Chapter 6

The sun was a gold semi circle bathing the stark and menacing fin of the Retvizan in a purply hue. Gorshin and Fedyunsky stood on the open con with two lookouts staring at the lifeless and slender shape of the Japanese submarine. It was low down in the water and still had an awning spread on the afterdeck.

Gorshin trained his binoculars along its deck. He saw sailors spilling out from below and running to their posts. Most of them were bare chested, wearing only white or khaki shorts. On their heads some were wearing straw coolie hats and some, their navy issue forage caps. Most had a length of white cotton material over the backs of their necks as protection from the sun's rays.

The rising sun flag flapped fitfully in the breeze, it's bold rays radiating out from the red disk in the centre. Atop the sail was a small, white, vertical, rectangular flag on a bamboo pole with two kanto characters in black. Gorshin had no idea what they meant. It could be the sub's name or a signal of distress. On the other hand, it could just be the table cloth of the officer's mess hung out to dry.

Sailors swarmed over the deck gun and another couple cut through the long awning ropes with knives. Eventually, the awning let go and majestically lifted up, soared briefly, then settled into the sea.

"Make the signal," Gorshin ordered, and Fedyunsky began to work the lever of the morse lamp.

'Are you in distress... are you in distress... ' he signalled, repeatedly.

"Raise the flag," said Gorshin, and a lookout attached the old Soviet Naval ensign to the periscope mast with nylon webbing.

There was no noticable pause in the activity on the Japanese vessel.

"Sir?" Fedyunski said, "they're taking no notice."

"Keep signalling!"

On top of the sail a party hauled a long, black gun of some description through the hatch and passed it down to others waiting on a platform immediately forward of the con. These fixed it to a pedestal and began to gather steel boxes of ammo other sailors were passing to them.

It was obvious to the Commander the Japanese intended to fight their ship to the last. It scarcely seemed to matter who the enemy were. The deck gun crew had readied their piece and were vigourously training it around to point at the Retvizan's fin.

"It's the Alamo, sir!" Fedyunsky commented.

"Keep signalling."

"Sir? It's hopeless. They want this. You don't understand the Japanese."

"Keep tapping that morse, exec!"

"Sir!" Fedyunsky's voice was starting to show signs of panic. "We're a sitting duck!"

"The morse lamp!"

Gorshin stared at the Japanese sub through his binoculars from the forward rail. He lowered them to rub his eyes, then put them to his face again. 'Any rational skipper of a vessel at war must see we are not threatening but trying to help. Are these people so locked into the vainglorious, the heroic death against overwhelming might? Why do they not see this is all a pointless waste of life?'

'WHUMPF' The Japanese deck gun emitted a cloud of smoke. All on the Retvizan's fin heard the shell rush past like a runaway train.

"Sir?" yelled Fedyunsky.

"Get down below!" he ordered the lookouts.

'TAT, TAT, TAT... ' The automatic weapon on the forward platform started firing a raking burst. A round pinged off the front of the fin and ricocheted away.

"Commander!" Fedyunsky yelled, desperate, "you must fire!"

'WHUMPF' This time the shell passed much closer and Gorshin strode to the side rail to see where it landed. Fedyunsky grabbed the mike and stared at his skipper.

'TAT, TAT, TAT... ' More bullets pinged off the thick steel of the fin and both officers instinctively ducked.

"Very well!" Gorshin sighed, shook his head, and wandered aft.

"Fire!" Fedyunsky yelled into the mike.

The sea in front of the bows boiled and a whitish trail could be seen just below the surface. It curved slightly towards the Japanese submarine to strike fair and square below its sail.

Fractionally later a column of water rose up from the centre of the boat followed by a clap like thunder. Brown smoke issued forth and rose like a mini nuclear cloud, ballooning up into the reddish sky. Fore and aft men tumbled into the water or were thrown like acrobats up into the air. The submarine seem to flex like a swimming seal then subside back into the water.

