Mission Critical

Chapter Ten

Admiral Morelli stared down at the message on his desk, smoothing the edges with the back of his hand. The secured flash message was sent by Brad Simmons from the Communication's Center of the Preston, quoting Grant word for word: "Nothing to fear from the Bear or the Dragon. Put them to rest. Grant."

Petty Officer Gardner buzzed the intercom, reporting that Secretary Allington was on the line. Morelli picked up the phone as he looked around the office. During the past few days, the only time he'd left was to shower and change. His aide, Ensign Pritchard, had brought him his meals. His gaze stopped at the couch, staring at the pillow still crumpled against the armrest.

Allington cleared his throat, his voice sounding anxious, exhausted. "Admiral Morelli? You have any news?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I just received word from Commander Stevens." He read Grant's message, then answered, "Yes, sir. Everything is under control. The incident's been defused. Once you resume conversations with the Chinese and Russians, Mr. Secretary, I'm certain they will not be taking any action. There shouldn't be anything more to worry about. The Commander will explain further when he returns."

Lieutenant Greg Connelly snapped a ready salute, and an instant later the AE-6B Prowler catapulted from the USS John Preston, beginning its long journey. Carrying spare external fuel tanks, the Prowler would be pushed to its limit since its mission was critical — deliver two passengers to Andrews Air Force Base.

Sitting in the rear seats behind the pilot and navigator, dressed in dark green flight suits and white helmets with red lightning bolts on the sides, were Grant Stevens and Joe Adler. The cramped quarters and long flight, with only one brief stop and three in-flight refuelings, would leave the four men weary and stiff.

A raw wind accosted the Prowler as it touched down on Runway 19L of Andrews Air Force Base, the tires screeching when rubber met concrete surface. The jet shuddered as Connelly threw the two powerful Pratt & Whitney engines into reverse, the force of the landing jolting all four men forward against their seat harnesses. Smoke and debris, caught by the wind, propelled outward from the tires, further blackening the remnants of a recent snowstorm lying in scattered piles along the edges of the runway.

Oblivious to the deafening noise pervading the aircraft, Grant stared out the port side canopy of the rear seat. But it was an empty stare, with questions and decisions racing through his mind. Where was he supposed to start? He'd have to get the okay from somebody.

He and Adler stepped down onto the tarmac and into a cold, fifteen knot wind smacking against their faces, the wind chill factor was seven degrees above zero. They stood by the jet as the navigator handed them their flight bags. "Thanks for the lift," Grant said, shaking hands with Connelly then with Lieutenant(j.g.) Gomez.

"Our pleasure, sir," responded Lieutenant Connelly, "just sorry the in-flight service wasn't up to par." He elbowed the navigator in the ribs and laughed.

Grant forced a smile without responding. He had too much on his mind. Adler shot him a sideways glance, then answered Connelly. "Uh, no problem, sir. We enjoyed the flight. Thanks for getting us safely back on home soil."

Grant started to leave, then said as an afterthought, "Listen, we'll get these flight suits and jackets back to you." Without waiting for a reply, he started walking away.

"No rush, sir," Connelly answered, his voice trailing as he looked questioningly at Adler.

"Come on, Joe," Grant called over his shoulder.

Both men pulled the fur collars up around their ears, Adler holding his arm close against his body, preventing unnecessary motion inside the sling. Their pace quickened and they made a dash across the runway. On the concrete sidewalk, patches of ice glistened under the harsh lighting of the entrance to the Operations building.

Grant held the door open for Adler. "Come on, Joe, we've got shit to do."

They went down the deserted main hallway, their footsteps echoing on the polished, hard flooring. Finding the men's room around the corner of the first passageway, they changed into their uniforms then continued down the hall. A black arrow on the sign at the bottom of the stairway pointed up to the main Operation's office on the second floor.

Grant could only hope that Buckley was in. He knew there was a secure phone in the office and Buckley was the perfect choice. He and Commander Stuart Buckley first met in Vietnam when Buckley was a Sea Wolf helo pilot. The last time they saw one another was in Coronado. Stu was a helo pilot attached to North Island supporting the students and Grant was teaching 'tadpoles' at school.

"Jesus," Adler said as he shivered, "I'm still cold. How 'bout a cup of coffee before we go in, sir?"

"No," Grant answered sharply. He immediately regretted his response and shook his head. "Sorry, Joe, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You know we've gotta get this done."

"I know, sir."

They walked to the large double doors marked "Operation's Office." Both men removed their caps, tucking them under their arms.

As Grant reached for the handle, Adler stopped him. "Commander, this is gonna mean… "

Grant nodded. "Yeah, Joe."

The large Operation's Office consisted of rows of metal desks, some back to back with tall gray file cabinets lining two walls. The bright overhead lighting was in sharp contrast to the dull decor. Although only a few early birds were in the office, the sound of ringing telephones continued to intermingle with clicking typewriters keys and slamming file drawers. Nothing appeared to distract or change the flow of business.

