Mission Critical

Chapter Seven

The task force steamed through the perilous waters of La Perouse Strait at 0930 hours. It wasn't unusual for the islands to experience fog, wind, and rain. The day was no exception. North of the American ships lay the chain of Kuril Islands, and to the south, Hokkaido, the northern most point of Japan. Prior to World War II, the Kurils were owned by Japan, in fact, it was from the Island of Iturup that they launched their attack against Pearl Harbor. But following the war, Japan was made to relinquish the Kurils to Russia.

Earlier that morning, at 0730 hours, a COD flight had screeched down onto the flight deck after its trip from Subic Bay in the Philippines. On board was a first class petty officer stationed at CINCPACFLEET, who had specific orders to hand deliver the officially sealed envelope to Lieutenant Commander Brad Simmons.

In the privacy of the EOD locker, Simmons leaned over Grant's shoulder, perusing the black and white photographs laid out in three rows on the desk, the latest views from the Blackbird.

"Can't see any change," Grant commented, running his hand over the photographs as he examined each one. "Troops and artillery are still positioned exactly as they were four days ago." He leaned back against the chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

Simmons came around from behind the chair, sitting on the edge of the desk. He brushed his hand down the side of his prematurely gray hair. "Look, I know I'm no SEAL, and this body ain't what it used to be, but I'll do whatever I can."

"Appreciate that, Brad. We'll find something for you to do… you can count on that." Grant reached for the cocoon, dragged it closer, then grabbed the .45, released the clip, checked it, and shoved it back. His fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting against the trigger as he brought the .45 closer to his face. He stared at the weapon, when suddenly, a new-found energy coursed through his body, his mind and spirit revitalized. Whatever plan he came up with, whatever they decided to do, they had to do it today. Grant started for the door. "Brad, stay here while I find Joe."

Just then the steel door 'clanged' and Adler came rushing in. He shot a quick look at Simmons. "Excuse me, sir," then he fixed his stare on Grant. "Just heard… the E-2 reported that a 'Bear' and two MIGS have shown up on radar. It looks like they took off from the air base in Kamchatka."

"Where's the Bronson?" Grant immediately asked, at the same time grabbing the headset.

"According to radar, she's about two clicks at our 180."

The Bronson was about 2,000 yards away from the Preston, directly off her fantail, and that was too far for Grant's liking. He acknowledged Adler's response with a nod. Although he was staring at Adler, he was, in fact, no longer seeing him, as his mind raced fast and furious. He held the headset against his ear, flipped the switch and waited.

"Mullins."

"Call Kodiak, Tony. Tell them they're to bring the Bronson in close, no more than one click at our three zero zero degrees, then hold her there. I'm gonna contact the Bluefin and ask Captain Stafford to start running interference between you and the Russians. He should have received his orders by now."

Mullins shook his head as he paced the control room. "Haven't seen the Rachinski since we hit the Straits. But the fog is pretty thick out there. I'll go up to the bridge and check the radar."

Adler was quiet but seemed to be asking: "What the fuck's happening?"

"At last check, she was off our port quarter," Grant responded as he looked across at Simmons. "Brad will stay here in the EOD locker. Contact him after you've talked to Kodiak and checked the 'scope. He'll know where to find me if necessary."

"You think this is it?" asked a concerned Agent Mullins.

"I think we're closer, my friend, but I'm still betting they'll wait till the fleet gets to Sado and we slow down."

"And what about you, Navy SEAL Stevens? You waitin', too?"

Grant couldn't keep from laughing. "N'yet."

"I didn't think so!"

Sergei Vernichenko stared across the bow of the trawler, his deep-set, nearly black eyes squinting, trying to see through the dense mist. He spoke under his breath and only to himself. "What are you up to my American friends? What has brought you into these waters so suddenly? Surely, not us," he laughed without any true emotion.

"Comrade Vernichenko," called Communication's Officer Mikhail Borniski, as he pointed to the microphone. "It is Comrade Pratopapov."

