Can you move in closer so that we can get a definite on Broken Arrow?”
“Roger, Command,” returned Dr. Brilliant.
Mac knew that Broken Arrow was the code name for the missing atomic device, and that the officials topside wouldn’t rest until they saw the bomb with their own eyes.
“I hope she doesn’t try moving in too close,” warned Crowley.
“That current could change any second, and if K-l was to get fouled in that chute, they might never be able to get free.”
“Just a little bit closer, K-I,” directed the controller.
“And increase the lense magnification to maximum intensity.
What we’d like to see is the serial number that’s printed beside Broken Arrow’s fin.”
Matt Crowley seemed unusually tense as he turned Mystic back towards the ledge where they had made their discovery. Just as they were able to spot K-l’s muted lights in the distince, a concerned female voice broke from the intercom.
“Command, the helm seems to be completely unresponsive.
No matter how much thrust I apply, we remain static. I’m afraid that we’re hung up on something.”
“Damn!” cursed Crowley, whose prophetic remark suddenly seemed to have come true.
“Try your reverse thrusters, Doctor Brilliant!” he ordered into his microphone.
It seemed to take an eternity for K-l to respond.
“It’s no use! Our thruster pods are caught in the parachute, allowing us zero maneuverability.”
This disturbing fact was visually corroborated as Mystic closed in on the static mini sub
“Damn it to hell! They’ll never be able to get out of that mess on their own,” observed Crowley to his passenger.
Mac looked down at his watch.
“Well, we’d sure better come up with something quick. Because in another twenty hours or so, K-l’s power pack is going to run dry, and then that crew’s going to suffocate to death.”
Peering out at the foundering mini-sub, Crowley could only think of a single drastic course of action.
“There’s only one way that we’re going to get them out of there in time, partner. And that’s to use Mystic to shove ‘em out.”
“But the bomb?” countered Mac.
“You heard what kind of bathymetrics that we’re dealing with here. If we go barreling into that chute, there’s a very good chance the bomb’s going to end up tumbling off the ledge and falling into the trench that lies below.”
“To hell with that frigging bomb!” screamed Crowley.
“Come on, partner. We’re dealing with three human lives out there. And they’re civilians to boot.”
With the realization that there was no other way to cut them loose in time, Mac softened.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Without even sharing their plan with Command, Crowley flashed his copilot a thumbsup and opened up the Mystic’s throttle.
“Hold on, Doc,” he said into his microphone.
“Because the United States Navy is coming to the rescue.”
“Lieutenant Crowley, this is Control. Please refrain from any rash moves until we’ve had some time to toss this thing around up here.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t copy that. Control,” responded Crowley, who flashed his partner the briefest of winks before turning his total attention back to the difficult job at hand.
At a distance of twenty yards, Crowley cut the Mystic’s engines and allowed their momentum to carry them forward. They struck the mini-sub a glancing blow amidships, hitting them with just enough force to send K-l hurtling free of the chute’s grasp. Fearful that this collision might have cracked K-l’s hull, Crowley followed in the mini-sub’s baffles until its dual propellers activated with a bubbling white vortex.
“All right!” exclaimed the Mystic’s jubilant pilot.
“Thanks for the assistance, Lieutenant,” cried the shaken voice of Dr. Brilliant.
“If you don’t mind, we’re going to head topside to see what the damages are.
And don’t forget, the next pizza’s on me!”
After flashing the Mystic’s lights in response to this offer, Crowley turned the DSRV around. Yet as they returned to the subterranean ledge where the bomb had been perched, all they found in its place was a whirling cloud of sediment.
“Damn it!” swore Crowley, as he pounded his clenched fist against the bulkhead.
“That’s not going to bring it back,” said Mac.
“We gambled and we lost. At least we saved three lives in the process.”
“Let’s go into that trench and track it down. I’m not going to rest until we tag it again.”
