The Viking

Dedicated to my grandchildren – Margo and Marcus

Philadelphia. Shipyard. November 28, 1900.
The Delaware River steamed in the early morning fog. Its grey
water was kissing the hull of the nearly completed cruiser “Viking”.
She was a steel monster, the pride of Russian Tsar Nicholas II’s
modernization efforts - an ironclad beast that promised to hold
the frontline against all enemies in the Far East.
The cruiser lay like a sleeping Leviathan, cradled in scaffoldings,
her long deck bristling with half-mounted guns and coiled steam
lines. She would be beautiful when she was finished.
Beautiful, and deadly.

Captain Marcus Voronov stood on the drydock gantry, coat
buttoned to the throat, staring down at the curved hull.
He was the ship construction supervisor, dispatched by the Russian
Navy Command to ensure that this American-built battleship would
serve the Russian Tsar’s Pacific Fleet without compromise.
Voronov felt both awe and unease. Nothing in Russia matched this
level of craftsmanship. And yet, something tugged at him - small
irregularities in the rivets, issues with boiler system pressure valves,
slow speed of gun loading mechanism.
The Americans were efficient overall, but sometimes careless in
the details. Small things individually do not mean a lot,
but when combined, they could be a real problem.

“She reminds me of a painting half-finished,” came a voice from
behind.
He turned. She was graciously leaning against the railing –
unbearably elegant and attractive. Her eyes were almond-shaped,
and her accent was French.
"Margo Moreau," she said, smiling slightly.
“I’m something of a connoisseur of naval aesthetics. Would you mind
if I painted her?”
Voronov offered a polite nod.
“Only if you promise not to paint her sinking.”
She laughed - musical and quick.
“Why would a ship like that ever sink?”
“Are you with the Russian Brotherhood Organization delegation?”
“Yes.” She smiled faintly. “They invited me as a friend to the Russian
cause, though I suspect your Ministry of the Navy does not officially
recognize such affiliations.”
“Indeed, it does not,” Voronov replied stiffly.
She stepped closer, undeterred.
“But unofficially, I host gatherings for your officers. Paint naval
portraits. I admire what you build. You Russians dream in iron.”
Voronov allowed himself a glance down at “Viking”- her curves,
her guns, her unfinished might. Then back at the woman, who was
watching him with an unreadable calm.
“A warship is not a painting,” he said. “It does not care to be
admired.”
“Everything that kills,” she said, “is an expression of art. Ask any poet
or strategist.”
He frowned.
“I would prefer this ship to serve for peace, protecting our interests in
the Far East.”
She tilted her head, as if in polite disagreement.
“That’s not what your officers say after two glasses of champagne.”
Voronov wondered:
“Are you on friendly terms with a lot of the Russian Navy officers?”
“Yes, and some of them find me charming.”
“Do they also find you... informative?”
Her smile deepened.
“Only as informative as a painting. Suggestive, but never explicit.”
She extended a gloved hand. He took it cautiously.
“I hope we meet again, Captain Voronov. I do enjoy Russians.
They are so tragic and so sincere.”
As she disappeared down the steps, the mist swallowed her like
a theatre stage curtain does to an actor.
He stared after her for a long while, a warning itch crawling up his
spine.
Two days after he received a hand-delivered invitation:
“Dear Captain Voronov. You are cordially invited to a private party
at the Union League Club. Margo Moreau”.
He had declined most of the invitations like of the kind in the past.
This one he did not.

