Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) (8 page)

He
felt gentle hands on his shoulder, pressing him down, bidding him to lay still,
then the cool splash of water from an old tin ladle on his face and lips. He
stared at the face again, an old man with charcoal brows, grey hair tied off on
a short topknot, clearly Japanese. The only way he could place this element
into any sensible context was to think he had been found adrift and captured by
one of Admiral Togo’s ships. The rhythm of the tide was evident, yet when he
opened his eyes again he could see that he was not aboard a cold metal ship,
but lying on the sun-bleached teak deck of a weathered fishing boat.

“Osore
o shiranai,” the old man said, then gestured to his own chest. “Watashi wa
Tanakadesu. Ima yasumu. Ima iyasu. Surīpu.” He pantomimed sleep, his
clasped hands forming what might have been a pillow, eyes closed.

Karpov
did not have to be persuaded. A weariness was on him that felt leaden, a
lethargy of the mind and soul that seemed to paralyze him. He lolled back,
closing his eyes, and drifted off, lulled by the quiet ding of the boat’s bell,
the call of the sea birds, the warmth of the sun. Sleep…

Sometime
later, he knew not how long, his senses roused him again, this time with the
smell of something cooking on charcoal. He ate, receiving small morsels of
grilled fish and rice, more water, then warm tea. The old man was dutiful in
tending to his needs, and then sleep came again, night and day blending in a
seamless wash, his mind adrift on a sea of fitful dreams.

The
images and the faces would not leave him for many days, long days at sea on the
tiny fishing boat where he slept, ate, drank and slowly revived himself.
Another day passed. Watching the stars, he knew the boat was headed north,
though he did not know where it was going, or why. They came to an island and
the old man threw a stone tied to a rope over as a makeshift anchor, then he
went ashore, speaking to Karpov in his unintelligible language, but gesturing
that the Captain should remain where he was. Karpov was still too weary to be
curious. The long weeks of stress and tension had sapped his vitality. Now all
he wanted was rest and sleep, so he lingered in the boat, sheltered by a flat
tin roof in a small compartment beneath the mast and sail.

The
old man returned, with gourds of fresh water and something just a little
stronger, which Karpov soon came to know as Sake. But in his wake there soon
came other men, uniformed, looking official. They carried a stretcher and the
Captain found himself lifted and carried away by these newcomers, who spoke to
one another as they walked. Some of the words fell into his memory through
languorous, drowsy sleep…
Oshima… Nagata Maru…. Urajio…

Soon
they came to a small bay, and when he opened his eyes Karpov could see a squat
tramp steamer tethered to a wooden dock. He was carried aboard, his eyes
catching the name on the hull in faded block letters.
Nagata Maru
. They
would sail another four days, always north, the seas accommodating and calm. He
was quartered in a room below decks, given simple meals, and a Japanese man who
seemed to be a physician called on his room once to give him a cursory
examination, seemingly satisfied that he was not seriously ill. On the fourth
day another man appeared, tall and swarthy, and obviously European. The sound
of his voice speaking Russian was a welcome relief.

“Wake
up!” The man strode into the room after the barest knock on the door. “No more
free loading for you my friend.” He introduced himself as Koslov, a pilot
aboard the ship, and planted himself on the old wood chair as Karpov sat up,
shifting his feet off the simple cot where he lay and onto the floor. He was glad
to see someone at last that he could talk to.

“Where
am I?”

“You’re
on my ship, the
Nagata Maru.
God only knows what you were about. They
tell me a fisherman plucked your hide out of the sea way down south off Iki
Island. Said they found themselves a Russki. What were you doing there, mate?”

Karpov
frowned, giving the man a cursory glance, noting what looked to be military
grade boots, a waistcoat, thick leather belt and fleece cap, but no sign of
insignia or rank. He could obviously not tell this man anything resembling the
truth, so a little
vranyo
was in order here, and he easily served it up.

“I
was out in a launch and got caught in weather. A big wave swamped the damn boat
and I went into the sea. Didn’t think I had a chance then, the next thing I
know, I’m on a fishing boat, and turn up here. Where the hell are we now?”

