Chapter Four

Monday, January 27
0645 Hours

During the night the SSN Bluefin set her course for one eight zero degrees, distancing herself from the carrier. She was a Sturgeon Class, Fast Attack Nuclear Sub built at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California, and commissioned in 1970. She was designed partially for reconnaissance, but mainly, she was built for speed. Her outer hull had few deck projections that interrupted the clean, streamlined form. Many of the masts had fairings on top of them to minimize turbulence when they were retracted. Powered by one water-cooled, pressurized nuclear reactor with one turbine, she carried on board MK46 Astor nuclear and conventional torpedoes, and Harpoon anti-ship missiles. Bluefin's immediate assignment, though, would have nothing to do with the launching of torpedoes or recon patrols. This silent hunter-killer was to play what seemed a very minor role in a very major production. She would set the stage for the coup de grace in a sophisticated plot designed to avoid nuclear war.

Hopping up onto the slightly raised periscope stand, the sub's captain issued the order at precisely 0635 hours. "Take her up! Bring her to periscope depth."

"Aye, aye, Captain," answered the OOD. He stood behind the helmsman and reached overhead, hanging on to the support bar. "Helm, five degrees up bubble. Make your depth sixty feet."

The helmsman locked his eyes on the gauges and dials in front of the wheel, watching the bubble displaying the angle of the boat. "Aye, aye, sir, up bubble. Passing 250 feet."

"Conn, we're passing 250 feet," the OOD notified the Captain.

After several minutes, the helmsman called out, "Passing 100 feet, sir… 80 feet… we're at 60 feet, sir."

"Up periscope," the captain ordered. Hydraulics whined as the periscope rose. He draped his arms over the handles, rotating the periscope slowly. "There it is! One three five degrees. Down scope! OOD, make preparations to surface!"

"Aye, aye, sir. Make preparations to surface!" He immediately sounded the horn, the noise blaring throughout the boat. "Stand by to surface! Three degrees up bubble."

"Smitty, stand by the hatch!" COB (Chief of the Boat) ordered.

"At forty-five feet sir," the helmsman called out, his eyes still glued to the gauges and dials.

"Captain, the tower is clear," COB responded, walking closer to the ladder.

Grabbing the ladder's handrail, the captain called, "Mr. Reese, you've got the Conn. I'm going topside. C'mon, Chief!"

"Aye, aye, Captain," responded OOD Reese.

An immense, dark shape rose from the abyss, the attack sub settling on the ebony-colored water of the North Pacific. White, foamy, sea water spilled down the sail and over the black hull. Ocean spray washed across the deck, being carried by a strong northerly wind, bringing with it a threatening, rolling cloud cover and four foot swells. The sail hatch opened. At the top of the sail, twenty feet above the deck, the captain and chief scrambled out, binoculars raised, immediately searching the horizon.

"There it is!" COB called out.

The helo pilot maneuvered his aircraft and headed for the Bluefin, struggling against a strong headwind. Sea King pilot, Lieutenant Troy McPherson spoke into the mini mike on his headset: "Bluefin, this is Sea King 6. Stand by for personnel transfer. Over."

"Roger, Sea King. Standing by," responded OOD Reese from the Conn. "Transfer personnel to the after hatch. Take your orders from Ground Control. Over."

"Roger, Bluefin.” Lieutenant McPherson fought to hold the chopper steady, as it was buffeted by the bone-chilling wind. He centered it directly above the sub's after deck just forward of the escape hatch. The backwash from the helo's main rotor blades sprayed sea water over the men on deck. Crouching low, they continued engaging the whirlwind descending from above, as they battled a twenty knot wind.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, COB yelled down from the sail to ground control Petty Officer Smith, "Make sure you're grounded, Smitty! There's a lot of static charge there!" Smitty gave a thumb's up and pressed the headphones tighter against his ear.

The helo crew wouldn't have many chances to put their passenger on the submarine's deck — time wasn't in their favor with the rest of the fleet so close, and except for a handful of people, no one outside the sub's crew were privy to his presence. The motor whined as the wire cable began lowering its cargo.

Aboard SSN Bluefin

COB Cal Davis, a Machinist Mate Master Chief, escorted Grant down narrow passageways, through watertight doors, and down ladders to 03 level. As Chief of the Boat, Davis' duties included being master-at-arms when disciplinary action was called for, and he acted as liaison between the CO and enlisted men. Davis was one of the most respected and trusted men aboard the Bluefin.

COB swung open the watertight door, and Grant stepped into the torpedo room just forward of midships. Davis followed him, putting the 'cocoon' down near one of the torpedoes. "Hope this is awright, sir," he said through an unmistakable Texas twang. "We were informed ya'd only need some temporary space, and the Captain said to stow ya here."

Grant laughed then gave the Master Chief and torpedoes a quick once-over. He'd seen it before; they all looked alike after a while. He replied with a smile, "This will do fine, Master Chief." Grant had noticed the broad back of his escort, reminding him of his football teammate at the Academy, defensive tackle Chuck Wyneski. "Say, did you ever play football?"

"No, sir, six years of boxing. In my younger days, I was Navy Golden Gloves, middleweight."

"Is that right? Sounds like you'd be somebody handy to have around!"

"Guess I can hold my own, sir," Davis laughed. He walked forward to the watertight door. "The Captain wants to see ya in his quarters after you've settled in, sir."

Grant walked aft and dropped his gear next to the bulkhead on the port side near one of the cocoons. "I'm ready now. Lead the way."

