He glanced at his watch and slipped the headset on, just as the signal came at precisely 2030 hours. "Whatcha got going, Joe?"
Adler's voice came in clear, his message brief. "Sir, flight ops have ended. This might be a good time for you to lock-out."
"I'm outta here," Grant said. "Have all the friends and relatives mustered around 2125 hours."
"Roger that, sir!"
On his way to the torpedo room to start getting ready and pick up his gear, he made a detour and stopped by the captain's stateroom. The steel door was ajar, the curtain pushed aside. "Sir?"
Stafford was sitting at his desk sorting through his mail. He peered over the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals. "Come on in, Grant." He put the two page letter on the desk, a small photo attached to the corner. "Just reading my niece Patty's letter. She had to tell her uncle about the money the tooth fairy left her."
Grant leaned toward the desk, looking at a toothless, smiling face in the photo. The little girl was wearing a Bluefin baseball cap, the printing on the paper indicative of a six year old. "Uh, she's very cute, sir. Must be hard for her to whistle, though."
Stafford laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Her three brothers give her a hard time."
"Sir, it's about time for me to head out. My ride's on the way," he grinned as he pointed overhead.
Stafford took a final sip of black coffee as he stood up. "Guess that's my cue to man the Conn. Anything else we can do for you?"
"No, sir, just keep the Bluefin trim and aim me in the right direction."
Stafford acknowledged with a quick smile, knowing the orders Commander Stevens had and what he was preparing to do.
Ten minutes later, Grant was outfitted in his thermal underwear, with the rest of his diving gear spread out around him in precise order. There was a tapping on the watertight door and he responded, "Come."
Master Chief Davis walked in, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hope I didn't keep ya waiting, sir. There was a slight disagreement between a couple of the boys in Sonar."
"No problem, Master Chief."
"Sir, can I have one of my men get ya something to drink?"
"No thanks." He reached down and picked up his bulky drysuit, a special suit used for diving in frigid water. "But I could use your help with this."
Except for the arms, leg cuffs and the area that fit around the face, the butyl rubber was covered with canvas to prevent tearing of the rubber itself. Davis held the suit while Grant stepped in through the opening in back, an opening from just below the neck to the butt. As if it were a pull-over sweater, he put his head through the neck opening, pushed his arms down the sleeves, then adjusted the rubber around his face. Davis twisted the excess section of rubber in the back forming a knot, sealing the suit. Then he put the knife and web belt around Grant, double-checked the seal on the chest canister and gave Grant a thumb's up.
Davis carried one of the cocoons as Grant followed behind with his swim fins, mask and the second cocoon. He walked through the narrow passageway, then followed Davis and climbed the ladder to the 01 level, catching curious stares from the submariners, especially after seeing the unusual breathing apparatus on his chest.
"Hold it a minute, Master Chief." He walked toward the ladder leading up to the Conn and called: "Captain?"
Stafford leaned over the rail, looking down through the opening. "Well, Commander, from the looks of your outfit, I guess this is where you want to get off."
Grant smiled. "Yes, sir."
"Let us know if we can be of further assistance with those orders of yours."
"I'll keep that in mind, Captain. And thanks for the ride!"
Captain Reggie Stafford snapped a smart salute. "Good luck, sailor!"
Grant returned the salute, then turned and followed the COB to the escape chamber. They put the cocoons next to the chamber door, then Davis assisted him while he adjusted the breathing apparatus, the Draegar-rig. The old Emerson-rig and the Draegar were bubbleless and had their limited depths of 30 feet due to pure oxygen becoming toxic below that depth. Both had the reputation for leaking. When the filter granules of barylyme meet with sea water, the combination creates a caustic gas that burns the lungs and has been known to cause death. But he knew the Draeger; he'd used it hundreds of times. His experience and confidence in the rig showed as his fingers quickly went from place to place, ensuring its integrity.
He climbed the ladder leading through the inner hatch and up into the escape trunk. Not only used by divers and Special Ops teams, the escape trunk was used to exit the sub in an emergency. If it was at a depth beyond the normal range for a safe exit, the Navy would send the DSRV (Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle), attaching it to the outer hatch.
