Paradox Hour (24 page)

When he learned trains had come, taking some second echelon Soviet divisions west to the main European front, Volkov had smiled, knowing he would not have to face the full strength of the Red Army any longer. With vast manpower resources, and most of the heavy industry, Sergei Kirov could have rolled east into the Orenburg Federation if he had been willing to pay the price in blood. Volkov’s armies had been strong enough to pose a credible defense, but not strong enough to mount a real offensive against Soviet territory. But now, with most of the better divisions moving west to man the main front against the Germans, the Grey Legions could again contemplate the prospect of a successful attack.

2nd and 3rd Armies would make the push from Samara. Their intention was to make a bold thrust aimed at the long, sweeping bend of the Don. The previous year, just after Volkov signed his accord with Adolf Hitler, the Soviets had begun an offensive into the Caucasus. They crossed the lower Don from Soviet controlled Rostov, overran the Krasnodar District, cutting off the Taman peninsula in thirty days. Then Volkov’s defense had stiffened near Novorossiysk, and in the tumbling foothills near the rich oil production center at Maykop. This had been Sergei Kirov’s real objective, for all the ground he had taken between that place and Rostov was little more than useless steppe land.

There was now fighting along the wide bend of the Kuban River, near Kropotkin, and Volkov was slowly marshalling his reserve divisions from the vast hinterland provinces he controlled. From Kazakhstan came the heavy rifle brigades and swarthy cavalry. From Turkmenistan, the hard mountain troops that would be perfect defenders in the highlands if Kirov’s troops tried to push further. Volkov had also called up his Georgian reserve, and when the German attack began, it was his intention to begin a long planned counteroffensive.

After he had been back in his inner offices for some days, the livid anger over what had happened with his second raid on Ilanskiy slowly subsided. He had bigger operations to plan now, men to move, armies to command. In the vast scheme of things now about to unfold, Vladimir Karpov and his Siberian Free State was a small concern. It would have been that way in his mind all along, if not for one thing—Ilanskiy.

He could still hear Karpov’s last taunting argument…
“You’re forgetting one thing,”
Karpov came at him. “
You’re forgetting the very reason you tried to pull this little maneuver here again—Ilanskiy. I beat you here, Volkov, and decisively, no matter how many airships we traded. I control Ilanskiy, and that’s the end of it. Do you realize what I can do when I complete the reconstruction of that back stairway? Yes, I’ve got all the original plans now.”
He let an interval of silence play on the airwaves before he finished, then spoke only one word.
“Checkmate!”

That sent the rising bile of anger loose in Volkov’s gut again. Yes, Ilanskiy. It’s clear what Karpov was doing there now. He said as much. He’s trying to rebuild that stairway, just as it was before. Will he succeed? What if he does? Can he really use those stairs to reach our own time again, in 2021? Could he find me there, and prevent me from ever discovering that damn railway inn?

That thought returned him to the threat he had made as the two men parted. He said he would summon his entire fleet, return and crush the last of Karpov’s little Airship navy. He’s lost
Yakutsk, Tomsk, Krasnoyarsk
. And we put damage on a few other ships there as well, though we paid a very heavy price for that. I lost six damn airships in that operation, with damage on three more, not to mention Colonel Levkin’s troops. After we repair the damage, I still have sixteen more airships, and if Karpov can patch up the ships we hurt, then the Siberian fleet is now reduced to six, I outnumber that bastard by nearly three to one, but that would mean I would have to pull in every airship on the front.

He thought about that. He could carry another sixteen battalions, actually companies, as his Generals kept reminding him. That’s just one light brigade, and Karpov was correct. He could post three divisions around Ilanskiy, and all I would do is throw my troops away again. So he has that railway inn, and if he can ever rebuild those stairs and use them …

He did not want to contemplate that. The thought that in spite of the power he wielded, there was really nothing he could do now about Ilanskiy, was infuriating. Karpov was infuriating. That impudent ship’s Captain had been a foil ever since the two men first met. What was it he said about that lunch he served us aboard Kirov? Like revenge, it was a dish best served cold. Should I muster enough muscle on the Ob river line to really push through and take that place? It’s 750 kilometers, through some of the most murderous country in Asia. I would need twenty divisions, and those troops will be required for Operation Don. I’ve made promises to another little devil here, Adolf Hitler, and I must not disappoint.

