Alexei stretched the body out on the floor, closed the door, then screamed to himself not to panic. He stared down at the body by his feet, its head resting in an unnatural position, the eyelids still wide open in shock. "You dumb fool! Why did you have to come here now?" he muttered through clenched teeth. It was more of an angry exclamation than a question. Things one never forgets--how to kill.
Somewhere in the distance there were voices. He stood next to the door, pressing his palms and cheek against it, listening. Soon, the passageway was quiet again. He backed up and stumbled over Koosman's foot, falling against the locker, the noise echoing in his ears. Afraid to move, he held his breath while he listened. No one came. He made a decision...leave the body, return later. It would have to look like an accident, but he needed to think it out, come back when it was quiet.
He was almost clear of the area, when he stopped short, thinking he'd better not leave the walkie-talkie, then he ran back to the closet. He fumbled with the towel, ripped the walkie-talkie from it, finally stuffing it down the front of his shirt. He threw the face towel back inside the fan vent, then bolted from the compartment.
*
"Sir, you wanted to see me?" asked OOD Crawley as he entered the Sea Cabin.
Donovan looked up from his papers. "What? Oh, yes. The Admiral's requested we cancel GQ tonight."
"Cancel GQ, sir?"
Donovan glared at the OOD. "You heard me. The Admiral and I agreed that the men have been under a lot of pressure. Everyone could use a break, no matter how minor it may seem to you, Mr. Crawley."
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."
"I'm glad you do. Now, pass the word."
"Yes, sir." Crawley had a hand on the doorknob, when Donovan called to him. "Frank, I guess we're all a little anxious and tired."
"Yes, Captain. Goodnight."
As taps sounded at 2200 hours, the interior of the ship went dark, except for the red passageway lights leading to the exterior watertight doors. At 2235 hours, a lone figure hurried down the passageway, unlocking the door to the Damage Control locker. Beads of sweat formed across his brow as he bent down to the lifeless body, dragging it through the doorway and across the deck. He lifted the body to a limp, standing position, then released it, watching as it somersaulted over the metal ladder, hitting the deck twelve feet below with a sickening thud, laying in a crumpled mass. Alexei felt a mental grimace as the young seaman's head hit the steel tile-covered deck. He turned quickly, went to the end of the passageway and stopped. His training dictated that he check the area one more time. Satisfied, he turned and left.
*
January 29
0530 Hours
"Any luck with that tour of the bridge, Joe?" asked Grant as he guided the razor across his chin.
Adler secured the locker door, then sat on the edge of the communication's desk. "Yeah, whenever you're ready, sir."
Grant rinsed away the last traces of shaving cream then dried his face. He brushed back strands of hair hanging over his forehead, and one glance in the mirror told him it was time for a haircut. Who's got time?
He leaned back against the edge of the sink, folding his arms across his chest. Adler observed the square jaw clenching tight, noticed the intensity in the brown eyes as Grant stared at him. "Joe, we don't have too much time. The conversation I heard last night confirmed that. There's something on the Rachinski we've got to know about...or do something about."
"How do ya know?"
Grant stuck his hands in his back pockets and walked across the room. “Part what I heard and part gut feeling."
Adler took a sip of coffee. "Let me know what I can do."
Grant nodded several times, acknowledging Adler's request while he buttoned his khaki shirt. "First, I've got to talk with Mullins, then we'll take that tour of the bridge."
Both of them snapped their heads around when they heard the tap of metal against metal. Joe went to the door, peering through the spyhole next to the door. "It's just Brockton," he said as he unlocked the door.
Petty Officer Second Class Jerry Brockton, the youngest of the EOD team, closed the door, locking it behind him. He unzipped his green EOD jacket, removed his hat and smoothed back a curl of blond hair. "Sorry, Senior Chief, Commander, but I thought you'd want to know. I just came from the flight deck. Word is that a sailor was found dead late last night, a seaman by the name of Koosman." Grant's back stiffened immediately, and he fixed his stare on the young petty officer, a verbal question not even necessary. "I think he fell down a ladder, sir, somewhere on deck three. Busted neck. There was evidence of some spilled liquid, like Coke, at the top and they figured he slipped."
