As quickly as a bolt of lightning strikes, his leg struck Donovan in the left shoulder, knocking him sideways. The gun's muzzle flashed, the sound reverberating in the hangar bay. Grant's body slammed backward into the bulkhead, the right side of his head feeling like it had exploded. He collapsed on the deck.
Hearing the shot, men working in the hangar bay came to a dead stop, unable to see into the darkened areas, until they saw a figure racing at full speed, slipping in and out of the shadows.
Donovan kept running without looking back. There was nothing left for him on the Preston, and it was impossible to go back to his cabin to get the remote control. He had to commandeer a helo and fly to the Rachinski. His mind was already plotting a story to tell Vernichenko in order to cover his ass. They'd have to come up with an alternate plan. There was still time.
"Stop! Captain Donovan!" Adler jumped from the ladder. There was no sign of Grant, and after hearing the shot, he feared the worst.
Donovan ignored Adler's shouts and only quickened his pace. He jumped onto the third step of the metal ladder, nearly losing his balance just before he grabbed hold of the handrails, then he scrambled up to the next deck, knocking aside two stunned seamen in the process.
Adler yelled again, "Captain!"
Somewhere behind him he heard a shout. "Stop him, Joe!" He snapped his head around, seeing Grant staggering, blood running down the side of his face, motioning with his hand for Adler to keep going.
Donovan was running at full bore, his gun hand hanging by his side, his index finger loose around the trigger. He ran down the outer passageway then leaped through an open watertight door, bounding across the flight deck, focusing on a Marine chopper poised on the angle deck.
He didn't hear the warnings being shouted at him, paid no heed to the sound of the engines. Captain Donovan, a.k.a. Alexei Pratopapov, in an instant, disappeared into an F-14's right intake, his upper body ground to pieces like meat passing through a meat grinder.
The .38 clanged against the aircraft before dropping on the deck like a rock. The aircraft shook and vibrated as the turbine began breaking up. The pilot's face turned stark white. With a voice screaming in his headset, he immediately shut down, then he and his RIO scrambled out of the cockpit, running clear of the plane.
Grant caught up to Adler, resting his hand against the bulkhead, steadying himself. Both of them had seen it happen before, but still, they stared at the sight in disbelief. "Christ!" Grant muttered through clenched teeth.
CAG and Air Boss Dodson came running out of the Roost, leaning over the edge of the wing along the superstructure, momentarily stunned into silence. Dodson ran back inside the bridge yelling, "Cancel launches! Cancel launches!" Two F-14's, two A-6's and the E-2C were making their final approach; rescue choppers hovered close by. "Radio incoming flights and bring 'em in!"
Simmons and XO Masters peered down from Vultures' Row. Masters shouted over his shoulder to an ensign, "Get the Admiral and Doc Matthews!" Simmons came rushing down the superstructure's outside ladder with XO Masters close behind.
Adler turned toward Grant, staring into a pale face, the right side covered with blood. "You'd better sit down, sir." Grabbing hold of a blood-soaked shoulder, he forced Grant down to the deck. Grant nodded weakly, wiping blood away from his eye, briefly cradling his head with his hands.
Brad Simmons ran up to them. He sounded out of breath, mostly caused by shock. "Doc's on his way."
Grant's vision was blurred. He looked up and tried to focus on Masters. "You've got the bridge, XO."
Masters nodded, then made a beeline back up the ladder, hustling back to the bridge. He passed the word down to send emergency messages to the rest of the fleet. They were all to cut back on their speed and to stand by for further orders. As fast as the Communication's Office could do it, a scrambled message was sent to each ship's captain.
Doc Matthews knelt beside Grant, pulling a square piece of battle dressing from his bag, holding it against the wound, immediately issuing an order to the two corpsman. "Get him to sickbay."
On the stretcher, Grant felt as if his head was an erupting volcano. Fighting to ebb the flow of vomit slowly creeping up into his throat, he struggled to remain conscious. "Brad, contact...Admiral Morelli...right away, with confirmation."
"Will do, sir."
