Mission Critical

Chapter Eight

Flight ops had been underway for the past thirty minutes, the sound of jet engines continuous. Adler walked into the EOD locker and unzipped his green jacket. "So, you come up with anything yet?" He dropped his jacket on the desk then pulled the chair closer.

Grant was stretched out on the bunk, staring at the ceiling. He turned over, propping himself up on an elbow. "Yeah, think so. But I'm gonna need your help again, Joe."

"Sure. No problem, sir."

Grant pushed himself off the bed, running his fingers through his hair. "We've gotta do it now, while flight ops are underway."

Twenty-five minutes later, Joe Adler walked onto the bridge, the red overhead lights giving the appearance of a photographer's dark room. Captain Donovan was leaning over the radar screen. Dean Morehouse stood near the doorway leading to the Roost.

"Hey, CAG, need to get some ordnance info from you about the F-14's for tonight's operation," Adler said loudly.

"Sure, Senior Chief." The two men spoke for only five minutes, Adler taking the conversation where he wanted it to go. "Appreciate your help, CAG. I tried to get Chief Stevens to come up here with me. Don't believe he's seen night ops from this level, but he's down in the aft hangar bay doing his ritual laps." That was it… Adler's assignment. Now, Grant could only wait and see if Captain Donovan made a move.

"XO!" Donovan bellowed.

"Sir!"

"You have the bridge. I'm going to the flight deck then grab something to eat."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

"Captain's off the bridge!" the boatswain's mate announced.

Donovan stopped by his cabin. He made a decision… he'd take care of Stevens, and screw what Vernichenko directed. There'd be no way for him to find out. Stevens' death would make it that much easier for him to carry out his plans and, ultimately, his own escape. His intention was to make Grant simply disappear, and what better way than into the depths of the Sea of Japan.

Hurriedly going to his locker, he reached on the top shelf, groping toward the back, then removed a deep, metal box. Laying it on the edge of the desk, he unlocked it. The Smith & Wesson .38 had only been fired at the practice range. His stare fixed on the gun as his thumb pressed each round into its chamber. He removed the leg holster and strapped it to his leg, secured the gun and pulled his pants leg down. As he straightened up, there was a brief glimpse of a reflection in the porthole, the face of a man who was one step closer to fulfilling his role, to becoming the Russian he was born to be. The lines around his eyes and creases in his forehead seemed much deeper, perhaps reflecting the depth of his commitment and dedication. He brushed away the beads of sweat along his temple, his hand as steady as a rock. He smiled briefly, then left the cabin.

Except for one Sea King chopper being checked for an oil leak and a Phantom with landing gear trouble, all other aircraft were up on the flight deck. The hangar bay was nearly empty.

Grant was into his sixth lap around the perimeter of the hangar bay, his Navy blue shorts and drab olive green undershirt showing dark, wet patches, perspiration dotted his brow. The rhythmic sound of his sneakers hitting the deck was but a distant sound somewhere in his mind, his concentration totally on his surroundings. Unseen beneath his undershirt was a smaller version of a K-bar, hanging upside down by a leather thong, making withdrawal easy and rapid. He'd learned the survival trick from his platoon commander on his first trip to Vietnam. The feel of the cool metal against his chest kept him focused.

He was just coming into the darkened area at the rear of the jet engine shop. Something that looked like a human figure caught his eye; he slipped his hand under his T-shirt, closing his fingers around the K-bar.

The after mooring line reels, six feet high and resembling giant bobbins, would be a good place for someone to hide. He stared harder, but a second later, whatever may have been there was gone. He withdrew his hand from under his shirt, instantly regretting his move… but it was too late.

"Hold it, Stevens!" Donovan said in a gruff whisper. Grant stopped short, seeing the outline of a gun in Donovan's hand as he remained in the shadows. Donovan backed up one step and again ordered, "Move over here with your hands behind your head." He motioned to his right with the gun. Grant took a couple of steps, moving closer to the bulkhead, both of them in the shadows, impossible to be seen by anyone in the hangar bay.

"So, Chief Stevens—"

Grant's inflection was meant to imply contempt. "It's 'Commander', Captain."

Donovan's voice was slightly muffled by the sound of the screaming engines of an Intruder taking off above them. "Thank you for reminding me, Commander. I'd just been informed of your true rank."

"You mean by Comrade Vernichenko?" Grant shot back.

"That's unimportant now. You succeeded in Cuba when you destroyed our laboratory, our plans, but I'm afraid you will not succeed this time."

