sat the other, the heady liquor glistening in the light of the desk lamp like the fruits of long experience, the laurels of battles fought and victories won, and yet still not full, wanting more, a fulfillment that was as yet just beyond its reach. Strange, he thought. Just drink the damn vodka, you fool, and stop gawking at it. But instead he decided to wait for Tyrenkov, heartened to hear the knock on his stateroom door.
“Come,” he said, the sound of his own voice seeming hoarse and hollow.
“You needed me sir?” said Tyrenkov coming in with a salute.
“Sit,” said Karpov. “Drink with me…”
Tyrenkov removed his hat, striding to the desk, his uniform immaculate, and took the seat offered. The Admiral had been locked away in his stateroom for two days as Tunguska navigated to the meeting with Sergei Kirov at Moscow. The summer heat had given rise to a ripening storm, and he first thought that the ship might end up someplace quite unexpected, but they had arrived at Moscow safe and sound, and apparently with no strange occurrences, except that one moment when the lightning came, rippling through the ship’s skeleton when it struck the forward lightning rod.
“What day is it?” said Karpov.
“August 1st.”
“And the year?”
“The year sir? 1941. All is as expected. The meeting with Kirov is all arranged. Bogrov is maneuvering to the mooring tower near the Kremlin as we speak. Didn’t you see the city below as we approached?”
“I was… occupied.”
Tyrenkov looked at the Admiral, studying him very closely, noting the pallor of his face and cheeks, his disheveled hair, the lean, hungry look of the man.
“Are you alright, sir? You did not answer any calls these last two days, but, as you gave orders that you were not to be disturbed…”
“Correct,” said Karpov, not saying anything of what had happened, of how he had sat in terror at the edge of oblivion, staring into that mirror. He saw the shadow behind him grow and grow, and could feel its icy chill on his shoulders, but he was resolute. It would be his life or that of the other Karpov, or so he believed, and he was determined to prevail.
Now, as he realized he was still alive, exhausted as he was, a awareness of that finally dawned on him. He had prevailed. He had done exactly what he decided he would do, and stared Time and Fate right in the eyes as he looked at his own haunting image in that mirror. And Time had blinked; Fate had shirked away, and what remained was Vladimir Karpov.
“You do not look well, sir,” said Tyrenkov.
“Too much work, that is all. It’s nothing that a good meal and a stiff drink will not cure. In that instance, pour yourself a drink, Tyrenkov. I want to discuss something with you before the meeting.”
“Very well, sir. Thank you.” Tyrenkov naturally filled the empty glass, and then was about to lift it to a toast when he realized his glass held more liquor than Karpov’s. So he tipped the bottle to fill the Admiral’s glass, and was careful to see it held just a little more than his own.
“To our meeting, sir. To your health. To victory!” he said, clinking his glass against Karpov’s. “Nostrovia!”
“As to the meeting,” said Karpov, “I have little doubt that I will get all we need, and all we have planned now that the Germans have crossed the border. What is happening on the front?”
“The enemy has made remarkable progress, sir. They have not crossed the Divina, but are making a thrust towards Smolensk. Both Minsk and Kiev have fallen, and Kirov has had to abandon the whole line of the Dnieper and has fallen back to the Donets River. The Germans are outside Kharkov, and there has been a mad rush to get reinforcements there. Unfortunately, many of those divisions were pulled from the reserves set aside for our Volga offensive against Orenburg, which may have to be postponed. Our guards divisions obtained the bridgeheads as you ordered, but the Soviets are not prepared to launch a general offensive there now.”
“I will discuss this with Sergei Kirov shortly,” said Karpov.
“There is more, sir. The Germans have taken the Perekop Isthmus, and it looks like they are planning a general offensive against the Crimea. At the same time, they are pushing east from the Dnieper, and a big offensive is being aimed at Rostov.”
“As we expected,” said Karpov. “Does it look like the Soviets can stop