The Log Of The Retvizan - Bedowan
Chapter 1

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Science Fiction, Time Travel,

Desc: Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1 - It has been a year following the events documented in The Log of the Retvizan - Twylight. A brand new US attack submarine, the USS Texas, goes missing at exactly the same place as the Retvizan the year before. Is it time for another voyage of the Russian giant?

Valentin Gavriel worked the longboat in towards the landing. It was a sluggish sailer and the lack of any fair winds in this part of Edenfjord made the going slower. It was piled with more building materials for the camp he called 'Heichiro.'

Hechiro was being built on the flat below the ridge to the north of Mount Gavriel. Besides his two Japanese climbing companions, half a dozen Eden residents had turned out to help. It was important to make it habitable before the onset of Winter brought activity to a close.

The longboat grounded and several people came down to help unload the cargo. Valentin was not surprised to see Karyn, Ashok and Dogan standing there. He'd heard their tribe was in the area.

Karyn seemed to have a special smile for him and he almost forgot he was holding the end of a heavy post. Dogan had his usual sceptical expression, but then he always looked that way.

Ashok hurried down to greet him. He had a look of anticipation and his speed was a little undignified.

"You have what I asked for?" he said.

"Of course," Valentin smiled and reached into his breast pocket. "Filter tips?" he added.

"Ah!" the Indian gasped in delight, "they are Russian?"


"Never mind," he said, ripping the packet open like a true nicotine addict. "It's been so long."

"So why you not give up?" Valentin asked.

"Ah, well, it's psychological. That is a decision I must make myself rather than by force of circumstances."

"I see," he shrugged, "enjoy!"

The Bedowan 'Rifter' scurried off in search of a light while Karyn said hello. Dogan stood impassively behind her like a bodyguard. The air was starting to take on a winter chill and they wore their embroidered wool jackets and thick trousers. Karyn's veil was loose and draped around her shoulders. Her dark Mediterranean features lit up, clearly pleased to see the young Russian.

"Valentin, it's been too long," she told him. Valentin wanted to hug her, but caught the scowl on Dogan's face.

"Tell him!" the other Bedowan said, tersely.

"Uh," Karyn started to say, looking behind at her companion, "we've come to tell you of the latest news about the Nordvolk."

"Hmm?" Valentin replied, interested.

"They are building a fortress for their miners... on our land," interrupted Dogan, "they have cannon and many guns."

"Where?" asked Valentin.

The big man knelt, drawing a parchment from his leather bag. He spread it on the ground. It was a map of the Eastlands from Mount Gavriel practically as far as the Southern desert.

"Here," he pointed, "by the river we call the Blackwater..."

"Coal!" said Karyn, "they want the coal. They gouge out the side of Shining Mountain and make her bleed. They have no love for what they destroy."

Valentin shook his head. He knew exactly what she meant, it was an all too familiar story.

"These Nordvolk tell all the Rifters how they are an ancient people who were gifted the land by their God," Dogan told him, "but they lie. They've been here for only 25 summers. They drove the Bedowan from the delta and cast them into the deserts. Now they want the very rocks they've left us. We will not tolerate this anymore."

"You must tell all the other Rifters living among the Nordvolk," Karyn explained, "they are not the simple fisherfolk, farmers and makers of iron tools..."

Valentin nodded gravely. "Igor," he called, "you must tell this man all you know," he told them, "he is clever man."

Igor Golovko sauntered over. He was Eden's linguist and anthropologist. "What's up?" he asked.

Meanwhile, in another 'when, ' 17 year old Silvia Ellen 'Chino' Iachino stepped off the school bus in a leafy suburb of San Francisco. She said goodbye to her high school friends then hurried home. She needed to feed three month old John Alexander Iachino-Pavlov and her breasts felt uncomfortable.

She called the baby 'Little John, ' to distinguish him from 'Big John, ' the child's father. She'd expressed milk that morning before school so Little John's nanny could keep the demanding boy satisfied during the day.

It was Friday and Chino knew that tonight she'd get to speak to Big John by Netmeeting. By agreement with her parents, she agreed to only talk to John during the weekend, otherwise her homework and mothering duties would suffer. Johnny Pavlov was away in Saint Petersburg, Russia and it was impossible for him to leave.

Pavlov had left the Russian Navy but, as a former serving officer in the Strategic Forces, he was unable to travel overseas without express permission from the Government. That was rarely given for at least five years and no dispensation was likely just to marry his American girlfriend. Johnny was too loyal just to abscond. It was one of the many things Chino loved about him.

