Neuman and Farley looked at each other, then at Prewett. "Heard what?" they asked in unison.
"The Old Man got new orders. We're pullin' out and headin' for the Sea of Japan." He shook his head as he gulped down a mouthful of orange juice, then ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "It don't sound good at all."
Chapter Seven
The task force steamed through the perilous waters of La Perouse Strait at 0930 hours. It wasn't unusual for the islands to experience fog, wind, and rain. The day was no exception. North of the American ships lay the chain of Kuril Islands, and to the south, Hokkaido, the northern most point of Japan. Prior to World War II, the Kurils were owned by Japan, in fact, it was from the Island of Iturup that they launched their attack against Pearl Harbor. But following the war, Japan was made to relinquish the Kurils to Russia.
Earlier that morning, at 0730 hours, a COD flight had screeched down onto the flight deck after its trip from Subic Bay in the Philippines. On board was a first class petty officer stationed at CINCPACFLEET, who had specific orders to hand deliver the officially sealed envelope to Lieutenant Commander Brad Simmons.
In the privacy of the EOD locker, Simmons leaned over Grant's shoulder, perusing the black and white photographs laid out in three rows on the desk, the latest views from the Blackbird.
"Can't see any change," Grant commented, running his hand over the photographs as he examined each one. "Troops and artillery are still positioned exactly as they were four days ago." He leaned back against the chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
Simmons came around from behind the chair, sitting on the edge of the desk. He brushed his hand down the side of his prematurely gray hair. "Look, I know I'm no SEAL, and this body ain't what it used to be, but I'll do whatever I can."
"Appreciate that, Brad. We'll find something for you to do… you can count on that." Grant reached for the cocoon, dragged it closer, then grabbed the .45, released the clip, checked it, and shoved it back. His fingers curled around the handle, his index finger resting against the trigger as he brought the .45 closer to his face. He stared at the weapon, when suddenly, a new-found energy coursed through his body, his mind and spirit revitalized. Whatever plan he came up with, whatever they decided to do, they had to do it today. Grant started for the door. "Brad, stay here while I find Joe."
Just then the steel door 'clanged' and Adler came rushing in. He shot a quick look at Simmons. "Excuse me, sir," then he fixed his stare on Grant. "Just heard… the E-2 reported that a 'Bear' and two MIGS have shown up on radar. It looks like they took off from the air base in Kamchatka."
"Where's the Bronson?" Grant immediately asked, at the same time grabbing the headset.
"According to radar, she's about two clicks at our 180."
The Bronson was about 2,000 yards away from the Preston, directly off her fantail, and that was too far for Grant's liking. He acknowledged Adler's response with a nod. Although he was staring at Adler, he was, in fact, no longer seeing him, as his mind raced fast and furious. He held the headset against his ear, flipped the switch and waited.
"Mullins."
"Call Kodiak, Tony. Tell them they're to bring the Bronson in close, no more than one click at our three zero zero degrees, then hold her there. I'm gonna contact the Bluefin and ask Captain Stafford to start running interference between you and the Russians. He should have received his orders by now."
Mullins shook his head as he paced the control room. "Haven't seen the Rachinski since we hit the Straits. But the fog is pretty thick out there. I'll go up to the bridge and check the radar."
Adler was quiet but seemed to be asking: "What the fuck's happening?"
"At last check, she was off our port quarter," Grant responded as he looked across at Simmons. "Brad will stay here in the EOD locker. Contact him after you've talked to Kodiak and checked the 'scope. He'll know where to find me if necessary."
"You think this is it?" asked a concerned Agent Mullins.
"I think we're closer, my friend, but I'm still betting they'll wait till the fleet gets to Sado and we slow down."
"And what about you, Navy SEAL Stevens? You waitin', too?"
Grant couldn't keep from laughing. "N'yet."
"I didn't think so!"
Sergei Vernichenko stared across the bow of the trawler, his deep-set, nearly black eyes squinting, trying to see through the dense mist. He spoke under his breath and only to himself. "What are you up to my American friends? What has brought you into these waters so suddenly? Surely, not us," he laughed without any true emotion.
"Comrade Vernichenko," called Communication's Officer Mikhail Borniski, as he pointed to the microphone. "It is Comrade Pratopapov."
Sergei walked over to the communication's table and tapped Borniski on the shoulder, motioning for him to leave. When he was alone, he sat in front of the microphone, hunching his broad shoulders over the table. "Has anything changed since our last conversation?"
"No. We're still proceeding to Sado. But… "
"But? You seem agitated, Comrade."
"There are many questions being asked."
One of the most respected but feared KGB officers in Moscow, Vernichenko was the best at what he did, especially when it came to mind games. Alexei had been an easy target, but now Sergei was very intrigued, the word 'worried' not yet crossing his thoughts. "You are being asked these questions?"
"No."
"Tell me about… these questions, and who is asking them."
Alexei spoke hurriedly. "The rumors have to do with a 'Stevens', Chief Grant Stevens. He's been asking about the crewman's death and… "
Alexei's words faded into the background as the KGB officer sent his own mind back in time, trying to remember. There was an American — surely, it cannot be, he thought. "You don't recognize that name, Comrade?"
"Stevens?" As if a bolt of lightning struck him, he gasped, "My God! How couldn't I remember?" He had been aboard the destroyer Hadley, stationed off the coast of Cuba, waiting for a sub to relinquish her passengers… five Navy SEALs, who were returning from a mission that destroyed the laboratory and nearly killed Vernichenko. Although Alexei had not been in contact with any of the SEALs, the scuttlebutt about what they did was the topic of conversation. An hour after the SEALs were picked up by the destroyer, they were helo-lifted from its deck.
But it was the KGB officer whose mind was flooded with thoughts and pictures of a time when the world hung on the brink of World War III — a nuclear war.
A revolution had taken place in Cuba, the regime of Batista overthrown by Fidel Castro. With Castro in power, Russia had its opportunity. The Russian Premier ordered a buildup of missiles in Cuba, and Russian naval vessels began transporting those missiles, bringing enough warheads that could literally wipe out the entire East Coast of the United States.
But while the Americans prepared for and anticipated a strike from the air, the first strike would, in fact, be coming from the sea, by torpedoes with nuclear warheads. They were small, two kiloton weapons, but classified as very dirty, "dirty" because of the massive amounts of radioactivity that would be released after detonation.
One of the most experienced submarine commanders, Sergei Vernichenko was selected to lead a team of scientists and weapons' experts in the development and design of two mini-subs with attached weapons platform for the sole purpose of delivering those torpedoes. The subs had two special batteries, each one capable of supplying power for a distance of forty miles.