A half hour later, the XO and Admiral Hewlett made a search of Donovan's cabin. "Admiral! Look at this!" Masters called as he opened the black leather box. He lifted out a strip of black velvet. Hewlett reached for the material, staring at the awards presented to Mike Donovan. Among them were Vietnam Campaign, Vietnam Service, Meritorious Service, Presidential Citation, Naval Commendation, and his Naval Aviator Wings. On the bottom of the box, hidden beneath the Navy ribbons was a Russian passport and official photo ID belonging to Alexei Pratopapov.
Admiral Hewlett handed the two items to Masters, total distress clearly showing on their faces. He turned slowly and went to the safe, reaching toward the back. He brought his 5'9" frame to its full height, running his hand across his receding hairline. "I think we'd better go to sickbay, XO, and check on Commander Stevens. But first I want Lieutenant Britley to report here on the double."
"Sir?"
Hewlett held out his hand, a small, black object resting in his palm. "We need EOD...now!"
Masters' blue eyes widened, "Oh, my God.
*
Sickbay
2145 Hours
The antiseptic smell of a ship's sickbay was no different than that of a hospital operating room. Brightly lit, the room's sterile atmosphere was distinctly noticeable with the abundance of glistening stainless steel equipment and white sheets that covered beds and examining tables. Medical supplies, drugs, operating equipment were methodically organized behind locked, glass-fronted cabinets.
"How ya feel, sir?" asked a concerned Joe Adler as he rolled the stool closer, noticing Grant's face was as colorless as the fluorescent lights shining above him.
Grant sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the examining table. "Have one bitchin' headache, Joe," he said with a forced grin, as he gingerly touched the bandage just above his temple. "Feel like a real ass for letting it happen," he commented mostly to himself. He squinted, still unable to bring Adler into complete focus. "Was Morelli contacted?"
Adler nodded. "Admiral Hewlett spoke with him. He wants to hear from you as soon as you're able."
Grant started sliding off the table when Doc Matthews mustered alongside, placing a hand on Grant's shoulder. "Hold it, Commander, you shouldn't be up!"
"No offense, Doc, but I...don't have much use for hospitals." For an instant, there was an unmistakable change in his expression and eyes. Only Adler recognized it. "Excuse me for a minute," Grant muttered. On his way to the head, it took total concentration to keep himself walking in a straight line.
Adler watched him till the door closed, then he turned back to Matthews. "He was serious as a heart attack about that, Doc."
"What? You mean about hospitals?"
"Yeah." He stood up, anchoring his thumbs in his pockets, glancing at the closed door, then back at Matthews. "It was during his last trip to Nam. He'd been there five months when his wife, Jenny, came down with some kind of viral infection and was rushed to the base hospital. She was there for three days." Adler stared into the doctor's face. "She died before he could get home."
Grant opened the door and slowly walked back toward the two men. "I'd like to go back to the EOD locker with Senior Chief Adler, Doc. Okay?"
The doctor scanned the chart, then clicked the top of his ballpoint pen and began making notations. "Well, Commander, you've got a bruised shoulder, a mild concussion and several stitches. Will it do me any good to tell you you've got to take it easy?"
"I hear ya, Doc." Grant put on the blood-stained T-shirt, pressing his leg against the bed to try and keep himself steady, hoping Doc Matthews didn't notice.
Matthews continued writing while he said, "No sleeping for eight ho
urs and no sun for twelve hours." He looked up at Grant, pointing the pen at him. "Agreed?"
"Roger that, Doc."
"Commander Stevens, how the hell are you?" Admiral Hewlett interrupted as he walked through the doorway. Following close behind Hewlett were XO Masters and Lieutenant Britley. Adler jumped up, standing at attention. "At ease, Joseph," said Hewlett, motioning with his hand.
Adler's jaw tightened. Joseph? He smiled and nodded at Hewlett. "Admiral."
Grant's head was spinning like a whirlpool and he swore to himself. He leaned back against the examining table for support. "I've been better, Admiral."
Hewlett showed something of a smile. He removed his cap and brushed his hand briskly over his crew cut, salt and pepper hair. "I'll want a full report as soon as you can muster one, Commander."
