Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  Allington pressed his palms together, resting his chin on his fingertips. "Why would he take such a risk, Commander? Why would a man with his background, his rank, throw it all away to betray his country?"

  Grant sat on the edge of the chair. He rubbed his temple, feeling the roughness of the stitches against his fingertips, and he shook his head, responding, "I can't answer that, sir."

  "You can't answer that, Commander?" Wooster asked in a sarcastic, thunderous voice. "You're accusing the Chief of Naval Investigative Service, a United States Navy admiral, of treason, and you can't answer?"

  "Sir, right now I can only tell you that putting the facts together, it makes sense to me."

  Adler blinked, catching the comment, thinking to himself, Ouch! Be careful, sir. He tried to be inconspicuous as he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.

  Grant stood again. "Sirs, the only way I can prove it is to confront the admiral."

  Wooster tapped his finger against his mouth. "And don't you also mean possibly 'disprove', Commander?"

  Grant nodded. "Sir, if I'm wrong, my resignation will be on your desk by tomorrow. I'll make a public apology to the admiral." He lowered his head, saying quietly, "But I don't think I'm wrong, sir." He jerked his head up, staring at Allington. "Sir, this isn't easy for me. I'm the last one you'll ever meet who wants any of this to be true. I've agonized over this, sir."

  Allington focused his eyes on Adler, sitting quietly, staring at Grant. Adler was the only one who understood what Grant was going through, and he nodded.

  Grant walked closer to the SecDef. "If I face him, sir, I'll know...we'll all know one way or other."

  Wooster slapped the arm of the upholstered wing chair. "Goddammit, Commander! You know and I know that a public apology or your resignation won't be near enough if you're wrong. The whole Navy will take a hit. How would you repair Morelli's career after the word leaks...and it will leak, you know."

  "What you're really asking, sir, is if I'm wrong, how would I explain this to the President."

  Wooster sat back, resting his forefinger against his long, thin nose, rubbing an imaginary itch. "Something like that." He rose from the chair slowly. "Look, you'd better be right, Stevens, 'cause a wrong answer from Morelli, and we'll nail your salty ass to a yardarm. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

  Grant brought himself to attention. "Yes, sir...crystal clear, sir." Grant was somewhat insulted by the National Security Advisor's skepticism, but knew he was a long-time fan of Morelli's and was instrumental in securing his appointment at NIS.

  Allington was clearly unprepared for the conversation and accusations that had just been thrown around the room. But for whatever reason, there was something about Grant Stevens, making him positive that a resignation wouldn't be a forthcoming event. "Uh, Commander, you do what you have to do. Call me the minute your meeting is over."

  "Yes, sir."

  The SecDef walked around from behind his desk. "Commander, if you have to call the admiral's office to tell him you're on your way, you can use the phone in the outer office."

  "No need, sir. I directed Commander Simmons to send word to him after Senior Chief Adler and I left the carrier, advising the admiral we'd be back sometime today."

  Adler sat quietly throughout most of the proceeding. As he stood, Allington walked over to him. "Senior Chief, Commander Stevens had some very good words about you. We thank you for everything you did."

  Adler stood tall. "Thank you, sir." He nodded toward Grant. "And Commander Stevens."

  *

  Naval Investigative Service

  1005 Hours

  "Commander Stevens!" Petty Officer Gardner slammed the file cabinet drawer next to him. "Welcome back, sir."

  "Thanks, Alex." Grant removed his coat and laid it over the back of the chair. He motioned in Adler's direction. "This is Senior Chief Adler." Hardly pausing, he asked, "Is the admiral in?"

  "Yes, sir. Let me tell him you're here." Gardner disappeared behind the office door.

  Grant put his cap on the edge of the desk, then looked up at Adler. "Joe,--"

  "I'll wait for you out here, sir."

  Gardner held the door open. "Commander, the admiral will see you."

  Grant gave a quick sideways look at Adler before he walked into the office. Once behind the closed door, Grant stared hard at his long-time friend, taking a few steps closer to the desk. He saluted. "Sir."

