Sea Devil

Chapter Seven

Captain Mikhail Borisov’s gut tightened as his command entered the waters of the Skagerrak. Such tension was always present whenever he prepared to initiate the final phase of a mission. The blond-haired Spetsnaz commando scanned the interior of the mini sub and saw that his crew were perched before their stations, ready for action. At the Sea DeviFs helm, Chief Engineer Yuri Sosnovo gripped the airplane-style steering column that activated both their hydroplane and rudder. The thin, moustached Ukrainian’s glance was riveted on the fathometer, and the captain knew that he was very fortunate to have the services of this hardworking, dedicated sailor.

Beside him, the warrant officer held onto the joystick that controlled their trim. Oleg Zagorsk was a Siberian by birth. He had been born deep in the Taiga, and like the frontiersman that he was raised to be, he was tightlipped and liked his privacy. This was fine with Mikhail Borisov, who felt a bit more confident, knowing that he had the services of one of the Rodina’s best.

At the stern of the fifteen-meter-long vessel, electronics mate Tanya Olovski was busy wiping the condensation off the diving lock’s circuit board. Tanya was their newest crew member, and though she wasn’t much to look at, she performed her demanding tasks most efficiently.

Satisfied that the boat was ready to get on with its mission, Mikhail looked over to the gyro compass and spoke firmly.

“Comrade Zagorsk, bottom us out. Chief Engineer, prepare to activate crawlers.”

The sound of onrushing ballast rose with a roar, and as the tanks filled with seawater, the mini-sub began to sink. At a depth of one-hundred-andfifty-three meters, there was a noticeable bumping sensation as the rounded hull struck the sandy seafloor. This was the sign for Yuri Sosnovo to trigger the battery-operated motor that ran the vessel’s track drive mechanism. Designed much like a tank’s, the dual treads bit into the sand and proceeded to propel them along at a speed of three knots.

The captain double-checked the chart that lay wrapped in oilskin before him. Drawn up by a Spetsnaz intelligence team, the map showed a detailed rendering of this portion of Oslo Harbor. Only minutes before, they had ascended to periscope depth to take a final bearing. After a quick course adjustment, Mikhail ordered them back down to the protective depths, calculating that their goal lay on the seafloor only seven and a half kilometers due west of them.

During this brief periscope sweep, he had spotted several Norwegian naval corvettes on patrol topside.

Such ships were fast and heavily armed, and could be effective ASW platforms if pursuing the right quarry.

But Mikhail knew that the vessel he commanded was not just any ordinary submarine. The mere fact of its condensed size almost guaranteed that the enemy’s sonar would never detect them. Even if such sensors did manage to chance upon them, the Sea Devil’s hull was covered with sonar absorbent, rubberized tiles known as Clusterguard. Since this hull itself was made out of non-magnetic reinforced plexiglass, not even a magnetic ana moly detector would be able to locate the mini sub

“Comrade Olovksi, please join me in the bow turret.

It’s time to ready the articulated manipulator arm,” ordered the captain.

A narrow bench spanned the forwardmost portion of the vessel’s pressure capsule. Mikhail Borisov seated himself on this perch and was soon joined by the boat’s electrician.

“I’ll begin arming the circuitry, Captain,” offered the brawny brunette.

Mikhail watched her efficiently initiate this process.

He had to admit that he had been genuinely upset when he first learned from Admiral Starobin that they would be assigned a female crew member. The interior of Sea Devil was severely cramped, and privacy was at a minimum. Even the crapper was out in the open, set on the metal plates that covered the battery well.

The whitehaired admiral countered Mikhail’s protest with an eloquent speech centered around the place of the Motherland’s female citizens in the military. Since Socialism meant that all were equal, it would be against the basic tenets of Marxist ideology to bar women from active combat duty if they so desired.

Tanya Olovski was duly qualified, and the admiral had no choice but to assign her to the Sea Devil when the slot became available.

Mikhail had only to look at the electrician to know that any sexual tension that he might have feared wouldn’t be an issue. The big-boned native of Irkutsk was not the type of woman who turned men on. More mannish than feminine, she had a physique that was firm and muscular. And one didn’t have to look closely to see the black moustache that covered her upper lip.

This was certainly not the type of girl Mikhail Borisov found attractive. He liked his women soft, fair, and busty. Still a bachelor at forty, Mikhail had his fair share of lady friends. Most were attracted to his thick blond hair, steel-grey eyes, and solid build. A jagged scar that extended the length of his left cheek gave his ruggedly handsome face character. This mark was the byproduct of a bar fight in Odessa, and if nothing else, served as an interesting conversation piece.

