"Torpedo room, load decoy number five. Flood tanks. Sonar, where is the American sub?"
"Rising, Captain, almost on the surface."
"Fire decoy, maximum speed, down angle twenty degrees. All hands prepare for decoy concussion."
When Kurnachov woke up in his cabin, his head was bandaged and his left arm encased in plaster. He gazed without comprehension at the displays in the console next to his bunk. Ordinarily the readouts gave him the ship's position — speed, depth, reactor status and atmosphere condition. Now even the chronometers were blank. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.
At first Kurnachov thought the display system had been damaged in the collision. The ship was moving ahead slowly, but at what depth and direction he had no way of knowing. He picked up the intercom telephone. It was dead.
When he tried to sit up he discovered the manacle on his ankle. The chain that secured him to his bunk was wrapped in rags to keep it quiet.
His cabin was stripped of papers, books and charts. All insignia of rank had been removed from his uniform. Even his gold Komsomol pin was gone. Kurnachov sank back onto his bunk to consider his fate…
Several hours later Federov brought him a tray of sausage and kasha.
"Release me," Kurnachov demanded. "I am still master of this ship."
Federov set down the tray and stood in silence over the former first officer.
"Where is my Komsomol pin? I demand that it be returned to me."
Federov began to speak, but loathing choked his voice. Finally he got out, "The crew voted. You've been expelled from Komsomol."
"They can't do that, they have no right—"
"Former Captain Second Rank Kurnachov" — he spit the words—"you have demonstrated an incredible lack of seamanship, killed one of my men, provoked the Americans, compromised the secrecy of Potemkin and abused your authority. All these will be included in the charges against you. But what galls me, you son of a bitch, is that all you can think of is your fucking status in the Party. Enjoy your breakfast. Choke on it."
Federov emerged from Kurnachov's cabin to find the surgeon waiting in the corridor.
"Captain," he said, his voice urgent, "it's Polokov. He's bleeding internally. He needs blood."
"Give it to him. Ask for volunteers."
"Yes, sir."
"And Bolinki?"
"Still in a coma."
"How much IV solution do you have left?"
"Enough for five days."
"Do what you can. Send the chief engineer to my cabin."
"Yes, sir."
Chief Engineer Alexis Rolonov, son of a Leningrad shipyard worker, had spent a large part of his life covered with grease. As he sat in Federov's cabin, a swatch of black streaked across his forehead, his hands were coated with a fine film of oil.
"How goes the portside stern plane?" the captain asked.
"The hydraulic system is ruined but it can be operated manually."
"The reactor?"
"We can start it any time."
"And the carbon dioxide scrubber?"
"That's going to get serious. It wasn't designed to be turned upside down. The lithium hydroxide filters were spilled and scattered. We have only partial function."
"No spares?"
"Nikolai, how can I say this? Some son of a bitch in Murmansk stored a spare packet of what he thought was lithium hydroxide, and Kurnachov checked it off. This is it." Alexis tossed a plastic bag full of white crystals onto the desk. It looked like rock salt. "It isn't lithium hydroxide. It's lithium chloride. We use it to make—"
"Mineral water," Federov said, closing his eyes. He took a series of deep breaths, shrugged. "Lithium chloride… Are you thirsty, Comrade Chief Engineer?" Federov's eyes were open now and full of anger. "How much time do we have?"
"Normal carbon dioxide concentration is two percent. We're now up to three percent. Without filters, four days, five at the most, then it's going to be carbon dioxide narcosis. They say it's rather pleasant."
Federov tried to vent his fury with a joke. "Perhaps we should stop at Gibraltar and borrow some lithium hydroxide. We can give the English Kumachov in exchange. They can try him in their Admiralty Court for dereliction of duty and banging into one of their subs."
The notion of Kurnachov standing in front of a wigged British judge made Alexis smile. "Your honor… your honor…," he stammered, "I plead guilty as charged. I plead guilty to any charge. Convict me, hang me, just don't hand me over to the KGB."
Alexis stopped joking and cleared his throat. Federov reached for a tin of cigars, then changed his mind. "The air is thick enough." He pulled out his flask of vodka, swallowed two mouthfuls and passed it to Alexis.
"How are Bolinki and Polokov?" the engineer asked.
"They're going to die if we don't get them off this ship, which we can't do in the immediate future. Gorshov wanted a one-hundred-day cruise and he's going to get it, but we may all be dead."
"Well, we are making history—"
"Fuck history. Potemkin was rushed through production too quickly. Inadequate sea trials, insufficient training for the crew, too many gadgets, and no backup systems. In another three years these titanium subs will own the seas, but now, thanks to our comrade political officer, we've tipped our hand. I want to strangle him with my bare hands."
"Relax, Captain. At least because of our difficulties the next series of ships will be better. After all, we have a titanium submarine, which the Americans have been unable to manufacture."
"In spite of what you think, Alexis, the Americans are not stupid. They don't have political officers."
"Perhaps because of Kurnachov, once and for all we will be rid of these fools."
Federov shook his head. "We stand a better chance of getting rid of the Americans than our own idiots."
Alexis smiled. "My friend, in time this too shall pass. The Americans tend to be arrogant. They've become diverted. They are preoccupied with Viet Nam, which drains their treasure, their blood and their will. With thirty Potemkin-class submarines we will put an end to their primacy on the seas. Their missile submarines are no match for this," the engineer said, softly rapping the hull. "But we need to buy time…"
"We should live so long, Comrade Chief Engineer."
Alexis tried to phrase his next question delicately, "What are we going to do about the carbon dioxide?"
"What are you going to suggest, Alexis? That I surface, pass through the Bosporus into the Black Sea and make for Odessa?"
"I feel the words must be said. It's my duty—"
Federov smiled. "You have done your duty. Good. You will continue to do your duty but the answer is no. We are not going to surface and steam through Istanbul. Our orders are to avoid detection at all costs, even if we have to scuttle Potemkin ourselves. We are going through Gibraltar."
"But the scrubber, Captain. We need the filters."
"We can snorkel. We can escape detection by running very slow, very quiet and very deep."
"And if we're detected?"
Federov ignored the question and turned his attention to a chart.
Running Potemkin on minimal reactor power and maintaining a depth below three thousand feet, Federov had maneuvered his ship toward Gibraltar. He hugged the North African Coast, taking care to avoid major shipping lanes and NATO operations areas. No one was looking for him at that depth, and even if they were, he believed, their sonars would not find him…. He'd heard only vague rumors of an advanced American sonar system being deployed and tended to discount them. He was always hearing how the Americans were getting ahead, followed by a spurt in his own country's military expenditures. He exercised extreme caution, though. Without the silicon packing on the turbine, Potemkin generated a great deal of noise at any velocity above eight knots, so Federov maintained a slow speed and a steady westerly course.