  Morelli stood and returned Grant's salute, then he came from behind his desk. He reached out to shake Grant's hand. "You did a remarkable job, Commander."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "How are you feeling?" he asked as he pointed to the stitches.

  Grant stood at ease, bringing his arms behind his back. "I...I'm fine, sir."

  Morelli looked toward his office door, then back at Grant. "Is Senior Chief Adler with you?"

  "Yes, sir, he is."

  "Hmm. Commander Simmons informed me the senior chief was injured."

  "Yes, sir, he was. He took a bullet in the shoulder. But he'll be okay, sir."

  "Good. Good." Morelli turned away, then picked up his cigar before sitting behind the desk. "Well, Grant, I know you have something on your mind. Talk to me."

  Grant stepped closer to the desk that he and Morelli had so many conversations across. He looked directly into Gene Morelli's bloodshot eyes. "I'm right, aren't I, sir?" What seemed like a few very long, agonizing seconds passed as the two men stared at each other. "Christ! I'm right," Grant said with affirmation, his voice trailing off. Morelli inhaled a lungful of smoke-filled air, a vacant stare in his eyes.

  Grant stood rigid, his arms stiff by his sides. His head was throbbing. He couldn't remember a time he'd felt so confused, so disillusioned. He massaged his temple as he walked to the window with Morelli watching him. Turning suddenly, he blurted out, "It started when you approached Vernichenko during the Moscow conference, didn't it?"

  Morelli shook his head ever so slightly. "I had a contact right here at the Russian Embassy. That was the beginning." He tilted his head and ran a finger up and down behind his ear. When he spoke it was more like a man astonished, not like one being a braggart or pretentious. "It was so easy, Grant. All our security measures, intel, background checks...they all meant squat. It was so very easy."

  Grant could guess how Morelli managed to defy the intelligence networks, how he passed the information, but he wanted to know more. "Why? Why, sir? How the hell could you do it?" For a brief moment he noticed a softening around Morelli's eyes, his face relaxing. Immediately, Grant knew and he stepped back, staring at Morelli through squinted eyes. "Your son? Because of what happened to Jimmy?"

  Morelli's calm facial expression instantly flashed cold, icy hostility, changing as quickly as flipping over a playing card, as drastically as night turning to day. He smacked the desk with his large, heavy hand, catching Grant by surprise, who blinked and snapped his head back as Morelli's voice rose to a dull roar. "They owed me, Grant! They owed me. Thirty goddamn years of my life I gave them, never asking or questioning. Was it so difficult, so impossible for them to do one favor for me, or for Jimmy?"

  "But, Jesus Christ, sir--!"

  Morelli didn't give him an opportunity to finish, as his voice thundered, "They didn't have to give him those orders to Ben Cat. I requested that he be assigned to a more secure base." He slumped against his chair, suddenly sounding like a man broken, a man who had managed to hide his anguish and rage for so long, from so many. "You knew Jimmy. You saw my grief. He was my only son...my only child." He paused, taking several long breaths. "And you know my wife died three months after him."

  Silence, deep and brooding, hung over the office like a thick, black shroud. Grant nodded his head slowly, feeling the ache deep inside him, an unrelenting pain that left an empty space ever since Jenny died. There were times he could almost smell the fragrance of her perfume, imagine the silkiness of her long, brown hair flowing through his fingers. He jerked his head up, as the admiral's voice
severed his thoughts, bringing reality back.

  "The doctors said Miriam lost her will to live. She died of a broken heart, Grant." He rubbed his hand back and forth under his jaw. "The two most important people in my life...gone."

  "I know, sir, and I'm...sorry." Grant backed away from the desk, almost in shock. His long-time friend was no longer the person he knew. But why couldn't he have noticed something was wrong? Why didn't he see it? All the years they had known one another, Morelli had somehow been able to hide his depression and bitterness like a genuine master of deception.

