“We’ve been scanned with active sonar,” observed the sensor operator unnecessarily.
Mikhail instinctively looked upward, and could picture the sleek frigate as it cut a frothing white swath through the shallow waters of the channel. Deep in its combat information center its Royal Navy crew would be hunched over their sonar repeaters, ever vigilant for the moment when their sonic scan would reflect off of a solid underwater contact. Hopefully, the thick anechoic tiles that lined the Ladoga’s hull would do their job and by absorbing the scan keep it from reflecting upward. Otherwise the all-important element of surprise that their mission depended upon would no longer be theirs.
Like a charging freight train, the frigate passed directly overhead. Mikhail found himself taking a series of deep, calming breaths. As he angled his gaze back downward, he noted how cool and collected the attack sub’s captain seemed to be as he intently watched the
Leander’s sonic signature express itself on the repeater screen. Beside the veteran senior officer, the ship’s political officer looked like he would drop to the deck with a coronary any moment now. While doing his best to wipe his soaked forehead dry with a handkerchief, he was in the process of nervously biting to the quick the fingernails of the other hand. His agitated stare was almost comical to the Spetsnaz commando, who had long ago learned that anxiety could kill a man just as surely as a bullet could.
Mikhail was in the midst of wondering why such a high-strung individual would choose to serve in submarines when the throbbing whine of the frigate’s turbines reached their crescendo. Ever so gradually, the resonant sound began to lessen until it was all but indistinguishable.
This brought a relieved sigh from the captain’s lips.
“So much for the ASW capabilities of the British Leander-class frigate. Admiral Markov is right, the Royal Navy is far from the great fleet it once was. Instead of wasting their money with such ridiculous, costly programs as Trident, they should invest in some new surface ships. Why, during the Falklands conflict, even an insignificant naval power such as Argentina was a challenge for the Brits. I’d love to see what the Red Banner fleet would do to them. We’d annihilate them before they’d even be able to leave port.”
“Shouldn’t we be attaining those deployment coordinates shortly, Captain Zinyagin?” interrupted Mikhail.
Called back to thoughts of his current duty, Dmitri Zinyagin answered, “As originally planned, we’ll be releasing Sea Devil as soon as we reach the waters south of Sanda Island. Then you’ll be faced with a fourteen hour voyage up the Firth of Clyde to your final destination.
I imagine that you’re anxious to get it over with, aren’t you, Captain?”
“I’ve been looking forward to this operation ever since Admiral Starobin told me about it back in Kronstadt,” returned Mikhail.
“My entire crew is ready for action, and I foresee no serious obstacles that should hinder us along the way.”
Dmitri Zinyagin looked directly into his colleague’s steel-gray eyes and replied.
“Though my briefing did not include the exact purpose of your mission, I presume it has something to do with the imperialist naval installations at Holy Loch and Falsane. I envy you, Captain Borisov. These are waters every submariner in the Red Banner fleet dreams of penetrating one day.”
Sensing that the veteran was hoping that Mikhail would take him into his confidence and reveal his mission, the Spetsnaz commando grinned.
“As commander of Sea Devil, I’ve visited places on this planet that would truly astound you. Captain. If only the Defense Ministry would allow me to write my memoirs!”
“I’m certain that it would be an instant bestseller both in the motherland and in the West,” offered the Ladoga’s CO.
“Now if you’d like, this vessel is more than capable of conveying Sea Devil a good deal closer than Sanda Island. I’ve been studying the charts, and it appears there’s open water all the way to Little Cumbrae Island, which would put you right at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde.”
“That offer’s most inviting, Captain Zinyagin. But there’s no need to risk the Ladoga for the sake of a few additional kilometers. We’ve got plenty of time to attain our goal. Besides, by utilizing our tracked-drive system, we’ll be traveling to the Firth by way of Kilbrannan Sound. This poorly monitored waterway will lead us directly into the Sound of Bute, where we’ll gain entrance to the Firth.”
“As you wish, Captain Borisov. You can rest assured that the Ladoga will be waiting for you at the dropoff point when you’re ready to return home.”
“We’re counting on that, comrade. Now I’d better get down to the torpedo room and assemble my crew.”
“You do that, Captain Borisov,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin, who watched the Spetsnaz officer pivot and head for the aft hatchway.
“That one’s a cocky bastard,” observed the Ladoga’s political officer.
“That’s the nature of the beast,” reflected Captain Zinyagin. You go and give a hotshot like that a twenty-meter-long, three-crew command, and he thinks he’s a regular naval hero. He should only know what it’s like to sacrifice forty years of one’s life in service to the motherland. And as for that mini-sub of his, I guarantee you that the Ladoga could outperform Sea Devil any day of the week. I only wish that Command had seen fit to send us up the Firth of Clyde. Yet as it now stands, all we are is a damned underwater taxicab.”
Well aware of his captain’s bitterness, the zampolit guardedly responded.
“My sources tell me that we’ll be getting rid of our Spetsnaz comrades just in the nick of time. It seems there’s an element in the crew who have turned to emulating our brave commandos. All they talk of is becoming Spetsnaz themselves, and needless to say, their work is starting to suffer from this foolishness.”
“That is most distressing news. Comrade Zampolit.
These shirkers are just looking for an excuse to be negligent in their duties. And as for them wanting to become Spetsnaz themselves, that’s certainly a joke.
Most of the spineless wimps aboard this ship couldn’t even pass the physical. And they’d dirty their shorts the first time danger presented itself. It looks like we’ll have to further tighten discipline aboard this vessel.”
“Perhaps a special meeting of the Komsomol is in order,” offered the political officer.
“At this time you could restate your command policies, and I’ll put together a lecture on the dangers of striving for the unattainable.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea, comrade. We’ll wait until Sea Devil is deployed before informing the crew of this get-together. And then it will be solely up to us to re instill some pride in this vessel.”
Already mentally planning the contents of his speech. Captain Dmitri Zinyagin sauntered over to the periscope well. Ever suspicious of anything that might weaken his command, he anxiously looked to his watch to calculate how much time was left until they could ascend to take a final bearing, to prepare for Sea Devil’s final deployment.
Chapter Fifteen
The tug was well out in the Irish Sea when a brisk northwesterly began blowing. The previous calm seas turned almost instantly treacherous, and Bernard was forced to pull back on the throttles to keep the tug from capsizing. Perched beside him in the enclosed wheelhouse. Dr. Tyronne Blackwater held on for dear life as the massive swells smashed into their blunt bow.
Any less seaworthy a craft would long since have had to return to port, and the physician was a bit more confident knowing that their vessel was extremely stable.
It seemed that each time a swell struck them, Bernard Loughlin would angrily mumble a curse, and Dr. Blackwater did his best to calm him down.