A year ago, she'd been reluctantly plucked from the hull of the submarine Retvizan and sent back to the States. She knew she was pregnant and had thought, illogically, that in a few month's time she'd be reunited with her lover.

Pavlov had a girlfriend back in Russia. When he'd left Zina she'd been pregnant as well. But Chino knew they'd be together with the certainty of a romantic teenager.

What he'd found back in Russia deeply confused him, however. Instead of the fiancé, waiting for his return with a new born baby, he'd discovered Zina was married. Not only that, she'd been married for two years. Her child wasn't his but her husband's, a classical musician.

He knew that wasn't the way it was when he sailed on the Retvizan from Kola Inlet. Somehow, his life had changed. Zina knew him as a friend, had never lived with him and never been engaged. Troubled, she'd told him how they'd been students together and was adamant she'd never had any romantic feelings for him. She'd suggested that perhaps some sort of breakdown from mental fatigue had overtaken him.

After a few weeks, even Ionn 'Johnny' Pavlov began to question his mental stability.

And things weren't quite the same for Chino also. Little things bothered her. Her High School was painted a different colour and had obviously been that colour for a few years. People she knew were taking different courses from what she remembered and the school's science geek was now in the football team. Some kids who she'd little to do with now claimed to be good friends. Adding all these things together, and Johnny's experiences, life for them both had altered.

Like Johnny, she initially suspected her mental state. But Johnny's experiences had convinced her that, somehow, their timelines weren't as they were anymore.

Little John was sound asleep when she went upstairs. Her breasts were just too heavy so she plucked him up anyway. The nanny, Julia, quietly left her to it. While he suckled away, she began her homework on the computer. She wanted to get it out of the way so she'd the evening free for Big John.

It had been a year since the Russian Nuclear Submarine Retvizan had slipped forwards, or sideways, in time then reappeared at exactly the same spot one year later. How one of Russia's finest could be lost for such a period of time was perplexing for the Navy, to say the least.

The officers, and Commander Gorshin in particular, were interrogated for a full fortnight at the Naval Intelligence facility at Polyarnii, Northern Russia. Naturally, the spooks assumed the sub had been turned over to Russia's rivals to be dismantled, inspected, then returned. Why they would go to all that trouble over a sub now 25 years old and due for decommissioning seemed not to have interested Russia's paranoid military spies.

But most of the crew had cellphones and stored in their memory chips were hundreds of photographs. The Retvizan had been fitted with a state of the art fibre-optic periscope system to test under operation conditions. Stored on its harddrive was a wealth of imagery: of a World War Two Japanese submarine, the sunken island of 'Havai, ' Farnow kaaks, Edenfjord, and the Skarsgarderbatarna of the strange Nordvolk people. Sonar and radar logs supported the wealth of photographic evidence. Soon, the remaining crew of the Retvizan were passed onto the Academy of Sciences and its Institute for the Paranormal. This puzzle was quite beyond the Navy, or the FIS to solve.

Commander Gorshin retired early. There was no prospect he'd ever be trusted with a command again. The Navy had been bitten with a PR quagmire and heads had to roll. He retreated to Kotlin Island, to the Naval township associated with Kronshtadt Naval Base, headquarters of the Baltic Fleet. The Russian Navy parked all their retired senior officers there, the ones they had no further use for.

Ionn 'Johnny' Pavlov also left the service and took up a post at St Petersburg's Khruschev University teaching Russian literature to undergrads. It came with a small, one room apartment in the Hall of Residence, nothing too fancy, but adequate. To keep himself in shape, he took up basketball and football. A sedentary life didn't come easy for this man, accustomed to peril.

He kept in touch with Gorshin over at Kotlin Island in the Neva estuary. To leave so many of their crew behind in that strange land, that strange 'when, ' was unnatural for both the ex-marine and the ex-missile boat commander. At 62, Gorshin was 'tired of the bullshit, ' and Pavlov was sick of bashing his head against the stone wall of the Kremlin. No way was the Navy going to countenance any rescue expedition and that was that. Igor Golovko, Shapalaev, Fedyunsky with his tribe of a family, even the American, Ben Roscoe wrenched out of his Pacific War: all would have to be left where they were.

