Mission Critical

Chapter Six

"Say again, Commander?"

"The Russian's right here on the carrier, sir."

"You'd better be goddamn sure," growled Morelli, while he loosened his tie.

Grant's back straightened from a response he hadn't expected. "I am, sir.

"Good Christ!" Morelli stood abruptly, the back of his knees sending his chair against the wall. He wiped a hand across his face, then picked up the smoldering cigar from the ashtray, rolling it between his fingers.

"Everything adds up, sir — the conversations I've intercepted, reports I've seen. Simmons and I have been working closely, comparing notes. That seaman's death confirmed everything. The kid was murdered, Admiral."

Morelli knew there were times he aggravated the shit out of Grant, and this was one of them. "How in the hell did you reach that conclusion?"

Grant began to stiffen against the questions, but he maintained his composure. "It was made to look as though he slipped on some spilled Coke, but Doc Matthews said the kid didn't have any Coke in his stomach, there wasn't any around the body, and only a small amount on the upper deck."

Morelli sat back down, put his foot on the desk and pushed himself deeper into his leather chair, all the while gnawing on the Havana. "Maybe he was clumsy and just tripped."

Grant frowned, but held his tongue. "Brad and I talked with Doc Matthews. He said for the size of the gash in the back of Koosman's head, there was only a minuscule amount of blood. If he was only unconscious when he went down, there should have been a pool of blood under him. Besides, Admiral, that's why they wear rubber soled shoes, so they don't slip… uh, you already know that, sir." A "black shoe" himself, Morelli had come up through the ranks to earn his third gold admiral's star.

"You're right, and I'm still listening."

"Our conclusion came from the way the body was found, sir. Again, no blood."

"And what does that prove?"

"Well, sir, Doc let us see the body in sickbay. He pointed out some blood that had pooled just under the skin, behind his neck and shoulders, which means he had to be on his back right after he died for that to happen. He said rigor mortis had already set in. Admiral, that kid was dead for a while before he ended up at the bottom of that ladder, sir." Grant waited for a response… none came. "Brad and I searched the compartment area above the deck where the body was found, but didn't have any luck. Shit! I couldn't believe I found the towel where I did… sir."

"Towel?"

"Yes, sir. Senior Chief Adler and I were in the starboard outcropping where we used the MSV. We made a final inspection before we left the area. I decided to check out the port outcropping, too, since it was a good hiding place, just like it was for us. Something caught my eye. A towel was pushed up against the back side of the fan vent. We went inside the DC locker and unscrewed the louver cover. The broken tip of an antenna was stuck in one of the loops of the towel. Our Russian friend must have been in one helluva hurry."

"Sonofabitch!"

"Yes, sir," Grant answered, relieved. "I stuffed the towel back in the vent just in case he comes back for it, or decides to use the same outcropping, but I don't think that's likely. He'll find another place."

"I guess my next question has to be, who? Do you know who the bastard is, Commander?"

"I've got it narrowed down but that's about all I can tell you now." Morelli nodded, as Grant asked, "Sir?"

Even with the seriousness of the conversation, Morelli smiled, somehow anticipating Grant Stevens was about to make a request. "Go ahead, Grant."

"Sir, is there any chance you could have orders issued for the fleet to change course, head into the Sea of Japan?"

A steady stream of cigar smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Morelli's eyes narrowed. "That's a serious request. Don't you think there's a good chance that would push the Russians and Chicoms into making a move into Korea? You've gotta give me a good reason."

Grant was shaking his head as he responded, "I still stand by my decision that they want the Bronson, sir. From what I could see of the mini-sub, that weapons’ platform was redesigned. I'm sure that's how they plan on hauling away the SNAGS. And they're not expecting us to make the move into the Sea of Japan. They're assuming we're waiting for the Chicoms, which would then give them their chance. I think we'll catch them off guard, Admiral. And with the fleet on the move, all they'll be able to do is keep up. We can have Captain Stafford run interference by positioning the Bluefin between the trawler and the Bronson." Grant leaned back against the communication's desk, staring down at the floor. "We've gotta get our asses out of here, sir. I just need a little while longer, and this is the only way to get it."

"I'll see what I can do." He glanced at the clock above his door. "I'll call Allen Wooster, the National Security Advisor, and get back to you at 1100 hours, East Coast time."

Grant closed his eyes as he rubbed his pounding temple. Coupled with lack of sleep and the intense mental pressure, he was beginning to feel the strain. "Thanks. Oh, one more thing, sir."

Morelli had to laugh out loud this time. "Now what the hell do you want?"

"If the orders are approved, sir, can you wait till 0800 hours, my time, to pass the order on to CINCPACFLEET and issue a departure time of 0900 hours? I don't want to give the Russians any notice."

"Very well, Commander. You'll be hearing from me."

Grant took a bite from the Snicker's bar, washed it down with a swig of cold milk, then called Mullins. "Tony, listen. Contact Kodiak ASAP. Prepare them for receiving new orders."

"What the hell's happening?"

"I've asked Morelli to issue orders that will send the fleet into the Sea of Japan. It's the only way to buy more time, Tony."

