Bringing S-22 into the small bay, he dropped anchor close by on its western edge, set an armed watch on deck, and took the opportunity to get his first sleep in nearly forty hours.
His sleep was interrupted by an urgent summons to the bridge as the dawn sun started to make its presence known.
Never a man to take being woken lightly, an irritable Jabulov arrived on the bridge.
“Well, Comrade Michmann Farenkov?”
“Comrade Kapitan.”
The Petty Officer merely pointed northwards down the line of the submarine.
Jabulov followed the line of the finger down the submarine, across the water, all the way to the heap of tangled silver metal that had once been an aircraft.
Submarine commanders are not noted for their hesitancy or indecision.
“Comrade Michmann, I have the bridge. You are relieved. Organise a six man boat party, armed, including yourself and me. Order the Starshy Leytenant to report to me immediately.”
The Petty Officer sped away as Jabulov swept his binoculars over the metal heap once more, this time spotting the telltale white star of America… and a man.
The rubber dinghy had no sooner grounded than the party was up and moving, fanning out as they headed straight for the destroyed aircraft, weapons at the ready.
The man seemed transfixed by their arrival, almost in shock.
One of the ratings spoke English, and the Michmann directed him forward as had been agreed.
Relaxing his posture, the young sailor strode steadily up towards the bearded man, who seemed to suddenly understand that salvation was at hand.
He whooped, making the Soviet sailors grip their weapons harder, and then started to bounce around like a mad man, laughing and screaming in joy.
The English-speaking rating tried to engage the man in conversation, but it was one-sided, the man’s relief at being rescued taking over completely.
Food and drink calmed him down a little, and they all started to relax.
Leaving the Michmann to supervise outside, Jabulov and another sailor made a tentative entry into the wrecked B-29, once known as Jenni Lee.
There were dead men, some intact, in almost ordered repose, others in pieces, and in positions of extremis. One corpse, in the cockpit, impaled on a metal strut and held aloft like a crucifixion, was particularly horrible. The cold weather had done much to maintain the integrity of the bodies, so there was no putrefaction or significant decay, preserving the horrors of their end for all to see.
Picking their way through the fuselage, Jabulov directed the rating to take photographs of things he considered important enough to need preserving.
He stuck his head outside for a moment, ordering the Michmann to take the survivor back to the submarine, and bring more men back.
Over the next few hours, as work progressed on board S-22, a party of sailors worked their way over the whole crash site, dismantling items under the direction of Jabulov, and photographing larger items. The Navigation Officer had been recruited into the party to take measurements of items that could not be removed.
As the aviation fuel had long since evaporated, Jabulov sought the comfort of the fuselage to enjoy a cigarette out of the growing wind.
“Comrade Kapitan?”
Jabulov held out his pack of cigarettes.
“Thank you, Comrade Kapitan. This object. Do you want it measured? It seems to have no place here.”
Lighting both their cigarettes, Jabulov looked at the metal structure his Junior Lieutenant was referring to.
He had walked through this part before, but didn’t remember the large round construction.
The younger officer understood what his commander was thinking.
“It was covered up with parachute silk and some aluminium panelling, Comrade Kapitan.”
Jabulov said nothing as he stared intently at the object, but his reaction startled the Navigator.
“Comrade Kapitan?”
“It’s a bomb.”
“What?”
“I said it’s a bomb. A very big one, an unusual one for sure, but none the less a bomb.”
The Michmann arrived to make his report, but halted, sensing that all was not well with the two officers.
The Navigation Officer was as white as a sheet, and Jabulov seemed totally distracted by the large round thing in the floor of the aircraft.
Jabulov nodded at him.
“Comrade Michmann, direct the photographer to take numerous shots of this object,” he indicted the pumpkin bomb, “And do make sure he is careful. It’s an unexploded bomb.”
Michmann Farenkov drained of colour, and he quickly moved away to find the photographer.
The Navigation officer, under Jabulov’s direct supervision, made some drawings and measurements of both the bomb and the damaged framework that it had been held in.
Every single piece of paper was removed from the aircraft; maps through to chocolate bar wrappers.
The bearded man had survived initially on crew rations, but evidence of his fishing prowess was everywhere in and around the shelter he had created for himself against the rocks, where part of the B-29’s wing assembly had come to rest, creating a windproof and water tight cocoon for the sole survivor of the crash. Stuffed full of silk parachutes, life jackets and items of clothing, the modest sized area had proven sufficient to protect the survivor from the awfulness of the winter outside.
The embers of a fire still glowed in a bespoke metal fireplace set against the bare rock at the far end of the space, and Jabulov could quite imagine how comfortable the man had been.
Finding a kit bag amongst the items bulking out the bed area, the Soviet officer gathered up the array of handguns, eleven in all, laid out neatly on a natural shelf in the rock.
A notebook, newspaper, and small briefcase also caught his eye, and all followed the handguns into the kit bag.
Emerging from the hide, Jabulov encountered the Navigation Officer.
“Comrade Kapitan, we have completed photography and dimensional drawing work. The cameraman reports that he has seven frames available for overall site pictures, with your permission?”
With a look at his watch, he assessed the situation.
‘11.20. Must be nearly done with the repairs by now surely?’
“Very well, Comrade Mladshy Leytenant. Have him take his last photographs and let’s get the shore party assembled. We’ve done all we can do here.”
Every piece of intelligence and every sailor was back aboard S-22 by 1155, by which time Jabulov received some positive news on his vessel’s recovery.
At 1210, he dropped the submarine below the surface in a controlled vertical dive to the floor below, choosing to remain in the bay during the day to permit further repairs to take place on the submarine’s electrical system in the relative safety offered by the island.
S-22 surfaced in the dark to top up her batteries and, as Sunday night moved into Monday morning, the silent boat headed out into the Baltic and dropped below the waves.
De Walle was contemplating the short journey from his desk to the cot bed he had ordered placed in his sumptuous office, when the door rattled with urgent knocking.
“Come in!”
He didn’t mean to shout in anger, but it had been a long day.
He regretted it even more when De Valois came in, clearly a woman on a mission.
“Apologies, Anne-Marie; it’s been one hell of a day.”
She shrugged as only the French can shrug, expressing her full opinion on the matter.
Suddenly De Walle became confused.