Grant and Adler maneuvered around three rows of desks, then turned toward the glass-enclosed office. A stocky man, shorter than Grant, with gray, short cropped hair, was in the outer office with his back to them, talking to his secretary. "Peggy, pull those two down off the board and send them to the south hangar. They're due for A&P inspection."

"I'll take care of it, Stu," replied Peggy Harrelson as she made a notation on the steno pad.

"Hey, Stu!" Grant called as he pushed the door open further.

Buckley's blue eyes widened when he turned and saw Grant, immediately flashing a broad grin. "Well, you ol' snake-eater! Where've you been?" Their hands slapped together in a firm, friendly handshake. He nodded, acknowledging Adler.

"This is Senior Chief Joe Adler, Stu," Grant said.

Adler and Buckley shook hands, Buckley asking, "Didn't you use to be with the Teams?"

"Yes, sir," Adler smiled.

Buckley turned back to Grant. "This is quite an occasion. You've gotta want something bad," he laughed. "When a steely-eyed, trained jungle fighter isn't in his cammies, he's lookin' for a favor!"

"You're right, Stu. We've gotta talk."

Buckley's smile gradually faded, noticing a disturbed expression on Grant's face, detecting a somber tone in his voice. "Peggy, we can pick this up later this morning."

"Alright, Stu. I'll go check on the report Frank's putting together." The veteran secretary picked up her stenography notebook from the edge of the desk. She nodded to the two strangers as she passed by them, closing the office door behind her.

Stu turned his attention back to Grant, placing a hand against his friend's back. "Let's go into my office."

A brief conversation took place, Grant relaying a minimal amount of information. "I'd like to use the scramble phone, Stu."

"Sure. No problem. You want I should leave?"

"It'd be best."

"Understood. I'll go get a cup of coffee." Stu noticed Adler giving an almost pleading look in Grant's direction, so he asked, "How do ya take your java, Senior Chief?"

"Black, sir. Thanks."

Stu started opening the door. "How 'bout you, Grant?"

Grant sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his chin leaning against his fists. He shook his head, not even looking up.

For several moments, Grant and Adler sat quietly in the office, Grant finally dialing the secure number he knew by heart, the number of the Secretary of Defense.

Allington's staff had not yet arrived, except for his secretary, Francine. He answered the intercom. "Yes, Francine."

"There's a Commander Stevens on line one."

"Thanks, Francine." He pressed the blinking yellow button. "Commander Stevens! Where are you?" he responded with surprise.

"I'm calling from the Op Center at Andrews, sir."

Allington shuffled through the scattered papers on his cluttered desk. "Morelli and I spoke, but I don't recall him saying when you were coming back, Commander, or did I just miss something?"

"No, sir, I didn't give a specific time. And you're the only one in the chain of command that I've spoken with since I've been back." Grant cleared his throat. "A situation has developed that I feel requires your personal attention, sir," he said running a hand over the top of his head. "I need to speak to you and the National Security Advisor. It's a matter of deep concern and one of national security, sir."

Allington coughed and sat forward, resting his arms on his desk, while eyeing the empty pot of coffee on the credenza. "Do you want me to put you on scramble?"

"No, sir. I'd rather not discuss this any further over any phone. We need to meet face-to-face, as soon as possible, sir."

Allington took a deep breath. He knew Grant wasn't given to dramatics. This had to be something heavy. "Hmm. I see." The SecDef ran his pencil along the page of the leather covered appointment book, nearly every line filled for that day. He adjusted his glasses, looking through the bifocals. "There's a 9 o'clock meeting at the Japanese embassy. Those things never start on time, anyway, if you needed extra time. How does 'as soon as you can get here' sound?"

Grant glanced up at the overhead wall clock showing 0715 hours. "That'll be fine, sir, but it shouldn't take long. I just need your guidance, and that of the President's."

"Hold on a minute, Commander." He pressed the intercom button. "Francine, try and find Allan Wooster. Let me know immediately when you do." On the line again with Grant, he said, "My secretary will try and locate Alan Wooster, but we may have no choice other than to put him on the scrambler. Will that do, Commander?"

"Yes, sir." Grant looked over at Adler, who was massaging his sore shoulder. "Senior Chief Adler is with me, sir. He'll be able to corroborate what I'm going to discuss with you. He played a major part in a successful mission, sir."

"Yes, that's what I understand. I'd like an overview today on that situation, Commander, before the official inquiry. Will that be possible?"

"Yes, sir."

Francine cracked open the office door and Allington looked up. "Hang on, Commander." He covered the phone as his secretary relayed a message. "Commander? Wooster's on the other line. Hold on." After a brief moment, Allington got back to Grant. "Commander, Wooster will be here."

"Thank you, sir. The Senior Chief and I will leave immediately."

Allington swiveled his chair around, staring out his office window from the fourth floor of the Pentagon. On the southwest side, beyond the George Washington Parkway, the street and house lights of Crystal City began to lose their glitter in the cold morning's early light.

