Admiral Volsky circled round to the north cape and when they saw the complete destruction of Jamestown harbor, they knew they had slipped into that nightmare world again, perhaps of their own making, where every shore was blackened with the fire of a war they could scarcely imagine.
They were days at sea before they saw land again. St. Helena was as isolated as any island in the world, a thousand miles east of Angola, Africa in the South Atlantic. The route south was even more barren, if the sea could be described as such, empty of life or any sign of human activity whatsoever. They sailed around Cape Town, finding it, too, had been the recipient of a multi-megaton payload of death. What the continent looked like inland they could not say, but no man wanted to go ashore to find out.
They soon found themselves in the Indian Ocean, sailing well south of Madagascar and heading east. There would be nothing to see for days on end, but in time they reached the distant shores of Australia, angling along the northwest coast of that continent, past Barrow Island and into a dappled archipelagos stretching west of Dampier off the coast of the Northern Territories. The seas were calm and cobalt blue, beneath a cloudless azure sky, and the temperatures were warm and balmy, much to the delight of the crew. When they caught a glimpse of Malus Island, saw the pristine white sand beaches and unspoiled reefs, they all took heart. Crewmen spotted manta rays and schools of fish in the clear waters, and the stony cliffs were circled by terns, ospreys and sea eagles. Farther out in the Indian Ocean to the north they spotted squadrons of blue nose dolphins leaping in the ocean spray. The place was actually a series of small islets, connected by sandy tails that were more prominent at low tide so that one could walk along them from one to another. Compared to the charred shores they had visited earlier, it seemed a paradise.
Admiral Volsky decided to drop anchor briefly here, at a location Fedorov named Whaler’s Bay, and they put men ashore to check on the general condition of the island and take water and soil samples. The main island to the northeast was empty, but they were elated to find eight intact dwellings along the southern shore of the western islet, dubbed Rosemary Island. There were also the remains of old whaling and pearling stations that operated on Malus Island in the late 1800s. No sign of recent human habitation was seen, though the homes were all in good condition, summer dwellings and vacation spots that had survived the war.
“This gives me some hope, at least,” the Admiral said to his young first officer, and Fedorov nodded.
“It seems there was nothing here to merit a missile.”
“Thank God for that. With any luck we may even find people alive on this coast. Perhaps not in the major cities or ports, but in scattered enclaves like this.”
“It was largely uninhabited,” said Fedorov, “even in our time. We might find something more at Port Hedland, about a hundred miles up the coast. Then again, that was a major industrial port, one of the largest tonnage wise in Australia, even though the town there is relatively small. It might have been targeted. Beyond that lies Broome, then Derby on King’s Bay, Wyndham, and then Port Darwin. Yet it is a thousand miles to Darwin from our present location. Australia is a very big place.”
They would spend six hours there, largely because there was water to be found that tested safe, and they wanted to set up a brigade to haul it to the ship and replenish their stocks. Several men had rigged out makeshift poles for fishing from the gunwales, and the mood of the crew was better than it had been for many long weeks. The place seemed a fisherman’s paradise, and the men hauled in nets with coral trout, red emperor, scarlet sea perch, snapper and other specimens they could not name.
On the bridge, Captain Karpov walked over to the Admiral’s chair, a smile on his drawn face. “Have we finally found your island, Admiral?”
Volsky laughed. “I’m not so sure. This one doesn’t seem large enough for the crew, and I don’t see any palm trees—or pretty young girls. Perhaps we will keep looking, but I think we have finally reached the edge of paradise at long last. The world north may be blighted by the insanity of war, but there is no sign of it here. If our luck holds we may find my island in due course. Anything on the map that looks promising, Fedorov?” He craned his neck, looking for his
“Fedorov, what are you doing there? A watched clock never chimes.”
“This one will,” said Fedorov. “We’ve been sailing eleven days and eighteen hours since we left St. Helena.”
“Yes, and all we have had these last days at sea are endless empty hours. Why are you counting them?”
Fedorov said nothing for a moment, though he wore a look of obvious concern. “Will the shore parties be long?”
“What? The shore parties? Oh, I would think they will finish up in a few hours. Would you like to go ashore yourself?”
“Me sir? No, I think it best to stay on the ship just now. In fact, I think it would be wise to make certain we get all the men back aboard as soon as possible.”
The Admiral frowned, his eyes admonishing beneath his heavy brows. “What is it now, Fedorov? What are you worried about?”
“The time, sir. We’re nearly at the twelve day mark, and… well every twelve days we have moved in time. We may still be moving for that matter. It could be that we have not yet settled in the here and now, if you follow me, sir. If that is the case, I would like to make sure we have everyone aboard well before midnight. And I think we had better tell Dobrynin in engineering to keep a good ear on the reactors. They act up every time we have moved into the past.”
Volsky’s expression faded. “Dobrynin is running a maintenance operation now. Don’t worry about the reactors. As for the men, there will be many who might prefer to stay right here,” he mused. “If given the choice of this island or another ride on this ship, I might be sorely tempted as well. But let us suppose you are correct.” He turned, leaning towards the communications station. “Nikolin!”
“Sir?”
“Radio Sergeant Troyak and have him wind up his detail as soon as possible. I would like every man aboard by 20:00 hours. It will be getting too dark for safe operations ashore in any case.”
“Yes,” said Karpov. “If any man is tempted to drop anchor here we had better be wary. Let us not forget Orlov.”
“Agreed,” said Volsky. “Mr. Karpov, can you signal those men fishing from the foredeck and see if anyone knows how to snorkel?”
“Sir?”
“Yes, see if they can find us a few nice fat lobsters, or even crabs. I’m tired of galley food and the taste of something fresh would do us all some good. Anyone care to join me for dinner?”
Rodenko, Tasarov and Samsonov were quick to make their reservations, and though they would enjoy their seafood fest that night, time had other plans for them.
It would be many long hours before they realized what had happened. Troyak’s men searched the island for anything else of use, skirting along the white strands to more rocky shores where they saw images of strange creatures carved in the red stone. They searched every building, finding some magazines and newspapers, all in English, and they brought them back to the bridge for the officers to review. Fedorov found them of particular interest.
“At last!” he said enthusiastically when the Marine corporal brought them in. “Now we find out what happened!” He took them eagerly. There was a copy of the NT News out of Darwin and his eye immediately ran to the date: 15 September, 2021, and the headline was dark and ominous. Fedorov knew just enough English to know what it meant:
