Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  "What can I do for you, Commander?"

  Grant came right to the point. "We believe there's going to be an unfriendly attempt to take the Bronson."

  "Are you shittin' me?" Mullins jumped from his chair, knocking the coffee cup from the table, the black liquid barely missing the keyboard. Kodiak had warned him about bringing liquids into the center.

  Grant went into details about the mole and his thoughts on the Chinese troops, adding, "The EOD Senior Chief, Joe Adler, filled me in on the trawler that's been dogging the fleet. I expect this is one time its plan is to do more than just listen."

  "Let me get on the horn with Kodiak," Mullins anxiously replied. "They'll probably want to make some computer changes, or whatever the hell it is they do."

  "I'm sure you'll be in agreement with this, Agent Mullins, but I don't think there should be any written notes. This one's too hot."

  "I agree."

  Grant nodded to himself, thinking Mullins would be easy to work with. "Admiral Morelli should be updating Kodiak and the other sites right about now; I'm sure they're expecting to hear from you. And when you talk with them, ask them to keep a wary eye and ear on that trawler; they're to report immediately anything that's out of the ordinary, I don't care how the hell minor it may seem to them. Senior Chief Adler's going to get as much info as he can, too."

  "Understood. I'll check the radar myself."

  "I know you'll be available on a moment's notice, Agent Mullins," Grant smiled, realizing Mullins had no place to go anyway.

  "Yeah, I'll be here. And I'll try and dig up some more information, see if we can find out who's on the Rachinski. Let me know how to reach you."

  Grant supplied him with the information, then added, "I'll be snooping around the ship most of the time, so let's set up a contact time of, say, 0100 hours. I'll call you."

  "Got it. Look, Commander, there's too much serious shit we've got to worry about. Let's drop the formality...just call me Tony."

  "Well, hell, Tony, why don't you just call me 'Commander'?" He immediately laughed then added, "Just kidding. 'Grant's' fine." Both of them realized they were quickly developing a friendship under extraordinary circumstances. "One more thing, Tony. Make sure that special equipment is ready. And while you're at it, check your diving gear. If we're lucky, maybe you won't have to use either." The 'special equipment' was the Bronson's self-destruct mechanism, a last resort.

  "One step ahead of you. That's part of my daily routine."

  Grant nodded to himself. "Somehow, Tony, I get the impression you're not typical Agency, if you get my drift. And believe me...that was meant as a compliment!"

  Mullins laughed and tugged on his beard. "Ya know, it wasn't too long ago I told myself exactly that!"

  "Listen, Tony, hope you understand why we didn't bring you in on this sooner."

  "Sure…not a problem. It's all to do with 'keeping things close to the vest', right?"

  "Roger that!"

  *

  Grant pulled off the sweatsuit and dropped it at the foot of the bunk. He stepped into the freshwater shower to rinse off the saltwater, lingering there briefly. The warm water beat on his shoulders and back as he rested his forehead and palm against the smooth stainless steel.

  Grabbing the towel from a hook, he dried off, punched the pillow into a contorted shape, then stretched his body out on top of the blanket. Arms folded behind his head, he stared into the darkness. Every job he'd been involved with in Vietnam, South and Central America, or Libya, whether SEALs or Intel, it was the excitement, the prospect of confrontation. The game was always the same: the mission came first, the survival of his team members second, and finally, his own survival...and screw the bastards on the other side. Surprise them, kill everything when ordered to, let God sort them out, and disappear as fast as you struck. No explanation sounded completely reasonable, but he admitted there were times he questioned his motivation. His ability was never in question, never in doubt...the way it was supposed to be. The question was why? Why did he do it? The generic answer of preserve and defend somehow didn't fit in this game. He reasoned that his way was just another way to get it done. He turned over and closed his eyes. This wasn't the time to question. There rarely was such a time.

  *

  Kodiak

  Tuesday, January 28

  0100 Hours

  "Christ!" Jeff Holland slammed the receiver down into its cradle. "Get an alert out. I want everyone back here in ten minutes! And that includes the Marines!"