Grant reached down as Davis handed him one cocoon at a time, then he shook Davis' hand. "Thanks for your help, Master Chief."
"My pleasure, sir. Come back and see us some time!" Grant grinned broadly and gave Davis a thumb's up, as COB snapped a salute. "Good luck, sir!"
Grant lowered the watertight hatch, then turned the hatch wheel, sealing it tightly. He held the mask against his face, tightened the straps on both sides, checked for air leaks, and bit down on the mouthpiece.
Below in the chamber, Davis adjusted the controls, keeping a tentative eye on the gauges, and within seconds, sea water began filling the escape trunk.
Icy cold water seeped into Grant's drysuit around his chin, sending shivers through his body as the water flowed across his throat and onto his chest. When the gauge indicated the pressure in the escape tank had equalized, he reached overhead and grabbed the hatch wheel with both hands, rotated it to the left several times, then forced it open. Immediately, he snapped a line to the cocoons, then kicked his way upward into the silence and darkness of the North Pacific.
Once outside, he pulled up the cocoons and attached one to each side of his accessory belt, then he resealed the hatch. He struck the hatch twice with the handle of his K-bar, the dull, metallic clanking sound signaling he was clear. He glanced at his illuminated wrist compass, and with one strong kick, Navy SEAL Grant Stevens shoved off from the deck, his powerful legs propelling him toward his rendezvous.
At the end of flight ops the carrier no longer needed its 30 knot speed, no longer needed the tremendous rush of wind blowing across her deck for launching and receiving her aircraft. For the past 50 minutes she'd been cruising at eight knots, a leisurely pace.
Twenty feet below the choppy sea Grant kicked his legs hard, every muscle taut as the large, black fins drove him forward, his breathing remaining even, controlled. Although the cocoons were lightweight under water, they were still a drag on his body as he fought the current...and time.
He peered down at the black shape of the Bluefin, hearing the deep, unchanging tone of the sub's cavitating screws. Nice work, Captain Stafford. The sub had maneuvered into position ahead of the carrier's port bow, maintaining a bottom depth of 80 feet until Grant locked-out and was clear. Then, she entered into a shallow dive, leveling off at 250 feet. Out of sight now, she passed directly beneath the carrier and into the dark depths of the ocean, resuming her normal operations, practicing firing solutions on the fleet.
Within a matter of minutes, water began pulsating around him as eight boilers and four, twenty-one foot screws drove more than 81,000 tons of steel toward him. There was no mistaking the rumble, like deep, exaggerated thunder rolling across the Kansas plains. He could distinguish the blurred gray shape in the darkness now, with the bow of the massive carrier no more than sixty yards in front of him. Surfacing, he looked up in awe because no matter how many times he had seen what he was now seeing, from his angle, it was still a real eye-opener.
Bobbing around in the cold, choppy water, he worked quickly and unfastened the weight belt, letting it drop from his body. He tied each cocoon to a fifty foot tether line fastened to his utility belt, then he reached for the two metal paddles attached to the plate hanging down from his backpack. The backpack was a self-contained battery that s
ent an electromagnetic charge through the rods to the paddles when he squeezed the trigger.
The ship was getting dangerously close, but Grant waited patiently until it was directly in front, unnecessarily reminding himself to 'not miss the boat.' He had every reason to heed his own warning. One slip would prove disastrous because the only place to go would be an involuntary passage under tons of moving steel.
With a strong kick, he stretched as far as he could, slamming each paddle against the forward port hull. The devices came into contact with the ship at the waterline and directly below the thirty ton anchor. With all his strength, he held on as the ship continued on. Even an eight knot speed put tremendous pressure on him, forcing his body backward, trying to rip his grasp from the devices.
