Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (12 page)

“The British Empire is not what
it once was, Bogrov. They will soon lose the last of their Asian bastions.
Japan will take Hong Kong and Singapore from them as easily as they took
Vladivostok and Port Arthur from us. As for the Americans, that is another
matter. They will not be prepared at the outset. The Japanese will surprise
them with the ferocity and ambition of their war effort. In time events may
take another course, but it will be of no concern to us here for years. If
Japan loses its war, then we will pick up the scraps and retake our eastern
Pacific provinces. But first—Ivan Volkov. First we settle accounts with him.”

“I wish you good luck in the
negotiations, Admiral. Old Man Kolchak had great faith in you, as we all do.”

“Luck will have nothing to do
with it, Mister Bogrov.”

The Admiral looked up from his
map, the red underway light of the main bridge painting his features red, and
underscoring the prominent scar on his right cheek, an old wound he never spoke
about. He stood up, folding his arms, his eyes gazing out the viewports at the
gleaming river far below them now.

He was not a big man, slight of
frame and a bit round shouldered as Bogrov regarded him. The Air Commandant was
a burly man, taller and more husky than the Admiral, but there was something in
the way this man moved, something in the way he looked at you with those dark
eyes above that scar that was most unnerving. A man’s strength was not always
found in his arms and shoulders, Bogrov knew. The man had come on the scene a
few years ago and now had more titles than the Air Commandant could count.

He was Admiral of the fleet,
commanding all eight airships in the Siberian Aero Corps. That was the hat he
preferred to wear whenever he was aboard an airship. Yet he was also Vice
Chancellor of the Free Siberian State, thick in league with Old Man Kolchak and
the young Turk, Kozolnikov. On the ground he
was General Commandant of the Siberian Cavalry Corps, and growing his
enlistments week by week.

Yes,
he was a man to be reckoned with, this one, thought Bogrov. We all know his
name now, don’t we—Vladimir Karpov, and god help any man who gets in his way.
Yes, Vladimir Karpov was going west to Omsk that morning, and he would not come
back until he had sat eye to eye with Ivan Volkov. He would not come back
without Omsk in his back pocket either, and that would mean another medal would
soon be pinned on his chest by Kolchak.

Bogrov
had no doubts about it.

Chapter 11

It
was eight hours until
they finally saw the smoke rising over Omsk. The sun had been up since 3:30AM,
but now it hung low in the grey sky, waiting for the moon to rise in its stead
and take its turn on the endless celestial watch. A full moon tonight, thought
Karpov. We will make certain our ships cannot be silhouetted. They will have
guns along the riverfront, and I will take no chance that they will be aimed my
way.

Bogrov was correct. There were
five airships hovering at intervals above the city, their bloated steel grey
shapes looking like a school of barracuda. One had three dull red stripes on
its dorsal tail, the
Orenburg
, flagship of the fleet. Undoubtedly Volkov
had arrived here in that ship. Bold of him to risk the fleet flag like this. I
left our own flagship,
Irkutsk,
behind, choosing
Abakan
for the
journey. If there is treachery here then at least our better ships will still
be safe. He stooped to peer through the sighting telescope, shifting from one
enemy ship to another. Yes…
Orenburg
, 12 gun dreadnaught,
Pavlodar
,
Astana, Sarkand
, all with eight DRP recoilless cannon. Then he had a
flash of anger when he read the name of the last ship.

Those bastards! They did this
simply to goad me, and rub my nose in their shit. He could see that the airship’s
old name had been painted over, and it now bore the name of the very city they
were hovering over,
Omsk
. It was a jabbing way to let him know that
Volkov thought he was going to keep this place as his own, in spite of the
outcome of these talks. Karpov stood up stiffly, his jaw set. We’ll see about
that, he thought.

Omsk was a place of extremes.
Situated on the Irtush river, a ready source of fish and fresh water, it was
founded by the Cossacks in the 16th and 17th centuries, and grew rapidly as a
gold rush town when Colonel Ivan Bukholts made the discovery up river from the
present city center in 1716. A trading town for many years, it was also a cold
frontier outpost at the edge of Siberia, and a place where the cast off rabble
of European Russia might be sent in exile when they fell on hard times.

