Free Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) by John Schettler

the name on the hull in faded block letters. Nagata Maru . They
would sail another four days, always north, the seas accommodating and calm. He
was quartered in a room below decks, given simple meals, and a Japanese man who
seemed to be a physician called on his room once to give him a cursory
examination, seemingly satisfied that he was not seriously ill. On the fourth
day another man appeared, tall and swarthy, and obviously European. The sound
of his voice speaking Russian was a welcome relief.
    “Wake
up!” The man strode into the room after the barest knock on the door. “No more
free loading for you my friend.” He introduced himself as Koslov, a pilot
aboard the ship, and planted himself on the old wood chair as Karpov sat up,
shifting his feet off the simple cot where he lay and onto the floor. He was glad
to see someone at last that he could talk to.
    “Where
am I?”
    “You’re
on my ship, the Nagata Maru. God only knows what you were about. They
tell me a fisherman plucked your hide out of the sea way down south off Iki
Island. Said they found themselves a Russki. What were you doing there, mate?”
    Karpov
frowned, giving the man a cursory glance, noting what looked to be military
grade boots, a waistcoat, thick leather belt and fleece cap, but no sign of
insignia or rank. He could obviously not tell this man anything resembling the
truth, so a little vranyo was in order here, and he easily served it up.
    “I
was out in a launch and got caught in weather. A big wave swamped the damn boat
and I went into the sea. Didn’t think I had a chance then, the next thing I
know, I’m on a fishing boat, and turn up here. Where the hell are we now?”
    “Urajio,”
the man folded his arms. “That’s the Japanese name for Vladivostok. They told
me you were here, but we get more than a few vagrants thrown aboard on a
typical run. Don’t mind those bandages. You had a bit of a nick, but it’s
healing well, or so the medic tells me. But don’t be surprised the next time
you look in the mirror to shave. You’ll have a scar.”
    Karpov
touched the bandage on the left side of his face, remembering now, the pain,
the blood, life in his veins that stayed his hand on the trigger. I spared Key
West , he thought, and I spared my own life as well.
    “This
here is Nagato Maru out of Sasebo,” said Koslov. “We came up on our
weekly run. Not anything glamorous, but a fairly new ship—commissioned last
year in fact. I was lucky to make pilot, cause I know the waters here well.
Golden Horn Harbor was home to me for many years. You look to be military. I
know a Captain’s stripe when I see one. Who are you?”
    The
Captain could see no reason to lie, so he gave his name. Who would know him
here if this was still 1908? He realized he needed to confirm that as soon as
possible. “Karpov,” he said. “Yes, I shipped out from Severomorsk on another
steamer. Went ashore on that damn island, got drunk, and missed my boat!”
Another convenient lie to close that door of inquiry. Then he quickly angled
for more information. “Was so woozy with rum and seawater after I went into the
drink that I don’t even know what year it is any more. Must have hit my head on
the gunwale when that storm swamped me. What day is it? What year, for that
matter?”
    Koslov
gave him a narrow eyed smile. A cagey one, this one. Nothing he says makes much
sense. Came here on a steamer? What ship? Where was he bound? What’s the man
doing in that garb with those stripes on his cuff and shoulder insignia?
    “Tenth
of June, thirty-eight. Get your wits about you Captain, if you are a
Captain. Something tells me there’s more to your story than you’re telling, but
I could care less. It’s not my watch. I just came down here to say we’ve made
port. If your ship was headed here, you’ve made it. If not, too bad for you. Jappos
round up any Russki they find these days and ship them here—at least those
without any papers. So here you