The tug was several hundred meters closer to the blockade when its radio-telephone activated. Dr.
Blackwater picked up the handset and accepted the greetings of a Royal Navy lieutenant, who then ordered them to approach the ship nearest to Little Cumbrae Island and prepare to be boarded. Calmly accepting this inevitable fact, the physician once more shared his knowledge of human nature with his shipmates.
“Sean, you stay up in the wheelhouse with Bernard, and both of you, just look natural. Don’t make any threatening moves, and take this all in stride as the minor inconvenience that it is. And if you are asked a question, answer it directly, with as few words as possible. I’ve got the registration papers on me, and will try to get this whole thing over with as soon as possible.”
The boarding party arrived via a whaleboat. It was led by a fair-haired officer in a white tunic and matching shorts. Four enlisted men accompanied him, and each one wore a bolstered handgun.
With a forced smile. Dr. Blackwater accepted their line and called out to them.
“Good morning, gentlemen.
What’s with the reception committee?”
“It’s just a routine check,” replied the officer, who climbed on board the tug with two of his men.
“Could I see your papers, please?”
The physician reached into his pocket and pulled out the tug’s registration form. Before studying it, the officers ordered his men to take a look around.
“Is there anything wrong?” asked Dr. Blackwater politely.
“I certainly hope you don’t think we’re guilty of some infraction. An admiralty fine now is all we need. This entire trip has been nothing but a financial disaster from the start.”
Barely paying this any mind, the officer intently studied the tug’s papers.
“I see that you’re home ported in Glasgow. Are you headed there now?”
Tyronne Blackwater nodded that they were, and the officer continued.
“And where are you coming from?”
“I’m sorry to say, Dublin,” returned the physician with a smirk.
“No offense to the Irish people as a whole, but as long as I live, I hope never to return to that place again. Do you realize that we pulled a barge all the way over there from Ardrossan, and when we went to collect our fee as agreed, the bastards told me that they didn’t have the cash, and asked if they could owe it to us? I could tell right then and there that they didn’t have any intention of paying us. And before we were forced to leave without any compensation whatsoever, I was able to talk them into a barter arrangement. In place of the money they owed us, I took on a mixed load of smelt and cod. Yet how was I to know that our refrigeration plant would give up the ghost halfway across the Irish Sea? And now all we’ve got to show for our efforts is a bilgeful of spoiled fish. Why, they’re so rotten that I doubt if even the fertilizer works will have them!”
Seconds later, one of the enlisted men seemingly corroborated this story when he reported finding a foul-smelling load of spoiled fish in the tug’s hold.
When his shipmate returned from his search of the vessel’s forward compartments and had nothing out of the ordinary to report, the fair-haired Royal Navy lieutenant handed the registration papers back to the tug’s owner.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Sir. And I’m also sorry for your bad luck. Do have a safe trip back to port, and please be patient as you reach the upper reaches of the Clyde. The Queen is visiting the Gare Loch naval installation this afternoon, and I’m afraid there’s a bit of a crowd congregating up there already.
Seems that everybody who has a boat wants a chance to see Her Highness as she christens our first Trident submarine. Do have a look yourself. You should get there just in time for the festivities.”
“Perhaps there’s a pot of gold at the end of this long voyage after all,” reflected Dr. Blackwater as he led the sailors over to the rail and helped them as they climbed back into the whaleboat.
The physician waved goodbye and casually turned for the tug’s wheelhouse. With his best poker face he then proceeded to address his shipmates.
“Well, don’t just stand there, comrades. Open up that throttle. And let’s get on with that date with history that’s waiting for us at the other end of the Firth of Clyde!”
As the tug’s engines rumbled alive, all three members of its crew failed to spot the oblong, rectangular lens that just broke the water only a few meters aft of the tug’s transom. On the other end of this viewing device, Captain Mikhail Borisov watched as the frothing white wake of the tug’s propeller colored the gray seas. Only when he was satisfied that the vessel was headed up the channel did the blond-haired commando step back from the periscope.
“You may lower the scope, Comrade Warrant Officer,” he ordered.
“Helmsman, all ahead full. It’s absolutely necessary that we stick as close to the tug as possible. I’ll man sonar myself.”
As Sea Devil’s single-bladed propeller whirred alive, its CO hurried over to the sonar console. He sat down on a narrow bench and clipped on a set of miniature headphones. This allowed him to monitor the series of sensitive hydrophones mounted throughout the mini-sub’s hull. As he isolated those microphones set into the bow, the throaty rumble of the tug’s engines was clearly audible, as was the cavitation al hiss caused when millions of tiny bubbles collapsed on its propeller.
“Bring us up another meter, Oleg,” instructed the captain.
“And be ever cautious of water density changes as we initiate our passage into the fresh water of the Firth.”
The trick now was to get as close to the bottom of the tug’s hull as possible without striking it. In this manner, the enemy sensors would pick up only a single entity on their monitor screens.
The deafening ping of an active sonar unit caused Mikhail to reach out and turn down the volume of his hydrophone receivers. This same distinctive hollow noise was heard throughout Sea Devil, even by those without headphones.
“We should be passing by the line of frigates just about now,” offered the helmsman, Yuri Sosnovo.
“This is the moment of truth,” added Oleg Zagorsk, who was perched beside the diving station.
At her post at the main circuit board, Tanya Olovski looked up at the snaking cables that lined the ceiling of the mini-sub, as if she could see the surface platforms responsible for the monotonous pinging sound. Her upward glance was shortlived, though, when a well-placed drop of condensation hit her smack in the left eye.
Though it seemed to the crew to take hours to dissipate, in reality only a few minutes passed before the British sonar scan began to noticeably fade. A joint sigh of relief filled the cramped compartment as the nerve-racking pinging dispersed altogether. It was their captain who spoke for all of them as he pushed back his headphones.
“It appears that we have successfully passed the first major obstacle, comrades. Yet we mustn’t celebrate prematurely. We still have a good distance to go yet until our goal is attained. If our luck holds, perhaps we’ll have this tug to run interference for us most of the way. So keep ever vigilant, and if the fates so will it, we shall prevail.”
Sliding back his headphones, Mikhail urgently added, “We must have more power, Yuri! Full ahead emergency, if you must. This tug is a godsend, and I don’t want to lose its cover. And besides, to hell with conserving our battery power! Only one thing matters, and that’s getting us to Holy Loch!”
Chapter Seventeen
Liam’s tour of the Bowfin’s torpedo room was cut short by an urgent call from the sub’s captain.
“Get our guest up to the bridge on the double, XO. It’s time he earned his keep around here.”
They hurried back to the control room and joined the captain, Commander Mackenzie, and Major Stewart around the periscope.