Chapter Six
January 30
Midnight
"Say again, Commander?"
"The Russian's right here on the carrier, sir."
"You'd better be goddamn sure," growled Morelli, while he loosened his tie.
Grant's back straightened from a response he hadn't expected. "I am, sir.
"Good Christ!" Morelli stood abruptly, the back of his knees sending his chair against the wall. He wiped a hand across his face, then picked up the smoldering cigar from the ashtray, rolling it between his fingers.
"Everything adds up, sir--the conversations I've intercepted, reports I've seen. Simmons and I have been working closely, comparing notes. That seaman's death confirmed everything. The kid was murdered, Admiral."
Morelli knew there were times he aggravated the shit out of Grant, and this was one of them. "How in the hell did you reach that conclusion?"
Grant began to stiffen against the questions, but he maintained his composure. "It was made to look as though he slipped on some spilled Coke, but Doc Matthews said the kid didn't have any Coke in his stomach, there wasn't any around the body, and only a small amount on the upper deck."
Morelli sat back down, put his foot on the desk and pushed himself deeper into his leather chair, all the while gnawing on the Havana. "Maybe he was clumsy and just tripped."
Grant frowned, but held his tongue. "Brad and I talked with Doc Matthews. He said for the size of the gash in the back of Koosman's head, there was only a minuscule amount of blood. If he was only unconscious when he went down, there should have been a pool of blood under him. Besides, Admiral, that's why they wear rubber soled shoes, so they don't slip...uh, you already know that, sir." A "black shoe" himself, Morelli had come up through the ranks to earn his third gold admiral's star.
"You're right, and I'm still listening."
"Our conclusion came from the way the body was found, sir. Again, no blood."
"And what does that prove?"
"Well, sir, Doc let us see the body in sickbay. He pointed out some blood that had pooled just under the skin, behind his neck and shoulders, which means he had to be on his back right after he died for that to happen. He said rigor mortis had already set in. Admiral, that kid was dead for a while before he ended up at the bottom of that ladder, sir." Grant waited for a response...none came. "Brad and I searched the compartment area above the deck where the body was found, but didn't have any luck. Shit! I couldn't believe I found the towel where I did...sir."
"Towel?"
"Yes, sir. Senior Chief Adler and I were in the starboard outcropping where we used the MSV. We made a final inspection before we left the area. I decided to check out the port outcropping, too, since it was a good hiding place, just like it was for us. Something caught my eye. A towel was pushed up against the back side of the fan vent. We went inside the DC locker and unscrewed the louver cover. The broken tip of an antenna was stuck in one of the loops of the towel. Our Russian friend must have been in one helluva hurry."
"Sonofabitch!"
"Yes, sir," Grant answered, relieved. "I stuffed the towel back in the vent just in case he comes back for it, or decides to use the same outcropping, but I don't think that's likely. He'll find another place."
"I guess my next question has to be, who? Do you know who the bastard is, Commander?"
"I've got it narrowed down but that's about all I can tell you now." Morelli nodded, as Grant asked, "Sir?"
Even with the seriousness of the conversation, Morelli smiled, somehow anticipating Grant Stevens was about to make a request. "Go ahead, Grant."
"Sir, is there any chance you could have orders issued for the fleet to change course, head into the Sea of Japan?"
A steady stream of cigar smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Morelli's eyes narrowed. "That's a serious request. Don't you think there's a good chance that would push the Russians and Chicoms into making a move into Korea? You've gotta give me a good reason."
Grant was shaking his head as he responded, "I still stand by my decision that they want the Bronson, sir. From what I could see of the mini-sub, that weapons’ platform was redesigned. I'm sure that's how they plan on hauling away the SNAGS. And they're not expecting us to make the move into the Sea of Japan. They're assuming we're waiting for the Chicoms, which would then give them their chance. I think we'll catch them off guard, Admiral. And with the fleet on the move, all they'll be able to do is keep up. We can have Captain Stafford run interference by positioning the Bluefin between the trawler and the Bronson." Grant leaned back against the communication's desk, staring down at the floor. "We've gotta get our asses out of here, sir. I just need a little while longer, and this is the only way to get it."
