by Stuart Woods
”. .. to our central studios in Stockholm,” a voice said. The man behind the desk shuffled his papers and began. “The Ministry of Defense, a few moments ago, issued a call for a general mobilization of all Sweden. All military leave is canceled. All members of the armed forces are ordered to report to their units immediately. All members of the military reserve and civil defense units are ordered to their pre-assigned positions at once. All Swedish subjects who are not members of military reserve or civil defense units are asked to remain at their current locations until requested to move. Office and factory workers not called up are instructed to remain at their places of work. All private motor vehicles are to be immobilized in order to leave streets and roads clear for military and civil defense vehicle movements. All Swedish subjects are requested to limit their use of telephones to cases of serious emergency. The government and Members of Parliament have already begun to disperse to pre-assigned, secure locations. The minister of defense is flying to the island of Hoggarn, in the Stockholm Archipelago, in order to take personal charge of dealing with the Soviet submarine which ran aground there early this morning. For further mobilization instructions, tune in to your local radio stations.” He began to repeat the bulletin.
Majorov was standing again. “I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening!” he shouted. The white telephone on his desk, with its distinctive ring, suddenly brought the room to a halt. There was an immediate hush. Majorov stared at the telephone as if it were a poisonous reptile, while it continued its loud ringing. Finally, he picked it up.
“This is Majorov. I know, Comrade chairman, we have just seen the report on Swedish television. I have reason to believe it may be a defensive hoax. I request permission to hold my forces in readiness while I receive reports from my units in Sweden. Yes, Comrade Chairman, no more than thirty minutes.” He put the phone down.
“Defensive hoax?” Jones was standing at his desk, calling to Majorov. “Group One has already reported a general alarm in Stockholm, and Group Three has reported the sealing of the Strangnas headquarters. There can be no hoax!”
“Shut up!” Majorov shouted at him. “I want reports from all units on Swedish soil at once! Broadcast in the clear, if necessary!”
Jones returned to his phones, punching buttons and issuing orders. Ragulin grabbed a bottle of vodka and a glass from the galley, strode the few steps to where Majorov sat, and set them on his desk. She poured a glass of the vodka. “Here, Colonel,” she said, hardly disguising her glee, “I think you need this.”
“Get away from me!” Majorov shouted, but he picked up the glass in a trembling hand and tossed down the vodka, then poured another. “Reports, Jones!”
“Colonel,” Jones called back, “reports of other units confirm Group One. There is a genuine, nationwide, general alarm. Reserve troops have begun to take positions around key targets. I am afraid it is true, Colonel Majorov, Sweden is mobilizing.”
Majorov sat stock still, staring blankly toward the central screen. Red symbols for Swedish military movements were beginning to flash on the screen. The white telephone rang.
Silence quickly blanketed the room again. The piercing ring of the white telephone filled the silent theater. Every man’s eyes were on Majorov.
Majorov ignored the ringing of the white telephone. “Jones,” he said, quietly, “transmit to Helder’s submarine the code 10301.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Jones replied. He picked up a telephone and spoke into it, then hung up. “Code 10301 has been transmitted, sir,” he said.
The white telephone on Majorov’s desk stopped ringing.
56
HELDER stood in the conning tower of the Whiskey boat and looked about him. Something was wrong. It had gone very quiet.
Kolchak had noticed it, too. It was early afternoon, now, and the wind had dropped, leaving the surface of the sea as placid as a lake. It was very warm, too, and the crew on the deck gun looked drowsy. Then, from across the water, there came a noisy whine. Helder and Kolchak turned in unison to look at the Swedish destroyer steaming slowly along half a mile away. Her guns, previously lowered and trained at sea level toward the grounded submarine, were elevating. On two patrol boats a couple of hundred yards away, gunners stood back from their weapons and let them point at the sky.
“What is it?” Kolchak asked. “What is happening?”
It amused Helder that the man was whispering. “They are backing off,” he answered. “They have been told not to fire on us.”