Pavlov, too, was trapped. Even in retirement the Navy weren't going to let him leave the country. He knew his future was with Chino and their newborn son. He only waited on the pleasure of the Interior Ministry and the Department of the Navy.

When not Netmeeting, they Emailed each other every day, sometimes more. Chino told him of the little anomalies she confronted in her resumed life. He explained to her about Zina, how she'd never been engaged to him and never been pregnant by him. Clearly they were back in their own time but somehow, not as they remembered.

It was during a tutorial on the novels of Tolstoy when the door swung open. There, intruding into the work of the University, could be none other than Intelligence men. They strode into the room as if they owned it, motioning for his students to get out. The kids fled, looking at the suited men with a mixture of resentment and fear.

"Lieutenant Pavlov?" boomed the first man.

"Ex-Lieutenant," Pavlov corrected. He wasn't going to be intimidated by these men, their stock in trade.

"You must come with us," the second man said.

"Why?" demanded Pavlov, "who are you?"

"FIS, come!"

"What have you bloody Chekists to do with me?"

"You want this the hard way?" The first man touched the bulge at his side in a universal gesture to show he was armed and prepared for no discussion. Sighing, Pavlov stood, and the spooks fell in beside him, marching out through the door and down to the ground floor.

They bundled him into a black Mercedes and sped out down the road at breakneck speed.

"Honey?" Chino's mother called, "there's someone to see you?"

"Who?" she answered down the stairs, "I'm feeding."

Chino could hear a discussion taking place between her mother and visitor. Presently her mom came up.

"He says it's official. He's from the Government. Honey, what have you done?"

"Nothing," she insisted.

Little John had fallen asleep and she gently placed him back in his crib. Chino followed her mother downstairs to be confronted by a big man in a dark suit. He wore dark glasses and the serious expression of all men with too much self-importance.

"Silvia Iachino?" the man asked.


"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"The study?" her mother suggested, and she showed the way.

Once seated in her father's study the man came to the point quickly.

"I'm from the Department of the Navy," he said, "I want you to tell me all you remember of your experiences on board the Russian submarine?"

"Whew!" she replied, "what's this all about? Are you going to believe me now?"

"Believe what, ma'am?" he said, setting up a tape recorder.

"Believe me about Eden, the Farnow, the Nordvolk... ?"

"Just start from the beginning, ma'am?" he said.

"Commander?" the man asked. His manner was respectful as even a retired senior officer wasn't someone you treated discourteously.


"Commander Orlov, sir, of Naval Intelligence."

"What have you left to ask me?" Gorshin told the man, exasperated.

"Sir? May I have a moment of your time?" Commander Gorshin sighed, then let the man into his small lounge. When he got comfortable, he took a photo from his leather satchel and placed it on the table. It was of a submarine, an official photo taken from the air. "Do you recognise this vessel, sir?"

"Ah... it's American," he replied, "it's a bit like a Seawolf, but... hmm, but smaller. I think it's one of their new Virginia Class attack boats."

"Very good," the man said in a faintly patronising manner, "it's the USS Texas. This is an official USN publicity photograph taken last year on its trials."

"So? You come all this way from Moscow to show me a photo the Americans gave you? I cannot tell you anything about the Virginia Class you probably don't already know."

"Actually, we know a fair bit. The reactor and propulsion are from the Seawolf Class as is many of its systems. They have adopted a fibre optic system similar to that fitted to the Retvizan and..."

"Commander," Gorshin told him, "This is all fascinating, but surely you have more qualified people able to provide information?"

"We do," he replied, "the Americans, themselves, have been quite forthcoming."

"Why?" Gorshin asked, "why would the Americans share this information?"

"They have requested our help, Commander."

"Our help?" the Retvizan's last commander asked, incredulously, "you have me intrigued. What help could we possibly give to the Americans about boat design?"

"Not design, Commander. Let me explain? The USS Texas was on a training cruise last month. At a point East of the Azores the Americans lost all contact and it hasn't been heard of since."

"The Azores?" cried Gorshin.

"The Azores, sir."

Captain Thomas 'Boomer' Zeigler USN strode purposely through the double doors into the room. Security was heavy, and goons stood by the door with blank expressions but moving eyes. Admiral V P Ustinov walked over, smiling and extended his hand. He greeted the Americans in Russian with an aide translating beside him.

"The Admiral welcomes you to Kronshtadt," the aide said, "and hopes the hospitality has been to your liking."

