"Whatever you think is best, Grant. I probably don't have to caution you, but don't jeopardize this assignment… or yourself."
When Grant took off the headphones, Masters was on his way to the door. He turned halfway around. "If you don't need me anymore, Commander, I'll get back to the bridge."
Grant eased himself slowly off the chair. "You've got a lot to do, XO. Thanks for your help." The two officers gave quick salutes to one another, then Masters rushed from the locker.
Adler started to unbutton his shirt, until Grant said, "Don't get too comfortable, Joe, we're shifting over to the Bronson soon. Talked with Mullins, and he's making preparations."
Adler stepped closer to him, a concerned look on his face as he scrutinized Grant's eyes. "You don't look so good, sir. You sure you wanna do this?"
Grant maneuvered around him and slowly walked over to the mirror above the small sink. "I don't see us having much of a choice, Joe."
Leaning closer to the mirror, he raised the corner of the bandage, inspecting the fine, black threads of the stitches where a patch of brown hair used to be. He flinched when he yanked the dressing from his head, noticing the dried blood as he dropped it in the trash. He reached overhead and removed a Band-Aid from the medical kit then squeezed some antiseptic on it. "Joe, can you have a couple of your men get our diving gear together?" He turned seeing Adler nodding. "And we're gonna need the scooters. Next, request that the XO give us the use of a chopper. Tell him we need it standing by." He went to the closet and removed a clean khaki shirt and trousers from the hanger, each movement slow and cautious.
"Going somewhere, sir? I mean, shouldn't you be—"
"Thinking of changing rates, Joe?" Adler looked puzzled, his brow furrowing as Grant added, "You're sounding more and more like the Doc."
"I was only… "
"I know, and I appreciate your concern, but I'm feeling better." He patted Adler's shoulder. "We can't come to a standstill, 'cause you can bet your ass the Russkies aren't about to." He stared down at the floor a moment as he buttoned his shirt. "I've gotta think this out," he said while tying the laces of his Cordovan brown shoes. "I'm just going to the fantail and take in some air. I expect it'll be quiet since the XO canceled everything but breathing." He glanced across at Adler as he stuffed his shirttail into his trousers. "You've got your orders."
"Right on it, sir."
Zipping up his jacket, Grant shoved his hands into the side pockets and started walking aft. Stepping through the last watertight door, he looked beyond the darkness of the vast cavernous space and went to the fantail. He leaned against the edge of the port bulkhead, staring out at the ink-colored Sea of Japan. The moon intermittently disappeared behind threatening clouds, occasionally casting its light on the water off the port quarter of the carrier. All was quiet except for the sound of the carrier's screws, agitating the water into a white, foaming frenzy, leaving a distinct, trailing wake. He glanced overhead with the cold wind whipping around him, bringing with it a hint of high octane jet fuel. These were the same smells, the same quiet, the same darkness, reminding him of his Bolivian mission as he stood on the helo pad with his team, waiting for the helo to crank up. This was his life. All these things were part of his life. But tonight it wasn't the cold that sent a chill through his body.
His head ached. The throbbing wouldn't go away. He tried to revert to mental concentration by invoking his karate discipline and blotting the pain from his mind, while he turned and went back into the darkness, walking toward the forward bulkhead. The aroma of hydraulic fluid drew his attention to the winch, and he noticed a small puddle of liquid under the brake.
Sitting down heavily, he pressed his back against the bulkhead, wedging himself in behind the towing winch, then he pulled his knees in toward his chest. Hidden behind the intensity of his eyes was a mental imagery of a game plan he was attempting to piece together, a means for stopping the Russians.
Even though Donovan was out of the way and the explosives were disarmed, the Rachinski had no way of knowing that and they'd be proceeding with their plan. But he had to come up with an alternate plan, depending on whatever Washington approved. What was it Morelli said? Keep an eye on anyone Donovan may have been close to? He had already dismissed the notion there was anyone else in the task force to worry about. As disturbing as it was, his instinct told him it went a helluva lot deeper than that. Just how deep was the question. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling the stubble. "Christ! You're turning to shit, Stevens."
Twenty-five minutes later a metallic clanking sound shook him from his concentration. He bent forward and glanced around the winch toward the fantail. The adrenaline shot through his body, sending additional pain into his head. "What the hell… ?" A telescoping grapnel hook had anchored itself to the edge of the waterway at deck level. "Shit!" he whispered. "I don't need this now."
Instinctively, his hand shot down to the knife strapped to his leg. He knelt down and scooted backward into the shadows behind the winch, the razor-sharp, black knife blade pressed against his cheek. He froze in place, hardly breathing, straining to hear every sound. A faint squish of a wetsuit booty exuding water as its owner stepped onto the deck, put the exclamation mark on his suspicions.
The unknown commando, his silenced, stainless steel weapon at the ready, crept steadily and cautiously toward the winch that would be his first hiding place. He peered carefully around the winch and through the open door that Grant had not too long ago come through. Seeing no movement, the commando took his first step toward the side of the door, swiveling his head back and forth, checking every angle.
The moment he started for what was to be his second hiding place, Grant sprang out. He instantly grabbed the commando's Norinco 9mm with its silencer and shoved the weapon to the side. In less than the blink of an eye, with all the strength he could muster, Grant plunged the eight-inch steel blade upward into the assailant's chest, cutting through the wetsuit, through the flesh, right below the sternum. In a true 'sentry silencing' technique, he ripped in side to side several times. The sheer force of the attack drove the commando backward, Grant pushing his own body against the intruder until both fell hard on the deck, groans coming from both men.
For an instant, Grant felt as if he were going to pass out, the blackness closing around him. But his own survival prevailed, and with renewed strength he jammed his knee into the commando's groin, his hand pinning the weapon against the deck, pressure on the knife never easing. Blood began gushing from the wound, slowly beginning to seep into the porous wetsuit. Grant held his position until the would-be assassin stopped struggling, the body twitching before going completely limp, a prolonged gurgling sound escaping from his throat, the final breath leaving his body. Yanking his knife from the chest, Grant pushed himself away, falling on his butt. With his chest heaving, he rested his head against his knees for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. When he looked up, he was staring at the body of a stranger, a stranger who Grant assumed had more than likely come to eliminate him, someone who did not have the intention of dying for his country.
He turned the Russian's head to the side and looked into a face streaked with dark hues of camouflage paint. The Russian didn't appear to be much older than him. There was a deep, jagged scar running down the left side of his cheek and another splitting his left eyebrow in half, both conjuring up visions in Grant's mind on the possible causes.
The hammer and sickle insignia carved into the weightbelt's buckle drew his attention. He unbuckled it, then jerked it from beneath the heavy, muscular body. He perused the belt as he moved his hand up and down as if trying to determine its weight, a twisted smile showing on his lips. "This will come in handy.”