But it was the KGB officer whose mind was flooded with thoughts and pictures of a time when the world hung on the brink of World War III--a nuclear war.
*
A revolution had taken place in Cuba, the regime of Batista overthrown by Fidel Castro. With Castro in power, Russia had its opportunity. The Russian Premier ordered a buildup of missiles in Cuba, and Russian naval vessels began transporting those missiles, bringing enough warheads that could literally wipe out the entire East Coast of the United States.
But while the Americans prepared for and anticipated a strike from the air, the first strike would, in fact, be coming from the sea, by torpedoes with nuclear warheads. They were small, two kiloton weapons, but classified as very dirty, "dirty" because of the massive amounts of radioactivity that would be released after detonation.
One of the most experienced submarine commanders, Sergei Vernichenko was selected to lead a team of scientists and weapons' experts in the development and design of two mini-subs with attached weapons platform for the sole purpose of delivering those torpedoes. The subs had two special batteries, each one capable of supplying power for a distance of forty miles.
Their plan was to launch the subs from the northernmost point in Cuba, head in a northeasterly direction and pick up the Gulf Stream, thereby enabling them to conserve power. They would follow the three knot current north until they were in range, then turn inland, one toward Miami, the other toward the American submarine base in Charleston, South Carolina.
All crewmen were volunteers, fully aware they were expendable, as the underwater shock would destroy the subs and them. Their mission was one-way; their sacrifice to be for the Motherland.
Seemingly hidden off an inland waterway, not far from the small town of Coralilio on Cuba's northern coast, the confiscated tobacco barn sat surrounded by tobacco fields and vacant shacks. Converted into a makeshift laboratory and research facility, the rear of the building was crudely redesigned to accommodate an office, kitchen and bunkroom. Electricity was provided by a small generator, shielded under a sloping overhang behind a propane gas tank on the east side. In order to provide some protection against dust for the laboratory equipment, a rough, uneven, concrete flooring had been poured in the main section of the barn. Long, stainless steel counters were positioned along the north and south walls with six steel, portable cabinets standing in a row to the right of the front door. Sitting on raised platforms in the middle of the room were the two mini-subs.
A dense moisture pervaded every crevice of the tobacco barn, saturating men and equipment. Cuba's sub-tropical climate was one the Russians were unfamiliar with, effecting them physically and mentally, sometimes to the point of lethargy. But each man was aware of Vernichenko's tolerance as being extremely limited when it came to complaints. Andre Mishenski, one of the scientists and the oldest of all the Russians, assumed the role of mediator. A long-time friend of Vernichenko's family, he knew the quirks and boiling point of the officer, having an uncanny ability to neutralize Vernichenko.
Vernichenko and Nikolay Soraovich, second in command, were in the office, located in the rear of the barn, adjacent to the bunkroom and garage. The two men were discussing test plans for the following day. Three sets of blueprints were spread out on an improvised wooden desk made of barn planks, both men leaning under the harsh, exposed light bulb. Above them, tacked to the notched, irregular wall, was a yellowing map with an enlarged area of the Southeast Coast of the United States.
Only average in height, it was Vernichenko's great bulk and low-pitched voice that made everyone sit up and pay attention. "Go get the other blueprint," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," Soraovich answered, as he straightened up, pressing his hand against his lower back, feeling the perspiration bleeding through his shirt. The air whistled through the space between his front teeth as he sighed, "Ohh, another long night."
"Are you complaining, Lieutenant Soraovich?" Vernichenko asked without turning around.
"No, Commander!" Soraovich immediately regretted his innocent remark. His transfer to Cuba was a feather in the cap of his young career, especially being assigned to working on Vernichenko's project. He harshly reprimanded himself. His chest expanded as he stepped through the doorway into the garage, and he breathed in the odor of tobacco, the barn wood permeated with it. He'd been without a Russian cigarette for five months, as long as he'd been on the project. The Commander forbid smoking anywhere near the facility. In five months, he'd been nowhere else but the facility, and his appetite for cigarettes had not diminished. He walked toward the dust-covered Land Rover. The beam from his flashlight shone through the vehicle's rear window, a beacon of light searching for another blueprint.