"Sure, sure," the American said. He was an impatient man and preferred to get down to business straight away. But the Russians had wanted to show him the base and give him the guided tour of Kotlin Island. He'd paid his respects to the hero's monument and its bewildering number of plaques commemorating the fallen in all of Russia's wars. 'Nearly as large as Arlington, ' he'd told one of his Russian hosts.

'Boomer' was a patriotic American and felt faintly uneasy among these former Cold War enemies. He'd been briefed back at Washington; a scarcely believable tale of portals and time shifting that pushed his credulity beyond the limit. Even the plethora of photos that seemed to back up what the Russians had told them seemed like elaborate fakes. None of this made sense and he had the feeling of some huge set up, with him playing the fool.

But if the Russians could find his boys, then it'd be worth it. Their boat, the Retvizan, had disappeared in exactly the same way and, similarly, the best technology in the world had failed to find it. Gorshin, Pavlov, the crew of the Retvizan, was the only chance they had of finding the Texas and bringing her home.

Gorshin spoke reasonable English and this Pavlov was a teacher at University. The Commander greeted his American counterpart warmly as did the Lieutenant. These guys were 'Boomers' like himself and he felt they understood each other from the get go.

Not so the scientists, however. They were civilians and thus outside of his orbit. They were to take four, two Russians and two Americans, specialists in the paranormal and anthropology, environmentalism and geology. 4 American Naval officers would be fleshing out the Russian crew. Two were intelligence men and two submariners. Zeigler would be in charge of them, but, he assured Gorshin, it was his boat and he'd have ultimate authority. Chains of command in the confined and claustrophobic world of a nuclear submarine were vital for survival. Zeigler knew this and his intelligence men would do as they're told, he assured the Commander.

The Retvizan would be crewed by 140 men. Most had been crew on her previous voyage. All of the remaining officers had signed on again, desperate, as all of the Russians were, of retrieving their lost comrades from the time vortex. Pavlov was needed as commander of the Marine detachment, but he'd been the hardest to persuade.

"Is she here?" he asked of Zeigler.


"Chino?" he asked him.

Boomer smiled knowingly. "You bringing her along?" he asked.

"Those are my conditions," he told him.

"You Russians normally take your girlfriends with you?" he laughed, "damn, what a Navy!"

"Lieutenant Pavlov is a civilian," Gorshin explained, "we had to negotiate for his services."

"Your boat, Commander," he shrugged, "is he the only marine commander in the Russian navy?"

"Of course not," Gorshin smiled, "but how would you explain all this to a new man with the time available?"

"There's that," the American agreed, "our people explained it all to me but I'm damned if I understand."

"Sirs?" the Admiral's aide intervened, "Admiral Ustinov reminds you the aircraft is waiting on the tarmac."

"I guess this is it, boys," the American said.

"Captain?" Pavlov started to ask.

"Settle down, boy," the American smiled, "she's gone straight out to the airstrip."

"Sir?" he looked at his commander expectantly.

"Beat it!" Gorshin smiled.

Chino was unhappy she hadn't been allowed to see Johnny. Her, Little John and his nanny Julia were whisked straight from St Petersburg Airport to a helicopter that took her out to Kronshtadt. It set down right next to a Russian Naval transport plane and they were hastened up the gangway. Her American embassy minder said goodbye to them all before climbing back on the Mi-14.

Their aircraft, an Antonov An-124, was a huge cargo plane fitted with temporary seating. Inside the cavernous interior was a scattering of passengers, most uniformed, and behind them, a palette of equipment. A woman introduced herself in English as a nurse, Marketa, and apologised for the spartan conditions.

"Where's Johnny Pavlov?" she asked, whereupon the nurse smiled knowingly.

"He will be here shortly," she explained, "he must attend the meeting of the officers. We are due to leave soon so they cannot be long."

It was then she saw him, through the perspex window, running across the tarmac. He was unmistakeable in his green combat jacket and blue cap tilted to the side of his head. He sprinted up the steps and burst into the aircraft, mindless of his dignity.

"Johnny?" Chino cried, before running to him. They now had all the attention in that large plane, as well as Little John's input. He started crying.

Big as he was, Chino practically flattened him, knocking him backwards towards the door. Laughing with delight, he lifted her off her feet and wrapped her in his arms. "Meet your son?" she said.

The Retvizan was anchored in a bay down the Kola from Polyarnii. It had been prepared in the utmost secrecy and, seemingly, a whole marine battalion had been enlisted for its security.

