Sea Devil

Chapter Fourteen

The utter enormity of the job at hand was finally beginning to register in Mac’s consciousness. They had been unbelievably lucky to find the first of the two missing bombs when they had. Now, as the search went on in earnest for the final weapon, he realized that it could be almost anywhere in a fifty-mile radius of water. This was the current extent of the debris field as determined by the latest information relayed to him by the various platforms of the ever-expanding search fleet.

To better coordinate this effort, Mac decided to remain on the oceanographic ship. Its communications systems were a bit more flexible than the attack sub’s.

Staying on the Lynch also meant that he could become more closely involved with CURV, and the other ROV’s currently hard at work scanning the seafloor for any sign of their elusive quarry.

Just recently one of the minesweepers had relayed to them a promising contact. The object in question was located at a depth of 636 feet, lying on its side on a base of sandy sediment. Ever hopeful that this would signal the end of their search, Mac ordered the Lynch in to investigate.

He sat at the controls as CURV was dispatched down into the depths. It was with the greatest of expectations that he triggered the device’s mercury-vapor floodlights and activated its fiberoptic camera. A hushed tension prevailed in the control room as Mac maneuvered CURV down to the coordinates given to them by the minesweeper.

His eyes glued to the monitor screen, Mac watched as the seafloor came into focus. Soon afterward, a cylindrical object could be seen in the distance, and with his pulse ever quickening, Mac opened up the ROV’s throttle. Already looking forward to the triumphant dispatch he’d soon be sending to Admiral Long, he reached forward to fine-tune the camera’s focus. It was then that he noticed that the object was not the missing nuclear device at all, but a rusted-out water heater that someone had unceremoniously dumped here.

With his high hopes dashed, Mac guided CURV back to. the surface. He couldn’t hide his disappointment as he made his way to the chart table to cross off one more promising contact.

He was in the process of recording the current location of the K-l mini-sub when an ensign informed him that he was wanted down in the radio room. Supposing that he had a call coming in from Washington, Mac went to see what it was all about.

The radio room was situated on the deck below. Being no stranger to this portion of the Lynch, he found it on his own, and expecting next to hear Admiral Long’s voice at the end of the line, picked up the handset.

“Commander Mackenzie here.”

The voice on the other end was a bit scratchy, but otherwise clear.

“Commander, this is Lieutenant Newton aboard the frigate USS Hawes. We’re out here on picket duty, and have just intercepted a fishing trawler.

There are two individuals on board this vessel, and they’re insisting that they speak to the person in charge of the nuclear bomb recovery.”

This hadn’t been the first trespasser that they’d had to contend with, though one element of the lieutenant’s report immediately caught Mac’s attention.

“Did they explicitly say nuclear bomb recovery, Lieutenant Newton?”

“Yes they did, Commander. That’s why I decided to inform you personally, because I didn’t think that our real purpose out here was public knowledge.”

“It most definitely is not, Lieutenant. You have my permission to escort them over to the Lynch at once.”

Not having the vaguest idea how these outsiders had learned about the true nature of their search, Mac hung up the handset. He arrived up on the Lynch’s bridge in time to see the frigate approaching from the west. He needed binoculars to spot the small wooden trawler that followed in the sleek warship’s wake. Supposing that this could all be nothing but a wild guess on the part of these fishermen, Mac waited until the trawler was only a few hundred yards away before climbing down to the main deck and making his way to the gangway.

The Lynch’s deck crew alertly deployed several thick rubberized fenders as the trawler moved in to complete its rendezvous. As the two bobbing ships got closer together, a tall, sandy-haired man called out from the trawler’s transom.

“Is Commander Mackenzie there?”

“I’m Mackenzie,” answered Mac, who stood amidships, at the deck’s edge.

“I’m Major Colin Stewart, commanding officer of Her Majesty’s 75th Highlanders, and I’ve got some rather distressing news about your efforts out here.