Sergei walked over to the communication's table and tapped Borniski on the shoulder, motioning for him to leave. When he was alone, he sat in front of the microphone, hunching his broad shoulders over the table. "Has anything changed since our last conversation?"

"No. We're still proceeding to Sado. But… "

"But? You seem agitated, Comrade."

"There are many questions being asked."

One of the most respected but feared KGB officers in Moscow, Vernichenko was the best at what he did, especially when it came to mind games. Alexei had been an easy target, but now Sergei was very intrigued, the word 'worried' not yet crossing his thoughts. "You are being asked these questions?"

"No."

"Tell me about… these questions, and who is asking them."

Alexei spoke hurriedly. "The rumors have to do with a 'Stevens', Chief Grant Stevens. He's been asking about the crewman's death and… "

Alexei's words faded into the background as the KGB officer sent his own mind back in time, trying to remember. There was an American — surely, it cannot be, he thought. "You don't recognize that name, Comrade?"

"Stevens?" As if a bolt of lightning struck him, he gasped, "My God! How couldn't I remember?" He had been aboard the destroyer Hadley, stationed off the coast of Cuba, waiting for a sub to relinquish her passengers… five Navy SEALs, who were returning from a mission that destroyed the laboratory and nearly killed Vernichenko. Although Alexei had not been in contact with any of the SEALs, the scuttlebutt about what they did was the topic of conversation. An hour after the SEALs were picked up by the destroyer, they were helo-lifted from its deck.

But it was the KGB officer whose mind was flooded with thoughts and pictures of a time when the world hung on the brink of World War III — a nuclear war.

A revolution had taken place in Cuba, the regime of Batista overthrown by Fidel Castro. With Castro in power, Russia had its opportunity. The Russian Premier ordered a buildup of missiles in Cuba, and Russian naval vessels began transporting those missiles, bringing enough warheads that could literally wipe out the entire East Coast of the United States.

But while the Americans prepared for and anticipated a strike from the air, the first strike would, in fact, be coming from the sea, by torpedoes with nuclear warheads. They were small, two kiloton weapons, but classified as very dirty, "dirty" because of the massive amounts of radioactivity that would be released after detonation.

One of the most experienced submarine commanders, Sergei Vernichenko was selected to lead a team of scientists and weapons' experts in the development and design of two mini-subs with attached weapons platform for the sole purpose of delivering those torpedoes. The subs had two special batteries, each one capable of supplying power for a distance of forty miles.

Their plan was to launch the subs from the northernmost point in Cuba, head in a northeasterly direction and pick up the Gulf Stream, thereby enabling them to conserve power. They would follow the three knot current north until they were in range, then turn inland, one toward Miami, the other toward the American submarine base in Charleston, South Carolina.

All crewmen were volunteers, fully aware they were expendable, as the underwater shock would destroy the subs and them. Their mission was one-way; their sacrifice to be for the Motherland.

Seemingly hidden off an inland waterway, not far from the small town of Coralilio on Cuba's northern coast, the confiscated tobacco barn sat surrounded by tobacco fields and vacant shacks. Converted into a makeshift laboratory and research facility, the rear of the building was crudely redesigned to accommodate an office, kitchen and bunkroom. Electricity was provided by a small generator, shielded under a sloping overhang behind a propane gas tank on the east side. In order to provide some protection against dust for the laboratory equipment, a rough, uneven, concrete flooring had been poured in the main section of the barn. Long, stainless steel counters were positioned along the north and south walls with six steel, portable cabinets standing in a row to the right of the front door. Sitting on raised platforms in the middle of the room were the two mini-subs.

A dense moisture pervaded every crevice of the tobacco barn, saturating men and equipment. Cuba's sub-tropical climate was one the Russians were unfamiliar with, effecting them physically and mentally, sometimes to the point of lethargy. But each man was aware of Vernichenko's tolerance as being extremely limited when it came to complaints. Andre Mishenski, one of the scientists and the oldest of all the Russians, assumed the role of mediator. A long-time friend of Vernichenko's family, he knew the quirks and boiling point of the officer, having an uncanny ability to neutralize Vernichenko.

