Code Name Antares

by Jamie Fredric

  “Seasprite here. Go ahead, Alpha Tango.”

  “Package retrieved. Will signal with flare when ready for pickup on ‘Lido’ deck. Do you copy?”

  Garrett laughed, then responded, “Copy that! Out!” He glanced at the fuel gauge. Still more than enough, he thought, but a few extra gallons wouldn’t hurt, especially with winds picking up. He stayed focused on the ship, as he turned on the navigation/collision lights.

  Captain Ivanov tried sitting up straighter, the pain in his chest barely subsiding. He adjusted his eyeglasses as he silently questioned who these strangers were. The Russian language being spoken by the two sounded perfect, especially by the one who seemed to be in charge. But he couldn’t be certain they were Russians.

  In the radio room James cut the microphone wire. The radio was equipped with a Morse key, so he unplugged it and stashed it in his utility pouch. Communication would still come in, but nothing could go out. He left the room, and gave Grant a thumb’s up.

  Grant pointed to Slade, James and Diaz, saying to Slade in Russian, “Ready it for pickup.”

  The three carried the crate from the bridge, heading for the starboard ladder. Setting it down, Slade lashed the roped around the crate while James and Diaz positioned themselves on a step below, ready to put their backs against it. Wrapping one end of the rope around his waist, Slade started lowering.

  Four ladders, four levels later, they were on the deck. They carried the crate toward the helipad, putting it near the steps. They’d wait till the chopper touched down before lifting it to the pad.

  Slade turned aft and pointed toward lights. “There’s Matt.” He pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Four-One. Ready to signal.” He wasn’t expecting a reply. The three men moved in front of the crate, getting down on a knee in defensive positions.

  On the bridge, Adler kept scanning his surroundings, when something caught his eye. He scrambled around the tied men, looking behind the radar indicator. An AK-47 propped up, leaning against the bulkhead. He snatched the weapon, holding it for Grant to see.

  Grant’s jaw tightened as he walked closer to Krupinski, who had a hand pressed against his chin, trying to stop the bleeding. Grant squatted in front of him, and asked in Russian, “Are there any more weapons?” No response. He grabbed Krupinski’s forearm, squeezing until the Russian winced in pain. Grant jammed the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. “I asked you . . !”

  “Yes! In engineering. There is one that I know of!”

  Fuck! Grant thought. He motioned for Novak to follow him off the bridge. Adler automatically took a position a few paces from the prisoners, looking out of the corner of his eye, knowing Grant was more than just pissed.

  Grant rested the barrel of his weapon against his shoulder, looking down at the deck, expecting Novak to explain without him even asking.

  Novak leaned closer, talking softly. “Three men secured. We searched but didn’t find weapon. Don’t know where it could’ve been, boss.”

  “Any chance there’s somebody roaming the ‘bowels’ with it?” Grant asked, with his stomach beginning to tighten.

  “Fuck, boss! You know we didn’t have time to search the whole fuckin’ ship! Mullins gave us a count of souls on board and . . .”

  Grant held up his hand. “No more excuses, Mike. Go tell Frank to get that fuel line ready.” Novak took off, swearing to himself.

  Grant looked toward the bow. Winds were stronger than when they boarded, but that was the least of his worries. He shook his head, thinking it’d been twice somebody from the Team fucked up during this op. They couldn’t afford fuck ups. He was pissed.

  He pressed the PTT. “Four-One. Zero-Niner.”

  “Go ahead Zero-Niner,” Slade responded, looking toward the bridge.

  “Signal Matt. Copy?”

  “Copy that.” Within seconds, Slade fired the flare.

  Garrett was ready. With the lights of the ship in his sights, he nudged the cyclic lever forward. The nose dipped until the chopper reached just over fifteen knots, then it transitioned from hover to forward flight.

  Before returning to the bridge, Grant had to advise Adler. He pressed the PTT, and spoke softly. “Joe, possible crew member with weapon; possibly more. I’m coming in. Want you to lash helmsman to wheel to allow steering.”