The two men had only four feet separating them, Grant trying to inch his way closer. Dropping the military formality, he said, "You've gotta know I'm not the only one who's aware of you, Donovan… or do you prefer I use your real name?"

"It's Alexei, Alexei Pratopapov. And it doesn't matter who else knows. All this will soon be over. Right now I'm here to eliminate you, you who has been like a thorn in the side of Russia." There was a mocking tone in his voice, as he added, "A very small thorn, but still, an annoyance."

Grant was trying to buy some time. "Aren't you wondering why you haven't been thrown unceremoniously in the brig, Alexei? Aren't you the least bit curious?" He could detect a slight shake of Donovan's head. "No? Well, let me tell you anyway," he stated coldly and matter-of-factly, his voice deep. "We've got orders to terminate you… with prejudice."

There was a slight droop of the shoulders, the gun lowered just a fraction for a moment, but it was the moment Grant was anticipating. He had enough of the bullshit.

As quickly as a bolt of lightning strikes, his leg struck Donovan in the left shoulder, knocking him sideways. The gun's muzzle flashed, the sound reverberating in the hangar bay. Grant's body slammed backward into the bulkhead, the right side of his head feeling like it had exploded. He collapsed on the deck.

Hearing the shot, men working in the hangar bay came to a dead stop, unable to see into the darkened areas, until they saw a figure racing at full speed, slipping in and out of the shadows.

Donovan kept running without looking back. There was nothing left for him on the Preston, and it was impossible to go back to his cabin to get the remote control. He had to commandeer a helo and fly to the Rachinski. His mind was already plotting a story to tell Vernichenko in order to cover his ass. They'd have to come up with an alternate plan. There was still time.

"Stop! Captain Donovan!" Adler jumped from the ladder. There was no sign of Grant, and after hearing the shot, he feared the worst.

Donovan ignored Adler's shouts and only quickened his pace. He jumped onto the third step of the metal ladder, nearly losing his balance just before he grabbed hold of the handrails, then he scrambled up to the next deck, knocking aside two stunned seamen in the process.

Adler yelled again, "Captain!"

Somewhere behind him he heard a shout. "Stop him, Joe!" He snapped his head around, seeing Grant staggering, blood running down the side of his face, motioning with his hand for Adler to keep going.

Donovan was running at full bore, his gun hand hanging by his side, his index finger loose around the trigger. He ran down the outer passageway then leaped through an open watertight door, bounding across the flight deck, focusing on a Marine chopper poised on the angle deck.

He didn't hear the warnings being shouted at him, paid no heed to the sound of the engines. Captain Donovan, a.k.a. Alexei Pratopapov, in an instant, disappeared into an F-14's right intake, his upper body ground to pieces like meat passing through a meat grinder.

The .38 clanged against the aircraft before dropping on the deck like a rock. The aircraft shook and vibrated as the turbine began breaking up. The pilot's face turned stark white. With a voice screaming in his headset, he immediately shut down, then he and his RIO scrambled out of the cockpit, running clear of the plane.

Grant caught up to Adler, resting his hand against the bulkhead, steadying himself. Both of them had seen it happen before, but still, they stared at the sight in disbelief. "Christ!" Grant muttered through clenched teeth.

CAG and Air Boss Dodson came running out of the Roost, leaning over the edge of the wing along the superstructure, momentarily stunned into silence. Dodson ran back inside the bridge yelling, "Cancel launches! Cancel launches!" Two F-14's, two A-6's and the E-2C were making their final approach; rescue choppers hovered close by. "Radio incoming flights and bring 'em in!"

Simmons and XO Masters peered down from Vultures' Row. Masters shouted over his shoulder to an ensign, "Get the Admiral and Doc Matthews!" Simmons came rushing down the superstructure's outside ladder with XO Masters close behind.

Adler turned toward Grant, staring into a pale face, the right side covered with blood. "You'd better sit down, sir." Grabbing hold of a blood-soaked shoulder, he forced Grant down to the deck. Grant nodded weakly, wiping blood away from his eye, briefly cradling his head with his hands.

Brad Simmons ran up to them. He sounded out of breath, mostly caused by shock. "Doc's on his way."

Grant's vision was blurred. He looked up and tried to focus on Masters. "You've got the bridge, XO."

Masters nodded, then made a beeline back up the ladder, hustling back to the bridge. He passed the word down to send emergency messages to the rest of the fleet. They were all to cut back on their speed and to stand by for further orders. As fast as the Communication's Office could do it, a scrambled message was sent to each ship's captain.