Vernichenko and Nikolay Soraovich, second in command, were in the office, located in the rear of the barn, adjacent to the bunkroom and garage. The two men were discussing test plans for the following day. Three sets of blueprints were spread out on an improvised wooden desk made of barn planks, both men leaning under the harsh, exposed light bulb. Above them, tacked to the notched, irregular wall, was a yellowing map with an enlarged area of the Southeast Coast of the United States.

Only average in height, it was Vernichenko's great bulk and low-pitched voice that made everyone sit up and pay attention. "Go get the other blueprint," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Soraovich answered, as he straightened up, pressing his hand against his lower back, feeling the perspiration bleeding through his shirt. The air whistled through the space between his front teeth as he sighed, "Ohh, another long night."

"Are you complaining, Lieutenant Soraovich?" Vernichenko asked without turning around.

"No, Commander!" Soraovich immediately regretted his innocent remark. His transfer to Cuba was a feather in the cap of his young career, especially being assigned to working on Vernichenko's project. He harshly reprimanded himself. His chest expanded as he stepped through the doorway into the garage, and he breathed in the odor of tobacco, the barn wood permeated with it. He'd been without a Russian cigarette for five months, as long as he'd been on the project. The Commander forbid smoking anywhere near the facility. In five months, he'd been nowhere else but the facility, and his appetite for cigarettes had not diminished. He walked toward the dust-covered Land Rover. The beam from his flashlight shone through the vehicle's rear window, a beacon of light searching for another blueprint.

At precisely 2230 hours, a tremendous explosion sent a fireball skyward, disintegrating the entire north corner of the building, the noise deafening. A satchel charge, expertly placed, detonated the propane gas tank. Orange flames quickly engulfed the dry wood, consuming it as if it were mere paper, spreading rapidly across the ceiling and back wall. Two scientists and one lab technician were killed instantly; both Vernichenko and Soraovich were knocked to the ground.

Within seconds, five men, prepared for CQB (close quarter battle), burst through the front door. They were dressed completely in black, with hoods over their faces, only their eyes exposed. The unanticipated event, precisely coordinated, prevented any sort of self-defense by the Russians.

Instantly, the staccato sound of machine guns ruptured the air, with bullets from the Uzi's spraying the entire building haphazardly, screams being cut short as bullets ripped into bodies.

Vernichenko crawled on his hands and knees, scurrying across the floor like a frightened crab, blood oozing from his forehead. Soraovich ran to him, trying to scream, "Commander!" but he was choking from the fumes and dust. He tried helping the injured officer to his feet, but Vernichenko angrily pushed him aside, bracing himself against the door frame. Crouching low, he shot a quick look at the storage chest where the rifles were stored, but it was too late. Flames were already devouring the dry wood. "Andre!" he called under his breath, knowing it was too late for all the men.

Falon, "Tail-end Charlie", the shortest of the SEALs, swept the area with his helmet camera, rushing over to one of the mini-subs, shooting pictures of the instrument panel and weapons platform, smoke beginning to cloud the view.

Ensign Grant Stevens shouted, "Grab all the intel you can! And rip-search those bodies!"

Four men immediately put the orders into action, slicing the uniforms from the dead with their K-bars in one swift motion from crotch to neck. The clothes were pulled from the bodies, wadded up, then stuffed inside the SEALs' utility vests, all in a matter of seconds.

Still unnoticed because of the flames and smoke, Vernichenko grabbed Nikolay's shirtsleeve, dragging the dumbfounded officer toward the Land Rover, glancing over his shoulder at the burning maps and blueprints. A fire, burning as hot and furious as the one consuming the barn, raged in Vernichenko, as he thought, All our work. But it was the loss of his old friend, Andre, that caused an uncommon pain deep within him. He angrily whispered, "I will never forget… never."

