Kirov Saga: Hinge Of Fate: Altered States Volume III (Kirov Series) (7 page)

“Sir, we have fighter reconnaissance
reports of two large airships bearing 290 from our current position, about 110
kilometers out.” The signalman had just rushed in from the wireless room. “We
should have them on our Topaz radar soon.”

“Two? Only two contacts?”

“Yes sir.”

Very interesting, thought Karpov.
If Volkov knew I was here with
Abakan
, then he certainly knew that I had
Angara
with me as well. If he meant to make a power play here, why send
only two airships? He knows I’ll see them long before they get anywhere near
Kansk. He’s either being very overconfident or acting stupidly. There is no way
those airships could be bringing enough men and equipment to threaten my
position, but he’s certainly checking up on me, isn’t he. Something tells me he
wants a much closer look at my operation here than his intelligence arm can
give him. He turned to his signalman.

“Altitude?” The look of
displeasure on Karpov’s face was enough of a lesson to the young midshipman.

“I’m sorry sir. The contacts are
at 3500 meters.”

Karpov raised an eyebrow at that.
“Let me know the minute that changes.” Then to Bogrov he said: “Make your
altitude 4000 meters, Commandant. But be ready to climb again on short notice.”

He was going to show these
interlopers his gondolas, and let them get a good long look at the guns there
for their trouble in coming all this way. But even as he thought that, he
suspected there was something more to this move by Volkov than it seemed at
first glance.

Chapter 6

The
Airships hung in the
grey sky, as if suspended from the heavens on unseen cables. Karpov was
standing on the main gondola bridge of
Abakan
, his eyes lost in a pair
of field glasses as he studied the enemy ships, noting tail numbers, the
training of their top mounted guns, the thin wisps of exhaust at the engines,
the trim on the big tail rudders and elevator fins.
Abakan
was 500
meters above, and broadside to the intruding ships. From their tail numbers he
soon knew what he was up against.

The lead ship, about a thousand
meters in the van, was the very same ship he had protested over at the conference—the
ship that had been brazenly named
Omsk
. Yet now he saw the bright fresh
white paint that had been applied and the newly stenciled lettering:
Alexandra
—Symenko’s
ship. He had heard of the man, a veteran Captain, and a bit hot under the
collar from all accounts. Symenko was a Squadron Commandant in the Eastern
Airship Division of the Orenburg fleet, a surly man, ill tempered, too eager to
find trouble. He was probably not happy to put his painters back to work so
soon. Karpov smiled, thinking. Why send this man?

The second ship was the
Oskemen
,
named for the big city on the southern border zone, and both ships were in the
same class as Karpov’s airships, about 100,000 cubic meter lift, maximum
airspeed at about 120 knots, and each with six recoilless rifles mounted on the
gondolas, with two more top mounted on the rigid gun platforms there. Yet
Karpov knew he had the edge for the moment as the airships squared off, because
even though he was presently outnumbered two ships to one while
Angara
was hastening to the scene from her recon sweep to the northeast,
Abakan
could bring all six of its gondola mounted guns into action, while the two
opposing airships could only train their two top mounted rifles at the moment.
He had the Orenburg ships outgunned six to four. They would have to climb 500
meters quickly to get any of their gondola mounted guns into action, and Karpov
wasn’t about to let them even try. He had them outgunned, and he intended to
keep things that way until
Angara
reached the scene.

The niceties of protocol had
already begun. Karpov sent over a challenge, requesting both ships hover in
place and make no change in altitude. He asked them to state their business in
Siberian airspace in no uncertain terms. Now he moved to the radio for a two way
conversation with Symenko to take the measure of the man.

“What are you doing here,
Symenko? You’re a long way from home.”

“Begging your pardon to barge
in like this,”
came the voice on the headset. It was a harsh, gravelly
voice that matched the man’s temperament, and there was no real apology in his
tone.
“This is a diplomatic mission, and I come bearing a pouch for your
eyes only.”

“From Volkov? Papers to sign? I
thought we settled all that at Omsk.”

