Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  “Hold tight, men!” ordered the captain, who directed his next instructions to the diving officer.

  “We’re going to breach like a frigging whale. Lieutenant Lawrence.

  And as soon as we hit the water, I need you to put on emergency ballast and get us wet again real quick. I’m counting on the racket that we’re going to leave topside to give those two fish a fit, and that’s when we’re going to try to sneak off back into the depths.”

  Mac braced himself for this unorthodox maneuver to take effect. The angle of the deck beneath him was extreme, and he had to grip the edge of the chart table so tightly that it was digging into the palms of his hands. Yet he didn’t dare let go, or he would end up sliding backward into the aft bulkhead along with the broken coffee cups, ashtrays, and other assorted implements that had already tumbled in this direction.

  “We just passed twenty-five feet,” observed the helmsman.

  “Torpedo range is down to one-half mile,” added the chief tensely.

  “Here we go!” shouted William Foard, who wisely braced himself for the powerful concussion that followed.

  Mac wasn’t so prepared, and was thrown to the deck as the submarine went shooting through the Firth’s previously calm surface bow first, and then went crashing back down into the water. As he blindly grabbed the leg of the radar console, Mac heard the roar of onrushing ballast. And before he could pick himself up, the angle of the deck reversed itself and he went sliding in the opposite direction.

  It wasn’t until they were at a depth of thirty feet that Mac was able to stand upright. He found himself perched against the weapons console. Beside him, his Scot colleague was likewise holding on for dear life.

  They traded a long, concerned glance as the voice of the sonar operator broke the tense silence.

  “I’ve lost the torpedoes in the knuckle that we left behind up there, Captain. The water’s still sizzling topside!”

  A hopeful grin turned the corners of Colin Stewart’s mouth, and just as Mac was about to exhale a relieved sigh of his own, the sonarman added, “Damn it, one of them is following us down! Somehow it’s still on its wire. Range is a quarter of a mile and closing.”

  With this, the mood in the compartment turned instantly dark once again. Mac could now see fear reflected in the eyes of the Scotsman. For the first time since the alert, Mac had the feeling that they weren’t going to make it after all. This heaviness stayed with him even as the captain optimistically cried out.

  “This old lady’s not licked just yet. Open those throttles wide. Chief, and bring us around hard on course zero-eight-zero. That fish is going to have to really prove itself to catch the USS Bowfin!”

  And from the weapons room of the Ladoga, Seaman Third Class Vasili Buchara watched the madly spinning spool from which their sole remaining wire guided torpedo derived its target’s location. Even though a great victory was about to be theirs, the Uzbek felt no joy.

  Instead his feelings still smarted from his humiliating confrontation earlier with the sub’s zampolit.

  Shamed and hurt by this encounter, only one thing mattered to Vasili, and that was to avenge his dishonor.

  And the only way he knew how to properly re353 taliate was to hurt the object that meant the most to the obese political officer. He’d shame Tartarov’s command!

  Vasili could picture the sweating zampolit, and the rest of the ship’s officers, in the Ladoga’s attack center right now, basking in the glory of the victory that would soon be theirs. As if these buffoons knew what the real meaning of heroism was! As far as Vasili was concerned, they were all cowardly fools who could never hope to stand up to a man like Mikhail Borisov.

  It had been this same brave commando who had told Vasili that a candidate for the Spetsnaz had to have a mind of his own and not be afraid to show some initiative.

  And this was exactly what the young Uzbek would display as he reached forward and severed the torpedoes’ fiberoptic wire with a single push of the disconnect button.

  Mac had been in the process of bracing himself for the inevitable explosion that was bound to engulf them any second when the Bowfm’s sonar operator cried out in astonishment.

  “It’s gone! One moment it was right on our tail, and then in the blink of an eye, the darn thing just disappeared.

  Its wire must have broken.”

  A moment of stunned silence followed as this unexpected news was digested. Yet this was all too soon followed by a chorus of relieved cheers. Not prepared to celebrate just yet, Captain Foard raised his hands overhead to quiet his men and then forcefully addressed them.

