Mission Critical

Chapter Nine

Two EOD men shoved the gear toward the rear of the helo, sliding the two scooters in last. The scooters resembled small bombs, eight inches across and two and a half feet long. They each had watertight electric motors and batteries, with a small protected propeller in the rear. A handle was attached to both port and starboard rear fins. Similar to a motorcycle's operation, rotating the handles forward or back determined whether the scooter dove or headed for the surface.

"You're all set, Senior Chief, Commander!" Brockton yelled above the sound of rotating blades as he pointed inside the helo. "And the scooters checked out."

"Okay, Jerry,” Adler nodded. "You two get back to the locker."

The men saluted Grant, then ran aft to the locker. Grant and Adler stood next to the Sea King, dressed out in drysuits, their face masks hanging around their necks.

Grant turned to Simmons. "Brad, call Mullins and tell him to ask Kodiak to bring the Bronson's speed to under five knots. Then, call Admiral Morelli. Let him know we're on our way. I'll contact him once we're settled."

"Good luck!" Simmons nodded then reached for Grant's hand, then Adler's.

The elevator rose to the level of the flight deck. The helo pilot brought the engines to full power, the sound continuing to disrupt an unusual silence. The Sea King lifted off the deck with its two passengers leaning out of the opening, scrutinizing the carrier's flight deck, an absence of activity painting an eerie picture. They noticed, also, that the F-14 in which Donovan perished had been taken to the forward elevator and brought down to the hangar bay. Grant's thoughts went to the pilot of that ill-fated plane, and he shook his head. "CAG's gotta get that guy flying soon, Joe." Adler agreed.

Once clear of the port side angle deck, the helo dipped closer to the water, hovering in place while a scooter was lowered, with Adler hanging on from the cable above it. Grant followed the same procedure. The backwash from the helo's blades and light sea chop tossed both men and equipment around in the water. Finally, a cable was attached to the cocoons, lowering them to within reaching distance. Grant looked up at the pilot and signaled him with a thumb's up. Attaching the cocoons to their utility belts, they started the motors of the underwater scooters, waiting for the carrier to pass. Then, they put the units into a shallow dive, running only ten feet below the surface, steering towards the Bronson.

Tony Mullins stood at the stern, chewing a fresh piece of bubblegum. He raised the night vision binoculars. The Rachinski's running lights showed it was positioned at one six five degrees off the Bronson. "Ah-ha! There you are, you bastard!" Mullins stepped over to the port quarter looking for any sign of Grant and Adler. They'd instructed him to have two lines ready, each with a hangman's knot that was to be lowered to the waterline. He leaned over, seeing the ropes bouncing on top of the Bronson's eight knot wash. Just as he looked at his watch, there was a noticeable change in the sound of the engines. He smiled and shook his head, still amazed. Kodiak responded on schedule… the Bronson was now moving at a snail's pace.

Two dark forms began emerging from the sea, rising and falling on the waves. Mullins was tempted to shine the flashlight but remembered Grant said no extra lights. “Over here!" he yelled.

The two divers aimed their scooters toward his voice. Once next to the ship, Grant and Adler attached the cocoons to one of the ropes. "Pull it up," Grant yelled, "then drop the rope back down!"

They followed along with the scooters, until Mullins lowered the second rope, then they climbed the ropes after attaching a scooter to each one. Dropping over the side onto the deck, Grant immediately pulled off his mask and gloves, a smile on his face as he reached out, grabbing hold of Mullins' outstretched hand. "Tony! Great to finally meet you."

"You, too, Grant!"

"This is Senior Chief Adler, my partner in crime," Grant said as he began hand-over-hand motions to haul up the scooter.

"Agent Mullins," Adler said with a nod.

"Please, call me Tony," he said as the two shook hands. Adler turned and started hauling the scooter up the side. "Here," said Mullins, "let me help." He grabbed the rope, then said over his shoulder, "Listen, before we go below, let me show you where our 'friends' are."

With the scooters stored at the stern, Mullins stood close to the rail, pointing with his finger and said, "There it is."

"Can I borrow your spy glasses?" Grant asked. Just the slight pressure of the binoculars pressing against his forehead sent a sharp pain across the back of his eyes. His vision blurred and he shook his head. "Goddammit!"

Mullins looked questioningly at Adler, who shaped his hand to resemble a gun, then pointed to his head. Mullins nodded in understanding. "Hey, let's get the hell out of the cold, and I'll give you a personal tour after Kodiak winds this baby back up."

Two Russian divers knelt beside the mini-sub, making final calculations, ensuring the battery was fully charged and finally, tightened the bolts holding the platform beneath the sub. The two jumped to attention at the sound of Vernichenko's voice.