“I’m not privy to the
contents, but I’m told to deliver it to you, Karpov, and so here I am. You want
it, or not? If so then I’ll request permission to heave to over your tower on
the river.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this
mission? I could have put my guns on you the moment we sailed up, Symenko.
You’ve a lot of nerve violating Siberian airspace like this.”

“Set off alarm bells all along
the rail line from here to Novosibirsk, did we? Well like I said—I have orders
and I follow them. You want to complain about the violation of your precious
airspace? Then you can write Volkov a nice long letter about it and I’ll
happily carry it home and deliver it personally.”

Karpov frowned. The man was a
real smartass, he thought, just the type he enjoyed goading from time to time.
So he stuck in a barb, just for the pleasure of it.

“Nice paint job, Symenko. A lot
more letters now, eh? Were you eager to drop your ground anchors at Omsk?
What’s the matter. Weather doesn’t suit you at Alexandra?”

“Try that tone with me when
I’m sitting 500 meters above your prow and see what it gets you, Karpov.”

“Yes? Well it looks like I’m the
one sitting on your nose, Captain, and don’t think to move a muscle or you’ll
soon find out that I can be a most disagreeable man.”

“That so? Well I can drop
ballast and pop up there in three minutes if you’d care to do this eye to eye.”

“Drop ballast? If I so much as
see anyone take a piss off that ship of yours to lighten your load I’ll put a
nice fat 105mm round into your forward gas bags, and that will slow you down,
won’t it? Look, Symenko. Enough with the pleasantries. You can dock at Kansk,
but we’ve only room for one ship there. Deliver your pouch and then get the
hell out of my airspace.”

There was a long pause before
Symenko came back on the line again
. “I’m told this is to be hand delivered,
by me personally, and directly to you, Karpov. No intermediaries. I’m to wait
here for your answer.”

Most unusual, thought Karpov.
What was Volkov thinking? What could he possibly want? There was no way he was
going to ground himself with this man now. He was up in fighting trim, and with
good position on these brigands, and he meant to stay there.

“I’m a busy man, Symenko. It will
take you an hour to dock at Kansk and then move off so we can do the same, and
there’s no way I’d ever allow this ship to do that under your guns in any case.
So we’ll do this another way. I’ll ease over and send down a sub-cloud car. You
want to hand off that pouch, then you can climb aboard and we’ll reel you in.”

The sub-cloud car, also call the
“spy basket” or “observation car,” was first developed by the Germans as a
means of anchoring their radio antenna, and then later made into a small finned
gondola that could hold one or two men. It could be lowered up to 200 meters on
a cable, dipped through a heavy obscuring cloud deck to allow for observation
of the ground. A “man in the basket” could spot landmarks on the ground and
call them up to the main gondola on a telephone line. In this case Symenko
could climb aboard and be hauled up to the
Abakan
to make his delivery.

“Very well, Karpov. We’ll do
it your way. You can ease on down and send us a basket. But I’d feel a whole
lot better to see those gondola guns of yours trained elsewhere.”

“Of course you would, Captain, but
you and I both know that isn’t going to happen either. We’ll wait here until
Angara
arrives to keep an eye on the
Oskemen
. Then you and I will get cozy and
you can come on up with your pouch. Karpov out.”

Karpov switched off abruptly,
removed his earphones and stood up, fetching his leather gloves from a jacket
pocket. He pulled on the gloves slowly, flexing his fingers into a fist to
tighten the fit.

“Bogrov,” he said tersely. “The
minute
Angara
arrives have them take position off the tail of that
second airship out there. Make ready on the spy basket. We’re going to have a
visitor!” He gave the Air Commandant an evil grin.

* * *

Symenko
was not happy. He
had been told to slip in as close to the rail junction at Ilanskiy and off load
a couple companies of infantry. He was to take Kansk, tear up the rail lines there,
and then knock down the airship tower—that is if he could manage to get in
there and achieve surprise. Should he be discovered prematurely, then he was to
ease in slowly and hand off the diplomatic pouch to Karpov personally. What was
the Governor General thinking? He obviously knew Karpov would be here, and with
at least one airship equipped with their new Topaz radar sets. He knew damn
well I wasn’t going to sneak in above the clouds and get my troops landward
easily.