  Grant Stevens was feeling acute pangs of guilt over his inability to have helped his long-time friend and mentor. But his guilt ran deep, deep enough to change his emotion to anger, as he began taking on the blame for the whole Bronson incident. If he had helped Morelli, it never would have happened and Seaman Koosman would still be alive. As with Donovan, Grant could only see the uniform of a Navy admiral, the man inside it, a traitor.

  Now, he wanted to strike back. "Jesus Christ! Jimmy wanted to go, and he wasn't the only one who died over there. In case you've forgotten, Admiral, you sent a helluva lot of men to Nam who never came back. What gives you the goddamn right to blame anybody?" He watched Morelli, studying a face twisted with grief, now shocked by Grant's reaction. "And why did you send me on this assignment, Admiral? You had to know I'd find out."

  Regaining his composure, Morelli reached for the burning cigar in the ashtray, holding the panatela by its familiar orange, white and black band. "You still don't see." A thick cloud of cigar smoke swirled toward the ceiling. "I know you. I knew you wouldn't let them get away with it. I had to see it through, and I knew you wouldn't stop until you put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Like I said before, Grant...you're the best. I counted on it being you. I wanted it to be you, don't you realize that? I built these last few years at the expense of many of my fellow officers, Grant, just to be here at this moment in time. You were the key to ending this. Remember when I asked you to be prepared to destroy the trawler, to make it look like an accident?"

  "Yes, sir." Grant took a step away from the desk, kneading the muscles in the back of his neck.

  "Your instinct told you what you had to do, didn't it?"

  "I suppose it did."

  "And you got to settle an old score, besides." Grant nodded. "Exactly. And that's what I counted on."

  "And what if I didn't, Admiral, what if I didn't?"

  Morelli's lips curled into somewhat of a smile. "Then, Commander, we would have blown all the fuckers out of the water." Not taking his eyes from Grant, he added, "The trawler and the sub, Commander."

  Another affirmation, Grant thought. That was one of the details he didn't relay, information about a Russian sub being involved in the plot.

  "It still doesn't make sense," he said, shaking his head. Then he turned sharply, unable to control his anger, continuously pounding his fist on the desk. "You were willing to give them the Bronson! Give them the technology of the most advanced, destructive weapon in the world! You risked everything, endangered lives...betrayed your country." He leaned toward Morelli, coming face-to-face with him, smelling the odor of tobacco on his breath. "And now you're trying to say you weren't going to let them get away with it from the beginning?!"

  Morelli flicked white ashes toward the ashtray, some scattering across the green blotter. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the window, momentarily staring across the parking lot, before turning back to face Grant as he leaned against the windowsill. "I didn't say that. I've carried my anger for many years, an anger strong enough to have let it happen. You see, I had it all planned, and I didn't give a flying fuck what happened to me--court martial, prison, hanging--nothing mattered. I would have my revenge." He held the cigar out in front of him, and shook it slowly at Grant. "That is, I had it all planned, right up until your confrontation with Donovan."

  Grant cocked his head to the side, his brow wrinkling. "What did that have to do with it?"

  Morelli's body suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, taking additional effort for him to walk toward the younger officer, whose face still showed genuine bewilderment, disbelief, but most of all, anger.

  Morelli's voice wavered. He put his hand on Grant's shoulder. "When I found out what happened, I saw Jimmy's face again. You could've been killed. And I placed you in that situation."

  Right before Grant's eyes, Gene Morelli seemed to have aged twenty years in the span of a few seconds.

  Grant shook his head as he backed away. "I took the risk, sir, from day one. That's part of my job. It wasn't the first time, Admiral, that you've sent me on mission critical jobs. And it sure as hell won't be the last."

  "I'm aware of that, but this time it was because of me, because of my personal vendetta. It hit me like a speeding freight train, and...I'm sorry."

  Grant snapped back. "Sorry? If you're sorry, why the hell did you tell the Russians about my plan to parachute onto the trawler?" Grant's anger was unmistakable. He kept his eyes glued to Morelli's face.

