The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER TWELVE

The harbourmaster’s launch taking Martinsen out to the Zhukov emerged from Kolfjord as the submarine’s skimmer making its 1700 trip entered. Leaping and spraying it passed within a hundred yards of the launch. Had the men known each other rain, spray and distance would have concealed their identity. Martinsen had no idea that one of the hunched figures in the skimmer was Milovych; and Milovych, unaware that the launch was bound for the Zhukov, didn’t know it carried Martinsen with the reply from Oslo which the commissar was hoping to find in the Ordforer’s office.

The apparent comedy of errors was not as uncontrived as it appeared. On arrival in Nordsen’s office Martinsen had said, ‘My orders are to go at once to the submarine to discuss with Commander Yenev the steps we are taking to assist him. Can you arrange transport for me?’

‘Most certainly,’ said the Ordforer who’d already been briefed by telephone from the county governor’s office in Bodo. ‘The harbourmaster’s launch is at your disposal.’ He took a sealed envelope from a desk drawer ‘This coded message for Commander Yenev has just come in by tele printer from the Soviet Embassy in Oslo. Please hand it to Yenev personally.’

‘Of course.’ Martinsen pocketed the envelope. ‘I shall go at once.’

The Ordforer said, ‘Two officers from the submarine have been ashore all day waiting for this message. They call here regularly to see if it has arrived.’

‘Then they will no doubt be grateful to us for expediting its delivery.’

Nordsen’s serious face managed a smile. ‘No doubt.’

Martinsen knew that transmission of the message had been delayed by Norwegian Intelligence, that the Ordforer’s briefing from Bodo had included an instruction to hand it to him for delivery immediately on arrival. For their part the Russians, having no illusions about the integrity of foreign intelligence services, had couched the message in guarded terms. It did no more than inform Yenev that Soviet salvage experts would fly in to Kolhamn that evening, and that salvage vessels and tugs from Polyarnyo would arrive off Knausnes about midnight on the following day. It recorded also that a Norwegian minesweeper and military personnel were being sent to Vrakoy by the Norwegian authorities to assist in security measures.

These measures, concluded the message, have been agreed on a government-to-government basis and the authorities have been instructed to give you every assistance.

As the harbourmaster’s launch rounded Fyrbergnes it was intercepted by the Norwegian minesweeper on patrol and ordered alongside. ‘Who are you and what is your business?’ shouted the captain by loud-hailer.

Olaf Petersen cupped his hands. ‘I am the harbourmaster of Kolhamn. My passenger is Major Lars Martinsen from Oslo. He has instructions to visit the submarine and discuss security arrangements with the captain.’

‘Very well. You may proceed.’

The captain of the minesweeper had already been informed by radio that Major Martinsen would take general charge of security arrangements on Vrakoy. The minesweeper turned away and headed for Knausnes, informing the submarine by signal lamp of the launch’s mission.

The launch approached Knausnes and the submarine showed up suddenly through the rain. ‘Christ,’ said Petersen. ‘She’s as big as a cruiser. I never expected to see one of them on those rocks.’

‘Don’t suppose they did either,’ said Martinsen.

It was low water and a good deal of the submarine’s hull was visible. As the Norwegians drew closer they saw sailors on the casing hanging fenders over the side while armed sentries, automatic rifles slung over oilskins, stood at guardrails which had been tied on either side of the fin and the long hump which extended aft from it. The launch went alongside and two officers emerged from the door at the foot of the fin. They turned out to be the captain and his interpreter… Yenev and Gallinin. The latter spoke indifferent Norwegian but understood it well.

‘What do you want?’ he shouted to the Norwegians.

Martinsen said, ‘I wish to come on board. I am responsible for security arrangements to protect your ship and must discuss these with your captain. I have also to deliver a message to him from your embassy in Oslo.’ Martinsen held up the envelope. He was himself a fluent Russian speaker, but did not yet intend to let it be known.

Gallinin engaged in earnest conversation with Yenev. ‘My captain’s regrets,’ he said. ‘It is not permitted for you to come aboard. This would be contrary to Soviet security regulations. We shall come down into your boat.’

