Crescendo Of Doom (Kirov Series Book 15)
Kirov Saga:
Crescendo Of Doom
By
John Schettler
A publication of: The Writing Shop Press
Crescendo Of Doom, Copyright©2014, John A. Schettler
Discover other titles by John Schettler:
The Kirov Saga: (Military Fiction)
Kirov - Kirov Series - Volume I
Cauldron Of Fire - Kirov Series - Volume II
Pacific Storm - Kirov Series - Volume III
Men Of War - Kirov Series - Volume IV
Nine Days Falling - Kirov Series - Volume V
Fallen Angels - Kirov Series - Volume VI
Devil’s Garden - Kirov Series - Volume VII
Armageddon – Kirov Series – Volume VIII
Altered States– Kirov Series – Volume IX
Darkest Hour– Kirov Series – Volume X
Hinge Of Fate– Kirov Series – Volume XI
Three Kings – Kirov Series – Volume XII
Grand Alliance – Kirov Series – Volume XIII
Hammer Of God – Kirov Series – Volume XIV
Crescendo Of Doom – Kirov Series – Volume XV
Paradox Hour – Kirov Series – Volume XVI
Award Winning Science Fiction:
Meridian - Meridian Series - Volume I
Nexus Point - Meridian Series - Volume II
Touchstone - Meridian Series - Volume III
Anvil of Fate - Meridian Series - Volume IV
Golem 7 - Meridian Series - Volume V
Classic Science Fiction:
Wild Zone - Dharman Series - Volume I
Mother Heart - Dharman Series - Volume II
Historical Fiction:
Taklamakan - Silk Road Series - Volume I
Khan Tengri - Silk Road Series - Volume II
Dream Reaper – Mythic Horror Mystery
Mailto: john@writingshop.ws
http://www.writingshop.ws ~ http://www.dharma6.com
Kirov Saga:
Crescendo Of Doom
By
John Schettler
Kirov Saga:
Crescendo Of Doom
By
John Schettler
Part I – Vengeance
Part II – Lightning in the Sky
Part III – Vendetta
Part IV – Return of the Fox
Part V – Day of Reckoning
Part VI – The Gathering Storm
Part VII – Clash of Arms
Part VIII – Behemoth
Part IX – Big Red
Part X – Fire in the East
Part XI – The Gordian Knot
Part XII – Coincidence
Author’s Note:
For readers who might be dropping in without having taken the journey here from book one in the Kirov Series, this is the story of a Russian modern day battlecruiser displaced in time to the 1940s and embroiled in WWII. Their actions over the many episodes have so fractured the history, that they now find themselves in an alternate retelling of those events. In places the history is remarkably true to what it once was, in others badly cracked and markedly different. Therefore, events in this account of WWII have changed. Operations have been spawned that never happened, like the German attack on Gibraltar, and others will be cancelled and may never occur, like Operation Torch. And even if some events here do ring true as they happened before, the dates of those campaigns may be changed, and they may occur earlier or later than they did in the history you may know.
This alternate history began in Book 9 of the series, entitled Altered States, and you would do well to at least back step and begin your journey there if you are interested in the period June 1940 to January 1 1941, which is covered in books 9 through 11 in the series. That time encompasses action in the North Atlantic, the battle of Britain, German plans and decisions regarding Operations Seelöwe and Felix, the action against the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir and Dakar, and other events in Siberia that serve as foundations for things that will occur later in the series.
To faithful crew members, my readers who have been with me from the first book, this volume concludes Grand Alliance trilogy the fourth trilogy in the series. It begins right where I left you at the end of Hammer of God, with the machinations and ambitions of one Vladimir Karpov. Fedorov still tries to find that all important “mission” for Troyak and his Marines, Rommel returns and Brigadier Kinlan is again called to arms. Lots of action here, and this novel will soon be followed by the trilogy sequel in the 16th book of the series, Paradox Hour.
-J. Schettler
Part I
Vengeance
“Vengeance, retaliation, retribution, revenge are deceitful brothers; vile, beguiling demons promising justifiable compensation to a pained soul for his losses.”
― Richelle Goodrich
Chapter 1
Karpov stood in the dining hall, the light of the newly lit fire warm and ruddy on his drawn features, a look if profound realization in his eye. The words of Tyrenkov still resonated in his mind, like the clarion call of an alarm that summoned him to action… “You see, we no longer have to waste days, weeks and months trying to find Volkov here in 1909, because now we know exactly where he is, and before he even traveled to the past! So I wanted every second possible available to me. I’ll need all the time there I can get…”
All the time he can get… Yes, every second that passed for him there was one second he could not use to carry out the plan that now exploded in Karpov’s mind like a well aimed Moskit-II. From here he could change everything again, rearrange all the chess pieces on the board with one brilliant fianchetto of doom. He could see it all in his mind, smell it, hear the rising crescendo of calamity and change, like the sound of his own pulse quickening at his temples.
He decided.