“We’re approaching the final coordinates, captain,” observed Yuri Sosnovo from behind.

“Very good, Chief Engineer. Bring us down to loiter speed.”

The captain’s instructions were instantly carried out, and the soft hum of the tracked drive system lessened noticeably.

“We should be close,” reflected Mikhail Borisov.

“Comrade Olovski, activate the bow spotlights and open the forward viewing port.”

The electrician addressed the console, and in response, a circular metallic curtain slid back, revealing a clear plexiglass porthole. Mikhail leaned forward to look out this opening. A turbid expanse of seawater met his glance.

“Comrade Olovski, angle those spots down toward the sea bed,” ordered the captain in a bare whisper.

As this directive was carried out, the floor of the harbor came into view. It primarily comprised ridged sand and an occasional clump of swaying sea grass. As the mini-sub slowly crawled over this flat expanse, Mikhail spotted an empty Pepsi can. Strangely enough, he didn’t spot a single fish.

“Perhaps we’re searching the wrong quadrant,” offered Tanya Olovski.

“Do you think we should rise to periscope depth to take another bearing?”

Mikhail smelled her sour breath and curtly responded.

“Have faith, Comrade. Just ready that manipulator arm.”

Deciding not to press her point, the electrician reached into the rubberized gauntlet that was set into the console. On the other side of the porthole, an elongated steel appendage suddenly came into view.

This arm had a single joint in its center and was tipped by a clawlike pincer.

Mikhail looked down at his watch, then readdressed the electrician.

“Position the edge of the claw so that it penetrates the uppermost strata of the seafloor, Comrade.”

By grasping the manipulator device that was set inside the gauntlet, Tanya guided the claw so that it began carving a U-shaped wedge in the sandy bottom.

“Increase speed to one-half knot,” ordered the captain coolly.

“One-half knot it is. Sir,” responded the alert helmsman.

The Seo Devil gradually picked up speed, and the furrow that its articulated appendage continued digging into the seafloor lengthened.

“I still think another periscope bearing is in order, Captain,” dared Tanya Olovski.

“Who knows, perhaps we encountered a current that sent us off course.”

Again Mikhail looked at his watch.

“Patience, Comrade,” he whispered.

“And where’s that faith I spoke of earlier? Don’t you trust your captain?”

Before the electrician could answer, the mini sub shook slightly as the tip of its articulated manipulator arm hit something buried in the sand below.

“All stop!” ordered the captain.

“Good, now take us back slowly, Comrade Sosnovo.”

The helmsman reversed the direction of the vessel’s tracked drive, and the Sea Devil backed up over the portion of the seafloor it had just traveled over.

“That’s good enough. Hold it right there,” instructed the captain.

There was a triumphant sparkle in Mikhail’s clear eyes as he looked to his right and grinned.

“Well, what are you waiting for, comrade? Dig up that cable and be quick about it. Don’t forget, I’ve got a four week leave waiting for me back at Kronstadt.”

The electrician guided the claw into the seabed. She seemed genuinely surprised when her efforts succeeded in snagging a thick black cable. She quickly got over her shock, and delicately clamped the pincers around the cable and carefully lifted it upward. It appeared to extend beneath the sand in both directions, and Mikhail was quick to identify it.

“It’s the new communications cable, all right. Even as we hold it before us, top-secret NATO dispatches are being directed through the fiberoptic elements that line the cable’s interior. And just think, comrades, soon this vital information will be all ours, without NATO ever being the wiser!

“Go ahead and insert the tap, Comrade Olovski. I’ll prepare to release the auxiliary cable that we carry at our side, and then we can get out of here.”

The electrician used the controls inside the gauntlet to insert a specially designed probe into the cable. This device was attached to a thin fiberoptic line that the mini-sub carried rolled up in a tight spool stored inside one of its empty torpedo pods.

“The splice is completed. Captain,” observed the electrician.

Mikhail Borisov looked her way and winked.

“Good job, my friend. Now let’s deliver our payload and be off for home. Comrade Sosnovo, come about to course two-three-two. And carefully, if you please.

Don’t forget that we’ll be paying out a cable of our own, and we certainly wouldn’t want to cause it to break.”

For the next quarter of an hour the Sea Devil continued crawling to the southwest. During this time Mikhail Borisov’s eyes remained glued to the monitor, which showed that their cable was feeding out smoothly.

“Our depth continues to decrease. Captain. We’ve just passed the forty-meter mark.”

