Sea Devil

Chapter Nine

It was on a cold, windy night that Captain Mikhail Borisov and the crew of his Sea Devil arrived back in Kronstadt. No sooner did the mini-sub dock inside the moon pool of its specially designed support ship than a crisply uniformed junior officer presented himself at the gangplank.

“Captain Borisov, let me be the first to welcome you home. If it’s convenient. Admiral Starobin would like you to be his guest at the Komsomol dining hall this evening.”

Mikhail had been on the top deck of his vessel supervising the final docking procedures as this surprise invitation was delivered. Though he had been looking forward to a shower, a quick meal, and a long nap on his own, one couldn’t take such an invite lightly. He cleared his throat.

“I’d be honored to accept. Lieutenant. But could you please ask the admiral to give me at the very least forty-five minutes to clean myself up in the officer’s club and get into a fresh uniform?”

“Why of course, Captain. The admiral understands that you have only just come back from a long mission, and you have an hour to prepare yourself. Shall I send a car for you?”

“Ill walk,” returned Mikhail curtly.

With this the junior officer saluted smartly, clicked his heels together, and pivoted to return to headquarters.

Mikhail looked on as he disappeared up the ladder that led from the moon pool

“What’s the matter. Captain? Is there some sort of trouble?” queried a voice from behind.

Mikhail turned his head and spotted the source of this query, his moustached chief engineer, who had just climbed up onto the deck via the mini-sub’s forward access way

“No, Comrade Sosnovo, it’s nothing you need to be concerned with. It looks like I’ll be at the Komsomol dining hall, if you need me.”

“So you couldn’t wait to get a fresh meal, huh Captain?”

said the Ukrainian with a wink.

“Don’t forget, if they’re offering the Ukrainian borscht tonight, don’t pass it up, sir.”

“I won’t, comrade. Now I’d better get up to the locker room at the officers’ club and make myself presentable.

Right now, I stink so bad that every diner in the whole restaurant would lose his appetite the second I walked into the place.”

Well aware that he was leaving his Sea Devil in good hands, Mikhail left the vessel by way of the gangplank.

Their current floating dock was a large rectangular pool that had been cut into the lower hull of an Ugra-class support ship. This same opening could be closed to the sea and drained, and the Sea Devil could thus be transferred, giving the versatile mini-sub yet another deployment possibility.

A steep ladder took him to the main deck of the support vessel. Here an alert sentry snapped him a crisp salute and escorted him off the ship and onto the concrete pier. It was good to be back on solid footing after his long voyage. Oblivious to the icy gusts, he pulled tight the collar of his cotton tunic and began his way towards the officers’ club.

The area around the docks was bustling with activity.

A battalion of tough-looking Marines were in the process of boarding an Ivan Rogov-class landing ship.

Mikhail had spent a fair amount of time on one of these impressive vessels himself. In addition to troops, they were designed to carry up to forty battle tanks and a variety of support vehicles. The landing ships also had a docking bay in which hovercraft were stored, and two helicopter landing spots both fore and aft.

While wondering what far corner of the earth these troops might be off to, he passed the main embarkation area and followed the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the docks as far as the base power plant. Here he turned inland, utilizing a sidewalk to cross into the administrative and living areas.

The officers’ club was situated beside the base commissary.

It occupied a fairly new three-story brick structure built in the late 1970s. Mikhail headed for this building’s basement, where a fully equipped gymnasium, complete with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, was located. He kept a locker here for just such occasions.

Because of the fairly late hour, the locker room was deserted as he entered. Thankful to have the place to himself, he stripped off his stained coveralls and headed straight for the showers. Under a torrent of steaming hot water he washed away the accumulated grime of two weeks spent locked up within the cramped confines of his Sea Devil. He had to wash his hair three times to get it squeaky clean, and he used the better part of a bar of soap to get the rest of his body completely clean. He finished up this soaking by turning off the hot tap and crying out as a flood of icy cold water shot out from the showerhead. Not until he covered his entire body with this invigorating spray did he turn off the tap altogether.

