“But can’t we prevent all that,” asked Tyrenkov? “Can’t we stop him now, sir. Perhaps I lingered there too long. It could be that Volkov is no longer in sight when I go back to that window on the upper landing. That could be the reason we failed. Perhaps there simply wasn’t time for me to get there and take aim before he slipped away. Well, we can plan this very carefully now. Forget that sniper rifle. I can pick a squad of our very best men. We will leave nothing to chance or fate.”
Karpov gave him a riveting look, torn between the sense of impending doom laid down in this writer’s tale, and the heady feeling that he was bigger than that, impervious, invulnerable, and the master of fate itself. Which was true? He had already acted to prune his own family tree, and prevent the untimely death of his Great Grandfather. That was likely to change things, though he could not know how. Was this book a real harbinger of his own doom, or merely a relic from a world that might never come to be?
Then he realized what he had here in his hand, not the certainty of his own demise, but a grand glimpse of what might be, a timely warning. This journey here had unsettled everything, like that bad pudding festering in the gut of Ebenezer Scrooge. Without even knowing it, Tyrenkov had played the role of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come! He had inadvertently picked up this book, which purported to be a tale of mystery and imagination, but was really one that relied on the history of events its author had seen in the past, events that might be underway at this very moment.
Yet it was clear to Karpov now that there were two worlds in play here, not only one. The world that saw Volkov arrive on that train at Ilanskiy with his security detail knew nothing of the one he had been living in before that storm sent them here, otherwise why would the book be described as a fiction instead of actual history? Two worlds, yet strangely connected by that rift on the back stairs. Did actions taken in one world affect the fate of the other? When Kirov moved forward to that blackened future, the evidence seemed plain enough. Karpov looked at his security chief, seeing the urgency in his eyes.
“Your ardor is not merely loyalty, Tyrenkov. It is driven by something more—the line of my own fate! The world tried me before—tried to get rid of me just like those traitors on my ship. But it failed. I survived, and returned to write my own story, and no stupid fool of a writer is going to get rid of me that easily. Yes, we can prevent this man’s little fiction from ever being written. We can do exactly what you suggest, and leave nothing to chance.”
Chapter 2
“Gather your men, Tyrenkov. We’re going to see to this matter right this instant!”
“Sir!” Tyrenkov rushed off to find Sergeant Konev, leaving Karpov alone for a moment. He stood there by the fire, eyeing that door to the stairwell with a mix of anger, determination, and indignation. Nobody tries to write me out of the story—not Vladimir Karpov!
He thought that as if his own name would ring through the halls of history like the peal of a church bell. Yet even as he asserted his own importance, inflated as it was by the hunger of his own ego, he could still perceive that lingering thrum of uncertainty within his chest, that flutter of adrenaline that was more than his own body preparing itself for action. Fight or flight—every creature had to make that choice when confronted with imminent danger. In his earlier life, the life of the mouse living beneath the floorboards of the mansion the Russian Navy had built, he had always chosen the safe course, always slipped into hidden little holes. He preferred the darkness of subterfuge as his primary means of advancing himself, the slow gnawing at wires and cables, the subtle undermining of those he saw as obstacles to his own advancement.
As Captain of Kirov he had become something else, something dark and powerful. Ever since he took that first step, locking Volsky away in the sick bay with Doctor Zolkin, that darkness had been growing, feeding on every opportunity it could find for violence against his enemies. When you fling a nuclear warhead at your foe, something changes inside. You become more shadow, and less light, slipping into that darkness, but finding there a realization of absolute power. You don’t hesitate to do the small things after that, and what he had before him now was a small thing as it seemed. Just send Tyrenkov back up those stairs with a submachine gun squad and take care of the matter.
A small thing, a single life, yet it would reset the entire scheme of the world, rearrange all the pieces on the chessboard. The only catch was an irritating one. He was here, in 1909, and even if Tyrenkov returned with the grin of satisfaction, reporting the job was done and Volkov was dead, the new world that might give rise to was beyond his grasp. He could not see it, not from here, or reap the benefit of all this operation might bring about.
