Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  “What’s the matter, Bernard?” asked the physician.

  Bernard pointed to the north.

  “Looks like the Brits decided to blockade the entrance to the Firth after all. I believe those are Leander-class frigates.”

  As Dr. Blackwater accepted the binoculars, he raised them to his eyes and corrected his colleague.

  “Actually, they’re Cornwall-class Type 22’s. But that makes little difference. They’re still not going to bother us in the least.”

  “I wish I could agree with you, Doc,” returned Bernard.

  “The Royal Navy are a fastidious bunch, and if they really want to look for trouble, they usually find it.”

  The physician handed the binoculars to Sean and retorted, “Have you no faith in your own plan, comrade?

  Even if they do board us, one sniff of that bilge will be enough to convince even the most detail oriented petty officer to abandon any further search effort.”

  “Those frigates sure don’t appear to be heavily armed,” observed Sean.

  “I don’t even see a single deck gun.”

  Dr. Blackwater was quick to reply.

  “Don’t let that fact fool you, lad. Naval warship designers today have replaced the guns of old with missile launchers. They might not appear as intimidating, but they get the job done much more effectively.”

  “Which frigate should I head for?” asked Bernard.

  “Just keep your present course,” advised Dr. Blackwater.

  “We’ll let them tell us what to do. And if they do board us, let me do all the talking, if possible.

  I’ve been doing my bloody best to perfect a Scot brogue, and I always did like amateur theatrics.”

  The tug was several hundred meters closer to the blockade when its radio-telephone activated. Dr.

  Blackwater picked up the handset and accepted the greetings of a Royal Navy lieutenant, who then ordered them to approach the ship nearest to Little Cumbrae Island and prepare to be boarded. Calmly accepting this inevitable fact, the physician once more shared his knowledge of human nature with his shipmates.

  “Sean, you stay up in the wheelhouse with Bernard, and both of you, just look natural. Don’t make any threatening moves, and take this all in stride as the minor inconvenience that it is. And if you are asked a question, answer it directly, with as few words as possible. I’ve got the registration papers on me, and will try to get this whole thing over with as soon as possible.”

  The boarding party arrived via a whaleboat. It was led by a fair-haired officer in a white tunic and matching shorts. Four enlisted men accompanied him, and each one wore a bolstered handgun.

  With a forced smile. Dr. Blackwater accepted their line and called out to them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.

  What’s with the reception committee?”

  “It’s just a routine check,” replied the officer, who climbed on board the tug with two of his men.

  “Could I see your papers, please?”

  The physician reached into his pocket and pulled out the tug’s registration form. Before studying it, the officers ordered his men to take a look around.

  “Is there anything wrong?” asked Dr. Blackwater politely.

  “I certainly hope you don’t think we’re guilty of some infraction. An admiralty fine now is all we need. This entire trip has been nothing but a financial disaster from the start.”

  Barely paying this any mind, the officer intently studied the tug’s papers.

  “I see that you’re home ported in Glasgow. Are you headed there now?”

  Tyronne Blackwater nodded that they were, and the officer continued.

  “And where are you coming from?”

  “I’m sorry to say, Dublin,” returned the physician with a smirk.

  “No offense to the Irish people as a whole, but as long as I live, I hope never to return to that place again. Do you realize that we pulled a barge all the way over there from Ardrossan, and when we went to collect our fee as agreed, the bastards told me that they didn’t have the cash, and asked if they could owe it to us? I could tell right then and there that they didn’t have any intention of paying us. And before we were forced to leave without any compensation whatsoever, I was able to talk them into a barter arrangement. In place of the money they owed us, I took on a mixed load of smelt and cod. Yet how was I to know that our refrigeration plant would give up the ghost halfway across the Irish Sea? And now all we’ve got to show for our efforts is a bilgeful of spoiled fish. Why, they’re so rotten that I doubt if even the fertilizer works will have them!”