Doc Matthews knelt beside Grant, pulling a square piece of battle dressing from his bag, holding it against the wound, immediately issuing an order to the two corpsman. "Get him to sickbay."

On the stretcher, Grant felt as if his head was an erupting volcano. Fighting to ebb the flow of vomit slowly creeping up into his throat, he struggled to remain conscious. "Brad, contact… Admiral Morelli… right away, with confirmation."

"Will do, sir."

A half hour later, the XO and Admiral Hewlett made a search of Donovan's cabin. "Admiral! Look at this!" Masters called as he opened the black leather box. He lifted out a strip of black velvet. Hewlett reached for the material, staring at the awards presented to Mike Donovan. Among them were Vietnam Campaign, Vietnam Service, Meritorious Service, Presidential Citation, Naval Commendation, and his Naval Aviator Wings. On the bottom of the box, hidden beneath the Navy ribbons was a Russian passport and official photo ID belonging to Alexei Pratopapov.

Admiral Hewlett handed the two items to Masters, total distress clearly showing on their faces. He turned slowly and went to the safe, reaching toward the back. He brought his 5'9" frame to its full height, running his hand across his receding hairline. "I think we'd better go to sickbay, XO, and check on Commander Stevens. But first I want Lieutenant Britley to report here on the double."

"Sir?"

Hewlett held out his hand, a small, black object resting in his palm. "We need EOD… now!"

Masters' blue eyes widened, "Oh, my God.

The antiseptic smell of a ship's sickbay was no different than that of a hospital operating room. Brightly lit, the room's sterile atmosphere was distinctly noticeable with the abundance of glistening stainless steel equipment and white sheets that covered beds and examining tables. Medical supplies, drugs, operating equipment were methodically organized behind locked, glass-fronted cabinets.

"How ya feel, sir?" asked a concerned Joe Adler as he rolled the stool closer, noticing Grant's face was as colorless as the fluorescent lights shining above him.

Grant sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the examining table. "Have one bitchin' headache, Joe," he said with a forced grin, as he gingerly touched the bandage just above his temple. "Feel like a real ass for letting it happen," he commented mostly to himself. He squinted, still unable to bring Adler into complete focus. "Was Morelli contacted?"

Adler nodded. "Admiral Hewlett spoke with him. He wants to hear from you as soon as you're able."

Grant started sliding off the table when Doc Matthews mustered alongside, placing a hand on Grant's shoulder. "Hold it, Commander, you shouldn't be up!"

"No offense, Doc, but I… don't have much use for hospitals." For an instant, there was an unmistakable change in his expression and eyes. Only Adler recognized it. "Excuse me for a minute," Grant muttered. On his way to the head, it took total concentration to keep himself walking in a straight line.

Adler watched him till the door closed, then he turned back to Matthews. "He was serious as a heart attack about that, Doc."

"What? You mean about hospitals?"

"Yeah." He stood up, anchoring his thumbs in his pockets, glancing at the closed door, then back at Matthews. "It was during his last trip to Nam. He'd been there five months when his wife, Jenny, came down with some kind of viral infection and was rushed to the base hospital. She was there for three days." Adler stared into the doctor's face. "She died before he could get home."

Grant opened the door and slowly walked back toward the two men. "I'd like to go back to the EOD locker with Senior Chief Adler, Doc. Okay?"

The doctor scanned the chart, then clicked the top of his ballpoint pen and began making notations. "Well, Commander, you've got a bruised shoulder, a mild concussion and several stitches. Will it do me any good to tell you you've got to take it easy?"

"I hear ya, Doc." Grant put on the blood-stained T-shirt, pressing his leg against the bed to try and keep himself steady, hoping Doc Matthews didn't notice.

Matthews continued writing while he said, "No sleeping for eight hours and no sun for twelve hours." He looked up at Grant, pointing the pen at him. "Agreed?"

"Roger that, Doc."

"Commander Stevens, how the hell are you?" Admiral Hewlett interrupted as he walked through the doorway. Following close behind Hewlett were XO Masters and Lieutenant Britley. Adler jumped up, standing at attention. "At ease, Joseph," said Hewlett, motioning with his hand.

Adler's jaw tightened. Joseph? He smiled and nodded at Hewlett. "Admiral."

Grant's head was spinning like a whirlpool and he swore to himself. He leaned back against the examining table for support. "I've been better, Admiral."

Hewlett showed something of a smile. He removed his cap and brushed his hand briskly over his crew cut, salt and pepper hair. "I'll want a full report as soon as you can muster one, Commander."

"Very well, sir. I was just on my way back to the EOD locker to call Admiral Morelli on the sat uplink."

