Chapter 3

In a submarine a person gets used to the absence of a night/day cycle, the lack of any evidence of depth, speed, and no outside references whatsoever. It felt to Chino like a steel bubble, hermetically sealed, with no windows and totally reliant on those who'd visited 3C for information on what was happening.

They told her that nothing had happened. Instead of transiting back to the other world, they'd remained where they were. Despondancy replaced expectation and everyone on board the Retvizan looked disheartened. The sub was packed full of supplies for Eden and now they faced the prospect of carrying it all back to Russia. This voyage was supposed to be a triumphant return with the added bonus of showing the USS Texas the way home to Bangor, Maine.

She looked across at Johnny Pavlov. He was sleeping soundly, mouth open, in a chair, with his son doing the same in his arms. It looked so beautiful she felt like crying.

Julia, Little John's Nanny, was off in the mess getting a meal. She found it tough on the Retvizan, not the adventure she thought it was. She missed the absence of fresh air, hated the monotony, and lack of anywhere to go or anything to do. The sub was huge, sure, but a third of it was weapons areas and another third propulsion. The last third was split between accomodation, stores, and command areas. In reality, there wasn't much on the Retvizan she was free to visit.

The giant swallowed its 140 inhabitants whole. They existed in little knots at work stations around the boat or lay snoring, like Johnny, in their beds. Sailors can sleep anywhere, anytime, being governed by the watch gongs, not the hours of daylight.

They were running 3 watches at the present time. In operational areas they may go down to 4 on, 4 off and, exceptionally, general quarters, where all the crew were required on deck. Off duty, the crew either ate, worked out, slept or played video games and movies. All the movies were dubbed into Russian. She'd seen them all, and the novelty had long since worn off.

Johnny had told her the boat had made six runs at the mark and still remained in the present day. Commander Gorshin and the American Captain had been drinking and they both appeared a little the worse for it. The Admiralty Net was purple with communications demanding reports and Gorshin and Radetsky had given up trying to explain.

She stood, gently eased Little John from the arms of his father, then went into the next room to place him in his crib. Returning, she kissed the slumbering marine commander on the cheek and blew in his ear.

"Gold watch in 5 minutes, lover," she giggled.

"Whaaat?" he mumbled.

"Just kiddin'," she laughed, "5 hours more like. Come, get yer butt into bed."

She draped his arm around her neck as she staggered with him towards their bed. He fell with a crash, and she folded herself next to him.

"See?" Dogan said beside Valentin, "there is a fort... up there... see?"

Valentin Gavriel put his glasses to his eyes. "What's up there?" he asked, "I see maybe a cannon?"

"A machine gun and one of the big guns."

"Hmm, I can undertand cannon, but machine gun? Why machine gun? It's too far to support the main fort by river."

Ashok squeezed in beside the pair. "The Nordvolk believe in a kind of heirarchy of guns."

"Huh? Explain?"

"Martial mysticism," Valentin raised his eyebrows, "a man's status is governed by the arms he bears. A gun has great spiritual power. They put their most spiritual of weapons high up where they are safest."

"Stupid," muttered Valentin, shaking his head. "That machine gun will make a lot of noise but is too far away to prevent assault on lower fort. That muzzle loader will be inaccurate at that range."

"The Bedowan are very respectful of them just the same," Ashok explained.

"But in Bedowan hands, that high fort will cut off their reinforcements and supply line. It will force them to sally in the open..."

"Where we can pick them off? Brilliant, Valentin!" gushed Ashok.

"How would we attack it?" Dogan asked, looking sceptical.

"Over the top of the mountain at night," Valentin told him.

"At night? Crazy!" Dogan said.

"No," Valentin insisted, "someone climbs to that ridge above the fort and shoots down into it. The rest come from two sides, see?"

"Hmm," Dogan muttered, stroking his beard. "We'd need that machine gun of yours?"

"Of course!"

"And a mountain goat to fire it?"

"I am that mountain goat," Valentin beamed.

"Huh!" Dogan slapped the Russian on the back, "you have spirit, brother."

"I have sub-machine gun, brother!" the Russian replied, smiling.