Philadelphia. Broad Street. December 3, 1900.
The Union League Club stood like a palace amidst the soot-
streaked facades of Broad Street, its Corinthian columns lit by
gaslight and grandeur. Inside, the private room reserved for Miss
Moreau was intimate, glowing with amber light. A fire danced in
the hearth, and crystal glasses sparkled with French champaign and
cognac.
Margo Moreau stood by the window, her reflection lost in the dark
glass. She wore a sapphire-blue gown that shimmered faintly in the
firelight. The neckline was modest, but the way she held herself, as if
she knew she was being studied, made it daring enough.
“Captain Voronov,” she greeted him with a warm smile, extending a
gloved hand. “You are punctual. Russian precision?”
“I find lateness a Western indulgence,” he said, bowing over her
hand with a ghost of a smile.
They sat. Drinks were poured. Conversation flowed like the old
cognac - slow, heady, dangerous.
Margo spoke of art, of Pushkin’s verses, of the Philadelphia
Orchestra’s coming performance of “Scheherazade”.
He eagerly participated in the conversation, revealing good
knowledge of arts, literature and music.
“You speak the language well,” he said.
“I’ve always had a talent for mimicking men I admire,” she replied,
eyes twinkling.
There was silence for a beat. The fire popped.
“Your warship looks like something out of a Norse epic.”
He studied her. She was playing a part. He knew it.
“You are curious about the ship,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question.
Margo smiled.
“Can you blame me? Eight inches of Krupp steel, four 12-inch guns,
torpedo tubes, armor belts thicker than anything in the British Royal
Navy. A real piece of military art!”
She stopped herself. Feigned surprise.
“I mean, that’s what they say… In the Philadelphia Inquirer…”
His gaze sharpened.
“Newspapers lie.”
“As do diplomats, and occasionally, naval officers,” she said, her
voice light.
Another silence. This one electric.
He stood, walked to the window. Outside, the city pulsed in
gaslight and fog.
“You are not who you say you are,” he said.
She rose behind him. “Neither are you, captain.”
He turned. They were close now. Close enough that he could
smell the faint jasmine of her perfume and heat of the danger.
She was here for him - to loosen his discipline, to fall under her
charms and, finally, to give her the access to the ship secrete
information.
“You think I am capable of betraying?” he asked her.
“I think,” she whispered, brushing his sleeve, “that men who
command steel often hide something softer underneath, or
something very indiscreet and shameful, which can be understood,
accepted and justified by a true and caring friend”.
Voronov’s hand shot out - not roughly, catching hers at the wrist.
She didn’t flinch. He leaned in.
“Seduction is a poor tool against someone trained to disbelieve
affection.”
She smiled, almost genuinely.
“Captain, firstly, you are too smart to be seduced, and, secondly,
the battle that never ends is the battle of belief against disbelief.”
She left fifteen minutes later, unhurried, her jasmine scent lingering in
the room like a forgotten verse.
That night, alone in his rented quarters on Walnut Street, Voronov
was recollecting the events that happened to him exactly one year
ago – on December 2, 1899.
He was on the upper deck of the battleship “Petropavlovsk”,
docked to the pier in Vladivostok, reviewing the maintenance log,
when he heard them - a cluster of sailors near the galley, voices
raised, angry. By the time he came down, it was already over.
Lieutenant Michael Olevsky, a young and ambitious officer with
solid connections in St. Petersburg Admiralty, stood proudly beside
a group of marines. At his feet were two sailors, bruised, bound, and
being dragged below to the guardhouse.
"Lieutenant," Voronov said. "What is this?"
Olevsky saluted crisply.
“Mutinous talk, Captain. They were rallying others over food quality
and rations. I’ve taken action.”
"And what action, precisely?"
“Three ringleaders are in the brig, the rest two are here.”
Captain looked at the sailors. They were young boys, barely
eighteen. One had a split lip. Another still bled from his nose.
“You beat them?”
“I disciplined them,” Olevsky said evenly. “We must show no leniency
in the face of treason.”
“Treason? Where do you see treason?”
“Sir, treason starts with discontent. We must irradicated any
manifestation of protest, otherwise it can lead to disobedience,
violence and rebellion.”
Voronov said nothing then, not in front of the crew but made his
way down into the brig. The men were there, kneeling in their
underclothes on cold steel plates. They didn’t look mutinous.
They looked broken. One shivered uncontrollably. Voronov turned
away, sick with something he didn’t want to name. He had seen
men tortured by the enemy. This was worse, it was self-inflicted rot.
Discipline was one thing. This was sadism.
Voronov found Olevsky in the wardroom, sipping Ceylon tea.
“You went too far,” Captain said.
Olevsky looked up, bored.
“They challenge the Emperor’s Navy, sir.”
Voronov replied:
“The Russian Emperor’s Naval officers are to be brave, disciplined,
noble men with dignity and respect. And you, Lieutenant Olevsky,
severely beat the sailors and left them in the cold like dogs.”
“They were acting like dogs,” Olevsky said flatly.
«And the Navy demands strength, not softness.”
Voronov objected:
“Those boys signed up to serve, not to be crushed. All crew
members, even if the are wrong, must be treated with respect,
not humiliation!”
Olevsky replied provocatory:
“You sound like an advocate for the rebels. Do you sympathize with
those scoundrels who assassinated our Tsar Alexander II in 1881?
Not a surprise to me. I heard your best friend Alexander Bakov was
one of them. Birds of a feather flock together?”
Olevsky’s words painfully hit Voronov in the very heart, because
they were true.
His best friend of childhood - Sasha Barkov was one of the leaders
of the Russian revolutionary organization “Narodnaya Volya”
(People’s Will) and participated in killing the Russian Tsar.
He was caught, sentenced to hard labor for life, and died of
tuberculosis in prison. But Marcus Voronov never forgave the Russian
Empire for the death of his best friend.
Suddenly he felt humiliated and devastated. For a moment he lost
control of his emotions and slapped Olevsky on his face.
There was a sharp, echoing crack in the silence. Olevsky’s teacup
fell. His face turned white, then red. He stumbled back, clutching his
cheek.
“You’ll answer for that,” he hissed.
“I’ll answer for the dignity of this ship.”
A week later, Voronov stood before the tribunal.
The walls were paneled in fine wood, the officers in starched whites.
The air smelled of ink and tobacco. Olevsky sat to the side, eyes
bandaged with pride, hands folded like a victor.
“Captain Voronov,” the presiding admiral said, “do you admit to
striking your subordinate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret your action?”
“No,” Voronov replied. “I regret that it became necessary.
Lieutenant Olevsky humiliated and tortured sailors. That is not
discipline. That is tyranny. If there is a line between order and cruelty,
I will always stand on the side of men, not monsters.”
Notwithstanding the facts, on December 28, 1898, captain Marcus
Voronov was sentenced by the Naval Court of the port of
Vladivostok to two weeks in the guardhouse for offenses under
the Naval Code on Punishments Article 185 for “inflicting blows or
beatings on the lower ranks”.
Voronov appealed the decision and on February 18, 1899, he was
released from punishment by order of the head of the Naval Ministry
of Russian Empire.
After that he was relieved of his ship command and transferred
from Vladivostok - first to Kronstadt on the Baltic Sea, and then
to American Philadelphia to supervise the construction of cruiser
“Viking”. Quiet exile, and a second chance to start the carrier anew.

