Sea Devil

Chapter Twelve

Mac found himself spending most of his time aboard the submarine with the Bowfin’s navigator. Together they charted the rapidly expanding debris field that was being conveyed to them via underwater telephone from the hydrographic ship. They also constantly updated the positions of the search fleet topside. This conglomeration of sonar platforms was recently augmented by the arrival of the two minesweepers. Their high-density sensors swept every inch of the sea bottom with a probing sonic beacon, and they had already located a large part of the B-52’s fuselage that had previously eluded them. Currently searching adjoining sectors were the Sea Stallion helicopters with their towed sonar sleds, and the powerful sensors of the sub rescue ship USS Pigeon. A welcome addition were two frigates that took up positions at the edge of the debris field to keep out unwanted trespassers, such as the Russian intelligence trawler that briefly brushed by them earlier.

It was the Bowfin’s navigator who had the idea of trying to figure out the basic trajectories of the survivors of the crash in order to pin down the likely path of the missing bombs. Mac was impressed with the bespectacled lieutenant, who had recently graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in advanced mathematics. After receiving the exact coordinates where the crew were plucked from the seas and making an adjustment for drift due to the current, Tim Murray constructed an intricate formula of drag coefficients and wind speeds.

Since the two bombs that had already been located were found miles apart, it was determined that they were ripped out of the plane’s fuselage one by one, not pulled out together, as was originally supposed.

This could make their difficult job even harder, since there was no telling if the parachutes of the missing devices even deployed correctly.

Mac realized that their job could take weeks. That’s why it was so important to organize the initial search efficiently. Otherwise they’d end up wasting valuable hours backtracking over quadrants that had already been scanned. Consigned to just such a time-consuming operation, Mac was pleasantly surprised when word was passed down to them that one of the minesweepers had made a promising discovery in the debris field’s southernmost sector.

Quick to mark the coordinates of this find on the chart, the sub’s navigator calmly observed, “Taking into consideration the location of the two bombs that have already been found, this sector was one of the more interesting ones. Yet the object they’ve spotted could be any number of things.”

“It looks like we’re just going to have to go down there and eyeball it for ourselves,” said Mac.

“Thank goodness K-l arrived from Woods Hole last night.”

“And don’t forget, we’ve always got the DSRV Mystic,” added the navigator, who looked up from the chart as his CO entered the control room from the aft hatchway.

“I just got word that we’ve tagged something topside,” greeted Captain Foard.

“What do you make of it, gentlemen?”

“It’s certainly worth checking out more closely, sir,” answered the navigator.

“Though I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet.”

“Who knows, maybe we got lucky,” offered Mac.

“Keep the good thought. Commander. Because I was also informed that the Mystic is going down to take a look at it, and that Command would like you to ride shotgun as its official observer.”

“I should have guessed as much,” replied Mac, who was getting to be a regular on such an unorthodox means of transportation.

Stepping back from the chart table. Captain Foard turned to address the control room team gathered around their stations around him.

“Helmsman, take us up to sixty-five feet. Chief Bates, prepare to surface.”

With this, the captain made his way over to the periscope well. Mac felt the angle of the deck beneath him gradually tilt upwards as the Bowfin emerged from the cold, black depths.

“Sixty-five feet, sir,” observed the alert diving officer.

“Up scope!” ordered the captain crisply.

There was the characteristic hiss of hydraulic oil as the periscope raised up from below. The captain hunched over the scope, pulled down its two tubular steel handles, and peered through the rubberized viewing coupling. Only when he had made a complete circle did he step back and call out.

“Down scope. Bring us up, Chief.”

The control room filled with the roar of venting ballast as the now lightened submarine floated to the surface.

“The Pigeon’s going to be sending a launch for you, Commander,” instructed the CO from the periscope well.

“You might want to throw some personal things together in case you’re unable to get transit back to the Bowfin later. You never know with the weather around here. You’ll be getting up on deck by way of the forward access way Can you find it all right?”

