They look at it with a mixture of awe and derision, thought Karpov. Kirov himself called it an overinflated balloon, but they will soon see that Tunguska is not an anachronism or throwback from a bygone era. I will do something that none of their airplanes would ever attempt, at least not if they wanted to survive the experience. I will go to England, and not by a circuitous, roundabout way. I will fly directly over Hitler’s precious Third Reich, taking photographs the whole way to prove it. Tunguska can fly higher than any aircraft of this day. They have no fighters that can bother me up there, but I could bother them a great deal, couldn’t I?
In Tunguska, Karpov found a bit of the same old feeling he had in the Captain’s chair aboard Kirov. He knew it was not the same. He had no SAMs or Moskit-II missiles, and he certainly had no nuclear warheads, his air fuel bomb components being a pale shadow of the power that he once had at his fingertips.
But I have the ability to go places Kirov could never venture, and to go there with a modest force at my disposal that can achieve the ends I have in mind. This time it will not be force that I demonstrate, but merely a capability that is beyond the means of anyone else on this earth. I can fly higher, and farther, than anyone else, and up there I can see things that can make me a very useful man.
The thought that he was flying to England now rankled him a bit, but the British were at war with the greatest enemy Russia had ever faced. Hitler’s troops would devastate the homeland, and soon, unless he could do something to prevent that. It may not be possible, he realized, but there is no question which side I must take in this conflict now, particularly after what Volkov did. Yet I must demonstrate that I can do more for the Allies than simply tie down a few divisions in a humdrum backwater frontier east of Kazakhstan. So off we go.
“Captain Bogrov,” he said as he exited the car. “See that the baggage is loaded immediately, and be ready to cast off within twenty minutes.”
“Very good, sir. Will we be returning to Novosibirsk by the same route?”
“I will speak to you on the bridge,” said Karpov. “Is there anything we need here by way of supplies? We may have some high altitude flying to do.”
“No sir. The ship has already refueled, courtesy of the Soviets, and they even sent over a case of good vodka, with sausages, cheese, and some good black bread.”
“Excellent. We’ll discuss the route over dinner in the Officer’s Wardroom.”
That was one thing about Karpov, thought Bogrov. He doesn’t hold to protocols. Every Captain and navy man worth his salt knew that you never discussed ship’s business in the Wardroom. It was a sanctuary, reserved for good food and recreation, and a break from the otherwise onerous duties of the ship. But he said nothing of this, knowing Karpov well enough now. He could see that the man was scheming on something, and he had pulled more than a few surprises out of his hat in recent months. That little escapade to the mines for coal dust became something quite more than he ever expected. It was terrifying, but effective, and he saw how the weapon had helped to turn the tide against Volkov’s Grey Legion. What was it this time, he wondered?
“I’ll look forward to it, sir,” he said.
Tunguska cast off on the 10th of February, 1941, rising into the crisp, cold air of Moscow. Thankfully, Karpov had built some creature comforts into this ship, with pressurized, heated cabins that made the cold altitudes much more bearable, unless you were a man unlucky enough to pull duty on the inner rigging or upper deck exposed to the open sky on top of the ship, but those positions were normally manned only when the ship was at battle stations under threat of enemy air attack. Karpov had improved the Topaz radar sets forward, aft, and on both the top and bottom of the ship, and he had rigged out a radar room, Kirov style, where he appointed his Chief of Signals, Yuri Kamkov. He had four men sitting there watching the dull returns on the rudimentary screens of the radar sets, which were fixed antennae covering only their designated arc around the ship.
As Tunguska slowly climbed, Karpov looked out over the sprawling city, wreathed in a blanket of white snow, and realized it may be enjoying the last peace in the silent cold of winter for the next four years. The Germans had launched Operation Barbarossa on June 22, of this year, just months away. He knew the action and timing of that event would likely be very different in this history, but war was coming, as sure as the seasons turned. Would Moscow stand this time? The Battle for Moscow had been fought in October of 1941, even as the Germans were pounding at the gates to the Caucasus at Rostov and the Crimea. His Siberian divisions had been the reserve that had helped to save the city, and he wondered if he would be leading his men back to this city next year to fight for Sergie Kirov. We shall see, he thought.