With a questioning look, Hewlett shifted his eyes to Doc Matthews. "You're releasing this man from sickbay?"

Matthews shrugged his shoulders and nodded, "Yes, sir. But if the commander wasn't in such good shape, I can guarantee he wouldn't be experiencing such a remarkable recovery."

Hewlett took a step closer to Grant. His astute observation told him Commander Stevens was in no physical condition to be released. More importantly, he was in no condition for what he was about to ask of him. "Commander, we found this in Captain Donovan's stateroom." He motioned to Britley.

Grant reached for the small remote control, shaking his head, knowing immediately what he was holding. The size of a pack of cigarettes, the remote ran off a preset frequency. There were two buttons, green for safety, and red for armed. On the side was a toggle switch that transmitted the deadly signal. "I should have seen something like this coming, Admiral. I should have known." He held it out towards Adler. "I can assure you, sir, we'll get on it immediately." He glanced at Britley. "John and his team will be assisting."

Hewlett stroked his chin, and with concern in his voice he asked, "Do we have to worry that there may be timers on whatever devices are out there, Commander?"

Grant looked at Adler for final confirmation, then back at the Admiral. "No, sir. That's a remote control detonator switch. It's the only way." He swallowed hard, suppressing the wave of nausea sweeping over him again. "Except… we don't know where or how many there are, sir."

Hewlett stared for a moment at Grant, then briefly at the small device. "I'll leave it in your hands, Commander."

Grant came to reasonable attention with somewhat of a slight list to port. "Yes, sir."

With Simmons and Britley leading the way, the four men made their way back to the EOD locker, with Adler hanging close off Grant's starboard quarter.

Once sealed behind the vault door, Grant cautiously pulled his blood-stained T-shirt over his head and threw it in the trash can. He slumped down on the bunk, scrunching a pillow behind him, then rested his head against it, resisting an unknown force that was attempting to slam his eyelids shut. Adler sat on the desk across from him, Simmons and Britley to his right. "John, you bring the sniffer box?" Grant finally asked.

The sniffer enabled the team to test for the presence of explosives. By holding a tube inside a compartment, a sample of the air would be taken, the needle on the unit recording anywhere from 0 % to 1 % parts per million.

"Never leave home without it," Britley grinned, while he hauled his stocky body over to the footlocker.

"Good. We need to get it warmed up." Grant held his hand out with the remote in his palm.

Adler studied the unit, when his eyebrows shot up, his balled up fist hitting against nothing but air. "Ya know, sir, that looks similar to what we use with our cable line cutter."

The cable cutter was a small box with a minute amount of explosives inside. An open hook was on one end that was used to hang the box from a line or cable. Once the remote control set off the explosive charge, it would eject a blade that would cut through the line.

Grant sat up straighter. "Joe, I'd bet a buck the explosives are in the RAM room or after-steering."

"Good place to start, sir."

"Can you round up your team, John?" Britley nodded. "Joe will hit the RAM; you go to after-steering."

"On my way." He grabbed his cap off the desk, then two walkie-talkies from the cabinet. He stopped by the door. "I'll report back every fifteen minutes."

Adler slid off the desk and walked to the metal cabinet, asking over his shoulder, "Weren't you gonna call Morelli?"

"I'll wait till this is over. Joe, hand me one of those headsets, then you take off. Brad, go with the Joe. Check back in with me to make sure these units work, Joe," he said holding up the headset.

Five minutes later, Grant responded to Adler, "You on low band?"

"Yes, sir. No one is on this frequency. I've checked it out."

Grant fingered the mouth wire and single ear receiver. The tiny device was used by the Teams to talk during CQB situations and other forced entry and clandestine operations. "Joe, where are you?"

"On the third deck, sir, midships." His stride was long, as he wove in and out of sailors and equipment on his way down to the fifth deck, the location of the RAM room.

"Copy that. Talk to me again when you get to the RAM."

Adler started cantering down the passageway with Simmons staying close. "Wait, sir! How about the boiler rooms?"

Grant shook his head. "Don't think so. Since the CO did this, it would have been hard for him to get around down there without being recognized."

"Right. How about the weapons area?" Adler immediately answered himself, "Hell, no. Not while he was on board."

"Check the RAM, Joe. Right now that seems to be the most logical."

"Back to ya later, sir."

Grant slouched down in the chair, resting his throbbing head against the padded backrest while he waited for Mullins to answer. "Tony, can only talk briefly."

Mullins swallowed a mouthful of Coke. "What's goin' down? Get your orders?"