He felt like a new man as he sauntered over to his locker and got his toilet kit. At the sink he brushed his teeth and shaved. The familiar face that stared back at him from the steam-covered mirror looked weary and strained. His steel-gray eyes were bloodshot, and fatigue lines marked his highly etched cheeks and brow. Taking a moment to trace the scar that lined his face, Mikhail turned to dress himself.

The Komsomol dining hall was located on the third floor of the officers’ club. It was plushly decorated, with red, royal blue, and gold predominating. Lit only by candlelight, the spacious room featured a strolling violinist, who was in the midst of a spirited piece by Khachaturian as Mikhail entered.

“Captain Borisov, it’s good to see you again,” greeted the smiling maitre d’.

“Hello, Vitaly,” returned Mikhail warmly.

“It’s been much too long. How’s the wife and that new baby of yours?”

“She’s still running me ragged. Captain. But the baby, he makes it all worth it. Did you know that little Viktor is already crawling? My mother sewed him a sailor suit, and you should just see how he looks in a uniform. So when are you finally going to settle down and start a family of your own?”

Mikhail shrugged his muscular shoulders.

“Find me the right girl and I’ll start on that family right after dessert,” he said with a wide grin.

“Oh, to live the life of a sailor with a beautiful, exotic woman in every port,” reflected the maitre d’, who sighed and looked down at his clipboard.

“Admiral Starobin is waiting for you in the main dining room, Captain. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you right over to him.”

Every table in the candlelit dining room was taken, but because of the lack of direct light and the great amount of space between each station, one could dine here in almost complete privacy. Mikhail was led to a spot beside a full-length picture window. Here a whitehaired senior officer sat alone sipping a cocktail, staring out the window.

“Excuse me, Admiral, but Captain Borisov has arrived,” greeted the maitre d’.

Quickly turning his head at this. Admiral Igor Starobin smiled broadly.

“So he didn’t stand me up after all, Vitaly. Ah, it’s good to see you. Captain.”

Taking this as his cue to leave, the maitre d’ quietly backed away and left the two officers to themselves.

As he did, Mikhail accepted the admiral’s handshake and seated himself.

“I hope that I didn’t keep you too long, Admiral.”

“Not at all, comrade. In fact, you’re right on time. I realized that you only just returned from sea, but I couldn’t wait to personally convey to you our appreciation for a job well done. Your little trip to Norway was a complete success. Why, we’re already benefiting from your efforts. But enough of such shop talk… how about joining me for a drink? And then we’ll get some fresh food into you.”

The admiral lifted up his right hand and snapped his lingers. Seconds later a waiter arrived. Without asking his guest, Igor Starobin ordered a chilled bottle of Caspian vodka and an assortment of appetizers. In no time at all this request was fulfilled, and as they held up their glasses, the whitehaired senior officer initiated the first toast.

“To my esteemed guest! Welcome back from the sea, Captain. Your motherland is proud of you.”

Mikhail humbly nodded and took a sip of his drink.

The vodka went down smoothly, and the blond commando reached out to try some of the caviar. Quick to join him was his host, who covered a flat whole wheat cracker with caviar and hungrily gulped it down.

“Now this is decent caviar, comrade… not like that crap they sell us at the commissary.”

“From what I hear, all the good stuff gets sold for export,” offered Mikhail.

“I believe you’re right, my friend. But it just doesnt seem to make any sense. I know we need the trade, but why barter away one of the Rodina’s finest natural resources, and leave none for its own citizens? Why, decent Russian caviar is easier to buy in New York City than it is in Moscow!”

Before Mikhail could reply, the waiter appeared table side

“Excuse me, comrades, but the kitchen will be closing shortly and I’d like to get your orders in.

May I recommend either the fresh baked sturgeon, or the house specialty, Ukrainian borscht.”

“I’ll take the sturgeon,” said the Admiral.

“Make mine the borscht,” said Mikhail.

“My senior electrician is from Kiev, and all I’ve been hearing these last two weeks is how damn tasty the dish can be when it’s prepared properly.”

“I’ll tell the chef to stir the pot for you, comrade,” offered the waiter as he ambled off to the kitchen to put in their orders.

The admiral sipped his vodka and looked his guest in the eye.

