“Do you really think that the Yankees would be receptive to such a plea at the moment?” countered the Captain.
“Revenge will be in their hearts, and our only hope is to launch another attack now, before they beat us to it.”
The Zampolit vainly tried to halt the flow of sweat dripping off his brow with a soaked handkerchief as he expressed himself.
“I think that all of this talk about attack and counterattack will only get us an early grave. We must flee from this cursed strait while we still have the chance, and rely on the Lena’s superior speed to see us out of this mess.”
Alexander absorbed these opinions and thoughtfully shook his head.
“No, Comrades, I still feel that by launching another salvo ourselves we’ll only be needlessly risking the Lena. And running away will accomplish us absolutely nothing. In this instance, honesty is the best policy, and if we direct our appeal properly, the Americans will understand and call off their attack.”
“The 688 is continuing its rapid approach, Captain,” interrupted the concerned sonar technician.
“They are just about to break our defense perimeter.”
Grigori Milyutin still appeared to be deliberating his alternatives, and Alexander spoke out forcefully.
“You’ve already seen how that 688 negated our first attack, Captain. Do you seriously think that a second salvo on our part will be any different? Come to your senses, Comrade, and show me how to operate our underwater paging system this instant!”
“Do it, Captain!” urged the panicky political officer.
“Since we have no time left to flee, this is our only chance.”
Grigori Milyutin looked Alexander directly in the eye and firmly offered.
“I’ll agree to your request only if you’ll explain to me the exact reason you’ve diverted us to these waters.”
“You’ve got it, Captain,” returned Alexander.
“As soon as I’ve contacted the Americans, I’ll give you a full briefing.”
A look of relief painted the Zampolit’s chubby face as he watched the two senior officers cross over to the communications console. Quick to join them himself, Felix Bucharin listened as the white-haired veteran lifted up the red telephone handset that was handed to him, and spoke out loudly in excellent English into its transmitter.
“American 688 class submarine, this is Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov of the People’s Navy of the Soviet Union. I am currently aboard the Alfa class attack sub Lena, in the waters directly in front of you, and I’m calling to negotiate a truce…”
Steven Aldridge, along with the other members of the Cheyenne’s control room crew, listened to the Soviet Admiral’s emotional plea as it was conveyed to them over the compartment’s elevated P. A. speakers. This was an unprecedented moment, and came just as the Cheyenne was preparing to launch a trio of Mk48 torpedoes at this same Alfa class submarine.
Clearly affected by the Russian’s words, Aldridge allowed Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov to finish his statement before seeking the opinion of his second in command.
“Well, what do you think, Bob? Is Ivan trying to pull a fast one on us? Or is the Admiral talking turkey?”
The XO pulled his pipe from his mouth and answered.
“I think he’s telling the truth, Skipper. And if you look at it from their perspective, it makes sense.
After all, how would we react if we monitored a SUBROC launch in our baffles from a contact we didn’t even know previously existed?”
“I imagine we’d shoot first and ask questions later,” replied Aldridge.
“And that’s precisely why I’m willing to give Ivan the benefit of the doubt on this one. But I want to keep those Mk48’s on-line just in case. My gut tells me that something’s still not right out there, and it would be foolish to let our defenses down prematurely.”
“Then we’ll be surfacing and proceeding to check out that damaged Norwegian cutter, and what’s left of that mystery sub that our SUBROC k.o.“d?” asked the XO.
“You’ve got it,” returned Steven Aldridge, who was already anticipating his first close up view of one of the long-fabled Alfa class attack submarines.
Inside U-3313’s forward storage compartment, the penetrating chill was even more noticeable because of the constant blackness that prevailed here. Without even a single torch to provide them light, the six prisoners huddled closely together in their makeshift cell, with their blankets wrapped tightly around them.
Ever since the U-boat had presumably been hit by a torpedo and sunk to the bottom, they had had a minimum amount of contact with the crew. From what they gathered, over half of them had perished when the aft compartments flooded. The surviving members were gathered in the control room, and visited the storage compartment only to pick up the food that was kept here.
The members of NUEX had held up pretty well during this confinement. As divers, they were used to extended stays in cold, wet environments. Karl Skpllevoll had trouble adjusting to the numbing chill at first, and her companions did their best to warm her up by sharing their spare clothing and body heat.
All through their ordeal, the old Russian sat in the corner continuing-to blame himself for their misfortune.
Often they could hear his teeth chattering. And when the old man did manage to sleep, he did so restlessly.
Cold beans were still the extent of their meals. They dared not complain, or even this pittance might be taken away from them.
To pass the time in the perpetual darkness, they took turns telling stories. Whenever their spirits sunk particularly low, Jon Huslid would remind them of the time he accompanied a Norwegian Navy surface flotilla while it was participating in a NATO submarine rescue exercise. As long as the hull remained dry and the air breathable, they still had a chance, emphasized the photographer, while it was Knut who reminded them that one of the best features of the compartment in which they were held was that it contained the very hatch through which such a rescue would be carried out.