Grant tried to make a quick body count through the smoke and debris, his flashlight as useless as high beams in a dense fog. "Oh, Christ! There's only nine!" They all snapped around when hearing the noise from the Land Rover's engine. With the blazing fire cutting off their path to the garage, the SEALs raced from the inferno through the door.

"Rusty! Blake! Set the charges!" Grant yelled over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the building. With Falon and Ellis in hot pursuit, they sprinted at full speed toward the rear of the barn. Charred pieces of shredded roof fell around them as they hurdled debris and the bodies of two guards.

With its engine screaming, the Land Rover smashed through the wall, its rearend fishtailing on the soft earth. The SEALs were forced backward, and for one split second, the contorted face of Sergei Vernichenko glared at them from behind the steering wheel.

Machine gun fire erupted, a stream of bullets punching holes in the vehicle, blowing out the side and back windows. Nikolay Suraovich slumped toward the driver's seat, then his body slammed back against the passenger's door as the vehicle veered left, cutting across the tobacco field.

Grant, Falon and Ellis ran at top speed after the Rover, never releasing the Uzi triggers. The vehicle went airborne when it hit a knoll, traveling nearly 50 feet before landing on the other side. With dust and smoke trailing, it disappeared from view. "Goddammit! Anyone else get a look at those guys?" Grant yelled.

Falon nodded and replied, "Yeah, got a snapshot, skipper," as he pointed to his helmet camera.

"Let's get the hell outta here!" Grant ordered.

Three satchel charges, one set at each corner of the building, exploded in an illusion of organized chaos. A brilliant white glow lit up the field, raining flames on the shriveled tobacco leaves, setting off numerous small fires. With the wooden corner support gone, the remainder of the roof crumbled inside itself.

The five Navy SEALs' mission had been completed, and, as quickly and silently as they had come, they vanished into the field, hustling to make their way back to the inland waterway.

"Comrade Vernichenko?" called Alexei after getting no response.

"Yes, yes, go on," he answered brusquely. Rubbing his forehead, Vernichenko momentarily felt the same anger he felt that fateful day.

"I kept trying to find out about him without raising suspicion, but it was like he didn't exist." Alexei shook his head. "Now I understand why."

Yes. It's like they don't exist until they want you to know, and then… it is too late. Vernichenko leaned toward the microphone, thinking that an old nemesis might once again interfere with his country's strategy. He sensed Alexei's growing apprehension. "Remember, Comrade, all your years of waiting to help Mother Russia will culminate tonight. We must be very wary. You must keep an ever-present vigil now. Proceed with caution, but continue as planned. This time we will not fail."

From the first conversation between the Russians that he'd intercepted, there was something that gnawed away at Grant Stevens' brain. It happened again when he and Adler sent the MSV to the trawler.

As he and Adler were inspecting their diving gear — masks, hoses, and breathing apparatus— Grant was thinking about sending a message to Captain Stafford. As quickly as the thought passed through his mind, another nearly brought him out of the chair. "Christ!"

Adler looked up and casually replied, "You called, sir?"

Grant laughed. "I've got a bad case of rectalencephalitis, Joe." He grabbed the headphones and adjusted the radio frequency. Within seconds, he heard, "Admiral Morelli's office."

"Gardner? This is Commander Stevens. I need to talk with the Admiral — ASAP!"

"Hold a minute, sir, he's right here."

"Grant! Something happen?" Morelli asked as he dropped his coat over the back of the chair in the outer office.

"Not yet, sir, but I need you to get me some information. Put me on scramble, sir."

"Speak… I'm listening." Morelli motioned for Gardner to hand him a pencil.

"I'll give you a few names. Can you match them up against the men stationed aboard the HADLEY and the sub during October, '62?"

"During the Cuban crisis?" Morelli asked with surprise.

Grant cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. It's just a hunch, but if I'm right, we're one big step closer to nailing his ass, sir."

"Good Christ! Give me the names." Morelli shook his head each time he wrote down a name. With the information on paper, he dropped the pencil and handed the list to Gardner, pointing with his finger toward the door. Gardner didn't waste time and ran down the hallway. "We'll get on it immediately, then will call you."

