“I find that a bit hard to swallow,” returned Stewart.
“After all, we had that tug practically in our sights when they attacked us. It looks more and more to me like they were working together.”
Mac could only shrug his shoulders and wonder if the India was indeed on a totally unrelated mission.
And if it was, was their unique cargo still on board when the Bowfm’s torpedo struck, or had it already been deployed? For if this was the case, their search wouldn’t end with the retrieval of the bomb. At that point, it would only just be beginning once again.
“Watch your trim, Comrade Sosnovo,” cautioned Mikhail Borisov as Sea Devil rose from the depths and approached periscope depth.
“To breach now could be disastrous.”
The chief engineer barely paid these words any attention as he confidently went about his job like the true professional that he was. Like a magician, he went about the delicate task of ridding the mini-sub of just enough ballast to accommodate their needs and keep them from breaking the water’s surface.
The only moisture on Yuri Sosnovo’s forehead was from the constantly falling condensation as he initiated a final adjustment and matter-of-factly commented, “Periscope depth. Captain.”
Mikhail immediately hit the lever that sent the scope barreling up from its storage well. Getting down on his knees so that as little of the lens as possible would have to break the water, he hunched over the viewing chamber and peered inside.
He was afforded a spectacular view of the tug’s stern that seemed to be only a hand’s length away. Taking in the bubbling white froth left in the wake of the tug’s propeller, Mikhail swept the lens to the northeast. Fortunately the weather remained good and he could pick out the flashing beacon that was situated on the eastern shoreline. Having seen enough, he sat up and pulled the lever that sent the periscope spiraling back into the Sea Devil’s protective confines.
“Take us back down, Yuri,” ordered the captain.
The sound of onrushing seawater filled the cramped compartment, and Tanya Olovski was quick to her CO’s side with an unfolded chart.
“Well, Captain?” she breathlessly quizzed.
“Were you able to see anything familiar?”
Mikhail took hold of the chart and pointed to a rounded section of coastline on the southwestern outskirts of the town of Gourock.
“If you must know, my inquisitive comrade, this is the location of the beacon that’s passing to our starboard. We will continue traveling up the channel for another two and a half kilometers before turning off for Holy Loch.”
“Then we’ve made it!” she exclaimed joyfully.
Mikhail again pointed to the chart.
“Not quite, comrade.
We still have the channel to cross. And since our friendly tug will most likely be continuing on in the opposite direction toward Port Glasgow at that time, we’ll be doing so all on our own.”
“This is still a remarkable feat,” reflected the electrician.
“To think that we’ve actually penetrated deep into the enemy’s waters and are now approaching one of its most sensitive naval installations. It’s incredible!”
“And the best is yet to come,” offered Mikhail with a wink.
Suddenly remembering another concern, Mikhail called out to his Warrant Officer.
“Comrade Zagorsk, do you still have the tug on your hydrophones?”
The headphone-wearing Siberian turned from the sonar console.
“Yes, I do, Captain. In fact, we’re almost right beneath them once again. They’ve seemed to cut back on their throttle some.”
Ever thankful for the convenient cover of this vessel, Mikhail spoke up.
“I would love to get the registration number of that tug so that we can send its owner a case of Russian vodka once we return home. What a great service he’s provided!”
“Brother, would I like to see the face of that Scot when he unwraps it,” returned Yuri.
“He’d go to his grave wondering where in the hell it came from!”
The cramped bilge was thick with the stench of rotting fish and diesel oil as the two terrorists intently worked beside the massive cylindrical bomb bolted to the deck here. Trying his best not to gag on the nauseating combination of odors. Dr. Tyronne Blackwater watched as his colleague delicately removed the metallic cover plate that protected the nuclear device’s detonator.
“I certainly hope that physicist wasn’t feeding us a bunch of crap back at Cootehill House,” remarked Bernard Loughlin as he pulled off the plate and viewed the complex grid of circuit boards and snaking wires that lay inside.
“He was too scared to lie,” offered the physician.
“I was just afraid that he was going to keel over from a heart attack before he spilled the beans to us.”
“At least that would have saved us a bullet,” returned the one-eyed terrorist, who used a dental probe to isolate the copper-coated electrode that Dr. John Maguire had pointed out to them.
“Why don’t you just hand me that battery cable and we can blow it now,” added Bernard.
“Patience, lad. Though we’d most likely complete our mission even from this distance, we might as well do it as planned. Besides, we’ve only got another two kilometers to go before we reach the definite kill zone.”
Bernard replaced the cover plate, using only the two top screws to keep it in place.
“You’re right, Doc. I always was the overly anxious one. And it was that very character flaw that kept us from adding to the Brit body count on many a promising ambush. Once I even pushed the detonator of a remote-controlled mine too soon and just missed taking out the commander of the SAS. Now that would have been a real score!”
“You’ll make up for it this time, lad,” said Dr. Blackwater.
Bernard stood and climbed out of the bilge to drop down the battery cable. While he initiated this task, the physician scanned the decaying mass of fish that lay at his feet. He found himself longing for one last lungful of sweet air from the pine forest that surrounded his beloved Cootehill House. Tears clouded his eyes as he realized he would never walk the lush green grounds again; the drastic consequences of this suicidal mission had finally sunk in. And he couldn’t help but wonder if his parents would have approved of his decision to die the death of a martyr for the sake of the ideals that they had instilled in him all so very long ago.
“I’ve got the tug, Captain! It’s dead ahead of us.
But I’m picking up the screws of another surface vessel as well.”
The sonar operator’s words sent William Foard scrambling over to the periscope. As he anxiously peered through its lens, he spotted the rounded transom of the vessel they were hunting down and placed it right in the scope’s cross hairs. Yet before he could give the order to fire, he quickly scanned the surrounding waters in an attempt to locate the other contact that Chief Langsford had mentioned. It didn’t take him long to spot the distinctive lines of this ship, speedily approaching from the east.
“Damn it!” cursed the Bowfin’s CO.
“Of all the frigging times for the Gourock-to-Dunoon passenger ferry to pass by! Keep that fish in number one warm. Lieutenant Higgins. We’ll get to use it yet.”
From the wheelhouse of the tug, Sean Lafferty also watched the approach of the passenger ferry. Only when he was sure that the automobile-laden, flat-hulled ship would pass well behind them did he utilize the binoculars to scan the waters that lay in the opposite direction. The town of Gourock lay to their right, while ahead of them extended the jutting peninsula of land around which snaked Gare Loch. Anchored here was a frigate-sized ship painted dark blue with golden trim. A large Union Jack fluttered from its masthead, and Sean didn’t have to see any more to lower the binoculars and shout into the intercom excitedly.