Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  said the Ukrainian with a wink.

  “Don’t forget, if they’re offering the Ukrainian borscht tonight, don’t pass it up, sir.”

  “I won’t, comrade. Now I’d better get up to the locker room at the officers’ club and make myself presentable.

  Right now, I stink so bad that every diner in the whole restaurant would lose his appetite the second I walked into the place.”

  Well aware that he was leaving his Sea Devil in good hands, Mikhail left the vessel by way of the gangplank.

  Their current floating dock was a large rectangular pool that had been cut into the lower hull of an Ugra-class support ship. This same opening could be closed to the sea and drained, and the Sea Devil could thus be transferred, giving the versatile mini-sub yet another deployment possibility.

  A steep ladder took him to the main deck of the support vessel. Here an alert sentry snapped him a crisp salute and escorted him off the ship and onto the concrete pier. It was good to be back on solid footing after his long voyage. Oblivious to the icy gusts, he pulled tight the collar of his cotton tunic and began his way towards the officers’ club.

  The area around the docks was bustling with activity.

  A battalion of tough-looking Marines were in the process of boarding an Ivan Rogov-class landing ship.

  Mikhail had spent a fair amount of time on one of these impressive vessels himself. In addition to troops, they were designed to carry up to forty battle tanks and a variety of support vehicles. The landing ships also had a docking bay in which hovercraft were stored, and two helicopter landing spots both fore and aft.

  While wondering what far corner of the earth these troops might be off to, he passed the main embarkation area and followed the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the docks as far as the base power plant. Here he turned inland, utilizing a sidewalk to cross into the administrative and living areas.

  The officers’ club was situated beside the base commissary.

  It occupied a fairly new three-story brick structure built in the late 1970s. Mikhail headed for this building’s basement, where a fully equipped gymnasium, complete with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, was located. He kept a locker here for just such occasions.

  Because of the fairly late hour, the locker room was deserted as he entered. Thankful to have the place to himself, he stripped off his stained coveralls and headed straight for the showers. Under a torrent of steaming hot water he washed away the accumulated grime of two weeks spent locked up within the cramped confines of his Sea Devil. He had to wash his hair three times to get it squeaky clean, and he used the better part of a bar of soap to get the rest of his body completely clean. He finished up this soaking by turning off the hot tap and crying out as a flood of icy cold water shot out from the showerhead. Not until he covered his entire body with this invigorating spray did he turn off the tap altogether.

  He felt like a new man as he sauntered over to his locker and got his toilet kit. At the sink he brushed his teeth and shaved. The familiar face that stared back at him from the steam-covered mirror looked weary and strained. His steel-gray eyes were bloodshot, and fatigue lines marked his highly etched cheeks and brow. Taking a moment to trace the scar that lined his face, Mikhail turned to dress himself.

  The Komsomol dining hall was located on the third floor of the officers’ club. It was plushly decorated, with red, royal blue, and gold predominating. Lit only by candlelight, the spacious room featured a strolling violinist, who was in the midst of a spirited piece by Khachaturian as Mikhail entered.

  “Captain Borisov, it’s good to see you again,” greeted the smiling maitre d’.

  “Hello, Vitaly,” returned Mikhail warmly.

  “It’s been much too long. How’s the wife and that new baby of yours?”

  “She’s still running me ragged. Captain. But the baby, he makes it all worth it. Did you know that little Viktor is already crawling? My mother sewed him a sailor suit, and you should just see how he looks in a uniform. So when are you finally going to settle down and start a family of your own?”

  Mikhail shrugged his muscular shoulders.

  “Find me the right girl and I’ll start on that family right after dessert,” he said with a wide grin.

  “Oh, to live the life of a sailor with a beautiful, exotic woman in every port,” reflected the maitre d’, who sighed and looked down at his clipboard.

  “Admiral Starobin is waiting for you in the main dining room, Captain. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you right over to him.”

