Liam spooned a mouthful of the tasty jelly and followed it with some gravy-laden mashed potatoes. On his second helping of biscuits and honey, he stopped eating long enough to comment, “If the lads back at the Rose-and-Thistle could only see me now! Here I am, cruising beneath the Irish Sea and eating like a king at the same time. Henry Morrison’s going to be beside himself with envy! I’ll have some more of that iced tea, if you please.”
The XO was getting a kick out of watching the Irishman indulge himself. Yet he prayed that the fisherman wouldn’t eat so much that he’d go and get himself sick.
“How would you like to go on that tour of the ship now, Mr. Lafferty?” asked the XO in an attempt to entice him away from the dinner table.
“But what about that pumpkin pie you mentioned?”
returned Liam.
“I’ll make certain Cooky locks up a piece with your name on it,” promised the Bowfin’s second-in-command.
On that conciliatory note, Liam plucked the last piece of white meat off the breast and mopped up the remaining gravy with a biscuit.
“I guess I could do with a little stretching of the old legs,” he added as he wiped his face and pushed his chair back from the table.
“Would you mind if I light up the old pipe while we take our stroll?”
“I don’t think that would be a problem, sir. Though you’ll have to extinguish it once we reach the reactor room.”
Hearing this, Liam’s eyes opened wide.
“Is that a nuclear-powered reactor you’re referring to, my friend?”
The XO nodded, and Liam vehemently shook his head.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather skip that part of the tour. From what I understand, that nuclear radiation is awfully nasty stuff.”
“You needn’t worry about any radiation danger aboard the Bowfin, Mr. Lafferty. The ship’s reactor is encased in a lead vessel that makes it practically leak free. Besides, I was only going to show you its control console. But if you want to skip it altogether, how about if we go and take a look at the torpedo room?
We’ve got some fish up there that are really something to see.”
“You’re carrying fish on this vessel?” Liam asked.
The XO had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep from bursting into laughter as he responded.
“Mr. Lafferty, I guarantee that these fish are unlike any species you’ve ever laid eyes on before. In fact, in my book, they’re even deadlier than the great white shark.”
With his eyes open wide, Liam threw down his napkin and stood.
“Lead the way, Yank. This I’ve got to see!”
While the XO went about initiating the Irishman into the intricacies of underwater weaponry, the Bowfin’s CO hosted his own two guests in the ship’s control room. Captain William Foard was somewhat surprised when the orders came in from COMSUBLANT authorizing him to take the two foreign nationals on board. He also found his current mission somewhat puzzling. For all purposes, Commander Brad Mackenzie now had the authority to utilize the Bow/in as he saw fit. This was most unusual, and Foard could only suppose that the Nose officer had some high placed friends in the Pentagon.
Captain Foard was currently gathered around the ship’s chart table with Commander Mackenzie, or Mac, as he preferred to be called, and the Scotsman, Major Colin Stewart. They had a detailed bathymetric chart of the waters immediately outside the Firth of Clyde before them, and Foard was in the process of giving them the current status update.
“At this pace, we should be approaching the entrance to the Firth toward daybreak. Of course, all you have to do is say the word. Commander, and I can pull us off our present course and get us into the Clyde much sooner.”
Mac answered while studying the zigzagging blue line that showed their course northward since leaving the search site.
“I don’t think that’s necessary right now, Captain. Considering the agitated sea and the limited speed of the tug, I don’t really think they’re that far ahead of us. What do you think, Major?”
Colin Stewart pointed to the waters just east of Arran Island.
“Even at half speed, they shouldn’t be much further than here. Yet since it’s their course that’s still the point, I feel our current time-consuming search pattern is more than justified.”
“Then if that’s settled, I’ll start edging the Bowfin up toward periscope depth,” said the captain.
“We’re about due for our next visual sweep, and maybe this time we’ll have something for our other passenger to take a look at.”
“I wonder how the old guy is making out?” Mac asked.
The captain grinned.
“The last I heard from the XO, he was over his case of stage fright and stuffing his mouth with a fried chicken dinner with all the trim320 things. And Mr. Lafferty seems to have gotten over his shyness as well. At last report, he was talking away with such a vengeance that Lieutenant Commander Bauer could hardly get a word in edgewise.”
“The old-timer’s a character, all right,” added Mac.
“Now let’s just pray that this whole story of his isn’t some sort of fantastic fabrication. Because if it is, and we were to take out a tug load of innocent civilians, then I might as well kiss my career goodbye.”
This last statement was directed toward Colin Stewart, who returned Mac’s probing stare without flinching.
“You don’t have to worry about that. Commander.
Those IRB terrorists are out there with your bomb, all right. And I just pray to God that we can find them before it’s too late for all of us!”
Chapter Sixteen
The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow with the first tentative light of dawn when Sea Devil separated from its semi recessed storage well that was set abaft the Ladoga’s sail. Silently propelled by its single battery-powered propeller, the mini-sub proceeded to the north, up Kilbrannan Sound to the still waters of the Sound of Bute. All systems were operating perfectly as Mikhail Borisov ordered the helmsman to guide the vessel cautiously to periscope depth at this point.
