The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As the skimmer drew away from Kolhamn and headed for the open sea, Milovych was unusually thoughtful. He was not sure about Hjalmar Nordsen. The Ordforer had been studiously polite but at no point had the man dropped his guard. That he would not bend the rules for the Zhukov was evident. Everything would have to be referred to higher authority and that meant delay. Milovych, by nature and training suspicious, mistrusted Norsden, sensed a lack of sympathy. It was calamitous indeed that all communications had to be passed through Vrakoy’s post office. Norsden would have access to them. So would Norwegian Intelligence. The code was no protection. Had Zhukov’s transmitters been working there’d have been no problem. Computer-scrambled high-speed transmissions couldn’t be deciphered. For those reasons the message to the embassy in Oslo had not been anything like as explicit as Yenev and the commissar would have wished, but Leningrad would understand. The response would be immediate and effective. Of that Milovych had no doubt.

The skimmer cleared the headlands at the mouth of the fjord, bumping and spraying its way past the bay at Uklarvik and on towards Fyrbergnes. The sky was grey and oppressive, and the mountain which dominated the western end of the island loomed darkly under snow-capped peaks. Beneath them steep flanks led to cliffs rising vertically from the sea.

No wonder Norsden had said the western end of the island was uninhabited, difficult of access. At least that was something in the submarine’s favour, decided Milovych. The lighthouse at Fyrbergnes, its black and white ringed tower stark against the mountain, came up to starboard and passed astern as the skimmer rounded the point. It was only then that the submarine, a few kilometres away, came into view. The glistening black fin and hull were scarcely visible against the jagged rim of the Dragetennene and the clouds of spray which leapt skywards as seas broke against them. A knot formed in Milovych’s stomach. It was a mind-bending spectacle. This marvellous product of USSR technological genius stranded like some dying whale on a foreign shore. There would be a court martial of course. Would the court take the view that Zhukov should have been abandoned and destroyed? That he, Milovych, should never have agreed, however reluctantly, to Yenev’s proposal?

As Milovych tussled with this problem the high whine of the skimmer’s engine dropped to a lower pitch. Soon afterwards it coughed and died as the little rubber craft entered sheltered water in the lee of the submarine and drifted alongside. Milovych climbed a rope ladder and went down to the control-room through the free-flooding door at the foot of the fin.

In the security of the captain’s cabin the commissar reported on the morning’s events. He finished by outlining the arrangements made with the Ordforer for Krasnov and Gerasov to remain ashore for the time being.

Yenev in turn told of the work done that morning, of progress made with emergency repairs, with containing flooding and controlling radiation and chloride contamination. ‘We’ve got some of the radar on stream again,’ he said. ‘And Uskhan has rigged an emergency radio receiver. It’s a small set. Brought on board by a seaman and impounded. Otherwise there has been little change in the electronics situation.’

‘The forward torpedo-compartment?’ Milovych ran his tongue round his lips.

‘Completely flooded. We can’t risk opening the W.T. doors and vents. Nor can we enter by the forward escape hatch. It’s awash most of the time.’

‘The men there?’

‘We can do nothing for them. All must have been dead for a long time. Outside assistance is essential to deal with that compartment.’

‘The salvage vessels?’

‘Of course.’

‘By now Leningrad will have had our signal from Oslo. They in turn will have passed it to C-in-C Northern Fleet. How long have we to wait, comrade Yenev?’

‘A Nepa class submarine rescue and salvage ship can make eighteen knots. The Fleet salvage tugs a little more. If they clear Polyarnyo by fourteen hundred today, and the weather holds, they should be here within thirty-six to forty hours.’

Milovych looked at his watch. ‘That means some time tomorrow night.’

Yenev nodded. ‘We should have a reply from Oslo shortly. I have given instructions for the skimmer to make the trip to and from Kolhamn at two-hourly intervals, at least until we receive it.’

‘How are the injured?’ For reasons probably known to psychiatrists Milovych’s inquiry was accompanied with a smile.

