Chapter 10

In the sixties, Soviet submarines were renown for being exceptionally fast underwater. What they weren't particularly good at was hiding from Western detection. Russian submarines were noisy, uncomfortable and not particularly reliable compared to their Western counterparts.

Enter a Soviet spy called John Anthony Walker. This American sub specialist was able to acquaint the Soviets with the ways and means to silence their boats. So successful were the Russians in incorporating the data in their designs that some Russian subs were so quiet Western detectors were only able to find them by the very absence of ambient noise. Ironically, the first submarine designed to this standard was the type 971 'Shchuka B' attack sub, known to NATO as the 'Akula'.

The missile boats called Akulas by the Russians and Typhoons by NATO are regarded by some as the best submarines in the World. They can remain underwater for half a year, they are exceptionally habitable because of their roominess and at 27 knots underwater, they are fast for such a large boat. And by large, we might mean as much as 33 to 38,000 tons submerged displacement. Their level of survivability is exceptional for Russian subs, thanks to a system of independent internal pressure hulls. 'Acoustic hull disconnection' is an ugly word construction but means the noisy parts of the sub, the propulsion system, is fully isolated from the outside hull. This makes them exceptionally quiet boats.

The absence of a current Cold War, however, makes the Akulas an expensive anachronism. Could an Akula have prevented 9/11, the Beslan school siege, the Moscow theatre debacle or the London and Madrid train bombings? What use is a nuclear strike against an enemy infrastructure within one's own borders? It's ironic the Soviets designed a near perfect knife to participate in a gunfight.

Fortunately, the three surviving Akulas are ideal platforms for the new conventional missile systems optimised for undersea to surface warfare, such as the Belava. As such they are becoming guided missile rather than ballistic subs. But they still remain one of the last words in undersea comfort, with a gymnasium, spa pool, sauna, smoking room and more space that old Mr Holland ever thought possible.

I say three, but a forth, the Retvizan, disappeared off the Azores on its last cruise in November 2006. At the present time, no trace has been found and the current theory involved a repeat of the Kursk tragedy with an explosion caused by faulty torpedoes.

The Retvizan may have plummetted beyond its crush depth? How was that possible, the Russian Admiralty reasoned, with munitions confined and isolated in their own pressure hull? An Akula should remain bouyant even if one of its hulls was breached. There were no signs of a reactor meltdown or other catastrophic failure. Could've the officers on board suddenly become suicidal? There seemed few other explanations.

The Kursk tragedy had shown the Russian Navy the foolishness of exaggerrated secrecy and kneejerk responses. The last thing they wanted was desperate and angry relatives demanding answers at a public meeting televised around the world. But the modern navy now had PR management and a trained specialist able to front the media. Rather than some defensive, stern-faced and excessively bureaucratic old admiral, Polyarnii wheeled out its own version of Colin Powell.

"All efforts are being made," he said, "and full co-operation has been extended by Spanish authorities. Russia welcomes the offers of specialist equipment from the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom. Everything is being done to fully inform families of the crew. And, yes, there is every reason to believe many of the crew are still alive."

The Retvizan had been on a training cruise, the last before retirement. It had been 'de-nuclearised, ' and instead of its 20 RSM-52 SLBMs, known to NATO as the SS-N-20 'Sturgeon', its missile silos were ballasted. It still retained its complement of RPK-7 'Vodopad' (SS-N-16 'Stallion') anti-ship and RPK-2 'Viyoga' (SS-N-15 'Starfish') cruise missiles but these were now armed with conventional warheads under an agreement with the Americans.

All of its weapons systems were 1980s vintage and unlikely to cause too much heartburn to Naval Intelligence. Doubtless little could be gleaned from their examination that wasn't already well-known.

The Akulas, however, were a point of pride to the navy. To lose one in such circumstances was a disaster for the navy's prestige in the eyes of the public. To every patriotic Russian who endured the spectacular collapse of the old Soviet Union's vast conscript military forces during the nineties, at least the Akulas were there to remind them they could build the best submarines in the world. To think they sink like everyone else's was as traumatic as the Titanic disaster.

Why have them anyway, the pragmatists ask? What global interests are they protecting? Surely they're a colossal waste of money in the new geopolitical scenery? Operations had been cut back as a nod to the Government's bean counters, but searching questions had to be asked beyond national pride. Why, now, they were seen to be vulnerable to failure as well. Those who clung on to the Akulas as a necessity needed answers to the Retvizan's disappearance.

