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.