The dim Arctic dawn provided just enough illumination for Magne Rystaad and David Lawton to view an incredible scene unfold up ahead on the waters of Kongsfjord Strait. From the ultra-modern confines of the Falcon’s bridge, they gazed out at the three incongruous warships at anchor there. All of these vessels were approximately the same size, though the two submarines seemed to be dwarfed by the Nordkapp class cutter that they were floating beside.
“Considering that hit the cutter took, she doesn’t look too bad,” observed the Texan.
“The Nordkapp is very fortunate,” replied Magne.
“They were able to shore up the hole in their hull before their watertight integrity was seriously threatened, and from the report that commander Nilsen shared with me, his fire-control teams extinguished the fires just as the flames were lapping at the ship’s fuel tanks. If they had gone up, the only view we’d be seeing of the Nordkapp would be from our bottom scanning sonar unit.”
As the Falcon continued to close in on the center of the strait, the damages to the cutter were more obvious.
Its gray hull was stained with black scorch marks, especially amidships on the port side. The ship’s Lynx helicopter could be seen on the helipad, apparently unaffected by the flames.
“Thanks to that chopper, all of the Nordkapp’s seriously wounded have been transferred to the hospital at Longyearben already,” remarked Magne.
“And it’s a good thing that they weren’t relying on us to provide the transport, because Noroil One is still A.W.O.L..”
Lawton knew that Magne was referring to the Falcon’s own helicopter.
“Karl Skollevoll sure didn’t seem like the irresponsible type.”
“She’s not, and that’s what scares me,” said Magne.
“The last report she filed at the Tromso airport showed her returning to base, and since then, no one’s heard a thing from her.”
“Maybe she’s just shacking up with a beau,” offered Lawton.
“I hope that’s th
e case, David. Because otherwise, it doesn’t appear too promising.”
A strained silence followed as the Falcon completed its approach to the wounded cutter. As the diving support ship dropped anchor, David Lawton got his first good view of the two submarines sharing the waters with them. The largest of these submersibles had the Stars and Stripes billowing from its sail. Three sailors were visible on this structure’s exposed bridge, in the process of scanning the Falcon with their binoculars.
Less than one-hundred yards away, the other submarine displayed the crimson red hammer and sickle banner of the Soviet Union from its streamlined sail.
This vessel was smaller than the American sub, and also had three sailors perched on the conning tower, looking over the Falcon.
David Lawton found himself wishing that he had brought his camera along with him so that he could document this amazing sight. Surely such a photo would make front page newspaper copy worldwide.
It had been previously agreed over the radiotelephone that the command staffs of all four vessels would initially meet in the Falcon’s galley. The Texan was quite pleased when Magne invited him to join this meeting as his guest.
An hour after the Falcon dropped anchor, this conference was called to order. Lawton was genuinely moved as Commander Gunnar Nilsen provided a blow by blow description of events aboard the Nordkapp immediately before, during, and after the torpedo strike. Captain Steven Aldridge, C.O. of the USS Cheyenne, then introduced himself. He explained how his vessel sank the mystery sub responsible for this unwarranted attack with an amazing weapon by the name of SUBROC.
At this point Magne asked if the wreckage of this still unidentified craft had been found as yet. Standing up to answer him was a white-haired old man in a well-tailored blue uniform. Lawton was surprised to hear that this individual was an Admiral in the Soviet Navy. As senior officer aboard the Alfa class attack submarine Lena, he had ordered a sonar scan of the waters in which the mystery vessel had presumably gone down. In this manner, the vessel was located on the bottom of the strait, 407 feet beneath the surface.
This site was only two and a half kilometers due north of the Falcon’s current position. When Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov mentioned that the wreck’s hull still appeared to be intact, Magne immediately offered the services of the Falcon’s two diving bells to check for any survivors.
The white-haired Russian seemed genuinely thrilled by this offer. Quickly he asked the others present if they could initiate this rescue effort at once. There were no objections, and while the submariners returned to their vessels to monitor the proceedings, the Falcon moved into position.
Solo, the diving support ship’s ROV, was launched.
Through the magic of fiber-optics it was soon relaying back to them the first video pictures of the vessel that had attacked the Nordkapp. Both Magne and Lawton were staggered to learn that this submarine was a German Type XXI model. Even more shocking was the fact that it carried the markings U-3313 on its gilded sail, making it the sister ship of the U-boat that they had previously explored off the coast of Utsira!
That such a vessel could still be in working order was simply unbelievable. The only damage to the U-boat seemed to be confined to its aft portions, and when a standard-sized rescue hatch was found intact on the boat’s forward section, both agreed that it appeared to be readily accessible from one of the Falcon’s diving bells.
There was no question in their minds about who would man this bell. While the crew readied it for action, both veteran divers went off to don their heavy neoprene wet suits.
The descent to 407 feet went off without a hitch.
With continued assistance, a guide-wire led them straight down to the U-boat’s forward escape hatch.
“We’re going to have to see about putting you on the company payroll,” joked Magne as the bell attached itself onto the hatch and began to pressurize.
“You’re starting to become a regular around here with Noroil.”
Lawton grinned and picked up a wrench.
“Nothing against Norway, partner, but I’m starting to get a little homesick for Texas already.”