  Every table in the candlelit dining room was taken, but because of the lack of direct light and the great amount of space between each station, one could dine here in almost complete privacy. Mikhail was led to a spot beside a full-length picture window. Here a whitehaired senior officer sat alone sipping a cocktail, staring out the window.

  “Excuse me, Admiral, but Captain Borisov has arrived,” greeted the maitre d’.

  Quickly turning his head at this. Admiral Igor Starobin smiled broadly.

  “So he didn’t stand me up after all, Vitaly. Ah, it’s good to see you. Captain.”

  Taking this as his cue to leave, the maitre d’ quietly backed away and left the two officers to themselves.

  As he did, Mikhail accepted the admiral’s handshake and seated himself.

  “I hope that I didn’t keep you too long, Admiral.”

  “Not at all, comrade. In fact, you’re right on time. I realized that you only just returned from sea, but I couldn’t wait to personally convey to you our appreciation for a job well done. Your little trip to Norway was a complete success. Why, we’re already benefiting from your efforts. But enough of such shop talk… how about joining me for a drink? And then we’ll get some fresh food into you.”

  The admiral lifted up his right hand and snapped his lingers. Seconds later a waiter arrived. Without asking his guest, Igor Starobin ordered a chilled bottle of Caspian vodka and an assortment of appetizers. In no time at all this request was fulfilled, and as they held up their glasses, the whitehaired senior officer initiated the first toast.

  “To my esteemed guest! Welcome back from the sea, Captain. Your motherland is proud of you.”

  Mikhail humbly nodded and took a sip of his drink.

  The vodka went down smoothly, and the blond commando reached out to try some of the caviar. Quick to join him was his host, who covered a flat whole wheat cracker with caviar and hungrily gulped it down.

  “Now this is decent caviar, comrade… not like that crap they sell us at the commissary.”

  “From what I hear, all the good stuff gets sold for export,” offered Mikhail.

  “I believe you’re right, my friend. But it just doesnt seem to make any sense. I know we need the trade, but why barter away one of the Rodina’s finest natural resources, and leave none for its own citizens? Why, decent Russian caviar is easier to buy in New York City than it is in Moscow!”

  Before Mikhail could reply, the waiter appeared table side

  “Excuse me, comrades, but the kitchen will be closing shortly and I’d like to get your orders in.

  May I recommend either the fresh baked sturgeon, or the house specialty, Ukrainian borscht.”

  “I’ll take the sturgeon,” said the Admiral.

  “Make mine the borscht,” said Mikhail.

  “My senior electrician is from Kiev, and all I’ve been hearing these last two weeks is how damn tasty the dish can be when it’s prepared properly.”

  “I’ll tell the chef to stir the pot for you, comrade,” offered the waiter as he ambled off to the kitchen to put in their orders.

  The admiral sipped his vodka and looked his guest in the eye.

  “So tell me, comrade, other than your successful tap of the NATO communications cable, did your Sea Devil function properly?”

  “Other than a backed-up crapper and a couple of minor shorts, she operated splendidly, Admiral. We gave her watertight integrity a real workout when a couple of Norwegia
n corvettes depth-charged us off the coast of Larvik.”

  “How in the world did they ever tag you?” asked the concerned senior officer.

  “Don’t worry, Admiral. It wasn’t a signature deficiency on our part that gave us away. You see, we hit an unmarked sub net that triggered our presence to their ASW forces.”

  “Off the coast of Larvik, you say?” repeated the Admiral thoughtfully.

  “I want you to leave me that net’s exact coordinates. I’ve got Korsakov and his team going into those same waters next week, and there’s no sense risking their mission on something we already know about.”

  “You’ll have those coordinates on your desk tomorrow morning,” returned Mikhail, who added with a grin, “I’ll drop them off to you on my way out of the base as I begin my leave. I’m booked on a ten a.m.

  Aeroflot flight to Odessa, where I’ve got a whole four weeks to work on my tan.”

  Admiral Starobin feared just such a thing and was all set to deliver the bad news when the waiter arrived with dinner. Deciding to let his guest eat this last meal in peace, Igor held his tongue and dug into his sturgeon.