‘There are seven receiving treatment. Three for burns, three for minor fractures — and Kossuth of course. He has been decontaminated but still suffers from shock.’ Kossuth had been on duty in the emergency communications room at the time of the explosion.

Yenev scratched his head. ‘The doctor says none are serious. We can treat them better on board than would be possible on the island. And it mustn’t be known ashore that there’s been a radiation leak.’

Milovych crossed his legs and sat back in an easy chair. Yenev, at a small desk beside the bunk, sat facing him. ‘There is something I do not like, Commissar. Our radar and research receivers picked up several reconnaissance aircraft this morning. Uskhan identified four of them by their radar signatures.’

‘They were?’

‘One was US. Probably a Lockheed SR LA from the Keflavik Air Base. Operating at 22,000 metres. The first to arrive was British. Almost certainly a Nimrod. It did some low flying to the west. We couldn’t see it for cloud. There was one of ours. A Tupolev TU-16. Operating at about 16,000 metres. Probably on surveillance patrol. There was also a Breguet-Dassault at about 15,000 metres.’

‘It may be chance,’ said Milovych. ‘The US, British and French may also have been on routine patrols.’

Yenev shook his head. ‘Radar tracking shows they were concentrating on this area. Photographing, I expect. I’ve no doubt we’ll be receiving more attention during the day. The Norwegians are not going to stop their own military flights. I’m only surprised we haven’t seen more of them.’

‘How is it known so soon that Zhukov is here?’

‘I’m sure they don’t know it’s the Zhukov. But the news that a big Soviet BMS is aground on Vrakoy is already being broadcast. Uskhan heard it on the emergency receiver.’

‘How did they get it?’ Milovych, head cocked on one side, watched Yenev closely.

‘Somebody in Kolhamn must have talked. Fishermen perhaps. Such news travels fast. It is something for which we cannot be responsible.’

‘It might be said, comrade Yenev,’ Milovych smiled amiably, ‘that your decision not to destroy Zhukov, to put the ship in a place where Western reconnaissance could observe her, was responsible.’

Yenev’s pale eyes held the commissar’s. ‘Our decision, I thought.’

‘Made on your advice, comrade.’

‘Somehow,’ said Yenev, ‘I don’t think that argument would carry much weight at a court martial.’

Milovych winced. It seemed Yenev’s unblinking eyes could peer into his brain, read his thoughts. The commissar changed the subject abruptly. ‘What do you think of the weather?’

‘The glass is steady but broadcast weather reports from Oslo are not encouraging.’

Milovych kneaded the flesh under his eyes with his knuckles. He felt tired, despondent. These matters were not susceptible to political treatment. If they were, how different everything would be.

Later that afternoon the Norwegian minesweeper from Harstad arrived. It landed two platoons of infantrymen and left immediately for Knausnes to patrol to seaward of the Zhukov.

One platoon of infantrymen was billeted in the town with a lieutenant in charge; the other, under the command of a young captain, embarked with their equipment in a fishing vessel commandeered by the Ordforer. Forty minutes later they were landed in a small cove in the deserted bay at Uklarvik, near the Fyrberg lighthouse. From there they set out to cover the three kilometres to Knausnes, led by a guide provided by the Ordforer. The journey involved climbing the lower slopes of Fyrberg before making the descent to the cliffs above the Dragetennene. It took all of two hours.

It was raining and almost dark when they arrived at their destination. After posting sentries along the cliff, the captain returned to the site where patrol tents were being erected for what promised to be a miserable night. His orders were to keep sightseers, journalists, photographers and other unauthorized persons away from the submarine. He regarded the whole operation as a waste of time. Who on earth, he asked his second-in-command, a bespectacled young lieutenant with lanky hair which belied his toughness, would be crazy enough to make the journey across the mountain to see a submarine aground?

‘That’s right,’ said the lieutenant. ‘But what a size. Bloody fantastic, isn’t it?’

