He went to the systems-state board and consulted the formidable array of gauges, dials and tell-tales, concentrating his attention on the flooding and pumping gauges, the flow meters and ballast tank readings. What he saw pleased him. During sea trials Zhukov had developed leaks in the pressure hull due to weld failures. Much time had been devoted to rectifying these at the Zhdanov Yard in Leningrad but despite the assurances of the base constructors and engineers, recollection of the defects still nagged at Yenev. A hull failure at depth was every submariner’s nightmare.
‘All well, comrade Yenev?’
The high-pitched voice at his shoulder caused him to stiffen involuntarily. It was Boris Milovych, the commissar and missile control officer. Though subordinate to Yenev in command, he was the most important man on board. Not only did he control the firing of the submarine’s ballistic missiles but as Zhukov’s political commissar he represented the Party.
Yenev, very much the naval officer and a man with little time for politicians, resented the duality of command imposed by the system. Yet he had to make the best of it. Superficially the two men got on well enough, but each was resentful of the other’s authority. Their inner tensions and frustrations had not yet boiled over but had somehow communicated themselves to the crew. This did not make for a happy ship. Zhukov was newly commissioned. Yenev wondered how their relationship would fare in the months ahead.
He nodded towards the instruments. ‘There is no evidence of leakage, comrade Milovych.’ What nonsense, he thought, having to call him ‘comrade’. The man’s rank was commander. Why not use it?
Milovych was plump and pink with deepset eyes. Pig’s eyes, Yenev had long since decided. Milovych as it happened disliked Yenev’s pale grey eyes. They conveyed no emotion, he would complain to himself; one never knew what the man was thinking.
‘The dockyard’s done a good job, then?’ Milovych smiled enquiringly. He always smiled. It meant nothing. He could smile when speaking to a man whose career he’d just ruined with a confidential report.
‘Yes. But…’ Yenev’s reply was interrupted by a series of bleeps followed by a deep voice. ‘Control-room, torpedo compartment here. Request permission withdraw torpedo from number three tube for examination.’ It was Borchoi, the chief torpedo technician.
‘What’s the trouble, chief?’
‘Routine maintenance, Captain.’
‘Very good. Shut all watertight doors and vents. Check bowcap. Reload without delay.’ Yenev knew that Borchoi would do these things anyway, but naval procedure demanded that the orders be given and Yenev was a stickler for naval procedure.
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
Milovych smiled. He, too, knew that Borchoi would have done those things anyway. ‘You were saying, comrade Yenev?’
Borchoi, a big bearlike man, looked round the torpedo compartment, past the torpedoes in their racks to the ram loading gear, on to the tube doors and instruments grouped above them on the forward bulkhead, then back to the men around him.
‘Where’s Somolov?’
‘Gone to the heads, chief,’ said the leading torpedo technician. ‘Taken short.’
‘He’s always taken short when there’s work to be done. He’s just come on watch. Why doesn’t he do it in his watch below? Lazy little bastard.’ Borchoi sighed. ‘You’d better take over the loader, Gregorowski. Somolov can mop up that oil under the maintenance cradle. Teach him not to piss off when there’s work to be done.’
Gregorowski moved into the loader seat, checked the hydraulic controls. ‘Ready, chief.’
Borchoi looked over his shoulder. ‘Watertight doors and vents shut?’
‘All watertight doors and vents shut, chief.’
‘Number three tube. Check bowcap. Test drain cock.’
‘Number three tube. Drain cock tested, bowcap shut, chief.’
‘Right,’ said Borchoi. ‘Number three tube. Withdraw torpedo.’
Gregorowski repeated the order. The door to the tube space was opened. The hydraulic loader moved forward.
‘Smell that?’ challenged Borchoi, holding up a warning hand. Gregorowski stopped the loader.
The crewmen sniffed in the direction of number three tube. ‘Hydrogen peroxide,’ said one of them.
‘Leak from the pressure tank,’ said Borchoi.
‘Or from Somolov,’ suggested a young crewman. There was a snigger.
‘Can’t be him,’ said another. ‘He’s in the shithouse.’
‘Pack that in,’ Borchoi growled. ‘Let’s get on with the job.’
Gregorowski pulled the control lever. With a subdued hum the loader moved forward. The empty cradle rose level with number three tube. A torpedoman secured the extractor to the tail of the torpedo. ‘Extractor secured, chief,’ he reported.
‘Carry on.’
There was a thin whistle of compressed air. The torpedo slid slowly out of the tube on to the cradle which was lowered and drawn aft. The withdrawn torpedo was transferred to the maintenance cradle, and another loaded into number three tube. When this had been done Borchoi reported to the control-room, ‘Number three tube reloaded.’ The report was acknowledged. Borchoi and his men set to work on the torpedo. With skilled hands he loosened the holding screws on the inspection plates before removing them from the motor and fuel compartments. To examine the valves on the fuel lines he had to lean forward. He suspected the cause of the gas leak would be found in the valve recess. The torpedo, the latest in use in the Soviet Navy, was propelled by a piston-type swashplate engine powered by high pressure gas driving a pump jet propeller. He had an instinctive dislike for the system. ‘Give me the old electric motors,’ he used to growl. ‘Can’t beat them.’
The compartment was well lit but Borchoi could not see clearly into the recess. ‘Inspection lamp,’ he called without looking up. A torpedoman took a wire-guarded lamp from its bracket, pulled at the spring-loaded lead and switched on the lamp. He moved across to Borchoi. ‘Lamp, chief.’
Still leaning over the torpedo, head down as he peered into it, Borchoi lifted an arm to take the lamp. The torpedoman pushed it against the outstretched hand and believing it to be held let go. The lamp fell. There was a tinkle of broken glass. It was the last sound they were to hear for a thin ripple of flame was followed by a flash of yellow light and the roar of an explosion.
CHAPTER TWO
As Milovych went through the watertight door to the missile control centre, Yenev moved to the sonar screen. He was turning the scale to short range when the control-room shook violently, the lights went out and there was the subdued roar of an explosion. Yenev, thrown forward against the sonar screen, at first thought Zhukov had struck a mine.
The control-room reverberated with the sounds of disaster. The rattle of broken glass, the tinkle of metallic chips, the hiss of ruptured hydraulic and air pressure lines, the snap and crackle of electric circuits shorting, all mingled with the startled cries of men. The emergency lighting came on. Yenev and others who had fallen staggered to their feet. Crewmen, dazed by the shock, groped drunkenly for support and blood flowed from lacerated hands and faces.
Through a haze of smoke the deck could be seen to be littered with fragments of broken glass, metal and plastics from instrument panels, and paint flakes lay scattered like thin snow. Over this scene of chaos hung an invisible palclass="underline" the smell of burnt oil and smouldering rubber.