The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER THREE

In the minutes that followed much happened on board Zhukov. Some of it could be chronicled for it was seen, but much was anonymous: the struggle of small groups of men, hidden away in watertight compartments, to repair damaged circuits, fractured pressure lines and electronic systems which had gone off stream.

The efforts of Ilyitch and his team had resulted in the application of full pumping capacity to the torpedo-compartment less than four minutes after Yenev’s order. As the level of the water fell the after trim tanks were flooded and the bow-heavy trim of the submarine corrected. For a time positive buoyancy had been lost and Zhukov had begun a slow descent. But full pumping power gradually checked that and at 0031 by the chart-table clock came Lomov’s long awaited report. ‘Periscope depth, Captain.’

‘Hold her there,’ said Yenev.

A sigh of relief like the sound of a small wave breaking came from the men in the control-room. Faces which had been drawn with fear relaxed into smiles and knowing nods as if the men were saying, ‘I told you he’d get us back to the surface.’

Yenev’s sharp, ‘Up periscope,’ broke the euphoric spell.

As the big instrument rose from its well he snapped down the training handles and looked into the eyepiece.

Despite every attempt by technicians to repair the damage done by the shock wave, the sonar, radar and SINS systems were still unserviceable. To bring a submarine almost the size of a cruiser to the surface without them, made the operation a particularly hazardous one in busy waters. Yenev, well aware of this, carried in his mind a picture of what had appeared on the sonar screen before it failed: to the eastward the long line of the Vesteralen Islands; Vrakoy, the island outpost; the five ships to starboard and two to port; the scatter of fishing vessels. But there had been relative movement since then, including Zhukov’s turn of seventy degrees to starboard, and he wondered what the periscope might reveal.

It stood high above the water and he was able in a quick sweep to cover the sea around the submarine to a range of at least thirty kilometres. It was a dark moonless night but the powerful lenses showed many lights. Mostly these were land lights from the islands, but some were those of ships and fishing boats.

Yenev said, ‘Plot these lighthouse bearings as I call them.’ From the chart-table Kulchev replied, ‘Ready, Captain.’ Yenev trained the periscope, steadied it on a flashing light. ‘Distant light — flashing white and red-fifteen second intervals — bears that…’

‘One-eight-three,’ called the seaman on the bearing indicator.

There was a moment’s pause before Kulchev reported from the chart-table. ‘That’s Frugga on Langoy, Captain.’

‘Distant light occulting white, red and green, bears that… ’

‘One-four-seven,’ said the seaman.

Kulchev laid the bearing off on the chart. ‘That’s Anda, Captain.’

‘Medium range-light flashing white-ten second intervals.’

‘That’s the Fyrbergnes light on Vrakoy, Captain.’

‘Give me a position,’ demanded Yenev.

Kulchek ran the parallel rulers across to the compass rose, plotted the last of the three bearings, drew a neat circle round their point of intersection and noted it against the time. ‘Position, Captain. Three-two-zero Fyrberg light, distant twelve kilometres.’

‘Depth of water?’

‘One-zero-eight-five metres.’

Yenev executed a final sweep with the periscope. ‘Surface, Lomov. Bring her up.’

A tremor of excitement swept through the control-room. It was reflected in the executive officer’s voice as he repeated the order they’d waited for so long. Soon afterwards he called, ‘Surfaced, Captain. Bridge is clear,’ adding quickly, ‘The trim’s still not right. She remains bow heavy.’

‘Steer one-one-zero. Twelve knots.’ Yenev betrayed no emotion but he experienced profound relief. The prototype of the USSR’s new Delta Two class ballistic missile submarine, technically well in advance of its US rival, with a crew of one hundred and twenty highly skilled men, a battery of nuclear missiles capable of taking out sixteen of the world’s largest cities, had been brought to the surface after a brief but epic struggle. That she was just commissioned with a fresh crew confronted with the intricacies of new and complex systems made the achievement all the more remarkable. Yenev was too much of a realist to believe the struggle was over. Zhukov’s situation remained precarious. To battle for survival on the surface was, however, infinitely better than to do so hundreds of metres beneath it.

On Yenev’s orders the lower-hatch was opened and he began the long climb up the steel ladders inside the tower. When he reached the upper-hatch he withdrew the safety bolts, unfastened the clips and opened it. Steadying himself against the rush of warm air from below as pressure inside Zhukov was released, he stepped on to the small bridge at the fore end of the conning-tower or ‘fin’ as it was known in the submarine service. Two-way berthing radio, a voice-pipe and telephone on running leads were brought to him by the chief signalman, the bridge navigation lights were switched on, and Kulchev joined him.

To the three men on the bridge the night air had never seemed sweeter, more exhilarating, more welcome, and the scatter and twinkle of lights ahead, the evidence of communities, of normality, of a warm safe world, was reassuring beyond belief. They no longer felt helpless and alone.

The submarine rolled slowly in the swell which came in from the north-west, and a chill breeze ruffled the sea. Ahead of the fin, many metres below them, the steel casing lost itself in foam which creamed and tumbled as the whale-like bow thrust through the sea.

To counter the heaviness forward, Yenev had ordered twelve knots, and hydroplanes to hard-arise. He had done so reluctantly because the greater the speed the more likely it was that external damage to the pressure hull could be increased. But he had no option for it had already become essential to divert some pumping power from the torpedo-compartment to the bilges farther aft where water was rising to unacceptable levels.

The beam of light showed no external damage other than a slight, scarcely-visible fracture in a weld some distance along the casing forward of the huge fin which dominated the superstructure.

Yenev said, ‘See that? Above the main communications centre?’ But the real damage, that which promised the greatest danger was, he knew, in the torpedo-compartment. It could not be seen because the bows were almost submerged.