The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER ONE

Soon after midnight Krasnov’s voice came through on the speaker: ‘Sonar bearing zero-two-seven. Range eighteen kilometres. Classified single screw diesel. Bearing moving left.’

In the dim red light of the control-room Sergei Yenev, captain of the Zhukov, transferred his attention from the systems console to the sonar screen repeater. With trained eyes he scanned the abstract patterns of light acquired by the submarine’s transducers as they probed the sea ahead. To starboard the cluster of the Vesteralen Islands showed in a glowing broken line: an isolated neon speck fine on the bow was Vrakoy, the outermost of them all. In the few minutes since he’d last viewed the screen the only changes were those of relative movement. There were still five ships to starboard, two to port, and some smaller pips which had been classified as fishing boats.

Yenev watched the darting neon strobe which drew attention to the new contact: a pinpoint of light, glowing and fading like a firefly as it emerged from behind Vrakoy. Zhukov’s sonar range was sixty kilometres; but the contact, masked by the island, had been picked up at only eighteen.

The buzzer on the receiver bleeped. ‘Contact now zero-three-five, range sixteen kilometres, single screw diesel,’ announced a disembodied voice. ‘Check sound signature,’ ordered Yenev.

In the sonar room Ivan Krasnov’s sensitive face broke into a grimace. Of course he’d check the sound signature. He was already doing it. Why did Yenev always order what was routine procedure as if he’d suddenly come up with an inspired idea? The young lieutenant’s elegant fingers punched away at the computer keys with the ease and grace of a concert pianist. Seconds later he pulled the flexible neck of the mike closer and read aloud from the print-out. ‘Target’s course and speed two-seven-three… speed seventeen knots… computer comparison with sound signatures of Soviet and NATO fleet auxiliaries negative repeat negative. Classification large single screw commercial tanker.’

In the control-room Yenev acknowledged the report with a terse, ‘Good. Disregard. Resume normal scanning.’

‘Resume normal scanning,’ echoed Krasnov, jerking his chin outwards and upwards as if exercising his neck muscles.

Yenev decided to speak to Krasnov about the report later. The lieutenant should have given the sound signature first. That was what Yenev had ordered. It was top priority. Target data should have followed. Yenev respected Krasnov’s ability. He was a good sonar and torpedo officer, but like many graduate entries his manner suggested that academic skills placed him in a category above the seamen officers who’d qualified in the naval academies. And so at times, among other things, he disregarded well tried naval procedures. What the captain didn’t know was that Krasnov was unhappy in the navy. The young man wished fervently he’d taken a degree in arts and not physics. He was an intellectual, by nature a philosopher. But his father, a retired naval petty officer with understandable ambitions for his son, had more or less pushed him into physics and the navy.

Yenev scratched his sandy en brosse hair and shifted his attention to the plotting table. The head scratching was a familiar gesture. Because of it the crew called him ‘old dandruff’, in spite of his thirty-five years and the conspicuous absence of dandruff from the blue collar of his uniform jacket.

A chart of the Norwegian Sea showed under the glass on the plotting table. An electronic trace-arm, fed by SINS, the ship’s inertial navigating system, moved slowly ahead leaving a spidery line representing the submarine’s track. It showed that Zhukov was keeping to seaward of the two hundred metre line as she moved up the Norwegian coast.

Sergei Yenev was a conscientious captain and though he knew that SINS with its fail-safe and back-up systems showed the exact geographical position of the submarine at any moment, when close to land he often double and treble checked the position by sonar, radar, and visual bearings at periscope depth.

The clock above the plotting table showed 0010. Next check at 0020, he reminded himself as he watched the flickering figures on the ocean-depth-recorder and compared them with those on the chart: 1440… 1500… 1620… metres.

‘Good,’ he muttered. Yenev had the submariner’s instinctive liking for deep water. Zhukov was on a northerly course, running parallel to the Vesteralen Islands which led on from the Lofoten Wall. Average distance of the land to starboard was 30 kilometres. They would pass within 15 kilometres of Vrakoy. Quite close enough, he decided. He was never happy near the land although they’d be in almost 1000 metres of water off Vrakoy. But it was important that the crew should have every opportunity of becoming familiar with Zhukov’s complex electronic systems and that was one reason why he was inshore. There was another, a more important one. Soviet Naval Intelligence believed there was an anti-submarine minefield between Vrakoy and the island of Andoy to the west. Zhukov’s sonar could prove or disprove this if she came close enough inshore. Norwegian territorial waters extended 20 kilometres to seaward and, by taking his submarine within 15 kilometres of Vrakoy, Yenev would be infringing Norwegian territorial rights. Norway was highly sensitive about these but that was not Yenev’s concern. He had his orders and would carry them out.

He went to the systems-state board and consulted the formidable array of gauges, dials and tell-tales, concentrating his attention on the flooding and pumping gauges, the flow meters and ballast tank readings. What he saw pleased him. During sea trials Zhukov had developed leaks in the pressure hull due to weld failures. Much time had been devoted to rectifying these at the Zhdanov Yard in Leningrad but despite the assurances of the base constructors and engineers, recollection of the defects still nagged at Yenev. A hull failure at depth was every submariner’s nightmare.

‘All well, comrade Yenev?’