And another thing bothered him. He could not do this thing himself. He could not go up and pull that trigger, for he was already in that world. Another version of himself was out to sea, leading the Red Banner Pacific Fleet in a bold sortie against the powerful American Navy. Many thought that enterprise was doomed from the start. He could almost see that in Volsky’s eyes when he gave him the order to deploy. Yet I beat them, he thought stubbornly. I took the brash swagger out of that Captain Tanner. Yes? I wonder how he felt when he saw those missiles coming in on his precious aircraft carrier?
He allowed himself a moment to gloat, forgetting the fitful eruption of that Demon Volcano that had so clotted the skies with its sulfur and ash that Tanner’s air squadrons had to fly widely divergent, and clearly predictable, flight paths. That allowed him to concentrate his long range SAM defense to blunt one pincer of the American counterattack, while the fighters off the Admiral Kuznetsov had been just enough to fend off the other horn of the bull.
You were lucky, an inner voice of warning reminded him. If that air group had been able to concentrate in one coordinated attack, something would have gotten through. Something always gets through… Yes, you showed the Americans what wrath and fire was, but look at what happened! That damn volcano blew half your fleet into the past, into this damnable war, and you got your chance again, only this time it was 1945. You thought you could handle things easily there, but found out differently. Yes?
Volsky had handed him that barb when he intimated that any man who had to resort to the use of a nuclear warhead was one who had already lost his battle, and clearly, Karpov had already lost his battle with Admiral Halsey and Ziggy Sprague. The Admiral Golovko was sunk, and the skies were darkening with flights of American planes in the hundreds. The American Pacific Fleet in 1945 was enormous, and it was coming for him. As the missiles fired, and his remaining SAMs diminished, the outcome was inevitable, so he reached for the Hammer of God, and he sought to crush his foe in another mighty blow.
That was a heady thing, to push that button and send that warhead on its way, knowing what it would do. It was the second American battleship he would destroy, yet he knew that if Kirov had not slipped again, into the pre-revolutionary days of 1908, that battle might have ended quite differently. God only knows what happened to Captain Yeltsin on Orlan….
This time it was different, not the searing fire of a nuclear warhead, but instead a single bullet that would change everything. That must now become the rattle of small arms in ambush, if he carried out the plan Tyrenkov suggested. Just send a squad up those stairs… It seemed so simple, and yet something about it gnawed at his pride.
It won’t be my hand on the trigger, he thought. Tyrenkov would do the deed, or perhaps Sergeant Konev, or even one of the men he selected in the assault team. Yes, I will be the one to give the order and set this plan in motion, but I will not really be the man who changed the world. That honor and fortune would fall to another, and what if he realizes it one day, and becomes a little bigger in his mind than he should?
That thought bothered him, along with the thought that Volkov would never know he had his revenge. The Ivan Volkov of 2021 was an unknowing fool at the moment. He was nothing more than a suspicious, meddling henchman, out doing the bidding of another. He only became his own man after he went down those s
tairs. Yes, with his service jacket at his disposal, and the sure knowledge of all that would come, it was inevitable that he would outmaneuver Denikin and seize control of the White movement. The Orenburg Federation was the result, but the Ivan Volkov that built that little empire in the hinterlands of Kirov’s Soviet Union would never know that he would meet his end on my order. That bothered him even more.
Revenge was a dish that was best served cold. Yes, he had repeated that well worn phrase to Volkov’s face when they first met for lunch aboard Kirov, during the inspection at Vladivostok. Even then he could see that Volkov would be a problem, a nuisance, a stone in his shoe. That bastard thought he could sneak in here with a couple airships and take this place. What an arrogant fool he was.
