Yenev said, ‘Neither course is easy. But I believe it is our duty to make every attempt to save Zhukov. The only chance of doing that is to make for Vrakoy.’
Vladimir Ilyitch’s deep voice broke into the sudden silence. ‘Captain. We have now only twenty-five to thirty-five minutes in which we can remain afloat.’
Yenev looked at the clock over the chart-table, then back at Ilyitch. ‘You are right. Now. Tell me. Can we safely increase to fifteen knots? If so it will assist in two ways. First, it will help to keep the bows up. Second, it will cut down the time taken to reach Vrakoy.’
Ilyitch thought for a moment. ‘I cannot say whether it will be safe, Captain. We do not know the nature or location of the damage. It may be dangerous. It may make little difference. Why not try fifteen knots? We can always reduce.’
Yenev touched the engineer officer’s shoulder. ‘Well said, Vladimir.’ They were old friends. He went to the chart-table, looked at the large scale chart of the Vesteralen Islands, and consulted the Soviet Navy’s Pilotage Guide to the Norwegian Sea. He saw that Vrakoy, a mountainous island rising steeply from the sea, was shaped like a prawn. Strangely twisted about its long east-west axis, it was ten kilometres in length with an average width of two. The southern side was heavily indented by the bay at Uklarvik, and by Kolfjord. At the head of Kolfjord, recorded the Pilotage Guide, would be found the fishing harbour and village of Kolhamn which supported the local community. The principal activity was fishing. It occurred to Yenev that Vrakoy — Wreck Island — was well named. How many wrecks, he wondered, had this craggy islet claimed?
Abandoning those thoughts, he checked the features of the western end of the island, that which lay closest to the Zhukov. It was dominated by a mountain, Fyrberg, of which the highest peak was Bodvag. The mountain’s south-westerly slopes led down to the lighthouse at Fyrbergnes, the northwesterly to a line of rocks off Knausnes. The safest course, he decided, would be to get Zhukov into the bay at Uklarvik. Ground her at its head where the water shoaled in a small inlet. But to get there would add ten kilometres to the distance. There wasn’t time for that. Yenev decided to make for the light at Fyrbergnes. In that way he would keep his options open. With luck they might just succeed in rounding Fyrbergnes and making the shelter of Uklarvik. If they couldn’t, he’d have to head for the rocks off Knausnes. The large scale chart showed a long rockshelf to the south and west of these with water of a more-or-less even depth over it. An indentation at its north-east corner bit into the foot of the cliffs. It was an unpleasant alternative for the rocks were exposed to the north-westerly gales which blew at that time of year. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The decision made, Yenev laid a course for Fyrbergnes. ‘Steer one-five-zero,’ he ordered. ‘Revolutions for fifteen knots.’
The coxswain was repeating the order when Boris Milovych’s high-pitched voice interrupted. ‘I must request, comrade Yenev, that the decision to make for Vrakoy be recorded in the log-book as yours. Taken after I had drawn attention to the grave security risk involved in grounding on the territory of a NATO power. It must also be recorded, please, that I withdrew my opposition solely on account of your professional advice.’
‘By all means,’ said Yenev. ‘Record it yourself. Anything you like. Important to keep one’s yard-arm clear.’
‘My yard-arm,’ Milovych smiled uneasily, ‘What has that to do with it, comrade Yenev?’
‘Nothing,’ snapped Yenev irritably. ‘Nothing you’d understand.’ Turning to the navigating officer he said, ‘Bring up the chart and pilotage guide, Kulchev. We go now to the bridge.’ Yenev looked at his watch. It was 0027.
CHAPTER FIVE
Much to Yenev’s concern Zhukov was not able to maintain fifteen knots. The submarine had covered no more than three kilometres when Ilyitch reported the inflow of water to be increasing. Yenev at once reduced to twelve knots. Even that proved too much. Soon afterwards he ordered ten.
He and Kulchev stood shoulder to shoulder on the small bridge, the easterly wind cold in their faces. The darkness of the night intensified by a cloud-covered sky, was relieved by the lights of ships and the wink and glitter of those of the Vesteralen Islands. On second thoughts Yenev ordered the Zhukov’s steaming lights to be switched off. There was no point in advertising the presence of the submarine. It was upon the flashing lights of Langoy, Anda, Fyrberg and Andness that the two men concentrated. The navigating officer, head and shoulders in the chart recess beneath the bridge screen, plotted the position of the submarine as Yenev called the compass bearings.
Normally this would have been done in the control-room. Now, with so much equipment damaged, Yenev had decided the bridge would be better. To assist the task of pilotage, a leading seaman in the control-room sent up a steady stream of readings from the ocean depth-recorder.
‘Position, Kulchev?’ Yenev asked for the fourth time in as many minutes.
‘One-six-seven Firberg light, distant seven kilometres, Captain.’
‘Distance to Uklarvik?’
‘Eleven point four kilometres, Captain.’
Yenev looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch and did some mental arithmetic. The bridge phone bleeped. ‘Tomov here, Captain. We continue to lose buoyancy. I believe we have at most twenty minutes left.’ The executive officer’s voice, normally calm, betrayed anxiety.
‘Very well,’ Yenev sighed with resignation. ‘We shall make for Knausnes.’ He turned to Kulchek. ‘Alter course for Knausnes. Make allowance for the north-going stream. It’s close to high water.’ Thank God for that, he thought. It would at least help to get Zhukov on to the rockshelf. Kulchev acknowledged the order. Yenev spoke again to Lomov. ‘Have the inflatable skimmer made ready for launching. Two seamen to stand by to man her. Give them a radio berthing set, a battery-powered signal lamp and a hand lead-line. Kulchev will take charge. As we approach the shoal water near the rocks, Kulchev will station the skimmer five hundred metres ahead, report soundings on the rockshelf and lead us in. It may not help much but it will be better than nothing.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said Lomov. ‘I’ll organize that at once.’
For a moment the captain’s thoughts ran away with him. The situation was a nightmarish one. The huge submarine lumbering through the dark northern night, rolling slowly to the incoming swell, her buoyancy and with it her life ebbing away with each minute that passed, ahead the rocky shelf on to which he was conning his command in a desperate effort to save her. Would he wake to find it was no more than a horrific dream brought on by indigestion? His thoughts were interrupted by the bridge look-out’s urgent, ‘White light bearing red-four-zero. Close.’
Yenev trained his night glasses to port. A swinging white light had appeared on the port bow. Soon, faint green and red side-lights showed up and he heard the throb of a diesel engine. It was a small fishing boat which had just come clear of the rocky headland at Knausnes. The light at Fyrbergnes was an automatic one, unattended; there were no witnesses there. But this fishing boat was an unwelcome complication.
It came closer and a voice hailed them from the darkness. Yenev at once ordered Krasnov who spoke fluent Norwegian to come to the bridge with a loud-hailer, ‘Ask him what he wants,’ said Yenev.
Krasnov shouted the message through the loud-hailer and a reply came rumbling across the water.
‘What’s he saying, Krasnov?’