The high-pitched voice at his shoulder caused him to stiffen involuntarily. It was Boris Milovych, the commissar and missile control officer. Though subordinate to Yenev in command, he was the most important man on board. Not only did he control the firing of the submarine’s ballistic missiles but as Zhukov’s political commissar he represented the Party.

Yenev, very much the naval officer and a man with little time for politicians, resented the duality of command imposed by the system. Yet he had to make the best of it. Superficially the two men got on well enough, but each was resentful of the other’s authority. Their inner tensions and frustrations had not yet boiled over but had somehow communicated themselves to the crew. This did not make for a happy ship. Zhukov was newly commissioned. Yenev wondered how their relationship would fare in the months ahead.

He nodded towards the instruments. ‘There is no evidence of leakage, comrade Milovych.’ What nonsense, he thought, having to call him ‘comrade’. The man’s rank was commander. Why not use it?

Milovych was plump and pink with deepset eyes. Pig’s eyes, Yenev had long since decided. Milovych as it happened disliked Yenev’s pale grey eyes. They conveyed no emotion, he would complain to himself; one never knew what the man was thinking.

‘The dockyard’s done a good job, then?’ Milovych smiled enquiringly. He always smiled. It meant nothing. He could smile when speaking to a man whose career he’d just ruined with a confidential report.

‘Yes. But…’ Yenev’s reply was interrupted by a series of bleeps followed by a deep voice. ‘Control-room, torpedo compartment here. Request permission withdraw torpedo from number three tube for examination.’ It was Borchoi, the chief torpedo technician.

‘What’s the trouble, chief?’

‘Routine maintenance, Captain.’

‘Very good. Shut all watertight doors and vents. Check bowcap. Reload without delay.’ Yenev knew that Borchoi would do these things anyway, but naval procedure demanded that the orders be given and Yenev was a stickler for naval procedure.

‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

Milovych smiled. He, too, knew that Borchoi would have done those things anyway. ‘You were saying, comrade Yenev?’

Borchoi, a big bearlike man, looked round the torpedo compartment, past the torpedoes in their racks to the ram loading gear, on to the tube doors and instruments grouped above them on the forward bulkhead, then back to the men around him.

‘Where’s Somolov?’

‘Gone to the heads, chief,’ said the leading torpedo technician. ‘Taken short.’

‘He’s always taken short when there’s work to be done. He’s just come on watch. Why doesn’t he do it in his watch below? Lazy little bastard.’ Borchoi sighed. ‘You’d better take over the loader, Gregorowski. Somolov can mop up that oil under the maintenance cradle. Teach him not to piss off when there’s work to be done.’

Gregorowski moved into the loader seat, checked the hydraulic controls. ‘Ready, chief.’

Borchoi looked over his shoulder. ‘Watertight doors and vents shut?’

‘All watertight doors and vents shut, chief.’

‘Number three tube. Check bowcap. Test drain cock.’

‘Number three tube. Drain cock tested, bowcap shut, chief.’

‘Right,’ said Borchoi. ‘Number three tube. Withdraw torpedo.’

Gregorowski repeated the order. The door to the tube space was opened. The hydraulic loader moved forward.

‘Smell that?’ challenged Borchoi, holding up a warning hand. Gregorowski stopped the loader.

The crewmen sniffed in the direction of number three tube. ‘Hydrogen peroxide,’ said one of them.

‘Leak from the pressure tank,’ said Borchoi.

‘Or from Somolov,’ suggested a young crewman. There was a snigger.

‘Can’t be him,’ said another. ‘He’s in the shithouse.’

‘Pack that in,’ Borchoi growled. ‘Let’s get on with the job.’

Gregorowski pulled the control lever. With a subdued hum the loader moved forward. The empty cradle rose level with number three tube. A torpedoman secured the extractor to the tail of the torpedo. ‘Extractor secured, chief,’ he reported.

‘Carry on.’

There was a thin whistle of compressed air. The torpedo slid slowly out of the tube on to the cradle which was lowered and drawn aft. The withdrawn torpedo was transferred to the maintenance cradle, and another loaded into number three tube. When this had been done Borchoi reported to the control-room, ‘Number three tube reloaded.’ The report was acknowledged. Borchoi and his men set to work on the torpedo. With skilled hands he loosened the holding screws on the inspection plates before removing them from the motor and fuel compartments. To examine the valves on the fuel lines he had to lean forward. He suspected the cause of the gas leak would be found in the valve recess. The torpedo, the latest in use in the Soviet Navy, was propelled by a piston-type swashplate engine powered by high pressure gas driving a pump jet propeller. He had an instinctive dislike for the system. ‘Give me the old electric motors,’ he used to growl. ‘Can’t beat them.’

The compartment was well lit but Borchoi could not see clearly into the recess. ‘Inspection lamp,’ he called without looking up. A torpedoman took a wire-guarded lamp from its bracket, pulled at the spring-loaded lead and switched on the lamp. He moved across to Borchoi. ‘Lamp, chief.’

Still leaning over the torpedo, head down as he peered into it, Borchoi lifted an arm to take the lamp. The torpedoman pushed it against the outstretched hand and believing it to be held let go. The lamp fell. There was a tinkle of broken glass. It was the last sound they were to hear for a thin ripple of flame was followed by a flash of yellow light and the roar of an explosion.