Kirov Saga: Armageddon (Kirov Series) (41 page)

He did as he promised, dragging himself up the ladder from a boat
tethered near
Kirov’s
aft hull and returning the stiff salutes of the
men there as he was piped aboard. Then he walked up to the nearest man and
extended his arm for a warm handshake. Fedorov, Orlov and Troyak followed after
him, coming aboard to cheers and warm salutations, though a few men shirked
when Orlov appeared at the gunwale gateway.

Volsky turned to Fedorov and gave him a quiet order. “Go forward
to the bridge and see about Karpov. I will be there shortly.”

Several Marines were there for security, and when they saw
Sergeant Troyak return they saluted crisply, then came forward to clasp him heartily
on the back and shoulder. “Welcome back, Sergeant! I see you brought Corporal
Zykov too.”

“Lieutenant Zykov,” the former Corporal exclaimed. “Mister Fedorov
gave me a nice promotion, and Orlov here is a Captain again.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Zykov,” said Troyak. “That was a
temporary assignment, you are as much a Corporal as they come these days, so
don’t think we’ll be shining your boots tomorrow.”

They all had a good laugh, even Orlov, who looked around, feeling
strangely out of place now as he stood on the aft deck. He had thought he would
leave this ship and crew behind forever, and make his way in the world of 1942
with little more than Svetlana whispering in his earbuds to remind him of his
old life, the life that lay somewhere far ahead of him, concealed in the
obscuring and uncertain mists of time.

Yet he, like Karpov, once thought he could shape that life into an
image of his own making by using the foreknowledge of all the days yet to come
to good advantage. Unlike the grand scale of Karpov’s plans, it was only his
own personal fate that he had been concerned with. Now, however, when he felt
the hard metal deck beneath his feet again, and the subtle roll of the ship, he
was as much at home as any place he had ever known. He was glad to be back
again, if the men would have him.

 Volsky took some time, working his way through every section and
compartment of the ship to greet the men, offer his praise and reassurance,
telling them that all would be well.

“I see you have been in quite scrap or two,” he said looking at
the thin column of smoke still rising amidships. “Chief Byko has some work to
do again.”

“Don’t worry, Admiral, sir. We have already put those fires out,
and the damage is not serious.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Where are we now, sir?” one
Mishman
asked plaintively.

“Where are we? We are aboard the finest fighting ship in the
world,” he said with a smile. “Do not worry. I have business to attend to on
the bridge now. All will be made clear in time.”

Papa Volsky was back, and the mood of the crew elevated
perceptively with each step he took on those embattled decks. He made a point
to go by the sick bay, thinking he would find Doctor Zolkin there tending to
any man wounded in the action lately fought. To his great surprise he saw
Zolkin lying on his own medical examination table, his arm and shoulder being
wrapped and attended by two medics.

“So you have joined the fighting too,” he said with a smile.

“I did what I could,” said Zolkin, and when the medics left to
look after other wounded men, Volsky closed the door and sat down heavily on
the chair by the bed.

“I am so sorry, my old friend. When the ship left the harbor at
Vladivostok and sailed by the bay south of Fokino, I saw you all go, and wished
I was there with you. But they strapped me into Abramov’s chair and there I
sat, learning one thing after another from the pages of the history books, and
wondering if I would ever see any man aboard this ship again, particularly you
Dmitry. I had no idea any of this would happen.”

“None of us did, Leonid.”

“And how were you wounded?”

“Karpov.” He told the Admiral how Nikolin had come running
breathlessly into the sick bay, holding a memory key with that recorded message
traffic.

“He recorded it? God bless Nikolin. I was very worried when Karpov
did not comply with my order. How sorry I am to have put you in front of his
broken soul. You were very brave to go to the bridge as you did, Dmitry.”

“It was either that or we would have seen another mushroom cloud.
There is a lot you have yet to learn about what happened.”

“I’m sure there is, but rest now, my friend. I will go forward and
see about the Captain. It’s time I was on the bridge.”

When he got there he learned the news from Fedorov first, who had
been talking with Rodenko when the Admiral stepped through the hatch. The eyes
of the entire bridge crew were on him at once, the men smiling and obviously
very happy and relieved to see him again. After a time he took Rodenko and
Fedorov into the flag briefing room, and learned all that had happened.

“Karpov drew a gun, yes, I have seen Zolkin, and I am pleased to
tell you the good Doctor will do just fine. The man who skewered a score of
enemy ships with his missiles apparently could not shoot strait, and for that I
am very grateful.”

Rodenko had the same question that many crewmen had asked. “Any
idea where we are now, sir?”

“We do not know yet,” said Volsky. “I imagine Gromyko is over on
Kazan
wondering the same thing. I have told him to submerge for reasons of security.
For all we know we could be back in 2021 and right in the middle of that war
again, or even in the 1940s in the middle of
that
war. Fedorov may have
told you we made a brief stop there on our way back to 1908. Any way we look at
it, we must assume these are unfriendly waters here.”

“We have ship-to-ship, sir,” said Fedorov, “but Nikolin says
longer range communications are still down. The ship’s systems will most likely
recover slowly in the hours ahead.”

“Well, as soon as possible I think we should at least have a SAM
battery operational, just as a precaution.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” said Rodenko.

“As for Nikolin, I’m going to give that young man a Papa Volsky bear
hug. If he hadn’t recorded that message I sent, who knows what may have
happened? Now then… Mister Fedorov, if you would set that enterprising mind of
yours to finding out how we should reset our watches and calendars, I would
like to address the crew. But first I must ask where the Captain was last seen
alive?”

