“We’re here, comrades I I can see the royal yacht, anchored before us only a kilometer or so distant!”
Quick to join him in the wheelhouse was Dr. Blackwater.
The physician put the binoculars to his eyes and remarked, “So it is, Sean. And that Union Jack flying from its masthead means the Royal Family is currently on board, probably still sound asleep beneath their satin sheets. In a couple more minutes we’re going to give them a wake-up call that they’ll remember for all eternity!”
The physician affectionately patted Sean on his back and reached for the intercom.
“Bernard, it’s the royal yacht all right, and the Queen’s presently aboard. I’ll get over to the transom and connect the cables to the battery. I’ll knock three times on the deck when I’m finished. And then you’re free to make room for us in the history books. For the glory of the Brotherhood, and at long last a united Ireland, comrade!”
Tyronne Blackwater hung up the handset and briefly caught Sean’s concerned glance.
“Have no fear, lad. It will be over with so quickly that you’ll never know what hit you. And besides, waiting for us at those pearly gates will be Bobby Sands and the thousands of other martyrs who willingly gave up their lives for the same cause. So be brave to the end, lad, and know that your sacrifice is a worthy one.”
There were tears of pride in the physician’s eyes as he hugged Sean, and then turned to get on with his duty.
Meanwhile, below deck in the bilges, Bernard Loughlin fought to keep his hands steady as he attempted to remove the two screws from the bomb’s cover-plate. Until this moment he had always prided himself on his nerves of steel. He could lead a charge into an army barricade with rifle bullets whining overhead and not even break a sweat. But the simple act of removing the two screws caused his whole body to be soaked in perspiration. There was an alien tightness deep in his gut, and his right hand was shaking so badly that he had to support it with his left just to guide the head of the screwdriver into the proper slots.
Sweat dripped off his eyepatch and plopped down on the smooth steel surface of the bomb as he gratefully pulled out the last of the screws. Taking a second to wipe the moisture off his soaked brow with the rough palm of his hand, he peered inside the trigger mechanism and located the copper-coated electrode that he had isolated earlier. Just then, three loud knocks sounded from the deck above.
Bernard took a deep breath and reached out for the dual battery cables that hung from the hatchway. He grounded the black cable clip on the edge of the bomb. Now he had only to connect the red clip to the electrode, to trigger the detonator and cause the fission process to begin. Yet try as he could to make this connection, his hand was shaking so badly that this simple task was all but impossible.
“Come on, Bernard!” he urged to himself as he momentarily backed away to regain his composure.
Again he took in a deep lungful of the rank air that was getting increasingly foul with each passing second.
Fighting back the urge to retch, he once more gripped the battery cable and leaned forward to complete his duty.
From the waters immediately below the tug Mikhail Borisov prepared to give the orders that would alter Sea Devil’s course. The only thing that kept him from directing his chief engineer to leave the protective shadow of the tug and turn for Holy Loch was the passing of another vessel topside. Fearing that this ship was a frigate, or another type of ASW platform, Mikhail decided to play it safe and remain beneath the tug for a bit longer. And then there would be plenty of time to turn back to the west and get on with the completion of their mission.
Mac impatiently watched the Bowfin’s CO peer through the lens of the periscope. It seemed to be taking forever for the ferry to pass. And he knew that the closer the tug got to Gare Loch, the more likely its deadly cargo would be detonated. Beside him, Major Colin Stewart seemed to share Mac’s anxieties. The Scotsman’s brow was damp with perspiration and his nervous gaze was constantly going to the bulkhead clock.
Suddenly the Captain’s forceful voice filled the hushed control room.
“You’ve got a clear firing angle, Lieutenant Higgins. Fire one!”
The weapons officer addressed his console, and seconds later a powerful jolt of compressed air shot the unarmed, wire-guided torpedo out of its tube.
Still hunched over the periscope, the captain added, “Now let’s just pray that when our fish hits home, that bomb doesn’t go off and send all of us on a voyage that we’ll never return from!”
Dr. Tyronne Blackwater was perched beside the tug’s transom in the process of watching the ferry steam off toward the town of Dunoon when he spotted the alien wake in the waters immediately behind them. He was puzzled by this sighting at first, and even wondered if it could be attributed to a fish of some sort, when a sudden shocking thought registered in his consciousness.
“Sweet Jesus, it’s a blooming torpedo!” he cried as he ran off for the ladder that led to the bilges.
“Bernard, what the hell’s keeping you? We’ve got a damn torpedo on our tail!”
The stench of rotting fish was overpowering as he dropped down into the cramped compartment and turned toward the bomb. Kneeling beside it, his face ashen white and limbs trembling, was Bernard. Though he still held one of the battery cables in one hand, the physician could see from the terrified look on his face that he would be of no further use to them.
“My lord, Bernard… just look what a state you’re in. Give me that cable you’re holding and let me take over. This is our last chance, lad.”
The founder of the Irish Republican Brotherhood looked up and spoke out a whimpering tone.
“Forgive me, comrade… Because it appears that I just don’t have the guts to do it.”
Tyronne Blackwater never had a chance to respond.
The bilge filled with an ear-shattering, buckling crack as the hull was ripped open. The deck wildly shook and rolled hard on its right side, finally tipping forward as the onrushing seawater poured into its shattered bow. Ripped free from its mount at this point, the 5,000-pound bomb went hurtling over the bodies of Bernard Loughlin and Dr. Tyronne Blackwater, killing them instantly. As it crashed into the forward bulkhead, it splintered the wooden planking, penetrated the crushed hull, and plunged into the awaiting depths below.
Mikhail Borisov was in the process of instructing his chief engineer to break from the cover of the tug and bring them around to their new course when the frantic voice of Oleg Zagorsk interrupted him.
“Excuse me. Captain. But I’m picking up something strange on our hydrophones. It almost sounds like it’s a torpedo!”
Sea Devil’s CO proceeded at once to the sonar console to determine this fact for himself. No sooner did he put on the auxiliary headphones than a deafening crackling sound emanated from the waters immediately above them.
“I don’t understand,” reflected Mikhail.
“Was that tug just hit by a non-detonating torpedo?”
The Spetsnaz commando never got a chance to learn the answer to this question, for the tug’s deadly cargo smashed into Sea Devil with such a force that the mini-sub was knocked off its” tracks and capsized.
Mikhail Borisov crashed painfully into the mini sub ceiling, and the last thought he had before lapsing off into unconsciousness was that his well-ordered world had been abruptly overturned by the fickle hand of destiny.
It wasn’t until the Bow/in surfaced and a single survivor was pulled from the water that Captain Foard, Mac, and Colin Stewart learned that their suspicions had been correct after all. Sean Lafferty was quick to confess the exact nature of their intended mission, and was shocked to find his own father among the sub’s complement. They met with a warm hug, and Liam tearfully mentioned that this was the first time since childhood that his son had allowed him to take him in his arms.