The Russians climbed down into the launch, Gallinin first, then Yenev. Martinsen handed over the sealed envelope. ‘I understand this message is from your embassy in Oslo,’ he said.

Yenev put it into his pocket unopened. No doubt he knew it was coded. Martinsen said, ‘My government has sent the minesweeper to patrol to seaward. It will keep away all unauthorized craft. In addition military personnel have been landed on Vrakoy. They will take up their station above you.’ he pointed to the cliffs. ‘To keep unauthorized persons away from this area.’

Gallinin translated this to Yenev. After a brief exchange with him Gallinin said, ‘My captain wishes to thank your government for this assistance. It is greatly appreciated.’

‘Is there anything else we can do for you?’ asked Martinsen.

Yenev and Gallinin conferred again in low voices. ‘The captain thanks you but there is nothing more at the present time.’ The Russians shook hands with the Norwegians and climbed back on to the casing. The launch cast off, drew clear of the big submarine and set course for Fyrbergnes. Rain was falling more heavily now and the sky had darkened.

‘Hospitable lot,’ said Martinsen, buttoning up the collar of his military raincoat.

‘A vodka would have been welcome,’ said Olaf Petersen, wiping the rain from his face with the back of his hand. He looked back at the submarine. ‘Sorry for that captain. He’ll finish up in the salt mines.’

‘D’you think they’ll be able to get her off?’

Petersen said, ‘It’s difficult to say. She’s hard and fast but it depends on the underwater damage, and what salvage assistance they get. There’s a spring tide in six days. That’ll be their best chance.’

Martinsen said, ‘I see.’ He couldn’t yet tell Petersen that salvage experts, vessels and tugs were on the way.

‘It’s a big job,’ said Petersen. ‘And a lot depends on the weather. I wouldn’t like to bet on their getting her off.’

Martinsen was silent. He was thinking of what he had seen. Nothing more than a huge steel hull, that towering fin, the long extension behind it. Norwegian Intelligence’s plan for getting him into the submarine had failed. The Russians weren’t going to let foreigners on board. He thought of the men in the helicopter on the tarmac in Kolhamn. A motor-boat from the minesweeper would go into the harbour after dark to embark them. They were nuclear scientists and had with them electronic and other equipment for measuring many things, including radiation. They had, too, cameras with high-powered telephoto lenses for obtaining close-ups of the submarine.

‘By the way,’ said Olaf Petersen. ‘Did you notice the trail of bubbles astern of her as we left?’

‘No. What of them?’

‘Scuba divers,’ said Petersen. ‘They’re operating an underwater patrol.’

‘You’re very observant.’

‘Spent most of my life fishing. Makes a man notice what’s going on in the water.’

‘What’s the purpose of that long extension — sort of deckhouse — on the after side of the fin?’

‘No idea,’ said Petersen. ‘Haven’t, seen anything like that before, even in pictures of nuclear submarines.’

After the launch had left, Yenev sent for the executive officer. When he arrived the captain pointed to the empty chair. ‘Sit down, Lomov.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t much like having that launch alongside. Most unfortunate.’

Lomov nodded. ‘I agree, Captain. But we had no option. In any case they’ve only seen something of the hull and superstructure above water. No more than the men in the minesweeper have already seen, and the soldiers on the cliff will see when daylight comes.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Yenev. ‘But all the same! don’t like it.’

‘Our divers are checking along the hull and over the sea bed beneath where the launch was,’ said Lomov. ‘They’ve found nothing so far.’

Yenev scratched his head absent-mindedly. ‘Good. The anti-swimmer patrol is of exceptional importance, Lomov. Make sure it’s maintained at a high level of efficiency.’

‘I will do that, Captain.’

There was a knock on the door and Uskhan, the communications officer, came in. ‘I’ve deciphered the Oslo signal, Captain.’ He handed the message sheet to Yenev who read it. He passed it to Lomov. ‘Our people are not wasting time. They’ll be here soon.’

In the Ordforer’s office Milovych, through Krasnov, was expressing his displeasure that the Oslo reply had been taken out to the submarine by Martinsen instead of being handed to the Russian officers who had been left in Kolhamn expressly for that purpose.

