Steel Reign (Kirov Series Book 23) Page 2

  “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….”

  Chapter 2

  Orlov sat 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.

  That was the way it always started, the pulse pounding fear, then that awful sensation of falling. It didn’t end that way though. It got better. The longer he fell, the more he experienced a tremendous sensation of freedom. He was not plummeting down to some inescapable doom, but soaring free, alive, and with some newfound purpose. He was leaving the ship behind, out on his own, and yet here, in this world, he knew things that would make him a very rich and powerful man in no time at all.

  Soon he was brawling in bars, drinking himself to sleep, rolling hapless derelict passersby on the quays of some big harbor, and taking whatever he wanted. Karpov said a little brawn was necessary at times, and Orlov was quick to agree.

  Strange dreams… always the same, falling, falling into the sea, adrift until he found himself on a fishing boat. After that it just got better and better. He would go where he wanted, take what he wanted, and with everything he knew, he would be rich in no time. Then came that strange dream with another nosy Captain ruining his game, this time a barrel chested British officer with a cane he kept tapping on the deck of his antiquated old destroyer. The next thing he knew he was sitting in a dark room, with a single light above, and someone was getting pushy, asking him questions. Yes… Too many questions.

  They c
ame every night now, dreams of riding the wide sea in a freighter, then on a much smaller old trawler… Dreams of laughing aloud as he opened up on a submarine with a machinegun. What was that all about? Then he had the weirdest dream of all. It was just the face of a man, choking, eyes bulging red, a look of constricted pain on his face. Orlov realized he had the man by the neck, and he was choking the life out of him, enjoying every last second of the experience, watching his lips turn purple, eyes roll over like a shark, and hearing that last desperate wheezing attempt to save himself. Then it was over.

  That was one hell of a dream, and it had fisted up like a bad storm in his mind three times in the last ten days. He couldn’t wait to see if he would dream it again that night. Or maybe he would dream the other wild flight he made, dangling from some massive hulk in the sky above, suspended inside a small steel capsule on a long cable. It was another wild free moment, only this time it ended in that terrible wrenching experience of icy cold fear. The sound… The goddamned sound… the sound you could feel, but not hear… That bright shiny thing he found on the ground when he turned to run for his life….

  He kept that dream in his pocket for some time, wondering about it. Then, as if to mock him, it returned to plague his sleep yet again, a strange object, silver bright, perfectly smooth, and in the shape of a metal teardrop, about the size of an egg. It made no sense, but the next thing he dreamt was the swirling of silt and sand, as if driven by a fitful wind. He looked in his hand, saw the object he had found with a strange glow about it. Suddenly it was very hot and he dropped it with a yelp of pain. After that it was Fedorov again, sticking his nose in the situation and demanding the object, whatever it was.

  He didn’t like that dream, the one where Fedorov appeared and took that thing from him—put it right in his pocket and walked away. Why would he ever let that little shit get away with something like that? What did all this mean?

  He shook his head, as if to dispell the recollection of the dreams, but he knew they would bother him again that night. Maybe he’d choke that bastard to death again, or ride that steel capsule, or fall like a fiery angel from the sky into the sea. Then again, maybe he’d hear that sound again, there but not there, deep and chilling, so goddamn unnerving that the only response was to run, run for your sorry ass life. Then he’d awaken into that life, remembering he was safe on the ship again, one sorry ass indeed. He’d get up, forget to shave, grumble on below decks as always, checking the duty rosters. And he’d see Karpov climbing the ladder up to the goddamned bridge, his eyes on him a very long time as he went, sallow, vengeful eyes. What the hell am I doing on this god forsaken ship, he thought? Why do I put up with all this shit?

  That night, however, he got quite a shock. He had been sitting in the officer’s mess, thinking about all of this—Karpov, Grilikov, Fedorov, the dreams. Then in walked the fresh little Starpom himself! Orlov gave him a sallow grin.

  “Look what the bear dug up,” he said, the Russian equivalent of ‘look what the cat dragged in.’

  “Good evening, Chief. How’s the fare tonight?”

  “Miserable,” said Orlov, “just like last night. But you’re a senior officer now, eh? You can just go back and ask the chef for specials.”

  “Well, you’re a senior officer as well, Orlov. Is that what you do?”

  “I wrangled some gravy, but it didn’t help much.”

  “I see… Mind if I join you?”

  Orlov was thinking he had to see what Fedorov was up to tonight, as he had been somewhat remiss, so he simply nodded his head. Maybe he could learn something.

  “How’s the air up there on the bridge these days,” he said with just an edge of resentment.

  “Same as always,” said Fedorov. “Karpov casts a pretty thick shadow. The man practically lives on the bridge now, and Grilikov gets a permanent post up there too. Samsonov is training him on CIC operations.”

  “The two of them should get along fairly well.” Orlov shrugged, his expression hiding nothing of his sour inner mood.

  “Something bothering you tonight, Chief?”