As he flipped through the pages of the book in his hand, he could see there the unfolding of Volkov’s final revenge. Look at the way he handled things, thought Karpov. He rounded up every airship he could pull off the line and came for Ilanskiy with one thought in mind—to destroy my fleet, and by extension to destroy me personally. The title of the book goaded him, When Giants Fell…
That bastard could see an opportunity when it presented itself. The instant he realized Tunguska was lost, and I was out of the picture, he came here to wreck everything I was building. Something in him wanted to get back there and say ‘not so fast!’ Something wanted to meet Volkov eye to eye, defeat him right there in a glorious battle, and then see his face when he realized he was beaten at last. Handling things on this back stairs was the work of a submarine Captain, quiet, secret, sinister, yet in some ways the work of a coward.
Karpov hated submarines….
Tyrenkov was back, the boots of his assault squad clumping hard on the floor as they came after him, the first swelling sounds that would rise in a crescendo of doom. The light of battle was in his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed with his urgency. Karpov’s eyes narrowed as the men came in, as he looked at Tyrenkov, and an odd thought occurred to him.
He knows entirely too much now, Tyrenkov. He knows who I am, where I’ve come from. He’s even been to that world, a place I can no longer go. And now he knows about Ilanskiy, this humdrum railway inn, that back stairway. He can go up those steps any time he chooses. Lord knows, I can’t keep my eye on him 24 hours a day. Yes, he can go up those stairs and do things, and doing this thing is going to darken his shadow, and feed the fire of his own hungry soul. Perhaps he’ll be the one who pulls the trigger, just as he was the one who pulled the trigger when it came time to kill Petrov.
Karpov remembered the look on Tyrenkov’s face when he strode in and handed him that pistol, still warm from its firing. That was all I had from the Petrov incident, the warmth of that pistol in my hand. It was Tyrenkov’s finger on the trigger, and he knows that now. He knows entirely too much… He seemed just a little bigger, a deeper shade of sinister grey, when he returned. After this, his soul will deepen to charcoal black, and he’ll be as big as I am, as dark and cinder hot as I am, the man who changed everything.
And Tyrenkov was smart enough to realize that…
“Ready sir! I have five good men here, our very best. We’ll get the job done, I assure you.”
“Just a moment, Tyrenkov,” Karpov said quickly, his eyes still scanning the pages of the book, eyeing the line drawn plates where he saw the air duel that became the destruction of the Siberian Fleet, Ivan Volkov’s great victory, and the sweetness of revenge heavy on his tongue. “Just a moment… We must think carefully here… Something has occurred to me that I had not considered before. Send the men away.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me! Get them out of here. I need to think this through.”
Tyrenkov hesitated, ever so briefly, then gave Sergeant Konev a nod to send the squad off. That was something that Karpov did not fail to notice. He was no longer the coiled spring that would enact his commands without a moment’s thought. Yes, when I first told him he was the one to go up those stairs, he had the temerity to quibble the matter with me. I had to suggest I would get a Corporal to go in his place. He put his own fear and desire for self-preservation ahead of my interests, and my orders. Yes, he acquiesced in the end, and did as I ordered, but he hesitated, just as he hesitated again just now, when I told him to dismiss the men.
A moment later they were alone, and Karpov stood there, realizing Tyrenkov was holding a submachine gun, standing there by the fire with a look on his face that clearly revealed his displeasure.
“What is it sir? What have we not considered?”
“We? Don’t get too big for your britches, Tyrenkov. I’m doing the thinking here. Now put that damn machinegun away. I have things to consider, things you cannot possibly understand.”
“But sir, I thought—”
“You? Don’t think, Tyrenkov. This involves a good deal more than you may realize. I can’t expect you to grasp it all, but there are factors in play here that I must consider very carefully.”
Tyrenkov perceived a sea change in Karpov’s mood, and he knew enough of the man to realize that was dangerous. So he did what he knew he should, and assumed the role he had so carefully played out in the past, that of a dutiful servant, the Devil’s Adjutant. He was like a submarine on the surface, lined up on his target, just a witless tramp steamer named Ivan Volkov, but now he could hear the drone of aircraft over head, and he knew it was time to dive, submerge, get beneath the swelling waves of the sea and move in that muffled quiet and darkness, time to lurk. Time to renew the slow, stealthy approach, the stalking of the hunter, who works from the shadows and shuns the light.
