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.
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“Sadly not. It’s a cruel world and Kostyshakov informs me he’s planning a forced march for Saturday. The men will need what our girl here can offer. We can only remember her, with gratitude, in our prayers.
“And as long as we’re on the subject, Smirnov, and since you brought it up, kindly leash her and walk her back to Feldwebel Taenzler, would you? Good lad.”
Camp Budapest
Corporal Vasenkov took off his visored cap and ran his fingers through the sparse hair sprouting from his mostly bare scalp. He had never been a huge fan of hard marching, fast, and under heavy packs. He was even less enthusiastic given that he’d be marching in German boots, at this stage of the war footgear of even less than secondary quality, and not especially made for hard marching, given the stasis of the trenches to the west.
But, thought the corporal and secret communist, this will have something to do with the selection of men for the grenadier company, while the grenadier company is where I need to be, where the revolution needs me to be.
Sergeant Major Blagov walked the line, reminding the soldiery that, “This is going to be a stone bitch, people. Check your portyanki now, while you can.”
At that, perhaps half the troops pulled off their boots and checked—and in a few cases rewrapped—their foot wrappings.
Each man also had the makings of a full pack currently laid out on their ground sheets. The squad leaders and platoon sergeants checked, but no one was allowed to repack until either one of the two sergeants major, their own company first sergeant, or one of the officers had inspected two men from each squad. The packs wouldn’t have been unbearable except that, in addition, thirty-five pounds of rock were to be added to each pack. The rocks, too, sat on the ground sheet. They would be weighed for each man when the march was over.
“Vicious imperialist foolishness” is what I call it, thought Vasenkov, as he carefully repacked to put as much softness as possible between the rocks and what would otherwise have been the skin of his back. It’s the petty need for small men to show the world their authority.
Worse, as if the rocks weren’t enough, the men were also marching with their Lewis guns, and with the various support sections dragging, for example, the light infantry cannon and the heavy Maxim machine guns, while the poor bloody engineers had four flamethrowers—the newest portable German kind—“Wechselapparat,” that had the donut-shaped fuel tanks with a sphere of compressed air in the middle, to port along.
And then came the dreaded cry, “On your feet, gentlemen; ruck up, and fall in.”
Tsarist swine, thought Vasenkov, as he pushed his own slender frame upright.
The first four versta were easy. They were intended to be easy, more of a stretching exercise and chance for the portyanki to move than a test of character. When those were done, and the men feeling fairly good about it, Kostyshakov called a halt. Once again the sergeant major trooped the line with, “Boots off. Noncoms check your men’s feet. No time to fuck around. Rewrap if they need it. Ten minutes only… Boots off. Noncoms…”
Twenty-four more versta, a full fifteen miles, and five hours later, with no more breaks, the men marched into camp, footsore—bleeding a bit in most cases, with aching backs, sweaty despite the winter cold, and utterly miserable.
Not that everyone made it, no. A full twenty percent, or perhaps a few more, had fallen behind, leaving the others to have to spend even more time porting and dragging the heavy equipment. Many of those who’d fallen out would find themselves with the replacement detachment.
But not Vasenkov. He marched into camp with the rest, mentally cursing the leadership every step of the way.
“Well done,” Kostyshakov cheered the men who made it as they staggered in.
Swine, thought Vasenkov.
PART II
Chapter Ten
Jambol, Bulgaria
It was a huge building, one of the biggest Kostyshakov had ever seen. It was certainly the biggest he’d ever seen standing alone, with no other substantial buildings around it. Brinkmann waved with his cane for a German private to open the door, then ushered the Russian officer in.
“Well, he did say we’d be travelling in the highest style I could imagine, but this is way beyond my imaginings,” said Daniil, craning his neck to take in the immense structure and the massive dirigible within.
Wilhelm, who’d just climbed out of the crew compartment after overseeing one of the maintenance electricians repairing the L59’s wireless set, heard the harsh consonants of the Russian words echo through the cavernous space of the hangar. He didn’t understand the words, but the wonder in the man’s voice was clear as he stood with his neck craned back, staring up at the majesty of the Afrika-Schiff. Several other men in Russian uniform joined him and then—ah! Wilhelm felt his mounting anxiety lessen as a German major stepped through the doors behind them, followed by a Feldwebel. The Russians had dropped out of the war, of course, but until recently they had been enemies… and strangers were not permitted in the L59 hangar.
When none of the ground maintenance crew seemed inclined to approach the group, Wilhelm straightened his spine and stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Wilhelm said as he clicked his heels together in perfect attention. “I am Signalman Mueller. May I help you?” He was careful to keep his bearing polite and professional—indeed, his pride demanded it!—but he did allow a clipped suspicion into his tone.
“Mueller, I am Feldwebel Weber,” the tall, slender man said. He stood with his shoulders very slightly hunched and had a moustache so grand that Wilhelm couldn’t help but stare. “I am escorting Imperial Guards Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov and his staff, along with Major Brinkmann, to a meeting with Kapitaenleutnant Bockholt. On the orders of Major General Hoffman,” he added after a slight, but significant, pause.
“I will be happy to show you the way, Feldwebel,” Wilhelm said smoothly, inclining his head. He turned and gestured to the long, low row of buildings that lined the outer wall of the hangar, inviting them to walk with him.
“Our gratitude, Mueller,” the Russian lieutenant colonel, Kostyshakov, said as they started moving. His uniform was different from the standard Russian army officer’s uniform, Wilhelm noticed. Perhaps because of the guards designation? Regardless, Wilhelm schooled his face to impassivity, but he was impressed. The man’s German was flawless.
“I see by your insignia that you’re part of the L59’s crew. Please elaborate on your duties for us.”
“As a communications operator, sir, besides sending and receiving, I also encrypt and decrypt coded messages, as well as maintain the equipment.” Wilhelm said, hoping that his formal reply would shut down any further questions. Perhaps the Russians were no longer enemy combatants, but they certainly could still be spies.
“A very important position.”
“Yes, sir. Here we are,” Wilhelm announced as they approached the captain’s office door. He knocked twice, then waited for the command to enter before turning the knob and stepping in.
“Signalman Mueller reports that a Major Brinkmann, a Feldwebel Weber and a group of Russian officers are here to see you, sir,” Wilhelm said, after coming to attention and rendering a razor-sharp salute. Captain Bockholt looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows—he didn’t normally require such strict formality—but he returned Wilhelm’s salute and got to his feet.