Once clear of the port side angle deck, the helo dipped closer to the water, hovering in place while a scooter was lowered, with Adler hanging on from the cable above it. Grant followed the same procedure. The backwash from the helo's blades and light sea chop tossed both men and equipment around in the water. Finally, a cable was attached to the cocoons, lowering them to within reaching distance. Grant looked up at the pilot and signaled him with a thumb's up. Attaching the cocoons to their utility belts, they started the motors of the underwater scooters, waiting for the carrier to pass. Then, they put the units into a shallow dive, running only ten feet below the surface, steering towards the Bronson.
*
USS Bronson
Tony Mullins stood at the stern, chewing a fresh piece of bubblegum. He raised the night vision binoculars. The Rachinski's running lights showed it was positioned at one six five degrees off the Bronson. "Ah-ha! There you are, you bastard!" Mullins stepped over to the port quarter looking for any sign of Grant and Adler. They'd instructed him to have two lines ready, each with a hangman's knot that was to be lowered to the waterline. He leaned over, seeing the ropes bouncing on top of the Bronson's eight knot wash. Just as he looked at his watch, there was a noticeable change in the sound of the engines. He smiled and shook his head, still amazed. Kodiak responded on schedule...the Bronson was now moving at a snail's pace.
Two dark forms began emerging from the sea, rising and falling on the waves. Mullins was tempted to shine the flashlight but remembered Grant said no extra lights. “Over here!" he yelled.
The two divers aimed their scooters toward his voice. Once next to the ship, Grant and Adler attached the cocoons to one of the ropes. "Pull it up," Grant yelled, "then drop the rope back down!"
They followed along with the scooters, until Mullins lowered the second rope, then they climbed the ropes after attaching a scooter to each one. Dropping over the side onto the deck, Grant immediately pulled off his mask and gloves, a smile on his face as he reached out, grabbing hold of Mullins' outstretched hand. "Tony! Great to finally meet you."
"You, too, Grant!"
"This is Senior Chief Adler, my partner in crime," Grant said as he began hand-over-hand motions to haul up the scooter.
"Agent Mullins," Adler said with a nod.
"Please, call me Tony," he said as the two shook hands. Adler turned and started hauling the scooter up the side. "Here," said Mullins, "let me help." He grabbed the rope, then said over his shoulder, "Listen, before we go below, let me show you where our 'friends' are."
With the scooters stored at the stern, Mullins stood close to the rail, pointing with his finger and said, "There it is."
"Can I borrow your spy glasses?" Grant asked. Just the slight pressure of the binoculars pressing against his forehead sent a sharp pain across the back of his eyes. His vision blurred and he shook his head. "Goddammit!"
Mullins looked questioningly at Adler, who shaped his hand to resemble a gun, then pointed to his head. Mullins nodded in understanding. "Hey, let's get the hell out of the cold, and I'll give you a personal tour after Kodiak winds this baby back up."
*
Aboard the Rachinski
Two Russian divers knelt beside the mini-sub, making final calculations, ensuring the battery was fully charged and finally, tightened the bolts holding the platform beneath the sub. The two jumped to attention at the sound of Vernichenko's voice.
"You are ready?"
Reznakov and Grimecko answered in unison, "We are, sir!"
"When you have finished here, come to my cabin and we will discuss the details one last time."
At 2315 hours the three men were sitting around the wooden table examining the black and white sketches of the Bronson, drawn accurately to scale, each showing different angles. Vernichenko pointed to their objective. "You must ensure the safety of the microchip at all cost, even more so than the weapon itself." He put the cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he spoke. "The microchip and weapon are the most critical parts of the ship. With that technology, we will be on equal ground with the Americans.