Valentin wasn't impressed by the arms of the Al Tafliq. They had a mix of old rifles and flintlock muskets. The old rifles were, generally, World War Two vintage, M1s, Lee-Enfield 303s, a few German mausers and a long rifle possibly of Japanese manufacture. They were in an indifferent state, barrel linings pitted and the bolts rusty and in need of grease. Ammunition was the main problem, however, and a good portion of that obtained had deteriorated.

The flintlock situation was a little better. They were able to cast their own balls, although, there was a wild difference in quality. They manufactured their own black powder but, again, the quality wasn't that great. Too much sulfur was the consistent issue and the residue corroded the barrel linings. In short, the Bedowan firearms were impossible to calibrate and hopelessly inaccurate.

On the other hand their crossbows, used mostly for hunting, were works of art. The crosspiece was made from fine, laminated wood; as much as ten layers; glued with resin and bound together with tough twine for added strength. The tips had bone inserts, exquisitely carved, to accept the drawstring. They had stocks of polished, red, hardwood embellished with scrollwork of the finest workmanship. The string was drawn by a removable crank, inserted into a bone-lined recess on the shoulder rest. Ironically, they were appreciably more accurate than their firearms as well as silent to boot.

The crossbow was an excellent sniper's weapon, for there was no smoke nor sound. The Bedowan's bows were accurate to over 500 metres and had killing power a good deal further than that. Rate of fire was the only drawback and Valentin could plainly see the Bedowan were in dire need of modern firearms.

Now he was able to offer his D-20, an Uzi style weapon designed for the Russian Special Forces. He could also offer his training and professionalism, although he had only limited combat experience. This was low tech warfare and, he hoped, a little 'force multiplier, ' might make all the difference.

The Bedowan were a hardy people inured to a harsh climate. They had the use of the horse, a stocky, sure footed beast, though not a particularly fast runner. Their horses were not cavalry mounts, rather they used them for moving quickly from place to place, more like mounted infantry.

Valentin could see why this war could never be decisive under the present state of weaponry. The Bedowan could not assault the Landsvaar pallisades with any hope of success and the Landsvaar couldn't come out into the open without running the risk of being outnumbered by mobile infantry. The Landsvaar had too few cannon and were averse to using their rare machine guns in any but absolutely secure fixed positions.

The machine guns in question turned out to be Vickers Guns. These were a Maxim type weapon, very heavy to carry, and cooled by a bulky water jacket. It was plain to Valentin why the Landsvaar would not want to take them along in an attack except under the most extreme circumstances.

But Valentin was beginning to understand this was not merely a clash over land. There was a spiritual dimension, at least as important, and a certain race hatred exhibited by the Nordvolk.

To the Nordvolk, the land was promised to them by their God. Like 'Manifest Destiny, ' they took whatever they wanted from the Bedowan because they could. The Bedowan were 'primitive, ' worshipped a false God, and were a rung below on the evolutionary scale. As such, they didn't deserve the same rights and privileges as the Nordvolk.

The Delta to the Bedowan was the 'lost field, ' the 'pale, ' the 'garden over the mountain.' It was the 'heart of the Bedowan' cut from its soul by an avaricious, mendacious infidel. Captured Landsvaar could expect little mercy.

Ashok, Dogan and Valentin crept back down the slope to where the horses waited. Karyn, holding their reins, smiled shyly at her fiancé as they mounted up and returned to the camp little more than a league away.

Commander Gorshin knew he was a little drunk and tried to stop himself from rambling to Boomer Zeigler. The American wasn't in that much better shape and regaled the Russian with stories of the sea, of the Cold War, and daring spying missions to the very moorings of the Soviet Northern Fleet.

"So, commander?" he slurred, "what are we not doing that you did before, huh? Are we going to go 'round in circles forever?"

"I dunno," the Russian replied, "what time izzit? Izzit morning yet? I need to get back to 3C... relieve my exec..."

"Give him some practice," laughed the American, "I told all my juniors... ah... anyway, it's 0330."

"Time!" Gorshin suddenly said.

"Huh? I said it's..."

"No, I mean, this is all about time! Time is the key, don't you see?"