“Urajio,”
the man folded his arms. “That’s the Japanese name for Vladivostok. They told
me you were here, but we get more than a few vagrants thrown aboard on a
typical run. Don’t mind those bandages. You had a bit of a nick, but it’s
healing well, or so the medic tells me. But don’t be surprised the next time
you look in the mirror to shave. You’ll have a scar.”

Karpov
touched the bandage on the left side of his face, remembering now, the pain,
the blood, life in his veins that stayed his hand on the trigger. I spared
Key
West
, he thought, and I spared my own life as well.

“This
here is
Nagato Maru
out of Sasebo,” said Koslov. “We came up on our
weekly run. Not anything glamorous, but a fairly new ship—commissioned last
year in fact. I was lucky to make pilot, cause I know the waters here well.
Golden Horn Harbor was home to me for many years. You look to be military. I
know a Captain’s stripe when I see one. Who are you?”

The
Captain could see no reason to lie, so he gave his name. Who would know him
here if this was still 1908? He realized he needed to confirm that as soon as
possible. “Karpov,” he said. “Yes, I shipped out from Severomorsk on another
steamer. Went ashore on that damn island, got drunk, and missed my boat!”
Another convenient lie to close that door of inquiry. Then he quickly angled
for more information. “Was so woozy with rum and seawater after I went into the
drink that I don’t even know what year it is any more. Must have hit my head on
the gunwale when that storm swamped me. What day is it? What year, for that
matter?”

Koslov
gave him a narrow eyed smile. A cagey one, this one. Nothing he says makes much
sense. Came here on a steamer? What ship? Where was he bound? What’s the man
doing in that garb with those stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia?

“Tenth
of June, thirty-eight. Get your wits about you Captain, if you
are
a
Captain. Something tells me there’s more to your story than you’re telling, but
I could care less. It’s not my watch. I just came down here to say we’ve made
port. If your ship was headed here, you’ve made it. If not, too bad for you. Jappos
round up any Russki they find these days and ship them here—at least those
without any papers. So here you are.”

“Tenth
of June… did you say thirty-eight? You mean 1938?”

“Of
course that’s what I mean. Are you daft or still groggy? Doctor says you’ve a
clean bill of health. They watch for fevers and such. No sense shipping in a
plague, eh? Well, you’re clean, he says, and you’re here. But now you’re a
landlubber again mate, unless you can find another ship to jump. You’re lucky
that old fisherman found a steamer like this one to turn you in, and not a
military ship. Otherwise there would have been a good many more questions than
the lot here would care to ask. As it stands, I’d think twice about parading
about Urajio in that uniform. Russian military comes under a good deal of
scrutiny here these days. There’s a war on, you know.”

Karpov
did not understand. The news he had already heard was jarring enough—1938? What
was this man saying now? “War? Here? The Japanese and Russians?”

“The
Japanese and whoever they damn well take a dislike to. No, they’ve finished
with us—at least for the time being. Now it’s the Chinese they’re after. Troop
ships coming in and out of Urajio every week now and shipping out on the rail
line through Harbin into Manchuko. You want out and can’t find a steamer here,
then you might try that. You can get all the way down to Ryojun from here, but
it will be risky.”

“Ryojun?”

“Port
Arthur. Get used to calling it that way too, Captain. Jappos hear you speak of
Vladivostok or Port Arthur and they get damn foul tempered about it since they
took the place. Best be watching your manners here, if you know what I mean.
That uniform of yours is going to be trouble, I can tell you that much. If you
want some good advice, throw on an overcoat and be less conspicuous here. Then
head inland if you’re trying to get anywhere where one good Russian can speak
to another. Siberia is the same as it always was, but there’s Jappo military
all the way out to the Amur river now, and don’t you forget that. They find you
wandering about in a uniform like that and you could be shot out there. That’s
mean wild country out on the river zone. Then again—if you are a sea faring
man, you might get lucky like I did and get work on a steamer here. You’ll need
to learn some Japanese now, and how to bow and scrape and all, but it isn’t a
bad living. I’m seven years at it now and they gave me a new ship just last
year—Pilot of the
Nagata Maru
, eh?” He thumped his chest, smiling
through his bristly black beard.

