An individual would have to be blind not to see the dangerously low level of the Ladoga’s morale. Was I just supposed to sit back and watch this condition worsen? It was getting so bad that I actually feared a mutiny!”
“Surely you’re overreacting. Captain. I’ll admit that there are several members of the crew whose esprit de corps is lacking. But these handful of individuals don’t threaten your command. They are only a small bunch of confused malcontents, whose loyalty I was hoping to win over during this afternoon’s Komsomol meeting.”
“To hell with another of your damned meetings!” spat the frustrated captain.
“The time of useless talk is over! As far as I’m concerned, the only way to get this crew back solidly behind me is to lead them into battle.
This way they’ll all too soon realize that as valued members of the Red
Banner fleet, they are just as good as any Spetsnaz operative. It’s no wonder they’ve been looking at themselves as mere taxi drivers, because that’s all we’ve been until now. I’m as sick as they are of constantly playing second fiddle to our esteemed comrades in the special forces while they earn all the glory. It’s time to show the Defense Ministry that we too are worthy of their trust. The Ladoga is a proud ship, and we’re more than capable of assisting Sea Devil as it penetrates these highly sensitive waters.”
Hardly believing what he was hearing, Petyr Tartarov shook his head.
“I am indeed sorry that you feel this way, Captain. Regardless of your personal opinions, you are still guilty of breaking a direct operational order.
I implore you to come to your senses and reverse our course before it’s too late. Otherwise the consequences to your long career will be most detrimental.”
“There will be no turning back, Comrade Zampolit!
And as far as my career is concerned, the moment my crew lost trust in me was the moment it ended. I only pray that it’s not too late to win them back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to the attack center.”
Only when the captain had left the weapons console altogether did the sweat start pouring down Petyr Tartarov’s forehead. Doing his best to staunch it with a handkerchief, the political officer reluctantly contemplated his next course of action. There was no doubt in his mind that the captain had suffered some sort of serious mental breakdown that would necessitate an immediate change of the Ladoga’s command. Yet he couldn’t merely stroll into the attack center and order the captain’s replacement. He would need support. And for this he would have to appeal to the members of the Komsomol. As loyal Communists, surely their vision would be clear, and they’d understand that a change of command was a vital necessity in this in342 stance. With this hope in mind, the political officer left the cork-lined cubicle to begin the unpleasant task of organizing a mutiny.
Above the cold, dark-green waters of the Firth of Clyde, the morning sun strengthened, gradually burning off the mist that had previously enshrouded the estuary in a swirling white veil. From the wheelhouse of the tug, Bernard Loughlin watched as the rolling green hills came into focus. Even the cold-hearted Irishman had to admit that this sight was an inspirational one.
The scenery was especially majestic on the left side of the channel. Here the tree-covered hills extended all the way to the water’s edge. An occasional cottage and small covered dock was the extent of man’s presence here, and the one-eyed terrorist supposed that it would be good to live in such a beautiful place.
From what little he had read about Scotland, he knew that it was primarily a pastoral country, with vast tracts of undeveloped wilderness. The Scots themselves were a proud, independent people, who had a cultural identity separate from their British occupiers.
Yet unlike the Irish, they were apparently content to allow their ancestral land to be absorbed permanently into the United Kingdom.
Bernard knew of several Scottish separatist groups whose goals were much like their own. The IRB had hoped to stir these individuals to action by daring to break into Edinburgh Castle and make off with the country’s symbolic royal regalia. Such a heist would have generated an intense wave of nationalism that would have spread throughout the countryside. And for at least one disturbing moment the peoples of this land would remember what it was like to be a true Scot once again, independent of the imperialistic yoke that had long ago stripped them of their identities.
Though the robbery went sour, the hand of fate had given the Brotherhood one more chance to kindle the fires of Scottish separatism. Bernard still had trouble believing that in only a couple of hours the despised monarchy that had enslaved this land and his own as well would be no more. Erased from the earth in a nuclear fireball, the Queen and all she stood for would be gone for all eternity. Like slaves who had been shackled for generations past, the people would rush in to fill this sudden void. And as a result, a single Celtic state made up of the countries once known as England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland would come into existence, united by the bonds of non-sectarian Socialism.
When Bernard first founded the IRB, never in his wildest dreams did he think that because of his efforts alone, such a state would come into existence. Their possession of the nuclear device made this day possible, and his only regret was that he wouldn’t live to see his sacrifice bear fruit. Yet in its own way, his martyrdom would cement the movement and make possible the great social revolution that was about to engulf the land.
The sound of someone approaching broke his deep pondering.
“Hello, Bernard. Doc says it’s time to spell you.”
Barely aware of the passage of time, Bernard nevertheless stepped back from the wheel and allowed Sean Lafferty to take the helm.
“Keep an eye out for those marker buoys, and keep out in the center of the channel whenever possible, Sean. Don’t hesitate to call down the minute something doesn’t look right to you.”
As Sean answered these instructions with a mock salute, Bernard affectionately patted his comrade on the back.
“How’s your shoulder holding out, lad?”
