"On the way back here the XO sent someone after Commander Simmons. He reported to the bridge. Lieutenant Britley and his men were gonna finish with cleanup then make a sweep with the sniffer, just in case."
Ten minutes later, after showering and changing into his sweatpants, Grant was on the phone with Morelli. "Yes, sir. I'm okay, Admiral, at least nothing that a few bottles of pain killers won't cure." Adler put two aspirins and a glass of water on the desk, smiling to himself, knowing how much 'Panther' despised taking pills.
In the silence of his office, Morelli sat rigidly in his swivel chair, staring out the window with Grant's voice in the background explaining about the RAM and after-steering devices.
Adler opened the door for the Executive Officer. Masters dropped the passport and ID on the desk. Grant opened the passport, staring at a man who had led two lives. He told Morelli about the two items, finally saying, "I guess these put the final period on the chapter of Mike Donovan, Admiral."
"Except for the hearing and paperwork, Grant...and we still have the Rachinski to worry about."
"Has a decision been reached on that issue, sir?"
"I expect an answer any time." Morelli reached for a cigar from the hand-crafted walnut humidor. He rolled the cigar between his fingers, staring at the paper band before biting off the tip of the cigar. Concerned about Grant's physical condition, he asked, "Are you going to be capable of carrying out whatever orders come back?"
"No problem, sir." He could only hope that wasn't a lie. "Admiral, I don't think we should wait for the Russians to make a move. Senior Chief Adler and I are going aboard the Bronson. I've already notified Agent Mullins."
"Whatever you think is best, Grant. I probably don't have to caution you, but don't jeopardize this assignment...or yourself."
When Grant took off the headphones, Masters was on his way to the door. He turned halfway around. "If you don't need me anymore, Commander, I'll get back to the bridge."
Grant eased himself slowly off the chair. "You've got a lot to do, XO. Thanks for your help." The two officers gave quick salutes to one another, then Masters rushed from the locker.
Adler started to unbutton his shirt, until Grant said, "Don't get too comfortable, Joe, we're shifting over to the Bronson soon. Talked with Mullins, and he's making preparations."
Adler stepped closer to him, a concerned look on his face as he scrutinized Grant's eyes. "You don't look so good, sir. You sure you wanna do this?"
Grant maneuvered around him and slowly walked over to the mirror above the small sink. "I don't see us having much of a choice, Joe."
Leaning closer to the mirror, he raised the corner of the bandage, inspecting the fine, black threads of the stitches where a patch of brown hair used to be. He flinched when he yanked the dressing from his head, noticing the dried blood as he dropped it in the trash. He reached overhead and removed a Band-Aid from the medical kit then squeezed some antiseptic on it. "Joe, can you have a couple of your men get our diving gear together?" He turned seeing Adler nodding. "And we're gonna need the scooters. Next, request that the XO give us the use of a chopper. Tell him we need it standing by." He went to the closet and removed a clean khaki shirt and trousers from the hanger, each movement slow and cautious.
"Going somewhere, sir? I mean, shouldn't you be--"
"Thinking of changing rates, Joe?" Adler looked puzzled, his brow furrowing as Grant added, "You're sounding more and more like the Doc."
"I was only..."
"I know, and I appreciate your concern, but I'm feeling better." He patted Adler's shoulder. "We can't come to a standstill, 'cause you can bet your ass the Russkies aren't about to." He stared down at the floor a moment as he buttoned his shirt. "I've gotta think this out," he said while tying the laces of his Cordovan brown shoes. "I'm just going to the fantail and take in some air. I expect it'll be quiet since the XO canceled everything but breathing." He glanced across at Adler as he stuffed his shirttail into his trousers. "You've got your orders."
"Right on it, sir."
