As Admiral Long’s eyes and ears at the crash site, Mac would provide him with almost instantaneous updates on the recovery effort. He would then be able to utilize this information to further convince Congress that the ROV program was well worth the money that would be needed to continue its growth and development.
Mac was still unaware of the reassignment. As Admiral Long checked his watch, he saw that the plane carrying Mac was supposed to have landed at Andrews Air Force base over a half hour ago. He would thus be arriving at the Pentagon any moment now, at which time his new duties would be explained to him.
In a way, the Admiral wasn’t looking forward to breaking this news. Mac had been intricately involved with another project for almost a year now. Recently this assignment had taken him to several locations throughout the Pacific basin on the trail of a mysterious submersible that was believed to be Soviet in origin.
This elusive vessel supposedly operated on Caterpillar-like treads that guided it over the seafloor.
These tracks had been found in such diverse locations as the waters off Karlskrona, Sweden, Sicily, San Francisco, the Marshall Islands, and southern California. In each of these instances, they were located near sensitive military installations.
When a Trident II warhead launched from Vandenberg was lost beneath the waters of Kwajalein Atoll and a DSRV searching for it came across a puzzling set of tracks. Admiral Long recommended that Mac be sent out to identify them positively. At the same time, a hydrophone anchored beneath the seas of the Navy’s San Clemente test range picked up the unusual signature of a mini-sub that appeared to be propelled by some sort of tracked drive system. Suspecting that this could be the culprit responsible for the theft of the Trident II warhead, the admiral had Mac sent to southern California.
A combination of bad luck and a mysterious mine field kept Mac from participating in the capture of this vessel. Seven American sailors died in that incident, and Mac swore to apply all his efforts in finding the ones responsible. Unfortunately his trail was leading him nowhere, and rather than watch him be eaten up by frustration, the admiral decided to reassign him. Besides which, Mac was the best man available for the all-important job at hand in the Irish Sea.
Alien Long came to the conclusion that a radical change of assignment was just what Brad Mackenzie needed. Though he hated to have to pull him away from his family in Hawaii, Mac was a career officer who had long ago learned either to adjust to such absences or to find a new line of work.
Surely Mac would understand the utter priority of this new assignment. The suspected Soviet mini sub would probably be around long after the missing bombs were recovered. Mac would have a chance to help his country by assisting in the recovery of these weapons.
Then he’d be able to go back to work tracking down his nemesis, this time with a clear and open mind to guide him. Certain Mac would see it his way, the admiral found his thoughts interrupted by the shrill ring of his intercom.
“Yes, bowman,” he barked into the transmitter.
“Sir,” his secretary reported, “it’s Admiral Connors returning your call from Holy Loch, Scotland.”
“Excellent,” returned Long as he picked up the red telephone handset and activated the secure line.
“Bart, Al Long here. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Listen,
I understand how crazed you are over there right now with the recovery operation and all, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to send someone over the pond to give you a hand. He’s a marine salvage expert, Commander Brad Mackenzie, who helped write the book on ROV’s… yeah, the same one … I thought you could use him… sure, I’ll put him on the next flight…. You too, Bart. Stay healthy, and good luck with your mission.”
Alien Long hung up and turned his gaze back to the Potomac. He had set the wheels in motion. Now he only needed Mac to arrive so that he could explain to him his new destiny.
The lights of Dundalk harbor were getting increasingly brighter, and Liam Lafferty knew that his long, arduous voyage was finally about to come to an end. For two long days and a night he had been drifting helplessly, the victim of a malfunctioning engine carburetor.
Since he had no radio to call for help with, the grizzled fisherman was forced to do the mechanical work himself. Thankful for his time spent at his cousin’s garage when he was a lad, Liam had to practically tear down the greasy carburetor and rebuild it, to get the device operating. By the grace of God, his persistent efforts paid off, and with the ancient engine puttering away like its old self, he gratefully turned the wheel toward home.
One stroke of luck was the excellent weather that continued to prevail. His greatest fear was that a gale would strike while the boat was dead in the water. These seas were notorious for such storms, and rarely did two solid days of fair weather pass in a row.
If a storm arrived, he planned to rig a sea anchor and attempt to ride it out. He would also have had to empty out the hold, to make the boat as light as possible.
This would have meant returning to the sea the massive elongated cannister he had recently plucked from the waters. Since Liam worked for nearly six hours dragging this weighty object on board, he didn’t look favorably upon the idea of having to abandon it so quickly. Besides, he wanted to carry it back to Dundalk and have it properly identified. And then who knew what would follow? For if his suspicions were correct, he’d soon be collecting a fat reward for hauling the charred cannister back to land.
It had apparently floated down from the heavens on a parachute soon after the night sky had lit up like day and the resonant explosion had sounded. Though Liam never saw the cannister hit the water, he arrived in time to find it bobbing on the surface, barely supported by a ring of compressed air floats. Its parachute was still wrapped around it, and it would surely have sunk if Liam hadn’t been there to intervene.
