Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  The chopper increased power, climbing to an altitude of 20,000 feet. When they passed 15,000 feet, Grant and Adler went on O2. They checked the tanks again, adjusted the straps on the oxygen masks and finally inspected the chute. Their swim masks were in place, hanging around their necks. Last, they secured their 'hushpuppies', the silenced, stainless steel .45s that were water-tested. They shoved the .45s back into their chest holsters and fastened the Velcro strap.

  The pilot shouted over his shoulder, "We're almost at the drop zone, sir! Standby for green light!"

  Grant raised his hand in acknowledgment. "Here we go, Joe. Stand in the door."

  Adler nodded his head. "If we've gotta finish it, this is as good a way as any!" A grin broke over his face and he looked at Grant. "Hey! Is this where we do that 'Geronimo' shit?"

  The two were about to make a tandem rig, high altitude high open (HAHO) jump from 20,000 feet into an atmosphere with a temperature of twenty degrees below zero. HAHO's were a silent insertion technique designed to strike fear and confusion into an enemy, by drifting silently into their midst from the blackness above. They'd be breathing oxygen from a belt tank flowing into an aviator-style mask and would continue using it down to a breathable air level. They both instinctively cranked open the O2 bottle, then checked their face masks and tightened their crotch straps.

  "Joe, inflate your vest at 3,000 feet."

  "Roger that!"

  The green light came on overhead. They quickly exited the helo, Grant opening his chute almost immediately. As soon as he checked the tether lines and canopy, he nudged Adler and he released the stabo line used to drop a commando lower than the 'flyer'. Adler dropped twenty-five feet below Grant. The line was attached to Grant's chest straps, so both men were riding the same chute.

  Their landing site was barely distinguishable, a speck of light in a vast sea, six miles away--the Rachinski. As they drifted silently, Grant got a quick fix on the still experimental GPS electronics package. He signaled Joe with a thumb's up as they drifted silently, then he checked the Rachinski's course. She hadn't changed.

  After passing 14,000 feet, they removed their oxygen masks, letting them hang from the tanks attached to the front of their belts. After Adler dropped off, Grant's plan was to land on the fantail of the Rachinski, just as they had trained on mock raids during naval exercises. The difference this time was that Grant Stevens had every intention of being captured. It was the only way. The plan had to work or his ass would be in the wind.

  At 3,000 feet Grant was maneuvering off the bow of the Rachinski and had a good head wind to keep aloft. At 1,500 feet they were forward of the starboard bow. With Adler hanging twenty-five feet below, just about at the level of the horizon, his detection was almost impossible when viewed from the trawler's bridge in the dead of night. And heavy, dark storm clouds rested against the horizon, making it a perfect night for the operation.

  With one hand Adler held the magnetic pads tightly hanging from his utility belt by three foot pieces of rope. At twenty-five feet, he released the tether line. Legs together, head tucked in, life vest inflated, he hit the water heels first. He immediately popped up to the surface as the trawler started passing in front of him. With a swift motion, he pulled his swim mask up over his face, then cleared the water from it. With a couple of powerful kicks, he was at the trawler. He slammed the magnetic paddles against the trawler and holding on tight, he felt his body slide aft in the wake.

  With the chute gliding down the starboard side, Grant swung inward. When he was about ten feet above the deck, he released the chest straps, and at four feet, pulled the leg straps' quick release and slipped out of the harness. He hit the deck and rolled to the side in a picture perfect PLF (Parachute Landing Fall). He instantly came up on one knee, raising his Uzi, anticipating a response.

  And the response came within seconds. Armed Russians were running down both port and starboard sides of the trawler heading straight for him. The taller Russian yelled commands in Russian and then in broken English to Grant, ordering him to lay his weapon down, then to get to his feet.

  As he raised his hands, Grant thought, It's good to be home. No doubt, the Russians were waiting for him. He was positive now...there had to be a leak in the chain of command, and a helluva lot deeper than he'd thought.

  Five AK47s were pointed directly at him, the muzzles as close as four feet. With the rocking of the trawler, and with everyone trying to maintain their balance, it would have been easy to escape--but that was not in the immediate plan.

