“I guess we’ll just have to hang around for a while and find out,” returned Steven Aldridge.
“Right now, they’re pushing in awfully close to Norwegian territorial waters, and that tells me that they just might be on a spook mission of some sort. So don’t lose them, Mr. Carter. I’ve got a hunch that these next couple of hours might prove damn interesting for all of us.”
Totally unaware of the vessel that followed in the waters behind, the Lena continued on its southward course down the coast of Norway. Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov had complete confidence in the sub’s ability to carry out its difficult mission, and was anxiously awaiting the initiation of the actual reconnaissance.
Most of this work would be done by the trio of Spetsnaz divers that they carried along. These highly trained special forces operatives would be dropped off near the spot where the Norwegian oil pipeline made its landfall. In Alexander’s opinion, this critical juncture was probably the weakest point of the network, where a saboteur only had to place a relatively small amount of explosives to shut down the entire pipeline.
The Admiral had utilized the Spetsnaz before, and they had yet to let him down. No job was too difficult for these naval commandoes, who prided themselves in creating a new meaning to the word impossible. If Alexander was fifty years younger, he would have loved to join their ranks. But this was only a fantasy of his, and he knew that he would have to content himself by merely being in their immediate presence.
The commandoes were currently staying in the Lena’s forward torpedo room. This was to be Alexander’s first visit to this portion of the ship, and he was surprised to find the divers bunked on mattresses set right on top of the torpedoes themselves. As he entered the equipment-packed compartment, he spotted one of the commandoes doing a lightning-fast succession of one-handed push-ups on the deck before him.
The lad was in superb physical condition, his muscles rippling beneath his striped blue and white t-shirt.
Another one of the commandoes was perched on his bunk stripping down his Kalashnikov assault rifle.
This brute had close-cropped brown hair, steel-gray eyes, and a moustache that extended well down to his chin, giving him an almost evil look. Alexander recognized him as the leader of the group and greeted him accordingly.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Kalinin. I’m sorry that I haven’t had a chance to visit you until now. I do hope these quarters are sufficient.”
Vasili Kalinin answered with a deep, rough voice.
“Believe me. Admiral, compared to some missions we’ve undergone, the Lena is like a resort hotel. Right now, our only worry is that we’ll go soft before it’s time for us to go to work.”
“I doubt that, Lieutenant,” returned Alexander.
“Anyway, it won’t be long now until we reach Karsto.
And then you’ll be able to properly stretch those legs of yours.”
“I understand that we came close to witnessing an accident back in the waters north of us,” commented the commando as he vigorously polished the barrel of his weapon.
“From the sound of it, some poor skipper is sure going to have all hell to pay.”
“At least it wasn’t one of ours, Lieutenant.”
“Can you be so sure of that. Admiral? The platform it collided with would certainly make a lovely target in times of crisis. Who knows, maybe that rig was being secretly sized up for just such a future operation.”
Knowing full well that the moustached commando could be right, Alexander nodded.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait until we get back to Polyarny to find out exactly what that racket was all about. But right now, we have different priorities.”
“So I understand, Admiral. So I understand.”
As the commando began reassembling his rifle, Alexander excused himself.
“Please give my regards to the rest of your squad, Lieutenant. I’ll be issuing your final briefing when it’s time to deploy.”
On his way back to his cabin, the white-haired veteran’s thoughts were centered on the brief encounter that he had just concluded. Lieutenant Vasili Kalinin might be a man of few words, but there could be no ignoring the fact that he was one of the Motherland’s fiercest warriors. He had already proven himself time and again, having won the Order of Lenin first class for bravery under fire in Afghanistan, and yet more decorations for a clandestine operation in Central America whose details even Alexander didn’t know.
The waters that Kalinin and his squad would soon be deployed in were cold, dark, and known for their treacherous currents. There was no telling what countermeasures that the Norwegians might have already placed here. Mines were their number one concern.
These could be of the acoustic, magnetic, or electrical signature variety. They would also have to be on the lookout for the newly deployed Captor system, a bottom-lying mine that could even be triggered by a passing diver. By its very nature, recon work was full of dangerous surprises; that’s what made duty in the Spetsnaz such a daily challenge.
Alexander was planning to return to his stateroom to get back to the paperwork that he had brought along with him, and was in the process of crossing through the wardroom, when a scratchy voice called to him from the wardroom table.
“Admiral, please come over and join me in a cup of tea. And there’s also some delicious fruit compote here for you to sample. My own mother prepared it.”
Finding it awkward to refuse the Zampolit’s invitation, Alexander decided that he could make it through a single cup of tea. As he turned toward the table, Felix Bucharin smiled.
“Good, Admiral. I’m certain that you won’t be disappointed with this compote.”
As Alexander sat down, the political officer unscrewed the metal lid of the large glass jar that sat on the table beside him. Using a spoon, he emptied a portion of this jar’s contents into an awaiting bowl.
After capping the mound of fruit with a dollop of sour cream, the Zampolit pushed the bowl in front of his newly arrived guest.
“Eat, Admiral, and enjoy, for not only did my beloved mother bottle that fruit with her own hands, she grew it as well.”
