“That I have, comrade. But I just wish that I could back up my concepts with more than mere words. If only there were some way that I could show the men that an ordinary member of the Red Banner fleet was just as good a soldier as the Spetsnaz. I’m still of the impression that they think of themselves merely as glorified taxi drivers. What they need is a taste of real action. It’s just too bad that Command didn’t send the Ladoga in Sea Devil’s place.”
A bit uncomfortable with this line of reasoning, Petyr Tartarov nodded.
“That’s an interesting concept, Comrade. But don’t give up on the power of ideological conditioning just yet. I learned long ago that the only way to get into some of these stubborn sailors’ heads is to constantly pound a point into them. By increasing the frequency and intensity of our Komsomol meetings, we can do just that.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the captain with a sigh.
“Because the morale on this ship seems to be worsening with each hour’s passing.”
“I know I am, Captain. And I hope to prove it to you during today’s Komsomol meeting. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ dbetter get down to my cabin and finish my preparations.”
Petyr Tartarov gratefully left the tense confines of the attack center. Never feeling truly at home in this part of the ship, he proceeded aft to that part of the Ladoga reserved for its officers. He crossed through the deserted wardroom and was surprised to find a single lanky enlisted man waiting in the hallway opposite his stateroom.
“Comrade Zampolit, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?” the sailor nervously called out.
Though Tartarov had seen this individual before only in passing, he could see by his insignia that he held the lowly rank of torpedo mate third class.
“What is it, sailor? I’m a busy man with many things to do,” he said as he fumbled for his key.
The enlisted man held back his response until the political officer managed to open the door to his cabin, and he tentatively followed him inside.
“Sir, I am torpedo mate third class Vasili Buchara,” he revealed after clearing his dry throat.
“And I would like an application to the Special Forces Academy.”
Not believing what he was hearing, Tartarov looked up astounded.
“What’s this you say, sailor? You want to apply to become a Spetsnaz? Why, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”
Expecting just such a response from the zampolit, Vasili dared to hold his ground.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. But this is no joke, and I would still like that application.”
“So you would, huh?” retorted the redfaced Zampolit.
“I’ll give you this piece of advice. Comrade Buchara.
The Spetsnaz is not about to be interested in a scrawny little sailor like yourself. Why, you’re not even a Great Russian, are you?”
“No sir, I’m an Uzbek,” said the blushing enlisted man, who was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
“Well then, I hope that your family has some political clout, because even if you were physically up to it, the Special Forces is also socially elite. So quit wasting my time, and more important, yours as well with this foolish fantasy. Make the best of your current service, and be proud that you’ve been given the privilege of wearing the uniform of the Red Banner fleet. If that is all. Seaman Buchara, you’re excused.
And don’t forget to come to this afternoon’s Komsomol meeting. There’s certainly a lot that you’ll learn by attending.”
Having lost what little courage he had by now, the seaman responded with a weak salute and submissively backed out into the corridor “So now even the Uzbeks want to join the Spetsnaz,” disgustedly mumbled the zampolit to himself.
Tempted to immediately inform the captain of this ridiculous confrontation, Petyr Tartarov sat down heavily on the edge of his bunk. There could be no doubting the degree to which the influence of the Sea Devil’s crew had poisoned the morale of the Ladoga. With the hope that it wasn’t already too late to apply an antidote, the zampolit reached out for his legal pad to work anew on this afternoon’s all-important speech.
Meanwhile, back in the Ladoga’s attack center, Captain Zinyagin found himself called to the periscope by the excited voice of his senior lieutenant.
“Sir, it appears that there’s another vessel approaching the line of frigates. I believe it’s a tug of some sort.”
Quick to replace his subordinate at the scope, the captain took his time responding.
“So it is comrade.
This ship should provide just the sort of cover that Sea Devil’s been waiting for. And if Captain Borisov is wise, he’ll follow in this tug’s wake all the way up the Firth, to the sensitive naval installations that I just know in my gut he’s being ordered to survey.”
It was while wishing that their commands were switched that a sudden inspiration came to the veteran.
With or without Command’s blessings, he’d at long last take the initiative and order the Ladoga to follow Sea Devil up into the Firth of Clyde as soon as the first opportunity presented itself. Then they could ride shotgun over the vulnerable tracked mini sub while its crew of Spetsnaz operatives got on with its mission.
Inspired by this impromptu idea, Dmitri knew that it would serve yet another vitally important function.
With the realization that they were going in harm’s way, just like the Sea Devil, the crew would unite. No longer would they think of themselves as mere taxi drivers, but rather underwater warriors, who would earn the motherland’s respect, just as the Special Forces had!
Completely oblivious to the machinations going on in the seas beneath them, Bernard Loughlin pulled back on the throttle of the tug as he spotted the line of frigates that blocked the channel up ahead.
“Doc, I think you had better get up here!” he shouted into the intercom.
With his good eye, Bernard scanned the blockade with binoculars. He was in the process of studying the missile launcher visible on the bow of the ship nearest to them when both Dr. Blackwater and Sean joined him in the wheelhouse.
“What’s the matter, Bernard?” asked the physician.
Bernard pointed to the north.
“Looks like the Brits decided to blockade the entrance to the Firth after all. I believe those are Leander-class frigates.”
As Dr. Blackwater accepted the binoculars, he raised them to his eyes and corrected his colleague.
“Actually, they’re Cornwall-class Type 22’s. But that makes little difference. They’re still not going to bother us in the least.”
“I wish I could agree with you, Doc,” returned Bernard.
“The Royal Navy are a fastidious bunch, and if they really want to look for trouble, they usually find it.”
The physician handed the binoculars to Sean and retorted, “Have you no faith in your own plan, comrade?
Even if they do board us, one sniff of that bilge will be enough to convince even the most detail oriented petty officer to abandon any further search effort.”
“Those frigates sure don’t appear to be heavily armed,” observed Sean.
“I don’t even see a single deck gun.”
Dr. Blackwater was quick to reply.
“Don’t let that fact fool you, lad. Naval warship designers today have replaced the guns of old with missile launchers. They might not appear as intimidating, but they get the job done much more effectively.”
“Which frigate should I head for?” asked Bernard.
“Just keep your present course,” advised Dr. Blackwater.
“We’ll let them tell us what to do. And if they do board us, let me do all the talking, if possible.
I’ve been doing my bloody best to perfect a Scot brogue, and I always did like amateur theatrics.”