“Damn it!” swore Crowley, as he pounded his clenched fist against the bulkhead.
“That’s not going to bring it back,” said Mac.
“We gambled and we lost. At least we saved three lives in the process.”
“Let’s go into that trench and track it down. I’m not going to rest until we tag it again.”
“We’ll find it eventually. But I think it would be a wasted effort on our part if we just went down there blindly like this. In this instance, it’s best to surface, recharge Mystic’s batteries, and let the sonar topside do the work for us. Then we merely have to go down there and pull it up.”
Having had time to cool off, Crowley nodded.
“I hear you, Mac. No use rushing into that trench without some idea where that bomb’s hiding. And the one thing we can be sure of is that it’s not going anyplace in the meantime.”
Crowley yanked back on the control yoke, and in almost instant response, the Mystic began the long trip back to the surface.
Their reception topside was not as grim as they had expected. Command was genuinely relieved to have the three civilians from Woods Hole safely back aboard the Lynch. Yet they were still upset with Matt Crowley’s rash decision to effect their rescue on his own.
It was the powerful three-dimensional sonar of the oceanographic ship that indeed located the bomb once again. This time it was found at a depth of 997 feet, lying on its side on a flat expanse of sandy sediment.
Though Crowley immediately volunteered the Mystic’s services, the arrival of the remotely operated vehicle known as CURV at the site allowed Command to turn down this offer.
Because he was part of the team that originally developed the cable-controlled underwater research vehicle, Mac was invited over to the Lynch to watch it in action. One of CURV’s great advantages was that it could be controlled from the surface without jeopardizing human life down below. Capable of attaining depths of up to 3,000 feet, the ROV had no trouble reaching the subterranean trench where the bomb had lodged.
From the control room of the Lynch, Mac watched the two-man team that had flown out from San Diego expertly manipulate the joystick that determined CURV’s speed and course. At a depth of 900 feet, they activated its powerful bow spotlights and fiberoptic camera. A detailed picture of the surging sea filled the monitor, and Mac could have sworn that he was back on the Mystic once more, watching the the scene unfold from one of the DSRV portholes.
A familiar scooped-out trail on the sandy seafloor led them once again to the billowing parachute. Fifteen feet above it, the ROV’s three electrical motors were stopped. Illuminated by two high-power mercury vapor lights, the nose of the bomb could be clearly seen, wrapped in the chute’s harness. This sighting caused a relieved shout of joy to fill the previously tense control room.
Mac joined in this brief celebration, yet knew that the most critical part of the operation was yet to come. Since it was apparent that the parachute harness was firmly connected to the bomb itself, CURV’s hydraulically operated articulated manipulator arm proceeded to hook the grapnel end of an inch-thick nylon line into the apex of the chute’s canopy. Another line followed, each having the strength to lift over 10,000 pounds. The best guess was that the bomb and the waterlogged parachute would put this estimate to the test, and there was a shared feeling of apprehension as the winch set on the Lynch’s stern began to slowly pull in the dual lines. Almost an hour later, the tip of the parachute broke the surface. Skin divers were sent into the water at this point to wrap wire straps around the dangling weapon. These straps were attached to an iron chain lifting line that pulled the device up out of the water and lifted it safely onto the deck of the ship.
Another chorus of relieved cheers sounded in the control room. Mac accepted a hearty handshake from one of CURV’s operators, and found himself already mentally formulating the dispatch that he’d soon be sending off to the Pentagon. He knew that Admiral Long would be especially thrilled that it had been an ROV that was responsible for recovering the bomb.
Surely this would give him the additional support he needed to successfully argue his case for continued funding in this field before Congress.
Mac made his way topside to get some fresh air.
Lowlying gray clouds veiled the sky, adding an almost menacing touch to the seas that surrounded them.
With one half of their demanding task now completed, all that they needed to do was recover the other bomb for their mission to be a total success. With the hope that Lady Luck would remain with them and that it would be spotted shortly, Mac plodded off for the radio room, to convey news of their find to Washington.
Approximately 450 miles north of the oceanographic ship USS Lynch, Captain Mikhail Borisov and his crew crawled into the Sea Devil as it lay anchored to the moon pool of their support tender. The three-day surface voyage from Kronstadt had taken place without incident, and now they were about to begin the next leg of their mission, this time strapped to the deck of the attack sub Ladoga.
The spacious tender had been a most comfortable home, and the grim reality of their precarious duty set in as they took their positions inside the cramped confines of the tracked mini sub
“The pressure capsule is sealed. Captain,” instructed the moustached chief engineer, Yuri Sosnovo.
“I show containment at one hundred percent.”
Satisfied that Sea Devil was now ready to go on its own way, Mikhail Borisov spoke firmly into the underwater telephone.
“We are ready for release, Comrades.
And thank you again for your gracious hospitality.”
“You are most welcome,” came a voice from the speaker.
“And may all of us aboard the Ugra take this opportunity to wish you a safe return.”
There was a loud clicking noise as the restraints that held Sea Devil down onto the steel decking released, and the moon pool began flooding. They kept their positive buoyancy until the reservoir was almost completely filled.
“You may begin taking on ballast, Comrade Zagorsk,” ordered Mikhail, who had just been informed that the steel plates that formed the bottom of the moon pool had been opened to the sea.
They descended to a depth of ten meters, and Borisov ordered the helmsman to activate the throttle. Powered by the massive batteries beneath the aft deck plate Sea Devil’s single propeller began madly spinning, and the vessel moved forward at a speed of four knots.
The condensation had already began dripping off the collection of snaking pipes and cables that formed the control room roof, and electrician Tanya Olovski soon had her first minor short to contend with. With his charts safely covered in oilskin, the captain expertly guided them towards the rendezvous coordinates where their next mode of transportation was hopefully awaiting them.
“I wonder if Captain Zinyagin is still in command of the Ladoga,” reflected the chief engineer as he fine tuned the vessel’s trim.
“Last year, when the Ladoga gave us a lift into the Mediterranean, I’ll never forget that lecture he gave us about the meaning of duty and honor in the Red Banner fleet. I honestly didn’t think that the Rodina’s Navy still had officers like that in positions of command.”
“He’s from the old school, all right,” returned Mikhail.
“But his conservative command policies shouldn’t distract you from the fact that Captain Zinyagin is a qualified submariner, who was going in harm’s way when you were still suckling at your mother’s breasts. Now the fellow I’ll never forget was the Ladoga’s zampolit. That fat little bastard got on my nerves from the very start. Why, the nerve of that pig even to talk to us about the important part our suicide pills play in the event a covert operation goes sour. As if that beady-eyed fool knew what it was really like to constantly lay one’s life on the line.”