"Did they find a Coke can or paper cup?" asked Grant with a lowered voice, the sarcasm unmistakable.
"Don't know, sir," answered Brockton, shaking his head.
Grant went silent in total concentration. The two EOD men stared at him, Adler finally saying, "Thanks, Jerry. Go get your gear. I'll be on deck shortly."
Brockton shot a quick look at Grant before he left the locker.
Adler put on his jacket. "Do you think it was...?"
Grant nodded. "It's gotta be; that's too damn much of a coincidence." He picked up the headset. "We've got a lot to do, Joe. Listen, before you go topside, can you get a message to the NIS officer? I think it's advantageous we finally make contact." Adler was half-way out the open door when Grant called: "Joe, keep your fingers crossed that we can draw that goddamn trawler close-in tonight."
Adler grinned, already having a good idea of what Grant had in mind. "Will do!"
Grant and NIS Officer Lieutenant Commander Brad Simmons each knew the other was on board, Simmons having full details of Grant's mission. An NIS officer is assigned to a carrier for every cruise. But making contact wasn't necessary until now. Simmons would be the officer in charge of investigating the death of Seaman Koosman.
Impatiently, Grant pounded his fist on the desk. "Come on, Tony. Pick up! Pick up!"
"Mullins!"
"Christ! I thought you abandoned ship!"
"Hell, no, just a quick trip to take a leak. What's up?"
"They found some kid dead early this morning."
"Oh, shit. What happened?"
Tony listened. His question was more like a statement. "You don't think it was an accident, do you?"
"I think that kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Mullins scratched his beard. "What's next?"
"Call Kodiak. Ask them to maneuver the Bronson closer to the carrier. We have to 'reel in' that trawler. Try to get it less than a mile from the carrier."
"Do you want me to confirm with you after I talk with Kodiak?"
"Can't. I've got some investigative work to do. I'll call you at 1100 hours."
"What happens after I'm in range?"
"Adler and I are gonna use the MSV." The Motorized Submersible Vehicle weighed six pounds, was approximately 3-1/2 feet in length with the diameter of a saucer, capable of traveling as far as two miles on its small battery charge, at a depth of ten feet. Encased within its nose was a miniature camera and a trailing antenna that allowed the pictures to be sent by a transistorized transmitter up to a distance of 15 miles. As soon as it started submerging, sea water energized a special chemical battery activating its motor and a ten-foot length of antenna slowly unraveled.
"Good move!" Mullins remarked. "What timeframe are we talking here?"
Grant looked at his watch. "Have them shoot for 1830, starboard side, at about our zero two zero degrees. That'll be a good point for us and should give us enough time, as long as the trawler takes the bait. You stay on the horn with Kodiak till you're in place tonight. Then call me. We've got to start moving, Tony."
"I hear ya."
*
January 29
0700 Hours
Fresh aromas of bacon and eggs lingered in the mess hall, but 'CPO' Stevens and Lieutenant Commander Simmons were seen only having a morning cup of coffee. The enlisted mess wa
s a good place to pick up any 'scuttlebutt.'
Grant leaned on the edge of the metal table, keeping his voice low. "Have you talked to anyone, Brad?"
Simmons poured some cream in the coffee, stirring it continuously as he nodded. "Interviewed Doc Matthews and two pilots, a Lieutenant Hawthorne and Lieutenant Allen." He licked the spoon then dropped it on the stainless steel table. "Hawthorne and Allen found the kid."
"Anything specific about the body?"
"You mean, other than a broken neck and a gash in the back of his head?" he said with a twisted smile.
Grant held up his hand, as if conceding. "Okay, okay. You know what I mean."
Simmons stared into his cup, then looked up at Grant. "Nothing else. The gash on his head probably happened when he hit the step. There was a smear of blood on one of the top steps."
Several sailors with trays of food passed by their table, eyeing them warily. The officers waited patiently until the men passed. Grant swallowed a mouthful of coffee then asked, "Can you show me where it happened then take me to see the body in sickbay?"