  One of the guards shouted an order, and instantly, another cautiously walked toward the American and collected the 'hushpuppy' strapped to his chest. After handing it to one of his comrades, he returned to Grant, patting him down. Finding nothing, he shook his head, then returned to the ring of guards.

  Grant smiled to himself, biting his tongue, not letting on he understood them. He glanced up when he saw movement on the afterdeck of the wheelhouse. The silhouetted figure stared at him for a long moment, his hands motionless behind his back. He started toward the ladder leading down to where the American was standing. Grant strained his eyes to give some substance to the silhouette approaching him, but he had a good idea who it was.

  As the Russian reached the bottom step, he looked at the American again. His slow, heavy footsteps pounded on the deck as he walked, stopping within two feet of Grant.

  Sergei Vernichenko fixed his stare on him, a stare as cold and emotionless as a dead man's. He drew his arm from behind him and put his cigarette in his mouth, drawing in deeply. He studied Grant before bellowing in broken English, "Your name! Who are you?"

  Grant couldn't let on who he was, not yet. "Smith, Chief John Smith.”

  "And Chief John Smith, what could possibly bring you to the Rachinski...alone?"

  Grant started to reach for the pouch on his utility belt, when one of the guard's shouted, "N'yet!" nudging his rifle into Grant's stomach.

  "I came to deliver something to you," Grant said.

  Vernichenko stood motionless, then gestured for the guard to back off. Grant reached inside, withdrew Donovan's Russian passport that was sealed in plastic and flipped it at Vernichenko, who showed no response, no emotion while he glanced at the photograph. Finally, he looked up at Grant. "So, you have captured Alexei. I suspected so after--"

  Grant shook his head. "N'yet."

  This time, Grant noticed a fleeting moment of surprise from the Russian. "So, you have disposed of him. He was careless." Trying to sound unconcerned, he added, "We were through with him anyway because he no longer fit into the remainder of our plans. You have done me a favor, Chief Smith."

  "Do you want to fill me in on what was supposed to happen if we hadn't disarmed the line cutters he planted?" Grant asked as he tried to balance himself against the trawler's rocking motion.

  Vernichenko pulled his shoulders back, staring hard at Grant. "With your steering capabilities gone, our commando was to set the timer of the self-destruct mechanism on the Bronson, then steer it into your angle deck, igniting your fuel and ordnance, destroying the Bronson and as much of the carrier as possible. You would have assumed it was just an unfortunate accident. And Alexei would have, shall we say, disappeared in the melee while, in fact, he was to be picked up by the commando."

  "It appears your plans have been sidetracked," Grant said mockingly.

  Vernichenko nodded, but then answered, "Perhaps we do not have your weapon, and your Bronson still prowls the ocean, but we do have what we were truly after...the microchip."

  "You got the chip," Grant continued, searching for more information, "and we got our mole."

  The Russian pointed a finger at Grant. "Ahhh, you must remember, just because you cut off the head of a snake peering from beneath the bush, you still do not know how far the body stretches."

  That was all Grant needed--final confirmation. There was someone else involved. He glared into the Russian's eyes as he reached down and unfastened the weightbelt, hurling it
against Vernichenko's feet. One of the guard's reacted instantly and rammed the butt of his rifle hard into Grant's right kidney, dropping him to his knees.

  Vernichenko was distracted by the incident momentarily but said nothing. Then, he glanced down. His eyes narrowed, straining to focus on the belt. He reached down, taking hold of the buckle, the hammer and sickle insignia coming into the light. His head snapped up, the same anger rushing through him as that day in Cuba. He did not have a good feeling about this American.

  Grant got up slowly, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He stared at the Russian before finally straightening up, already relishing the next few minutes. It was his turn to take over the controls. "We haven't been formally introduced...you are KGB Officer Vernichenko, I presume?"

  Sergei stared at the American, a unusual chill running up his spine as he nodded. He leaned closer to Grant, then asked between clenched teeth, "And you are Smith?"

  "I lied! My name's Stevens, Commander Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy."

  The sound of the weightbelt slamming on the deck echoed across the trawler. A guard jumped aside as it narrowly missed his leg. Vernichenko's voice exploded. "N'yet! It can't be you!"

  Grant's brown eyes flashed as he stared dead on into the KGB officer's face, taking a step forward, intentionally trying to provoke the Russian. "Believe it, friend!"