Karpov had told him a great deal in these last few days, confided in him to a degree he never did before. Yet now, for the first time, Tyrenkov could sense that the Admiral looked on him with a wary eye. He could sense the edge of resentment in Karpov’s voice, and the tinge of suspicion. He’s just realized I’m a threat to him, thought Tyrenkov. Now he’s thinking everything through again. I must be very careful here…
“Volkov.” Karpov spat the name out, the disdain clearly evident in his tone. “So this is what he has planned, is it? He thinks he’s going to swarm in and destroy my entire fleet! In fact, that is exactly what he does, if this fiction is truly based on facts the author became aware of. Is that so, or is this simply what it appears, a story? I wonder just who this fellow is, this Yuri Rudkin. Well, he’s not collecting royalties on my account! I won’t become the fodder that fuels his pen, nor will I allow him to enshrine Ivan Volkov as he does here, making that man the proud victor who tramples the Free Siberian State beneath his boot. No! We’ll do this another way.”
“Another way sir?”
“We do it man to man. I was wrong to send you off to settle the matter of my Great Grandfather. I should have gone and handled it myself. It was a small thing, yet it was personal, but this is something quite more. It’s a very big thing, Tyrenkov, and it is also personal. This little war is a duel in heaven, between men from a world you have but barely glimpsed. I can’t expect you to understand, but I have decided that I also can’t order you to be my agent of doom in this matter. I must handle the matter myself.”
“Yourself? But I thought you said you could not go up to that world any longer, sir. I don’t understand. That was the only reason you are sending me in your place.”
“Yes, you don’t understand, do you. Well understand this: Volkov isn’t going to get away with his little plan!” He held up the slim book that Tyrenkov had fetched from that other world. “Nor is this man Rudkin going to feast on my bones for his little fiction here. No! This is personal now. Get down to the bridge. Tell Bogrov to collect the ground crews and make the ship ready for operations. It looks grey out there, and I want the latest weather report on my ready room desk in ten minutes.”
Tyrenkov had a head full of questions, but an inner instinct, and his own devious intelligence, told him this was not the time to ask any of them. This was the time to simply salute, stride away, and carry out Karpov’s order, which
is exactly what he did. It was time to recede, get back in the shadows, observe, wait, think. He saluted and was off to the bridge leaving the Admiral alone.
Karpov watched him go, satisfied. That was the quickstep I want to see in Tyrenkov, the unhesitating gait of compliance. I pull the trigger, he fires. I’ve used him to be the bullet of my intentions many times before, but this time things will be different. This time it was personal.
And so, my old nemesis here is going to soon get a nice little surprise. My plan may not work. I may be doomed to fail, and remain lost in time here, as this Rudkin has it. But by god, I’ll raise hell before that happens.
He sat down by the fire with his book, opening it again to begin reading it more carefully. Half way through the prologue he realized that the author wasn’t going to give him any more than a passing mention… Vladimir Karpov, was dead and gone from this world, and the fleet he had built was doomed without him… That was all he would get, a single line in the entire book! All the rest was Volkov’s. That ass would bask in the limelight of his treacherous little victory here, the “Battle of Ilanskiy,” as Rudkin came to call it.
Well I have news for Rudkin, and news for Volkov, and news for the entire world. Damn them all, I’m going back! I’m going to take Tunguska up into the darkening skies and head for the biggest goddamned thunder storm I can find. I’m going to sail head first into bedlam and chaos, but one way or another I’m going back, if Time will have me, and I’m going to settle the matter myself. Vengeance, after all, was a very personal thing.
That was something Karpov knew very well.
Chapter 3
Karpov thought, and as he did so he had the satisfaction of knowing his instincts had been correct. The heat of his emotions had led him to this sudden change, but now his mind began to find reasons and justifications, walling off his choice to protect it from any threats. It all seemed so easy. Just send Tyrenkov and his men up those stairs and put an end to Volkov once and for all. But the more he thought, the more he came to see that his own personal time line, his own fate, might be irrevocably entwined with that of Volkov now.
Crescendo Of Doom Page 2