As he followed the red-headed Davis back up to the 01 level, Grant had a chance to briefly think about the flights that delivered him to the Bluefin. The F-14 Tomcat, with him sitting in the RIO's seat, took off from a runway at Patuxent Naval Air Station in Maryland at 1300 hours. It refueled in flight over Ohio and Washington State before landing at Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska, with an F-4 Phantom fueled and waiting for him on the runway. Somewhere over the North Pacific, the Phantom refueled with a KA-6D tanker from the USS Ranger. Within hours, the Phantom landed at Kyota Air Base in Japan. Grant barely had time to grab an apple and a cup of coffee before the air crewman hustled him off to the helo that would take him on the last leg of his journey. As the Sea King lifted from the tarmac, it rotated slowly to assume its new heading, its nose dipping as the pilot applied power. Grant looked out the window at the last bit of Mother Earth he'd be seeing for awhile.

"First time aboard a sub, sir?" asked Davis as they started back up to the 01 level.

"Not hardly, Master Chief, it's just that the air always seems a little… thick," he grinned as he slipped a finger inside the neck of his T-shirt, pulling it away from his throat. It was a strange world to be in, a sealed world for these submariners, one of work, sleep and eat, punctuated with an occasional card game. They shared one common enemy, though… the sea around them.

Davis laughed. "You'll get used to it, sir."

"No offense, COB, but I don't think I'll be hanging around long enough!"

Davis rapped his fist on the bulkhead next to the entrance of the stateroom on 01 level. The cabin was located just forward of the Sonar and Radio Room and the XO's stateroom. Hardly a stateroom one might find on a cruise ship, the cabin was barely 8 x10. The bunk was a foldaway unit, emphasizing the compactness of the cabin. "Captain, Commander Stevens is here," Davis announced.

A man who looked as if he should have been playing for the L.A. Lakers pushed the curtain aside and extended a large, black hand to Grant. "Commander. Welcome aboard the Bluefin," smiled Captain Reggie Stafford. A graduate of Princeton University, Stafford completed tours at SUBPAC in Hawaii, and Groton, Connecticut, and taught physics at the Naval Academy. He assumed command of the Bluefin's Gold Crew in July, 1974. Each sub has at least two rotating crews assigned to it, a Gold and Blue crew, since seventy days is the max for any one crew to stay submerged.

"Glad to be here, sir," Grant replied.

A laugh from deep within Captain Stafford exploded in the small stateroom. "Are you sure about that? I've seen the orders, remember?"

Grant smiled. "Would you believe me if I told you my boss talked me into it?"

Stafford shook his head. "Morelli and I go back a long way, Grant. May I call you 'Grant'?"

"By all means, sir."

"As I was going to say, that wouldn't surprise me at all, except… " He stared at Grant through deep-set brown eyes, moving his ruler-length finger in a slow arc. "I've heard about you, Commander Stevens… oh, yes I have."

"Good or bad, sir?" Grant asked with a mischievous grin.

"I've heard about you and some of the stories behind those five rows of ribbons. Why don't we just leave it at that?" he laughed.

"Fair enough, Captain."

Rotating the combination lock, Stafford opened the small safe above his desk and removed a large, brown envelope, its seal already broken. He withdrew the papers, and then turned slowly in his swivel chair to face Grant, scrutinizing Grant's chest ribbons and pins. Pointing at one pin in particular, he asked inquisitively, "Before we get down to business, answer me one question."

"Sir?"

"Well, I understand they call that SEAL pin a 'Budweiser.' Can you explain why, or would that be a breach of SEAL security?"

Grant shook his head and grinned. "No, sir, it's no secret. After graduation from BUD/S, new SEALs celebrate by ordering a round of Bud boilermakers, then they drop in the pins, drink till the glass is empty, and then catch the 'Budweiser' with their teeth. And it looks like the Bud emblem a little, don't you think, sir?"

Stafford laughed. "It certainly does! I guess this is just another fine tradition to be carried on in typical Navy fashion!"

He motioned to two seats attached to the bulkhead and separated by a table. "Now have a seat, and let's discuss these orders of yours." The two men sat at the desk, and Stafford noticed Grant's hands. There were old scars on the back of both hands. Stafford's immediate impression was they were very strong hands. "Are you into martial arts, Grant?"

Somewhat surprised by the sudden change in conversation and the Captain's astute observation, Grant rubbed his hands together as if trying to conceal secrets, then he responded, "I… I've been known to break a few… uh, shall we say, boards, sir." Maintaining a deadpan expression, he added, "Tried a piece of granite once, but it didn't work out. Now I only pick on Cool Whip and pillows."

Stafford roared again. As their eyes met, Stafford detected the moment as being uncomfortable for Grant, and he hastily changed the subject. "This operation is going to get a little dicey. Are you sure you can count on your contact being prepared? He better be squared away and ready for you. You've got to agree that timing is going to be everything on this one."

"Yes, sir, very true, but I know Joe Adler. I can vouch for him," he replied emphatically, "and I know I can depend on him throughout this assignment, sir. That's the way it has to be… for both of us."

"I see." Stafford's brow wrinkled as he centered his stare on Grant, thinking the younger officer a bit cocky. Well, for the line of work he's in, maybe that's what it takes to survive the tough ones. "I'm sure you're right, Grant," he said, nodding his head. "According to Morelli, you and this Adler have a working history."

"Yes, sir, we do," Grant answered simply.

Stafford knew it was time to get on to business. He placed the papers on the table. "Now, give me all the details."

The two officers sat in the stateroom for another hour, reviewing, calculating, and planning. They had fourteen hours to prepare, and nothing could be left to chance.

