“Increase speed to one-half knot,” ordered the captain coolly.
“One-half knot it is. Sir,” responded the alert helmsman.
The Seo Devil gradually picked up speed, and the furrow that its articulated appendage continued digging into the seafloor lengthened.
“I still think another periscope bearing is in order, Captain,” dared Tanya Olovski.
“Who knows, perhaps we encountered a current that sent us off course.”
Again Mikhail looked at his watch.
“Patience, Comrade,” he whispered.
“And where’s that faith I spoke of earlier? Don’t you trust your captain?”
Before the electrician could answer, the mini sub shook slightly as the tip of its articulated manipulator arm hit something buried in the sand below.
“All stop!” ordered the captain.
“Good, now take us back slowly, Comrade Sosnovo.”
The helmsman reversed the direction of the vessel’s tracked drive, and the Sea Devil backed up over the portion of the seafloor it had just traveled over.
“That’s good enough. Hold it right there,” instructed the captain.
There was a triumphant sparkle in Mikhail’s clear eyes as he looked to his right and grinned.
“Well, what are you waiting for, comrade? Dig up that cable and be quick about it. Don’t forget, I’ve got a four week leave waiting for me back at Kronstadt.”
The electrician guided the claw into the seabed. She seemed genuinely surprised when her efforts succeeded in snagging a thick black cable. She quickly got over her shock, and delicately clamped the pincers around the cable and carefully lifted it upward. It appeared to extend beneath the sand in both directions, and Mikhail was quick to identify it.
“It’s the new communications cable, all right. Even as we hold it before us, top-secret NATO dispatches are being directed through the fiberoptic elements that line the cable’s interior. And just think, comrades, soon this vital information will be all ours, without NATO ever being the wiser!
“Go ahead and insert the tap, Comrade Olovski. I’ll prepare to release the auxiliary cable that we carry at our side, and then we can get out of here.”
The electrician used the controls inside the gauntlet to insert a specially designed probe into the cable. This device was attached to a thin fiberoptic line that the mini-sub carried rolled up in a tight spool stored inside one of its empty torpedo pods.
“The splice is completed. Captain,” observed the electrician.
Mikhail Borisov looked her way and winked.
“Good job, my friend. Now let’s deliver our payload and be off for home. Comrade Sosnovo, come about to course two-three-two. And carefully, if you please.
Don’t forget that we’ll be paying out a cable of our own, and we certainly wouldn’t want to cause it to break.”
For the next quarter of an hour the Sea Devil continued crawling to the southwest. During this time Mikhail Borisov’s eyes remained glued to the monitor, which showed that their cable was feeding out smoothly.
“Our depth continues to decrease. Captain. We’ve just passed the forty-meter mark.”
Mikhail in jested the helmsman’s remarks and merely grunted in response. They were currently following the sloping seabed upward. This brought them ever closer to the rugged coastline that bordered this part of Oslo Harbor.
“We’ll continue up the slope until we reach a depth of thirty meters,” directed the captain.
“That should put us just north of the Norwegian village of Larvik.”
“But how will our operative ever find the end of the cable?” Yuri Sosnovo asked from the helm.
His gaze still set on the monitor, Mikhail answered.
“When we cut the cable, we’ll jettison the spool as well. Attached to this device is an ultrasonic homing beacon that will serve to direct our agent to these waters.
Since his cover is that of a fisherman, he shouldn’t be noticed as he recovers the spool and unwinds the remaining cable shoreward. Then he merely has to plug it into a transmitter in order for the Kremlin to know NATO’s operational schedule at the same time that the Norwegian command is informed of it.”
Mikhail had to admit that this was a brilliant operation, that only a genius like Admiral Igor Starobin could conceive of. Proud to be under this officer’s command, Mikhail ordered the Sea Devil to a halt when they reached a depth of thirty meters. Here the spool holding the rest of the cable was successfully released, and the captain issued the orders that would eventually lead them back home.
To safely reach the deep waters that lay outside Oslo Harbor, the Sea Devil traveled down the Norwegian coastline toward the city of Kristiansand. Once the lights of this town were off their starboard bow, they would change their course to the southeast. Then they would proceed to their rendezvous point with the whiskey-class submarine that would tow them back to the Baltic Sea.
The crew was genuinely relieved that the main part of their mission was over, and to properly celebrate, they passed out the remaining four oranges.
“When I get home I’m going to have my mother cook up a big potful of Ukrainian borscht,” said Yuri Sosnovo as he peeled the skin off his precious piece of fresh fruit.
“To my taste, there’s no finer food in all the motherland.”
“All I’m craving is some lean red meat,” observed Oleg Zagorsk.
“Back home in the Taiga, the men of my village will be preparing for the first elk hunt of the spring. Now there’s a meat that never fails to put a smile on even the most finicky youngster’s face. Have you tasted a piece of fresh elk liver before, Captain?”
Mikhail Borisov answered from the helm, where he lazily monitored the autopilot.
“I can’t say that I have, Comrade.”
The usually tightlipped Siberian passionately responded.
“That’s too bad. Sir. Because to my people, there’s no finer delicacy on this planet. Legend says that to partake of the raw liver brings the hunter good fortune.”
Tanya Olovski was seated at the trim controls and shook her head disgustedly.
“Sounds pretty sickening, if you want my opinion. How can you compare such a revolting thing to a crisp red apple, some sweet grapes, a wheel of tangy cheese, and a loaf of crusty black bread? Now that, comrades, is real eating!”
The Siberian was all set to argue otherwise, when a warbling electronic tone filled the cabin with a piercing noise.
“It’s the collision alarm!” screamed the captain, who reached down to halt the mini-sub’s forward velocity.
Just as his hand pulled back on the throttle, the vessel shuddered wildly and rolled hard on its right side.
The lights blinked off, and the crew went tumbling to the pitching deck.
Mikhail Borisov slammed into the fire-control console with such force that he had the wind knocked out of him. Gasping for air and unable to speak, he looked on as the red emergency lights popped on.
Through the dim red haze he saw that the vessel remained tilted precariously on its side. Struggling to scramble over the assortment of tangled bodies was the dexterous figure of Oleg Zagorsk. Somehow the Siberian managed to reach the diving station, and with his hands on the joystick, he began directing water forward to aft via the pump, and vented the forward trim tank straight to the sea.
As trim was regained, the angle of the deck lessened and the rest of Sea Devil’s complement were able to stand upright once more. This included the boat’s captain, who rubbed his bruised shoulder and somehow found the words to express himself.
“Our integrity seems to be intact. But what in the hell did we hit?”
The electrician alertly moved to the forwardmost portion of the compartment, activated the bow spotlights, and opened the viewing port. Greeting her was a puzzling checkered wall that she all too soon identified.