“Bullshit, Fedorov. Understand? Bullshit! Turn that helo and get back here. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.”
Fedorov’s pulse was up, a heat on him even in the cold Siberian air. That missile had been very close. The outer limit of its engagement envelope was variable, and it had failed to reach them, but just barely. What could have possibly compelled Karpov to make this call? Didn’t he understand what was at stake here? The Admiral’s voice came back, a little breathless, as though he had been struggling to control himself, an enforced composure evident in his tone, though Fedorov could perceive the tension in every word he spoke.
“Look Fedorov, where else can you go? You’ll run out a fuel yourself soon, and have to land somewhere in Siberia—my Siberia, I might add. Make your rendezvous with the Irkutsk and I’ll have you arrested then and there. So just be smart now and turn back while you can. There’s more to this than we contemplated—very much more.”
He’s afraid, thought Fedorov. He’s afraid of something, but he can’t come right out and say it. How can I convince him that this mission is imperative. “Admiral,” he said. “If we abort now, we may not have time to get back and complete the mission.”
“There isn’t going to be any mission!” The anger was back.
“But you know what’s at stake. We went over everything, for hours and hours.”
“Yes, I know what’s at stake—but you don’t, Fedorov. Now stop arguing and obey orders!”
Fedorov thought quickly. He needed time, so he decided to allay the Admiral’s fears, whatever they were, and tell him what he wanted to hear. “Very well, Admiral. We will return to the ship as ordered. I just hope to God you know what you’re doing here. Fedorov out.”
“Get up to altitude so Rodenko can see you,” said Karpov back. “I can promise you safe passage home. Then I’ll explain everything. Karpov out.”
“Turn now and climb sir?” Sherenski gave Fedorov a wide-eyed look.
“And give that bastard another shot at us?” said Orlov. “Sookin Sym! He’ll kill us, Fedorov. Don’t believe a word he says. We should take the helo and get as far away from here as we can.”
Fedorov gritted his teeth. “Pilot, put us back on course for the Irkutsk rendezvous.”
“Sir? You will not obey the Admiral’s order?”
“Damn right he won’t obey the bloody Admiral’s order,” Orlov growled.
“Just turn and make that rendezvous,” said Fedorov, and keep us low. Keep the transponder off, and disengage the radio as well. I can’t have them tracking us that way, but first… I need to buy us some time.” He thumbed the send switch.
“Black Hawk to Mother, that missile did more damage than we thought. We have a fuel leak and I’ve determined we cannot make the ship.” He reached over, and cranked the frequency modulator, and flipped a switch for ECM jamming as well, all while he continued sending. “Come in, Kirov, we cannot read your link…. Breaking up…” Then he switched the radio set off.
Aboard Kirov, Nikolin received the message, but it didn’t sound anything like genuine interference to his trained ear. To make certain, he checked his data log on the frequency integrity, and looking that over he was immediately convinced that they had tried to spoof radio failure on the other end. It was deliberate.
He swallowed, thinking, his eyes moving this way and that. Then he reported. “Sir, that last communication was cut off. Their radio sounded like it was fried. I’ve lost the com link.”
Fedorov had at least one collaborator there in Nikolin. But would he now have the time he needed to carry out his plan? He looked around the cabin, realizing he was going to ask a great deal of all these men. His eyes met Troyak’s.
“Sergeant,” he said quietly. “You and I need to have a word or two. We’re going to make that rendezvous with the Siberian airship, and Karpov is likely to learn we aren’t returning to the ship soon. In that event, he will certainly contact the Irkutsk, so when we get there, we’ll likely face a hostile reception. I know I’m asking you to be complicit in what is really my decision to disobey Karpov’s orders now. Believe me, I have an urgent reason to do so, and very little time. I’m asking you and your men to support me now. Can I rely on you.”
Troyak thought for a moment. He had received no orders of any kind from Karpov. He was asked to accompany this sortie by the ship’s first officer, and it was not his business to intervene and tell the Starpom what he should or should not do. If Fedorov was bucking Karpov here, that would be business between him and the Admiral.
