Chapter 3

The outboard motor was muffled to a hum. The three of them, Pavlov, Shapalaev and a marine called Shteyn motored inshore around the dark columns of volcanic rock that rose out of the sea like chimneys. The sea was a placid swell but almost immeasurably deep, rising sharply upwards towards the sheer rockfaces.

The eastern side of this island of 'Havai' was high, rocky and forbidding. It was as if the whole volcano had tilted west, leaving it's raw haunches exposed for all to see. Pavlov adjusted his night vision goggles once more. He wondered how anything could get close to that dark shore without tearing itself to pieces.

"What do you think, Shteyn?" Pavlov asked. Shteyn was the small boat specialist and if anybody could navigate to the shore, he could.

"Dunno, sir," he yelled back over the slopping of the surf over the rocks, "we need some sort of channel through there. Those rocks will tear the bottom off."

The inflatable was one of their smallest, capable of only carrying four men. Shteyn thought it'd be more handy than their bigger boats. It had a carbon fibre planing bottom and, supposedly, puncture proof neoprene hull. But Shteyn insisted it was still only a rubber tyre with an outboard and the volcanic rock would rip it to bits.

"Ah... aha!" Shapalaev exclaimed, "to the left. That's interesting!"

The marine pointed to darker area of the rockface, roughly rectangular in shape, with what looked to be a relatively calm and rock free channel leading to it.

"Take us in," Pavlov ordered, and Shteyn turned up the throttle a fraction.

Gingerly, Shteyn guided them between two rocks and towards the cave. The sea washed right in and the marine steered the boat under the arch, some 30 metres above them.

Inside, they saw a slab of rock that sloped down into the water like a natural slipway. The motor's hum increased in volume in the confined space and Pavlov ordered Shteyn away, telling him he'd radio when they needed retrieving. Deftly, he and Shapalaev scrambled up the slippery rock as Shteyn spun the boat around and headed out the way he'd come. They dropped into cover behind rocks and strained to listen over the roar over the water.

They appeared to be alone. They both scanned the area carefully with their NVGs, D-20s poised for signs of trouble. Satisfied, they brought their heads together to confer.

The cavern could accommodate many boats and these could easily be hauled up on the slipway. Some holes had been cut in the rock, evidently for lashing boats. There was even a short length of hemp rope, carelessly left at the top of the slipway. This had to be a dock, but where were the boats and where were all the sailors?

Behind them, a well-worn path lead up to a passage. Some steps had been cut in the rock and Pavlov wondered where the Farnow had got the tools to hack into the hard volcanic stone.

Their attempts at discovering more about this tiny community had been futile. After a week, and the kowan had become problematic, contacts became more and more fruitless. They Farnow were acquisitive and trading was an unknown concept. Daani provided all they required and it didn't occur to them to offer anything in return.

To steal was a perfectly acceptable practice, providing it was from the servants of Daani. A successful theft had clearly been ordained by the gods or it wouldn't have happened. Equipment had gone missing from the shore parties and the Commander had ordered more caution.

Pavlov suggested to Commander Gorshin that they ought to adopt a more aggressive stance, or they'd be plundered blind. He also suggested they carry out more covert activities to discover what these people were hiding.

There were too many inconsistancies about the Farnow. They seemed too small to be a viable community. They seemed in good health and well-fed yet appeared to have little to live on. There was no evidence of women, yet they must sustain their population somehow. They knew there were children somewhere, but had never seen any. They were a sea-nomadic community yet none of the shore parties had seen any boats. For a nomadic people, too, they appeared to be well-established on the island.

Gorshin suspected they were not observing all of the community. The social organisation appeared to be top heavy with chiefs, suggesting a much larger group. Such a group, a mere twenty, only required one person to make the decisions, unless there was some consensus arrangement. This was not the case as the Farnow was hierarchical, with a careful system of precedence and status.

Carefully, Pavlov and Shapalaev moved from cover to have a look around. A perilous path was cut into the inside of the cavern as the sea slopped below. Pavlov inched around to the other side, while Shapalaev had a good look around the slipway.

Almost to the other side, Pavlov encountered a rock blocking the path. Chiseled into it was the word 'NOGO, ' 'forbidden.' Carefully, Pavlov inched around the obstacle and continued on. He'd seen an opening on the opposite wall of the cavern and wanted to check it out.

Suddenly, he spied movement ahead and crouched down. He looked back towards Shapalaev and saw he'd disappeared into the passage above the slipway. He hoped he didn't reappear too soon and blow their cover.

