Hammer of God (Kirov Series Book 14) (34 page)

He
realized that if the Germans wished, they could continue to send more and more
troops, but they would need those rail lines to do this, and to keep them
supplied. Yes! Here he was flitting about like another Lawrence of Arabia. He
thought he could use the mobility and firepower of his helicopters to have a
dramatic effect—and he could! I’m simply picking the wrong targets, he thought.
Yes, shutting down that airfield at Palmyra helped, and this reconnaissance is
well planned, but what did Lawrence spend most of his time doing? He hit the
Hejaz railroad the Turks needed to sustain their operations against Allenby. He
tore up the tracks every chance he could get. The British can’t do that here,
because they can’t get to the rail lines effectively. Look what happened to
their commandos at Rayak. But I can! I can move like lightning and cut that
line from Aleppo to Homs, and that is exactly what we will do after we see
about Raqqah.

He
was ruminating on all of this when a radio came in on the secure channel from
Kirov
.
It was Admiral Volsky, probably checking up on me, he thought as he took the
headset and slipped it into place. A stab of anxiety rose in his chest. He
would have to tell the Admiral about Symkov.

“Mister
Fedorov? Glad to know you are alive and well. Was your mission successful?”

“Good
day, Admiral. We had some success in shutting down the airfield as planned, but
the Germans moved in too many troops, and the British could not take the town.
I made the decision to extract the men and we are presently on aerial
reconnaissance out ahead of the British advance on the Euphrates. I hope this
is alright, sir.”

“I
have no objection, Fedorov. Use your best judgment. We have not been idle here
ourselves. I took the ship out with the
Argos Fire
and we kept watch on
the French fleet. There was a flotilla thinking to slip through the strait
above Cyprus, but Gromyko discouraged them. They had several fast cruisers and
destroyers, and were not worried about submarines. Now they are worried. They
have made the wise decision to turn about and return to Taranto, but there are
signs that there may be bigger fish in the sea soon. I will keep you informed,
but that aside, I do have some news for you, and it concerns Karpov. It seems
he arranged a meeting with Sergei Kirov, and the two men came to some
understanding.”

That
sounded like good news, and Fedorov said as much, until the Admiral continued.
“But then something happened. His airship overflew Germany, and he even had the
audacity to bomb Berlin! That man will never change his stripes. Yet now
Admiral Tovey tells me that he made arrangements to fly to London and
conference with the British, but he never arrived. There was a bad storm over
the channel as he was crossing, and they now believe his airship went down.”

“Crashed?
In the English Channel?”

“This
is what we believe. The British have been searching, but there has been no sign
of the airship, or any wreckage on the sea.”

Fedorov
sat with that a moment, then asked the Admiral to keep him informed. “I’m
afraid I have a little bad news myself, sir. We lost a man in that last action
during the extraction. Symkov…”

Volsky
waited, then came back. “I am sorry to hear that. Very well, Mister Fedorov. So
we both have shared our bad news. Let us hope something good comes of this
whole affair in the end. Yes? Please let me know when you plan to conclude your
mission there and return to the ship. We will be at Alexandria with the British
fleet—Volsky over and out.”

As
he removed the headset Fedorov had a strange feeling about the news he had
received. We believed he was gone once, he thought, yet that was not so. I can
think of no reason, but something tells me Karpov is not dead this time either.
If there is any man among us who might be thought of as a Prime Mover on all
these events, it is Karpov. Yes, I mustn’t shoulder all the blame. Something
tells me he’ll turn up somewhere again, and get himself into trouble.

He
did not know whether the Admiral’s news was good or bad at this point, but he
was deeply troubled about it, and decided to say nothing of the matter to the
others.

Part XII

The
Precipice

“
Let the great world
spin for ever

down the ringing
grooves of change!”

―
Alfred
Lord Tennyson

Chapter 34

The
address was Number 25
Shkolnaya Street, one of the most common place names for streets in Russia.
Other famous examples were the old district by that name in Moscow, where a
free settlement of coachmen serving the mail route from Moscow to Vladimir was established
in the 16th Century. Rows of old inns once lined the street, and at one time it
was the haunt of an odd sect known as the “Old Believers,” an offshoot group
separating from the Russian Orthodox Church in 1666. Another famous site was
the Shkolnaya railway station in St. Petersburg, and so all over the country,
the name “Shkolnaya Street” was often associated with inns and railway
stations.

Karpov
did not fail to notice the connection, for the address was also associated with
another famous site, at least in his mind. It was the address of the old
railway inn at Ilanskiy. How interesting, he thought, that the old Shkolnaya
Street in Moscow should be associated with a road traveling to a city
christened with my name—the road from Vladimir to the heart of Moscow, the
heart of the nation itself in modern times.

As
he stood in the muddy street outside the hotel, he realized that this
conjunction of inns, railroads and the names Vladimir and Shkolnaya would again
point directly at the heart of the nation. This out of the way nothing of a
place is perhaps the most significant seat of power in Russia, if not on all
the earth. And it is mine, he smiled. I control it in 1941, and now I will soon
control it here, in pre-revolutionary times, where all manner of mischief can
be accomplished. From here I can paint upon the vast canvass of Russia and
create any image I like, and my brush can make, or end, the lives and fate of
any man in Russia.

