The eyes held a smile beneath cinder brows, the face of an old Asian man. The sudden memory of that headlong fall from grace and power to what seemed a clear and imminent death was on him again, and he struggled to sit up, almost as if to flee from the vision in his mind- Kirov, the guns and missiles firing, the faces of the crew, Samsonov and Rodenko, stony, adamant, full of recrimination. Doctor Zolkin slumped against the bulkhead… the blood… then the wild fall into the nightmare sea and his vision of the one thing that sent chills through his frame and haunted his thinking whenever he stood at the helm-a submarine! His breath came faster.
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. Suripu.” 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.”