A series of ladders led them down a succession of decks. The constant, muted drone of the Ugra’s steam plant was readily noticeable in this portion of the ship, and the air was heavy and warm.
It was with great relief when Mikhail ducked through a familiar hatchway and halted on a latticed-steel catwalk.
Before him now was the massive rectangular reservoir around which the ship had been designed. At the bottom of this pool, since been drained of water, was Sea Devil. The tracked mini-sub seemed unnatural out of its intended medium. Looking more like a tank than an undersea vessel, it was anchored directly to the steep plates that formed the Ugra’s lower hull.
“So that’s the vessel that’s going to change the world’s balance of power,” reflected the Admiral of the Fleet, who had taken up a position beside Mikhail.
Mikhail nodded.
“I know she doesn’t look like much, but Sea Devil contains everything I need to complete my mission. That is, as long as those specially designed limpet mines were placed inside her, as promised.”
“They’re down there, all right,” revealed Igor Starobin.
“I had my aide deliver them to the ship himself. I believe he transferred them to your warrant officer.”
“That would be Oleg Zagorsk,” explained Mikhail.
“He’s Siberian by birth, and grew up in the taiga.
Though he’s not much of a talker, he knows how to follow an order, and he’s proficient with every single one of the Sea Devil’s operating systems.”
“How’s your female crew member working out?”
asked Igor Starobin.
“Not as bad as I had first feared,” admitted Mikhail.
“Comrade Olovski is a competent electrician who’s willing to learn, and so far she hasn’t let us down.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” replied Admiral Starobin.
Konstantin Markov thoughtfully reflected.
“I would have thought that having a woman on a platform as confining as Sea Devil would be a distraction. Haven’t you experienced any sexual tension among your other crew members, Captain?”
Mikhail grinned.
“Sir, it’s apparent that you’ve never laid your eyes upon Tanya Olovski. Why, I’ve seen more attractive men in my time.”
A shared laugh was cut short by the shrill cry of a steam whistle.
“Sounds like the Ugra is ready to go,” observed the Admiral of the Fleet.
“Unless we’re going to accompany you all the way into the North Sea, we’d better get going. May good fortune be your constant companion, Captain.”
After accepting Markov’s firm handshake, Mikhail turned to face Admiral Starobin.
“I, too, wish you nothing but good fortune, comrade.
Remember that I’d be going along in your place if I could, and that you’ll be responsible for displaying the capabilities of my life’s work for me. May your voyage be a smooth one, and your return a time for joyous celebration. And don’t forget about that three month leave on the shores of the Black Sea that’s awaiting you. If you’d like, I’m even willing to throw in Tanya Brusovo.”
“I’d like that very much,” replied the blond-haired Spetsnaz commando, who returned Igor Starobin’s playful wink with one of his own.
Chapter Eleven
Major Colin Stewart and his four-man squad arrived in Armagh by helicopter dressed in green combat fatigues.
They left the British army post soon after the Sea King touched down, yet this time they traveled by automobile, and one would have had to look closely to see that they were soldiers. A quick change into civilian garb at the barracks made this transformation possible.
The addition of various fishing gear supported their cover of being a group of Scottish Highlanders on leave, who were spending their vacation time seeking out the elusive Irish salmon.
It was outside of Newry, as they approached the border with the Republic, that they were forced to halt at a roadblock. A column of black smoke could be seen clearly spiraling up into the heavens beyond the next rise, where a Lynx helicopter was hovering protectively.
Colin Stewart could sense trouble as a burly, sour-faced sergeant major wearing the insignia of the First Battalion of the Parachute Regiment on his tunic came over to the driver’s side of their car and greeted them gruffly.
“You’ll be getting no further until I see those ID cards.”
Colin Stewart held up the plastic laminated card that showed his picture and rank. The sergeant major instantly stiffened to attention. us.”
“I’m sorry. Major. I didn’t realize you were one of “What’s going on here, Sergeant Major?” asked Stewart.
“It’s bandits, sir … they ambushed one of our recon squads about an hour ago. When our lads ducked behind a nearby bunker to return fire, a mine went off, killing three of them instantly. Why, those Mick bastards had it set up all the time!”
Colin Stewart sighed heavily.
“Were you able to arrest any of the ones responsible?”
The sergeant major shook his head.
“They disappeared back into the fields before our reinforcements arrived. We’ll get the heathens eventually, because this has all the markings of an IRA hit.”
“What makes you believe that?” asked the Highlander.
“From what I understand, the IRB has been increasingly active in this area.”
“It’s not the Brotherhood this time, Major. This is my sixth tour here, and it never fails that every May fifth, the IRA carries out one of these ambushes to remind us that today is the anniversary of the day Bobby Sands died from his hunger strike. If you ask me, that’s a pretty morbid way to be remembered.”
“That it is, Sergeant Major. Is it safe for me and my lads to continue on to the border?”
The burly Para looked inside the car and replied, “They just completed sweeping the road for mines, so I guess it is, sir, but if I were you, I’d seriously consider doing your fishing somewhere else. Bandit country is no place to be spending a leave.”