“I believe so, Captain,” answered Mac.

“I’ll be right there.”

Mac quickly proceeded aft, to his stateroom. Here he packed a small seabag with a change of underwear and socks, and made certain to include his toiletry kit.

He was met at the forward access way by a seaman.

“Sir, I’ll be escorting you out onto the outer deck. It’s a bit rough up there, and the Captain wanted to be sure that we are wearing our life vests.”

Almost as if to emphasize this statement, a swell crashed into the Bowjin’s keelless hull and the vessel heeled hard to starboard. Forced to reach out to the bulkhead to keep from falling over, Mac readily accepted the orange life vest that the seaman handed him.

As the hatch of the access way was opened, a gust of cool, fresh, salt-scented air entered the corridor where they stood. Mac found this draft refreshing, and anxiously followed the seaman outside.

An officer and two other seamen waited for them besides the sub’s sail. Making certain to grasp tightly onto the steel-cable handrail, Mac joined them.

It was the officer who pointed out the approaching whaleboat. This craft was still several hundred yards off their port bow, its progress seemingly slowed by the pounding swells that dotted the surrounding sea with whitecaps.

“This transfer could be a bit tricky, Commander,” said the red-cheeked ensign.

“The trick is to time it so that it occurs between swells. Don’t be in any hurry, and feel it out before you go for it.”

Mac flashed him a thumbsup and did his best not to worry as the ensign beckoned Mac to join him on the side of the hull. It was a bit more difficult to stand here, though the taut steel cable rigged for the occasion certainly helped. Mac could clearly see the three-man crew of the launch now as they cautiously inched their way toward the Bow/in. Waiting while a set of swells rolled in from the northwest, the helmsman of the whaleboat made his final approach just as the last of these passed.

“This is it. Commander,” offered the ensign as he supported Mac while he edged his way to the very edge of the rounded deck and leaped out onto the gunwale of the launch. A pair of sturdy hands caught him here and guided him down onto the wooden plank deck.

“Welcome aboard, Commander Mackenzie,” said the helmsman, whom Mac was somewhat shocked to find was a woman.

“We’ll have you back on the Pigeon in no time. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

She opened up the throttle and pulled away from the USS Bow/in with a throaty roar. Mac watched as the sub gradually began to fade in the distance, its sleek black hull looking lethal in the glistening sun.

The lines of the ship they were soon approaching were in vast contrast to the Bow/in. The 251-foot submarine rescue tender sported a pair of side-by-side twin stacks and had an assortment of catwalks and rigging on its equipment-cluttered deck. Mac knew that the Pigeon was the first catamaran-hulled ship built for the United States Navy since Robert Fulton’s Demologos in 1812. Because its primary mission was to support the two DSRVs it was capable of carrying on its deck, such a unique hull design was ideal.

As it turned out, the transfer onto the tender was achieved with the least bit of difficulty. Built for stability, the Pigeon was hardly affected at all by the rough seas, thus facilitating Mac’s efforts as he climbed up onto the deck. Waiting for him was a short, moustached officer.

“Commander Mackenzie, I’m Ensign Blanco. Welcome aboard the Pigeon. We’re currently getting into position to release the Mystic, and you’ll find Lieutenant Crowley on the fantail. Shall I escort you to him, sir?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Ensign. I’ve been aboard her sister ship, the Ortolan, and should be able to find the lieutenant on my own.”

“Very good, Commander. Just ask any of the crew if you get lost.”

Leaving the junior officer with a salute, Mac began his way aft. An exterior catwalk took him down the ship’s length and past the dual hangars where the DSRVs were stored. Shaped like a fat black cigar, the Mystic was visible inside one of these hangars. Several deckhands were busy getting the deep submergence rescue vehicle ready for sea, and Mac left them to their work and continued on to the stern.