Mikhail in jested the helmsman’s remarks and merely grunted in response. They were currently following the sloping seabed upward. This brought them ever closer to the rugged coastline that bordered this part of Oslo Harbor.

“We’ll continue up the slope until we reach a depth of thirty meters,” directed the captain.

“That should put us just north of the Norwegian village of Larvik.”

“But how will our operative ever find the end of the cable?” Yuri Sosnovo asked from the helm.

His gaze still set on the monitor, Mikhail answered.

“When we cut the cable, we’ll jettison the spool as well. Attached to this device is an ultrasonic homing beacon that will serve to direct our agent to these waters.

Since his cover is that of a fisherman, he shouldn’t be noticed as he recovers the spool and unwinds the remaining cable shoreward. Then he merely has to plug it into a transmitter in order for the Kremlin to know NATO’s operational schedule at the same time that the Norwegian command is informed of it.”

Mikhail had to admit that this was a brilliant operation, that only a genius like Admiral Igor Starobin could conceive of. Proud to be under this officer’s command, Mikhail ordered the Sea Devil to a halt when they reached a depth of thirty meters. Here the spool holding the rest of the cable was successfully released, and the captain issued the orders that would eventually lead them back home.

To safely reach the deep waters that lay outside Oslo Harbor, the Sea Devil traveled down the Norwegian coastline toward the city of Kristiansand. Once the lights of this town were off their starboard bow, they would change their course to the southeast. Then they would proceed to their rendezvous point with the whiskey-class submarine that would tow them back to the Baltic Sea.

The crew was genuinely relieved that the main part of their mission was over, and to properly celebrate, they passed out the remaining four oranges.

“When I get home I’m going to have my mother cook up a big potful of Ukrainian borscht,” said Yuri Sosnovo as he peeled the skin off his precious piece of fresh fruit.

“To my taste, there’s no finer food in all the motherland.”

“All I’m craving is some lean red meat,” observed Oleg Zagorsk.

“Back home in the Taiga, the men of my village will be preparing for the first elk hunt of the spring. Now there’s a meat that never fails to put a smile on even the most finicky youngster’s face. Have you tasted a piece of fresh elk liver before, Captain?”

Mikhail Borisov answered from the helm, where he lazily monitored the autopilot.

“I can’t say that I have, Comrade.”

The usually tightlipped Siberian passionately responded.

“That’s too bad. Sir. Because to my people, there’s no finer delicacy on this planet. Legend says that to partake of the raw liver brings the hunter good fortune.”

Tanya Olovski was seated at the trim controls and shook her head disgustedly.

“Sounds pretty sickening, if you want my opinion. How can you compare such a revolting thing to a crisp red apple, some sweet grapes, a wheel of tangy cheese, and a loaf of crusty black bread? Now that, comrades, is real eating!”

The Siberian was all set to argue otherwise, when a warbling electronic tone filled the cabin with a piercing noise.

“It’s the collision alarm!” screamed the captain, who reached down to halt the mini-sub’s forward velocity.

Just as his hand pulled back on the throttle, the vessel shuddered wildly and rolled hard on its right side.

The lights blinked off, and the crew went tumbling to the pitching deck.

Mikhail Borisov slammed into the fire-control console with such force that he had the wind knocked out of him. Gasping for air and unable to speak, he looked on as the red emergency lights popped on.

Through the dim red haze he saw that the vessel remained tilted precariously on its side. Struggling to scramble over the assortment of tangled bodies was the dexterous figure of Oleg Zagorsk. Somehow the Siberian managed to reach the diving station, and with his hands on the joystick, he began directing water forward to aft via the pump, and vented the forward trim tank straight to the sea.

As trim was regained, the angle of the deck lessened and the rest of Sea Devil’s complement were able to stand upright once more. This included the boat’s captain, who rubbed his bruised shoulder and somehow found the words to express himself.

“Our integrity seems to be intact. But what in the hell did we hit?”

The electrician alertly moved to the forwardmost portion of the compartment, activated the bow spotlights, and opened the viewing port. Greeting her was a puzzling checkered wall that she all too soon identified.

“It’s a sub net!” she exclaimed.

The captain joined her.

“Well I’ll be, it is a sub net.”

“Do you think we can get around it?” asked the electrician.

“Why waste the effort?” returned Mikhail.

“All I have to do is take a little swim with the net clippers, and we can be on our way again in no time at all.

Comrade Sosnovo, would you be so good as to prepare the diving chamber for me?”

The captain turned and began his way aft. The air lock was located amidships, beside the battery well.