Philadelphia. Chestnut Street. December 10, 1900.
A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the oak-paneled walls of
a quiet coffee shop at Maison Lefevre, a modest Franco-American
establishment on Chestnut Street that served strong coffee and
stronger opinions. Among its patrons were emigres, foreign officers,
and the occasional correspondent from Le Figaro or The New York
Herald.
Yukiko Arai (posing as Margo Moreau) - the Kempetai (Japanese
Naval Intelligence) agent Tombo (Dragonfly), a cunning and
elegant woman, fluent in French, English, and Russian, trained in
cultural subversion, psychological manipulation, and cipher craft,
stirred her espresso with perfect composure.
Her parasol lay across her lap.
A small leather notebook sat open in front of her, its soft paper
pages were filled not with sketches, but with ciphered intelligence
notes written in Japanese alphabet “katakana”.
The last notes stated:
“The Russian officer had taken the bait. He is reserved, precise,
honor bound. But also, lonely. After what happened to his best friend
and after the Russian Naval Court humiliation, he is easy to sway.
Not with lust, but with respect”.

Philadelphia. Shipyard. December 11, 1900.
The clang of hammers rang out in rhythm as if the ship itself had
a heartbeat. Sparks flew from a welding torch near the forward
turret. Beneath the scaffolding, crates marked in Cyrillic were being
winched aboard - shells, condenser parts, replacement valves from
a Boston supplier.
Voronov watched it all from a catwalk, arms folded, eyes
narrowing. His inspection reports were piling up - unanswered.
He turned toward the sound of boots on steel.
Midshipman Dimitri Lvov, his young aide-de-camp, climbed up
to him, a clipboard under one arm and worry in his expression.
“Boiler Room Two has another minor leak. American engineers say
it’s nothing.”
Voronov didn’t look at him.
“That’s the third leak in two weeks.”
“Yes, sir.”
Voronov nodded, lips tight.
“They’re testing us. They know we’re in a hurry. And we get no
leverage over them.”
He reached for the clipboard and looked through the manifest.
“What’s this? New batch of rivets from Detroit? These weren’t in
the last manifest.”
Lvov shrugged.
“Special order. Local subcontractor. Apparently more efficient than
waiting for the original batch from Murmansk.”
Voronov snapped the clipboard shut and muttered:
“Efficiency is the death of precision”
Then said to Lvov in loud voice:
“Make sure these manifests go through my hands first.
No exceptions.”
“Yes, Captain.”