USS Preston
1025 Hours

Senior Chief Boatswain's Mate Joe Adler of the EOD team stepped into the EOD locker and slammed the steel vault-like door behind him. Lieutenant John Britley turned around from the desk, and asked, "How's it going topside?" Britley ran the tip of the eraser along the one inch scar above his right eyebrow, the result of his first wrestling match while a sophomore at the University of Wisconsin.

"No problems since Lieutenant Hall's Tomcat came in with the hung Phoenix, sir." Adler pushed up the sleeve of his red jersey, glancing at his watch. "Uh, sir, it's about time for—"

Britley dropped the pencil and shoved the chair back. "Say no more, Senior Chief. I'll see if I can get into trouble topside." He smoothed back a lock of black hair from his forehead, and then grabbed his hat. "Report to the flight deck when you're through."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The EOD locker was located in the aft part of the hangar bay one level below the flight deck. It was one of the most secure areas on the carrier, save the nuclear storage magazines, which only Britley, his team and the Gunners Mate techs had access to. The security was necessary not only because of all their gear, but because of nuclear weapons documentation that required extra security. The notebooks and papers were stored in special metal trunks that only EOD Officer Lieutenant John Britley and Adler had the combination for.

The 10 x 18 compartment had four bunk beds, along with a small 'head' and shower. The shower doubled as their personal "rain locker", and in case of decontamination, an emergency wash-down station, with a disposable drain where the water washed into sealable fifty-five gallon drums. But depending on which way the drain valve lever was pushed, the water could also flow into the ship's waste system. The locker was also equipped with dedicated electrical wiring with a battery powered lantern backup for emergencies. Should the carrier lose power, for any reason, the battery would kick in, lighting up the "battle" lanterns and keep the electronic combination vault door operable.

Considering the EOD team was only five to six men and could make an entire cruise with little or no attention paid to them — no inspections, no watches, and no shore duty — it was the perfect cover, with total seclusion whenever necessary. The team members had been told of Grant's plan. They'd be making themselves scarce, only using the locker during work hours, and only after Adler had been informed. Within their tight-knit community, they didn't worry about leaks, their own line of work calling for total security, individual safety forcing them to depend on one another. The exhaustive security clearance procedures they had passed ensured their 'zipper' mouth demeanor. Besides, the special warfare camaraderie forbid throwing any team member under the bus for any reason. Whenever instructed on the importance of security measures, their standard, flip reply would be: "Don't worry… we're cleared for stupid and ridiculous."

Adler dropped his starched, green EOD hat, called a “barracks cover”, on the desk, then went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. Clear, soft blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror as he wiped the towel over his chin. His weathered face exhibited more creases and more lines these days, a far cry from the face of a sixteen year-old who'd run away from an orphanage in St. Paul to join the Navy. Twenty-two years he'd given Uncle Sam, the first fourteen as UDT, the last eight as EOD.

Stashed away in his brain were instructions for disarming every known type of ordnance in the world. Like his team members, it wasn't the known ordnance they feared, it was the so-called 'hippie bombs', IEDs, the unknowns. How ironic, he thought. Here I am disarming bombs, and while I was UDT, I was blowing them up — intentionally. But it was these assignments and duties that cost him a marriage, the one regret of his long career. Otherwise, there wasn't a minute he would have changed. He smiled thinking about the bumper sticker on the rear of his red 1967 Mustang: EOD — WHAT A BLAST.

Putting on his MK6 transceiver headset, he adjusted the miniature mouth mike. The small unit would be powerful enough since his contact was only about a mile away from the carrier. He looked at his battered, matte gray Benrus diving watch. Right on time… 1030 hours. He flipped the switch. "Adler here."

"How ya doing, Joe?"

"Good, sir." Adler could hear the smile in Grant's voice. They'd been through the shit and sticks together not all that long ago with the Libyan raids.

"Did you get the info?"

"Roger that, sir. Scheduled time is 2030 hours. I'll call and nail down a confirmation."

"Very well."

"I'll be lookin' for you, 'Panther'." It'd been a long time since he had used the code name Grant once used in the field.

"Roger. See you tonight! Out."

Adler locked the door and said quietly, "This is gonna be good!" As he made his way across the hangar deck, an instant snapshot of a past incident flashed through his mind, causing him to remember his friend and how impressed he'd been with him during one of those raids in the Libyan desert. While he set the shaped charges on the terrorist training camp's ammo supply, Grant managed to hold off ten or twelve Libyans and then pulled a wounded British SAS operator out of the shit storm, carrying him 400 meters back to the LZ (Landing Zone).

Aboard the SSN Bluefin

Grant left the sub's Sonar and Radio Room, returning to the torpedo room on 03 level. He and Adler made a good team. Adler had one of the coolest heads and steadiest hands for anyone he'd ever seen around explosives. He had responded to Captain Stafford's question that he could count on his contact. There wasn't a doubt in his military mind. Joe Adler was as good as they came.

He pulled his luggage, known as “cocoons”, away from the bulkhead and knelt down to check everything one more time. The two black fiberglass, waterproof cocoons looked more like 250 pound bombs but weighed only 25 pounds each, and once in the water had neutral buoyancy. One held his clothes and weapons, the other his diving gear and the makings for a variety of IED's. Adler would provide whatever else he'd need from the EOD 'cookbook', depending on the type of IED required.

Throughout the rest of the day he stayed pretty much to himself, considering there weren't too many places a visitor could go on a submerged submarine. Shortly after lunch, he slipped on his Navy shorts and T-shirt and went to the port side, aft of the torpedo racks, carving out a small niche to use as his personal fitness center. Sweat poured from his face, his muscles ached. For 45 solid minutes, all out, non-stop, he pushed himself through his ritualistic sit-ups, pushups and flutterkicks. His breathing was deep, heavy, the acrid smell of oil and grease creeping into his senses. But he kept his mind focused on reviewing and formulating events for that evening and the time beyond that, when all his energy and intelligence would come into play. Few were aware of his assignment — millions would never know.

