Krasnov jerked his chin forward and upwards as if to escape from his collar. ‘We will carry out your instructions, commissar.’
The lieutenant was delighted. He and Gerasov were good friends. A day ashore in Kolhamn would be far better than one in the stranded submarine where the normal discomforts of life on board had been aggravated by pounding seas, flooding, the failure of the air-conditioning plant, the smell of chloric gas, burnt rubber and other remnants of the disaster.
Standing on the quay, he and Gerasov saluted smartly as the skimmer’s engine came to life. The small craft sped out of the fishing harbour, down the fjord towards the sea. ‘I think the commissar is worried,’ said Gerasov.
‘He has a great deal to worry about,’ replied Krasnov.
The two men gave each other questioning, uncommitted glances. Neither liked the commissar.
Krasnov said, ‘Well. Now let’s take a look at Kolhamn.’
‘Wine, women and song,’ Gerasov laughed. ‘Pity I can’t speak the language.’
‘None of that,’ said Krasnov. ‘We’re here on duty.’ But he too laughed. ‘Who knows what the night may bring?’
‘If we’re still here,’ said the sub lieutenant. ‘Not that Kolhamn looks very promising.’
Hjalmar Nordsen’s report to the county authorities at Bodo was passed with little delay to Northern Command Headquarters. The GOC at once discussed it by scrambler with Military Headquarters in Oslo. The Chief of the General Staff informed the Ministry of Defence. There was consultation at cabinet level, decisions were taken, instructions issued.
Hjalmar Nordsen was authorized to give the Soviet submarine’s captain all possible assistance and to make such arrangements as he could to keep sightseers away until assistance arrived later in the day. A Norwegian minesweeper with military personnel on board would, he was told, arrive in Vrakoy from Harstad in the late afternoon. The soldiers were to establish a cordon on the landward side of the approaches to Knausnes, while the minesweeper protected the seaward approaches. The submarine was not, recorded the Oslow message, to be harried by sightseers, media representatives, photographers, or other unauthorized persons. The message to Vrakoy’s Ordforer concluded with: ‘Major Lars Martinsen from Military HQ Oslo will fly in by helicopter in the afternoon to take general charge.’
At eleven-thirty that morning the Norwegian Foreign Minister in Oslo received the Soviet Ambassador at the latter’s urgent request. In a brief meeting, notable for its friendly tone, the Foreign Minister informed the Ambassador of the steps being taken by the Norwegian authorities. He assured him that all possible assistance would be given to the stranded submarine.
The Ambassador conveyed to the Minister the desire of the Soviet Government that their warships should, without delay, be permitted to enter Norwegian territorial waters to assist the submarine.
The Foreign Minister said that his Prime Minister, anticipating the request, had discussed it with the Cabinet. The Cabinet had decided that Soviet salvage vessels, naval or otherwise, would be so permitted but unfortunately Soviet warships could not. The Minister was apologetic but reminded the Ambassador of Norway’s NATO commitments. The Norwegian Government would, however, be happy to make available its own salvage vessels and experts to assist. The Soviet Ambassador thanked the Minister for the oiler, undertook to convey it to his Government but believed it would not be necessary to impose in this way upon Norwegian generosity. He did, however, express concern that Norwegian territorial waters and air space might be used by foreign powers anxious to obtain photographs of the stranded submarine. The Minister assured him that his government would do all it could to prevent incursions into Norwegian air space.
There was discussion about the dangers of radiation. The Soviet Ambassador gave his assurance that there was no present danger. It was fortunate, he said, that the vessel was used for training purposes only. Thus the missiles did not have nuclear warheads. The Ambassador’s nose twitched involuntarily as he told this lie. As far as the nuclear power plant was concerned, he continued, Soviet salvage experts would give radiation control overriding priority.
The meeting concluded. The Minister rose from his desk to escort the Soviet Ambassador to the door.
‘By the way, Ambassador,’ he said. ‘You haven’t mentioned the name of your submarine. I wonder if I might have it for reference purposes?’
The Ambassador smiled affably. ‘I am afraid, Minister, that is not possible. You see the vessel has no name. Only a number.’
‘And that is?’
‘Seven-three-one,’ said the Ambassador, acting on instructions from Moscow. ‘One of our first ballistic missile submarines. Not a very successful class, I fear. Obsolescence is so rapid in these ships. She’s no longer suitable for operations. As I’ve explained, our navy use her for training purposes only.’ He paused, hand over mouth, his eyes on a picture on the wall — the ‘Trollfjord in Winter.’ ‘Prior to that she was used experimentally. For testing various designs. Matters of hydro-dynamic efficiency, you know. For that reason a somewhat unusual hull configuration, they tell me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The Minister opened the door for his guest. ‘In these days of advanced technology, design and capability change so swiftly.’
‘Indeed they do,’ said the Soviet Ambassador. ‘Goodbye and thank you, Minister.’
‘Not at all, Ambassador. Please assure your government that we are only too anxious to help.’
At the headquarters of NATO’s Northern Military Command in Kolsas, outside Oslo, the senior Norwegian representative told his NATO colleagues of the stranding of the submarine and the action being taken by his government. ‘I have been instructed to inform you that, should any assistance be required in any form, my government will not hesitate to ask for it.’
To his listeners — the representatives of the United States, Britain, Germany and Denmark — it was evident that the Norwegian representative was in fact saying, ‘Norway will handle this. So lay off.’ Nor were they in any doubt as to the reasons for this stance.
Roald Lund, Director of Norway’s service intelligence and former colonel in the Norwegian Air Force, went to the window and looked out over Oslofjord, the wide expanse of water dominating the city which takes its name. Its surface reflected the cold greyness of a wet and cheerless October day. ‘I think that’s about all, Martinsen. Is there anything you’re not certain about?’
The tall man with greying hair turned away from the wall map of Norway. ‘No. Your instructions are quite clear.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes to one. That leaves about three hours in which,’ he breathed deeply. ‘To make contact, change into uniform, lunch and pack.’ He was about to go on when something occurred to him. ‘Just one point, sir. How d’you know it’s the Zhukov.’
Roald Lund continued to look out over Oslofjord where wind gusting across it left swathes of shimmering water. In the foreground two sail-trimming ships lay alongside each other, dwarfed by an oil rig under construction on the other side of the basin. It was nearing completion, a strangely un-nautical structure, vast steel tubes joined in geometrical patterns like a huge building toy. The bright glow of welding arcs flared and faded, ferries came and went, a steamer sounded its siren, and at the quay in front of the City Hall a big Soviet merchant ship warped alongside, red flag fluttering in the breeze, its reception committee a knot of stevedores.