"Very well, sir. I was just on my way back to the EOD locker to call Admiral Morelli on the sat uplink."
With a questioning look, Hewlett shifted his eyes to Doc Matthews. "You're releasing this man from sickbay?"
Matthews shrugged his shoulders and nodded, "Yes, sir. But if the commander wasn't in such good shape, I can guarantee he wouldn't be experiencing such a remarkable recovery."
Hewlett took a step closer to Grant. His astute observation told him Commander Stevens was in no physical condition to be released. More importantly, he was in no condition for what he was about to ask of him. "Commander, we found this in Captain Donovan's stateroom." He motioned to Britley.
Grant reached for the small remote control, shaking his head, knowing immediately what he was holding. The size of a pack of cigarettes, the remote ran off a preset frequency. There were two buttons, green for safety, and red for armed. On the side was a toggle switch that transmitted the deadly signal. "I should have seen something like this coming, Admiral. I should have known." He held it out towards Adler. "I can assure you, sir, we'll get on it immediately." He glanced at Britley. "John and his team will be assisting."
Hewlett stroked his chin, and with concern in his voice he asked, "Do we have to worry that there may be timers on whatever devices are out there, Commander?"
Grant looked at Adler for final confirmation, then back at the Admiral. "No, sir. That's a remote control detonator switch. It's the only way." He swallowed hard, suppressing the wave of nausea sweeping over him again. "Except...we don't know where or how many there are, sir."
Hewlett stared for a moment at Grant, then briefly at the small device. "I'll leave it in your hands, Commander."
Grant came to reasonable attention with somewhat of a slight list to port. "Yes, sir."
With Simmons and Britley leading the way, the four men made their way back to the EOD locker, with Adler hanging close off Grant's starboard quarter.
Once sealed behind the vault door, Grant cautiously pulled his blood-stained T-shirt over his head and threw it in the trash can. He slumped down on the bunk, scrunching a pillow behind him, then rested his head against it, resisting an unknown force that was attempting to slam his eyelids shut. Adler sat on the desk across from him, Simmons and Britley to his right. "John, you bring the sniffer box?" Grant finally asked.
The sniffer enabled the team to test for the presence of explosives. By holding a tube inside a compartment, a sample of the air would be taken, the needle on the unit recording anywhere from 0% to 1% parts per million.
"Never leave home without it," Britley grinned, while he hauled his stocky body over to the footlocker.
"Good. We need to get it warmed up." Grant held his hand out with the remote in his palm.
Adler studied the unit, when his eyebrows shot up, his balled up fist hitting against nothing but air. "Ya know, sir, that looks similar to what we use with our cable line cutter."
The cable cutter was a small box with a minute amount of explosives inside. An open hook was on one end that was used to hang the box from a line or cable. Once the remote control set off the explosive charge, it would eject a blade that would cut through the line.
Grant sat up straighter. "Joe, I'd bet a buck the explosives are in the RAM room or after-steering."
"Good place to start, sir."
"Can you round up your team, John?" Britley nodded. "Joe will hit the RAM; you go to after-steering."
"On my way." He grabbed his cap off the desk, then two walkie-talkies from the cabinet. He stopped by the door. "I'll report back every fifteen minutes."
Adler slid off the desk and walked to the metal cabinet, asking over his shoulder, "Weren't you gonna call Morelli?"
"I'll wait till this is over. Joe, hand me one of those headsets, then you take off. Brad, go with the Joe. Check back in with me to make sure these units work, Joe," he said holding up the headset.
Five minutes later, Grant responded to Adler, "You on low band?"
"Yes, sir. No one is on this frequency. I've checked it out."
Grant fingered the mouth wire and single ear receiver. The tiny device was used by the Teams to talk during CQB situations and other forced entry and clandestine operations. "Joe, where are you?"
"On the third deck, sir, midships." His stride was long, as he wove in and out of sailors and equipment on his way down to the fifth deck, the location of the RAM room.
"Copy that. Talk to me again when you get to the RAM."
Adler started cantering down the passageway with Simmons staying close. "Wait, sir! How about the boiler rooms?"