  “We’ve only won the first round, gentlemen. Now it’s time to hurt the bastards responsible for this cheap shot and score a knockout punch. Chief Langfbrd, hit ‘em with active and cycle their signature through the computer. Then once we know who they are, interface this signature into the Mark 48s in tubes one and two.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” returned the sonar operator.

  As the Bow/in prepared to take the offensive, the weapons officer took up his position at the console where Mac was standing. Mac watched him at work and was soon joined by the Scotsman.

  “Who do you think is responsible for this attack, Major?” asked Mac.

  “And do you think they’re in league with the group on the tug?”

  Colin Stewart also watched the weapons officer at work.

  “Though I seriously doubt the IRB has an attack sub in their inventory, it sure appears that way.

  Who knows, maybe Ivan’s giving them support with this one.”

  This supposition was apparently given substance when the chief sonar operator revealed the results of his scan.

  “We’ve got that signature ID. Captain. Big Brother shows an eighty-seven-percent probability that we’re dealing with a Soviet India-class submarine.

  They’re currently loitering beneath the waters south of us, at a relative rough range of three miles.”

  As the captain prepared the Bowfm to do battle, Mac absorbed this astonishing news, for he had very recently encountered this same class of vessel almost halfway around the world, off the coast of San Clemente Island! He knew that the India-class wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill attack sub. It was specially designed with a purpose in mind, that being to transport the Russian equivalent of the DSRV. And though there was still no solid evidence, Mac was positive that the semi recessed wells that were cut into its aft deck could also carry vehicles such as the tracked mini-sub that had been his arch nemesis for almost a year now.

  Mac shivered in awareness when a sudden thought came to mind. Did the India’s presence here mean that the tracked mini-sub was also currently deployed beneath the waters of the Firth? And if it was, was their mission in any way related to that of the tug? Well aware that if they found such a relationship to exist it would lead to a major East-West confrontation, Mac barely flinched when the powerful voice of the Bowfin’s captain called out commandingly.

  “Fire one! Fire two!”

  As the Ladoga’s senior sonar technician, warrant officer Pavel Zitomir was heartsick when he had to relay news of their attack’s failure to the captain. He was positively terrified when a signature of even greater consequence streamed through his headphones minutes after their last torpedo mysteriously parted from its guidance wire.

  “Captain, we are under attack!” he cried at the top of his lungs.

  “Our bow hydrophones show a salvo of two torpedoes headed our way on bearing zero-eight zero range 3,000 meters.”

  Stunned by this unexpected report, Dmitri Zinyagin reacted instinctively.

  “Get those throttles opened up, Chief Engineer. All ahead emergency! Helmsman, bring us around crisply to course two-two-zero. And if you value your life, Comrade Weapons Officer, you’ll prepare two decoys for an immediate launch.”

  The captain watched how efficiently his men carried out these orders. There was no hesitation on their part, no signs of cowardice or reluctance to follow his command. R
ather they were like a well-oiled machine whose thousands of hours of rote practice drills were at long last about to be tested for real.

  The Ladoga began to pick up speed, and its deck canted hard on its right side as the vessel’s massive rudder bit into the cold water of the Firth’s black depths.

  “Torpedo range is down to 2,500 meters. Captain.

  And they’re continuing to close quickly.”

  “Where’s that speed. Chief Engineer?” urged Dmitri Zinyagin.

  “If you want to see that family of yours again, you’re going to have to do better than this pathetic pace.”

  It seemed to take forever for them to break twenty knots, and since the American torpedoes were advancing at twice this velocity, speed alone wasn’t going to save them.

  “Lieutenant Primorsk, are those decoys ready yet?”

  asked Zinyagin impatiently.

  The Ladoga’s weapons officer seemed perplexed as he pushed back his headphones.