With the same block and tackle that he’d used to lift his largest fish-filled nets, Liam brought it on board with the assistance of a straining winch. To keep it from rolling around, he secured it inside the hold. This left him with little room for any additional fish. But the mysterious object would certainly gain him a reward of some sort, and his profit was all but assured.
Liam’s initial guess was that it was a piece of a satellite that had exploded in the earth’s atmosphere. Most likely it belonged to either the United States of America or the Soviet Union. It didn’t matter much to Liam though. Both countries were rich, and would pay him well for returning their property.
With visions of large stacks of cash dancing before his eyes, Liam finished securing his newfound treasure and went to start up the engines for the trip home.
They sputtered alive, but only operated for a few fleeting seconds before unceremoniously shutting down on their own. Liam sensed trouble, and sure enough found the engine impossible to restart. After a series of angry curses, he rolled up his sleeves and crawled down into the engine room.
For the better part of two days he worked in this greasy, cramped compartment. He broke only for an occasional meal of salted fish or the briefest of naps.
There were several occasions, though, when he rushed topside upon hearing the sound of what he thought was an approaching vessel. But in each instance, the clatter proved to be coming from a grouping of helicopters that must have been in the midst of maneuvers in the area. Since they never got close enough for him to flag them down, Liam could only crawl back to the engine room to get on with his toils.
It was during dusk of the second day that his tireless efforts paid off. The engine coughed alive, and after a brief cry of joy, Liam turned the bow toward the flickering lights of Dunany Point.
Though he wore no watch, he knew it was long after midnight. It had been his father who had taught him how to read the time by checking the location of the stars in the ever-shifting evening sky. Doubting that there’d be anyone down at the main docks in Dundalk to greet him at this hour, Liam decided to tie up at the leisure pier in Dunany. This would put him within
walking distance of home. Then after a bath, a nap, and one of his wife’s delicious meals, he’d move the boat back into Dundalk and get on with the process of collecting his reward. With this plan settled, he anxiously set a course for the bright white beacon that shone from the Dunany lighthouse.
Liam reached his goal without incident, and after securing the hold with a padlock, climbed off his boat and began the walk homeward. Solid land felt good beneath his feet. His hike took him up a sloping earthen path. Several times he had to momentarily halt to catch his breath. Only a few years ago he could make this climb without stopping to break his stride, and he was well aware of one of the handicaps of his advanced age. Yet he wisely paced himself, and after a period of hiking would halt, wipe his brow, allow his heaving lungs to settle, and only then continue.
He felt a sense of accomplishment upon attaining the summit. Confident that he still had some life left in his old bones after all, the fisherman scanned the darkened bluff. He could just make out the twisted trunks of the grouping of ancient oaks that gripped the rocky soil here, and the outline of several ramshackle cottages that were interspersed among these trees. Strangely enough, the lights nearest to the bluffs edge were still illuminated.
“I wonder what in heaven is keeping Annie up at such an ungodly hour?” he mumbled to the gentle wind.
Guessing that she had either gotten carried away with her knitting or fallen asleep reading, Liam headed for the cottage to find out.
The first inkling he had that something was seriously wrong was when he spotted the blood-soaked doorknob.
His pulse quickened in alarm as he noted that there were also drops of blood on the mat.
“Annie!” he screamed as he pushed open the door.
He immediately spotted his wife kneeling beside the couch. Laid out before her with his shirt off was the unconscious body of their son, Scan.
“My heavens, Annie! What in God’s name has happened here?”
His wife answered while staunching the flow of blood from Sean’s right shoulder.
“He stumbled in here about a half hour ago. It appears he’s been shot.”
“Shot, you say?”
“That’s what this wound indicates.”
“But who in the world would shoot Sean? I always thought he didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Almost in answer to his father’s question, Sean began mumbling incoherently.
“Patrick… Patrick … the Crown of Scotland … for the glory of the Brotherhood!”
With this, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
While his mother wiped his sweat-stained forehead, Liam pondered out loud.
“Who in the hell is this Patrick? And what does the Crown of Scotland have to do with anything? Surely the lad’s delirious.”
“He said the same thing earlier,” retorted Anne Lafferty.
“It’s his mention of the Brotherhood that scares me, Liam. Could he be involved with the IRB?”
Liam looked at his wife as if she was crazy.
“Our Sean, involved with the likes of the Irish Republican Brotherhood? Surely you’re daft, woman. He’s much too sensible to be in league with that group of bloodthirsty Marxist terrorists.”
“I hope you’re right. Because there’s no telling what kind of trash he came in contact with in Dublin. And if he has gone and gotten himself involved with the IRB, that could account for this gunshot wound.”
Liam didn’t want to consider this possibility and turned back toward the front door.
“All I’m certain of is that our son has lost a lot of blood. And since Sean’s going to need some expert tending to if he’s going to pull through, I’d better go and fetch Doc Blackwater.
Can you handle him until we get back?”
