Geoffrey Jenkins: A Ravel of Waters

Molot was safe from detection by virtue of its remoteness and the wildest seas and weather on the face of the oceans. No ship-master in his senses would risk approaching that protecting screen of icebergs, even if by some off-chance he should be so distant from all recognized sea routes. Most valuable of all to the Red Fleet was that canopy of foggy vapour. It effectively created an impenetrable screen to spy satellite surveillance. Molot was the dagger aimed at the heart of the West.

The blade of that dagger lay unsheathed when Jetwind rounded Trolltunga's ice head-land as high and impressive as Cape Horn itself. It was a Soviet naval squadron. It was a gut-roiling exhibition of the iron fist.

I spotted the submarine. The shape of its elongated fin was the same as I had sighted from Albatros. Now, in addition, I was aware of its strange camouflage colour — bluish mauve, with the hull darker. It was the colour of the Antarctic half-night. It was (so Tideman told me later) a radar picket sub, a Whiskey Canvas Bag class. The odd name sprang from the way the Soviet Fleet had tried to mask the conning-tower from the eyes of Western observers by means of a coy canvas cover.

Moored alongside was a big, deadly Kashin-class destroyer. Even at our distance from the warship the gaggle of four twin missile surface-to-air launchers plus four other single launchers was clearly visible. She mounted heavy guns as well; the snouts of quintuple torpedo-tubes bared their teeth over the ship's side.

Sheltering under this formidable weaponry was the vessel responsible for the discovery of Molot itself — the oceanographic survey ship Akademik Kurchatov. Her eight heavy masts made her quite distinctive. One was in the bow, two immediately for'ard of the bridge, another immediately abaft with a mass of heavy gear and aerials. Others were sited at various points, but a triangular, gantry-type with a big derrick rigged on heavy cables left no doubt that the Akademik Kurchatov's work was in the ocean deeps.

Dwarfing the squadron, however, was a massive, square-looking vessel — over thirty thousand tonnes, I reckoned — with a huge steel gantry running athwartships between an armoured, enclosed super-structure over her bow and stern. Her sloping steel anti-splinter upperworks, tall lattice mast for'ard strung with sophisticated search and firing radar antennae, twin SAM missile launchers, and eight 57 mm and 30 mm guns left no doubt that the Berezina could defend herself as well as fulfil her purpose, which was to act as fleet replenishment unit to the Red Navy. Hundreds of men appeared on the super-structure of the Berezina when Jetwind came in sight — Group Condor. 'Shorten sail! Topsails only!'

It seemed that we were about to join the fleet at anchor. I could not fault Grohman's handling of Jetwind. Operating the consoles' controls was Jim Yell, the bo'sun, who had helped me rescue Kay. He had obviously been dragooned into the job at pistol-point: he was new to it, all thumbs. Grohman's automatic at his back wasn't a help.

Yell's handling was not quick enough for Grohman. He gave an oath at the bo'sun's awkwardness, waved him aside with the gun barrel, and took over the manoeuvre himself. Jetwind edged past the ice cape. Four explosions rang out.

Grohman and the other hijackers' nerves must have been shot to react so violently. Both dropped into a firing crouch. The shots originated from the ice head-land we were passing. I saw spurts of ice chips fly.

Our escape plan from Molot did not come to mind fully fledged, as had Jetwind's plan to elude the Almirante Storni. However, the sound of the explosions, the sight of a small naval pinnace moored at the foot of the iceberg, and the formidable array of Red sea-power riding at anchor in the stormy, uncertain light, were the ingredients of the mix. Consciously, it was a daring impossibility; subconsciously, my mind began to free-wheel.

In retrospect, I was not aware of my thought processes. All I noted at the time was a small group of men in heavy clothing emerging from a tent on the summit of Trolltunga and making for the site of the explosions.

'That's quite a hero's welcome for you!' I told Grohman derisively.

He straightened up truculently. ‘I can't be too careful. They must be testing something up there.'

Landajo, the radio operator, appeared on the bridge and spoke excitedly to Grohman. Grohman spoke into the ship-to-ship radio microphone. I presume he used Russian. He conversed haltingly and finally nodded.

'Up helm! Back the fore and main! Stand by to let go the anchor!' he ordered.

I made a quick check of wind, sea and the nature of the mooring in case I was returned to immediate captivity. The wind had more south than southwest in it. This meant it was blowing almost straight into the Molot entrance. Jetwind had not penetrated far enough into the holding ground to get the full benefit of a lee from the ice cape, situated to port. However, the fleet anchorage, protected by the bulk of Trolltunga, was snug enough. The ice made a huge semi-circular arc, forming an embayment. The place was shallow, as Grohman had outlined — the secret of the jellied fuel dump. Jetwind lay about three kilometres from the fleet. Banks of fog, into which the warships merged and reappeared, drifted across my line of vision. The eastern flank of Molot — the side away from Trolltunga — was obviously the clear-way to the open sea. For at least half a dozen kilometres I could make out small stranded buoys during the momentary fog clearances. They provided natural markers through the shoals like channel buoys. 'Let go!' The anchor cable roared out.

'Senorita!' Grohman's eyes were hard. 'You will come with me!' He addressed me. 'You and Tideman will stay here. I have ordered that if you make any attempt to interfere with the controls you will be shot. Is that clear?' 'Peter!' Kay appealed desperately to me.

It was blind rage — and love — and I lunged at Grohman. Maybe he'd been expecting this. The blast from the automatic seemed to go off in my face. I felt the cordite grains sear my left cheek. I spun round, stunned, caught a glimpse of a finned barrel clubbing at my head, and then everything went black.

I don't know for how long I was out. When I came round Tideman was propping me up. I felt as if the whole of Jetwind’s top-hammer had clouted my head. The bridge was empty except for Grohman's stooge with his finger on the trigger of his gun. 'Kay! Where's Kay?'

'Take it easy, Peter,' said Tideman. 'That was a stupid thing to do. You're lucky to be still alive.' I felt sick and dizzy. 'John! Where is she?'

Tideman hefted me to my feet. 'There!' He pointed to the fleet.

The agony in my head was nothing to the sight of Jetwind's boat heading towards the Akademik Kurchatov, which was moored nearer Jetwind than the rest of the squadron.

He said quietly, 'I think you should make up your mind to the fact that you won't see Kay again.'

I staggered to the starboard wing of the bridge and watched the disappearing boat. 'Did she finally give in?' I asked at last.

'She fought like a wild-cat. They had to rope her to get her into the boat.'

Now I had only a distant sight of her receding into the fog. The way to Kyyiv. The way to hell. 'There are four of them in the boat,' I remarked.

'Yes. Grohman took another of his gang along. The fourth is Sir James.'

The mists swirling across my brain resembled those about the fleet. Like them, there were clear patches. 'Worth a million dollars.'

'Grohman has gone for orders from Molot Command. We can only wait and see when he returns.'

Another round of small explosions reverberated from Trolltunga. 'What the hell are they doing!'

'Explosion seismology is the name for it, Grohman said after consulting HQ,' explained Tideman. 'A party of Red scientists are using small charges to measure acoustically the thickness of Trolltunga below the water level.'