"Lieutenant Commander Simmons, Senior Chief Adler or I will be here, sir. And Admiral… thanks for getting us the extra time. We're working as fast as we can, sir."

Morelli's tone sounded like a father answering a son, "I know you are, Grant."

Adler unlocked the door after hearing the tapping. Brad Simmons' expression immediately caught the attention of the two men.

"What is it?" asked Grant as he switched off the radio.

"They're getting ready to ship the Koosman kid's body, if this fog clears. Helo's going to fly him to the big island, Honsho, drop him off at Yokota Air Force Base, and then take him to the States."

Grant walked toward the bunks with his head lowered, his hands in his back pockets. His voice sounded weary. "Do you know where he was from?"

"I think Washington State."

"Damn it! What a waste." He dropped down on the bunk, running his hand in frustration over the top of his head.

Joe Adler immediately interpreted the look on Grant's face. "You've been running your ass off since you've come aboard, sir. Don't know what else you could've done. This one wasn't yours, sir."

Grant shook his head, a fixed, fiery stare burned in his eyes. The square jaw clenched tight, until the muscles twitched as he bit down hard on his teeth. Adler's eyes narrowed, watching 'Panther'. He knew the look. Some sad-sack mother was gonna bite the bullet sooner or later. He walked in front of Grant, stood at attention and said quietly under his breath, "It's time to dance, Commander. I'm here if you need me."

Grant looked up with acknowledgment and something that resembled a grin. "I know you will be, 'Big A'. I never questioned that."

A boson’s pipe was heard over the loudspeaker, sounding for everyone's attention. "All hands, listen up. This is the Captain. Replenishing at sea will commence at 1300 hours with the Suribachi. Deck force, make preparations and have on my desk by 1100 hours for officers' call."

Grant paced in front of the desk with his hands thrust into his pockets. The loudspeaker seemed just a muffled noise somewhere in his mind. The Captain continued: "We're still proceeding to Sado. Our expected arrival time is approximately 1700 hours. I wish I could give you more on the present situation, but that's all I have at this time."

Grant sat on the edge of the desk, ignoring the broadcast, thinking out loud: "We're gonna have to take a chance." He took his pen from his shirt pocket, wrote his own form of encrypted note on the desk pad, then looked at Brad. "Can you set up infrared cameras in both Damage Control lockers, aiming them at the doors?" Once the special camera was activated, it would take a picture when the lens picked up any white or red light.

"Sure, no problem. Now?"

"Now." Brad started for the door when Grant added, "Watch yourself."

The door clanged shut and Adler skeptically asked, "You really think he'll use those lockers again after what happened?"

"We've gotta cover all bases." He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles as tight as a mooring line. "And we have to consider he might have a backup, Joe."

"Oh, Christ! You don't think that's possible, do you?"

Grant shrugged his shoulders. "Who the hell knows?"

Simmons rolled the chair toward the desk, then picked up the headphones. "Yes, Admiral, he's right here." He tossed the headphones to Grant.

"Grant here, Admiral. Any luck?"

"I've got two with last names that match what you gave me… an ensign on the Hadley, and a first class machinist mate on the sub. There was a first and last name match belonging to a weapons’ officer on the Hadley." Morelli held his breath as he waited for Grant's response.

"That's gotta be him, sir!"

"Oh, Christ! I didn't want to believe it. You're sure it's Donovan? Mike Donovan?"

"We should have positive confirmation soon, Admiral. I don't remember if I met him on the Hadley. The Team stayed pretty much to itself after the ship picked us up."

Morelli chewed the tip of the Havana right off, spitting it across the desk. "Look, you get back to me with that confirmation. I'll wait here all night if I have to."

Grant grabbed his cap. "Brad, stay here in case the Admiral or Mullins call. Come on, Joe."

"Where to?" Adler asked as he reached on top of the shelf for his hat.

"I'm going to the bridge."

Adler stopped dead in his tracks. "You're going where?"

"I've got to force him to make a move. He has to know who I am by now… I want him to know. You stay out of sight then come and call me. I'll need an excuse to leave."