So I must make the west front my primary operations now, an deploy just enough troops in the Caucasus to fend off Kirov’s offensive there. Then, after the Germans break through, and the smoke has settled, I’ll deal with the Siberians and this piss pot of a man with his big fat airship. I’ve half a mind to carry out my threat and go back there right now, just to smash what remains of Karpov’s fleet. How enjoyable it would be to see that monstrosity of his surrounded by six or eight of my ships, and to pound the damn thing to a flaming wreck.

All things in time. Until then, I have chosen to smash furniture here instead, and a few heads in the process as well. It’s very good theater. I wonder if Kymchek got off that damn airship alive? He was supposed to go in with the troops to take care of things, but I wonder if I’ll ever hear anything from him again? A pity… In the meantime, I shall have to appoint a replacement as head of security and intelligence soon, and then make sure Karpov hears about it. I need him to believe that Kymchek was no more important to me than an overcoat I might leave in a cloak room. Grechenko is competent, if uninspired, and thankfully he had nothing to do with the intelligence work on this last operation, so he can’t be blamed for anything. Yes, time is on my side now, as much as Karpov believes he can master it. His days here, are numbered.

* * *

The
hard fist came in answer to Volkov’s inner query, smashing right into Kymchek’s already bloodied face. He was tied in a chair, beneath a single bare light bulb under a conical metal shade hanging from the ceiling. A burly Sergeant was standing in front of him, sleeves rolled back over well muscled arms, the bare dome of his head gleaming with the effort of his work—a good beating for Kymchek, head of Volkov’s Internal Security, and Intelligence Master. He had been rounded up by Karpov’s men on the ground just south of Ilanskiy, not far from the burning hulks of Big Red and
Orenburg
. One arm was already broken, as was his nose now after a few hard blows from the Sergeant’s meaty fist. His eyes were bruised, and a dark weal scarred his right cheek. Blood trickled from his lower lip after that last blow, and his head lolled.

“That will do, Sergeant.” Karpov strode in, wearing well polished knee high black boots, and a dark overcoat covering his service jacket, and the precious computer embedded in its lining. It held the history of all the days to come, whispered in his ear just as it had been with Orlov after he jumped ship.

Yet Orlov was an idiot, thought Karpov. He would never have known what to do with the knowledge he took with him. And here is another little intelligence windfall, Volkov’s number one man in that sprawling network of thieves, villains, and saboteurs he’s created. It was said in many circles that Volkov’s intelligence was the best in the world, though they missed this little maneuver I just pulled. He smiled.

“So… you thought I was dead and long gone, eh Kymchek? You thought I was fish food in the English Channel. I can imagine the look on your face when Volkov asked you what I was doing here with
Tunguska
. That must have been priceless!”

Kymchek knew he would likely endure hours of this, so he cut to the quick. “Get on with it, Karpov. I’d rather let the Sergeant finish than sit here and listen to you gloat for another few hours.”

“The Sergeant? Yes, Grilikov is very good, though he’s hardly broken a sweat. But enough is enough.” He nodded to the Sergeant, dismissing him so he could be alone with his newly caught fish.

“I have no intention of calling him back, Kymchek, that is unless you get stupid here and prefer death. Yes, that beating was necessary, a little thank you for helping to plan this ridiculous operation against Ilanskiy. That said, I can find you very useful. Yes?”

Kymchek raised his head, trying to force a grin onto his wounded face. “You expect me to sing like a morning dove here? You think I’ll do any less than what I expect of my men should they ever be captured?”

“Quite frankly, I do. Look, Kymchek, you are not an ignorant man, even if you did plan a very stupid operation here. That said, were it not for my timely arrival, you might have succeeded! You just factored me out of your equations a little too soon, that’s all. So Now I will give you a chance to redeem yourself—a chance to make a few choices on the kind of life you want to lead in the years remaining to you. Those years can be long, productive, rich, and full of comfort. You can take a position here with authority, become part of the inner circle of the Free Siberian State, enjoy the luxuries of power and privilege, good food, better women, and a little respect.”

