"Mullins!"
"Christ! I thought you abandoned ship!"
"Hell, no, just a quick trip to take a leak. What's up?"
"They found some kid dead early this morning."
"Oh, shit. What happened?"
Tony listened. His question was more like a statement. "You don't think it was an accident, do you?"
"I think that kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Mullins scratched his beard. "What's next?"
"Call Kodiak. Ask them to maneuver the Bronson closer to the carrier. We have to 'reel in' that trawler. Try to get it less than a mile from the carrier."
"Do you want me to confirm with you after I talk with Kodiak?"
"Can't. I've got some investigative work to do. I'll call you at 1100 hours."
"What happens after I'm in range?"
"Adler and I are gonna use the MSV." The Motorized Submersible Vehicle weighed six pounds, was approximately 3–1/2 feet in length with the diameter of a saucer, capable of traveling as far as two miles on its small battery charge, at a depth of ten feet. Encased within its nose was a miniature camera and a trailing antenna that allowed the pictures to be sent by a transistorized transmitter up to a distance of 15 miles. As soon as it started submerging, sea water energized a special chemical battery activating its motor and a ten-foot length of antenna slowly unraveled.
"Good move!" Mullins remarked. "What timeframe are we talking here?"
Grant looked at his watch. "Have them shoot for 1830, starboard side, at about our zero two zero degrees. That'll be a good point for us and should give us enough time, as long as the trawler takes the bait. You stay on the horn with Kodiak till you're in place tonight. Then call me. We've got to start moving, Tony."
"I hear ya."
Fresh aromas of bacon and eggs lingered in the mess hall, but 'CPO' Stevens and Lieutenant Commander Simmons were seen only having a morning cup of coffee. The enlisted mess was a good place to pick up any 'scuttlebutt.'
Grant leaned on the edge of the metal table, keeping his voice low. "Have you talked to anyone, Brad?"
Simmons poured some cream in the coffee, stirring it continuously as he nodded. "Interviewed Doc Matthews and two pilots, a Lieutenant Hawthorne and Lieutenant Allen." He licked the spoon then dropped it on the stainless steel table. "Hawthorne and Allen found the kid."
"Anything specific about the body?"
"You mean, other than a broken neck and a gash in the back of his head?" he said with a twisted smile.
Grant held up his hand, as if conceding. "Okay, okay. You know what I mean."
Simmons stared into his cup, then looked up at Grant. "Nothing else. The gash on his head probably happened when he hit the step. There was a smear of blood on one of the top steps."
Several sailors with trays of food passed by their table, eyeing them warily. The officers waited patiently until the men passed. Grant swallowed a mouthful of coffee then asked, "Can you show me where it happened then take me to see the body in sickbay?"
"Sure," replied Simmons, as both of them stood. "Looking for anything special?"
"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am."
"Morning, CAG."
"Hey! Senior Chief! What brings EOD to the Roost? Have ya lost a bomb? Should we be evacuating the area?"
Adler laughed. "No, sir. I promised Chief Stevens here a tour of the bridge and Roost, since this is his first cruise on the Preston. Is that okay, sir?"
CAG reached out for Grant's hand, gripping it firmly. "Sure; no problem. Welcome aboard, Chief."
"Thanks," smiled Grant, "it's good to be here, sir."
"Sorry it's not a more enjoyable cruise, Chief, what with China and all."
Grant nodded. "I hear ya, CAG."
For the next fifteen minutes Grant and Adler walked the bridge, Grant listening, observing, occasionally asking a seemingly innocent question. He lingered briefly by the quartermaster's table where the logbook was kept. His mind 'photographed' the two pages used to record the time of day when the captain, OOD, quartermaster, and others came and went from the bridge.
The Air Boss picked up the phone, then called to CAG, "Tomcats are on their final approach."
Both Dodson and Morehouse raised binoculars. Dodson returned to the Roost and recorded on the glass the positions of the F-14s. "Jesus. This weather's a bitch," he mumbled looking at the threatening gray mass of clouds on the horizon.
"CAG," Adler said, "I'm going to take Chief Stevens down to the flight deck while the 14's come in."
Morehouse turned. "Sorry I couldn't give you the grand tour, Chief." He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating the arriving planes.
"No problem, sir," replied Grant.
Morehouse hustled back to the Roost and answered the phone. "Oh, shit. Willy's comin' in first." CAG searched the darkened sky with binoculars and called, "Don't forget to tell Chief Stevens about Willy!"
Normally, ships that make up a task force receive their orders from the carrier over the task group radio frequencies. Ships would not arbitrarily change course without the carrier's permission and knowledge, unless the ship received a 'flash' message from a higher authority. For the Bronson, those orders would come from Vice Admiral Morelli, who wore the 'hat' of Chief of Naval Investigative Service. Protocol dictated he pass them through the Fleet Admiral stationed in Hawaii, CINCPACFLEET (Commander in Chief Pacific Fleet).
At 1815 hours, Jeff Holland in Kodiak radioed thePrestonvia satellite uplink. "Preston, this is the Bronson. Over."
"Go ahead, Bronson. Over."
"I am in receipt of flash message through CINCPACFLEET. At this time, I have been advised to change course and proceed independently. Will advise. Bronson out."
With orders to "proceed independently", the Bronson would no longer have to receive permission from the carrier to change course. Responding to commands from Kodiak, the Bronson came to course three three zero, adjusted its speed to 15 knots and headed in the direction of the Preston.
On the forward deck of the destroyer stood Tony Mullins, night vision binoculars hung around his neck, the fur collar of his leather flight jacket pulled up to his ears. Just the opposite of CAG's concern, Mullins worried that the current weather conditions would clear sooner than forecasted, as an occasional glimpse of the moon broke through the cloud coverage. "Bad timing. Don't need any bright sky tonight." He turned the brim of his New York Yankees' baseball cap to the back, raised the binoculars and scanned the surrounding area. "Where the hell are you, Mr. Russkie?"
The Bronson reduced speed to eight knots as it approached the Preston at 1,200 yards from starboard aft, cruising along until it was parallel with the carrier. Kodiak adjusted the speed, gradually bringing the Bronson to a zero two zero degrees position as Grant had requested, then held her there. Her wake began to act like a fishing line, reeling it farther out, waiting for a big "fish" to take the bait.
Mullins walked aft for a clearer view. "Yes!" he shouted. The Rachinski was following the destroyer, about 1,000 yards behind it, steadily pulling closer to the starboard bow of the carrier. That's when the Bronson held her speed, keeping the Rachinski at the designated position.
Mullins reached for the walkie-talkie hanging on his belt and put in the call.
"Adler here."
Mullins responded, "Joe, the 'fish' is hooked!"
Adler grinned. "Understood. Stay with me, sir."
Thirty feet above the waterline, Grant and Joe positioned themselves inside one of the outcroppings. Outcroppings were located on the port and starboard sides of the bow, protruding out and slightly below the flight deck. They were used to store life vests and canisters containing life rafts. Each canister rested at the top of two rails. If there was a need to abandon ship, the life vests would be thrown over the side to the men in the water, while the canisters were shoved down the rails, falling to the ocean. Normally, only a few were supposed to have a key to access this area through the scuttle, but NIS was able to provide a master key for Grant, along with anything else he requested. "It's amazing what you can get with who you know," he had laughed when Morelli handed him the envelope containing the key.