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!"
Chapter Five
A full clip rested on the corner of the desk, with two extras in the cocoon, ready to be loaded into the .45. Grant wiped down the heavy pistol known for its "immediate stopping power", guaranteed to fell an assailant. The life-saving weapon had been with him in Vietnam and Libya, becoming another component of his life. The clip locked in place as he rammed it up into the handle and jacked the slide to the rear, putting a round in the chamber. He glanced down at the cocoon, then reached in and pulled out the submachine gun, laying it across his lap. Although compact, the Uzi was capable of firing up to 500 rounds per minute. Methodically, the weapon was disassembled then reassembled, a procedure he'd done literally with his eyes closed, preparing for the times he'd be operating in the blackness of night. Both weapons, along with ten, fifty round clips of ammo were placed back into the cocoon, ready when, and if, he'd need them.
He put on his khaki trousers and shirt, then slipped the nylon web belt through the loops, feeding the end through the glistening brass buckle, when he heard the door unlock.
"Mornin'," Adler said, handing Grant a cup of steaming, black coffee.
"Mornin', Joe. Thanks." Grant smiled broadly, reaching for the hot cup. "Well, what do you think?"
He stood tall in his "new" uniform, the work khakis with the insignia of an E-7, CPO (Chief Petty Officer). All of this — the uniform, the EOD locker, the carrier itself — would allow him to blend right in, giving him the freedom he needed to carry out his undercover assignment.
Adler laughed, creases forming around his blue eyes. "Well, sir, this may be the one and only time I'll outrank you!"
Grant slapped his friend on the back. "Hell, Joe, you always did. No officer worth his salt could possibly survive this 'canoe club' without a top notch CPO — pure fact! Besides, with all the shit I've put you through, now's your chance to take it out on me!"
Adler shook his head, dead serious. "No way, sir. It'll never happen."
CPO Stevens was seen rushing down passageways, more than likely on his way to "put out another fire." He was blending in just as he thought he might. What seemed like innocent conversations and questions, handled expertly, could prove to be extremely helpful in his quest. But trying to cover eleven decks worth of carrier and trying to intercept messages, seemed a formidable task. Adler and the rest of the EOD team could only offer a limited amount of assistance, having to maintain their normal routine. But if and when the situation heated up, Adler had permission to assist Grant full time.
During flight ops, the EOD team members had no choice but to be at their stations on the flight deck or hangar bay where the aircraft weapons were loaded and unloaded. But for Grant, flight ops might prove to be his opportunity. All the ships in the task force would be active during flight ops. It would be the best time for the mole to make a move, make contact, more than likely at night. He knew there'd be communication between the mole and the Rachinski. Tonight 'Chief' Stevens would lock himself in the EOD locker, monitoring the airwaves. But luck was still going to play an important role.
Captain Donovan swung his chair around, bellowing a new order. "Officer of the Deck, bring her into the wind. Prepare to launch aircraft."
"Aye, aye, Captain. Helmsman, right 15 degrees rudder; set new course zero four five degrees."
"Aye, aye, sir. Coming right… at zero three zero degrees… at zero four zero degrees… steady on zero four five degrees, sir."
"Lee-helm, make turns for 30 knots," ordered OOD Crawley.
"Thirty knots. Aye, aye, sir," responded Petty Officer Hayes. Standing at the lee-helm station, he grabbed both handles, the left controlling engine speed, and the right, the rudder. He cranked both handles all the way forward, then down. The two indicator handles stopped at the "Full Speed" position. He watched the dial face of the lee-helm, until the Engine Room swung its arrow forward to match the position of the handles. "Lee-helm answers turns for 30 knots, sir."
"Very well," replied Crawley. "Captain, we're at zero four five degrees, making turns for 30 knots; estimate three minutes to full speed, sir."
At three minutes, the helmsman called out, "Sir, we're at 30 knots."
"Air Boss, launch aircraft," ordered Captain Donovan.
Grant sat in the mess hall and downed the last mouthful of cold milk then rolled the empty glass between his palms. He watched everyone, looking for any kind of sign, relying on his instincts, his thoughts in constant motion. He pushed the cuff of his sleeve back and glanced at his watch. It was time to make a quick run to the locker.
Once sealed behind the steel door of the EOD locker, he dropped his cap on the bed, then slipped the headset on. Munching on a Snickers bar, he started adjusting the radio dial, when every muscle froze with the sound of two Russian voices conversing in their native language. "There you are, you sonofabitch!" he mumbled as he scribbled the radio frequency on the calendar.
One Russian asked, "When will it be ready?"
"Tomorrow night."
"That's very good news."
Grant was pacing now. He pressed the headset against his ear. "Come on, come on, tell me what I need to hear."
"We will talk again, Comrade," said the voice on the Rachinski. There was a click… end of transmission.
Grant threw the headset on the desk, cracked open the hatch making sure no one was close by, then stepped outside, ready to make a dash across the hangar bay. The roar of jet engines told him flight ops were underway. "Shit! Where the hell am I gonna go?" There were thousands of places for someone to hide, and he wasn't even sure the Russian was on the carrier.
He went back inside the locker, with the Russian's words running through his mind, making him wonder what was 'going to be ready tomorrow.' He stood in front of the desk, staring at the communications equipment. Even though the transmission had some interference, there was something familiar about one of the voices. He grabbed the headset.