From an adjoining locker he pulled out a black rubber wet suit and a self-contained, closed-circuit oxygen rebreathing apparatus. He wasted no time donning this gear and climbing down into the cramped air lock.

As the hatch was sealed overhead, Mikhail activated the pump lever and a stream of icy cold seawater began flooding into the chamber. The fluid quickly filled the compartment, and though the resulting pressure was most uncomfortable, he opened the valve of his oxygen tank and took several deep breaths. There was little extra room inside the chamber, and he awkwardly reached down to twist open the lower hatch. It was with great relief when his efforts paid off and he was able to slip out into the murky depths.

The net clippers were stowed behind the port torpedo pod. He readily located them and swam forward to begin the task of cutting a hole in the net large enough to allow them safe passage. His extensive training was put to the test as he began the physically demanding job of clipping the wire mesh cable.

The cold water was beginning to numb his bruised limbs, and it took a supreme effort to grasp the handles of the clippers and apply enough pressure to penetrate the wire. Time after time he had to repeat this painful process, until he was all but exhausted and still found himself with three more cable sections to cut away.

Most divers would have long since abandoned their efforts and returned to the boat to get a replacement.

But Mikhail was much too proud to do such a thing.

As a Spetsnaz officer, he had a tradition to uphold.

For he was representative of the motherland’s toughest underwater warrior, and as such, would complete the job to its very end.

It was as he placed the head of the clippers up against the coiled strands of the third section that a distant throbbing whine caught his attention. This sound seemed to intensify, and he knew in an instant that it was the signature of an approaching surface ship. Ever fearful that their collision could have set off a sensor of some sort, Mikhail grasped the handle of the clippers with a renewed intensity.

One strand away from completing the job, the water exploded with a series of resounding blasts. Though these were most likely only weak scare charges designed to frighten an adversary into panicking and giving himself away, Mikhail took them very seriously. And it was fortunate that he did, for just as he snipped through the final link of netting, a deafening blast reverberated from the waters above. The force of this concussion knocked him off the net and threw him into the side of the Sea Devil with a dull thud. He found it difficult to breathe, and with the swirling black depths beckoning him to merely let go and surrender to the cold call of eternity, the commando’s instincts took over. His limbs were heavy as he pulled his weary body down to the re-entry hatch and gratefully slipped inside the chamber.

The next thing Mikhail remembered was being pulled out of the air lock by the concerned electrician. As the hatch was sealed behind him, he managed to cry out excitedly.

“For the sake of Lenin, get us off the bottom and out of this forsaken spot!”

It was the warrant officer who vented the ballast, while the chief engineer activated the mini-sub’s single propeller and guided the vessel through the hole that Mikhail had just cut for them. There was a loud grating noise as one of the frayed ends of the net scraped up against Sea Devil’s hull. But this was nothing compared to the thunderous blasts that awaited them as they passed through the net and entered the deep waters of the Skagerrak.

“Secure for depth charges!” screamed the exhausted captain.

This frantic cry was met by a reverberating concussion that slammed the mini-sub downward and shook it from side to side like a shark tearing apart its prey.

Again the crew of four was thrown to the deck as the blast was followed by one of even greater intensity. As the lights faded, a scared-female voice shouted out into the blackness, “They’ve got us for sure! We don’t stand a chance!”

“Like hell we don’t!” shot back Mikhail Borisov.

“Comrade Sosnovo, is our engine still on line?”

With only the red emergency lights illuminating the cabin, the chief engineer picked himself off the deck and limped over to the helm.

“The power train is still operating. Captain.”

“That’s music to my ears!” replied the Captain, who momentarily cringed when another depth charge detonated above them.

“Open that throttle up all the way,” he added.

“And perhaps our Norwegian friends will tire of this senseless game and let us go in peace.”

The captain knew that it was very likely that the surface units only had a general idea of where they were located. The standard NATO tactic was for such ships to indiscriminately drop ordnance in the hope that their suspected quarry would panic and take some sort of foolish action that would give them away. In such circumstances, Mikhail was trained to keep under way at all costs. Since shock tests showed that underwater explosions affected a vessel the size of Sea Devil far less than a normal-sized submarine, it was to their advantage to get as far away from the barrage as possible.

There was a self-satisfied smirk on the captain’s face as the next explosion that greeted them was significantly more distant. Several other similarly weakened blasts followed, and only then did Mikhail stand upright and exhale a full sigh of relief.

“You can relax. Comrades. They’ve lost us, all right.”

