The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The divers from the Nepa salvage ships stopped external work on the Zhukov’s hull with the end of daylight, but inside the submarine patching and reinforcing of welding fractures continued throughout the night. The purpose of these was to reduce hull leaks to manageable proportions as quickly as possible. With the aid of the ‘camels’, due the next day, it was hoped that flotation would be accomplished within the ensuing forty-eight hours when spring tides were at their zenith. Damage to the forward torpedo-compartment being too extensive to tackle in the time available, the salvage experts had planned other means of achieving positive buoyancy forward.

On arrival the ‘camels’ were to be placed on either side of the submarine, abreast of the fin, and sunk by flooding. Chain cable bridles would be passed under the submarine’s hull from one ‘camel’ to another. This accomplished, compressed air would be forced into them, expelling the water ballast. At the same time Zhukov would blow all tanks and with the positive buoyancy provided by the ‘camels’ she would lift clear of the bottom. The Oktober salvage tugs would then haul her clear of the cove and take her in tow for the 600-mile journey to Murmansk. The naval dockyard there could make good all damage, including building on a new bow section and undertaking such other reconstruction as might be necessary. These were long-term plans. The preoccupation of the salvage experts was to get the Zhukov afloat and haul her clear of NATO territory, so that she might with the aid of tugs and her main engines reach the safety of Murmansk, the nearest Soviet naval dockyard.

At thirteen minutes past two in the morning of Zhukov’s fifth day aground, the sonar operators on watch reported the presence of unidentified underwater swimmers. They were approaching the submarine’s port bow from the direction of the Dragetennene rocks.

The officer-of-the-watch sounded the alarm immediately, the captain was called and emergency state Dobra — repel enemy frogmen — was assumed. The two scuba divers already in the water on routine patrol were ordered to intercept the incoming swimmers. Two standby divers were in the water within less than a minute, and two more were made ready for instant action.

The sea around the submarine was illuminated by arc-lights and ratings with automatic rifles, explosive charges and underwater mortars manned the casing fore and aft. This was an emergency which had been expected.

As the arc-lights came on and night turned into day, leading diver Rostoff — one of the divers on patrol when the alarm sounded — sighted two dark shadows ahead of and beneath him. They were little more that fifteen metres away, swimming abreast close to the bottom of the sandy cove. It was the whiteness of the sand which had enabled him to pick them up so quickly. The incoming swimmers, blinded by the arc-lights ahead, had evidently not seen him. Soon after his sighting he saw them hesitate, then turn away. As they did so he fired an underwater mortar with a proximity fuse. It burst between the two swimmers, killing them instantly. He was joined soon afterwards by two more Zhukov divers and within minutes of the alarm having been given the bodies of the unidentified swimmers were in the control-room.

‘Strip them,’ ordered Yenev grimly. ‘Examine each item of equipment for its place of origin.’

While Yenev, Milovych and several other officers and men watched, the bodies were stripped. The wetsuits, the skull caps, the goggles, the back-packs, the compressed air cylinders, the breathing apparatus, the buoyancy compensators and air tank regulators, the weight-belts, the underwater cameras, the films in them, the powerful underwater lights, the stainless steel diving knives, the diving watches — every item of equipment was of United States manufacture.

The dead men had been killed by concussion — the hammer effect of the mortar explosion — and their bodies were unmarked. There were no tattoo marks, no artificial dentures… nothing by which they might be identified.

Milovych smiled. ‘Americans of course. They came to photograph the hull underwater. I expect the nose radome and the after blisters were the attractions. Hope they enjoyed their little adventure while it lasted.’

Yenev addressed the executive officer. ‘Maintain state Dobra until further orders, Lomov. There may be other attempts before daylight.’ He turned to Rostoff. ‘You have done well, Rostoff.’

‘Comrade Rostoff,’ suggested Milovych.

Yenev’s stare was too much for Milovych. He looked away. ‘You have done well, Rostoff,’ continued the captain. ‘You showed courage and initiative. You will be recommended for accelerated advancement.’