They
had come to the site just an hour ago, the massive hulk of
Tunguska
looking in the mist above the town like a monstrous UFO. The townspeople below
had come out from their shops and houses to gape in awe at the site, and Karpov
smiled when he saw women rounding up their children, casting fearful glances at
the airship, as it was a thing they had never seen before. One of the first
airships in Russia, the PL-7, had not even been built yet in 1909, and it would
have been tiny compared to
Tunguska
, so he understood the surprise and
fear the site of his ship would instill in the little people below. That was as
it should be.

The
airship hovered low over a field on the eastern fringe of the settlement, above
the very same scattering of woodland that Sergeant Troyak and his Marines would
use as cover when they approached the site on their daring raid in 1940. There Karpov
would fight a duel in the skies aboard
Abakan
, blasting the
Alexandra
from the sky after apprehending its captain Symenko, and then chasing the
second ship Volkov had foolishly sent, the
Oskemen
, under the truculent
Captain Petrov. That name did not fail to register in Karpov’s mind, which was
now taking keen notice of all these odd associations since he first mused on
the incident with his Great Grandfather.

Soon
the cargo basket began to lower, watched by small gatherings of the brave,
mostly men who had come over from the nearby rail station. Their fears were
redoubled when they saw dour looking men in dark coats emerge with
sub-machineguns. They were obviously military, or police of some kind, all in
dark wool coats emblazoned with shoulder patches and insignia, and wearing
black fleece Ushankas. They fanned out, waving the curious away, and then the
last basket lowered with Karpov, Tyrenkov, and a select group of five
hand-picked guards.

Karpov
wasted little time, making his way directly to No. 25 Shkolnaya Street, the
site of the old railway inn. His fifty man security contingent surrounded the
building, guards on every side, occupying and clearing out the school building adjacent
to the inn, which was largely empty that day in any case. Karpov strode up the
main entrance, pleased to see the familiar lines of the building again, and the
wooded park with the round stone fountain behind the inn. Then, at Tyrenkov’s
direction, two of his personal guard entered, making a quick security sweep.

“Be
certain no one uses that back stairway for any reason,” he said. “Just send a
man up to the second floor by the main stairs to make sure there are no
unsavory guests.”

Moments
later he entered to the main front desk, seeing a frightened man there with one
of his guards.

“You
are the proprietor?” he said tersely, and the man nodded. “Good. Then I wish to
see your guest register. How many boarders are presently quartered here?”

“Only
three, said the man sheepishly, thinking this had to be the Okhrana when he saw
the dark uniforms and military insignia. Either that or some powerful new
general come at last. Someone must have been talking, he thought. He knew they
could not keep the rumors from spreading for very long. Ever since that fateful
morning a year ago, when the horizon was afire with the awful red glow of a
second sunrise, and the terrible roaring sound came from the sky, his quiet
life at the railway inn had never been the same.

That
was when it had all started. That was when strange, uninvited guests would
suddenly appear in the dining room, or on the upper hall on the second floor,
and none of their names were ever in his register. He did not know that they
had signed in at another register, in the book of time and fate, but tales had
begun to circulate quickly in the town, saying the place was haunted. And being
just a few blocks from the railway station, these stories eventually boarded
trains with the passengers that told them. He had hoped nothing would ever come
of it all, and he had even taken steps to restrict the use of that back
stairway—yes—that was the center of it all, he knew.

But
someone listened, he thought, and someone finally took notice. Now who are
these strange, evil looking men come from that thing in the sky? Were they the
dread secret police of the Czar, here to interrogate him? Karpov’s next
questions confirmed his deepest fears.

“Tell
me,” said the Admiral. “There are two stairways in this building. Yes? Have you
noticed anything odd about the one in the back—the stairway from the dining
room to the upper floor?”

“Anything
strange?”

“Yes…
People there who don’t seem to belong. Interlopers—people in your inn who have
not made any reservation, or paid for boarding.”

“I
assure you,” the man said quickly, his eyes wide with alarm, “We do not harbor
criminals here, or fugitives. We are loyal citizens!”

Karpov
could see that the man believed he was here to look for renegade
revolutionaries, which was what most official personnel or police might be
doing this year, in 1909. “Let me see your register,” he ordered, and them man
nodded and quickly produced an old book.

Karpov
opened it and flipped through the pages, scanning the names of boarders who had
signed in over the years, his eyes narrow with thought. As might be expected in
the isolated place, the inn, and the rail itself, was not well traveled.
Occasionally there were entries involving troop trains that booked the entire
inn, mostly for the officers. Otherwise, the entries were sparse enough to be
listed on weekly pages, instead of daily entries. There was one segment, in
mid-1908, that seemed to be more heavily booked, and he took note of the names
there closely. There were German names, Koeppen, Fuchs and Neuberger, and
another labeled “American Team: Schuster, Miller, Hansen, MacAdam. One was
labeled: “Thomas Byrne, Reporter,” and it was clear that some special event had
brought all these people to this nothing of a place.

