Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  Lafferty. That may indeed be the case, but around here it’s caution that rules the day. You may have noticed that not only are we working inside a military base, but a national monument as well. Thus we certainly don’t want to cause any unnecessary damage or have any needless accidents. So to ensure this, the charges that you’ll be handling will be just powerful enough to get the job done. Do I make myself clear, lad?”

  “Why of course you do, sir. And please call me Sean.

  When we were excavating the extension of the Guinness brewery in downtown Dublin, we had to take similar precautions. And I’m proud to say that while I was in charge there wasn’t a single injury or report of external damage.”

  “That’s just what I wanted to hear, lad. If you can work as well as your cousin here, you won’t be hearing any complaints from me. Patrick, why don’t you show Sean the location of the new cistern and the portion of the old system that we’ll be wanting to reroute.”

  As Patrick led them outside, Sean slyly grinned.

  “So we’re cousins, are we? Funny, but I never saw any family resemblance between us.”

  “I only make that up to make you more credible,” admitted Patrick.

  “Besides, do you honestly think that I’d public ally admit to having you for relative if I didn’t have to?”

  “Watch it, Callaghan,” advised Sean playfully “Or I’ll leave you in that empty vault after I’ve removed all those royal jewels.”

  The day went unbelievably quick. The good weather held, and they were actually able to accomplish quite a bit of work before the foreman blew the whistle signaling the end of the shift. It was Patrick who informed him that they were willing to work overtime for regular pay, as long as the light remained. Not about to pass up such a bargain, Angus Ross gave him his blessings, and instructed them to sign themselves out before the guards locked them in for the night.

  They worked for an entire hour on their own and recorded their quitting time in the official work log. Yet instead of leaving the castle at this point, they returned to the cistern and crawled inside its narrow, wire-mesh mouth to hide themselves. The interior reservoir was formed of brick and was utilized to store rainwater. It had long since been drained dry, but it still smelled musty, much like an old basement.

  Sean and Patrick positioned themselves on a brick ledge to await nightfall. This lip was just wide enough to allow them to sit down. Sean was especially thankful for this perch, since he hadn’t worked this hard in months and his back and muscles were sore from the physical effort involved.

  To keep from being detected, they kept absolutely quiet. They passed the time by staring off into the black reservoir and breathing its cold, damp air. It was as this blackness seemed to intensify that the shrill distinctive notes of a bagpipe sounded in the distance.

  Well aware that this traditional salute meant that the sun had set and the castle was now sealed for the night, Patrick stood and beckoned his associate to do likewise. A narrow, recessed set of footholds led them to the cistern’s mouth. It was Patrick who cautiously peeked through the wire-mesh screen, and finding the compound clear, furtively crawled out onto the cobblestone courtyard.

  With the piper’s soulful tune providing an appropriate accompaniment, the two Irishmen took in the rich colors of twilight. A crescent moon could be seen hanging on the western horizon, with the evening star already visible above it. Except for the constantly blinking, battery-powered strobe lights that were mounted on top of the construction barriers, the compound was dark, thus allowing them safe access to the generator where the tools of their other trade were stored.

  It was Patrick who removed the generator’s metal cover plate and pulled out an elongated wooden crate.

  Inside this container were an M-1 carbine, three loaded clips of ammunition, and a compact green satchel. A smirk painted Sean Lafferty’s face as he gingerly picked up the satchel and checked its contents. Satisfied with what he saw, Sean watched as his associate expertly slid a clip into the M-1, snapped a bullet into its chamber, activated the safety, and looked up to meet his expectant glance.

  “We haven’t far to go now, Sean. We’ll get to the crown room by following along the back wall of the Scottish national war memorial. That will bring us to the Half Moon battery, which adjoins the entrance to the palace yard. We’ll be able to get into the royal apartments by way of Queen Mary’s room. We did some renovations in there last week, and I made certain to unlock the iron security grate that covers the window.

