The civil war that followed, however, was suddenly overshadowed by the rising figure of Volkov in the White movement. After an abortive bid for power in Moscow, Volkov withdrew through the Ukraine and into the Caucasus and border states that now made up his Orenburg Federation. There were periods of tentative peace as Red and White struggled to find balance, but the fighting invariably re-ignited, spurred on by much foreign interference.
By 1924 the borders had cemented again. There were seven years of truce, seven more of war until 1938, when the Siberian Free State began to organize into a third major entity. Remnants of Kolchak’s White movement there were joined by Kozolnikov, yet information on what was happening in the far east was very sketchy. None of the books had covered any recent events there. Siberia had been a wild frontier, a loose confederation of warlord states with a few centers of Kolchak’s White movement in the major cities. No one seemed to want the place, not even the Japanese who exerted nominal control all along the frontier of the Amur River, but with little real strength.
Fedorov spent some time reading on Volkov, watching his slow rise to power, first as a master of intelligence under Denikin, then slowly co-opting that man’s authority. The Bolshevik Red Army had gained the Ukraine, but could not seem to make inroads into Kazakhstan, the Caucasus, and the Caspian region. Instead of trying to defeat one another, both sides entrenched and consolidated their power, and the long civil war dragged on and on, a simmering conflict that spilled across one border or another, then cooled until the next incident stoked the fires.
Volkov eventually secured power and established his seat of government in the growing city of Orenburg. He then changed the White movement to the Grey Legion, breaking ties with remnants of Denikin’s supporters. There had been fighting back and forth along the Volga with Kirov’s Soviet State ever since.
Fedorov was finishing up his research, thinking of the implications on the war that was now unfolding. Surely Volkov knew this history as well, or at least knew the general outcomes of the ‘Great Patriotic War.’ Even against a united Russia ruled by one strong hand, Germany devoured half the nation. Was he doing this to finally destroy the Bolsheviks under Kirov? Did he think he would somehow find a way to manipulate Adolf Hitler in the end? These questions and so many others percolated in his mind, but weariness overcame him, and the tea he was drinking was not helping. He was just about to finish up and get some sleep when Orlov happened along.
“What are you doing, Fedorov? Nose in the books again? You should have been promoted to the ship’s librarian.” Orlov said that with a grin, realizing, after all, that he was speaking to the ship’s Captain now, and remembering the humiliating lesson Troyak had taught him about showing due respect when he had been busted to the Marine detachment. He had come to the officer’s dining hall for a cup of coffee before going on duty, and found Fedorov sitting at a table reading.
“The world has changed, Orlov,” said Fedorov. “I did not realize just how much has gone awry.”
“I know you are wanting to blame me for that, yes?”
“What? No Chief. I think I got to you in time, or at least those British commandos did. Besides, most anything you may have changed would have had to occur after 1942. The altered state of affairs I am reading about now all happened well before that. I think it was Karpov who had a great deal to do with some of the changes, and I must also confess that I am equally to blame.”
“You, Fedorov? What did you do?”
Fedorov confessed his crime, that errant whisper, and he told Orlov that it ended up resulting in the death of Joseph Stalin himself.
“My god!” Orlov exclaimed. “Here I was worried a bit about choking Commissar Molla, and you took a contract out on Stalin!” As always, Orlov interpreted the events in light of his own life experience, running with the Russian mob for so many years before he had joined the navy had left him very jaded.
“So you see, Orlov, you can sleep easy now. I’m the real culprit.”
“And that bastard Karpov. He sleeps easy too-with the fishes!” Orlov grinned again.
“Yes, I suppose so. In fact, as to that Commissar you speak of, remember, in this world now it is only 1940, so he may still be alive out there somewhere, though if he is he will be working for Volkov, and not the Bolsheviks.”
At that Orlov’s face and mood darkened. “Still alive? But I killed him.”
“In 1942, but that world, those events that saw you make your way to the Caucasus… well, they might never occur. This is a new world, Chief. Another life altogether, for you, and I suppose for Commissar Molla as well.”
“Sookin syn!” Orlov swore, clearly unhappy with what he was learning now. “I wondered about that. Was another Orlov going to appear and do everything we just lived through?”
“We’ve all wondered about it.”
“It is not possible, right Fedorov?”
“Director Kamenski does not think so. He believes we are in a completely altered world now, separate from the one we left. So come July 28, 1941 when we first appeared here, nothing will happen. In his mind we have trumped all our previous exploits.”
“You mean none of it counts? Molla is alive, none of those ships we hurt are sunk?”
“That could be so, Chief. Our appearance in 1908, and now here in 1940 predates all that experience. Perhaps it counted in the world we left, but not this one. It hasn’t even happened yet, at least according to Kamenski.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It does sound reasonable. Otherwise we will have a real paradox on our hands in another year.”
“Yes,” said Orlov with a smile. “One ugly mug like this one is enough for the world.” He tapped his own cheek. “So that means we are living in a world where Karpov doesn’t exist any longer. There is one good thing about our fate, eh?”
“I see you still have hard feelings about him.”
“I hold a grudge, Fedorov. That’s why I killed Molla. Frankly, to learn he is still alive makes me want to go and kill him again! But don’t worry. I’ll stay put this time.”
“Please do, Chief. We need you here.”
“Now that you mention it, I have duty on the bridge in ten minutes. Keep reading, Captain!” Orlov clapped Fedorov on the back and went on his way, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
Fedorov smiled, putting the book he had been perusing aside, entitled Rise of the Orenburg Federation. The photographs there had convinced him that the leader of that state was indeed the same man they knew and met on the ship with Inspector General Kapustin.
He went down those stairs, he thought. So it wasn’t just what Karpov did, or even what I did. It was Volkov too. Yet it all comes back to me again. If I hadn’t insisted on retrieving Orlov, leaving as I did with Troyak and Zykov, then Volkov would have never tried to find me along that route, and never had a chance to take that trip down those stairs. Then again, Orlov’s recent visit put him in the spotlight again. If Orlov did not go missing… No, I was Captain, he thought. I was the one who gave that order to fire on the KA-226, so it all comes back to me again.
He passed a moment wondering what might have happened if he had not fired. If there had been a fire on the helicopter as Orlov claimed, they might have made an emergency landing. They could have even parachuted to safety, and we could have rescued them by zeroing in on their service jacket transponders in both cases. It was only because we thought those missiles made an end of both the helicopter and Orlov that we failed to mount a search-that and the urgency of the hour with that race to Gibraltar underway.
I was sloppy, he berated himself. I was too inexperienced to take on the role of ship’s Captain at that time. I wasn’t thinking clearly as to proper procedure. All I could do was think about avoiding any contamination to the history, but there we were, ready to slug it out with the Nelson and Rodney. How foolish I was! That duel seems to have caused very little change, but the little things-my failure to search for Orlov then and there-that’s what really put a missile into it all, and ripped the history open from bow to stern.