Zipping up his jacket, Grant shoved his hands into the side pockets and started walking aft. Stepping through the last watertight door, he looked beyond the darkness of the vast cavernous space and went to the fantail. He leaned against the edge of the port bulkhead, staring out at the ink-colored Sea of Japan. The moon intermittently disappeared behind threatening clouds, occasionally casting its light on the water off the port quarter of the carrier. All was quiet except for the sound of the carrier's screws, agitating the water into a white, foaming frenzy, leaving a distinct, trailing wake. He glanced overhead with the cold wind whipping around him, bringing with it a hint of high octane jet fuel. These were the same smells, the same quiet, the same darkness, reminding him of his Bolivian mission as he stood on the helo pad with his team, waiting for the helo to crank up. This was his life. All these things were part of his life. But tonight it wasn't the cold that sent a chill through his body.
His head ached. The throbbing wouldn't go away. He tried to revert to mental concentration by invoking his karate discipline and blotting the pain from his mind, while he turned and went back into the darkness, walking toward the forward bulkhead. The aroma of hydraulic fluid drew his attention to the winch, and he noticed a small puddle of liquid under the brake.
Sitting down heavily, he pressed his back against the bulkhead, wedging himself in behind the towing winch, then he pulled his knees in toward his chest. Hidden behind the intensity of his eyes was a mental imagery of a game plan he was attempting to piece together, a means for stopping the Russians.
Even though Donovan was out of the way and the explosives were disarmed, the Rachinski had no way of knowing that and they'd be proceeding with their plan. But he had to come up with an alternate plan, depending on whatever Washington approved. What was it Morelli said? Keep an eye on anyone Donovan may have been close to? He had already dismissed the notion there was anyone else in the task force to worry about. As disturbing as it was, his instinct told him it went a helluva lot deeper than that. Just how deep was the question. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling the stubble. "Christ! You're turning to shit, Stevens."
Twenty-five minutes later a metallic clanking sound shook him from his concentration. He bent forward and glanced around the winch toward the fantail. The adrenaline shot through his body, sending additional pain into his head. "What the hell...?" A telescoping grapnel hook had anchored itself to the edge of the waterway at deck level. "Shit!" he whispered. "I don't need this now."
Instinctively, his hand shot down to the knife strapped to his leg. He knelt down and scooted backward into the shadows behind the winch, the razor-sharp, black knife blade pressed against his cheek. He froze in place, hardly breathing, straining to hear every sound. A faint squish of a wetsuit booty exuding water as its owner stepped onto the deck, put the exclamation mark on his suspicions.
The unknown commando, his silenced, stainless steel weapon at the ready, crept steadily and cautiously toward the winch that would be his first hiding place. He peered carefully around the winch and through the open door that Grant had not too long ago come through. Seeing no movement, the commando took his first step toward the side of the door, swiveling his head back and forth, checking every angle.
The moment he started for what was to be his second hiding place, Grant sprang out. He instantly grabbed the commando's Norinco 9mm with its silencer and shoved the weapon to the side. In less than the blink of an eye, with all the strength he could muster, Grant plunged the eight-inch steel blade upward into the assailant's chest, cutting through the wetsuit, through the flesh, right below the sternum. In a true 'sentry silencing' technique, he ripped in side to side several times. The sheer force of the attack drove the commando backward, Grant pushing his own body against the intruder until both fell hard on the deck, groans coming from both men.
For an instant, Grant felt as if he were going to pass out, the blackness closing around him. But his own survival prevaile
d, and with renewed strength he jammed his knee into the commando's groin, his hand pinning the weapon against the deck, pressure on the knife never easing. Blood began gushing from the wound, slowly beginning to seep into the porous wetsuit. Grant held his position until the would-be assassin stopped struggling, the body twitching before going completely limp, a prolonged gurgling sound escaping from his throat, the final breath leaving his body. Yanking his knife from the chest, Grant pushed himself away, falling on his butt. With his chest heaving, he rested his head against his knees for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. When he looked up, he was staring at the body of a stranger, a stranger who Grant assumed had more than likely come to eliminate him, someone who did not have the intention of dying for his country.
He turned the Russian's head to the side and looked into a face streaked with dark hues of camouflage paint. The Russian didn't appear to be much older than him. There was a deep, jagged scar running down the left side of his cheek and another splitting his left eyebrow in half, both conjuring up visions in Grant's mind on the possible causes.