"Captain Mike Donovan, a.k.a. Alexei Pratopapov. It's over for him."

"Jesus! This is unbelievable. I bet they're ready to fry his ass without even a court martial."

"No can do, buddy. His ass is already fried."

Mullins sat down in what looked like slow motion. "What… ? I'm listening, Grant."

"The order came back to terminate with prejudice. I forced his hand, tried to draw him out, and we had a run-in down in the hangar bay. The bastard nailed me first, unfortunately."

"Hold it! You mean you're not in one piece?"

"Still got all my body parts, except for missing a piece of scalp. Anyway, he took off and ran onto the flight deck right during flight ops, and—"

"Oh, man, don't tell me. He didn't get caught up in an intake, did he?"

Grant nodded and let out an extended exhale. "Yeah. You guessed it."

"Jesus," Mullins said quietly.

"XO Masters has assumed command." Grant pushed himself upright, feeling dizzy and nauseous, but mostly feeling pissed for getting himself into the situation to begin with. "There's more." He explained about the remote control and the places the EOD team was searching. "Tony, once the units are removed, Joe and I are going to pay you a visit. You're still number one in the Russkies' playbook, whatever the hell that plan is. I'm positive no one else here in the fleet is involved and with Donovan out of the way, I think we'll be more effective from there."

"Think you're right. But are you up for this?"

"Have to be."

Mullins tried to lighten the moment and immediately added, "Tell ya what… I'll milk ol' Bessie out back then bake some chocolate cookies."

That got an immediate laugh from Grant, unfortunately, it also made his head throb even more; he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against the lids. "Sounds good. In the meantime, call Kodiak and request they bring you closer, say within one click. Joe and I should be able to hold our breath that long!" he joked. "Position her off our starboard side. We'll be departing from port, hoping to keep Ivan from seeing the helo lowering us. Will call before we lift off. And, listen, Tony, I think we may have a link higher up, too." Grant closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Still thinking it out right now, but what I know is that Donovan or Vernichenko had to have an uplink in higher places. You copy?"

"Uh, yeah. I copy. Between you and me, right?"

"Right, 'Mountain Man'."

"Christ, Grant! You're some party crasher! Be seeing ya!"

Grant switched off. Now, he just had to wait for Adler. It was all too quiet in the locker, and with the steady drone of the carrier's engines sounding in his ears, falling asleep would be all too easy. "Get up, Stevens, you've gotta keep moving."

He lost count of the number of times he'd went from one end of the room to the other, but his thoughts were in constant motion. Something just didn't jive. Why did he have the feeling this was deeper than what he already knew? He went back to thinking about Donovan. He must have planned a way to get off the ship. How? And what was supposed to happen if and when the steering lines were cut? Was it just to be a way to slow the fleet down? Donovan had run to the flight deck, probably to commandeer a helo, but that couldn't have been the planned escape. Somewhere from the back of Grant's mind he drew out the night he and Adler used the MSV. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Shit! He was gonna go over the side through the outcroppings, lifeboat and all!" Just then his headset sounded. "Talk to me, Joe."

"Sir! We found the damn things! RAM Room and after-steering, sir!"

"Good work. Can you handle them?"

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Britley will take care of after-steering. It shouldn't take long."

Grant continued his pacing, waiting for Adler's return. Finally, the locker door opened. "Done, sir," Adler grinned broadly. He dropped his gear next to the bunks and then his headset on the desk.

"Good work, Joe, but give me a blow-by-blow later. I'm gonna shower then call Morelli." He looked at the door again as he started stripping off his Navy shorts. "Where are Brad and John?"

"On the way back here the XO sent someone after Commander Simmons. He reported to the bridge. Lieutenant Britley and his men were gonna finish with cleanup then make a sweep with the sniffer, just in case."

Ten minutes later, after showering and changing into his sweatpants, Grant was on the phone with Morelli. "Yes, sir. I'm okay, Admiral, at least nothing that a few bottles of pain killers won't cure." Adler put two aspirins and a glass of water on the desk, smiling to himself, knowing how much 'Panther' despised taking pills.

In the silence of his office, Morelli sat rigidly in his swivel chair, staring out the window with Grant's voice in the background explaining about the RAM and after-steering devices.

Adler opened the door for the Executive Officer. Masters dropped the passport and ID on the desk. Grant opened the passport, staring at a man who had led two lives. He told Morelli about the two items, finally saying, "I guess these put the final period on the chapter of Mike Donovan, Admiral."

"Except for the hearing and paperwork, Grant… and we still have the Rachinski to worry about."