“We’ll find it eventually. But I think it would be a wasted effort on our part if we just went down there blindly like this. In this instance, it’s best to surface, recharge Mystic’s batteries, and let the sonar topside do the work for us. Then we merely have to go down there and pull it up.”
Having had time to cool off, Crowley nodded.
“I hear you, Mac. No use rushing into that trench without some idea where that bomb’s hiding. And the one thing we can be sure of is that it’s not going anyplace in the meantime.”
Crowley yanked back on the control yoke, and in almost instant response, the Mystic began the long trip back to the surface.
Their reception topside was not as grim as they had expected. Command was genuinely relieved to have the three civilians from Woods Hole safely back aboard the Lynch. Yet they were still upset with Matt Crowley’s rash decision to effect their rescue on his own.
It was the powerful three-dimensional sonar of the oceanographic ship that indeed located the bomb once again. This time it was found at a depth of 997 feet, lying on its side on a flat expanse of sandy sediment.
Though Crowley immediately volunteered the Mystic’s services, the arrival of the remotely operated vehicle known as CURV at the site allowed Command to turn down this offer.
Because he was part of the team that originally developed the cable-controlled underwater research vehicle, Mac was invited over to the Lynch to watch it in action. One of CURV’s great advantages was that it could be controlled from the surface without jeopardizing human life down below. Capable of attaining depths of up to 3,000 feet, the ROV had no trouble reaching the subterranean trench where the bomb had lodged.
From the control room of the Lynch, Mac watched the two-man team that had flown out from San Diego expertly manipulate the joystick that determined CURV’s speed and course. At a depth of 900 feet, they activated its powerful bow spotlights and fiberoptic camera. A detailed picture of the surging sea filled the monitor, and Mac could have sworn that he was back on the Mystic once more, watching the the scene unfold from one of the DSRV portholes.
A familiar scooped-out trail on the sandy seafloor led them once again to the billowing parachute. Fifteen feet above it, the ROV’s three electrical motors were stopped. Illuminated by two high-power mercury vapor lights, the nose of the bomb could be clearly seen, wrapped in the chute’s harness. This sighting caused a relieved shout of joy to fill the previously tense control room.
Mac joined in this brief celebration, yet knew that the most critical part of the operation was yet to come. Since it was apparent that the parachute harness was firmly connected to the bomb itself, CURV’s hydraulically operated articulated manipulator arm proceeded to hook the grapnel end of an inch-thick nylon line into the apex of the chute’s canopy. Another line followed, each having the strength to lift over 10,000 pounds. The best guess was that the bomb and the waterlogged parachute would put this estimate to the test, and there was a shared feeling of apprehension as the winch set on the Lynch’s stern began to slowly pull in the dual lines. Almost an hour later, the tip of the parachute broke the surface. Skin divers were sent into the water at this point to wrap wire straps around the dangling weapon. These straps were attached to an iron chain lifting line that pulled the device up out of the water and lifted it safe
ly onto the deck of the ship.
Another chorus of relieved cheers sounded in the control room. Mac accepted a hearty handshake from one of CURV’s operators, and found himself already mentally formulating the dispatch that he’d soon be sending off to the Pentagon. He knew that Admiral Long would be especially thrilled that it had been an ROV that was responsible for recovering the bomb.
Surely this would give him the additional support he needed to successfully argue his case for continued funding in this field before Congress.
Mac made his way topside to get some fresh air.
Lowlying gray clouds veiled the sky, adding an almost menacing touch to the seas that surrounded them.
With one half of their demanding task now completed, all that they needed to do was recover the other bomb for their mission to be a total success. With the hope that Lady Luck would remain with them and that it would be spotted shortly, Mac plodded off for the radio room, to convey news of their find to Washington.
Approximately 450 miles north of the oceanographic ship USS Lynch, Captain Mikhail Borisov and his crew crawled into the Sea Devil as it lay anchored to the moon pool of their support tender. The three-day surface voyage from Kronstadt had taken place without incident, and now they were about to begin the next leg of their mission, this time strapped to the deck of the attack sub Ladoga.
