The Zhukov Briefing

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hjalmar Nordsen, a saturnine man still in his dressing gown, removed the traces of an interrupted shave and gestured his visitors to sit down. It was a largish room with its books, files and typewriters — more like an office than a study.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately I do not speak Russian. You speak Norwegian?’

‘I do, Ordforer,’ said Krasnov introducing Milovych and the sub-lieutenant.

‘Well, now. What can I do to help you?’

‘Tell him,’ said Milovych, ‘that a technical problem and subsequent failure in communications systems obliged us to put our submarine aground off Knausnes. We tried to reach Uklarvik but this proved impossible. Explain to him that the submarine is a first generation nuclear boat, used now only for training purposes. Emphasize that we were on a training cruise, outside Norwegian territorial waters, when the trouble occurred.’

Krasnov, speaking fluent Norwegian, reported this to the Ordforer who replied, ‘Please tell your captain I am extremely sorry to learn of this misfortune.’ He dabbed his face with a shaving towel. ‘What does he wish me to do?’

The lieutenant translated. Milovych said, ‘In the name of the Soviet Union we ask for every possible assistance from the Norwegian Government. First, we must request that this…’ he took from his pocket the coded message he and Yenev had drafted, ‘… be dispatched at once to the Soviet Embassy in Oslo.’

Krasnov translated and handed the message to the Ordforer, explaining what Milovych had said. Hjalmar Nordsen pointed to the clock on his desk. ‘It is now seven-twenty in the morning. Our postmistress comes on duty at eight-thirty. The message will be sent as soon as she arrives. She is the only person able to transmit.’

Milovych spoke again to Krasnov. ‘Tell him that we wish the news of the stranding of our vessel to be kept confidential as long as possible. We must ask him to take immediate steps to keep sightseers away, both to landward and seaward.’

When Krasnov repeated this in Norwegian, Nordsen’s response was guarded. ‘Tell your captain that we will do what we can. There are already rumours in Kolhamn that a submarine has gone aground on the Dragetennene — the rocks off Knausnes. I heard them early this morning. There is no law in Norway which forbids citizens to look at ships which have stranded on our shores, nor any censorship of such matters. However, I will communicate with the authorities to whom I am responsible and act in accordance with their instructions. You must understand,’ he spoke with some asperity, ‘that this is a small island. We have only four hundred people here. Mostly fishermen and their families. We are a herredskommuner — a rural district — and I have very limited facilities. Only a bailiff, a policeman, a harbourmaster and a part-time postmistress.’

Krasnov translated. Milovych said, ‘Ask him who is actually in charge of this island.’ Krasnov put the question, the Ordforer answered and the lieutenant explained. ‘He says there is a herredstyre — a council — over which he presides. They are the local authority. They in turn are responsible to the Nordland Fylker — the county council — in Bodo.’

During the course of further conversation it was agreed that the Russians should accompany Hjalmar Nordsen to the council office, the radhus, when he had completed dressing.

While he was doing this Mrs Nordsen, a large pink and white woman with a deep voice, gave the uninvited guests fillets of cod, mugs of coffee and buttered rolls. She wasn’t very pleased about this because her hair was still in curlers and she didn’t like Russians, particularly the plump man with the high pitched voice who seemed to have so much to say.

On arrival with Milovych and Krasnov at the radhus the Ordforer called in Odd Dahl, the bailiff, Olaf Petersen, the harbourmaster, and Dr Gustav Kroll, his deputy, the vise-Ordforer. Bluff, genial, bearded and rotund, Kroll was a retired teacher of mathematics. He had lived on the island for many years.

Krasnov, an observant young man, soon gathered that Hjalmar Nordsen was not only Vrakoy’s leading citizen but represented important fishing interests on the mainland. He was responsible for buying the catches and arranging their shipment. In an aside to Krasnov, Kroll had said, ‘We call Hjalmar Nordsen “the little king”.’ He looked at the Ordforer with admiration. ‘He owns or has a say in just about everything on Vrakoy.’

Before the discussions ended it was agreed that Krasnov and the sub lieutenant would remain in Kolhamn at least until replies were received from the Soviet Embassy in Oslo and the Norwegian authorities on the mainland.

The Ordforer pointed out that the westerly end of the island where the Zhukov lay was too mountainous for human habitation. It was unlikely that many people, if any, would see the submarine there. They learnt from him, too, that the island enjoyed a daily air service from Harstad. This brought mails, passengers and urgent supplies. Other supplies were brought by the inter-island coaster service.