  That will put us immediately outside the crown room itself.”

  “And that’s where I’ll take over,” whispered Sean as he patted the green satchel he held securely at his side.

  Patrick managed a nervous smile.

  “Then, for the cause of one united People’s Republic of Ireland, let’s do it, comrade.”

  Sean flashed him a thumbsup, and Patrick proceeded to once more sweep the compound with his glance. The twilight had all but faded by now, and the sound of bagpipes was absent as the two sprinted across the courtyard and disappeared into the shadows beyond.

  “Are you telling me, Sergeant Major, that no one actually saw these two workmen leave the castle?” quizzed Major Colin Stewart, incredulous.

  “That I am, sir,” replied the regiment’s ranking noncommissioned officer.

  “Then for all we know, they could still be inside, couldn’t they now?” continued Colin Stewart angrily.

  The sergeant major appeared uncomfortable as he answered.

  “I imagine that’s very possible, sir.”

  “That’s just wonderful,” reflected the major as he pushed his chair back from the dinner table and threw his napkin on his half-full plate.

  “And wouldn’t you know that they just happen to be named Lafferty and Callaghan. Get together a squad. Sergeant Major. I’ll lead the search personally.”

  “Shall I alert the garrison?” asked the red-cheeked NCO.

  Colin Stewart stood.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Sergeant Major. Most likely our sentries merely missed checking off their names as they left the grounds. But just in case, I want you to call the construction foreman and find out all you can about the pair. Also have Mr. Ross give you their local address and a phone number if they have one.”

  “I’ll do so at once, sir.”

  “Have that squad meet me up at the war memorial on the double, Sergeant Major. And I want each one of them carrying live rounds.”

  “Yes sir!” shot back the NCO. His back arched straight and his heels clicked together as his commanding officer crisply pivoted to get on with his anticipated duty.

  The window allowed them entry into the royal apartments, just as Patrick Callaghan had planned it. The room they soon found themselves had a high ceiling and was decorated in period furniture. It was Patrick who explained its history.

  “This apartment once belonged to Queen Mary. It was here that she bore the future King James VI in 1566.”

  “Are you sure there’s no internal security?” Sean asked.

  Patrick shook his head.

  “Absolutely. I worked alongside the electrician who was responsible for pulling out the old alarms and installing a new state-of-the-art system.

  It won’t be completed for another month yet.

  Meanwhile, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly go that far, Patrick,” observed Sean, who noticed a portrait of a particularly ugly woman hanging over the fireplace.

  “I bet this hag over here is Queen Mary herself. One thing that hasn’t changed over the years — the English monarchy is just as ugly as ever.”

  Patrick managed a strained grin and pointed to the door.

  “It’s not much further now, Sean. Follow me.”

  The door opened with a rusty groan and led to a dark hallway. The wooden-slat floor creaked beneath them as they tiptoed down this corridor and began their way down a flight of stairs. They faced a wall dominated by
an enormous stainless-steel door-length vault.

  Its door was securely sealed, and Sean intently studied its hinges and tumbler-style lock.

  “You were right, Patrick, it is a bank vault. I imagine that this too is going to be replaced eventually, because it’s certainly seen better days.”

  “Can you open it?” his associate asked.

  “Now what kind of question is that? Of course I can do it. Just give me a minute to get the charges in place, and I’ll have us in there in no time flat.”

  Without wasting another second, Sean opened the green satchel and delicately laid its contents on the floor. He paid particular attention to the white puttylike substance, which he carefully rolled into a half-dozen, golf-ball-sized pellets. He then placed one of these on each of the vault’s four jambs, and two over each of its hinges. After connecting them together with a piece of electrical wire, he expertly attached the wire to a compact detonator.

  “That should do it, Patrick. I’ll give us a minute to get clear before she explodes. And then the Crown of Scotland is ours!”