At precisely 2230 hours, a tremendous explosion sent a fireball skyward, disintegrating the entire north corner of the building, the noise deafening. A satchel charge, expertly placed, detonated the propane gas tank. Orange flames quickly engulfed the dry wood, consuming it as if it were mere paper, spreading rapidly across the ceiling and back wall. Two scientists and one lab technician were killed instantly; both Vernichenko and Soraovich were knocked to the ground.
Within seconds, five men, prepared for CQB (close quarter battle), burst through the front door. They were dressed completely in black, with hoods over their faces, only their eyes exposed. The unanticipated event, precisely coordinated, prevented any sort of self-defense by the Russians.
Instantly, the staccato sound of machine guns ruptured the air, with bullets from the Uzi's spraying the entire building haphazardly, screams being cut short as bullets ripped into bodies.
Vernichenko crawled on his hands and knees, scurrying across the floor like a frightened crab, blood oozing from his forehead. Soraovich ran to him, trying to scream, "Commander!" but he was choking from the fumes and dust. He tried helping the injured officer to his feet, but Vernichenko angrily pushed him aside, bracing himself against the door frame. Crouching low, he shot a quick look at the storage chest where the rifles were stored, but it was too late. Flames were already devouring the dry wood. "Andre!" he called under his breath, knowing it was too late for all the men.
Falon, "Tail-end Charlie", the shortest of the SEALs, swept the area with his helmet camera, rushing over to one of the mini-subs, shooting pictures of the instrument panel and weapons platform, smoke beginning to cloud the view.
Ensign Grant Stevens shouted, "Grab all the intel you can! And rip-search those bodies!"
Four men immediately put the orders into action, slicing the uniforms from the dead with their K-bars in one swift motion from crotch to neck. The clothes were pulled from the bodies, wadded up, then stuffed inside the SEALs' utility vests, all in a matter of seconds.
Still unnoticed because of the flames and smoke, Vernichenko grabbed Nikolay's shirtsleeve, dragging the dumbfounded officer toward the Land Rover, glancing over his shoulder at the burning maps and blueprints. A fire, burning as hot and furious as the one consuming the barn, raged in Vernichenko, as he thought, All our work. But it was the loss of his old friend, Andre, that caused an uncommon pain deep within him. He angrily whispered, "I will never forget...never."
Grant tried to make a quick body count through the smoke and debris, his flashlight as useless as high beams in a dense fog. "Oh, Christ! There's only nine!" They all snapped around when hearing the noise from the Land Rover's engine. With the blazing fire cutting off their path to the garage, the SEALs raced from the inferno through the door.
"Rusty! Blake! Set the charges!" Grant yelled over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the building. With Falon and Ellis in hot pursuit, they sprinted at full speed toward the rear of the barn. Charred pieces of shredded roof fell around them as they hurdled debris and the bodies of two guards.
With its engine screaming, the Land Rover smashed through the wall, its rearend fishtailing on the soft earth. The SEALs were forced backward, and for one split second, the contorted face of Sergei Vernichenko glared at them from behind the
steering wheel.
Machine gun fire erupted, a stream of bullets punching holes in the vehicle, blowing out the side and back windows. Nikolay Suraovich slumped toward the driver's seat, then his body slammed back against the passenger's door as the vehicle veered left, cutting across the tobacco field.
Grant, Falon and Ellis ran at top speed after the Rover, never releasing the Uzi triggers. The vehicle went airborne when it hit a knoll, traveling nearly 50 feet before landing on the other side. With dust and smoke trailing, it disappeared from view. "Goddammit! Anyone else get a look at those guys?" Grant yelled.
Falon nodded and replied, "Yeah, got a snapshot, skipper," as he pointed to his helmet camera.
"Let's get the hell outta here!" Grant ordered.
