Orlov slipped away, I hatched my plan to go after him, and then that stairway at Ilanskiy changed everything. There was the death of Stalin in one errant whisper. There was the rise of Volkov and the deadlock in the civil war that shattered my homeland. Now that will have a dramatic impact on the outcome of this war. How can Britain survive without a united Russia fighting against Germany on the Eastern Front? We have chosen to place Kirov on the scales of Time to try and help, but we are just one ship. How can we possibly counterbalance the grievous harm I have done?
Feeling very dejected, and harried by a nagging sense of guilt, he reached for another book, a study of the French naval buildup between the wars. Then his eye fell on a plain manila envelope, and he opened it to see what the Russians had tucked inside. It was marked, “Free Siberian State,” and Fedorov found that it contained a few folded newspapers, some very recent by the dates. He found himself drawn to the headlines and photos, turning the page on one issue and then nearly choking on a sip of tea as he did so.
Another man would have cursed, or invoked the deity, but this time Fedorov just stared in shocked silence, slowly lowering his teacup, his hand noticeably shaky as he did so. A sense of rising apprehension gathered like a sickness in his belly and rose like bitter bile in his throat. His impulse was to sound battle stations, raise the alarm! There, standing on an airfield tarmac beneath a massive tethered zeppelin, was a man in a uniform that Fedorov clearly recognized, right down to the pips on his collar.
Fedorov leaned forward, his pulse racing, a rising sense of distress in him now that bordered on panic. He squinted at the photograph, the man’s face, his stance, the cut of his shoulders. His eyes scanned and rescanned the photo caption, as if he was simply unwilling to believe or admit what he was reading there. “Air Commandant Karpov inspects the fleet flagship Irkutsk as operations begin on the Samara Front.”
Air Commandant Karpov… It was him!
Fedorov stood up, stiff and alert, looking about him as if to seek help. He stared at the newspaper again, noting the date as April 10, 1940. How? How? How could this be? Were his eyes deceiving him? Was he seeing something here born of his own fear and recrimination? Could this be nothing more than a coincidence, another man, a mistaken appearance?
He sat down again, his hands shaking as he fished out all the other newspapers in the large envelope. Then he began to go through them, page by page, his eyes dark with misgiving. He soon found that he was not imagining anything at all. There were three other articles referencing the man, and one giving his full name: Admiral Vladimir Karpov, First Air Commandant of the Siberian Aero Corps.
Vladimir Karpov…
He was up, quickly gathering and folding all the newspapers again, and tucking them under his arm. His footfalls were quick and heavy on the deck, his breath fast as he went. Where was the Admiral? He found himself almost running now, racing to the officer’s deck and down the long hallway to the Admiral’s cabin. Resisting the urge to simply barge in with the urgency of his news, he stopped, took a deep breath, and then knocked on the door.
There was movement from within, then the door slowly opened and he saw a red-eyed Volsky peering at him, a look of surprise on his face.
“Excuse me, Admiral,” Fedorov gasped, still breathless. “Something very important has come up.”
“Another contact? Is the ship in danger?”
Is the ship in danger, thought Fedorov wildly? My god, the whole damn world was in danger now! “No sir, but I have found something in the research that you must see at once.”
Volsky looked a bit disheveled and weary, but he opened the door, beckoning for Fedorov to enter. The young Captain could not help but notice the small glass of Vodka on the Admiral’s desk near the photo of his wife, the letters there.
The Admiral gestured to the other chair by the wall, and shuffled to his desk, reaching to put away the letters. “You will forgive an old man a moment of sentiment, Fedorov,” he said quietly. “I was just reading the last letter I had received from my wife before things started going crazy at Vladivostok. And I suppose I was drowning my sorrows in a glass of good Vodka. Don’t worry, I am not one to overindulge, but we all have places to hide and heal, do we not?”
“Of course, sir. Please forgive me for barging in like this. I can come another time-”
“No, no, please be seated. I can see by the redness in your cheeks that you have run all the way here, and you can barely catch your breath. Very well. Let me hear what you have found. Sit please. Take a moment if you must.” The Admiral eyed the newspapers under Fedorov’s arm, a squall of trepidation on his face now, yet curious.
Fedorov composed himself, looking at the photo of Karpov beneath the looming hulk of the airship, seeming a doppelganger, a dark shadow of the man he was, something born again of trouble and the whirlwind of chaos.
“ Sir,” he began haltingly. “Have a look at this!”
He handed the Admiral the paper.
Chapter 26
Doctor Zolkin was surprised to see them when Volsky and Fedorov arrived at the sick bay hatch. Shocked by what they had discovered, the two men immediately sought out Director Kamenski, learning that he was in for a medical check.
“More headaches?” said Zolkin as they entered. But Zolkin new the Admiral well enough to know that something was very wrong. He had been listening to Kamenski’s heart, satisfied with what he was hearing. Now he set his stethoscope aside and folded his arms, waiting.
“Misery loves company,” said Kamenski. “Did you have a restless sleep as well, Admiral?”
“I hope nothing is wrong, Director.” Volsky glanced from Kamenski to Zolkin as he spoke, civility trumping the news they carried in that bundle of newspapers under Fedorov’s arm. Here they were, huddling in the sick bay again with Zolkin, the place they had discussed the business of the ship so many times, and Karpov more than once.
“He’s fit and likely to live another hundred years,” said Zolkin with a smile. “Nothing to worry about beyond a bit of indigestion.”
“Glad to hear some good news for a change,” said Volsky, looking sheepishly at Fedorov. The two men sat down near Zolkin’s desk, and then Volsky simply looked at Fedorov.
“Out with it, Fedorov. Tell them.”
Fedorov cleared his throat, looking from one man to the next. Just say it, he thought, and then he spoke, certain of what he was now about to assert.
“I believe Captain Karpov is alive.”
“What is that? Alive?” Zolkin’s hand strayed unconsciously to his arm where he had only recently recovered from the gunshot wound during that wild moment on the bridge.
Fedorov just handed him the newspaper, and gave another to Kamenski, watching them take in the information with growing surprise.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Zolkin, “but now you have gone and made the Doctor ill. If Kamenski thought he had trouble with his dinner, my indigestion will be worse. How could this be?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Doctor.”
“We think Karpov must have been thrown clear of the weather bridge. Perhaps he even jumped,” said Volsky, putting forward the only logical explanation he and Fedorov could come up with.
“Jumped?”
“Yes,” said Fedorov. “If he fell into the sea just as we shifted, he would probably have been pulled forward in time with us as well, just as we pulled that trawler forward with us when the Anatoly Alexandrov shifted back from the Caspian. That was how we eventually reeled in Orlov.”
“But look at the date on this article, Mister Fedorov,” Kamenski pointed with his finger as he spoke. “It reads May of 1940.”