“It’s still throbbing, but I’ll be able to carry my weight, Bernard.”
“You’re an inspiration to all of us, Sean Lafferty.
Your country will soon be very proud of you.”
With this curt comment, Bernard left the wheelhouse and climbed down the short ladder that led directly onto the tug’s stern deck. Before going below and having some tea, he walked over to the transom. Stored in the locker here was the battery and cable that they would use to detonate the bomb. Though he had already checked its condition several times since leaving Dundalk, he couldn’t resist giving this gear another look.
“We have that surface contact, sir. Bearing three-five six range two miles.”
The sonar operator’s revelation reached Captain William Foard as he was gathered around the chart table with Mac and Colin Stewart.
“That should be close enough for us to have a proper look,” observed the Bowfm’s Captain.
“Quartermaster, have the XO escort Mr. Lafferty up here on the double.”
“Yes, sir,” shot back the seaman responsible for all inter deck communications aboard the sub.
“Shall we see if Dame Fortune is smiling on us this time, gentlemen?” offered the captain as he beckoned them to join him at the periscope well.
“Helmsman, make our depth sixty feet. Up scope,” ordered William Foard.
In response to this, the periscope hissed upward, with the Captain quick to hunch over it and locate the vessel responsible for their sonar contact.
“It’s a tug all right. And from its draft lines, I’d say that she was carrying a substantial amount of weight.”
As he increased the magnification of the lens, Foard added, “Get a load of this character on the transom.
He certainly looks the part.”
Mac replaced him at the scope and nodded.
“With that eyepatch and ponytail of his, he looks like a regular pirate. Do you think this is on
e of your men, Major?”
Before Colin Stewart could look for himself, the sound of Liam Lafferty’s voice rose throughout the control room, his thick accent unmistakable.
“And here I was just lying down for a wee nap. You fellows keep me busier than my wife.”
“This shouldn’t take long, Mr. Lafferty,” remarked the captain.
Liam ambled over to the scope and nonchalantly gazed through the lens.
“It’s him!” cried the fisherman.
“I could never forget a puss like that.”
“All right!” shouted Mac, who watched as Colin Stewart took a look through the scope.
“I hate to ask you this, Mr. Lafferty, but are you positive that this is the tug you saw being loaded back in Dundalk?” quizzed the Scotsman.
“One hundred percent positive,” said Liam.
“There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever. And if you just be patient, my own son will show up on that fancy-looking device of yours shortly.”
Captain Foard briefly met the stares of Mac and Colin before turning his attention back to the Irishman.
“Thank you, Mr. Lafferty. You can go back to your nap now.”
“But don’t you want me to point out Scan?” asked Liam.
“That’s not necessary, sir,” replied the Captain.
“We believe you when you say this is the tug. So your job is over now. I’ll have Ensign Pollard escort you back to your quarters.”
“You’ll be getting no further argument from me,” said Liam, as he slipped his pipe in his mouth and followed his escort back below deck.
Colin Stewart took another look through the scope.
“Now that we’ve found them, what do we do with them?”
“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” returned Mac.
“We can’t just ascend to the surface and place them in custody. One look at this sub and they’ll go and blow that device for sure. Yet if we hit them with a torpedo, the resulting explosion could rip that bomb apart and cause the very same ecological disaster that we’re trying to prevent.”
“Not if that torpedo wasn’t carrying a warhead and was being utilized just to punch a hole through their hull,” offered the grinning captain.
“Is such a thing possible?” asked the Scotsman.
The captain answered, “Mister, this is a United States Naval vessel, and the word impossible isn’t in our vocabulary. Shall I inform the torpedo room to ready such a fish?”
“I say go for it,” said Mac.
“Though while your men are readying that torpedo, I’d like to notify the Lynch and have them chopper in a ROV for the subsequent recovery. I don’t think it would be a bad idea to call in the DSRV Mystic as well.”
“If you really think you could sink them without spewing plutonium all through the Clyde, I’m with you also, Captain,” remarked Colin Stewart.
William Foard looked the Scotsman right in the eye.
“I can’t guarantee anything but death and taxes, but I believe I can punch a nice neat hole in their bow just below the waterline. That means that the initial impact will be well away from the stern bilge. And since that’s where a weapon the size of an A-bomb would have to be stored, the shot should be a clean one.”
“Then you’ve got my vote,” returned the Highlander.
“Just make certain that first shot’s a good one. Captain.
Because I seriously doubt if we’ll have the time to attempt a second one.”
The Bowfin’s CO nodded.
“I’ll try my best, Major.
Now if that’s settled, let’s go and get Uncle Sam’s property back to its rightful owner.”
“Are you absolutely certain they’ve taken up a position right in Sea Devil’s baffles?” questioned Dmitri Zinyagin.
“I am, sir,” answered the Ladoga’s senior sonar operator.
“My last scan showed Sea Devil located immediately below the tug, which puts the Sturgeon in the waters directly behind them.”
Zinyagin thoughtfully stroked his jaw.