‘Major Martinsen had instructions from Oslo to visit the submarine to discuss security arrangements with your captain,’ said the Ordforer. ‘It seemed only sensible to hand him the reply for delivery. Your officers were not here at the time. It avoided delay.’

‘Tell him,’ Milovych said to Krasnov, ‘that in future all communications intended for our ship must be handed to you or Gerasov We are not permitted to allow foreign vessels of any sort alongside the submarine.’

Krasnov conveyed this to Nordsen. Milovych then said, ‘Tell him that we wish to protest most urgently at the action of US, British and French aircraft in carrying out reconnaissance flights over Vrakoy today. This is a flagrant disregard of Norwegian air space by the imperialist capitalist powers.’

While Nordsen listened to Krasnov’s translation his saturnine features betrayed no emotion. But he was not accustomed to being rebuked, least of all by a shipwrecked foreigner, Russian or any other nationality, and he disliked the man’s squeaky plaintive voice.

‘Tell your commissar,’ he spoke with asperity, ‘that the necessary protests have already been made by my government, including one in respect of violation of Norwegian air space today by a Soviet Tupolev reconnaissance plane. Inform him that Norwegian military aircraft will, as a result of these violations, be carrying out patrols over the area from daylight tomorrow.’

On hearing this the commissar realized that the ball was in his court. The prospect of Norwegian military aircraft patrolling air space above Vrakoy — no doubt photographing the submarine for NATO at the same time — was an unwelcome one but there was nothing he could do about it. In an attempt to mollify Nordsen’s evident displeasure he put on his most engaging smile. ‘Tell the Ordforer,’ he said, ‘that we will be grateful if he can arrange suitable accommodation ashore for you and Gerasov for the time being. Possibly for several days.’

Krasnov, who had difficulty in concealing his pleasure, passed the news to Nordsen.

‘Facilities here are very limited,’ said the Ordforer. ‘There is only the Kolhamn hospits — a boarding house with rooms for a few visitors. It is clean and reasonably comfortable. For meals you have to go to the kafeteria. I will see if there is a room available.’ He picked up the phone and asked for a number. They heard a woman’s voice. After a brief conversation he replaced the receiver. ‘They can give you a double-room.’

‘We thank you,’ said Krasnov, who then explained the arrangements to Milovych.

‘That is satisfactory,’ said the commissar. ‘Now make it unmistakably clear to him that you will call regularly at the radhus for messages. They must on no account be sent off to the ship.’

Krasnov reported this to the Ordforer who reminded him that messages could only be transmitted and received during the hours the telephone operator was on duty — eight-thirty to noon and three-thirty to five. Which wasn’t quite true.

Down on the quay, well away from strangers, Milovych and his young officers sheltered from the rain in the lee of a warehouse. ‘It is common knowledge,’ said Krasnov, ‘that our ship is aground off Knausnes. Nothing that we have heard suggests it is known that it is the Zhukov. We have spread it about that she is old and obsolete now used for training only.’

Milovych dried the wet pouches under his eyes with thumb and forefinger. ‘We shall have to leave you and Gerasov ashore for some days I’m afraid. We cannot take the risk of giving these people excuses to send boats on to the ship again.’

‘We can manage, commissar.’ Krasnov pulled up the collar of his oilskins. ‘And while here we can keep in touch with what is being said and done locally.’

‘That, too, was in my mind,’ said the commissar. ‘You have done well.’ He looked first at his watch then through the rain at the dark banks of cloud moving in from the west. ‘Our salvage experts will be arriving by Soviet helicopter late this evening. The Ordforer will give you their ETA as soon as he receives the signal from Narvik. You are to meet them at the landing strip. Immediately on arrival send them off in the skimmer.’

Krasnov said, ‘I will see to that, commissar.’

‘They are to spend the night with us on board so that we lose no time in discussing the problem. On arrival of the salvage vessels tomorrow they will probably be accommodated there.’