  Across the table from him, Mikhail Borisov breathed in the rich collection of scents that were emanating from his steaming hot bowl of borscht. Using a large spoon, he sipped a mouthful of the beet-red broth and found it tasty and perfectly seasoned. He needed a knife and fork to get at the assortment of delicacies that filled the rest of the bowl. They included tangy sausage, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, celery, and several tender chunks of meat. He used a heel of crusty rye bread to sop up the remaining broth, which he extended with a dollop of sour cream.

  “My chief engineer was correct, this dish is one of the finest I’ve ever tasted. How was your fish, Admiral?”

  “Adequate,” replied his host.

  “Though I would have preferred a bowl of that borscht, at my age a plain piece of broiled fish makes more sense for the old heart. Now what do you say to dessert?”

  No sooner did these words leave the Admiral’s lips than the waiter arrived with two platters of sliced pineapple spears.

  “Well, look what we have here,” observed Igor Starobin.

  “I guess a cargo ship arrived here from Cuba recently.

  Though it’s going to take a lot more than pineapples to pay off the huge debt Castro and his gang of thugs owe us.”

  “At least this is a commodity that we can’t grow in the motherland,” added Mikhail as he cut into the luscious yellow fruit and began devouring it.

  The admiral waited for their snifters of brandy to arrive before managing to bring up the sensitive subject that had necessitated this dinner in the first place.

  “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Captain. I just wanted to tell you once again how very proud I am of you. Without your tireless effort, the motherland would be a less secure place to live. All of us can rest more easily just knowing that vessels like Sea Devil are at our disposal, to thwart the imperialistic ambitions of our sworn enemy.

  “You have helped make a dream that was conceived over forty years ago become a reality. As you very well know, it was during the closing days of the Great War that I first laid my eyes on Sea Devil. Though this crude Nazi prototype was far from the sophisticated vessel that we have today, the mere idea of combining amphibious tracked drive and submarine propulsion was a unique, ingenious concept whose possibilities seemed endless to me. The designers at the Red Banner Shipyards agreed, and as a result, the craft that we today call Sea Devil was born.

  “Through the years there have been many doubtors in the defense ministry who were skeptical of Sea Devil’s operational effectiveness. True, we have had our failures, just as we’ve had our triumphant successes.

  Yet to win these unbelievers over to our side once and for all, I recently submitted the plans for an unprecedented covert operation to both Admiral of the Fleet Markov and the Premier’s closest aide, Deputy Secretary Stanislav Krasino. And much to my utter delight, only yesterday I received the go-ahead from the Politburo itself.

  “As I prepared to set the operation in motion, I could think of no better qualified officer than you to lead my strike team into action. For what I propose is a mission whose successful outcome will change the very balance of power between East and West unalterably in our favor!”

  With this rousing statement, Igor Starobin briefly halted to take a sip of his brandy and catch his breath. Certain that he had the undivided attention of his rapt dinner companion, he continued.

  “What I propose is to have you take Sea Devil up Scotland’s Firth of Clyde to the American naval installation at Holy Loch. There you will place a specially designed series of limpet mines beneath the hull of a yet-to-be-named imperialist nuclear submarine. These explosives will be placed in such a manner that their activation will split the vessel’s hull apart and cause the sub’s still-critical reactor to go plummeting to the seafloor below. The result will be an ecological disaster of unprecedented scope, as raw plutonium is released into the pristine waters of the loch, poisoning them for a thousand years to come.

  “Just think of the international outrage that will follow such a disaster, comrade! Without being able to point a finger at the actual perpetrator, the Americans will be assailed by every nation on this planet. Why, the Europeans will be absolutely furious, and demand that the United States withdraw its nuclear weapons from their soil before such a calamity can reoccur.

  And in such a way not only will we succeed in permanently shutting down the naval installation that poses the most direct threat to our shores, but also cause the removal of American cruise missiles and shorter range tactical nuclear weapons from Europe as well!

