John Schettler - Devil's Garden

Again, Fedorov could feel the iron in Orlov’s words, because he was correct. What did he think he was doing launching this much force at the history to try and save just one man? He had placed the burden, and the blame for the entire war, on Orlov, but the Chief made a good point. There was no way to know whether he was responsible for any of the events that were unfolding in 2021, or for those blackened cities and coastlines they saw.

Now he came to doubt everything he had been doing, from the very moment he was elevated to command of the ship. They had all looked to him to solve everything, to explain everything, to figure out what was happening-but he was just a navigator! He really didn’t know why any of this was happening, why Rod-25 worked its magical effects. That was just one part of the mystery. What was going on with that back stairway at Ilanskiy? He had ideas about that, thinking it might have something to do with the big explosive event at Tunguska, but it was nothing more than his own wild speculation. There was no way to figure all this out. They just had to live through it as best they could.

Now the weight of the history he so loved seemed an impossibly heavy burden on his small shoulders. He thought he might blame Orlov, and now he was thinking it might all be Karpov’s fault. Yet behind it all was a nagging doubt that he was just as responsible as either man, and that if there was any fault to find here, he had best begin by looking at himself.

He shrugged, suddenly feeling weary beyond measure. Looking around him he saw all the men and equipment gathered here, all scrapped up by Admiral Volsky to make certain he might be safely recovered. Now the elation in finding Orlov was replaced by a feeling of profound discouragement. No matter how hard he tried, he realized there was no way he could navigate the dangerous reefs of all the history to unfold from 1942 to 2021. For that matter, he didn’t even know where they were!

“Well…” He looked at the two British soldiers, realizing this was yet another problem in his column, and another man was missing as well. They were obviously from 1942, and now they were his charge. How in the world would he get them back there where they belonged? He couldn’t think about that just now. His mind was too full of other urgencies and priorities. First he had to find out where they were.

“Zykov, have these two escorted to a secure room below. I’ll see if we have someone who speaks English aboard and check in on them later.”

Then he gave Orlov a long look. “We’re all tired, and you look like you could use a good meal, Chief. Follow Zykov to the mess hall and get something to eat.

He looked at the corporal now. “He is not to be handcuffed, and he is to be accepted as a member of this crew, with his full rank of Captain restored.”

“Very well, sir. A promotion and a good meal will do any man some good, yes Orlov?”

“Right,” said Fedorov, “but don’t get pushy and start ordering the men around. And promise me you won’t jump ship!”

“Where are we, Fedorov? What is this thing?” Orlov gave the facility a wide eyed look.

“The Anatoly Alexandrov . It’s a floating nuclear power plant. We’ve got that control rod aboard, and we just used it to displace in time…somewhere. I’d better go and see about that while you eat with the Marines. You’re Captain of the second rank now, though I’m afraid Kirov is a little far away for us to still call you the Chief of Operations. I may still do so by habit for a while.”

“Where is the ship-at Vladivostok?”

“We don’t really know…”

Orlov raised an eyebrow at that, nodding. He had not expected this grace. Fedorov, naive as he was, had bought his whole pile of shit and paid full price! Good enough. He would go have some food, get some sleep, and then figure what he might do next. For now, however, there was one part of him that was glad to be home. He started after Zykov, who was showing him the way.

“Welcome back, Chief,” said Fedorov after him, and something in the sincerity of the other man’s words touched him. He turned, forcing a smile on his otherwise grumpy and miserable face.

“Thank you, Fedorov,” he said in return. He didn’t know why, but he meant it.

Troyakwas watching the coastline closely with his field glasses as they approached. They had taken a high speed swift boat that had been part of the Aist hovercraft inventory, and now he was with Fedorov and a squad of his best Marines. They could not raise anyone on radio, and so the only thing to do was to go ashore in a landing party. Fedorov was leery of using the Mi-26 at this point, so the boat made perfect sense. It was small, much more inconspicuous than one of the hovercraft, and fast enough to get them ashore in good time.

“Well at least everything is here, Fedorov. The coastline doesn’t look developed like it should be in our day. Do you suppose this is still 1942?”

“Then where are the Germans we were just fighting? They would have taken the port at Makhachkala by now. The warehouse by the rail station was on fire and we should still see it burning. I see no sign of fighting ahead.”

Troyak nodded, but had nothing more to say.

“Look, there’s the new lighthouse they built in the 1800s.” He pointed to a hill rising from the shore where an octagonal tower stood with a lantern fixture at its top. “That’s Aji-Arka Hill. I’ve been up there before. Peter the First made his camp up there when he mounted his campaign against Persia in the early 1700s. The place was just a small fishing port at that time.”

Troyak was amazed at all Fedorov knew. “How do you manage to fill your head with all these facts, Colonel?”

“I just read a lot, Sergeant. Reading is my way of getting into worlds I might never have a chance to visit in the flesh. And sometimes it can be a very pleasant time to escape into the past and leave the sorrow and pain of routine navy life behind.”

“Yes, until you actually do start visiting that past and find German infantry shooting at you.” Troyak smiled. “The past has seemed far more dangerous than the life we had on the ship, Fedorov.”

“I suppose that’s true…But where in hell have we ended up this time? Can you make for that sand bar south of the harbor?”

They eased up to the shore, and Troyak’s Marines fanned out, much to the surprise of a group of fishermen who were working to untangle their nets. Nothing in the landscape looked right to them, and Fedorov knew they were certainly not in the future. He could see rows of small buildings made of sun-dried brick, what looked to be a small public bath house, a few open water pipes where people would pump water, and few buildings of any real size.

It was clear that a railway like the one they had just been defending was getting started here, but it was much smaller. Fedorov had the sinking feeling that reminded him of that moment when he had stepped outside the dining room at Ilanskiy and saw the rail yard was different, the train was missing and the whole town site reduced to a cluster of just a very few buildings. My God, he thought. We’ve gone back in time, not forward!

He approached one of the fisherman, who stepped back, somewhat intimidated by his uniform and the obvious military bearing of the Marines.

“Good day, sir.” Fedorov removed his Ushanka, trying to appear less threatening. “We are Navy sailors and our ship had foundered on a Caspian sandbar. We’ve lost our navigation charts in a bad storm. Can you tell me what port we have found here?”

“What port? Why, this is Petrovsk. Where have you come from?”

Fedorov was confused at first. Petrovsk? Then he realized that was the old name for the port and town that became Makhachkala, but the city had not been called that since the late 1920s! He needed to find out the date. “We put out from Astrakhan some weeks ago, but the sea has not been kind to us. Our ship ran aground and it has taken us many months to refloat it. What is the date? What has been happening? Have we slipped into another year while we were struggling at sea?”