As the pressure in the bell equalized to that of the U-boat’s escape hatch, Magne reached down and pulled up the bell’s bottom hatch. A slight fluttering sensation in the ears accompanied this process. Facing them now was a circular, heavy iron wheel.
“Here goes nothing,” said Magne as he bent over and gripped the wheel.
It wouldn’t budge, and as Magne backed out of the way, Lawton violently rapped on it with the side of the wrench. This time both of them gripped the wheel.
“Okay, we’ll give it all we’ve got on the count of three,” instructed the Texan.
“One… Two… Three!”
Both of the brawny divers strained with all of their combined might, and the wheel gave with a loud, grating squeal. Yet before opening it all the way, Magne reached for their masks.
“We’d better keep these on, David. If salt water mixed in with the boat’s battery acid, that hull will be filled with lethal chlorine gas.”
Lawton slipped on the mask that covered his entire face and fed him a constant stream of pure air through an umbilical. He flashed Magne a thumbs-up, and reached down to finish opening the wheel.
It took both of them to break the seal. They yanked the hatch backward, and were met by a dark stairwell leading down into the sub itself. It was completely dry inside. Before either one of them could reach the battery powered torch that they carried along with them, the beam of a flashlight cut through the blackness.
This was all Lawton needed to see to rip off his mask.
“Hello, down there,” he called out excitedly.
Strangely enough, this greeting was answered by the angry barking of a dog.
The Texan bent down to have a closer look inside and was met unceremoniously by the long barrel of a pistol. As he cautiously backed away from the stairwell, the individual who carried this weapon climbed up into the bell to join them. This no-nonsense, middle-aged figure sported a graying crew cut, pale blue eyes, and a square jaw. When he addressed them, his English was heavily flavored with a German accent.
“If you’ll just proceed down into the interior of the submarine, my superior officer would like to have a word with you.”
David Lawton could tell from the way that he held the Luger that he was trained in the handling of firearms, and the ex-SEAL decided that now was not the time to test his reactions.
“That’s a hell of a way to greet the people who just saved your lives” managed the Texan as he reluctantly began his way down the tubular steel ladder.
The darkness quickly enveloped him. Yet as Magne joined him on the deck below, Lawton’s eyes gradually began to adjust to the poor lighting. He could barely make out the dimensions of the large compartment where they found themselves when the blindingly bright shaft of a flashlight hit him full in the face. A dog could be heard growling close by only to be overridden by the cold, deep voice of a man.
“Welcome aboard U-3313, gentlemen. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
Still shielding his eyes with his forearm, Lawton exploded in rage.
“Listen, buster. You certainly have a lot of balls. Here we go risking our necks to save your lives, and you greet us with a Luger and twenty questions.”
“My, aren’t you the angry American,” observed the stranger calmly.
“Perhaps your associate will be a bit more cooperative, and I won’t have to order Captain Kromer to show you what an excellent shot he is.”
Magne sensed that this character wouldn’t hesitate to give such an order, and he responded with no show of emotion.
“My name is Magne Rystaad, and I’m diving supervisor of the Noroil support vessel Falcon” “Magne!” cried an assortment of voices from the blackness.
The confused Norwegian looked into the black void, desperately trying to see where these familiar voices were emanating from.
“It’s Jo
n Huslid, Chief!”
“Shut him up!” ordered the stranger.
The dog began barking once again, and the sound of muffled footsteps could be heard in the background.
This didn’t deter Magne Rystaad from replying.
“Jon, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing down here, but hang on, my friend!”
At this point the blinding beam of light was redirected, and both Magne and Lawton looked on as the face of the stranger who had been talking to them materialized out of the void. It proved to be a face that neither one of them would soon forget — wrinkled skin,
cruel gray eyes, bald head.
“So, it seems that you know my guests,” reflected Otto Koch with a sardonic grin.
“It’s a small world all right, one that seems to be getting smaller everyday.
But it’s such coincidences that makes life interesting, and I shall look forward to hearing all about your relationship together at a later time. But right now, we must organize our priorities, the first being to get all of us safely to the surface.”
Anxious to get out of this cold, damp environment himself, Lawton turned to address his host.
“It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice, do we, partner?”
Magne grunted.
“No, David, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Then shall we proceed,” prompted the forceful voice of Otto Koch.
There were twenty-seven individuals and a German shepherd to convey topside. This included the members of NUEX, Karl Skollevoll, and Mikhail Kuznetsov.
Magne was truly shocked to find five of his employees among the crew, yet had to wait to get a report on how they managed to end up here, as his services were needed in the bell.
The first trip was accomplished with just Magne and seven heavily armed seamen, including the U-boat’s captain and senior lieutenant. Magne was warned not to inform the Falcon that anything out of the ordinary was taking place, or Karl Skollevoll would be the first hostage to die.
After reluctantly dropping the submariners off in the Falcon’s moon pool he turned the bell back to the U-3313. During this descent he shuddered to think what was taking place on the Falcon as these desperate, armed men spread through the ship to wrest control of it.
The Golden U-Boat Page 33