At 1815 hours he walked aft to the crew's mess. He already had an early light dinner in the cramped Wardroom with Stafford and his officers, but this would be just a snack to tide him over. He'd need the extra protein and carbohydrates because it was going to be a long evening, with his work cut out for him. It would take a lot of fuel for the body.

The crew's mess hall had many uses, not excluding emergency sickbay and auditorium. It was a gathering place for the enlisted men, to get the latest scuttlebutt, play cards, or just read. A mass of overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the room, in sharp contrast to the brown paneling covering the bulkheads. Various plaques and awards won by past and present crews were displayed throughout.

Heads turned when he walked in. An officer getting food in the enlisted mess? Creating a stir for the second time since he'd come aboard, Grant acknowledged the submariners with a nod and smile. His reason for coming aboard was pretty hush-hush, even the boat's Radioman, Sparky Johnson, known as the "1MC of scuttlebutt", hadn't a clue, at least that's what he claimed. The crew had only been informed they'd be receiving a passenger.

Other than that, the Bluefin's orders were standard. They'd be going through the routine of firing solutions on the fleet that night, keeping in practice. And that much was correct, but there would be a slight interruption, a slight variation in the routine.

Grant grabbed a tray and started through the chow line, ordering a cold, turkey sandwich with extra white meat and mayo on whole wheat bread. He slid the food tray along the metal rack and reached for a plain baked potato, and a banana, not completely ripe. He took the last piece of apple pie, just because it looked good. The ice cubes “clinked” as they bounced against each other on the bottom of the glass, then he poured some "bug juice" from the juice machine. Watching the strawberry-colored liquid flowing into the clear plastic glass, he wondered who the hell came up with the name "bug juice" for Kool-Aid.

While he waited for his sandwich to be made, he spotted a copy of the latest issue of All Hands on one of the tables close to the end of the chow line. One side of the magazine was folded under, exposing an article that caught his eye. Very curious, he sat on the edge of the bench, reading the title "Fastest Ship in the Fleet". Immediately, he thought of the Bronson and her classified status. But it was just a review of the new Surface Effect Ship, a hydrofoil with speeds of over 75 knots that was being tested in Panama City, Florida. On his way out of the mess hall, carrying his tray full of food, he felt the stares of the few remaining submariners sitting at the tables.

For ten minutes Grant waited alone in the sub's Radio Room, a headset hanging around his neck, one leg propped up against the wall. Sparky Johnson was somewhat reluctant to turn the communication's gear over to him again and did so only after some reassurance from Master Chief Davis. Tossing the crumbled Snicker's candy wrapper into the trash, he finished the last mouthful of cold milk.

He glanced at his watch and slipped the headset on, just as the signal came at precisely 2030 hours. "Whatcha got going, Joe?"

Adler's voice came in clear, his message brief. "Sir, flight ops have ended. This might be a good time for you to lock-out."

"I'm outta here," Grant said. "Have all the friends and relatives mustered around 2125 hours."

"Roger that, sir!"

On his way to the torpedo room to start getting ready and pick up his gear, he made a detour and stopped by the captain's stateroom. The steel door was ajar, the curtain pushed aside. "Sir?"

Stafford was sitting at his desk sorting through his mail. He peered over the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals. "Come on in, Grant." He put the two page letter on the desk, a small photo attached to the corner. "Just reading my niece Patty's letter. She had to tell her uncle about the money the tooth fairy left her."

Grant leaned toward the desk, looking at a toothless, smiling face in the photo. The little girl was wearing a Bluefin baseball cap, the printing on the paper indicative of a six year old. "Uh, she's very cute, sir. Must be hard for her to whistle, though."

Stafford laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Her three brothers give her a hard time."

"Sir, it's about time for me to head out. My ride's on the way," he grinned as he pointed overhead.

Stafford took a final sip of black coffee as he stood up. "Guess that's my cue to man the Conn. Anything else we can do for you?"

"No, sir, just keep the Bluefin trim and aim me in the right direction."

Stafford acknowledged with a quick smile, knowing the orders Commander Stevens had and what he was preparing to do.

Ten minutes later, Grant was outfitted in his thermal underwear, with the rest of his diving gear spread out around him in precise order. There was a tapping on the watertight door and he responded, "Come."

Master Chief Davis walked in, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hope I didn't keep ya waiting, sir. There was a slight disagreement between a couple of the boys in Sonar."

"No problem, Master Chief."

"Sir, can I have one of my men get ya something to drink?"

"No thanks." He reached down and picked up his bulky drysuit, a special suit used for diving in frigid water. "But I could use your help with this."

Except for the arms, leg cuffs and the area that fit around the face, the butyl rubber was covered with canvas to prevent tearing of the rubber itself. Davis held the suit while Grant stepped in through the opening in back, an opening from just below the neck to the butt. As if it were a pull-over sweater, he put his head through the neck opening, pushed his arms down the sleeves, then adjusted the rubber around his face. Davis twisted the excess section of rubber in the back forming a knot, sealing the suit. Then he put the knife and web belt around Grant, double-checked the seal on the chest canister and gave Grant a thumb's up.

Davis carried one of the cocoons as Grant followed behind with his swim fins, mask and the second cocoon. He walked through the narrow passageway, then followed Davis and climbed the ladder to the 01 level, catching curious stares from the submariners, especially after seeing the unusual breathing apparatus on his chest.