"Has a decision been reached on that issue, sir?"

"I expect an answer any time." Morelli reached for a cigar from the hand-crafted walnut humidor. He rolled the cigar between his fingers, staring at the paper band before biting off the tip of the cigar. Concerned about Grant's physical condition, he asked, "Are you going to be capable of carrying out whatever orders come back?"

"No problem, sir." He could only hope that wasn't a lie. "Admiral, I don't think we should wait for the Russians to make a move. Senior Chief Adler and I are going aboard the Bronson. I've already notified Agent Mullins."

"Whatever you think is best, Grant. I probably don't have to caution you, but don't jeopardize this assignment… or yourself."

When Grant took off the headphones, Masters was on his way to the door. He turned halfway around. "If you don't need me anymore, Commander, I'll get back to the bridge."

Grant eased himself slowly off the chair. "You've got a lot to do, XO. Thanks for your help." The two officers gave quick salutes to one another, then Masters rushed from the locker.

Adler started to unbutton his shirt, until Grant said, "Don't get too comfortable, Joe, we're shifting over to the Bronson soon. Talked with Mullins, and he's making preparations."

Adler stepped closer to him, a concerned look on his face as he scrutinized Grant's eyes. "You don't look so good, sir. You sure you wanna do this?"

Grant maneuvered around him and slowly walked over to the mirror above the small sink. "I don't see us having much of a choice, Joe."

Leaning closer to the mirror, he raised the corner of the bandage, inspecting the fine, black threads of the stitches where a patch of brown hair used to be. He flinched when he yanked the dressing from his head, noticing the dried blood as he dropped it in the trash. He reached overhead and removed a Band-Aid from the medical kit then squeezed some antiseptic on it. "Joe, can you have a couple of your men get our diving gear together?" He turned seeing Adler nodding. "And we're gonna need the scooters. Next, request that the XO give us the use of a chopper. Tell him we need it standing by." He went to the closet and removed a clean khaki shirt and trousers from the hanger, each movement slow and cautious.

"Going somewhere, sir? I mean, shouldn't you be—"

"Thinking of changing rates, Joe?" Adler looked puzzled, his brow furrowing as Grant added, "You're sounding more and more like the Doc."

"I was only… "

"I know, and I appreciate your concern, but I'm feeling better." He patted Adler's shoulder. "We can't come to a standstill, 'cause you can bet your ass the Russkies aren't about to." He stared down at the floor a moment as he buttoned his shirt. "I've gotta think this out," he said while tying the laces of his Cordovan brown shoes. "I'm just going to the fantail and take in some air. I expect it'll be quiet since the XO canceled everything but breathing." He glanced across at Adler as he stuffed his shirttail into his trousers. "You've got your orders."

"Right on it, sir."

Zipping up his jacket, Grant shoved his hands into the side pockets and started walking aft. Stepping through the last watertight door, he looked beyond the darkness of the vast cavernous space and went to the fantail. He leaned against the edge of the port bulkhead, staring out at the ink-colored Sea of Japan. The moon intermittently disappeared behind threatening clouds, occasionally casting its light on the water off the port quarter of the carrier. All was quiet except for the sound of the carrier's screws, agitating the water into a white, foaming frenzy, leaving a distinct, trailing wake. He glanced overhead with the cold wind whipping around him, bringing with it a hint of high octane jet fuel. These were the same smells, the same quiet, the same darkness, reminding him of his Bolivian mission as he stood on the helo pad with his team, waiting for the helo to crank up. This was his life. All these things were part of his life. But tonight it wasn't the cold that sent a chill through his body.

His head ached. The throbbing wouldn't go away. He tried to revert to mental concentration by invoking his karate discipline and blotting the pain from his mind, while he turned and went back into the darkness, walking toward the forward bulkhead. The aroma of hydraulic fluid drew his attention to the winch, and he noticed a small puddle of liquid under the brake.

Sitting down heavily, he pressed his back against the bulkhead, wedging himself in behind the towing winch, then he pulled his knees in toward his chest. Hidden behind the intensity of his eyes was a mental imagery of a game plan he was attempting to piece together, a means for stopping the Russians.

Even though Donovan was out of the way and the explosives were disarmed, the Rachinski had no way of knowing that and they'd be proceeding with their plan. But he had to come up with an alternate plan, depending on whatever Washington approved. What was it Morelli said? Keep an eye on anyone Donovan may have been close to? He had already dismissed the notion there was anyone else in the task force to worry about. As disturbing as it was, his instinct told him it went a helluva lot deeper than that. Just how deep was the question. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling the stubble. "Christ! You're turning to shit, Stevens."