Prisoners surviving the hard
labor camps of Siberia settled there after they gained their freedom again, and
so it became a city of hard men, desperate men, where hope was in short supply.
But in drawing all these wild misfits and felons to its bosom, the city became
a fortress of survivors, their faces branded with letters to indicate their
crimes—K on the right cheek, A on the forehead, T on the left cheek to spell
KAT, which was short for “katorjnik” the word for “convict.”

Yes, thought the Admiral, a city
of marked men in the midst of all this desolation. Karpov fingered the mark on
his own cheek, branding him for crimes he had committed. I am no different, he
thought, remembering. That was then, this is now. Forget the past. Focus on
what is before you.

He looked out the airship gondola
viewports, noting the wide streets and broad prospects, heavy iron bridges over
the river, and the areas cleared for parks and gardens. They had tried to make
the place a little like Saint Petersburg, he thought, but out here that is like
putting a dress on a boar. Still there were some buildings in the city that
remained unscarred by the war. He spied the tall gleaming gold spire of the
Resurrection Military Cathedral where the meeting would be held, the walls of
the old frontier fortress, the Siberian Cadet School and Governor’s Palace, and
the Old St. Nicholas Church. The rail yards seemed to be a hub of activity, and
he could clearly see the grey uniformed troops of Volkov’s Legion there,
clustered in groups, a blight on the place.

Old Man Kolchak made his
residence here and established Omsk as the capital of the White Russian
movement, he thought. What would he think to see his white city muddied with
grey? That is why I am here. I must get the place back again, and they can damn
well re-name that airship as well! I’ve half a mind to blast that damn ship
from the sky, but not before I see this Volkov eye to eye.

“Make ready to disembark the
troops,” he said to the Air Commandant. “The fleet is to remain on a full alert
standing until I return. Yes, we come here under the protection of a flag of
truce, but I will take no chances with a man of Volkov’s reputation. He might
like nothing more than to get his hands on someone like me. Then he would have
the city and a hostage to go with it! So stand ready, Mister Bogrov. If I do
not return by the time that fat sun out there rises again, I want you to blast
the hell out of those ships,” he pointed, “and start with that one!” His finger
was on the misnamed
Omsk
.

“Aye sir. We’ll give them a hell
of a fight.”

An hour later the battalion of
the 18th Siberian Rifles was marching proudly through the streets of the city
to the site of the old Resurrection Military Cathedral, their forest drab green
uniforms immaculate, black belts and boots shined and gleaming, the hard clap
of their timed footfalls sharp on the cobblestone streets. The honor guard
carried the flag and standard of the Free Siberian State, led by a select squad
with drawn sabers. Theatrics mattered at times like this, thought Karpov, still
remembering his landing at Vladivostok to meet with the Mayor.

He marched proudly, surrounded on
every side by a thicket of guards. As they approached the cathedral he heard
the orders to advance on the double shouted by the Major At Arms, as he had
commanded. The entire battalion moved into a run, each stride precise and
timed, like the workings of a great machine bristling with bayoneted rifles as
it snaked around the last bend and then came to a halt.

There stood a troop of the Grey
Legion, vastly outnumbered by the men the Admiral had brought with him, but he
had little doubt that Volkov had ample reserves close at hand. He knew also
that he would not be permitted to enter the cathedral grounds with any more
than a single squad as an honor guard and escort, and that his battalion would
have to move off a thousand meters to the open ground of a city park, as had
been agreed. He looked up briefly, noting that two of the Orenburg Airships had
been well positioned to bring that park within the field of fire of their guns,
but this did not surprise him.

An hour later, after anthems and
honorifics, the Admiral finally found himself politely escorted to the meeting
room in the cathedral. There sat a solitary man, with short grey hair and
brows, easily in his sixties, yet nonetheless of sturdy frame and build. Volkov
stood and the two men shook hands briefly before taking seats on opposite sides
of the table.