"Hold it a minute, Master Chief." He walked toward the ladder leading up to the Conn and called: "Captain?"

Stafford leaned over the rail, looking down through the opening. "Well, Commander, from the looks of your outfit, I guess this is where you want to get off."

Grant smiled. "Yes, sir."

"Let us know if we can be of further assistance with those orders of yours."

"I'll keep that in mind, Captain. And thanks for the ride!"

Captain Reggie Stafford snapped a smart salute. "Good luck, sailor!"

Grant returned the salute, then turned and followed the COB to the escape chamber. They put the cocoons next to the chamber door, then Davis assisted him while he adjusted the breathing apparatus, the Draegar-rig. The old Emerson-rig and the Draegar were bubbleless and had their limited depths of 30 feet due to pure oxygen becoming toxic below that depth. Both had the reputation for leaking. When the filter granules of barylyme meet with sea water, the combination creates a caustic gas that burns the lungs and has been known to cause death. But he knew the Draeger; he'd used it hundreds of times. His experience and confidence in the rig showed as his fingers quickly went from place to place, ensuring its integrity.

He climbed the ladder leading through the inner hatch and up into the escape trunk. Not only used by divers and Special Ops teams, the escape trunk was used to exit the sub in an emergency. If it was at a depth beyond the normal range for a safe exit, the Navy would send the DSRV (Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle), attaching it to the outer hatch.

Grant reached down as Davis handed him one cocoon at a time, then he shook Davis' hand. "Thanks for your help, Master Chief."

"My pleasure, sir. Come back and see us some time!" Grant grinned broadly and gave Davis a thumb's up, as COB snapped a salute. "Good luck, sir!"

Grant lowered the watertight hatch, then turned the hatch wheel, sealing it tightly. He held the mask against his face, tightened the straps on both sides, checked for air leaks, and bit down on the mouthpiece.

Below in the chamber, Davis adjusted the controls, keeping a tentative eye on the gauges, and within seconds, sea water began filling the escape trunk.

Icy cold water seeped into Grant's drysuit around his chin, sending shivers through his body as the water flowed across his throat and onto his chest. When the gauge indicated the pressure in the escape tank had equalized, he reached overhead and grabbed the hatch wheel with both hands, rotated it to the left several times, then forced it open. Immediately, he snapped a line to the cocoons, then kicked his way upward into the silence and darkness of the North Pacific.

Once outside, he pulled up the cocoons and attached one to each side of his accessory belt, then he resealed the hatch. He struck the hatch twice with the handle of his K-bar, the dull, metallic clanking sound signaling he was clear. He glanced at his illuminated wrist compass, and with one strong kick, Navy SEAL Grant Stevens shoved off from the deck, his powerful legs propelling him toward his rendezvous.

At the end of flight ops the carrier no longer needed its 30 knot speed, no longer needed the tremendous rush of wind blowing across her deck for launching and receiving her aircraft. For the past 50 minutes she'd been cruising at eight knots, a leisurely pace.

Twenty feet below the choppy sea Grant kicked his legs hard, every muscle taut as the large, black fins drove him forward, his breathing remaining even, controlled. Although the cocoons were lightweight under water, they were still a drag on his body as he fought the current… and time.

He peered down at the black shape of the Bluefin, hearing the deep, unchanging tone of the sub's cavitating screws. Nice work, Captain Stafford. The sub had maneuvered into position ahead of the carrier's port bow, maintaining a bottom depth of 80 feet until Grant locked-out and was clear. Then, she entered into a shallow dive, leveling off at 250 feet. Out of sight now, she passed directly beneath the carrier and into the dark depths of the ocean, resuming her normal operations, practicing firing solutions on the fleet.

Within a matter of minutes, water began pulsating around him as eight boilers and four, twenty-one foot screws drove more than 81,000 tons of steel toward him. There was no mistaking the rumble, like deep, exaggerated thunder rolling across the Kansas plains. He could distinguish the blurred gray shape in the darkness now, with the bow of the massive carrier no more than sixty yards in front of him. Surfacing, he looked up in awe because no matter how many times he had seen what he was now seeing, from his angle, it was still a real eye-opener.

Bobbing around in the cold, choppy water, he worked quickly and unfastened the weight belt, letting it drop from his body. He tied each cocoon to a fifty foot tether line fastened to his utility belt, then he reached for the two metal paddles attached to the plate hanging down from his backpack. The backpack was a self-contained battery that sent an electromagnetic charge through the rods to the paddles when he squeezed the trigger.

The ship was getting dangerously close, but Grant waited patiently until it was directly in front, unnecessarily reminding himself to 'not miss the boat.' He had every reason to heed his own warning. One slip would prove disastrous because the only place to go would be an involuntary passage under tons of moving steel.

With a strong kick, he stretched as far as he could, slamming each paddle against the forward port hull. The devices came into contact with the ship at the waterline and directly below the thirty ton anchor. With all his strength, he held on as the ship continued on. Even an eight knot speed put tremendous pressure on him, forcing his body backward, trying to rip his grasp from the devices.

He released the magnetic field from the right paddle, then arched his body back and with a swift motion, slammed the paddle higher against the ship. He moved higher and higher, continuously alternating paddles, as he crabbed his way out of the water. Up the side he climbed, hand over hand, as the line holding the cocoons slowly unraveled from his belt. He quickly suspended himself with a tether between the handles before snagging the line to his telescopic grapnel hook attached to his web belt. He extended the telescopic rod and reached up, catching the bottom fluke of the ship's anchor with the grapnel hook. Taking a firm grip on the pole, he released the magnets. He reattached the two electromagnets to the anchor and re-snapped the tether, taking a short breather.