With the cabin still bathed in the red emergency lighting, the captain added.

“Helmsman, plot the quickest course to the rendezvous point. And keep those throttles wide open. I’ve got a four-week leave waiting for me back at Kronstadt, and not even the entire Norwegian fleet is going to keep me from using it.”

The air route from Prestwick airport to Holy Loch took Commander Brad Mackenzie over a variety of Scottish landscape. From the copilot’s seat of a Sikorsky S-70 Seahawk helicopter, he viewed the lush scenery, which included forested hillsides, deep blue lochs, and several quaint villages. It was a gray and overcast afternoon. Mac was weary after his long flight in from Andrews Air Force Base, and as he yawned, the pressure in his ears suddenly equalized. This allowed him to better hear the tape that the pilot had just placed into the cockpit’s cassette player. From the intercom blared forth the spirited sound of massed pipers.

Mac identified the song that they were currently playing as “Scotland the Brave.”

“I hope that you don’t mind the music, Commander,” said the Seahawk’s young female pilot.

“I just got transferred here from Norfolk and have really fallen in love with the music of this country.”

“Is this your first visit to Scotland?” asked Mac.

She nodded.

“To tell you the truth, this is the first time I’ve ever been out of the States before.”

As a medley of familiar pipe tunes emanated from the elevated speakers, Mac began instinctively tapping his foot to the beat.

“You know, I practically grew up with this music. My great-grandfather originally came from the Inverness area in the Highlands. Why, I even know how to blow the pipes.”

“Now that’s something that I’ve always wanted to learn,” reflected the pilot as she smoothly guided the Seahawk over a ridge of rugged hills and into a broad valley. A wide river cut this plain, that was filled with a conglomeration of houses, factories, and highways.

“That’s the River Clyde,” offered the pilot.

“To our right are the outskirts of Glasgow, while beneath us is the city of Greenock. That body up ahead of us is the Firth of Clyde, where Holy Loch is situated.”

Mac was somewhat familiar with the landscape, since he had visted the naval base once before. Yet he had never seen it from this lofty vantage point. He took in the bustling docks of Port Glasgow and could just make out Gare Loch, where the English submarine base at Falsane was located.

The Seahawk began losing altitude as they whisked over the town of Gourock and began their way over the sparkling waters of the Firth of Clyde. Here Mac spotted a single submarine headed out to sea. Even though he had seen such a sight many times before, he sat forward excitedly to examine this vessel more closely. It had a sleek black hull and a prominent sail that didn’t hold any hydroplanes. As Mac spotted the two sailors who occupied the sail’s exposed bridge, the chopper pilot spoke out.

“That submarine is certainly awesome looking. I wonder if it’s one of ours.”

Mac was quick to reply.

“Actually, it appears to be a Brit, most probably one of their new Trafalgar-class nuclear-powered attack vessels. You can tell it’s not one of ours because of the absence of hydroplanes on the sail.”

“I guess that I should have spotted that right off,” returned the pilot.

“Though I’m currently just a transport operator, eventually I’d like to get into ASW.

From what I hear, that’s where all the action is.”

Mac would have liked to tell her how right she was, but held his tongue. With his gaze centered on the frothing white turbulence that the sub was leaving behind in its wake, he couldn’t help but wonder if the tracked mini-sub had yet to pay these waters a visit.

Surely there could be no denying the Firth’s strategic importance. Both the United States and the United Kingdom had major submarine bases here. The estuary also was fairly narrow, had plenty of commercial traffic, and had ready access to the open sea. AU of these ingredients would act in the mini-sub’s favor.

As it turned out, the possibility of such a clandestine operation was no longer Mac’s primary concern.

This had all come to pass a little more than eight hours ago, when he arrived in the Pentagon office of Admiral Alien Long. With a minimum of small talk, the admiral explained to Mac his new assignment. And when this intensive briefing was over, Mac clearly understood the reasoning behind this abrupt switch in duty.

Sure, he had given the search for the mysterious mini-sub a whole year of his life, and as events off the coast of southern California had proved, his tireless efforts were bound to pay off soon. Yet when the

B-52 went crashing into the Irish Sea with a payload of four nuclear weapons on board, his continued search for the tracked vessel no longer had the vital priority that it once held.

In all of American history, never before had the country permanently lost one of its nuclear weapons.

Such devices of mass destruction were among the most closely monitored elements of the U.S. military arsenal.

To ensure that such a nightmarish scenario didn’t come to pass off the coast of Ireland, the President was demanding that the Navy give the recovery effort its total attention.