He shook his head, not understanding
why he had been sent here. Why not send some young buck like Petrov on the
Oskemen?
I’m division commander! You don’t send someone like me out on a mission like
this. Volkov had it in his mind to get something here, he thought. This was
supposed to be a snatch and grab. Yes? And he wanted to make damn sure I had
enough men with me to do the grabbing. A full goddamn battalion on each ship?
Now I’m damn near maximum weight and slow as molasses if it comes to a gunfight
here. Karpov already has altitude on me, and he has his guns bore sighted on my
forehead as it stands.

But be polite, I’m told. Be
diplomatic. Say everything I was told to say, but nothing more. That was never
my calling card. If Volkov wanted me to run in here and raise hell, then he should
have let me do it rigged for air operations—ship to ship. Instead I’m lugging
these troops around for some kind of land assault, and Karpov will know it
easily enough. It makes sense to take out the rail yard at Kansk and knock down
that tower, but these orders concerning Ilanskiy—what is that all about? What
could be there that would be of any interest? It wasn’t his place to question
orders, he knew, but he wasn’t the sort not to do so when they didn’t suit him.

It was bad enough they took Omsk
from me. I was to be City Commandant! I had good men die taking that
god-forsaken place last winter. It was to be mine, and I was to be provincial
Governor there. Now Volkov chokes and hands the whole city over to Karpov! For
what? To keep that scrawny little bastard off our ass while we deal with Sergei
Kirov? Why couldn’t Volkov pay the price out of his own purse? I made
arrangements, plans, promises to a lot of men, and now look at me, still
watching the paint dry on this ship. To make matters worse, Volkov has made me
a red faced errand boy in thanks for losing Omsk, adding insult to injury. I’ve
half a mind to tell Volkov to fuck off and take my ship north and go rogue.

He was pacing on the bridge,
restless and angry as he felt the overweening shadow of
Abakan
as the
airship moved slowly into position to lower their spy basket. He knew he could
never get away with that—going rogue. Volkov was not a man to make an enemy of.
If I tried anything Pavlov on the
Oskemen
would never go along with it,
and then Volkov would spare no effort to hunt my ass down and roast me over a
slow fire.

So here I am—following goddamned
orders—and in ten minutes I’ll be dangling from a cable and reeled in like a
fat tuna for Karpov to grin at me and rub salt in the wounds. I should put a
bullet in that man. He’s going to be more trouble out here than anyone knows,
and believe me, I’m a man who knows trouble. But Karpov is too damn careful.
Yes. He’ll have his men grope my bung hole for any sign of a weapon before I
get anywhere near him, so no point bringing one.

And that thought did nothing
whatsoever to settle his mood.

Yes, Symenko was in a foul mood
today, and he had every reason to be the surly choleric airship Captain he was
known to be. To say he was a short tempered man, crusty and quick to anger, was
an understatement. But he was still Captain here. He still had the
Alexandra
,
which was the only consolation he could take from this sudden turn of
misfortune. Now nobody was getting those nice fat mansions in Omsk, and all the
favors he was planning to call in as he doled out land and title there had
blown away on the Siberian mist. He wasn’t City Commandant at Omsk, and he
wasn’t regional Governor either. Now he was only Captain Symenko, First
Squadron of the Eastern Airship Division, Volkov’s messenger boy.

He shook his head, slowly heading
aft to find the main ladder up to the top gun platform, and thinking how much
more satisfying it would be to get behind one of the 76mm recoilless rifles
there and blow a hole in
Abakan
—blow their forward bridge gondola to
hell. But he didn’t do that. Instead he climbed the long ladder up, steamed on
the cold open air platform, and grunted as he hauled himself precariously up
the rope ladder dangling from the
Abakan’s
spy basket, just a nice fat
fish on Karpov’s line now.

His eyes betrayed the murderous
rage in him, barely controlled as he was slowly reeled in and the basket was
tucked under the main gondola of the other airship. The cold air had cleared
his head, and given him just a little time to settle down, but he was still in
a foul mood when they pried open the basket hatch. He grunted, his jaw
tightening as he realized how Karpov was going to lord it over him now, and
there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.