The hammer and sickle insignia carved into the weightbelt's buckle drew his attention. He unbuckled it, then jerked it from beneath the heavy, muscular body. He perused the belt as he moved his hand up and down as if trying to determine its weight, a twisted smile showing on his lips. "This will come in handy.”
Noticing a steady stream of blood rolling down the outside of the wetsuit, Grant knew what he had to do. "Gotta make him go away." He reached down and grabbed hold of the Russian's ankles, dragging the wetsuited body across the deck, leaving a dark blood-smeared trail. "It wasn't meant to be my turn, Russkie," he grunted under his breath. The wind swirled around him, his pants legs flapped against his legs. He stared down at the Russian before kneeling down and shoving the body under the footline and off the fantail. He leaned forward, his brown eyes focusing impassively on a sea being churned by massive screws, watching the body flopping around in the percolating, white-green water before finally disappearing.
He took a deep breath before bending down near the edge of the deck and picking up the telescoping hook, then he flung it out toward the open sea as if throwing a boomerang. Lying on his stomach, he leaned over the edge and cut the line attached to the fantail ladder, releasing the small, black rubber boat the Russian had attached there for his getaway. Grant didn't know it then, but with this one move he had guaranteed luck would remain on his side.
Feeling a stickiness between his fingers, he held up his hand. It was something he was very familiar with. He turned, looking for a water source and then walked over to the water washdown hose, used to wash salt off equipment. Holding his hand under the nozzle, he stared, somewhat mesmerized as the fresh water washed away the blood. He picked up the knife, rotating the blade back and forth under the water, then dried it on the side of his pants. He slipped it back into the sheath strapped to his leg. Pressing his thumb against the end of the hose, he aimed the strong spray against the dark, red stain, forcing it along the deck till the last drop washed over the edge.
When he got back to the EOD locker, he saw Adler kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, arranging various IED materials. Scattered around him were batteries, tape, clips, wires and detonators. He looked up when Grant walked in, noticing his disheveled hair and clothes. "Uh, don't take this wrong, sir, but you sure look like shit. I'd advise you to stop thinking if this is..." He stood up and squinted his eyes, recognizing the dark red stain on the jacket, alarmed it might be Grant's. Then he saw the Norinco. "What...?" A heavy "thump" from the weightbelt dropping on the desk cut his words short. He picked it up, his expression changing instantly, mostly from confusion. "Where the hell did you get these? What the hell's going on, sir?" Adler shook his head as he examined the Russian's weapon. "Jesus! Now there're foreigners lookin' to zap you! You're one popular dude, sir!"
Grant collapsed on the edge of the bunk and threw his jacket on the floor. He squinted in pain as he rubbed his forehead. "Yeah...real popular."
Adler went to the desk and picked up the water and aspirins that Grant ignored earlier. "You'd better take these. So, you gonna tell me what happened?"
Grant leaned back gingerly against the wall and gave a shortened version of the incident. Staring down at the floor, he muttered, "Can't believe part of this scheme was for Donovan to do me in, Joe. It had to be a snap decision on his part. It had to be." He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe Vernichenko would have authorized him to do it, not as long as he was still needed to pull this thing off."
"Why send a commando then? Pretty risky, too, don't ya think, sir?"
Grant nodded. "Guess I was getting to be too much of a pain in the ass, Joe. He must have had a lot of faith in that guy, though." He mumbled under his breath, "Think my KGB buddy must still be carrying a grudge."
"Sir?"
"Remind to tell you sometime, Joe," he grinned. Then, as if the incident never happened, he changed the subject. "Now, fill me in."
Adler sat on the edge of the desk, confirming everything Grant had requested earlier. "The XO's secured a chopper for us. I asked that it be brought down to the hangar bay so we can load our gear." He glanced at his Benrus and tapped its face. "It should be out there." The radio sounded and Adler flipped the switch on, handing Grant the headphones.