Its back broken, the centre section of the sub sank lower leaving the bow and stern sticking up out of the sea. In a hiss of escaping air, the sub rolled onto its port side and disappeared in a pool of churning, bubbling water spitting pieces of debris back up to the surface.

Some of that debris moved and waved desperately while others floated lifeless like someone's clothing carelessly discarded. Gorshin gave the order to blow all ballast tanks and alerted the rescue teams to their grim duty.

The hull seemed frustratingly reluctant to emerge so the hatches could be opened. Some of the Japanese began to swim towards them. Others seem content to just sink below the water in one last show of defiance.

It seemed to take an age for the rescue team to get two inflatables over the side and out to rescue the remaining men in the water. In that time, Gorshin thought, more than a dozen succumbed to the sea, or chose to perish.

"Do they realise that, doubtless, there's no-one who's going to light incense or pray to some Shinto shrine? This sacrificial heroism is as empty as the Sea of Japan."

Gorshin stood quietly by the rail watching his men sort the living from the dead.

"Left, left, so," Shapalaev told Roscoe.

'CRACK.'

"Under," Shapalev said.

"Damn!" Roscoe spat, "gimme the glasses. Let's have another look?" Roscoe stared intently through the binoculars until he was sure he'd fixed a reference. Extravagantly, he crouched a little lower and adjusted the backsight of the AK-74 once again. "Gimme a butt?" he ordered Shapalaev and the young Russian marine quickly pulled a cigarette from the packet and planted it between his lips. Taking Roscoe's Zippo, he lit the end, and the American puffed a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Here!" he gave the glasses back, then took aim once again.

Pavlov watched not far off. They were the expert and his apprentice, although Shapalaev, like himself, was a veteran of Chechnya. He pressed his glasses to his face and scanned along the ridge. He could see dowan up there standing around casually as if holidaymakers admiring the view. They needed impressing that he wasn't going to permit his positions to be overlooked in that fashion.

'CRACK!'

"Left and high," Shapalaev reported, "but he run pretty fast now," he grinned.

Pavlov smiled and watched those on the ridge scatter. Finally they realised they were under fire and the rounds were coming too close of comfort. One, perhaps braver than the rest, stood and aimed carefully with a long barrelled rifle. He appeared to be the unit's marksman, Pavlov concluded, and watched as Roscoe sought him out. The dowa's gun emitted a cloud of white smoke and Pavlov could detect the round whizzing past somewhere over head.

'CRACK!'

The dowa reeled, dropped his rifle, and collapsed over the rocks.

"Got him!" Shapalaev reported and Roscoe playfully batted him over the head.

"They'll be mighty reluctant to show themselves now," Roscoe said, and looked back at Pavlov.

"Well done!"

"I'd give a month's pay for a proper rifle," Roscoe said, "this ain't got much to sight along."

"Nevertheless, it was a good shot," Pavlov told him. The American just shrugged.

The sun was a full disk, now, and already the temperatures were rising into the mid thirties. There was little breeze from the ocean and it was uncomfortably hot. A shelter for the women had been lashed together using the flies from the marine's packs. It afforded partial shelter at least and their charges clustered gratefully under it.

Chino was being plagued by tinitus, but it remained to be seen whether it was permanent. She suffered from mild vertigo and felt nauseous. Pavlov assured her they were purely the after effects of the fight in the tunnels. The symptoms wouldn't last and even the most hardened of soldiers got it from time to time. What she needed was a few days rest and a half bottle of vodka.

Amy, the Hawaiian, insisted she be shown how to use the Lee Enfield. She found no shortage of tutors willing to offer their services because she was tall, slender and pretty. Eventually she found Marine Shteyn, the small boat specialist, who was young, and blond, due to his Germanic heritage. The two were soon giggling together like a couple of love struck teenagers.

"Look at her?" Chino told Pavlov as he went and sat beside her, "she's so brazen about it, the bitch."

"Shteyn is respectful," Pavlov assured her, "she'll be safe."