“He was out on the weather deck off the side hatch of the bridge,
sir,” said Rodenko. “I was out there to see about him just after we shifted,
but he was gone. I did hear gunshots, Admiral, just as we began to shift.”

“I see… Well I think I will go and have a look. See to those
matters for me, will you both?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Rodenko saluted.

Volsky stepped out, first congratulating Nikolin and expressing
his gratitude to all the junior officers as well. Then he turned to Victor
Samsonov, and leaned in, saying something quietly to the man. The light of
appreciation was evident in the CIC Chief’s eyes, and when he sat down he seemed
just a little bigger, if that were possible. Then Volsky walked slowly to the
side hatch and stepped through, closing it behind him.

He stood in silence, his eyes playing over the deck, as if looking
for any sign or remnant of the Captain. Then he spied the blood on the gunwale
railing, and saw more blood spatter on the deck just below it. He thought of
Karpov and all he had done, their many arguments and discussions, his
intransigence and unyielding ardor for battle, and his obvious skill when it came
to the fire of war. He remembered how he had shared a drink with him, asking
him why he had tried to take the ship so long ago. He recalled the Captain’s
pledge and promise, broken now, yet another victim to the man’s ravenous
ambition.

You thought we all had the wax in our ears, Karpov, he said
silently to the missing man, and only you could hear the siren’s song. I gave
you this ship and crew, and it was only by the grace of God that they are still
alive and well—the grace of God and a few good men who were willing to stand against
you in that final hour. There are thousands dead now, scattered all through the
decades, and thousands more unborn because of all we have done. How can we ever
measure it? And how can we ever be forgiven? The worst of it all is this
haunting fear that you were right, and there is nothing more we can do now to
set things as they were.

He lowered his head, at the edge of tears, and sighed heavily.
Then he turned, straightened his hat and uniform jacket, and stepped through
the hatch.

“Lieutenant Volsky on the bridge!” Fedorov was grinning now.

“Ah, I see I am still wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform. Well let no
one think that a simple Lieutenant cannot be the most important man alive one
day.” He winked at Nikolin now, and smiled.

Fedorov stared at him with admiration and hope, yet his attention
was ever drawn to that open hatch where Karpov had gone missing. What had
happened to him? Did he take his own life? Why was there no body found? These
things and so many others settled like heavy anchors on the silted bottom of
his mind. Kamenski had posed more than one challenge to him with his subtle
hints and innuendo. The differing stories of how the war ended, the revelation
that he had long been aware that time travel was possible, the strange fissure
in time at Ilanskiy, and the unsettling notion that others had walked there
were most troubling to him.

 Like Volsky, he sighed with resignation. Nothing was certain. The
history he once thought of as secure and safe in the past, stony and solid,
unchangeable, had been proven to be a mutable and ephemeral thing. In fact, he
thought, if what I now suspect is true, then other men from the future have
returned to the past and worked their will upon it…Just as I have.

The loss of innocence in the face of that hard reality shook him
to his very soul.
Nothing is written,
he thought, remembering the novel
by Vladimir Bartol,
Alamut.
In that
ancient stronghold of the
Assassins the credo was stark and unyielding: “Nothing is an absolute reality;
all is permitted.” If that were so then Karpov may not have been the madman he
seemed. Perhaps I am the one deceived by my own delusions of grandeur, he
thought. The idea that I could make everything whole again was foolish, even
selfish.

Yes, he knew now that other men from had walked in the Devil’s
Garden of history, and trampled the flowers there. He knew that he would never
look at the world the same way, and his own life was now forever changed. His
heart was heavy as he turned to the Admiral again, seeing him reach slowly into
his jacket pocket to draw out a small book, opening it, his thick fingers
turning the pages slowly.

“Gather round for a moment, men…I thought I would say something to
you all, perhaps something profound. I know we have all done many things we
came to regret, and taken many lives with the power beneath our feet, mighty
Kirov
.
We have blood on our hands, and many tears to shed. Yet we did not hate those
we engaged in battle, and for most of us it was not for gain or glory that we
ever fought. We fought for each other, though now we may feel at times the need
to hide from the gaze of sane men in this world who do not ever wish to find
themselves in the service of war.

“
One man among us fought his battles, within and without, as we all
must do. He thought we could shape the image of our future by changing the
past, and so for him tomorrow was yesterday. While his actions may have seemed incomprehensible
and cruel, we must also remember those times when he stood with us, a comrade
in battle, and fought to save this ship and crew. He was our brother once,
though wayward, lost, and consumed by emotions that many of us will never feel
or understand.

“I am told that was a British cruiser that led the final charge
against this ship in battle. While we have seen the British as foes many times on
this journey, I have always held a certain admiration for them, in many
ways—except when they are chasing me with battleships!”

At this the men laughed, one moment of levity at a time when their
hearts were heavy, weighted with remorse and sorrow. The Admiral sat down in
the Captain’s chair, swiveling to face the men as they waited.

“So this is written by a British poet, Lord Byron,” he began, his
eyes soft on the well worn page. “And it speaks well to how we sailed together
these many long months, and through uncounted days, across decades and even
centuries to reach this place. We do not know where it is just yet. We may
still be lost in time, but we will find that out soon enough. Then again, it
may be that we have no place in this world any longer and that we have murdered
all our tomorrows in the yesterdays where we fought and extinguished so many
souls…

“We fought, says this man
…

 ‘Midst a contentious world, striving,

Where none are strong.

There, in a moment, we may
plunge our years

In fatal penitence, and in
the blight

Of our own soul turn all
our blood to tears,

And color things to come
with hues of Night;