“So tell me, comrade, other than your successful tap of the NATO communications cable, did your Sea Devil function properly?”

“Other than a backed-up crapper and a couple of minor shorts, she operated splendidly, Admiral. We gave her watertight integrity a real workout when a couple of Norwegian corvettes depth-charged us off the coast of Larvik.”

“How in the world did they ever tag you?” asked the concerned senior officer.

“Don’t worry, Admiral. It wasn’t a signature deficiency on our part that gave us away. You see, we hit an unmarked sub net that triggered our presence to their ASW forces.”

“Off the coast of Larvik, you say?” repeated the Admiral thoughtfully.

“I want you to leave me that net’s exact coordinates. I’ve got Korsakov and his team going into those same waters next week, and there’s no sense risking their mission on something we already know about.”

“You’ll have those coordinates on your desk tomorrow morning,” returned Mikhail, who added with a grin, “I’ll drop them off to you on my way out of the base as I begin my leave. I’m booked on a ten a.m.

Aeroflot flight to Odessa, where I’ve got a whole four weeks to work on my tan.”

Admiral Starobin feared just such a thing and was all set to deliver the bad news when the waiter arrived with dinner. Deciding to let his guest eat this last meal in peace, Igor held his tongue and dug into his sturgeon.

Across the table from him, Mikhail Borisov breathed in the rich collection of scents that were emanating from his steaming hot bowl of borscht. Using a large spoon, he sipped a mouthful of the beet-red broth and found it tasty and perfectly seasoned. He needed a knife and fork to get at the assortment of delicacies that filled the rest of the bowl. They included tangy sausage, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, celery, and several tender chunks of meat. He used a heel of crusty rye bread to sop up the remaining broth, which he extended with a dollop of sour cream.

“My chief engineer was correct, this dish is one of the finest I’ve ever tasted. How was your fish, Admiral?”

“Adequate,” replied his host.

“Though I would have preferred a bowl of that borscht, at my age a plain piece of broiled fish makes more sense for the old heart. Now what do you say to dessert?”

No sooner did these words leave the Admiral’s lips than the waiter arrived with two platters of sliced pineapple spears.

“Well, look what we have here,” observed Igor Starobin.

“I guess a cargo ship arrived here from Cuba recently.

Though it’s going to take a lot more than pineapples to pay off the huge debt Castro and his gang of thugs owe us.”

“At least this is a commodity that we can’t grow in the motherland,” added Mikhail as he cut into the luscious yellow fruit and began devouring it.

The admiral waited for their snifters of brandy to arrive before managing to bring up the sensitive subject that had necessitated this dinner in the first place.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal, Captain. I just wanted to tell you once again how very proud I am of you. Without your tireless effort, the motherland would be a less secure place to live. All of us can rest more easily just knowing that vessels like Sea Devil are at our disposal, to thwart the imperialistic ambitions of our sworn enemy.

“You have helped make a dream that was conceived over forty years ago become a reality. As you very well know, it was during the closing days of the Great War that I first laid my eyes on Sea Devil. Though this crude Nazi prototype was far from the sophisticated vessel that we have today, the mere idea of combining amphibious tracked drive and submarine propulsion was a unique, ingenious concept whose possibilities seemed endless to me. The designers at the Red Banner Shipyards agreed, and as a result, the craft that we today call Sea Devil was born.

“Through the years there have been many doubtors in the defense ministry who were skeptical of Sea Devil’s operational effectiveness. True, we have had our failures, just as we’ve had our triumphant successes.

Yet to win these unbelievers over to our side once and for all, I recently submitted the plans for an unprecedented covert operation to both Admiral of the Fleet Markov and the Premier’s closest aide, Deputy Secretary Stanislav Krasino. And much to my utter delight, only yesterday I received the go-ahead from the Politburo itself.

“As I prepared to set the operation in motion, I could think of no better qualified officer than you to lead my strike team into action. For what I propose is a mission whose successful outcome will change the very balance of power between East and West unalterably in our favor!”

With this rousing statement, Igor Starobin briefly halted to take a sip of his brandy and catch his breath. Certain that he had the undivided attention of his rapt dinner companion, he continued.

