Sea Devil

Chapter Seventeen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope, it’s not them.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” asked the Captain.

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

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

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

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

Liam smiled.

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

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

“Now what, gentlemen?” asked Foard.

Mac looked to his watch.

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

“I agree,” said Colin Stewart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Senior Lieutenant, open those throttles all the way.

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

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

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

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

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

broke a scratchy voice from behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The captain stood firm.

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

An individual would have to be blind not to see the dangerously low level of the Ladoga’s morale. Was I just supposed to sit back and watch this condition worsen? It was getting so bad that I actually feared a mutiny!”

“Surely you’re overreacting. Captain. I’ll admit that there are several members of the crew whose esprit de corps is lacking. But these handful of individuals don’t threaten your command. They are only a small bunch of confused malcontents, whose loyalty I was hoping to win over during this afternoon’s Komsomol meeting.”

“To hell with another of your damned meetings!” spat the frustrated captain.

“The time of useless talk is over! As far as I’m concerned, the only way to get this crew back solidly behind me is to lead them into battle.

This way they’ll all too soon realize that as valued members of the Red

Banner fleet, they are just as good as any Spetsnaz operative. It’s no wonder they’ve been looking at themselves as mere taxi drivers, because that’s all we’ve been until now. I’m as sick as they are of constantly playing second fiddle to our esteemed comrades in the special forces while they earn all the glory. It’s time to show the Defense Ministry that we too are worthy of their trust. The Ladoga is a proud ship, and we’re more than capable of assisting Sea Devil as it penetrates these highly sensitive waters.”

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Petyr Tartarov shook his head.

“I am indeed sorry that you feel this way, Captain. Regardless of your personal opinions, you are still guilty of breaking a direct operational order.

I implore you to come to your senses and reverse our course before it’s too late. Otherwise the consequences to your long career will be most detrimental.”

“There will be no turning back, Comrade Zampolit!

And as far as my career is concerned, the moment my crew lost trust in me was the moment it ended. I only pray that it’s not too late to win them back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to the attack center.”

Only when the captain had left the weapons console altogether did the sweat start pouring down Petyr Tartarov’s forehead. Doing his best to staunch it with a handkerchief, the political officer reluctantly contemplated his next course of action. There was no doubt in his mind that the captain had suffered some sort of serious mental breakdown that would necessitate an immediate change of the Ladoga’s command. Yet he couldn’t merely stroll into the attack center and order the captain’s replacement. He would need support. And for this he would have to appeal to the members of the Komsomol. As loyal Communists, surely their vision would be clear, and they’d understand that a change of command was a vital necessity in this in342 stance. With this hope in mind, the political officer left the cork-lined cubicle to begin the unpleasant task of organizing a mutiny.

Above the cold, dark-green waters of the Firth of Clyde, the morning sun strengthened, gradually burning off the mist that had previously enshrouded the estuary in a swirling white veil. From the wheelhouse of the tug, Bernard Loughlin watched as the rolling green hills came into focus. Even the cold-hearted Irishman had to admit that this sight was an inspirational one.

The scenery was especially majestic on the left side of the channel. Here the tree-covered hills extended all the way to the water’s edge. An occasional cottage and small covered dock was the extent of man’s presence here, and the one-eyed terrorist supposed that it would be good to live in such a beautiful place.

From what little he had read about Scotland, he knew that it was primarily a pastoral country, with vast tracts of undeveloped wilderness. The Scots themselves were a proud, independent people, who had a cultural identity separate from their British occupiers.

Yet unlike the Irish, they were apparently content to allow their ancestral land to be absorbed permanently into the United Kingdom.

Bernard knew of several Scottish separatist groups whose goals were much like their own. The IRB had hoped to stir these individuals to action by daring to break into Edinburgh Castle and make off with the country’s symbolic royal regalia. Such a heist would have generated an intense wave of nationalism that would have spread throughout the countryside. And for at least one disturbing moment the peoples of this land would remember what it was like to be a true Scot once again, independent of the imperialistic yoke that had long ago stripped them of their identities.