“You will neutralize the American on board, then wait for my signal. Then you'll immediately send an encoded message to the ship's command center, advising them of a course change." He pointed a finger at Resnakov. "You will stay aboard while Grimecko leaves in the sub. When you are close to the carrier, that is when you will set the self-destruct mechanism. There will be much confusion among the American ships, giving you time to pick up Alexei and come back here. Once you have returned, we will rendezvous with Commander Zeneski for transferring the chip and weapon." Vernichenko stood, both divers immediately jumping to attention. "Synchronize your watches. It is now 2330 hours. You'll leave the Rachinski at precisely 2345 hours." He gave each man a hard stare. "You have your orders." The divers snapped a rigid salute, then rushed from the cabin.
*
USS Bronson
Grant and Adler had changed into their fresh sweat clothes and strapped on their .45's. They unpacked the Uzi's and carried them along, instinct telling them to be prepared.
"This is still unbelievable," Grant said as they walked inside the bridge.
Going down to the 03 level, Mullins led them to his private mess hall and poured fresh, hot coffee into standard, white Navy cups. "Come on," he motioned, "and I'll show you SNAGS and the brainpower for this baby's weapon. Expect that's what the Russkie's are most interested in."
Up one level, the totally secured, watertight room was not what the two visitors imagined. The walls, deck and overhead were stainless steel. A sliding deck hatch responded to a coded signal from a small hand-held opener, not unlike a garage door opener, except the consequences would be extremely harsh if the wrong code was punched in. The unlucky individual would suddenly be holding a half pound of barastol explosive, instantly turning into thousands of pieces of flying shrapnel. Mullins removed the remote from his shirt pocket and pressed the accurate code. The hatch slid sideways like a pocket door.
"So, this is what our friends would like to get their sticky hands on," Grant remarked as he stepped through the sliding hatch opening, immediately walking to the SNAGS, examining and memorizing every detail. The small 'dish' sat on the rails that led up toward the overhead hatch.
Mullins led Grant and Adler to a control panel set against the port bulkhead in the room and pressed a black button recessed in the five-inches of steel. A 14"x24" panel lifted, revealing a small rectangular box. "This is it," he smiled. "Inside here is the chip that controls the weapon. This is what the Russkies are asking Santa Claus to bring 'em!" The controlling brain of SNAGS was one microchip, its prongs secured to the green 'mother board' located in the upright panel.
Grant and Adler leaned closer, Adler asking, "What would it take to remove..."
"Hold it!" Grant said in a hushed voice. "Did you hear something?" Instinctively, he and Adler snapped around and pointed their Uzi's toward the sound.
All heads turned as if trying to hone in on anything unusual. Mullins walked quietly to the open doorway, searching all angles down the passageway, then shook his head. "Seems clear." He went back to the panel. "You wanted to know how to remove this, Joe?" Adler nodded.
Grant's gut told him all was not right, and he moved closer to the door. Mullins pointed inside the panel. "There's a small clip behind this and you just pop the board out or pull the chip from the board."
"That's it?" Adler responded, surprised, while trying to get a closer look.
"That's it," Mullins replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess the masterminds figured the coded remote control door opener was enough."
Adler shook his head disapprovingly. "Always need a backup...right, sir?"
"You got that right, Joe," Grant answered, then quickly turned his attention back to the passageway.
"This is the backup," Mullins grinned. "Down in the computer and communications center there's the master chip sealed in a secure place. If anythin
g happened to the master, this backup would kick in. Kodiak will receive a signal automatically. Come on, and I'll show you the center, the last stop on the tour, gentlemen," Mullins said as the door closed behind them. "It's my home-away-from-home."
Grant looked at his watch. "Okay, but then we've gotta get ready to move out," he said, cautiously looking up and down the passageway.
They went below to the next level. This time, all three stopped in their tracks, Grant and Adler bringing their Uzi's to the ready. They squatted down and scanned the passageways.
"Shit," Mullins whispered, as he reached for an empty holster, remembering he'd left it on the bridge when he went to wait for his visitors. He pointed to his empty holster, motioning to Grant he was going topside. Grant drew his .45 out of his shoulder holster and side-armed it to Mullins without looking.
