Code Name Antares

Chapter 12

Prevailing twelve knot winds were blowing from the southeast, driving three foot waves with intermittent whitecaps. Weather forecasters predicted an increase in winds to possibly twenty knots by noon. The water temperature was forty-two degrees.

The Seasprite was flying close to maximum speed, staying two hundred feet above the Atlantic. Secured to the chopper’s undercarriage was a Zodiac. The modifications to the chopper made it possible. Carrying it this distance and speed was risky, but a risk that had to be taken. Rappelling onto the ship would have been even riskier.

Matt Garrett kept the chopper on course, heading for the coordinates given by Mullins. Somewhere in the distance was the their target — the Russian cargo ship.

Grant scanned the blackness ahead. “Are we getting close, Matt?”

“Within twenty miles. You should be able to see her lights just about now. We still haven’t been hailed.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Grant commented.

Garrett automatically brought the chopper lower, then kept it at seventy-five feet above the water. He doused the navigation/collision lights, keeping it in stealth mode as long as possible. “Keep an eye out for any aircraft.”

Grant picked up NVGs. “How’s the fuel?”

Garrett glanced at the gauge. “More than enough to get us there. It’s the return trip when we might need a refill!”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Grant said, confidently. “Keep an eye out, men! We’re getting close!” He resumed his search for aircraft.

“We didn’t have much time to talk, Grant, but I’m curious about something. Now that Mullins confirmed one crate’s aboard that ship, how are you gonna find it? There are a helluva lot of hiding places.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. But something tells me the captain was left in charge.”

“Like the bridge?”

“Like the bridge.”

“Mast head light!” Adler shouted, as he leaned away from the open cargo bay. “One o’clock!”

More of the ship started coming into view. Her superstructure was four levels, shaped like a compressed, wide T. Not every window had lights, just the bridge. Each of four winch housings had a light on top, one on the signal mast.

Grant turned to leave the cockpit. “You’re on your own, Matt.” He patted Garrett’s shoulder before going to the cargo bay to join the Team.

Dressed out in wetsuits, with hoods and swim shoe boots, they slipped their face masks over their heads, letting them hang around their necks. Scuba tanks and swim fins wouldn’t be needed this op. What they did have were waterproof throat mikes and utility pouches. Each pouch was about eleven inches wide, with a waterproof zipper and a Velcro flap. On the outside was an oral inflation tube for sucking out excess air, or for inflation to give extra flotation capability.

Adler and Diaz had det cord, a small block of C4 and chemical pencils, each with a three minute delay. Use depended on how “cooperative” the crew was or wasn’t, and whether the ship had to be disabled. Doc Stalley had a few battle dressings, tape, syringes, morphine. His full medical bag would remain onboard the chopper. Everyone carried flares, utility knives, wraps of parachute cord, and duct tape.

Weapons were .45s with silencers, K-bars secured in leg straps, but instead of their usual Uzis, they were armed with MP5s.

Garrett started deceleration. Assuming a slight nose up attitude and lower collective, he brought the chopper to fifty feet above the water.

“At fifty feet! Target two miles!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Have not received any hailing from ship!”

The Team adjusted throat mikes and earpieces underneath their swim hoods, slung the submachine gun straps over their heads, and finally put on swim masks and adjusted the straps.

“One mile!” Garrett reported. “At ten feet!”

James checked the cables on the overhead double anchor bar, confirmed both floor panels were fully open, then he hit a switch, and the two cables started unwinding, lowering the Zodiac. Each cable split into a Y, with a coupling at the end of each intersection for attaching to port and starboard on the boat. Just as it hit the water, everyone but James slid out of the cargo bay, splashing into the water within a few feet of the boat, and each other.

Stalley was the first one in the boat, assuming the role of coxswain. He scooted around a rope and rope ladder laying in the bottom.

The remaining Team scrambled onboard. Adler was at the bow, starboard. He undid the bow couplings, Diaz, the stern. Stalley signaled James, who raised and secured the cables, then closed the two panels.

Garrett was looking over his shoulder at James, who gave a thumb’s up, then he disappeared from the cargo bay. Garrett waited five seconds, then nudged the cyclic lever forward. As the chopper rose, he put it into a tight turn to port, kept it low, then flew a mile before ascending to an altitude of one hundred feet. All he could do was keep an eye on the fuel gauge, watch for other aircraft and ships, then wait.

