For a couple of fleeting seconds, a muffled sound rumbled beneath the dark sea before the fantail of the Rachinski lifted from the water, erupting in a ball of fire. Smaller explosions immediately followed as flames devoured ordnance. The deck was awash in an orange-white glow, fire enveloping everything in its path. The inferno ignited fuel, hurling particles of ship metal and casings skyward and into the wheelhouse, shattering windows, striking bodies. With its screws destroyed, the trawler continued veering right out of control, smoke and flames beginning to surge throughout. A second charge ignited, opening a hole in the bulkhead, water pouring into the engine room. The trawler's list was unmistakable.
Grant was being pulled up the side of the sub. He rolled onto his back, staring at the trawler just as a final, violent explosion shook it, blowing away the remaining section of wheelhouse. The Rachinski's starboard side was completely underwater, the port side just a smoldering, blackened shell. As if being sucked down by a giant vacuum, the trawler disappeared beneath the Sea of Japan. The trawler and all aboard ceased to exist beneath a bubbling, steam-filled sea.
And then there were none, Grant scoffed without remorse, remembering Cuba and the face of Sergei Vernichenko.
Chapter Ten
NIS Headquarters
Admiral Morelli stared down at the message on his desk, smoothing the edges with the back of his hand. The secured flash message was sent by Brad Simmons from the Communication's Center of the Preston, quoting Grant word for word: "Nothing to fear from the Bear or the Dragon. Put them to rest. Grant."
Petty Officer Gardner buzzed the intercom, reporting that Secretary Allington was on the line. Morelli picked up the phone as he looked around the office. During the past few days, the only time he'd left was to shower and change. His aide, Ensign Pritchard, had brought him his meals. His gaze stopped at the couch, staring at the pillow still crumpled against the armrest.
Allington cleared his throat, his voice sounding anxious, exhausted. "Admiral Morelli? You have any news?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I just received word from Commander Stevens." He read Grant's message, then answered, "Yes, sir. Everything is under control. The incident's been defused. Once you resume conversations with the Chinese and Russians, Mr. Secretary, I'm certain they will not be taking any action. There shouldn't be anything more to worry about. The Commander will explain further when he returns."
*
USS Preston
Flight Deck
January 31
0815 Hours
Lieutenant Greg Connelly snapped a ready salute, and an instant later the AE-6B Prowler catapulted from the USS John Preston, beginning its long journey. Carrying spare external fuel tanks, the Prowler would be pushed to its limit since its mission was critical--deliver two passengers to Andrews Air Force Base.
Sitting in the rear seats behind the pilot and navigator, dressed in dark green flight suits and white helmets with red lightning bolts on the sides, were Grant Stevens and Joe Adler. The cramped quarters and long flight, with only one brief stop and three in-flight refuelings, would leave the four men weary and stiff.
*
Andrew Air Force Base, Maryland
A raw wind accosted the Prowler as it touched down on Runway 19L of Andrews Air Force Base, the tires screeching when rubber met concrete surface. The jet shuddered as Connelly threw the two powerful Pratt & Whitney engines into reverse, the force of the landing jolting all four men forward against their seat harnesses. Smoke and debris, caught by the wind, propelled outward from the tires, further blackening the remnants of a recent snowstorm lying in scattered piles along the edges of the runway.
Oblivious to the deafening noise pervading the aircraft, Grant stared out the port side canopy of the rear seat. But it was an empty stare, with questions and decisions racing through his mind. Where was he supposed to start? He'd have to get the okay from somebody.
He and Adler stepped down onto the tarmac and into a cold, fifteen knot wind smacking against their faces, the wind chill factor was seven degrees above zero. They stood by the jet as the navigator handed them their flight bags. "Thanks for the lift," Grant said, shaking hands with Connelly then with Lieutenant(j.g.) Gomez.
"Our pleasure, sir," responded Lieutenant Connelly, "just sorry the in-flight service wasn't up to par." He elbowed the navigator in the ribs and laughed.