“Yes!” he said jubilantly. “If that was Volkov, then what you say is correct, Tyrenkov! We have him—right by the scruff of his neck. We have the moment of his demise in the palm of our hand, and not a second to waste there at the top of those stairs. Your decision to get back here with this news as quickly as possible was the very reason I sent you there. I needed a man who could think on his feet, not some dullard of a corporal who would not have had the slightest idea of what he was looking at.”
“Then we must hurry, sir. I’ll call Sergeant Konev and have him fetch a sniper rifle. We have no time to lose. It appeared he was lingering near the train with his security men, but that could change quickly.”
“Don’t worry, Tyrenkov, we have all the time in the world. Don’t you see? We could sit here and have a long brandy by the fire, sleep the night away, rise tomorrow to a hearty breakfast, and then even go hunting in the forest to the north for our pleasure. We could do this for a month if we so desired. Don’t make the mistake of thinking time passing here is also running out there in the future. You could go back up those stairs a month from now and find yourself exactly where you left things, in that moment of supreme opportunity. At least that is what I’m counting on now. So we need not be hasty. We must think this through carefully.”
Tyrenkov gave him a knowing look. Karpov was not stupid. He understood that time might move with a different gait at both ends of the stairs. He realized that he must never underestimate the Admiral, and he could see that this news had precipitated a decision in his mind. He would wait to learn what Karpov intended.
“What is that you have there?” Karpov had noticed the book in Tyrenkov’s hand for the first time.
“It was on the table by the window on the upper landing.” He handed the slim book to Karpov. “There were a few oddments with it … a candle, and one other thing that looked
quite familiar.”
“Oh? What was it?” Karpov was curious.
“Well sir, I only just glanced at it, but now I recall that it looked to be a compass, very much like the one Bogrov squints at all the time on the bridge.”
“A ship’s compass? Very strange.”
“It was quite old, sir, and obviously damaged and worn by time. The glass was all soiled, and cracked. I picked up this book, then I heard the train coming into the station and my attention was drawn there. It was then that I saw the man I believe we are looking for—Volkov. We can settle everything now, sir. The next time I take a good sniper rifle with me.”
“All in good time, Tyrenkov.” Karpov’s attention was on the book now, a plain hard bound volume that was obviously meant to be a showpiece. He opened the cover, his eyes narrowing when he read the title: When Giants Fell. The End of the Siberian Air Fleet, by Yuri Rudkin. What was this? He began to read, eyes darkening with each passing second, until a light of anger kindled there.
“Sukin Sim!” he breathed.
“What is it, Admiral?”
“Volkov! That bastard didn’t get enough of a lesson the first time. So he tries again!”
“What do you mean?”
Now there was an odd look on the Admiral’s face, and he held up a hand, quieting his security chief as he continued to read. “Very strange,” he said at last. “This is a fiction—the author says as much right here in the introduction. Yet how could this be?” He read aloud now, his eyes flashing quickly over the pages of the old book.
“It was April when the rain fell, a hard spring rain in Siberia, but that did not stop him. Nothing would stop him. He was driven, compulsive, and determined to win the day at last. And he was more than that, Admiral of the greatest fleet that had ever darkened the skies, Ivan Volkov, Air Commandant, Supreme Leader, the Eagle of the East. And today he would put an end to the last of the Siberian Fleet, now that its Admiral had gone missing in that terrible storm. Yes, his old nemesis, Vladimir Karpov, was dead and gone from this world, and the fleet he had built was doomed without him—no more than a headless snake. Now there was nothing to stop him—nothing but these last three airships that gathered in the grey skies above the endless taiga, hanging in the heavy clouds like the great beasts they were…” He stopped, clearly shocked by what he was reading, then looked at Tyrenkov, as if waiting for his intelligence chief to explain everything. “What in God’s name?”
“It says that sir? It names Volkov like that? It names you personally?”
“You heard what I read.”
“But how is that possible, sir? Is it a history? Are you certain the work is fictional?”
“So the author claims…” Karpov’s eyes narrowed. “That damn stairway,” he hissed. “Who knows how many men may have gone up those stairs, Tyrenkov? Who knows how many came down? Clearly that stairway existed in the future—in the world Volkov and I came from. People may have used it, and we have already established that there is a definite connection between that time and at least two other eras in history. One is that damn war, your time, the 1940s. And another is this time before the revolution. You proved that connection exists by taking that journey there to the future and returning here safely just now. What if this man was another traveler, this Yuri Rudkin?” he stared at the name on the spine of the book. “Yes, that is the only possible explanation. Look here!” He showed Tyrenkov a sketched plate in the volume, where airships dueled in the stormy skies.
“Look at the caption! It reads: “Volkov’s fleet in the great air duel above Ilanskiy, and the wreck of the last Siberian Airship Krasnoyarsk—‘Old Krasny.’ The fall of ‘Big Red’ marked the end of the rebellion in the east, uniting all of Siberia under Volkov’s rule.”
Karpov gave Tyrenkov a dumbfounded look. “Now how in God’s name is that possible? I can see that this man might have dreamt up such a tale, but with these names? My God! He even calls the Krasnoyarsk Big Red, just as we do! That is too much of a coincidence. This man had to have seen the past he was writing about.”