The Russians left the radhus early in the forenoon and returned to the harbour. There attempts were made to establish communication with the Zhukov by means of the walkie-talkie berthing sets but although the distance was under ten kilometres the high mountain between Kolhamn and the Knausnes rocks made this impossible.

Milovych and Krasnov discussed the communications problem. Eventually Milovych said, ‘I will go off to the Zhukov now and send the skimmer back to you. As soon as a reply is received, or you have other important information, send it out.’

‘Yes, commissar.’

‘In the meantime,’ Milovych dropped his voice and looked round the quay where fishermen were coming and going. ‘You and Gerasov must get to know the town. Find out where the locals gather. Particularly the fishermen. Listen to their conversation. Find out what they know about the Zhukov and her stranding. Take every opportunity to stress that she is an unimportant vessel. One of the first generation ballistic missile submarines, no longer operational. You know the story. Never mention her name. Be discreet in all things. Trust no one. Remember…’ the commissar ran his tongue round thick lips, ‘you represent the Soviet Union.’

Krasnov jerked his chin forward and upwards as if to escape from his collar. ‘We will carry out your instructions, commissar.’

The lieutenant was delighted. He and Gerasov were good friends. A day ashore in Kolhamn would be far better than one in the stranded submarine where the normal discomforts of life on board had been aggravated by pounding seas, flooding, the failure of the air-conditioning plant, the smell of chloric gas, burnt rubber and other remnants of the disaster.

Standing on the quay, he and Gerasov saluted smartly as the skimmer’s engine came to life. The small craft sped out of the fishing harbour, down the fjord towards the sea. ‘I think the commissar is worried,’ said Gerasov.

‘He has a great deal to worry about,’ replied Krasnov.

The two men gave each other questioning, uncommitted glances. Neither liked the commissar.

Krasnov said, ‘Well. Now let’s take a look at Kolhamn.’

‘Wine, women and song,’ Gerasov laughed. ‘Pity I can’t speak the language.’

‘None of that,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’re here on duty.’ But he too laughed. ‘Who knows what the night may bring?’

‘If we’re still here,’ said the sub lieutenant. ‘Not that Kolhamn looks very promising.’

Hjalmar Nordsen’s report to the county authorities at Bodo was passed with little delay to Northern Command Headquarters. The GOC at once discussed it by scrambler with Military Headquarters in Oslo. The Chief of the General Staff informed the Ministry of Defence. There was consultation at cabinet level, decisions were taken, instructions issued.

Hjalmar Nordsen was authorized to give the Soviet submarine’s captain all possible assistance and to make such arrangements as he could to keep sightseers away until assistance arrived later in the day. A Norwegian minesweeper with military personnel on board would, he was told, arrive in Vrakoy from Harstad in the late afternoon. The soldiers were to establish a cordon on the landward side of the approaches to Knausnes, while the minesweeper protected the seaward approaches. The submarine was not, recorded the Oslow message, to be harried by sightseers, media representatives, photographers, or other unauthorized persons. The message to Vrakoy’s Ordforer concluded with: ‘Major Lars Martinsen from Military HQ Oslo will fly in by helicopter in the afternoon to take general charge.’

At eleven-thirty that morning the Norwegian Foreign Minister in Oslo received the Soviet Ambassador at the latter’s urgent request. In a brief meeting, notable for its friendly tone, the Foreign Minister informed the Ambassador of the steps being taken by the Norwegian authorities. He assured him that all possible assistance would be given to the stranded submarine.

The Ambassador conveyed to the Minister the desire of the Soviet Government that their warships should, without delay, be permitted to enter Norwegian territorial waters to assist the submarine.

The Foreign Minister said that his Prime Minister, anticipating the request, had discussed it with the Cabinet. The Cabinet had decided that Soviet salvage vessels, naval or otherwise, would be so permitted but unfortunately Soviet warships could not. The Minister was apologetic but reminded the Ambassador of Norway’s NATO commitments. The Norwegian Government would, however, be happy to make available its own salvage vessels and experts to assist. The Soviet Ambassador thanked the Minister for the oiler, undertook to convey it to his Government but believed it would not be necessary to impose in this way upon Norwegian generosity. He did, however, express concern that Norwegian territorial waters and air space might be used by foreign powers anxious to obtain photographs of the stranded submarine. The Minister assured him that his government would do all it could to prevent incursions into Norwegian air space.

