Mikhail was in the midst of wondering why such a high-strung individual would choose to serve in submarines when the throbbing whine of the frigate’s turbines reached their crescendo. Ever so gradually, the resonant sound began to lessen until it was all but indistinguishable.
This brought a relieved sigh from the captain’s lips.
“So much for the ASW capabilities of the British Leander-class frigate. Admiral Markov is right, the Royal Navy is far from the great fleet it once was. Instead of wasting their money with such ridiculous, costly programs as Trident, they should invest in some new surface ships. Why, during the Falklands conflict, even an insignificant naval power such as Argentina was a challenge for the Brits. I’d love to see what the Red Banner fleet would do to them. We’d annihilate them before they’d even be able to leave port.”
“Shouldn’t we be attaining those deployment coordinates shortly, Captain Zinyagin?” interrupted Mikhail.
Called back to thoughts of his current duty, Dmitri Zinyagin answered, “As originally planned, we’ll be releasing Sea Devil as soon as we reach the waters south of Sanda Island. Then you’ll be faced with a fourteen hour voyage up the Firth of Clyde to your final destination.
I imagine that you’re anxious to get it over with, aren’t you, Captain?”
“I’ve been looking forward to this operation ever since Admiral Starobin told me about it back in Kronstadt,” returned Mikhail.
“My entire crew is ready for action, and I foresee no serious obstacles that should hinder us along the way.”
Dmitri Zinyagin looked directly into his colleague’s steel-gray eyes and replied.
“Though my briefing did not include the exact purpose of your mission, I presume it has something to do with the imperialist naval installations at Holy Loch and Falsane. I envy you, Captain Borisov. These are waters every submariner in the Red Banner fleet dreams of penetrating one day.”
Sensing that the veteran was hoping that Mikhail would take him into his confidence and reveal his mission, the Spetsnaz commando grinned.
“As commander of Sea Devil, I’ve visited places on this planet that would truly astound you. Captain. If only the Defense Ministry would allow me to write my memoirs!”
“I’m certain that it would be an instant bestseller both in the motherland and in the West,” offered the Ladoga’s CO.
“Now if you’d like, this vessel is more than capable of conveying Sea Devil a good deal closer than Sanda Island. I’ve been studying the charts, and it appears there’s open water all the way to Little Cumbrae Island, which would put you right at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde.”
“That offer’s most inviting, Captain Zinyagin. But there’s no need to risk the Ladoga for the sake of a few additional kilometers. We’ve got plenty of time to attain our goal. Besides, by utilizing our tracked-drive system, we’ll be traveling to the Firth by way of Kilbrannan Sound. This poorly monitored waterway will lead us directly into the Sound of Bute, where we’ll gain entrance to the Firth.”
“As you wish, Captain Borisov. You can rest assured that the Ladoga will be waiting for you at the dropoff point when you’re ready to return home.”
“We’re counting on that, comrade. Now I’d better get down to the torpedo room and assemble my crew.”
“You do that, Captain Borisov,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin, who watched the Spetsnaz officer pivot and head for the aft hatchway.
“That one’s a cocky bastard,” observed the Ladoga’s political officer.
“That’s the nature of the beast,” reflected Captain Zinyagin. You go and give a hotshot like that a twenty-meter-long, three-crew command, and he thinks he’s a regular naval hero. He should only know what it’s like to sacrifice forty years of one’s life in service to the motherland. And as for that mini-sub of his, I guarantee you that the Ladoga could outperform Sea Devil any day of the week. I only wish that Command had seen fit to send us up the Firth of Clyde. Yet as it now stands, all we are is a damned underwater taxicab.”
Well aware of his captain’s bitterness, the zampolit guardedly responded.
“My sources tell me that we’ll be getting rid of our Spetsnaz comrades just in the nick of time. It seems there’s an element in the crew who have turned to emulating our brave commandos. All they talk of is becoming Spetsnaz themselves, and needless to say, their work is starting to suffer from this foolishness.”
“That is most distressing news. Comrade Zampolit.
These shirkers are just looking for an excuse to be negligent in their duties. And as for them wanting to become Spetsnaz themselves, that’s certainly a joke.
Most of the spineless wimps aboard this ship couldn’t even pass the physical. And they’d dirty their shorts the first time danger presented itself. It looks like we’ll have to further tighten discipline aboard this vessel.”
“Perhaps a special meeting of the Komsomol is in order,” offered the political officer.
“At this time you could restate your command policies, and I’ll put together a lecture on the dangers of striving for the unattainable.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea, comrade. We’ll wait until Sea Devil is deployed before informing the crew of this get-together. And then it will be solely up to us to re instill some pride in this vessel.”
Already mentally planning the contents of his speech. Captain Dmitri Zinyagin sauntered over to the periscope well. Ever suspicious of anything that might weaken his command, he anxiously looked to his watch to calculate how much time was left until they could ascend to take a final bearing, to prepare for Sea Devil’s final deployment.
