The Romanov Rescue
- Автор: Кратман Том, Watson Justin
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Baen
- ISBN: 978-1-9821-2570-7
- Жанр: Альтернативная история
Электронная книга - «The Romanov Rescue». Краткое содержание книги:
As WWI comes to a close a German general, an escaped prisoner of war, and the crew of an airship converge to effect THE ROMANOV RESCUE. Can there be a world without communism?
Mankind’s history is bound up in the fabric of fate, a strong cloth, tough and closely woven.
It is the beginning of 1918, the last year of the greatest war in human history, to date. All the belligerents stagger on their feet. Starvation is an ever present reality, while disease waits in the wings. In Russia, no longer a belligerent but, instead, rapidly descending into civil war and chaos, a lone family—Father, Mother, four beautiful young girls, and a brave but sickly boy—await their own fate, shivering and hungry in the dark, hoping and praying for salvation.
Their relatives in England have turned their backs. The guards set over them do little but torment them. They look Heavenward, but God doesn’t answer. They know they’re a threat to the new regime, a threat that will, in time, be eliminated.
But even the strongest fabric has flaws. An escaped prisoner of war, caught, injured, and punished, but still highly capable, might be one. An airship, returned and at loose ends after a failed mission to Africa might be another. A German general, taking a wrong turn on his nightly walk and suddenly coming face to face with the reality of the monster rising in the east, would be a third.
Follow, then, as the general gives the orders, the prisoner of war raises the men from among his fellows, and the airship launches itself forward, to contest fate, to tear the fabric of time, and to effect The Romanov Rescue.
About the Carrera series:
“Right,” Chekov said. “They probably check the trains at every stop for deserters and travelling cross country in winter is a good way to freeze to death.”
“We could steal horses,” Dostovalov said.
“There are no civilian horses around here; they’ve already been eaten or requisitioned,” Chekov said, shaking his head. “Or they’re hidden. If we steal army horses, that just gives them more incentive to hunt us down. And let’s say we get away, I know you’re a rustic outdoorsman but I’m not at all confident about living off the land for more than a week or two, how about you?”
“I was a farmer, Sergei, not a woodsman,” Dostovalov said. “There’s plenty of wild game, but precious little shelter. Anytime we come into town looking for a place to sleep we’ll be in danger of getting pressed into one army or the other.”
“Or shot as deserters,” Chekov agreed. “We stay here for now, I think. At least we’ve got food and a warm place to sleep. We can always run later if we have to.”
“What about your friends from the mess hall?” Dostovalov said just before finishing off the last of his soup.
“Yermilov and his cronies haven’t given me any more shit,” Chekov said. “If they do, we can always arrange an accident.”
Dostovalov grunted his agreement, leaned back in his chair and held up two fingers to the butcher, indicating he should bring two servings of the local samogon, home distilled liquor that was far less legal and far more available than proper vodka. The chubby man hustled over to their table with a jug and two wooden mugs.
“Here you are, Comrades,” he said.
The home-distilled hooch gave off a pungent, burning odor as the butcher filled their mugs.
“Phew,” Chekov said, rearing back. “Are you selling us the lamp oil, Grandfather?”
“Now, lads,” the butcher protested, “This is the best samogon you’re going to find in Tobolsk!”
Dostovalov grabbed his mug and knocked back a large swig. A grimace contorted his features as his throat worked. He coughed violently and slapped his hand on the table once the liquor was down.
“Jesus, what did you ferment to make this? Your knickers?” Dostovalov said in a husky voice.
Chekov laughed, and the butcher’s brow furrowed with offense.
“Relax, Grandfather, just a jest,” Dostovalov said after he finished coughing. He laid several more rubles on the table. “In fact, leave the bottle. It’ll do just fine.”
The butcher snatched up the rubles, appearing mollified, and left them to their drinking.
“It doesn’t taste as bad as it smells,” Dostovalov said.
“That’s a low bar,” Chekov said as he brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the liquor. After the fire of grain alcohol subsided, Chekov thought he could detect a bit of the wheat. He exhaled loudly and swallowed.
“Well,” he said, choking a bit. “It’s not the worst rotgut I’ve tasted, but it isn’t exactly the pevach either.”
Dostovalov’s answer was interrupted by the door to the butcher’s house swinging open with a bang against the opposite wall. A cold gust caused the flame of the wood burning stove to flicker, and chilled Chekov’s skin, despite the warmth of the fire and the liquor in his belly. The three men who entered with the wind chilled him more.