“Then we must fire on them,” Kolchak said, nervously. “Our orders are to provoke a battle, if necessary, before surrendering.”
Helder had no intention of provoking a battle. He did not intend to lose a single man, Russian or Swedish, to Majorov’s monumental ambition. “I’ll wait for the coded order on that,” he said. “That is my prerogative.”
“I’m not at all sure that it is,” huffed Kolchak. “Surely, we cannot allow this situation to fizzle out.”
Helder cocked an ear. “What is that?”
“What is what?” Kolchak asked. “I don’t … yes, I do.”
From somewhere in the distance, down the channel toward Stockholm, a siren wound up to a pitch.
“A fire in one of the hamlets in the archipelago,” Kolchak said.
“A fire in two of them,” Helder said, turning to look south. Another siren had started up. Then, as the two men stood listening, the sirens were joined by others, near and far.
“What is going on?” Kolchak demanded. “Is this some sort of trick to unnerve us?”
Helder smiled. “Unnerve you it may, Kolchak, but it is not a trick. The Swedes have tumbled.”
“You mean the balloon is going up, as planned?”
“The balloon is not going up, Kolchak. Instead, the penny has dropped.”
“Stop speaking in English riddles, Helder; what do you mean?”
From the east, Helder noticed a new sound. At first he thought it another siren, but then it changed, grew into something else. It was coming closer.
“I mean there will be no invasion,” Helder said. “The Swedes have sounded the alarm; they are mobilizing. Surprise is lost. There will be no invasion.”
Helder leaned over the rail and looked to the east. A boat was coming, and very fast. It looked like some sort of fancy pleasure boat. Probably some excited Swede was coming to have a look for himself. Another sound behind him caused him to turn. A helicopter was approaching, low, from the west, toward Stockholm.
“Of course there will be an invasion!” Kolchak insisted. “Majorov has told us so!”
“As it happens, Kolchak, I was present when the First Secretary of our beloved Party told Majorov that there would be no invasion if surprise were lost.” Helder reached for the squawkbox. “Number One.”
“Yes, sir?” the exec’s voice came back.
“Bring up a white flag, and prepare to hoist it.”
“What are you talking about?” Kolchak nearly shouted. ‘Your orders were not to surrender the ship until there had been an exchange of fire!”
Helder turned to watch the fast-approaching power boat again. “You haven’t been listening, Kolchak. It’s over. Now we are going to be eating Swedish meatballs for a while.”
Another sound stopped Kolchak from replying. A loud, electronic beep ricocheted around the conning tower, followed by another, then another, five in all.
“We’ve got a code!” Kolchak said, crossing to where the radio receiver was mounted.
Helder followed him. The light-emitting diodes on the receiver spelled out a number: 10301.
“That’s it!” Kolchak said. “The invasion is still on! Send the sonar signal!”
The exec came into the conning tower, carrying a white flag.
“Hoist it,” Helder said to the man.
Kolchak stepped over to the squawkbox. “Radio man!” he shouted into it, “send your sonar signal.”
“Who is speaking, please?” the voice came back.
�
��This is Kolchak, dammit, your political officer! Send the sonar signal!”
“I am sorry, sir,” the radioman replied, “but I can only send that signal on the captain’s order.”
Kolchak whipped out his pistol. “Helder!” he shouted, “give that order at once, or I will shoot you where you stand.”
The exec looked on, dumbfounded. Neither he nor the captain was wearing a sidearm.
Helder was looking again at the approaching powerboat, now much closer. He could see a single man, perhaps an old man, aboard. The thing must be doing between forty and fifty knots, he thought. He turned back to the political officer. “Kolchak, if I send that signal, shortly afterwards a nuclear mine will be detonated in the archipelago only a short distance from where we stand.”
“What?”
“I know. I placed it there myself. If it goes off, not only will Stockholm be virtually wiped out, but so will you. It will send this submarine and all of us on it straight to hell, do you understand?”
“I understand my orders!” Kolchak yelled. “Give the instruction to the radioman, or I will kill you and do it myself!”