Grant forced a smile without responding. He had too much on his mind. Adler shot him a sideways glance, then answered Connelly. "Uh, no problem, sir. We enjoyed the flight. Thanks for getting us safely back on home soil."
Grant started to leave, then said as an afterthought, "Listen, we'll get these flight suits and jackets back to you." Without waiting for a reply, he started walking away.
"No rush, sir," Connelly answered, his voice trailing as he looked questioningly at Adler.
"Come on, Joe," Grant called over his shoulder.
Both men pulled the fur collars up around their ears, Adler holding his arm close against his body, preventing unnecessary motion inside the sling. Their pace quickened and they made a dash across the runway. On the concrete sidewalk, patches of ice glistened under the harsh lighting of the entrance to the Operations building.
Grant held the door open for Adler. "Come on, Joe, we've got shit to do."
They went down the deserted main hallway, their footsteps echoing on the polished, hard flooring. Finding the men's room around the corner of the first passageway, they changed into their uniforms then continued down the hall. A black arrow on the sign at the bottom of the stairway pointed up to the main Operation's office on the second floor.
Grant could only hope that Buckley was in. He knew there was a secure phone in the office and Buckley was the perfect choice. He and Commander Stuart Buckley first met in Vietnam when Buckley was a Sea Wolf helo pilot. The last time they saw one another was in Coronado. Stu was a helo pilot attached to North Island supporting the students and Grant was teaching 'tadpoles' at school.
"Jesus," Adler said as he shivered, "I'm still cold. How 'bout a cup of coffee before we go in, sir?"
"No," Grant answered sharply. He immediately regretted his response and shook his head. "Sorry, Joe, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You know we've gotta get this done."
"I know, sir."
They walked to the large double doors marked "Operation's Office." Both men removed their caps, tucking them under their arms.
As Grant reached for the handle, Adler stopped him. "Commander, this is gonna mean..."
Grant nodded. "Yeah, Joe."
The large Operation's Office consisted of rows of metal desks, some back to back with tall gray file cabinets lining two walls. The bright overhead lighting was in sharp contrast to the dull decor. Although only a few early birds were in the office, the sound of ringing telephones continued to intermingle with clicking typewriters keys and slamming file drawers. Nothing appeared to distract or change the flow of business.
Grant and Adler maneuvered around three rows of desks, then turned toward the glass-enclosed office. A stocky man, shorter than Grant, with gray, short cropped hair, was in the outer office with his back to them, talking to his secretary. "Peggy, pull those two down off the board and send them to the south hangar. They're due for A&P inspection."
"I'll take care of it, Stu," replied Peggy Harrelson as she made a notation on the steno pad.
"Hey, Stu!" Grant called as he pushed the door open further.
Buckley's blue eyes widened when he turned and saw Grant, immediately flashing a broad grin. "Well, you ol' snake-eater! Where've you been?" Their hands slapped together in a firm, friendly handshake. He nodded, acknowledging Adler.
"This is Senior Chief Joe Adler, Stu," Grant said.
Adler and Buckley shook hands, Buckley asking, "Didn't you use to be with the Teams?"
"Yes, sir," Adler smiled.
Buckley turned back to Grant. "This is quite an occasion. You've gotta want something bad," he laughed. "When a steely-eyed, trained
jungle fighter isn't in his cammies, he's lookin' for a favor!"
"You're right, Stu. We've gotta talk."
Buckley's smile gradually faded, noticing a disturbed expression on Grant's face, detecting a somber tone in his voice. "Peggy, we can pick this up later this morning."
"Alright, Stu. I'll go check on the report Frank's putting together." The veteran secretary picked up her stenography notebook from the edge of the desk. She nodded to the two strangers as she passed by them, closing the office door behind her.
Stu turned his attention back to Grant, placing a hand against his friend's back. "Let's go into my office."
A brief conversation took place, Grant relaying a minimal amount of information. "I'd like to use the scramble phone, Stu."
"Sure. No problem. You want I should leave?"