Mac found Lieutenant Matt Crowley seated at the edge of the fantail, with a fishing rod in hand. The bearded DSRV pilot wore a straw hat, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and matching shorts, and was shoeless. He seemed completely captivated by the music on his cassette player headphones. He was thus unaware of Mac’s presence as the marine salvage expert sauntered up beside him.

“So this is how you’re planning on finding those missing A-bombs.”

Matt Crowley looked up and returned the wide grin that his newly arrived visitor was in the process of flashing him.

“Well hello, Mac. Long time no see. Would you like some pretzels or a Coke? I’d offer you a cool frosty one, but duty calls.”

“I’m fine, Lieutenant. But I see that you’re still playing it loose and casual. Any bites yet?”

“Shit, Mac … I don’t even have any bait on my hook. I’m just using this fishing pole as an excuse to unwind. Besides, they called me in just as I was about to start a week’s leave, and if I know the Navy, I’d better be taking full advantage of every free second that I can get.”

Looking out to the pair of swirling white wakes left behind by the Pigeon’s dual propeller shafts, Mac shook his head.

“It sure isn’t Kauai.”

“Tell me about it, partner. You still living the good life out there?”

“I certainly am. Since I saw you last, we finally moved into our new place on Turtle Bay.”

“How do those twins of yours like it?”

Mac grinned.

“They love it! You should just see them take to the water. Why, they already have matching surfboards! But I’ve got to admit that their latest passion is baseball.”

“I’m glad to hear everything is going good for you, Mac. I’m still the perennial bachelor, bunking wherever the Navy sends me. Though I did meet this Thai babe in Bangkok while I was on R&R there. She could make an honest man out of me yet.”

“I seriously doubt that,” said Mac, who suddenly remembered that he had met one of Crowley’s associates recently.

“By the way, Richard Sullivan sends his regards.”

“No kidding,” returned Crowley.

“You must have been down under, then.”

“Almost. I met up with the Avalon in the Marshalls.”

“Did ole’ Dick get your feet wet, Mac?”

Unwilling to go into the operation in any detail, Mac merely nodded that he did, and was somewhat thankful when Crowley pointed to the horizon and abruptly changed the subject.

“There’s the Lynch. We should be getting close now.

What do you know about this K-l that we’ll be rendezvousing with?”

Mac eyed the clean lines of the Conrad-class oceanographic ship in the distance.

“She’s one of the newest deep-diving submersibles that we’ve got. She was built for the Office of Naval Research and is operated by Woods Hole. K-l is the prototype of an entire fleet of such vessels, and is 22 feet long, 8 feet wide, weighs 13 tons, and has room for a pilot and two observers.”

“What kind of range does it have?”

“About 15 to 20 miles. And that’s at a top speed of 4 knots and a maximum submergence time of 24 hours. I had a bit of say when it came down to outfitting her, and made certain that she carried scanning sonar, a closed-circuit television system, an articulated manipulator arm, and a fully operational underwater telephone.

“Right now, we’re extremely fortunate to have Kl with us. She was having her electrical system overhauled when the B-52 went down. Somehow they got it pieced back together in time to load the vessel into a C5-A and fly it out here.”

“It sounds like a potent little package,” observed the veteran DSRV pilot.

“But for my money, I’ll still go with the Mystic any day of the week. We might not be so high-tech, but we get the job done all the same.”

A nearby telephone began ringing, and Crowley picked up the handset and crisply spoke into its transmitter.

“Mystic Fishing Club… Yes, Captain. In fact, we can see the Lynch right now… We’ll be there, sir.”

As he hung up the handset, Crowley pushed back his hat and yawned.

“Duty calls, partner. Shall we?”

With fishing rod and cooler in hand, the Mystic’s pi247 lot looked more like a beach bum than a naval officer as he led the way. They stowed their gear in the hangar, where both of them slipped into matching dark-blue coveralls. Sewn on the chests of these jumpsuits were golden embossed patches showing a pair of dolphins surrounding a DSRV, crowned with a trident.

