They wake him when the archipelago is in sight.
“Bad news, Urban Urbanych,” says the captain. “Űŕģüllpoļ has been taken. Junjan units are there again. They’ve occupied the airport, too.”
“What does that mean?” Urban does not understand.
“For me and Vanya, nothing,” says the captain. “Everyone will be glad to see us and our goods. But for you, as a Czech, it means that if you fall into their hands, they’ll shoot you like a dog. You Czechs are working against the Junjan government, aiding terrorists. We can’t land in Űŕģüllpoļ with you, pal. They’d even punish us because of you.”
From behind captain’s shoulder, a red face peeks out. It’s Vanya the co-pilot, holding a dirty backpack. When Urban takes a closer look, he sees that it’s a parachute. Urban is clear what the two are thinking about.
“I’m not a Czech, but a Slovak,” says Urban and shows the co-pilot his passport. “My government supports the Junjans.”
For the first time in his life, Urban is happy to have such a far-sighted government.
“A Slovak?” the captain shouts.
Both Russians’ faces express almost mortal horror.
“Oh my God,” says the captain. “If Junjans get you, they’ll torture you to death!”
“But I’m not a bad Slovak from Junja,” argues Urban. “I’m a good Slovak from Europe. The Slovak Republic doesn’t recognize the rebels.”
“You can’t get that over to them,” says the co-pilot. “Look, the captain and I are educated people, literate people. We graduated from institutes. Yet we don’t know who the hell you are. Do you think that stupid Junjans will care?”
“They won’t ask questions,” the captain joins in. “Are you Czech? We’ll hang you, because you support the rebels. Are you Slovak? We’ll hang you, because you’re a rebel. And what’s worse, they’ll hang us along with you, because we’re your companions.”
“Don’t make it hard for us, Urban Urbanych,” says the co-pilot with a pleading voice and shakes the parachute. “We’ll drop you off somewhere in the tundra where the guerrillas will find you. And if you are, as you say, a friend of that Telgarth of theirs, nothing can happen to you. We’re honest people, civilised people. Look, we don’t even want your money. Keep your bucks! We brought you here completely free, that’s how nice we are to you. Just put this thing on, for God’s sake, and we’ll push you out of the plane ourselves. We’re flying low; the parachute will open by itself. It’ll be like landing in your bed.”
“We simply can’t land in Űŕģüllpoļ with you,” the captain adds categorically. “We’re businessmen, not heroes.”
They hurl themselves at Urban and force the parachute on him. Urban in a panic fights back like a lion. In the heat of battle, he pushes both pilots against a crate. All the crates fall down. The automatic pilot can’t recover from such a loss of equilibrium. The plane is in a tailspin.
Vanya lets Urban go and fights his way through the crates to the cockpit. The captain is wrestling with Urban on his own. Urban almost seems to be succeeding in staving off the humiliating drop, when someone hits him over the head from behind. He sees stars in his eyes and then there’s only darkness.
When he recovers consciousness, he is lying in the snow and someone is slowly pulling him from behind. He looks round. Nobody is pulling him, it’s just the wind blowing into his half-collapsed parachute and pulling the strings. In the distance there are echoes of the muffled noise of the plane. Urban gets up and unbuckles the parachute. He finds his wallet and counts his money. The Russians kept their word: they took him to Junja and didn’t take a single penny from him. He even gradually finds his backpack, bag, and even the bag of fishing tackle that the Russians threw behind him in the snow. God, such honest people, Urban thinks. You’ll have a hard time surviving, pals!
Urban collects all his modest possessions and with heavy heart sets out across the snowy plain. On the way he encounters the fog. Urban is walking down hill. The snow line ends, but Urban has no idea where he’s going. For three days he keeps wandering among mountain pines and has no idea if he is going north, or south. He periodically climbs a tree, locates another tree in the fog and sets out towards it. He uses all the food he brought along in Polyarny. He drinks clear and cold water from a stream. He tries again to catch fish, but again with no luck. He chews on roots and gathers berries. He is afraid of wolves, but doesn’t see any. He is wet to the skin. At night he sleeps in trees.
After three days he gets to a railway track. He can’t believe his eyes. The rails have a shiny surface, evidence of regular train traffic. Urban collects dry twigs from all around and piles it on top of the track. It takes him a whole day. Exhausted, he lies in the low grass and chews on the roots that he has dug out somewhere. That’s it. He’s not moving from here. He will either die, or wait for rescue here.
* * *
On their eighth journey, returning from Junja, at one thirty in the morning the Kamýk radar operator identifies a vessel on his screen coming towards them at almost 33 knots. Only a warship can be that fast.
Kubeš orders a dive to periscope depth.
“What’s the status of battery charging, Mr Kolesa?” he asks, observing the surroundings through the periscope.
“We’ve charged only half of them,” reports Lt. Commander Kolesa.
“Oh, well,” sighs Kubeš. “It’ll have to do. Dive to 100 metres.”
The boat dives rapidly.
“One hundred metres,” says Kolesa. “The boat is steady.”
“Turn off the engine,” commands Kubeš. “Leading Rating Anděl, analyse the sound of the vessel.”
In the sudden silence a weak buzz, gradually getting stronger, can be heard coming from the surface.
Anděl, the electronic systems operator, loads the sound into the computer and then runs it through a programme that analyses it.
“It’s the sound of a Russian Sovremenny class anti-submarine destroyer, sir,” he soon reports.
“Fancy that,” says Kubeš. “Here we go, gentlemen. We’ve been noticed at last. About time, after eight trips by the Kamýk and six by the Albatross.”
“Ping,” the sound echoes.
The men are startled.
“Asdic,” says Kubeš. “Anti-submarine detector. You all know it from Lešany, so please don’t look so surprised.”
“Ping,” the sound is back.
Then there is silence.
“Ping,” it goes again. “Ping…ping…ping.”
Silence.
Then they hear a sound as if someone had thrown a fistful of pebbles at the boat’s hull.
“The submarine is within the destroyer’s search cone,” reports Anděl.
“Good,” Kubeš can’t help saying.
He issues several orders to the helmsmen. He is trying to position the submarine with its back to the destroyer, to hinder the search. But the submarine’s speed is low now, so it does not react to the rudder turning.
“The destroyer is heading towards us,” Anděl notes.
“Let him,” says Kubeš.
“Its position is 120 degrees, and approaching quickly,” adds Anděl.
“No problem,” says Kubeš.
In his mind he is calculating his own course, the enemy’s, the evasive manœuvre; if he miscalculates, the submarine will sail into the charges. The men realise that and stay silent.