Chapter 1

The ocean boiled around them as the Retvizan hauled itself to the surface. Commander Gorshin hastened through the top pressure hatch onto the open con. Behind him Pavlov, his second officer, pushed the long range binoculars through the hatch before climbing to join him. Fixing them to the mounting on the side rail he swung them towards the green cone in the distance.

"Take a look, sir?" he asked his chief.

Gorshin took the scope himself and squinted through it.

"Volcanic in shape," he announced, "long extinct probably. It may be the peak of some sunken ridge. I see a clearing that doesn't look natural."

"Inhabited?"

"Perhaps? Or once was. I see no signs of recent activity."

"Maybe we ought to send a party ashore to take a look?"

"Hmm. I'd prefer if we waited awhile. The natives might not be friendly."

"I'd imagine they've taken to the bush, sir, once they sighted us."

"Nevertheless, there's too few of us left to get into wars. We'll wait."

There was more movement and Ben Roscoe squeezed through the hatch to join them.

"Whazzup, skip?" the American said.

Gorshin had got used to the American's lack of formality. In fact, the two men had grown to respect each other.

"An island," Gorshin told him, "do you recognise it?"

Ben studied it through the scope for a few minutes.

"It kind of reminds me of a mountain just north of Los Angeles. It's hard to say, though, could be anywhere."

"It can't be California," Gorshin told him, "unless the sun's shifted."

"I wouldn't discount that either, skip." Gorshin looked sideways at Ben, raising his eyebrows. Nothing could be discounted anymore, that's for sure. "Y'goin' to send a boat over?"

"In a while. I want to see if there's any inhabitants and what their demeanour is."

"Y'think there could be people?"

"Take a look at that clearing on the north side? It looks manmade."

"Caves, maybe? That mountain back home was riddled with them. Basalt, old vents, lava chambers... all kinds of shit."

"Con?" Gorshin spoke to the microphone, "stop engines and come about. I want anchors laid out."

Gradually, the 22,000 ton monster prescribed a gentle curve, the faint hum of the main engines slowing. The swishing of the wash past the light grey hull abated as the submarine came to a halt.

The Retvizan was not nimble on the surface nor particularly fast. Because of the salinity of the water, it rode unusually high and a good metre of blade appeared above the surface from the two spinning props. The tops of the twin rudders, too, were plainly visible, particularly when the bulbous bow dipped into a trough.

The higher friction caused by the salt content also affected her underwater speed and Gorshin found the Retvizan could barely make 18 knots under full power.

The Akulas had never been designed to operate in such temperatures the Retvizan now encountered. Originally, the 6 vessels of the class had been designed for Northern waters, beneath the Arctic ice, not in water that often topped 25 degrees Celsius. The humidity was tough on sensitive equipment and machinery and prevented the feedwater condensors from cooling efficiently. Consequently, they had to make do with decreased power.

Depth soundings recorded only 6 metres of water under her keel. Gorshin decided that had to be close enough or the Retvizan may hit bottom in the event of a storm.

Gorshin, Pavlov and Roscoe spent an hour on the fin before retreating below. The second officer organised around the clock observation, with no-one in the open for longer than an hour because of the ultra-violet radiation.

Later, the three bent over the chart table while Pavlov brought up various maps in sequence as far as the coast of California.

"Overlay the seafloor," Gorshin told him, scratching his jaw. "Section that area," he pointed. "Hmm... anything look familiar to you, Roscoe?"

"Could be the high point of Oahu. There used to be a State Park there. We had our radar at this point."

"Why?" Pavlov asked, "you haven't got a 360 degree sweep."

"Ask our Generals?" the American shrugged.

"Pavlov, I want an armed landing party of twelve in two boats," Gorshin told him, "each man to be equipped with two days rations, tropical kit, D-20 and 100 rounds of ammo."

"D-20?" Roscoe raised his eyebrows.

"It's a short automatic rifle, specialist marine weapon. They adapted them for use in confined spaces with a soft nose bullet to limit ricochets."

"Sounds like a perfect weapon for inside a submarine?"

"Yes," Gorshin grinned, "that's the idea. You don't want ammo that will penetrate bulkheads and damage vital machinery."

"Yet be there if the crew mutiny?"

"Or we're boarded."

"You got many on board?"

"A dozen or so," he sgrugged, "and about the same number of AK-74VDs... ah, a paratroop, folding stock assault rifle."

"So you have two dozen rifles and, what, officer's pistols?"

"That's correct."