  Seconds later, one of the enlisted men seemingly corroborated this story when he reported finding a foul-smelling load of spoiled fish in the tug’s hold.

  When his shipmate returned from his search of the vessel’s forward compartments and had nothing out of the ordinary to report, the fair-haired Royal Navy lieutenant handed the registration papers back to the tug’s owner.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir. And I’m also sorry for your bad luck. Do have a safe trip back to port, and please be patient as you reach the upper reaches of the Clyde. The Queen is visiting the Gare Loch naval installation this afternoon, and I’m afraid there’s a bit of a crowd congregating up there already.

  Seems that everybody who has a boat wants a chance to see Her Highness as she christens our first Trident submarine. Do have a look yourself. You should get there just in time for the festivities.”

  “Perhaps there’s a pot of gold at the end of this long voyage after all,” reflected Dr. Blackwater as he led the sailors over to the rail and helped them as they climbed back into the whaleboat.

  The physician waved goodbye and casually turned for the tug’s wheelhouse. With his best poker face he then proceeded to address his shipmates.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, comrades. Open up that throttle. And let’s get on with that date with history that’s waiting for us at the other end of the Firth of Clyde!”

  As the tug’s engines rumbled alive, all three members of its crew failed to spot the oblong, rectangular lens that just broke the water only a few meters aft of the tug’s transom. On the other end of this viewing device, Captain Mikhail Borisov watched as the frothing white wake of the tug’s propeller colored the gray seas. Only when he was satisfied that the vessel was headed up the channel did the blond-haired commando step back from the periscope.

  “You may lower the scope, Comrade Warrant Officer,” he ordered.

  “Helmsman, all ahead full. It’s absolutely necessary that we stick as close to the tug as possible. I’ll man sonar myself.”

  As Sea Devil’s single-bladed propeller whirred alive, its CO hurried over to the sonar console. He sat down on a narrow bench and clipped on a set of miniature headphones. This allowed him to monitor the series of sensitive hydrophones mounted throughout the mini-sub’s hull. As he isolated those microphones set into the bow, the throaty rumble of the tug’s engines was clearly audible, as was the cavitation al hiss caused when millions of tiny bubbles collapsed on its propeller.

  “Bring us up another meter, Oleg,” instructed the captain.

  “And be ever cautious of water density changes as we initiate our passage into the fresh water of the Firth.”

  The trick now was to get as close to the bottom of the tug’s hull as possible without striking it. In this manner, the enemy sensors would pick up only a single entity on their monitor screens.

  The deafening ping of an active sonar unit caused Mikhail to reach out and turn down the volume of his hydrophone receivers. This same distinctive hollow noise was heard throughout Sea Devil, even by those without headphones.

  “We should be passing by the line of frigates just about now,” offered the helmsman, Yuri Sosnovo.

  “This is the moment of truth,” added Oleg Zagorsk, who was perched beside the diving station.

  At her post at the main circuit board, Tanya Olovski looked up at the snaking cables that lined the ceiling of
the mini-sub, as if she could see the surface platforms responsible for the monotonous pinging sound. Her upward glance was shortlived, though, when a well-placed drop of condensation hit her smack in the left eye.

  Though it seemed to the crew to take hours to dissipate, in reality only a few minutes passed before the British sonar scan began to noticeably fade. A joint sigh of relief filled the cramped compartment as the nerve-racking pinging dispersed altogether. It was their captain who spoke for all of them as he pushed back his headphones.

  “It appears that we have successfully passed the first major obstacle, comrades. Yet we mustn’t celebrate prematurely. We still have a good distance to go yet until our goal is attained. If our luck holds, perhaps we’ll have this tug to run interference for us most of the way. So keep ever vigilant, and if the fates so will it, we shall prevail.”