Starshkiy Leytenant Fedyunsky's old quarters on the submarine in question was spacious compared to Chino's cabin next to the hospital. It was forward of 3C in the port accomodation hull. 3C was a deck above and a short sprint for Pavlov when the bells rang for general quarters. The navy's idea of a bed didn't allow for wives and girlfriends but they'd improvised with the use of a fold down stretcher. The cabin had its own shower and toilet and there was a small study next door. Johnny had his own DVD player and 14" TV. Chino was able to use the sub's movie library and there were games and a Playstation for further entertainment.

Life on a submarine when one didn't have any duties could be dull in the extreme. Johnny did his best to help her relieve boredom, even sneaking her into 3C during the graveyard watch, but, she thought, he didn't really understand that being with him was adequate compensation.

He started to teach her Russian and she practiced by listening to dubbed American shows where she knew most of the English dialogue. Sometimes they'd sit in bed and he'd read to her from his favourite authors. Pavlov was cultured and well-educated with a bewildering range of interests and she loved to hear him explain things.

She was, perhaps, the only one who was surprised by the way things turned out. There'd been little doubt among their friends and acquaintances that she and Pavlov would wind up together. It was a match as inevitable as the sluggish tide that flowed into Schmetterlingfjord.

The Retvizan was coping with short-handed watches, thanks to the numbers that had been left behind on shore for construction purposes. It meant some of the 3C specialists had to double up on the monitors. With Johnny required to be more often away, time together had a special meaning.

Chino remembered a brief conversation they'd had concerning contraception. She'd told him she was on the pill but couldn't recall telling him she'd run out. In any case he must've figured that out by now and, by a tacit understanding, they were letting nature take its course. Contraceptive pills weren't something a nuclear submarine normally stocks, nor indeed, any other devices. She was sure babies would be arriving soon among the women of Schmetterlingfjord and was equally sure she'd probably be contributing her share.

There was 11 years difference in their ages. Chino had only taken the first few steps towards adult life whereas Johnny had fought in a war, lived five or so years with his Russian girlfriend and completed a degree at university. Yet the disparity between their life experiences hadn't seemed to be an issue.

The Retvizan was eerily quiet as it cruised submerged. Occasionally she could hear crew moving about but otherwise, in this part of the boat, there was no hum of machinery. Forward through the accomodation hull took her to the weapons areas, RSM silos and then the torpedo rooms. Somewhere way above her, just forward of the fin complex, was the surface to air missile launcher. Johnny had told her it had nine tubes and popped up out of the hull on a kind of ramp. Nine missiles were all they had as they could only be reloaded in port. She couldn't imagine anything in this world that could threaten this underwater city. Cruise missiles, torpedoes, 'SUBROC' type anti ship missiles and even a SAM launcher? What had they to fear?

Schmetterlingfjord and Schmetterlingdun were a mouthful for the Nordvolk's latest immigrants. A name that was more relevant and easy to pronounce needed to be found. 'Novaya Polyarna' was tried but didn't meet a consensus. Similarly, there was 'Novorossisk, ' Russdun, ' 'Russingdun, ' 'Raatvisa, ' 'Retvizannifjord, ' and various permutations and verbal concoctions, but all were rejected for one reason or another.

"'Eden'," suggested 13 year old Australian Lynette Foreman and all agreed it was a simple solution.

60 odd people had been left at Eden to continue the building of cabins and a hall. Trading vessels called 'Flytes, ' had arrived bringing seedlings, and other necessities. A couple of engineers from the Retvizan had constructed a forge and began turning out nails and steel tools for trade. Another, a self-taught carpenter and joiner, was building furniture in a workshop he'd constructed himself.

Most of the Eden residents were there by choice. They were the adventurers and those who'd a taste and expertise for low tech living. Valentin Gavriel had a small team of the like minded for exploration. Fedyunsky, as senior officer ashore, took on the temporary role of 'Meister.' Roscoe, with Shapalaev in tow, went a huntin' and soon there was a steady supply of fresh meat on the table.

Amy and Michael Shteyn repaired a pinewood log cottage for themselves then ordered themselves a crib from the carpenter. They swore him to secrecy, explaining they wanted to make an official announcement when everyone was home.

Meanwhile, Valentin led his small team up from the landing below Mount Gavriel towards the ridge he'd surveyed earlier. His two companions both had climbing experience, Yanagawa Heichiro and another Japanese known as Katzuo Suzuki. This time, Valentin checked out a D-20 from the armoury and saw his companions were armed with service pistols. He remembered that feeling the last time he was there, the feeling of being watched.