Philadelphia. Walnut Street. December 14, 1900.
The ballroom at Bellevue Hotel at Walnut and Broad Streets
shimmered under gaslight and gilt, filled with diplomats, financiers,
and officers speaking French, Russian, and accented English.
A gramophone played a waltz as waiters moved silently among
the guests with champagne flutes and oyster platters.
Captain Voronov stood near the far wall, in dress uniform, gloved
hand on a cut-crystal tumbler of Armenian brandy. He hated these
gatherings, but his presence was mandatory, his command visible
even in exile.
Then she arrived. Margo Moreau stepped into the ballroom like an
opera’s final act, draped in sapphire silk, a silver fox stole brushing
her bare shoulders. Her eyes found him instantly.
“Captain,” she said, gliding toward him, “you never mentioned you
danced.”
“I don’t,” he replied curtly.
“Pity.” She sipped her wine. “Your warship looks like it does.”
He took a breath, choosing formality.
“You move in many circles for a collector of paintings.”
“I find many subjects,” she said. “Military men, especially. They are so
serious. It’s so easy to paint them.”
He stiffened.
“And so easy to manipulate?”
Her eyes met his.
“I prefer influence. It’s quieter.”
Voronov should admit that Margo was more than charming,
she was disarming. And she was very clever.
"Do you believe," she asked, sipping from a crystal glass, "that duty
can blind a man to his own undoing?"
Marcus studied her for a long moment.
"Only if his heart speaks louder than his orders."
Margo smiled and then gently steered their conversation toward
the ship.
"They say the new boilers are too sensitive to fluctuations in pressure.
But perhaps I misunderstand the engineering."
"No, you're quite right," Marcus admitted. "There are some concerns,
but we will sort them out and the ship will depart on schedule."
“It looks as if you are rushing to leave Philadelphia and my company,
Captain. C’est domage (It’s a pity – in French). I will be missing you” -
said Margo.
Voronov did not find the right words to answer her, instead he just
smiled silently.

Philadelphia. Shipyard. December 17, 1900.
Voronov stood on the deck of “Viking”, his boots slick with
rainwater, staring at a piece of machinery that should not have
been there. The replacement steam valve, supposedly from
the Admiralty’s reserve supply, was stamped not with the double-
headed eagle of the Russian Navy but with an American factory
brand: “Krass Machining & Boiler Co., Newark NJ”.

Midshipman Dimitri Lvov confirmed:
“The original part was rerouted. This one was installed by American
subcontractors two months ago. No Russian engineer signed
the order.”
Voronov traced a gloved finger across the flange.
“This unit is rated for riverboats, not battleships. I want every
mechanical log double-checked. Boiler pressure readings. Material
stress tolerances. Start from October 10 and keep it quiet.”
Lvov nodded and vanished into the fog.
Voronov remained.
His gaze drifted to the rising silhouette of the city of “Brotherly
Love” across the Delaware - a haze of lights, chimneys, and secrets.