  As soon as Grant walked onto the bridge, Adler began his task. Checking the helmsman was secure, he backed up, saw Grant give a slight tilt of his head, and knew that was his cue to get the hell off the bridge.

  Giving the Russians one last glance, Grant finally left the bridge. He slid his .45 into the holster, then lifted the MP5’s strap over his head. He started walking along the deck, with his weapon ready, focusing on the bow and along the cargo holds. The sound of the chopper got his attention. Peering through the bridge windows, he saw it descending.

  He took off, running along the deck, stopping every now and then to scan the main deck. He surmised that if there was anyone Novak and Diaz had missed, and probably with a weapon, everyone in engineering, crew’s quarters and bridge would be turned loose before any counter-assault was attempted.

  It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. But then he thought he heard something, possibly someone running. Slinging the weapon’s strap over his head, he ran to the ladder. With an arm resting on each railing, he stretched his legs out in front of him, and slid down the ladder, just like he did when he was aboard ship. He used the same process three more times. Sliding off the last ladder, he hit the deck running, racing toward the helipad.

  Four of the men were on the deck below the helipad. Garrett remained in the cockpit. With his hand on the “stick” and the rotors spinning, he was ready for liftoff. From the side window he could see Diaz, who was trying his damnedest to finish refueling.

  Suddenly, everyone focused on Grant running toward them, pointing rapidly, motioning them into the chopper. They scrambled into the cargo bay, again taking defensive positions.

  Diaz immediately shut off the valve, disconnected the nozzle, then closed the tank with its pressure cap. Not wasting any more time, he dropped the heavy nozzle, ignoring the sound it made when it clanged against the deck. He ran to the cargo bay. Just as the rotors started picking up speed, a shot rang out.

  “Fuck!” Diaz shouted in pain, as he grabbed the outside of his thigh. Adler and James reached for him and dragged him aboard.

  Grant dove into the chopper. “Get us outta here, Matt! Mike! Find that sonofabitch!”

  Instantly, Novak had his rifle in his hands, then he crabbed his way on his belly, getting close to the open doorway. He moved the rifle quickly but smoothly, looking through the scope.

  Garrett adjusted the collective pitch control lever, and the helo began its vertical climb.

  “Got him!” Novak shouted. He refocused the scope, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  Brain matter and blood exploded from the back of the man’s head, spraying across the bulkhead where he was standing below the bridge. His lifeless body caromed off the wall, struck the rail, then catapulted over the top. The body collided with the deck.

  “Matt!” Grant shouted. “Head for Doc! At our six!”

  As the chopper started its turn, more shots rang out from automatic weapons.

  “What the fuck?!” Grant roared.

  “Starboard side, second level! Eyes on deuce!” Adler called out, as he returned fire with his MP5. Slade joined in the shootout.

  Novak started to take aim, but the chopper had finished making a one eighty and he no longer had a shot. “Goddammit!” he blurted out, smacking a fist against the deck. He missed a chance for another shot, but his guilt crept in. If he and Diaz had only searched more thoroughly.

  Grant grabbed Stalley’s medical bag, unzipped it, then took out a battle dressing. “Joe, hold his leg up while I slide the crate close!” He chucked a roll of gauze to Adler, then ripped open the outer waterproof cover, then the inner package holding the battle dressing. He knelt next to Diaz. “Hold this against yo
ur leg, Frank. Doc’ll be here soon.”

  Adler wrapped a length of gauze tightly around the dressing then tied it off. “Your wetsuit should help control the bleeding, Frank. Hang in there.”

  Grant patted Diaz’s shoulder as he stood, then he rushed to the cockpit.

  Whoever was firing the weapons, wasn’t about to give up so easily. A steady spray of bullets whizzed by the Seasprite. Garrett pushed the chopper to its limits, maneuvering it expertly, trying to stay out of the line of fire. He flipped on the landing light.

  Grant pointed, “Flare! Two o’clock, hundred yards!” The chopper banked right. Grant headed to the cargo door. “Take us down!” Except for the sound of the chopper, it suddenly went quiet.

