Sea Devil

Chapter Sixteen

The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow with the first tentative light of dawn when Sea Devil separated from its semi recessed storage well that was set abaft the Ladoga’s sail. Silently propelled by its single battery-powered propeller, the mini-sub proceeded to the north, up Kilbrannan Sound to the still waters of the Sound of Bute. All systems were operating perfectly as Mikhail Borisov ordered the helmsman to guide the vessel cautiously to periscope depth at this point.

“Watch your trim,” cautioned the Sea Devil’s CO as he watched Yuri Sosnovo begin lightening the boat by venting seawater from its ballast tanks.

“We certainly wouldn’t want to accidentally breach the surface in these unfriendly waters.”

The chief engineer responded with the barest of nods, his entire concentration focused on the delicate task of altering the sub’s buoyancy just enough to allow its periscope to break the water’s surface. It was with great relief that he looked to the depth gauge and calmly called out, “We’re at periscope depth, Captain.”

“Good work, Yuri,” complimented Mikhail as he made his way over to the periscope well.

“Now we should be able to get that precise bearing.”

With the assistance of warrant officer Oleg Zagorsk, the periscope was guided up from its well.

Practically hunching down on his knees to guarantee that too much of the lens didn’t penetrate the surface, Mikhail initiated a quick sweep of the water’s topside.

Though the sun had yet to break the horizon, there was enough light for him to hurriedly triangulate their position.

“Down scope!” he ordered firmly, as he backed away from the well and stood upright.

“I was able to get three different bearings. So give me my charts, Comrade Zagorsk, and I’ll determine our exact coordinates.”

Without bothering to remove the oilskin covers that protected the charts from the constantly dripping condensation, the Siberian alertly handed them to his commanding officer. Mikhail used a ruler and a pencil to plot the three bearings he had just seen with his own eyes.

“We’re currently halfway between the Isle of Arran to our southwest and Bute Island, which lies four kilometers to the north of us. I was able to just make out a directional beacon further east that I believe to be emanating from Little Cumbrae Island. Since it’s through the channel that lies immediately to the west of this island that we’ll be entering the Firth of Clyde, shall we proceed in that direction?”

Hearing not a word of dissent, Mikhail ordered Sea Devil back to the seafloor, where its unique tracked propulsion system took over. A little over a quarter of an hour passed when he once more directed them to periscope depth.

“Now I should have a better view of the channel we’ll be transiting to get to our destination,” offered Mikhail as he anxiously hunched over and put the rubberized viewing coupling to his forehead.

The sun had broken the horizon by now, and clearly illuminated was a frightening scene that caused Mikhail to cry out.

“Down scope! Bring us back to the seafloor, Yuri, and waste no time about it.”

As the roaring sound of the ballast tanks taking on water filled the cramped control space, Mikhail backed away from the well. It wasn’t until they gently hit bottom that he explained what he had sighted topside.

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be as easy to penetrate the Firth as we had hoped. Blocking the channel up ahead is a line of three anchored Brit frigates. They appear to be Cornwall-class type 22 vessels, which means that they’re equipped with a comprehensive set of ASW sensors. Most likely they’re sitting out there anticipating just such a covert intrusion as we had in mind.”

“I bet it’s prompted by the visit of their Queen,” supposed Yuri Sosnovo.

“From what I understand, the Brits are every bit as cautious when it comes to security matters as our own KGB,” added Tanya Olovski.

“I say that we should proceed as if we didn’t even know they were there,” offered Sea Devil’s Warrant Officer.

“With our stealth capabilities, they’ll never spot us, even with a dozen frigates.”

Mikhail Borisov thoughtfully rubbed his scarred cheek.

“That might be so, Comrade Zagorsk. But this mission is much too important to find out differently.

Thus, for circumspection’s sake, I feel it’s best if we silently loiter at this position and wait for another vessel to come along. Then as this vessel proceeds to penetrate the blockade, all we have to do is follow in its baffles. When we’re veiled by its propeller wash, they’ll never know we’re even down here.”

From an adjoining portion of the same Sound, Captain Dmitri Zinyagin also viewed the line of anchored Cornwall-class frigates from the powerful lens of the Ladoga’s attack scope. Taking in the line of sleek ships, the veteran officer grunted and stepped back from the scope.

“Have a look yourself, Comrade Zampolit. For this is an obstacle that even our brave Spetsnaz colleagues wouldn’t dare take on by themselves.”

Petyr Tartarov moved his corpulent torso over to the periscope well, hunched over, and put his sweat stained forehead up against the eyepiece.

“My, that’s indeed a formidable barrier. Does this mean their mission is over?”

“Heavens no,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin.

“Though there’s always the chance that Sea Devil would try running the blockade, I’d say that Captain Borisov wouldn’t take the risk. If I were in his place, I’d wait for the approach of another ship, preferably a nice noisy surface vessel. Then all he’d have to do is follow in this craft’s wake all the way into the Firth.”

The political officer responded to this while backing away from the scope.

“That’s a brilliant tactic. Captain.

But I wonder if Captain Borisov will think of it.”

“From what I understand, the Spetsnaz takes a good amount of time training their naval officers in just such basic strategy. He’ll have thought of it, all right. And I guarantee you that he’s sitting out there right now, waiting for this vessel’s approach.”

As Dmitri Zinyagin instructed his senior lieutenant to take his place at the scope, the Ladoga’s CO followed the zampolit over to the vacant weapons console.

