He had come onto the gondola bridge after taking a light breakfast. “Where will we tether, Air Commandant Bogrov?”
“Sir? We could use the tower at Kansk by the river. I have radioed ahead to arrange for a car. It is just a twenty kilometer drive east from that point.”
“Good enough. I will want a full rifle squad in escort, as always. And scout the road ahead with the motorcycle platoon.”
Twenty minutes later the Abakan was tethered to the tall steel tower near the river at Kansk, while Angara continued on. It would arrive at their planned destination first, hovering on overwatch, the eyes of its watchmen scanning the surrounding countryside, gunners at the ready. One never knew when a roving band of raiders might emerge from the thick woodlands.
Karpov made the long walk along the keelway of the ship to the nose. Being a minor air receiving station, this was a small tower, with no elevator, so he had to make the climb down some 200 feet using the interior metal ladder. His security detachment went before him, and he was pleased to see that Bogrov had doubled the guard by having men from the Kansk militia at the ready as well. There were two trucks and a motor car waiting. His Siberian Rifles took the lead truck, his car following with his personal guard of two men, the militia following behind.
A small motorcycle detachment had been lowered by winch and cables and was already well ahead, scouring the road east by the time Karpov settled into his motorcar. It was a short, bumpy ride over a plain dirt road, but it had not rained in recent days and so the mud was not a problem.
They pulled into the small hamlet of Ilanskiy half an hour later, the security men leaping from the lead truck and fanning out, eyes dark and threatening as they began to search the warehouses by the rail yard. This was the very same place Fedorov had come to with Troyak and Zykov, the place where he had faced down Lieutenant Surinov and tried to secure just a little fair treatment and comfort for the prisoners moving east on the railway cars. This time there were no NKVD men, and no prison camps, and not even a train car to be found in the desolate little town. Stalin’s gulags were not blighting the land as they did in Fedorov’s journey. Stalin was dead.
Karpov stepped out of the car, squinting at the dilapidated buildings. With so few trains making the run east to Irkutsk these days, places like this were like withered, leafless branches on a barren tree. There were few travelers in these dangerous lands, and therefore little business for the inn at Ilanskiy.
“Where is it?” Karpov said to Tyrenkov, his lead security man.
“Right this way, sir. That building there.” The man pointed to a squat two story inn, looking much like most other buildings clustered about the rail yard. In better times it would be a rail holiday house for the train workers, but these were not better times.
Karpov tramped up to the front entry with three men, seeing it was boarded up. The building appeared to be completely abandoned.
“Open it,” he said curtly to his men, and they set to work batting aside a few obstructing two-by-fours with their rifle butts. The way cleared, Tyrenkov tried the handle, then simply kicked the door open when he found it locked. He was through the entry and into what was once the front lobby of the inn.
Karpov waited, while his men made certain no one was lurking inside, then stepped through the entry, noting the thick layer of dust on the floor, disturbed only by the footfalls of his men. No one had been there for some time. Pale light filtered from an overhead skylight. He walked up to the front counter, noting the date on the calendar there. 8 DEC 28. Apparently the inn had been abandoned for the last twelve years.
He looked around, seeing nothing of interest here. What was so special about this place? Volkov said it had happened here-the madness, as he called it. It was here that he claimed he suddenly found himself lost in another time. He did not say the year and day. The story was fantastic, but Karpov knew better. Yes, he knew how easily a man could find himself in another world-just like this one.
“There is no one here, Commandant,” said Tyrenkov, returning. “My men took the main stair way up. There are eight rooms, all empty, just like everything else.”
Karpov said nothing, giving the receiving desk a frown and striding slowly into the next room, a dining hall where several bare wood tables sat without chairs. An empty stone hearth yawned in stony silence at the far end of the room.
“What is there?” Karpov pointed to an alcove to the right of the hearth, sending Tyrenkov striding across the room towards the location. He found another locked door, but it soon gave way with a hard kick of his heavy booted foot. Karpov saw him peer inside, emerging with a scowl, brushing a cobweb from his face.
“It is just an old back stairway, he said gruffly.”
“Up or down?” Karpov was at his side now.
“Up, Commandant. The men found an upper landing on the second floor. This is probably the servants stairwell.”
“Very well,” said Karpov, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a cigarette. It was a habit he had cultivated upon his return here, and he found it calming when he wanted to think quietly for a time. “Cigarette?” Karpov offered, but Tyrenkov saw it was the last one in the Commandant’s pack, and politely declined.
“Find out if there is anyone else in this hovel of a town. Have the guards wait at the car. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Sir!” Tyrenkov saluted, off to round up his detachment, still searching buildings near the rail yard.
Nothing here, thought Karpov. What did I expect? The place is just an old run down inn, and hardly worth the time and fuel I wasted coming here. What could have possibly happened to Volkov to send him back in time? That was 2021 when he arrived here. There was a war brewing. Who knows, perhaps it started. In that year there are several targets near this place that might have interested an American warhead. The 10th Naval Arsenal was just outside Kansk where Abakan was tethered. The 23rd Guards had bases here, and there were also mobile ICBM sites scattered around the area, the trucks waiting in underground bunkers… Eighty years from now.
He passed a moment thinking about that, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Then he heard what sounded like a dull rumble. At first he thought it was coming from outside, but when he took a step or two away, he could immediately tell that the sound was echoing from the stairwell! Surprised and curious, he stepped closer to the broken door, leaning into the darkened stairwell. Yes… there was a distinct rumbling sound, a distant growl as from a broiling explosion. He thought the stairway might be focusing sound from above, and without thinking, he started edging up the stairs following the sound and noting that it grew more distinct, louder with every step he took.
Seventeen steps…
It was very dark, and he could feel the discomfiting, trailing caress of old cobwebs as he went. When he reached the top there was another door, split right down the middle, one half askew and broken as if it had sustained some powerful shock.
The sound was very loud now, and he saw an eerie red-yellow glow. He slipped through the broken door, squinting in the light, and was completely astounded by what he saw.
The entire upper floor had been mostly blown away. He found himself on a tenuous perch, a part of the upper floor that still remained standing. There were loose shards of shattered glass under his feet, dust everywhere, blown by a foul wind that seemed to chill his soul with its heartless sound. What had happened?
There! He saw the source of the angry light as the dust cleared, shielding his eyes. There! It rose up in a seething dark column of destruction, unmistakable in its shape and form, a broiling mushroom cloud with a livid white top, lit by an evil glow. He knew what it was at once, for he had set loose that same hammer hand of doom on the world many times himself. Yet this was impossible! How could this be happening, here in 1940? Nuclear weapons would not be developed for years and he knew there were no such projects underway in the wild lands of Siberia.