Chapter 2

Max Schultz sailed the brig 'Schwalbe, ' up the deep channel of Edenfjord. Tied to the deck were more drums of oil. The American trawlerman now had a roaring trade going in salvaging the bunkers of abandoned vessels. Eden, and its population of Rifters like himself, were his best customers. Only they still kept an oil burning vessel in operation.

He and Ben Roscoe got on fine. The big West Virginian concealed a complex character behind a simple, 'down home' exterior. The Russians, however, were a mixture. Some appeared to be merely kids in uniform and Fedyunsky, their chief, was a bit too dour and straight laced for his liking. Igor Golovko was a 'book learnin' man' and way too serious whereas Michael Shteyn was way too 'marine' for his taste. Ben's buddy 'Shap' was nearest any of the Russians came to being called 'friend' by Max. A lot of Roscoe had rubbed off on the man and they shared a lot of backwoods humour. In the cabin of the Schwalbe he had a bottle of Tennessee sour mash for the three of them and fully expected to empty it that evening.

Fedyunsky stood on the pier as they came in to tie up. The Diana was moored on the other side and it was probably easier to crane the drums over the wharf and drop them on the minesweeper's deck. Ben Roscoe strode up smiling with Shapalaev trailing not far behind. He helped tie up and Max leapt onto the wooden planks of the pier to be playfully punched by the big man.

"How y'doin'?" Ben said.

"Ben. Boys," Max replied, "when are you boys goin' to come down home? I'm sick of battling these damn currents."

"Too many damn Vikings down your way," Ben grinned. The Eden people and their Rifter friends had nicknamed the Nordvolk 'Vikings' and the name had stuck.

"Where's Valentin?" Max asked. He kinda liked that boy, too. Valentin loved the mountains and outdoors and had developed a special relationship with their neighbours, the Bedowan, over the mountains.

Ben and Shap grinned at each other as if sharing a secret. "Valentin's gone fallen in love," Ben explained, "he ain't got one wit left in his head."

"Yeah? Who's the girl?"

"Bedowan... name's Karyn."

"Whew!" smiled Max, "he goin' to bring her down here for us to check out?"

"He's kinda shy about that. Them Bedowan are mighty reluctant to come down off the mountains."

"Well, then, that ain't surprising, is it? What with the Vikings shooting them for sport."

"Y'think?" agreed Ben.

"Anyhow, I heard Anastasia's got a bundle on the way. You need to leave her alone nights, Ben, boy!"

"Huh!" grinned Ben, "comin' from you that don't exactly sound right. How many kids y'got now?"

"Don't rightly remember," Max chuckled, "they just sorta appear every Summer."

"Well, y'bring em all down here soon, huh? Me and Shap'll rustle up a few steaks and maybe some Salmon?"

"Sounds fine, Ben," Max said, "the little lady don't get out much."

"I'm not surprised," Ben laughed.

With Fedyunsky supervising, as he was want to do, Ben, Max and Shapalaev left the transfer of the cargo to the Russian seamen and adjourned to Ben's place to share the whisky and the latest news.

"The boys took the Schwalbe down South last Summer," Max explained, "it was sure hot down thataways and there ain't no water. The boys had to turn back. They say there's a Gulf, kinda like the Gulf of California..."

"Y'think that, maybe, this is the West Coast United States in some other time?"

"Well, it don't conform to anything in particular," Max said, "them mountains are way too high and the latitude is all wrong. If that's the Gulf, then we should be about Los Angeles and we know that ain't true. By latitude we're nearer Washington State and if you sail North you'd reach Alaska in a few days."

"Well, them mountains don't increase to that height in, what, 300 years?"

"No way! More like 300,000."

"Yeah, that's the way I figure. So what d'yer think? Just where the Hell are we... and when?"

"Beats me. South latitude just ain't liveable for man and beast. North, we figure, is frozen solid. That just leaves, maybe, a band of 40 degrees that is anyway habitable."

"So, Valentin said the Bedowan told him them Vikings arrived only 25 years ago. If that's true, and, to be honest Max, it don't seem anyone's being honest around here besides us."

"Ain't that the truth," agreed Max.

"So where in Hell did the Vikings come from? This, here, Farzeeland?"

"I guess... maybe out beyond those Farnow? Y'follow that 40 degree latitude West?"

"And maybe you go wherever the Retvizan disappeared to? Y'gotta think that, maybe, somethin's out there, good or bad."

"And a nuclear sub's the only thing with the endurance. I ain't taking the chance of being lost out there, no way."

"Maybe a few of them missiles, too, eh, Max?" suggested Ben, "maybe there's an entire civilisation out West, way more advanced than anything we've seen in these parts?"

"Sure, but how come we haven't seen these people? Y'think they'd be capable of air travel? After all that evolution?"

"Y'think. Perhaps they're among us already 'cept we don't know it? Now that's a thought."

"True. 'nother shot?"

"Sure, Max, damn fine whisky y'got there."

"Yeah," he laughed, "them tourists sure looked after themselves!"

Meanwhile, out in the Atlantic in another 'when, ' a Russian submarine cruised at periscope depth, heading South for its rendezvous with a small mixed fleet of search and rescue craft. 200 metres to port was the American attack sub USS Seawolf, bigger than the Texas, but not quite as modern.

"Retvizan to Seawolf," Boomer Zeigler called on the radio, "are we in the slot?"

"Roger, Retvizan, straight for the hoop."

"Anything down there?"

"Fishes, Boomer, not even a can of Bud. Say, what do you reckon the Russians can find that we can't?"

"That's a long story, Seawolf. Let's just say they've a bit more experience in this kind of operation."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot about this operation that don't make sense."

"Roger that, Seawolf, but you come up with a better plan?"

