Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  “The plates are right there, so don’t be shy. Go ahead and dig in.”

  As the Admiral of the Fleet and the Deputy Secretary each reached forward to grab one of the bone china plates, Svetlana addressed a question to her husband.

  “Shall I serve the tea now or with dessert?”

  Igor lowered his voice and winked.

  “Wait until later, dear wife. And perhaps we’ll have something to celebrate, and imbibe a beverage of a bit more substance.”

  “I’ve already got the champagne on ice, husband.

  Good luck to you, and don’t eat too many blini.”

  With this, she left them. Igor joined his guests and loaded up a plateful of food. While the Admiral of the Fleet munched away on a blini, and the Deputy Secretary bit into a tongue sandwich, Igor went to work on a helping of herring.

  “My, these blini are tasty,” said Konstantin Markov as he spooned up another helping.

  Igor nodded.

  “Svetlana got the recipe from her mother. She says that’s how she won my heart.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Igor,” reflected Konstantin between bites of the tender sour-cream-filled pancake.

  “I’ll say,” concurred Stanislav Krasino.

  “Not only is the Comrade Doctor an excellent hostess, but from what I hear from my cousin, an excellent administrator as well.”

  “I don’t know what I did to deserve such a woman,” Igor said with a sigh.

  The Admiral of the Fleet slyly grinned.

  “It’s your sparkling personality that won her, Igor. Back at naval headquarters, they say that you can charm the wallet right out of a capitalist’s pocket.”

  “And their latest missile warhead right out from under their noses,” added the Deputy Secretary.

  “At the Kremlin they’re still talking about your operation in the South Pacific. Even the Premier still boasts of your unprecedented success in stealing the Trident II prototype.”

  Igor grunted.

  “Too bad that I couldn’t have followed it up with yet another treasure, this time an AD CAP torpedo plucked from the waters off Southern California.

  But such are the fortunes of war.”

  The Deputy Secretary put down his sandwich and locked his gaze on his host.

  “I was alongside the Premier when word of our failure reached the Kremlin.

  Soon afterward, the American ambassador called. He hinted that we were to blame for the seven sailors who died when their Spruance class destroyer hit that mine.

  He also mentioned that 25 others were hospitalized with serious cuts, bruises, and burns. Thank the fates that the ship didn’t sink altogether. Yet this still puts us in an awkward position, just as we were undermining the NATO coalition by gaining the trust of its members.”

  “Why is that?” asked Igor.

  “The imperialists still have no proof that we were the ones responsible.”

  The Deputy Secretary shook his head.

  “But what about the sound tapes that the American ambassador mentioned? They supposedly hold the signatures of two of our submarines that had been caught in U.S. waters just when the blast occurred.”

  “These tapes don’t mean a damn thing!” exclaimed Igor.

  “Admiral Starobin is correct,” added Konstantin Markov.

  “Even if these tapes were released to the public, who has the ability to analyze them properly? And even then, all we have to do is firmly deny the allegations.”

  The Deputy Secretary frowned.

  “It doesn’t look good all the same, comrades. Merely inferring that we were involved in this tragedy will produce new doubts in the minds of the NATO ministers. What worries the Premier is that these misgivings come just as NATO is about to vote on whether or not to remove all of the American short-range nuclear weapons from European soil.”

  Igor briefly caught the glance of his fellow naval compatriot before looking the bureaucrat in the eye and voicing himself.

  “In your esteemed opinion, Comrade Krasino, do you feel that the Premier would be receptive to a plan that would irrevocably sway NATO opinion back to our side?”

  “Most definitely. Admiral Starobin,” answered the Deputy Secretary.

  “The Premier’s number one foreign policy priority remains convincing NATO that their American warheads are no longer necessary.”

  Igor’s green eyes sparkled with the same intensity as the waters of the gulf behind him.

  “If that’s the case, comrade, all I’m asking is that you temporarily put our little set back in the waters off California out of your mind, and that you listen to the following proposal.”

