The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER TWENTY

The dinghy grounded. Olufsen stepped out, hauled it into the shallows. He walked along the beach in the darkness until he reached the stilts supporting the rough wooden jetty. He climbed the ladder and from its top flashed his torch three times at the dilapidated house. Answering flashes came from a front window.

He went through the empty door frame, his hand over the lens of the torch so that its light showed only a few feet ahead. The floor-boards creaked and groaned as he walked. From somewhere close came the anxious tones of a woman. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. But they’re looking for him. They searched the Kestrel. There was no trouble.’

‘Good.’ She sighed with relief.

‘How is he?’

‘Conscious now, but muzzy. He tries to keep awake.’

‘We leave in another fifteen minutes, Tanya. Has he changed clothes?’

‘Yes. He refused to at first but Li persuaded him. It was not difficult. He’s so weak and confused.’

‘I’ll keep watch. Go down and give him the tablets.’

Liang Hui shone the torch into the far corner of the basement. The beam revealed a man sitting on the earthen floor, his back to the wall. The combination of light and shadow emphasized the haggard features, high cheek bones and sunken eyes. He was wearing denim slacks, blue roll-neck jersey and canvas shoes. His wrists and ankles were tied with rope. Liang Hui got up from the wooden box and aimed the torch at the stone steps. Somebody was coming down them.

‘It’s me, Tanya.’ She spoke in Chinese. ‘Gunnar has come. He says we leave in fifteen minutes.’

Liang Hui switched the torch beam back to the man in the corner, put the automatic pistol on the box.

‘We must give him these now.’ Tanya unscrewed the metal cap of the Thermos flask, filled it with water and handed it to Liang Hui with the Sodium Pentothal tablets.

He went over to the corner. ‘You must take these,’ he said in Russian. ‘To offset the chloroform.’

Krasnov looked at the Chinaman and the tablets with suspicion. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I will not.’

‘Then we must inject’ Liang Hui called to his sister. ‘The hypodermic.’

The Russian’s eyes lit up with sudden fear. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Please not.’

‘Good. Take these tablets. They will help you.’

With a sigh of resignation Krasnov submitted. Liang Hui put the tablets in the lieutenant’s mouth, held the metal cup to his lips. Within a few minutes he had slumped into unconsciousness.

They called Olufsen. With his help they took the skimmer pack to the water’s edge, unrolled and inflated it and fitted the outboard. That done, they carried Krasnov up from the basement and put him in the skimmer. They loaded the orange life-raft pack, the VHF transmitter, the compass and the shopping bag. In it were Krasnov’s uniform coat and trousers, the false moustaches and seamen’s caps worn by Boland and Sandstrom.

Tanya got into the skimmer. Olufsen and Liang Hui pushed it clear of the beach and jumped in.

The mist lay thick over the fjord and they kept close inshore, the men using paddles while Tanya steered. The sound of the foghorn grew stronger and before long the flashing light of the beacon showed through the mist and they turned ninety degrees round it into the channel leading to the sea.

They stopped paddling and waited. Minutes passed before the noise of a diesel came from the lower end of the fjord. The sound grew stronger, came closer. Olufsen whispered, ‘There. Almost dead astern. They’ll have picked us up on radar.’

As they watched, the uncertain flickers of light resolved into a misty red and green, grew stronger, came closer, then faded and disappeared as the sound of the diesel engine passed up the skimmer’s starboard side. A beam of light exposed for a few seconds by someone on board illuminated the name on the stern transom. It was Kestrel.

‘Thank God for that.’ Olufsen breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

He started the outboard, barely opening the throttle. The skimmer moved ahead keeping the stern light of the Kestrel just visible in the darkness. Ten minutes later, still following the ketch, they rounded Kolnoy, the foghorn booming, the beacon flashing mistily. They remained close inshore until they reached the end of the channel. Once clear of the fjord, Olufsen steered north-east to pass along the southern coast of the island. The long rocky arm of Spissberg was close to port.

