"Tony!"
Mullins swallowed a mouthful of Coke. "Yeah. I tried to reach you earlier; guess you were out snoopin'."
"Did you get anything on the trawler?"
"Yeah. That's what I've been waiting to tell you. Found out there's a KGB boy on board by the name of 'Vernichenko.'"
"Christ! That's it! That's the voice."
"What voice?"
"As luck would have it, I intercepted their conversation just a while ago."
"No shit?"
"No shit. Sergei Vernichenko, right?"
"Yeah. Right. Say… you wanna tell me how you know a KGB officer?"
"Come on, Agent Mullins. You mean I really gotta tell you something you probably already know?" Mullins laughed. Just as Grant believed, Mullins did his own checking. "Listen, Tony, I need you to call Kodiak and tell them not to interfere with any of the trawler's transmissions. Vernichenko said something would be ready tomorrow night."
"What? What's gonna be ready?"
"That's what I need to confirm. I'll wait here ten minutes for you to contact me."
"Later," replied Mullins.
New to the ship, Seaman Barry Koosman was coming off watch and simply took a wrong turn, down the wrong deck. He stopped in front of the Damage Control locker trying to get his bearings just as the door opened. His reactions were not as quick as Alexei Pratopapov's. Before he had time to react, a powerful hand grabbed him by his blue denim work shirt. The young seaman was spun around, a hand clasped tightly over his mouth as the other grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. In one lightning, swift motion, before any sound could escape from the mouth, it was all over, leaving no bruises, no indication of foul play. His neck snapped; his body twitched as he was dragged the rest of the way into the locker.
Alexei stretched the body out on the floor, closed the door, then screamed to himself not to panic. He stared down at the body by his feet, its head resting in an unnatural position, the eyelids still wide open in shock. "You dumb fool! Why did you have to come here now?" he muttered through clenched teeth. It was more of an angry exclamation than a question. Things one never forgets — how to kill.
Somewhere in the distance there were voices. He stood next to the door, pressing his palms and cheek against it, listening. Soon, the passageway was quiet again. He backed up and stumbled over Koosman's foot, falling against the locker, the noise echoing in his ears. Afraid to move, he held his breath while he listened. No one came. He made a decision… leave the body, return later. It would have to look like an accident, but he needed to think it out, come back when it was quiet.
He was almost clear of the area, when he stopped short, thinking he'd better not leave the walkie-talkie, then he ran back to the closet. He fumbled with the towel, ripped the walkie-talkie from it, finally stuffing it down the front of his shirt. He threw the face towel back inside the fan vent, then bolted from the compartment.
"Sir, you wanted to see me?" asked OOD Crawley as he entered the Sea Cabin.
Donovan looked up from his papers. "What? Oh, yes. The Admiral's requested we cancel GQ tonight."
"Cancel GQ, sir?"
Donovan glared at the OOD. "You heard me. The Admiral and I agreed that the men have been under a lot of pressure. Everyone could use a break, no matter how minor it may seem to you, Mr. Crawley."
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."
"I'm glad you do. Now, pass the word."
"Yes, sir." Crawley had a hand on the doorknob, when Donovan called to him. "Frank, I guess we're all a little anxious and tired."
"Yes, Captain. Goodnight."
As taps sounded at 2200 hours, the interior of the ship went dark, except for the red passageway lights leading to the exterior watertight doors. At 2235 hours, a lone figure hurried down the passageway, unlocking the door to the Damage Control locker. Beads of sweat formed across his brow as he bent down to the lifeless body, dragging it through the doorway and across the deck. He lifted the body to a limp, standing position, then released it, watching as it somersaulted over the metal ladder, hitting the deck twelve feet below with a sickening thud, laying in a crumpled mass. Alexei felt a mental grimace as the young seaman's head hit the steel tile-covered deck. He turned quickly, went to the end of the passageway and stopped. His training dictated that he check the area one more time. Satisfied, he turned and left.
"Any luck with that tour of the bridge, Joe?" asked Grant as he guided the razor across his chin.
Adler secured the locker door, then sat on the edge of the communication's desk. "Yeah, whenever you're ready, sir."
Grant rinsed away the last traces of shaving cream then dried his face. He brushed back strands of hair hanging over his forehead, and one glance in the mirror told him it was time for a haircut. Who's got time?
He leaned back against the edge of the sink, folding his arms across his chest. Adler observed the square jaw clenching tight, noticed the intensity in the brown eyes as Grant stared at him. "Joe, we don't have too much time. The conversation I heard last night confirmed that. There's something on the Rachinski we've got to know about… or do something about."
"How do ya know?"
Grant stuck his hands in his back pockets and walked across the room. “Part what I heard and part gut feeling."
Adler took a sip of coffee. "Let me know what I can do."
Grant nodded several times, acknowledging Adler's request while he buttoned his khaki shirt. "First, I've got to talk with Mullins, then we'll take that tour of the bridge."
Both of them snapped their heads around when they heard the tap of metal against metal. Joe went to the door, peering through the spyhole next to the door. "It's just Brockton," he said as he unlocked the door.
Petty Officer Second Class Jerry Brockton, the youngest of the EOD team, closed the door, locking it behind him. He unzipped his green EOD jacket, removed his hat and smoothed back a curl of blond hair. "Sorry, Senior Chief, Commander, but I thought you'd want to know. I just came from the flight deck. Word is that a sailor was found dead late last night, a seaman by the name of Koosman." Grant's back stiffened immediately, and he fixed his stare on the young petty officer, a verbal question not even necessary. "I think he fell down a ladder, sir, somewhere on deck three. Busted neck. There was evidence of some spilled liquid, like Coke, at the top and they figured he slipped."
"Did they find a Coke can or paper cup?" asked Grant with a lowered voice, the sarcasm unmistakable.
"Don't know, sir," answered Brockton, shaking his head.
Grant went silent in total concentration. The two EOD men stared at him, Adler finally saying, "Thanks, Jerry. Go get your gear. I'll be on deck shortly."
Brockton shot a quick look at Grant before he left the locker.
Adler put on his jacket. "Do you think it was… ?"
Grant nodded. "It's gotta be; that's too damn much of a coincidence." He picked up the headset. "We've got a lot to do, Joe. Listen, before you go topside, can you get a message to the NIS officer? I think it's advantageous we finally make contact." Adler was half-way out the open door when Grant called: "Joe, keep your fingers crossed that we can draw that goddamn trawler close-in tonight."
Adler grinned, already having a good idea of what Grant had in mind. "Will do!"
Grant and NIS Officer Lieutenant Commander Brad Simmons each knew the other was on board, Simmons having full details of Grant's mission. An NIS officer is assigned to a carrier for every cruise. But making contact wasn't necessary until now. Simmons would be the officer in charge of investigating the death of Seaman Koosman.
Impatiently, Grant pounded his fist on the desk. "Come on, Tony. Pick up! Pick up!"