Stalley put the throttle handle in neutral, set the gas button to on, then pulled the cord. The engine fired up. He adjusted the choke, then watched for Grant’s signal.

Grant was near the bow, port side. He motioned with an arm. “Go!” Everyone leaned forward, with Grant and Adler aiming the MP5s straight ahead.

Keeping their heads slightly raised, they kept their eyes on the ship. The Zodiac’s nose rose out of the water as Stalley “kicked” it into high, then it settled back down. Salt spray washed over them as the Zodiac met the waves head-on. The closer they got to the ship, the more Stalley reduced speed.

Seaman Boris Gilyov, quartermaster, stood near a window, taking another look aft through binoculars, focusing his attention on the horizon. “I do not see those lights anymore, Captain. They just… disappeared.”

Captain Sergei Ivanov grabbed the binoculars from the young seaman. “When did you last see them?”

“Ten minutes ago, sir.”

Ivanov rested his eyeglasses on top of his head, then looked through the binoculars, slowly swiveling his head. “I do not see anything.”

Gilyov pointed, as he said, “I know, sir. They were approximately at one o’clock. It could have been a plane, but it did not alter course. The lights appeared to stay in one position.”

“Hmm,” Ivanov said quietly. “Perhaps one of the American coast guard helicopters.”

“It could have been, sir. It may have gone over the horizon.”

Ivanov tapped Gilyov’s arm with the binoculars. “Here. I doubt we will see it again… whatever it was.”

Gilyov nodded, then went back to the chart room. As quartermaster, he stood day-to-day watches and was in charge of navigation, but under the watchful eye of the captain.

Captain Ivanov put his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other, as he walked to the chart room, located between the bridge and radio room. He leaned forward just enough to see under the chart table. Pushed against the wall was the crate, covered by a tarp. He was not comfortable having it aboard. Although he didn’t think it was anything of danger, he was not accustomed to having so-called cargo delivered to his ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He believed that whatever was sealed inside the crate had to do with the military.

The men who delivered it were definitely Americans. Even though one of the men attempted to speak Russian, he destroyed the language.

Ivanov turned away. He walked slowly to the bridge, then stood behind Seaman Yegorov, who was at the helm. Ivanov began analyzing the situation: Americans, delivering something from the United States, to a Russian ship, that was to be picked up by a Russian helicopter. And here he was, a civilian captain of a cargo vessel, put in charge of this unknown object.

The ship was only making fifteen knots, considered a “slow speed” in order to save on fuel. He would have plenty of time to wonder.

The Zodiac was barely moving as it approached the ship from port side aft, remaining far enough away so it was still shrouded in darkness. The sound of the ship’s engines and turning screws helped mask any noise from the rubber boat. The men stored their face masks in the bottom of the boat, except for Stalley, who kept his hanging around his neck.

“Take it to midships, Doc, so we can get a better look, then circle around to starboard,” Grant directed.

Novak and James were using binoculars, scanning the port side. A lifeboat was suspended between two davits halfway down the side of the superstructure. “Don’t see anybody yet, boss,” Novak said.

As Stalley swung the Zodiac around, heading back to the stern, James focused on the superstructure. “Someone’s at the forward bridge window.”

Novak moved the glasses. “I see him. No. Two of them.”

“Just tell me we’re okay,” Grant said.

“We’re okay, boss,” Novak replied.

Stalley drove past the stern, before cutting back, holding the boat steady as it bounced over the wake. Passing behind the ship, they had a view of the helipad platform, raised above the deck about five feet.

As they headed down the starboard side, they still didn’t see anyone. For this time of night it meant most of the crew was below deck, asleep. That’s what Team A.T. was counting on. What they were preparing for was at least two or three men on the bridge, at least one in the radio room, and a couple down in engineering.

With the interior of the ship put to memory from a diagram Mullins had faxed, the Team knew exactly where they’d be going and how they’d get there: Grant and Adler would take the bridge. Slade and James, the radio room. Novak and Diaz would secure crew quarters and engineering. Stalley would man the Zodiac.

“Okay, Doc,” Grant said. “Bring us alongside, close to the superstructure.”

Stalley put the engine in neutral as the Zodiac drifted alongside the ship. The Team pulled their hoods back and readjusted the earpieces and throat mikes. Slade picked up a length of coiled rope laying in the bottom of the Zodiac, and slung it over his head, adjusting it so it hung off his shoulder.