Rostoff, wetsuit dripping, goggles pulled up over his forehead, looked with disbelief at the dead bodies, the staring sightless eyes, the half grins on the blue-white faces. He was trembling. It was the first time he’d killed a man. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said uncertainly. He was thinking, poor bastards — if they’d seen me first, it could have been me.

Yenev spoke to Lomov. ‘I want Krasnov and Gerasov brought off at first light. If these men came from the island they may be able to identify them. Furthermore, what has happened is to be treated as strictly secret. Those responsible for sending these swimmers must never know why they didn’t return.’

Milovych shook his head. ‘The US wouldn’t be so naive as to send men from the island. These swimmers must have come from a submarine or helicopter.’

Yenev said, ‘You may be right, Commissar. We shall see.’ He gave Milovych one of those looks which suggested to Lomov that his captain had detected a bad smell.

The Commodore (Intelligence) re-read the message clipped into the Daisy Chain file. Briggs, in his neat rather small writing, had endorsed it: ‘Most Urgent. From Daffodil, Bodo. 1627Y.’ The commodore read the words of the final sentence slowly, separating each with a deliberate pause. ‘Expect more positive news within twenty four hours.’ He looked up. ‘What exactly does all this mean, Briggs?’

Briggs was well aware that the commodore knew exactly what all that meant. It was the little man’s custom to test him with such ingenuous questions. ‘The alert, sir. Belligerent, Aries and Bluewhale to proceed at once to their stations. Blue whale to be twenty miles north-west of Vrakoy at 0200 tomorrow morning.’

The commodore looked back through recent additions to the file. ‘Belligerent transferred the boffins to Aries last night, I see.’

‘Yes, sir. With their equipment.’

‘I trust so, Briggs.’ The commodore regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It would be rather sad if they’d left it behind.’ Unabashed Briggs said, ‘The transfer went well, sir. Aries cleared upper deck for a nuclear fall-out exercise. The Wessex V winched down McGhee and his lot and they were taken via the mortar and one-nine-nine wells to the laundry.’

‘Which had been evacuated I trust. No Cantonese laundry-men left behind.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes what? D’you mean they had been left behind?’

‘No, sir. I mean the laundry had been evacuated. The laundrymen had not been left behind.’

‘Good,’ said the commodore. ‘I’m glad we understand each other.’

‘The quarterdeck aft of the hangar including the mortar and one-nine-nine wells had been put out of bounds to all hands except the flight crew when dispatching or recovering the helicopter. Aries’ captain told the ship’s company over the broadcast that it was for top security reasons. Highly sophisticated ASW weapons undergoing their first sea trials.’

‘Splendid. I always thought the Daisy Chain scenario was rather good. Hope it works as well as it reads.’

‘I’m sure it will, sir.’ Briggs looked rather pleased with himself.

The commodore’s pucklike face gathered itself into a frown. ‘Nothing is sure in these rather dodgy operations, Briggs. Too many imponderables. If you’d been in a war you’d know that. I only hope our chaps have the luck they’re going to need.’

Briggs, who was an incurable optimist and felt the commodore fussed too much, smiled politely. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Brough and Hamsov still in Bluewhale?’

‘Yes, sir. They’ll transfer to Aries with the ditched aircraft survivors in the morning. After the ditching has taken place.’

‘Quite,’ said the commodore. ‘It would be difficult to be a survivor before it had.’

Briggs grinned. ‘Sorry, sir. My wife says I tend to emphasize the obvious.’

The commodore handed the file back to him. ‘You do, Briggs. Not a bad fault. In planning repetition is an irritant, but omission is the kiss of death.’

The Nepa launch delivered Krasnov and Gerasov on board Zhukov shortly after daylight. Both were unshaven. The petty officer who called at the hospits to collect them had said his orders were to take them out to the submarine immediately.

Yenev and Milovych were in the control-room when they arrived.