Anne Lafferty nodded. Her husband got on with his urgent mission of mercy. Since neither he nor any of his neighbors had telephone service, he once more proceeded on foot. He didn’t even wait for his night vision to return to travel at full stride. This time his route was down a narrow paved roadway that eventually led to Dundalk’s central square. The physician lived on the outskirts of the tiny village of Annagassan, approximately two kilometers from the Lafferty residence.
Liam covered this distance quickly. He barely felt the alien tightness in his legs as he climbed up onto the wide wooden porch and anxiously pressed the bell.
The house was dark, and Liam wondered if the doctor had been called away. If this was the case, Liam would be forced to travel into Dundalk to find the next readily available medical assistance. Again he hit the doorbell, this time with panicky impatience. He was all set to bang his fist against the door when a light popped on. This was followed by a hoarse, muffled voice.
“All right out there, hold your horses. I’m coming!”
The door finally opened, revealing a tall, thin, silver haired man dressed in a robe and slippers. Dr. Tyronne Blackwater was in the process of putting on his wire rim spectacles. Only when these glasses were in place could he identify the individual who had called him from his warm bed.
“Liam Lafferty, what in the world are you doing on my doorstep at this hour? Is Annie all right?”
“Thanks be to God, she is, Doc. It’s my son Sean who’s ailing. It appears he’s been shot in the shoulder.”
“I’ll get my bag! Meet me on my driveway beside the garage.”
Liam turned to follow the physician’s directions and arrived at the garage just as the doctor came out the back door. Somehow in this brief time he had managed to throw on some trousers, shoes, and a jacket, and with his black leather bag in hand, he crossed over to open the garage door. Inside was a dark green Land Rover.
“Get in!” commanded its owner.
Liam complied, and no sooner did he settle himself into the comfortable leather seat than they roared down the driveway.
“Is he at your place?” asked the physician.
“That he is. Annie’s attending to him.”
They drove away from the village. Liam had to grip the hand rest tightly to keep from tumbling over as the doctor sped down the winding roadway as if he was in the midst of a race.
“How much blood has he lost?” the physician asked.
He downshifted to guide them around a tight left-hand turn.
Liam felt his right shoulder press up against the side of the passenger door.
“I can’t say for certain. Doc.
The living room is covered with the stuff, though Annie seemed to have the bleeding under control when I left her.”
“Good. If it was indeed a gunshot, and no vital organs were punctured, then blood loss and shock will be our next concern.”
A cat suddenly darted out in front of the car, and the alert physician instinctively yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. He hit the brakes, and the Range Rover skidded around the frightened feline.
Quick to regain control, Doctor Blackwater shifted into fourth gear and floored the accelerator. Liam’s heart was racing as he was thrown back into his seat. The engine was growling away with a deafening roar, and Liam was in the process of making the sign of the cross before him when they rounded another corner and he spotted the lights of his cottage twinkling on the nearby hillside. Liam pointed in this direction, and the physician nodded and turned them onto a pockmarked dirt trail. With the assistance of the vehicle’s four-wheel drive capability, they bounded up this pitted pathway and seconds later braked to a halt before the cottage’s front door.
Liam didn’t know what to think as he climbed out of the Rover and watched as the front door to his house opened and out came Annie.
“My, you two made it here in a jiffy,” she calmly observed.
“He seems to be sleeping a bit more comfortably now, and the blood has all but stopped flowing from his wound.”
“That’s just the news I wanted to hear,” replied the physician as he quickly made his way to her side.
“Annie, my dear, I always said you’d have made me the perfect nurs
e. Now let’s have a closer look at your patient to see precisely what the damages are.”
Liam followed them inside and watched as the doctor kneeled down beside the couch and began attending to his son.
“He’s a lucky one, all right,” observed the physician.
“There don’t seem to be any arteries severed, and the wound appears confined to muscle tissue. Annie, I’m going to need some boiling water and plenty of clean linen.”
“It’s on the way,” she replied.
While his wife went off to fulfill this request, Liam guardedly peeked over the physician’s shoulder. Doctor Blackwater had just given Sean a shot and was in the process of gently probing into the wound with a thin steel instrument.
“Will you be sewing it up. Doc?” asked the fisherman.
“Eventually, Liam. But first I’ve got to remove the bullet responsible for this mess. In fact, if you look right here behind this mass of flesh, you can just see the devil.”
Liam had already seen enough, and fighting back the urge to retch, he politely excused himself.
“If you won’t be needing me, Doc, would you mind if I wait this out on the back porch? I think I could use some fresh air.”
“Not at all, Liam. Hopefully, I’ll be able to join you shortly.”
The fisherman left the room just as his wife arrived with a pot of scalding water and an armful of towels.
Liam gratefully ducked outdoors. As he filled his lungs with the cool night air, his queasiness gradually left him. He realized that it was one thing to peer into the insides of a fish that he had just gutted, and another altogether to view the inner workings of his own son.
He wearily seated himself on the edge of the porch and stared out into the blackness. The stars twinkled in the heavens, while below he could just make out the ever-surging ink-black sea. His body felt heavy and fatigued, yet he couldn’t surrender to the call of sleep until he was absolutely certain Sean was out of danger.
Sea Devil Page 11
