“Mr. Lafferty, I’ve got a tug up there that I want you to take a look at,” said Captain Foard.
Liam had already peered through the periscope several previous times, and was getting accustomed to it, as he calmly ambled over to the viewing coupling.
“Just point the way, captain. I’ll be giving it my best effort.”
William Foard briefly checked the direction in which the lens was pointed and then beckoned the fisherman to have a look. While Liam did so, the captain briefed his XO.
“We were on our way to the channel leading into the Clyde when we spotted an oceangoing tug off Farland Head. They seem to be merely anchored up there, and if we’re lucky, it’s our boys.”
Any hopes that Foard might have had were dashed by Liam’s matter-of-fact observation.
“Nope, it’s not them.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” asked the Captain.
Liam backed away from the scope and looked directly at the Bowfin’s CO.
“These eyes of mine are still pretty good for an old man, Captain. And when I tell you it’s not them, I mean it.”
Not wanting to push the point any further, the XO diplomatically intervened.
“How about returning to the wardroom and trying some of that pumpkin pie that Cooky’s saving for you down there?”
Liam smiled.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask, my friend. You know, you Yanks don’t eat so bad. What are you serving for breakfast?”
The XO briefly caught his captain’s eye and winked before escorting Liam back out of the control room.
“Now what, gentlemen?” asked Foard.
Mac looked to his watch.
“I say it’s time to start heading up the Clyde, Captain. If they plan to make that christening, then that’s where we’re going to find them.”
“I agree,” said Colin Stewart.
“At least the Firth is the only sea route that leads into Gare Loch.”
“Thank goodness we have that going for us,” returned the captain as he conveyed the orders that would send them towards Little Cumbrae Island and the channel that led directly into the Firth of Clyde.
Mac and Colin were in the process of following the captain over to navigation when the sonar operator spoke out.
“Captain, I’m picking up a strong active sonar scan in the waters directly ahead of us, bearing three-four zero range three miles. It seems to be coming from more than one surface platform.”
Curious as to the source of this disturbance, Foard returned to the periscope well with his two guests close on his heels. Only when he turned the scope to the bearing just conveyed to him and increased the magnification of the len se tenfold did he comment.
“Well, I’ll be … there’s a line of frigates out there blocking the channel. As I speak, they’re in the process of boarding a fishing trawler, that was headed in our direction.”
“That must all be part of the security precautions for the Queen’s visit,” ventured Colin Stewart.
Mac was quick to add, “If that’s the case, if our tug has already passed through the channel, they’ll have a record of it.”
“Quartermaster, have communications patch me through to the squadron leader of the group of Brit frigates that lie immediately north of us,” ordered the captain.
Less than a minute later, this directive was carried out and Foard was instructed to pick up the nearest telephone handset. Both Mac and Colin anxiously watched the captain as he began his brief conversation.
There was a concerned look on the COs face as he hung up the handset and addressed his guests.
“Well gentlemen, it seems nine tugs have entered the channel since midnight. All checked out, and were ultimately headed to Port Glasgow, with the latest one passing less than a half hour ago.”
“At least that narrows down the odds a little,” observed Mac, who looked on as the captain called out, “Helmsman, take us down to eighty feet. All ahead full! Next stop, the Firth of Clyde.”
Silently loitering off the coast of Little Cumbrae Island, the India-class attack sub Ladoga monitored the approach of the the Bowfin long before the American sub contacted the commander of the British surface ship squadron. Captain Dmitri Zinyagin excitedly seated himself before his vessel’s auxiliary sonar console as soon as the first contact was established. Here he breathlessly listened as the distinctive signature of this bogey was positively identified as being an American Sturgeon-class submarine. Zinyagin had been praying that such a vessel would come this way. And now, with the Sturgeon’s presence, his inspirational plan of action could at long last be implemented.
There was an expectant gleam in Zinyagin’s eyes when the American sub turned toward the line of frigates and activated its underwater telephone. Though he wasn’t able to monitor this conversation, he guessed that the Yanks were asking permission to pass under the blockade. This supposition was confirmed when the Sturgeon continued on toward the channel, propelled by the full power of its engines “All ahead, emergency speed!” ordered Zinyagin passionately.
“Helmsman, prepare to interface autopilot with the primary underwater sonar contact that we’re currently monitoring.”
The attack center briefly trembled as the Ladoga’s propulsion system went on-line. Though they would never be able to catch up with the nuclear-powered Sturgeon, all that they were attempting to do was follow in the American sub’s baffles, that sound-absorbent cone of water that all such vessels leave in their wake.
As he monitored this chase on the hydrophones, Zinyagin’s voice cried out once again.
“Senior Lieutenant, open those throttles all the way.
I must have speed, and have it now! Helmsman, interface the autopilot.”
Though Zinyagin never took his eyes off the repeater screen, he knew this last directive was carried out when a green light began blinking on the right side of his console. This meant that the Ladoga was now being steered solely by the data being relayed to the helm by the ship’s sensors. In effect, the American vessel was now controlling their course, and the helmsmen were able to release their steering yokes and let the computers take over their jobs for them.
A quick glance at the knot indicator showed that they had just enough speed to reach the Sturgeon’s baffles. Aligned right behind the American sub’s tail at this point, they should be able to follow it beneath the blockade without either the frigates or the Sturgeon ever being the wiser.
Though the theory was solid, this tactic was put to the test when the sound of an active sonar scan filled his headphones. Would the frigates monitor only a single return beneath them? Or were his calculations flawed? Well aware that the moment of truth had arrived, Zinyagin sat forward tensely as the volume of the hollow pings reached their crescendo. Only when they began to gradually fade did he exhale a long sigh of relief.
“What in the world is going on here, Captain?”
broke a scratchy voice from behind.
Having anticipated this confrontation, Dmitri Zinyagin pulled off his headphones and turned to face the puzzled zampolit.
“What does it look like, Comrade Tartarov? We’re proceeding into the waters of the Firth of Clyde, where we belong in the first place.”
“What are you talking about, Captain?” returned the redfaced political officer.
“I have a duplicate set of our orders locked up in my safe, and they say absolutely nothing about us entering the Firth. Why, because of this rash move you’re needlessly endangering all of us!”
Conscious that their harsh words were starting to draw the attention of the attack center’s complement, Zinyagin stood and beckoned the zampolit to follow him over to the vacant weapon’s console. Only when the door to this cork-lined cubicle was shut behind them did the captain continue.