To Kill the Potemkin

23

The interior of Potemkin smelled like Lubyanka prison. Running slow and quiet since the collision, the freshwater still had been shut down so no one could shave or bathe. Despite snorkeling twice and flushing out the carbon dioxide, the problem with the scrubbers had resulted in an epidemic of headaches.

Potemkin now had been at sea eighty-four days, the longest submerged cruise in Soviet naval history. The men looked like shaggy, grimy albinos. Twelve days of running slow and deep, breathing poisoned air, had rubbed them raw. In the engineering compartment the reactor operators were decimated by virulent colds. Federov knew that their resistance to infection was crumbling because they were suffering from the first symptoms of radiation sickness. Only Federov's outward calm kept them under control.

Weeks before, when Potemkin had passed eastbound through the Strait, Federov had taken advantage of tide and current conditions, plus the fortuitous passing of a huge tanker, and drifted in silence over the bottom-mounted sonars and past the British picket sub.

No such combination of circumstances would aid Potemkin's escape into the Atlantic. The predominant currents were against her, and she would have to use her engines in the Strait. Any bottom sonars were certain to pick up her passage. Operators on shore would alert the ASW forces, and picket subs at either end of the Strait would tail her into the Atlantic.

Before Potemkin sailed from Murmansk, Admiral Gorshkov had foreseen the difficulty of Potemkin's exit from the Mediterranean and had ordered the three subs, Murmansk, Odessa and Arkangel, to pass through the Strait at a prearranged time as a diversion to draw off the pickets. But who knew if it would work?

From time to time the ship's surgeon changed Kurnachov's bandage and emptied his chamber pot. Federov brought him meals, but no one spoke to him. Even in his own mind Kurnachov had become a nonperson. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a dead man.

The ship moved slowly, making wide turns and stopping frequently. Twice it seemed to rise almost to the surface, remain there for half an hour, then slide back down to a great depth. Each time the air improved, at least for a while. Noise was kept to a minimum. Kurnachov assumed that they were on course for Gibraltar and home.

After ten or eleven days — Kurnachov wasn't sure of the exact number — the ship halted and remained stationary for several hours.

When Federov brought him a meal he asked, "Where are we?"

Federov told him, "Thirty kilometers east of Gibraltar."

"Are we waiting for Arkangel and the others?"

"Yes."

Federov reached for the door.

"Please," Kurnachov said. "Don't go. Give me a moment. The silence is torture."

Federov set down the tray and turned cold eyes on his prisoner. Listless, Kurnachov sat on his bunk and looked away. Federov took a chair.

"All right, what do you want to know?"

"After the collision, what happened to the American submarine?"

"You failed to sink it, Kurnachov. You only succeeded in making them angry."

"How did we escape? Are the Americans searching for us?"

"We fired a decoy, Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Five, which confused them. At first, they were convinced we sank. However, I don't believe their conviction will remain firm. They're searching for a wreck that isn't there."

There was a lingering silence. Finally Kurnachov said, "Must I remain here alone?"

"Several men were injured during the collision and Zadecki died. If I let you out, the crew will attack you."

"That might be preferable to what's waiting for me…"

After Federov left, Kurnachov prolonged his meal as if it were his last. Lifelong devotion to the party could not help him now. There would be a trial; then he would be shot. No military firing squad, no ceremony. In a cellar under Lubyanka, one bullet would be fired into the back of his head.

Kurnachov understood. He was not navy; he was Party.

On Popov's screen three streaks radiated from the west.

"Captain, I have a contact. They're right on schedule. Murmansk, Odessa and Arkangel."

The trio of Soviet submarines roared past, followed at close quarters by Valiant.

"One more and we're home free," said Alexis, the engineer who was now first officer.

For an hour they waited for the second NATO picket to come through, but the submarine west of the Strait remained on station. When it never arrived, Federov knew the gambit to draw off the subs guarding the Strait had failed.

"Take us up," ordered Federov, "we have to go through. We'll die here. Depth two hundred meters, all ahead slow."

"All ahead slow," Alexis repeated the order. "Depth two hundred meters."

For the first time since the collision, Potemkin's great engines rumbled to life. Without Acoustical Reproduction Device Number Seven, the Alpha became the noisiest submarine in the sea.

The bottom sonars in the Strait immediately recorded her presence. British operators on Gibraltar heard the sub, but all their ASW forces were deployed to the east, chasing the three Russian decoys.

Halfway through the Strait Popov heard the first ping of active sonar. Others followed in rapid succession and seemed to come from all directions at once.

"They've locked onto us, Captain."

"Make revolutions for thirty knots," ordered Federov. "There's no point in being coy."

In the engine room the crewmen put cotton balls into their ears. The steam pumps began to hammer and the turbine wailed like a jet engine.

In the turbulent waters of the Strait, Potemkin pitched and bounced like a surface ship. When she reached thirty knots, Federov shouted above the racket, "Increase speed. Thirty-five knots."

Through the Strait, opposite the Bay of Tangiers, Federov ordered, "Make revolutions for full speed. Fifty knots. Let him chase us all the way to the Azores."