Confused by this remark, Mac turned to Colin Stewart for clarification.
“Dr. Blackwater is Liam’s friend who agreed to handle the object’s return to its proper owners.”
A look of sudden relief crossed Mac’s face.
“Thank God for that.”
“Don’t be so quick giving your thanks. Commander,” retorted the Scotsman.
“It appears that Dr. Blackwater is involved with the terrorist organization whose antics originally brought me to Ireland. I also have reason to believe that he knows the exact nature of the object he’s currently ferrying across the Irish Sea.” Looking at Liam at this point, Colin Stewart added, “Mr. Lafferty, would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”
Liam shrugged his narrow shoulders, and not really knowing what he was doing here in the first place, did as he was instructed. Only when the fisherman slammed the cabin door shut behind him did the Highlander continue.
“Pardon my circumspection. Commander, but the old-timer still thinks that it was a piece of a satellite that he pulled from the sea that night. And that terrorist who brought me to Ireland in the first place was his own son. He appears to be a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. The IRB is a violent Marxist organization whose goal is the removal of all British influence from Northern Ireland, and the creation of a single Socialist Irish Republic.
“This Dr. Blackwater that currently has the bomb is also a member of the IRB. He knows full well that the bomb is not a satellite, and he intends to use it to further their twisted cause. Why, I’ve only just returned from his estate in County Caven, where I lost one of my men during a violent clash with some of his cronies.
They fought to the death and were protecting a massive arms cache that was recently stolen from the RUC armory at Newry. It was during my own search of the manor house that I came across circumstantial evidence which leads me to believe that the IRB plans to utilize the bomb to disrupt the Queen’s visit to our Falsane Naval Base on Gare Loch, less than twenty four hours from now.”
“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” reflected Mac, who believed the Scot, but still had trouble grasping the scope of the incident that he was alluding to.
“So what you’re saying, then, is that even as we speak, an IRB hit squad is on its way to Gare Loch with our bomb in tow, with every intention of using it to blow up the Queen of England? That’s incredible!”
“It’s much more than that,” said Colin Stewart.
“It’s absolutely frightening. Those damn fools could kill millions!”
“Calm down. Major,” advised Mac.
“If your story proves to be true, and they indeed have our device, that still doesn’t say that they’ll be able to detonate it.
Uncle Sam has incorporated a little gizmo called the PAL into all of its nuclear weapons that makes an accidental or unauthorized use of the bomb all but impossible.”
Mac had just about forgotten his brief meeting with the B-52 pilot whose plane had been carrying the bomb, and whose rantings warned that the device was unintentionally cocked at the time of the accident. Instead his thoughts were focused entirely on the Highlander as he replied.
“In ordinary circumstances, I’d agree with you, Commander.
We also incorporate permissive action links into our nuclear weapons. But what scares the daylights out of me is the fact that while my soldiers were searching the IRB compound, they came across the recently killed corpse of one Dr. John Maguire. All you’d have to do is read the local paper to know that Maguire has been missing these last couple of days.
During this time, his wife and two young daughters were also found executed. What makes these gruesome deaths so compelling is the fact that Dr. Maguire was the director of Dublin’s Shamrock nuclear facility. His resume includes a stint with your Sandia Corporation, the firm that designed the nuclear bomb your B-52 was carrying. In other words, Commander, if there was anyone on this planet who would know how to circumvent those PALs, it would be Dr. John Maguire!”
Chilled by this revelation, Mac gasped.
“Dear God!
Who else knows about this. Major?”
“As of this moment, you’re it, Commander. The chaps I work for would want a lot more solid evidence before giving me any serious consideration. One doesn’t go altering the Queen of England’s schedule on the ramblings of a drunken Irish fisherman.”
“I guess it all comes down to us figuring out a way to stop the IRB from carrying out their demented scheme,” said Mac.
“What kind of vessel did you say was being used to carry the bomb?”
Colin Stewart answered, “It’s a tug, Commander.
