Grant was on his stomach as he lowered the MSV down to the water, while Adler handled the walkie-talkie, with minimal conversation passing between him and Mullins. Grant guided the MSV by remote control on an intercept course toward its destination — the Rachinski. He kept the speed at six knots, just under its eight knot limit, trying to conserve the battery power. They spoke just above a whisper. "There it is, Joe. Now, if I can just… maneuver it… " Only ten feet below the surface, the MSV was subject to the undulation of the ocean. Grant kept his hand in constant motion with the control, gingerly maneuvering the vehicle nearer to the bow of the trawler. "Bingo!"
Adler leaned closer to the nine inch monitor, propped up on the deck in front of Grant. "What? What's that? Holy shit! Is that a mini-sub?"
"Yeah," Grant replied matter-of-factly, "it's a goddamn mini-sub." He shot a quick glance at Adler. "Relay this info to Tony, then tell him to send a 'well done' to Kodiak." He looked away from Adler's stare.
This Russkie had disguised herself well. She wasn't a typical trawler. Installed beneath her hull, at midships, was a matte black, stainless steel capsule, specifically designed to resemble a torpedo tube. The inside of the capsule was fashioned to hold a two-man mini-sub. Once it was in place, it would only need the sea water to rush in, enabling it to complete the mission it was designed for.
Adler passed on the message then switched off the walkie-talkie, putting it on the deck. "You knew! How the fuck did you know… sir?"
Grant started bringing in the MSV, staring out across the darkened water, then looked down at the screen. "Sergei Vernichenko, the KGB officer on the Rachinski."
Adler still looked puzzled. "Yeah? So?"
"In '62 I was on one of my first jobs, let's just say, in a southern region. Vernichenko was a Russian naval officer, a submarine officer assigned there. They were finalizing their experiments with. ."
"With mini-subs," Adler interrupted. His eyes widened as he realized what Grant was talking about. "Not during the missile crisis?" he asked in astonishment. "You were there?"
Grant's face was expressionless, then he looked away, continuing to haul the MSV up the side of the carrier. Adler knew he wouldn't get any further explanation, at least not now. Grant focused his eyes on the MSV, but his mind wandered back in time, back to Cuba.
A U-2 spy plane had photographed a SAM missile site about eight miles away from what looked like an old tobacco barn. A sharp-eyed seaman, stationed in the Photo Reconnaissance Center in Virginia, noticed cars parked around the building, immediately bringing it to the attention of his CO.
Grant and his team were sent in to set up miniature transceivers, strategically placing them in the loft and around the outside of the tobacco barn. Prepared for any situation, each SEAL carried with him pencil flares, an Uzi and three extra clips that held fifty rounds each, a .45 with two extra clips of seven rounds each, medical kit with atropine, thermite grenades, two high explosive (HE) hand grenades, and a flashlight.
They listened and waited, remaining hidden for two days. Burrowing themselves beneath the tobacco stalks and leaves, completely camouflaged, their suspicions were finally confirmed. Their orders stated that when they were certain all the Russians were inside, they were to strike… and they did, swiftly, accurately, precisely. Within minutes, their mission was over — the building, experimental subs, the Russians — all destroyed, except for one. That one Grant Stevens would not forget. There had been a brief glimpse of a face in a vehicle, a face unable to hide its rage. But it had been the distinctive sound of a voice that played over and over in his brain like a broken record, the voice he heard in his headset for two days — a gravely, boastful voice — the proud, Georgian accent belonging to Sergei Vernichenko.
Chapter Six
"Say again, Commander?"
"The Russian's right here on the carrier, sir."
"You'd better be goddamn sure," growled Morelli, while he loosened his tie.
Grant's back straightened from a response he hadn't expected. "I am, sir.
"Good Christ!" Morelli stood abruptly, the back of his knees sending his chair against the wall. He wiped a hand across his face, then picked up the smoldering cigar from the ashtray, rolling it between his fingers.
"Everything adds up, sir — the conversations I've intercepted, reports I've seen. Simmons and I have been working closely, comparing notes. That seaman's death confirmed everything. The kid was murdered, Admiral."
Morelli knew there were times he aggravated the shit out of Grant, and this was one of them. "How in the hell did you reach that conclusion?"
Grant began to stiffen against the questions, but he maintained his composure. "It was made to look as though he slipped on some spilled Coke, but Doc Matthews said the kid didn't have any Coke in his stomach, there wasn't any around the body, and only a small amount on the upper deck."
Morelli sat back down, put his foot on the desk and pushed himself deeper into his leather chair, all the while gnawing on the Havana. "Maybe he was clumsy and just tripped."
Grant frowned, but held his tongue. "Brad and I talked with Doc Matthews. He said for the size of the gash in the back of Koosman's head, there was only a minuscule amount of blood. If he was only unconscious when he went down, there should have been a pool of blood under him. Besides, Admiral, that's why they wear rubber soled shoes, so they don't slip… uh, you already know that, sir." A "black shoe" himself, Morelli had come up through the ranks to earn his third gold admiral's star.
"You're right, and I'm still listening."
"Our conclusion came from the way the body was found, sir. Again, no blood."
"And what does that prove?"
"Well, sir, Doc let us see the body in sickbay. He pointed out some blood that had pooled just under the skin, behind his neck and shoulders, which means he had to be on his back right after he died for that to happen. He said rigor mortis had already set in. Admiral, that kid was dead for a while before he ended up at the bottom of that ladder, sir." Grant waited for a response… none came. "Brad and I searched the compartment area above the deck where the body was found, but didn't have any luck. Shit! I couldn't believe I found the towel where I did… sir."
"Towel?"
"Yes, sir. Senior Chief Adler and I were in the starboard outcropping where we used the MSV. We made a final inspection before we left the area. I decided to check out the port outcropping, too, since it was a good hiding place, just like it was for us. Something caught my eye. A towel was pushed up against the back side of the fan vent. We went inside the DC locker and unscrewed the louver cover. The broken tip of an antenna was stuck in one of the loops of the towel. Our Russian friend must have been in one helluva hurry."
"Sonofabitch!"
"Yes, sir," Grant answered, relieved. "I stuffed the towel back in the vent just in case he comes back for it, or decides to use the same outcropping, but I don't think that's likely. He'll find another place."
"I guess my next question has to be, who? Do you know who the bastard is, Commander?"