Its weapons had not been removed, but the missile silos were still ballasted. The Retvizan will not be attempting the jump in time armed with nuclear missiles.

Dockyard workers were still scrambling over the hull as the first of the officers arrived. Most of the crew were aboard already, assisting with the preparation of the huge boat.

Captain Boomer Zeigler could barely conceal his excitement at going on board the giant. He'd been ashore for 7 years, now, and was currently in charge of crew orientation for the Virginia Class program. Until a week ago, he'd been supervising initial crew training for the newest of the Class, USS Hawaii. But the Retvizan was something else. For a start, the missile boat was four times the size of the Virginias and had the reputation of being a four star hotel underwater.

At 32 knots submerged and a safe diving depth of 260 metres, the Texas was faster but not as deep diving as the Retvizan. It contained the weapons and sensor suite from the Seawolf Class but it'd been fitted with the latest in fibre-optic wizardry. The 8000 tonner had a crew of 120 when it was lost and only stores for 2 months at sea.

Spare storage space was packed with supplies and equipment. This was not only to be a rescue mission but there was an intention to supply Eden and to bolster the settlement with skilled personnel.

Boomer was piped aboard, as was traditional in the Russian Navy since Peter the Great. The old Tsar had borrowed traditions from all of the major European navies of the 17th century. An honour guard of Marines saluted the Americans smartly, before turning their heads as the American flag was raised while the 'Star Spangled Banner' was played over loudspeakers. That little piece of theatre was quickly dispensed with. The Americans went below and the Stars and Stripes was replaced with the Andreevsky Flag of the Russian Navy.

Neither Zeigler nor Gorshin was impressed with the bullshit. They each realised it was for the folks back home and they had the real business to attend to. The Russian Commander immediately summoned an operations meeting in the Retvizan's wardroom.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I speak to my colleagues in the Navy of the Russian Federation. I would like you to welcome our Americans friends. Each of us knows what it's like to lose colleagues and comrades. Since the sinking of the Kursk, it has been brought home to us what a perilous life we lead in the service of our country. You all of you should understand what anguish these Americans feel towards those who serve on the Texas. I entreat you to take into your hearts this mission whose priority is to return their comrades to their families and their ship to its home port."

There was a general murmer of agreement.

"Make no mistake! Should we slip back to that other time, we must locate the Texas first, before we do anything else. Certainly, we know they probably survived and are now engaged on a quest, as we did not that long ago. But we must show them the way home, gentleman, that is the most important thing."

"Of course, sir," agreed Starskiy Leytenant Radetsky, the Retivizan's new first officer. He was a very experienced officer borrowed from the Dimitri Donskoi, Retvizan's sister ship. He was to be assisted by Leytenant Gromobov, fresh from similar service on the Orel, sister of the ill-fated Kursk. It was thought Pavlov was better employed as a marine commander, and lead twice the Retvizan's usual complement of combat soldiers on board.

All the officers had been handpicked and were the best available. Each had impeccable records but, at the same time, displayed a certain initiative. Such skills would be needed in the months ahead.

"Thank you, boys," drawled the American, "on behalf of the United States Navy I'd just like to say how much we appreciate the assistance offered by your government and the hospitality of the Russian Navy. It wasn't that long ago," he said, "when some of us were glaring through our periscopes at one another. From what I've heard, Commander, you've done your time on surface ships playing the games out there in the North Sea. What a time we had, eh, Commander?" he grinned, "and I tell you, I've seen a similar view of the Kola as I imagine you have."

"We knew you were watching us," Gorshin interrupted, "but we chose to look the other way."

"Sure, sure," the American smiled, "but we've moved on from there, moved on to other, less identifiable threats and challenges. Who would've thought that the US and Russia were now facing those challenges together?"

"Hear hear!" muttered some of the Russian officers.

"When our people told me off this phenomenon, this time rift, I thought I heard the biggest load of bunk since Al Jazeera. But then I was told you Russian boomers were going out to look for the Texas and that kind of touched me. I couldn't stay on shore, I'm glad to be part of this enterprise."

Commander Gorshin introduced the officers then suggested they get down to business.