“What I propose is to have you take Sea Devil up Scotland’s Firth of Clyde to the American naval installation at Holy Loch. There you will place a specially designed series of limpet mines beneath the hull of a yet-to-be-named imperialist nuclear submarine. These explosives will be placed in such a manner that their activation will split the vessel’s hull apart and cause the sub’s still-critical reactor to go plummeting to the seafloor below. The result will be an ecological disaster of unprecedented scope, as raw plutonium is released into the pristine waters of the loch, poisoning them for a thousand years to come.

“Just think of the international outrage that will follow such a disaster, comrade! Without being able to point a finger at the actual perpetrator, the Americans will be assailed by every nation on this planet. Why, the Europeans will be absolutely furious, and demand that the United States withdraw its nuclear weapons from their soil before such a calamity can reoccur.

And in such a way not only will we succeed in permanently shutting down the naval installation that poses the most direct threat to our shores, but also cause the removal of American cruise missiles and shorter range tactical nuclear weapons from Europe as well!

“I had hoped to initiate this mission upon your return from leave, for I know the hectic schedule that you’ve been on these past few months. But one of the preconditions that the Politburo insisted upon when they gave me the go-ahead was that it take place to coincide with the Queen of England’s visit to the Falsane Naval Base at nearby Gare Loch. Here she will christen the first English submarine to be equipped with Trident missiles.”

“And when will that take place?” Mikhail asked calmly.

“In five and a half days,” answered the admiral, who noted that Mikhail took this news without flinching.

“I feel the timing is most appropriate. The presence of the Royal Family will be a welcome addition, as the tragedy unfolds and the eyes of all the planet center on the waters of Scotland’s Firth of Clyde.”

“I agree,” replied Mikhail.

“Are these specially designed limpet mines that you spoke of ready to go?”

Igor Starobin nodded.

“Even as we speak, they are being flown up to Kronstadt from the test facility at Baku.”

“Then all I need are some charts and a schematic on where the charges are to be placed,” said the blond haired commando.

“Then you’ll accept the mission?”

“Of course I will, Admiral. Just like yourself, I have dedicated the better years of my life to Sea Devil, and this operation will be the pinnacle of my efforts. In my humble opinion it’s a brilliant plan that only one vessel in the world can successfully pull off. Since time is critical, is it okay if I undergo the mission with my current crew?”

Surprised with the young captain’s cool acceptance of this perilous assignment, Igor answered him.

“I see no reason why not, comrade, though you must make it perfectly clear to your crew that Sea Devil’s capture will not be tolerated. You will travel in civilian clothes, taking nothing on board that can be traced back to the motherland. In addition to the standard cyanide pills, the vessel will be rigged with a explosive charge that is to be detonated if capture appears imminent. I don’t have to remind you that these are some of the most closely monitored waters on the planet. We both are well aware of your vessel’s capabilities, but even Sea Devil is going to need a little additional luck on this mission.”

“My people will understand, Admiral. After all, we are Spetsnaz, and no challenge or risk is too great for us.”

“If only I had a few more like you, comrade,” reflected the whitehaired veteran.

“I am putting all my hopes in your capable hands. If I was only a little younger, I’d be going on the mission myself. But those adventurous days are long past for me. Soon I’ll be forced to retire, and at the very least I can meet this inevitable day with my head held high, knowing that my life’s work has been worthwhile. For this operation will signal the fruition of a long career that began in another era, almost five decades ago.”

“I’ll do my best not to let you down, sir,” offered Mikhail sincerely.

“I know you will, Captain. And just to let you know how appreciative we are of your effort, upon your return I’ve been authorized to give you an entire three months leave, plus the exclusive use of the defense minister’s own Black Sea dacha.”

A wide grin painted the captain’s rugged face as he lifted his brandy snifter.

“Three months and the use of the defense minister’s dacha, you say? I think that I can handle that. Admiral. I really think I can.”

