Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

Kubeš’s room is luxurious. The walls are panelled with walnut-grain wood and the floor is decorated with a rug that visually improves the gap between the wooden table and the bunk, which is more like the cot Kubeš had in Lešany.

Kubeš leans back in his armchair and motions to Skopšík, Kraus, Rajter and Kolesa to sit down. So they sit on his bed.

“I think it’s time you knew what our mission is,” says Kubeš.

There is a knock on the door, and Kubeš quietly curses:

“Get the hell in and make sure you clear off quickly, too!”

The door opens, revealing the expressionless face of Vrba, the cook.

“You ordered coffee, sir,” he says, offended.

Kubeš nods and makes room on his table for the tray. He patiently waits for the cook to pour the coffee into cups, close the door and vanish: only then does he continue:

“I imagine that you’ve all guessed what the mission of this trip is. We’re taking humanitarian aid to the Junjan archipelago. Look at the map. Somewhere over here: we’ll find out more precisely just before we reach the Junjan archipelago. Slovak guerrillas will try to keep the unloading point secret to the last moment, so that the handover of the goods doesn’t become a trap. Precise coordinates will be communicated by radio. It will be encoded according to our codebook. Any questions?”

Kolesa takes a breath.

“Yes, Mr Kolesa?” Kubeš asks.

“No, nothing,” says Kolesa.

“But you wanted to say something,” Kubeš counters.

“Yes, I did,” Kolesa admits. “I wanted to ask what will happen to us if it is a trap.”

“We’ll be shot on the spot,” says Kubeš, watching Kolesa without moving an eyebrow. “Or tortured, lieutenant. Or taken to a labour camp and used to gather that famous lichen of theirs. Any other questions?”

The men are silent.

“If you carry out my orders to the letter,” says Kubeš, “we shall complete our mission successfully and return safely. I promise you. Please keep this information secret. We’ll tell the rest of the crew about it when we’re in the Atlantic. I don’t want them worrying too much. All clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers say.

“That will be all,” says Kubeš and dismisses them.

* * *

The Kamýk crosses the Baltic at cruising speed: underwater by day, on the surface at night. Around Skagerrak it enters the North Sea and then continues north, to the Atlantic.

At first all the crew members, including Kubeš, bang their heads when they walk upright; but anyone who hits his head a few times quickly adjusts and walks with a stoop. At the same time, they all also learn how to squeeze through the round hatches of the watertight compartments. Every day they have lots of opportunities to practise, better than in the Lešany simulator. They were not motivated then: now they are.

One morning, Kubeš comes down from the bridge. Lieutenant Commander Libáň is standing by the map table, drinking his morning coffee.

“Good morning, commander,” he says. “In about an hour we’ll be in contact with the supply ship.”

Bosun Kreuzeder adjusts his GPS receiver.

“Mr Kreuzeder, give me our echo-sounder depth,” Kubeš orders.

“A hundred and twenty, chief,” says Kreuzeder.

“Everyone to diving stations,” Kubeš commands.

The steersmen quickly take their places and start the dive.

“Dive to ninety metres!” Kubeš shouts loudly, to be heard over the roar of expelled air and of water entering the diving tanks. “To the seabed!”

As soon as the alarm sounds, the engine room, electric motor room and command centre go through a number of procedures. The engine room crew stops the left engine, disconnects it from the electric equipment and closes the intake and exhaust valves. As soon as the diesel is turned off, the electrical crew turns the electric motors on. All intake and exhaust pipes are closed. The diving tank crew opens all tanks except the rear one.

In the command centre, Rajter watches the desk’s warning lights that tell him about shutting down pressure and opening the diving tanks. When Kubeš orders a dive to ninety metres, he opens the rear tanks as well. The Kamýk dives nose down until the hum of the electric motors stops. They feel a light bump and the submarine settles on sand.

“Lieutenant Commander,” Kubeš turns to Libáň, “Gather all the men at quarter to five in the front storage space.” Bosun Schäffer stands at the entrance and counts them to make sure everyone is present. The space, now the torpedo equipment has gone, is large. The men could play mini-football in it. They each look for somewhere to stand. No one moves and the only sound detectable is the hull scratching against the sand. It sounds unusually loud in the silence.

Kubeš enters the room. He has been preparing his speech for some time now, but what he is about to say is shorter and quite different.

“Sailors,” he says, stressing every syllable. “In an hour we meet a supertanker Carabella . It’s a Czech navy floating submarine base. Before we rendezvous, I’d like to say a few words about our mission.”

The room is dead silent. A drop of dew falls noisily to the floor.

“I imagine that you’ve all guessed that we’re sailing to the Junjan archipelago,” says Kubeš. “We’re taking weapons, ammunition, and other things for the local Slovaks who have risen up against their exploiters. They have nobody else but you in the whole wide world.”

Kubeš pauses, looks at the floor, then lifts his gaze to the crew.

“I shan’t tell you,” says Kubeš, “that our mission is simple, but I believe it’s feasible. The hardest part will be breaking the Russian blockade of the archipelago. We have to do it by stealth, since we don’t want to provoke international conflict.”

The men look at their captain tensely. Kubeš again scans their well-lit pale faces. He sees his men are astounded, but also relieved that the mission’s goal, that they had so far only guessed at, has been confirmed.

* * *

As evening falls, they meet on the open sea, where the North Sea meets the North Atlantic, the elderly, Liberian-registered super-tanker Carabella that serves as the Czech navy’s floating submarine base.

The Carabella ’s entire crew is already waiting on deck and gives the visitors a hearty welcome.

“Welcome aboard, friends,” says a stocky moustached man in a civilian sweater and a baseball hat. “Which of you is the commander?”

Kubeš comes up to him and salutes.

“Lieutenant Commander Kubeš,” he introduces himself.

“Captain Jiří Molnár,” says the tanker commander. “Welcome to our floating submarine base. Allow me to introduce the officers.”

After the introductions are, Molnár gives Kubeš a sealed envelope.

“Here are your detailed operational objectives,” he says, still unable to take his eyes off the submarine.

“A beautiful boat,” he says. “And how practical everything on board is! Finally, I’m proud to be a Czech again.”

“But I’m still puzzled how you could have kept all this secret,” says one of the Carabella ’s officers.

“There’s no guarantee that the secret has been kept,” Kubeš laughs.

“As far as I know, all three submarines were bought via third parties,” says chief engineer Rajter. “Their original end-use was research by a private scientific institute studying an unspecified South American country. They were headed for the scrapyard, anyway. When we told the Latvian firm to strip the ships of all military gear, torpedo equipment, cannons and so on, their suspicions vanished: they weren’t interested who was buying them.”

Molnár nods. He looks over the submarine’s slender hull gently swaying on the waves.