"We don't know whether we can repeat our journey," he told them, "we'll match our speed, position and depth and see what she shall see. Should our hopes be furfilled we'll try to make contact by radio. Failing that, we'll follow a search pattern in the hope we can find them by sonar. We have taken on board additional stores in case the Texas is short of food and any over will be delivered to our boys at Eden. Senior Lieutenant Pavlov has loaded arms, sniper's rifles, assault rifles and heavy machine guns. We have mortars and a field gun."

"Are we going to war, Commander?" asked Radestky.

"Our last communication from Eden suggested that all was not well for the future. They mentioned threats from the Nordvolk and war clouds gathering between them and their neighbours. We must be prepared for anything. Engineer, when are we likely to have full steam?"

"12.30, sir," the man replied, looking at his watch.

"Good! Pavlov, you intend to make an honest woman of Chino?"

"Of course, sir," he told his Commander amid general sniggering.

"We must find some useful employment for her," he said, "besides feeding and breeding."

Pavlov flushed red as the officers broke out in laughter. He thought it was going to be a long voyage.

Fedyunsky accepted that wearing regalia was part of the protocol in these parts. He was the Meister of Eden and as such was expected to look the part. The Herren of the Nordvolk arrived by a sailing vessel they called a 'batarna.' It was a three masted schooner, barquentine rigged, with squaresails hoisted on the foremast and fore and aft rigged on the main and mizzen. Like most of the batarna of the Nordvolk it was painted white with red sails.

He'd got used to their goofy language, a made up concoction of Dutch, Swedish and German with random grammar. They told him it was the language of the semi mythical Hronvar and had been handed down to them over the centuries. They refused to speak no other.

But Fedyunsky knew it was rubbish, that the information from the Bedowan was that they were recent arrivals, an aggressive people, who pushed the locals from their homes in the delta lands and claimed it for themselves. Furthermore, the Nordvolk weren't satisfied with their conquests and intended to push out into Bedowan lands. Already, Valentin Gavriel claimed, several fortress's cum settlements had been established East of the mountains. Heavily armed, it was clear these were not purely for defence.

The Herren came with a Rifter they used to speak on their behalf. He was an Irish fisherman, a big man with a long beard.

"Folks," he announced, "on behalf of the Herren, here, I have certain requests. To whit, we formally invoke the act of union that obligates the people of Schmetterlingfjord to provide ten men for the Landsvaar. These men are to be equipped with the best weapons you have and food and ammunition for a two week campaign."

"And just where are we expected to campaign?" Fedyunsky asked, "I haven't heard any clarion call, any call to arms? Who is threatening the lands of the Nordvolk?"

"Why, the Svartsmanni, of course," said the Irishman, "they menace the mines in the Weissbergen."

"What is the 'Weissbergen'?" Fedyunsky asked, "and are these mines not in Bedowan hunting grounds? How are the Bedowan to sustain themselves over winter if they can't hunt."

"The Weissbergen has been gifted to us in honour of Hronvar. The Bedowan have all the plains to the East to roam. Our lands are modest by comparison. We invoke your promise to defend our property."

"You might defend your property better by returning to your villages and dismantling your forts."

"You don't understand these people who call themselves the Bedowan. They style themselves after an avaricious God bent of conquest. This God was once known as Allah..."

"Ah, so you speak of a religious war?"

"A war of right against wrong. They may keep their deserts, the mountains are ours."

"We will consider what you have to say then convey our decision."

"You are too kind," the Irishman said, with the merest hint of irony. Wordlessly, The Herren trooped out to return to their ship.

Fedyunsky longed to hear from the Retvizan. It had been over a year since the submarine set out for what was supposed to be a two week voyage. But if ever a show of force, of resolve, was needed, now was the time.

The Eden residents were ridiculously underarmed to take on the might of the Landsvaar. Only the promise of assistance in their wars of aggression was the only thing stopping the Nordvolk from withdrawing their hospitality and evicting them all.

Their only vessel was the Diana, a converted World War Two minesweeper, and unarmed. It had no means of preventing a landing besides ramming, and that would require them to be in the right place at the right time. Once ashore, the Landsvaar would overwhelm the six or so automatic weapons in Eden by sheer weight of numbers.

In any case, Fedyunsky reasoned, they would come as thieves in the night, from down the mountain passes, or by the narrow coastal trail. He was no marine, unlike Pavlov, and shivered at the thought of a confusing night action against people used to this land.

"Come night or the Prussians come," he said aloud.

"What's that, sir?" asked Golovko.

"Nothing, Ensign, nothing."

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Romantic / Science Fiction / Time Travel /