At about the time the minesweeper disembarked its load of soldiers in Kolhamn a helicopter of the Norwegian Air Force flew in. From it stepped Lars Martinsen. He went immediately to the radhus where he had a brief discussion with Hjalmar Nordsen.

Soon afterwards, accompanied by the harbourmaster, Olaf Petersen, he climbed into a launch and they headed down the Kolfjord towards the open sea.

The helicopter had brought three other passengers. These men, civilians, didn’t disembark. They sat in the helicopter behind drawn blinds talking in low voices. On the tarmac outside an armed military policeman stood on guard. He, too, had come in the helicopter.

Krasnov and Gerasov spent most of that day walking round Kolhamn, visiting the radhus at regular intervals to see if the reply from Oslo had come in. Their uniforms attracted attention but this was not serious. The news that a Russian submarine was aground had circulated quickly and they had no need to explain their presence.

By four o’clock that afternoon there was still no reply from Oslo. The two Soviet officers now had a fairly good idea of the small harbour town and its activities. They had observed that it spread like the foot of a large sock round the head of the fjord and was dominated by the mountain which cradled it, its dark slopes leading to rocky summits mantled with early snow.

The wooden houses of the fishermen — for the most part perched on stilts — lined the fjord. They were fronted by quays of rough-hewn wood on which nets, dan buoys and other fishing gear were stowed. Above and beyond them small houses traced irregular patterns in the foothills. Toy-like in the distance, they were painted in bright colours: terracottas, beiges, greens, blues and creams. All had white doors and window frames and were modest in size and appearance. A single dirt road threaded its way round the fjord between the houses. There were bicycles but no cars. Krasnov had learnt that it was the time of year when most of the fishermen were up in the Barents Sea cod fishing. Thus women and children predominated.

There were two general stores housed in old clapboard buildings. In strange contrast to its exterior, one was organized as a supermarket. Krasnov and Gerasov had made small purchases in both. By design the task had taken a long time for Krasnov did not then admit to speaking Norwegian and changing money had presented problems.

His instructions from Milovych had been clear listen to the gossip in the town. Find out what the locals know. And so he and Gerasov set themselves the task of finding out where local gossip could best be overheard.

It was this they were now discussing. ‘The two stores, I reckon,’ said Krasnov, ‘and this place.’ He looked round the small kafeteria in which they were sitting. They had eaten there at midday. The only other occupants were two young men, fishermen it seemed, who were at a pin-table, two old men sitting in a corner smoking pipes and engaging in brief monosyllabic conversation, and three teenage girls whose whispered sentences, sudden giggles and sidelong glances were directed at the Russians.

Gerasov refilled his beer glass. ‘Yes. I agree.’ He belched quietly. ‘The stores and the kafeteria. Wish they sold spirits here. This beer would go well with vodka or akvavit.’

‘You’re lucky to get beer,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’re not here to sample the booze. Concentrate on the job, my lad.’

They’d found in the course of what seemed a long thirsty day that the kafeteria was the only place in Kolhamn which served beer for drinking on the premises. Spirits could not be bought on the island, the population being too small for a state liquor shop. Many of the fishermen apparently made their own spirits — hjemmebreut — and drank them at home, but these could not be bought. Krasnov had made casual but calculated inquiries about local drinking habits in the belief that where locals congregated to drink gossip would be plentiful. But there was nowhere other than the kafeteria and that seemed poorly attended.

He looked at his watch, emptied the glass and reached for his cap. ‘Come on. Drink up. The skimmer’s due at five. We’ve only ten minutes.’

Gerasov swallowed the last of his beer, took a uniform cap from the table and looked at the teenagers. ‘Think they’d part with it?’

‘Better ask them,’ said Krasnov. ‘But not now. We must get cracking.’

‘Sorry,’ said Gerasov. ‘Must have a pee first. This beer goes through a man like a knife.’

‘Well shake it up. There’s little time.’ The lieutenant stood waiting while Gerasov went through the glass door at the back marked Toileten.