  "Yes, sir!" Ensign Tim Baker ran to the console, sending the signal. "Done, sir," he called from the opposite side of the room. Even without smiling, the dimples in Baker's cheeks stood out as plain as day.

  Holland swung his chair around. Sitting at the next console, staring in bewilderment at Holland, was Lieutenant Pat Townsend. He and Lieutenant(j.g.) Frank Stillman, Weapons Officers, controlled the surface radar, weapons, and the threat board. Townsend leaned forward and immediately started cracking his knuckles. "What? What the hell's goin' on?" he asked, his brown eyes searching Holland's face, waiting for an answer.

  "That was Admiral Morelli at NIS." Holland pushed the chair back, balancing it on the two back legs. "All this shit that's happening with China and Russia? They're pretty sure it's the Bronson the Commies are really after."

  Townsend's jaw dropped. "You're shittin'!"

  "I wouldn't shit you, Pat. He didn't give me all the details, but I'd have to suspect an NIS officer's aboard the Preston. I guess he's a 'spook' trying to uncover a mole."

  Townsend's voice went an octave lower, turning into a harsh whisper. "Mole? A fuckin' mole? Oh, man, the shit's gonna fly now. Where? Where is he?"

  "Morelli didn't say specifically, but he--"

  "Sir, excuse me," interrupted Ensign Baker, "but it's Agent Mullins, on the Bronson." He handed the phone to Holland.

  "Holland."

  "Commander, you talk to Admiral Morelli yet?"

  "Just did. Christ! What's going on?"

  "Don't know much more than you," replied Mullins. "I've been in contact with Grant Stevens--Commander Grant Stevens. He's the NIS guy on the carrier reporting to Morelli." Holland was shaking his head, acknowledging the information, still staring at Townsend. "By the way, as a side note," continued Mullins, "I'm pretty certain he's a Navy SEAL."

  For several more minutes they spoke, Mullins revealing as much as he knew. Holland stood slack-jawed, keeping his stare fixed on Townsend.

  There were eight random light flashes on the keypad by the steel entry door. The Marine guard looked up at the television monitor, the images showing in sharp black and white. He entered the response code into his keypad, and the heavy door slowly swung inward, only one third the way open before the rest of the officers and Marines rushed in. Some of them hadn't been off duty very long, their sleep interrupted, their clothes disheveled. Beneath their bulky parkas, hanging off their shoulders, were Uzi submachine guns.

  Bob Little, the second senior officer at the center, was pulling off his thick gloves and parka. The temperature was 30 degrees below zero in Kodiak that day. "What the hell's going on?" he asked as he smoothed back his black hair.

  Holland held up his hand, silencing Little. "Okay, Agent Mullins, I'll wait for your call." He handed the receiver to Ensign Baker, as he shook his head. He stared up through clear gray eyes at each of the men surrounding him. "Gentlemen, we've got us a crisis."

  After he explained, the first obvious question was asked by Frank Stillman. "Sir, aren't we even going to use the "Zippo?" Stillman referenced the nickname they had given the special weapon aboard the Bronson.

  Holland shook his head. "Our orders from the beginning have been to wait, wait until there was imminent danger to South Korea. If we used "Zippo" now, it'd appear that we were the aggressor, you know, Geneva Convention and world opinion shit. We know what it can do, but we don't have just cause...not yet. Besides, it's out of our hands right now." He paused, picking a red thread from his beige cordur
oy slacks. "Admiral Morelli's going to hold off trying to get a SEAL team aboard the Bronson. Even though they've probably got ways to get aboard without detection, with that fucking trawler so close, he doesn't want to risk tipping the Russians off. He's relying on some commander to find out who the mole is...and find him before we have to go with a contingency plan."

  Bob Little agreed and added, "Look, we don't know how or even when they're planning to hit the Bronson. We've got no choice but to wait. All the intel suggests she's the target, and that's all we know." He rolled the tip of his pencil-thin, black mustache between his fingertips. "But there's a lot we can do in the meantime to protect Uncle Sam's investment." He looked at Holland. "We'll talk with the other sites." Holland nodded, then reached for the phone. "Double up at your stations," Little ordered. "I want all heads working this."