Grant shook his head. "Don't think so. Since the CO did this, it would have been hard for him to get around down there without being recognized."
"Right. How about the weapons area?" Adler immediately answered himself, "Hell, no. Not while he was on board."
"Check the RAM, Joe. Right now that seems to be the most logical."
"Back to ya later, sir."
Grant slouched down in the chair, resting his throbbing head against the padded backrest while he waited for Mullins to answer. "Tony, can only talk briefly."
Mullins swallowed a mouthful of Coke. "What's goin' down? Get your orders?"
"Captain Mike Donovan, a.k.a. Alexei Pratopapov. It's over for him."
"Jesus! This is unbelievable. I bet they're ready to fry his ass without even a court martial."
"No can do, buddy. His ass is already fried."
Mullins sat down in what looked like slow motion. "What...? I'm listening, Grant."
"The order came back to terminate with prejudice. I forced his hand, tried to draw him out, and we had a run-in down in the hangar bay. The bastard nailed me first, unfortunately."
"Hold it! You mean you're not in one piece?"
"Still got all my body parts, except for missing a piece of scalp. Anyway, he took off and ran onto the flight deck right during flight ops, and--"
"Oh, man, don't tell me. He didn't get caught up in an intake, did he?"
Grant nodded and let out an extended exhale. "Yeah. You guessed it."
"Jesus," Mullins said quietly.
"XO Masters has assumed command." Grant pushed himself upright, feeling dizzy and nauseous, but mostly feeling pissed for getting himself into the situation to begin with. "There's more." He explained about the remote control and the places the EOD team was searching. "Tony, once the units are removed, Joe and I are going to pay you a visit. You're still number one in the Russkies' playbook, whatever the hell that plan is. I'm positive no one else here in the fleet is involved and with Donovan out of the way, I think we'll be more effective from there."
"Think you're right. But are you up for this?"
"Have to be."
Mullins tried to lighten the moment and immediately added, "Tell ya what...I'll milk ol' Bessie out back then bake some chocolate cookies."
That got an immediate laugh from Grant, unfortunately, it also made his head throb even more; he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against the lids. "Sounds good. In the meantime, call Kodiak and request they bring you closer, say within one click. Joe and I should be able to hold our breath that long!" he joked. "Pos
ition her off our starboard side. We'll be departing from port, hoping to keep Ivan from seeing the helo lowering us. Will call before we lift off. And, listen, Tony, I think we may have a link higher up, too." Grant closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Still thinking it out right now, but what I know is that Donovan or Vernichenko had to have an uplink in higher places. You copy?"
"Uh, yeah. I copy. Between you and me, right?"
"Right, 'Mountain Man'."
"Christ, Grant! You're some party crasher! Be seeing ya!"
Grant switched off. Now, he just had to wait for Adler. It was all too quiet in the locker, and with the steady drone of the carrier's engines sounding in his ears, falling asleep would be all too easy. "Get up, Stevens, you've gotta keep moving."
He lost count of the number of times he'd went from one end of the room to the other, but his thoughts were in constant motion. Something just didn't jive. Why did he have the feeling this was deeper than what he already knew? He went back to thinking about Donovan. He must have planned a way to get off the ship. How? And what was supposed to happen if and when the steering lines were cut? Was it just to be a way to slow the fleet down? Donovan had run to the flight deck, probably to commandeer a helo, but that couldn't have been the planned escape. Somewhere from the back of Grant's mind he drew out the night he and Adler used the MSV. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Shit! He was gonna go over the side through the outcroppings, lifeboat and all!" Just then his headset sounded. "Talk to me, Joe."
"Sir! We found the damn things! RAM Room and after-steering, sir!"
"Good work. Can you handle them?"
"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Britley will take care of after-steering. It shouldn't take long."
Grant continued his pacing, waiting for Adler's return. Finally, the locker door opened. "Done, sir," Adler grinned broadly. He dropped his gear next to the bunks and then his headset on the desk.
"Good work, Joe, but give me a blow-by-blow later. I'm gonna shower then call Morelli." He looked at the door again as he started stripping off his Navy shorts. "Where are Brad and John?"
Mission Critical Page 12