John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

The Inspector General smiled. “Admiral, I would be more than happy to make the introduction.”

“Very well, I hope your breakfast has settled, Inspector.” Volsky leaned back, thinking. “On the night of July 28th this summer past Kirov was on station with the attack submarine Orel north of Yan Mayen for live fire exercises…”

Fedorovstood there gaping at the scene, disoriented and trying to determine what had happened. His instinct told him to get outside, for the commotion seemed to be drawing everyone out of the nearby buildings, and he could hear shouts and see people pointing at something just outside the dining hall. He holstered his pistol and ran to join them, amazed at the brightness in the sky to the northeast. When he finally got clear of the eaves overhanging the dining hall doorway he saw it, an enormous glow in the sky, as if a massive fire was burning on the distant tree-sewn taiga. The whole northeastern sky was involved and the only thing that came to mind to explain it was the awful memory of that nuclear detonation he had seen aboard Kirov in the North Atlantic, yet this was bigger, more awesome, a fiery glow on the horizon that spoke of terrible disaster.

He saw three men pointing at the sky, shaking their heads in disbelief, and went over to join them, listening to what they were saying. One man, short, stocky, with dark hair and a thin mustache was speaking to a tall, swarthy man. “What could it be?” he said. “A fire in the sky? How is it possible?”

The third man listened intently, turning his head from one to the other like a child waiting to be told something as his parents talked. Fedorov could see that he was not dressed like any of the others, and when the tall man turned to him and spoke in English, he realized he was not Russian. The man returned with passable Russian, but it was clear that he was not a native speaker.

An Englishman! What would he be doing here in the middle of the Soviet Union in 1942? Fedorov studied the man closely. He realized that Britain and Russia were supposed allies, but the man was obviously a civilian and to find him here in a distant rail yard in Siberia was very odd.

“Excuse me,” said Fedorov, “what has happened?” It was the question on everyone’s lips, and the stocky young man who had been speaking turned to him, looking at him strangely. Fedorov had taken off his heavier outer coat with his NKVD decorations while he slept. His Black Ushanka was also upstairs on the night stand by his bed, but he still wore the lighter service jacket Troyak had given him, jet black with two broad pockets over each breast. The Black Tiger patch of the Spetsnaz insignia below each shoulder on the arms seemed to draw the man’s interest, and his eye drifted to the pistol in Fedorov’s side holster.

“Military?” The young man asked, and Fedorov realized he needed to say something to preserve his cover.

“A long way from Vladivostok,” he smiled. “I’m transferring to the Caspian.”

Even as he spoke Fedorov began to wonder where Troyak and Zykov were, and why he had not seen these three men earlier when they arrived at the hotel. He reasoned that they may have come in on a train while they were sleeping. But where was the Sergeant? He found himself looking around to see if he could spot Troyak, but it only increased his confusion. Nothing looked familiar here! They had walked two blocks from the rail yard to the hotel, past a number of old weathered houses and storage buildings, but there was nothing between the hotel and the rail station now, just a vacant muddy field with tufts of grass fading away into the gravel bed of the rail yard. The train station itself seemed much too small. Ilanskiy had a marshalling yard with six lines, but now there were only two, and it was completely empty! There was no sign of his freight train, the rail workers, or anyone else. What was going on here?

“Something terrible has happened,” said the stocky young man. “But there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger. Let’s get back inside.” He tramped off, the tall man and Englishman in his wake, both chattering about the event. Fedorov followed them.

Back in the hotel dining room he saw the men seating themselves at the table setting he noted earlier, and when the younger man saw him he beckoned him to join, gesturing to an empty chair.

“Tell me you are not a security man working for the Okhrana and I will be happy to share my breakfast table with you,” said the young man as Fedorov drew near.

Fedorov was confused, still looking around and finding the dining room strangely unfamiliar. Where was Troyak? What was happening on the taiga outside? He should be out looking for Zykov and the Sergeant. Yet there was something about this energetic young man that compelled him to linger for a moment, his confused thoughts settling like well stirred tea leaves at the bottom of his tea cup mind.

“Then again if you are Okhrana, I must tell you I have done nothing inappropriate. I was given a full release, and I mean only to travel to Irkutsk to visit friends. You need have no further worries about me.” The man looked at him, waiting. “Well? Which is it?”

The Okhrana? That was the old secret service of the Tsar before the Russian revolution! What was this man talking about? Yet it was obvious to him that the man needed some reassurance, and so Fedorov held up a hand, “have no fear,” he said. “I have no business with you. I’m just a soldier.”

“Good then,” the young man held out a hand. “Mironov.”

“Fedorov.” The two men shook hands.

“These other two are my table guests as well,” said Mironov. “This is an Englishman, here to report for his newspaper in London. A worthy occupation, journalism. I have a mind to take it up myself one day, though I do not think the Tsar’s government would appreciate much of what I would have to say.” He studied Fedorov closely after that remark, as if looking for some sign of resentment, still testing this newcomer to see if he might be a threat. Apparently he was satisfied when Fedorov just gave him a blank stare, still completely confused as to what was happening.

“And this is Boris Yevchenko, his guide. We’ll all share our breakfast!” He reached out and handed Fedorov of a piece of thick black rye.

Fedorov hesitated, still looking around for any sign of his comrades. He knew he could not sit here chatting over breakfast with these men until he re-established contact.

“I’m afraid I must first find my friends,” he said.

“Friends? Good! Bring them. We’ll all eat together.”

“You are too kind…” Fedorov nodded, excusing himself. “They must have gone out the main entrance. I’ll see if the serving girl has seen them.”

“Serving girl?” Mironov raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more as Fedorov nodded again and started for the front desk. He slipped through the arched door and saw the same counter there, only it seemed newer, in much better condition. A man came huffing in from the main entrance with three others in his wake.

“Just a moment, just a moment. With all this commotion out there a man cannot think straight!”

He was certainly correct in that, thought Fedorov, suddenly struck with a moment of recognition. He knew this man…he had seen him before. No, not in the real world, but in the painting that hung behind the front desk counter—the portrait of an elderly man—Ilyana’s grandfather! It was the same man, only this time there was no painting on the wall, and in its place was the living and breathing replica of the man he had seen in the portrait! Fedorov stared at him as though he were seeing a ghost. What was happening here?