You see, I believe I know where one of those missing bombs that you’re searching for can be located.”

This was all that Mac had to hear to signal the Scotsman to join him on the Lynch. With a bit of effort the battered trawler tied up to the oceanographic ship’s side, and its two occupants climbed aboard using a portable rope ladder.

The Scotsman proved to be about Mac’s height. Mac guessed that he was in his early forties, though his build was solid and muscular.

“I realize that this whole meeting is a bit unusual, Commander. But I’m certain that you’ll soon enough understand the unique circumstances surrounding it. I’d like you to meet Liam Lafferty. Mr. Lafferty is a fisherman from Dundalk. It was his trawler that brought us out here.”

“I suppose you’d be the fellow responsible for putting those fliers down at the docks,” remarked Liam as he studied the blond-haired Yank naval officer.

“I guess I should have contacted you when I first found the blasted thing. From what it looks out here, it would have sure saved you a lot of time and trouble.”

Mac had to look to the Scotsman for an explanation of Liam’s puzzling confession.

“What Mr. Lafferty’s trying to say is that he was out at sea on the night that your B-52 went down here.”

“May I ask how it is that you know about the crash, Major?” asked a perplexed Mac.

“Not at all, Commander. You see, I’m the C.O. of one of the units that the First Sea Lord informed of the accident soon after it occurred. And it’s a good thing that I was included in this group, because otherwise I might have never been able to figure it all out as I have. Is there somewhere a bit more private where we can hash this whole thing out?”

His curiosity fully piqued, Mac nodded and led them inside. An empty compartment that had been set up for use as a classroom served their purposes perfectly.

And with the hatch secured, Colin Stewart continued.

“Though a lot of the details are unnecessary at this point, for expedience’ sake, let’s just say that my personal involvement with this whole thing began when I arrived in Ireland on the trail of a suspected terrorist.

It was while I was in the midst of this search that I met Mr. Lafferty here, and first heard about the object that he fished from these waters. Liam, why don’t you share with the Commander the story you told me earlier?”

Liam proceeded to repeat his account of the fated night when the sky caught fire. The blond-haired Yank seemed genuinely fascinated with his tale, and was particularly eager to know more about the exact shape of the object.

“Would you mind drawing it on the blackboard for me?” asked the likable American.

A bit shyly, Liam walked up to the portable blackboard at the head of the classroom. Never known for his drawing skills, he did his best to convey the object’s cylindrical shape. He even went so far as to include the narrow fins that were attached to one end of it.

“Why, that’s incredible!” remarked the Yank as he studied Liam’s rendering.

“You say that you actually brought it aboard all by yourself and then took it back to Dundalk with you?”

“That I did,” returned the fisherman.

“It’s just too bad that the Doc’s already left for Port Glasgow, because it seems he could have saved a lot of trouble merely by bringing it directly to you.”

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 enlisted 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 approach 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.

Mikhail was in the midst of wondering why such a high-strung individual would choose to serve in submarines when the throbbing whine of the frigate’s turbines reached their crescendo. Ever so gradually, the resonant sound began to lessen until it was all but indistinguishable.

This brought a relieved sigh from the captain’s lips.

“So much for the ASW capabilities of the British Leander-class frigate. Admiral Markov is right, the Royal Navy is far from the great fleet it once was. Instead of wasting their money with such ridiculous, costly programs as Trident, they should invest in some new surface ships. Why, during the Falklands conflict, even an insignificant naval power such as Argentina was a challenge for the Brits. I’d love to see what the Red Banner fleet would do to them. We’d annihilate them before they’d even be able to leave port.”

“Shouldn’t we be attaining those deployment coordinates shortly, Captain Zinyagin?” interrupted Mikhail.

Called back to thoughts of his current duty, Dmitri Zinyagin answered, “As originally planned, we’ll be releasing Sea Devil as soon as we reach the waters south of Sanda Island. Then you’ll be faced with a fourteen hour voyage up the Firth of Clyde to your final destination.

