Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (31 page)

Karpov
stepped out of the car, squinting at the dilapidated buildings. With so few
trains making the run east to Irkutsk these days, places like this were like
withered, leafless branches on a barren tree. There were few travelers in these
dangerous lands, and therefore little business for the inn at Ilanskiy.

“Where
is it?” Karpov said to Tyrenkov, his lead security man.

“Right
this way, sir. That building there.” The man pointed to a squat two story inn,
looking much like most other buildings clustered about the rail yard. In better
times it would be a rail holiday house for the train workers, but these were
not better times.

Karpov
tramped up to the front entry with three men, seeing it was boarded up. The
building appeared to be completely abandoned.

“Open
it,” he said curtly to his men, and they set to work batting aside a few
obstructing two-by-fours with their rifle butts. The way cleared, Tyrenkov
tried the handle, then simply kicked the door open when he found it locked. He
was through the entry and into what was once the front lobby of the inn.

Karpov
waited, while his men made certain no one was lurking inside, then stepped
through the entry, noting the thick layer of dust on the floor, disturbed only
by the footfalls of his men. No one had been there for some time. Pale light
filtered from an overhead skylight. He walked up to the front counter, noting
the date on the calendar there. 8 DEC 28. Apparently the inn had been abandoned
for the last twelve years.

He
looked around, seeing nothing of interest here. What was so special about this
place? Volkov said it had happened here—the madness, as he called it. It was
here that he claimed he suddenly found himself lost in another time. He did not
say the year and day. The story was fantastic, but Karpov knew better. Yes, he
knew how easily a man could find himself in another world—just like this one.

“There
is no one here, Commandant,” said Tyrenkov, returning. “My men took the main
stair way up. There are eight rooms, all empty, just like everything else.”

Karpov
said nothing, giving the receiving desk a frown and striding slowly into the
next room, a dining hall where several bare wood tables sat without chairs. An
empty stone hearth yawned in stony silence at the far end of the room.

“What
is there?” Karpov pointed to an alcove to the right of the hearth, sending
Tyrenkov striding across the room towards the location. He found another locked
door, but it soon gave way with a hard kick of his heavy booted foot. Karpov
saw him peer inside, emerging with a scowl, brushing a cobweb from his face.

“It is
just an old back stairway, he said gruffly.”

“Up or
down?” Karpov was at his side now.

“Up,
Commandant. The men found an upper landing on the second floor. This is
probably the servants stairwell.”

“Very
well,” said Karpov, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a cigarette. It
was a habit he had cultivated upon his return here, and he found it calming
when he wanted to think quietly for a time. “Cigarette?” Karpov offered, but
Tyrenkov saw it was the last one in the Commandant’s pack, and politely
declined.

“Find
out if there is anyone else in this hovel of a town. Have the guards wait at
the car. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Sir!”
Tyrenkov saluted, off to round up his detachment, still searching buildings
near the rail yard.

Nothing
here, thought Karpov. What did I expect? The place is just an old run down inn,
and hardly worth the time and fuel I wasted coming here. What could have
possibly happened to Volkov to send him back in time? That was 2021 when he
arrived here. There was a war brewing. Who knows, perhaps it started. In that
year there are several targets near this place that might have interested an
American warhead. The 10th Naval Arsenal was just outside Kansk where
Abakan
was tethered. The 23rd Guards had bases here, and there were also mobile ICBM
sites scattered around the area, the trucks waiting in underground bunkers…
Eighty years from now.

He
passed a moment thinking about that, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Then
he heard what sounded like a dull rumble. At first he thought it was coming
from outside, but when he took a step or two away, he could immediately tell
that the sound was echoing from the stairwell! Surprised and curious, he
stepped closer to the broken door, leaning into the darkened stairwell. Yes…
there was a distinct rumbling sound, a distant growl as from a broiling
explosion. He thought the stairway might be focusing sound from above, and
without thinking, he started edging up the stairs following the sound and
noting that it grew more distinct, louder with every step he took.

Seventeen
steps…

It was
very dark, and he could feel the discomfiting, trailing caress of old cobwebs
as he went. When he reached the top there was another door, split right down
the middle, one half askew and broken as if it had sustained some powerful
shock.

The
sound was very loud now, and he saw an eerie red-yellow glow. He slipped
through the broken door, squinting in the light, and was completely astounded
by what he saw.

The
entire upper floor had been mostly blown away. He found himself on a tenuous
perch, a part of the upper floor that still remained standing. There were loose
shards of shattered glass under his feet, dust everywhere, blown by a foul wind
that seemed to chill his soul with its heartless sound. What had happened?

There!
He saw the source of the angry light as the dust cleared, shielding his eyes.
There! It rose up in a seething dark column of destruction, unmistakable in its
shape and form, a broiling mushroom cloud with a livid white top, lit by an
evil glow. He knew what it was at once, for he had set loose that same hammer
hand of doom on the world many times himself. Yet this was impossible! How
could this be happening, here in 1940? Nuclear weapons would not be developed
for years and he knew there were no such projects underway in the wild lands of
Siberia.

Then it
struck him—jarred loose by the sight of that terrible mushroom cloud. He had
come here looking for the reason Volkov might have shifted in time, and he had
found it! Yes, that could not be happening in 1940, which meant…

With a
sense of rising panic Karpov looked over his shoulder, staring back at the
broken door, aghast. He took one last look at the roiling detonation, knowing
it would have been right over the Naval Arsenal near Kansk. Then, like a man
who had stumbled upon the entry way to hell itself, he took one backward step,
edging slowly away, back to the broken door, back to the darkened stairs.