"It'd be best."
"Understood. I'll go get a cup of coffee." Stu noticed Adler giving an almost pleading look in Grant's direction, so he asked, "How do ya take your java, Senior Chief?"
"Black, sir. Thanks."
Stu started opening the door. "How 'bout you, Grant?"
Grant sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his chin leaning against his fists. He shook his head, not even looking up.
For several moments, Grant and Adler sat quietly in the office, Grant finally dialing the secure number he knew by heart, the number of the Secretary of Defense.
*
Office of the Secretary of Defense
Allington's staff had not yet arrived, except for his secretary, Francine. He answered the intercom. "Yes, Francine."
"There's a Commander Stevens on line one."
"Thanks, Francine." He pressed the blinking yellow button. "Commander Stevens! Where are you?" he responded with surprise.
"I'm calling from the Op Center at Andrews, sir."
Allington shuffled through the scattered papers on his cluttered desk. "Morelli and I spoke, but I don't recall him saying when you were coming back, Commander, or did I just miss something?"
"No, sir, I didn't give a specific time. And you're the only one in the chain of command that I've spoken with since I've been back." Grant cleared his throat. "A situation has developed that I feel requires your personal attention, sir," he said running a hand over the top of his head. "I need to speak to you and the National Security Advisor. It's a matter of deep concern and one of national security, sir."
Allington coughed and sat forward, resting his arms on his desk, while eyeing the empty pot of coffee on the credenza. "Do you want me to put you on scramble?"
"No, sir. I'd rather not discuss this any further over any phone. We need to meet face-to-face, as soon as possible, sir."
Allington took a deep breath. He knew Grant wasn't given to dramatics. This had to be something heavy. "Hmm. I see." The SecDef ran his pencil along the page of the leather covered appointment book, nearly every line filled for that day. He adjusted his glasses, looking through the bifocals. "There's a 9 o'clock meeting at the Japanese embassy. Those things never start on time, anyway, if you needed extra time. How does 'as soon as you can get here' sound?"
Grant glanced up at the overhead wall clock showing 0715 hours. "That'll be fine, sir, but it shouldn't take long. I just need your guidance, and that of the President's."
"Hold on a minute, Commander." He pressed the intercom button. "Francine, try and find Allan Wooster. Let me know immediately when you do." On the line again with Grant, he said, "My secretary will try and locate Alan Wooster, but we may have no choice other than to put him on the scrambler. Will that do, Commander?"
"Yes, sir." Grant looked over at Adler, who was massaging his sore shoulder. "Senior Chief Adler is with me, sir. He'll be able to corroborate what I'm going to discuss with you. He played a major part in a successful mission, sir."
"Yes, that's what I understand. I'd like an overview today on that situation, Commander, before the official inquiry. Will that be possible?"
"Yes, sir."
Francine cracked open the office door and Allington looked up. "Hang on, Commander." He covered the phone as his secretary relayed a message. "Commander? Wooster's on the other line. Hold on." After a brief moment, Allington got back to Grant. "Commander, Wooster will be here."
"Thank you, sir. The Senior Chief and I will leave immediately."
Allington swiveled his chair around, staring out his office window from the fourth floor of the Pentagon. On the southwest side, beyond the George Washington Parkway, the street and house lights of Crystal City began to lose their glitter in the cold morning's early light.
He loosened his blue paisley tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his white Oxford shirt. "Alright, Commander. You're very serious, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, I am. As I said, it's a matter of national security."
After hanging up the phone, Allington stood by the window, then turned when he heard the door open.
Francine stood in the doorway, curling one side of her chin length, auburn hair behind her ear. "Would you like me to put on a pot of coffee?"
"You can read my mind, Francine. Oh, by the way, I know you were planning on doing some research in the library this morning, but would you mind staying in the office for awhile?"
"Not at all,” she responded as she walked to the credenza and picked up the percolator. “I'll just give Pete a call. This will be a good excuse for him to take me to an early lunch." She smiled and left.
