Disclaimer: I don't own even a model of the Seaview or FS1, much less the copyright to the series! Any enrichment I get from this story is in the joy of sharing it.
Timeless Islands
By tallsunshine12
Chapter 1 Tanna
It had been a long time since Admiral Harriman Nelson had been to Timeless Islands. He was looking forward to seeing them again. Though he could not stay long in the volcanic island chain in the South Pacific, he was glad for the assignment.
Traveling at half-flank, and even flank, Seaview slowed to one-third and finally surfaced in the warm, azure waters off Port Resolution, the chief city of the southerly island of Tanna in the Vanuatu chain. Except for the rainy season, with its hurricanes, from November to April, there was no finer place to soak up the sun than the island now lying off Seaview's bow.
Its beauty—strikingly blue water and smooth, untrammeled white sand, coral reefs and tall, bare Kauri trees—plus an atmosphere of friendliness and peace—could enchant any overworked admiral from the States.
Nelson ordered Riley and Kowalski to prepare the flying sub for immediate launch. The two seamen, looking out of Seaview's bow ports before descending to the sub, could not believe their eyes. Pretty islands existed, like pretty girls, but these were, as Riley said, "Way, way too far out!"
Off-duty, the crew swam that evening and the next day in the blue, subtropical inlet of Port Resolution, while Admiral Nelson and his skipper, Lee Crane, flew FS1 to Port Vila, with its nightlife and hotels on the northern island of Efate. There, they met with local officials about their mission, which involved the need to search these waters for a lost Russian satellite.
Six to eight times a year, the Soviets, not trusting the Americans to honor nuclear arms agreements, sent a Kobalt-class spy satellite into space to recon strategic U.S. defense sites. One three-ton, cylinder-shaped satellite had dropped out of orbit into the sea west of Tanna, making 'uncharacteristic' maneuvers on U.S. radar before it disappeared altogether. There was now a race on with the Soviets to locate the satellite and retrieve a capsule of film exposed over U.S. military plants and missile silos.
Nelson had offered Seaview for the job. Even with the latest sounding equipment aboard, he needed two days for his deep divers to find the satellite and retrieve the capsule, after which he'd fly the film back to N.I.M.R. in Santa Barbara for analysis. Nelson himself was anxious to see the pictures from space and find out what information they held.
The meeting at Port Vila, attended by officials native to the Vanuatu archipelago, Admiral Nelson and Capt. Lee Crane, went well. Nelson and the Seaview got their two days.
Heading back that afternoon to the sub, the orange disk of FS1 arced in the sky. Crane and Nelson were still north of where Seaview lay, when, banking to port over the island of Erromango, Nelson pointed out Dillon's Bay to Lee through the viewscreen.
"That's where I used to dive wrecked World War II planes," he told Crane. "Warm, year-round temperatures made swimming a pleasure, too. Look at those huge Kauri trees."
Crane nodded, neither man aware that just below them, in the tall trees at the shore's edge, a man stood with a SAM perched on his shoulder, aiming it at FS1. A surface to air missile, this SAM was Russian-made and known by the U.S. Department of Defense as an SA-7A. The Russians called it Strela-2, or arrow, for its ability to send a missile straight and true.
The operator tracked the leisurely flying craft, homing in on its tail exhaust by infrared. Once the launcher locked onto the target, a buzzer on the handgrip signified the SAM was ready to fire. The operator then pressed the trigger. In the booster stage, in which the missile left the tube, the stabilizer fins popped out.
About twenty feet from the operator, the motor ignited. The missile flew in an arc towards the flying sub. Straight and true. FS1 suffered a direct hit. Plunging into the sea, its own stabilizers badly affected by the fragmentation blast, the flying sub careened from side to side. Its occupants, both very competent flyers, tried pulling out of the dive. They wasted their efforts. FS1 impacted the water at nearly two hundred miles per hour, enough to cause Nelson and Crane to all but black out in the pilot chairs. The submerging craft hit a coral reef and disturbed quite a few tiger sharks nestling there, eventually coming to rest on the seabed below.
Nelson woke first and, shaking the cobwebs out of his head, was able to struggle out of his seatbelt. Staggering against Lee's chair, he bent to look at the skipper's forehead. Lee's own safety belt had snapped and he'd plunged into one of the two throttle handles. A superficial wound, but since he was not awake, a concussion was likely. Leaving his friend alone for a short minute, Nelson tossed switches on the blinking light panels, trying to assess the sub's damage. He read these lighted dials and tried the mike. A great relief washed over him as he heard Chip's—Lt. Cmdr Morton's—voice.