Ten minutes later, Grant walked onto the bridge. Captain Donovan was sitting in his swivel chair, facing sideways toward the port window. The fog had all but dissipated, leaving water droplets on the glass. He rested his head against his palm as he read the message traffic board lying in his lap.

"Hey, Chief Stevens, isn't it?" CAG said loudly as he walked over to shake Grant's hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw Donovan’s head snap up, the chair start to turn, then stop. Yeah,you bet your ass you know who I am.

“You haven’t met the captain,” said CAG as he started toward the forward part of the bridge. “Captain, this is Chief Stevens."

"It's too bad we couldn't have met under better circumstances, Captain," Grant said. Donovan nodded in acknowledgment, but there was a visible slump to the shoulders as an ashen but hard face stared at Grant Stevens. He remained quiet, his vocal cords feeling as if they'd been severed.

"Excuse me, Captain," interrupted Joe Adler as he walked quickly across the bridge, "but Chief Stevens is needed down on deck two."

"Let's go, Senior Chief. Hope we can talk again sometime, Captain." Grant gave somewhat of a salute and immediately rushed from the bridge. Donovan regained his composure, glaring into the back of Grant Stevens.

Once in the confinement of the EOD locker, Adler shut the door behind them. "Well, that seemed to go well!" he laughed, shaking his head.

Grant threw his cap on the bunk. "Now, we just have to wait." He looked at his watch, then reached for his stash of Snickers bars in the desk drawer and tossed one to Adler. "If Brad's not back in thirty minutes, go check on him, Joe." Putting on the headset, he adjusted the radio frequency, hoping to pick up a transmission.

Fifty-five minutes later, there was a tapping at the EOD locker door, and a grinning Brad Simmons rushed in. Grant swung the chair around, pulling off the headset. "You got it… you got the fuckin' picture!"

"Damn straight, we did!"

Grant waited impatiently. Finally hearing the familiar voice, he said, "Admiral! Scramble this, sir."

Morelli hit the scramble button. "We're clear, Grant."

"I'm confirming, sir. It's Donovan."

Morelli slumped into his chair. "Good work, Grant, and to Lieutenant Commander Simmons and Senior Chief Adler, as well."

"Thanks, Admiral; I'll tell them. But we still don't know what they've got planned exactly, or when."

"I know, I know," answered a drained Morelli.

"Sir, we were able to get his picture when he entered the DC locker, which means he probably contacted the trawler from there." Grant heard a muffled "shit". "I'm sorry I wasn't able to pick up the transmission. Sir?"

"Go 'head," Grant.

"He knows who I am, sir."

"You sure?"

"No doubt. I went to the bridge—"

"You what?"

"I had to force his hand, Admiral. It was the only way I could get him to move." Grant waited a moment then asked, "What do you want me to do now, sir?"

Morelli knew exactly what Grant was asking. "That decision will have to come from higher up. Let me get back to you, say, by 1500 hours, your time."

Adler, Simmons, and Grant confined themselves to the EOD locker. Since flight ops were canceled until 2000 hours because of the replenishing exercise scheduled, the remaining EOD team members made themselves scarce.

While they waited, Grant sent a message to sub Captain Reggie Stafford, ensuring that the Bluefin stayed close to the Bronson. His next call went to Tony Mullins. "We found him, Tony. We found the mole."

"No shit? Who? Who the hell is it?"

"Captain Mike Donovan."

Mullins nearly choked, spitting Coke down the front of his green polo shirt. "You're fuckin' with me… right?"

Grant felt drained, but it had only just begun. "I'm serious as hell."

"Christ." Mullins asked the obvious. "Did you get orders from Washington?"

"We're waiting for Morelli to call. One of us will contact you. Listen, Captain Stafford is going to be hangin' close to you now."

Mullins shook his head. "Ya know, with all this fucking technology sitting on this ship, I'm still completely helpless. Why don't we just blow the bastards out of the water?"