  Vernichenko looked at Grant in disbelief, as an impression of his dead friend, Andre Mishenski, stood out clearly in his mind's eye. "It was you in Cuba...you who was responsible for the murder of my men!"

  Grant shrugged his shoulders, his mouth turning up into a half smile. He was now playing the role of taunter, on the offensive, not letting up. His voice was intentionally loud, his Russian flawless. "Da. And would you like to know what happened to Alexei? Should I also describe my encounter with your would be assassin? Would you like to know what I did to his body?"

  Veins stood out in Vernichenko's thick neck like tree roots rising from the earth. He bellowed, "Enough! I can assure you," he hissed, crushing the cigarette beneath the toe of his black boot, "this will be the last time we shall meet." He took a step closer to the American, a grim, unnatural look contorting his face. Each word sounded sharp and distinct. "We shall be rendezvousing with our submarine soon, Commander Stevens, for transferring the microchip." Eye-to-eye with Grant, he repeatedly poked his index finger into Grant's chest, leering at him. "And then, I think I will also transfer you to them...but only after I have finished with you! Do svidaniya, Commander Stevens, U.S. Navy!" He spun around and shouted to the guards, "Bring him forward!"

  Grant silently scoffed, Transfer my ass! Not in this lifetime, Russkie!

  The armed escort prodded him along the port side of the trawler, when the boat suddenly lurched. Unnoticed, Grant had the opportunity to loosen his sleeve. Two CIA developed MK36 impact smoke bombs, each the size of a quarter, slid into his palm.

  Meanwhile, Adler had made his way to midships, planting an IED against the side of the trawler, setting the timer to four minutes. The mine had a magnetic face with a shaped charge inside. He crimped the chemical pencil attached to the charge. It contained acetone that would eat its way through a thin plastic washer. Once it did, the firing pin would ignite the detonator and the charge would cut through the three inch thick hull allowing sea water to come raging through the orifice, pouring into the engine room at 300 gallons a minute.

  He was getting dangerously close to being caught up in the pull of the screws, but he continued moving further down the side. He planted another IED, this one closer to the screws, closer to the ordnance stowed beneath the deck used for the trawler's rear three inch deck gun. This timer was set for three minutes.

  He pushed off and swam hard away from the trawler, stroking and kicking as fast as he could to escape being sucked under. Once clear, he turned, seeing the Russians with Grant ahead of them going forward toward the bow, his mind telling "Panther" to hang on just a little longer. Swimming towards the port side rendezvous point, he set off his mini light for Grant's easy detection.

  Grant was counting the minutes, anticipating that Adler would complete his work on schedule. Trying not to be conspicuous, he quickly scanned the water, seeing the mini light bobbing in the water. That was the signal!

  He hurled the two bomblets, laced with chlorine and with contact fusing, onto the deck. Within the blink of an eye, he dove for the black water.

  The instantaneous explosions released thick smoke, engulfing the Russians. The caustic material burned the eyes and lungs of everyone on deck. A few involuntary bursts of AK47 rounds cracked the air.

  Grant dolphin kicked hard to separate himself from the trawler's wake current and broke clear of its pull. As the force lessened, he surfaced about thirty feet away, the trawler's stern just passing him. He set off the tracking device attached to the inside of his sleeve.

  "Commander! Over here!" yelled Adler.

  Grant laid into the familiar frogman's kick, swimming long strokes toward Adler, knifing through the choppy water. They both looked up and saw the Russians, still in pain from the chlorine assault, some of them vomiting, others rubbing their eyes.

  Grant spotted Vernichenko halfway up the ladder, leaning against the arm rail, wrenching violently. Nearly all of the chlorine cloud had disappeared. The KGB officer was desperately trying to find the American through the smoke and darkness. "Get that spotlight back here!" He jumped off the ladder and raced down the port side, hanging over the railing. The light found its mark. So intent on killing Grant, Vernichenko failed to put two and two together, not questioning the appearance of a second diver. "Shoot! Shoot!" The blinded guards fired aimlessly into the water off the stern.

  Adler shouted, "I think we've really pissed them off, sir!" Bullets spewed erratically around the two Americans, with the Russians being still partially blinded. "Shit!" Adler spat out.