Admiral Long explained that Mac’s reassignment was only one small piece of this effort. All over the world, ships were being diverted and specialists recruited to assist in this all-important task. Certainly the search for the mysterious tracked mini-sub could be temporarily put on hold while Mac applied his expertise in a new direction.

“There’s Holy Loch,” remarked the pilot as she swung the Seahawk over the town of Dunoon and pointed its blunt nose to the north.

“That place is sure busy these days. Why, I’ve been bringing up passengers almost non-stop for the last thirty-six hours. We sure never got a workout like this back in Norfolk.”

Mac peered out the plexiglass cockpit window and viewed the rect angularly shaped inlet of water where the U.S. naval installation was located. Barely two miles long and a mile wide, the loch had received its distinctive name several centuries before when a ship ran aground carrying a load of earth from Jerusalem that was destined for the foundation of a Glasgow cathedral.

The marine salvage expert had always thought this name ironic, for today the loch’s use was far more hellish than holy.

As they initiated their descent on the helipad, Mac got a glimpse of the conglomeration of vessels currently docked at the base’s pier. He spotted a massive tender, approximately eight submarines, a fleet oiler, and several large oceangoing tugs. The docks themselves seemed to be unusually active, with both men and equipment visible in great number.

The Seahawk landed with a jolt, and as the rotors whined to a halt the pilot commented.

“I hope you enjoy your stay, Commander. Maybe I’ll have you on the way back.”

Mac released his harness and replied, “I’d enjoy that, Lieutenant. Thanks for the lift. And don’t be afraid to pick up a set of pipes and give them a try. It’s not as hard as it looks.”

The soulful strains of “My Home in the Green Hills” accompanied him as he exited the cockpit and climbed out the fuselage door. Waiting for him on the tarmac was a short, wiry individual dressed in officer’s whites.

He wore aviator-type sunglasses and had an unlit corn cob pipe in his mouth. Mac was somewhat surprised to find him wearing the rank of admiral.

“Commander Mackenzie, I presume,” greeted the senior officer with a slight Southern drawl.

“I’m Admiral Connors, the base CO. Welcome to Holy Loch.”

Mac accepted his handshake.

“Why thank you, sir.

Admiral Long sends his regards.”

A fond look flashed in the admiral’s eyes as he responded.

“We go back a long way, Commander. They don’t come any finer than Alien Long, who, incidentally, speaks most highly of your abilities, young man.”

As Mac nodded humbly, the CO added, “I don’t want you to think that I come out and personally greet everyone arriving at Holy Loch this way. In this instance, time is of the essence, and I want to start tapping your expertise as soon as possible. That’s why I thought I’d present my initial briefing to you right here at the airfield in the officers’ ready room. If you’ll just follow me, we’ll head on over to that hangar and get things rolling.

“Now what’s this I hear about you coming into Scotland by way of Kwajalein Atoll? I had duty in the Marshalls during the initial A-bomb tests, and no one has to tell me how damned remote those islands are.”

As Mac filled his host in on the roundabout route that had taken him almost halfway around the world in the last forty-eight hours, they entered the hangar. It was a cavernous structure filled with seven dark-blue Sikorsky Sea Stallions and dozens of scurrying mechanics.

To the din of pounding sheet metal and the machine-gun-like report of a riveter, they headed to a stairwell and climbed up a single flight. This put them in a carpeted hallway, far removed from the racket of the machine shop. They proceeded down this corridor, whose left side was lined with huge plate glass windows that allowed one a clear view of the hurried activity going on in the hangar bay below.

“Those Sikorskys down there are being fitted with towed sonar sleds,” commented the admiral without breaking his crisp stride.

“They’ve been brought in from all over the U.K. where their primary mission has been search-and-rescue. As we learned in the Persian Gulf during minesweeping operations there, the Sea Stallion is one hell of a versatile whirlybird. It’s one of the toughest vehicles in the air, and we’re planning to utilize them day and night until we get the job done.”

They entered a doorway marked “Wardroom,” and found themselves in the private confines of the pilots.

The room was currently empty and contained several comfortable-looking leather couches, a buffet snack bar, and a big-screen television.

“Would you like a sandwich or a cup of coffee?” asked the CO.

Shaking his head that he was fine, Mac followed the Admiral into an adjoining room. This one looked as if it belonged in a school. Several rows of desks faced a wall-length blackboard on which a detailed map of the northern part of the United Kingdom had been taped.

Standing beside this map, in the process of inserting a small, red, pennant-shaped stickpin into it, was a man in a green flight suit. He appeared to be a bit younger than Mac and sported a bruised face and a cast on his right arm.