Grant turned to Stalley. “Doc, try and stay close. Be prepared to haul ass if plan ‘A’ turns to shit. Keep the glasses and flares handy.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Novak balanced himself in the bottom of the Zodiac, separating a rope from a compact boarding ladder. Both were attached to the eye hook of a grapnel. Holding onto the rope, he watched for Grant to give the go ahead. Grant nodded.

Steadying themselves, the men knelt in the boat, aiming their weapons upward, keeping watch. As the Zodiac rose up on a wave, Novak tossed the grapnel hook high, with the boarding ladder unravelling behind it. Just as the hook went over the railing, he jerked down on the rope before the hook could hit the deck, then he pulled, securing the hook on the rail. Pulling on it again, he drew the Zodiac closer to the ship, then handed the end to Stalley.

The Team slid their MP5s around to their backs, making it easier to climb, then they drew their .45s. Slade was the first man up, with the rest of the team close behind. When he was close to the railing, he slowly raised up, checking all was clear. Keeping his .45 ready, he climbed over the rail and rushed for cover against the superstructure. James, Novak and Diaz immediately followed, with Grant and Adler bringing up the rear. As Adler went over the rail, he unhooked the grapnel, grabbed the rope, then lowered the hook into the Zodiac. Finally, he tossed the rope to Stalley, then rushed to join the Team.

Stalley put the engine into gear, waited until the ship had pulled ahead, then he slowly increased speed. Turning to port, he headed beyond the stern.

Winds started picking up, blowing at fifteen knots. Seas were getting rougher. Wave height was now four feet with an increase in whitecaps.

Staying close to the superstructure, the Team eased its way aft until Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. He peered around the corner. The aft deck was clear, but bright lights weren’t going to make it easy for them.

Grant and Adler backed away from the superstructure, trying to get a better view overhead. Access to the bridge was by way of steel ladders, one on each of four levels, with the top one leading to a deck that passed in front of the bridge.

As Slade continued scanning the area, he pressed the PTT button. “Clear.”

“Go,” Grant responded. They all knew what to do, and where to go without further directions.

Novak and Diaz slipped around the corner, went through a watertight door, then started down a steel ladder to the next level.

Holding their .45s with both hands, they waited, listening for voices. Quiet. They immediately went down the second ladder, ending at a passageway. The sounds from the engine room were a constant rumble, directly beneath them.

Novak started forward, with Diaz right behind him. The first door led to the crew’s quarters. No light showed from underneath.

Hurrying along the passageway, they checked other doors, ensuring they were locked. No voices. Nothing.

They returned to their target room. Novak went to the starboard side of the door. Diaz put an ear against it, then shook his head. They didn’t have a clue how many men were inside. Slipping the .45s into the holsters, they pulled the MP5 straps over their heads.

Keeping his back close to the bulkhead, Novak carefully reached for the doorknob, and began turning it. Besides engine noises, now they heard snoring and grunts. They entered cautiously and quietly, immediately inhaling stale cigarette smoke and body odor. Leaving the door slightly ajar enabled them to see more clearly. Four rows of bunk beds, stacked in threes, were pushed against the far bulkhead. Four beds were empty.

Diaz found the light switch by the door, and nodded to Novak. As he sealed the door, he flipped the lights on and off, again and again.

Grumbles, moans, and what was probably swearing in Russian sounded throughout the room. Novak and Diaz stood close to the door, the weapons aimed straight ahead. Finally, two of the Russians sat up, stunned by what they saw. They shouted, getting the remaining crew’s attention. Confusion and surprise was obvious on each face. Novak tapped an index finger against his mouth. The noise quieted down.

Holding his weapon in his right hand, Novak motioned with his left for the men to get on the floor, on their stomachs. Some were in skivvies, others totally nude, but there wasn’t any hesitation in the quick response, as feet hit the deck.

While Diaz stood guard, Novak quickly and expertly hogtied each man with parachute cord. Strips of duct tape were slapped across mouths.

Completing their task, they shut off the light, then locked the door.

Diaz pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Three-six. Crew secured. Going to next target.” They hustled down to the next level, on their way to engineering.

Grant pressed the PTT and responded, “Copy that. Report to bridge when secured.”

