No. The damage they can do lies in their ability to influence events in the war. As toothless as they are now, their remaining missiles can be a decisive factor in any air battle that occurs here. I wonder what they are up to now? They were obviously sent up here to deal with me and the ship, and the fact that they were operating with other Japanese fleet units is most revealing. That means Yamamoto has to know about them. How very interesting. They didn’t just appear here, shake hands with Admiral Kurita, and decide to come and kill me. No, that isn’t likely at all. I can imagine they went through everything we did when they first appeared here—trying to decide who’s side they were on. Who knows, maybe that big volcanic eruption off Java had something to do with their appearance, just as Fedorov speculated. If nothing else, it put a little spice into the stew.
Now what are they up to? Yes, Yamamoto must know about them, which means they conspired to get to him and arrange a little pact. The Japanese were down south with this big operation involving Fiji. Why didn’t they send Takami there? Perhaps Yamamoto thought he had the power to handle the Americans himself. It’s my ship that must give him nightmares these days, particularly given what I did to his precious Kido Butai after Pearl Harbor, just a little demonstration of what was to come if Japan continues to defy me.
I ruffled a few more feathers when I took Kamchatka, now my Sakhalin operation has finally got their full attention. That reaction they made off Kamchatka was knee jerk reflex. They thought they would just send a little task force up and settle things. Now they know better. After I made my successful landing on Sakhalin, I must have really rattled the teacups in Tokyo.
He smiled.
So now what is this Takami up to? They’ll have to go back to Yamamoto, tail between their legs, and tell him they failed here, and more, that they have no real power to intervene in my operations again. Oh, I suppose they could form the nucleus of a carrier strike group, and protect those ships from my SSMs as long as their SAMs hold out. But they can’t stop my torpedoes.
He smiled again. He would settle all this later. His most immediate problem now was the same old nemesis that had foiled him so many times—Fedorov. It was an uneasy alliance from the very first. Fedorov had little choice but to knuckle under. He took the position I offered him, and served well, until he got a big head on him again, and started cooking up this sour borscht. Thank god I had the good sense to think it through. We aren’t going to win this war on the back stairway of that railway inn. What fun is that? I’d much rather prefer to slowly grind the Japanese under my boot, until they beg me to stop.
So that is my main concern now—Fedorov, not the damn Japanese. I need not worry what this Takami is up to, but Anton Fedorov is another matter. What is he up to with this insubordination? He tells me he’ll comply with my order to return to the ship, but there’s been no sign of the KA-40 yet, and no word from him at all. Beyond that, my younger self tells me that the Irkutsk has gone silent. They can’t raise them on the radio. Fedorov had Troyak and a few marines with him. I was remiss in not checking to see what Troyak was packing away on that helo from his weapons lockers. He has things in there that can bring an airship down, which is why I warned my brother to keep a sharp eye.
Then again… What good would it do Fedorov to take down the Irkutsk? He’d be stranded there. Oh, they still have the KA-40, and it had fuel enough to get back to the ship from the drop off point at Tokko Lake. That draws a fairly wide circle around that lake, the farthest on for that KA-40, and Fedorov could be anywhere inside that circle. He could easily reach the Trans-Siberian Rail as it swings up north of the big bend in the Amur River. But that would be risky for him, as it is all Japanese occupied territory. He would not come east, towards my operations here, and he would not go south into Japanese held territory. If he continued west from Tokko Lake, he would not even make it to Lake Baikal, and that would do him no good. He’d just have to sit there in the wilderness, twiddling his thumbs.
That leaves north. Yes, he could get up to the populated region along the Lena River, or perhaps even the Aldan River. That’s my territory, but they could go to ground, be discreet, and they would be very difficult to find. There would be food there, the means of survival, particularly around Yakutsk. That would buy him time to figure what to do, but what would that be?