“Commander Mackenzie, I’d like you to meet Captain Lawrence Stockton, the pilot of the B-52 that we lost the other night.”

Mac had trouble hiding his amazement as he politely nodded towards the airman.

“What’s the matter. Commander, haven’t you ever seen a ghost before?” asked the pilot bitterly.

Admiral Connors was quick to interject.

“Actually, four other members of Captain Stockton’s crew managed to escape from the Stratofortress. Unfortunately, the crew of the KC-135 tanker wasn’t so lucky.”

The two newcomers joined the pilot beside the map.

Mac could see in a glance that all the red stickpins were confined to the Irish Sea, at a point halfway between the eastern coast of Ireland and the Isle of Man.

Quick to note Mac’s interest in this map, the pilot voiced himself.

“Those red flags show the known extent of the debris field. As you can see, most of the wreckage seems to be confined to a single, rect angularly-shaped grid approximately forty-five miles long and twenty miles wide.”

“What’s the meaning of those two black stickpins and the one in yellow?” asked Mac.

Captain Stockton looked up to catch the Admiral’s glance. Only when the CO gave him his nod of approval did the pilot answer Mac.

“The two black pins show the original locations of the pair of bombs that have already been recovered.

The yellow pin indicates the finding of a floatation collar device only.”

“Floatation collar device?” questioned Mac.

The pilot’s previously aggressive tone softened.

“Each of the four weapons that we were carrying were fitted with a heavy plastic collar, designed to fill with compressed air in the event of a disaster like the one we were part of. Their purpose is to keep the bombs afloat long enough to get a rescue team to them.”

“Two of the devices worked just perfectly,” added Admiral Connors “The first SAR choppers on the scene tagged their homing beacons immediately, and secured them with a more permanent collar until the recovery ship arrived on the scene.”

“We’re still not certain what went wrong with the third device,” offered the pilot.

“All we do know is that its collar properly inflated, and when the SAR chopper got to it, the bomb was nowhere to be seen.”

“The consensus is that it somehow slipped out of its harness during impact,” explained the admiral.

“If that’s the case, we have a pretty good idea where we’ll find it. All we have to do is to take into consideration the going current and the speed and direction of the wind, and we can approximate the point where the bomb originally hit the water. Now as to the location of the fourth weapon, that’s still up for grabs.”

Mac’s attention was focused on the grid of stickpins.

“What kind of bathymetrics are we talking about down there?”

This time it was the admiral who provided the answer.

“The average depth in that part of the Irish Sea is about seven hundred and fifty feet. The terrain of the seafloor is for the most part a gently sloping gradient, though some canyons up to one-thousand feet could be encountered. I’ve got a hydrographic ship presently coming in from the Norwegian Sea. It will be at the site early tomorrow morning, and then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Mac seemed a bit uncomfortable with his next concern.

“Is there any possibility that either of those two missing bombs could have split apart on impact with the sea? And if we do manage to locate them, could they detonate on us?”

“The Air Force had already informed us that it’s highly unlikely that either device’s integrity has been compromised,” retorted the admiral firmly.

“The bombs are welded together in a casing of solid steel, and not even a collision with the sea could wrench them apart.

As to your second question, you can rest assured that when we do find the two bombs, you needn’t worry about an atomic explosion. There’s no way in hell that such a thing could happen.”

“I beg to differ, Admiral,” countered Captain Stockton.

“Though under normal circumstances we’d have absolutely nothing to worry about in that respect, I’m afraid that one of the missing bombs could be a problem.”

“Don’t start that doomsday crap with me again,” spat the redfaced admiral angrily.

“I’m warning you, Captain, I could have you thrown into the brig for this!”

Lawrence Stockton seemed to ignore this outburst as he looked Mac in the eye and calmly continued.

“You see, Commander Mackenzie, I was in the bomb bay at the time of the accident. We were experiencing difficulties in the arming circuitry of one our bombs. It happens from time to time, and the unofficial procedure to correct this condition is to open the trigger mechanism and bypass the permissive action links by shooting a full charge of electricity into the system. At this point the overload usually corrects itself and we can get on with our business. Yet it was just as my bombardier was about to fry the circuit that our whole world came apart. And that’s the last I saw of either my bombardier or that damned A-bomb.”

Without giving the pilot a second to regain his composure, Mac retorted.

“Exactly what are you trying to say, Captain?”

“As I’ve been trying to tell them from the moment that they pulled me out of the drink, one of those bombs is cocked and ready to go!”