"Sure," replied Simmons, as both of them stood. "Looking for anything special?"
"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am."
*
Bridge - USS Preston
0945 Hours
"Morning, CAG."
"Hey! Senior Chief! What brings EOD to the Roost? Have ya lost a bomb? Should we be evacuating the area?"
Adler laughed. "No, sir. I promised Chief Stevens here a tour of the bridge and Roost, since this is his first cruise on the Preston. Is that okay, sir?"
CAG reached out for Grant's hand, gripping it firmly. "Sure; no problem. Welcome aboard, Chief."
"Thanks," smiled Grant, "it's good to be here, sir."
"Sorry it's not a more enjoyable cruise, Chief, what with China and all."
Grant nodded. "I hear ya, CAG."
For the next fifteen minutes Grant and Adler walked the bridge, Grant listening, observing, occasionally asking a seemingly innocent question. He lingered briefly by the quartermaster's table where the logbook was kept. His mind 'photographed' the two pages used to record the time of day when the captain, OOD, quartermaster, and others came and went from the bridge.
The Air Boss picked up the phone, then called to CAG, "Tomcats are on their final approach."
Both Dodson and Morehouse raised binoculars. Dodson returned to the Roost and recorded on the glass the positions of the F-14s. "Jesus. This weather's a bitch," he mumbled looking at the threatening gray mass of clouds on the horizon.
"CAG," Adler said, "I'm going to take Chief Stevens down to the flight deck while the 14's come in."
Morehouse turned. "Sorry I couldn't give you the grand tour, Chief." He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating the arriving planes.
"No problem, sir," replied Grant.
Morehouse hustled back to the Roost and answered the phone. "Oh, shit. Willy's comin' in first." CAG searched the darkened sky with binoculars and called, "Don't forget to tell Chief Stevens about Willy!"
Normally, ships that make up a task force receive their orders from the carrier over the task group radio frequencies. Ships would not arbitrarily change course without the carrier's permission and knowledge, unless the ship received a 'flash' message from a higher authority. For the Bronson, those orders would come from Vice Admiral Morelli, who wore the 'hat' of Chief of Naval Investigative Service. Protocol dictated he pass them through the Fleet Admiral stationed in Hawaii, CINCPACFLEET (Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet).
At 1815 hours, Jeff Holland in Kodiak radioed thePrestonvia satellite uplink. "Preston, this is the Bronson. Over."
"Go ahead, Bronson. Over."
"I am in receipt of flash message through CINCPACFLEET. At this time, I have been advised to change course and proceed independently. Will advise. Bronson out."
With orders to "proceed independently", the Bronson would no longer have to receive permission from the carrier to change course. Responding to commands from Kodiak, the Bronson came to course three three zero, adjusted its speed to 15 knots and headed in the direction of the Preston.
On the forward deck of the destroyer stood Tony Mullins, night vision binoculars hung around his neck, the fur collar of his leather flight jacket pulled up to his ears. Just the opposite of CAG's concern, Mullins worried that the current weather conditions would clear sooner than forecasted, as an occasional glimpse of the moon broke through the cloud coverage. "Bad timing. Don't need any bright sky tonight." He turned the brim of his New York Yankees' baseball cap to the back, raised the binoculars and scanned the surrounding area. "Where the hell are you, Mr. Russkie?"
The Bronson reduced speed to eight knots as it approached the Preston at 1,200 yards from starboard aft, cruising along until it was parallel with the carrier. Kodiak adjusted the speed, gradually bringing the Bronson to a zero two zero degrees position as Grant had requested, then held her there. Her wake began to act like a fishing line, reeling it farther out, waiting for a big "fish" to take the bait.
Mullins walked aft for a clearer view. "Yes!" he shouted. The Rachinski was following the destroyer, about 1,000 yards behind it, steadily pulling closer to the starboard bow of the carrier. That's when the Bronson held her speed, keeping the Rachinski at the designated position.
Mullins reached for the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt and put in the call.
"Adler here."
Mullins responded, "Joe, the 'fish' is hooked!"
Adler grinned. "Understood. Stay with me, sir."