  Standing in the doorway, Grant impatiently waited for the chopper to descend. Adler knelt on the opposite side, ready to toss out the ladder. The Zodiac was barely moving forward. Stalley kept it under control as the craft encountered wave after wave, along with the constant swirling wind from the chopper’s blades. He signaled he was ready.

  James lowered the cables enough in order to manually “thread” each cable through the open panels. “Ready, boss!” He kept an eye on Grant, waiting for him to give an okay.

  “At ten feet!” Garrett shouted.

  Grant signaled James to lower the cables. Stalley maneuvered the Zodiac under the chopper, put the engine into neutral, then grabbed both cables.

  He balanced himself on his knees as the boat rocked back and forth getting caught in the trough. Working quickly he hooked the two couplings on the stern, then the same for the bow. Finally, he raised the engine props out of the water, then secured it to the bottom of the boat. Signaling he finished, he rolled out of the boat, then popped up to the surface with a fist held high. Waves washed over him as he treaded water, bobbing up and down.

  Grant hung onto a safety line, as he leaned out, then signaled with a thumb’s up. “Go!” The hydraulics whined as the boat slowly rose from the water. As soon as it was secured, Adler tossed out the climbing ladder. Stalley fought the waves, stroking hard, finally reaching the ladder. He grabbed hold, and started climbing.

  As his head cleared the edge of the cargo bay, Grant reached for his hand, then hefted him aboard. “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir!” Stalley grinned. “‘A’ okay!”

  Grant called out, “Take us home, Matt!” Adler immediately hauled in the ladder. Air whistled into the cabin through the two open floor panels, as the chopper picked up speed.

  Stalley pulled off his swim mask, pushed his hood back, then wiped seawater from his face. His smile disappeared when he saw Diaz on the deck. “Jesus! Frank!” He dropped to his knees and instinctively grabbed a pair of surgical gloves from his bag, then scissors. He cut open the leg of the wetsuit.

  The chopper was being buffeted by stronger winds. Garrett called over his shoulder, “Hang on back there!”

  Grant sat on the crate. “What do you think, Doc?”

  “Bone isn’t broken. Bullet went clear through.” He cleaned the wound, put on another battle dressing, then wrapped the leg. “Need anything for pain, Frank?”

  Diaz shook his head. “So far so good.”

  Stalley tried steadying himself as he filled a syringe with antibiotics. “Can we get him to Bethesda?”

  “I’ll contact Scott. He needs to tell us where we’re supposed to drop this off,” Grant answered rapping his knuckles on the crate, “then I’ll ask him to call Bethesda and tell them we’re bringing Frank. We’ll deliver him first. Will he be okay?”

  “Yeah,” Stalley replied, “but I’ll keep an eye out for any increase in bleeding.”

  As Grant started to get up, Diaz grabbed his arm. “Sorry, boss.”

  Grant arched an eyebrow. “For getting shot?”

  “Yeah, that too. But mostly because we fucked up not finding the weapons.”

  Grant clamped his jaw, then finally answered, “We’ll talk later.” He went to the cockpit to call Mullins.

  When he had finished the conversation, and had given the destination to Garrett, he asked, “How’s the fuel?”

  Garrett tapped the fuel gauge. “We’ll be okay.”

  Adler walked to the cockpit. “Where we making the delivery?”

  “Where they were going in the first place--Indian Head. Fewer eyes, fewer questions by outside sources. Scott confirmed with the President. A special team will be waiting.”

  “Think we’re gonna need a replacement for Frank?” Adler asked.

  “For the rest of this mission, I don’t think we’ll have time to call in anybody else, Joe. We’re gonna have to go with six. . .plus Matt, unless he doesn’t want the job.”

  Garrett shot a quick look at Grant. “Remember when you guys left me at Atsugi?” Grant nodded. “I was not a happy camper. This is what I’ve been waiting for! Fucking ‘A!’”

  *

  Aboard the Igor Brobov

  Confusion reigned supreme. Seamen were ordered to check all cargo holds, winches, any equipment or machinery that could have been tampered with. Inexperienced in any type of combat, they raced around almost frantically, shouting to one another, unbelieving what happened. Two crewmen were in sickbay with bullet wounds, one was dead with the back of his head blown out. His body was wrapped in a tarp, and stowed in the galley’s walk-in refrigerator.