Karpov thought and thought. He’d want to get to Sergei Kirov. Yes… He was all chummy with Kirov, and that would be the only ally he could run to now—unless he had ideas about trying to contact the Americans. I’ve invited US Air Force personnel to evaluate my offer of basing rights on Siberian territory. Could he be running to them? If so, how could they help him? It certainly won’t change anything concerning Ilanskiy. I’ve got that place locked down tighter than a bank vault now. Nobody gets anywhere near that railway inn without my permission. Tyrenkov’s men had a complete cordon around the place.
Another smile, with a dismissive shake of his head. Fedorov, he thought, you are becoming irrelevant now, no matter where you think to go. Run to the Americans, or try running to Sergei Kirov. Yakutsk is a very long way from Leningrad, and besides that, I have much more pull with Sergei Kirov than you may realize. It’s my Shock Armies that saved Russia last winter, and my troops still fight for him even now. How do you think I got this ship back?
So if he runs home to Leningrad, Fedorov might get a rude awakening to find he can no longer pull strings there. But I can. Kirov’s factories are relocating to Siberian territory, and Siberian troops, oil, resources, are all that is still keeping the Soviet Union in this fight. The Americans and British have finally opened their Second Front, for what it’s worth. I sent more troops to Kirov than all the British and American divisions combined.
Yes, I may be worrying too much about Fedorov now. He’s really quite powerless, isn’t he? That said, he needs to be apprehended and brought to my very annoyed justice. If he did have Troyak and his Marines take down the Irkutsk, that’s one more airship I’ll need to build for the fleet. He’ll pay for that. Yes, he’ll pay for everything the next time we meet. No more parley talk with Fedorov. He’s my enemy now. I should have realized that long ago.
Chapter 33
Fedorov felt right at home again as he settled into a chair in the navigation room, charts spread out before him. They had been just north of the tip of Lake Baikal, and were heading west towards Ilanskiy and Kansk by a little used route when the course change was put in. He double checked the distance to the rendezvous point, seeing it was just under 3500 kilometers. If the weather held clear, they might make 80KPH enroute, but the weather was very fickle in Siberia this time of year. He figured the earliest they might arrive would be 48 hours, possibly longer if they were delayed by any unforeseen circumstances. That was to be an understatement, and by a massive margin.
They had gone to high altitude for the initial leg of their journey, to avoid being observed over more populated areas near the Lena River. It was chilling cold up there, and now they had descended into warmer air, the crew very glad for that. Life on a Zeppelin was a hard existence. The rigging and gas bag crews would have to wear heavy parkas, head gear and gloves at altitude, just to keep from being frozen. Gunners assigned to the top mounted platforms got the worst of it, and they were grateful that they did not have to go to action stations and actually man their weapons, fully exposed to the frigid air. In such circumstances, and with the natural wind chill caused by the forward motion of the airship, gun crews could only remain exposed for ten minutes, and they would rotate that often with other men who were huddled on a small warmed deck space just below the platform.
But it wasn’t the cold that seemed to bother them most as they turned north. There was an unaccountable feeling of discomfort settling on the crew, from Symenko, who was naturally surly, and right on down to the cable linemen, sail makers who mended the canvass tarps, and the bag boys. The gunners, bombers, and sub-cloud car men were thankfully not at their posts, and the naval infantry contingent was standing down at Symenko�
��s order, but everyone seemed tense. It was a slowly rising sense of anxiety, and not just because most of the crew could not understand why they were navigating this territory instead of the familiar routes they would take on their many patrols. It was something more, an impalpable sense of doom, just below the skin. It was that feeling of rising adrenaline prompting a man to fight or flight, but the crew could do neither. There was no apparent danger in the skies around them, save the ever present threat of a sudden storm, and the ubiquitous cold. There were no enemy ships to worry about out here, and in fact, the crew didn’t really know much about what was going on. But they were edgy, and Symenko could feel it too.