Chapter Fifteen
The tug was well out in the Irish Sea when a brisk northwesterly began blowing. The previous calm seas turned almost instantly treacherous, and Bernard was forced to pull back on the throttles to keep the tug from capsizing. Perched beside him in the enclosed wheelhouse. Dr. Tyronne Blackwater held on for dear life as the massive swells smashed into their blunt bow.
Any less seaworthy a craft would long since have had to return to port, and the physician was a bit more confident knowing that their vessel was extremely stable.
It seemed that each time a swell struck them, Bernard Loughlin would angrily mumble a curse, and Dr. Blackwater did his best to calm him down.
“Easy now, Bernard. You can’t fight weather like this, so you just might as well go with it.”
The one-eyed terrorist was positioned behind the tug’s wheel and responded to this advice while once more easing back on the throttle.
“Damn it. Doc.
We’re barely doing ten knots as it is. At this rate, we won’t get to the Firth until daybreak.”
“And what’s wrong with that, my friend? That still gives up plenty of time to get up to Gare Loch and do our dirty deed just as the christening is about to take place.”
A particularly massive wave hit the tug’s hull at an angle, and the deck canted hard to starboard. A sturdy iron handhold kept Dr. Blackwater upright, while Bernard momentarily lost his balance and crashed into the side of the wheelhouse with his right shoulder.
Quick to recover, he grabbed for the helm to keep the tug on course.
“I was just hoping that we could get past the Sound of Bute before sunrise,” added Bernard.
“I’ve got a feeling that’s where we’re going to encounter the first Brit blockade.”
“What makes you think that they’ll be going to such an extreme?” asked the physician.
Bernard answered passionately.
“Oh come on, Doc!
You know how paranoid the Brits are! Just knowing that their beloved Queen will be passing over those same waters will be reason enough to stop every single vessel headed up the Firth.”
“And so what if they do, Bernard? Don’t forget that this tug is duly registered in the Port of Glasgow. Why we have just as much right to be on the Clyde than anyone else.”
“I’d still feel more comfortable penetrating the sound u
nder the cover of night,” continued Bernard.
Again the tug rolled hard to the right, and this time it was the physician who lost his footing. Forced to reach out for the deck-mounted compass to keep from tumbling over, Dr. Blackwater just managed to remain standing.
Outside the glassed-in wheelhouse a murky twilight prevailed. The gray, ever-darkening dusk sky seemed to merge with the surging gray sea, and it was impossible to determine where the two met at the horizon. Oblivious to the poor visibility, Bernard steered on the bearing given to him by the compass. For the majority of their voyage, this course would take them almost due north.
They were in between swells when the door to the cabin opened and in walked Sean. His presence caused a sour expression to cross Bernard’s face.
“Phew! You smell like a dead fish, Sean,” observed the IRB’s co founder disgustedly.
“What do you expect after being down in the bilge for the last half hour with a couple hundred smelly cod for company?”
“How does it look down there, Sean?” asked Dr.
Blackwater.
“You’ll have to see it with your own eyes to believe it. Doc. You can’t even see the bomb anymore.”
“Bernard, that was a stroke of genius when you suggested that we stop that trawler and purchase its load,” offered the physician.
“I just hope we won’t be forced to test my theory,” replied Bernard.
Sean smelled his shirtsleeve and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Well, I can personally vouch for its effectiveness.
Those cod are only just starting to thaw out.
And since there’s no refrigeration in the bilge, they’re going to really be stinking to high heaven in a couple more hours.”
As a wave tossed the bow of the tug upward, and gravity pulled it abruptly back down into the sea again, Sean’s knees buckled. Reaching out to support him. Dr. Blackwater shook his head.
“I’d still feel better if you were down in the hold resting, Sean. That wound of yours has a good way to go until it’s healed, and one fall could rip it right open.”
“Then I just won’t fall, Doc. I hardly feel the pain anymore.”
“You young bucks are remarkable,” reflected the silver-haired physician.
“If it was anyone my age who suffered a gunshot like that, they’d still be in the hospital.”
“Me being laid up in Cootehill House was hard enough,” admitted Sean.
“Although I was lucky to have one of the prettiest nurses in all of Ireland attending to me. I wonder how Marie’s getting along?”
“As long as she has those blasted veggies of hers to take care of, she’ll be just fine,” said Bernard.
The mere mention of the precocious redhead caused a smile to turn the corners of the physician’s mouth.
“She has done a remarkable job with that vegetable garden of hers. I haven’t seen anything quite like it since my mother’s time.”
“Did your mother have a garden at Cootehill House too. Doc?” queried Sean.
“You don’t know the half of it, lad. Not only did she have a small plot for her personal use, but she was responsible for the upkeep of the rest of the estate as well. With my father perpetually out on house calls, she supervised the raising of sheep, cows, chickens, and pigs, and saw to it that over eighty prime acres of potatoes were properly cared for. She was sure something for a city girl, and now Marie’s just sort of moved in and taken her place. I can’t tell you how it does my heart good to see her enjoying the place like she does. I still say she’d make a hell of a wife, if one of you would get up the nerve to ask her.”
“I beg to differ with you,” said Bernard.
