“Then if that’s settled, I’ll start edging the Bowfin up toward periscope depth,” said the captain.
“We’re about due for our next visual sweep, and maybe this time we’ll have something for our other passenger to take a look at.”
“I wonder how the old guy is making out?” Mac asked.
The captain grinned.
“The last I heard from the XO, he was over his case of stage fright and stuffing his mouth with a fried chicken dinner with all the trim320 things. And Mr. Lafferty seems to have gotten over his shyness as well. At last report, he was talking away with such a vengeance that Lieutenant Commander Bauer could hardly get a word in edgewise.”
“The old-timer’s a character, all right,” added Mac.
“Now let’s just pray that this whole story of his isn’t some sort of fantastic fabrication. Because if it is, and we were to take out a tug load of innocent civilians, then I might as well kiss my career goodbye.”
This last statement was directed toward Colin Stewart, who returned Mac’s probing stare without flinching.
“You don’t have to worry about that. Commander.
Those IRB terrorists are out there with your bomb, all right. And I just pray to God that we can find them before it’s too late for all of us!”
Chapter Sixteen
The eastern horizon was just beginning to glow with the first tentative light of dawn when Sea Devil separated from its semi recessed storage well that was set abaft the Ladoga’s sail. Silently propelled by its single battery-powered propeller, the mini-sub proceeded to the north, up Kilbrannan Sound to the still waters of the Sound of Bute. All systems were operating perfectly as Mikhail Borisov ordered the helmsman to guide the vessel cautiously to periscope depth at this point.
“Watch your trim,” cautioned the Sea Devil’s CO as he watched Yuri Sosnovo begin lightening the boat by venting seawater from its ballast tanks.
“We certainly wouldn’t want to accidentally breach the surface in these unfriendly waters.”
The chief engineer responded with the barest of nods, his entire concentration focused on the delicate task of altering the sub’s buoyancy just enough to allow its periscope to break the water’s surface. It was with great relief that he looked to the depth gauge and calmly called out, “We’re at periscope depth, Captain.”
“Good work, Yuri,” complimented Mikhail as he made his way over to the periscope well.
“Now we should be able to get that precise bearing.”
With the assistance of warrant officer Oleg Zagorsk, the periscope was guided up from its well.
Practically hunching down on his knees to guarantee that too much of the lens didn’t penetrate the surface, Mikhail initiated a quick sweep of the water’s topside.
Though the sun had yet to break the horizon, there was enough light for him to hurriedly triangulate their position.
“Down scope!” he ordered firmly, as he backed away from the well and stood upright.
“I was able to get three different bearings. So give me my charts, Comrade Zagorsk, and I’ll determine our exact coordinates.”
Without bothering to remove the oilskin covers that protected the charts from the constantly dripping condensation, the Siberian alertly handed them to his commanding officer. Mikhail used a ruler and a pencil to plot the three bearings he had just seen with his own eyes.
“We’re currently halfway between the Isle of Arran to our southwest and Bute Island, which lies four kilometers to the north of us. I was able to just make out a directional beacon further east that I believe to be emanating from Little Cumbrae Island. Since it’s through the channel that lies immediately to the west of this island that we’ll be entering the Firth of Clyde, shall we proceed in that direction?”
Hearing not a word of dissent, Mikhail ordered Sea Devil back to the seafloor, where its unique tracked propulsion system took over. A little over a quarter of an hour passed when he once more directed them to periscope depth.
“Now I should have a better view of the channel we’ll be transiting to get to our destination,” offered Mikhail as he anxiously hunched over and put the rubberized viewing coupling to his forehead.
The sun had broken the horizon by now, and clearly illuminated was a frightening scene that caused Mikhail to cry out.
“Down scope! Bring us back to the seafloor, Yuri, and waste no time about it.”
As the roaring sound of the ballast tanks taking on water filled the cramped control space, Mikhail backed away from the well. It wasn’t until they gently hit bottom that he explained what he had sighted topside.
“I’m afraid it’s not going to be as easy to penetrate the Firth as we had hoped. Blocking the channel up ahead is a line of three anchored Brit frigates. They appear to be Cornwall-class type 22 vessels, which means that they’re equipped with a comprehensive set of ASW sensors. Most likely they’re sitting out there anticipating just such a covert intrusion as we had in mind.”
“I bet it’s prompted by the visit of their Queen,” supposed Yuri Sosnovo.
“From what I understand, the Brits are every bit as cautious when it comes to security matters as our own KGB,” added Tanya Olovski.
“I say that we should proceed as if we didn’t even know they were there,” offered Sea Devil’s Warrant Officer.
“With our stealth capabilities, they’ll never spot us, even with a dozen frigates.”
Mikhail Borisov thoughtfully rubbed his scarred cheek.
“That might be so, Comrade Zagorsk. But this mission is much too important to find out differently.
Thus, for circumspection’s sake, I feel it’s best if we silently loiter at this position and wait for another vessel to come along. Then as this vessel proceeds to penetrate the blockade, all we have to do is follow in its baffles. When we’re veiled by its propeller wash, they’ll never know we’re even down here.”
From an adjoining portion of the same Sound, Captain Dmitri Zinyagin also viewed the line of anchored Cornwall-class frigates from the powerful lens of the Ladoga’s attack scope. Taking in the line of sleek ships, the veteran officer grunted and stepped back from the scope.
“Have a look yourself, Comrade Zampolit. For this is an obstacle that even our brave Spetsnaz colleagues wouldn’t dare take on by themselves.”
Petyr Tartarov moved his corpulent torso over to the periscope well, hunched over, and put his sweat stained forehead up against the eyepiece.
“My, that’s indeed a formidable barrier. Does this mean their mission is over?”
“Heavens no,” returned Dmitri Zinyagin.
“Though there’s always the chance that Sea Devil would try running the blockade, I’d say that Captain Borisov wouldn’t take the risk. If I were in his place, I’d wait for the approach of another ship, preferably a nice noisy surface vessel. Then all he’d have to do is follow in this craft’s wake all the way into the Firth.”
The political officer responded to this while backing away from the scope.
“That’s a brilliant tactic. Captain.
But I wonder if Captain Borisov will think of it.”
“From what I understand, the Spetsnaz takes a good amount of time training their naval officers in just such basic strategy. He’ll have thought of it, all right. And I guarantee you that he’s sitting out there right now, waiting for this vessel’s approach.”
As Dmitri Zinyagin instructed his senior lieutenant to take his place at the scope, the Ladoga’s CO followed the zampolit over to the vacant weapons console.
“I’ve notified the crew about this afternoon’s special Komsomol meeting. Captain,” revealed the political officer.
“I’m assuming that you have your speech in order.