Of all the inquiries Major Colin Stewart initiated in an attempt to locate the escaped terrorist, only one proved promising. Several hours after the shoot-out at Edinburgh Castle, an R.A.F Nimrod AWACS platform recorded monitoring a light plane crossing over the Scottish border west of Glasgow and headed toward the Irish Sea by way of the North Channel. This aircraft eventually landed at a private airstrip located northeast of the two of Dundalk in the Republic of Ireland. It was only later, when R.A.F intelligence could find no official flight plan for this unusual late night transit, that Major Stewart was notified.

With no other leads to follow, Stewart asked command for permission to investigate this suspicious flight more closely. Not the type who asked favors often, the commander of the 75th Highlanders received the okay to take a four-man squad into the Republic and attempt to locate this aircraft and determine its purpose.

It was with the highest expectations that Colin Stewart assembled his handpicked squad and loaded them into a Land Rover. Their immediate destination was Prestwick Airport, where the 819th Helicopter Squadron was based.

Here they left the confines of the Rover and boarded a Royal Navy Sea King helicopter.

“I see that you’re headed for our base in Northern Ireland at Armagh,” greeted the Sea King’s pilot as Colin Stewart strapped himself into the observer’s seat.

“You fellows wouldn’t be going to bandit country, would you?”

The Highlander met this innocent query with a sly grin.

“Let’s just say that me and the lads are on a little fishing expedition. Now if you’ll be so good as to get this whirlybird skyward, I’ll save a part of our catch for you.”

The nuclear-powered attack sub USS Bowfm put to sea at daybreak. The mirrorlike waters of Holy Loch were veiled by a thick shroud of swirling fog as the 292-foot-long Sturgeon-class vessel guardedly entered the waters of the Firth of Clyde. A foghorn sounded mournfully in the distance, yet the Bowfin carried no such device itself. To see through the blinding mist and keep from colliding with an oncoming ship, it relied on its sensitive BPS-15 surveillance radar.

From the sub’s exposed bridge, cut into the top part of its sail, Captain William Foard monitored their progress.

The forty-two-year-old Naval Academy graduate had been stationed at Holy Loch for over a year now, and was well acquainted with these waters. He knew the narrow estuary to be tricky even on those rare occasions when the weather was good. The morning fog only made his difficult job that much more of a challenge, and he scanned that portion of the Firth visible beyond the sub’s rounded bow with a vigilant intensity.

Behind him, two alert seamen did likewise.

“Sir, Commander Mackenzie would like permission to join you on the bridge,” broke the voice of the quartermaster from the intercom.

“Send him up,” replied Foard.

Soon after, a blond-haired, khaki-clad officer climbed out of the hatchway that was recessed into the floor of the exposed bridge.

“It’s damn chilly up here,” observed Mac as he zipped up his jacket.

“A typical spring morning in Scotland,” returned the Bowfm’s CO.

“Were you able to get settled in okay?”

“No problems. Captain,” answered Mac, whose gaze attempted to penetrate the thick mist.

“The XO was most gracious to offer me half of his stateroom as he did.”

“Though there’s a few on board that feel Lieutenant Commander Bauer is a bit cold and distant, he’s a pretty decent guy once you get to know him. I understand that you two have worked together before.”

“That we have, Captain. I was stationed at the Barking Sands Underwater Test Range on Kauai, and Lieutenant Commander Bauer was the XO of one of the subs we were working with.”

“I’ve worked Barking Sands. That’s some facility that we have out there.”

Any response on Mac’s part was interrupted by the activation of the intercom.

“Sir, we have a surface contact on radar bearing one-six-three, range one-zero nautical miles and closing. Looks to be a tug or a fishing trawler of some type.”

“Very good, Mr. Murray,” returned the captain.

“Most likely they’re headed towards Port Glasgow and should stay on their side of the channel. Let me know otherwise.”

“Will do, Captain,” retorted the ship’s navigator as the intercom was silent.

“The weather’s sure a bit different in Hawaii,” reflected Mac.

The CO grunted.

“Once we get to the fifty-fathom curve and go under, we could be cruising off the tropical shores of Barking Sands, for all I know. In another half hour or so, the weather topside will be the least of our concerns. That’s one of the benefits of traveling by submarine.”

“How do you like being stationed in Holy Loch?”

questioned Mac.

“So far, I don’t have any serious complaints, Commander.