"You are ready?"

Reznakov and Grimecko answered in unison, "We are, sir!"

"When you have finished here, come to my cabin and we will discuss the details one last time."

At 2315 hours the three men were sitting around the wooden table examining the black and white sketches of the Bronson, drawn accurately to scale, each showing different angles. Vernichenko pointed to their objective. "You must ensure the safety of the microchip at all cost, even more so than the weapon itself." He put the cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he spoke. "The microchip and weapon are the most critical parts of the ship. With that technology, we will be on equal ground with the Americans.

“You will neutralize the American on board, then wait for my signal. Then you'll immediately send an encoded message to the ship's command center, advising them of a course change." He pointed a finger at Resnakov. "You will stay aboard while Grimecko leaves in the sub. When you are close to the carrier, that is when you will set the self-destruct mechanism. There will be much confusion among the American ships, giving you time to pick up Alexei and come back here. Once you have returned, we will rendezvous with Commander Zeneski for transferring the chip and weapon." Vernichenko stood, both divers immediately jumping to attention. "Synchronize your watches. It is now 2330 hours. You'll leave the Rachinski at precisely 2345 hours." He gave each man a hard stare. "You have your orders." The divers snapped a rigid salute, then rushed from the cabin.

Grant and Adler had changed into their fresh sweat clothes and strapped on their .45's. They unpacked the Uzi's and carried them along, instinct telling them to be prepared.

"This is still unbelievable," Grant said as they walked inside the bridge.

Going down to the 03 level, Mullins led them to his private mess hall and poured fresh, hot coffee into standard, white Navy cups. "Come on," he motioned, "and I'll show you SNAGS and the brainpower for this baby's weapon. Expect that's what the Russkie's are most interested in."

Up one level, the totally secured, watertight room was not what the two visitors imagined. The walls, deck and overhead were stainless steel. A sliding deck hatch responded to a coded signal from a small hand-held opener, not unlike a garage door opener, except the consequences would be extremely harsh if the wrong code was punched in. The unlucky individual would suddenly be holding a half pound of barastol explosive, instantly turning into thousands of pieces of flying shrapnel. Mullins removed the remote from his shirt pocket and pressed the accurate code. The hatch slid sideways like a pocket door.

"So, this is what our friends would like to get their sticky hands on," Grant remarked as he stepped through the sliding hatch opening, immediately walking to the SNAGS, examining and memorizing every detail. The small 'dish' sat on the rails that led up toward the overhead hatch.

Mullins led Grant and Adler to a control panel set against the port bulkhead in the room and pressed a black button recessed in the five-inches of steel. A 14"x24" panel lifted, revealing a small rectangular box. "This is it," he smiled. "Inside here is the chip that controls the weapon. This is what the Russkies are asking Santa Claus to bring 'em!" The controlling brain of SNAGS was one microchip, its prongs secured to the green 'mother board' located in the upright panel.

Grant and Adler leaned closer, Adler asking, "What would it take to remove… "

"Hold it!" Grant said in a hushed voice. "Did you hear something?" Instinctively, he and Adler snapped around and pointed their Uzi's toward the sound.

All heads turned as if trying to hone in on anything unusual. Mullins walked quietly to the open doorway, searching all angles down the passageway, then shook his head. "Seems clear." He went back to the panel. "You wanted to know how to remove this, Joe?" Adler nodded.

Grant's gut told him all was not right, and he moved closer to the door. Mullins pointed inside the panel. "There's a small clip behind this and you just pop the board out or pull the chip from the board."

"That's it?" Adler responded, surprised, while trying to get a closer look.

"That's it," Mullins replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess the masterminds figured the coded remote control door opener was enough."

Adler shook his head disapprovingly. "Always need a backup… right, sir?"

"You got that right, Joe," Grant answered, then quickly turned his attention back to the passageway.

"This is the backup," Mullins grinned. "Down in the computer and communications center there's the master chip sealed in a secure place. If anything happened to the master, this backup would kick in. Kodiak will receive a signal automatically. Come on, and I'll show you the center, the last stop on the tour, gentlemen," Mullins said as the door closed behind them. "It's my home-away-from-home."

Grant looked at his watch. "Okay, but then we've gotta get ready to move out," he said, cautiously looking up and down the passageway.

They went below to the next level. This time, all three stopped in their tracks, Grant and Adler bringing their Uzi's to the ready. They squatted down and scanned the passageways.

"Shit," Mullins whispered, as he reached for an empty holster, remembering he'd left it on the bridge when he went to wait for his visitors. He pointed to his empty holster, motioning to Grant he was going topside. Grant drew his .45 out of his shoulder holster and side-armed it to Mullins without looking.