He released the magnetic field from the right paddle, then arched his body back and with a swift motion, slammed the paddle higher against the ship. He moved higher and higher, continuously alternating paddles, as he crabbed his way out of the water. Up the side he climbed, hand over hand, as the line holding the cocoons slowly unraveled from his belt. He quickly suspended himself with a tether between the handles before snagging the line to his telescopic grapnel hook attached to his web belt. He extended the telescopic rod and reached up, catching the bottom fluke of the ship's anchor with the grapnel hook. Taking a firm grip on the pole, he released the magnets. He reattached the two electromagnets to the anchor and re-snapped the tether, taking a short breather.
Readjusting his position, Grant peered up through the hawse pipe and past the shank of the anchor. The hawse pipe was the round opening where each 360 pound chain link passed through, with the anchor hanging from the last link by its shackle. Time to move, Stevens.
Dressed in a blue jogging suit with thermal underwear underneath, Adler had just completed his second lap around the deck, keeping a wary eye out for any unexpected guests. He stopped near the hawse pipe on the port side. "Shit! He's late," Adler worried. "Christ! That water must be freezing!" he whispered through gritted teeth. His own experiences made him appreciate what "Panther" was feeling now. Insulated suit or not, any extended period of time in cold water eventually could be hazardous, mentally and physically.
He leaned farther over the edge but couldn't see beyond the anchor hawse, with the bow of the ship curving inward. "Shit!" He started to turn when he saw the grapnel come through the hawse, and he heard a hoarse whisper.
"Permission to come aboard, Senior Chief!"
Adler quickly snatched the grapnel. "Gotcha, Commander!" He hooked the grapnel on the deck padeye, then gave the ready. "Go!"
Grant hauled himself up through the hawse pipe, climbed through the opening and scrambled onto the deck. They were grateful for the heavy cloud coverage and the blackness of this night. Both were the true allies in this type of operation.
Not wasting any time, Grant untied the tether line and Adler hauled up the cocoons. Sitting on the deck, Grant pulled off his swim fins and mask, stripped off his drysuit, then his thermal underwear, revealing a blue jogging suit. Bright yellow letters "USN" were embossed across the chest.
They both hustled to cram all the diving gear inside the one cocoon, then both cocoons were lowered into the chain "locker", capable of storing 1,080 feet of anchor chain. It was unlikely that anyone would notice the cocoons. His gear would be safe for now.
He tied his sneakers and pulled the jogging suit's hood close around his face, hoping to conceal some of the impressions left by the face mask and rubber suit. "Well, Joe, you ready for another lap?" he grinned.
"Let's go, sir!"
They jogged in unison down the port side of the carrier and around the Intruders sitting in formation on the angle deck. Adler called out, "Don't know about you, sir, but I've had enough fun for one evening!"
"Let's hit the locker, Joe!"
They detoured toward the superstructure on the starboard side, through the watertight door and down to the hangar bay. Little attention was paid to them as they walked nonchalantly through the hangar bay, discussing their "improved lap times around the deck", their faces reddened from exposure to the harsh wind topside.
Finally, in the security of the EOD locker, the men shook hands, their grips firm, words sincere.
"It's really good to see you, Joe!"
"You, too, sir!"
"I guess congratulations are in order," Grant said as he pointed to the star above the chief's insignia on Adler's cap. "Can't think of anyone more deserving to be senior chief, Joe."
"Thanks, sir. Your evaluation helped get me that star!"
"Play your cards right on this one and you'll probably have another one to sport around!" Adler just smiled and nodded.
Grant stripped off his damp jogging suit and glanced around the locker as Adler tossed him a towel. All the diving gear and 'tools of the trade' of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team were methodically arranged and stored within the compact room, ready on a moment's notice. Small bins with spare parts, assorted safeing pins for the ship's ordnance, and various tools lined the after bulkhead. A row of steel trunks, stacked high, was against the side of the locker. The communications gear was arranged on the desk: radio, headsets, earphones, satellite uplink transmitter, and walkie-talkies placed in their chargers, everything he'd need.
"Any 'poop' from Washington yet?" Grant asked as he rubbed the towel across his chest.