"I'll see what I can do." He glanced at the clock above his door. "I'll call Allen Wooster, the National Security Advisor, and get back to you at 1100 hours, East Coast time."
Grant closed his eyes as he rubbed his pounding temple. Coupled with lack of sleep and the intense mental pressure, he was beginning to feel the strain. "Thanks. Oh, one more thing, sir."
Morelli had to laugh out loud this time. "Now what the hell do you want?"
"If the orders are approved, sir, can you wait till 0800 hours, my time, to pass the order on to CINCPACFLEET and issue a departure time of 0900 hours? I don't want to give the Russians any notice."
"Very well, Commander. You'll be hearing from me."
Grant took a bite from the Snicker's bar, washed it down with a swig of cold milk, then called Mullins. "Tony, listen. Contact Kodiak ASAP. Prepare them for receiving new orders."
"What the hell's happening?"
"I've asked Morelli to issue orders that will send the fleet into the Sea of Japan. It's the only way to buy more time, Tony."
Mullins detected the fatigued voice and sensed the urgency. "I know, buddy. I'll do whatever you ask, whenever. Hey, you know we're going to win this thing, don't you?"
Grant smiled. "Thanks. Go make your call."
*
Bridge
USS Preston
0815 Hours
"Edward," Captain Donovan called as he stepped through the doorway onto the bridge, motioning for the steward, who was pouring coffee for the OOD. He handed him an envelope. "See this gets into the pouch for that COD flight before it takes off." The COD was a long-range transport, but more importantly for the men aboard ship, it delivered letters to and from home.
"Certainly, Captain," Mindina responded, as he slipped the envelope into his white jacket pocket.
OOD Crawley walked over to him, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. "Was that a letter to Koosman's folks?"
Donovan rested his chin on his fist as he leaned against the swivel chair, staring in the direction of the eastern horizon. "Haven't had to write one of those in a long time."
He glanced at his watch, abruptly turned, then motioned for Wayne Masters, the XO (Executive Officer), and Petty Officer Andrews to follow him, leading them to the Sea Cabin, one door down the passageway from the bridge. Petty Officer Andrews closed the cabin door behind them then stepped closer to the two officers. Donovan stood in the middle of the room, hands in his back pockets, glancing at the overhead with its jungle of cables and pipes. "No need to sit, gentlemen, this will be brief." He looked at Navigator Andrews, ordering, "Plot me a course to Point Juliet Alpha in the Sea of Japan and give me an eight-hour ticket. Bring it back to me ASAP and advise the quartermaster."
"Yes, sir." Andrews rushed from the cabin.
Donovan took a step, stopping in front of the porthole, hands clasped behind him, then he turned to Masters. "Wayne, we just got our orders from CINCPAC. We're to proceed into the Sea of Japan and wait for further instructions."
Masters' back stiffened, his hands balled up into tight fists next to his sides. "Has the situation heated up, sir?"
Donovan shrugged his shoulders. "The orders just say to station ourselves off the western coast of Japan near the Island of Sado. We've got to get out of h
ere by 0900."
"Not much notice, sir," Masters commented, glancing down at his watch.
"That's why it's time to move, XO." Donovan picked up the silver cigarette lighter from the table, flicking it on and off. "Brief the OOD and give him a leg-up on our orders...and record it in the pass-down log." As the name implied, the "pass-down log" was a continuous record of events used to keep the next watch informed.
"Yes, sir." Masters didn't need to be told the conversation was over. He left immediately.
Donovan lingered a few moments then returned to the bridge. He reached for the phone hanging from the overhead, calling Dodson. "Air Boss."
"Yes, sir?"
