Before he could think anything further, there was the sound of footsteps coming up the main stairway. Acting on instinct and reflex, Troyak gave a hand signal to his Marines, and they moved quickly into rooms on either side of that landing, weapons at the ready. Fedorov was still standing and staring down those stairs, trying to decide whether he should go back and see if Orlov might still be there, perhaps experiencing that same moment of chaos; perhaps retreating to the lower level, still in 1908.
Now it was Troyak’s hand heavy on his shoulder that snapped him back to the present. “Sir!” he hissed in a low whisper. “Someone is coming!”
He got Fedorov to move, out of the landing to that stairway, and into an adjacent room. Zykov had pulled the body of the fallen sentry inside just in time, for a group of soldiers in black uniforms came cautiously around the corner at the far end of the hall.
“What is going on up here,” came a voice. “Skolov? Where are you?”
Then silence, but to Troyak’s well trained ear, he knew those men were now slowly advancing down that hallway, weapons at the ready.
“Sir,” he whispered to Fedorov. “These are most likely the security men you briefed us about. What do you want done here?”
Fedorov had to think quickly, still shaken by all that had happened to him. He had gone from the tension of that moment with Mironov, the desperation and torment he felt, knowing he could not kill this man, and that everything else was his own damn fault. End it, a voice had whispered to him from deep within. Make certain you can never do any further harm.
That was when he had raised his trembling hand, intending to use that pistol and do just that—end it, end it all right then and there. It had been Mironov that stayed his hand, young Sergei Kirov, and that changed everything.
From that moment to this one was only a matter of fifteen minutes, but long years had intervened. Then came the shock of losing Orlov, and now this. If they had reached the 1940s again, then these men were most likely Tyrenkov’s elite security team, charged with the 24 hour watch on the railway inn. Fedorov realized that they were perhaps seconds from a real crisis here that would erupt in a firefight.
Think!
In a brief few seconds he sorted it all through. If his assumption was correct, then a firefight would soon leave men dead on both sides, and if his team prevailed here, it would only be a short interval before this building was completely surrounded by Tyrenkov’s men. There was too much he did not know. They had not even ascertained whether they had reached the 1940s yet. He simply could not allow more bloodshed at this juncture, and made a snap decision.
“I will handle this,” he said. “You men, stand fast. Take no action unless you hear a direct order from me.” Then he turned toward the half opened door and spoke in a loud voice. “Coming out!” he called. “Do not shoot! I am here to speak with your commanding officer!”
Fedorov stepped out of the room and into the hall, as Troyak grimaced, his hand tighter on the assault rifle he held. They had come all this way, first in the helo, and then in that odd airship, which then encountered that terrible devastation. Fedorov had tried to explain it to him: “We’ve moved,” he had said. “We aren’t in the same time as before. That event out there is the Tunguska Event. That’s what we were overflying, only not in 1942. It isn’t 1942 any longer…. So if I’m right, then this is 1908, and just a day or so after that thing fell back there on the 30th of June.”
1908? The Sergeant had a rough time swallowing that, though Orlov seemed to get it down easily enough. Then Fedorov had told him this long incredible tale, about Orlov jumping ship, and a long mission to find him. The longer he spoke, the more Troyak came to feel that everything Fedorov was saying was true. It was almost as if he could remember it, though the images remained just beyond his grasp. But like that deep sound that you could not hear, but feel, Troyak knew it to be true—he could just feel it in his bones.
Then Fedorov had told him about the stairway, and what they were now going to attempt. Apparently it had worked! They were obviously not in the same place they were before. After he put down that single guard at the upper landing, Troyak caught a glimpse of the town through the window where a small table rested in a nook, with a few books. It was not the same town they had been in moments before.
So Troyak knew who the men were coming down that hall, and he was prepared to do what was necessary, for as long as it was necessary, until he and his men either ran out of ammunition, or were all dead. But Fedorov had other ideas. The fact that Orlov was now missing had shaken him, and he still did not really know what had happened down there with that young man he was speaking to in the dining room—Mironov.
Now the moment of crisis was at hand. Fedorov stepped out into the lighted hallway. Damn brave, thought Troyak. But how will he get us out of this mess now?
“You there!” came a hard voice. “Don’t move. Let me see your hands!”
“Don’t shoot, Lieutenant. Are you one of Tyrenkov’s men?”
“I’ll ask the questions. Where is my guard? Is there anyone else with you up here? Goddammit, speak, before I put a bullet through you!”
Fedorov recognized the man’s uniform, just like the men Karpov had brought onto the ship. So they had made it back to that same world, he thought, though he did not yet know the year and day.
“Lieutenant, I would not do that if I were you. Tyrenkov would boil you alive. I am Anton Fedorov, Starpom off the battlecruiser Kirov, and I was sent here on a special mission by Vladimir Karpov, on his direct orders. Are you familiar with that name?”
“Karpov?” That name had obviously put the fear of the lord into the man, and Fedorov could see it in his manner. “You were sent here by Karpov? Who did you say you are?”
“Anton Fedorov. Now I will need to speak directly with your commanding officer, and quickly. You must find him at once.”
“Oh you’ll speak with him soon alright, but you may not like it. You’re the man we were told to be on the lookout for. How in God’s name did you get through my security?”
There came the sharp sound of fingers snapping, and the Lieutenant and Fedorov looked to see a tall man in a jet black overcoat at the far end of the hallway.
It was Tyrenkov.
“So here you are, Fedorov,” he said. “Quite a little hat trick you’ve pulled.” The Lieutenant immediately came to attention, saluting when he saw Tyrenkov, who had a drawn pistol in his black gloved hand.
“Yes, and you’re probably wondering just what the Lieutenant here was saying—how could I have possibly gotten through your security net. Well, let us sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. I suppose Karpov will want to know as well, and I will report to him in good time.”
“Precisely,” said Tyrenkov. “Step this way, please, and if you don’t mind, I must have the Lieutenant search you.”
“If you must,” said Fedorov. “And you should know that I have a squad of Marines with me.”
“Indeed,” said Tyrenkov.
“And they are carrying things… How should I put this? They are carrying things that I do not think Karpov would want anyone to see, let alone handle in any way. If you will take my word on it, I will vouch for these men, and absolutely guarantee they will pose no threat to you, your men, or these premises.”