The spacious tender had been a most comfortable home, and the grim reality of their precarious duty set in as they took their positions inside the cramped confines of the tracked mini sub
“The pressure capsule is sealed. Captain,” instructed the moustached chief engineer, Yuri Sosnovo.
“I show containment at one hundred percent.”
Satisfied that Sea Devil was now ready to go on its own way, Mikhail Borisov spoke firmly into the underwater telephone.
“We are ready for release, Comrades.
And thank you again for your gracious hospitality.”
“You are most welcome,” came a voice from the speaker.
“And may all of us aboard the Ugra take this opportunity to wish you a safe return.”
There was a loud clicking noise as the restraints that held Sea Devil down onto the steel decking released, and the moon pool began flooding. They kept their positive buoyancy until the reservoir was almost completely filled.
“You may begin taking on ballast, Comrade Zagorsk,” ordered Mikhail, who had just been informed that the steel plates that formed the bottom of the moon pool had been opened to the sea.
They descended to a depth of ten meters, and Borisov ordered the helmsman to activate the throttle. Powered by the massive batteries beneath the aft deck plate Sea Devil’s single propeller began madly spinning, and the vessel moved forward at a speed of four knots.
The condensation had already began dripping off the collection of snaking pipes and cables that formed the control room roof, and electrician Tanya Olovski soon had her first minor short to contend with. With his charts safely covered in oilskin, the captain expertly guided them towards the rendezvous coordinates where their next mode of transportation was hopefully awaiting them.
“I wonder if Captain Zinyagin is still in command of the Ladoga,” reflected the chief engineer as he fine tuned the vessel’s trim.
“Last year, when the Ladoga gave us a lift into the Mediterranean, I’ll never forget that lecture he gave us about the meaning of duty and honor in the Red Banner fleet. I honestly didn’t think that the Rodina’s Navy still had officers like that in positions of command.”
“He’s from the old school, all right,” returned Mikhail.
“But his conservative command policies shouldn’t distract you from the fact that Captain Zinyagin is a qualified submariner, who was going in harm’s way when you were still suckling at your mother’s breasts. Now the fellow I’ll never forget was the Ladoga’s zampolit. That fat little bastard got on my nerves from the very start. Why, the nerve of that pig even to talk to us about the important part our suicide pills play in the event a covert operation goes sour. As if that beady-eyed fool knew what it was really like to constantly lay one’s life on the line.”
“I’ve never seen someone sweat so much in my entire life,” added Yuri Sosnovo.
“I swear, by the time that political officer finished his briefing, that handkerchief of his was dripping wet, along with the entire collar of his shirt. I remember thinking at the time that what I’d like to do with my cyanide pill was to shove it up his fat ass.”
This observation produced a loud snicker from the mouth of Tanya OIovski, who had been in the midst of replacing a circuit board.
“Go ahead and laugh all you want, comrade,” replied the chief engineer with a smirk.
“But if that zampolit still on board the Ladoga, you’ll be sharing my sentiments soon enough.”
This statement was punctuated by the deep voice of Oleg Zagorsk.
“We’ve got a submerged sonar contact, Captain. Range three thousand meters, bearing three zero-zero.”
Mikhail looked down at his chart, his glance centered on the small red star he had drawn halfway between the Orkney and Shetland Islands.
“I’ll bet my pension that’s the Ladoga,” he said as he reached for the underwater telephone.
A quick call confirmed this fact, and the crew scrambled to prepare Sea Devil for the intricate docking procedure that would now follow. With a minimum of trouble the Sea Devil was guided into the forwardmost of the two semi-recessed deck wells set abaft the Ladoga’s sail. After securing the mini sub operational systems, the diving lock was utilized to transfer the crew down into the attack sub’s interior.