Readjusting his position, Grant peered up through the hawse pipe and past the shank of the anchor. The hawse pipe was the round opening where each 360 pound chain link passed through, with the anchor hanging from the last link by its shackle. Time to move, Stevens.

Dressed in a blue jogging suit with thermal underwear underneath, Adler had just completed his second lap around the deck, keeping a wary eye out for any unexpected guests. He stopped near the hawse pipe on the port side. "Shit! He's late," Adler worried. "Christ! That water must be freezing!" he whispered through gritted teeth. His own experiences made him appreciate what "Panther" was feeling now. Insulated suit or not, any extended period of time in cold water eventually could be hazardous, mentally and physically.

He leaned farther over the edge but couldn't see beyond the anchor hawse, with the bow of the ship curving inward. "Shit!" He started to turn when he saw the grapnel come through the hawse, and he heard a hoarse whisper.

"Permission to come aboard, Senior Chief!"

Adler quickly snatched the grapnel. "Gotcha, Commander!" He hooked the grapnel on the deck padeye, then gave the ready. "Go!"

Grant hauled himself up through the hawse pipe, climbed through the opening and scrambled onto the deck. They were grateful for the heavy cloud coverage and the blackness of this night. Both were the true allies in this type of operation.

Not wasting any time, Grant untied the tether line and Adler hauled up the cocoons. Sitting on the deck, Grant pulled off his swim fins and mask, stripped off his drysuit, then his thermal underwear, revealing a blue jogging suit. Bright yellow letters "USN" were embossed across the chest.

They both hustled to cram all the diving gear inside the one cocoon, then both cocoons were lowered into the chain "locker", capable of storing 1,080 feet of anchor chain. It was unlikely that anyone would notice the cocoons. His gear would be safe for now.

He tied his sneakers and pulled the jogging suit's hood close around his face, hoping to conceal some of the impressions left by the face mask and rubber suit. "Well, Joe, you ready for another lap?" he grinned.

"Let's go, sir!"

They jogged in unison down the port side of the carrier and around the Intruders sitting in formation on the angle deck. Adler called out, "Don't know about you, sir, but I've had enough fun for one evening!"

"Let's hit the locker, Joe!"

They detoured toward the superstructure on the starboard side, through the watertight door and down to the hangar bay. Little attention was paid to them as they walked nonchalantly through the hangar bay, discussing their "improved lap times around the deck", their faces reddened from exposure to the harsh wind topside.

Finally, in the security of the EOD locker, the men shook hands, their grips firm, words sincere.

"It's really good to see you, Joe!"

"You, too, sir!"

"I guess congratulations are in order," Grant said as he pointed to the star above the chief's insignia on Adler's cap. "Can't think of anyone more deserving to be senior chief, Joe."

"Thanks, sir. Your evaluation helped get me that star!"

"Play your cards right on this one and you'll probably have another one to sport around!" Adler just smiled and nodded.

Grant stripped off his damp jogging suit and glanced around the locker as Adler tossed him a towel. All the diving gear and 'tools of the trade' of the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team were methodically arranged and stored within the compact room, ready on a moment's notice. Small bins with spare parts, assorted safeing pins for the ship's ordnance, and various tools lined the after bulkhead. A row of steel trunks, stacked high, was against the side of the locker. The communications gear was arranged on the desk: radio, headsets, earphones, satellite uplink transmitter, and walkie-talkies placed in their chargers, everything he'd need.

"Any 'poop' from Washington yet?" Grant asked as he rubbed the towel across his chest.

"Not since this morning. The NIS officer, Commander Simmons, dropped me a note when I was topside. Said he'd like to get up to speed on this thing when you're ready. You can use the phone on the bulkhead next to the bunk, extension 1084. When you're ready to contact Morelli, the satcom's in the desk drawer, sir." Grant nodded as he changed into a fresh jogging suit then picked up the earphones. Adler said, "I'll have one of my men retrieve your gear from the chain locker before dawn, sir. He can shove it into one of our equipment bags. Nobody'll be the wiser."

"Very well."

"Unless you need anything else, sir, I'll go turn in. You take my bunk here. And you don't have to worry about being bothered by the rest of the team tonight."

"You go 'head. I'll make my call then hit the sack myself. And thanks, Joe."

"For what?" Adler grinned, as he stepped outside the vault-like door.

Grant familiarized himself with the equipment and his new surroundings. It was midnight when he placed the call. He stood in front of the bunks, scrutinizing the room, until he heard a relieved voice: "Are you there, Grant?"

"Yes, sir. We're ready here, Admiral. I'll report to you every twelve hours, sir, unless there's an emergency."

"Understood. And I'll contact Kodiak and the other three sites, correct?" Morelli had been through the battles of Korea and Vietnam. Even so, he reached for a bottle of Rolaids.

"Yes, sir. We don't want anyone to be surprised. Appreciate it if you'd tell them to be on standby and to expect a call at anytime from me or the agent aboard the Bronson, sir."

"Very well, Commander. And speaking about that agent, are you going to be okay with him, considering your reaction to Agent Phillips?"

"Not a problem, sir. Did some checking… he's ex-Navy, a frogman. Can't be all bad."

"I should have known!" Morelli laughed.

"Oh, sir?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Thought you'd like to know that Captain Stafford did an excellent job in getting me here, sir."

"Never a doubt. Good luck, Grant."

"Thanks, Admiral."