My wife’s of Scottish ancestry, and when I got my transfer orders, she couldn’t wait to get over here.

We’ve got a small cottage in Dunoon that’s got all the comforts of the States. Personally, when I’m not driving the Bovffin, I like to spend my free time playing golf and fishing. And in both activities, Scotland excels.”

“I’m a golfer myself,” returned Mac.

“Have you gotten up to St. Andrews yet?”

The mere mention of his favorite pastime put a boyish gleam in the captain’s eyes.

“No, I haven’t, though I have played Gleneagles. The little lady and myself took the train up there and had a marvelous time.

Can’t say much for my score, but the course itself is gorgeous, and the scenery even better. It’s located right at the southern part of the Highlands and abounds with heather-filled meadows, crystal-clear lochs, and plenty of fast-moving streams. Luckily I brought along my fishing gear, and caught the biggest salmon of my life on the nearby Devon River.”

“Sounds like Scotland’s been good to you, Captain.

For the last couple of years, I’ve been living on the north shore of Oahu. We’ve got a few pretty good golf courses of our own, though the scenery’s a bit different.”

“That’s awful lovely country in its own right,” said the CO with a sigh.

“I’d be a liar if I didn’t tell you that this fickle Scottish weather can get a bit nerve wracking sometimes. During the winter just passed, we had three weeks straight of nothing but solid rain.

Naturally it came just as we returned from a 45day cruise. By the end of the first week, we were dreaming of palm trees, blue skies, and white sand beaches. By the end of the third week, even New London, Connecticut, was starting to sound good.”

“I didn’t think that submariners got cabin fever,” Mac said with a grin.

The CO shook his head.

“At least when I’m aboard the Bow/in, my wife’s not around to constantly pester me about painting the interior of the house and fixing the plumbing. That can get old real fast.”

Again the intercom crackled alive to report a nearby surface contact, and as the captain responded to this call, Mac looked out to the Bowfm’s teardrop-shaped bow. Through the roiling mist he could just see the waters of the Firth as they smoothly cascaded up over the sub’s rounded hull. Nearly half the forward portion of the deck was covered by this frothing seawater that left behind a characteristic splashing surge in its wake.

“Seems we’re just about to pass a slow-moving trawler that lies to our starboard some five hundred yards away. They shouldn’t be any problem as long as they remain on course.”

Mac looked to his right, but failed to spot the vessel.

“The Firth can get awfully crowded with civilian vessels sometimes,” added the CO.

“It’s not the best place to locate a submarine base, but I shouldn’t complain.

It’s a hell of a lot more convenient than having to steam in from the United States mainland. Because a short northward jog of only a few hundred miles puts up right on Ivan’s doorstep.”

“I understand that the Brits have a sub base here as well,” said Mac.

“That’s right, Commander. It’s located a few miles east of us in Gare Loch. Falsane is where they keep a good majority of their boomers, and where their new Trident vessels will be operating out of.”

“Sort of puts us smack at ground zero in the event of a war, doesn’t it, Captain?”

The Bowfin’s CO looked at Mac as he replied to this.

“As far as I’m concerned, if such a horrific thing were going to come down, that’s right where I’d like to be. It’s the survivors of such a conflict that I’d pity.

I’d much rather go up in a flash, though as a submariner there’s a good chance that I’d be directly participating in such a conflict at sea, rather than merely just getting fried at port.”

“If the unthinkable ever occurs and the nuclear genie is released, Oahu won’t last long either,” added Mac.

“The Reds will hit the island with a barrage of submarine-launched warheads that will make December 7, 1941, look like a turkey shoot.”

“But don’t forget, Commander, our job’s to ensure that such a tragic turn of events never happens. That’s why it’s so damned important that America remain strong. One thing I’m absolutely certain of is that the Russkies respect strength above all. They’re not about to launch a nuclear strike if they know Uncle Sam will be able to retaliate effectively. Right now, our triad of nuclear delivery systems ensures our continued security.

But for how much longer, I just don’t know. Ivan’s continually improving his ASW skills, which means that soon our Trident submarine fleet won’t be so invulnerable.

Congress still can’t decide on an updated ICBM basing mode to replace Minuteman, and I’m afraid that our fixed-wing capabilities are a bit questionable.”

