Chapter 5

The crew of the Retvizan took nearly all night to link the towing chains across to the Texas. Steel cables were laid across with which to haul the heavy chains over by winch. Both Gorshin and Boomer doubted whether the chains would be able to take the strain, so they were doubled, and then tripled. The chains, themselves, were anchored to the Texas by its massive towing shackles, recessed into the bow of the submarine. The Retvizan, with 160,000 horsepower, and the Texas, at 8000 tons, were going to test the chains to the limit.

So far they'd never encountered anything but a gentle swell in this world. That was a blessing on the boats' perilous journey over to Edenfjord. A storm would most likely part the tow and, with flailing chains capable of smashing a man to pieces, both boats could end up damaged.

The Russians had been ordered not to go below on the Texas. Much equipment on that American sub was classified and Boomer's spooks insisted it be off limits to any but American personnel. Gorshin understood but Boomer was a bit ticked off. The Russians had given them the run of the Retvizan and, even though it wasn't a new boat, he kinda felt they weren't showing enough gratitude. He was pissed, but intelligence people, whom the Russians nicknamed 'spooks, ' weren't his favourite folks anyhow.

The search for the Texas's crew had turned up nothing. A heavily armed party had landed on Havai and stormed the Farnow's caves, but they were empty. Even their treasure chapel had been emptied out. There was nothing left of them but the crash site of that United Airlines passenger jet many years before.

"Likely," Gorshin explained to Boomer, "the Farnow jumped into their kaaks and bolted once the Texas arrived."

"Could they have our people?" he'd asked.

"Could the Texas be taken by a primitive people of cargo cultists armed with flintlocks and ancient machine guns?"

"Most definitely not!"

"Pavlov's boys saw them off with a few bursts and an anti-tank round," the commander informed him, "I don't see the Texas succumbing to an assault by canoes."

"No," Boomer agreed.

The women, Chino, Julia and the Russian nurse, Marketa, together with Little John, came up onto the hull for a breath of unfiltered air. Julia watched Boomer standing atop the fin of the Texas, shouting to the men below, personally taking charge. The other Americans, the two intelligence people and the other officer were down below, no doubt downloading as much data as they could from the Texas's harddrives. The Texas was now his responsibility and she didn't expect to see him as often. He'd told her that was the way it was. Loved ones took second place to the job, in this case, billions of US taxpayers' dollars' worth of a high tech, state of the art, weapon of war.

"There's daddy!" Chino told Little John, pointing to the Retvizan's open con. Pavlov was deep in conversation with Commander Gorshin and Senior Lieutenant Radetsky. "Wave to daddy?"

Julia saw the little boy smile. He could've been smiling at a cloud or a ocean tern. He may have just noticed the funny shape of the Retvizan's doppler radar array on top of the fin. Julia knew, however, at his age he probably couldn't tell one grown up from another... or from a dog, and she smiled at his mother's self delusion.

But that's what all mothers do in any case and how a baby learns. This girl, barely out of childhood herself, will do all right, she thought.

"Clear the deck, clear the deck!" Radetsky yelled through a megaphone to those on the hull, "I'm sorry ladies," he said, "but it will be dangerous."

Chino and Julia both knew what he meant. Pavlov had told them both that towing another vessel was a perilous business for, if the tow should snap, there was no telling where the chains would go. He explained how they sometimes snapped back at the towing vessel and had enough kinetic energy to demolish a wheelhouse or dismount a crane. The tow had to, not only draw a vessel weighing 8000 tons, but overcome the friction of the water around the hull of the towed vessel plus its inert mass. A total breaking strain of 20,000 tons was required for a suitable safety margin.

"Texas to Retvizan," Boomer radioed, "ready here. Take the slack whenever you're ready."

"Roger, that," Gorshin acknowledged, "dead slow now, Boomer, you need 5 degrees left rudder."

"Ahead of you there, Commander, just give your engines a nudge then stop. Let the boat drift until the chains go taut."

"Y'know, Boomer, there's altogether too many chiefs on this expedition," he laughed.

"Just a suggestion, Commander, go hard if you want to."

"I'm giving the turbines a little 'nudge' then pausing while the Retvizan takes up the strain."

"Good suggestion, Commander, waiting for your signal."

Pavlov walked to the rear of the fin smiling to himself. The two captains, Russian and American, were like a pair of brothers, kidding each other, drinking together. He imagined them retiring to the same rest home, playing chess together, day in, day out, and talking about the sea. 'Telling the same stories, ' he thought.