Grant smiled. "You've got my vote. Unfortunately, Washington won't accept it. I don't know what they'll decide. Maybe they'll try and negotiate with the Russians and Chicoms, you know, dropping a word here and there like, 'we'll blow your asses off the planet before you can spit' kind of negotiations."

"That'd be the fastest way," agreed a laughing Mullins.

"I've gotta go. Washington is due to call. I might be seeing you soon, Mullins-san."

Except for the distinct, muffled sound of the ship's engines, there was dead silence in the EOD locker as Grant adjusted the headphones. "Yes, sir?"

"Grant… " Morelli took a deep breath. "You're to terminate… with prejudice."

Grant lowered his head, then looked up at Adler and Simmons, who were standing side-by-side, staring back at him. As much as he despised Donovan, despised his act, it was the uniform Grant now saw, a U.S. Navy uniform. "Yes, sir." He stood up, shoving the chair back. "Anything else, Admiral?"

"You're to notify Admiral Hewlett and the XO. The XO will assume command when the time comes. You may need to question him about anyone Donovan may have been close to and keep an eye on them, too."

"Very well, sir."

Morelli felt uneasy, hearing the change in Grant's voice. "Are you okay, Commander?"

"Just… tired, sir. What about the trawler, sir, the Rachinski?"

"A decision hasn't been made whether to use the Bronson. Will need you as standby. Can you be ready to 'erase' it, make it look like an accident?"

Grant looked at Adler and winked. "It'd definitely be our pleasure, sir."

Morelli stood by the window; daybreak was still over two hours away. He turned when his office door opened, seeing PO Gardner carrying in a cup of steaming coffee, motioning for him to put it on the desk. "You've got your work cut out for you, Grant."

"Not to worry, Admiral. I've got excellent help." He pulled off his headphones and turned to Simmons. "Brad, I need you to contact Admiral Hewlett and XO Masters." Simmons moved closer, already guessing what his assignment was going to be. "You're to inform them about Donovan. I suggest you talk to them together. Maybe you can use the guise that you need more information for NIS Headquarters regarding Seaman Koosman. Try to find out if Donovan… " Grant cut himself off and grinned. "Hell, I don't need to tell you. You know the damn routine!"

Steward Mindina placed a fresh pot of coffee on the table and adjusted the cup and napkin until they were positioned to his satisfaction. He turned to Donovan, who was standing by the open locker, buttoning his long-sleeve khaki shirt, thinking about his meeting on the bridge. "Will there be anything else, Captain?" Mindina asked as he removed the silver tray from the corner of the table. Receiving no answer, he took a step closer, then called louder, "Captain?"

Donovan turned his head, his expression more lifeless than a museum statue. "No, nothing." He slammed the metal locker door, the sound like a shotgun blast, startling Mindina. "You can go, Edward."

"Very well, sir," Mindina responded, his brown eyes wide with surprise. "Are you alright, Captain?" he asked, concerned.

"Yes, yes. On your way out, tell Private Johnson he's off duty till 2000 hours."

Mindina closed the cabin door and relayed the message to the Marine, standing rigidly at attention. Private Johnson acknowledged Mindina with a nod, unbuckled the holster, and wrapped the leather strap around the firearm as he started down the passageway.

Hidden in the shadows, one deck down, Grant made certain the coast was clear, then climbed the ladder. The broken piece of antenna had been taped to the photograph. He slid the top half of the photograph under the door, then rapped his fist against the steel.

"Come!" Donovan responded angrily. When no one answered, he walked to the door, seeing the photograph. Cautiously opening the door, he swiveled his head, looking up and down the passageway, seeing no one. There was only the faint sound of voices coming from the bridge. He picked up the photograph, slammed the door, as beads of sweat formed on his brow, his mind becoming confused. He started walking to his desk, then stopped, lowering his eyes to stare again at the picture and the antenna tip stuck under the tape. Why hadn't they come for him? An answer to the question didn't seem to matter. He had to take care of Stevens and hope it would give them the time they needed.