“Roger,” Diaz responded.

With most of the crew now secured, there wasn’t a need to wait longer. Slade looked back at Grant, who gave a quick nod. Slade checked it was clear, then motioned everyone forward. They headed up the steel ladder, quietly but quickly. Three more levels to climb before reaching the bridge and radio room.

They stopped on every landing, checking it was clear. It was eerily quiet, except for engine noise and the usual sounds of a ship underway. An increase in wind, and waves splashing against the hull gave Grant some concern about Stalley in the Zodiac.

Finally, they climbed the last ladder and stepped onto the deck. Lights inside the bridge lit up the entire length of deck. Even though they couldn’t hear voices, they counted on at least three men in the wheelhouse and at least one in the radio room.

Ducking below windows, they kept moving until reaching the bridge. The element of surprise might prove to be an issue. The door leading to the bridge was through a watertight door. Instead of having a door handle, it had a “wheel” similar to one on a submarine’s hatch. The door swung outward when opened. But with the weather being fairly decent, Grant guessed it wasn’t “dogged down” on the other side. He’d have to take a chance. The men nodded they were ready.

He banged the .45’s handle against the door, as he called out in Russian, “Captain!”

Without any hesitation or inkling of danger, Ivanov responded, “Enter!”

Grant spun the wheel and pulled the door open. The four men burst into the room. Motioning with his weapon, Grant shouted orders in Russian. “Hands behind your head! Hands behind your head! Move! Move!” The three Russians moved closer together, with total surprise and shock on their faces.

Slade and James rushed past them, through the chart room and into the radio room. Gremesky barely made it out of his chair, when Slade grabbed his arm and slammed him to the deck. “Hands behind you!” Slade ordered in Russian.

The young seaman’s eyes were wide like saucers and he immediately obeyed. James pulled parachute cord from his utility pouch, knelt down, and tied Gremesky’s wrists and ankles.

Adler quickly searched the three men, checking for weapons. Finding none he backed away, letting his eyes roam the perimeter.

Grant shouted, “Where is the crate, Captain?!”

The two seaman on the bridge snapped their heads left, waiting for Ivanov to respond. Instead of answering, he demanded, “Who are you?! What are you doing …?!”

Grant cut him off and asked again with his voice deep and low, “I know it is onboard. For the last time… where is the crate?!” He stepped closer to Ivanov, within an arm’s length away.

Ivanov remained quiet. Grant balled up his fist and sunk it deep into the man’s solar plexus, sending him to his knees, trying to get his breath back, wincing in pain.

Seaman Krupinski shouted, “Captain!” and started to move toward Ivanov, when Grant caught him on the chin with the back of his hand. Krupinski collapsed on the deck, blood oozing from a cut.

Ivanov was still on his knees, bent over, panting. Grant stood over him, until he heard Novak in his earpiece, “Seven-Three, Three-Six coming in!” Novak and Diaz rushed through the doorway, immediately moving behind Grant and Adler.

Slade called out in Russian, “Found it!”

Grant swung around, looking toward the radio room, as Slade and James were pulling the crate from under the chart table. James whipped the tarp off the box.

Grant turned to Novak and Diaz, motioning for them to tie up the three men, as Adler stood guard. Grant went to the chart room. Staring at the crate, he could only shake his head, mostly from relief, but also from surprise. A quick inspection showed it hadn’t been tampered with. He motioned to Slade, who immediately dragged Gremesky to the bridge.

Grant whispered to James, “Call in Matt. Then disable the radio — disable, DJ, not destroy.”

James nodded, then Grant left the room, closing the door. James sat by the radio set, and dialed in the prearranged frequency. Even though the door was closed, he spoke softly. “Alpha Tango calling Seasprite. Come in Seasprite.”

“Seasprite here. Go ahead, Alpha Tango.”

“Package retrieved. Will signal with flare when ready for pickup on ‘Lido’ deck. Do you copy?”

Garrett laughed, then responded, “Copy that! Out!” He glanced at the fuel gauge. Still more than enough, he thought, but a few extra gallons wouldn’t hurt, especially with winds picking up. He stayed focused on the ship, as he turned on the navigation/collision lights.

Captain Ivanov tried sitting up straighter, the pain in his chest barely subsiding. He adjusted his eyeglasses as he silently questioned who these strangers were. The Russian language being spoken by the two sounded perfect, especially by the one who seemed to be in charge. But he couldn’t be certain they were Russians.