  Sliding back his headphones, Mikhail urgently added, “We must have more power, Yuri! Full ahead emergency, if you must. This tug is a godsend, and I don’t want to lose its cover. And besides, to hell with conserving our battery power! Only one thing matters, and that’s getting us to Holy Loch!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Liam’s tour of the Bowfin’s torpedo room was cut short by an urgent call from the sub’s captain.

  “Get our guest up to the bridge on the double, XO. It’s time he earned his keep around here.”

  They hurried back to the control room and joined the captain, Commander Mackenzie, and Major Stewart around the periscope.

  “Mr. Lafferty, I’ve got a tug up there that I want you to take a look at,” said Captain Foard.

  Liam had already peered through the periscope several previous times, and was getting accustomed to it, as he calmly ambled over to the viewing coupling.

  “Just point the way, captain. I’ll be giving it my best effort.”

  William Foard briefly checked the direction in which the lens was pointed and then beckoned the fisherman to have a look. While Liam did so, the captain briefed his XO.

  “We were on our way to the channel leading into the Clyde when we spotted an oceangoing tug off Farland Head. They seem to be merely anchored up there, and if we’re lucky, it’s our boys.”

  Any hopes that Foard might have had were dashed by Liam’s matter-of-fact observation.

  “Nope, it’s not them.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?” asked the Captain.

  Liam backed away from the scope and looked directly at the Bowfin’s CO.

  “These eyes of mine are still pretty good for an old man, Captain. And when I tell you it’s not them, I mean it.”

  Not wanting to push the point any further, the XO diplomatically intervened.

  “How about returning to the wardroom and trying some of that pumpkin pie that Cooky’s saving for you down there?”

  Liam smiled.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask, my friend. You know, you Yanks don’t eat so bad. What are you serving for breakfast?”

  The XO briefly caught his captain’s eye and winked before escorting Liam back out of the control room.

  “Now what, gentlemen?” asked Foard.

  Mac looked to his watch.

  “I say it’s time to start heading up the Clyde, Captain. If they plan to make that christening, then that’s where we’re going to find them.”

  “I agree,” said Colin Stewart.

  “At least the Firth is the only sea route that leads into Gare Loch.”

  “Thank goodness we have that going for us,” returned the captain as he conveyed the orders that would send them towards Little Cumbrae Island and the channel that led directly into the Firth of Clyde.

  Mac and Colin were in the process of following the captain over to navigation when the sonar operator spoke out.

  “Captain, I’m picking up a strong active sonar scan in the waters directly ahead of us, bearing three-four zero range three miles. It seems to be coming from more than one surface platform.”

  Curious as to the source of this disturbance, Foard returned to the periscope well with his two guests close on his heels. Only when he turned the scope to the bearing just conveyed to him and increased the magnification of the len se tenfold did he comment.

  “Well, I’ll be … there’s a line of frigates out there blocking the channel. As I speak, they’re in the process of boarding a fishing trawler, that was headed in our direction.”

  “That must all be part of the security precautions for the Queen’s visit,” ventured Colin Stewart.

  Mac was quick to add, “If that’s the case, if our tug has already passed through the channel, they’ll have a record of it.”

  “Quartermaster, have communications patch me through to the squadron leader of the group of Brit frigates that lie immediately north of us,” ordered the captain.

  Less than a minute later, this directive was carried out and Foard was instructed to pick up the nearest telephone handset. Both Mac and Colin anxiously watched the captain as he began his brief conversation.

  There was a concerned look on the COs face as he hung up the handset and addressed his guests.

  “Well gentlemen, it seems nine tugs have entered the channel since midnight. All checked out, and were ultimately headed to Port Glasgow, with the latest one passing less than a half hour ago.”

  “At least that narrows down the odds a little,” observed Mac, who looked on as the captain called out, “Helmsman, take us down to eighty feet. All ahead full! Next stop, the Firth of Clyde.”