Alexander picked up a spoon and took a bite of the compote that was comprised of stewed cherries, peaches, plums and apricots.
“Why it’s very good indeed, Comrade Bucharin,” observed Alexander sincerely.
“So she grows this fruit herself, you say?”
“That she does, Admiral. In fact, when my father first settled in the Ukraine, he was the one who originally planted the fruit trees. He’s long cold in his grave now. But my dear mother still lives on the farm, and with the assistance of my brother Ivan, is still able to manage.”
Alexander responded to this while finishing the rest of his compote.
“If this dish is any example of her cooking, then I imagine it was pretty hard for you to leave this farm.”
The Zampolit patted his bulging belly.
“As you can see, I carry along my fair share of my mother’s legacy.
And yes, Admiral, it was hard for me to leave the land. But I chose my duty willingly, and have no regrets.”
Alexander poured himself a cup of tea and thoughtfully stirred in a spoonful of sugar.
“I’m sorry that I never got to complete my speech to the Komsomol, Comrade Bucharin.”
“Your apologies aren’t necessary. Admiral. All of us understand that you were called to a greater duty.
Though I personally was finding your summation most brilliant. It’s a shame that it was interrupted like it was. Did you and the captain manage to iron out your differences?”
“What differences are you talking about, Comrade Zampolit?”
The nosey political officer looked Alexander right in the eye and responded.
“Oh come now, Admiral. You should realize by now that on a warship this size, nothing stays a secret very long, especially when it concerns our commanding officer and his superior.
From what I understand, Captain Milyut
in desired to change course and further investigate the mysterious collision that took place while you were speaking to us. Yet you countermanded the captain, ordering him instead to continue on with our preassigned mission.”
Impressed with the Zampolit’s intelligence network, Alexander was quick to set the record straight.
“Comrade Bucharin, you can rest assured that I in no way countermanded the captain. When it was determined that it was another submarine that was engaged in this collision, Captain Milyutin merely voiced his desire to turn the Lena around and have a quick look at the parties involved. Under ordinary circumstances I would have offered this suggestion myself. I must admit that I was just as curious as the Captain, and would have loved nothing better than to investigate the collision site.”
“Then why didn’t we?” questioned the perplexed Political Officer.
Alexander got the impression that Bucharin was attempting to deliberately probe in an effort to find material for his personnel dossier, and he answered guardedly.
“We are presently on a priority one mission, Comrade Bucharin. The Premier himself is waiting for the intelligence that we’ve been tasked to gather, and nothing short of a declaration of war is going to divert us from fulfilling our responsibility.”
Quick to sense the veteran’s sensitivity in this matter, the Zampolit backed down.
“But of course, Admiral. I understand clearly now.”
“It’s time for me to be returning to my cabin,” said Alexander as he pushed away from the table and stood.
“Thanks again for the compote, comrade.”
“Anytime, Admiral. Anytime at all.”
It was with great relief when Alexander finally made it to the private confines of his stateroom. There was something about the Zampolit’s demeanor that grated on his nerves. Determined to stay as far away from Felix Bucharin as possible for the rest of the cruise, Alexander turned for the desk and the stack of paperwork that awaited him there.
Chapter Thirteen
Nothing filled Otto Koch’s heart with pride like watching his young men hard at work at their appointed tasks. This was especially the case this evening, as the septuagenarian stepped off the elevator to initiate his nightly tour of the sub pen.
With his trusty German shepherd Beowulf at his side, Koch momentarily halted at the top of the stairway that would lead him down to the cavern’s single dock. Only yesterday the penstocks had been opened to the sea, and at long last U-3313 floated on its intended medium. Lit by the dozens of powerful mercury-vapor flood lights, the U-boat’s gilded hull glistened like a jewel. Several seamen could be seen working in the sub’s sail, making some minor adjustments to the twin 30mm cannons that were set into each corner of the conning tower. Placed here to defend against attacking aircraft, the cannons would hopefully not see action during U-3313’s upcoming trip, but they were good to have around if needed.
The U-boat’s primary weapons system was its torpedoes.
Because of space limitations they would only be fitted with six of these lethal fish, one for each tube. The torpedoes themselves lay on the dock, having just been brought down from storage. Among those currently gathered around the pallets holding these weapons were two of the vessel’s senior officers.
Otto Koch had a particular liking for the sub’s captain, and he climbed down the steps to have a word with Charles Kromer as quickly as his arthritic limbs would allow.
Koch had just managed to reach the last step, and was in the process of planting his rubber-tipped walking stick firmly onto the concrete decking below, when Beowulf began barking madly. The dog’s spirited barks echoed through the cavernous pen until the reverberating sound reached almost unearthly proportions.
“Beowulf, stop that racket right now!” commanded Koch.
The dog reluctantly obeyed, and somewhat meekly rubbed up against his master’s side. Only then did Koch spot the reason for his dog’s unusual behavior.
Sitting on a crate less than ten meters from them was a large rat. Such vermin couldrft be tolerated, and Koch pointed at the rodent and cried out.
“Sic ‘em, Beowulf! Sic ‘em!”
The shepherd instantly lunged forward with a snarl.