  “If it will indeed help us regain the trust of our European neighbors, I’m all ears,” offered the bespectacled bureaucrat.

  Igor put down his plate, stood, and initiated his discourse while pacing before the screened-in porch.

  “Regardless of what recently occurred in the waters off San Clemente, one thing that is absolutely certain is that Sea

  Devil has proven its effectiveness time after time. No other underwater platform in the world can equal it when it comes down to stealth, accessibility, and the broad extent of its operational capabilities.

  “What I propose is to use Sea Devil to strike a blow against America’s most important strategic base in all of Europe, it’s submarine facility at Holy Loch, Scotland.

  With a minimum of risk on our part, we can close this complex, that’s capable of servicing both nuclear-powered guided missile and attack submarines for all time to come. As a bonus, our efforts will effectively cause the closure of the British sub base at nearby Falsane also.

  “The scenario that I’m proposing is chillingly simple.

  Sea Devil will be covertly conveyed to Scottish waters in the hold of a specially designed trawler. With a crack Spetsnaz team on board, the mini-sub will be launched and then penetrate the Firth of Clyde, where it will continue on to Holy Loch. Our latest intelligence reports indicate that except for the standard security precautions such as underwater hydrophone arrays and surface ASW patrols, the American base is poorly defended. We’ve seen this same naivete when it comes to security matters in most of their naval facilities around the world, and Sea Devil will easily run this pathetic gauntlet of defenses and proceed to its goal, an American nuclear powered submarine. This unsuspecting vessel will be at anchor as we approach it with a team of divers.

  “The task of this team will be to place a shaped charge explosive device on the hull of the submarine, just below its reactor compartment. They will then return to Sea Devil, where the charge will be detonated.

  The massive force of the resulting explosion will rip open the American sub’s hull and cause its reactor vessel to plummet into the depths below. Laboratory tests show that there’s a ninety-seven percent probability that the reactor will melt down at this point, causing plutonium fuel pellets to be directly spewn on the seafloor. And in such a way, an ecological disaster of unprecedented dimensions will poison the Scottish waters for decades to come.

  “An enraged populace will rush to Parliament to express their outrage. Their fellow citizens will unite behind them as they demand that the rest of the submarines be removed and the base closed. In this same manner, the English facility at Falsane will also be forced to shut down operations, and the West will have lost two of its most strategic ports in all the globe, all for the price of a single, shaped-charge explosive.”

  “Why, that plan’s absolutely ingenious!” interrupted the Admiral of the Fleet.

  “As we learned during the Chernobyl accident, nothing scares the Europeans more than the threat of nuclear contamination. They’ll be horrified when they hear of the meltdown. Their scientists will release various studies of gloom and doom, and all over Europe the peace groups will have a field day.”

  “Can you imagine what the NATO ministers will have to say as they meet in Brussels to discuss this disaster?”

  asked Igor, his face red with emotion.

/>   “Not only will they vote to remove every single American nuclear warhead from European soil, but they’ll most likely demand the removal of all of their troops as well.”

  “Of course they will,” concurred Konstantin Markov.

  “Uncle Sam will be finished on the Continent, and as NATO withers away, the Warsaw Bloc will gratefully move in to fill the void.

  “Igor, my friend, you’ve outdone yourself this time.

  Though I’d still like to learn more of the details, I certainly don’t have any major apprehensions. What about you, Comrade Krasino?”

  The bureaucrat’s impassive expression failed to display any outward show of support as he sucked in a deep breath and guardedly responded.

  “In all my years of service to the Motherland, I must admit that this is the wildest proposals I’ve ever heard. I readily agree that if this operation is successful, the results will be much as you projected. But I foresee two major weaknesses in your train of thought. First, and most important of all, if a Sea Devil couldn’t even penetrate the meager defenses around California’s San Clemente island, how are we going to be able to successfully sneak one into some of the most militarily sensitive waters in all the planet?