Now Fedorov sat staring at his chart, seeing the plotted line of their course as they passed over the winding flow of the Lena River, doubling back on itself in a series of twists and turns near the small settlement of Makarovo. Beyond that, the wilderness grew more intense, allowing them to get lower. It was very green here, the terrain beneath them relatively flat, yet covered by endless stretches of dense forest. Most of the trees on earth must be gathered here, he thought, his mind wondering what was going on down in that silent world. There were places there, where even in modern times, no human footprint had ever touched the ground. He thought about that, realizing the world there was quietly present, trees, soil, water, wildlife. Most of it did not even know it was there, he thought. It’s just a mindless existence, ancient, unknowing, yet marvelous nonetheless.
A little over three hours after the course change, they passed over the thin stream of the Gulmok River. After that they would cross the Nepa. These small rivers appearing at intervals in the otherwise undifferentiated terrain were their guideposts, yet his eye kept roving on ahead, following the thinly traced course line, and seeing that it was, indeed, taking them over what he now regarded as a most dangerous area.
The fuel situation was their main problem. He was getting regular reports on usage to factor into his thinking, and he now calculated that they would just have enough to make the rendezvous. As much as he felt compelled to avoid the area ahead of them, he knew they would simply have to stay on this plotted course, and it was going to take them right over the dead ground that had been haunted by so many legends and stories of strange events and evil doings.
In modern times he knew there had been many hidden installations out here, secret mines, military depot sites, testing grounds for weapons, and even hidden silos where cold missiles waited in their stony silence. None of that was here now in 1942. The terrain was unblighted by modernity, and its many evils. Yet the course line was taking them right over the terror of the taiga, the place where something came out of space in 1908, heralded by a strange magnetic flux that was picked up by many scientists and observers across the globe before it struck. They were going to fly directly over the site where it fell, the Tunguska Event, the epicenter of all his worst fears about what was happening to the world around him now.
He got some much needed sleep, awakening again six hours out, near the 450 kilometer mark as they overflew the Chupakan River. Next came the Selkii, then they Ayava, and with each passing, the sense of anxiety seemed to grow. Night fell around them quickly when the sun set just before 18:00 hours, the darkness thickening quickly, the cold increasing. The fat gibbous moon would not rise for another hour and a half, so it was just their bad luck that they would pass over the epicenter of Tunguska in this interval of relative darkness, about an hour after that sun had set. In one sense, that was good, for they would skirt very near the inhabited settlement of Vanavara just 15 kilometers to their west. No one would see the slate grey beast in the skies above, passing like a shadow, nothing more than a smudge that moved over the stars.
A silence had fallen over the ship, a sullen dampening of spirits that now weighed heavily on the crew. Some were trying to get fitful sleep, and the bridge crew on the main gondola sat bleary eyed at their posts, the Wheelman, Elevatorman, Engineer, Trim and Ballast Man, Compass Man. Symenko stood nearby, grumbling about the dark and casting dour glances at Fedorov, Troyak and Orlov. The Chief was particularly edgy.
“Sookin Sym, Fedorov. Where have you taken us? It feels like hell on earth, only no fire, just endless black, and this numbing cold. I haven’t felt this bad since we went down with Troyak and I found that thing on the taiga. Remember that Troyak? I nearly shit my pants!”
The burly Sergeant looked at him, blinking. “Remember what?” he grumbled.
“Never mind that, Orlov,” said Fedorov quickly, and he gave the Chief a warning glance. Orlov had a way of blurting things out like that, which was one reason Fedorov wanted him on this mission, and not back on the ship. This Troyak had never been with them on that mission, nor had any of these Marines. That had happened with the old, original crew of Kirov, but this version of the stalwart Sergeant knew nothing about it. This Troyak had never accompanied Fedorov along the Trans-Siberian Rail, never set foot at Ilanskiy, and he never fought in Syria and Iraq when the war took them there, nor did he have a place on that fateful mission with Popski to look for General O’Connor’s downed aircraft.