There was discussion about the dangers of radiation. The Soviet Ambassador gave his assurance that there was no present danger. It was fortunate, he said, that the vessel was used for training purposes only. Thus the missiles did not have nuclear warheads. The Ambassador’s nose twitched involuntarily as he told this lie. As far as the nuclear power plant was concerned, he continued, Soviet salvage experts would give radiation control overriding priority.

The meeting concluded. The Minister rose from his desk to escort the Soviet Ambassador to the door.

‘By the way, Ambassador,’ he said. ‘You haven’t mentioned the name of your submarine. I wonder if I might have it for reference purposes?’

The Ambassador smiled affably. ‘I am afraid, Minister, that is not possible. You see the vessel has no name. Only a number.’

‘And that is?’

‘Seven-three-one,’ said the Ambassador, acting on instructions from Moscow. ‘One of our first ballistic missile submarines. Not a very successful class, I fear. Obsolescence is so rapid in these ships. She’s no longer suitable for operations. As I’ve explained, our navy use her for training purposes only.’ He paused, hand over mouth, his eyes on a picture on the wall — the ‘Trollfjord in Winter.’ ‘Prior to that she was used experimentally. For testing various designs. Matters of hydro-dynamic efficiency, you know. For that reason a somewhat unusual hull configuration, they tell me.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The Minister opened the door for his guest. ‘In these days of advanced technology, design and capability change so swiftly.’

‘Indeed they do,’ said the Soviet Ambassador. ‘Goodbye and thank you, Minister.’

‘Not at all, Ambassador. Please assure your government that we are only too anxious to help.’

At the headquarters of NATO’s Northern Military Command in Kolsas, outside Oslo, the senior Norwegian representative told his NATO colleagues of the stranding of the submarine and the action being taken by his government. ‘I have been instructed to inform you that, should any assistance be required in any form, my government will not hesitate to ask for it.’

To his listeners — the representatives of the United States, Britain, Germany and Denmark — it was evident that the Norwegian representative was in fact saying, ‘Norway will handle this. So lay off.’ Nor were they in any doubt as to the reasons for this stance.

Roald Lund, Director of Norway’s service intelligence and former colonel in the Norwegian Air Force, went to the window and looked out over Oslofjord, the wide expanse of water dominating the city which takes its name. Its surface reflected the cold greyness of a wet and cheerless October day. ‘I think that’s about all, Martinsen. Is there anything you’re not certain about?’

The tall man with greying hair turned away from the wall map of Norway. ‘No. Your instructions are quite clear.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes to one. That leaves about three hours in which,’ he breathed deeply. ‘To make contact, change into uniform, lunch and pack.’ He was about to go on when something occurred to him. ‘Just one point, sir. How d’you know it’s the Zhukov.’

Roald Lund continued to look out over Oslofjord where wind gusting across it left swathes of shimmering water. In the foreground two sail-trimming ships lay alongside each other, dwarfed by an oil rig under construction on the other side of the basin. It was nearing completion, a strangely un-nautical structure, vast steel tubes joined in geometrical patterns like a huge building toy. The bright glow of welding arcs flared and faded, ferries came and went, a steamer sounded its siren, and at the quay in front of the City Hall a big Soviet merchant ship warped alongside, red flag fluttering in the breeze, its reception committee a knot of stevedores.

‘Sometimes, Martinsen, it is better if the right hand does not know what the left is doing.’

‘I’m sorry. It was idle curiosity.’

‘In our job curiosity is a virtue, Martinsen. Never apologize for it. But let me say this. If I didn’t know it was the Zhukov I wouldn’t ask you to let them know.’

‘It won’t be any trouble,’ Martinsen smiled. ‘And I’m sure your reasons are sound.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be and they are.’ Lund rearranged things on his desk in an absent-minded way, then looked up. He was smiling. ‘Well, some people have all the luck. You may carry on, Lars.’ It was a good sign. He didn’t often use Martinsen’s first name.

The tall man drew his heels together, gave the suggestion of a bow and left the room. He wondered what the colonel would think if he knew just how lucky he was.

It was known only to Roald Lund and his close associates that Lars Martinsen, an air force officer seconded for staff duties to Military Headquarters, Oslo, was an important member of Norwegian Intelligence.