“Sir,” he said quietly. “As I have no other orders, your word remains final here unless I hear otherwise.”
“Good enough,” said Fedorov. “I will take full responsibility, rest assured, but this is the situation we may soon be facing…”
* * *
Miles to the east, the Airship Irkutsk was hovering at the rendezvous point, and her Captain was chewing on the orders he had just received, the taste bitter in his mouth. Symenko was once the senior officer aboard Alexandra, a scout ship in Volkov’s Orenburg Fleet. He had also been a Squadron Commandant in Volkov’s Eastern Airship Division, but no longer. He had turned, angry when he felt he had been sent on a mission to Ilanskiy just so Volkov could get rid of him. He had once been promised the Governorate of Omsk, but when Volkov signed his accord with the Siberians ceding that city back, Symenko became a nuisance. His trouble with Volkov went back years before that. He had opposed him when Denikin was still alive in the White Movement, and he knew Volkov had a long memory. The General Secretary had used him to deliver a message to Karpov, intending it to be his last service in the Orenburg fleet.
A surly man, ill tempered by nature, Symenko was even more irascible when he realized he had been thrown to the wolves. Karpov had interrogated him, extracting as much information as possible, and then made a startling offer.
“So you’re just the messenger, is it Symenko? You want to claim diplomatic immunity and have me kiss your backside and send you merrily on your way? I should drag your ass into that spy basket and cut the damn thing loose. That would be a nice long ride to hell, right Symenko? We are at 4500 meters up here. But before I do that, let me test what you have said. You tell me Volkov has betrayed you as well? Then join me.”
“What?”
“Don’t look so stupid. If it is true that Volkov considers you expendable and sends you into the bear’s den with that pouch, then how eager can you be to fight for him now?”
A very good point, thought Symenko, particularly when the other man was holding a gun to your head. He thought quickly. Join him? Why not? It was either that or a bullet to the head. He would cover his bet for a while, feed Karpov any information that seemed suitable, and secretly plan to get back to his ship and contact Petrov on the Oskemen. But Karpov got to him first, blowing Oskemen and Petrov to hell. Symenko stewed in the Brig aboard Karpov’s ship, and days later, the Siberian repeated his offer. Knowing he could never go back to Orenburg and survive, Symenko had agreed to serve the Siberians.
He was given secondary roles at first, Starpom in one of Karpov’s cruisers, but he swallowed his pride, knuckled down and proved himself reliable. Then again to his surprise, Karpov had summoned him to is big new airship, the Tunguska, and given him his first real command—the Irkutsk. It was a fine ship, former flagship of the Eastern Siberian Division, 180,000 cubic meter lift, with ten 76ers and six more 105s. That was a choice command, much better than anything he had ever had under his boots with Volkov’s fleet, and he was very appreciative. It had gone a long way in tamping down his temper, but it turned out that Irkutsk was mostly on overwatch and recon duty over Lake Baikal. He would spent his time peering through binoculars at the Japanese outposts on the other side of that great barrier lake, and duly noting any changes in his reports to Karpov.
Then, out of the blue, comes this order to proceed to the Tokko Lake, about 200 miles inland from the Sea of Okhotsk. He was to rendezvous with an aircraft there, take on passengers
, and ferry them another 1300 miles west to Ilanskiy. That alone was surprising, he thought. Who could these passengers be? Then, when he got this last communication from Karpov, his blood ran cold. He was ordered to take the passengers aboard, and hold them in protective custody. Then fly immediately to his home city, Irkutsk.
What was going on here, he wondered? Who were these passengers, and what had happened in the last hours to suddenly change the reception he was ordered to make for them. One minute I’m going to Ilanskiy, the next it’s back to Irkutsk. Karpov is up to something, he knew, and it boded nothing good.
“Captain,” said his Radarman Chunskiy. “We have a signal, low and slow. I make it about 2000 meters and approaching the lake on the expected heading.”