“I don’t like this, comrade … I don’t like it at all. Most likely they were spotted while penetrating that line of frigates.
And now this sub has been sent in to do the dirty work. Thank the fates that I decided to follow them up the Firth. Otherwise, Sea Devil would never stand a chance.
“Comrade Zitomir, feed the acoustic signature of the Sturgeon into the fire control computer. Are tubes one, two, and three still showing a green light?”
“Yes they are, sir,” answered the sonar chief.
“I still show a red on number four, though.”
The captain grunted.
“It’s that damned compression leak again. Most likely it will be out for the rest of our cruise. But that makes no difference. Three wire guided acoustic homing torpedoes should be more than adequate to rid the seas of the imperialist threat.”
Dmitri Zinyagin watched as the senior technician efficiently addressed his digital console. Only when he was certain that the three torpedoes were armed and ready to fire did he allow his thoughts to wander.
The zampolit had had the nerve to question Dmitri’s authority to run the Ladoga as he wished. As commanding officer, that was his prerogative. Over four decades of selfless duty had given him the instinct to know when to take the initiative. And now his daring gamble was about to pay off in a way he never really expected.
How the men would flock to support him when they learned that because of Dmitri’s dauntless gambit, the Sea Devil had been spared certain destruction. They would emulate him just as they had Captain Mikhail Borisov, the infamous lion of the Spetsnaz! Already looking forward to their adoration, Zinyagin was abruptly called back to the present by the agitated voice of his chief sonar operator.
“Our target has just opened its torpedo doors, Captain!”
Without a second’s hesitation, Dmitri Zinyagin forcefully commanded, “Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”
Mac was in the process of studying a detailed bathymetric chart of this portion of the Firth of Clyde in an effort to determine the difficulty of the salvage effort that would soon be facing them when the control room filled with the frantic cries of the Bowfin’s sonar operator.
“Incoming torpedo salvo! I count three separate torpedoes, bearing one-five-five, range two miles and rapidly closing!”
With the hope that all of this was some kind of horribly realistic drill, Mac watched as the sub’s captain stepped forward to orchestrate a response to this surprise threat.
“Chief Langsford, I didn’t authorize any practice drills today.”
“This is no drill, sir!” returned the sonar technician.
“We’ve got three torpedoes continuing to close in on us.”
This was all the captain had to hear to snap into action.
“I pray to God that our Mk-70 MOSS that we just got out of refit is on line. If so, fire tube number one.”
“I show a green light on MOSS availability, Captain,” replied the weapon’s officer coolly.
“Proceeding to fire.”
Mac looked on with amazement as the deck shook and the compartment filled with the hissing sound of compressed air.
“I show a clean launch, Captain,” reported the weapon’s officer.
“All ahead emergency! Come to course two-five zero instructed William Foard.
Mac had to tightly grip the side of the chart table to keep from tumbling over as the helmsman turned his steering yoke and the Bowfm rolled hard on its left side.
“How much water do we have beneath us. Lieutenant Murray?” asked Foard, who kept his balance by holding onto a steel handrail.
The sub’s bespectacled navigator was standing beside Mac and alertly answered.
“Not more than one hundred and twenty five feet, sir.”
“Damn!” cursed the captain.
“What’s the status of those fish, Chief Langsford? And do you have our Mk-70 as yet?”
The sonar operator
replied while pressing his headphones to his ears.
“The torpedoes haven’t responded to our change of course yet. Captain. MOSS is headed off on bearing zero-six-six, and is really churning up a storm.”
Mac was most familiar with the weapon known as the Mk-70 MOSS. This device was an ROV of sorts, designed to simulate the Bowfm’s sound signature for the purpose of leading an attacking acoustic homing torpedo astray. It apparently proved its worth when the sonar operator excitedly reported.
“One of the fish has taken the bait, sir. It’s going after MOSS with a bone in its teeth!”
“And the others?” asked Foard.
The chief held back his response until the racket that was being channeled into his headphones temporarily sorted itself out.
“They’re coming this way, Captain.
They just completed their course change, range now down to one and a half miles.”
Finding himself with one less threat to worry about, Foard tensely beat the side of his thigh with his right fist and proceeded to think out loud.
“Since it’s obvious that we can’t outrun or out dive them, we can either prepare ourselves to take a hit, or gamble that we can shake them some other way. Yet if we can’t go deep to put a knuckle in the water, how about if we try it going the opposite direction?”
Satisfied with this plan of attack, the captain instructed the planes man to send the sub shooting toward the surface. Not even stopping to consider what would happen if they were to encounter another vessel up here, Foard directed the crew to hang on.
“Torpedo range is down to one mile and still closing, sir,” reported the sonar operator.
With his eyes glued to the depth gauge and the knot indicator mounted above the seated planes men the captain verbally willed his command onward.
“Come on baby, you can make it. Come on!”
“Depth is down to forty-five feet, Captain. If we don’t pull out soon, we’re going to breach!”
Ignoring this warning from the frantic diving officer, Foard cringed when the sonar operator added, “Range is down to three-quarters of a mile. Both torpedoes are following us up.”
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