“Watch your trim,” cautioned the Sea Devil’s CO as he watched Yuri Sosnovo begin lightening the boat by venting seawater from its ballast tanks.
“We certainly wouldn’t want to accidentally breach the surface in these unfriendly waters.”
The chief engineer responded with the barest of nods, his entire concentration focused on the delicate task of altering the sub’s buoyancy just enough to allow its periscope to break the water’s surface. It was with great relief that he looked to the depth gauge and calmly called out, “We’re at periscope depth, Captain.”
“Good work, Yuri,” complimented Mikhail as he made his way over to the periscope well.
“Now we should be able to get that precise bearing.”
With the assistance of warrant officer Oleg Zagorsk, the periscope was guided up from its well.
Practically hunching down on his knees to guarantee that too much of the lens didn’t penetrate the surface, Mikhail initiated a quick sweep of the water’s topside.
Though the sun had yet to break the horizon, there was enough light for him to hurriedly triangulate their position.
“Down scope!” he ordered firmly, as he backed away from the well and stood upright.
“I was able to get three different bearings. So give me my charts, Comrade Zagorsk, and I’ll determine our exact coordinates.”
Without bothering to remove the oilskin covers that protected the charts from the constantly dripping condensation, the Siberian alertly handed them to his commanding officer. Mikhail used a ruler and a pencil to plot the three bearings he had just seen with his own eyes.
“We’re currently halfway between the Isle of Arran to our southwest and Bute Island, which lies four kilometers to the north of us. I was able to just make out a directional beacon further east that I believe to be emanating from Little Cumbrae Island. Since it’s through the channel that lies immediately to the west of this island tha
t we’ll be entering the Firth of Clyde, shall we proceed in that direction?”
Hearing not a word of dissent, Mikhail ordered Sea Devil back to the seafloor, where its unique tracked propulsion system took over. A little over a quarter of an hour passed when he once more directed them to periscope depth.
“Now I should have a better view of the channel we’ll be transiting to get to our destination,” offered Mikhail as he anxiously hunched over and put the rubberized viewing coupling to his forehead.
The sun had broken the horizon by now, and clearly illuminated was a frightening scene that caused Mikhail to cry out.
“Down scope! Bring us back to the seafloor, Yuri, and waste no time about it.”
As the roaring sound of the ballast tanks taking on water filled the cramped control space, Mikhail backed away from the well. It wasn’t until they gently hit bottom that he explained what he had sighted topside.
“I’m afraid it’s not going to be as easy to penetrate the Firth as we had hoped. Blocking the channel up ahead is a line of three anchored Brit frigates. They appear to be Cornwall-class type 22 vessels, which means that they’re equipped with a comprehensive set of ASW sensors. Most likely they’re sitting out there anticipating just such a covert intrusion as we had in mind.”
“I bet it’s prompted by the visit of their Queen,” supposed Yuri Sosnovo.
“From what I understand, the Brits are every bit as cautious when it comes to security matters as our own KGB,” added Tanya Olovski.
“I say that we should proceed as if we didn’t even know they were there,” offered Sea Devil’s Warrant Officer.
“With our stealth capabilities, they’ll never spot us, even with a dozen frigates.”
Mikhail Borisov thoughtfully rubbed his scarred cheek.
“That might be so, Comrade Zagorsk. But this mission is much too important to find out differently.
Thus, for circumspection’s sake, I feel it’s best if we silently loiter at this position and wait for another vessel to come along. Then as this vessel proceeds to penetrate the blockade, all we have to do is follow in its baffles. When we’re veiled by its propeller wash, they’ll never know we’re even down here.”
From an adjoining portion of the same Sound, Captain Dmitri Zinyagin also viewed the line of anchored Cornwall-class frigates from the powerful lens of the Ladoga’s attack scope. Taking in the line of sleek ships, the veteran officer grunted and stepped back from the scope.
“Have a look yourself, Comrade Zampolit. For this is an obstacle that even our brave Spetsnaz colleagues wouldn’t dare take on by themselves.”
Petyr Tartarov moved his corpulent torso over to the periscope well, hunched over, and put his sweat stained forehead up against the eyepiece.
“My, that’s indeed a formidable barrier. Does this mean their mission is over?”
“Heavens no,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin.
“Though there’s always the chance that Sea Devil would try running the blockade, I’d say that Captain Borisov wouldn’t take the risk. If I were in his place, I’d wait for the approach of another ship, preferably a nice noisy surface vessel. Then all he’d have to do is follow in this craft’s wake all the way into the Firth.”
The political officer responded to this while backing away from the scope.
“That’s a brilliant tactic. Captain.
But I wonder if Captain Borisov will think of it.”
“From what I understand, the Spetsnaz takes a good amount of time training their naval officers in just such basic strategy. He’ll have thought of it, all right. And I guarantee you that he’s sitting out there right now, waiting for this vessel’s approach.”
As Dmitri Zinyagin instructed his senior lieutenant to take his place at the scope, the Ladoga’s CO followed the zampolit over to the vacant weapons console.
“I’ve notified the crew about this afternoon’s special Komsomol meeting. Captain,” revealed the political officer.