The helo would land on the banks of this isolated lake, with nary a soul to ever see what would happen there. This has been very hush, hush, thought Symenko. And it’s no wonder—Ilanskiy. That place has been a witches brew for years. It’s what first got me into this stew here, and something tells me there’s trouble ahead. Take these passengers into custody, is it. Very well.
“Make ready to rendezvous as planned,” he ordered. “Sergeant of the Marines, I’ll want the bin ready to be lowered smartly on my command. Go yourself, and with three good men. The passengers are to be disarmed and brought directly to my stateroom. If you get any trouble, ring the bridge on the field phone. Bridge gondola gunners will stand to, and cover that aircraft when it lands—and god help them here.” He could see no suitable airfield, and wondered just how a plane could ever land here. That was a detail he had been told not to worry about, but now these passengers were details that would most likely be trouble for him.
Karpov… That was all that need be said about this matter. The bloody Admiral was up to something again, plain and simple. Only what was all this about?
Chapter 33
When Symenko saw the aircraft, he was amazed. It had no wings to speak of, and two big rotors above the bulbous main airframe. It made a loud chopping sound as it approached, and he realized this must be one of those helicopters that had been spoken up by airmen of the fleet these last months. It hovered like an angry, noisome bee, and then made a perfect soft landing on a spit of turf extending out into the eastern shore of Lake Tokko.
Shaking his head, he maneuvered Irkutsk overhead, his recoilless rifles covering the strange craft below as ordered. Then they lowered the basket, a square metal cargo lifter, with Sergeant Klykov and three other armed Marines.
Down in the KA-40, Fedorov was watching the basket lower, his pulse up. They could see the heads of four men in the basket, peering down at them from above as it lowered. He had told Troyak that they would likely meet with trouble here. “These men will want to apprehend us,” he said, “but I cannot allow that to happen. I will want you and your Marines to handle the situation, but without bloodshed. Can you do that?”
Troyak simply nodded, asking no questions, and then looking over at Zykov, who nodded back. Then Fedorov explained what he was going to do.
“The KA-40 doesn’t have the range to get me to Ilanskiy,” he said. “This was as far inland as we could go, and Lake Tokko here was an easy landmark for this rendezvous. But now I need that airship.”
“Sir?” Troyak looked up at the massive shape in the sky, growing larger with each moment as it descended, its shadow deepening on the ground around them.
“I want to take that airship. Can you disarm any men they send down in that basket?”
Troyak nodded.
“Good…” Fedorov was thinking all this through on the fly. He stared up. “Those guns look somewhat threatening. If we take action down here, those gunners will certainly see it. So I want you and your men to stow your weapons in that duffel bag. We’ll let them take us up to the airship. Then, on my signal, I want you and the Marines to take the situation in hand. Is that possible?”
“I understand sir. We’ll handle it.”
“And we can’t have anyone at the receiving end sending a warning to their bridge. So if you can overpower those men, disarm them, we can then have your men suit up in their uniforms. Then we find our way to the bridge, but make it look like you are escorting me and Orlov there as prisoners. I know this is chancy, but it’s the only thing I can think of now.”
“Damn,” said Orlov with a smile. “You’ve got some balls Fedorov. Sookin Sym!”
That was what they did, and it was an almost comical moment when Sergeant Klykov off the Irkutsk found himself staring at the likes of these tough strange men, off that equally strange aircraft. One looked to be a Siberian, rough hewn, all muscle, and with an aspect that was so threatening that Klykov instinctively stepped back when he drew close, reaching for his pistol. But the big man simply smiled, and all the others seemed to be cooperating. So they herded everyone into the cargo basket, including three duffel bags, which he checked, seeing it was all the weapons these men must have had with them. He reached for the crank on the field phone, one eye still on Troyak, who stood there, brawny arms folded over his broad chest. Orlov was chewing on something, eyeing Klykov and his men with unfriendly glances.
“The party has surrendered their weapons and we are ready to come up,” said Klykov. Seconds later the basket creaked and swayed as it slowly lifted off the ground. As for Sherenski and one other crewmen, they kept their heads down, remaining unseen in the KA-40 as Fedorov had ordered, and thankfully, this Marine Sergeant had no compulsion to search the helo.