Twenty-five minutes later a metallic clanking sound shook him from his concentration. He bent forward and glanced around the winch toward the fantail. The adrenaline shot through his body, sending additional pain into his head. "What the hell… ?" A telescoping grapnel hook had anchored itself to the edge of the waterway at deck level. "Shit!" he whispered. "I don't need this now."

Instinctively, his hand shot down to the knife strapped to his leg. He knelt down and scooted backward into the shadows behind the winch, the razor-sharp, black knife blade pressed against his cheek. He froze in place, hardly breathing, straining to hear every sound. A faint squish of a wetsuit booty exuding water as its owner stepped onto the deck, put the exclamation mark on his suspicions.

The unknown commando, his silenced, stainless steel weapon at the ready, crept steadily and cautiously toward the winch that would be his first hiding place. He peered carefully around the winch and through the open door that Grant had not too long ago come through. Seeing no movement, the commando took his first step toward the side of the door, swiveling his head back and forth, checking every angle.

The moment he started for what was to be his second hiding place, Grant sprang out. He instantly grabbed the commando's Norinco 9mm with its silencer and shoved the weapon to the side. In less than the blink of an eye, with all the strength he could muster, Grant plunged the eight-inch steel blade upward into the assailant's chest, cutting through the wetsuit, through the flesh, right below the sternum. In a true 'sentry silencing' technique, he ripped in side to side several times. The sheer force of the attack drove the commando backward, Grant pushing his own body against the intruder until both fell hard on the deck, groans coming from both men.

For an instant, Grant felt as if he were going to pass out, the blackness closing around him. But his own survival prevailed, and with renewed strength he jammed his knee into the commando's groin, his hand pinning the weapon against the deck, pressure on the knife never easing. Blood began gushing from the wound, slowly beginning to seep into the porous wetsuit. Grant held his position until the would-be assassin stopped struggling, the body twitching before going completely limp, a prolonged gurgling sound escaping from his throat, the final breath leaving his body. Yanking his knife from the chest, Grant pushed himself away, falling on his butt. With his chest heaving, he rested his head against his knees for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. When he looked up, he was staring at the body of a stranger, a stranger who Grant assumed had more than likely come to eliminate him, someone who did not have the intention of dying for his country.

He turned the Russian's head to the side and looked into a face streaked with dark hues of camouflage paint. The Russian didn't appear to be much older than him. There was a deep, jagged scar running down the left side of his cheek and another splitting his left eyebrow in half, both conjuring up visions in Grant's mind on the possible causes.

The hammer and sickle insignia carved into the weightbelt's buckle drew his attention. He unbuckled it, then jerked it from beneath the heavy, muscular body. He perused the belt as he moved his hand up and down as if trying to determine its weight, a twisted smile showing on his lips. "This will come in handy.”

Noticing a steady stream of blood rolling down the outside of the wetsuit, Grant knew what he had to do. "Gotta make him go away." He reached down and grabbed hold of the Russian's ankles, dragging the wetsuited body across the deck, leaving a dark blood-smeared trail. "It wasn't meant to be my turn, Russkie," he grunted under his breath. The wind swirled around him, his pants legs flapped against his legs. He stared down at the Russian before kneeling down and shoving the body under the footline and off the fantail. He leaned forward, his brown eyes focusing impassively on a sea being churned by massive screws, watching the body flopping around in the percolating, white-green water before finally disappearing.

He took a deep breath before bending down near the edge of the deck and picking up the telescoping hook, then he flung it out toward the open sea as if throwing a boomerang. Lying on his stomach, he leaned over the edge and cut the line attached to the fantail ladder, releasing the small, black rubber boat the Russian had attached there for his getaway. Grant didn't know it then, but with this one move he had guaranteed luck would remain on his side.

Feeling a stickiness between his fingers, he held up his hand. It was something he was very familiar with. He turned, looking for a water source and then walked over to the water washdown hose, used to wash salt off equipment. Holding his hand under the nozzle, he stared, somewhat mesmerized as the fresh water washed away the blood. He picked up the knife, rotating the blade back and forth under the water, then dried it on the side of his pants. He slipped it back into the sheath strapped to his leg. Pressing his thumb against the end of the hose, he aimed the strong spray against the dark, red stain, forcing it along the deck till the last drop washed over the edge.