"What happened, Admiral?" Chip sputtered into the mike. "First, you're flying toward us on radar, and the next thing we know you're gone."
"Chip," the admiral breathed, not able to find his voice yet. "We've been attacked. Someone knows we're here and shot at us from the shore. We're down. Down—and Lee's been hurt. I don't know how badly yet."
He had to stop talking. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he realized how shaken he was. Everything was unsettled inside. Ribs, back and neck. That had been a hard impact with the water and then the coral outcrop. He thought of the damage FS1 had likely suffered. Like a freeway accident at rush hour. Totaled. Nevertheless, somehow, he and Lee were both alive.
"Admiral, are you still there? Admiral, answer me!" cried the Exec, speaking from the relative safety of Seaview's control room.
"I'm here, Chip. No need to shout. I can hear you." The admiral paused again, still gathering strength to speak. He felt very tired and could barely assess his own 'damage.'
Chip once more impatiently cut in, bursting with questions. Nelson responded as succinctly as he could to the barrage.
"We're about halfway from Port Vila to Tanna, Chip, nearly over Dillon's Bay. Erromango. Close in to shore, about three hundred yards out. I was saying to Lee to look at some Kauri trees. A good thing we didn't hit 'em."
The admiral was rambling and he knew it. Chip knew it, too, and so did the man standing next to him. Chief Sharkey was a very good friend of the admiral's.
Chief of the Boat, Sharkey had charge of just about everything to do with the smooth (or occasionally not so smooth) running of Seaview and the happiness (or lack thereof) of the men. He assigned duties, checked cargo, rated crewmen on their abilities and made sure the admiral and Lee never found out about all of the shenanigans the crew could get up to on a long undersea mission.
"May I say something to the admiral?" Sharkey asked the Exec. Reluctantly, for he didn't like to let Sharkey get too much above himself, Chip handed the mike over.
"Admiral," said Sharkey, in a voice trembling with relief. "When we lost you on radar, we just had to guess what happened. You're okay? The skipper's hurt?"
"He is, Sharkey. Thanks for your concern. I have to see to things right now. Give the mike back to Chip."
"Right, Admiral." Sharkey was beaming as he handed the mike back. He turned back to his duties with a spring in his step.
"Chip, I've got the coordinates now," said Nelson, who had been working with some of the plotting controls. "They're—"
Suddenly, he jumped and made a small outcry. Through the mike, Chip could hear hammer-strikes against the hull of the flying sub. Sharkey had gone to Patterson's sonar station, but turned on his heel and looked at Chip. Morton turned away and began an urgent speech.
"Admiral! What's that noise?"
"I don't know, Chip. It sounds like someone's trying to break in." The admiral paused, listening to the strikes. He turned back, clenching the mike in a desperate hand. Speaking close to it, he said, "Here's the coordinates. They'll make finding us easier."
"Ready, Admiral." Chip wrote them down and passed them along to Sharkey. "Chip here again, Admiral. We'll be at your position in a few hours. Anything else?"
"Yeah. A quick prayer!"
Once he had given Chip the figures, Nelson turned back to the floor hatch. Divers were trying to break in. He put up the mike and sped over to a wall cabinet, taking out a gun, ready to shoot the first man who appeared above the rim of the well. When it opened, only a hand appeared above the edge of the well. Throwing a bomb of some sort, it retreated as quickly as it had showed itself.
Some kind of mist or gas erupted from the bomb and Nelson backed up, choking and coughing. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, trying to clear his watery eyes by digging his fingers into them. Looking up just in time, anticipating a boarding party, he saw the hatch open again and up through the well rushed a diver. Still fighting to see, he toppled the intruder and rolled about with him on the sub's deck. Two other men came up through the hatch in the interval, laying hands on him and forcing Nelson to his feet. From FS1's own stores came a diving mask for each of the two Seaview men, and an air tank apiece. Nelson presently found himself in the water, swimming and trying to hold onto Lee, who was just waking up.
Unable to speak through the mask, he couldn't reassure Lee of anything. He could only try to keep him from thrashing about as Lee discovered what was happening to them. One diver jabbed the admiral in the back with a short, automatic fishing harpoon. Angry, Nelson turned, but his hands were full helping Lee make the trip to the surface. As soon as their heads popped above water, Lee tore off his mask, gasping to breathe. Being unconscious for the first part of the journey, he had not been able to breathe correctly, even with the oxygen tank strapped to his back and the mask.
The admiral pulled out his mouthpiece as well, also gasping for air. The atmosphere inside the bombed flying sub had quickly become fetid with smoke and the smell of singed wiring. Treading water, he tried to calm Lee.
