John Schettler - Crescendo of Doom

Karpov gave him a riveting look, torn between the sense of impending doom laid down in this writer’s tale, and the heady feeling that he was bigger than that, impervious, invulnerable, and the master of fate itself. Which was true? He had already acted to prune his own family tree, and prevent the untimely death of his Great Grandfather. That was likely to change things, though he could not know how. Was this book a real harbinger of his own doom, or merely a relic from a world that might never come to be?

Then he realized what he had here in his hand, not the certainty of his own demise, but a grand glimpse of what might be, a timely warning. This journey here had unsettled everything, like that bad pudding festering in the gut of Ebenezer Scrooge. Without even knowing it, Tyrenkov had played the role of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come! He had inadvertently picked up this book, which purported to be a tale of mystery and imagination, but was really one that relied on the history of events its author had seen in the past, events that might be underway at this very moment.

Yet it was clear to Karpov now that there were two worlds in play here, not only one. The world that saw Volkov arrive on that train at Ilanskiy with his security detail knew nothing of the one he had been living in before that storm sent them here, otherwise why would the book be described as a fiction instead of actual history? Two worlds, yet strangely connected by that rift on the back stairs. Did actions taken in one world affect the fate of the other? When Kirov moved forward to that blackened future, the evidence seemed plain enough. Karpov looked at his security chief, seeing the urgency in his eyes.

“Your ardor is not merely loyalty, Tyrenkov. It is driven by something more—the line of my own fate! The world tried me before—tried to get rid of me just like those traitors on my ship. But it failed. I survived, and returned to write my own story, and no stupid fool of a writer is going to get rid of me that easily. Yes, we can prevent this man’s little fiction from ever being written. We can do exactly what you suggest, and leave nothing to chance.”

“Gatheryour men, Tyrenkov. We’re going to see to this matter right this instant!”

“Sir!” Tyrenkov rushed off to find Sergeant Konev, leaving Karpov alone for a moment. He stood there by the fire, eyeing that door to the stairwell with a mix of anger, determination, and indignation. Nobody tries to write me out of the story—not Vladimir Karpov!

He thought that as if his own name would ring through the halls of history like the peal of a church bell. Yet even as he asserted his own importance, inflated as it was by the hunger of his own ego, he could still perceive that lingering thrum of uncertainty within his chest, that flutter of adrenaline that was more than his own body preparing itself for action. Fight or flight—every creature had to make that choice when confronted with imminent danger. In his earlier life, the life of the mouse living beneath the floorboards of the mansion the Russian Navy had built, he had always chosen the safe course, always slipped into hidden little holes. He preferred the darkness of subterfuge as his primary means of advancing himself, the slow gnawing at wires and cables, the subtle undermining of those he saw as obstacles to his own advancement.

As Captain of Kirov he had become something else, something dark and powerful. Ever since he took that first step, locking Volsky away in the sick bay with Doctor Zolkin, that darkness had been growing, feeding on every opportunity it could find for violence against his enemies. When you fling a nuclear warhead at your foe, something changes inside. You become more shadow, and less light, slipping into that darkness, but finding there a realization of absolute power. You don’t hesitate to do the small things after that, and what he had before him now was a small thing as it seemed. Just send Tyrenkov back up those stairs with a submachine gun squad and take care of the matter.

A small thing, a single life, yet it would reset the entire scheme of the world, rearrange all the pieces on the chessboard. The only catch was an irritating one. He was here, in 1909, and even if Tyrenkov returned with the grin of satisfaction, reporting the job was done and Volkov was dead, the new world that might give rise to was beyond his grasp. He could not see it, not from here, or reap the benefit of all this operation might bring about.

And another thing bothered him. He could not do this thing himself. He could not go up and pull that trigger, for he was already in that world. Another version of himself was out to sea, leading the Red Banner Pacific Fleet in a bold sortie against the powerful American Navy. Many thought that enterprise was doomed from the start. He could almost see that in Volsky’s eyes when he gave him the order to deploy. Yet I beat them, he thought stubbornly. I took the brash swagger out of that Captain Tanner. Yes? I wonder how he felt when he saw those missiles coming in on his precious aircraft carrier?

He allowed himself a moment to gloat, forgetting the fitful eruption of that Demon Volcano that had so clotted the skies with its sulfur and ash that Tanner’s air squadrons had to fly widely divergent, and clearly predictable, flight paths. That allowed him to concentrate his long range SAM defense to blunt one pincer of the American counterattack, while the fighters off the Admiral Kuznetsov had been just enough to fend off the other horn of the bull.

You were lucky, an inner voice of warning reminded him. If that air group had been able to concentrate in one coordinated attack, something would have gotten through. Something always gets through… Yes, you showed the Americans what wrath and fire was, but look at what happened! That damn volcano blew half your fleet into the past, into this damnable war, and you got your chance again, only this time it was 1945. You thought you could handle things easily there, but found out differently. Yes?

Volsky had handed him that barb when he intimated that any man who had to resort to the use of a nuclear warhead was one who had already lost his battle, and clearly, Karpov had already lost his battle with Admiral Halsey and Ziggy Sprague. The Admiral Golovko was sunk, and the skies were darkening with flights of American planes in the hundreds. The American Pacific Fleet in 1945 was enormous, and it was coming for him. As the missiles fired, and his remaining SAMs diminished, the outcome was inevitable, so he reached for the Hammer of God, and he sought to crush his foe in another mighty blow.

That was a heady thing, to push that button and send that warhead on its way, knowing what it would do. It was the second American battleship he would destroy, yet he knew that if Kirov had not slipped again, into the pre-revolutionary days of 1908, that battle might have ended quite differently. God only knows what happened to Captain Yeltsin on Orlan ….

This time it was different, not the searing fire of a nuclear warhead, but instead a single bullet that would change everything. That must now become the rattle of small arms in ambush, if he carried out the plan Tyrenkov suggested. Just send a squad up those stairs… It seemed so simple, and yet something about it gnawed at his pride.

It won’t be my hand on the trigger, he thought. Tyrenkov would do the deed, or perhaps Sergeant Konev, or even one of the men he selected in the assault team. Yes, I will be the one to give the order and set this plan in motion, but I will not really be the man who changed the world. That honor and fortune would fall to another, and what if he realizes it one day, and becomes a little bigger in his mind than he should?