USS Bronson

Tony Mullins stepped through the bridge doorway, taking a bite from a slice of nearly burnt, buttered toast, and washed it down with a swig of strong black coffee. He would walk around the inside perimeter of the bridge one more time before he turned in, eyeing all the instruments, still amazed at the Bronson's technology. As usual, all gauges were working properly. The ship's heading was SSW. The last things to check were the cameras. It was the same routine, day after day, but for him, the assignment was perfect. Maybe it still wasn't the seclusion of the Rocky Mountains, it wasn't his dream log cabin, but after nine years with the Agency, he finally had his solitude, for all intent and purposes.

Before leaving the bridge for a final check in his steel-enclosed office below deck, he paused by the window. Somewhere in the distance were the ships from the armada, protecting the Preston. They should be hearing from Washington some time soon. Would they or would they not be proceeding to the Korean coast, and God only knows what else? Noticing his reflection in the glass, he commented, "Not exactly Agency material." He laughed as he stroked his beard. And his light brown hair was already touching his collar. "What the hell! Nearly 40 years old… I deserve to be Mountain Man Mullins! Well, back to 'intestine city'," he joked. Once the steel door was secured behind him, he sat down in front of the terminal and opened his logbook just as the phone rang.

"Mullins."

"Agent Mullins, this is Grant Stevens."

Mullins' back straightened. The call had come in on a secured line. The only communication he'd had the past months had been with his office at Langley or Kodiak, and always with the same people, the same voices.

"Stevens? Am I supposed to know you? And what the hell are you doing on this line?" he shouted.

Grant laughed. "No, you don't know me — yet. But I can assure you, you soon will. I'm a Navy Commander working for NIS. I report to Admiral Morelli. And I got your number from the NIS 'yellow pages'."

Mullins detected immediately that the call wasn't from a telephone but probably from some type of communications gear. His mouth curved into a smile. "Okay so far. Where are you, Commander?"

"The Preston. I came aboard a few hours ago. The EOD team is supporting me here. In fact, that's where I'm calling from… the EOD locker."

Mullins picked up on the "came aboard a few hours ago" statement. His instinct told him he was talking to a Navy SEAL.

"What can I do for you, Commander?"

Grant came right to the point. "We believe there's going to be an unfriendly attempt to take the Bronson."

"Are you shittin' me?" Mullins jumped from his chair, knocking the coffee cup from the table, the black liquid barely missing the keyboard. Kodiak had warned him about bringing liquids into the center.

Grant went into details about the mole and his thoughts on the Chinese troops, adding, "The EOD Senior Chief, Joe Adler, filled me in on the trawler that's been dogging the fleet. I expect this is one time its plan is to do more than just listen."

"Let me get on the horn with Kodiak," Mullins anxiously replied. "They'll probably want to make some computer changes, or whatever the hell it is they do."

"I'm sure you'll be in agreement with this, Agent Mullins, but I don't think there should be any written notes. This one's too hot."

"I agree."

Grant nodded to himself, thinking Mullins would be easy to work with. "Admiral Morelli should be updating Kodiak and the other sites right about now; I'm sure they're expecting to hear from you. And when you talk with them, ask them to keep a wary eye and ear on that trawler; they're to report immediately anything that's out of the ordinary, I don't care how the hell minor it may seem to them. Senior Chief Adler's going to get as much info as he can, too."

"Understood. I'll check the radar myself."

"I know you'll be available on a moment's notice, Agent Mullins," Grant smiled, realizing Mullins had no place to go anyway.

"Yeah, I'll be here. And I'll try and dig up some more information, see if we can find out who's on the Rachinski. Let me know how to reach you."

Grant supplied him with the information, then added, "I'll be snooping around the ship most of the time, so let's set up a contact time of, say, 0100 hours. I'll call you."

"Got it. Look, Commander, there's too much serious shit we've got to worry about. Let's drop the formality… just call me Tony."

"Well, hell, Tony, why don't you just call me 'Commander'?" He immediately laughed then added, "Just kidding. 'Grant's' fine." Both of them realized they were quickly developing a friendship under extraordinary circumstances. "One more thing, Tony. Make sure that special equipment is ready. And while you're at it, check your diving gear. If we're lucky, maybe you won't have to use either." The 'special equipment' was the Bronson's self-destruct mechanism, a last resort.

"One step ahead of you. That's part of my daily routine."

Grant nodded to himself. "Somehow, Tony, I get the impression you're not typical Agency, if you get my drift. And believe me… that was meant as a compliment!"

Mullins laughed and tugged on his beard. "Ya know, it wasn't too long ago I told myself exactly that!"

"Listen, Tony, hope you understand why we didn't bring you in on this sooner."

"Sure… not a problem. It's all to do with 'keeping things close to the vest', right?"

"Roger that!"

* * *

Grant pulled off the sweatsuit and dropped it at the foot of the bunk. He stepped into the freshwater shower to rinse off the saltwater, lingering there briefly. The warm water beat on his shoulders and back as he rested his forehead and palm against the smooth stainless steel.

Grabbing the towel from a hook, he dried off, punched the pillow into a contorted shape, then stretched his body out on top of the blanket. Arms folded behind his head, he stared into the darkness. Every job he'd been involved with in Vietnam, South and Central America, or Libya, whether SEALs or Intel, it was the excitement, the prospect of confrontation. The game was always the same: the mission came first, the survival of his team members second, and finally, his own survival… and screw the bastards on the other side. Surprise them, kill everything when ordered to, let God sort them out, and disappear as fast as you struck. No explanation sounded completely reasonable, but he admitted there were times he questioned his motivation. His ability was never in question, never in doubt… the way it was supposed to be. The question was why? Why did he do it? The generic answer of preserve and defend somehow didn't fit in this game. He reasoned that his way was just another way to get it done. He turned over and closed his eyes. This wasn't the time to question. There rarely was such a time.