He loosened his blue paisley tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his white Oxford shirt. "Alright, Commander. You're very serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, I am. As I said, it's a matter of national security."

After hanging up the phone, Allington stood by the window, then turned when he heard the door open.

Francine stood in the doorway, curling one side of her chin length, auburn hair behind her ear. "Would you like me to put on a pot of coffee?"

"You can read my mind, Francine. Oh, by the way, I know you were planning on doing some research in the library this morning, but would you mind staying in the office for awhile?"

"Not at all,” she responded as she walked to the credenza and picked up the percolator. “I'll just give Pete a call. This will be a good excuse for him to take me to an early lunch." She smiled and left.

Within a short while Francine announced that Grant and Adler had arrived. "Send them in," Allington said. He glanced over at the National Security Advisor.

Wooster sat in the leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. He nervously tapped his fingers on the armrest.

Thirty minutes later, Grant was wrapping up a full explanation on the events leading up to Donovan's death and the sinking of the trawler. The SecDef and National Security Advisor drilled both Grant and Adler, not leaving a stone unturned.

When all questions were asked and answered, Wooster finally said, "Commander Stevens, the Secretary said you mentioned you had a security issue to discuss."

Everyone focused on Grant as he began, "Mr. Secretary, Mr. Wooster, this is going to be very difficult for me." He got up and slipped one hand into a pocket of his dress blues trousers. "Very difficult," he said quietly under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adler straighten in the chair.

Grant started talking, his voice deep and controlled. "I'd like you to cast aside the areas of coincidence and look at everything through a non-jaundiced eye." The men nodded. "As you know, Admiral Morelli and I were stationed briefly at the American Embassy in Moscow during the NATO Strategy meetings back in '70. The Admiral had requested that I take the security chief position when I expressed an interest in staying in intelligence.

"There were official receptions following the meetings. Sergei Vernichenko was in attendance at the meetings and receptions." Grant glanced momentarily out the window, then lowered his head, before looking again at Allington. "Sir, I personally observed Vernichenko and Admiral Morelli leave the receptions together and not return until approximately one hour later."

"Commander," Wooster growled quietly as he stared at Grant through squinted eyes.

"Please, sir, please. I just ask that you hear me out." Wooster sat back again.

Allington's voice was just louder than a whisper. "I assume you spoke to the admiral immediately about your concern, Commander."

"Actually, sir, the admiral approached me with an explanation."

Wooster uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "And what was that, Commander?"

"Vernichenko had been with the KGB only a short time, sir. The CIA said they received intel from the inside, making them believe that Vernichenko was willing to become a double agent. The admiral said he had instructions to make contact with him."

Wooster stood by his chair, sliding his foot back and forth along an invisible line on the deep, blue carpet. "And didn't that sit right with you, Commander?" his tone slapping with cynicism.

Grant brought himself to his full height, at least seven inches above Wooster's. "At the time, sir, it was a very reasonable explanation. As I said, I was new to the position, still learning, and the admiral was my boss. But I did file away the incident," he said pointing to his head. "It's a habit I learned early on, sir."

He took a few steps toward Adler, then turned. "Plans for the Bronson were well past the drawing board stage when the first meeting was held in Moscow, sirs. You're already aware that the Admiral was part of the initial design team for the ship."

"He was one of many, Commander," commented a clearly agitated Allan Wooster.

"Of course, sir, but it's also fact that Admiral Morelli and Vernichenko have crossed paths numerous times since 1970. We also know that very few… very few men had the codes for the Bronson." He smacked his fist into his palm with each statement. "The commandos knew the codes. They knew their way around that ship like they had a diagram."

Allington swung his chair around toward the window, then back, as he asked, "Commander, is there any evidence Admiral Morelli knew Donovan personally, I mean, beyond Navy business?"

Grant shook his head slowly and responded, "No, sir. I haven't been able to find any evidence of that. It's my belief that he was never aware of Donovan being the mole. That's just the way the Russians operate, sir — on a need to know basis." He paused, running a hand across his forehead. "After Senior Chief Adler and I had the confrontation with the Russian commandos aboard the Bronson, I was positive it went beyond Donovan, and… I… started pulling out incidents, faces, trying to make a connection.

“I gave certain information to Commander Simmons to pass along to the admiral, leaving out significant details. Then, when I parachuted onto the trawler, I can tell you that the Russians were waiting — they knew someone was coming. I tried to dig out more info from Vernichenko. His response to my saying we took care of the mole was that 'even though one cuts off the head of a snake, you still don't know how far the body stretches'." Grant hesitated, allowing the two men to absorb his words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll wait for you out here, sir."

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

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

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

"Thank you, sir."

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

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

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

"Yes, sir, he is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Jesus Christ, sir—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I suppose it did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's an order, Petty Officer!"

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

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

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

"Sir?"

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

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