‘Depth of water?’
‘One-zero-eight-five metres.’
Yenev executed a final sweep with the periscope. ‘Surface, Lomov. Bring her up.’
A tremor of excitement swept through the control-room. It was reflected in the executive officer’s voice as he repeated the order they’d waited for so long. Soon afterwards he called, ‘Surfaced, Captain. Bridge is clear,’ adding quickly, ‘The trim’s still not right. She remains bow heavy.’
‘Steer one-one-zero. Twelve knots.’ Yenev betrayed no emotion but he experienced profound relief. The prototype of the USSR’s new Delta Two class ballistic missile submarine, technically well in advance of its US rival, with a crew of one hundred and twenty highly skilled men, a battery of nuclear missiles capable of taking out sixteen of the world’s largest cities, had been brought to the surface after a brief but epic struggle. That she was just commissioned with a fresh crew confronted with the intricacies of new and complex systems made the achievement all the more remarkable. Yenev was too much of a realist to believe the struggle was over. Zhukov’s situation remained precarious. To battle for survival on the surface was, however, infinitely better than to do so hundreds of metres beneath it.
On Yenev’s orders the lower-hatch was opened and he began the long climb up the steel ladders inside the tower. When he reached the upper-hatch he withdrew the safety bolts, unfastened the clips and opened it. Steadying himself against the rush of warm air from below as pressure inside Zhukov was released, he stepped on to the small bridge at the fore end of the conning-tower or ‘fin’ as it was known in the submarine service. Two-way berthing radio, a voice-pipe and telephone on running leads were brought to him by the chief signalman, the bridge navigation lights were switched on, and Kulchev joined him.
To the three men on the bridge the night air had never seemed sweeter, more exhilarating, more welcome, and the scatter and twinkle of lights ahead, the evidence of communities, of normality, of a warm safe world, was reassuring beyond belief. They no longer felt helpless and alone.
The submarine rolled slowly in the swell which came in from the north-west, and a chill breeze ruffled the sea. Ahead of the fin, many metres below them, the steel casing lost itself in foam which creamed and tumbled as the whale-like bow thrust through the sea.
To counter the heaviness forward, Yenev had ordered twelve knots, and hydroplanes to hard-arise. He had done so reluctantly because the greater the speed the more likely it was that external damage to the pressure hull could be increased. But he had no option for it had already become essential to divert some pumping power from the torpedo-compartment to the bilges farther aft where water was rising to unacceptable levels.
The beam of light showed no external damage other than a slight, scarcely-visible fracture in a weld some distance along the casing forward of the huge fin which dominated the superstructure.
Yenev said, ‘See that? Above the main communications centre?’ But the real damage, that which promised the greatest danger was, he knew, in the torpedo-compartment. It could not be seen because the bows were almost submerged.
CHAPTER FOUR
Shortly after surfacing Yenev handed over the bridge-watch to Lomov. Back in the control-room he summoned a conference of key officers. To it came Vladimir Ilyitch, the senior engineer officer; Krasnov, the torpedo and sonar officer; Yusof, the missile systems officer; Uskhan, the communications officer; Gallinin, the atmospheric control officer; Feodotik, the chief diving systems technician. And, of course, Boris Milovych, the commissar.
Yenev was brief and to the point. ‘There is little time. First a quick summary of the damage state. Commissar?’ The muscles in Milovych’s face twitched. ‘My staff tell me there is no serious damage in the missile-compartments and systems. There are certain electrical and hydraulic failures which they are working on and some damaged instruments. You have no real cause for worry on account of my department.’
Smug bastard, thought Yenev. Everyone in the submarine knew that the real responsibility and technical know-how for the ship’s missilry came under Yusof and his assistant, Vatutin. Yenev turned to Krasnov. ‘Your department?’
‘The torpedo-compartment remains sealed off, Captain. There is no evidence of life there. We still do not know what caused the explosion. It was not a warhead.’
‘Obviously,’ said Yenev dryly. ‘We wouldn’t be here if it was. Continue.’
Krasnov jerked his chin nervously. He was only doing his duty. The captain’s comment was surely unnecessary. ‘Using eighty-five per cent capacity, the pumps are just containing the inflow of water. The remaining fifteen per cent has been diverted to other bilges. The sonar systems are still unserviceable. The transducers have suffered severe shock. They are close to the torpedo-compartment.’
Yenev’s mouth shut in a tight line. He nodded towards the senior engineer officer. ‘You, Ilyitch?’
‘The main motor rooms, the turbo generators, secondary propulsion units, the boiler and reactor rooms, hydraulic power plants and auxiliary machinery spaces are in reasonably good shape. Various circuit and pressure line failures, of course — damaged switchgear and blown fuses. Also some minor leaks from glands in the pressure hull. But there is serious damage in the air-conditioning and emergency generating centres on the lower deck forward of the missile-compartment.’
‘Briefly, what’s the trouble?’
‘A big inflow of water. Must have been a failure in the pressure hull welding under both compartments. At first I thought it came from leaks through cable and pipe glands. But it’s more than that. Whatever it is, the inflow is increasing. The fracture is probably extending.’
‘Has it been possible to make any sort of detailed examination?’
Ilyitch shook his head. ‘Impossible. The break is in the bilges themselves. Possibly between frames. But there is another complication.’
‘For Christ’s sake, what’s that?’
The commissar made a mental note of Yenev’s blasphemy. The Party didn’t like that sort of thing. A bad example to the men. Effete religious habits asserting themselves in times of crisis.
Yenev’s pale eyes held Ilyitch’s. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Chlorine fumes from the battery spaces are leaking into the air-conditioning and emergency generating compartments. Also into the seamen’s bunk-deck. We have evacuated those compartments, but for men with respirators who are checking the extent of the damage.’
‘Any idea of that extent?’
‘Not really. We’ve had to shut down the air-conditioning plant and emergency generators.’
‘Can you get them going again?’
‘Not without dockyard or other outside assistance.’
‘So,’ said Yenev grimly. ‘Nothing but disaster. Has no one a favourable report? What about communications, Uskhan?’
The dim red light of the control-room emphasized the communications officer’s Mongolian features. ‘The situation in my department is very serious, Captain. There is a leak in the pressure hull over the main communications centre. Water flooding in and the shock of the explosion started numerous electrical fires. The carbon-dioxide cylinders operated automatically. The compartment was then evacuated and sealed off. Later I went in with my senior technician. We had respirators. The damage is considerable. There is no possibility of on-board repair of the transmitters. There will have to be complete stripping and overhaul of the entire system.’
‘And the emergency communications aft?’