Up they went, and unexpectedly, Troyak began speaking to the Sergeant in a Siberian dialect. “You are a Khabarovski,” he said. “I can see it in the cut of your chin. Where are you from?”
“Chumikan on the coast,” said Krykov. “And you are from this region as well?”
“Chiukchi Province. Good fishing at Chumikan. I used to fish the mouth of the Uda River as a boy there.”
Krykov gave him a nod and wan smile. The basket was up, and Troyak looked over the landing area, seeing a hatch or opening above in the outer shell of the airship, and a ladder up. Two other men off Irkutsk secured the basket and then Troyak spoke again in the same dialect.
“Sergeant,” he said. “May I have your pistol, please?”
“What?”
“No questions. Just your pistol, and if your men will hand over their rifles, then we can all get up that ladder and warm up.”
“Just a moment here,” Krykov’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for his sidearm, which was then snatched so quickly by Troyak’s sudden move that Krykov looked down at his hand, stunned to see it empty. The other men started to brandish their rifles, but that got them nowhere. Troyak’s Marines just stared them down, cold merciless stares from the Black Death.
“You might want to chamber a round before you point that at someone,” said Troyak, snatching the first rifle away as Zykov suddenly produced a pistol and leveled it at their faces.
“And you might take the time to search a man you plan to take as a prisoner,” said Zykov with a cold smile.
“Now then,” said Troyak. “We will also require your uniforms….”
* * *
“What’s taking them so long to get forward?” said Symenko, still on the bridge of the Irkutsk. “Alright, Helmsman, take us up to 2000 meters, and set course for home. Ahead two thirds when you reach elevation. I’ll be in my stateroom above,” he finished.
He took the ladder up, entering the vast interior of the airship, and then saw a clump of men on the main central walkway along the spine of the ship, coming forward from the tail section where the cargo basket had been lowered. He could see the uniforms of his Marines, and two other men being herded along. In the darkness he could not get a head count, and he just growled over his shoulder.
“You men follow me to the stateroom, and step lively.”
That was exactly what Troyak and the others did, with himself, Zykov, Chenko and Durbin all decked out in the other men’s uniforms, the last carrying their own digs in a small duffel bag, along with thei
r weapons. At the moment, they simply used the rifles they had taken from Krykov’s men to look as authentic as possible to anyone who might have seen them. Zykov looked up into the massive overhead interior of the airship, impressed by the huge airbags, and seeing men on the riggings above, some on ladders, others walking on horizontal metal walkways between them.
They reached the door to the Captain’s stateroom, seeing Symenko tramp in without so much as a casual glance behind him. He walked straight to the far wall, flipped a switch to start a small heater, and then slowly began pulling off his gloves, his back still turned to the party as he warmed his hands.
“I’ll never get used to this cold out here,” he muttered. “Alright Sergeant Krykov. Make your report.”
“The Sergeant is otherwise disposed,” said Fedorov, which prompted Symenko to turn, a startled look on his face. He saw the group of strangers, the tough looking men in ill fitting uniforms, and tumblers clicked in his mind, unlocking his pent up anger.
“God almighty, what the hell is this about?” He looked them over, his suspicions growing. “If that bastard Karpov has double crossed me again… Where are my men?”
“Safe in that cargo basket, though I daresay they might need some blankets. You are Captain of this ship?”
“Damn right I’m the Captain, but who the hell are you. Karpov sent you to do this? Well, he might have saved himself the trouble if he wanted me relieved. Damn that man—yes, I’ll say it right here to your faces. Who the hell are you?”
He could see that Fedorov clearly wore a naval uniform, as did the big man behind him. As for Fedorov, his mind was lightning quick. “Captain, I’m sorry to say that I will be relieving you—at least for the time being. But I’ll need your cooperation.”
“Cooperation?”
“Correct. I need to get to Ilanskiy, and as quickly as possible. Isn’t that where you were bound from here?”
Second Front (Kirov Series Book 24) Page 28