“We’ll remember that, Sergeant Major,” answered Colin Stewart, who returned the Para’s salute and beckoned their driver to continue.
They carefully passed over the rise and spotted an assortment of military personnel scouring the country223 side looking for evidence. The Lynx was in the process of evacuating the last of the wounded, and Colin Stewart noted the bloodied earth that stained the still smoking bunker.
“Kind of makes you want to get out there and kick some ass!” bitterly observed one of the young Highlanders from the backseat.
“Just hang in there a little bit longer, lads” advised the grizzled veteran.
“I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to get a chance to get even soon enough.”
A drive of another three and a half kilometers brought them to the Garda outpost that signaled the border. The vertical green, white, and orange flag of the Irish Republic flew from the flagpole here, and Stewart prepared to greet the uniformed customs officer who ambled over to intercept them.
“Good day to you, gents. Do you have some kind of identification?”
Stewart gathered together the squad’s ID cards and handed them over. The customs officer glanced at them with interest and handed them back.
“So you’re all Scot Highlanders. I understand you’ve got some magnificent countryside up there. May I ask what you’ll be doing inside the Republic?”
“Not at all,” replied Colin Stewart with an amiable smile.
“Me and the lads have heard that the Irish salmon are even bigger and tastier than our own variety, and we mean to find out ourselves if this is the God’s truth or not.”
“So you’re fishermen,” reflected the Garda official, who proceeded to scour the car’s interior.
“I see you’re going to be fly casting. As a fellow angler myself, I feel it makes the sport more challenging. Now would you mind opening up the boot and letting me have a little look around?”
Ever thankful
that they had their armaments stashed away in a specially designed compartment set beneath the undercarriage, Colin Stewart got out of the car and opened the trunk himself. After a brief search, the customs officer looked up to meet the Highlander’s firm stare.
“I suppose that you heard all about the ambush that just took place up the road a piece. It’s a senseless waste of life, it is, and I’ll leave you to your fishing with one word of advice: keep a low profile, and don’t go probing into affairs that aren’t your concern. That’s the surest way of any for you lads to get yourselves in trouble.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Stewart as he closed the trunk and returned to the car.
Only when they were moving south once again did he turn to address his men.
“Welcome to the Republic of Ireland, lads. As of this moment, we’re all on our own here. Technically, since we’re out of uniform and carrying concealed weapons, we could be shot as spies if the Republic so desired. But if we play our cards right, we shouldn’t have to worry about such a thing.”
A sign passed on their left that indicated that Dundalk was ten kilometers away. Seeing this, the major added, “The first airfield we’ll be checking out is less than four kilometers from here. There’s only one other field in the general vicinity. And since the Nimrod monitored the suspect aircraft landing in this quadrant, it’s got to be in either of them.”
With the help of a detailed map, they turned off the main road and began their way down a narrow country lane. This route wound its way past a collection of picturesque stone cottages and emerald green pastures filled with sheep and ripening hay. Coming to an unmarked crossroads that wasn’t on their map, Stewart instructed the driver to bear to the left. This gamble soon paid off as they spotted a weather-beaten sign marked, Drumbilla Airdrome—1 kilometer.
Another sign led them down an even narrower roadway whose asphalt was cracked and in many places choked with weeds and brush. It was obvious that this poorly maintained thoroughfare hadn’t seen traffic for some time now, and they learned this for certain upon viewing a weed-choked Quonset hut in the distance. A cracked concrete runway lay before this dilapidated structure, which had long ago sheltered it’s last aircraft.
They drove up to the Quonset hut anyway and parked before the hangar entrance. Colin Stewart volunteered to peek inside and found the corrugated steel shell empty except for dust, garbage, and cobwebs.
Someone had spray painted Brotherhood Forever on the rusted side of the building, yet the Highlander doubted that this airstrip could have accepted an aircraft under any circumstances.
“Let’s hope we have better luck at the other field, lads,” said Stewart as he climbed back in and signaled the driver to continue to their alternative destination.
They found this second airport located right off the main road. Also built around a Quonset-type service hangar, this field was in much better shape and had a variety of light aircraft parked along the tarmac. They halted alongside a sign advertising Patrick Rayburn’s Flying School. There was a single ancient lorry parked here, and Colin Stewart explained his plan.
“I’ll take Private Campbell with me and see if we can find whoever belongs to that lorry. Meanwhile, you lads can stretch your legs, if you’d like. But don’t wander too far.”
Colin and his sandy-haired associate began their way over to the hangar. The sound of pounding sheet metal greeted them as they rounded the structure’s curved corner and approached its open entranceway. Here a single grease-stained mechanic was visible, beating away with a hammer on the engine cowling of a rust-eaten Piper Cherokee. Their crisp footsteps echoed off the hangar’s metallic floor as they entered, and Colin Stewart loudly cleared his throat.
“Excuse me!” shouted the Highlander.
The startled mechanic turned around suddenly, and in the process his hammer went clattering to the floor.
“Good heavens, where on earth did you two come from?” he anxiously questioned.
“Actually, from Edinburgh,” answered Colin in his best Scottish brogue.