When he got back to the EOD locker, he saw Adler kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, arranging various IED materials. Scattered around him were batteries, tape, clips, wires and detonators. He looked up when Grant walked in, noticing his disheveled hair and clothes. "Uh, don't take this wrong, sir, but you sure look like shit. I'd advise you to stop thinking if this is… " He stood up and squinted his eyes, recognizing the dark red stain on the jacket, alarmed it might be Grant's. Then he saw the Norinco. "What… ?" A heavy "thump" from the weightbelt dropping on the desk cut his words short. He picked it up, his expression changing instantly, mostly from confusion. "Where the hell did you get these? What the hell's going on, sir?" Adler shook his head as he examined the Russian's weapon. "Jesus! Now there're foreigners lookin' to zap you! You're one popular dude, sir!"

Grant collapsed on the edge of the bunk and threw his jacket on the floor. He squinted in pain as he rubbed his forehead. "Yeah… real popular."

Adler went to the desk and picked up the water and aspirins that Grant ignored earlier. "You'd better take these. So, you gonna tell me what happened?"

Grant leaned back gingerly against the wall and gave a shortened version of the incident. Staring down at the floor, he muttered, "Can't believe part of this scheme was for Donovan to do me in, Joe. It had to be a snap decision on his part. It had to be." He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe Vernichenko would have authorized him to do it, not as long as he was still needed to pull this thing off."

"Why send a commando then? Pretty risky, too, don't ya think, sir?"

Grant nodded. "Guess I was getting to be too much of a pain in the ass, Joe. He must have had a lot of faith in that guy, though." He mumbled under his breath, "Think my KGB buddy must still be carrying a grudge."

"Sir?"

"Remind to tell you sometime, Joe," he grinned. Then, as if the incident never happened, he changed the subject. "Now, fill me in."

Adler sat on the edge of the desk, confirming everything Grant had requested earlier. "The XO's secured a chopper for us. I asked that it be brought down to the hangar bay so we can load our gear." He glanced at his Benrus and tapped its face. "It should be out there." The radio sounded and Adler flipped the switch on, handing Grant the headphones.

"Commander," said Morelli in his official tone of voice, "you may not like this, but your orders are to capture the trawler, and if possible, with all hands intact, keeping them on board. You're to transfer the mini-sub to the carrier. Once you've succeeded, the Commies will be told and the trawler will be steered to a location near Russian waters where it will be anchored. Russian and Chinese representatives will be "invited" to watch a demonstration of the Bronson's power, with an implied threat, of course." Morelli hesitated slightly before adding, "If you encounter problems, any problems, the final outcome will rest in your hands. Do you understand, Commander?"

"Yes, sir. Understood." There was a brief pause in the conversation before Grant spoke up. "Senior Chief Adler and I are preparing to depart for the Bronson. Agent Mullins will be assisting us."

Vernichenko looked at his watch and pressed his face to the porthole in the communication's office, trying to see through the blackness. His excitement grew with the anticipated return of Kiriatkin and the completion of another successful mission. His breath fogged up a small section of the glass and he wiped at it with the back of his fist. He asked anxiously, "Is the signal still growing stronger?"

The radio operator pressed the earpiece against his ear, tilting his head, trying to pick up any change in the sound being emitted by the device on the raft. He answered with surprise, "It… it's growing weaker, sir."

Vernichenko spun around, his voice a deep, fierce roar. "Weaker?" The startled seaman nodded.

A tracking device had been attached to the motorized rubber raft that First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin took to reach the Preston. Once Grant had cut it loose, it rode on the currents, eventually drifting into the wake of a Navy supply ship close to the stern. Tossed about, taking on water, it grew heavier, the surface pressure from the screws finally dragging it under.

Vernichenko was about to call the bridge to change course toward the raft, when suddenly, the seaman pulled the earpiece away, a look of disbelief on his young face. "It's gone, sir. The signal — it's no longer there."

Vernichenko's immediate thought was Kiriatkin had been lost at sea. He turned back to face the window. The commando would never receive the accolades for his brave act. A photo of First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin passed through Vernichenko's mind. The tall, muscular, thirty-nine year-old officer had stood proudly on the trawler's deck in his black wetsuit, saluting before going over the side of the Rachinski and into the rubber raft. Knowing Kiriatkin the way he did, he was astonished this could have happened.

Vernichenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, then withdraw one with his lips. The match flared, reflecting in the porthole's glass. He lit the cigarette, his thoughts quickly changing. Things should be easier for Alexei now with Stevens no longer there to annoy him. He smiled, raising the burning match toward the porthole as if in salute to Kiriatkin.

But the KGB officer was failing to adhere to his own guidelines — never assume.