As he met the man’s eye, Karpov
had a strange feeling that he had seen him once before, which he quickly
dismissed, thinking it must have been the photographs he had reviewed. There on
the wall behind Volkov was a freshly printed war poster depicting the dark
silhouette of a leader’s statue, undoubtedly Volkov himself, his arm raised in
salutation to a fleet of long, sleek airships above. Orenburg had the largest
airship fleet in the world, and it was apparently a singular point of pride
Volkov wished to make here.

Karpov could see that Volkov’s
eye lingered on his for some time. As they were seated he seemed to be studying
him very closely, thinking, as if struggling with something in his mind. The
moment stretched out in the silence between them and then Karpov had enough of
it and spoke.

“Why do you look at me like that?
This scar on my face cannot be that intimidating.”

“Forgive me, Admiral,” said
Volkov. “I… I have seen you before, I'm certain of it, and your name is
familiar too. Yes! I remember now! The resemblance is remarkable.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You…” Now Volkov seemed very ill
at ease, and clearly surprised. “This isn’t possible,” he muttered, but his
gaze kept steady on, his eyes awakening as if with sudden surmise. “Why, it
is
you… Could it be so? You are different, yes clearly different, but thirty-two
years have passed since I first questioned you, and I never forget a
face—never. How can this be? You haven't aged!” Volkov seemed clearly
surprised, then a flash of anger crept into his voice, with an edge of suspicion.
“Who are you?”

Karpov was annoyed. Was this
Volkov’s way of working up an insult to begin these talks, just like that
airship out there, bearing the name of our city? A bold man, this one. He
folded his arms, fixing Volkov with an equally leaden stare, eyes conveying his
displeasure.

“You know very well who I am.
What is this drivel you begin with? We have important matters to discuss here,
and I am not your long lost cousin. Why do you look at me as if I was a ghost?”

“Because that is what you seem, my
friend, a ghost from the distant past that I had almost forgotten. The
resemblance is uncanny! Look at me! Look closely! Are you sure you have never
seen me before?”

Karpov was clearly unhappy. What
was this man saying? How dare he begin negotiations with such a flippant and
infantile manner? Yet, even as he thought this, a strange feeling came over
him, a sensation of
déjà vu
as if he had indeed seen this man before,
though he could not place the face in his memory. He leaned forward, eyes
narrow, his face serious and drawn. Yes, there was something strangely familiar
about this man. Then something the man had just said stuck in his mind and
jogged loose a question.

“What is this you say about
questioning me? I am not a prisoner from your days past sent to a Siberian
labor camp, if that is what you mistake me for. What is this nonsense you speak
now? Thirty-two years? Make sense!”

“You don't remember, do you. No,
I don't suppose I look anything at all like I once did thirty-two years ago.
Vladimir Karpov! Yes, I knew I had heard the name before, but there are
probably 100 men in Russia with that name, so that is nothing unusual. But a
name and a face together—this I do not forget. It took me a moment, and when I
say more you will understand the shock I must've felt in realizing it, but let
me be blunt now, Captain Karpov, are you certain you do not remember this
face?”

Captain Karpov? That immediately
jarred Karpov on a deeper level. What was this man saying? How could he know
that? Might he have heard rumors that I first came to Irkutsk wearing the
uniform of a naval captain? No, how would that be possible?

Volkov could see that he had hit
a nerve, and so he pushed his finger harder. “Yes, Captain Vladimir Karpov,
acting commander of the battlecruiser
Kirov
. I know you well enough.
Once I was very intent on finding that the young officer you sent west on the
Trans-Siberian rail—or so we thought… What was his name again?”

“Fedorov?”

“Ah, yes, that was the man. Yes,
director Kamenski sent me off on a wild goose chase to look for Fedorov, yet I
do not think he had any idea what would result! No, how could he? Because even
after all these years I have no idea what really happened to me. Don't you
remember me now? I am Ivan Volkov, former Captain in Russian Naval Intelligence,
the officer you met aboard your ship in the year 2021. I was sent there with
Inspector General Kapustin to determine what had happened to your ship after it
disappeared in the Norwegian Sea, and look at me now!”