  Silently loitering off the coast of Little Cumbrae Island, the India-class attack sub Ladoga monitored the approach of the the Bowfin long before the American sub contacted the commander of the British surface ship squadron. Captain Dmitri Zinyagin excitedly seated himself before his vessel’s auxiliary sonar console as soon as the first contact was established. Here he breathlessly listened as the distinctive signature of this bogey was positively identified as being an American Sturgeon-class submarine. Zinyagin had been praying that such a vessel would come this way. And now, with the Sturgeon’s presence, his inspirational plan of action could at long last be implemented.

  There was an expectant gleam in Zinyagin’s eyes when the American sub turned toward the line of frigates and activated its underwater telephone. Though he wasn’t able to monitor this conversation, he guessed that the Yanks were asking permission to pass under the blockade. This supposition was confirmed when the Sturgeon continued on toward the channel, propelled by the full power of its engines “All ahead, emergency speed!” ordered Zinyagin passionately.

  “Helmsman, prepare to interface autopilot with the primary underwater sonar contact that we’re currently monitoring.”

  The attack center briefly trembled as the Ladoga’s propulsion system went on-line. Though they would never be able to catch up with the nuclear-powered Sturgeon, all that they were attempting to do was follow in the American sub’s baffles, that sound-absorbent cone of water that all such vessels leave in their wake.

  As he monitored this chase on the hydrophones, Zinyagin’s voice cried out once again.

  “Senior Lieutenant, open those throttles all the way.

  I must have speed, and have it now! Helmsman, interface the autopilot.”

  Though Zinyagin never took his eyes off the repeater screen, he knew this last directive was carried out when a green light began blinking on the right side of his console. This meant that the Ladoga was now being steered solely by the data being relayed to the helm by the ship’s sensors. In effect, the American vessel was now controlling their course, and the helmsmen were able to release their steering yokes and let the computers take over their jobs for them.

  A quick glance at the knot indicator showed that they had just enough speed to reach the Sturgeon’s baffles. Aligned right behind the American sub’s tail at this point, they should be able to follow it beneath the blockade without either the frigates or the Sturgeon ever being the wiser.

  Though the theory was solid, this tactic
was put to the test when the sound of an active sonar scan filled his headphones. Would the frigates monitor only a single return beneath them? Or were his calculations flawed? Well aware that the moment of truth had arrived, Zinyagin sat forward tensely as the volume of the hollow pings reached their crescendo. Only when they began to gradually fade did he exhale a long sigh of relief.

  “What in the world is going on here, Captain?”

  broke a scratchy voice from behind.

  Having anticipated this confrontation, Dmitri Zinyagin pulled off his headphones and turned to face the puzzled zampolit.

  “What does it look like, Comrade Tartarov? We’re proceeding into the waters of the Firth of Clyde, where we belong in the first place.”

  “What are you talking about, Captain?” returned the redfaced political officer.

  “I have a duplicate set of our orders locked up in my safe, and they say absolutely nothing about us entering the Firth. Why, because of this rash move you’re needlessly endangering all of us!”

  Conscious that their harsh words were starting to draw the attention of the attack center’s complement, Zinyagin stood and beckoned the zampolit to follow him over to the vacant weapon’s console. Only when the door to this cork-lined cubicle was shut behind them did the captain continue.

  “Don’t you understand what’s occurring here, Comrade Tartarov? Not only am I protecting Sea Devil’s vulnerable flank, but I’m also winning back the confidence of my crew.”

  “It sounds more to me like the only thing that you’ve won for yourself is a court martial. Captain.

  Your actions are inexcusable, and if we live to survive this unauthorized intrusion, I’ll personally see to it that the only vessel that you’ll ever command again will be a garbage scow on Lake Baikal!”

  The captain stood firm.

  “That might be your opinion, Comrade Zampolit. But I’m certain that my fellow naval officers will see things in a different light. Every CO knows that sometimes one is forced to deviate from the standing order of the day when faced with circumstances that threaten the security of one’s command.