Helder looked at the astonished executive officer, standing, holding the white flag. “Hoist it,” he said.
Kolchak raised the pistol and fired at Helder’s head.
RULE looked down from the helicopter and saw a speeding powerboat coming from the east toward where the submarine lay. “Minister, look at that,” she said, pointing.
The minister, Lee, and the pilot all craned their necks. The powerboat, with a single man aboard, came flying across the water, parallel with the grounded submarine, then began to execute a 90-degree right turn, directly toward the sub. A Swedish patrol boat, belatedly, began to give chase. Men aboard other boats pointed, and officers and crew aboard the destroyer rushed to the rail and leaned out to look.
“Jesus Christ,” the minister said, “he’s going to ram the sub.”
OSKARSSON came out of the turn at full throttle, both levers jammed all the way forward. The two giant outboards rose in pitch to a scream as they were pushed to maximum revs. Oskarsson chose his course, straight between the conning tower and the deck gun, then looped a length of shock cord over a spoke of the helm. He grabbed the loaded shotgun on the seat beside him, and stepped to the rail. The boat ran, straight and true, over the still water, gaining speed and holding rock steady. Oskarsson hooked a foot under a seat, rested the barrels of the gun on his maimed hand, reaching over with the thumb, and took careful aim. The boat was seventy yards out, then fifty, then thirty. Oskarsson followed the change of angle to a point where a tiny bell rang in his brain.
“Now, Ebbe, now!” he said to his grandson, then pulled both triggers.
HELDER staggered, then turned away from Kolchak and looked at the powerboat, coming directly at the sub. The bullet had seared the back of his head as he had turned, and taken away his cap. Now, even the enraged Kolchak turned to look at the approaching boat. He rushed to the rail beside Helder.
It was coming dead at them at what seemed an impossible speed. The crew of the deck gun, as a man, flung themselves forward or overboard to escape the onrushing white projectile.
Helder saw the shotgun microseconds before it went off. It seemed to fire at the same moment the hurtling boat struck the deck of the sub.
RULE, with the others, gaped as the uplifted prow of the powerboat struck the lowlying, sloping deck of the submarine. The boat reared at a steep angle and shot across the sub’s decks like a waterskier over a jump. It struck the water, perhaps thirty yards the other side of the sub, its stern landing first, then the full length of its bottom slamming into the sea, throwing water to all sides. It barreled on toward the island, and, seconds later, drove straight up through shallow water onto the beach, skidding sideways and coming to rest on the sand. Rule though she could see a man lying in the back of the boat.
“Pilot,” the minister said, “set down on the beach.”
HELDER thought he must have been out for only a few seconds. He came to, lying on the sole of the conning tower, the exec bending over him.
“Captain! Captain, can you hear me?” the exec was saying.
Helder got up onto one elbow, and immediately was struck by pain from his jaw.
“You’ve taken a couple of pellets in the neck,” the exec said, and two or three more in the face. I don’t think it’s bad.”
Helder thought it hurt like it was bad; his jaw seemed to be broken. Not as bad as Kolchak, though. He had taken the full force of the shotgun blast in the face, and there were brains and hair spattered over the red star and the numbers painted on the conning tower.
Helder, with the help of the executive officer, struggled to his feet and leaned on the rail of the conning tower. He looked toward the beach, where a helicopter was landing, and people were running toward the big powerboat, now high and dry. A light breeze had sprung up, and the wind ruffled his hair. “I don’t know who that fool was,” he said to the exec, “but I hope his are the only shots fired in this ridiculous war. Run up the fucking white flag, and be quick about it!”
57
TRINA RAGULIN watched, with the others, flabbergasted, as the big, white powerboat flew over the submarine. The Swedish television camera angle changed to a closeup of the sub’s conning tower. She saw Helder, blood streaming down his face, struggle to his feet and bark an order to another officer. Moments later, a white flag appeared above the sub.
Majorov was on his feet again. “Dammit, Jones, I ordered you to send that signal!”