And I’m afraid that only makes our job that more difficult, for on any given day there’s literally dozens of tugs frequenting the waters of the Firth of Clyde.”
Mac was already contemplating his next move.
“Fortunately, I’ve got a friend back in the Pentagon who should give us the clearances we need without asking too many questions. And if I do get his blessings, would you mind coming along on a little submarine ride with me to check this thing out firsthand?”
As he accepted the Scot’s affirmative nod, Mac added, “Perhaps we’d better ask Mr. Lafferty to join us. If we’re going to stop the right tug, he’s going to have to be the one to eyeball it for us.”
“That’s a most astute observation. Commander. Since his own son’s currently on that tug, he shouldn’t be too hard to convince. Now, how can I ever thank you for supporting me like this? I came into your life from out of the blue. And for all you know, I could be a complete lunatic.”
Mac stifled a grin.
“In a manner of speaking, I hope that’s the way it turns out, Major. Because if this story of yours is true, my country could be indirectly responsible for one of the worst peacetime disasters ever to hit the planet. Let’s get moving, and nip this madness in the bud before it gets totally out of hand.”
As he flashed the personable Yank a hearty thumbsup, Colin Stewart could only thank his lucky star this man had been brought to him. Trust was a rare enough commodity these days, even among old acquaintances.
And to find this virtual stranger so open to his speculations reaffirmed Colin Stewart’s belief in a humanity that was worth fighting for after all.
The crew’s mess of the Ladoga was in the stern of the attack sub’s lower deck. It was a fairly good-sized compartment, filled with a half dozen six-man tables.
In an effort to give this space some character, red checkered plastic cloths covered each table. The bulkhead walls were covered with various realistically painted pastoral scenes whose subjects included sparkling Lake Baikal, a sunset over the Ural mountains, and a forest near the great river from which the sub derived its name.
Seated at one of these tables in the midst of supper was the crew of Sea Devil. True to his character, Mikhail Borisov turned down an offer to eat with the Ladoga’s captain and chose instead to remain with his team. The Spetsnaz officer’s presence in this part of the ship, normally reserved for enlisted ranks, was most unusual and would likely be the topic of conversation for weeks to come.
Oblivious to the whims of stuffy protocol, Mikhail enjoyed this chance to see how the average sailor on the sub faired. And so far he had to admit that he was impressed. His meal was the same that was being served in the officers’ wardroom, though instead of china and silverware, it was dished straight onto compartmentalized heavy plastic trays.
This evening they were served boiled beef, potatoes. carrots, and cabbage. Freshly baked poppy-seed rolls accompanied this repast, whose dessert proved to be a tasty pear tart. Sorry that he couldn’t have anything stronger than heavily sweetened black tea to wash it down with. Sea Devil’s CO contentedly munched away on his cabbage, while his engineer finished up the remark he was in the midst of.
“… and that’s why I still think it’s fundamentally wrong for warships of this size to have segregated mess facilities. What’s wrong with the enlis
ted and commissioned ranks eating together in the same room? Not only would it save precious space, but it would give the officers a better chance to know what’s on the average seaman’s mind.”
“But I thought that’s what the biweekly Komsomol meetings were for,” countered Tanya Olovski.
“That might be the case on other ships in the Red Banner fleet, but certainly not this one,” returned Yuri Sosnovo.
“Why, you heard the Ladoga’s pretentious senior officers. How much thought do you think that they give the average sailor’s plight on this ship?
They’re much too busy expounding their own lofty theoretical viewpoints to allow the Komsomol to become the open forum it was intended to be.”
“I’d say it’s fortunate for Captain Zinyagin that you’re not a permanent member of his crew,” offered Mikhail between bites of beef.
“Otherwise he could have a serious mutiny on his hands.”
The chief engineer shook his head.
“I’m not espousing violence in this instance, Captain… only a sailor’s state-given right to have an open environment.
And that’s why I feel that by having only a single mess on ships of this size, the officers would be obligated to take into consideration such concerns.”
“I doubt if Captain Zinyagin would agree,” observed Oleg Zagorsk.