Philadelphia. Chinatown. December 19, 1900.
Margo watched the steam curl off her tea as she discreetly sat by
the window of a quiet Japanese tea house, one of the few in
Philadelphia Chinatown. The walls were wood and paper, softening
the clamor of the city outside. A kanji scroll hung near the door –
; - Patience.
A courier placed an envelope before her and bowed.
She opened it silently. The message was brief:
“To Agent Tombo.
You are authorized to proceed with the final stage.
Disable targeting relay and compromise rangefinders”.
Margo, now completely becoming Yukiko, tore the paper in tiny
pieces, put them in her mouth and swallowed with a sip water. Then
rose and proceeded to her small studio in Market Street, where she
changed her clothes from silks and velvet into overalls, a workman’s
coat, and a newsboy cap. In her satchel: forged pass to board
“Viking”, necessary tools, and a small figurine. Tonight, she would
become invisible like ninja.
That night aboard “Viking”.
The ship groaned in its berth, rocking faintly in the tide. Below
deck, the crew was asleep or drinking off-duty. Only the machinery
spoke - clanks and hisses in the dark.
Yukiko disguised as a maintenance worker moved through the
shadows below the turret carriage. She passed valves and support
ribs, her hands gloved, her breathing calm.
She reached the gunnery relay panel - a small junction that, if
misaligned, would introduce a second’s delay between target lock
and fire signal. Just enough, in combat, to miss everything.
Yukiko unscrewed the casing and inserted the filed copper piece
in the relay resistor, barely visible among the tangle of wires.
The damage – silent, invisible, catastrophic – was done.
And then she heard the sharp order: “Stop!”
The voice came from the darkness. A flashlight flicked on.
It was Captain Voronov. His face was like stone.
“I thought it was odd,” he said coldly. “No record of any
maintenance inspection in the crew manifest”.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. They stood there for a long moment,
two ghosts inside a real ship. Voronov stepped forward.
“You could have destroyed us.”
“Not yet,” said Yukiko. “And not you.”
“Why?”
She hesitated.
“Because you believe in this ship.”
“And you?”
She turned away.
“I believe in the storm that’s coming.”
Then, suddenly Yukiko pressed a small object into his palm and
jumped into the darkness, disappearing through a maintenance
hatch before Voronov could stop her.
In his hand he saw a miniature ivory netsuke Kitsune, carved in
exquisite detail, a Japanese magical fox, which as per the legends,
had the power to shape-shift into a human, the creature of utmost
intelligence and capable of elaborate trickery and deception.

Philadelphia. Shipyard. December 20, 1900.
Voronov leaned on the forward turret housing. Dimitri Lvov knelt
nearby, tools in hand.
“Relay sensor is compromised and it’s intentional.”
Voronov nodded slowly.
“Keep the discovery off the log. This information doesn’t leave this
room.”
Lvov looked up.
“But if this is sabotage, shouldn’t we alert Naval Command?”
Voronov snapped:
“No. We have no time to correct the problems. And if we reveal
them, the commanders will make us the scape goats. And
“Viking” must sail. We will cure her when we are in Kronstadt.”
Hours later. Philadelphia, Russian Consulate Safe Room.
Voronov sat alone. On the table before him lay the netsuke and
a typed report he had yet to sign. He could report the sabotage, but
to do so would invite scrutiny, not just his ship construction, but of his
failure to detect it sooner. His enemies back home would use it.
He would never command again.
He picked up the fox carving. Was she mocking him? Warning
him? Or trying, in some final way, to tell the truth?
He reached for a pen. And then he set it down again.

The Russian Imperial Consulate, a granite building near
Rittenhouse Square, smelled faintly of old leather, stale tobacco,
and secrets. Captain Voronov stood at attention in a chamber of
stiff brocade and heavier expectations. Across the table sat Admiral
Evgeni Antonov, the senior attach; overseeing Russian naval assets
in North America. His beard was white, trimmed in exacting
precision, his uniform was spotless. His eyes, cold.
“You delayed your formal readiness report,” Antonov said, voice low
but sharp. “Why?”
Voronov did not blink.
“Quality control concerns. Improper fittings, off-manifest substitutions.
I’ve ordered re-inspection.”
Antonov stood, crossing to a window veiled in frost.
“I’ve received pressure from St. Petersburg. Certain parties think
you... overreach.”
“And others think I underreport,” Voronov said quietly.
“You have enemies, Captain. Don’t give them cause.”
Voronov gave the slightest nod.
“Then allow me to complete my inspection. Quietly. Off the record.”
The admiral considered. Then said abruptly:
“You have one week. Then “Viking” sails.”

New York City. Canal Street. December 23, 1900.
Margo-Yukiko stood in the gallery of a Japanese import merchant
off Canal Street, surrounded by artifacts of a culture she had been
trained to use like a weapon: scrolls, fans, calligraphy kits, hair clips.
Her contact arrived exactly at 3 pm as had been agreed upon
previously via pigeon mail. He was tall, slender, impeccably dressed.
Commander Iraeda Anatoshi, her superior in Naval Intelligence.
He spoke to Yukiko softly, in Japanese.
“The sabotage is confirmed. The gunnery relay, the loading pins,
the boiler bypass. All irreversible once at sea.”
Yukiko nodded.
“And Voronov?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Silent… So far”
Anatoshi studied her.
“You’re faltering.”
“No.”
“You’ve been seen with him in public. You also gave him a token.”
“He’s a soldier. He deserved a warning.”
Anatoshi’s eyes turned sharp.
“He’s the enemy.”
She stepped closer.
“He was never out target. The ship was.”
Iraeda Anatoshi smiled sarcastically.
“The ship is metal. He is the mind. Break the mind, and the metal
breaks itself.”
Yukiko bowed, stiffly.
“I understand.”
But as she left, she no longer believed she did.