“I’m assuming that you have your speech in order.
“That I have, comrade. But I just wish that I could back up my concepts with more than mere words. If only there were some way that I could show the men that an ordinary member of the Red Banner fleet was just as good a soldier as the Spetsnaz. I’m still of the impression that they think of themselves merely as glorified taxi drivers. What they need is a taste of real action. It’s just too bad that Command didn’t send the Ladoga in Sea Devil’s place.”
A bit uncomfortable with this line of reasoning, Petyr Tartarov nodded.
“That’s an interesting concept, Comrade. But don’t give up on the power of ideological conditioning just yet. I learned long ago that the only way to get into some of these stubborn sailors’ heads is to constantly pound a point into them. By increasing the frequency and intensity of our Komsomol meetings, we can do just that.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the captain with a sigh.
“Because the morale on this ship seems to be worsening with each hour’s passing.”
“I know I am, Captain. And I hope to prove it to you during today’s Komsomol meeting. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ dbetter get down to my cabin and finish my preparations.”
Petyr Tartarov gratefully left the tense confines of the attack center. Never feeling truly at home in this part of the ship, he proceeded aft to that part of the Ladoga reserved for its officers. He crossed through the deserted wardroom and was surprised to find a single lanky enlisted man waiting in the hallway opposite his stateroom.
“Comrade Zampolit, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?” the sailor nervously called out.
Though Tartarov had seen this individual before only in passing, he could see by his insignia that he held the lowly rank of torpedo mate third class.
“What is it, sailor? I’m a busy man with many things to do,” he said as he fumbled for his key.
The enlisted man held back his response until the political officer managed to open the door to his cabin, and he tentatively followed him inside.
“Sir, I am torpedo mate third class Vasili Buchara,” he revealed after clearing his dry throat.
“And I would like an application to the Special Forces Academy.”
Not believing what he was hearing, Tartarov looked up astounded.
“What’s this you say, sailor? You want to apply to become a Spetsnaz? Why, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”
Expecting just such a response from the zampolit, Vasili dared to hold his ground.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. But this is no joke, and I would still like that application.”
“So you would, huh?” retorted the redfaced Zampolit.
“I’ll give you this piece of advice. Comrade Buchara.
The Spetsnaz is not about to be interested in a scrawny little sailor like yourself. Why, you’re not even a Great Russian, are you?”
“No sir, I’m an Uzbek,” said the blushing enlisted man, who was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
“Well then, I hope that your family has some political clout, because even if you were physically up to it, the Special Forces is also socially elite. So quit wasting my time, and more important, yours as well with this foolish fantasy. Make the best of your current service, and be proud that you’ve been given the privilege of wearing the uniform of the Red Banner fleet. If that is all. Seaman Buchara, you’re excused.
And don’t forget to come to this afternoon’s Komsomol meeting. There’s certainly a lot that you’ll learn by attending.”
Having lost what little courage he had by now, the seaman responded with a weak salute and submissively backed out into the corridor “So now even the Uzbeks want to join the Spetsnaz,” disgustedly mumbled the zampolit to himself.
Tempted to immediately inform the captain of this ridiculous confrontation, Petyr Tartarov sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk. There could be no doubting the degree to which the influence of the Sea De
vil’s crew had poisoned the morale of the Ladoga. With the hope that it wasn’t already too late to apply an antidote, the zampolit reached out for his legal pad to work anew on this afternoon’s all-important speech.
Meanwhile, back in the Ladoga’s attack center, Captain Zinyagin found himself called to the periscope by the excited voice of his senior lieutenant.
“Sir, it appears that there’s another vessel approaching the line of frigates. I believe it’s a tug of some sort.”
Quick to replace his subordinate at the scope, the captain took his time responding.
“So it is comrade.
This ship should provide just the sort of cover that Sea Devil’s been waiting for. And if Captain Borisov is wise, he’ll follow in this tug’s wake all the way up the Firth, to the sensitive naval installations that I just know in my gut he’s being ordered to survey.”
It was while wishing that their commands were switched that a sudden inspiration came to the veteran.
With or without Command’s blessings, he’d at long last take the initiative and order the Ladoga to follow Sea Devil up into the Firth of Clyde as soon as the first opportunity presented itself. Then they could ride shotgun over the vulnerable tracked mini sub while its crew of Spetsnaz operatives got on with its mission.
Inspired by this impromptu idea, Dmitri knew that it would serve yet another vitally important function.
With the realization that they were going in harm’s way, just like the Sea Devil, the crew would unite. No longer would they think of themselves as mere taxi drivers, but rather underwater warriors, who would earn the motherland’s respect, just as the Special Forces had!
Completely oblivious to the machinations going on in the seas beneath them, Bernard Loughlin pulled back on the throttle of the tug as he spotted the line of frigates that blocked the channel up ahead.
“Doc, I think you had better get up here!” he shouted into the intercom.
With his good eye, Bernard scanned the blockade with binoculars. He was in the process of studying the missile launcher visible on the bow of the ship nearest to them when both Dr. Blackwater and Sean joined him in the wheelhouse.
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