  “My men are trying, sir, but it seems that one of them is in the midst of some kind of fit. He’s climbed up onto the torpedo racks and is threatening to smash the loading rail mechanism.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Lieutenant,” cried the disbelieving CO.

  “Make your men get this ridiculous situation under control before it causes the deaths of all of us!”

  “Torpedo range is down to 2,000 meters,” reported the tense voice of Pavel Zitomir.

  Still not satisfied with the figure on the knot indicator, Dmitri was all set to vent his rage when the zampolit came strutting into the attack center. Surprisingly enough, a half dozen brawny seamen accompanied him. Puzzled by this unauthorized appearance, the captain turned to them.

  “What in the hell is this all about, Comrade Tartarov?”

  As the seamen proceeded to take up positions throughout the compartment, the political officer re357 plied, “Captain Zinyagin, in the name of the Komsomol, I hereby order you to relinquish your command immediately. You have been charged with dereliction of duty, and will have an opportunity to present your case before a full naval tribunal once we return to Kronstadt.”

  “Are you insane, Tartarov?” screamed the captain.

  “We’ve got two Yankee torpedoes headed straight for us, and you pick this time for a mutiny.”

  To this the zampolit shamefully shook his head.

  “Your theatrics might work on the impressionable minds of the attack center’s crew, but they fall on deaf ears as far as I’m concerned.” Then, looking up to the seamen who accompanied him, he added, “Comrades, you may go ahead and take our disturbed captain into custody.”

  As three of the largest sailors moved in to carry out this directive, Dmitri Zinyagin furiously shouted, “You fools! Don’t you realize that you’re signing your own death warrants by this groundless act of stupidity?”

  Almost to emphasize this statement, the ship’s chief sonar technician frantically called out.

  “The torpedoes have just broken the 1,000-meter threshold, Captain!”

  For the first time since he entered the attack center Petyr Tartarov sensed the legitimacy of the crisis that he had unintentionally stumbled into. Still wary that this was but a clever trick by the captain to gain the confidence of his command team, the zampolit waddled over to Sonar. Without asking permission, he proceeded to rip the headphones off Pavel Zitomir and put the padded speakers up to his own ears. Though he was far from a qualified sonar operator, he knew enough to identify the distinctive grinding racket for what it was. This realization immediately expressed itself on his shocked, sweat-stained face.

  “My heavens, we’re under attack! Captain Zinyagin, how did you ever allow such an unthinkable thing to happen?”

  The Ladoga’s CO couldn’t help but smile as he watched the cowardly political officer’s flabby limbs begin shaking with fear.

  “In a few more minutes, the answer to such a question will be irrelevant, Comrade Tartarov,” returned the captain.

  “More important is the fact that your ill-timed mutiny has cost us valuable seconds that could have been much better spent attempting to escape this threat. Because as it looks now, the Ladoga is doomed!”

  “But that can’t be. Captain! Please, forget about the charges that I made against you. Just do whatever you can to save our lives!”

  Relishing the zampolifs discomfort and ignoring his frightened plea, Dmitri Zinyagin coolly told him, “If I were a follower of the old faith like my beloved mother, I’d get down on my knees and pray. Because the way it looks to me now, that’s about the only thing that’s going to save us.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Warrant Officer Oleg Zagorsk was monitoring Sea Devil’s hydrophones when a pair of distant, muted explosions sounded from the waters behind them. Even without the benefit of headphones his shipmates could hear these blasts, and it was their CO who attempted to identify them.

  “I bet there’s a British underwater demolition team working beneath the waters of the Clyde this morning, Comrades. Most likely they’re removing some sort of obstacle from the channel, or blasting out a foundation for a new pier. Whatever it may be, as long as they stay out of our way, they’re of no concern to Sea Devil” “Shouldn’t we be ascending soon to take a bearing?” asked Tanya Olovski as she wiped the condensation from the glass face of their compass.

  “Do I hear just a hint of impatience in your tone, comrade?” observed the Captain.

  “Relax, and rest assured that I will get us to our destination without getting Sea Devil lost.”