Philadelphia. Voronov’s Apartment. December 24, 1900.
“Margo…
Or whoever you are.
You left me that figurine of Kitsune, a magic fox.
Is it a symbol of a treachery, a warning, or an apology?
I don’t know your orders, your cause, your superiors.
But I know this: what you touched was not just steel.
It was belief in something still sacred to men like me.
And though you wounded it, you didn’t kill it.
When the day comes, and it will, I will remember you.
I will remember what you tried to do and what you chose not to do.
These verses are for you:
“Furious winds of your painful betrayal
Rip up the sails of my desperate love…”
He folded the letter, put it into the envelope, called up the errand
boy, and ordered to deliver it to Miss Margo Moreau.

Philadelphia. Shipyard. December 25, 1900.
Captain Voronov stood at the gangplank, staring at the American
flag rippling above the Customs House.
In his portfolio was the unsigned sabotage report. In his head -
many questions. Unasked. Unanswered.
Midshipman Lvov approached, face pale in the chill.
“All systems tested, sir. We’ve corrected what we can.
Gunnery relay was swapped without record, but it now operates
properly. Boiler two has a new pressure valve from St. Petersburg.
The ship is stable.”
Voronov looked at the ice on the river, then back to the ship.
“She is balanced, Lieutenant. Not stable.”
Lvov lowered his voice.
“Do you still believe the saboteur is at large?”
Voronov’s eyes hardened.
“No. She’s already gone.”

Philadelphia. Cherry Street. December 31, 1900.
Yukiko, wrapped in a thick black cloak, waited at the edge of an
old Quaker cemetery, the wrought-iron gate creaking behind her.
Frost covered the stones like forgotten names. A crow cawed
overhead.
Iraeda Anatoshi arrived, as usual, exactly on time.
“You’re recalled,” he said without preamble. “Mission is completed.
Leave immediately. Board the ship to Yokohama tomorrow.”
Yukiko handed him a leather satchel.
“All documents. Access codes. Engineering schematics. My notes.”
He accepted it.
“And your heart?”
She met his eyes.
“Untouched.” - But it was a lie.
As he turned to leave, she called after him.
“Why “Viking”? Why sabotage a cruiser that can’t shift the balance
of a war alone?”
Iraeda paused. Then answered:
“It is not about ships. It is about symbols. What they mean to their
people. Destroy the symbol, and the spirit behind it.”
And then he disappeared in the fog like a ghost.

Aboard “Viking”. January 15, 1901.
The final checklist was complete. Marcus Voronov stood alone on
the bridge. Dimitri Lvov was below, giving orders. The American
engineers had departed. Only silence remained. And the fox
netsuke in his hand.
He held it over the side of the ship, letting it dangle between finger
and thumb. He could let it fall, let the past slip into the Delaware like
a stone. But he didn’t. He pocketed it again, turned, and gave
the order.
“Depart!”

Tokyo. Japan. Imperial Navy War Ministry. January 17, 1901.
Encrypted dispatch.
“Vessel: “Viking”
Status: Sailed. Structural integrity compromised. Gunnery calibration
disrupted. Targeting delays confirmed.
Estimated readiness at engagement: 60-70% of nominal.
Subject: Captain Voronov compromised. Refused official report.
Agent Tombo: Returned.
Mission classified: Successful.
Awaiting engagement in Yellow Sea theaters.”