With their backs pressed against the bulkhead, Grant and Adler crept sideways along the passageway, looking into each crevice, whispering "clear" to each other to declare the areas searched and to let each other know where the other was. Both strained to distinguish where the sound was coming from. Mullins was on the opposite bulkhead, Grant's .45 in his hand, pressed against his cheek. He motioned for them to follow him to the Computer Center, figuring they'd have more protection once inside. He entered the code on the bulkhead panel, while Grant and Adler stood alongside, watching and listening.

First, Mullins crouched, then rushed into the compartment, covering the right side, then Adler entered, covering the center, sweeping his Uzi back and forth. Grant was nearly through when he heard the escape hatch open above them.

Glancing up, he saw a wetsuited Russian thrust his AK47 through the opening, no more than twenty feet above them. Grant dove behind the bulkhead as AK47 rounds chewed up the paint where he just stood. The noise from the firefight was earsplitting.

Grant and Adler rolled onto their backs and simultaneously returned fire at the hatch but it immediately slammed shut. Mullins scrambled behind the computer console, staring wide-eyed at the wires and cables hanging from the back. "Whoa! This is not a good place!" He crouched low, quickly moving out to the side. "Grant! There're extra Uzi clips behind you in the locker!" Grant heard him but didn't respond; his stare was glued to the hatch.

In the same moment he had called out, Mullins went completely pale, seeing the panel containing the master chip partially open. "Oh, Jesus! Grant! Cover me!" He scooted across the floor and punched in the code. "It's gone! Those bastards got the chip!" he yelled. In the confusion, he failed to notice the red light blinking on the console, the signal that Kodiak knew something had happened to the master chip. Now he raced for the console, calling Kodiak with a brief message.

Adler and Grant shot a glance toward Mullins, then at each other. Adler made a quick scan of the passageway, then shouted, "It's clear! Let's go! Let's go!" Without a word, the three of them scrambled up the bulkhead ladder. Grant reached the hatch first and a quick look assured him the Russians had vacated the area.

Seeing they were in a no-win situation, the tallest Russian commando called to his comrade, "Move, Reznakov! Back to our boat!" As they ran, Grimecko made a quick check that the chip was secure inside his wetsuit.

Within seconds both Russians had clambered backwards through another compartment opening, pulling the hatch closed behind them. Grimecko took the butt of his rifle and hammered it into the control buttons, then he turned and raced to the fantail. Their final objective was to avoid being sucked into the Bronson's churning screws. They reached under the footline and found the ropes hanging from the suction cups attached just below the waterway on the ship's main deck. Jamming the scuba mouthpieces into their mouths, they hung onto the lines and slid into the churning water just rear of the screws, the driving force of the water battering them around like rag dolls. They held on, literally, for dear life, as the rushing water forced them back toward the rudder.

Grimecko had set the side planes of the sub down two degrees causing it to stabilize at a depth of fifteen feet off the Bronson's fantail, beyond the rudder. Now, they worked their way back down the line attached to the small sub, head first, hand-over-hand. Resnakov floated into the rear seat, feeling a sharp pain in his calf, and reaching down, touched a small bullet hole.

The sub lurched forward, Grimecko immediately steering hard to port, sending the sub into a dive, then leveling off at fifty feet. He bit down hard on his rubber mouthpiece, imagining what Vernichenko's reaction was going to be. They failed to complete their mission, never expecting to find three men aboard… three heavily armed men. There had not been enough time for them to try and contact Alexei, to signal him to set off the explosives. But they also had no way of knowing Alexei’s fate.

Back on the Bronson, Grant and Adler raced topside, each of them heading for a different section of ship, trying to find any sign of the Russians. Grant ran aft and yelled "clear!" after checking the midships' passageway. Adler had gone forward and seeing nothing, headed aft, Mullins trying to catch up to him. The Russians disappeared, leaving only traces of blood droplets leading aft.

Gathering momentarily on the fantail, they looked at the wake and blood and knew that was how the Russians left. They moved topside to the bridge, Mullins the first to speak: "All I can say is that those two sure had some balls! Christ!"

Grant took his .45 from Mullins and slipped it behind his back, shoving it into his belt. He wondered how the hell the Russians knew the codes to get into the escape hatch and the computer center, and more importantly, the panel with the chip. Could Donovan have known? But Grant's nagging concern that there might be someone else higher up involved was turning into reality.

Adler stared fixedly at Grant's eyes, seeing the hunter/killer instinct that the SEAL had honed to a razor edge. "Sir?!" he called. "Whatcha got on your mind?" He knew that somebody was going to be in deep shit.