‘The bodies are in the sick-bay,’ said Yenev. ‘We’ll come with you.’

The sick-bay was a fair-sized compartment with four bunks in two double tiers. The centre compartment was dominated by an operating-table with surgical arc-lights above. Along two bulkheads stood stainless steel cabinets for medical supplies, in the corner a stainless steel wash-basin and faucets; X-ray, shower and decontamination rooms led off the sickbay. Five of the bunks were occupied by Russian crewmen who’d been injured in the explosion. One with radio-active burns moaned intermittently. The hiss of air-conditioning ducts was the dominant sound, iodoform the dominant smell.

Zhukov’s doctor and two medical attendants stood by the operating-table like officiates at a funeral. On the table alongside them lay two corpses, brightly illuminated by the arc-lights. Very close together because the table was intended for one person, very still because rigor mortis had set in. ‘Recognize them?’ asked Yenev.

‘Yes, Captain,’ said Krasnov. ‘They are the Frenchmen who were at the hospits.’

Yenev’s pale eyes switched to Gerasov. ‘And you?’

‘Yes, Captain. The cod buyers from Bordeaux.’

Krasnov said, ‘We saw them leave the hospits yesterday. With their climbing packs. They told the manageress they were going to climb Bodvag, the highest peak on the island.’

The Wideroe’s daily flight from Harstad brought in a mixed bag of passengers at midday. Three were Kolhamn residents returning, one a Norwegian fisheries man from Narvik, another the doctor from Harstad on his weekly rounds. The remaining two were tourists; a brother and sister visiting the Arctic islands of Vesteralen and Lofoten.

They went at once to the hospits where they were obliged to share a double-room owing to the shortage of accommodation. It had been booked for them some days earlier. After lunch in the kafeteria, followed by a brief rest, they explored the village. They were particularly interested in the harbour, the fishing vessels, the fish-drying racks and the rorbu — the house-cum-fishing sheds used by fishermen and largely deserted at this time of year.

They had signed the hospits’ register as Li and Tanya Liang Hui from Hong Kong. Their passports showed their nationality to be Cantonese.

The light was failing as the big white Sikorsky came in low over the sea. The roar of its jets and the beat of its twin rotors were like the sound of an approaching storm. When it reached the shore it turned and swept down the beach below the Spissberg. At the end of the beach it climbed steeply, lifting over the rocky ledge which guarded the Kolfjord’s southern flank like an outflung arm, and slowed its pace on the approach to the airstrip. On arrival there the Sikorsky turned into wind and hovered like a great white bird before lowering itself on to the tarmac where it sank on to its haunches as if to underscore its intention to fly no more.

For some time the rotors continued to turn, the navigation and dimension lights to blink. Then a door in the forward end of the podlike body opened and three men stepped out carrying hand luggage. In the gathering gloom it was just possible to discern the red-lettered inscription on the fuselage: UNITED STATES OCEANOGRAPHIC SERVICE.

Plotz took the red and yellow bathing towel from the cupboard and hung it out of the window facing the harbour. He closed the window, the sash jamming the towel in place.

Ferret looked at his watch. ‘Two minutes to eight,’ he said. ‘That’s close enough to eight.’

‘I guess so.’ Plotz stood at the window looking down on to the dark street. The nearest light, dim in the gathering mist, was some distance away. ‘Could be fog tonight,’ he said.

‘Yeah. It’s looking that way.’

‘Better go down on the street. Check if he’ll see it okay.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Ferret.

He came back in a few minutes. ‘It’s fine. Light from the window’s enough without the street light.’

‘Great.’

They heard footsteps in the passage outside, voices, a door opening and closing.

‘Jesus!’ said Ferret. ‘They’re back early. Pull in that towel, Jim.’

Plotz turned off the light as Ferret finished the sentence. He opened the window and pulled in the towel. ‘Guess we better listen,’ he said, switching on the light again.