They entered the Mystic by way of a hatch set beneath the humped casing on the DSRV upper deck. A ladder brought them down into the central pressure capsule. Mac needed no guidance as he squeezed his way feet first into the copilot’s chair. The tight confines of such a vessel was getting most familiar to him as he buckled his harness and clamped on his miniature headphones.

Matt Crowley was in the process of activating the Mystic’s electrical system when a tinny voice emanated from the headset.

“We’re over the target and preparing to put you in the water. How do you read me? Over.”

“Loud and clear, mother hen,” returned the gruff voice of Matt Crowley.

“We’re ready whenever you are.”

A series of green lights mounted into the console showed that all systems were primed and operational, and Crowley initiated a quick test of the vessel’s hydraulics.

He smoothly pulled the steering yoke back into his lap, and satisfied with what he felt, pushed it forward once again.

“This little lady’s ready to go to work,” said Crowley as he donned a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap.

There was a slight dropping sensation as the DSRV was lowered into the water. The Mystic began to roll slightly, and the pilot’s face lit up when the voice on the other end of the intercom curtly announced, “Release complete.”

“Hit those port ballast tank switches for me, will you, partner?” asked the pilot.

Mac reached forward and depressed two toggle switches. As the pilot activated the pair of switches set on his side of the console, the DSRV command capsule filled with a loud hissing sound. This was followed by a muted gurgling roar as the now empty ballast tanks began filling with seawater.

His glance riveted on the depth gauge, Mac monitored their descent. At fifty feet, his body pitched forward as Crowley pushed down on the steering column and pointed the Mystic’s rounded bow straight down into the awaiting depths. This dive was in drastic contrast to the gentle descent he experienced off the Kwajalein Atoll, and Mac grinned as he remembered that he was now being driven by the infamous “Angles and Dangles” Crowley.

The depth gauge had just passed five hundred feet, when their headphones next activated. The voice that broke from the miniature speakers was coming from the the USS Lynch. Much like an air traffic controller, this individual proceeded to guide the Mystic to its rendezvous with the K-l, aided by the oceanographic ship’s three-dimensional sonar capability.

At seven hundred feet, Crowley snapped on the DSRV’s powerful spotlights. Mac stared out the viewing port, fascinated by the glowing plankton, beady-eyed shrimp, and luminescent fish. It was soon after an immense skate passed by them that Mac saw a trio of soft white lights glowing ethereally in the distance. Seconds later, their controller called down from the Lynch, notifying them that they should be getting a visual sighting of K-l shortly.

It was at this point that Crowley switched radio frequencies and spoke into his chin-mounted microphone.

“Did someone down here order a large pepperoni pizza to go?”

The steady voice of a woman answered back.

“That was supposed to be anchovy-and-onion. Would you mind returning it and bringing what we ordered?”

“Angel,” retorted Crowley.

“You couldn’t tip me enough to make it worth my while.”

“I don’t know about that,” purred the female seductively.

“Would you please clear this channel and keep your chatter limited to the job at hand?” interrupted the cold voice of the controller.

“Oh, lighten up, for God’s sake,” mumbled Matt Crowley as he looked over to his copilot disgustedly.

“K-l, we want you to follow Mystic on the final approach.

And please, both of you, proceed cautiously.

Our bathymetric model shows the contact to be situated on a subterranean ledge that overlooks a trench 900 feet deep in some spots. If the contact is our broken arrow, we certainly wouldn’t want to make it any harder to retrieve than it already is. Do you copy that?

Over.”

“We read you loud and clear,” replied Crowley, who pushed his microphone aside and addressed his copilot.

“Jesus, does this guy think he’s dealing with a bunch of amateurs here?”