Three satchel charges, one set at each corner of the building, exploded in an illusion of organized chaos. A brilliant white glow lit up the field, raining flames on the shriveled tobacco leaves, setting off numerous small fires. With the wooden corner support gone, the remainder of the roof crumbled inside itself.
The five Navy SEALs' mission had been completed, and, as quickly and silently as they had come, they vanished into the field, hustling to make their way back to the inland waterway.
*
"Comrade Vernichenko?" called Alexei after getting no response.
"Yes, yes, go on," he answered brusquely. Rubbing his forehead, Vernichenko momentarily felt the same anger he felt that fateful day.
"I kept trying to find out about him without raising suspicion, but it was like he didn't exist." Alexei shook his head. "Now I understand why."
Yes. It's like they don't exist until they want you to know, and then...it is too late. Vernichenko leaned toward the microphone, thinking that an old nemesis might once again interfere with his country's strategy. He sensed Alexei's growing apprehension. "Remember, Comrade, all your years of waiting to help Mother Russia will culminate tonight. We must be very wary. You must keep an ever-present vigil now. Proceed with caution, but continue as planned. This time we will not fail."
*
USS Preston
0950 Hours
From the first conversation between the Russians that he'd intercepted, there was something that gnawed away at Grant Stevens' brain. It happened again when he and Adler sent the MSV to the trawler.
As he and Adler were inspecting their diving gear--masks, hoses, and breathing apparatus-- Grant was thinking about sending a message to Captain Stafford. As quickly as the thought passed through his mind, another nearly brought him out of the chair. "Christ!"
Adler looked up and casually replied, "You called, sir?"
Grant laughed. "I've got a bad case of rectalencephalitis, Joe." He grabbed the headphones and adjusted the radio frequency. Within seconds, he heard, "Admiral Morelli's office."
"Gardner? This is Commander Stevens. I need to talk with the Admiral--ASAP!"
"Hold a minute, sir, he's right here."
"Grant! Something happen?" Morelli asked as he dropped his coat over the back of the chair in the outer office.
"Not yet, sir, but I need you to get me some information. Put me on scramble, sir."
"Speak...I'm listening." Morelli motioned for Gardner to hand him a pencil.
"I'll give you a few names. Can you match them up against the men stationed aboard the HADLEY and the sub during October, '62?"
"During the Cuban crisis?" Morelli asked with surprise.
Grant cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. It's just a hunch, but if I'm right, we're one big step closer to nailing his ass, sir."
"Good Christ! Give me the names." Morelli shook his head each time he wrote down a name. With the information on paper, he dropped the pencil and handed the list to Gardner, pointing with his finger toward the door. Gardner didn't waste time and ran down the hallway. "We'll get on it immediately, then will call you."
"Lieutenant Commander Simmons, Senior Chief Adler or I will be here, sir. And Admiral...thanks for getting us the extra time. We're working as fast as we can, sir."
Morelli's tone sounded like a father answering a son, "I know you are, Grant."
Adler unlocked the door after hearing the tapping. Brad Simmons' expression immediately caught the attention of the two men.
"What is it?" asked Grant as he switched off the radio.
"They're getting ready to ship the Koosman kid's body, if this fog clears. Helo's going to fly him to the big island, Honsho, drop him off at Yokota Air Force Base, and then take him to the States."
Grant walked toward the bunks with his head lowered, his hands in his back pockets. His voice sounded weary. "Do you know where he was from?"
"I think Washington State."
"Damn it! What a waste." He dropped down on the bunk, running his hand in frustration over the top of his head.
Joe Adler immediately interpreted the look on Grant's face. "You've been running your ass off since you've come aboard, sir. Don't know what else you could've done. This one wasn't yours, sir."
Grant shook his head, a fixed, fiery stare burned in his eyes. The square jaw clenched tight, until the muscles twitched as he bit down hard on his teeth. Adler's eyes narrowed, watching 'Panther'. He knew the look. Some sad-sack mother was gonna bite the bullet sooner or later. He walked in front of Grant, stood at attention and said quietly under his breath, "It's time to dance, Commander. I'm here if you need me."