“He reminds me of a village chief that I once heard of, who had his subjects wait on him as if he were the Czar. He never did care a damn about the average worker, until one of them snuck into his cabin one day and decapitated him.”
Tanya Olovski remarked while mopping up her gravy with a poppy-seed roll.
“I think that Yuri has a good point, especially when applied to the Ladoga. Never have I felt a boat with so much inner tension on it.
Have you noticed how the officers order around the enlisted personnel as if they were cattle? I feel it’s true that a captain is the one who’s responsible for establishing a vessel’s morale. And on this ship, there’s something seriously amiss. A first step to reestablishing normality is for Captain Zinyagin to recognize that he has a serious problem and then to address it by opening himself up to the feelings of his subordinates.”
“One good thing that I can say about the Ladoga is the quality of this food,” said Mikhail, who thought it well to change the subject.
“I’ve seen the boat’s limited storage and preparation facilities, and that cook of theirs must be a real magician. Why, this beef is as tender as a loving mother’s heart.”
“If only we had a decent-sized mess on Sea Devil. Then I’d cook you up a potful of Ukrainian borscht that would quickly put this meal to shame,” offered Yuri Sosnovo.
“Speaking of Sea Devil, I think it’s wise for all of us to eat hearty this evening. We will be deploying shortly, and this could be our last full meal in some time,” said Mikhail.
A period of introspective silence followed as the mini-sub’s crew dug into their food with renewed vigor.
They were well into their desserts when the young Uzbekian seaman who had introduced himself in the torpedo room earlier shyly left his table and approached them.
“Excuse me, comrades, I couldn’t help but notice you over here, and I wanted to take this opportunity to say hello once again.”
“That’s most cordial of you, sailor,” replied Mikhail.
“Pull up a chair and join us.”
Torpedo mate third class Vasili Buchara humbly shook his head that he couldn’t.
“I’m afraid that I have to get back to my watch, sir. But thanks for the offer. I just wanted to let all of you know what an inspiration it’s been meeting you. I have greatly admired the Spetsnaz from afar since I was a little boy, and talking with you has given me a new goal to work for. No matter how long it takes, I’m not going to rest until I too can join the proud ranks of the motherland’s special forces.”
Mikhail caught the glances of his crewmates and smiled warmly.
“That’s excellent news, comrade. The Spetsnaz is always looking for new blood, and from what I’ve seen of you, I’d say that your chances were excellent of gaining entrance to our training program.
Have you brought up your interest to the Ladoga’s political officer as yet?”
“Oh no, sir. I wouldn’t dare bother the ship’s zampolit with such an insignificant concern.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Mikhail.
“As political officer, it’s his duty to assist you with your military future. So if you don’t want to be in that stuffy torpedo room for the rest of your life, speak up, lad! A candidate for the Spetsnaz has to have a mind of his own, and not be afraid to show some initiative.”
“I’ll do so at the first opportunity, sir. And perhaps the next time our paths cross, I too will be wearing the fabled striped tunic and red beret.”
“Good luck to you, lad,” offered the veteran, who watched the young sailor leave the mess with an expectant grin turning the corners of his mouth.
“I just hope that the zampolit doesn’t hang him from the yardarm for asking for that admissions application,” reflected Yuri Sosnovo.
“If he does, he’ll have to answer to me upon our return,” shot back Sea Devil’s CO.
“Now the hour’s getting late, and all too soon we’ll be deploying. So get some rest while you can. I’ll join you as soon as I finish going over our final launch coordinates with Captain Zinyagin.”
While leaving the mess deck, Mikhail noticed the almost reverential stares he drew from the other enlisted men who had been eating there. He imagined that the young Uzbek had already told his shipmates all about the fabled Spetsnaz warriors who shared this voyage with them. With a polite nod, the blond commando acknowledged their interest and slipped through the forward hatchway.
A ladder took him up two decks to where the command spaces were situated. The corridors here were packed with snaking cables and pipes. It was as he passed by the closed doors of the radio room that a young seaman intercepted Mikhail with his right index finger pressed to his lips.
