The Log of the Retvizan TwylightChapter 9
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The Log Of The Retvizan - TwylightChapter 2 free porn video
"Gentlemen," Commander Gorshin began, "crew of this great war vessel. I have a grave announcement that has serious implications for all of us. After extensive tests, myself and your officers have reached the only possible explanation for our difficulties that fit all the facts. This may shock you." Gorshin paused to allow the news to sink in. "You ask me if you will ever return to our home port? You ask, will I ever see my mother, father, family, girlfriends or wives once again? I regret, I cannot give a simple answer, for I don't know."
Again, Gorshin paused. The silence in 3C was deafening. "Gentlemen, brave sailors, I admire your courage in the face of this uncertainty. I congratulate you on your forbearance as we struggle to come to grips with the truth. That truth, my crew, is that we are no longer sailing the Atlantic in the year 2006. By some miraculous freak of nature we are currently at anchor off what remains of the Hawaiian Islands some time in the far off future. I cannot give you a precise time for our engineers and technical people did not see fit to anticipate this state of affairs."
The Commander looked around 3C at the shocked look on the faces of some of his young sailors. Some expressions were of disbelief, that their chief had lost his marbles, that there must be some terrible mistake. Others accepted the truth with resignation and got on with their jobs. Duty, now, was all that kept them from insanity, both officers and the youngsters that depended on them.
"Our communication satellites are no longer in existence. We think we may have picked up some weak shortwave signals but the background radioactive elements in the atmosphere doesn't make it easy to receive far away signals. We are on a search for civilisation, both indigenous, and, like ourselves, temporal castaways. As we continue this adventure, we may gather more information that may help us to get back to our own time."
The Commander saw Fedyunsky, his first officer, strolling around the young specialists. He was practising his calm and reassuring expression, but the falseness of it almost upset Gorshin's concentration.
"Russia may be gone," he continued, "or a block of ice, a desert or an archipelago. This world is unknown, drowned in melted ice caps. The seas are some 200 metres higher than we remember. It is saturated in Carbon Monoxide and other hydrocarbons. Apparently," he grinned, "the shit we so carelessly tossed up there has come down in revenge. The atmosphere, too, has some unfortunate contaminants, but nothing, I might add, that our filters can't contend with. Remember, this submarine was designed to survive a nuclear holocaust. We are in the best possible situation to survive."
"We have some eight years before the reactor cores will need replacing. Eight years to find a way home. Our food supplies may cause some problems in six months time, but we will survive, gentlemen. Survive, and find a way home. This is the promise I make to you. I expect nothing less than diligence in your duties. You are the elite, the best trained and the most skilled in the Russian Navy, don't let yourselves down... don't," he added, "let me down."
Gorshin strode purposefully towards the ladder and ascended towards the open con on top of the fin. He'd knew there'd be questions and he knew, also, he'd no answers to offer. Fedyunsky followed and the two men paused below the top pressure hatch. There some overalls had been left for the watch above, to shield them from the sun's rays. The two men shuffled into them and climbed the few metres to the top.
"Well?" Gorshin asked his first officer.
"Well spoken, sir, inspiring."
The Commander shrugged and looked through the binoculars to the shore in the distance. "Call the island," he said, "let's see what they're up to."
Pavlov's radio crackled and he picked it up. Roscoe looked on as the Russian made his situation report.
"We're setting up a camp for the night at the base of the mountain. I've posted a guard by the boats and called up the rest of the men. We'll resume a search in the morning."
"Have you discovered anything more?" Fedyunsky asked.
"The debris is so small... strange. I can't find anything bigger than a few centimetres."
"Any more documentation?"
"Nothing! I'd say it's been here a while because of the weathering of the metal. The humidity, here, rusts everything quickly and the acids in the rain corrodes the aluminium. Even so, there's secondary growth all around growing up through some of the debris. Nothing grows well in this basaltic soil, so..."
"So you're saying years, maybe?"
"Probably, but I'm no botanist."
"Still no sign of habitation?"
"Nothing! No foot tracks nor even a totem poll."
"Tell him it's the wrong culture," Gorshin interjected. "Pavlov? Have you checked for any caverns?"
"Not yet. I hope to look tomorrow, sir."
"Ok, well, you've got another day then I'm pulling you out."
