Энтони Трю - The Zhukov Briefing

As the tide fell she would, he knew, settle more firmly.

The only satisfaction he could derive from an otherwise disastrous situation with that wind and sea were moderate, and the rocks off Knausnes provided more of a lee than he’d expected. But Zhukov still shook and trembled as the swell, its main force broken by the Dragetennene, surged into the cove.

Yenev called his officers together in the control-room. There a lengthy discussion took place on the problems associated with maintaining the submarine, her machinery, equipment and living conditions in reasonable shape until assistance arrived.

Later, to decide how best to get that assistance, he asked Boris Milovych to his cabin.

It was several hours after midnight before they concluded their discussions. These ranged over a wide field: the overriding need to communicate with Soviet naval bases in Leningrad or Murmansk; the security arrangements to protect the submarine and her secrets; the extent of the damage suffered and possibilities of salvage. If salvage were not possible, all classified equipment and radioactive material would have to be removed or destroyed, and the submarine blown up. Ultimately these would be matters for naval headquarters and the Soviet salvage experts to decide. There was the highly complicating factor that Zhukov was stranded on Norwegian soil. That, they knew, was a matter the USSR and Norway would have to settle on a government-to-government basis. And there was the NATO involvement.

Throughout the remaining hours of darkness Zhukov ’s men were busy surveying the damage, carrying out emergency repairs and restoring interrupted services. Pumping was maintained at full capacity, but with positive buoyancy now gone the submarine had settled firmly on the bottom of the cove. Nevertheless, it was still vital to control flooding as far as possible, particularly in view of the high tides which would be experienced. Skin divers went down to the flooded bilges and compartments to examine and report on damage, and Ilyitch and his technicians considered ways and means of checking the inrush of water by temporary patching.

On Yenev’s orders the watertight doors and vents to the torpedo-compartment were kept shut since the bows had been further damaged by grounding and the flooding in that compartment could no longer be contained. Armed sentries were posted on the bridge and on the casing at the foot of the fin. Sonic buoys were lowered to port and starboard, a listening watch instituted and two armed scuba divers maintained a continuous anti-swimmer underwater patrol around the hull of the submarine.

Yenev intended to make things difficult for underwater snoopers.

Shortly before first light the skimmer left the Zhukov and set off for Kolhamn on the south-eastern side of the island.

It was manned by two seamen with a sub-lieutenant in charge, and had as passengers Boris Milovych and Ivan Krasnov. Krasnov had been selected for his fluent Norwegian, high level of intelligence and known reliability. With the torpedo and sonar systems out of action and beyond shipboard repair, there was little point in keeping him on board.

It had been agreed with Yenev that Milovych would contact the local authority in Kolhamn and through him transmit to Soviet Naval HQ the message which the captain and the commissar had prepared. It was in code and contained details of the stranding, a non-committal account of the damage suffered, and an urgent request for assistance. They had agreed that the name of the Zhukov should under no circumstances be disclosed to the Norwegians. The Russians who went ashore were to stress that she was one of the first generation of nuclear boats, no longer suitable for operational work, now only used for training purposes. She had been, they were to say, on a training cruise when the stranding had taken place. No reasons for that occurrence were to be given.

The skimmer rounded Fyrbergnes keeping close inshore and under the powerful beam from the lighthouse which swept a wide arc of the sea every ten seconds. Once round the point the sub-lieutenant steered for the light on Kolnoy, the small islet on the southern side of the mouth of Kolfjord. Travelling fast the small craft bounced over the undulations of the sea, spray sweeping over its occupants, increasing their discomfort on this dark cold October morning north of the Arctic Circle.

When the light of Kolnoy was close ahead, the skimmer swung round into the fjord and ran in on the red transit beacons. It passed two fishing boats making towards the open sea. The lights of the small town at the head of the fjord grew steadily brighter and soon the skimmer entered the harbour, the high note of the engine dropped and the small craft went alongside a fishing boat lying at a rough quay standing on wooden stilts. Milovych, Krasnov and the sublieutenant clambered across the fishing boat and climbed a ladder on to the quay. Krasnov saluted a small knot of men who stood there talking. ‘Please direct us to your burgomaster,’ he said.

A bearded man in oilskins asked, ‘Who are you?’

‘We are officers of the Soviet Navy.’

‘What brings you here?’

‘Our ship is outside.’ Krasnov extended an arm vaguely in the direction of the sea. ‘We must at once see your burgomaster.’

A deep Norwegian voice said, ‘So you’re from the big submarine. Did you manage to ram the Dragetennene?’ He laughed in the darkness. The others watched the Russians closely, wondering what their reaction would be.

Krasnov said, ‘Please. It is urgent. Take us to your burgomaster,’

‘We don’t have one,’ said the bearded man. ‘But follow me. I’ll take you to the home of Hjalmar Nordsen. He’s our Ordforer . That’s much the same thing, I suppose.’

At eight-thirty in the morning the telephone rang in the back office of an insurance, travel and press agency in Lonsdahl Street, Bodo. Gunnar Olufsen, head of the small business which bore his name, answered it. The staff of two girls did not arrive until nine o’clock.

‘Gunnar Olufsen here.’

‘Hullo, Gunnar.’

Olufsen’s leathery face relaxed. He pulled up the chair and leant forward. ‘Hullo, Inga.’ Breaking into English he added, ‘How’s the body?’ Her name was Inga Bodde. It was an old joke.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But missing you.’

‘Not my fault.’ He spoke in Norwegian again.

‘Listen, Gunnar. Here’s an important press item.’

‘Good.’ He grabbed a ballpoint. ‘Go ahead.’

‘A Soviet submarine ran aground off Knausnes about midnight. It’s still there. In a cove on the rockshelf.’

He whistled. ‘Any more?’

‘Some Russian officers from the submarine came into Kolhamn early this morning. In a skimmer. They went to the house of Hjalmar Nordsen.’

‘Anything happened since?’

‘Yes. Two messages by teleprinter. A coded one from the Russians to the Soviet Embassy in Oslo.’

‘The other?’

‘From Nordsen. He has reported the happening to the Fylkesman in Bodo.’

Good, thought Olufsen. That’ll mean delay. So much for red tape. The report would have to go to Norway’s Northern Command Headquarters in Bodo. But the Ordforer of a small island like Vrakoy had to submit his reports to his county authorities. They would pass it to the military. ‘Anything else, Inga?’

‘One of our fishing boats saw it heading for the rocks. Very slowly. Our skipper tried to warn them. They told him to keep away. Said they knew what they were doing.’

‘Glad I’m not the Russian captain. Any idea what class of submarine?’

‘No. It was a dark night and it had no lights. They say it was very big.’