“What
do you mean—The Japanese have invaded here? Their army is on the Amur River?”

“What,
have you had your head in the sand the last thirty years—or maybe in that jug
of rum? Japanese kicked us out of Vladivostok long ago and we never got it
back. You know that. In fact, we may never get it back now with another war
brewing. It’s too damn important to them now, right at the heart of their
empire. Some say Ryujun is a better port—warmer waters there and not so much
trouble with the ice in winter. But the Sea of Japan is well named now, isn’t
it? It’s nothing more than a Japanese lake, and the route here is a whole lot
safer than in through the Yellow Sea to Ryujun. Chinese haven’t much of a navy,
but pirates and Wakos still raise hell between Shanghai and Ryujun along the
Chinese coast. Jappos have to escort most shipping there in convoys with
military ships to keep watch, but not on the run up here. No sir. From Urajio
you can throw a stone six hundred miles in any direction and it will still land
in Imperial territory.”

“Six
hundred miles?”

“You
must be European. You ship in from Kirov’s lot? I suppose they’re too busy with
the fighting on the Volga to worry about what happens out here. Well, there’s a
lot happening, and you’ll soon find out.”

Chapter 8

Karpov
seemed startled at
the mention of Kirov, but the man went on, and it was soon clear that he wasn’t
talking about the ship, but the man. ‘Kirov’s lot’ seemed to refer to European
Russians from the far west, or so he reasoned, though he could not understand
why.

“Out
here you can forget all those nice European ways, and don’t think anyone here
will cut you any notice, whether you’ve come in from Leningrad or Moscow. Here
the Japanese empire is all that matters. Yes sir, and they’ve started expanding
again. If they don’t know that back west in Orenburg or Moscow they soon will I
suppose. Like I say, there’s troop ships arriving here every week. Rumor is
that my own ship will be commandeered soon for similar duty. Taking
Vladivostok, Sakhalin and all of Primorskiy and Amur province wasn’t enough
after the last war. No sir. Now they’ve got all of Korea, Taiwan, Manchuko, and
they may just push all the way to Lake Baikal if they have a mind to. Siberians
can’t do much about that, can they? Kolchak will try, but he’ll be no match for
these little weasels. Brutal when they get to war, and that’s a fact.”

Karpov
was astounded by what he was hearing now. The last war? The man seemed to be
saying the Japanese invaded and occupied Russian territory long ago. He knew
that had happened once. Japan sent troops to Vladivostok in the midst of the
Russian Civil War along with troops from many other powers, British, French,
Italians, Czech, even Americans. They occupied the place in 1918 to support the
Whites but after Kolchak’s White Army collapsed in the war against the
Bolsheviks in 1919, the Japanese remained in Vladivostok until 1922, fearing
the rise of a communist state so close to their Imperial homeland.

“So
600 miles is nothing,” said Koslov. “It’s nearly a thousand miles to Zabaykalsk
on the border. There’s Japanese troops there, or so I hear tell. More coming
every week. And they’re in Mongolia now too. Rumor has it that they’ve pushed
all the way to Ulaanbaatar. Damn industrious, these Japanese. They ran us out
of the only port we had on the Pacific. That was inevitable after what happened
before the war.”

“This
war?”

“The
last
war—the Great War as they called it. Something tells me this next
one will be even bigger. All the ships are bigger, and now they have
planes—planes on ships, mind you, and submarines too. No.
This
will be
the great war, but maybe we can stay out of if this time around. After all,
we’re still at each other’s throats, eh?”

Karpov
did not know what to make of all this, and was very confused. Was this man
telling the truth or exaggerating. 1938? How could he possibly be here? Did
something happen to the ship? Did it move again and pull him along with it? But
how was that possible?
Kirov
had no control rod this time, and there was
no great explosion, nuclear or otherwise, that could have moved the ship. Then
the image from his nightmares returned, that horrible moment when he plunged
into the water, opening his eyes in a panic to see the long, evil shape of a
submarine lurking in the shallows beneath the ship. Could it have been real?