  Major Colin Stewart and his four-man squad were in the process of inspecting the castle’s great hall when a thunderous explosion broke the inanimate quiet. The intricate wooden rafters of the hall shook in response to this blast, and the major cried out at the top of his lungs.

  “Everyone out into the courtyard! It sounds as if those mick bastards are going for the crown jewels!”

  This supposition was given substance as the Highlanders ran outside and viewed the cloud of smoke that was still rising from the roof of the nearby royal apartments.

  “Come on, lads!” cried the Major.

  “For the glory of Scotland, we’ve got our country’s honor to uphold!”

  This frenzied shout stirred the souls of the young soldiers who sprinted across the courtyard at breakneck speed. It was Colin Stewart who led the charge into the royal apartments and up the stairway to the crown room. The smoke was still heavy as he spotted the jagged hole in the wall where the vault door had once stood. It was then he heard the sickening sound of breaking glass, and without any thought of his personal safety, he burst into the room where the regalia was stored.

  The angry blast of a carbine greeted him as he dived to the ground to dodge the oncoming bullets. Again the crack of glass breaking stirred him into action. He rolled to his left, and using the base of a display case for cover, dared to squat upright. This afforded him the barest glimpse of a longhaired young man reaching into the case that held the crown jewels. Instinct took over as Colin Stewart raised the barrel of his rifle and let loose a burst of 7.62-mm hollow-point bullets. His Heckler and Koch was set on full automatic, and in a matter of seconds twenty-five empty shells littered the floor beside him.

  He was in the process of jamming in yet another clip when the members of his squad opened up with their own weapons. Bullets whined overhead, and he was forced to hug the ground to keep from getting hit by the dozens of ricocheting rounds. It seemed to take an eternity for this barrage to cease. The air was thick with the scent of cordite as Colin Stewart cried out.

  “Hold your fire. lads!”

  Conscious that nothing could have lived through that hail of bullets, he again squatted upright and peeked over the display case. It was when he spotted the blood-soaked wall beyond that he stood fully.

  A single bullet-ridden body lay on the floor, covered by broken glass and splinters of wood and plaster. The deceased appeared to be in his mid-twenties and had long brown hair and a fair complexion. He wore blue jeans and a nylon windbreaker. With little time to mourn this stranger’s passing, Colin Stewart kicked aside the M-1 carbine that lay at his side and turned to check the integrity of the royal regalia. He breathed a sigh of relief: although the glass of the outer display case had been smashed, the three-inch-thick plexiglass inner case remained intact.

  The jeweled crown, sword, and scepter took on a radically new meaning as Colin recognized them for what they were, the symbolic equivalent of the seat of Scottish government. His heart swelled with pride. He found himself feeling ashamed for downgrading his assignment here, when an excited voice cried out behind him.

  “Major, it looks like the other one’s getting away through Queen Mary’s apartment!”

  Having completely forgotten that they had been searching for two men, Colin Stewart cursed and went running for the doorway. He reached the queen’s room and found his men huddled around the open window.

  “I tell you, I saw him climbing over the ramparts of the Half Moon battery,” pleaded one of the soldiers.

  “Then get after him, lads!” ordered Colin Stewart, who just then heard the distant whining alarm that indicated the rest of the garrison would now be available to join in on the manhunt.

  As his men began scrambling out the window, the major sighed heavily. His arm and shoulder hurt where he went smacking into the floor of the crown room.

  Somehow he had managed to bruise his forehead. But that still didn’t account for the puddle of sticky blood that he found staining the ledge of the windowsill. It suddenly dawned on him that if this didn’t originate from one of his own men, then at the very least they had been able to injure their quarry. With this hope in mind, the forty-two-year-old veteran agilely climbed out the window to join in on the hunt himself.

  Chapter Six

  The Pentagon was built as the world’s largest office building. Situated on the banks of the Potomac River across from Washington, D.C.” the colossal structure housed over 30,000 employees. It was not one building, but about fifty, all interconnected, that formed five complete pentagons placed one inside the other in a series of concentric five-sided rings over two blocks wide.