“I’ve notified the crew about this afternoon’s special Komsomol meeting. Captain,” revealed the political officer.

“I’m assuming that you have your speech in order.

“That I have, comrade. But I just wish that I could back up my concepts with more than mere words. If only there were some way that I could show the men that an ordinary member of the Red Banner fleet was just as good a soldier as the Spetsnaz. I’m still of the impression that they think of themselves merely as glorified taxi drivers. What they need is a taste of real action. It’s just too bad that Command didn’t send the Ladoga in Sea Devil’s place.”

A bit uncomfortable with this line of reasoning, Petyr Tartarov nodded.

“That’s an interesting concept, Comrade. But don’t give up on the power of ideological conditioning just yet. I learned long ago that the only way to get into some of these stubborn sailors’ heads is to constantly pound a point into them. By increasing the frequency and intensity of our Komsomol meetings, we can do just that.”

“I hope you’re right,” said the captain with a sigh.

“Because the morale on this ship seems to be worsening with each hour’s passing.”

“I know I am, Captain. And I hope to prove it to you during today’s Komsomol meeting. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ dbetter get down to my cabin and finish my preparations.”

Petyr Tartarov gratefully left the tense confines of the attack center. Never feeling truly at home in this part of the ship, he proceeded aft to that part of the Ladoga reserved for its officers. He crossed through the deserted wardroom and was surprised to find a single lanky enlisted man waiting in the hallway opposite his stateroom.

“Comrade Zampolit, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?” the sailor nervously called out.

Though Tartarov had seen this individual before only in passing, he could see by his insignia that he held the lowly rank of torpedo mate third class.

“What is it, sailor? I’m a busy man with many things to do,” he said as he fumbled for his key.

The enlisted man held back his response until the political officer managed to open the door to his cabin, and he tentatively followed him inside.

“Sir, I am torpedo mate third class Vasili Buchara,” he revealed after clearing his dry throat.

“And I would like an application to the Special Forces Academy.”

Not believing what he was hearing, Tartarov looked up astounded.

“What’s this you say, sailor? You want to apply to become a Spetsnaz? Why, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

Expecting just such a response from the zampolit, Vasili dared to hold his ground.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. But this is no joke, and I would still like that application.”

“So you would, huh?” retorted the redfaced Zampolit.

“I’ll give you this piece of advice. Comrade Buchara.

The Spetsnaz is not about to be interested in a scrawny little sailor like yourself. Why, you’re not even a Great Russian, are you?”

“No sir, I’m an Uzbek,” said the blushing enlisted man, who was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.

“Well then, I hope that your family has some political clout, because even if you were physically up to it, the Special Forces is also socially elite. So quit wasting my time, and more important, yours as well with this foolish fantasy. Make the best of your current service, and be proud that you’ve been given the privilege of wearing the uniform of the Red Banner fleet. If that is all. Seaman Buchara, you’re excused.

And don’t forget to come to this afternoon’s Komsomol meeting. There’s certainly a lot that you’ll learn by attending.”

Having lost what little courage he had by now, the seaman responded with a weak salute and submissively backed out into the corridor “So now even the Uzbeks want to join the Spetsnaz,” disgustedly mumbled the zampolit to himself.

Tempted to immediately inform the captain of this ridiculous confrontation, Petyr Tartarov sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk. There could be no doubting the degree to which the influence of the Sea Devil’s crew had poisoned the morale of the Ladoga. With the hope that it wasn’t already too late to apply an antidote, the zampolit reached out for his legal pad to work anew on this afternoon’s all-important speech.

Meanwhile, back in the Ladoga’s attack center, Captain Zinyagin found himself called to the periscope by the excited voice of his senior lieutenant.

“Sir, it appears that there’s another vessel approaching the line of frigates. I believe it’s a tug of some sort.”

Quick to replace his subordinate at the scope, the captain took his time responding.

“So it is comrade.

This ship should provide just the sort of cover that Sea Devil’s been waiting for. And if Captain Borisov is wise, he’ll follow in this tug’s wake all the way up the Firth, to the sensitive naval installations that I just know in my gut he’s being ordered to survey.”

It was while wishing that their commands were switched that a sudden inspiration came to the veteran.

With or without Command’s blessings, he’d at long last take the initiative and order the Ladoga to follow Sea Devil up into the Firth of Clyde as soon as the first opportunity presented itself. Then they could ride shotgun over the vulnerable tracked mini sub while its crew of Spetsnaz operatives got on with its mission.

Inspired by this impromptu idea, Dmitri knew that it would serve yet another vitally important function.

With the realization that they were going in harm’s way, just like the Sea Devil, the crew would unite. No longer would they think of themselves as mere taxi drivers, but rather underwater warriors, who would earn the motherland’s respect, just as the Special Forces had!

Completely oblivious to the machinations going on in the seas beneath them, Bernard Loughlin pulled back on the throttle of the tug as he spotted the line of frigates that blocked the channel up ahead.

“Doc, I think you had better get up here!” he shouted into the intercom.

With his good eye, Bernard scanned the blockade with binoculars. He was in the process of studying the missile launcher visible on the bow of the ship nearest to them when both Dr. Blackwater and Sean joined him in the wheelhouse.

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

Bernard pointed to the north.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t even see a single deck gun.”

Dr. Blackwater was quick to reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning, gentlemen.

What’s with the reception committee?”

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

“Could I see your papers, please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where are you coming from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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