  He walked to the rear of the center, where Lieutenant Michael Antonelli and Lieutenant(j.g.) Cliff Patten were already testing their systems. Both had fleet experience and were put in charge of radar guidance and navigation of the missile launches.

  "We're on it, sir," smiled Antonelli without even looking up.

  Little turned his attention toward the Marines. "Marines!"

  Eight booming voices answered in unison: "Sir!"

  "It may not just be the Bronson we need to worry about."

  Sergeant Bruce Watson stepped forward. "I understand, sir. My men are ready, sir!"

  "Very well, Sergeant." Little couldn't hide his brief smile before turning to his own young officers, Ensign Baker and Lieutenant(j.g.) Clark Young. Both were assigned as software and hardware technicians for the TSC-MK1. They had top secret (code word) clearances and had assisted Dr. Hiram Mertz, the computer's designer/inventor, in bringing it all together.

  "Lieutenant Young and Ensign Baker, each of you get a sidearm from Sergeant Watson's armory." Holland shifted his stare to Ensign Baker. "Turn on the laser security net. No one comes or goes without positive visual ID, understood?"

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  Chapter Five

  USS Preston

  January 28

  0530 Hours

  A full clip rested on the corner of the desk, with two extras in the cocoon, ready to be loaded into the .45. Grant wiped down the heavy pistol known for its "immediate stopping power", guaranteed to fell an assailant. The life-saving weapon had been with him in Vietnam and Libya, becoming another component of his life. The clip locked in place as he rammed it up into the handle and jacked the slide to the rear, putting a round in the chamber. He glanced down at the cocoon, then reached in and pulled out the submachine gun, laying it across his lap. Although compact, the Uzi was capable of firing up to 500 rounds per minute. Methodically, the weapon was disassembled then reassembled, a procedure he'd done literally with his eyes closed, preparing for the times he'd be operating in the blackness of night. Both weapons, along with ten, fifty round clips of ammo were placed back into the cocoon, ready when, and if, he'd need them.

  He put on his khaki trousers and shirt, then slipped the nylon web belt through the loops, feeding the end through the glistening brass buckle, when he heard the door unlock.

  "Mornin'," Adler said, handing Grant a cup of steaming, black coffee.

  "Mornin', Joe. Thanks." Grant smiled broadly, reaching for the hot cup. "Well, what do you think?"

  He stood tall in his "new" uniform, the work khakis with the insignia of an E-7, CPO (Chief Petty Officer). All of this--the uniform, the EOD locker, the carrier itself--would allow him to blend right in, giving him the freedom he needed to carry out his undercover assignment.

  Adler laughed, creases forming around his blue eyes. "Well, sir, this may be the one and only time I'll outrank you!"

  Grant slapped his friend on the back. "Hell, Joe, you always did. No officer worth his salt could possibly survive this 'canoe club' without a top notch CPO--pure fact! Besides, with all the shit I've put you through, now's your chance to take it out on me!"

  Adler shook his head, dead serious. "No way, sir. It'll never happen."

  *

  January 28

  0900 Hours

  CPO Stevens was seen rushing down passageways, more than likely on his way to "put out another fire." He was blending in just as he thought he might. What seemed like innocent conversations and questions, handled expertly, could prove to be extremely helpful in his quest. But trying to cover eleven decks worth of carrier and trying to intercept messages, seemed a formidable task. Adler and the rest of the EOD team could only offer a limited amount of assistance, having to maintain their normal routine. But if and when the situation heated up, Adler had permission to assist Grant full time.

  During flight ops, the EOD team members had no choice but to be at their stations on the flight deck or hangar bay where the aircraft weapons were loaded and unloaded. But for Grant, flight ops might prove to be his opportunity. All the ships in the task force would be active during flight ops. It would be the best time for the mole to make a move, make contact, more than likely at night. He knew there'd be communication between the mole and the Rachinski. Tonight 'Chief' Stevens would lock himself in the EOD locker, monitoring the airwaves. But luck was still going to play an important role.

  *

  Bridge, USS Preston

  Captain Donovan swung his chair around, bellowing a new order. "Officer of the Deck, bring her into the wind. Prepare to launch aircraft."

