Except for one Sea King chopper being checked for an oil leak and a Phantom with landing gear trouble, all other aircraft were up on the flight deck. The hangar bay was nearly empty.
Grant was into his sixth lap around the perimeter of the hangar bay, his Navy blue shorts and drab olive green undershirt showing dark, wet patches, perspiration dotted his brow. The rhythmic sound of his sneakers hitting the deck was but a distant sound somewhere in his mind, his concentration totally on his surroundings. Unseen beneath his undershirt was a smaller version of a K-bar, hanging upside down by a leather thong, making withdrawal easy and rapid. He'd learned the survival trick from his platoon commander on his first trip to Vietnam. The feel of the cool metal against his chest kept him focused.
He was just coming into the darkened area at the rear of the jet engine shop. Something that looked like a human figure caught his eye; he slipped his hand under his T-shirt, closing his fingers around the K-bar.
The after mooring line reels, six feet high and resembling giant bobbins, would be a good place for someone to hide. He stared harder, but a second later, whatever may have been there was gone. He withdrew his hand from under his shirt, instantly regretting his move… but it was too late.
"Hold it, Stevens!" Donovan said in a gruff whisper. Grant stopped short, seeing the outline of a gun in Donovan's hand as he remained in the shadows. Donovan backed up one step and again ordered, "Move over here with your hands behind your head." He motioned to his right with the gun. Grant took a couple of steps, moving closer to the bulkhead, both of them in the shadows, impossible to be seen by anyone in the hangar bay.
"So, Chief Stevens—"
Grant's inflection was meant to imply contempt. "It's 'Commander', Captain."
Donovan's voice was slightly muffled by the sound of the screaming engines of an Intruder taking off above them. "Thank you for reminding me, Commander. I'd just been informed of your true rank."
"You mean by Comrade Vernichenko?" Grant shot back.
"That's unimportant now. You succeeded in Cuba when you destroyed our laboratory, our plans, but I'm afraid you will not succeed this time."
The two men had only four feet separating them, Grant trying to inch his way closer. Dropping the military formality, he said, "You've gotta know I'm not the only one who's aware of you, Donovan… or do you prefer I use your real name?"
"It's Alexei, Alexei Pratopapov. And it doesn't matter who else knows. All this will soon be over. Right now I'm here to eliminate you, you who has been like a thorn in the side of Russia." There was a mocking tone in his voice, as he added, "A very small thorn, but still, an annoyance."
Grant was trying to buy some time. "Aren't you wondering why you haven't been thrown unceremoniously in the brig, Alexei? Aren't you the least bit curious?" He could detect a slight shake of Donovan's head. "No? Well, let me tell you anyway," he stated coldly and matter-of-factly, his voice deep. "We've got orders to terminate you… with prejudice."
There was a slight droop of the shoulders, the gun lowered just a fraction for a moment, but it was the moment Grant was anticipating. He had enough of the bullshit.
As quickly as a bolt of lightning strikes, his leg struck Donovan in the left shoulder, knocking him sideways. The gun's muzzle flashed, the sound reverberating in the hangar bay. Grant's body slammed backward into the bulkhead, the right side of his head feeling like it had exploded. He collapsed on the deck.
Hearing the shot, men working in the hangar bay came to a dead stop, unable to see into the darkened areas, until they saw a figure racing at full speed, slipping in and out of the shadows.
Donovan kept running without looking back. There was nothing left for him on the Preston, and it was impossible to go back to his cabin to get the remote control. He had to commandeer a helo and fly to the Rachinski. His mind was already plotting a story to tell Vernichenko in order to cover his ass. They'd have to come up with an alternate plan. There was still time.
"Stop! Captain Donovan!" Adler jumped from the ladder. There was no sign of Grant, and after hearing the shot, he feared the worst.
Donovan ignored Adler's shouts and only quickened his pace. He jumped onto the third step of the metal ladder, nearly losing his balance just before he grabbed hold of the handrails, then he scrambled up to the next deck, knocking aside two stunned seamen in the process.
Adler yelled again, "Captain!"
Somewhere behind him he heard a shout. "Stop him, Joe!" He snapped his head around, seeing Grant staggering, blood running down the side of his face, motioning with his hand for Adler to keep going.
Donovan was running at full bore, his gun hand hanging by his side, his index finger loose around the trigger. He ran down the outer passageway then leaped through an open watertight door, bounding across the flight deck, focusing on a Marine chopper poised on the angle deck.
He didn't hear the warnings being shouted at him, paid no heed to the sound of the engines. Captain Donovan, a.k.a. Alexei Pratopapov, in an instant, disappeared into an F-14's right intake, his upper body ground to pieces like meat passing through a meat grinder.
The .38 clanged against the aircraft before dropping on the deck like a rock. The aircraft shook and vibrated as the turbine began breaking up. The pilot's face turned stark white. With a voice screaming in his headset, he immediately shut down, then he and his RIO scrambled out of the cockpit, running clear of the plane.
Grant caught up to Adler, resting his hand against the bulkhead, steadying himself. Both of them had seen it happen before, but still, they stared at the sight in disbelief. "Christ!" Grant muttered through clenched teeth.
CAG and Air Boss Dodson came running out of the Roost, leaning over the edge of the wing along the superstructure, momentarily stunned into silence. Dodson ran back inside the bridge yelling, "Cancel launches! Cancel launches!" Two F-14's, two A-6's and the E-2C were making their final approach; rescue choppers hovered close by. "Radio incoming flights and bring 'em in!"
Simmons and XO Masters peered down from Vultures' Row. Masters shouted over his shoulder to an ensign, "Get the Admiral and Doc Matthews!" Simmons came rushing down the superstructure's outside ladder with XO Masters close behind.
Adler turned toward Grant, staring into a pale face, the right side covered with blood. "You'd better sit down, sir." Grabbing hold of a blood-soaked shoulder, he forced Grant down to the deck. Grant nodded weakly, wiping blood away from his eye, briefly cradling his head with his hands.
Brad Simmons ran up to them. He sounded out of breath, mostly caused by shock. "Doc's on his way."
Grant's vision was blurred. He looked up and tried to focus on Masters. "You've got the bridge, XO."
Masters nodded, then made a beeline back up the ladder, hustling back to the bridge. He passed the word down to send emergency messages to the rest of the fleet. They were all to cut back on their speed and to stand by for further orders. As fast as the Communication's Office could do it, a scrambled message was sent to each ship's captain.
Doc Matthews knelt beside Grant, pulling a square piece of battle dressing from his bag, holding it against the wound, immediately issuing an order to the two corpsman. "Get him to sickbay."