"I'd like to look for the plane's engines; maybe tail? They usually break off and it could be lying somewhere in the undergrowth."
"Concentrate on looking for people, Pavlov, then find your engines if you have time."
"Yes, sir."
The hard, abrasive rock made it difficult to get comfortable. Each man set up his individual fly and padded thenselves underneath with grasses and whatever they could find. Pavlov set a watch of two guards. Two, so they could keep each other awake.
It was a full moon and the island was bathed in a subtle blue light. It was filtered through an atmosphere heavy with condensation as the humid air was chilled by the cold night.
For, although tropical, the nights were cool. Much of the ozone had been stripped from the atmosphere allowing the earth to heat rapidly during the day. At night, however, was a different story as there was little to stop the heat disappating quickly. Disturbance to the M1 and M2 layers resulted in poor radio communications and, together with the ultra violet radiation, made it impossible during the day.
Pavlov had just settled down when there was a sudden commotion outside. A guard was shouting and he could hear Roscoe's voice, yelling, "get down, get down."
Pavlov flung off his fly and dropped to his knees, D-20 in hand. "Gotcha, asshole!" Roscoe shouted.
A torchlight stabbed the night and wandered around until it settled on three figures about 50 metres away. Pavlov recognised the big frame of Roscoe hauling a prone body up and roughly flinging it before him. He also spotted Shapalaev, one of the guards, hovering, D-20 at the ready, and looking wildly around.
"Cover us," Roscoe shouted, "we're coming in."
"What's going on?" Pavlov called.
"Intruders... Japs!" he shouted back.
"Daani Dowan... gudfella, gudfella!" shouted their prisoner.
"That's not Japanese, sir," Pavlov heard a voice beside him. He saw it was Specialist Golovko, a sailor who'd served in the Pacific Fleet.
"What is it?" Pavlov asked the man.
"Sounds like a kind of Pidjin. Like they speak in New Guinea, sir."
"Ok. Roscoe, leave him alone!" Pavlov yelled.
"There'll be more of them," the American replied, "y'd better get the men fallen in and into cover."
"I'll make that decision," Pavlov told him, irritated, "bring that guy over here."
Roscoe pushed the man on his knees in front of Pavlov. A torch was trained on him and he put his hands over his eyes. He was plainly terrified and trembled uncontrollably.
He wore what looked like a short cloak of bird feathers. Around his legs were strips of thick cloth tied with leather thongs. Around his neck was a necklace of shark's teeth and a pendant, that looked like obsidian. Pavlov knelt down and took the pendant in his hand. Scrolled in were plainly the letters 'UA, ' and a stylised bird's wing.
"What's this?" he asked the man.
'Gudfella, Daani dowa," the man said.
The man was asiatic in appearance, although plainly not Japanese. Pavlov thought there was Polynesian influence in his features. He was short and stocky with well-developed shoulders.
"Here," Roscoe said, "we found this on him."
Roscoe passed him a sword about a metre in length. It was crudely fashioned with a grip of bound grasses and pieces of palm bark. Pavlov held it up to the light and found the blade had a blueish tinge. It was thin and had been reinforced by a strake of aluminium riveted down its length. He recognised it straight away. It was a piece of turbine blade from a jet engine.
Pavlov hefted it and swung it around. It was poorly balanced and he figured more for hacking than a useful sword.
"Hey!" he got the man's attention, "Pavlov." He pointed to his chest. "You?"
"Daani Dowa," he repeated, "gudfella."
"Me, Pavlov, you?" he pointed.
"Baffloff Dowa blong Daani," the man replied, "Daani dowan blong mowani. Dowan blong kaaknewi. Kaaknewi blong farraway."
"What's all that mean, John?" asked Roscoe.
"I've no idea," he shook his head. "Golovko, you make any sense of that?"
"I think he's saying we came on a big ship from across the ocean. It sounds like Pidjin English with a few Polynesian words thrown in. 'Toa' was a Polynesian warrior. I wonder if that equates to 'Dowa'?"
"What's this 'Kaaknewi'?"
"'Kaak' I don't know, but 'nui' means something big. 'Daani, ' I'm wondering could be 'Tane, ' the God of the forest. I think he's saying we're warriors of the Gods. 'Mowani, ' might mean 'Moana, ' ocean?"