Gradually, over a period of half an hour, the Retvizan maneuvred into the towing position, easing it's bows around by use of its thrusters. When both vessels were aligned, the big 7 blade props of the Russian sub began to churn the water. The aft hull had been cleared of personnel and a knot of observers stood anxiously on the fins of both vessels.

Almost imperceptably, a white moustache began to form around the bows of the Texas. The Retvizan inched forward until 5, then 6 knots, were announced by 3C to those waiting above. 7 knots had been suggested and agreed as the safest towing speed, taking all into account, not the least the relative inexperience of those present in this type of operation. When they were safely underway, the Retvizan made course for Edenfjord hauling the sluggish bulk of the 8000 ton USS Texas behind.

Julia took the enforced break with Boomer hard. Much harder than she thought. The veteran captain would be standing twelve hour watches on the Texas, there being only two American sea officers capable, and permitted, to navigate the sub.

Their liaison had been discrete, as was customary to Boomer's generation. A lady's reputation had to be protected, if such was possible in the confined and compressed world of a nuclear submarine. At least the norms had to be observed; the little charades, such as pretending to be heading to your own rooms and seemingly ignoring each other in company.

Chino knew immediately. It was simply a gender thing, in that females are more sensitive to the subtle changes in demeanour, routine and appearance. She didn't know, Julia thought, that it was Boomer, only she smiled knowingly and told her she was happy Julia was at last 'getting her rations.'

Julia was discovering the joys of 'partner sex, ' in that her and Boomer felt sufficiently secure to discuss and explore each others small kinks and fetishes. She found she enjoyed being stimulated with his fingers, pushed into her underwear, either sitting next to him or standing, pressed together, and kissing passionately. There was something furtive and 'naughty' about that, like being molested, perhaps, but in a nice way.

He enjoyed oral sex just before going on duty. He was such a gentleman about that and would pull out just before ejaculating and finish in a napkin. There was much else besides, of course, and she was very happy with the way things were turning out. Happy, perhaps, but afraid this was all going to turn out to be a shipboard romance and lead to nothing but a few fond memories.

General Firebird should have taken more account of the nature of the terrain. He realised that now as his troops were strung out all down the valley and struggling to find their way in the dark. His timetable had been unrealistic in this low tech environment and he doubted he could get all his boys into position for the attack at dawn.

His heroes were General Patton and Stonewall Jackson. Patton had the advantage of mobility and communications and Jackson, a shrewd sense of what's possible and an understanding of his foe. As Firebird surveyed down the valley towards Eden, he wished some of the genius and good luck of those Generals would touch him now.

He was on a ridge overlooking the Russian settlement. Through his glasses, he could make out a single light coming from the first house. Most of the dun was out of sight around a bend leading down to the fjord. He was still too far away to give covering fire from the machine gun and the men that had made it, about 50, were tired. He got a few of them to go down the into the head of the valley and take up positions.

Should he send whatever force he had into the attack or wait for the rest to catch up? Where were they anyway and how long would it take to concentrate? With no radios, and relying on runners, he'd only a vague idea.

His mission was to capture the automatic weapons of Eden and neutralise the 'Commies.' The Althing had told him how they'd joined with the hated 'Svartsmanni' and captured a fort near the Nordvolk mines in the mountains. 'Blacks, Jews, Arabs and Commies, ' forming an alliance was one of his worst nightmares. He was on a crusade for the salvation of the white race and the responsibility lay heavy on his shoulders.

Instinct suggested he should attack now with the element of surprise. But will his semi trained, citizen soldiers with their old guns blow it? They weren't the marines nor even the VNG, whereas at least some of the Russians were professional soldiers with automatic weapons. This, maybe, was the only card the Landsvaar had to throw and a wave of indecision seemed about to overwhelm him.

Down the valley, Katzuo Suzuki liked to start work early before the sun was up. His gardens were his pride and joy and he'd made a lot of Eden Credits supplying fresh vegetables to the settlement.

This morning seemed strange, though. It took a little while before it struck him the dawn chorus wasn't in full song. There was something eerily muted, something not right. He stared upwards to the mountains and felt a shiver of menace. It spooked him enough he ran back down to Roscoe and Anastasia's house.

Ben Roscoe looked at the shivering Japanese on his doorstep, babbling away in his few English words, insisting he come look. He still didn't much care for the Japs, but he'd learned to appreciate the hard work they'd put into the settlement. Katzuo had a kind of sixth sense, an affinity with nature, which couldn't be dismissed easily. If the guy said there was something wrong, at least it was worth a look. Should he fetch Shapalaev, he wondered? The Russian wasn't an early riser and he knew he was entertaining the French lady. He looked again at the Jap, and thought, dammit, if he had to get up before dawn, Shap should miss out on his morning privileges as well.