The rat took one look at its attacker and leaped off the crate. As it hit the slippery decking the rat momentarily struggled to get its footing. This was all the time Beowulf needed to leap over the crate himself and crash down on the frantic rodent. Temporarily stunned, the rat now found itself totally at the mercy of his attacker, who batted it with his paw and then proceeded to snap its neck with a single bite of his vise-like jaws.
Otto Koch watched his dog stand triumphantly over its prey. Koch loudly snapped his fingers a single time and pointed toward the water. Without a second’s hesitation, Beowulf utilized his jaws to pick up the rat by its tail and unceremoniously drop it into the nearby water.
An echoing chorus of applause followed this act, and Otto Koch looked up and realized that the men who had been gathered around the torpedo had also watched his dog in action. As Beowulf returned to his side, Koch reached down and heartily scratched the shepherd’s head.
“Good dog, Beowulf,” he proudly added as he stiffly stood upright and began limping over to join his men.
“Beowulf would probably make an excellent lookout,” greeted Charles Kromer as the old man and his dog continued their approach.
“It looks like we’ll soon enough find out, won’t we, Captain?” returned Otto Koch, as he halted on the opposite side of the torpedo pallet.
“How do these fish look to you?”
Kromer kneeled down and patted the rounded gray nose of the torpedo nearest him.
“They appear to be in an excellent state of preservation, Herr Director. I personally supervised their unpacking, and like the rest of U-3313, they were stored away with great care.”
“You know, you’re looking at real museum pieces here, Captain,” said Koch as he pointed to the stern portion of one of the torpedoes with his walking stick.
“These fish were originally code named Lerche, and were the first operational, wire-guided torpedoes in existence.”
Kromer nodded.
“I realize that, Herr Director. It’s incredible, but here almost fifty years later, we’re still using the same basic principle of guiding a torpedo to its target by utilizing the acoustic information passed back along its wires.”
“I imagine then that these fish were responsible for their fair share of damage during the Great War,” offered Hans Kurtz, U-3313’s second in command, Otto Koch shook his head to the contrary.
“Unfortunately they were introduced too late to play a significant role in the war’s outcome. Just like the Type XXI U-boat, the wire-guided torpedo was just seeing action when the Reich collapsed. Now if Admiral Donitz only had these advanced weapon systems online a couple of years earlier, there’s no telling what may have happened.”
“I once heard that the plans for the Type XXI vessel were introduced as early as 1941, with the first prototype set to be launched less than a year later. Yet it wasn’t until 1944 that this prototype went to sea, and by then the war was already lost. What took so long?” asked Hans Kurtz.
“Senior Lieutenant Kurtz,” said Koch with the air of a strict school teacher.
“It’s obvious that you haven’t read your history books closely. Any real student of the war knows full well that it was because of one man alone that the Type XXI project was shelved. But now is not the time to get me started on the shortcomings of the Bavarian paperhanger who led the Fatherland astray with his blind ego and arrogant pomposity, for we still have much work to do down here.”
Taking this as his cue, Kromer interjected.
“We’ve completed the hull integrity test, Herr Director. U-3313 passed with flying colors.”
“Did you expect any differently?” retorted Koch.
Kromer stood firm.
“You never know for sure how a hull will hold up to a protracted state of
dry-dock, Herr Director. We’ve also just finished tests of the boat’s electrical, hydraulics, and fire-control systems.
We’ve taken on a full load of diesel fuel and are close to a hundred percent charge on the batteries. Once these torpedoes are loaded, all we’ll need are the fresh foodstuffs and we’ll be ready to set sail.”
“But aren’t you forgetting one more critical item, Captain?” quizzed Otto Koch.
“And I can finally report that the thirty-three drums of heavy water are at long last on the final leg of their journey to Svalbard.
The trawler that’s carrying our treasure should be arriving at North Cape within the next twenty-four hours. Only after those drums are safely secured in U3313’s storage compartment will we be ready to set sail for the Rio de la Plata.”
The sound of an engine starting up nearby interrupted the elder, who turned to see where this commotion was coming from. It was the truck that had just delivered the torpedoes. Koch watched as this vehicle began its way down a long asphalt driveway that was situated next to the narrow inlet of water that supported U-3313. The truck appeared to be headed straight for the side of the mountain itself, when a huge steel door that was set into the hollow rock here began lilting upward. The rumbling of the vehicle’s diesel engine soon faded when the truck passed under the cavern’s entrance and disappeared into the night beyond.
As the doorway began to close, Beowulf once again began barking. Otto Koch looked down to see what was bothering his dog this time, and found Beowulf pointed toward the submarine’s conning tower. Here, at the forward edge of the sail, a seaman had just climbed out of the hatchway. This individual was a hefty character, whose one distinguishing feature was the fact that he was covered from head to toe in black grease.
“Beowulf, mind your manners!” scolded Koch.
“Take it easy on him, Herr Director” advised Kromer lightly.
“Our chief engineer isn’t known as the king of rats for nothing. Just like a rat, Chief Dortmund seems to be perpetually covered in greasy slime, and we hardly ever let him up to see the light of day.”
The Golden U-Boat Page 25