"Launch the E-2, then two Intruders and two Tomcats. I want them keeping the skies clear."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
As always, the Tomcats would each carry six Phoenix missiles, built specifically to defend against Russia's TU-95 Bear, feared at one time because of its deadly anti-ship missiles. But with the Phoenix, the threat was counteracted. In a simulation test, one F-14 pilot, carrying six Phoenix missiles, shot down five of six drone targets. From that moment, the Tomcat was dubbed "Fleet Defender”.
Within six minutes five aircraft were catapulted from the Preston's flight deck. The task force turned northwest, sailing for the Sea of Japan, with the Rachinski not far behind.
*
Crew's Mess Hall
0830 Hours
Two sailors sat at the table, having just been relieved from watch. Jake Farley shook his egg-laden fork at Sid Neuman. "Listen, I don't care what you say, Neuman, as sure as God made silent, stinky farts...you can bet your ass something's going down."
Knowing Farley the way he did, Neuman hissed, "Yeah, right," and continued spreading strawberry jelly on his toast. He licked his fingers and stared straight into the eyes of his shipmate. "You're so full of shit, Farley."
"You mean you haven't seen that chief, the one asking questions?" Farley said, then immediately shoved the fork into his mouth. He wiped egg yolk off his chin, as he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery chief.
Neuman slowly stopped chewing, his curiosity getting the best of him. "What kinda questions?"
Farley was wound up tighter than a spring, his words gushing out fast and furious. "Things like, who is, where was, when did...you know, spook shit, man! Everybody's talking about him. How could you not know, Neuman?" His voice turned into a loud whisper. "Bet he's a nark, looking for dope and shit. Ya know?"
Farley made it easy to get under anyone's skin just like a mountain tick, and he'd just burrowed his way under Neuman's. Venting an anger and nervousness that almost everyone on board was experiencing, Neuman threw the last piece of toast on the plate, then leaned across the table. "Look, Farley, all I know is that Koosman's dead, and we're bobbing around on this boat, in this cold-ass weather, waiting for the fuckin' Commies to make a move." He flopped back against the seat, pointing a finger at his shipmate. "And if he's a nark, asshole, you'd better hide your ditty bag, 'cause shit happens!"
Seaman Harold Prewett slid his stocky frame across the bench, pushing his food-laden tray along the table, after overhearing Neuman's comment. "Guess you guys haven't heard then."
Neuman and Farley looked at each other, then at Prewett. "Heard what?" they asked in unison.
"The Old Man got new orders. We're pullin' out and headin' for the Sea of Japan." He shook his head as he gulped down a mouthful of orange juice, then ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "It don't sound good at all."
Chapter Seven
La Perouse Strait
January 30
The task force steamed through the perilous waters of La Perouse Strait at 0930 hours. It wasn't unusual for the islands to experience fog, wind, and rain. The day was no exception. North of the American ships lay the chain of Kuril Islands, and to the south, Hokkaido, the northern most point of Japan. Prior to World War II, the Kurils were owned by Japan, in fact, it was from the Island of Iturup that they launched their attack against Pearl Harbor. But following the war, Japan was made to relinquish the Kurils to Russia.
Earlier that morning, at 0730 hours, a COD flight had screeched down onto the flight deck after its trip from Subic Bay in the Philippines. On board was a first class petty officer stationed at CINCPACFLEET, who had specific orders to hand deliver the officially sealed envelope to Lieutenant Commander Brad Simmons.
In the privacy of the EOD locker, Simmons leaned over Grant's shoulder, perusing the black and white photographs laid out in three rows on the desk, the latest views from the Blackbird.
"Can't see any change," Grant commented, running his hand over the photographs as he examined each one. "Troops and artillery are still positioned exactly as they were four days ago." He leaned back against the chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
Simmons came around from behind the chair, sitting on the edge of the desk. He brushed his hand down the side of his prematurely gray hair. "Look, I know I'm no SEAL, and this body ain't what it used to be, but I'll do whatever I can."