Pavlov was in an awkward position. The path was narrow, below was the sea and to his right, rock. Carefully he moved forward to find some cover, pausing and scanning for more movement. Putting his hand slowly up to the side of his NVG he flicked on the infra-red and repeated the scan. There, by the mouth of the passage was a faint heat signature; still, crouched and waiting.

"Shap... company... my 12," he whispered into his throat mike.

"Coming," Pavlov's ear receiver crackled.

"Stay... cave portal... see?"

"Got it... one patch... by that rock."

"Cover me... I'll work around his 6."

Meanwhile, to the west of Havai the alarm bells began to ring around the Retvizan, calling the crew to general quarters. Gorshin, with Roscoe, the American, close behind, shot through the hatch into 3C.

"Report!" Gorshin called to Fedyunsky, the watch officer.

"Aerial contact bearing 35 degrees, sir, 10,000 metres, height 4000. It's small and slow moving."

"Can we bring it up on audio? Let's listen to it," the Commander ordered.

Presently a dull, barely audible drone filtered through the speakers. The engine had a peculiar rattling sound and was clearly a piston powered aircraft.

"Do we know it's size?" Roscoe said, a look of concentration on his face.

"Span is approximately 10,11 metres," the Russian operator said, looking at Gorshin for permission to release the information. "Speed is around 90 knots. It appears to have floats below the wings..."

"It's a 'Glen'," announced Roscoe, "I'm sure of it!"

"What's a 'Glen'?" asked the Commander.

"A Yokosuka seaplane the Jap's launch from big submarines. It's single engined with a crew of two. They use them for reconnaissance."

"Is it armed?"

"A machine gun in the rear cockpit. But they often fly with just the one crewman to increase their range. Skip, the Brits captured one of their subs off Malaya with one on board. They fold them up and fit them inside a cylindrical hangar just forward of the sail. They brought it to Hawaii so we could all have a look at it. I even watched the Army fly around Pearl in it. It sounded just like that, with that crackle and everything."

"Ok," breathed Gorshin, "let's assume you're correct, Roscoe. It's a small plane so the sub that launched it can't be very far away. Have we doused our lights?" he called.

"Yes, sir."

"Then all we can do is sit tight for the time being. We must assume, however, that this Japanese submarine will launch an attack upon us. We must be gone in 24 hours. Keep an around the clock sonar watch and if anything comes within range I want battle stations called immediately, is that clear?"

"Damn!" Roscoe said, "I'd sure like the Japs to have a shot at this baby. It'll be a pleasure to see their faces when they realise what they've caught."

"Roscoe, we're not at war. If I have to I'll defend the ship, but I'm not looking for trouble."

"Sure thing, skip, sure thing!" he grinned.

Pavlov carefully stalked the unknown person while Shapalaev kept them covered from across the cavern. Their target was still, and appeared crouched behind a rock as if observing. They didn't appear to have spotted Pavlov as he carefully crawled around to come up behind.

At last the figure was fully exposed to Pavlov's NVG. The green image appeared to be small and clad head to foot in robes of some sort. Rather than observing, the figure was leaning with their back against the rock. Clearly, they hadn't seen them at all and didn't know Pavlov was there. He shifted to his right to come up from the side and back.

Suddenly, the figure sprang up and looked around. Pavlov moved quickly and brought the person to the ground, hand over the mouth.

Like Shapalaev, Pavlov was dressed in a black immersion suit and hood. Strapped across his eyes was the square black box of his NVG. In soft patches around his body was spare ammunition for the D-20, clipped to his back. He must look nothing short of a goblin from Hell to these people.

With his hand firmly clamped across his prisoner's mouth, he called for Shteyn to come in and pick them up. Shapalaev hurried across to join them and together they carried their struggling captive back to the slipway.

The figure weighed practically nothing, but struggled like a demon. Pavlov loosened his grip and was rewarded by a bite to the palm of his hand. Angered, they carried their fighting bundle down to meet Shteyn, tossed it in the boat, and sat on it.

Once out to sea again, Pavlov shifted off, keeping a tight grip lest they jump overboard. The prisoner lunged to bite, but he was ready and cracked them over the face with the back of his hand.

"You're not doing that twice!" he spat.

"Fuck you!" came the reply, in a girl's voice, in precise English.

"What?" gasped Pavlov.

"What are you, special forces? You look like fucking ninjas. Who sent you? Are you Navy?"

"Um, yes, Russian."