"Not a big arsenal, skip?"

"No, and not a lot of ammunition either. You must remember, unlike you, we're not on a war footing. We just have the basic peacetime equipment. What are you thinking, Roscoe?"

"I'm thinking there might be trouble. If we came here, what if the Japs came too? You can be sure they'll shoot and ask questions later. That's what they do. They could be waiting for your boys to get inshore."

Two months before;

Commander Gorshin ducked through the hatch that led to 3C. His first Officer looked tired and drawn, his eyes red. He'd wished he'd been alerted sooner and decided to speak to Fedyunski. The book of rules was one thing, but some times you have to step aside from it. This was an emergency and he should have been woken earlier.

"Talk me through it?" he told his exec.

"Skip? Communications, SatNav are down. We have passive sensors, radar, sonar but otherwise we're deaf as a post." There was exasperation in his voice, clearly born out of frustration. Nevertheless, the Commander needed a briefing.

"Diagnostics?"

"Sir. We've run every test known to God. We have a multi systems failure. There's absolutely no provision in the manual for something like this."

"Ok, ok," Gorshin put up his hand, "go to your quarters and get some sleep. Get the relief in here and give these men a rest. We'll see if the next watch has better success."

"Wish you luck, skip. This gear is fucked, if you ask me."

"Thank you for your diagnosis, Fedyunski," Gorshin smiled, "now beat it!"

The Commander strolled carefully around the consoles studying the read outs as the watch departed from their posts. He tapped the ping test on the Admiralty Net and received nothing, no reading whatsoever. He sat down and punched out the call sign and waited. The alpha-numeric code hung lifeless on the screen. No answering scroll, no nothing. There should have been an automated reply if nothing else.

There was a shuffling behind him and the next watch busied themselves to their posts. Gorshin gave up his seat to the specialist who was going to run through exactly the same tests that Fedyunski ran all night.

When everyone had settled he gave his instructions. They were going to run diagnostics on all the equipment. He could feel them groan, but, out of respect, their feelings remained unvoiced.

"Raise mast," Gorshin commanded, "let's have a look around. Pan it, Pavlov," he told the new officer of the watch, "let's see the new day."

The image appeared on the large screen mounted on the forward bulkhead. It was of a clear, red sky and ocean as far as they could see. They saw there was a low-level swell, about half a metre, subtly disturbed by the passage of the submarine just below the surface.

"What's our INS, Shapalaev?" he asked.

"Off the Azores, skip, about 12 kilometres."

"Come again?" asked Gorshin, "where are they?"

"It should be there, skip," the tech said, slightly agitated.

"Well it's not. Check your bearings. Don't tell me we're lost as well?"

"Um, I don't understand. Check the chart?"

"You check it! Pavlov, take us to the surface. We'll do a solar fix. It's unthinkable we don't know where we are."

"Yes, sir!" snapped the exec. "We're surfacing," he announced, "sound the alarm. Main planes 10 degrees vertical inclination. Open vents on tanks 1 and 3... 5 and 6..." Gorshin listened to the orders repeated from the relevant navigational crew. They went about their jobs efficiently. How could things go so drastically wrong? "trim ship... my depth?"

"45 metres, exec... 40... 35. Rising rate 4 metres per second, sir."

"Good... breaking... mast down."

"Mast down... fin is up, exec. 10 metres... we're on the top, sir."

"Commander, we're on the surface at a speed of 10.5 knots, bearing 135 magnetic."

"Right, Pavlov, let's go up top?" Gorshin said.

"Sir!" cried one of the techs, "Aerial radar contact 85 degrees starboard."

"Identify?" Gorshin asked, pausing by the ladder.

"Um... a slow moving aircraft of medium size. It appears to be propellor driven."

"And your guess?"

"Um... could be an Orion, sir, but it's moving too slowly."

"A slow moving Orion, perhaps?" the Commander asked. The tech shrugged and Gorshin shook his head in frustration. He climbed the ladders leading to the navigational position on top of the fin.

The fin was in three levels with an equipment room housing the hydraulic motors for raising the mast, an electronics room for the various sensors, and a con position for running on the surface in rough weather. Top most was the open con. It took the two officers three minutes to climb to the very top. Gorshin spun the lockwheel for the top pressure hatch and it hissed open. The men took the last metre of the ladder and looked around.

"What the..." gasped the Commander. Pavlov plugged the com in and Gorshin grabbed the mike immediately. "Navigation," he barked, anger making his voice ring around the control room below. "Time and course, please!"

