They fought to the death and were protecting a massive arms cache that was recently stolen from the RUC armory at Newry. It was during my own search of the manor house that I came across circumstantial evidence which leads me to believe that the IRB plans to utilize the bomb to disrupt the Queen’s visit to our Falsane Naval Base on Gare Loch, less than twenty four hours from now.”
“Wow, that’s a mouthful,” reflected Mac, who believed the Scot, but still had trouble grasping the scope of the incident that he was alluding to.
“So what you’re saying, then, is that even as we speak, an IRB hit squad is on its way to Gare Loch with our bomb in tow, with every intention of using it to blow up the Queen of England? That’s incredible!”
“It’s much more than that,” said Colin Stewart.
“It’s absolutely frightening. Those damn fools could kill millions!”
“Calm down. Major,” advised Mac.
“If your story proves to be true, and they indeed have our device, that still doesn’t say that they’ll be able to detonate it.
Uncle Sam has incorporated a little gizmo called the PAL into all of its nuclear weapons that makes an accidental or unauthorized use of the bomb all but impossible.”
Mac had just about forgotten his brief meeting with the B-52 pilot whose plane had been carrying the bomb, and whose rantings warned that the device was unintentionally cocked at the time of the accident. Instead his thoughts were focused entirely on the Highlander as he replied.
“In ordinary circumstances, I’d agree with you, Commander.
We also incorporate permissive action links into our nuclear weapons. But what scares the daylights out of me is the fact that while my soldiers were searching the IRB compound, they came across the recently killed corpse of one Dr. John Maguire. All you’d have to do is read the local paper to know that Maguire has been missing these last couple of days.
During this time, his wife and two young daughters were also found executed. What makes these gruesome deaths so compelling is the fact that Dr. Maguire was the director of Dublin’s Shamrock nuclear facility. His resume includes a stint with your Sandia Corporation, the firm that designed the nuclear bomb your B-52 was carrying. In other words, Commander, if there was anyone on this planet who would know how to circumvent those PALs, it would be Dr. John Maguire!”
Chilled by this revelation, Mac gasped.
“Dear God!
Who else knows about this. Major?”
“As of this moment, you’re it, Commander. The chaps I work for would want a lot more solid evidence before giving me any serious consideration. One doesn’t go altering the Queen of England’s schedule on the ramblings of a drunken Irish fisherman.”
“I guess it all comes down to us figuring out a way to stop the IRB from carrying out their demented scheme,” said Mac.
“What kind of vessel did you say was being used to carry the bomb?”
Colin Stewart answered, “It’s a tug, Commander.
And I’m afraid that only makes our job that more difficult, for on any given day there’s literally dozens of tugs frequenting the waters of the Firth of Clyde.”
Mac was already contemplating his next move.
“Fortunately, I’ve got a friend back in the Pentagon who should give us the clearances we need without asking too many questions. And if I do get his blessings, would you mind coming along on a little submarine ride with me to check this thing out firsthand?”
As he accepted the Scot’s affirmative nod, Mac added, “Perhaps we’d better ask Mr. Lafferty to join us. If we’re going to stop the right tug, he’s going to have to be the one to eyeball it for us.”
“That’s a most astute observation. Commander. Since his own son’s currently on that tug, he shouldn’t be too hard to convince. Now, how can I ever thank you for supporting me like this? I came into your life from out of the blue. And for all you know, I could be a complete lunatic.”
Mac stifled a grin.
“In a manner of speaking, I hope that’s the way it turns out, Major. Because if this story of yours is true, my country could be indirectly responsible for one of the worst peacetime disasters ever to hit the planet. Let’s get moving, and nip this madness in the bud before it gets totally out of hand.”
As he flashed the personable Yank a hearty thumbsup, Colin Stewart could only thank his lucky star this man had been brought to him. Trust was a rare enough commodity these days, even among old acquaintances.
And to find this virtual stranger so open to his speculations reaffirmed Colin Stewart’s belief in a humanity that was worth fighting for after all.
The crew’s mess of the Ladoga was in the stern of the attack sub’s lower deck. It was a fairly good-sized compartment, filled with a half dozen six-man tables.
In an effort to give this space some character, red checkered plastic cloths covered each table. The bulkhead walls were covered with various realistically painted pastoral scenes whose subjects included sparkling Lake Baikal, a sunset over the Ural mountains, and a forest near the great river from which the sub derived its name.
Seated at one of these tables in the midst of supper was the crew of Sea Devil. True to his character, Mikhail Borisov turned down an offer to eat with the Ladoga’s captain and chose instead to remain with his team. The Spetsnaz officer’s presence in this part of the ship, normally reserved for enlisted ranks, was most unusual and would likely be the topic of conversation for weeks to come.
Oblivious to the whims of stuffy protocol, Mikhail enjoyed this chance to see how the average sailor on the sub faired. And so far he had to admit that he was impressed. His meal was the same that was being served in the officers’ wardroom, though instead of china and silverware, it was dished straight onto compartmentalized heavy plastic trays.
This evening they were served boiled beef, potatoes. carrots, and cabbage. Freshly baked poppy-seed rolls accompanied this repast, whose dessert proved to be a tasty pear tart. Sorry that he couldn’t have anything stronger than heavily sweetened black tea to wash it down with. Sea Devil’s CO contentedly munched away on his cabbage, while his engineer finished up the remark he was in the midst of.
“… and that’s why I still think it’s fundamentally wrong for warships of this size to have segregated mess facilities. What’s wrong with the enlisted and commissioned ranks eating together in the same room? Not only would it save precious space, but it would give the officers a better chance to know what’s on the average seaman’s mind.”
“But I thought that’s what the biweekly Komsomol meetings were for,” countered Tanya Olovski.
“That might be the case on other ships in the Red Banner fleet, but certainly not this one,” returned Yuri Sosnovo.
“Why, you heard the Ladoga’s pretentious senior officers. How much thought do you think that they give the average sailor’s plight on this ship?
They’re much too busy expounding their own lofty theoretical viewpoints to allow the Komsomol to become the open forum it was intended to be.”
“I’d say it’s fortunate for Captain Zinyagin that you’re not a permanent member of his crew,” offered Mikhail between bites of beef.
“Otherwise he could have a serious mutiny on his hands.”
The chief engineer shook his head.
“I’m not espousing violence in this instance, Captain… only a sailor’s state-given right to have an open environment.
And that’s why I feel that by having only a single mess on ships of this size, the officers would be obligated to take into consideration such concerns.”
“I doubt if Captain Zinyagin would agree,” observed Oleg Zagorsk.