Chapter 1

Valentin Gavriel worked the longboat in towards the landing. It was a sluggish sailer and the lack of any fair winds in this part of Edenfjord made the going slower. It was piled with more building materials for the camp he called 'Heichiro.'

Hechiro was being built on the flat below the ridge to the north of Mount Gavriel. Besides his two Japanese climbing companions, half a dozen Eden residents had turned out to help. It was important to make it habitable before the onset of Winter brought activity to a close.

The longboat grounded and several people came down to help unload the cargo. Valentin was not surprised to see Karyn, Ashok and Dogan standing there. He'd heard their tribe was in the area.

Karyn seemed to have a special smile for him and he almost forgot he was holding the end of a heavy post. Dogan had his usual sceptical expression, but then he always looked that way.

Ashok hurried down to greet him. He had a look of anticipation and his speed was a little undignified.

"You have what I asked for?" he said.

"Of course," Valentin smiled and reached into his breast pocket. "Filter tips?" he added.

"Ah!" the Indian gasped in delight, "they are Russian?"

"Sputniks."

"Never mind," he said, ripping the packet open like a true nicotine addict. "It's been so long."

"So why you not give up?" Valentin asked.

"Ah, well, it's psychological. That is a decision I must make myself rather than by force of circumstances."

"I see," he shrugged, "enjoy!"

The Bedowan 'Rifter' scurried off in search of a light while Karyn said hello. Dogan stood impassively behind her like a bodyguard. The air was starting to take on a winter chill and they wore their embroidered wool jackets and thick trousers. Karyn's veil was loose and draped around her shoulders. Her dark Mediterranean features lit up, clearly pleased to see the young Russian.

"Valentin, it's been too long," she told him. Valentin wanted to hug her, but caught the scowl on Dogan's face.

"Tell him!" the other Bedowan said, tersely.

"Uh," Karyn started to say, looking behind at her companion, "we've come to tell you of the latest news about the Nordvolk."

"Hmm?" Valentin replied, interested.

"They are building a fortress for their miners... on our land," interrupted Dogan, "they have cannon and many guns."

"Where?" asked Valentin.

The big man knelt, drawing a parchment from his leather bag. He spread it on the ground. It was a map of the Eastlands from Mount Gavriel practically as far as the Southern desert.

"Here," he pointed, "by the river we call the Blackwater..."

"Coal!" said Karyn, "they want the coal. They gouge out the side of Shining Mountain and make her bleed. They have no love for what they destroy."

Valentin shook his head. He knew exactly what she meant, it was an all too familiar story.

"These Nordvolk tell all the Rifters how they are an ancient people who were gifted the land by their God," Dogan told him, "but they lie. They've been here for only 25 summers. They drove the Bedowan from the delta and cast them into the deserts. Now they want the very rocks they've left us. We will not tolerate this anymore."

"You must tell all the other Rifters living among the Nordvolk," Karyn explained, "they are not the simple fisherfolk, farmers and makers of iron tools..."

Valentin nodded gravely. "Igor," he called, "you must tell this man all you know," he told them, "he is clever man."

Igor Golovko sauntered over. He was Eden's linguist and anthropologist. "What's up?" he asked.

Meanwhile, in another 'when, ' 17 year old Silvia Ellen 'Chino' Iachino stepped off the school bus in a leafy suburb of San Francisco. She said goodbye to her high school friends then hurried home. She needed to feed three month old John Alexander Iachino-Pavlov and her breasts felt uncomfortable.

She called the baby 'Little John, ' to distinguish him from 'Big John, ' the child's father. She'd expressed milk that morning before school so Little John's nanny could keep the demanding boy satisfied during the day.

It was Friday and Chino knew that tonight she'd get to speak to Big John by Netmeeting. By agreement with her parents, she agreed to only talk to John during the weekend, otherwise her homework and mothering duties would suffer. Johnny Pavlov was away in Saint Petersburg, Russia and it was impossible for him to leave.

Pavlov had left the Russian Navy but, as a former serving officer in the Strategic Forces, he was unable to travel overseas without express permission from the Government. That was rarely given for at least five years and no dispensation was likely just to marry his American girlfriend. Johnny was too loyal just to abscond. It was one of the many things Chino loved about him.

A year ago, she'd been reluctantly plucked from the hull of the submarine Retvizan and sent back to the States. She knew she was pregnant and had thought, illogically, that in a few month's time she'd be reunited with her lover.

