Jamie Fredric
Mission Critical
For All Who Have Served
Definition:
BUDWEISER -
1. An alcoholic drink
2. Insignia — Anchor/Trident/Eagle/Pistol — an anchor represents the Navy, a 'Trident', the sea; an eagle 'Air'; and a pistol — always cocked, always ready — represents land.
Sea… Air… Land — the three operating environments of the U.S. Navy SEALs.
Prologue
Nervously, he drummed his fingers against the wall. His contact aboard the Rachinski was late and he worried. It wasn't like the KGB. Impatience aside, Russia's mole was in his glory, finally in his element. He was about to use all the skills he'd been taught, and suddenly, he wanted to scream out his Russian name, but instead, he spoke quietly. "Alexei Pratopapov! That is who I am." He would love to be there, wishing he could see the faces of the Americans when it was all over. But if all went as planned — and he had every confidence that would be the case — he would not have the pleasure to see their faces nor the opportunity to tell them, "Yes, it was me. I did this to you."
He stretched his arms overhead, feeling secure in his hiding place. He sniffed the air, imagining he smelled coffee. A good, strong cup of coffee would hit the spot, his one American vice, he admitted. He would miss it once he was back in his homeland. He had lived among the Americans for so many years, but his love for Mother Russia never wavered. Schooled in English from the age of three, he was still a young boy when he left his beloved Odessa, already being groomed for the day his country would need his services. Odessa — the "Pearl by the Sea." After all these years, would he even recognize it? Would he be able to adjust to Russian life again? Life in Russia was very different than in America, he admitted, especially after all the years gone by. But his superiors had promised him so much upon his return. He would not have to worry about money or security.
Unfortunately, he would have no one to share it with, at least not with his American wife. He pictured an official Navy car pulling into the driveway, a chaplain and Navy officer ringing the doorbell to his house on Sycamore Drive. There would be a brief memorial service and Katherine would be given a folded American flag. The United States Government would compensate her every month. After all, that's why he contributed to the Survivor's Benefit Fund, was it not?
A brief moment of despondency reached into his heart, but immediately he jolted himself back to reality, his thoughts angering him. Russians in his position did not feel sorry for themselves or others. It was time for him to begin thinking and feeling like the Russian he was. He jumped, startled by the crackling noise. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Yes, I'm here." No codes were being used, so the conversation was kept to a minimum.
"Our Chinese comrades have verified their position. They have agreed to our terms and conditions. We are going forward," the gruff voice aboard the Rachinski stated.
Alexei's heart pounded; his breathing was heavy. "I'm prepared."
"I will contact you tomorrow at our designated time. We will discuss the details. Comrade Gregorov has asked me to pass on his wishes for a successful mission."
Alexei envisioned the KGB bureau chief, and answered, "I understand. Convey my respects to our colonel and thank him."
He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie, then rewrapped it in the towel. He slid it back inside the small fan vent and retightened the screws on the louvered cover. Opening the door slowly, he looked up and down the passageway while staying hidden inside the closet. The Damage Control locker was a fairly safe place to hide, since it was only used by the fire fighting team to store their suits, hoses, OBA's (oxygen breathing apparatus), and devil's claws, used to tear apart mattresses that were on fire. Checking one more time to make sure no one was around, he locked the door, then began strolling down the passageway, arms locked behind his back.
He'd become a familiar site, roaming different areas of the ship, his "insomnia" once again preventing rest. "Poor bastard," they'd say noticing his bloodshot eyes in the morning. He would hear their comment and smile inwardly. One or two eyedrops of saltwater… and the charade would continue.
Chapter One
Powerful arm strokes and flutter kicks propelled the swimmer forward effortlessly, the water streaming over his shoulders, creating a mass of white turbulence in the pool's outside racing lane. Having grown up in the small town of Jenner, California, in Sonoma County, water became another way for him to release his pent up energy, whether it was hitting the surf along the coast or racing his friends in the Russian River. Today, he raced against no one but himself.
A voice echoed in the domed aquatic center. "Commander! Commander Stevens!"
The swimmer stopped and began treading water. As he shook water droplets from his head, he spotted the ensign standing at the edge of the pool's blue tile.
"Commander, I've got an urgent message for you. You're to report to Admiral Morelli on the double. He's waiting for you in his office, sir." Ensign Jason Pritchard was a bit short of breath after his run across the parking lot; the smell of chlorine seemed stronger as it hit his senses. He wrinkled his nose as he brushed the snow from his shoulders, then blew warm breath into his hands. The admiral's young aide resembled a child playing grownup, with a black raincoat that nearly dwarfed him. The epaulettes on his raincoat and cap brim were spotted with snowflakes.
Water dripped from Commander Grant Stevens' 6'1" frame as he climbed the ladder at the deep end of the pool. He had a swimmer's build, narrow waist and hips, emphasizing his muscular shoulders. He reached for a folded towel on the wooden bench.
"Do you think I'll have time to change, Mr. Pritchard?" he asked, smiling.
"Uh, yes, sir. Of course, sir. I'll just phone the admiral to tell him I found you."
"Very well."
The ensign started to leave, then hesitated, deciding he'd better get more specific information, knowing the admiral the way he did.
"Excuse me, sir, but what time shall I tell him you'll be there?"
Grant gave his black submariner watch a quick glance, calculating he could make it in thirty minutes. "Tell him I'll be there by 1830, Ensign."
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Jason, how did you know where to find me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It was the admiral, sir. He suggested that I look here first. May I go now, sir?"
"Go ahead, Jason."
Ensign Pritchard saluted, and then quickened his pace as he headed for the hallway in search of a pay phone, his once shiny black shoes splashing in the puddles along the pool deck. He made a mental note to clean his shoes before the admiral saw him.
Grant rubbed the towel over his wet, dark brown hair and watched the young officer splashing smartly along the deck, off to complete his task for Vice Admiral Eugene Morelli. He had to appreciate the ensign's sense of urgency, already aware of the fact that he'd better not piss off the Vice Admiral. Grant had experienced it one time himself, early on during his own stumbling, bumbling days as a "butter bar" ensign, referencing the thin, single gold bar worn on a shoulder board.
He threw the soaked, white towel over his shoulder and laughed to himself as he went to the showers. Ensign Pritchard didn't realize it now, but one day he'd eventually learn that 'Ball-Buster' Morelli was really a pretty good guy.
He stepped under the shower's spray and closed his eyes, his mind traveling back in time, when he and Morelli first met. Grant was right out of Annapolis, assigned to the Operations Department on his first ship, the guided missile cruiser Seattle. Morelli, then a commander, had been aboard for ten months. Grant's tour aboard the cruiser was cut short when he received his new orders to report for UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) Basic training in Coronado. Although their meeting had been brief, it was an impressionable one for the young officer. For a senior and junior officer to develop a close friendship was unusual, to say the least, but Morelli had quickly recognized Grant's talents and enthusiasm. And their friendship was due in part because of Morelli's own son, who was a Navy helo pilot and the same age as Grant. James Vincent Morelli, 30 years old, was stationed in Ben Cat, located in the stinking Rung Sat Special Zone, a major helo base for operations. A VC attack on the base camp ended his life nearly six years ago. Grant seemed to fill some of the void left in Gene Morelli's life.