“Please be absolutely certain to proceed as quietly as possible, sir,” he whispered.
“The captain has just ordered a state of ultra quiet.”
As this seaman hurriedly made his way aft to spread the message to the rest of the crew, Mikhail continued traveling in the opposite direction. When he finally made it to the Ladoga’s attack center, he found the ship’s captain and zampolit huddled over the seated sonar operator. Illuminated as it was by red lights to protect the crew’s night vision, the compartment had an atmosphere that was noticeably tense. Mikhail reached the sonar station just in time to hear the sub’s captain.
“Is it still approaching, Comrade Zitomir?”
The sonar operator wore bulky headphones and had his stare locked on the repeater screen as he answered.
“Affirmative, Captain. They’ll be almost directly on top of us any moment now.”
His flabby jowls glistening with sweat, the concerned zampolit voiced himself.
“Perhaps we should reverse course and wait for a more opportune moment to transit the channel.”
The captain, who noticed that Mikhail Borisov had just joined them, responded to his political officer’s suggestion with a disgusted shake of his head.
“If only we had that luxury, Comrade Zampolit. It’s imperative that we get our esteemed passengers to their dropoff point by six p.m. And that leaves us little time for tarrying.
Surely a British Leander-class frigate shouldn’t be much of a match for a vessel the likes of the Ladoga.
What do you think, Captain Borisov?”
“Under normal circumstances, the Ladoga’s stealth capabilities should effectively mask us from such a platform,” returned Mikhail.
“Thus we should be fine as long as our ultra quiet state is not compromised.”
“And as long as I’m at this helm, it won’t be!” retorted Dmitri Zinyagin.
“I still think we should take a more cautious appro
ach to this transit,” countered the perspiration soaked political officer.
“Of all the choke points we have to pass through, this channel is the narrowest.”
Mikhail knew that the zampolit was referring to the North Channel. Less than 20 kilometers wide, it separated the northeastern tip of Ireland from Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre.
“Comrade Tartarov, I’ve heard enough out of you!” spat Captain Zinyagin.
“You will refrain from further comment regarding my tactical decisions, or I will have you removed from this attack center!”
Fear momentarily clouded the bloodshot eyes of the political officer as he humbly nodded in obedience to this command. Seconds later, a distant, high-pitched whine could be heard in the hushed compartment. The sonar chief identified it.
“I’m picking up strong surface cavitation topside, Captain. It’s the Leander, all right, and it’s going to pass right over us!”
Mikhail listened breathlessly as the signature of the frigate’s propellers rose to an almost earsplitting whine. This was accompanined by a distinctive hollow pinging sound that every submariner learned both to respect and fear.
“We’ve been scanned with active sonar,” observed the sensor operator unnecessarily.
Mikhail instinctively looked upward, and could picture the sleek frigate as it cut a frothing white swath through the shallow waters of the channel. Deep in its combat information center its Royal Navy crew would be hunched over their sonar repeaters, ever vigilant for the moment when their sonic scan would reflect off of a solid underwater contact. Hopefully, the thick anechoic tiles that lined the Ladoga’s hull would do their job and by absorbing the scan keep it from reflecting upward. Otherwise the all-important element of surprise that their mission depended upon would no longer be theirs.
Like a charging freight train, the frigate passed directly overhead. Mikhail found himself taking a series of deep, calming breaths. As he angled his gaze back downward, he noted how cool and collected the attack sub’s captain seemed to be as he intently watched the
Leander’s sonic signature express itself on the repeater screen. Beside the veteran senior officer, the ship’s political officer looked like he would drop to the deck with a coronary any moment now. While doing his best to wipe his soaked forehead dry with a handkerchief, he was in the process of nervously biting to the quick the fingernails of the other hand. His agitated stare was almost comical to the Spetsnaz commando, who had long ago learned that anxiety could kill a man just as surely as a bullet could.
Sea Devil Page 28