  And secondly, even if this penetration does somehow succeed, what kind of shaped-charge can penetrate the hull of a submarine, and how can the desired aftereffects be guaranteed?”

  Igor carefully listened to the bureaucrat’s concerns and briefly caught Konstantin Markov’s glance before attempting a response.

  “Your questions are most astute, Comrade Krasino, and I will do my best to answer them. The Sea Devil that was apparently detected off the coast of California had a long history of mechanical difficulties. We believe that it was a defective engine bearing that gave it away to the American hydrophones.

  The vessel in question is currently being conveyed back to Vladivostok where a detailed examination will determine this fact for certain. But regardless, let me reassure you that in over one hundred previous operations, not once has a Sea Devil been tagged by enemy ASW forces. This leads me to believe that the penetration that I just proposed can readily be achieved by a Sea Devil in first class working order.

  “Your other concerns are completely unnecessary. The charge that I spoke of has been available to us for some time now. It is based on a shaped-plastic compound that’s been known to easily penetrate the armor plating of a battle tank. Unlike our own double and triple hulled vessels, the thrifty Americans utilize only a single hull on each of their various classes of submarine. It should be no problem for our intelligence people to determine the exact location of the reactor vessel. We have ordinance and design experts who will then determine the precise locations to set the charges in order to achieve the desired hull damage.”

  The Deputy Secretary nodded thoughtfully.

  “And what if the Sea Devil was to be discovered in the midst of this operation?”

  Igor was quick with his answer.

  “If such an unlikely thing were to come to pass, the crew would first attempt to escape. If all routes are subsequently proven closed to them, the vessel will be scuttled, while the Spetsnaz operatives swallow the suicide pills that will guarantee their anonymity. As always, every effort will be made to ensure that the motherland can’t be connected to any of the wreckage that may be subsequently salvaged.”

  “It sounds as if you have thought this plan out most fully. Admiral,” offered the Deputy Secretary.

  “Though covert missions of this magnitude certainly have their risk, it appears that the Rodina has much more to gain than it has to lose in this instance. I too would like to see the pertinent details that the Admiral of the Fleet requested. Yet other than a few technical concerns, I see nothing that would prevent me from supporting such an ingenious plan. My congratulations, Admiral Starobin, on a job well done.”

  Hardly believing what he was hearing, Igor fought the temptation to cry out in triumph. The Admiral of the Fleet was also caught off guard by the bureaucrat’s ready acquiescence. Still shocked by the scope of his compatriot’s plan, Konstantin Markov loudly cleared his throat and voiced himself.

  “All this discussion has made my throat dry. If only I had something to wet it with.”

  Taking this as the hint that it was meant to be, Igor called out towards the kitchen.

  “Svetlana, to hell with that tea, bring out the champagne!”

  His wife was well prepared for such a command, and arrived on the porch seconds later with a tray holding a bottle of champagne and four crystal glasses.

  Igor briefly examined the label of the bottle before twisting off the foil and expertly popping the cork. His hand was shaking slightly as he filled each glass.

  Both Konstantin Markov and Stanislav Krasino stood to join their host and hostess in a toast.

  “To the Motherland!” said Igor proudly.

  “Long may she prosper!”

  The four clinked glasses and took a sip of their drinks.

  “My, that’s quite excellent,” commented the Admiral of the Fleet as he smacked his lips together.

  “Is it French?”

  “Comrade Markov, I’m surprised at you,” scolded Svetlana Starobin.

  “Don’t you think that the Rodina is capable of distilling spirits as good as the French?”

  “What my wife’s trying to say is that this superb vintage was bottled in our own Ukraine.”

  “You don’t say,” mumbled the Admiral of the Fleet, who looked down to check the label on the bottle. Satisfied with what he saw, he raised his glass upward and initiated a toast of his own.

  “To the brave men and women of the Rodina, whose sacrifice makes this bountiful harvest possible!”

  Again the foursome lifted their glasses to their mouths. No sooner did Igor refill them than Deputy Secretary Krasino offered a proposal.