"0530, sir, course 135."

"Then what the Hell is the sun doing to the East?"

"Sir, ah, I don't understand."

"Let me explain. Our course is South. The time is 5.30 in the morning. The sun should be rising in the West: that is to starboard, Navigation, not to port. Could we have sailed a reciprocal?"

"Um... let me check, sir... ah... INS, fine sir. I really don't get it, sir."

"Shit!" Gorshin spat.

"Skip? Kinda weird sea, don't you think? It's running the wrong way," Pavlov said.

"Got your glass there, Pavlov. Let's do it the old fashioned way. Fix the sun and see where we are?"

"Sir. Shall we have a look at that aircraft?"

"May as well. I hope he knows where he's going," Gorshin grumbled.

"Ah... ah... there, I see it," Pavlov said, looking through his large, fixed binoculars. "It's four engined... 'bout 4000 metres... heading this way. I don't recognise it as yet."

"Probably a Spanish patrol plane."

"It's not an Orion, sir, the configuration's all wrong. It's more like an old flying boat."

"What? Like one of those wartime Sunderlands?"

"More like a Martin, I think. Yes, it's American, a Martin flying boat."

"Must have been restored by some enthusiasts," Gorshin told him.

"I'd say. It's painted up in old US Navy colours. Want a look?"

"Right now, I'm more interested in finding out where we are and where we're going."

"Sure, skip. Um, sir? The sun's going down."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's evening. Our chronos must all be 12 hours out. We are on 135, sir, except it's evening, not morning. And sir?"

"What?" Gorshin said, trying to digest the information.

"The sea's running the wrong way. I think we've slipped hemispheres."

Commander Gorshin moved forward to the rail and looked out over the ocean. "Pavlov? I don't know what's going on. What's your fix?"

"Moment, sir." Pavlov flicked through his tables. "Here, thought so. We're in the middle of the Pacific, sir, according to this. Assuming we're at 1730, not 0530, we're here, sir, 120 kilometres west of Hawaii."

"That's impossible. Check again. Our INS is telling us we're off the Azores. The sun is telling us we're in the middle of the Pacific. The GPS doesn't say anything at all and we can't raise anybody on the radio. What does that tell you?"

"Um... we're lost, sir?"

"Exactly! Radio?" he called through the com, "call that plane and ask them where we are?"

"Sir, we can't do that," Pavlov said in alarm. "It's against standing orders."

"I'm changing them. Radio, pipe it up, on second thoughts I'll talk to them." Gorshin switched the com to shortwave and broadcast on all civil frequencies. There was no reply, so he tried Naval bands. "Martin flying boat, this is Russian submarine ahead of you. Can you give me a navigational fix, please?" Gorshin spoke English, as the universal civil aviation language.

"Russian sub, Russian sub, this is Foxtrot patrol. Sir, ah, I was hoping you could help. We've lost our radio fix."

"We've no SatNav and my Navigator has just fixed us in the middle of the Pacific. Can you do better than that?"

"Sir, ah, Hawaii should be on your beam, sir. Can't say for sure how far. I think we'd better head back the way we came."

The Russian officers looked at each other open mouthed. "He can't be that lost, sir," Pavlov said, "he'd know what ocean he was in."

"So should we, exec. Foxtrot, we're you supposed to be going?"

"Well, sir, can't really say, sir. We're on long range patrol, that's all I'm at liberty to tell you."

"Patrol?" Gorshin chuckled, "for who? What are you patrolling in an old plane like that?"

"US Navy, sir. And sir, ah, I have to ask you what you're doing here? I thought you were a Jap. You're lucky we didn't drop a trash can on you."

"What the Hell are you saying, Foxtrot?"

"Japs, Russian sub, Japs, sir. I don't recognise your type, sir. I ain't never seen a sub that size, sir."

"US Navy? You must revise your recon charts. We are an Akula class missile boat. You call us Typhoons, I think."

"Typhoons, sir? Ain't heard of them. Say, ah, can you contact Hawaii for us? We can't raise them."

"Negative, Martin, we've been calling up everybody and can't raise a smile."

"Same here, sir. Guam doesn't answer, nor Midway, nobody. Y'reckon it could be sun spots?"

"Unlikely, Foxtrot, but I'll listen to any theory. You know we're supposed to be in the Atlantic, off the Azores?"

"Hell, sir, now that's lost! Say, Russian sub, how come you haven't got a deck gun, sir?.