"Russian? You kidding? Shit, I should be grateful there's anyone left alive."

"What do you mean?"

"Beslan siege? Remember that? How many kids did you guys kill just to get a couple of terrorists, huh?"

"What the Hell is she saying, sir?" Shapalaev, a non-English speaker, asked.

"Let's get her back the Retvizan," Pavlov said, shaking his head.

The control rods were extracted on Retvizan's two reactors and gradually steam pressure began to rise. Pavlov noticed the activity, as well as the darkened ship, as they located their vessel once more. Hastily, the recovery detail hauled the boat over the hull to the hatch and the four occupants hastened up the ladder to follow it down to the Retvizan's bowels.

"Way cool!" the girl piped up as they descended the ladder. Once below, Pavlov guided her back through the port pressure hull to the officer's mess aft of 3C. Gorshin came through immediately to see what they'd brought back.

"She's American," Pavlov told him, "from the 21st century, I'd guess, approximately our own time."

Gorshin looked her up and down. She was dressed head to foot in white cotton robes like a Muslim. Her hair was tightly bound inside her headress under a close fitting scarf. Around her waist was a leather belt and short knife.

"You're wet and cold," he told her, "I'll get the orderly to find some dry clothes. You hungry?"

"Starved," the girl said, "hey, this brute slapped me," she told the Commander, "can you court marshal him or something?"

"Get comfortable, madam, then we can press charges later. Pavlov? Get out of that gear and give me a debrief."

"Pavlov?" piped up the girl, "his name's Pavlov? Hey, Pavlov, where's your dog?"

"She seems educated?" Gorshin said, raising his eyebrows.

"Too educated, sir," Pavlov replied.

Specialist Golovko tapped lightly on the door of the officer's mess. There was no reply, so he tapped again. "Madam?" he called.

"Just a minute, huh? I'm not decent... ok, come in, now."

Golovko opened the door and marched in. The girl was just buttoning up a shirt that was two sizes too big. Her brown hair was loose and hung long down her back. Golovko was surprised how young and pretty she looked. But then, all girls looked pretty after so long at sea.

"Madam?" Golovko said, "I'm Specialist First Class Igor Golovko. I've come to ask you some questions."

"Iggy? You're my interrogator? What happened to the cute one who slapped me around?"

"Madam, Senior Lieutenant Pavlov is in a meeting with the Commander."

"It's a pity, but, okay, shoot? Are you taking me home, now?"

"Where is your home," Golovko asked.

"California. San Francisco. How come they sent you guys and not the US Navy?"

"Um, may I sit down?" she nodded, "first," he drew breath, "first, nobody sent us. Lieutenant Pavlov and his team came upon you by accident. They were exploring the far side of the island?"

"So what exactly were you looking for?"

"Ah, do you mind if I ask a few questions first?" the Russian said, "I'll answer you later. I'll tell you all I can, promise." The girl nodded. "You have a name?"

"Of course I do, haven't you?"

"Could you please tell me?"

"Silvia Ellen Iachino. That's Italian, you know, my dad's Italian. You can call me 'Chino, ' if you like, everyone does at school."

"How old are you?"

"16, why? Are you looking for a date? How old are you?"

"25, um, do you mind if I ask the questions?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Unsettled, Golovko tried to stay focussed. She was a fox, this one, and he needed to watch his step. "How did you get to the island?"

"Take her out, exec," Gorshin ordered.

"Sir!" Fedyunsky replied, "up anchors... both engines ahead slow... steer 20 degrees starboard helm."

Roscoe strode through the hatch unannounced. Gorshin reminded himself he ought to talk to the American about protocol, that no-one enters 3C without asking permission. He didn't really mind the American that much, but the informality might spread to some of the crew causing discipline problems. Such things are going to become increasingly important as the men grew more homesick.

"Skip, any contact with that Jap sub?" Roscoe asked.

"Nothing yet. I'll tell you if we get anything. Can you tell me anything about these aircraft carrying submarines? What's their underwater speed?"

"No more'n about 8 or 9 knots. I'm picking it's an I-5. They're about 2,500 tons, four bow tubes with maybe three reloads. Don't know much more than that. You got any torpedoes on this thing?"

"Six tubes and one reload each. They're all conventional warheads with active homing devices."

"Huh?"

"The torpedoes emit a sonar signal then homes in on the echo. Once they acquire a target, little stops them until they run out of fuel."

"Oh, great! I'd sure like to see that. You get close enough, fire in the direction of the target, then the torpedoes do the rest, right?"