"Lee! Lee, it's alright. We're safe enough for now."
Lee saw the men who were treading water beside them. Armed men. He looked back at the admiral.
"You say we're alright, Admiral?"
Turning, both men saw the shoreline a few hundred yards away. Palm trees dotted the sand here and there, singly or in knots of two or three. Tall Kauri trees stood further back on a ridge. Poked again by the same harpoon, Nelson began to swim for shore, Lee following closely. Up on the sand, both collapsed. Water washed their legs and collected around their faces as it eddied back and forth. The admiral spared a glimpse of the armed men who had come ashore, too. Natives, very dark-skinned and wearing white shirts and trousers, or trousers only. Their harpoons were very modern: each carried a 5-ft metal spear with a double fluke head. If the triangular head entered a body, Nelson warned himself, it would tear a lot of flesh in coming out again.
They did not lie there long, but struggled to their feet at the jabs of the natives' harpoons. Forced up to the ridge of Kauri trees, a darker enclave beyond the sunny beach, the admiral turned back to take stock of where he had just been. He saw the endless blue water. Turning again, he saw a house of huge proportions about five hundred yards up a sandy road. Its walls of pebbled plaster, two-story, rambling and sporting a porch, it had the look of an ancient Victorian lady awaiting her sea captain. Nelson wondered who its 'master' was, for there must have been a mastermind behind the attack on FS1.
For men just wrecked in the waters of the coral reef, the hill was a bit of a climb. Once there, Lee and the admiral stopped again and blew hard, waiting for the armed men to open the large wooden doors. Not exactly sweltering out, it was very warm off the water. The long walk up the sandy road hadn't cooled them off any.
Once inside, the master finally stepped out and greeted his guests. A tall man in a white coat, dark trousers and a wide-brimmed straw hat, he had a strong-boned, angular face, but it showed a laxness around the mouth that made him look weak. His eyes were heavy and rather bored-looking, the admiral noted.
His age, about fifty.
"Who are you? Why have you wrecked my ship?" Nelson didn't try to keep the anger out of his voice. It simmered and bubbled over at the surface.
The owner of the huge tropical house laughed.
"That can wait, Admiral. I know who you are, both of you, and that is enough for now. Come in to my study," he said, familiarly. "Come in!"
Gesturing with his whole arm, he stood aside to let them pass into the office and library of the owner. Lee and the admiral had no choice but to go, especially with harpoons at their backs. Three men entered behind them, while three others remained on the porch. The owner entered last.
It was a handsomely furnished room, with some very fine pictures. Faces painted long ago. He felt eerily touched by those faces as the dim electric light made the eyes stare. Ancient nautical items, wheels and ships in bottles and brass spy glasses, littered the tables. Settees, rugs and mirrors all came from a different time, too, an era when men made things by hand and took pride in their work. True artisans.
Nelson loved such houses and furnishings. His Santa Barbara house was comfortable, a kind of contemporary-traditional mix. Here he was looked at genuine antique. Though cleaned and pressed, the house seemed not to have changed for over a hundred years. He felt out of place in his tan uniform.
Looking over at Lee, he could not read the younger man's thoughts. Lee had a fascination with the unlit fireplace, for he was staring straight into it. Nelson wondered if he was okay. The explosion had rocked them both—quite hard. The bump on the forehead must have affected his thinking, for he was glassy-eyed and still hadn't spoken more than five words since they left the flying sub. Nelson's voice woke him.
"Lee!"
Crane turned absently and nodded to the admiral. He was back in the room again. Nelson turned his focus back to their tall host.
"If you won't tell us who you are, then at least say what we're doing here—after being shot out of the sky!"
His voice rose at the end. His flying sub—destroyed on the reef into which it crashed. Their mission to find the Soviet capsule had to be put on hold for a while. And they were prisoners. Bleak, indeed, except for one thing. He had given Chip their coordinates before the divers stormed the flying sub, and the efficient Exec would make straightway for their position.
What Chip could do to rescue them—once he got there—Nelson could not guess. His imagination did not extend to science fiction.
"Before I answer that," said the tall man, pouring himself a drink from a serving cart, "would you care for a drink? Something native? It's called kava and is very good."
"I don't believe we will," Nelson replied icily, turning aside at the invitation to drink the mildly narcotic kava with a man who had downed FS1. He turned back, glancing at Lee again. "Capt. Crane has suffered a blow. He needs medical attention at once. And water."
"For a tiny bump on the head?" asked their host. "The scratch is faint, Admiral."