Having heard enough of the pilot’s hysterical ranting, Admiral Connor’s interceded.

“The Pentagon assures me that it’s impossible to arm an atomic device without receiving the proper PAL code from the National Command Authority, which in most instances is the President. With that said, I’ll have no more of your outbursts, Captain Stockton! Our job is going to be difficult enough without you going and putting such nonsense into my people’s ears. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to Commander Mackenzie alone.”

Lawrence Stockton took this cue, and as he turned to leave the briefing room, his gaze momentarily locked onto Mac. No words were spoken; he seemed to silently implore Mac to remain objective. The marine salvage expert expressed his open-mindedness with a slight nod of his head, as the pilot pivoted and slowly limped back into the wardroom.

“You can rest assured that Captain Stockton is talking hogwash, Commander. The Defense Department guarantees me that there’s not the slightest chance of either one of those missing A-bombs detonating. So that leaves us with one concern and one concern only, and that’s finding the cursed things before anyone else does.

“Now in that respect we have several things going for us, not the least of which is that the crash happened late at night, in an isolated quadrant of the sea, far from any major population centers. There’s been no mention in the Irish news media of any peculiar sightings on the night of the tragedy, so it appears that they still don’t realize what’s occurred off their coast.

This anonymity is most important, as this entire matter’s being handled on a need-to-know basis only. Only top Pentagon and government figures have been told the complete details of the crash. Because of logistics and security concerns, it was decided to inform the Brits of the incident. We’ve agreed to allow their First Sea Lord to share the news with a select handful of military officers with a ranking of Major or above, on a top-secret basis. The majority of these individuals have operational command duties in the northern portion of the U.K. and since this whole thing happened in their backyard, their cooperation is essential.

“So I guess that brings us back to square one. How do we go about finding the frigging thing?”

Admiral Connors used the scarred bit of his corncob pipe as a pointer as he directed Mac’s attention back to the map.

“Though this entire operation is being run under the auspices of the U.S. Air Force, the Navy has been asked to lend a hand to our sister service. And that’s where you come in. Commander. Given what we know about the debris field, what do you think our chances are of finding those two bombs?”

Mac took his time formulating an answer.

“I’d say that with the technology available to us in this day and age, the chances are excellent. Admiral. The depth of the operation doesn’t sound excessive, and once we’ve got that detailed bathymetric chart of the quadrant to study, we’ll know precisely what we’re up against.

What kind of salvage equipment do you have to draw upon?”

“Just name it and it’s yours. Commander. We’ve got carte blanche on this one. All the Defense Department wants in return is results.”

Mac thoughtfully stroked his chin.

“That hydrographic ship that you mentioned was on the way is a great start. Those Sea Stallions out in the hangar bay will be helpful too. They can initiate a preliminary sonar scan of the seafloor while we assemble a proper salvage flotilla. What other surface vessels are at our immediate disposal?”

“We’ve got a pair of Avenger-class mine warfare ships coming in from the Bay of Biscay. Traveling with them is a Cimarron-class oiler and a Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate. Right here at Holy Loch are several oceangoing tugs and the sub rescue ship the Pigeon.”

“Is a DSRV deployed aboard her?” asked Mac, hopefully.

The Admiral nodded.

“She’s carrying the Mystic. Though both vessels were undergoing minor overhauls when news of the crash arrived, I’ve got the dockyards working overtime getting them seaworthy once again.

They’ll be ready to go in another twelve hours.”

“Admiral, the Mystic is sure going to make our job a lot easier. Now if only we could get a hold of some ROV’s.”

There was a devilish gleam in Admiral Bart Connor’s eyes as he responded to this.

“I’ve taken the liberty of setting you up an office right down the hallway from this room. There’s a phone in it and an exact duplicate of this map. And by the way, when you’re ready to go to the site, I’d like you to use the USS Bowfm as your base of operations. She’s a nuclear-powered fast-attack sub that’s got one of the best crews in the Loch operating her.”

Barely hearing this, Mac absentmindedly thought out loud.

“I wonder if K-l is available from Woods Hole…. Then I’d better get on the horn with the guys at Nose and get CURV sent out here from San Diego on the double.”

Admiral Connor noted his guest’s preoccupation and struggled to stifle a satisfied smirk. His old friend Alien Long had been so right when he called recommending Brad Mackenzie for the job. Now if only his luck held, and the young commander was able to help them locate the two missing A-bombs before the unyielding pressure that he continued getting from Washington drove him to an early retirement!