Once again the commissar looked at the threatening sky. The wind was freshening and the rain came in stinging sheets. He didn’t relish the skimmer journey. The sooner it was over the better. ‘Well, I must be getting back. It is important that I see the Oslo reply without delay.’ He puffed his cheeks as if to emphasize the importance. ‘I’ll send Leading-Seaman Lenkin back with your shaving gear and other needs for the night. Never discuss the ship in your room or in any place where you can be overheard. Never, you understand.’ Salutes were exchanged and he climbed into the skimmer. The Soviet officers watched it until it was well down the fjord. Then Gerasov, bursting with laughter, clutched Krasnov’s arm. ‘Needs for the night,’ he mimicked. ‘Oh, comrade. If only he knew what I needed.’

Krasnov pushed him away. ‘Stop arsing about,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Those men over there are watching.’

Gerasov said, ‘Sorry, comrade Lieutenant. In the excitement of thinking about their women I forgot their men.’

‘You’re a lecherous bastard,’ Krasnov said. ‘If you feel that way why don’t you get married?’

‘I do feel that way and I intend to get married. That’s why I’m keen on getting practice now.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’

From the windows of his office in the big complex which housed the CIA, Rod Stocken, assistant to the Director of External Operations (Western Hemisphere), looked out on what he could see of the Virginian landscape in the late twilight. ‘So Joe gets it from Karen and she gets it from Martinsen and we know he’s Roald Lund’s front runner.’ The man opposite him nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘So why does Martinsen have to tell Karen that it’s the Zhukov?’ Stocken looked at the men sitting round the large scale map of the Lofoten and Vesteralen Islands.

A dark young man with an Annapolis fraternity ring and film star looks said, ‘Maybe I’m naive, Rod. But I see it this way. Here’s this one-off, never-again opportunity of checking their latest nuke first hand. But it’s too hot for Norway to handle. They daren’t offend Moscow. As it is they’re not happy about their NATO commitment. We know that Soviet naval units in the Northern Fleet alone outnumber their NATO counterparts by five to one. There’s constant Soviet naval activity off the Norwegian coast. But Norwegians don’t want the West to miss out on this. Without the West they’d lose their independence overnight. So they tip us off. They can’t take the risk of doing it officially. So Lund gets Martinsen to pass it to Karen. He knows she’s a CIA feedback.’

‘I go along with Ben.’ The man with the sad face of a bloodhound closed his eyes while he paused to think. ‘There’s a close relationship between Lars Martinsen and Karen. Usual bed-time story. He lets the name Zhukov slip. Forget it, he says. Shouldn’t have said that. You know. Standard bull. Karen picks it up. Feeds it back to Joe. And Keflavik’s confirmed it’s a nuke with unfamiliar configuration.’

‘I guess Ben’s right. You’re both right. That way it makes sense.’ Stocken lit a cheroot, examined the tip, stuck it into the corner of his mouth. ‘Right now the Norwegian Government is negotiating with the USSR on maritime problems. This is a highly sensitive area. Norway’s northern continental shelf pushes way out into the Barents Sea. That’s where the oil is. They can’t risk fouling up those negotiations.’

‘So what do we do?’ asked Ben.

Stocken examined the tip of his cheroot again. ‘We get busy, Ben. Right now.’ He looked round the table indulging his sense of theatre. He knew they were all wondering how, when and who? Well, he’d take them up to it gently, ‘You fellows heard of Laillard’s Tern?’

They hadn’t. But they looked at the stack of reference books on his desk. That was Rod Stocken. Always did his homework. ‘It’s a variant of the Arctic Tern,’ he said. ‘Very rare. Breeds in only two places in the world. One is the island of Rost, south of the Lofotens. The other,’ he paused, leant back in his chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘The other’s Vrakoy.’

‘Great,’ said Ben. ‘Where do we go from there.’

That pleased Stocken. He smiled, which was something he didn’t do easily. ‘Ed Ferret and Jim Plotz are going to learn a lot about Laillard’s Tern,’ he said. ‘And they’re going to learn fast. For a start they can read it up on the night flight to Bergen.’ He leaned over the map, the cheroot jutting aggressively, his finger on Vrakoy. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s get busy with the Gemini plan.’

‘So why’s it Gemini, Rod?’ Ben smiled indulgently. He knew Stocken’s weaknesses.

‘I’ll explain that when Vince gets here. Call him in will you, Ben.’