Fedorov could feel the anxiety himself as he waited for the moon. Without any good ground reference, they could easily drift off their intended course, and the moonlight would be needed so they could mark out terrain features. Just to be safe in times like this, they would reduce speed to ahead one third. It would minimize the possibility of course drift until they had more light for ground observation. There they were, in this aluminum framed leviathan, defying gravity in the careful balance of lift and ballast, a beast of the wind and sky.
Another hour and they should be through the worst of it. The moon would rise, they could spy out the ground to find a telltale terrain feature, mark their position on the charts, and then make any necessary correction for inadvertent drift. Vanavara was right on the bend of the Stony Tunguska River, and the twisting course of the Vanavarka tributary entered it from the northeast. If they drifted, they would most likely move west with the prevailing wind, and so Fedorov was keeping a close eye that direction. If he saw the tortuous flow of the River Chamba, he would know they had gone slightly off course, but as the time passed, his anxiety became more than a welling inner feeling. Something was wrong.
“Captain,” he said, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. Symenko had been dozing in his chair, and he grumbled as he woke, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His dreams had been black, and now he remembered why. He was none too happy to be where he was, off the charts as he knew them, levered out of his position in Karpov’s fleet, a renegade now, and with an uncertain future ahead of him at the end of this journey, and surely, a bounty on his head when his lordship learned what had happened.
“Captain Symenko?”
“What is it? Can’t a man sleep?”
“We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem? Is it weather? The ship feels sound; winds even. What’s the matter?”
“The moon,” said Fedorov, a disheartened and almost foreboding tone in his voice.
“What about it?” Symenko growled.
“It’s wrong.”
Symenko gave him a dismissive look. “Well give it time, Captain. It will sort itself out.”
“You don’t understand,” said Fedorov. “It hasn’t a mind on these things. In any given position on this earth, I can calculate the exact moment the moon will rise, and to the second, give or take a few due to terrain on the horizon. It’s never late, nor is it ever early, but this one is simply not there at all. Unless every man’s watch, and your own ship’s chronometer are all wacky, I make it 19:30. That’s already two minutes after moonrise for this location—the light I’ve been waiting on to give us a good look at the ground should have been apparent even before that, but it’s still dark out there. Well, have a look for yourself.”
He pointed off the starboard side. “The moon should be up right there, and right now. This is completely wrong. Something has happened.”
Symenko s
hook himself awake, took a good long look, and now the impact of what Fedorov was saying dawned on him. “No moon, eh? I say give it time. Maybe the ship’s chronometer is off—my damn compass clearly is.” He had fished his compass out of his pocket, and now he handed it to Fedorov, who saw the needle spinning wildly about.
Fedorov’s worst fears descended on him now, and he knew, after all the many shifts he had been through, that they were slipping, moving in time. Something was wrong, and the position on the map was ample testimony as to what might have happened. They were over it now, the very impact site of the Tunguska Event. There could be no other explanation.
“There’s your goddamned moon,” said Symenko, pointing.
Fedorov turned to a place in the sky where he had not expected to see anything, off the port side of the ship, and there was a thin evening crescent, barely there. His every instinct, and long years of experience told him that was wrong as well. That moon was setting. It was to their west!
Before he could say another word, there came a shudder, very pronounced. The equipment was shaking all over the bridge, the big guns rattling in the pods below them off the main gondola. Then the skies about them seemed to lighten, slowly at first, as if someone had the sun on a dimmer light, dialing it up. To his shock and surprise, that thin crescent faded away completely and then vanished. In its place, off the starboard side, and high up, what first looked like a full moon was now hanging in the sky, veiled by clouds and smoke. The smell of burning woodland was very evident. Then, to their amazement, the ground itself started to glow red. Fedorov stared at it, eyes wide, and with each passing second the image became clearer—fire! The ground beneath them was engulfed with flames.
Tigers East (Kirov Series Book 25) Page 28