He said, ‘We couldn’t have coped with this fog without Kestrel’s radar.’

‘They’d have had a hell of a job finding us,’ agreed Liang Hui.

‘Take the tiller, Li.’ Olufsen moved aside in the darkness. ‘Keep her heading as she is. I must look at the chart.’

Liang Hui took the tiller. Olufsen spread the chart on his knees, looked at it with the shaded torchlight. He’d already marked the courses to steer to the rendezvous, twenty miles to the north-east. He put away the chart, took over the tiller. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll go ahead now.’ He opened the throttle, the note of the engine rose and the skimmer’s bows lifted as it gathered speed. Above the noise he shouted, ‘We’re steering north-east. Doing about thirty knots.’

‘Feels like it,’ said Liang Hui as the skimmer bounced, bumped and sprayed through the mist-laden night.

Before long they overhauled the Kestrel, passed up her starboard side, drew swiftly ahead.

Olufsen said, ‘As soon as we’re past the Ostnes Beacon, we’ll alter course to the north-west.’

In the darkness Tanya leant over the body at her feet. She put her ear to Krasnov’s mouth. He was breathing steadily. She felt his heartbeat and pulse. They were regular. The tablets would keep him heavily sedated for several hours. Long before that, she hoped, he would have been delivered to his destination. She felt a strange sympathy, a real sorrow for the Soviet lieutenant; and with it a sense of guilt that she’d been a party to it all. It was sad, she thought, that the world was like that. He was the son of some Russian mother, the husband or boy-friend of some Russian girl. What would they feel and think if they could see him now?

Olufsen’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Drop that bag over the side, Li.’

She heard the splash of the weighted shopping bag as it hit the water astern and sank.

Bluewhale arrived at the rendezvous twenty miles north of the Ostnes Beacon at 2200. Then began what was to prove a long wait for the signal from Kestrel. At first Bill Boyd occupied the time doing a square search round the RV. Submerged at ‘snort’ depth, doing no more than five knots, the submarine ran on main diesels. That made possible full use of both radar and communications systems. Later he moved on to more interesting things, strange unpredictable manoeuvres to fox what he called ‘that nosey sod’. The three-dimensional display on the sonar screen in the control-room showed everything in or on the water within forty miles capable of producing an echo, its range, bearing and depth and, if a moving object, its course and speed. The hydrophones and their amplifiers relayed all underwater sounds including propeller noises and sonar transmissions of other warships. The picture on the screen was dominated in the south by the coastlines of Vrakoy and the other islands of the Vesteralen group. Around the central spot of light — Bluewhale herself — other specks, dots and smudges of neon showed up on various bearings and ranges. These were the ships, coasters and fishing boats in the area. The sonar operators on watch had reported and classified each as they appeared on the screen.

Soon after Bluewhale arrived at the RV the sonar operator had made a report which enlivened the otherwise rather dull proceedings. ‘New contact, sub-surface, bearing three-five-zero, range thirty-eight miles, classified submarine, depth two hundred feet…’

A ripple of excitement ran through the control-room as Bill Boyd acknowledged the report, altered course to the reciprocal of the bearing given, and ordered revolutions for three knots. ‘Until we know who he is, I don’t propose to hand him our signature on a plate,’ he said, knowing that vital data had still to come.

Kingswell, the sonar officer, had joined the watch operator on hearing the report. He’d been hard at work since. His first report, ‘Contact’s sonar transmissions are USN type, sir,’ pleased Bill Boyd. At least it wasn’t Russian. A few minutes later Kingswell had more information. ‘Contact’s course one-eight-zero, speed fifteen knots. We should get a sound signature soon,’ he added.

The first lieutenant checked through the NATO signal log. ‘NATO disposition signal for USN units in the Norwegian Sea at twenty hundred doesn’t give a submarine anywhere near here, sir.’