Ferret pulled the bed clear of the wall, removed the plug from the wainscoting and clipped the mike leads on to the needle aerial. He inserted the earpiece, cupping a hand over his vacant ear, pushed the bed against the wall and lay on it.

Plotz read a paperback and chain-smoked Chestertons. Later they swopped places. ‘Anything?’ Plotz whispered as he took over. Ferret shook his head. ‘Usual bull.’

It was not until close on ten o’clock that Ferret clicked his fingers and nodded to his companion. Some minutes later came the sounds of a door opening and shutting, of a key turning, of voices and footsteps receding down the passage. Ferret disconnected the mike, put the plug back in the wainscoting, the bed against the wall. ‘They’re going to the kafeteria. Put the towel out, Jim. Vince’ll be peeing himself.’

The towel had been out for about ten minutes when there was a discreet knock on the door. Ferret opened it and a man came in. Ferret shut and locked the door. The newcomer wore a cloth cap and raincoat, and carried a canvas grip. He took off the cap and stood in the light. A tall, lean man with the brown skin of an American Indian. High cheekbones, dark intense eyes, black hair over an immobile face.

‘Hi, Jim. Hi, Ed.’ He thrust out a hand, shook each of theirs in turn.

Plotz said, ‘Good to see you, Vince. Sorry for the balls-up. These guys would have to change their routine this night.’ The newcomer smiled and the deadpan face came alive. ‘Guess it’s kinda wet and cold out there, even for October. Maybe there’s fog coming.’

‘Jesus,’ said Ferret. ‘We don’t need that.’

‘I don’t know. Could be useful. Depends.’

‘Where you been, Vince?’ Plotz inclined his head towards the window.

‘Holed up in the lane between the sheds. See your window from there without being seen.’

Vincent Strutt put the grip on the floor, unbuttoned his raincoat and sat on the bed. He took a cigarette from the packet Plotz offered him, lit it and lay back, puffing whorls of smoke at the ceiling.

‘Any troubles?’ said Ferret.

Strutt shook his head. ‘No. Chopper landed on time. I came into the village with two of the crew. Later we separated. I’ve already covered the route from here to the main quay by the cold store. It’s okay.’

‘And the rest?’

‘All set.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Rockfish is surfacing about now. She’ll dive immediately she’s launched the skimmer. Then she’ll head for the RV, twenty-five miles north of Nordnes — that’s the most northerly point on Vrakoy. The skimmer will lay off the beach two miles east of the Ostnes Beacon from midnight waiting for our signal. We checked the layout coming in with the chopper.’

‘Fine. What’s the back-up?’

‘A Charleston support ship with three Belknap frigates one-fifty miles west of Vrakoy at midnight. Rockfish will RV with them round noon tomorrow. We’ll make the transfer by chopper.’

‘Sounds okay.’

Ferret turned to Plotz. ‘You better be getting along to the kafeteria in a few minutes, Jim. Be joining you soon.’ He looked at Strutt. ‘They usually stay on till the place closes at half eleven, then head back this way. Keep to themselves. They’re there to listen.’

‘And drink beer and look at the birds,’ added Plotz.

‘Talking of birds,’ said Strutt, ‘how’s Laillard’s Tern?’

‘It should get stuffed,’ said Plotz, putting a lot of feeling into what he said.

‘When these guys get up to leave I’ll push out ahead of them.’ Ferret bit a thumbnail with fierce concentration. ‘We’ll be sitting as close to the door as we can get. Jim’ll come right along after them. Okay Vince?’

Strutt nodded. ‘When they’ve been back here for about ten minutes I’ll knock on the door. Give Krasnov the message. He’ll follow me down. Maybe the other guy too. We’re organized to take care of both.’ He paused, examining the cigarette and his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘You boys’ll be waiting down behind the cold store by the main quay. As we pass you come out. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Ferret.

‘You ask me the time in English. I tell you in Russian, I don’t speak English. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Ferret.

‘Then we take him,’ said Strutt.

‘Or them,’ said Plotz.

‘Or them,’ repeated Strutt.

