Dead Man Launch by John J Gobbell

Author:John J Gobbell [Gobbell, John J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781951249823
Publisher: Severn River Publishing
Published: 2020-01-27T05:00:00+00:00

26

24 February 1968

K-129, moored Rybachiy Submarine Base

15th Submarine Squadron

Abacha Bay, Petropavlovsk Oblast, Siberia, USSR

The Dodge WC 6 sped through slush at sixty kilometers an hour, throwing mud and snow, nearly careening into a fuel truck. With the engine growling and horn honking, the command car bounced onto the dock, the driver wheeling between oil drums as if he were on a tank obstacle course. Yusopov checked his watch as they ground to a halt opposite the submarine’s gangway. The K-129’s engines rumbled as steam rose from the exhaust pipes. A mobile crane was alongside the gangway, its driver taking a strain on the cable. Yusopov leaped from the Dodge. “Wait!”

The driver, a cigarette dangling from his lips, didn’t seem to hear. The gangway popped loose and rose a half meter.

Yusopov shouted, “Wait, you fool.” He leaped on the gangway and ran across. The moment Yusopov stepped aboard the K-129, the crane operator reengaged the hoist and the gangway rose high in the air and away from the submarine.

Yusopov stood breathless for a moment, his hands on his knees as the stern lines were taken in, then the bow lines. Soon they were free and backing slowly from the dock.

Fog swirled. Yusopov looked aft and could hardly make out three figures atop the sail. One was Kobzar, he knew, but he couldn’t identify the others.

“You pushed it too close, Vladi.” Zhuravin, the executive officer, frowned at him.

Yusopov stood up and flashed his watch. “One fifty-five, damn it. I was on time.”

“Maybe you were on time, my friend, but the General Kluska is ahead of schedule.”

They headed for the hatch to the forward compartment. “Who the hell is General Kluska?”

“Tsk, tsk,” clucked Zhuravin, his dark eyes flashing as he clambered into the hatch and started down. “I see you didn’t read the op order.”

“I did, too,” protested Yusopov as an ancient C-2 cargo ship materialized from the fog just one hundred meters off their port bow. He pointed. “General Kluska, right?”

“Very impressive,” Zhuravin’s voice echoed up the tube. “Now tell me something else about the General Kluska and I’ll give you liberty ashore tonight.”

Yusopov watched as thick fog swirled around the old ship. Condensation and rust ran down hull plates dished in by countless storms over the years. The black hull contrasted with the deeply rusted white superstructure, which glared in the early morning light. A peacoated figure stood on her bridge wing peering over the gunwale, a lone sentinel for their voyage into Guba Avachinskya, through the fog-shrouded strait, and finally into the Pacific. As clapped out as the rusty old hulk appeared, Yusopov knew the Polish-flagged freighter was fitted with the latest radar to lead them safely.

The classified op order also stated that the 9,000-ton freighter was laden with 12,000 cases of AK-47 rifles, ammunition, hand grenades, and 10 artillery pieces all bound for Hanoi and the North Vietnamese now embroiled in the Tet Offensive with the Americans in the South.

The K-129 vibrated and rattled for a moment as Kobzar put on an ahead bell to kill sternway.

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