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:
“Thank you, sir,” Dostovalov said.
“Right,” Kobylinsky said, his tone vacant. “Well, off to it, men.”
The sun shone bright and clear on the morning of their first day. The air was still cold, but nowhere near as punishing as the Siberian night. The Romanov family, minus their mother and Tatiana, were out in force on the grounds. The children played while Nicholas and Prince Dolgorukov sawed firewood out back behind the mansion.
The change of duty was an agreeable turn of events, but Chekov noted with alarm that Dostovalov’s mood was entirely too buoyant for a minor improvement in their situation. Moreover, he noticed that Olga Romanova seemed equally cheerful, and glanced every chance she could at “Antosenka” when she thought no one was looking. Dostovalov, for his part, simply smiled and smiled and smiled like a smitten jackass.
Of course Dostovalov would develop a crush on the tsar’s daughter. Of fucking course he would.
Chekov forced himself not to glare at Dostovalov as they walked their paces around the Freedom House. Not that the moron would’ve noticed. While Maria and Anastasia made use of their swing set, kicking up snow with each forward swing, Olga ran around the yard, pulling her brother Alexei on a sledge through the snow. Dostovalov watched their antics with a beatific grin. Brother and sister were laughing uproariously as they careened to a halt in a snowbank on the edge of the lawn. Laughing along with them, Dostovalov walked over to the bank to help them extricate themselves.
“It’s all fun and games until they kill the hemophiliac,” Chekov muttered.
“Sergei, would you stop being such an ass?” Dostovalov hissed over his shoulder.
Dostovalov gently helped disentangle Alexei from his big sister, and then pulled Olga to her feet. Olga accepted his help to stand up. The pair smiled and held onto one another’s hands for a long moment, close enough to kiss, before Olga broke away and began brushing snow off of Alexei’s uniform. Dostovalov still looked on, grinning.
Idiot!
Something hard and cold hit Chekov in the back of his head, interrupting his fuming. He whirled about to find the youngest Romanov daughter, Anastasia, regarding him with a haughty up-turned nose and a second ball of ice and snow in her hand. Chekov regarded her with annoyance as he tried to scoop the snow out of his collar before it melted and trickled down to his shirt.
“And what was that for, you little assassin?” he demanded.
“Your ungentlemanly conduct, Comrade Feldfebel,” Anastasia said. “Your big friend went to my sister’s aid while you stood about doing nothing. What sort of guard are you?”
With that, the incorrigible teenager threw her next snowball, but Chekov stepped aside and the projectile whizzed past his head, thunking into the wooden fence behind him. A snort of genuine laughter escaped Chekov. He scooped up a handful of snow, and with practiced ease, packed it into a tight sphere, then pitched it expertly, hitting Anastasia right in her grinning mouth.
“Pah!” Anastasia ran a hand across her face and spit out a mouthful of snow; her now reddened face bore an immense grin. “This means war, good sir! Maria! To arms!”
Chekov sprinted around the corner of the mansion, boots sliding on the ice and snow, as the third and fourth Romanov sisters concentrated fire upon him. Snowballs splatted against Freedom House’s façade while Chekov furiously crafted more ammunition.
“Maria, go around back!” Anastasia shouted. “We’ll outflank him!”
Chekov ran and turned the corner around the back of the mansion himself before Maria could get there. He greeted her with a face full of snow. Maria laughed good naturedly as she shook her head to clear off the snow, and returned fire, but Chekov was already back around the front of the house, just in time to pelt Anastasia in the back of the head with another snowball.
Anastasia used a decidedly unladylike word and chased after him with another snowball. Chekov ducked away, laughing loudly. He laughed so much and so heartily that his abdomen ached from the unaccustomed exertion and, out of breath, he soon succumbed to a barrage of well-aimed and vengefully propelled snowballs.
“All right, all right, ladies!” He shouted, holding up his hands and tucking his chin into his shoulder to protect his face. “I surrender. Your victory is complete.”
Maria joined Olga, Alexei and Dostovalov who stood upon the front step laughing at the battle, but Anastasia let out a whoop and favored them with an impromptu war dance, circling around the defeated Chekov. Anastasia’s rendition sent everyone, Chekov included, into peals of mirth.
Chekov posted himself by the window to the balcony while Dostovalov stayed with the family. He trusted even Dostovalov wouldn’t be so stupid as to do something untoward in front of Olga’s father so he didn’t join them. Besides, Nicholas’s children were one thing, Chekov had no desire to associate with the deposed tsar, no matter how refined the former autocrat’s manners were.
His quiet vigil was interrupted only a few minutes in, however, by Nicholas’s cultured voice.
“Feldfebel Chekov, would you come here, please?”
Chekov sighed, but came as called to the study. The five children were arrayed about the room, Olga and Tatiana on the sofa, each with a book in her hand, Maria worked some brightly colored yarn with knitting needles while Anastasia and the boy, Alexei, played on the floor with his cocker spaniel, Joy. Dostovalov stood in the near corner, well away from Olga, thank God. Nicholas himself sat at a lovely chess board with intricately carved ebony pieces for the black and sandalwood for the white.
“Yes, Citizen Romanov?” Chekov said.
“Your friend tells me you are an excellent chess player,” Nicholas said.
Chekov glanced from Dostovalov’s grinning face back to the ex-emperor.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about excellent,” Chekov said. “Since the war started I’ve only had rubes like Anton here to play, but I do enjoy the game.”
Nicholas and Dostovalov chuckled good naturedly, but Olga shot Chekov an annoyed glance.
Oh, climb down, Your Highness. Your boyfriend is terrible at chess.
“In that case, please, have a seat.” Nicholas gestured to the leather upholstered chair in front of the ebony chessmen.
Chekov hesitated a moment longer but found no valid excuse not to play.
“Thank you, sir,” Chekov said as he placed his rifle gently against a nearby bookshelf and settled into the comfortable chair on the black side of the board. Nicholas moved King’s Pawn to King’s Four, Chekov immediately responded by sliding Queen’s Bishop Pawn two squares forward.
“The Sicilian Defense,” Nicholas commented. “Very bold.”
“Fortune favors us,” Chekov said, evenly. “Or so I’m told.”
Nicholas played well, making excellent use of pawn, rook, and bishop, but Chekov found him overly cautious with his queen, and his knights were an after-thought at best. After several minutes of forcing Nicholas to retreat from unfavorable exchanges into suboptimal positions, the former monarch smiled amiably at Chekov.
“Your friend was quite correct, Feldfebel,” he said. “You are an excellent player. Who taught you the game?”
“I played at university quite a bit, but I learned most from my father,” Chekov said. “He was a surgeon, but I think he would’ve loved to have been a chess grandmaster more than anything. He made it to the Moscow City tournament once and played Ossip Bernstein. He only lost as opposed to being massacred like most of Ossip’s opponents that day.”