‘One thing, Vince.’ Ferret eyed him curiously. ‘Why did Stocken call this the Gemini Plan?’

‘Gemini — twins. Right?’

‘I get it. Because there are two of them.’

Strutt shook his head. ‘I guess not. If for any reason we don’t get one or other of these guys — if that fails — Rod Stocken has given me an alternative objective.’

Ferret said, ‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘You and Jim are not involved, that’s why. And that’s the way it’s got to stay.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Ferret waved a deprecatory hand. ‘Suits me. We’re not looking for hay.’

‘Anyway, that’s why he called it Gemini,’ said Strutt flatly. ‘Twin objectives. See?’

Plotz yawned noisily. ‘’Kay. Guess that’s all. I’ll get moving.’ He looked at the grip on the floor. ‘In there?’

Strutt nodded. ‘Yeah. But we don’t want it rough. Unless it has to be.’

Plotz opened the grip and took out three .38 calibre Colts in their shoulder-holsters. He took one, put the others on the bed. He strapped his on, slipped into his jacket, patted the gun where it snugged under his left armpit. He grinned. ‘Feel better dressed now.’ He put two spare clips of ammunition in a jacket pocket and went to the door. ‘Bye, fellas. See you.’

When Plotz had gone Strutt took two miniaturized radio transmitters from the grip, and the uniform of a leading-seaman of the Soviet Navy. The ribbon on the cap was lettered VOLGA in gold. It was the name of one of the two Nepa salvage ships off Knausnes.

While he and Ferret talked he changed into the uniform. Before pulling the blue jumper over his head he strapped on a shoulder-holster. ‘It’s difficult getting your hand to it in this rig,’ he explained. ‘They showed me how in Camp Peary. Look.’ He slipped his hand under the jumper and pulled out the Colt. ‘Jumper’s not strictly according to Soviet naval regulations. Got a concealed elastic pleat.’

They laughed. ‘You look great,’ said Ferret. ‘Kinda handsome in that rig.’

‘Get lost,’ said Vince. He was putting his own clothes back into the grip. ‘They’ve got your name on them, Ed.’

Ferret said, ‘’Kay. It’s a verbal message, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ Strutt broke into impeccable Russian. ‘Lieutenant Krasnov? I am leading-seaman Pliyev, coxswain of the Volga’s launch. I have been sent in to take you off to your ship. Captain Yenev’s orders. You are urgently required on board.’

‘That’s quite something,’ said Ferret. ‘Your Russian’s as good as mine.’

‘There’s plenty more,’ said Strutt. ‘Like what I say if he tries to check up, or if the other guy insists on coming along. I won’t bother you. It’s all taken care of.’

Ferret lit a cigarette, took two photos from his pocket, passed one to Strutt. ‘That’s Krasnov. This is Gerasov. Nice guys. Quite normal. Gerasov goes for the birds. Randy as hell right now. Just been telling Krasnov what he’d like to do to the Limey girl who crews for a yacht down in the harbour. She’s around the kafeteria most nights.’

Strutt studied the photos carefully. ‘Krasnov’s not a bad-looking guy.’ He returned the photos to Ferret.

‘He’s a small-time intellectual. Doesn’t like the navy.’ Ferret put them back into his wallet. ‘That makes two of us. It stank for me too.’

‘You’re no intellectual, Ed.’

‘You could be right. How’s Sara?’

‘She’s fine, Ed.’

‘And the kids?’

‘Marvellous. Sammy’s coming up six next week.’

‘You’re kidding. Seems a few months ago he was that high.’ Ferret held his hand against his knee, palm down. ‘Yeah. They certainly shoot up.’

‘’Kay. I’ll be getting along.’ Ferret stood up, strapped on the shoulder-holster, got into his jacket and raincoat. He slipped one of the transmitters into an inner pocket of the raincoat and fastened the zip. ‘Bye now, Vince,’ he said as he opened the door.

‘Bye, Ed. See you.’