John Schettler: Steel Reign

“We don’t belong where, sir? Are we still in the Atlantic of 1941?”

“We seem to be in the Atlantic, though we have never verified that. If we shifted again, as Fedorov believed we would, then most of the time we stayed right where we were, except for the time difference. There was that one occasion when we moved from the Pacific to the Atlantic, Fedorov said it was like someone picked the ship up, like a toy in a bathtub, and the earth simply turned beneath us. Well, here we are… somewhere. We’ve been circling in place like a restless shark. Fedorov advised it, in the event we sailed right up on land in this heavy fog.”

“It’s been days now sir. Why doesn’t it lift?”

“You’ve been in the doldrums before, Rodenko. These conditions can persist for weeks.”

“Then perhaps we should move on some more definite course. It might take us out of this mess.”

“It might. If you wish to do so, you can choose any heading you desire. I think we can assume we start from our last known position. Yes, let us go then, and see if we can find the stars, or perhaps the moon. That’s what Fedorov might do.”

“Very well sir. Will you be taking your regular bridge rotation, or would you prefer some time to rest? I’m sure Zolkin would have something that might help.”

“Yes, I think I’ll go see the good doctor. He’ll probably want me chained to a cot down in sick bay, so I think I’ll visit the galley first. That’s another thing. The ship will need fresh food and water soon. Put that on your list if we find a good heading. Steer for safe ground so we might put men ashore to take on supplies.”

“I’ll take care of everything sir, don’t worry.”

“And the other officers… See that you have a line of succession well established. Just in case….”

“I will, sir.” Rodenko felt as though Volsky was very worried he would be the next man to vanish. He was running down some mental checklist with him, still tending to all the things that would have to be done to see to the safety of the ship and crew.

“Well,” said Volsky. “How does it feel now, Captain? You’ll be filling Fedorov’s shoes, but not the ones he left stuck in the deck please.”

Rodenko smiled. “I don’t think they’d fit me, sir, and I can only hope I can measure up to the job your handing me.”

“Just use your head,” Volsky pointed. “And sometimes your heart as well. Don’t forget the men, Rodenko. They’ve been through so very much….”

Orlovsat in the officer’s mess, a sour expression on his face. He was Chief of Operations, but now he felt diminished in the hulking shadow of Grilikov. That man was never far from Karpov, a brooding presence always lingering at the edge of the Admiral’s business. And that was another thing that bothered him—Admiral Karpov. How did he get so high? Volsky was much easier to get along with than Karpov ever was. The ship put into Murmansk, Karpov disappears for a time, and Volsky never returns. Then word came that the Admiral had died while fighting aboard a British battleship in the Atlantic. Captain Karpov was bad enough, but Admiral Karpov was something else altogether.

He kept thinking about that, and the strange way he felt whenever Karpov was near. The man gave him the chills, but Karpov was still just the same little weasel he always had been.

Why should I feel so put off by the man, he thought? Surely not because he posed any physical threat. I’m a full head taller, and if I wanted to I could bust Karpov up any time I wished—Grilikov aside. Yet when Karpov looks at me now, it’s as if he was seeing right through me, seeing every little dirty plan and scheme I ever came up with. It’s as if he knows what I might do before I even get the notion in my own head, and by god, that man’s eyes can freeze your blood.

Why was he so different now, not just the scar on his face, but everything about him? It’s as if he wakes each day and puts on his own shadow. There’s a darkness about him, a coldness, a ruthless soul, that one. Before, he was always looking to find some angle, or work his way into some favorable position, and with three or four reasons why some other man was to blame for anything that ever went wrong. Now, the thought of competing for a position would never enter his mind. If he wants something, he just takes it—like this goddamn ship!

He was different, truly changed since this revelation that the ship had come through a hole in time. How in hell could that happen, he thought? I’ve been round and round with Chief Dobrynin about it, but he doesn’t know anything. That little shit Fedorov knows something, more than he lets on. I was supposed to watch him. Karpov explained it all to me in gangland terms. He said he was going to give me a promotion…

“I’m bumping you up to Kassir, the man of authority, the bookmaker, the man who collects from all the Brigadiers. And guess what, you won’t be running a small group of six to ten cells, like you might back home in Saint Petersburg with the Grekov Group. No. Beneath you is the entire crew of this ship, and you are Kassir, Chief of the Boat. Understand? The other officers like Rodenko and Samsonov, and even Troyak, well, they are your Brigadiers, and the men beneath them are all Boeviks and Shestyorkas in those Brigades, the warriors, runners, messenger boys, you get the drift. We call them mishman and matocks. Some are torpedo men, missile men, and you know who they are. Others are messenger boys like Nikolin.”

“What about Fedorov?”

“Funny you should mention him,” Karpov smiled. “He’s too damn smart to be a Shestyorka, but he doesn’t have the temperament to be a warrior, or even a Brigadier. He might make a good Soveitnik, a councilor for me once I vet the man thoroughly. So you get another job in that for me. You are my spy keeping an eye on Fedorov.”

Yes, Fedorov was smart, too smart. He had already worked his way into Karpov’s good graces. Now he struts about on the bridge like he was born there—Captain Fedorov— Starpom of the whole goddamned ship. So what am I supposed to do with that? I get passed over for a one time Lieutenant Navigator, and now Fedorov lords it over me as Starpom . Karpov told me it was all about stars and bars, all in the chain of command. Then he goes and makes Fedorov his goddamned Starpom!

Every time he thought about Fedorov, he had a sour feeling. It was as if the man had done something personally to him to offend, though he could not think of what it was, beyond having the temerity to stand up to him that one time in the mess hall.

Karpov says I’m Kassir , but what am I supposed to do with that? Karpov says I’m to spy on Fedorov, but he’s too damn clever. Now he just whispers in Karpov’s ear, and the two of them sit up there on the bridge while I just bounce about below decks and knock heads together on the crew rotations. I should be up on the bridge, in the regular watch rotations there. I should be in on all the little discussions those two have now. Karpov says he came out here to bust up the Japanese, well he should see me about that, not Fedorov.

He mulled and muttered inwardly over that, stirring in some gravy to warm his mashed potatoes. Fedorov and Karpov, like two little peas in a pod now. And that wasn’t the worst of it. It was those strange dreams that were plaguing him these days, impossible dreams. He had one the other night again, same as last week. He was up high, falling through the clouds, adrift, and his heart was pounding with fear. He saw the clouds seared by the hot white fingers of missile trails, as if a steely hand was reaching for him, clawing at him, seeking his life.