Atlantic Ocean. Aboard “Viking”. January 22,1901.
The shipbuilder - Krass Machining & Boiler Co., NJ, in pursuit of
an additional bonus, assure the Russian customer that “Viking” could
achieve a speed of 24 knots instead of the designed 23 knots, but
stipulated that “Viking” could move at this speed for no more than
twelve hours.
The brother of the Russian Tsar, Grand Duke Alexei Alexandrovich,
who was the chief of the fleet, boarded the ship on its transatlantic
crossing and took the command. He immediately ordered to keep
the speed of 24 knots for almost a day.
Several times the chief of the fleet went up to the bridge to enjoy
the amazing sensation of the ship rushing through the waves faster
than a courier train!
At the boilers where the stokers worked, the temperature rose to
fifty degrees. The sailors fell from heat stroke.
Only the news that with such a move there might not be enough
coal to return to St. Petersburg stopped the Grand Duke. Not hiding
his disappointment, he allowed him to slow down.
The fact that almost two dozen stokers were carried away from
the watch directly to the sick bay was not reported to the chief of
the fleet: the Grand Duke did not like to be distracted by trifles!
Thus, the warship was driven in, as a foolish and wicked master
drives a racehorse.

Already in Kronstadt, it was discovered that the bearings of the
right propeller shaft had melted. The repair was carried out in a hurry:
in couple months the transition to the Far East was to take place.
On May 3, 1901, “Viking” arrived in Kronstadt Russian Navy
Headquarters, and was presented to Tsar Nicholas II.
The beautiful appearance of the cruiser made such a favorable
impression on Tsar, that he decided to include it to escort the
imperial yacht “Shtandart” and “Viking” took part in official visits to
Germany, Denmark and France before heading to the Far East.
Later, on February 25, 1902, “Viking” arrived in Port Arthur, where
it became part of the Russian fleet.

Kenzo Bay. Korea. February 9, 1904.
Snow fell again. All over the Korean coast. Kenzo harbor was
choked with merchant ships, warships, and the brittle scent of coal
smoke. In the early morning gloom, “Viking” lay at anchor beside
the aging gunboat “Sparrow”, its black hull scarred by ice and time.
Captain Marcus Voronov, the commander of the ship, stood on
deck with a field telescope pressed to his eye.
Across the harbor mouth, the black silhouettes of the Japanese
fleet had appeared – the cruisers “Asama”, “Chiyoda”, “Naniwa”,
and the torpedo boat division forming a deadly crescent.
Midshipman Dimitri Lvov reported to Voronov:
“They delivered an ultimatum. We are to surrender within one hour,
or “Viking” to be sunk.”
Voronov lowered the scope.
“And the harbor master?”
“Neutral. American, French, and British ships all standing off.
Just watching.”
Voronov said nothing for a long time. Then commanded:
“We sail to fight!”

February 9, 1904. 10:45 a.m. Engines to full steam!
“Viking” surged forward like a wounded animal refusing the cage.
Her hull shook as boilers strained - the same systems Yukiko had once
tampered with in Philadelphia. Repairs had been made, but not for
100%.
Inside the forward gun turret, Lvov shouted coordinates.
“Range: 5,000 meters! Bearing: 17 degrees east!”
The gunner’s hand trembled on the firing lever.
“Fire!”
The cannon roared. A second’s delay followed - a heartbeat too
long. The shell splashed wide of the “Asama” bow.
“Correct for delay!” Voronov snapped.
But they couldn’t.
Every shot landed just off. Every correction was too late.
The sabotage to the gunnery relay was manifesting now in
misfiring.
“Viking” was punching blows like a blind boxer.

February 9, 1904. 11:15 a.m. Enemy returns fire.
The Japanese cruiser “Asama” opened up.
Fire sprayed across the deck.
Another shell smashed through the chart room.
Smoke filled the corridors.
Men screamed.
Voronov stood firm at the bridge.
“Report from below?” he shouted.
“Boiler Two failing. Pressure dropping.”
The patched pressure valve was buckling.
Lvov turned to Voronov:
“We cannot fight. Shall we retreat.”
“No,” Voronov said, voice cold with conviction.
“We die with dignity.”

February 9, 1904. 11:45 a.m. The last stand.
“Viking” turned broadside, exposing herself, inviting the full fury
of the Japanese guns.
Voronov gave the order:
“Final broadside. Full load.”
Lvov hesitated.
“We’ll be destroyed.”
Voronov’s voice was quiet.
“So, they remember us.”
The guns roared again.
This time they found the goal.
One of the Japanese ship hull sparked, splintered.
“Hurray!”
A moment of triumph!
Then the return fire from the enemy.
A shell ripped through the engine room.
A second exploded near the ammunition hold.
The ship buckled, coughing black smoke and fire.
The end was coming.