I imagine that you’re anxious to get it over with, aren’t you, Captain?”

“I’ve been looking forward to this operation ever since Admiral Starobin told me about it back in Kronstadt,” returned Mikhail.

“My entire crew is ready for action, and I foresee no serious obstacles that should hinder us along the way.”

Dmitri Zinyagin looked directly into his colleague’s steel-gray eyes and replied.

“Though my briefing did not include the exact purpose of your mission, I presume it has something to do with the imperialist naval installations at Holy Loch and Falsane. I envy you, Captain Borisov. These are waters every submariner in the Red Banner fleet dreams of penetrating one day.”

Sensing that the veteran was hoping that Mikhail would take him into his confidence and reveal his mission, the Spetsnaz commando grinned.

“As commander of Sea Devil, I’ve visited places on this planet that would truly astound you. Captain. If only the Defense Ministry would allow me to write my memoirs!”

“I’m certain that it would be an instant bestseller both in the motherland and in the West,” offered the Ladoga’s CO.

“Now if you’d like, this vessel is more than capable of conveying Sea Devil a good deal closer than Sanda Island. I’ve been studying the charts, and it appears there’s open water all the way to Little Cumbrae Island, which would put you right at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde.”

“That offer’s most inviting, Captain Zinyagin. But there’s no need to risk the Ladoga for the sake of a few additional kilometers. We’ve got plenty of time to attain our goal. Besides, by utilizing our tracked-drive system, we’ll be traveling to the Firth by way of Kilbrannan Sound. This poorly monitored waterway will lead us directly into the Sound of Bute, where we’ll gain entrance to the Firth.”

“As you wish, Captain Borisov. You can rest assured that the Ladoga will be waiting for you at the dropoff point when you’re ready to return home.”

“We’re counting on that, comrade. Now I’d better get down to the torpedo room and assemble my crew.”

“You do that, Captain Borisov,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin, who watched the Spetsnaz officer pivot and head for the aft hatchway.

“That one’s a cocky bastard,” observed the Ladoga’s political officer.

“That’s the nature of the beast,” reflected Captain Zinyagin. You go and give a hotshot like that a twenty-meter-long, three-crew command, and he thinks he’s a regular naval hero. He should only know what it’s like to sacrifice forty years of one’s life in service to the motherland. And as for that mini-sub of his, I guarantee you that the Ladoga could outperform Sea Devil any day of the week. I only wish that Command had seen fit to send us up the Firth of Clyde. Yet as it now stands, all we are is a damned underwater taxicab.”

Well aware of his captain’s bitterness, the zampolit guardedly responded.

“My sources tell me that we’ll be getting rid of our Spetsnaz comrades just in the nick of time. It seems there’s an element in the crew who have turned to emulating our brave commandos. All they talk of is becoming Spetsnaz themselves, and needless to say, their work is starting to suffer from this foolishness.”

“That is most distressing news. Comrade Zampolit.

These shirkers are just looking for an excuse to be negligent in their duties. And as for them wanting to become Spetsnaz themselves, that’s certainly a joke.

Most of the spineless wimps aboard this ship couldn’t even pass the physical. And they’d dirty their shorts the first time danger presented itself. It looks like we’ll have to further tighten discipline aboard this vessel.”

“Perhaps a special meeting of the Komsomol is in order,” offered the political officer.

“At this time you could restate your command policies, and I’ll put together a lecture on the dangers of striving for the unattainable.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea, comrade. We’ll wait until Sea Devil is deployed before informing the crew of this get-together. And then it will be solely up to us to re instill some pride in this vessel.”

Already mentally planning the contents of his speech. Captain Dmitri Zinyagin sauntered over to the periscope well. Ever suspicious of anything that might weaken his command, he anxiously looked to his watch to calculate how much time was left until they could ascend to take a final bearing, to prepare for Sea Devil’s final deployment.