  "Aye, aye, Captain. Helmsman, right 15 degrees rudder; set new course zero four five degrees."

  "Aye, aye, sir. Coming right...at zero three zero degrees...at zero four zero degrees...steady on zero four five degrees, sir."

  "Lee-helm, make turns for 30 knots," ordered OOD Crawley.

  "Thirty knots. Aye, aye, sir," responded Petty Officer Hayes. Standing at the lee-helm station, he grabbed both handles, the left controlling engine speed, and the right, the rudder. He cranked both handles all the way forward, then down. The two indicator handles stopped at the "Full Speed" position. He watched the dial face of the lee-helm, until the Engine Room swung its arrow forward to match the position of the handles. "Lee-helm answers turns for 30 knots, sir."

  "Very well," replied Crawley. "Captain, we're at zero four five degrees, making turns for 30 knots; estimate three minutes to full speed, sir."

  At three minutes, the helmsman called out, "Sir, we're at 30 knots."

  "Air Boss, launch aircraft," ordered Captain Donovan.

  *

  January 28

  1955 Hours

  Grant sat in the mess hall and downed the last mouthful of cold milk then rolled the empty glass between his palms. He watched everyone, looking for any kind of sign, relying on his instincts, his thoughts in constant motion. He pushed the cuff of his sleeve back and glanced at his watch. It was time to make a quick run to the locker.

  Once sealed behind the steel door of the EOD locker, he dropped his cap on the bed, then slipped the headset on. Munching on a Snickers bar, he started adjusting the radio dial, when every muscle froze with the sound of two Russian voices conversing in their native language. "There you are, you sonofabitch!" he mumbled as he scribbled the radio frequency on the calendar.

  One Russian asked, "When will it be ready?"

  "Tomorrow night."

  "That's very good news."

  Grant was pacing now. He pressed the headset against his ear. "Come on, come on, tell me what I need to hear."

  "We will talk again, Comrade," said the voice on the Rachinski. There was a click...end of transmission.

  Grant threw the headset on the desk, cracked open the hatch making sure no one was close by, then stepped outside, ready to make a dash across the hangar bay. The roar of jet engines told him flight ops were underway. "Shit! Where the hell am I gonna go?" There were thousands of places for someone to hide, and he wasn't even sure the Russian was on the carrier.

  He went back inside the locker, with the Russian's words running through his mind, making him wonder what was 'going to be
ready tomorrow.' He stood in front of the desk, staring at the communications equipment. Even though the transmission had some interference, there was something familiar about one of the voices. He grabbed the headset.

  "Tony!"

  Mullins swallowed a mouthful of Coke. "Yeah. I tried to reach you earlier; guess you were out snoopin'."

  "Did you get anything on the trawler?"

  "Yeah. That's what I've been waiting to tell you. Found out there's a KGB boy on board by the name of 'Vernichenko.'"

  "Christ! That's it! That's the voice."

  "What voice?"

  "As luck would have it, I intercepted their conversation just a while ago."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit. Sergei Vernichenko, right?"

  "Yeah. Right. Say...you wanna tell me how you know a KGB officer?"

  "Come on, Agent Mullins. You mean I really gotta tell you something you probably already know?" Mullins laughed. Just as Grant believed, Mullins did his own checking. "Listen, Tony, I need you to call Kodiak and tell them not to interfere with any of the trawler's transmissions. Vernichenko said something would be ready tomorrow night."

  "What? What's gonna be ready?"

  "That's what I need to confirm. I'll wait here ten minutes for you to contact me."

  "Later," replied Mullins.

  *

  January 28

  2005 Hours

  New to the ship, Seaman Barry Koosman was coming off watch and simply took a wrong turn, down the wrong deck. He stopped in front of the Damage Control locker trying to get his bearings just as the door opened. His reactions were not as quick as Alexei Pratopapov's. Before he had time to react, a powerful hand grabbed him by his blue denim work shirt. The young seaman was spun around, a hand clasped tightly over his mouth as the other grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. In one lightning, swift motion, before any sound could escape from the mouth, it was all over, leaving no bruises, no indication of foul play. His neck snapped; his body twitched as he was dragged the rest of the way into the locker.