"Right, Golovko, you're our translator. Try and find out where his village is?" Pavlov told him.
Golovko took the man aside while Pavlov ordered a search of the area. After an hour they had to accept there were no more of them. Roscoe insisted he stay on guard regardless. He told Pavlov he wasn't going to be butchered in his sleep.
He watched Golovko and their intruder gabbling away to each other with the aid of pictures made from grass and other debris. Presently the Russian sailor returned.
"Golovko?" Pavlov asked.
"His people live in caves beyond the clearing," he reported, "there're not more than twenty or so men and boys. The women live somewhere else... he wouldn't say or doesn't know. I figure it's some means of population control. Resources are limited on the island and they wouldn't want to breed themselves into oblivion. These caves are self-supporting. They have pigs and chickens and vegetables in a kind of hydroponic garden. He say's he was looking for stray pigs when he came across the camp. He must have seen the Retvizan's lights and figured we'd come from the sea. A 'kaak' is a boat, 'kaaknewi', big boat."
"You figured out their language?"
"It's simplified, like Pidjin, but has all these different words thrown in. It appears to come from all sorts of languages, like some melting pot. He told me that plane crashed here before they arrived. He said it was a gift from 'Daani' and they dragged away everything that seemed useful. They appear to be scavengers, sir, and move about from place to place using whatever they can find."
"Did he tell you about any other civilisations?"
"Well, he's vague about geography. They sail about in big catamarans with shelters built across the pontoons. They wouldn't carry too much, I shouldn't think, so couldn't go very far without food and water. He's seen other 'kaaknewi, ' he says, passing by, and a 'kakanewi mak droon'. 'Kakanewi mak droon blong Daani'."
"And what's that?"
"An aeroplane. A 'kaka' is a native pidgeon, 'large pidgeon of the gods making a droning noise'."
"I see. That might've been Roscoe trying to find Hawaii."
"Sir, it was the day before last. 'Ra gon ruwa'."
"What?"
"'Ra' was the Polynesian sun god. Funny, isn't it? The Egyptians had the same name."
"Fascinating, carry on?"
"'Ruwa' is 'rua, ' Polynesian for 'two.' 'Two suns gone'."
"Got it! So an aircraft flew overhead two days ago?"
"Yes, sir."
Pavlov made his extensive report to the Commander in person. He told him Golovko had arranged for a small delegation to meet them on the beach that evening. He explained the people rarely go out during the day because of the UV radiation.
"Golovko's done well," Gorshin told him, "to pick up so much of their language in such a short time."
"He trained as a linguist," Pavlov explained, "but joined the navy because the pay's better."
"Linguists must be poorly paid indeed," Gorshin chuckled. "I wonder what skills we have here we know nothing about? Lot's of these people have had civilian training of some sort. Perhaps we ought to take a survey and find out just what useful talents there are?"
"Good idea, sir. I was wondering..." he started to say as Gorshin turned to go.
"Yes?"
"Roscoe, sir. I don't think he should be in the shore party."
"Why not?"
"Well, he's just come from a bitter war. He sees every Asian face as an enemy."
"I see."
"He had comrades killed in the attack on Pearl Harbour. He finds it hard to forget."
"Nevertheless, we stopped hating the Germans, didn't we? It took time, sure, but we moved on. Roscoe is just going to have to come to terms with it. We can't afford the emnities of the past anymore. He is a soldier and must remember his discipline. Give him a choice. He is a useful man and I don't want to lose his contribution."
"Yes, sir."
Gorshin studied the little group on the beach as they approached. Two Russian Marines stood on either flank, guns slung across their chests. Between them stood five men of various ages. Two men on the outside appeared to be 'Dowan, ' or warriors. The three in the middle must be the officials, or 'Komarti.' Golovko explained they were governed by three 'komarti' who formed the 'komity.' The 'komity blong farnow, ' the 'committee of the family.'
Golovko explained the Commander must carry some sign of office to show his status. He told him the 'Pamart, 'or head man, would be carrying a walking stick. Gorshin borrowed a one metre long adjustable wrench from engineering. It was chromed and, he thought, looked imposing.
"Pamart blong kaaknewi blong Rusha!" Golovko loudly announced. The native party promptly bowed their heads in greeting. "Arowa, arowa, tatu katow." (Greetings to you everyone)
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