‘Doesn’t record us either,’ said Bill Boyd laconically. ‘At least it better bloody not.’

Another seven minutes passed. The unidentified submarine came steadily closer. Kingswell reported, ‘Computer comparison with NATO sound signatures suggests Fin jack hunter-killer class, sir. Appears to be heading for us.’

‘Appears be damned. The nosey sod is heading for us. Give him the NATO-IFF challenge, Kingswell.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Kingswell switched the sonar transmissions to the IFF (identification friend or foe) pulsing challenge for the day. Immediately the correct reply came from the unknown submarine, now twenty miles away.

‘Well, that’s something,’ said Bill Boyd. ‘At least he’s an Atlantic cousin. All the same I wish he’d push off. We don’t want him sniffing round our arse for the next few hours.’

Around midnight Bluewhale’s sonar operator reported that the US submarine had come up from two hundred feet and was running on diesels at ‘snort’ depth. In accordance with NATO radio identification procedures the two submarines challenged, replied, and exchanged names by means of coded high-speed radio transmissions. The US submarine turned out to be the Rockfish. Carrying out radar exercises, she said. Bluewhale, having revealed her identity, reported that she was carrying out ASW exercises. Neither captain was tactless enough to refer to the NATO disposition signal.

Thereafter the two submarines didn’t communicate with each other again, though they were never more than seven miles apart. ‘Wonder what that nosey sod’s up to? Playing ducks and drakes with us,’ complained Bill Boyd to his first-lieutenant.

The skimmer overhauled the Kestrel, passed noisily up her port side and disappeared into the shroud of fog and darkness, the sound of its engine fading rapidly.

Nunn took his eyes from the radar viewer. ‘The best of British luck to them,’ he said.

‘They’re going to need it,’ said Boland. ‘Crazy without radar.’

Sandstrom turned the wheel a few spokes. ‘Olufsen knows the island well. That helps.’

‘What? At thirty knots, close inshore in this lot? You’re joking.’

The three men could see nothing but the muted light of instrument dials in the cockpit, fading and glowing as the fog wrapped itself about them. The deep rumble of the diesel, the creak and groan of the rigging, the slap and splash of the bow wave and the periodic boom of the Kolnoy foghorn wove an intricate and now familiar pattern of sound.

From where he watched the dials of the echo-sounder and the speed and distance log, Boland called, ‘Thirty-eight fathoms, Steve.’

Nunn repeated the depth, read off the radar bearing and distance of the Ostnes Beacon, switched on the light under the hooded chart-table and plotted the position. He marked it with a neat pencilled circle and wrote the time against it.

‘Ostnes Beacon bears zero-six-four, three point three miles,’ he said. ‘Allowing for the current against us it should be abeam in about twenty minutes. Not that we’ll see it in this.’

Boland said. ‘When do we make the stand-by signal?’

‘Soon as we’re past Ostnes and clear of the mountains. They mask these VHF transmissions.’

‘What time will that be?’ Boland knew the answer but he was twitchy and chatting helped steady his nerves.

‘Say three o’clock. First light’s about six. Sunrise a few minutes before seven. There’s plenty of time.’ He hesitated. ‘If all goes well.’

In the silence which followed Nunn wondered if all would go well. There were Soviet naval units in the waters off Vrakoy, just outside Norwegian territorial limits, and there were the Norwegians: the minesweeper and the fast gunboat. Their beat was on the other side of the island, off Knausnes. But news of Krasnov’s disappearance would long-since have been broadcast and a search at sea might already be on. His thoughts were interrupted by Boland’s, ‘Forty-three fathoms, Steve.’

Nunn acknowledged the report, went back to the radar viewer. ‘Let’s see how Gunnar and Co. are getting on,’ he said. On the screen, luminous masses and contours marked the coastline to port. He looked along it until he found a tiny speck of light, glowing and fading like a firefly, moving towards the Ostnes Beacon. He turned to ‘large scale’ and checked the speck’s distance from the beacon. It was just over a mile. ‘Great,’ he muttered. ‘They’re going fine.’