Pavlov had a girlfriend back in Russia. When he'd left Zina she'd been pregnant as well. But Chino knew they'd be together with the certainty of a romantic teenager.

What he'd found back in Russia deeply confused him, however. Instead of the fiancé, waiting for his return with a new born baby, he'd discovered Zina was married. Not only that, she'd been married for two years. Her child wasn't his but her husband's, a classical musician.

He knew that wasn't the way it was when he sailed on the Retvizan from Kola Inlet. Somehow, his life had changed. Zina knew him as a friend, had never lived with him and never been engaged. Troubled, she'd told him how they'd been students together and was adamant she'd never had any romantic feelings for him. She'd suggested that perhaps some sort of breakdown from mental fatigue had overtaken him.

After a few weeks, even Ionn 'Johnny' Pavlov began to question his mental stability.

And things weren't quite the same for Chino also. Little things bothered her. Her High School was painted a different colour and had obviously been that colour for a few years. People she knew were taking different courses from what she remembered and the school's science geek was now in the football team. Some kids who she'd little to do with now claimed to be good friends. Adding all these things together, and Johnny's experiences, life for them both had altered.

Like Johnny, she initially suspected her mental state. But Johnny's experiences had convinced her that, somehow, their timelines weren't as they were anymore.

Little John was sound asleep when she went upstairs. Her breasts were just too heavy so she plucked him up anyway. The nanny, Julia, quietly left her to it. While he suckled away, she began her homework on the computer. She wanted to get it out of the way so she'd the evening free for Big John.

It had been a year since the Russian Nuclear Submarine Retvizan had slipped forwards, or sideways, in time then reappeared at exactly the same spot one year later. How one of Russia's finest could be lost for such a period of time was perplexing for the Navy, to say the least.

The officers, and Commander Gorshin in particular, were interrogated for a full fortnight at the Naval Intelligence facility at Polyarnii, Northern Russia. Naturally, the spooks assumed the sub had been turned over to Russia's rivals to be dismantled, inspected, then returned. Why they would go to all that trouble over a sub now 25 years old and due for decommissioning seemed not to have interested Russia's paranoid military spies.

But most of the crew had cellphones and stored in their memory chips were hundreds of photographs. The Retvizan had been fitted with a state of the art fibre-optic periscope system to test under operation conditions. Stored on its harddrive was a wealth of imagery: of a World War Two Japanese submarine, the sunken island of 'Havai, ' Farnow kaaks, Edenfjord, and the Skarsgarderbatarna of the strange Nordvolk people. Sonar and radar logs supported the wealth of photographic evidence. Soon, the remaining crew of the Retvizan were passed onto the Academy of Sciences and its Institute for the Paranormal. This puzzle was quite beyond the Navy, or the FIS to solve.

Commander Gorshin retired early. There was no prospect he'd ever be trusted with a command again. The Navy had been bitten with a PR quagmire and heads had to roll. He retreated to Kotlin Island, to the Naval township associated with Kronshtadt Naval Base, headquarters of the Baltic Fleet. The Russian Navy parked all their retired senior officers there, the ones they had no further use for.

Ionn 'Johnny' Pavlov also left the service and took up a post at St Petersburg's Khruschev University teaching Russian literature to undergrads. It came with a small, one room apartment in the Hall of Residence, nothing too fancy, but adequate. To keep himself in shape, he took up basketball and football. A sedentary life didn't come easy for this man, accustomed to peril.

He kept in touch with Gorshin over at Kotlin Island in the Neva estuary. To leave so many of their crew behind in that strange land, that strange 'when, ' was unnatural for both the ex-marine and the ex-missile boat commander. At 62, Gorshin was 'tired of the bullshit, ' and Pavlov was sick of bashing his head against the stone wall of the Kremlin. No way was the Navy going to countenance any rescue expedition and that was that. Igor Golovko, Shapalaev, Fedyunsky with his tribe of a family, even the American, Ben Roscoe wrenched out of his Pacific War: all would have to be left where they were.

Pavlov, too, was trapped. Even in retirement the Navy weren't going to let him leave the country. He knew his future was with Chino and their newborn son. He only waited on the pleasure of the Interior Ministry and the Department of the Navy.

When not Netmeeting, they Emailed each other every day, sometimes more. Chino told him of the little anomalies she confronted in her resumed life. He explained to her about Zina, how she'd never been engaged to him and never been pregnant by him. Clearly they were back in their own time but somehow, not as they remembered.