In the radio room James cut the microphone wire. The radio was equipped with a Morse key, so he unplugged it and stashed it in his utility pouch. Communication would still come in, but nothing could go out. He left the room, and gave Grant a thumb’s up.

Grant pointed to Slade, James and Diaz, saying to Slade in Russian, “Ready it for pickup.”

The three carried the crate from the bridge, heading for the starboard ladder. Setting it down, Slade lashed the roped around the crate while James and Diaz positioned themselves on a step below, ready to put their backs against it. Wrapping one end of the rope around his waist, Slade started lowering.

Four ladders, four levels later, they were on the deck. They carried the crate toward the helipad, putting it near the steps. They’d wait till the chopper touched down before lifting it to the pad.

Slade turned aft and pointed toward lights. “There’s Matt.” He pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Four-One. Ready to signal.” He wasn’t expecting a reply. The three men moved in front of the crate, getting down on a knee in defensive positions.

On the bridge, Adler kept scanning his surroundings, when something caught his eye. He scrambled around the tied men, looking behind the radar indicator. An AK-47 propped up, leaning against the bulkhead. He snatched the weapon, holding it for Grant to see.

Grant’s jaw tightened as he walked closer to Krupinski, who had a hand pressed against his chin, trying to stop the bleeding. Grant squatted in front of him, and asked in Russian, “Are there any more weapons?” No response. He grabbed Krupinski’s forearm, squeezing until the Russian winced in pain. Grant jammed the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. “I asked you. !”

“Yes! In engineering. There is one that I know of!”

Fuck! Grant thought. He motioned for Novak to follow him off the bridge. Adler automatically took a position a few paces from the prisoners, looking out of the corner of his eye, knowing Grant was more than just pissed.

Grant rested the barrel of his weapon against his shoulder, looking down at the deck, expecting Novak to explain without him even asking.

Novak leaned closer, talking softly. “Three men secured. We searched but didn’t find weapon. Don’t know where it could’ve been, boss.”

“Any chance there’s somebody roaming the ‘bowels’ with it?” Grant asked, with his stomach beginning to tighten.

“Fuck, boss! You know we didn’t have time to search the whole fuckin’ ship! Mullins gave us a count of souls on board and … ”

Grant held up his hand. “No more excuses, Mike. Go tell Frank to get that fuel line ready.” Novak took off, swearing to himself.

Grant looked toward the bow. Winds were stronger than when they boarded, but that was the least of his worries. He shook his head, thinking it’d been twice somebody from the Team fucked up during this op. They couldn’t afford fuck ups. He was pissed.

He pressed the PTT. “Four-One. Zero-Niner.”

“Go ahead Zero-Niner,” Slade responded, looking toward the bridge.

“Signal Matt. Copy?”

“Copy that.” Within seconds, Slade fired the flare.

Garrett was ready. With the lights of the ship in his sights, he nudged the cyclic lever forward. The nose dipped until the chopper reached just over fifteen knots, then it transitioned from hover to forward flight.

Before returning to the bridge, Grant had to advise Adler. He pressed the PTT, and spoke softly. “Joe, possible crew member with weapon; possibly more. I’m coming in. Want you to lash helmsman to wheel to allow steering.”

As soon as Grant walked onto the bridge, Adler began his task. Checking the helmsman was secure, he backed up, saw Grant give a slight tilt of his head, and knew that was his cue to get the hell off the bridge.

Giving the Russians one last glance, Grant finally left the bridge. He slid his .45 into the holster, then lifted the MP5’s strap over his head. He started walking along the deck, with his weapon ready, focusing on the bow and along the cargo holds. The sound of the chopper got his attention. Peering through the bridge windows, he saw it descending.

He took off, running along the deck, stopping every now and then to scan the main deck. He surmised that if there was anyone Novak and Diaz had missed, and probably with a weapon, everyone in engineering, crew’s quarters and bridge would be turned loose before any counter-assault was attempted.

It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. But then he thought he heard something, possibly someone running. Slinging the weapon’s strap over his head, he ran to the ladder. With an arm resting on each railing, he stretched his legs out in front of him, and slid down the ladder, just like he did when he was aboard ship. He used the same process three more times. Sliding off the last ladder, he hit the deck running, racing toward the helipad.