“It was sent, sir,” Jones came back, “and confirmed electronically. But we’ve had no contact with the buoy via satellite.”
“The sub has not sent the sonar signal!” Majorov said, banging a fist on his desk. “Contact them on the radio—do it in the open, if you have to!”
“But sir,” Jones said. “They are under radio shutdown, and on your orders. They will not be listening. Their radio is switched off.”
“Damn Helder!” Majorov shouted, hammering repeatedly on the desk. “Damn him! I want him shot! Contact Group One in Stockholm. I want him found and killed before he can talk! He has flagrantly disobeyed my most specific orders! He did not signal the mine!”
“Mine, sir?” Jones asked, looking bewildered.
“Contact Group One!” Majorov shouted.
“We can’t sir; they will have already followed their contingency plan in case of a Swedish alarm. They will already have disbursed.”
“I want Helder back here! Contact the Stockholm Station, and have them put their men on it!”
“We have no way of directly contacting Stockholm Station, Colonel,” Jones replied. “Any contact with the embassy will have to be through Moscow Central.”
It was the first time Ragulin had ever seen Majorov other than perfectly composed. She looked back at the screen. Swedish sailors were swarming over the Soviet submarine, and she saw a stretcher being handed down from the conning tower. She could see Helder’s face, still bloody, being dabbed at by the other Russian officer. He was in Swedish hands, now. They would never let him go, not after this incident.
The white telephone rang. Majorov stood, apparently trying to compose himself, while it rang again and again. The whole room had stopped, and all eyes were on the Colonel.
Finally, he sank back into his seat and picked up the telephone. “Majorov,” he said. “No, Comrade Chairman, we have confirmed that the alarm was not a hoax. I have given the order to stand down from the invasion plan. No, Comrade Chairman, not a single man has fallen into Swedish hands … yes, except for the submarine crew. They had no alternative, of course, but to surrender. I request that the Foreign Ministry begin negotiations at once to recover them, especially the captain. He is one of our best men … you met him in Moscow. Yes, Comrade Chairman, tomorrow morning, I shall be there.”
Majorov hung up the phone and slumped in his chair. “Give the order to stand down from the invasion plan,” he said to Jones. “I have b
een called to Moscow for a meeting tomorrow. The plan is not dead, Jones, merely postponed. You will see.”
“Yes, Colonel, of course,” Jones replied quietly.
Ragulin stood and watched the big screen. The green symbols, one by one, changed to red, then went out. The atmosphere in the theater had changed from enthusiasm to depression. Quietly, people went about the work of clearing up. Soon, the main screen went dark, and only the television screen remained on. Ragulin watched as the stretcher was handed into a boat and driven toward the island in the background. Helder would not come back, she knew, even if the Soviet diplomats were able to negotiate his release. He had disobeyed some important order of Majorov’s, and he could not now come back. She was alone again, and more so than ever before.
Lights began to go off in the theater. A soldier in uniform came up to the galley where Ragulin stood. “How about some coffee?” he asked, leaning his weapon against the counter. Ragulin poured the coffee and looked at the weapon. It was the submachine shotgun she had heard about from Helder. She looked at it closely, found the bolt, located the safety. There was a clip already in the weapon.
58
RULE and Lee were standing on the front porch of the beach house on Hoggarn when the submarine commander was brought in on a stretcher. The house had been turned into a command post by the Royal Navy and the press and was teeming with people. The bemused owners were trying to help by making coffee and sandwiches. The place was buzzing with the story of Oskar Oskarsson, the fisherman, who was now inside, holding court for the press.
Two sailors set the stretcher gently on the porch while waiting for instructions. Rule looked down at the bloody and swollen face, which had not yet been bandaged. The man was trying to speak. She bent down, but he seemed to be looking past her.
“Hello, Lee,” he managed to say.
“Good God,” Will said, bending down. “It’s … Helder, isn’t it?”
The submariner’s eyebrows went up. “How did you know my name?”
Lee smiled. “The sketch you drew in Stockholm, the one you gave me; you signed it ‘Helder.’ “