Waiting for them at the bottom of the ladder was a tall, bald-headed officer whose immaculate uniform was bedecked with an assortment of colorful campaign ribbons. At this smooth-faced veteran’s side was a corpulent individual with deep brown eyes and dark bushy eyebrows. Constantly kept busy mopping his forehead and jowls with a sweat-stained handkerchief, the Ladoga’s Zampolit stiffly projected his scratchy voice in greeting.
“On behalf of the entire crew, welcome aboard the Ladoga, comrades.”
“Yes indeed,” added the attack sub’s Captain, who directed his next remark to Sea Devil’s CO.
“And a special welcome home to you, Captain Borisov. It’s good to be of service to you once again.”
“Thank you, Captain Zinyagin,” replied Mikhail.
“It’s hard to believe how much time has passed since our last meeting. Why it seems that we were just cruising past the straits of Gibraltar together.”
“That it does,” returned Captain Dmitri Zinyagin with a sigh.
“Yet I’m certain that all of us have traveled far and wide in the meantime. Would you like to join us in the wardroom? I was just about to join our zampolit here in convening the boat’s biweekly Komsomol meeting.”
“I’m certain that you would find our discussion today most inspiring, Captain Borisov,” added the portly political officer.
“During this meeting both the captain and myself will be offering our ten rules for effective naval leadership. Perhaps you’d like to share with the members of the Ladoga’s young communist club your own philosophies on this matter?”
Briefly meeting his chief engineer’s brooding gaze, Mikhail replied.
“Though this offer sounds most tempting, I must humbly refuse. As you well know, we are in the midst of a challenging operation, and since our stay on the Ladoga will be brief, I think it’s best if we spend our time getting settled in our quarters and resting.”
“That’s only understandable, comrade,” retorted Captain Zinyagin.
“There’ll be time enough for us to share our command philosophies upon your return. And surely at that time your crew will join in as well. It’s always refreshing to hear what the Spetsnaz has on its mind in regard to the principles of leadership.
“Now enough of this chatter. Captain Borisov, if you’ll just follow us, we’ll guide you down to the quarters we’ve ch
osen for you. I hope you don’t mind, but on this cruise we’re a bit cramped, and you’ll be sharing a stateroom with our senior lieutenant. The rest of your crew has been allotted berthing space in the forward torpedo compartment.”
Mikhail was quick to speak up.
“If it’s okay with you, Captain, I’d rather bunk with my shipmates.”
Astounded by this, Dmitri Zinyagin protested.
“Surely you can’t be serious, Captain. I’m certain you’ll be much more comfortable sharing the senior lieutenant’s cabin.”
“It’s not a matter of comfort,” replied the blond haired Spetsnaz officer firmly.
“Aboard Sea Devil we have learned to function as a tight-knit team, and since any disruption of this unit weakens the bonds of trust that weld us together, I’d prefer remaining with my shipmates during the duration of our transit.”
“As you wish comrade,” said the Ladoga’s CO coldly.
“I’ll have our Michman show you and your crew down to your quarters.”
Conscious of the zampolifs intense, beady-eyed stare, Mikhail nodded and gratefully followed the sub’s warrant officer, who efficiently materialized to escort them to the torpedo room. Their living quarters turned out to be nothing but mattress like pallets that had been laid directly on top of the torpedo storage racks. With not even a curtain for privacy, Sea DeviFs crew made the best of the circumstances.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” offered the moustached chief engineer.
“I’d much rather have these torpedoes for company than this vessel’s senior officer complement.
Those two were as impertinent as they were during our last visit here.”
Tanya Olovski sat cross-legged on her spongy mattress and offered her own observations.
“I see what you mean about the zampolit. During the whole time he visited with us, not once did his sweat break. That poor fellow must go through one uniform after the other.”
“I once knew a fellow with the same problem back in the taiga,” reflected Oleg Zagorsk.
“Not only did he sweat like a mule, but he had horrible body odor as well. Our village elder said that he was possessed by a fiery demon, and he gave him a potion to drink to drive out the spirits.”
Sea Devil Page 24