Four of the men were on the deck below the helipad. Garrett remained in the cockpit. With his hand on the “stick” and the rotors spinning, he was ready for liftoff. From the side window he could see Diaz, who was trying his damnedest to finish refueling.

Suddenly, everyone focused on Grant running toward them, pointing rapidly, motioning them into the chopper. They scrambled into the cargo bay, again taking defensive positions.

Diaz immediately shut off the valve, disconnected the nozzle, then closed the tank with its pressure cap. Not wasting any more time, he dropped the heavy nozzle, ignoring the sound it made when it clanged against the deck. He ran to the cargo bay. Just as the rotors started picking up speed, a shot rang out.

“Fuck!” Diaz shouted in pain, as he grabbed the outside of his thigh. Adler and James reached for him and dragged him aboard.

Grant dove into the chopper. “Get us outta here, Matt! Mike! Find that sonofabitch!”

Instantly, Novak had his rifle in his hands, then he crabbed his way on his belly, getting close to the open doorway. He moved the rifle quickly but smoothly, looking through the scope.

Garrett adjusted the collective pitch control lever, and the helo began its vertical climb.

“Got him!” Novak shouted. He refocused the scope, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.

Brain matter and blood exploded from the back of the man’s head, spraying across the bulkhead where he was standing below the bridge. His lifeless body caromed off the wall, struck the rail, then catapulted over the top. The body collided with the deck.

“Matt!” Grant shouted. “Head for Doc! At our six!”

As the chopper started its turn, more shots rang out from automatic weapons.

“What the fuck?!” Grant roared.

“Starboard side, second level! Eyes on deuce!” Adler called out, as he returned fire with his MP5. Slade joined in the shootout.

Novak started to take aim, but the chopper had finished making a one eighty and he no longer had a shot. “Goddammit!” he blurted out, smacking a fist against the deck. He missed a chance for another shot, but his guilt crept in. If he and Diaz had only searched more thoroughly.

Grant grabbed Stalley’s medical bag, unzipped it, then took out a battle dressing. “Joe, hold his leg up while I slide the crate close!” He chucked a roll of gauze to Adler, then ripped open the outer waterproof cover, then the inner package holding the battle dressing. He knelt next to Diaz. “Hold this against your leg, Frank. Doc’ll be here soon.”

Adler wrapped a length of gauze tightly around the dressing then tied it off. “Your wetsuit should help control the bleeding, Frank. Hang in there.”

Grant patted Diaz’s shoulder as he stood, then he rushed to the cockpit.

Whoever was firing the weapons, wasn’t about to give up so easily. A steady spray of bullets whizzed by the Seasprite. Garrett pushed the chopper to its limits, maneuvering it expertly, trying to stay out of the line of fire. He flipped on the landing light.

Grant pointed, “Flare! Two o’clock, hundred yards!” The chopper banked right. Grant headed to the cargo door. “Take us down!” Except for the sound of the chopper, it suddenly went quiet.

Standing in the doorway, Grant impatiently waited for the chopper to descend. Adler knelt on the opposite side, ready to toss out the ladder. The Zodiac was barely moving forward. Stalley kept it under control as the craft encountered wave after wave, along with the constant swirling wind from the chopper’s blades. He signaled he was ready.

James lowered the cables enough in order to manually “thread” each cable through the open panels. “Ready, boss!” He kept an eye on Grant, waiting for him to give an okay.

“At ten feet!” Garrett shouted.

Grant signaled James to lower the cables. Stalley maneuvered the Zodiac under the chopper, put the engine into neutral, then grabbed both cables.

He balanced himself on his knees as the boat rocked back and forth getting caught in the trough. Working quickly he hooked the two couplings on the stern, then the same for the bow. Finally, he raised the engine props out of the water, then secured it to the bottom of the boat. Signaling he finished, he rolled out of the boat, then popped up to the surface with a fist held high. Waves washed over him as he treaded water, bobbing up and down.

Grant hung onto a safety line, as he leaned out, then signaled with a thumb’s up. “Go!” The hydraulics whined as the boat slowly rose from the water. As soon as it was secured, Adler tossed out the climbing ladder. Stalley fought the waves, stroking hard, finally reaching the ladder. He grabbed hold, and started climbing.

As his head cleared the edge of the cargo bay, Grant reached for his hand, then hefted him aboard. “You okay?”

