“Now that’s something that I’ve always wanted to learn,” reflected the pilot as she smoothly guided the Seahawk over a ridge of rugged hills and into a broad valley. A wide river cut this plain, that was filled with a conglomeration of houses, factories, and highways.
“That’s the River Clyde,” offered the pilot.
“To our right are the outskirts of Glasgow, while beneath us is the city of Greenock. That body up ahead of us is the Firth of Clyde, where Holy Loch is situated.”
Mac was somewhat familiar with the landscape, since he had visted the naval base once before. Yet he had never seen it from this lofty vantage point. He took in the bustling docks of Port Glasgow and could just make out Gare Loch, where the English submarine base at Falsane was located.
The Seahawk began losing altitude as they whisked over the town of Gourock and began their way over the sparkling waters of the Firth of Clyde. Here Mac spotted a single submarine headed out to sea. Even though he had seen such a sight many times before, he sat forward excitedly to examine this vessel more closely. It had a sleek black hull and a prominent sail that didn’t hold any hydroplanes. As Mac spotted the two sailors who occupied the sail’s exposed bridge, the chopper pilot spoke out.
“That submarine is certainly awesome looking. I wonder if it’s one of ours.”
Mac was quick to reply.
“Actually, it appears to be a Brit, most probably one of their new Trafalgar-class nuclear-powered attack vessels. You can tell it’s not one of ours because of the absence of hydroplanes on the sail.”
“I guess that I should have spotted that right off,” returned the pilot.
“Though I’m currently just a transport operator, eventually I’d like to get into ASW.
From what I hear, that’s where all the action is.”
Mac would have liked to tell her how right she was, but held his tongue. With his gaze centered on the frothing white turbulence that the sub was leaving behind in its wake, he couldn’t help but wonder if the tracked mini-sub had yet to pay these waters a visit.
Surely there could be no denying the Firth’s strategic importance. Both the United States and the United Kingdom had major submarine bases here. The estuary also was fairly narrow, had plenty of commercial traffic, and had ready access to the open sea. AU of these ingredients would act in the mini-sub’s favor.
As it turned out, the possibility of such a clandestine operation was no longer Mac’s primary concern.
This had all come to pass a little more than eight hours ago, when he arrived in the Pentagon office of Admiral Alien Long. With a minimum of small talk, the admiral explained to Mac his new assignment. And when this intensive briefing was over, Mac clearly understood the reasoning behind this abrupt switch in duty.
Sure, he had given the search for the mysterious mini-sub a whole year of his life, and as events off the coast of southern California had proved, his tireless efforts were bound to pay off soon. Yet when the
B-52 went crashing into the Irish Sea with a payload of four nuclear weapons on board, his continued search for the tracked vessel no longer had the vital priority that it once held.
In all of American history, never before had the country permanently lost one of its nuclear weapons.
Such devices of mass destruction were among the most closely monitored elements of the U.S. military arsenal.
To ensure that such a nightmarish scenario didn’t come to pass off the coast of Ireland, the President was demanding that the Navy give the recovery effort its total attention.
Admiral Long explained that Mac’s reassignment was only one small piece of this effort. All over the world, ships were being diverted and specialists recruited to assist in this all-important task. Certainly the search for the mysterious tracked mini-sub could be temporarily put on hold while Mac applied his expertise in a new direction.
“There’s Holy Loch,” remarked the pilot as she swung the Seahawk over the town of Dunoon and pointed its blunt nose to the north.
“That place is sure busy these days. Why, I’ve been bringing up passengers almost non-stop for the last thirty-six hours. We sure never got a workout like this back in Norfolk.”
Mac peered out the plexiglass cockpit window and viewed the rect angularly shaped inlet of water where the U.S. naval installation was located. Barely two miles long and a mile wide, the loch had received its distinctive name several centuries before when a ship ran aground carrying a load of earth from Jerusalem that was destined for the foundation of a Glasgow cathedral.
The marine salvage expert had always thought this name ironic, for today the loch’s use was far more hellish than holy.
As they initiated their descent on the helipad, Mac got a glimpse of the conglomeration of vessels currently docked at the base’s pier. He spotted a massive tender, approximately eight submarines, a fleet oiler, and several large oceangoing tugs. The docks themselves seemed to be unusually active, with both men and equipment visible in great number.
The Seahawk landed with a jolt, and as the rotors whined to a halt the pilot commented.
“I hope you enjoy your stay, Commander. Maybe I’ll have you on the way back.”
Mac released his harness and replied, “I’d enjoy that, Lieutenant. Thanks for the lift. And don’t be afraid to pick up a set of pipes and give them a try. It’s not as hard as it looks.”
The soulful strains of “My Home in the Green Hills” accompanied him as he exited the cockpit and climbed out the fuselage door. Waiting for him on the tarmac was a short, wiry individual dressed in officer’s whites.
He wore aviator-type sunglasses and had an unlit corn cob pipe in his mouth. Mac was somewhat surprised to find him wearing the rank of admiral.
“Commander Mackenzie, I presume,” greeted the senior officer with a slight Southern drawl.
“I’m Admiral Connors, the base CO. Welcome to Holy Loch.”
Mac accepted his handshake.
“Why thank you, sir.
Admiral Long sends his regards.”
A fond look flashed in the admiral’s eyes as he responded.
“We go back a long way, Commander. They don’t come any finer than Alien Long, who, incidentally, speaks most highly of your abilities, young man.”
As Mac nodded humbly, the CO added, “I don’t want you to think that I come out and personally greet everyone arriving at Holy Loch this way. In this instance, time is of the essence, and I want to start tapping your expertise as soon as possible. That’s why I thought I’d present my initial briefing to you right here at the airfield in the officers’ ready room. If you’ll just follow me, we’ll head on over to that hangar and get things rolling.
“Now what’s this I hear about you coming into Scotland by way of Kwajalein Atoll? I had duty in the Marshalls during the initial A-bomb tests, and no one has to tell me how damned remote those islands are.”
As Mac filled his host in on the roundabout route that had taken him almost halfway around the world in the last forty-eight hours, they entered the hangar. It was a cavernous structure filled with seven dark-blue Sikorsky Sea Stallions and dozens of scurrying mechanics.
To the din of pounding sheet metal and the machine-gun-like report of a riveter, they headed to a stairwell and climbed up a single flight. This put them in a carpeted hallway, far removed from the racket of the machine shop. They proceeded down this corridor, whose left side was lined with huge plate glass windows that allowed one a clear view of the hurried activity going on in the hangar bay below.
“Those Sikorskys down there are being fitted with towed sonar sleds,” commented the admiral without breaking his crisp stride.
“They’ve been brought in from all over the U.K. where their primary mission has been search-and-rescue. As we learned in the Persian Gulf during minesweeping operations there, the Sea Stallion is one hell of a versatile whirlybird. It’s one of the toughest vehicles in the air, and we’re planning to utilize them day and night until we get the job done.”