“Marie’s too independent to settle down permanently. Besides, I can just see her now, with a baby in one hand and an Armalite in the other.”
The three men shared a brief laugh as the deck beneath them rolled to and fro like a carnival ride.
“Speaking of marriage, how about you, Sean?”
asked the grinning physician.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Doc. When would I ever find time for a wife and kids? And since it’s a struggle merely to take care of myself, how would I ever support her?”
“Were you ever married, Doc?” asked Bernard.
The physician responded with a fond smile.
“That I was, lads. And she was a lovely girl at that. Her name was Patricia. She was a local gal from Dundalk. Her father was a surgeon, and it was when I inherited his practice that I decided to put down roots on the coast.
Though she couldn’t have children, she kept a warm, clean, happy house. And if it wasn’t for the cancer that eventually ate her up, we would have been married for forty-five years come this June.”
A moment of reflective silence followed, only to be broken by the cool voice of Bernard Loughlin.
“You know, I lost a wife myself. I took Catherine as my bride when we were both nothing but wide-eyed teenagers.
We even had two children, a boy and a girl.”
Amazed by this revelation, Sean interrupted.
“I didn’t know that about you, Bernard. Where are they now?”
“In a cemetery outside of Derry,” answered the terrorist bluntly.
“I lost the whole bunch of ‘em to a car bomb most likely meant for myself. I never did learn for certain who the bastards were that were responsible for this slaughter. Some say it was the RUC, others the Brits. And I even heard tell that the explosives were placed there by the IRA. But regardless of who did it, that was enough to show me that revolution and marriage just don’t mix.”
With no dark secrets of his own to confess, Sean excused himself to bring up some supper. It was pitch black outside by the time he returned with a large wicker basket filled with loaves of shepherd’s bread, a wheel of goat cheese, and a half dozen green apples.
Though the pitching seas did little for their appetites, they forced themselves to eat to keep up their strength.
Bernard volunteered to take the first evening watch, leaving Dr. Blackwater and Sean free to go below and get some rest. Two bunk beds filled the vessel’s single stateroom. It was while he lay on the bottom mattress of one of these bunks that Sean got the nerve to ask a question that had been on his mind since they’d left Dundalk.
“Doc, I’ve been meaning to ask you — how are we going to manage detonating that bomb, and at the same time get far enough away to survive its blast?”
The elderly physician, reclining on the adjoining bunk, exhaled a deep breath before answering.
“I was hoping you’d bring that up, Sean. Me and Bernard talked it over while you were down in the bilges, and we came to the conclusion that to ensure that the device detonates properly, someone’s going to have to stay with it until it goes off. And we thought that it was only fitting that both Bernard and myself should be the ones to do this deed.”
“But that would be sheer suicide!” countered Sean.
“And what’s the Brotherhood to do afterward, when both of you are blown to a million pieces?”
“Hopefully, go on just like they are right now,” returned the physician calmly, “the only difference being that two of its senior officers will be martyred, and the enemy dealt an antagonizing blow that they’ll never be able to recover from.”
“But I thought we could hook up a remote control device with the timer from the VCR. That way the bomb will receive the charge it needs to explode, and all of us can be miles away on our way back home to celebrate.”
“The thought is tempting, lad. But this whole thing is just too important to trust to a mere timing mechanism.
Me and Bernard also agreed that it would be a waste of life to sacrifice all three of us. So we decided to stop at Ardrossan and drop you off.”
“I won’t hear of any such thing! If both of you are willing to see this thing out to the end, I am too. And I’ll be hearing no arguments otherwise!”
“You’re as pig-headed as that stubborn father
of yours, Sean Lafferty. And it appears that the Brotherhood is about to have a trio of martyrs to venerate.”
Suddenly grasping the fact that his life would all too soon be over, Sean sat up in his bunk and gazed out into the blackness.
“I guess that will leave Marie as the IRB’s commander,” he observed thoughtfully “It appears so, lad. I have full confidence in her ability to handle the movement on her own. And she’ll certainly not have to worry about having a base of operations to mold the new shape of Ireland from. Because before we left County Caven, I drew up a codicil to my will bequeathing my beloved Cootehill House to her.”
“That was kind of you, Doc. Now if I only had something of value to leave for my parents.”
The physician responded passionately to this statement.
“But you have, lad! Don’t you see? You’re about to be giving them the greatest gift of all — a united Ireland!”
“You mean to say that all this food I’m eating comes from that little kitchen you showed me, and that you serve such meals even while underwater?
That’s simply amazing!”
Liam Lafferty made this observation while seated in the wardroom of the USS Bowfin. Before him was a full-course fried chicken dinner. Though he had been more frightened than hungry when the sailors initially led him down into the submarine, the Yanks’ pleasant companionship and the tempting aroma of. food changed all this.
“This chicken is delicious!” raved the grizzled fisherman as he bit into a steaming hot, juicy breast.
“And what’s that sweet red jelly made out of?”
“Cranberries,” explained Lieutenant Commander Ted Bauer, the Bowfin’s XO.
“In America, we like to serve it with poultry dishes, and it’s a staple of our Thanksgiving dinner.”
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