“Yes, sir!” Stalley grinned. “‘A’ okay!”

Grant called out, “Take us home, Matt!” Adler immediately hauled in the ladder. Air whistled into the cabin through the two open floor panels, as the chopper picked up speed.

Stalley pulled off his swim mask, pushed his hood back, then wiped seawater from his face. His smile disappeared when he saw Diaz on the deck. “Jesus! Frank!” He dropped to his knees and instinctively grabbed a pair of surgical gloves from his bag, then scissors. He cut open the leg of the wetsuit.

The chopper was being buffeted by stronger winds. Garrett called over his shoulder, “Hang on back there!”

Grant sat on the crate. “What do you think, Doc?”

“Bone isn’t broken. Bullet went clear through.” He cleaned the wound, put on another battle dressing, then wrapped the leg. “Need anything for pain, Frank?”

Diaz shook his head. “So far so good.”

Stalley tried steadying himself as he filled a syringe with antibiotics. “Can we get him to Bethesda?”

“I’ll contact Scott. He needs to tell us where we’re supposed to drop this off,” Grant answered rapping his knuckles on the crate, “then I’ll ask him to call Bethesda and tell them we’re bringing Frank. We’ll deliver him first. Will he be okay?”

“Yeah,” Stalley replied, “but I’ll keep an eye out for any increase in bleeding.”

As Grant started to get up, Diaz grabbed his arm. “Sorry, boss.”

Grant arched an eyebrow. “For getting shot?”

“Yeah, that too. But mostly because we fucked up not finding the weapons.”

Grant clamped his jaw, then finally answered, “We’ll talk later.” He went to the cockpit to call Mullins.

When he had finished the conversation, and had given the destination to Garrett, he asked, “How’s the fuel?”

Garrett tapped the fuel gauge. “We’ll be okay.”

Adler walked to the cockpit. “Where we making the delivery?”

“Where they were going in the first place — Indian Head. Fewer eyes, fewer questions by outside sources. Scott confirmed with the President. A special team will be waiting.”

“Think we’re gonna need a replacement for Frank?” Adler asked.

“For the rest of this mission, I don’t think we’ll have time to call in anybody else, Joe. We’re gonna have to go with six… plus Matt, unless he doesn’t want the job.”

Garrett shot a quick look at Grant. “Remember when you guys left me at Atsugi?” Grant nodded. “I was not a happy camper. This is what I’ve been waiting for! Fucking ‘A!’”

Confusion reigned supreme. Seamen were ordered to check all cargo holds, winches, any equipment or machinery that could have been tampered with. Inexperienced in any type of combat, they raced around almost frantically, shouting to one another, unbelieving what happened. Two crewmen were in sickbay with bullet wounds, one was dead with the back of his head blown out. His body was wrapped in a tarp, and stowed in the galley’s walk-in refrigerator.

Captain Ivanov was inspecting the deck where the body had fallen. Two seamen were on their knees trying to scrub away blood, brain matter and leaked urine, stopping often to puke.

He stepped back in order to see overhead, where the man had been shot. Another seaman was washing down that section of bulkhead.

Ivanov lowered his head, then turned and walked toward the helipad. He climbed the steel steps, then walked to the middle of the pad, standing on a large white X. He glanced out across the darkness of the Atlantic.

Questions arose: Who were those men? How did they know about the crate being onboard? Was it possible they were the same men who made the delivery, and for whatever reason…? No. That was a ridiculous option to even consider.

These men acted like a team of professionals. They didn’t permanently destroy equipment or machines. The radio and Morse Code key would eventually be repaired. And then there was the helmsman, who was given limited steerage of the ship.

Even though he and his crew were manhandled and threatened, they all survived, except for Officer Yeltzin. But it was Yeltzin who opened fire first. If he hadn’t, would he still be alive? Having those AK-47s on board may have been a curse.

But the attackers seemed to be experts, firing their weapons from a moving chopper, managing to kill one, and injuring two.

He was relieved the incident was over. He no longer had responsibility for the crate and its unknown contents. Now he could concentrate on getting his ship and its cargo to Russia.

Walking from the helipad, he remembered the message: no further contact was to be made until he heard from the carrier. He was fully aware the U.S. was always listening to transmissions. He would obey the instructions given to him, and wait for the Minsk.