“Sergeant,” he said quietly. “You and I need to have a word or two. We’re going to make that rendezvous with the Siberian airship, and Karpov is likely to learn we aren’t returning to the ship soon. In that event, he will certainly contact the Irkutsk, so when we get there, we’ll likely face a hostile reception. I know I’m asking you to be complicit in what is really my decision to disobey Karpov’s orders now. Believe me, I have an urgent reason to do so, and very little time. I’m asking you and your men to support me now. Can I rely on you.”
Troyak thought for a moment. He had received no orders of any kind from Karpov. He was asked to accompany this sortie by the ship’s first officer, and it was not his business to intervene and tell the Starpom what he should or should not do. If Fedorov was bucking Karpov here, that would be business between him and the Admiral.
“Sir,” he said quietly. “As I have no other orders, your word remains final here unless I hear otherwise.”
“Good enough,” said Fedorov. “I will take full responsibility, rest assured, but this is the situation we may soon be facing…”
Miles to the east, the Airship Irkutsk was hovering at the rendezvous point, and her Captain was chewing on the orders he had just received, the taste bitter in his mouth. Symenko was once the senior officer aboard Alexandra, a scout ship in Volkov’s Orenburg Fleet. He had also been a Squadron Commandant in Volkov’s Eastern Airship Division, but no longer. He had turned, angry when he felt he had been sent on a mission to Ilanskiy just so Volkov could get rid of him. He had once been promised the Governorate of Omsk, but when Volkov signed his accord with the Siberians ceding that city back, Symenko became a nuisance. His trouble with Volkov went back years before that. He had opposed him when Denikin was still alive in the White Movement, and he knew Volkov had a long memory. The General Secretary had used him to deliver a message to Karpov, intending it to be his last service in the Orenburg fleet.
A surly man, ill tempered by nature, Symenko was even more irascible when he realized he had been thrown to the wolves. Karpov had interrogated him, extracting as much information as possible, and then made a startling offer.
“So you’re just the messenger, is it Symenko? You want to claim diplomatic immunity and have me kiss your backside and send you merrily on your way? I should drag your ass into that spy basket and cut the damn thing loose. That would be a nice long ride to hell, right Symenko? We are at 4500 meters up here. But before I do that, let me test what you have said. You tell me Volkov has betrayed you as well? Then join me.”
“What?”
“Don’t look so stupid. If it is true that Volkov considers you expendable and sends you into the bear’s den with that pouch, then how eager can you be to fight for him now?”
A very good point, thought Symenko, particularly when the other man was holding a gun to your head. He thought quickly. Join him? Why not? It was either that or a bullet to the head. He would cover his bet for a while, feed Karpov any information that seemed suitable, and secretly plan to get back to his ship and contact Petrov on the Oskemen. But Karpov got to him first, blowing Oskemen and Petrov to hell. Symenko stewed in the Brig aboard Karpov’s ship, and days later, the Siberian repeated his offer. Knowing he could never go back to Orenburg and survive, Symenko had agreed to serve the Siberians.
He was given secondary roles at first, Starpom in one of Karpov’s cruisers, but he swallowed his pride, knuckled down and proved himself reliable. Then again to his surprise, Karpov had summoned him to is big new airship, the Tunguska, and given him his first real command—the Irkutsk. It was a fine ship, former flagship of the Eastern Siberian Division, 180,000 cubic meter lift, with ten 76ers and six more 105s. That was a choice command, much better than anything he had ever had under his boots with Volkov’s fleet, and he was very appreciative. It had gone a long way in tamping down his temper, but it turned out that Irkutsk was mostly on overwatch and recon duty over Lake Baikal. He would spent his time peering through binoculars at the Japanese outposts on the other side of that great barrier lake, and duly noting any changes in his reports to Karpov.
Then, out of the blue, comes this order to proceed to the Tokko Lake, about 200 miles inland from the Sea of Okhotsk. He was to rendezvous with an aircraft there, take on passengers, and ferry them another 1300 miles west to Ilanskiy. That alone was surprising, he thought. Who could these passengers be? Then, when he got this last communication from Karpov, his blood ran cold. He was ordered to take the passengers aboard, and hold them in protective custody. Then fly immediately to his home city, Irkutsk.
What was going on here, he wondered? Who were these passengers, and what had happened in the last hours to suddenly change the reception he was ordered to make for them. One minute I’m going to Ilanskiy, the next it’s back to Irkutsk. Karpov is up to something, he knew, and it boded nothing good.
“Captain,” said his Radarman Chunskiy. “We have a signal, low and slow. I make it about 2000 meters and approaching the lake on the expected heading.”
The helo would land on the banks of this isolated lake, with nary a soul to ever see what would happen there. This has been very hush, hush, thought Symenko. And it’s no wonder—Ilanskiy. That place has been a witches brew for years. It’s what first got me into this stew here, and something tells me there’s trouble ahead. Take these passengers into custody, is it. Very well.
“Make ready to rendezvous as planned,” he ordered. “Sergeant of the Marines, I’ll want the bin ready to be lowered smartly on my command. Go yourself, and with three good men. The passengers are to be disarmed and brought directly to my stateroom. If you get any trouble, ring the bridge on the field phone. Bridge gondola gunners will stand to, and cover that aircraft when it lands—and god help them here.” He could see no suitable airfield, and wondered just how a plane could ever land here. That was a detail he had been told not to worry about, but now these passengers were details that would most likely be trouble for him.
Karpov… That was all that need be said about this matter. The bloody Admiral was up to something again, plain and simple. Only what was all this about?
Chapter 33
When Symenko saw the aircraft, he was amazed. It had no wings to speak of, and two big rotors above the bulbous main airframe. It made a loud chopping sound as it approached, and he realized this must be one of those helicopters that had been spoken up by airmen of the fleet these last months. It hovered like an angry, noisome bee, and then made a perfect soft landing on a spit of turf extending out into the eastern shore of Lake Tokko.
Shaking his head, he maneuvered Irkutsk overhead, his recoilless rifles covering the strange craft below as ordered. Then they lowered the basket, a square metal cargo lifter, with Sergeant Klykov and three other armed Marines.
Down in the KA-40, Fedorov was watching the basket lower, his pulse up. They could see the heads of four men in the basket, peering down at them from above as it lowered. He had told Troyak that they would likely meet with trouble here. “These men will want to apprehend us,” he said, “but I cannot allow that to happen. I will want you and your Marines to handle the situation, but without bloodshed. Can you do that?”
Troyak simply nodded, asking no questions, and then looking over at Zykov, who nodded back. Then Fedorov explained what he was going to do.