Grant looked up with acknowledgment and something that resembled a grin. "I know you will be, 'Big A'. I never questioned that."
A boson’s pipe was heard over the loudspeaker, sounding for everyone's attention. "All hands, listen up. This is the Captain. Replenishing at sea will commence at 1300 hours with the Suribachi. Deck force, make preparations and have on my desk by 1100 hours for officers' call."
Grant paced in front of the desk with his hands thrust into his pockets. The loudspeaker seemed just a muffled noise somewhere in his mind. The Captain continued: "We're still proceeding to Sado. Our expected arrival time is approximately 1700 hours. I wish I could give you more on the present situation, but that's all I have at this time."
Grant sat on the edge of the desk, ignoring the broadcast, thinking out loud: "We're gonna have to take a chance." He took his pen from his shirt pocket, wrote his own form of encrypted note on the desk pad, then looked at Brad. "Can you set up infrared cameras in both Damage Control lockers, aiming them at the doors?" Once the special camera was activated, it would take a picture when the lens picked up any white or red light.
"Sure, no problem. Now?"
"Now." Brad started for the door when Grant added, "Watch yourself."
The door clanged shut and Adler skeptically asked, "You really think he'll use those lockers again after what happened?"
"We've gotta cover all bases." He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles as tight as a mooring line. "And we have to consider he might have a backup, Joe."
"Oh, Christ! You don't think that's possible, do you?"
Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Who the hell knows?"
*
USS Preston
1030 Hours
Simmons rolled the chair toward the desk, then picked up the headphones. "Yes, Admiral, he's right here." He tossed the headphones to Grant.
"Grant here, Admiral. Any luck?"
"I've got two with last names that match what you gave me...an ensign on the Hadley, and a first class machinist mate on the sub. There was a first and last name match belonging to a weapons’ officer on the Hadley." Morelli held his breath as he waited for Grant's response.
"That's gotta be him, sir!"
"Oh, Christ! I didn't want to believe it. You're sure it's Donovan? Mike Donovan?"
"We should have positive confirmation soon, Admiral. I don't remember if I met him on the Hadley. The Team stayed pretty much to itself after the ship picked us up."
Morelli chewed the tip of the Havana right off, spitting it across the desk. "Look, you get back to me with that confirmation. I'll wait here all
night if I have to."
Grant grabbed his cap. "Brad, stay here in case the Admiral or Mullins call. Come on, Joe."
"Where to?" Adler asked as he reached on top of the shelf for his hat.
"I'm going to the bridge."
Adler stopped dead in his tracks. "You're going where?"
"I've got to force him to make a move. He has to know who I am by now...I want him to know. You stay out of sight then come and call me. I'll need an excuse to leave."
Ten minutes later, Grant walked onto the bridge. Captain Donovan was sitting in his swivel chair, facing sideways toward the port window. The fog had all but dissipated, leaving water droplets on the glass. He rested his head against his palm as he read the message traffic board lying in his lap.
"Hey, Chief Stevens, isn't it?" CAG said loudly as he walked over to shake Grant's hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw Donovan’s head snap up, the chair start to turn, then stop. Yeah,you bet your ass you know who I am.
“You haven’t met the captain,” said CAG as he started toward the forward part of the bridge. “Captain, this is Chief Stevens."
"It's too bad we couldn't have met under better circumstances, Captain," Grant said. Donovan nodded in acknowledgment, but there was a visible slump to the shoulders as an ashen but hard face stared at Grant Stevens. He remained quiet, his vocal cords feeling as if they'd been severed.
"Excuse me, Captain," interrupted Joe Adler as he walked quickly across the bridge, "but Chief Stevens is needed down on deck two."
"Let's go, Senior Chief. Hope we can talk again sometime, Captain." Grant gave somewhat of a salute and immediately rushed from the bridge. Donovan regained his composure, glaring into the back of Grant Stevens.
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