John Schettler - Kirov II - Cauldron of Fire

“Ah, Mister Fedorov. I was hoping to see you soon. They tell me that a plane strafed the ship? Is this so? I hope there was not any serious damage. As you can see we have already lost enough.” He gestured grimly to the three bodies.

“All is well—for the moment,” said Fedorov. “But what about the Admiral, doctor? The men tell me—”

“Don’t bother with what the men are saying,” said Zolkin. “Here I was just lecturing these last two to keep their composure and stop with all these preposterous rumors. One man says this, another one says that, and the next thing you know the Titanic is sinking off our starboard bow.” He was drying his hands with a clean white towel as he spoke, and Fedorov could not help but notice the blood stains on his medical apron.

First blood, he thought. The enemy, whoever they were this time, had finally put claws into the ship, and hurt us with an attack.

“Then the Admiral is alive?”

“Of course he’s alive—at least he was five minutes ago—but he’ll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up. He was struck by shrapnel when that plane came in on us. What in the world is going on, Fedorov? I thought we were clear of danger, floating around in some new nightmare of our own making. Now this! What has happened?”

“Admiral Volsky will recover?”

“Yes, he’s just in the next room. Leg wound and a superficial side wound, but he was apparently trying to climb the long maintenance ladder on the main tower and fell when we were fired on. What was that old man thinking by trying to climb that ladder at his age? The Admiral has been in fairly good health, but he is no spring chicken. Now he has a nasty weal on the side of his head, and probably a nice concussion for his trouble as well. But I’ve patched him up and he’ll be well enough in a few days.”

“We lost three men?”

“I’m afraid so. There was nothing I could do for them. They were dead before the rescue crews got them to me. Lucky for Volsky that a fire crew fetched a stretcher and got him in here safely. But what about my question. What’s going on out there?”

“We don’t know just yet.”

Fedorov was going to say he was as much in the dark as anyone else, but an inner voice reminded him that he needed to show more resolve now, and muster all the strength at his disposal. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed and Zolkin glanced at it over the rim of his round silver spectacles.

“Be my guest,” he gestured as he finished drying his hands. “It’s probably for you in any case, yes? I’ll get rid of this apron and tidy up.”

Fedorov reached for the handset and answered. It was Issak Nikolin, his radio man reporting on a signal. “It came in on the wireless bands, fairly weak but audible. Sounded like ship to ship traffic, sir. I recorded it, but it is in English. Something about an eagle.”

“An eagle?”

“Yes sir, but I think it’s something about a ship—they say it’s the fifth of the war now, at least I was able to hear that much. Then the signal cut loose and I lost it again.”

Fedorov thought hard for a moment. An eagle…a ship…the fifth of the war… Then his mind suddenly joined the three odd clues and he knew like a thunderclap what it was about, and where they were!

“Keep listening, Mister Nikolin. I’ll be on the bridge again shortly.”

Fedorov’s mind reeled with the sudden realization that had come to him. How could he be sure? How could he get confirmation?

“More bad news?” asked Zolkin as he tossed his soiled medical apron into a hamper. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Here, why don’t you sit down for a moment, Fedorov.”

“No time, Doctor. I’ve got too much on my back just now.”

Zolkin gave him an understanding look, and clasped him by the shoulder. “Yes, I can feel it,” he said with a wry smile. “Take your time, young Captain Lieutenant. Catch your breath and give yourself a moment. You’ve been under the spotlight all these last days in your new post, and that’s enough to unsettle most any man.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Fedorov nodded, and then lowered his voice. “I think something has slipped again. That was Nikolin with a fragment of radio traffic. I think I may know what has happened—where we are—and it gives me no cause for comfort. How soon before the Admiral might recover?”

“Hard to say. He’ll need at least a day before I allow you to pile your load on to his belly again. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry things for a while longer. Go and see to your business on the bridge, and if you can manage to get some sleep, that would be good as well. I see we have an unaccountable day, and my night’s sleep is gone as well, but I take it to have something to do with all the other scenes in this nightmare we’ve been living these last weeks. Come back when you know more and we’ll all have a chance to sort it through—you, me and the Admiral.”

“Probably best,” said Fedorov. “I’ll get up to the bridge then—oh yes—do you remember that book I brought with me and gave to the Admiral? The Chronology of the War at Sea?”

“Need to do some more reading? What are you fishing out now, Fedorov?”

“I need to check some dates and times.”

Zolkin folded his arms, rubbing his thick beard as he thought. “Well I think the Admiral had that book in his quarters. After this Karpov business was finished it kept him up reading a good many nights.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be off now.” He looked at the three men lying under those sheets. “What should we do about them? I suppose a burial at sea would be appropriate.”

“I’ll handle that,” said Zolkin. “You’ve enough to worry about as things stand now. Go and find your book.”

Fedorov tipped his hat with grim nod as he left, and Zolkin shook his head after him.

Yes, there was a great deal on his shoulders now, thought Fedorov. More than he had ever tried to carry in his life. He wondered if it would break his back, or if his legs would give out from under him in a crucial moment that would cost them all much more than the lives of those three men.

As he walked on down the long corridor to the ship’s officer’s quarters a fragment of a poem came to him when he thought about the men he had seen there in sick bay.

Fedorovflipped through the pages of his book, intent on running down Nikolin’s clues in the history. His first thought was that the ship had rebounded in time, and had returned to the year 1941, but as he read the entries for activity in the Mediterranean, he could see nothing that mated with the cryptic message his radio man had received. He was sitting in the quiet of the Admiral’s cabin, where he had found the book there on the nightstand, just as Zolkin had advised him.