Джон Шеттлер - Condition Zebra - The Next War - 2025

But this was different.

For Karpov, it had only been a few brief months since he left his Brother Self. For the Siberian, it had been long cold decades, alone, abandoned by his own self, struggling, fighting, dying…. Now Karpov saw that whole life, like the long curled ash of a cigarette that had been left to burn and wither, the red ember of its fire finally going grey and dim.

And now it was gone… gone….

The terrible sensation of loss was the first wave that swamped the bow of Karpov’s mind, rocking the core of his very being with a sense of wrenching loss. Yet as Fedorov held on to his arm, he could see him close his eyes, his breathing growing more calm and measured. He looked to Zolkin with a stab of fear.

The Doctor was listening to Karpov’s heartbeat with a stethoscope now, slowly making one assessment after another. He had ruled out the onset of a sudden stroke or heart attack, and was slowly coming to the conclusion that, at least in body, Karpov had suffered no serious harm.

“Doctor?”

“Not to worry, Mister Fedorov, he’s in no immediate danger—at least physically.” Yet Zolkin watched the clear movement of Karpov’s eyes beneath his closed lids, as if he had fallen into a deep REM state, dreaming the life of the Siberian, seeing the lines deepening on his brother’s slowly withering face, his eyes darkening as the light and energy of his soul faded.

There, in that seeming sleep, his restless eyes saw the proud bow and rising battlements of a great ship, crowned by the searching ears of radar, turning, turning. Karpov knew it at once— Kirov . There, in that solitary chair on the bridge, he had come to be the man he was that turbulent hour. The chair was his saddle, and the ship his great steed of war. Kirov….

Now he could see himself standing on a far off shore, looking through the eyes of his Brother Self. In his mind he saw the ship wrenched from within by the scuttling charges that ravaged the keel. He heard the thumping march of one explosion after another, saw the bow break, the ship keeling over, over, and making that awful wrenching slide into the oblivion of the sea. It had carried them all through time and tide, on every sea of the earth, carried that crew into battle in one age after another. Now the Siberian was Captain of a sinking ship, and no man can ever know the misery that befalls that heart.

Then he heard the mournful piping of the bosun’s call, heard the last clang of the ship’s bell, saw the honor guard slowly folding the battle ensign that had flown so proudly over that high mast. The white gloved men turned smartly, marched slowly, and then one leaned to present that flag to the Siberian.

It was over…. but nothing was lost!

No, the day was not lost, the hour held not the slightest inkling of defeat. That flag had always flown in the smoky airs of victory, never vanquished, never bested, unconquered. The Siberian could see the tightly folded ensign, and knew that as long as he held it within, unfurled in his mind and heart, Kirov would never die. The sea had not taken her, for he had given up the life of the ship willingly, sending the proud battlecruiser to a fitting rest, and shunning forever the cold, callous indignity of the scrap yard.

Yes, the ship was gone, but it sailed on and on, within his pilgrim soul, and those of all the crew that had gathered there that brave hour to let it go. Yes, yes… ‘ there are wanderers o’er Eternity, whose bark drives on and on, and anchor’d neer shall be.’

“I think it best that I give him a mild sedative,” said Zolkin. “He’s in no physical danger, but it’s clear that he needs rest. The man is exhausted. Perhaps you could make an announcement, Fedorov, to settle the crew.”

Fedorov nodded. “Of course. Take good care of him, Doctor. I’ll see to the ship. If he should wake, and be in any state to speak, please call me.”

The long walk back up to the bridge seemed like it would never end. Along the way, in the close corridors and ladder ways of the ship, Fedorov met the crew, and told them not to worry; that all would be well. When he finally climbed the last stairway up and emerged through the hatch, Rodenko’s voice greeted him with all due respect.

“Captain on the bridge!”

Fedorov looked up, his heart still heavy with misgiving. “As you were,” he said, walking instinctively towards his old post at Navigation. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, turning to see the eyes of the entire bridge crew on him now. Nikolin had set aside his headset, as had Tasarov, for there was no danger here in port at Sendai where Kirov , Kentucky, and New Orleans had sailed. Destroyer Halsey , badly damaged, had remained at Amori, waiting for a transport ship to arrive from Pearl Harbor, where it would be sea lifted back to that port.

Fedorov looked at the men, knowing he should say something, anything, for he could clearly see the doubt and uncertainty on their faces. So he would tell them what Zolkin had said.

“Rest assured,” he began, “the Admiral is in no danger, and has suffered no serious physical injury. He is taking a well-deserved rest now, in sick bay with Doctor Zolkin, and we will carry on. Wish him well. I will make this same announcement to the crew in a few moments.”

He saw Samsonov nod, then glance furtively at the empty Captain’s chair. In that moment, Fedorov knew that was where he belonged, and he turned and walked deliberately to the chair, taking his seat. The moment he did so, it seemed as though the bridge crew let out a long breath they had been holding since the Admiral was rushed away in that uncertain hour. That empty space had been filled, and they had seen Fedorov there on more than one occasion. When his first order followed soon after, the doubt in their eyes had dissipated.

“The ship will make ready to get underway at 06:00,” said Fedorov.

“Aye sir,” said Rodenko, now acting Starpom until the Admiral resumed command and Fedorov returned to that role. “Deck crews are posted on all lines.”

“Very well. Lieutenant Nikolin, please send a secure message to the Siberians. Ask if there is any news of note we should be made aware of. Request a status update on the situation near Vladivostok.”

Nikolin nodded, and put back his headset, turning to his radio. Samsonov and Tasarov settled in as the ship prepared to deploy again, checking their equipment. They would soon learn that the last Chinese naval brigade in Vladivostok had been evacuated by sea, along with the headquarters of the Beihaian Garrison there. But a specially encrypted message was attached, and he noted the label:

EYES ONLY – COMMANDING OFFICER – BCG KIROV.

That would be me, thought Fedorov, taking the message when Nikolin handed it to him on a memory key. He went to the ready room, and slipped it into the decoding module, watching the blue screen light up with the decrypted message. It was from Lieutenant General Erkin Kutukov, Commander of the 1st Siberian Guards.

“We regret to inform you that Premier Karpov was killed in action on the 7th of November, and his remains taken to Vladivostok for interment. The city is ours, yet sabotage and demolitions leave the harbor unusable, and all quays and docks were destroyed by the enemy. Pursuant to instructions and arrangements made by the Siberian Premier prior to his untimely passing, I will assume the position of acting head of state, until and unless Admiral Vladimir Karpov should decide to ascend to that post, or appoint another. Now having liberated all of Amur and Primorskiy Provinces, an attempt will be made to settle the present dispute by negotiation. Should the enemy cede these liberated territories unconditionally, the Free Siberian Army will withdraw to the old Amur River border zone, which will be defended to the last should this conflict renew or persist.