February 9, 1904. 12:10 p.m. Abandon ship!
Voronov ordered the crew evacuated.
Wounded were lowered to neutral ships.
Officers stripped insignia. Logs were burned.
“Viking”, broken, was to be scuttled - intentionally sunk
by her own crew.
She slipped beneath the waves slowly, smoke trailing upward
like a final breath.
Captain Voronov was the last aboard.
He was standing on the captain’s bridge and singing:
"My Russian comrades, be ready to die!
The last deadly battle is over.
Our “Viking” is sinking, we’re losing our lives,
But never surrender to foes!"
As the sea reached his knees, he took the Kitsune netsuke from his
pocket, kissed it put it back to his pocket and jumped into the cold
waters of Yellow Sea.

Yokohama. Japan. February 12, 1904.
Yukiko Arai stood at a newspaper kiosk, reading the Japanese
print edition of the Tokyo Asahi Shimbun.
The headline stated:
“Viking”
– the glory of Russian Pacific Fleet
destroyed in Heroic Final Stand!
Russian cruiser refuses surrender, scuttled by own hand.
Captain presumed dead.”
Later that evening, in her quiet apartment overlooking the harbor,
Yukiko lit incense before a small tray, and placed something upon it -
a fox netsuke, carved from a piece of ivory.
The incense was burning…
The sea was roaring behind her window…
Yukiko recollected the verses Voronov had sent her with his
farewell letter:
“Furious winds of your painful betrayal
Rip up the sails of my desperate love…”

Epilogue. After the Fire.

Paris. Quarter Saint-Deni. Autumn, 1907
The city had changed. So had the world. The war between Russia
and Japan was over and sealed in treaties. Flags and allegiances
shifted. But some stories refused to vanish entirely.
A man in a warm grey coat sat in a quiet cafe. His face marked
with a faint scar along his temple. His left hand, gloved, stiff with old
burns. That man was Captain Marcus Voronov, once
a commander of the cruiser “Viking”, and now Messier Alexei Larin,
a naval consultant to French shipyards.
He had survived the wreck in the battle near the Korean shore,
pulled unconscious from the freezing waters by the Korean fishers,
who provided him with medical treatment, food and lodging.
Officially listed as dead, Voronov had chosen to remain so.
With the help of his Korean friends, he managed to get travel
papers through the Chinese mafia “Honghuzi” (Red Beards) and,
having travelled through China, Afghanistan, Persia, Turkey and
Mediterranean, Voronov finally settled in France.

On that nice autumn day in Paris, as if by coincidence, a beautiful
woman arrived at the same cafe. She wore a black coat, elegant
and plain. Her hair was pinned in a Parisian fashion, but her eyes still
belonged to the shadows of Tokyo.
Yukiko Arai (Margo Moreau), presently Madame Marie Vitali
Renard, as her forged French passport claimed, sat opposite him
without a word.
They had not seen one another in seven years.
At last, he spoke.
“Are you still working for them?”
She smiled faintly.
“Not anymore. That Russo-Japanese war ended. So did I, in a way.”
He looked at her. Not with anger. Not quite.
“You cost me everything.”
She met his eyes.
“And yet you lived.”
A pause passed between them. Not bitter. Not gentle.
He reached into his coat and placed something on the table –
a fox netsuke, bone now darkened by time and salt.
She reached into her bag and answered with her own fox netsuke.
The two figurines sat side by side on the white tablecloth.
She cited a Japanese 5-lines poem “tanka”:
“If you really love me, dear,
come to the Shinoda woods -
home of beautiful Kitsunes
in the province of Izumi
in the shade of kudzu tree…”
“I dreamed once,” said Voronov-Larin, “that you had warned me in
time. That we had saved the ship. That we had made it home.”
“I dreamed,” said Margo-Yukiko-Marie, “that I was on board with
you and we had sunk both. That no one left Kenzo Bay alive.”
Voronov went to the bar and brought two cups of Jasmine tea.

They were sitting across each other, sipping their tea, two lonely
persons, two brief lives, two strangers to this Eternal City, watching
the leaves of the trees and ashes of hopes to fall down…
As the deadly poison, which Voronov insensibly dropped into his
and Yukiko’s tea, started acting, he whispered in her ear the verses
he had composed and mailed to her 7 years ago, now the full
version:

“Furious winds of your painful betrayal
Ripped up the sails of my desperate love…
I am releasing my jealous black ravens
They will destroy you, my evil white dove..”