Seconds later he let out a startled, ‘Christ!’

Another fast-moving speck of light had caught his eye. It was coming in from the north-east on what looked very much like a collision course with Olufsen’s skimmer.

‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Sandstrom.

‘Just a moment.’ Nunn saw the two specks merge into one, then draw rapidly apart. ‘Christ!’ he repeated. ‘That was a near thing. Must have been another skimmer. Going at a hell of a bat. Nearly collided with Olufsen’s. It’s heading for the beach now.’

‘Holy Mother o’ Mary,’ said Boland. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Somebody’s in a flipping hurry,’ said Sandstrom.

The Kestrel was almost abeam of the Ostnes Beacon when Julie’s voice came from the companion hatch. ‘Coffee’s ready. Any offers?’

‘Plenty,’ said Nunn. ‘Bring it along.’ He kept his eyes pressed into the viewer. ‘Hullo. There’s a new contact astern. Just come clear of Kolnoy.’

There was tense silence in the cockpit as they waited, looking astern into the darkness wondering what was there, knowing it couldn’t be seen. After what seemed a long time Nunn said, ‘May be following us. Doing about thirty knots. Overhaul us in fifteen minutes if it is.’

Sandstrom said, ‘What d’you make of it?’

‘Haven’t a clue, Sven. It’s small and fast. Same sort of blip on the screen as a Gay Cavalier.’

‘The Norwegian gunboat?’

‘Probably,’ said Nunn. ‘Unlikely to be a Russian. We’re well inside territorial waters.’

A dark shape moved into the cockpit. ‘Come on,’ said Julie. ‘This coffee won’t keep hot for ever. Take a mug and I’ll pour.’

Nunn took one and used the opportunity to squeeze her hand. She filled the mug and he went back to the viewer. The blob of light on the screen was growing steadily larger. ‘Expect it’s coming to check up on us,’ he said. ‘Let’s look suspicious.’

‘Not difficult for you,’ said Julie.

They laughed though they were worried. They knew their principal role in Daisy Chain was over. Krasnov had been taken and was on his way. Now they were involved in the secondary role. ‘Make the stand-by signal,’ Olufsen had said at the final briefing in Kolhamn. ‘If the skimmer calls for help go to its assistance. If at any time the need arises, create a diversion.’

Once stopped for a search, the longer it took the better. At thirty knots the skimmer would soon be outside territorial waters and at the rendezvous with the submarine.

Nunn said, ‘Alter course thirty degrees to starboard, Sven.’

‘Thirty degrees to starboard.’ Sandstrom put the wheel over and the ketch’s bows swung right.

‘That ought to fetch them,’ said Nunn.

‘Like a bird in a mini showing her…’ Boland cut off short. ‘Sorry.’

‘I should think so,’ said Julie. ‘Really, what has the Navy come to?’

‘It’s always been like that,’ said Nunn. ‘Didn’t you know? Now let’s transmit the stand-by signal.’ He went below, switched on the VHF transmitter, took a cassette-player from the shelf, switched it on and turned up the volume. It was the Carpenters singing Close to You. He held the mike against the player, pressed the ‘speak’ button and gave the transmission thirty seconds before switching off.

Almost immediately three sharp blasts on a referee’s whistle sounded on Kestrel’s VHF speaker.

Julie came in from the cockpit. ‘That was great, Steve. We heard it on the cockpit speaker.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come and be close to me.’

‘May I remind you, Lieutenant-Commander Nunn, sir, that we are being followed.’

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘We’re never left alone.’

Olufsen shouted, ‘We must be less than a mile from the Ostnes Beacon.’ The wind made by their own speed carried the words away as the skimmer pounded and leapt through the night. Above the high-pitched scream of the outboard they heard something approaching on the starboard bow. It came with frightening suddenness: first a sound like tearing linen monstrously amplified, then a dark shape shooting across their bows, twin wakes of tumbling foam marking its passage.