Shaking
with fear and shock, he turned and hurtled down the steps, shouting for
Tyrenkov. Half way down the awful rumble of the explosion diminished, becoming
a muffled background sound, and then fading away altogether when he reached the
bottom landing.

He
stood there, shivering, his eyes still wide with fear. The sound of a barking
dog came from far off, and he took two steps, out from the shadowy alcove on
unsteady legs. Then he started, reflexively jerking his hand to see that he
still had hold of his cigarette, and the ash had burned down to singe his
fingers. The sound of men shouting…

He
stepped into the dining room, making his way slowly toward the front desk of
the inn, and seeing there the same calendar, the same date: 8 DEC 28. As he
stepped outside he saw one of his guards, who turned, face alight when he saw
Karpov.

“Commandant!”
The man looked over his shoulder, waving at someone. “Lieutenant! I have found
the Commandant!”

Karpov
heard men running, fast booted footfalls on the ruddy ground. Then up came
Lieutenant Tyrenkov, his dour face registering surprise and relief.

“There
you are, sir. We thought something had happened to you. I’ve had men searching
for you the last hour.” Now he looked at Karpov, somewhat shocked. The Commandant’s
uniform was soiled, a sheen of chalky dust on his shoulders. Karpov just stared
at him, his mind finally starting to function and think again. The sound… that
distant rumble, the stairway.

“Tyrenkov,”
he said, his voice hoarse. Karpov looked over his shoulder, to the northwest,
the place where he had seen the terrible mushroom cloud just minutes ago. There
was nothing there, only the pallid sky and the distant shape of
Abakan
gleaming from the tether at Kansk, the sunlight finally breaking through and
reflecting off the airship’s smooth surface.

“You
say you have been searching an hour?”

“Yes,
sir. I came to give you my report. The town is abandoned, but you were not
where I left you at the inn.” He noted the diminishing ash on the Commandant’s
cigarette, a strange look on his face now.

“Sir,
what happened to your uniform?”

Karpov now
took notice of the dust that lay on him, his shoulders and cap all covered with
a sheen of chalky white. He removed his cap, slapping it on his pants leg to
clear the soot, and brushing off his shoulders.

“Filthy
place,” he said. “That damn back stairwell. Cobwebs everywhere!”

Tyrenkov
surmised that the Commandant must have gone up those stairs, but where he had been
the last hour still befuddled him. He had a man up there, searching every room,
and he had shouted into that stairwell calling for the Commandant himself. Why
did he not answer? Perhaps he was simply enjoying his smoke and did not wish to
be disturbed, he thought. The sight of the cigarette still burning in Karpov’s
hand drew his gaze again, and he remembered that it had been the last one in
the pack when Karpov offered it to him an hour ago. He dismissed the thought,
realizing the Commandant must have had another pack in his coat pocket.

Karpov
could feel his weight on his feet again. His breath calmed, eyes narrowed. That
damn stairway, he thought. One minute I am here, and the next I am somewhere
else! This is the madness that Volkov described. What did he say? He struggled
to remember the man’s exact words.

“
The
little railway inn just east of Kansk near the old naval munitions center.
That's when the madness started. I was searching the premises with my guards,
and thought I discovered a hidden stairway at the back of that inn. I found someone
was hiding there, and herded the rascal down to the dining hall. The next thing
I know I encountered men who seemed completely out of place …”

Tyrenkov saw Karpov reach into
his jacket, fishing out the cigarette pack. He found it empty and threw it
away, then turned and walked slowly to the waiting car.

 Karpov looked at his Lieutenant.
“Bar the entry to this inn—every door and every window. Leave two men here and
no one is to enter—absolutely no one. And get me some cigarettes. Understood?”

Part X

Vengeance

“To
choose one's victims, to prepare one's plan minutely, to slake an implacable
vengeance, and then to go to bed ... there is nothing sweeter in the world.”

—Josef Stalin

Chapter 28

July 28, 1940

In
spite of the grave
danger the stairway at Ilanskiy represented, Admiral Volsky could think of no
way they could do anything about it. He paced for days, postponing his movement
south into the Norwegian Sea as he considered the situation, realizing the
danger and the need to act soon. Fedorov was patient, but he could see his
young Captain was still concerned. Finally he raised the matter yet again, and
Volsky had come to a decision.

“Let us now consider an
operation, Fedorov. How far is it to Ilanskiy?” He soon got the answer he
already knew intuitively.

“Just over 3000 kilometers,
Admiral. But if we sailed to the deep inlet south of Port Dikson, we could trim
a thousand kilometers off that range.”

“That still leaves 2000 kilometers.
And what is the maximum range of our KA-40? That is the only way we could get
men there any time soon, yes?”

Another quick check with the helo
bay brought no discouraging news. Even with external reserve fuel tanks
mounted, the KA-40 could range no more than 1200 kilometers.

“So if we were to attempt a
mission with the helicopter, we would also have to abandon it at the 1200
kilometer mark. Where would that leave the men, Fedorov? In the middle of the
Siberian wilderness, with an 800 kilometer hike in front of them. A man might
be lucky to get twenty kilometers a day in such terrain, particularly now, in
July. The place is a morass of bog and marshland, with no roads and little to
eat. They might make good sport for the wolves, but it would probably take them
months to reach Kansk. Then what? They could blow that railway inn to pieces,
but there they would be.”

Fedorov frowned. It seemed
hopeless, until he suddenly remembered what Admiral Golovko had told him. “Just
a moment, sir.” The light of a plan was in his eyes again, and Volsky
recognized it at once.

“Admiral Golovko said that they
were able to find and shadow the German ships with a zeppelin—the
Narva
.
The later German models had tremendous range, over 16,000 kilometers. If
Narva
could do the same it could easily get an assault team to Ilanskiy.”