"Yeah, but will he?" she laughed, "and who's ever heard of a 'respectful' marine? What planet are you on?"

"Wish I knew," he grinned, wryly.

It had been an hour or more since they heard the boom out to sea and still there'd been no sign of the Retvizan. Some of the men were beginning to wonder whether the explosion had been from their own vessel. Pavlov had tried to reassure them Gorshin wouldn't let the Retvizan be damaged but, as time went on, even he wasn't so sure.

"Lieutenant?" a lookout called, "company... a whole party of them coming, sir, with their chiefs out in front."

"Right! Roscoe, follow me."

Pavlov and the American scrambled up to the lookout position and trained their glasses. They could see, about 800 metres away, a large group slowly walking towards them.

On the flanks were lines of dowan, some armed with rifles and others with native weapons. In the middle was a group of 'komarty, ' the chiefs and their 'marti' speakers. It was the full 'komity' of the Farnow with their officials and bodyguards.

The old boys in the middle had dowan on either side carrying large parasols they held over their heads. The 'pamart' himself, the high chief, strode purposefully out front holding his official walking stick. As they watched, two dowan ran out in front and planted two stakes in the ground. These stakes had carved figures on the top representing gods. The whole party halted short of the stakes and waited.

On each flank of the Farnow party two groups ran forward carrying the Vickers guns. Behind them several more dragged metal boxes of ammunition and the two tripods. These they hastily assembled out front of the war party and waited.

"Your opinion?" Pavlov asked Roscoe.

"Hmm," he thought, scanning the scene. "I reckon those sticks are an invitation to talk. The guns is what we'd expect if we refuse the offer. It's a fist in the velvet glove. They think they have the upper hand in numbers and, with the HMGs, of firepower. They don't want to accept anymore casualties, so they're giving us an opportunity to hand back their property and leave. I'd say they think it's a pretty fair deal."

"So we talk?"

Roscoe raised his eyes in surprise. "I don't think we have anything to say to them, do we? I mean, we're not going to hand back the girls and they've placed those HMGs right where we can take them out. We've got the advantage in automatic weapons and, it seems to me, most of their guns are old and dirty. None of them appear to know much about firing a rifle and they ain't gonna rush us."

"So, what?"

"You got their leadership standing right there in the open. You work it out."

"It's murder."

"It's common sense. Remember, these guys plunder defenceless people, take away the young women, and leave everyone else to drift without water or food. The girls are used to plant babies in because their own women are too goddam precious to be fucked. They went to a lot of trouble to abduct those women and d'you think they're gonna let us take them away? The only thing they respect is power. We show any mercy and they'll keep coming at us, trust me on this, John."

"So what happens if..."

"They'll have to have another election. Meanwhile, who's gonna take control out there? My bet is they'll run."

"Boys," Pavlov called through his com, "sections 1 and 6 on the HMGs. Roscoe," he said, "I'm not sure I can do this."

"Want me?"

"No, fuck it!" With that he swung up into a prone position, D-20 in front.

'CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.'

Pavlov rolled away, stood, and stumped off. Roscoe glanced over the rock and said, "Boys, we're gonna have an election! Hell, that boss of yours can shoot good," he grinned at Shapalaev.

The entire Komity of the Farnow were know lying on their backs in the long grass. Marti and Dowan clustered around, arguing and talking among themselves, shock and agitation evident from their gestures. Some appear to want to challenge in one to one combat. They held their tayhas aloft and made them tremble. One dowi ran forward with a rifle and screamed at the marines. He was, though obviously unwilling to fire and share his chiefs' fate.

"You shot them, why?" Chino confronted Pavlov when she found out. "They wanted to talk, that's all, and you shot them in cold blood?"

"It wouldn't have done any good..." he tried to explain.

"You think? D'you know for sure, Johnny? What harm would it have been to hear what they had to say?"

"We haven't the luxury of lengthy negotiations. Take out their leadership and you sow confusion and indecision..."