"Get Shapalaev," he told Katzuo, and he raced away down the street.

It struck him immediately what Katzuo was on about, it was too damned quiet. He walked up towards the gardens, paused, listened, then continued on slowly. He eased a round into his AK-74 before preceding. The valley took a turn, and he leaned against the massive stone slab that formed the apex. He had a good view up into the mountains from there and waited for the sky to lighten, as it was due to do sometime soon.

A scraping of stone heralded Shap, armed and carrying his Night Vision Goggles. He said nothing, as he was trained, but merely followed Roscoe's hand signals. The American gestured to the ridge above and Shapalaev scanned with his NVG.

Shap raised one finger and moved it from side to side. He'd spotted movement, but it could be an animal, anything. Roscoe moved his hand in a circle to indicate he should do a full scan of the area and Shap complied. The Russian raised his hand, indicating five fingers, and jerked his middle finger in the direction of the head of the valley. Yes, he caught movement, an indeterminate number of people trying to conceal themselves. Roscoe had seen enough and jerked his thumb backwards towards Eden. Shap was to call out the guard.

No sooner had Shapalaev disappeared than a squad of Japanese archers doubled up. Roscoe sent them into cover in Katzuo's house, the closest to the gardens and the only one with a field of fire up the valley. Their short, laminated, recurve bows had a limitied range and could only be fired standing or kneeling. Cheyenne Dog soldiers used their feet, sometimes, lying on their backs, but that took a good deal of practice. Firing from the house seemed a logical way of providing some cover.

Fedyunsky was the next to appear, dishevelled, trying to load his service pistol with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket. Roscoe backed out of his position for a brief conference.

"I don't know how many," he explained, "but we need to assume it's a major attack. I reckon we should get the women and children down to the Diana and up the fjord. That French lady, Angelique, could pilot..."

"It will take an hour to raise steam."

"Then we need to hold them off. This, here, is the narrowest part of the valley and the best place for defence. They get past here and we'd be having to fight house by house."

Shapalaev returned with his four marines who disposed themselves on either side of the valley. They then waited for the sky to lighten some more or the enemy make a move.

General Firebird had enough of waiting and decided to get down the track into the valley to personally take charge. The track was narrow, no more than a goat trail, and his gun was getting heavier perched across his shoulders. He took 6 of his boys with him, four carrying boxes of ammo for the machine gun. Once down to the valley, he thought it was time for a little negotiation. His boys needed time to get into position and rest.

He lacked a white flag, so he put his hands over his head and, together with two body guards, strode confidently down towards the settlement.

On his right was a field of vegetables and in front, the valley narrowed, constricted by one solid slab of rock.

"That's far 'nough, boy!" a voice boomed out from the rock.

"Hey!" Firebird called, "you're 'merican? Sound's like you're from my parts?"

Roscoe came from the shadows, Shap to his left brandishing his D-20. "Captain Ben Roscoe, sir," he said, "United States Navy. This, here, is Corporal Shapalaev of the Russian Navy."

"Honoured, sir," Firebird said, ignoring the Russian, "now what's a gentleman such as y'self doin' fightin' among these folks?"

"Well, sir," Roscoe replied, "they're mighty fine folks and, if it won't for them I'd be swimmin' out there still." He pointed out to the sea.

"Well, you tell them folks we just want their guns. Then y'can git on y'boat 'n' git. I ain't gonna mind."

"Well, see, there we got a problem," Roscoe told him, "see, we ain't ready to git. The folks, here, don't wanna go and I kinda like it here."

"We got 500 Landsvaar boys comin' down the mountain real soon..."

"Bring 'em down, boy. Me and Shap haven't had any target practice for a while."

"That's mighty bold talk fer the two of ya."

"Y'got somethin' to say, boy, or are y'going to bring y'boys down and bring it on?"

"I jus' don't feel right 'bout shootin' 'mericans, issall."

"I ain't quite got the same objections, m'self," Roscoe replied, "so, if yer finished jawin'?"

"Don't say I didn't give ya no chance?" Firebird said.

"Fuck off!" Shapalaev interrupted.

"Y'mind y'mouth, yer commie rat!" Firebird snarled.

"Don't mind m'friend," Roscoe grinned, "he kinda don't like ya either. Now do as he says."

Firebird left, bile gnawing his guts. He was determined to lash a little respect into the Eden people. He was damned if he was going to be treated like that. He walked quickly up the valley until he came upon the place he'd left the machine gun. It was on the bank of the stream, as it took a right hook on its meandering way down to the fjord. Boulders were strewn about and the bank was piled high with gravel. Even so, Firebird's feet were in the water as he got in behind the gun.