Though the robbery went sour, the hand of fate had given the Brotherhood one more chance to kindle the fires of Scottish separatism. Bernard still had trouble believing that in only a couple of hours the despised monarchy that had enslaved this land and his own as well would be no more. Erased from the earth in a nuclear fireball, the Queen and all she stood for would be gone for all eternity. Like slaves who had been shackled for generations past, the people would rush in to fill this sudden void. And as a result, a single Celtic state made up of the countries once known as England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland would come into existence, united by the bonds of non-sectarian Socialism.

When Bernard first founded the IRB, never in his wildest dreams did he think that because of his efforts alone, such a state would come into existence. Their possession of the nuclear device made this day possible, and his only regret was that he wouldn’t live to see his sacrifice bear fruit. Yet in its own way, his martyrdom would cement the movement and make possible the great social revolution that was about to engulf the land.

The sound of someone approaching broke his deep pondering.

“Hello, Bernard. Doc says it’s time to spell you.”

Barely aware of the passage of time, Bernard nevertheless stepped back from the wheel and allowed Sean Lafferty to take the helm.

“Keep an eye out for those marker buoys, and keep out in the center of the channel whenever possible, Sean. Don’t hesitate to call down the minute something doesn’t look right to you.”

As Sean answered these instructions with a mock salute, Bernard affectionately patted his comrade on the back.

“How’s your shoulder holding out, lad?”

“It’s still throbbing, but I’ll be able to carry my weight, Bernard.”

“You’re an inspiration to all of us, Sean Lafferty.

Your country will soon be very proud of you.”

With this curt comment, Bernard left the wheelhouse and climbed down the short ladder that led directly onto the tug’s stern deck. Before going below and having some tea, he walked over to the transom. Stored in the locker here was the battery and cable that they would use to detonate the bomb. Though he had already checked its condition several times since leaving Dundalk, he couldn’t resist giving this gear another look.

“We have that surface contact, sir. Bearing three-five six range two miles.”

The sonar operator’s revelation reached Captain William Foard as he was gathered around the chart table with Mac and Colin Stewart.

“That should be close enough for us to have a proper look,” observed the Bowfm’s Captain.

“Quartermaster, have the XO escort Mr. Lafferty up here on the double.”

“Yes, sir,” shot back the seaman responsible for all inter deck communications aboard the sub.

“Shall we see if Dame Fortune is smiling on us this time, gentlemen?” offered the captain as he beckoned them to join him at the periscope well.

“Helmsman, make our depth sixty feet. Up scope,” ordered William Foard.

In response to this, the periscope hissed upward, with the Captain quick to hunch over it and locate the vessel responsible for their sonar contact.

“It’s a tug all right. And from its draft lines, I’d say that she was carrying a substantial amount of weight.”

As he increased the magnification of the lens, Foard added, “Get a load of this character on the transom.

He certainly looks the part.”

Mac replaced him at the scope and nodded.

“With that eyepatch and ponytail of his, he looks like a regular pirate. Do you think this is one of your men, Major?”

Before Colin Stewart could look for himself, the sound of Liam Lafferty’s voice rose throughout the control room, his thick accent unmistakable.

“And here I was just lying down for a wee nap. You fellows keep me busier than my wife.”

“This shouldn’t take long, Mr. Lafferty,” remarked the captain.

Liam ambled over to the scope and nonchalantly gazed through the lens.

“It’s him!” cried the fisherman.

“I could never forget a puss like that.”

“All right!” shouted Mac, who watched as Colin Stewart took a look through the scope.

“I hate to ask you this, Mr. Lafferty, but are you positive that this is the tug you saw being loaded back in Dundalk?” quizzed the Scotsman.

“One hundred percent positive,” said Liam.

“There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever. And if you just be patient, my own son will show up on that fancy-looking device of yours shortly.”

Captain Foard briefly met the stares of Mac and Colin before turning his attention back to the Irishman.