"Not since this morning. The NIS officer, Commander Simmons, dropped me a note when I was topside. Said he'd like to get up to speed on this thing when you're ready. You can use the phone on the bulkhead next to the bunk, extension 1084. When you're ready to contact Morelli, the satcom's in the desk drawer, sir." Grant nodded as he changed into a fresh jogging suit then picked up the earphones. Adler said, "I'll have one of my men retrieve your gear from the chain locker before dawn, sir. He can shove it into one of our equipment bags. Nobody'll be the wiser."
"Very well."
"Unless you need anything else, sir, I'll go turn in. You take my bunk here. And you don't have to worry about being bothered by the rest of the team tonight."
"You go 'head. I'll make my call then hit the sack myself. And thanks, Joe."
"For what?" Adler grinned, as he stepped outside the vault-like door.
Grant familiarized himself with the equipment and his new surroundings. It was midnight when he placed the call. He stood in front of the bunks, scrutinizing the room, until he heard a relieved voice: "Are you there, Grant?"
"Yes, sir. We're ready here, Admiral. I'll report to you every twelve hours, sir, unless there's an emergency."
"Understood. And I'll contact Kodiak and the other three sites, correct?" Morelli had been through the battles of Korea and Vietnam. Even so, he reached for a bottle of Rolaids.
"Yes, sir. We don't want anyone to be surprised. Appreciate it if you'd tell them to be on standby and to expect a call at anytime from me or the agent aboard the Bronson, sir."
"Very well, Commander. And speaking about that agent, are you going to be okay with him, considering your reaction to Agent Phillips?"
"Not a problem, sir. Did some checking...he's ex-Navy, a frogman. Can't be all bad."
"I should have known!" Morelli laughed.
"Oh, sir?"
"Yes, Commander?"
"Thought you'd like to know that Captain Stafford did an excellent job in getting me here, sir."
"Never a doubt. Good luck, Grant."
"Thanks, Admiral."
*
USS Bronson
Tony Mullins stepped through the bridge doorway, taking a bite from a slice of nearly burnt, buttered toast, and washed it down with a swig of strong black coffee. He would walk around the inside perimeter of the bridge one more time before he turned in, eyeing all the instruments, still amazed at the Bronson's technology. As usual, all gauges were working properly. The ship's heading was SSW. The last things to check were the cameras. It was the same routine, day after day, but for him, the assignment was perfect. Maybe it still wasn't the
seclusion of the Rocky Mountains, it wasn't his dream log cabin, but after nine years with the Agency, he finally had his solitude, for all intent and purposes.
Before leaving the bridge for a final check in his steel-enclosed office below deck, he paused by the window. Somewhere in the distance were the ships from the armada, protecting the Preston. They should be hearing from Washington some time soon. Would they or would they not be proceeding to the Korean coast, and God only knows what else? Noticing his reflection in the glass, he commented, "Not exactly Agency material." He laughed as he stroked his beard. And his light brown hair was already touching his collar. "What the hell! Nearly 40 years old...I deserve to be Mountain Man Mullins! Well, back to 'intestine city'," he joked. Once the steel door was secured behind him, he sat down in front of the terminal and opened his logbook just as the phone rang.
"Mullins."
"Agent Mullins, this is Grant Stevens."
Mullins' back straightened. The call had come in on a secured line. The only communication he'd had the past months had been with his office at Langley or Kodiak, and always with the same people, the same voices.
"Stevens? Am I supposed to know you? And what the hell are you doing on this line?" he shouted.
Grant laughed. "No, you don't know me--yet. But I can assure you, you soon will. I'm a Navy Commander working for NIS. I report to Admiral Morelli. And I got your number from the NIS 'yellow pages'."
Mullins detected immediately that the call wasn't from a telephone but probably from some type of communications gear. His mouth curved into a smile. "Okay so far. Where are you, Commander?"
"The Preston. I came aboard a few hours ago. The EOD team is supporting me here. In fact, that's where I'm calling from...the EOD locker."
Mullins picked up on the "came aboard a few hours ago" statement. His instinct told him he was talking to a Navy SEAL.
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