Mullins detected the fatigued voice and sensed the urgency. "I know, buddy. I'll do whatever you ask, whenever. Hey, you know we're going to win this thing, don't you?"

Grant smiled. "Thanks. Go make your call."

"Edward," Captain Donovan called as he stepped through the doorway onto the bridge, motioning for the steward, who was pouring coffee for the OOD. He handed him an envelope. "See this gets into the pouch for that COD flight before it takes off." The COD was a long-range transport, but more importantly for the men aboard ship, it delivered letters to and from home.

"Certainly, Captain," Mindina responded, as he slipped the envelope into his white jacket pocket.

OOD Crawley walked over to him, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. "Was that a letter to Koosman's folks?"

Donovan rested his chin on his fist as he leaned against the swivel chair, staring in the direction of the eastern horizon. "Haven't had to write one of those in a long time."

He glanced at his watch, abruptly turned, then motioned for Wayne Masters, the XO (Executive Officer), and Petty Officer Andrews to follow him, leading them to the Sea Cabin, one door down the passageway from the bridge. Petty Officer Andrews closed the cabin door behind them then stepped closer to the two officers. Donovan stood in the middle of the room, hands in his back pockets, glancing at the overhead with its jungle of cables and pipes. "No need to sit, gentlemen, this will be brief." He looked at Navigator Andrews, ordering, "Plot me a course to Point Juliet Alpha in the Sea of Japan and give me an eight-hour ticket. Bring it back to me ASAP and advise the quartermaster."

"Yes, sir." Andrews rushed from the cabin.

Donovan took a step, stopping in front of the porthole, hands clasped behind him, then he turned to Masters. "Wayne, we just got our orders from CINCPAC. We're to proceed into the Sea of Japan and wait for further instructions."

Masters' back stiffened, his hands balled up into tight fists next to his sides. "Has the situation heated up, sir?"

Donovan shrugged his shoulders. "The orders just say to station ourselves off the western coast of Japan near the Island of Sado. We've got to get out of here by 0900."

"Not much notice, sir," Masters commented, glancing down at his watch.

"That's why it's time to move, XO." Donovan picked up the silver cigarette lighter from the table, flicking it on and off. "Brief the OOD and give him a leg-up on our orders… and record it in the pass-down log." As the name implied, the "pass-down log" was a continuous record of events used to keep the next watch informed.

"Yes, sir." Masters didn't need to be told the conversation was over. He left immediately.

Donovan lingered a few moments then returned to the bridge. He reached for the phone hanging from the overhead, calling Dodson. "Air Boss."

"Yes, sir?"

"Launch the E-2, then two Intruders and two Tomcats. I want them keeping the skies clear."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

As always, the Tomcats would each carry six Phoenix missiles, built specifically to defend against Russia's TU-95 Bear, feared at one time because of its deadly anti-ship missiles. But with the Phoenix, the threat was counteracted. In a simulation test, one F-14 pilot, carrying six Phoenix missiles, shot down five of six drone targets. From that moment, the Tomcat was dubbed "Fleet Defender”.

Within six minutes five aircraft were catapulted from the Preston's flight deck. The task force turned northwest, sailing for the Sea of Japan, with the Rachinski not far behind.

Two sailors sat at the table, having just been relieved from watch. Jake Farley shook his egg-laden fork at Sid Neuman. "Listen, I don't care what you say, Neuman, as sure as God made silent, stinky farts… you can bet your ass something's going down."

Knowing Farley the way he did, Neuman hissed, "Yeah, right," and continued spreading strawberry jelly on his toast. He licked his fingers and stared straight into the eyes of his shipmate. "You're so full of shit, Farley."

"You mean you haven't seen that chief, the one asking questions?" Farley said, then immediately shoved the fork into his mouth. He wiped egg yolk off his chin, as he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery chief.

Neuman slowly stopped chewing, his curiosity getting the best of him. "What kinda questions?"

Farley was wound up tighter than a spring, his words gushing out fast and furious. "Things like, who is, where was, when did… you know, spook shit, man! Everybody's talking about him. How could you not know, Neuman?" His voice turned into a loud whisper. "Bet he's a nark, looking for dope and shit. Ya know?"

Farley made it easy to get under anyone's skin just like a mountain tick, and he'd just burrowed his way under Neuman's. Venting an anger and nervousness that almost everyone on board was experiencing, Neuman threw the last piece of toast on the plate, then leaned across the table. "Look, Farley, all I know is that Koosman's dead, and we're bobbing around on this boat, in this cold-ass weather, waiting for the fuckin' Commies to make a move." He flopped back against the seat, pointing a finger at his shipmate. "And if he's a nark, asshole, you'd better hide your ditty bag, 'cause shit happens!"

Seaman Harold Prewett slid his stocky frame across the bench, pushing his food-laden tray along the table, after overhearing Neuman's comment. "Guess you guys haven't heard then."

Neuman and Farley looked at each other, then at Prewett. "Heard what?" they asked in unison.

"The Old Man got new orders. We're pullin' out and headin' for the Sea of Japan." He shook his head as he gulped down a mouthful of orange juice, then ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "It don't sound good at all."