“Thank you, Mr. Lafferty. You can go back to your nap now.”

“But don’t you want me to point out Scan?” asked Liam.

“That’s not necessary, sir,” replied the Captain.

“We believe you when you say this is the tug. So your job is over now. I’ll have Ensign Pollard escort you back to your quarters.”

“You’ll be getting no further argument from me,” said Liam, as he slipped his pipe in his mouth and followed his escort back below deck.

Colin Stewart took another look through the scope.

“Now that we’ve found them, what do we do with them?”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” returned Mac.

“We can’t just ascend to the surface and place them in custody. One look at this sub and they’ll go and blow that device for sure. Yet if we hit them with a torpedo, the resulting explosion could rip that bomb apart and cause the very same ecological disaster that we’re trying to prevent.”

“Not if that torpedo wasn’t carrying a warhead and was being utilized just to punch a hole through their hull,” offered the grinning captain.

“Is such a thing possible?” asked the Scotsman.

The captain answered, “Mister, this is a United States Naval vessel, and the word impossible isn’t in our vocabulary. Shall I inform the torpedo room to ready such a fish?”

“I say go for it,” said Mac.

“Though while your men are readying that torpedo, I’d like to notify the Lynch and have them chopper in a ROV for the subsequent recovery. I don’t think it would be a bad idea to call in the DSRV Mystic as well.”

“If you really think you could sink them without spewing plutonium all through the Clyde, I’m with you also, Captain,” remarked Colin Stewart.

William Foard looked the Scotsman right in the eye.

“I can’t guarantee anything but death and taxes, but I believe I can punch a nice neat hole in their bow just below the waterline. That means that the initial impact will be well away from the stern bilge. And since that’s where a weapon the size of an A-bomb would have to be stored, the shot should be a clean one.”

“Then you’ve got my vote,” returned the Highlander.

“Just make certain that first shot’s a good one. Captain.

Because I seriously doubt if we’ll have the time to attempt a second one.”

The Bowfin’s CO nodded.

“I’ll try my best, Major.

Now if that’s settled, let’s go and get Uncle Sam’s property back to its rightful owner.”

“Are you absolutely certain they’ve taken up a position right in Sea Devil’s baffles?” questioned Dmitri Zinyagin.

“I am, sir,” answered the Ladoga’s senior sonar operator.

“My last scan showed Sea Devil located immediately below the tug, which puts the Sturgeon in the waters directly behind them.”

Zinyagin thoughtfully stroked his jaw.

“I don’t like this, comrade … I don’t like it at all. Most likely they were spotted while penetrating that line of frigates.

And now this sub has been sent in to do the dirty work. Thank the fates that I decided to follow them up the Firth. Otherwise, Sea Devil would never stand a chance.

“Comrade Zitomir, feed the acoustic signature of the Sturgeon into the fire control computer. Are tubes one, two, and three still showing a green light?”

“Yes they are, sir,” answered the sonar chief.

“I still show a red on number four, though.”

The captain grunted.

“It’s that damned compression leak again. Most likely it will be out for the rest of our cruise. But that makes no difference. Three wire guided acoustic homing torpedoes should be more than adequate to rid the seas of the imperialist threat.”

Dmitri Zinyagin watched as the senior technician efficiently addressed his digital console. Only when he was certain that the three torpedoes were armed and ready to fire did he allow his thoughts to wander.

The zampolit had had the nerve to question Dmitri’s authority to run the Ladoga as he wished. As commanding officer, that was his prerogative. Over four decades of selfless duty had given him the instinct to know when to take the initiative. And now his daring gamble was about to pay off in a way he never really expected.

How the men would flock to support him when they learned that because of Dmitri’s dauntless gambit, the Sea Devil had been spared certain destruction. They would emulate him just as they had Captain Mikhail Borisov, the infamous lion of the Spetsnaz! Already looking forward to their adoration, Zinyagin was abruptly called back to the present by the agitated voice of his chief sonar operator.

“Our target has just opened its torpedo doors, Captain!”