It was during a tutorial on the novels of Tolstoy when the door swung open. There, intruding into the work of the University, could be none other than Intelligence men. They strode into the room as if they owned it, motioning for his students to get out. The kids fled, looking at the suited men with a mixture of resentment and fear.

"Lieutenant Pavlov?" boomed the first man.

"Ex-Lieutenant," Pavlov corrected. He wasn't going to be intimidated by these men, their stock in trade.

"You must come with us," the second man said.

"Why?" demanded Pavlov, "who are you?"

"FIS, come!"

"What have you bloody Chekists to do with me?"

"You want this the hard way?" The first man touched the bulge at his side in a universal gesture to show he was armed and prepared for no discussion. Sighing, Pavlov stood, and the spooks fell in beside him, marching out through the door and down to the ground floor.

They bundled him into a black Mercedes and sped out down the road at breakneck speed.

"Honey?" Chino's mother called, "there's someone to see you?"

"Who?" she answered down the stairs, "I'm feeding."

Chino could hear a discussion taking place between her mother and visitor. Presently her mom came up.

"He says it's official. He's from the Government. Honey, what have you done?"

"Nothing," she insisted.

Little John had fallen asleep and she gently placed him back in his crib. Chino followed her mother downstairs to be confronted by a big man in a dark suit. He wore dark glasses and the serious expression of all men with too much self-importance.

"Silvia Iachino?" the man asked.

"Yes?"

"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"The study?" her mother suggested, and she showed the way.

Once seated in her father's study the man came to the point quickly.

"I'm from the Department of the Navy," he said, "I want you to tell me all you remember of your experiences on board the Russian submarine?"

"Whew!" she replied, "what's this all about? Are you going to believe me now?"

"Believe what, ma'am?" he said, setting up a tape recorder.

"Believe me about Eden, the Farnow, the Nordvolk... ?"

"Just start from the beginning, ma'am?" he said.

"Commander?" the man asked. His manner was respectful as even a retired senior officer wasn't someone you treated discourteously.

"Yes?"

"Commander Orlov, sir, of Naval Intelligence."

"What have you left to ask me?" Gorshin told the man, exasperated.

"Sir? May I have a moment of your time?" Commander Gorshin sighed, then let the man into his small lounge. When he got comfortable, he took a photo from his leather satchel and placed it on the table. It was of a submarine, an official photo taken from the air. "Do you recognise this vessel, sir?"

"Ah... it's American," he replied, "it's a bit like a Seawolf, but... hmm, but smaller. I think it's one of their new Virginia Class attack boats."

"Very good," the man said in a faintly patronising manner, "it's the USS Texas. This is an official USN publicity photograph taken last year on its trials."

"So? You come all this way from Moscow to show me a photo the Americans gave you? I cannot tell you anything about the Virginia Class you probably don't already know."

"Actually, we know a fair bit. The reactor and propulsion are from the Seawolf Class as is many of its systems. They have adopted a fibre optic system similar to that fitted to the Retvizan and..."

"Commander," Gorshin told him, "This is all fascinating, but surely you have more qualified people able to provide information?"

"We do," he replied, "the Americans, themselves, have been quite forthcoming."

"Why?" Gorshin asked, "why would the Americans share this information?"

"They have requested our help, Commander."

"Our help?" the Retvizan's last commander asked, incredulously, "you have me intrigued. What help could we possibly give to the Americans about boat design?"

"Not design, Commander. Let me explain? The USS Texas was on a training cruise last month. At a point East of the Azores the Americans lost all contact and it hasn't been heard of since."

"The Azores?" cried Gorshin.

"The Azores, sir."

Captain Thomas 'Boomer' Zeigler USN strode purposely through the double doors into the room. Security was heavy, and goons stood by the door with blank expressions but moving eyes. Admiral V P Ustinov walked over, smiling and extended his hand. He greeted the Americans in Russian with an aide translating beside him.

"The Admiral welcomes you to Kronshtadt," the aide said, "and hopes the hospitality has been to your liking."

"Sure, sure," the American said. He was an impatient man and preferred to get down to business straight away. But the Russians had wanted to show him the base and give him the guided tour of Kotlin Island. He'd paid his respects to the hero's monument and its bewildering number of plaques commemorating the fallen in all of Russia's wars. 'Nearly as large as Arlington, ' he'd told one of his Russian hosts.