This anonymity is most important, as this entire matter’s being handled on a need-to-know basis only. Only top Pentagon and government figures have been told the complete details of the crash. Because of logistics and security concerns, it was decided to inform the Brits of the incident. We’ve agreed to allow their First Sea Lord to share the news with a select handful of military officers with a ranking of Major or above, on a top-secret basis. The majority of these individuals have operational command duties in the northern portion of the U.K. and since this whole thing happened in their backyard, their cooperation is essential.
“So I guess that brings us back to square one. How do we go about finding the frigging thing?”
Admiral Connors used the scarred bit of his corncob pipe as a pointer as he directed Mac’s attention back to the map.
“Though this entire operation is being run under the auspices of the U.S. Air Force, the Navy has been asked to lend a hand to our sister service. And that’s where you come in. Commander. Given what we know about the debris field, what do you think our chances are of finding those two bombs?”
Mac took his time formulating an answer.
“I’d say that with the technology available to us in this day and age, the chances are excellent. Admiral. The depth of the operation doesn’t sound excessive, and once we’ve got that detailed bathymetric chart of the quadrant to study, we’ll know precisely what we’re up against.
What kind of salvage equipment do you have to draw upon?”
“Just name it and it’s yours. Commander. We’ve got carte blanche on this one. All the Defense Department wants in return is results.”
Mac thoughtfully stroked his chin.
“That hydrographic ship that you mentioned was on the way is a great start. Those Sea Stallions out in the hangar bay will be helpful too. They can initiate a preliminary sonar scan of the seafloor while we assemble a proper salvage flotilla. What other surface vessels are at our immediate disposal?”
“We’ve got a pair of Avenger-class mine warfare ships coming in from the Bay of Biscay. Traveling with them is a Cimarron-class oiler and a Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate. Right here at Holy Loch are several oceangoing tugs and the sub rescue ship the Pigeon.”
“Is a DSRV deployed aboard her?” asked Mac, hopefully.
The Admiral nodded.
“She’s carrying the Mystic. Though both vessels were undergoing minor overhauls when news of the crash arrived, I’ve got the dockyards working overtime getting them seaworthy once again.
They’ll be ready to go in another twelve hours.”
“Admiral, the Mystic is sure going to make our job a lot easier. Now if only we could get a hold of some ROV’s.”
There was a devilish gleam in Admiral Bart Connor’s eyes as he responded to this.
“I’ve taken the liberty of setting you up an office right down the hallway from this room. There’s a phone in it and an exact duplicate of this map. And by the way, when you’re ready to go to the site, I’d like you to use the USS Bowfm as your base of operations. She’s a nuclear-powered fast-attack sub that’s got one of the best crews in the Loch operating her.”
Barely hearing this, Mac absentmindedly thought out loud.
“I wonder if K-l is available from Woods Hole…. Then I’d better get on the horn with the guys at Nose and get CURV sent out here from San Diego on the double.”
Admiral Connor noted his guest’s preoccupation and struggled to stifle a satisfied smirk. His old friend Alien Long had been so right when he called recommending Brad Mackenzie for the job. Now if only his luck held, and the young commander was able to help them locate the two missing A-bombs before the unyielding pressure that he continued getting from Washington drove him to an early retirement!
Chapter Eight
The rain came down in a fine, cold mist. But that didn’t deter Major Colin Stewart from walking the drafty ramparts of the castle, his afternoon ritual.
With his hands cocked behind the protective confines of his rain slicker, Stewart briefly halted when the distinctive booming blast of an artillery piece sounded a single time nearby. He didn’t have to look at his wristwatch to know that it was one p.m. As he glanced over the stone wall beside him, he could just make out Princess Street through the mist. The wide paved thoroughfare was crowded with buses, trucks, and automobiles.
On the sidewalks scurrying pedestrians continued on their ways, oblivious to the inclement weather.
Modern buildings lined this walkway, and the major knew that he was looking at the dynamic new face of the ancient city of Edinburgh.
A wet gust hit him square in the face, and he turned his back on it to continue his introspective stroll. The outside world took on a radically new perspective when viewed from the walls of the castle. It was almost as if time halted here, allowing one to see it as a continuous flowing stream, with the tides of history providing the current.
The major’s current concern was centered on the daring robbery attempt that had recently occurred here.
He had only just learned the identity of the young intruder who was shot to death during this attempt.
Army intelligence, with the help of Scotland Yard, was able to match the deceased’s fingerprints with those of one Patrick Callaghan of Belfast. The twenty-four-year old had a long record of criminal activity, starting at the age of fifteen, when he was convicted of petty larceny.
After a brief stay in a detention home, he was again arrested, this time at the age of seventeen, for car theft. This brought him a two-year prison term.
Callaghan served only eighteen months of this sentence.
Following his early parole, he began working as a lorry driver and stayed relatively free from trouble, except for a minor conviction for public drunkenness.
Yet it was most likely at this time that he joined the Irish Republican Army.
It was on the eve of his twenty-first birthday that he was arrested outside of Armagh with a truckload of stolen Armalite rifles and ammunition. An IRA informer revealed that Callaghan had been very active in the organization and had smuggled many more than one load of weapons over the border in the trucks he drove. Though this fact could never be proved, Patrick Callaghan was convicted of gun-running and sent to Long Kesh for a five-year term without the possibility of parole. While in prison, he met Bernard Loughlin, the founder of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Originally formed as a militant offshoot of the IRA, the IRB was philosophically a Marxist organization with close ties to terrorist groups in Libya and the Middle East. When Loughlin escaped from Long Kesh, Patrick Callaghan was at his side; a helicopter swooped down and carried them off to safety. Both men had since been at large and were believed to have participated in a number of snipings, car bomb attacks, and robberies in both the Republic of Ireland and the north.
There was no doubt in Colin Stewart’s mind that Callaghan was a bad seed from the very beginning. He was just the type that terrorist organizations such as the IRB loved to recruit, and his premature demise was certainly no great loss. Yet what really bothered Stewart was the fact that such a renowned terrorist was currently doing his dirty deeds on Scottish soil. Except for a few minor incidents in the past, the Irish “troubles” hadn’t paid their country a visit.
Scotland was primarily populated by a conservative Protestant element. To the average Scot, the religious war that had been plaguing Northern Ireland for centuries was a wasteful, foolish mess, one they wanted no part of. Colin remembered well an incident that occurred in Edinburgh several years ago, when a trio of IRA sympathizers were loose in the city, trying to stir up public support for their cause. Spray-painted revolutionary slogans soon covered almost every vacant wall in the city. Yet when a young Welsh soldier was shot to death while hiking Arthur’s Seat and a car bomb was found inside a car parked outside the castle, the people had had enough. With a minimum of commotion, a committee was formed to deal with the problem.