“I hear you, Captain,” returned — Mac.

“It’s hard to believe that the first flight of a B-52 took place way back in 1952. Hell, that’s two whole years before I was even born, and those planes are still up there flying deterrent patrols. SAC and the Air Force have done one hell of a fine job maintaining such platforms. But the questions remains, can they still do the job that they were designed to do almost four decades ago?”

“Let’s hope to God we never have to learn the answer to that question, Commander. And speaking of the B-52, what do you think our chances are of finding those two bombs that are still missing?”

Mac thoughtfully stared out into the fog.

“We should be able to do it, sir. Our current level of technology is certainly advanced enough to handle the operation.

Unfortunately, our resources are limited, and the logistical concerns of such a mission are extremely challenging.

“Washington’s in a hurry for us to recover the missing ordnance, and rightly so. Yet without the proper equipment, our job’s going to take only that much longer to accomplish. Our oceanographic ship, the USS Lynch, arrived at the site only yesterday. There are but a dozen such vessels in the fleet, and we were lucky they were in the Norwegian Sea when the crash occurred.

The Lynch’s job will be to make an intensive bathymetric scan of the seafloor beneath the debris field. This profile will be of invaluable assistance once the bombs are located and it becomes time for their actual recovery.

“We’ve currently got Sea Stallion helicopters at the site pulling sonar sleds over the area. Soon a pair of Avenger-class minesweeping ships will be arriving to give the choppers a hand. The sonar capabilities of these vessels are excellent, and with them we’ll be able to scan every square inch of the sea bottom. Also on hand is the sub rescue tender Pigeon, along with the DSRV Mystic. The Mystic will be utilized to eyeball suspicious contacts along with a variety of ROV’s that have already arrived.”

“It certainly sounds as if you’ve got a handle on it, Commander. Yet since this whole operation has been working under a need-to-know basis only, how are you explaining to the outside world what all these platforms are doing out there? Surely the Irish are going to be curious, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Ivan’s eye in the sky has already beamed photos of the crash site back to the Kremlin.”

Mac hesitated before responding.

“This whole operation is being explained away as a submarine rescue drill. Yet the longer it takes to find the two missing bombs, the shakier this story is going to get. In order to help speed things up, I’ve already begun circulating a flier among the fishermen in the area, asking if they happened to see anything out of the ordinary on the night of the accident. Because either one of the bombs could have fallen in an altogether different part of the Irish Sea, I felt that such an inquiry was necessary.”

“It sure won’t hurt,” said the captain as he looked at his watch.

“We’ll have you out to the site soon enough. Commander. Meanwhile, how about joining me down below for some breakfast? The chow’s pretty decent on this pig boat, and I know you won’t be disappointed.”

“I’d enjoy that, Captain,” replied Mac, who watched as the Bowfin’s CO barked into the intercom to send up a replacement.

As Mac climbed down the narrow steel ladder that led below deck, the distinctive scent of machine oil replaced that of the sea. The access way led directly into the control room. Here the current OOD stood watch beside the periscope well. Mac took in the two seated helmsmen perched before their airplane-style steering columns awaiting the order that would take the Bow/in down into its natural element.

When there was enough water beneath them to safely allow this dive, the chief petty officer positioned behind the helm would be called upon to change the state of their buoyancy by triggering the valves at the tops of the ballast tanks. In this way the air inside these tanks would be vented, allowing seawater to flood in from below and cause the vessel to lose its positive buoyancy and sink. This process would then be reversed when they wished to surface.

Close by, the radar operator anxiously stood facing his pulsating green scope, quick to call out each new surface contact that lay before them. Alertly plotting these sightings on a chart was the Bowfin’s navigator.

It was to this sandy-haired, bespectacled officer that the captain addressed his remarks.

“Mr. Murray, I’ll be in the wardroom. Let me know as soon as we pass Little Cumbrae Island. The sooner we dive and get out of this pea soup, the better it will be for all of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Confident in his crew’s ability to safely see the Bowfin through these fog-enshrouded waters, Captain Foard beckoned Mac to follow him aft. A narrow cable-lined passageway took them by the sonar and radio rooms.

