten painfully on his shoulder. They moved to the front desk, and the stranger looked over everything very carefully. No one was there, but he saw the guest register open on the desk, a pen there as if it had been dropped at a moment’s notice, and squinted at the scrawled handwriting. Byrne knew his story would be vindicated, for he could see where he had signed his own name there, right along with the names of the German race team when they had arrived.

“Koeppen,” said the stranger. “The thirtieth of June, oh eight? The year is obviously wrong. 2008?”

“One of the contestants,” said Byrne, glomming on to the information as if to buttress his story with this strange and dangerous looking man with a gun.

“Contestants?”

“In the Great Auto Race, sir. The race I am here to report on.”

“What are you talking about, you fool?”

The stranger gave him an odd look, then scanned the front desk area, seeming more confused with each passing moment.

“Where is everyone?” he said, his eyes dark and dangerous.

“Probably out near the tracks, sir, where I should be. The Protos is leaving this morning. That’s the German team’s car. I was just running upstairs to fetch my notebook when I found the door locked on the upper landing and began knocking to see if I could gain access. Then you appeared with that other older man, and… well, I’m very confused, sir. Are you with Mironov?”

“What? Mironov? I am with the Russian Naval Intelligence, and I have had more than enough of this nonsense. Is this Mironov the associate you spoke of earlier?”

Byrne followed what the man said as best he could, in spite of the fact that his Russian was limited. Yet he heard enough to realize this man was an intelligence officer, and Mironov’s warning about the Tsar’s secret police, the Okhrana, rose as a caution in his mind now. “He was just another boarder,” he said, not knowing what else to tell this dangerous man. “I had breakfast with him. I thought perhaps that you were with his party.”

Now the man peered outside. “Through that door,” he said gruffly, nudging Byrne out. They emerged to find the northeastern sky still aglow with a strange light, for there had been some tremendous explosion there and the whole taiga forest was set aflame. There was still a distant rumble of thunder in the air, as though from a cannonade, or more explosions.

“My God,” the man said as he stared at the sky. “They’ve finally done it,” he breathed. “It’s begun.”

Byrne had no idea what the man was talking about. He seemed to be reading some meaning in that terrible glow on the horizon, but the Things he said next made no sense.

“Alright,” said Volkov. “Your story pans out. Get on with your business. But see that?” The man pointed. “The war has started, and if you have any sense in your head you will get away from here as fast as you can. There’s a big naval weapons arsenal south of here, and an airfield at Kansk to the west. They’ll certainly be targeted, so you had better head east. I must find my men. What could have happened to them?” The man seemed to say that more to himself than to Byrne, who nodded, grateful that he was set free, and thinking only of getting away from this man.

He turned heading towards the railway yard to see if the train had arrived. At that moment it was still at Kansk to the west, and would not continue on to Ilanskiy until the next day. So Byrne wasn’t going to get anywhere that day, war or no war. What did this strange man mean by that remark about the war—Naval Weapons Arsenal? Airfield? Orville and Wilbur Wright had only just made the first flight in a rickety flying machine a little over five years ago. Such craft existed, but they were mostly experimental, and the airships developed by Count Zeppelin never came here, so there was nothing that might pass for an airfield at Kansk that he knew of. He had stopped there briefly when the train last brought him here before getting off at Ilanskiy. He sighed, thinking he might as well try to find Mironov again, and warn him of what had happened to him. That strange man had to be Okhrana, which means the other fellow named Fedorov might be the same. First, he decided to go back to his room to look for his belongings, only this time he took the main stairway up, as he noticed that a very nervous looking innkeeper had closed the lower door to the back stairway off the dining room and latched it with a padlock.

“Sir,” he asked, “will the train be in this morning?”

“After that?” said the innkeeper, motioning to the red glow outside while sweeping up the broken glass by the windows. “Not likely,” he said gruffly.

“There was trouble here,” Byrne ventured. “A bit of murder and mayhem; strange characters everywhere. You found the bodies?” He could see no blood on the floor or carpet.

“Bodies? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” said Byrne, still very confused. The man acted as though his only concern was the broken window. “I’ll be in my room,” he said. “It looks as though the German team will be staying here another night as well. Good day sir, if it could possibly be redeemed after a morning like this.”

Byrne went up to room 214, as much to gather his wits as his belongings. There would be quite a bit of commotion about the inn that day, with several visitors getting off Train 92 and taking carriages on the muddy roads all the way to Ilanskiy seeking lodging. They had come to see the race, though they were late, and when they heard the German team was still at Ilanskiy, they came to make good their effort.

The following day there would be more than stray guests off that train. Something would loom low on the horizon from the northeast, where the dull glow of burning fire still lit on that distant edge of the wilderness. Byrne would see it, just after dawn, rising up in the deep crimson light, a great silver-grey whale in the sky, soon backlit by the sun. A Zeppelin, he thought, amazed that such a craft would be here. Then came the wrenching sound of another explosion, and there was fire in the sky again where the airship had been, and the sound of something crashing down to the earth. Frightened guests came running from their rooms, thinking this was yet another terrible red dawn, as the day before, and hearing the sound of booming explosions yet again.

Byrne was one of them, rushing down the main stairway and reaching the doorway there just in time to bump right into a man he immediately recognized. There were two other hard looking men with him in soldier’s uniforms, one brandishing a dangerous looking weapon.

It was Fedorov, with the implacable Sergeant Troyak, and Orlov in his wake. There was a look of despair on Fedorov’s face, his eyes wet and glassy, and with a desperate, almost vacant look in them. Symenko, with all his crew on the Irkutsk, had just met the wired fate set off by Fedorov’s order transmitted to Zykov—Downfall. The sound of those thermobaric rounds exploding, and the demolitions Zykov’s men would carry out in the wreckage, would be reported again by the locals as that same strange artillery fire they had heard the previous days.

For Fedorov, each sharp report was scoring a mark on his soul, and the worst of it was still before him. Then, with a sudden awareness of recollection, he knew who he had just bumped into—the reporter! Now he had to find Mironov.