Shaking his head in renewed disgust, Crowley guided Mystic to the seafloor. As the sandy bottom came into focus, Mac momentarily slipped back in time. In a flash he was inside yet another DSRV, sweeping over the clear waters of the South Pacific. Yet the track he soon spotted on the floor of the Irish Sea was vastly different than that he located off of Kwajalein. It was much wider, and didn’t leave behind the characteristic tread like marks that the other did.

Quick to spot this trail was the Mystic’s pilot.

“Well, I’ll be. There is something down here. But I wouldn’t go and bet the farm just yet. I’ve seen similar marks left behind by trawler’s nets, large fish, and underwater avalanches.”

Mac doubted that this distinctive trail was caused by any such outside phenomena, but kept quiet. Almost two feet across, the track was much larger than that caused by a trawler. It was also much deeper than a fish impression, and reminded him of the marking that a barrel sliding down a muddy hill would leave behind.

A strained silence followed as Mystic glided over the rutted seafloor, its spotlights illuminating the black depths like an alien sun.

“DSRV Mystic, we’re on your tail and have the tracks in sight,” broke the excited voice of K-l’s pilot.

“And by the way, this is Dr. Judy Brilliant at the helm.”

“We copy that, Dr. Brilliant,” replied the Mystic’s pilot.

“This is Lieutenant Mathew Crowley at your service, ma’am. I believe we should be coming to the end of this trail shortly. Just stick close, and keep praying that we hit pay dirt.”

Mac was anxiously hunched forward now and focusing his attention solely on the passing seafloor. So deep was his level of concentration that he failed to immediately spot the immense, billowing object just visible before them. This was not the case for Matt Crowley, who shouted out triumphantly.

“Holy Mother Mary, it’s a parachute!”

Having never seen a parachute in such an alien medium before, Mac realized that the Mystic’s pilot was correct.

“My God, it is a parachute! And what a great big son-of-a-bitch it is!”

“Let’s get some pictures,” said Crowley, as he reached up to activate the DSRV’s bow-mounted video camera.

“Mac, could you hit that right rudder a bit, and back down on the throttle. I don’t want to lose this baby.”

Mac gingerly hit the controls as ordered, while Crowley continued his frantic picture-taking. As the current lifted the silken chute upward, he got a brief glimpse of an elongated metallic capsule that had a fin on one end. Startled by this unexpected sighting, Mac stuttered, “Je… Jesus, Crowley. It’s the bomb!”

It only took a second for the Mystic’s pilot to concur, and both officers celebrated with cramped but spirited high-fives.

As news of their discovery was relayed topside, the controller’s previously staid tone of voice was noticeably shaken.

“Well done. Mystic. Let K-l in so that they can zap it with their fiber optic camera and let us have a look up here.”

“Will do, Command,” returned Crowley, who steered the Mystic around the billowing parachute and initiated a wide, lazy turn.

There could be no missing the excitement that tinged the voice of Dr. Judy Brilliant as she spotted the chute.

“We’ve got it as well. Command. Have activated our bow turret camera. Are you copying our photo transmission?”

A long pause was followed by a passionate response.

“We see it, K-l, and it’s a glorious sight to behold!

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 safely 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 chosen 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.”

“Did it work?” quizzed Tanya.

“He died horribly two days later,” returned the serious Siberian.

“I bet the enlisted crew of the Ladoga wish they had some of that potion to give to their present captain and zampolit,” said Yuri with a grin.

“I can just imagine what it would be like serving under those two.”

“You’d better behave, Comrade Sosnovo, or during your next fitness report, I’ll recommend a transfer for you to this ship.”

“Oh, please, Captain, not that!” pleaded the chief engineer as he knelt down in front of his CO and raised his hands in mock supplication.

As his shipmates roared in laughter at the Ukrainian’s antics, a young seaman guardedly poked his head up over the torpedo rack and shyly cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, comrades, but is it true that you are really Spetsnaz?”

Mikhail Borisov sat up straight and answered in his deepest, authoritative tone.

“As a matter of fact, it is, lad. And just whom do we have the honor of addressing?”