With their backs pressed against the bulkhead, Grant and Adler crept sideways along the passageway, looking into each crevice, whispering "clear" to each other to declare the areas searched and to let each other know where the other was. Both strained to distinguish where the sound was coming from. Mullins was on the opposite bulkhead, Grant's .45 in his hand, pressed against his cheek. He motioned for them to follow him to the Computer Center, figuring they'd have more protection once inside. He entered the code on the bulkhead panel, while Grant and Adler stood alongside, watching and listening.
First, Mullins crouched, then rushed into the compartment, covering the right side, then Adler entered, covering the center, sweeping his Uzi back and forth. Grant was nearly through when he heard the escape hatch open above them.
Glancing up, he saw a wetsuited Russian thrust his AK47 through the opening, no more than twenty feet above them. Grant dove behind the bulkhead as AK47 rounds chewed up the paint where he just stood. The noise from the firefight was earsplitting.
Grant and Adler rolled onto their backs and simultaneously returned fire at the hatch but it immediately slammed shut. Mullins scrambled behind the computer console, staring wide-eyed at the wires and cables hanging from the back. "Whoa! This is not a good place!" He crouched low, quickly moving out to the side. "Grant! There're extra Uzi clips behind you in the locker!" Grant heard him but didn't respond; his stare was glued to the hatch.
In the same moment he had called out, Mullins went completely pale, seeing the panel containing the master chip partially open. "Oh, Jesus! Grant! Cover me!" He scooted across the floor and punched in the code. "It's gone! Those bastards got the chip!" he yelled. In the confusion, he failed to notice the red light blinking on the console, the signal that Kodiak knew something had happened to the master chip. Now he raced for the console, calling Kodiak with a brief message.
Adler and Grant shot a glance toward Mullins, then at each other. Adler made a quick scan of the passageway, then shouted, "It's clear! Let's go! Let's go!" Without a word, the three of them scrambled up the bulkhead ladder. Grant reached the hatch first and a quick look assured him the Russians had vacated the area.
Seeing they were in a no-win situation, the tallest Russian commando called to his comrade, "Move, Reznakov! Back to our boat!" As they ran, Grimecko made a quick check that the chip was secure inside his wetsuit.
Within seconds both Russians had clambered backwards through another compartment opening, pulling the hatch closed behind them. Grimecko took the butt of his rifle and hammered it into the control buttons, then he turned and raced to the fantail. Their final objective was to avoid being sucked into the Bronson's churning screws. They reached under the footline and found the ropes hanging from the suction cups attached just below the waterway on the ship's main deck. Jamming the scuba mouthpieces into their mouths, they hung onto the lines and slid into the churning water just rear of the screws, the driving force of the water battering them around like rag dolls. They held on, literally, for dear life, as the rushing water forced them back toward the rudder.
Grimecko had set the side planes of the sub down two degrees causing it to stabilize at a depth of fifteen feet off the Bronson's fantail, beyond the rudder. Now, they worked their way back down the line attached to the small sub, head first, hand-over-hand. Resnakov floated into the rear seat, feeling a sharp pain in his calf, and reaching down, touched a small bullet hole.
The sub lurched forward, Grimecko immediately steering hard to port, sending the sub into a dive, then leveling off at fifty feet. He bit down hard on his rubber mouthpiece, imagining what Vernichenko's reaction was going to be. They failed to complete their mission, never expecting to find three men aboard...three heavily armed men. There had not been enough time for them to try and contact Alexei, to signal him to set off the explosives. But they also had no way of knowing Alexei’s fate.
Back on the Bronson, Grant and Adler raced topside, each of them heading for a different section of ship, trying to find any sign of the Russians. Grant ran aft and yelled "clear!" after checking the midships' passageway. Adler had gone forward and seeing nothing, headed aft, Mullins trying to catch up to him. The Russians disappeared, leaving only traces of blood droplets leading aft.
Gathering momentarily on the fantail, they looked at the wake and blood and knew that was how the Russians left. They moved topside to the bridge, Mullins the first to speak: "All I can say is that those two sure had some balls! Christ!"