“Yet you say it is a fiction, sir—just a story.”
“A very clever story,” said Karpov, flipping one page after another, thinking. “A very clever man… What if he came from the future, just as Volkov did, and saw things—learned things about that past. Only this time he gets back home again. Yes… He returns safely home to his own day. Who knows what he thinks about his experience? But it is clear that he saw things from the time of the Great Patriotic War. Yes, he learned enough to gather the fodder for his tale. He used the things he discovered to create this story.”
“But how is that possible, sir? Suppose he did as you suggested, and saw the 1940s. He would be writing about the very same man I saw getting off that train. Volkov was there, if I am not mistaken—but the book was there as well! So none of the history this other man saw was even written yet, because, at that moment, Volkov had not yet discovered that stairway.”
Karpov nodded, eyes shifting about the room, and back to the book in his hand. “Unless…” He paused, as if uncertain, feeling his way forward in his thinking, trying to grasp at something that might explain this strange anomaly. “Unless Volkov’s journey was inevitable.”
That word seemed leaden as he spoke it, weighing on his very soul. Yes, he thought, inevitability—fate—doom. That notion was deeply seated in the Russian psyche. A man’s fate was his fate, and nothing could change it. Was Volkov fated to go down those steps? Was it inevitable? Dominoes of thought tumbled one after another in his mind, the click and clatter of their fall harrowing him inside.
If it was inevitable, then anything he had planned now for Ivan Volkov was doomed to fail. Tyrenkov may go back up those stairs to try and kill the man, but it would fail. Otherwise how does this author ever learn of the events he describes so chillingly in this story? Every page he turned was riveted with things from the world that Karpov knew—the world he had come from until that storm over the English Channel sent them here to 1909—here to this place where he thought he could rewrite all history. Was it still possible? Was this book a clear and evident sign that he would also fail? Was his own fate as inevitable as the words this man used to describe it here… Vladimir Karpov… dead and gone from this world…”
“What do you mean, sir? Inevitable? Then you are saying that Volkov must go down those stairs, and reach the time before the revolution?”
“How else could this writer have come up with this tale? It is too pointed. He named the ships perfectly—Abakan, Angara, Tomsk—all engaged in the battle by Volkov’s 1st Air Division. My God, look here! He even says that this Division had been mauled earlier in an unsuccessful raid on the Trans-Siberian Rail, when Oskemen and Alexandra were destroyed by the rebellious Siberian fleet led by Admiral Karpov.” His finger ran along the lines as if chasing impossibility itself. It was the battle he had fought earlier, Volkov’s raid on Ilanskiy after the Omsk Accords, the treachery that re-ignited the conflict on the eastern front. And it was all described here in this little book of history, posing as a fiction, for it was now obvious to him that Tyrenkov’s objection had to stand.
“Yes,” he began. “this book could not exist, at least not as history, in that future world before Volkov ever came to Ilanskiy. And I think the world you saw had to be the one I came from. Otherwise why would Volkov be there, just as he was ordered by Director Kamenski, looking for Fedorov along the Trans-Siberian Rail? In that world none of the days you and I have lived out together ever happened! Don’t you see? In the world I came from there was No Free Siberian State, no Orenburg Federation. And yes, there was no Admiral Karpov leading his fleet of airships over the taiga—and no Ivan Volkov in Orenburg either!” He smiled, finally getting the tiger by the tail. Yet what would happen if he pulled on that tail? There was still a light of uncertainty and fear in his eyes, even as he spoke.
“Yet this book could not exist,” he mused, “even as a fiction, unless those events occur. It is too detailed in its d
epiction for this man to have imagined it. The events described in this prologue, as far as I have seen, are exactly those we lived through.”
“Then what about the rest of the story, sir? What if the rest is inevitable?”
Karpov nodded. “Yes… If this book was on that table than it certainly means one thing—Volkov goes back in time. He goes there and this man, Rudkin, saw the things he did to change the history. So we fail to kill him here and now. We fail! Otherwise how can this book ever be written? This man filched the entire story he passes off as a fiction here—he stole it right from the history we were writing.”
Tyrenkov had a crestfallen expression on his face now. “Then we are defeated sir? Volkov wins?”
“This book seems to recount that outcome, but I am not prepared to let that stand. Look here, Tyrenkov, look what I hold in my hand, the book of fate itself! Yes, it lays out the tale of my own undoing. It describes this last desperate battle between the airships of Orenburg and Siberia. Facts that riveting send a chill up my spine, for right alongside them is that little line about my own death. You see? It’s right here… ‘today he would put an end to the last of the Siberian Fleet, now that its Admiral had gone missing in that terrible storm.”
“That can only mean the storm we encountered over the English Channel,” said Tyrenkov.
“Exactly! It removed me from that time, and then all the things you warned me about must have come true. Without my leadership Volkov is able to win the day, right here in this battle Rudkin describes.” He looked at the title again, “When Giants Fall…”