  “Tonight, last night, every night.” He didn’t know why he offered that, but once he had enjoyed talking with Fedorov—before, when he was just the ship’s Navigator. He secretly admired the other man’s intelligence, even though he could never understand how he could bury his nose in those boring books all the time.

  “What do you mean?” asked Fedorov.

  “Nothing… Just bad dreams. Probably because of all this lousy food. A man can’t sleep with a belly full of cold potatoes. That’s what this whole deployment has turned into, eh Fedorov? Cold potatoes.”

  “It’s certainly difficult. You losing sleep over it? What’s with these bad dreams?”

  Questions… Just like that dream he had from time to time. Dark rooms and questions. Now here was Fedorov asking them this time, like he was Doctor Zolkin, only without any medicine to dispense. He gave the new Starpom a sour look.

  “Tell you what,” he said gruffly. “I was dreaming I was choking the life out of someone the other night. I had these nice big hands on his scrawny little neck and I was watching his eyes bug out. He was asking me too many questions too, just like you. So maybe I’ll dream you into that little nightmare next time it comes around, eh? And where do you get off taking anything from me?”

  Even as he said that, Orlov realized it was stupid. It had just popped out, as he had been thinking about that last dream, where Fedorov demanded that silver teardrop, pocketed the damn thing and then just walked away.

  “Taking something from you?” Fedorov could sense Orlov’s hostility, and his instinct was to mend fences. “Have I done anything to offend you Chief? I can’t recall ever taking anything of yours.”

  “Never mind,” said Orlov. “It was just another dream.”

  Strange, thought Fedorov. Orlov is clearly in a bad mood tonight. Dreams are dreams, and I realize he may bear me a good deal of resentment, seeing as though I was promoted to Starpom over him. He’s never liked that, but… I did take something from him once, though he couldn’t possibly know about that. Just the same…

  “Sorry Chief. I don’t mean to pry into your affairs, but what was it you thought I took from you?”

  Orlov leaned back, folding his arms. “Nosy little runt, aren’t you. Want to know what the Chief does in his sleep, do you? You want to get cozy with me now, Fedorov? Well I’ll tell you what. I’ve been dreaming I was off this damn ship, that’s what. Dreamt I jumped so far that none of you would ever see me again. Found bars, beer, babushkas, and better food. And when someone got nosy with me I choked the breath right out of him. You want to get nosy with me now?”

  “Alright…” Fedorov held up a hand. “Like I say, I don’t mean to offend. Just making conversation, that’s all. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the cold potatoes.” He stood up, taking his plate and intending to go to the buffet that had been set out tonight. Yet even as he did so, the things the Chief had just said to him struck an odd chord in his mind. That was what Orlov had done—jumped ship, and from his old story, he had quite a time in the bars and brothels of Spain thereafter. Orlov said I took something from him….

  A sudden memory returned to him now, of those first strange moments after the ship last vanished in the Atlantic. Orlov had been below decks seeing to the work crews, which were scouring the ship to see if any further damage had been sustained.

  “Chief on the bridge!” came the boatswain’s call, and Orlov huffed through the side hatch in a grumpy mood. “Top to bottom,” he said gruffly. “The men are going over the whole damn ship!”

  “I trust you are well, Chief,” said Volsky.

  “Not bad,” said Orlov. “But we found another stair missing on the lower engineering level. They had to rig a ladder there. Damn thing was half there, three steps, the rest gone. What’s going on around here, Fedorov?” Even Orlov turned to the ex-navigator for answers now, but Fedorov could only speculate.

  “We’re shi
fting, yet in an uncontrolled state,” said Fedorov. “Remember my example with magnetism? The ship may have acquired some kind of phantom energy throughout its travels. It may be causing these effects. How were the final mast inspections, Chief?”

  “Everything seems to be working on the main masts and radar decks. The Tin Man optical units checked out fine too. An Engineering team is on the way to fix that mess.” He thumbed the main bridge hatch. “Speaking of magnetism, there’s just one other thing gone haywire.” He smiled, handing Fedorov his pocket compass.

  Fedorov took it, and to his amazement, the needle was completely lost. It spun left and right, then twirled about, unable to find magnetic north, a useless flutter, no matter which way he held it.

  “Keep it,” said Orlov. “It’s no good to me.” He tramped over to the coffee station near the plotting table, and looked for a mug. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe the coffee will taste better for a while.”

  …Half way to the buffet, Fedorov stopped, an odd impulse sending his hand into his jacket pocket. His heart leapt as his fingers settled on a small object, and he slowly drew it out.

  It was Orlov’s compass!

  Chapter 3

  How could it be here? That was the first question burning in Fedorov’s mind. Orlov gave this to me on the other ship, the ship I still remember with complete clarity. Yet this is more than a memory, it’s a physical object, and I clearly remember that moment when Orlov handed it to me. In fact, he disappeared shortly after that, which is why I was so surprised when I first encountered him here on this ship.