He
knew that he would probably not find the name of Ivan Volkov here. No. If he
appeared here, then he would probably have wandered outside and eventually
hopped on a westbound train. Then his eye fell on a curious entry, a name that
jogged some inner memory that seemed familiar, but one he could not
place—Mironov.

“This
name,” he said. “It was a man?”

The
old proprietor looked at the book, squinting, and shaking his head. “Always men
with the names,” he said. “No self-respecting woman would dare travel alone
here.”

“Then
this man Mironov… Do you remember what he looked like?”

Now
there was little doubt in the proprietor’s mind. These men were Okhrana, and
they were obviously looking for someone. God help the young rascals now, the
men who came through from time to time, traveling under some pseudonym, Mironov
was probably one of them, but he could not remember the man—until he remembered
the light in the sky that day when he saw the date: June 30, 1908.

“Who
can remember such things?” the man said, and Karpov knew he would be of no
further use to him.

“You
have other quarters nearby?” he said.

“For
your men?”

“No,
for you and any others who might be working here. I mean to commandeer this
entire inn for my officers and staff. Don’t worry, you will be paid handsomely
in gold, but you will make arrangements and leave within the hour. But before
you do, I would like a meal served in the dining room for myself and one other.
I will see to the security of the inn while we are here. Have no fears on that
count.”

He
dismissed the man, then realized he had a unique opportunity here. “Tyrenkov,
summon the Chief of Engineers. Tell him to bring a team down here with
measuring devices of every kind. I want them to survey this site top to bottom,
and take exact measurements of that stairway—everything, angles, heights, exact
position in relation to the hearth in the dining hall—to the millimeter.
Understood? That was the only thing that survived the demolition in 1940. It
will serve as a foolproof reference point for the builders in 1941.”

“Then
you mean to return there?” asked Tyrenkov. “By what means?” They walked from
the front desk into the dining hall, and Karpov eyed the darkened alcove near
the hearth with a suspicious look.

“There
is one option,” he pointed. “That back stairway leads somewhere, doesn’t it?”

“But
where, sir? How do we know it would take us back to our time? Why should it do
so?”

“Good
questions, Tyrenkov. It may not take us anywhere, but that is what I have come
here to determine before we begin operations.”

“I
see… Then you want to do a reconnaissance on the stairway to verify its…
effects?”

“More
or less.”

“Won’t
that be dangerous, sir?”

“Most
likely, which is why you will be the man on the stairs.”

“I
understand, sir. Are we to begin immediately?”

“First
let us eat our meal, and I will brief you.”

They
waited until the proprietor returned with a hearty stew, seating themselves at
a table by the warm hearth.

“From
what I have learned, I believe a former associate of mine came down those steps
to approximately this time. He didn’t bother to sign in to the register,
because he did not stay long. But while he was here he met a most important
man.”

Now
Karpov opened the hotel register, pointing at a name entered on June 30, 1908,
in the midst of all the other entries for that week. Tyrenkov looked at the
name, but did not recognize it. “Mironov?”

“An
alias,” said Karpov. “The man who used it was really named Kostrikov—Sergei
Mironovich Kostrikov—the very same man who later adopted another alias—Sergei
Kirov.”

“Amazing,”
said Tyrenkov. “Then he was here, at this very inn just a year ago. I wish I
could say that would help us find him, but it probably won’t.”

“Don’t
worry about that. We’ll deal with Kirov later. For the moment we have the
matter of that back stairway in front of us. I have a strong suspicion it may
lead from here to the year 1942.”

“1942?
Why do you believe this, Admiral?”

“Because
this associate I mention—a subordinate really—came down those steps from the
second floor, in September of the year 1942. This is a long story, Tyrenkov,
but you must know some of what has happened to understand things here. That
ship I mentioned—the ship named for Sergei Kirov—do you remember I told you our
movement in time had something to do with the propulsion system?”

“Yes
sir.”

“Good,
well there was one particular component of that system that we determined to be
the culprit.” Karpov knew he could not get into the design and concept of
nuclear fission now, or what a control rod was and how it was used, so he kept
things simple. “This component could be removed, and used in other similar engines,
and while we were doing this in a test environment, there was another little
accident. A man named Makarov vanished, and we later learned by scouring the
history that he had re-appeared in September of 1942.”

“Reappeared?”

“Yes,
in the very same location, but in a different time.”

“How
thrilling, sir. What did you do?”

“We
did something very clever, Tyrenkov. We used that test facility to send other
men back, for at that time we were looking for a crew member that had been
separated from our ship earlier in that same year. Yes. I told you that first
accident sent us back to 1941, but we bounced around quite a few times, into
1942 in fact, before we finally realized that it was our own propulsion system,
and this particular component, that was responsible for the strange effects.”