  Grant snapped his head around, toward his teammate. "What!"

  Adler had his hand pressed against the front of his right shoulder. "Caught one in the same damn spot!"

  Grant reached out and grabbed Adler's left arm, dragging him and shouting, "We're getting outta here! Hang on, Joe! We're goin' under!"

  "Go!" Adler yelled back, sucking in a lungful of air laced with saltwater.

  After swimming at a depth of fifteen feet for a minute, Adler signaled he was okay and Grant let go. Staying at a shallow depth, they swam as hard and as fast as they could for another minute. Adler's shoulder throbbed. The freezing water seeped into his suit. The strength in his arm was deteriorating, so he tucked his hand into his belt. His lungs ached and he pulled hard with his good arm, until he felt Grant take hold of it.

  No longer hearing the staccato sound of AK47s or the zip sound of bullets hitting water, the two Americans surfaced. Grant unbuckled his UDT life vest and slipped it over Adler's head, pulling it tightly around him. With the loss of blood and cold water seeping into Adler's suit through the bullet hole, Grant knew they didn't have much time. "Press it against your shoulder!"

  He looked back, seeing the menacing shape of the Rachinski coming hard to port, powerful light beams splitting the night, guiding its way. "Goddammit!"

  "This isn't a good thing, sir!" Adler yelled.

  Without warning, and less than fifty feet from them, the coal black sail of the SSN Bluefin slowly broke the water's surface, the red port navigation light coming into view.

  Grant shouted, "Hang on, Joe!" He pulled Adler in a cross-body carry, sidestroking to the sub. Yes, Captain Stafford; timing is everything!

  Stafford scurried through the hatch into the topside Conn, grabbing the 1MC and yelling, "Man the deck gun!" Six sailors poured out of the hatch, two of them ramming a 40mm gun into a deck mount while another slammed a full magazine into the top of the gun.

  Aboard the Rachinski, Vernichenko had raced into the wheelhouse, his face distorted with anger, screaming at the helmsman, "Ram them! Kill the Americans!" The helmsman's face turned ashen.
Jerking his head around, he fixed his stare on Captain Boris Belenko, waiting for confirmation.

  "N'yet!" shouted the Captain defiantly, immediately barking his own orders. "Right full rudder!" The helmsman spun the wheel rapidly. Belenko turned sharply, confronting Vernichenko. "If we kill the Americans and ram the submarine, we will surely start a war. I will not do it, Comrade. I will not risk my boat and men for you or your mission! It is more important that we reach Captain Zeneski's submarine!"

  Vernichenko grabbed the Captain's arm, crushing the uniform sleeve in his fingers. Pulling on Belenko's arm as if trying to wrench it from the shoulder, he shouted, "Look around you. Who is to know?"

  "You fool!" Belenko shouted, yanking his arm away from Vernichenko's grasp. "You know their submarine doesn't operate independently. By now someone knows where they are and what they're doing! Enough!" Vernichenko bristled. He was like a man gone mad, losing all sense of reasoning. His hand dropped to the handle of his pistol. Belenko lowered his stare to the KGB officer's pistol. "I can assure you that would be your death warrant, Comrade Vernichenko."

  Two plumes of white water rose into the air, the shells fired from the Bluefin landing close to port midships of the trawler. "Look! Look!" Vernichenko swept his arm overhead. "You've been fired upon! You must defend yourself! Ram them!"

  Captain Belenko shook his head, glaring into the reddened, angered face. Vernichenko knew he'd lost and rushed outside, racing down the port side toward the signal bridge. His knuckles turned stark white as his thick fingers curled around the rail, his mind imagining Commander Stevens' neck locked in his muscular grip. "N'yet! N'yet!" he shouted.

  Two lifelines were thrown over the side of the sub into the choppy sea. Grant reached for a lifeline and quickly tied it under Adler's arms. He shouted up at the sailors hanging over the edge. "Pull him up! He's hit in the shoulder! Get him to sickbay!"

  They pulled hard, reaching for Adler then quickly covering him with a blanket. Grant gave a quick glance over his shoulder as he grabbed the line. "Come on, goddammit! Let's get it over with!"