Grant looked up, a scowl creasing his face. He walked toward the forward part of the bridge, his whole demeanor reminiscent of a pissed off cobra with a machine-gun. He turned back to face the two men. "The hunt's on again, guys. Somebody else is involved… and I smell meat." The term was used by combat-hardened SEALs denoting a fellow SEAL who "had been there, had taken no prisoners." He was known to his team as a "meat-eater."

Grant focused again on Mullins. "Tony, you contact Kodiak?"

"Yeah," he said out of breath. "They were ready to 'drop a cow'. I got them just in time." He slammed his fist against the bulkhead. "Fuck! I warned the Agency about something like this happening. Nobody wanted to listen!"

"Know what you mean, buddy," answered Grant nodding his head. "I voiced my opinion about putting SEALs on board to back you up." Shifting gears, he got back on track. "Joe, suit up. Make a quick check of the outer hull and make sure those divers didn't leave any 'boomers' behind."

"Aye, aye, sir." Adler nodded and left immediately.

"Tony, call Kodiak back and ask them to bring the Bronson to a crawl so Joe can make his inspection. I'm gonna start getting our gear together."

"You're going after them, aren't you?" grinned Tony Mullins. Grant nodded, then gave a sideways motion with his head. Mullins took the hint. "I'm outta here," he said over his shoulder, leaving for the Communication's Center.

Adler and Mullins were on the stern transferring gear to a cocoon. Already changed into his drysuit, Grant was in the control center, winding up a conversation with Brad Simmons but not giving him all the specifics of what he had planned. "Brad, call Admiral Morelli on scramble with the details of what's happened and tell him we're going after the Rachinski."

"Will do. What time do you want that chopper?"

Grant looked at his watch. "Have it here at 0215 with the equipment I asked you to get." Simmons acknowledged, then Grant added, "Got to contact Captain Stafford. Talk with you later, Brad."

They had to move now, under cover of darkness and before the trawler could make a run for it, although, his gut feeling told him Vernichenko would get the chip off the Rachinski, probably onto a sub.

During the night the Bluefin rode closer to the surface, trailing an antenna, 'listening' for messages. She'd get one tonight that read: "Captain Stafford. Need your help. Must talk on secured line. Commander Stevens." Grant could only wait, knowing Stafford would have to break radio silence.

Within five minutes, he heard the familiar, deep voice in his headset. "You looking for another ride?" Stafford laughed.

"Not this time, sir. We have a critical situation."

Stafford's back stiffened. "Talk to me, Grant."

"Sir, has your radar picked up a Russian sub in the area?"

"As a matter of fact, a Victor class was on the screen last night. We tracked it for awhile then it disappeared, that is, until two hours ago."

Grant's suspicions were confirmed. He and Stafford discussed plans, and as with their first meeting, timing was going to be everything. "Thank you, Captain. That's right… when you hear the signal, surface."

At 0215 hours the chopper was overhead, lowering a horse-collar. Grant ran down the starboard side toward the stern, just as Adler grabbed the cocoon. Grant immediately fastened a weapons’ vest around Adler's arm. With a thumb's up, Adler slowly lifted off the deck.

Grant turned to Tony, grabbing his hand. "Wish us luck!"

Mullins shook his head in disbelief. "Man, I can't believe what you guys are gonna do!"

With a tight grin Grant replied, "Hey, that's why we get all the good duty stations!" The winch started hoisting him up as he shouted down at Mullins, "Get some more cookies ready for the party!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Roger that!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grant shook his head. "N'yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Commander! Over here!" yelled Adler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a couple of fleeting seconds, a muffled sound rumbled beneath the dark sea before the fantail of the Rachinski lifted from the water, erupting in a ball of fire. Smaller explosions immediately followed as flames devoured ordnance. The deck was awash in an orange-white glow, fire enveloping everything in its path. The inferno ignited fuel, hurling particles of ship metal and casings skyward and into the wheelhouse, shattering windows, striking bodies. With its screws destroyed, the trawler continued veering right out of control, smoke and flames beginning to surge throughout. A second charge ignited, opening a hole in the bulkhead, water pouring into the engine room. The trawler's list was unmistakable.

Grant was being pulled up the side of the sub. He rolled onto his back, staring at the trawler just as a final, violent explosion shook it, blowing away the remaining section of wheelhouse. The Rachinski's starboard side was completely underwater, the port side just a smoldering, blackened shell. As if being sucked down by a giant vacuum, the trawler disappeared beneath the Sea of Japan. The trawler and all aboard ceased to exist beneath a bubbling, steam-filled sea.

And then there were none, Grant scoffed without remorse, remembering Cuba and the face of Sergei Vernichenko.