Thirty feet above the waterline, Grant and Joe positioned themselves inside one of the outcroppings. Outcroppings were located on the port and starboard sides of the bow, protruding out and slightly below the flight deck. They were used to store life vests and canisters containing life rafts. Each canister rested at the top of two rails. If there was a need to abandon ship, the life vests would be thrown over the side to the men in the water, while the canisters were shoved down the rails, falling to the ocean. Normally, only a few were supposed to have a key to access this area through the scuttle, but NIS was able to provide a master key for Grant, along with anything else he requested. "It's amazing what you can get with who you know," he had laughed when Morelli handed him the envelope containing the key.
Grant was on his stomach as he lowered the MSV down to the water, while Adler handled the walkie-talkie, with minimal conversation passing between him and Mullins. Grant guided the MSV by remote control on an intercept course toward its destination--the Rachinski. He kept the speed at six knots, just under its eight knot limit, trying to conserve the battery power. They spoke just above a whisper. "There it is, Joe. Now, if I can just...maneuver it..." Only ten feet below the surface, the MSV was subject to the undulation of the ocean. Grant kept his hand in constant motion with the control, gingerly maneuvering the vehicle nearer to the bow of the trawler. "Bingo!"
Adler leaned closer to the nine inch monitor, propped up on the deck in front of Grant. "What? What's that? Holy shit! Is that a mini-sub?"
"Yeah," Grant replied matter-of-factly, "it's a goddamn mini-sub." He shot a quick glance at Adler. "Relay this info to Tony, then tell him to send a 'well done' to Kodiak." He looked away from Adler's stare.
This Russkie had disguised herself well. She wasn't a typical trawler. Installed beneath her hull, at midships, was a matte black, stainless steel capsule, specifically designed to resemble a torpedo tube. The inside of the capsule was fashioned to hold a two-man mini-sub. Once it was in place, it would only need the sea water to rush in, enabling it to complete the mission it was designed for.
Adler passed on the message then switched off the walkie-talkie, putting it on the deck. "You knew! How the fuck did you know...sir?"
Grant started bringing in the MSV, staring out across the darkened water, then looked down at the screen. "Sergei Vernichenko, the KGB officer on the Rachinski."
Adler still looked puzzled. "Yeah? So?"
"In '62 I
was on one of my first jobs, let's just say, in a southern region. Vernichenko was a Russian naval officer, a submarine officer assigned there. They were finalizing their experiments with. . ."
"With mini-subs," Adler interrupted. His eyes widened as he realized what Grant was talking about. "Not during the missile crisis?" he asked in astonishment. "You were there?"
Grant's face was expressionless, then he looked away, continuing to haul the MSV up the side of the carrier. Adler knew he wouldn't get any further explanation, at least not now. Grant focused his eyes on the MSV, but his mind wandered back in time, back to Cuba.
*
A U-2 spy plane had photographed a SAM missile site about eight miles away from what looked like an old tobacco barn. A sharp-eyed seaman, stationed in the Photo Reconnaissance Center in Virginia, noticed cars parked around the building, immediately bringing it to the attention of his CO.
Grant and his team were sent in to set up miniature transceivers, strategically placing them in the loft and around the outside of the tobacco barn. Prepared for any situation, each SEAL carried with him pencil flares, an Uzi and three extra clips that held fifty rounds each, a .45 with two extra clips of seven rounds each, medical kit with atropine, thermite grenades, two high explosive (HE) hand grenades, and a flashlight.
They listened and waited, remaining hidden for two days. Burrowing themselves beneath the tobacco stalks and leaves, completely camouflaged, their suspicions were finally confirmed. Their orders stated that when they were certain all the Russians were inside, they were to strike...and they did, swiftly, accurately, precisely. Within minutes, their mission was over--the building, experimental subs, the Russians--all destroyed, except for one. That one Grant Stevens would not forget. There had been a brief glimpse of a face in a vehicle, a face unable to hide its rage. But it had been the distinctive sound of a voice that played over and over in his brain like a broken record, the voice he heard in his headset for two days--a gravely, boastful voice--the proud, Georgian accent belonging to Sergei Vernichenko.
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