"Commander," said Morelli in his official tone of voice, "you may not like this, but your orders are to capture the trawler, and if possible, with all hands intact, keeping them on board. You're to transfer the mini-sub to the carrier. Once you've succeeded, the Commies will be told and the trawler will be steered to a location near Russian waters where it will be anchored. Russian and Chinese representatives will be "invited" to watch a demonstration of the Bronson's power, with an implied threat, of course." Morelli hesitated slightly before adding, "If you encounter problems, any problems, the final outcome will rest in your hands. Do you understand, Commander?"
"Yes, sir. Understood." There was a brief pause in the conversation before Grant spoke up. "Senior Chief Adler and I are preparing to depart for the Bronson. Agent Mullins will be assisting us."
*
Aboard the Rachinski
Vernichenko looked at his watch and pressed his face to the porthole in the communication's office, trying to see through the blackness. His excitement grew with the anticipated return of Kiriatkin and the completion of another successful mission. His breath fogged up a small section of the glass and he wiped at it with the back of his fist. He asked anxiously, "Is the signal still growing stronger?"
The radio operator pressed the earpiece against his ear, tilting his head, trying to pick up any change in the sound being emitted by the device on the raft. He answered with surprise, "It...it's growing weaker, sir."
Vernichenko spun around, his voice a deep, fierce roar. "Weaker?" The startled seaman nodded.
A tracking device had been attached to the motorized rubber raft that First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin took to reach the Preston. Once Grant had cut it loose, it rode on the currents, eventually drifting into the wake of a Navy supply ship close to the stern. Tossed about, taking on water, it grew heavier, the surface pressure from the screws finally dragging it under.
Vernichenko was about to call the bridge to change course toward the raft, when suddenly, the seaman pulled the earpiece away, a look of disbelief on his young face. "It's gone, sir. The signal--it's no longer there."
Vernichenko's immediate thought was Kiriatkin had been lost at sea. He turned back to face the window. The commando would never receive the accolades for his brave act. A photo of First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin passed through Vernichenko's mind. The tall, muscular, thirty-nine year-old officer had stood proudly on the trawler's deck in his black wetsuit, saluting before going over the side of the Rachinski and into the rubber raft. Knowing Kiriatkin the way he did, he was astonished this could have happened.
Vernichenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, then withdraw one with his lips
. The match flared, reflecting in the porthole's glass. He lit the cigarette, his thoughts quickly changing. Things should be easier for Alexei now with Stevens no longer there to annoy him. He smiled, raising the burning match toward the porthole as if in salute to Kiriatkin.
But the KGB officer was failing to adhere to his own guidelines--never assume.
Chapter Nine
USS Preston
Aft hangar bay
2300 Hours
Two EOD men shoved the gear toward the rear of the helo, sliding the two scooters in last. The scooters resembled small bombs, eight inches across and two and a half feet long. They each had watertight electric motors and batteries, with a small protected propeller in the rear. A handle was attached to both port and starboard rear fins. Similar to a motorcycle's operation, rotating the handles forward or back determined whether the scooter dove or headed for the surface.
"You're all set, Senior Chief, Commander!" Brockton yelled above the sound of rotating blades as he pointed inside the helo. "And the scooters checked out."
"Okay, Jerry,” Adler nodded. "You two get back to the locker."
The men saluted Grant, then ran aft to the locker. Grant and Adler stood next to the Sea King, dressed out in drysuits, their face masks hanging around their necks.
Grant turned to Simmons. "Brad, call Mullins and tell him to ask Kodiak to bring the Bronson's speed to under five knots. Then, call Admiral Morelli. Let him know we're on our way. I'll contact him once we're settled."
"Good luck!" Simmons nodded then reached for Grant's hand, then Adler's.
The elevator rose to the level of the flight deck. The helo pilot brought the engines to full power, the sound continuing to disrupt an unusual silence. The Sea King lifted off the deck with its two passengers leaning out of the opening, scrutinizing the carrier's flight deck, an absence of activity painting an eerie picture. They noticed, also, that the F-14 in which Donovan perished had been taken to the forward elevator and brought down to the hangar bay. Grant's thoughts went to the pilot of that ill-fated plane, and he shook his head. "CAG's gotta get that guy flying soon, Joe." Adler agreed.
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