"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.
"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."