Kodiak
Tuesday, January 28
0100 Hours

"Christ!" Jeff Holland slammed the receiver down into its cradle. "Get an alert out. I want everyone back here in ten minutes! And that includes the Marines!"

"Yes, sir!" Ensign Tim Baker ran to the console, sending the signal. "Done, sir," he called from the opposite side of the room. Even without smiling, the dimples in Baker's cheeks stood out as plain as day.

Holland swung his chair around. Sitting at the next console, staring in bewilderment at Holland, was Lieutenant Pat Townsend. He and Lieutenant(j.g.) Frank Stillman, Weapons Officers, controlled the surface radar, weapons, and the threat board. Townsend leaned forward and immediately started cracking his knuckles. "What? What the hell's goin' on?" he asked, his brown eyes searching Holland's face, waiting for an answer.

"That was Admiral Morelli at NIS." Holland pushed the chair back, balancing it on the two back legs. "All this shit that's happening with China and Russia? They're pretty sure it's the Bronson the Commies are really after."

Townsend's jaw dropped. "You're shittin'!"

"I wouldn't shit you, Pat. He didn't give me all the details, but I'd have to suspect an NIS officer's aboard the Preston. I guess he's a 'spook' trying to uncover a mole."

Townsend's voice went an octave lower, turning into a harsh whisper. "Mole? A fuckin' mole? Oh, man, the shit's gonna fly now. Where? Where is he?"

"Morelli didn't say specifically, but he—"

"Sir, excuse me," interrupted Ensign Baker, "but it's Agent Mullins, on the Bronson." He handed the phone to Holland.

"Holland."

"Commander, you talk to Admiral Morelli yet?"

"Just did. Christ! What's going on?"

"Don't know much more than you," replied Mullins. "I've been in contact with Grant Stevens — Commander Grant Stevens. He's the NIS guy on the carrier reporting to Morelli." Holland was shaking his head, acknowledging the information, still staring at Townsend. "By the way, as a side note," continued Mullins, "I'm pretty certain he's a Navy SEAL."

For several more minutes they spoke, Mullins revealing as much as he knew. Holland stood slack-jawed, keeping his stare fixed on Townsend.

There were eight random light flashes on the keypad by the steel entry door. The Marine guard looked up at the television monitor, the images showing in sharp black and white. He entered the response code into his keypad, and the heavy door slowly swung inward, only one third the way open before the rest of the officers and Marines rushed in. Some of them hadn't been off duty very long, their sleep interrupted, their clothes disheveled. Beneath their bulky parkas, hanging off their shoulders, were Uzi submachine guns.

Bob Little, the second senior officer at the center, was pulling off his thick gloves and parka. The temperature was 30 degrees below zero in Kodiak that day. "What the hell's going on?" he asked as he smoothed back his black hair.

Holland held up his hand, silencing Little. "Okay, Agent Mullins, I'll wait for your call." He handed the receiver to Ensign Baker, as he shook his head. He stared up through clear gray eyes at each of the men surrounding him. "Gentlemen, we've got us a crisis."

After he explained, the first obvious question was asked by Frank Stillman. "Sir, aren't we even going to use the "Zippo?" Stillman referenced the nickname they had given the special weapon aboard the Bronson.

Holland shook his head. "Our orders from the beginning have been to wait, wait until there was imminent danger to South Korea. If we used "Zippo" now, it'd appear that we were the aggressor, you know, Geneva Convention and world opinion shit. We know what it can do, but we don't have just cause… not yet. Besides, it's out of our hands right now." He paused, picking a red thread from his beige corduroy slacks. "Admiral Morelli's going to hold off trying to get a SEAL team aboard the Bronson. Even though they've probably got ways to get aboard without detection, with that fucking trawler so close, he doesn't want to risk tipping the Russians off. He's relying on some commander to find out who the mole is… and find him before we have to go with a contingency plan."

Bob Little agreed and added, "Look, we don't know how or even when they're planning to hit the Bronson. We've got no choice but to wait. All the intel suggests she's the target, and that's all we know." He rolled the tip of his pencil-thin, black mustache between his fingertips. "But there's a lot we can do in the meantime to protect Uncle Sam's investment." He looked at Holland. "We'll talk with the other sites." Holland nodded, then reached for the phone. "Double up at your stations," Little ordered. "I want all heads working this."

He walked to the rear of the center, where Lieutenant Michael Antonelli and Lieutenant(j.g.) Cliff Patten were already testing their systems. Both had fleet experience and were put in charge of radar guidance and navigation of the missile launches.

"We're on it, sir," smiled Antonelli without even looking up.

Little turned his attention toward the Marines. "Marines!"

Eight booming voices answered in unison: "Sir!"

"It may not just be the Bronson we need to worry about."

Sergeant Bruce Watson stepped forward. "I understand, sir. My men are ready, sir!"

"Very well, Sergeant." Little couldn't hide his brief smile before turning to his own young officers, Ensign Baker and Lieutenant(j.g.) Clark Young. Both were assigned as software and hardware technicians for the TSC-MK1. They had top secret (code word) clearances and had assisted Dr. Hiram Mertz, the computer's designer/inventor, in bringing it all together.

"Lieutenant Young and Ensign Baker, each of you get a sidearm from Sergeant Watson's armory." Holland shifted his stare to Ensign Baker. "Turn on the laser security net. No one comes or goes without positive visual ID, understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

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