"Sure... ah... no. I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"0530! We transited at precisely 0530. The sun was just coming up, 'cept it was to the West... and it was really setting, not rising..."

"Commander? I think you ought to cork up the bottle."

"We make the transition at 0530, I'm sure of it! What time did the Texas lose contact?"

"Um, I'm not sure of the exact time, but I believe it was early morning."

"Exactly!" Gorshin exclaimed, slapping his thighs. "We make a final run at 0530 and if we fail, I swim home."

"If we fail, I'm swimming home as well," chuckled the American, "I'll be damned if I'll put up with that lily-assed marine on the 'Jima crowing over my butt."

"You sail the Texas alongside and give him the finger!"

"That I'll do, commander, that I'll do," he laughed.

Valentin had never had such a challenging climb in his life. Firstly, it was incredibly cold and, despite his quilted wool clothes, penetrated to his very core. He climbed with Night Vision Goggles, but it was still hard to find hand holds. Time was of an essence and he had to get into position before the attack was due to begin.

The Bedowan had an easier time of it and skirted a steep valley to the east. There was a beaten track for them to follow, but still, it wasn't a Sunday stroll.

He'd convinced Dogan to use their crossbows and suggested a way of solving the 'rate of fire' problem. Sixteen archers were to be divided into two teams of eight each. Four in each team would fire while the other four would load. The loaders would then change weapons with the firers and so on. Karyn had volunteered for the eastern flank team and she was a woman who got her own way. She was to load for Dogan.

They'd practiced all the day before and sent arrow after arrow into the targets, each archer loosing fractionally after the other, so they could keep up almost a continuous salvo. That way, Valentin reasoned, the Landsvaar defenders would have to keep their heads down while the Bedowan advanced to the pallisade.

The log wall was to be scaled by ropes with a wooden baton tied to one end. The Bedowan were to throw these over so the baton caught between the pointed crenellations at the top of the wall. The Bedowan were experienced with the rope and shouldn't be too difficult a task for them. Once inside, the game would be settled with the knife and the heavy butts of their crossbows.

Shock and awe would be performed by Valentin's D-20, firing down from the crags above. Hopefully, a good portion of the garrison would already be disabled before the Bedowan fell upon them.

Valentin carried about 60 rounds of ammunition and his 'coup de main, ' a hand grenade. This he hoped to drop right into the middle of the fort for added effect. He also carried extra water and dried rations for a day on the mountain. In his pack was his sleeping bag and waterproof fly, for he had to reckon that, at this time of the year, rain wasn't out of the question.

And so it was that, not far from the top, a cold, sleety rain began to fall. His wool clothing was soon soaked and weighed him down even more. Before he crested the ridge, he threw himself into a narrow defile. He realised he was suffering the first signs of exposure and needed to get warmth, and water into his system.

He checked his watch, forcing himself to focus, as he was trained to do. He talked to himself, reminded himself of the mission, and the timing. He was to signal the attack, and he needed to give the Bedowan time to get into position.

Fatigue was beginning to show on Radetsky's face. There were shadows under his eyes and he frequently shook his head to stay awake. The man had been up for 20 hours but refused to go to his bunk. He was determined to see this mission succeed and Gorshin respected that and left him to it.

"Time?" Gorshin asked.

"0515, sir."

"Steady as she goes... speed?"

"19 knots, sir."

"Good, very good!"

"Time is relative to motion," Boomer said, "and inertia is mass times speed. Y'think we'll cover all bases, Commander, by repeating exactly the same course and speed at precisely the same time of day?"

"Yes, but measurable time is a construct. A phenomenon cannot know the time of day by the hour unless it is constructed by man. It either responds to some astronomic condition or someone's controlling it with a chronometer."

"That's an idea," Boomer smiled, "a time portal controlled by aliens?"

"Don't count anything out, Captain," Gorshin smiled.

"Sir? 10 minutes!"

"Right! Thank you, Navigation. You pray, Boomer?"

"Only when the Lakers are losing or Dubya Bush tells me a war is won."

"8 minutes!"

"Your Lakers are going to lose, Boomer?"