Free Kirov Saga: Devil's Garden (Kirov Series) by John Schettler

Tin Man optical cameras and feed the signal to the overhead
HD display. Fore and aft, please, on split screen format.”
    “Activating
Tin Man, sir, aye.”
    Karpov
indulged himself, looking up at the display, though he saw only what he
expected—the seemingly endless fog. Where were they, in some strange limbo
where they would await their final judgment? It might be hours before they knew
their fate this time. The ship’s systems could have been affected, as they were
in past displacements. Then again, if they shifted forward again, would they
see only the devastation of the war in 2021?
    I
was sent to try and buy us time to save that horror off, and now look what I
have done! I couldn’t wait for the war in 2021, I gave it to them in 1945.
Nikolin’s hail to Orlan now sounded like a funeral dirge.
    “ Kirov to Orlan . Come in Please. Orlan , please state position, course
and speed, over. Kirov to Orlan —where are you? Come in please.”
    “That
will be enough, Mister Nikolin. I do not think they can hear us. Keep listening
on your headset and report any radio traffic. Please monitor, AM, FM and
Shortwave bands.” Karpov knew that if they were still in a world where life
existed, he should be able to hear it murmuring on the radio soon.
    Now
the weight of what he had done began to feel like lead on his shoulders. He
needed sleep, needed to rest, and stood on unsteady legs. “Mister Rodenko. You
have the bridge. I will be in my quarters.”
     
    * * *
     
    The Vodka did something to renew his
flagging soul. He sat at his desk for some time, staring at himself, until he
realized how stupid he looked with his military cap on—Vladimir Karpov, the man
who started World War Three.
    They
will destroy Orlan , he knew. There was simply too much force there for the
ship to escape without our support. Together we might have run out into the
Pacific, but alone the Sea Eagle was doomed. Even if we did survive that
attack, our SAM inventory would have dwindled to next to nothing. Then all it
would take is a couple of their fast carriers to finish us off—unless I wanted
to fire off the last of our missiles and warheads. Yes, that might have put
such fear into them that they would not dare to approach us again, but we would
be lost, outlaws, outcasts on the high seas, and they would have hunted us with
every ship they had.
    Fedorov
was correct, as was Zolkin. They would have built three ships for every one we
sank, and they would pursue and pursue until they made an end if us. I suppose
I could have sailed to within range of one of their cities, and then perhaps
they would listen to me if I threatened to destroy San Francisco. He shook his
head with that thought, aghast. I have done enough harm to this world as it
stands. I could not bear to believe I was the one responsible for what we saw
in that bleak future, then I made a certainty of that.
    He
lay on his bunk, closing his eyes and letting himself fall into a deep,
restless sleep. Sometime later he awoke, startled to see that Doctor Zolkin was
sitting beside his bunk, a stethoscope around his neck and his doctor’s bag
open at his side.
    “What
are you doing here?”
    “Now,
now, rest easy,” the doctor assured him.
    “What
time is it?”
    “08:00
hours, at least insofar as the ship’s chronometer is concerned.”
    “Morning?”
    “The
bridge hailed you three hours ago, and when no answer came Rodenko became
concerned. He called me and I came to check on you.”
    Karpov
saw the syringe on the nightstand. Then realized the doctor had also affixed an
IV drip to his arm. “What have you done?” he said, the suspicion evident in his
voice.
    “Did
you think I came here to shoot you full of drugs, Karpov? I’m afraid not. You
appeared dehydrated and so I am simply giving you fluids.”
    “And
that?” Karpov pointed at the syringe.
    “A
mild sedative to calm your sleep. You looked like you were having some real
nightmares when I got here. Don’t worry. It has