  Captain Ivanov was inspecting the deck where the body had fallen. Two seamen were on their knees trying to scrub away blood, brain matter and leaked urine, stopping often to puke.

  He stepped back in order to see overhead, where the man had been shot. Another seaman was washing down that section of bulkhead.

  Ivanov lowered his head, then turned and walked toward the helipad. He climbed the steel steps, then walked to the middle of the pad, standing on a large white X. He glanced out across the darkness of the Atlantic.

  Questions arose: Who were those men? How did they know about the crate being onboard? Was it possible they were the same men who made the delivery, and for whatever reason. . .? No. That was a ridiculous option to even consider.

  These men acted like a team of professionals. They didn’t permanently destroy equipment or machines. The radio and Morse Code key would eventually be repaired. And then there was the helmsman, who was given limited steerage of the ship.

  Even though he and his crew were manhandled and threatened, they all survived, except for Officer Yeltzin. But it was Yeltzin who opened fire first. If he hadn’t, would he still be alive? Having those AK-47s on board may have been a curse.

  But the attackers seemed to be experts, firing their weapons from a moving chopper, managing to kill one, and injuring two.

  He was relieved the incident was over. He no longer had responsibility for the crate and its unknown contents. Now he could concentrate on getting his ship and its cargo to Russia.

  Walking from the helipad, he remembered the message: no further contact was to be made until he heard from the carrier. He was fully aware the U.S. was always listening to transmissions. He would obey the instructions given to him, and wait for the Minsk.

  Chapter 13

  Safe House

  Alexandria

  0500 Hours

  Laying on the couch, Nicolai Kalinin slowly opened his eyes, then rubbed his hands briskly over his face. The past hours hadn’t been restful ones. His sleep was constantly interrupted as he reviewed his plan for part two of the operation.

  It was time to begin the same process he had done at the rental house. . .wiping down everything, taking no chances. Even though this place was only known to Russians, leaving fingerprints behind was too risky. He couldn’t depend on Vikulin or Zelesky.

  His suitcases were already in the truck, stamped as diplomatic pouches. The pilot waiting at Dulles had been notified. All documents were in order, along with his Russian diplomatic passport. His American passport was concealed in the lining of his suitcase.

  He finally sat up, holding his hand against his stomach, feeling the “rumble.” No
time to eat, he thought. He’d wait till he was aboard the plane. He went to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles of Coke he bought last night. He started drinking as he went upstairs to the main bedroom.

  Blinds on both windows were closed. He started cleaning from the opposite side of the room and worked his way backwards until he got to the closet, panel and equipment. Time-consuming, but essential.

  *

  Russian Embassy

  0600 Hours

  KGB Zelesky rushed into the embassy, then ran to the elevator, pounding the button with a knuckle. Finally, the doors parted and he stepped inside, staying within a few inches of the doors. The elevator stopped with a jolt, and as the doors started opening, he jammed his heavy hands between them, forcing them apart.

  A door to the ambassador’s residence was just ahead, off a small entryway. Zelesky rang the bell then rapped his knuckles against the door. “Ambassador!”

  “Yes?!” Vazov called, as he sat up in bed.

  “I must see you!”

  Vazov put on a robe. As he started opening the door, Zelesky hurried past him. Vazov closed the door, then tied his robe. “What is so important, Misha?!”

  Zelesky held a manila envelope toward him. “You must look at this! I found it at one of the American’s drop sites.”

  Vazov grabbed the envelope as he watched Zelesky through narrowed eyes. What he removed from the envelope shocked him. “This cannot be! I will not believe it is. . .”

  “Look more closely!”

  Vazov drew the official-looking color photograph closer, finally noticing brown eyes, not hazel. “Who is this?!”

  “Turn it over.”

  On the back, printed in black ink, was a name: Captain Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy.

  Vazov walked slowly to the dining room table, all the while staring at the photograph. He pulled a chair out then sat down heavily. “The resemblance is remarkable.”