"Well, we've been stooging around this ocean with the best equipment in the world for a good month and we ain't seen so much as a fish hook..."

"So why not let these Russians try something, huh?"

"I guess, Boomer, out!"

"Say, Commander," Zeigler said, "y'mind if I have a look at your screens, there?"

"Go ahead," Commander Gorshin replied, "it is not our latest equipment, but, I assume, you won't be too nosey?"

"Sure," the American Captain grinned. He walked over to the first bank of consols and scanned them with an experienced eye. "Son?" he said to the young specialist, "can you get Seawolf on the screen?" The man looked at Gorshin who nodded. "Phased sonar scan..." he said, "integrated infra-red imagery. Kinda looks like ours, Commander?"

"Look at the CD Rom covers over there," he grinned.

"Lessee? 'Sun Microsystems US... damn! You're using our software?"

"Why reinvent another wheel when we can buy it off the shelf?"

"You get End User Certificates for this stuff?"

"The Russian Government co-operates with the Americans on their 'War on Terror.' You think such help doesn't come with a price tag? Guidance systems, integrated computer programs, fibre-optic technology..."

"Sure is a new World, Commander," the American said, shaking his head, "a bit different when you and I joined up, huh?"

"So true," agreed the Russian commander.

Presently, on the large screen mounted high up on the forward bulkhead they could see a scattering of ships. To starboard was the mast of the Seawolf with its tell tale feather of spray following behind. Ahead was the USS Iwo Jima, LHD-7, an amphibious assault ship, and above a fluttering of Seahawk helos. It was accompanied by two Spanish frigates and a Royal Navy destroyer.

"How much do they know, Commander?" Boomer asked his Russian counterpart.

"How do you explain?" shrugged Gorshin, "we're just going to slip into some alternative Earth because we think that's where the Texas is? They think we're just joining the hunt, that's all."

"Like good neighbours, huh?"

"Exactly!"

"So what's going to happen? Do we feel a bump? The lights go out? What are we going to feel?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all. Suddenly, radio traffic disappears and we lose SatNav and all satelite communications. Ambient sea temperatures go up by 10 degrees and we're in the Southern hemisphere..."

"Oh, boy! If one of my juniors came up with a story like that..."

"I know. You'd recommend a psychiatric examination?"

"Hell, no! I'd tell him to get a job in Hollywood. He'd sure be wasted on a submarine," he grinned.

"4 kilometres to transition, sir," Navigation announced.

"Good!"

"Let's shoot the basket?" said Boomer.

Ashok the Rifter was contentedly puffing clouds of smoke up into the mountain air a little way off. Dogan had trotted off a half hour ago stalking a mountain fox. Valentin took advantage of the situation to talk to Karyn alone. He suggested a little walk down the stream towards the landing and she agreed. Her dark features sparkled with a nervous flush and her mouth was fixed in a grin. She knew this Russian Rifter had feelings for her but didn't quite know how to handle it.

"So, where you go from here?" he asked her, "you have a home or you just wander about?"

"Depends on the season. In summer we come into the mountains for the hunting and to avoid the heat. In winter, we return South to the Walled Oasis."

"What's this 'Walled Oasis'?"

"It is ancient. They say the Prophet was born there. It is a very sacred place for the Bedowan, a place of sanctuary."

"This Prophet have a name?"

"It cannot be spoken by infidels. We believe words have power. Unbelievers will only bring ruin to themselves and others."

"What about Rifters living among you? Are they in danger?"

"Rifters must take the Word into their hearts or they must leave."

"So, uh, if a Rifter wanted to marry..."

"He would have to accept the Word. A Bedowan cannot lie with an infidel. They would bring ruin to both of them."

"What if a, er, Bedowan woman left the tribe and lived with Rifter? At his home, outside of..."

"It's impossible, Valentin. I know what you're thinking. Shall we sit? I think we need to talk?"

Meanwhile, at Eden, and even larger delegation from the Nordvolk arrived. This time there were many more armed Landsvaar and they arrived in two ships. Fedyunsky watched them anchor with trepidation. He counted about 30 militia, most armed with a mixture of long rifles, repeating carbines, and flintlocks. On the ships themselves, there were a couple of muzzle loading cannons on swivel mountings amidships.

Ben Roscoe deployed the six marines of his detachment around the wharf area. He had nothing heavier than an RPG and he hoped there was not going to be a fight. Eden's houses were in the line of fire from the ships and there was little he could do to stop them.

One of the Japanese at Eden and rediscovered the art of making the short laminated bow. Fedyunsky took two of them down to the pier armed with these weapons as bodyguards. They made the Nordvolk uneasy as they couldn't separate them in their minds from the hated Farnow. His bodyguards wore suitably fierce expressions and, with their leather wrist bands and hide quivers brimful of arrows, certainly looked the part.

"The Althing demands the Russians join with the Landsvaar as they are obligated to do," announced the Irishman.

"We are not obligated to join in wars of conquest, as I've said many times!" Fedyunsky replied with just the right amount of pique.

"Then you must hand over your weapons. The Althing has generously compromised on this issue and if you provide the Landsvaar with machine guns, they are prepared to offer a dispensation."

"We will not hand over our guns," Fedyunsky told him, "it is the rule of the Military Forces of the Russian Federation..."

"We are not interested in your rules. You are here and we have gifted this land for your use. In return you have made promises which you refuse to forfill. Our rules are clear. Your rules have no relevance."

"And just whose land was it that you 'gifted'? It seems to me this land was obtained by conquest..."

"By God!" boomed the Irishman, "God gave the Nordvolk this land, so it is written."

"And it is written elswhere that you took it? Who are we to believe?"

"You believe what you like, but our cannon makes a very good argument."

"Ben?" Fedyunsky called, "have you that RPG? I believe these people would like a little demonstration."