  Morelli turned his head and stared out the window as if trying to avoid an answer. "We've known each other too long, Grant, for me not to know how you think. You do things by the book--most of the time--and as they say, you never leave a stone unturned. I knew you were after more information, to confirm what you already suspected."

  He looked down, watching the cigar as he rolled it between his fingers. Then, he raised his eyes, staring at Grant. "The Russians didn't know who--only when. And they didn't know about Donovan being dead, did they?"

  Grant tilted his head back and closed his eyes, then he looked at Morelli again. "You were 'broadcasting' your final flash message...so I would find out."

  Morelli walked around him and went to the window. He took a deep breath. His voice was barely audible when he asked, "Can you forgive me, Grant?"

  Grant's back stiffened. "Hell, no! No way, sir!"

  Morelli's shoulders slumped; he turned sharply and went behind his desk. He crushed the cigar in the ashtray, stared at it for a moment, then let it drop. Grant followed his every move.

  The admiral finally sat in his leather chair. He grabbed the edge of the desk and rolled himself closer. He looked up, and when he spoke, it was in his official tone of voice. "You know you have a job to do, Commander."

  Grant lifted his cap off the desk, then walked toward the door. Morelli couldn't see the muscles in his jaw twitching. He was oblivious to the turmoil tearing apart Grant's insides. Holding his cap by the brim, Grant stared down at the eagle emblem, lightly running his fingers over it before he said over his shoulder. "Wrong, Admiral. This is one job you're gonna have to finish yourself."

  Morelli sat somberly, his arms hanging limp at his sides. It looked as if he was staring into a black hole, his world being sucked deeper into it, and he was trying desperately to see a light beyond it.

  Grant turned and left the office, closing the door securely behind him. He leaned back heavily, his hands balled up into tight fists.

  Adler stood, very concerned seeing Grant so visibly shaken. "Skipper? What can I--"

  The loud, sharp, classic explosion of a model 1917 military .45 smashed the silence in the outer office. Yeoman Gardner spun around from the file cabinet, making a dash to the office door.

  Grant stood his ground, stopping the panic-stricken young petty officer in his tracks. Grant's voice sounded hoarse as he said, "Yeoman, call the Shore Patrol's office, then the SecDef and National Security Advisor."

  Gardner tugged on the knot of his Navy scarf, panic covering his ashen face. His blue eyes darted back and forth from Grant to Adler. He grabbed the brass doorknob. "But, sir--"

  "That's an order, Petty Officer!"

  Startled, the young sailor released his death grip on the doorknob, then took a step back, still staring at Grant who motioned toward the desk. "Yes, sir," he finally responded, then reluctantly, went to his desk with its stacks of organized folders and glass container
of sharpened pencils. His hand shook as he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Shore Patrol Officer.

  Adler stood stone-still in the middle of the room. "Christ, Commander!"

  Grant put on his cap, adjusted it squarely, then drew his shoulders back. "Don't let anyone in till the Shore Patrol gets here, Joe."

  "Sir?"

  "I'm gonna get some air, and wait for Wooster."

  Adler stepped aside as Grant walked past and he responded, "Yes, sir."

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, February 5

  With his black, nylon gym bag slung over his shoulder, Grant slammed the car door, then unzipped his windbreaker. He looked overhead through dark, aviator sunglasses at a cobalt-colored sky. The warmth from the early morning sun felt good on his face. February was starting out better than its usual, blustery self. The dark circles under his eyes had faded and the black stitches had been removed from his head. All that remained was a thin, raised scar. It was amazing what a few days leave could do for mind and body.

  The phone rang just as he walked into his room at the BOQ. "Stevens."

  "Commander Stevens?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Commander, this is Emily at Secretary Canon's office. The Secretary would like you to come to his office at 10 AM. Can you make it?"

  He dropped his gym bag on the floor, glancing at his watch. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be there."

  *

  Weaving the black Vette in and out of traffic Grant could merely speculate on why he'd been called to the Secretary of the Navy's office. Monday had been a full day spent at the inquiry and then debriefing. None of the reasons popping into his mind seemed logical.