Within a short while Francine announced that Grant and Adler had arrived. "Send them in," Allington said. He glanced over at the National Security Advisor.
Wooster sat in the leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. He nervously tapped his fingers on the armrest.
Thirty minutes later, Grant was wrapping up a full explanation on the events leading up to Donovan's death and the sinking of the trawler. The SecDef and National Security Advisor drilled both Grant and Adler, not leaving a stone unturned.
When all questions were asked and answered, Wooster finally said, "Commander Stevens, the Secretary said you mentioned you had a security issue to discuss."
Everyone focused on Grant as he began, "Mr. Secretary, Mr. Wooster, this is going to be very difficult for me." He got up and slipped one hand into a pocket of his dress blues trousers. "Very difficult," he said quietly under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adler straighten in the chair.
Grant started talking, his voice deep and controlled. "I'd like you to cast aside the areas of coincidence and look at everything through a non-jaundiced eye." The men nodded. "As you know, Admiral Morelli and I were stationed briefly at the American Embassy in Moscow during the NATO Strategy meetings back in '70. The Admiral had requested that I take the security chief position when I expressed an interest in staying in intelligence.
"There were official receptions following the meetings. Sergei Vernichenko was in attendance at the meetings and receptions." Grant glanced momentarily out the window, then lowered his head, before looking again at Allington. "Sir, I personally observed Vernichenko and Admiral Morelli leave the receptions together and not return until approximately one hour later."
"Commander," Wooster growled quietly as he stared at Grant through squinted eyes.
"Please, sir, please. I just ask that you hear me out." Wooster sat back again.
Allington's voice was just louder than a whisper. "I assume you spoke to the admiral immediately about your concern, Commander."
"Actually, sir, the admiral approached me with an explanation."
Wooster uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "And what was that, Commander?"
"Vernichenko had been with the KGB only a short time, sir. The CIA said they received intel from the inside, making them believe that Vernichenko was willing to become a double agent. The admiral said he had instructions to make contact with him."
Wooster stood by his chair, sliding his foot back and forth along an invisible line on the deep, blue carpet. "And didn't that sit right with you, Commander?" his t
one slapping with cynicism.
Grant brought himself to his full height, at least seven inches above Wooster's. "At the time, sir, it was a very reasonable explanation. As I said, I was new to the position, still learning, and the admiral was my boss. But I did file away the incident," he said pointing to his head. "It's a habit I learned early on, sir."
He took a few steps toward Adler, then turned. "Plans for the Bronson were well past the drawing board stage when the first meeting was held in Moscow, sirs. You're already aware that the Admiral was part of the initial design team for the ship."
"He was one of many, Commander," commented a clearly agitated Allan Wooster.
"Of course, sir, but it's also fact that Admiral Morelli and Vernichenko have crossed paths numerous times since 1970. We also know that very few...very few men had the codes for the Bronson." He smacked his fist into his palm with each statement. "The commandos knew the codes. They knew their way around that ship like they had a diagram."
Allington swung his chair around toward the window, then back, as he asked, "Commander, is there any evidence Admiral Morelli knew Donovan personally, I mean, beyond Navy business?"
Grant shook his head slowly and responded, "No, sir. I haven't been able to find any evidence of that. It's my belief that he was never aware of Donovan being the mole. That's just the way the Russians operate, sir--on a need to know basis." He paused, running a hand across his forehead. "After Senior Chief Adler and I had the confrontation with the Russian commandos aboard the Bronson, I was positive it went beyond Donovan, and...I...started pulling out incidents, faces, trying to make a connection.
“I gave certain information to Commander Simmons to pass along to the admiral, leaving out significant details. Then, when I parachuted onto the trawler, I can tell you that the Russians were waiting--they knew someone was coming. I tried to dig out more info from Vernichenko. His response to my saying we took care of the mole was that 'even though one cuts off the head of a snake, you still don't know how far the body stretches'." Grant hesitated, allowing the two men to absorb his words.
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