The red-cheeked enlisted man sheepishly replied, “I am torpedo-mate third class Vasili Buchara, sir.”

“Seaman Buchara, I am Captain Borisov of the 3rd Spetsnaz brigade, and these are my shipmates. You know, I once knew a fellow by the name of Buchara. I met him in basic training, and if I’m not mistaken, I believe he was an Uzbek.”

“So am I!” eagerly volunteered the seaman.

“Why, I was born on the shores of the Aral Sea.”

Pretending to be impressed with this revelation, Mikhail replied, “The Aral Sea, you say? That’s certainly beautiful country. Now how can we be of service to you, lad?”

Calmed by the officer’s caring demeanor, the wide-eyed Uzbek continued.

“Though I’ve been in the service only a little over ten months now, I was hoping to join the Spetsnaz someday, and I was wondering if service in the special forces was really as difficult as they say it is.”

“Take whatever you hear and multiply it a hundredfold,” returned Mikhail.

“And then you’ll come close to understanding the degree of difficulty involved in the training of a Spetsnaz operative. Sure, our basic training is painful. But you’ll emerge from it a real man — able to swim, run, and hike distances you never dreamed of attaining on your own. You’ll also learn how to properly operate every weapon from a crossbow to a howitzer, and learn one hundred ways to kill a man with your bare hands. If you train hard and make certain to master each level as it’s presented to you, you too can be a part of the Rodina’s finest.”

“You don’t think that my small size will hold me back?”

“Can’t a small man be just as brave as a tall one?” asked Mikhail.

“Size doesn’t matter when it comes to training a killer, lad. In fact, in some instances, having a small stature can even be an advantage.

“I remember a time once in Afghanistan when we were ordered to infiltrate a rebel stronghold that overlooked an important crossroads. As we climbed in over the stone walls, we made our first contact with the enemy and a violent firefight ensued in which we endured.

Yet as we tallied up the rebel fatalities, it was noted that several of the wounded Mujahidden had seemed to have disapppeared. Shortly thereafter, we found the first tunnel. Apparently the fortress was honeycombed by such passages, which were too narrow to accept a big man such as myself. And that’s when Corporal Litvak stepped forward.

“Litvak was our newest squad member and had a build much like yours. He also was one of the bravest men I have ever met. He single-handedly crawled into that tunnel with nothing but a knife and a couple of grenades to protect himself with.”

“And what ever happened to him?” asked the breathless Uzbek.

Mikhail purposely hesitated a second to build up the suspense.

“Ten minutes after he had disappeared into that tunnel, Litvak reappeared with his jacket pocket filled with the bloody ears of the half-dozen rebels he personally killed down there. For that act of heroism he received the Order of Lenin, though I’m afraid poor Litvak died several weeks later after getting hit by a runaway truck while crossing the street in downtown Kiev. But it all goes to show that physical stature doesn’t make the man. It’s heart and courage that the Spetsnaz is continually looking for.”

Awed by this narrative, the young seaman smiled.

“Thank you for that, Captain. My dream has always been to join the special forces and to serve the motherland to the best of my abilities. I’m genuinely relieved to know that such a goal is reachable in my case, and I’ll do everything within my power to attain it.”

“You do that, lad,” said Mikhail forcefully.

“And always remember that service to the Rodina comes first.”

Responding to this advice with a crisp salute, the wide-eyed Uzbek excused himself to return to his duty.

“You’ve inspired not only that boy, but us as well,” offered Sea Devil’s chief engineer.

“And here I thought I was beginning to sound more like the Ladoga’s long-winded zampolit,” returned Mikhail, who lay back on his mattress.

“Now our goal is less than twenty-four hours away, and before you know it, it will be time for action. Get some rest, comrades. Then we’ll see about getting some fresh food into our bellies. Because I can assure you that once we leave this submarine, we won’t have the time for even a nap until this all important mission is successfully completed.”