  “I had hoped to initiate this mission upon your return from leave, for I know the hectic schedule that you’ve been on these past few months. But one of the preconditions that the Politburo insisted upon when they gave me the go-ahead was that it take place to coincide with the Queen of England’s visit to the Falsane Naval Base at nearby Gare Loch. Here she will christen the first English submarine to be equipped with Trident missiles.”

  “And when will that take place?” Mikhail asked calmly.

  “In five and a half days,” answered the admiral, who noted that Mikhail took this news without flinching.

  “I feel the timing is most appropriate. The presence of the Royal Family will be a welcome addition, as the tragedy unfolds and the eyes of all the planet center on the waters of Scotland’s Firth of Clyde.”

  “I agree,” replied Mikhail.

  “Are these specially designed limpet mines that you spoke of ready to go?”

  Igor Starobin nodded.

  “Even as we speak, they are being flown up to Kronstadt from the test facility at Baku.”

  “Then all I need are some charts and a schematic on where the charges are to be placed,” said the blond haired commando.

  “Then you’ll accept the mission?”

  “Of course I will, Admiral. Just like yourself, I have dedicated the better years of my life to Sea Devil, and this operation will be the pinnacle of my efforts. In my humble opinion it’s a brilliant plan that only one vessel in the world can successfully pull off. Since time is critical, is it okay if I undergo the mission with my current crew?”

  Surprised with the young captain’s cool acceptance of this perilous assignment, Igor answered him.

  “I see no reason why not, comrade, though you must make it perfectly clear to your crew that Sea Devil’s capture will not be tolerated. You will travel in civilian clothes, taking nothing on board that can be traced back to the motherland. In addition to the standard cyanide pills, the vessel will be rigged with a explosive charge that is to be detonated if capture appears imminent. I don’t have to remind you that these are some of the most closely monitored waters on the planet. We both are well aware of your vessel’s capabilities, but even Sea Devil is going to need a little additional luck on this mission.”

  “My people will understand, Admi
ral. After all, we are Spetsnaz, and no challenge or risk is too great for us.”

  “If only I had a few more like you, comrade,” reflected the whitehaired veteran.

  “I am putting all my hopes in your capable hands. If I was only a little younger, I’d be going on the mission myself. But those adventurous days are long past for me. Soon I’ll be forced to retire, and at the very least I can meet this inevitable day with my head held high, knowing that my life’s work has been worthwhile. For this operation will signal the fruition of a long career that began in another era, almost five decades ago.”

  “I’ll do my best not to let you down, sir,” offered Mikhail sincerely.

  “I know you will, Captain. And just to let you know how appreciative we are of your effort, upon your return I’ve been authorized to give you an entire three months leave, plus the exclusive use of the defense minister’s own Black Sea dacha.”

  A wide grin painted the captain’s rugged face as he lifted his brandy snifter.

  “Three months and the use of the defense minister’s dacha, you say? I think that I can handle that. Admiral. I really think I can.”

  Of all the inquiries Major Colin Stewart initiated in an attempt to locate the escaped terrorist, only one proved promising. Several hours after the shoot-out at Edinburgh Castle, an R.A.F Nimrod AWACS platform recorded monitoring a light plane crossing over the Scottish border west of Glasgow and headed toward the Irish Sea by way of the North Channel. This aircraft eventually landed at a private airstrip located northeast of the two of Dundalk in the Republic of Ireland. It was only later, when R.A.F intelligence could find no official flight plan for this unusual late night transit, that Major Stewart was notified.

  With no other leads to follow, Stewart asked command for permission to investigate this suspicious flight more closely. Not the type who asked favors often, the commander of the 75th Highlanders received the okay to take a four-man squad into the Republic and attempt to locate this aircraft and determine its purpose.

  It was with the highest expectations that Colin Stewart assembled his handpicked squad and loaded them into a Land Rover. Their immediate destination was Prestwick Airport, where the 819th Helicopter Squadron was based.