Grant took his .45 from Mullins and slipped it behind his back, shoving it into his belt. He wondered how the hell the Russians knew the codes to get into the escape hatch and the computer center, and more importantly, the panel with the chip. Could Donovan have known? But Grant's nagging concern that there might be someone else higher up involved was turning into reality.
Adler stared fixedly at Grant's eyes, seeing the hunter/killer instinct that the SEAL had honed to a razor edge. "Sir?!" he called. "Whatcha got on your mind?" He knew that somebody was going to be in deep shit.
Grant looked up, a scowl creasing his face. He walked toward the forward part of the bridge, his whole demeanor reminiscent of a pissed off cobra with a machine-gun. He turned back to face the two men. "The hunt's on again, guys. Somebody else is involved...and I smell meat." The term was used by combat-hardened SEALs denoting a fellow SEAL who "had been there, had taken no prisoners." He was known to his team as a "meat-eater."
Grant focused again on Mullins. "Tony, you contact Kodiak?"
"Yeah," he said out of breath. "They were ready to 'drop a cow'. I got them just in time." He slammed his fist against the bulkhead. "Fuck! I warned the Agency about something like this happening. Nobody wanted to listen!"
"Know what you mean, buddy," answered Grant nodding his head. "I voiced my opinion about putting SEALs on board to back you up." Shifting gears, he got back on track. "Joe, suit up. Make a quick check of the outer hull and make sure those divers didn't leave any 'boomers' behind."
"Aye, aye, sir." Adler nodded and left immediately.
"Tony, call Kodiak back and ask them to bring the Bronson to a crawl so Joe can make his inspection. I'm gonna start getting our gear together."
"You're going after them, aren't you?" grinned Tony Mullins. Grant nodded, then gave a sideways motion with his head. Mullins took the hint. "I'm outta here," he said over his shoulder, leaving for the Communication's Center.
*
Friday, January 31
0200 Hours
Adler and Mullins were on the stern transferring gear to a cocoon. Already changed into his drysuit, Grant was in the control center, winding up a conversation with Brad Simmons but not giving him all the specifics of what he had planned. "Brad, call Admiral Morelli on scramble with the details of what's happened and tell him we're going after the Rachinski."
"Will do. What time do you want that chopper?"
Grant looked at his watch. "Have it here at 0215 with the equipment I asked you to get." Simmons acknowledged, then Grant added, "Got to contact Captain Stafford. Talk with you later, Brad."
They had to move now, under cover of darkness and before the trawler could make a run
for it, although, his gut feeling told him Vernichenko would get the chip off the Rachinski, probably onto a sub.
During the night the Bluefin rode closer to the surface, trailing an antenna, 'listening' for messages. She'd get one tonight that read: "Captain Stafford. Need your help. Must talk on secured line. Commander Stevens." Grant could only wait, knowing Stafford would have to break radio silence.
Within five minutes, he heard the familiar, deep voice in his headset. "You looking for another ride?" Stafford laughed.
"Not this time, sir. We have a critical situation."
Stafford's back stiffened. "Talk to me, Grant."
"Sir, has your radar picked up a Russian sub in the area?"
"As a matter of fact, a Victor class was on the screen last night. We tracked it for awhile then it disappeared, that is, until two hours ago."
Grant's suspicions were confirmed. He and Stafford discussed plans, and as with their first meeting, timing was going to be everything. "Thank you, Captain. That's right...when you hear the signal, surface."
At 0215 hours the chopper was overhead, lowering a horse-collar. Grant ran down the starboard side toward the stern, just as Adler grabbed the cocoon. Grant immediately fastened a weapons’ vest around Adler's arm. With a thumb's up, Adler slowly lifted off the deck.
Grant turned to Tony, grabbing his hand. "Wish us luck!"
Mullins shook his head in disbelief. "Man, I can't believe what you guys are gonna do!"
With a tight grin Grant replied, "Hey, that's why we get all the good duty stations!" The winch started hoisting him up as he shouted down at Mullins, "Get some more cookies ready for the party!"
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