Without a second’s hesitation, Dmitri Zinyagin forcefully commanded, “Fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”

Mac was in the process of studying a detailed bathymetric chart of this portion of the Firth of Clyde in an effort to determine the difficulty of the salvage effort that would soon be facing them when the control room filled with the frantic cries of the Bowfin’s sonar operator.

“Incoming torpedo salvo! I count three separate torpedoes, bearing one-five-five, range two miles and rapidly closing!”

With the hope that all of this was some kind of horribly realistic drill, Mac watched as the sub’s captain stepped forward to orchestrate a response to this surprise threat.

“Chief Langsford, I didn’t authorize any practice drills today.”

“This is no drill, sir!” returned the sonar technician.

“We’ve got three torpedoes continuing to close in on us.”

This was all the captain had to hear to snap into action.

“I pray to God that our Mk-70 MOSS that we just got out of refit is on line. If so, fire tube number one.”

“I show a green light on MOSS availability, Captain,” replied the weapon’s officer coolly.

“Proceeding to fire.”

Mac looked on with amazement as the deck shook and the compartment filled with the hissing sound of compressed air.

“I show a clean launch, Captain,” reported the weapon’s officer.

“All ahead emergency! Come to course two-five zero instructed William Foard.

Mac had to tightly grip the side of the chart table to keep from tumbling over as the helmsman turned his steering yoke and the Bowfm rolled hard on its left side.

“How much water do we have beneath us. Lieutenant Murray?” asked Foard, who kept his balance by holding onto a steel handrail.

The sub’s bespectacled navigator was standing beside Mac and alertly answered.

“Not more than one hundred and twenty five feet, sir.”

“Damn!” cursed the captain.

“What’s the status of those fish, Chief Langsford? And do you have our Mk-70 as yet?”

The sonar operator replied while pressing his headphones to his ears.

“The torpedoes haven’t responded to our change of course yet. Captain. MOSS is headed off on bearing zero-six-six, and is really churning up a storm.”

Mac was most familiar with the weapon known as the Mk-70 MOSS. This device was an ROV of sorts, designed to simulate the Bowfm’s sound signature for the purpose of leading an attacking acoustic homing torpedo astray. It apparently proved its worth when the sonar operator excitedly reported.

“One of the fish has taken the bait, sir. It’s going after MOSS with a bone in its teeth!”

“And the others?” asked Foard.

The chief held back his response until the racket that was being channeled into his headphones temporarily sorted itself out.

“They’re coming this way, Captain.

They just completed their course change, range now down to one and a half miles.”

Finding himself with one less threat to worry about, Foard tensely beat the side of his thigh with his right fist and proceeded to think out loud.

“Since it’s obvious that we can’t outrun or out dive them, we can either prepare ourselves to take a hit, or gamble that we can shake them some other way. Yet if we can’t go deep to put a knuckle in the water, how about if we try it going the opposite direction?”

Satisfied with this plan of attack, the captain instructed the planes man to send the sub shooting toward the surface. Not even stopping to consider what would happen if they were to encounter another vessel up here, Foard directed the crew to hang on.

“Torpedo range is down to one mile and still closing, sir,” reported the sonar operator.

With his eyes glued to the depth gauge and the knot indicator mounted above the seated planes men the captain verbally willed his command onward.

“Come on baby, you can make it. Come on!”

“Depth is down to forty-five feet, Captain. If we don’t pull out soon, we’re going to breach!”

Ignoring this warning from the frantic diving officer, Foard cringed when the sonar operator added, “Range is down to three-quarters of a mile. Both torpedoes are following us up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Its wire must have broken.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin Stewart also watched the weapons officer at work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire one! Fire two!”

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

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

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

Stunned by this unexpected report, Dmitri Zinyagin reacted instinctively.

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

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

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

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

And they’re continuing to close quickly.”

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

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

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

“Lieutenant Primorsk, are those decoys ready yet?”

asked Zinyagin impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To this the zampolit shamefully shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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