“You want me to turn?”

“Of course! You’re a very valuable man. You can think, and I need men who know how to use their heads in a crisis. Face it… Suppose I send you back to Volkov tomorrow. What do you think he has waiting for you after this little debacle here? A firing squad may be the best you find back in Orenburg. Your General Secretary just got his fleet flagship blown up right beneath his ass, and went falling from the sky in his little metal escape pod. Well, some snakes can be very hard to kill. He’s alive. He made it to
Pavlodar
and scurried off west instead of facing my ship in a good honest fight. I don’t blame him. Once burned, twice shy.”

He stepped forward, the cone of light on the soiled floor gleaming off his dark boots now. “Yet in your case Kymchek, he’s been burned twice. Didn’t you also help plan the first raid on Ilanskiy? Of course you did. Volkov threw two airships away in that raid, and all his men, This time the price was three times higher—including you! Yes, you’ve probably been written off by now, along with your Colonel Levkin and all his men. You want to be a write off? I can arrange that. My Sergeant Grilikov is very good at taking out unwanted trash. So now it’s time you did some hard thinking about that, and made your choice.”

Chapter 21

It
was a long, cold night in the room where they left Kymchek to think about his fate. A pack of Siberian Huskies was tethered just outside the small shack in Ilanskiy where he was being interrogated. A train rolled in with a low rumble just after midnight, sent there by Karpov to haul off all the prisoners from Levkin’s forsaken 22nd Air Mobile Brigade. They would be taken east, to a “rehabilitation camp” where some would die, while others would eventually be offered the chance to fight with the Free Siberian Army. Those that refused would be sentenced to 20 years hard labor, as enemies of the state.

Kymchek knew that he would surely suffer a similar fate. The pain in his broken arm was very bad that night, and he shivered with the cold. He knew he had the stamina to endure many days like this, a beating from Grilikov in the morning, and a long, empty day on that chair beneath the light bulb, listening to the snarling of the Huskies and Malamutes outside. Yet how many days before his body would just give out, and then how long to die after that?

These thoughts pulsed in his brain like the throbbing pain, and behind it all was the livid visage of Ivan Volkov. He had served Volkov for the last five years as his intelligence chief, an inner circle confidant that saw him come to know a great deal about the man. Volkov was a pig at heart, or so he thought. He was devious, ruthless, determined, yet mindless at times. The objections Kymchek had raised to this latest operation had not been heard, but the blame would surely be waiting for him in wheel barrows if he were ever so lucky to escape his fate here and get back to Orenburg.

The demands of his position had left Kymchek no time for family. He was an only son, and at the age of 40 both parents were already gone. He had taken up with women at times, but never allowed any real attachment to form, and was unmarried. So who will miss me, he wondered, or mourn me when they get the news I was executed here, or died in a prison cell?

And yes, they would certainly get the news, wouldn’t they? He could already name at least three other men in this very town that were operatives in his vast spy network. He had labored to recruit the men, infiltrate them, and now he sat at the center of the web, a lost spider, feeding on the flies that he would catch, day by day. He knew that his capture was an amazing windfall for Karpov.

I know Volkov’s operation chapter and verse, he thought, every division, every brigade, the officers, equipment, men. I know what Volkov knows, because I was the man responsible for telling it to him. I know what offensives he’s planned, and where, and the orders of battle right down to battalion level. I can tell you what weapons he has in development, their progress, all his new construction programs, how many divisions he can raise in Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, when they can arrive, all of it. And that is just a thimble full of what I know. My principle activity was in sounding out all that same information about the Soviets, the Germans, the British and all the rest—even the Siberians.

That’s a lot of chips on my side of the table if it comes to bargaining with Karpov here. Yet, amazingly, he hasn’t asked me a single question about any of that. I was given three days to think about things, and this is day three. Who comes through that door this morning? Will Karpov be back again? Will the real interrogation finally begin now? Yes, after Grilikov has had a little time to soften up the ground, the real digging will begin, and with each shovel full of information they extract, the hole will grow bigger—my own grave.