Mac would be utilizing the powerful transmitter of this latter compartment to contact Admiral Long at the Pentagon once the ROVs were deployed and he was able to gauge their effectiveness.

They passed by the ship’s office, ducked through an open hatchway, and entered a fairly spacious compartment dominated by a large table. Seated alone here, sipping a mug of coffee and immersed in a pile of paperwork, was a middleaged officer sporting a crew cut. The captain had to clear his throat loudly to get the man’s attention.

“Excuse us, XO. Commander Mackenzie and myself were just going to have a little breakfast. Would you like to join us?”

Lieutenant Commander Ted Bauer put down his pen.

“No thanks. Captain. I’ve got a couple of extra pounds I’d like to lose, and I’d better stay as far away from Cooky’s hotcakes as possible.”

As the CO seated himself at the head of the table and Mac sat down beside him, an alert orderly appeared with two mugs of coffee.

“We’ll be having two Scottish breakfasts, Mr. Warren,” instructed the captain.

As the order was sent down to the galley on the deck below, the XO pushed aside the stack of reports that he had been working on.

“I understand that we’ve still got the fog topside, Skipper. Do you want me up on the bridge?”

“Lieutenant Murray can handle it. How are the crew’s competency reports coming?”

The XO shrugged his shoulders.

“I keep working on them, but I don’t see any progress. It doesn’t seem like I’ll ever finish.”

“You’ll manage like you always do,” said the Captain, as the orderly arrived with two bowls of oatmeal.

As the two officer’s dug into these servings, the XO asked, “How do you like the Bowfin so far, Mac?”

Mac gulped down a spoonful of the thick cereal and answered.

“She seems like an efficient, proud boat, Ted. I’m still kind of flabbergasted that Admiral Connors gave me the use of her.”

“We’re happy to be of service,” replied the XO.

“She’s a bit different than my last command, though.

You remember the Blueback, don’t you, Mac?”

Mac grinned.

“How can I ever forget her? I think I spent more time in her torpedo room than I did at Barking Sands.”

“You never did say what you two were working on back on Kauai,” observed the captain.

Mac looked at the XO before replying.

“Though it was classified top secret at the time, I guess we can tell you about it. Hell, we’re all going to be working with CURV soon enough, as soon as it gets here from San Diego.”

“CURV?” repeated the captain.

“That stands for cable-controlled underwater research vehicle,” explained Mac.

“We originally designed it at Nose to recover test-fired torpedoes. It’s primarily comprised of ballast tanks, lights, and a claw, and has a 3,000-foot depth limit.”

“We sure pushed it to its threshold back at Barking Sands,” observed the XO.

“Actually, the Blueback was almost responsible for us losing the first CURV prototype,” revealed Mac.

“It was originally designed only to go down to 2,000 feet.

But it seemed that every time you fired a torpedo, it ended up at a depth greater than that. So to show command that CURV was worth all the time and effort that we had been putting into her, we made some quick adjustments and sent her down to recover the Blueback’s torpedoes. At a depth of 2,600 feet, the port ballast tank ruptured. It’s a miracle that the starboard tank remained intact and we were able to nurse it to the surface.”

“I still say that it wasn’t our fault that the guys at Barking Sands gave us the wrong firing coordinates,” justified the XO.

“I’m just glad that we were able to save the prototype,” added Mac.

“Without it, the test would have been a complete failure, and there’s no telling if we’d ever get the funding to build another test unit.”

“So I gather that CURV is now a working element of the United States Navy,” concluded the captain.

“It most certainly is,” answered Mac.

“The new models work with fiber optics and are equipped with a camera that can send back remarkably clear photos at depth. This facilitates recovery and allows the unit to work on its own.”

“Let’s just hope that all of us will get a chance to see CURV do its thing in the Irish Sea,” offered the captain, who looked on as the orderly arrived with a platter heaped with blueberry hotcakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, kippered herring, and crusty scones.

“Dig in,” ordered William Foard without ceremony.

“And don’t be afraid to eat hearty. Commander. Because it sounds to me like you’re certainly going to have your work cut out for you these next couple of days.”