The climb seemed more arduous than he recalled, but then, they were bringing up more equipment. Valentin wanted to set up a base camp at the head of the gully and they carried extra water, tents, and enough food for three of four days. He also checked out some tactical radios so they could keep in touch with one another and a base radio for communication with Eden.

"Here," he signalled to the two Japanese. There was a good flat at the top of the bushline and it seemed dry and sheltered. They dropped their packs and began to set up camp.

The gully walls were sheer rock face and to the left, rose up to the peak Valentin had named after himself. Today, however, the mission was to seek out a path inland from the ridge and find a good place for a further camp. Exploration was going to be an exacting and deliberate process and they planned to make detailed maps as they went along.

Yanagawa had good English, having been a student at Osaka University before being called up for the Imperial Navy. Katzuo had none at all and Valentin's wasn't terrific. Valentine knew no Japanese and the Japanese knew no Russian. Language communication was time consuming and they relied more on signing. Base radio communications was to be handled by Yanagawa with Roscoe handling the Eden end. This freed up Valentin, the most experienced of them all, for exploration duties.

They all had a good lunch before Katzuo and Valentin set off to climb the ridge. The Japanese submariner was a gifted artist and was to draw maps and make sketches of what they discovered.

"Aaah, sooo!" Katzuo stared in wonder at the view. The man squatted, and pulled a parchment from his bag. No amount of urging would stir the man and Valentin grew impatient. He decided to leave the man to his sketches and check out a couple of likely routes down the other side. There appeared to be goat tracks being well-beaten and very narrow. Valentin edged carefully down the Eastern face. Down below, a scree fell into an even narrower defile, dizzying in its depth. How any routes could be found through such country defeated his imagination.

The going became easier the lower he descended. It begged him on, perhaps further then his good sense would've suggested. There was a bend in the track around a solid slab of rock. Rounding it he saw a low hill opposite covered in sparse mountain scrub. It swept down into a promising valley and there was a stream, fast and flowing down several cataracts. Valentin stopped to rest and take in the grandeur of the scenery. He heard a faint hiss at the same time he felt a blow to his calf. Looking down he saw a shaft protruding. The end was notched and it was fletched with thin wood. He knew instantly it came from a crossbow.

The Retvizan was making its best possible underwater speed in the conditions, around 20 knots. Their depth was 120 metres, which Gorshin considered was the sub's most efficient in these seas. He and Pavlov remained in 3C to view the read outs from the towed array they'd just released. They hoped it would give them a long range sonar scan free from interference from the hull of the Retvizan.

"Inertial position?" he called to the navigator.

"158'34" East by 19'42" North, sir," he replied, "approximately 60 kilometres East of Hawaii."

"Not 'Havai'," he grinned.

"Of course, sir, Havai."

"Sonar? Any sign of our friends the Farnow?"

"Sea's empty, sir."

"Continue your sweep."

Commander Gorshin was hoping to encounter more vessels stranded in time like themselves. Hopefully, he'd find more people with whom to compare experiences.

"Shall we cruise past the Eastern side of the island? Perhaps they've taken more women, sir?" Pavlov suggested.

"Perhaps? But lets patrol the western approaches for a while. We can do that on the way back."

It was well into the afternoon when the Retivizan left the cone shaped peak of Mauna Loa behind. The sun began to settle in the west when the Commander brought the boat up to periscope depth for a final view before nightfall.

Almost instantly, the radio monitor burst into life.

"Sir, sir," cried the young specialist, "listen to this!"

"Put it through the speaker," Gorshin ordered.

"... requesting ATC clearance to Las Palmas," it said, "Repeating that, this is Canadian 204 heavy requesting ATC clearance to Las Palmas..."

"Sir," Pavlov said, "that's the Canary Islands."

"I know it is. Quiet!"

"Sir?" cried another specialist, "we've got satellite... and GPS, sir, we've got a fix 200 kilometres West of the Azores!"

"Try the Admiralty Net?" the Commander ordered, excited.

"Sir! It's scrolling... It's... it's downloading. Sir there's a shitload of communications backlogs..."

"Pick one, what does it say?" the Commander said hurrying over to the screen.

"Um, blah, blah... Polyarnii requesting status. There's heaps more the same, sir, going back... ah... sir? Over a year?"

"Radkin, what the Hell are you saying?" asked Gorshin, irritated.

"The date, sir? Look at the date? We've, ah, been away a year."