  “And I’d like to drink to the true heroes of the Motherland, the brave men and women of our military, whose selfless toil and extraordinary vision ensures our security today and guarantees the eventual emergence of one planet united by the bonds of communism tomorrow.”

  “Well said, Comrade,” offered the Admiral of the Fleet as he lifted up his glass to salute the originator of these inspirational words. Yet as Konstantin Markov took a sip of his champagne, a sudden thought dawned in his consciousness. He looked to his host and expressed himself.

  “Excuse my forgetfulness, Igor, but in all the excitement, I failed to ask you one important question. Have you yet picked out an officer who’s capable of carrying out the type of difficult mission that you just proposed to us?”

  Admiral Igor Starobin’s eyes sparkled as he answered.

  “Why, of course I have, Comrade. Who else is more qualified that Captain Mikhail Gregorievich Borisov, who just so happens to be out there somewhere beneath the Baltic Sea at this very moment, displaying the type of death-defying bravado that has earned him the nickname of Lion of the Spetsnaz I”

  Chapter Five

  Sean Lafferty arrived in Edinburgh on a cold, rainy, windswept afternoon. He was met at the Waverly train station by Patrick Callaghan. Both men were in their late twenties, with similar slight, wiry builds, fair complexions, and mops of longish, straight brown hair.

  Dressed in jeans, athletic shoes, and waterproof jackets as they were, one would have had a difficult time telling them apart from the locals. Yet it was their Irish accents that indicated that these two were definitely not native Scotsmen.

  “Good afternoon to you, Scan,” greeted Patrick Callaghan, who had been waiting beside the tracks as the Brit Rail train pulled in from Glasgow.

  “How was your trip?”

  Sean Lafferty shouldered his green backpack and followed his fellow countryman out of the station.

  “I’m lucky I even got here. There was a real gale blowing in Dundalk as we took off, and it was a miracle that my pilot was able to get us airborne.”

  “For one who despises flying, that must have been a re
al terror,” reflected Patrick as he led them past the taxi queue, up the cobblestone ramp, and onto Waverly Street.

  There was a steady rain falling, and neither one of them carried an umbrella. Yet this didn’t deter them from joining the line of sodden foot traffic that was headed uphill toward that section of the city known as Old Town.

  It was as they crossed Cockburn Street that Sean looked to his right and first viewed Edinburgh Castle in the distance. The massive walled fortress was perched on a four-hundred-foot-high rounded mountain of basaltic rock that afforded it a commanding view of the city on all sides. A Union Jack could be seen fluttering in the wind from one of the tower flagpoles, and Sean contemptuously spat into the gutter.

  “Ah, there she is all right,” commented Patrick, who was quick to note his countryman’s preoccupation.

  “That structure has stood there in one form or another for over a thousand years, and in that entire time has only been taken by force but a handful of times.”

  “I can certainly see why,” returned Sean.

  “That mountain of rock that its set upon would have made an effective siege all but impossible. And even if an enemy managed to scale it, those walls that encircle the castle appear impenetrable.”

  “That they are, Sean. I took a tour of the fortress just yesterday and was surprised to find the walls in incredibly decent shape for their age.”

  Sean Lafferty pulled up the collar of his jacket and redirected his gaze to the line of ancient brick buildings that were perched on the street before them.

  “How much further to the flat, Patrick?”

  “We’ve only got a couple of more blocks to go, Sean.

  The place is off of High Street. It’s not much, but the price was right and the landlord didn’t ask many questions.

  Ironically enough, we’re directly behind the building housing the law courts and the constable’s headquarters.”

  “Why, I feel safer already,” mocked Sean, who beckoned his escort to lead on.

  A steep flight of stairs took them up to the so-called Royal Mile. This portion of the city was once the focus of daily life in old Edinburgh, and was made up of a variety of antique structures, many of which had stood here since the fifteenth century. As they reached High Street, they passed the gothic edifice of St. Giles Cathedral.