Calmed by the officer’s caring demeanor, the wide-eyed Uzbek continued.
“Though I’ve been in the service only a little over ten months now, I was hoping to join the Spetsnaz someday, and I was wondering if service in the special forces was really as difficult as they say it is.”
“Take whatever you hear and multiply it a hundredfold,” returned Mikhail.
“And then you’ll come close to understanding the degree of difficulty involved in the training of a Spetsnaz operative. Sure, our basic training is painful. But you’ll emerge from it a real man — able to swim, run, and hike distances you never dreamed of attaining on your own. You’ll also learn how to properly operate every weapon from a crossbow to a howitzer, and learn one hundred ways to kill a man with your bare hands. If you train hard and make certain to master each level as it’s presented to you, you too can be a part of the Rodina’s finest.”
“You don’t think that my small size will hold me back?”
“Can’t a small man be just as brave as a tall one?” asked Mikhail.
“Size doesn’t matter when it comes to training a killer, lad. In fact, in some instances, having a small stature can even be an advantage.
“I remember a time once in Afghanistan when we were ordered to infiltrate a rebel stronghold that overlooked an important crossroads. As we climbed in over the stone walls, we made our first contact with the enemy and a violent firefight ensued in which we endured.
Yet as we tallied up the rebel fatalities, it was noted that several of the wounded Mujahidden had seemed to have disapppeared. Shortly thereafter, we found the first tunnel. Apparently the fortress was honeycombed by such passages, which were too narrow to accept a big man such as myself. And that’s when Corporal Litvak stepped forward.
“Litvak was our newest squad member and had a build much like yours. He also was one of the bravest men I have ever met. He single-handedly crawled into that tunnel with nothing but a knife and a couple of grenades to protect himself with.”
“And what ever happened to him?” asked the breathless Uzbek.
Mikhail purposely hesitated a second to build up the suspense.
“Ten minutes after he had disappeared into that tunnel, Litvak reappeared with his jacket pocket filled with the bloody ears of the half-dozen rebels he personally killed down there. For that act of heroism he received the Order of Lenin, though I’m afraid poor Litvak died several weeks later after getting hit by a runaway truck while crossing the street in downtown Kiev. But it all goes to show that physical stature doesn’t make the man. It’s heart and courage that the Spetsnaz is continually looking for.”
Awed by this narrative, the young seaman smiled.
“Thank you for that, Captain. My dream has always been to join the special forces and to serve the motherland to the best of my abilities. I’m genuinely relieved to know that such a goal is reachable in my case, and I’ll do everything within my power to attain it.”
“You do that, lad,” said Mikhail forcefully.
“And always remember that service to the Rodina comes first.”
Responding to this advice with a crisp salute, the wide-eyed Uzbek excused himself to return to his duty.
“You’ve inspired not only that boy, but us as well,” offered Sea Devil’s chief engineer.
“And here I thought I was beginning to sound more like the Ladoga’s long-winded zampolit,” returned Mikhail, who lay back on his mattress.
“Now our goal is less than twenty-four hours away, and before you know it, it will be time for action. Get some rest, comrades. Then we’ll see about getting some fresh food into our bellies. Because I can assure you that once we leave this submarine, we won’t have the time for even a nap until this all important mission is successfully completed.”
Chapter Thirteen
Marie Barrett waited until the lorry carrying Bernard, Dr. Blackwater, Sean, and the bomb was well on its way to Dundalk before heading off for the garden to properly stake up her tomatoes. As it turned out, only one plant of the twelve in the ground was a total loss. Yanking it up by its withered roots, she proceeded to pound a series of thin waist high wooden stakes into the soil behind each of the remaining plants. Once this time-consuming job was completed, she delicately tied the stalks onto the poles with strips of cloth torn from a worn-out sheet.
She was halfway done with this task when two fatigue-wearing young men passed by the plot. Both sported rather longish brown hair and had Armalite rifles slung over their shoulders.
“Good day to you, Marie,” greeted the taller of the two.
“It looks like you’re going to have quite a crop there.”
Briefly looking up to brush a loose strand of red hair out of her eyes, Marie answered politely, “I sure hope so, Tommy Carlin. I started these plants from seeds sent to me from America, and I’d sure hate to lose them.”
“Make certain to pinch off those suckers growing between the vines,” advised the other soldier.
“That way the buds will get plenty of nourishment.”
“Since when did you take up farming, Micky Corrigan?” asked Marie.
“You’d be surprised what me and my mum grew in the tiny plot of open land we had in between our Belfast tenement. Though tomatoes did poorly there because of the lack of direct sunlight.”
“You city kids never fail to amaze me,” remarked the redhead as she turned her attention back to her gardening.
“See you later, Marie,” said the Belfast native, who had to hurry his stride to catch up with his country bred partner.
Sending the squad of soldiers up to Cootehill House had been Bernard’s idea. The IRB’s co founder decided to take this rather drastic action when he received a call from Dundalk warning him that some strangers were in town asking about Scan Lafferty’s whereabouts. Because there was a chance that they could be headed up to County Caven, Bernard sent for the troops, who were currently deployed throughout the estate grounds.
It was very reassuring for Marie to know that she wouldn’t be left here all alone while the others were headed for the pier at Dundalk. The manor house was immense, and sometimes at night when she was staying there by herself, she could have sworn that she heard footsteps and people talking. The only one to take her reports seriously was Dr. Blackwater, who one night beside the fireplace admitted that he too had heard the ghostly noises. Strangely enough, he attributed them to his parents, whom he believed still walked the grounds of the estate searching for the peace of mind that had escaped them in their rather short, tragic lives.
Marie had a genuine liking for the silver-haired physician. He was a kind, sensitive individual who sincerely cared about people. Through the years he had been an avid supporter of their movement. His medical expertise was invaluable. More than once his skills as a doctor saved the life of a wounded IRB patriot. Just recently he had displayed this proficiency on the shoulder of Sean Lafferty. And only a few short days after being on the brink of death, Sean was up and about, his gunshot wound all but forgotten.
Of course, one of the greatest gifts the physician had given them was the use of his beloved Cootehill House. The estate was more than just a place to hide from the authorities or heal from a wound; it was a home away from home where an individual could put down roots and learn from the land.
During her stay at the manor, Marie rediscovered the glories of life all over again. The mere act of working with the soil taught her an invaluable lesson about mankind’s fragile hold on the planet. She now realized that cities had corrupted the human soul, and that their only salvation would be when people realized this and went back to the land.