‘Christ!’ shouted Olufsen. ‘That was a near thing. No more than twenty feet ahead of us.’ The skimmer shook and bumped into the troubled water left by the intruder.

‘What on earth was it, Gunnar?’ Tanya’s voice was timid, tremulous.

‘A skimmer with twin outboards. Big ones. Must have been doing all of forty knots.’

Liang Hui said, ‘D’you think they saw us?’

‘I’m sure they did. Didn’t you see the swerve to starboard? But for that we’d have collided.’

‘What d’you make of it?’

‘Don’t know, Li. One thing’s certain. They’re heading straight for the beach. Hope they know when they get there.’

‘Very strange,’ Liang Hui said it solemnly. ‘At this time and place.’

‘A lot of strange things are happening at this time and place just now,’ echoed Olufsen.

When he estimated by dead reckoning that they had passed Ostnes, Olufsen altered course to the north-west. Clear now of the shelter of the land, the skimmer felt the swell and its motion at thirty knots had all the violence of a rollercoaster at a seaside fair.

In the next six minutes they covered three miles and he put their position as one mile off Randnes. Round that point the shore-line turned south and west to form the eastern side of Nordvag Bay. Still in thick fog, unable to see anything of the land, Olufsen piloted the skimmer into what he hoped was the centre of the bay. When he estimated they were half a mile offshore he closed the throttle. The bows of the skimmer dropped, it quickly lost way and he coaxed it inshore with short bursts of engine. They were still feeling the north-westerly swell and from ahead came the sound of breakers. Olufsen realized then that they were too far to the east, heading for the exposed side of the bay. He altered course to starboard, seeking the lee of the long slope leading down from Bodvag to Nordnes.

The skimmer edged forward, the swell diminished, they entered calm water and he knew that the western side of the bay lay close ahead. Slowing the skimmer down to bare steerage way he ran in for a few minutes before switching off the engine.

‘You’ve got the chart, the compass and VHF radio?’ he said to Liang Hui. ‘Run out of here at full throttle and steer north-east. In five minutes you’ll have done two-and-a-half miles. Alter then to north. Run on that course for twenty-five minutes. Allowing for the current, that’ll bring you near enough to the RV. You know what to do when you get there? Quite happy?’

‘Of course,’ said Liang Hui, putting a brave face on things.

‘If for any reason you can’t make it — engine trouble, some failure at the RV, whatever — call Kestrel on VHF and she’ll come to your assistance. You’ve got the code words for that and she’s got RDF. But remember it’s a last resort and risky. Okay?’

‘Yes. I don’t expect to have any trouble.

Olufsen said, ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ and shook hands with both of them in the darkness before climbing out and wading ashore, a bundle of clothing under his arm. When he called out that he’d reached the beach, Liang Hui started the outboard, opened the throttle and the skimmer moved out to sea.

Liang Hui was a man whose courage and determination had survived many tests but he was anything but happy. He had messed about in small boats in Hong Kong, crewed occasionally for yachting friends, but he profoundly mistrusted high speed in fog. It was one thing if you could see where you were going, but quite another to dash through the night at thirty knots with visibility down to fifty feet. He wondered if the Daisy Chain plan for the RV would work as well in practice as on paper. Bluewhale, with radar, sonar, SINS and highly sophisticated communications systems had a lot of technology going for it. Briggs had stressed that at the briefing. The submarine, he said, would have no difficulty in finding the skimmer unless there were heavy wind and seas in which case that sort of operation would be impracticable anyway. But there was no wind, just a long swell under a mantle of fog.

Nevertheless, for Tanya who was very frightened and for his own peace of mind, he eased the throttle until the skimmer was doing twenty knots.

That would, perhaps, make them ten minutes late at the RV but the submarine would wait until shortly before daylight. There was plenty of time.