“We’ve been in your beautiful country fishing, and were wondering if it’s possible to find someone to fly us back home.”
Eyeing them suspiciously, the mechanic replied.
“You’ll be wanting the charter airport at Dundalk, then… it’s about seven kilometers south of here.”
“We were hoping we wouldn’t have to go that far,” returned Stewart with a forced smile.
“Are you certain we can’t hire a plane here? We’d be willing to pay top dollar.”
This last statement seemed to get the mechanic’s attention as he thoughtfully scratched his grease-stained forehead.
“So you’d be wanting to fly all the way over to Edinburgh. That’s quite a long flight, especially for the likes of the small planes kept here. Why, the only aircraft with that range would be Patrick Rayburn’s twin-engine Cessna.”
Colin Stewart briefly eyed his sandy-haired associate before answering.
“Is that Patrick Rayburn the flight instructor?”
“The same,” shot back the mechanic.
“If you’d like, why don’t you give him a call at home. And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy Murphy sent you.”
While the mechanic unsuccessfully searched his stained coveralls for something to write with, Private
Robert Campbell alertly stepped forward with a pen and pad.
“Why thank you, lad,” said the mechanic as he scribbled down the pilot’s telephone number.
“Can we see his plane?” asked Colin Stewart.
“I don’t see why not. It’s parked on the other side of the flight line, beside the gasoline pumps. She’s a first class piece of equipment, with radar, a multi frequency radio, and auxiliary fuel tanks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy,” said Stewart as he pocketed the pilot’s phone number.
“Not at all, sir,” replied the mechanic as he bent down to pick up his hammer.
“And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy sent you!”
Quick to exit the hanger, Colin headed straight back to the car.
“Corporal Duncan, bring along the tool kit,” whispered Stewart.
“And the rest of you, follow me to the other side of the flight line.”
By way of the hangar’s rear, they quickly proceeded to the line of planes parked on the other side. All of these were small, single-engine models except for the last, which sported dual engines and an elongated white-and green steel fuselage.
After stationing lookouts, Stewart climbed up to the cockpit. Peering through the plexiglass windows, he found it littered with empty cups, cigarette butts, and other assorted trash. To examine the interior closely, he signaled Corporal Angus Duncan to join him. The brawny native of Inverness deftly climbed up beside his commanding officer and utilized a pick to force open the Cessna’s door lock.
The scent of sour milk was overpowering as Stewart climbed inside the messy cockpit. Holding his breath to keep from choking on this nauseating smell, he rummaged through the assortment of items stored here.
He found several charts on the copilot’s seat, beneath a partially eaten cheese sandwich. Hurriedly he flipped through this stack, halting on that which lay on the bottom. A substance that looked much like dried blood stained the edges of this chart, and Colin Stewards pulse quickened as he unfolded it and found a course drawn in red pencil, extending from Dumbarton, Scotland, to their current location north of Dundalk, Ireland.
“We’ve got it, lads!” revealed the rugged Highlander as he gratefully scrambled out of the smelly cockpit with the chart in hand.
As his men excitedly gathered around him, he added, “Not only is the exact course drawn out for us, but it appears our suspect’s blood stains the map as well.”
“What do we do next?” asked one of the enlisted men.
Stewart grinned.
“That’s easy enough, lads. Now it’s time to pay pilot Patrick Rayburn a little visit. Shall we?”
A quick telephone call found the pilot at home.
Having nearly to scream to be heard over the assortment of children bawling in the background, Rayburn somewhat reluctantly gave Colin Stewart directions to his house. This stone cottage turned out to be less than ten minutes from the airfield. It was situated on an isolated rural lane, with a thick stand of evergreens set behind it.
“I believe I can handle this alone, lads,” offered Stewart.
“Why don’t you deploy in the forest, in case I need you.”
The bricks of the walk were cracked and out of place as Colin proceeded to the front door. A television set could be heard blasting away inside, along with the incessant cries of a wailing infant. The Highlander had to knock loudly on the wooden door several times to produce a response.
“Who’s there?” screamed a man.
“Mr. Rayburn, it’s the chap who called earlier from the airfield. Paddy Murphy gave me your number.”
The door opened with a squeal, revealing a slightly built, beard-stub bled man in his mid-twenties. He wore a dirty t-shirt and shorts, and talked without taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
“So you’re the fellow who wants to fly to Scotland.
I don’t know why Paddy even gave you my number in the first place. I’m merely a flight instructor. For commercial flights you should go down to Dundalk or Dublin.”
“But I don’t want to fly from either of those locations, Mr. Rayburn,” replied Stewart coolly.
Taking a moment to size up the solidly built Scotsman, Patrick Rayburn shrugged his skinny shoulders.
“Well, then, it’s going to cost you, my friend.”
A young boy dressed in a cowboy hat suddenly came running into the living room, chased by two screaming girls dressed as Indians. Their high-pitched cries of mock warfare were almost deafening, and the pilot disgustedly turned and shouted at them.
“Please, kids, Daddy’s talking business here!”
Completely ignoring this, the children continued their battle, while in the background the infant’s wails intensified.
“I’m sorry,” offered the shaggy-haired pilot.
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