  Quick to check his own watch, Yuri Sosnovo got into the act.

  “As I figure it, we should be approaching Gourock shortly.”

  “You figure correctly,” said Mikhail firmly.

  “And since Holy Loch lies directly across from Gourock, this is where we’ll be making our turn to the west.”

  “But what if we were to overshoot it?” asked Tanya.

  “Who knows what kind of current we might have picked up when we entered the Firth.”

  Mikhail tapped the oilskin-covered charts that lay rolled up on his lap.

  “I guarantee you that we won’t pass it by. Comrade Olovski. And to allay your fears, I plan to surface in five more minutes to take a bearing.

  Hopefully all this can be accomplished without us having to lose our escort topside. I can tell you one thing for certain… that tug has been a godsend.”

  Sean Lafferty stood alone in the wheelhouse, his gaze locked on that portion of the channel visible before them. Since relieving Bernard, Sean had remained at the helm, totally responsible for the tug’s course and speed. The Dundalk native enjoyed this time to himself.

  It gave him an opportunity to appreciate the passing scenery and more important, to think.

  The past couple of days had seemed to fly by with an incredible swiftness. It seemed that only yesterday he and Patrick Callaghan were on their way to Edinburgh Castle to steal the crown jewels. But a virtual lifetime had passed since then. Patrick was dead, and he was in the midst of an incredible new operation that would soon alter the course of history. To think that it was because of his father that this mission had come into being made it that much more astonishing.

  Shaking his head in wonder, Sean briefly looked down at the chart and identified the beacon ahead as Cloch Point. To his right lay Lunderston Bay, while the heavily forested hills that overlooked Dunoon passed on the left.

  There was an assortment of surface traffic visible on this part of the Firth. A variety of fishing boats, barges, tugs, and pleasure craft plied these waters. He had also recently passed an oceangoing cargo ship that was headed out to sea. He guessed that this traffic would be getting more congested as they rounded Gourock and turned east toward Gare Loch, the site of the royal christening.

  Just thinking about the earth-shattering events their efforts would soon trigger caused a heavy lump to form in Sean’s throat. Until Patrick Callaghan’s tragic passing, he had never really given
much thought to death. Even during all the dangerous operations that he’d previously participated in, the idea of his own mortality never really crossed his mind. It was almost as if all the ambushes and bombings had been merely child’s games. And though people did die during these undertakings, Sean felt magically protected.

  It was hard to believe that in less than an hour’s time he would disappear off the face of the earth. At the very least, his end would be quick. But did he really have to die? This was the question that had been eating at him ever since Dr. Blackwater had explained his fate.

  It had seemed so noble at the time to volunteer his services to the very end. But perhaps he had been too hasty to condemn himself as he had. What was wrong with him being dropped off at a safe distance like his colleagues had offered? At least then he could get involved in the new Celtic Brotherhood that would sweep this land once the Royal Family was gotten rid of.

  A blinking channel marker flashed up ahead, and as Sean positioned the tug so that it would pass well to the right of it, he consigned himself to the course destiny had picked for him. He would see this operation to its end, and bravely meet death, as his good friend Patrick Callaghan had.

  The intercom rang and Sean fumbled for the handset. It was Dr. Blackwater.

  “How’s it going up there, lad?”

  “I’m doing just fine, Doc,” returned Sean.

  “That’s good. It seems you’re finally putting to use all those boating lessons your father passed on when you were a youngster. Bernard and I are planning to go down into the bilge and get to work on preparing the bomb for detonation. So that means I won’t be able to spell you at the helm for at least another quarter of an hour.”

  Sean’s throat was dry as he responded.

  “That’s no problem. Doc. As long as you get up here before we reach Gourock and hit all the traffic, I’ll be fine.”

  “I thought you would, lad. Keep her steady now. It’s going to be hard enough standing upright in that stinking hold as it is.”

  Sean hung up the handset and reached down for the wheel with his good hand to alter their course slightly.