"If you won't help him, at least let him sit down."
"I'll be alright, Admiral," said Lee, but in a very low voice. His unfocused eyes roved over the room and his shoulders sagged.
"He'd like the kava." The tall man eyed the admiral with amusement. "I must insist you try some. Both of you. If not now, then later. As I told you, it's very good. And mixed one way, it can be very strong."
"Then that's another reason we won't drink with you." Nelson folded his arms over his chest and turned away again.
"What about you, Capt. Crane. Won't you have some? For the pain?" He laughed, holding up his glass. "Water rusts, you know."
Before Lee could speak, the admiral asked, "How do you know our names—and where we'd be flying at this time of day?"
"Everyone in Port Vila knows you by now, Admiral. And Lee Crane, skipper of the famous Seaview. You've come to rescue the Soviets' satellite from the sea. A man who watches for me radioed me the time you left the capital. I set up my little trap and here you are!"
"Right, but we're not staying! Lee!"
Nelson turned to his guard and decked him with a cold right. Lee got the same idea but preferred to land a punch in the ribs of the man nearest him, rather than the jaw. Both natives, bare-chested and bare-footed, went down. The admiral grappled with a third man, while Lee took on the congenial host, spilling his kava on the carpet.
Bric-a-brac that might have been very old began to fly as tables toppled. Nelson and his guard flew over a couch, tilting it onto its back. He hoisted the native to his feet and put a fist between his eyes. The man must have seen stars for he tripped backward and fell over a low, velvet-topped stool. Nelson's first man set on him again, but he too went end over end. Lee still wrestled with the tall man, even as the native he gut-punched earlier struggled off the floor and grabbed his arms, trying to pull him off.
The fight—or fights—could have gone on forever, but as soon as he was free, the tall man snatched a gun out of a desk drawer—an open, roll-top with loads of pigeonholes, over by one of the bay windows—and fired it at the ceiling. Nelson stopped his fist in mid-arc and looked back, over his shoulder. Lee was pushed to the floor with his arm raised behind him. The two natives at the admiral's side sent him crashing to his knees and held him fast as the tall man stood there with his dark gun pointing at the sky, a hole in the plaster above him.
"Good fight, gentlemen. Darn good fight!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen such a row since my boxing days at Oxford."
The admiral, noting the man's British accent now, breathed out and said through gritted teeth, "I'm glad we amused you." He fought to free himself but the natives held on, having to dip and turn with him as he made his moves to escape their holds.
Lee groaned and the tall man made a gesture to the native to let him up. Suddenly unencumbered by strong hands, Lee fought by inches to get to his feet. As the husky native reached down to lend him a hand, everyone's attention was riveted by a voice at the door.
"Will Mr. Reading have dinner now?"
The cook—a short, balding man who could overlook the jumbled furniture, broken glass and general mayhem he saw before him—bowed slightly and departed for the kitchen again as Reading nodded.
"Reading," said Nelson, also climbing to his feet. "I don't know the name. What's your specialty?"
"You mean, what do I do that makes me want to capture you?"
Nodding, the admiral smiled slightly in spite of himself. Lee looked at one and then the other, still baffled. It had been a long uphill walk in the sun.
"I'll keep you guessing a bit longer," Reading said. "Now, would you and Capt. Crane like to wash up before dinner?"
Knowing it would be a few hours yet before Chip reached the wreck of FS1, Nelson said, rather resignedly, "That would be welcome."
"Take our guests to their quarters, Ty. Provide them with water, soap and towels."
"Ay, sir," said the native referred to as Ty, a strapping youth with corded arms. He had been the one the admiral first decked. He had no ill will towards Nelson though, for in his place, he'd have done the same thing.
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Dinner that night—a short hour later—was good, but Nelson still avoided the kava drink. With his eyes, he warned Lee to do the same. He knew how potent the beverage could be made and resisted even a sip from the glass provided at each man's place. Instead, he drank water. Lee seemed better, he noted. The cut over his eye had a bandage on it, a small square of gauze lying under four pieces of tape. His eyes were no longer as glassy, but he did seem to need to lie down somewhere.
After some good conversation over several courses, the dinner ended. The man named Reading had told the Seaview men everything about his own past, except who he truly was—and why he wanted them there. He was born in the Yorkshire Dales, he went to grammar school at Askrigg, and he was on the boxing team at Oxford. He had a master's in some obscure archaeological science; his thesis paper had been on two Egyptian kings, Khaba and Huni, of the Old Kingdom period. If the dinner of fish, etc., hadn't been good, the admiral might have been tempted to boredom.