Ensign Matveev led the trio into the dining room. He glared as he stepped inside, eyes glittering over his snow-coated beard. Chekov doubted the head of the Soldiers’ Soviet was here looking for hooch and some hot soup. Worse, Yermilov’s ugly, snaggletoothed face appeared in the doorway behind Matveev, followed by one of his cohorts from the dust-up in the mess hall. Yermilov grinned maliciously at Chekov as he stepped inside.
“Good evening, Comrade Ensign,” Dostovalov said.
Matveev nodded at Dostovalov and Chekov, then turned back to Yermilov.
“All right, Yermilov,” he said, deep voice dark with annoyance. “I am here, at one in the god-damned morning. What’s the misconduct I’m supposed to witness?”
“Comrade Ensign, take a sniff at their drinks,” Yermilov said, pointing like a schoolyard tattletale. “That isn’t tea, it’s samogon. Chekov and Dostovalov are trafficking with kontrabandisty.”
The butcher sucked in a sharp breath at the accusation of bootlegging. With food critically low across the country, the Bolsheviks had declared it illegal for anyone to distill wheat, or any other foodstuff, into the high-proof liquor. Depending on Matveev’s mood, the butcher and his wife could be fined, or they could be executed, Chekov thought furiously.
How the hell did Yermilov know we came here?
“It’s not theirs, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov blurted.
“It isn’t?” Matveev said, raising a thick black eyebrow.
“No, Comrade,” Chekov said, shaking his head. “In point of fact, we actually have had that bottle since Pskov.”
The butcher exhaled and his posture relaxed fractionally.
“It’s true, Comrade Ensign,” Dostovalov said. “We picked it up on our way back from the Front and have been waiting for a night off to celebrate. Smell it like Yermilov said and I think you’ll agree it’s Ukrainian; no Russian would brew such foul cow piss.”
Dostovalov held the bottle out to Matveev. The ensign took the bottle and sniffed from the neck. Grimacing, he recoiled from the booze.
“You’re right, that smells like a Ukrainian whorehouse on Monday morning,” he said. “Well, lads, you know you’re not supposed to be drinking contraband liquor, so I’m afraid I’ll have to tell Colonel Kobylinsky to take your next two free nights.”
Chekov maintained a firm, deadpan expression. Yermilov’s face fell at Matveev’s leniency.
“Comrade Ensign,” he protested. “This is a serious breach of discipline, surely—”
“Yermilov, if I flogged every man who got into some illicit liquor, I couldn’t muster a squad to guard Citizen Romanov,” Matveev said. “And if you ever wake me up in the middle of the night for something this frivolous again, I’ll have you flogged. Get out of my sight.”
Chekov did allow himself a small smirk over Matveev’s shoulder at Yermilov. The ugly bully and his lackey departed, their shoulders hunched against the freezing winds outside.
Matveev sighed, then turned his attention to the butcher.
“Citizen, I am not a man of mysticism but reason,” Matveev said. “Nevertheless, I prophecy that the Tobolsk Soviet will send inspectors tomorrow afternoon to ensure there isn’t any hoarding or illegal distilling happening on these premises. I trust they will find nothing, da?”
“Of course, Comrade Ensign,” said the butcher. “Thank you!”
“No thanks necessary,” Matveev said. “It is supposed to be the people’s revolution, after all,” he added in an undertone.
“As for you two,” Matveev said. “I’d watch myself if I were you. Personally, I wouldn’t piss on Yermilov’s face if his nose was on fire, and neither will Kobylinsky, but if he gets those assholes from the Soviet involved, you could find yourself subject to discipline anyway.”
Chekov nodded grimly.
“We’ll keep that in mind, thank you, Comrade Ensign.”
Dostovalov washed as best he could without inducing hypothermia in the freezing barracks bathroom. Fall had brought yet another revolution and a steep decline in temperature. Of the two, Dostovalov was far more concerned with the cold weather in Tobolsk than he was with the Bolsheviks in Moscow.
He parted his hair carefully then dragged a cold razor across his cheeks, chin, jawline, and neck, paring his facial hair down to just his thick, black moustache. Hygiene complete, he dressed in uniform and overcoat rapidly, grabbed his rifle, and hurried out into the frigid night air.