  The outermost and largest ring was known as the Ering.

  Offices here were the only ones with an outside view and were for the most part reserved for such distinguished personages as the Secretary of Defense, the Secretaries of the various services, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the other chiefs. Admiral Alien Long was genuinely flattered when he was offered an office in this coveted part of the building.

  From his current vantage point, as he peered out the window behind his desk, he could just make out the rounded dome of the Capitol in the distance. It was mid-morning, and the quick moving storm front that had made his early commute such a nightmare had since passed, leaving a brilliant blue sky in its place.

  On the banks of the Potomac the trees were green with freshly budded leaves, while tulips and daffodils colored the grassy slopes with spring color.

  Alien Long would have much rather preferred to play golf on a glorious morning such as this, but his current workload wouldn’t allow it. Lately he had even resorted to taking work home, and the light in his study often burned late into the night.

  His wife Nancy argued that the pressures of his job were too much for a man his age. But Alien Long would hear of no such nonsense. He had spent over four decades of his life in the U.S. Navy, and he wasn’t going to retire until they tied and bound him, as they had to his old friend Hyman Rickover.

  As with Rickover, Alien Long’s specialty was submarine development. He had been one of the original project managers of the Trident program and was currently involved with R&D on a new class of nuclear-powered attack submarines that would hopefully go into production soon. Because of his many years of experience with such matters, the navy was using him to act as their main liaison with Congress. This was a thankless, often frustrating position. Most of the time he felt more like an accountant than a naval officer as he worked on a seemingly endless collection of appropriations requests.

  In an era of monetary constraint and budget deficits, Alien Long was responsible for explaining to the various congressional committees the necessity of each new request for funds. Since much of the technology involved was highly classified, he had to walk a thin line between those with a legitimate need to know and those without. Often it was his decision alone that allowed a senator or cong
ressman detailed information on a project that only a handful of Americans were aware of.

  Admiral Long took his difficult job most seriously, and often spent many a sleepless night worrying about the consequences of a poor decision.

  In addition to his work with Congress, he also oversaw several pet projects with the office of Naval Research and the Naval Ocean Systems Command. His area of special interest was mainly in the field of ROVs, or remotely operated vehicles. Most of these were unmanned submersibles that could reach depths much greater than any manned vessel could. Usually controlled from a mother ship by means of a fiberoptic cable, such ROVs showed great promise, especially in the fields of ASW, oceanographic research, and marine salvage.

  It was hoped that the new class of attack sub the navy desired would be able to operate such vehicles.

  Since this ability would be unique to this class of vessel, the technology involved was expensive. It was up to Alien Long to present a case to Congress detailing the necessity of such equipment.

  He would be meeting with the chairman of the Senate Committee on Armed Services in the morning, and was preparing a detailed report on ROVs to present to him. As it turned out, such technology was about to play an important part in a tragedy that had recently befallen the United States off the coast of Ireland. This disaster came to pass when a B-52 Stratofortress collided with a KC-135 tanker during a routine refueling operation. The B-52 had been carrying four nuclear weapons in its bomb bay. All of these devices were believed to have fallen into the sea. The navy was already moving in a variety of ROVs to facilitate the search for these, and he was certain they would soon enough show their worth. Admiral Long was going to make it a point to divulge this information during tomorrow morning’s meeting in the Senate office building.

  To ensure that he got a detailed, accurate report on the effectiveness of the ROVs as they were deployed in the Irish Sea, the admiral decided to call in one of his experts. Commander Brad Mackenzie, or Mac, as he preferred to be called, was one of the brightest, most loyal junior officers he had ever worked with. Mac’s current billet was as a troubleshooter with Nose, and the admiral had little difficulty convincing the Naval Ocean Systems Command to reassign him temporarily.