Walking quickly to the safe next to the locker, he spun the dial several turns. He yanked a walkie-talkie taped to the underside of the top, thinking how easy they made things. A casual stroll past the Quarterdeck one evening, where a careless shore patrol officer left the device, made it easy to slip it into a pocket. Unlocking the porthole, he aimed the antenna toward the open sea.

KGB Officer Vernichenko answered immediately. "You have news for me, Comrade?"

Alexei's back straightened. "Yes, I have news," he answered as he glanced toward the desk. "I'm sure I've been discovered. They know who I am."

"How can you be sure?"

"Stevens and I had a brief meeting on the bridge earlier. Perhaps it was his arrogance, but I knew then." Alexei explained the photograph incident and where the picture was taken. "And I'm positive he's the one who left the photograph under my cabin door."

Vernichenko responded, "I've done my own checking on our friend 'Chief Stevens'. He's not a 'chief', but a 'commander', and he's not just a Navy SEAL. He's working for Washington with their Naval Investigative Service." Vernichenko sounded confident as he continued. "It's too late for them anyway. We're moving forward. Moscow is expecting us to carry out the original plan before daybreak. They weren't pleased we had to wait these extra hours." He sat back, staring up at the ceiling, taping his finger against his lips, thinking out loud. "That's why the Americans moved so suddenly into the Sea of Japan."

"I don't understand."

Sergei leaned forward, close to the microphone, his voice a snarling whisper. "You, my friend… it was because of you. With you as a suspect, they wanted to see what we would do… I'll stake my career on it."

"Then explain why I'm still in command?" Alexei shot back.

"Perhaps the photograph incident was to frighten you into making a mistake. After all, you have the right to inspect any area of the ship. You have master keys. How could they know your true reason for being in that room?" He paused a moment. "They must not have complete proof. But with their attention on you, our plan may be easier to carry out now."

Alexei was beginning to feel like a piece of bait, losing the importance of his original mission. "I assumed they—"

"You know we don't assume, Comrade," he said condescendingly. With his lips nearly touching the microphone, Vernichenko's tone was threatening. "And, Comrade, I advise you to avoid Stevens from now on. No personal agenda will be tolerated. You will not jeopardize our mission. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," answered Alexei, trying to disguise his anger, wondering if Vernichenko was psychic.

Vernichenko immediately said, "This will be our last transmission. Now, tell me, do you have the devices in place?"

"I've set them in the RAM Room and in after-steering. The hydraulic lines will be severed; the ship will be out of control." The RAM was the hydraulic system used for rudder control while after-steering had backup, manual control lines in case the bridge-to-steering became non-functional.

Vernichenko nodded approvingly. "That's good. At the crucial moment, you will set off the devices and your mission will be complete. We will meet soon, Comrade." He stood up and angrily slapped at the radio switch, ending the transmission.

The trawler lurched, throwing him sideways. He grabbed his black leather coat and went out on deck, balancing himself against the wheelhouse. A cold spray washed over the bow as the boat crashed into a wave. He wiped the water from his face, enjoying the harshness of the evening. "So, 'Captain Donovan', you have been discovered. Perhaps this is not so bad for us — but what about for you?" He smiled. A military man himself before joining the KGB, he believed in serving his country purely for the love of Russia. Alexei had been promised a very comfortable living once his assignment was completed, cutting against the grain of Vernichenko's ideals.

All the months of planning were soon to culminate. Whether Alexei Pratopapov survived was not critical. And he had not been given specific orders to ensure Alexei’s survival. In his eyes, the mole was just a pawn being used for one purpose, and one purpose only — the Bronson's technology. He stepped into the wheelhouse, as the door slammed behind him. "Captain, change our course toward the American carrier," he ordered. He pointed to the young third officer standing next to the radar table. "You. Go below and tell First Officer Kiriatkin to meet me in my cabin in fifteen minutes. Tell him to prepare his equipment."

He went by the navigator and stared at the compass, thinking, "Comrade Pratopapov," he said quietly, "in the meantime, I think I will give you a little gift — the body of Stevens."