Mission Critical

Prologue

Nervously, he drummed his fingers against the wall. His contact aboard the Rachinski was late and he worried. It wasn't like the KGB. Impatience aside, Russia's mole was in his glory, finally in his element. He was about to use all the skills he'd been taught, and suddenly, he wanted to scream out his Russian name, but instead, he spoke quietly. "Alexei Pratopapov! That is who I am." He would love to be there, wishing he could see the faces of the Americans when it was all over. But if all went as planned — and he had every confidence that would be the case — he would not have the pleasure to see their faces nor the opportunity to tell them, "Yes, it was me. I did this to you."

He stretched his arms overhead, feeling secure in his hiding place. He sniffed the air, imagining he smelled coffee. A good, strong cup of coffee would hit the spot, his one American vice, he admitted. He would miss it once he was back in his homeland. He had lived among the Americans for so many years, but his love for Mother Russia never wavered. Schooled in English from the age of three, he was still a young boy when he left his beloved Odessa, already being groomed for the day his country would need his services. Odessa — the "Pearl by the Sea." After all these years, would he even recognize it? Would he be able to adjust to Russian life again? Life in Russia was very different than in America, he admitted, especially after all the years gone by. But his superiors had promised him so much upon his return. He would not have to worry about money or security.

Unfortunately, he would have no one to share it with, at least not with his American wife. He pictured an official Navy car pulling into the driveway, a chaplain and Navy officer ringing the doorbell to his house on Sycamore Drive. There would be a brief memorial service and Katherine would be given a folded American flag. The United States Government would compensate her every month. After all, that's why he contributed to the Survivor's Benefit Fund, was it not?

A brief moment of despondency reached into his heart, but immediately he jolted himself back to reality, his thoughts angering him. Russians in his position did not feel sorry for themselves or others. It was time for him to begin thinking and feeling like the Russian he was. He jumped, startled by the crackling noise. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Yes, I'm here." No codes were being used, so the conversation was kept to a minimum.

"Our Chinese comrades have verified their position. They have agreed to our terms and conditions. We are going forward," the gruff voice aboard the Rachinski stated.

Alexei's heart pounded; his breathing was heavy. "I'm prepared."

"I will contact you tomorrow at our designated time. We will discuss the details. Comrade Gregorov has asked me to pass on his wishes for a successful mission."

Alexei envisioned the KGB bureau chief, and answered, "I understand. Convey my respects to our colonel and thank him."

He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie, then rewrapped it in the towel. He slid it back inside the small fan vent and retightened the screws on the louvered cover. Opening the door slowly, he looked up and down the passageway while staying hidden inside the closet. The Damage Control locker was a fairly safe place to hide, since it was only used by the fire fighting team to store their suits, hoses, OBA's (oxygen breathing apparatus), and devil's claws, used to tear apart mattresses that were on fire. Checking one more time to make sure no one was around, he locked the door, then began strolling down the passageway, arms locked behind his back.

He'd become a familiar site, roaming different areas of the ship, his "insomnia" once again preventing rest. "Poor bastard," they'd say noticing his bloodshot eyes in the morning. He would hear their comment and smile inwardly. One or two eyedrops of saltwater… and the charade would continue.