"Appreciate that, Brad. We'll find something for you to do...you can count on that." Grant reached for the cocoon, dragged it closer, then grabbed the .45, released the clip, checked it, and shoved it back. His fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting against the trigger as he brought the .45 closer to his face. He stared at the weapon, when suddenly, a new-found energy coursed through his body, his mind and spirit revitalized. Whatever plan he came up with, whatever they decided to do, they had to do it today. Grant started for the door. "Brad, stay here while I find Joe."
Just then the steel door 'clanged' and Adler came rushing in. He shot a quick look at Simmons. "Excuse me, sir," then he fixed his stare on Grant. "Just heard...the E-2 reported that a 'Bear' and two MIGS have shown up on radar. It looks like they took off from the air base in Kamchatka."
"Where's the Bronson?" Grant immediately asked, at the same time grabbing the headset.
"According to radar, she's about two clicks at our 180."
The Bronson was about 2,000 yards away from the Preston, directly off her fantail, and that was too far for Grant's liking. He acknowledged Adler's response with a nod. Although he was staring at Adler, he was, in fact, no longer seeing him, as his mind raced fast and furious. He held the headset against his ear, flipped the switch and waited.
"Mullins."
"Call Kodiak, Tony. Tell them they're to bring the Bronson in close, no more than one click at our three zero zero degrees, then hold her there. I'm gonna contact the Bluefin and ask Captain Stafford to start running interference between you and the Russians. He should have received his orders by now."
Mullins shook his head as he paced the control room. "Haven't seen the Rachinski since we hit the Straits. But the fog is pretty thick out there. I'll go up to the bridge and check the radar."
Adler was quiet but seemed to be asking: "What the fuck's happening?"
"At last check, she was off our port quarter," Grant responded as he looked across at Simmons. "Brad will stay here in the EOD locker. Contact him after you've talked to Kodiak and checked the 'scope. He'll know where to find me if necessary."
"You think this is it?" asked a concerned Agent Mullins.
"I think we're closer, my friend, but I'm still betting they'll wait till the fleet gets to Sado and we slow down."
"And what about you, Navy SEAL Stevens? You waitin', too?"
Grant couldn't keep from laughing. "N'yet."
"I didn't think so!"
*
Aboard the Rachinski
0930
Sergei Vernichenko stared across the bow of the trawler, his deep-set, nearly black eyes squinting, trying to see through the dense mist. He spoke under his breath and only to himself. "What are you up to my American friends? What has brought you into these waters so suddenly? Surely, not us," he laughed without any true emotion.
"Comrade Vernichenko," called Communication's Officer Mikhail Bo
rniski, as he pointed to the microphone. "It is Comrade Pratopapov."
Sergei walked over to the communication's table and tapped Borniski on the shoulder, motioning for him to leave. When he was alone, he sat in front of the microphone, hunching his broad shoulders over the table. "Has anything changed since our last conversation?"
"No. We're still proceeding to Sado. But..."
"But? You seem agitated, Comrade."
"There are many questions being asked."
One of the most respected but feared KGB officers in Moscow, Vernichenko was the best at what he did, especially when it came to mind games. Alexei had been an easy target, but now Sergei was very intrigued, the word 'worried' not yet crossing his thoughts. "You are being asked these questions?"
"No."
"Tell me about...these questions, and who is asking them."
Alexei spoke hurriedly. "The rumors have to do with a 'Stevens', Chief Grant Stevens. He's been asking about the crewman's death and..."
Alexei's words faded into the background as the KGB officer sent his own mind back in time, trying to remember. There was an American--surely, it cannot be, he thought. "You don't recognize that name, Comrade?"
"Stevens?" As if a bolt of lightning struck him, he gasped, "My God! How couldn't I remember?" He had been aboard the destroyer Hadley, stationed off the coast of Cuba, waiting for a sub to relinquish her passengers...five Navy SEALs, who were returning from a mission that destroyed the laboratory and nearly killed Vernichenko. Although Alexei had not been in contact with any of the SEALs, the scuttlebutt about what they did was the topic of conversation. An hour after the SEALs were picked up by the destroyer, they were helo-lifted from its deck.
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