Noticing a steady stream of blood rolling down the outside of the wetsuit, Grant knew what he had to do. "Gotta make him go away." He reached down and grabbed hold of the Russian's ankles, dragging the wetsuited body across the deck, leaving a dark blood-smeared trail. "It wasn't meant to be my turn, Russkie," he grunted under his breath. The wind swirled around him, his pants legs flapped against his legs. He stared down at the Russian before kneeling down and shoving the body under the footline and off the fantail. He leaned forward, his brown eyes focusing impassively on a sea being churned by massive screws, watching the body flopping around in the percolating, white-green water before finally disappearing.
He took a deep breath before bending down near the edge of the deck and picking up the telescoping hook, then he flung it out toward the open sea as if throwing a boomerang. Lying on his stomach, he leaned over the edge and cut the line attached to the fantail ladder, releasing the small, black rubber boat the Russian had attached there for his getaway. Grant didn't know it then, but with this one move he had guaranteed luck would remain on his side.
Feeling a stickiness between his fingers, he held up his hand. It was something he was very familiar with. He turned, looking for a water source and then walked over to the water washdown hose, used to wash salt off equipment. Holding his hand under the nozzle, he stared, somewhat mesmerized as the fresh water washed away the blood. He picked up the knife, rotating the blade back and forth under the water, then dried it on the side of his pants. He slipped it back into the sheath strapped to his leg. Pressing his thumb against the end of the hose, he aimed the strong spray against the dark, red stain, forcing it along the deck till the last drop washed over the edge.
When he got back to the EOD locker, he saw Adler kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, arranging various IED materials. Scattered around him were batteries, tape, clips, wires and detonators. He looked up when Grant walked in, noticing his disheveled hair and clothes. "Uh, don't take this wrong, sir, but you sure look like shit. I'd advise you to stop thinking if this is… " He stood up and squinted his eyes, recognizing the dark red stain on the jacket, alarmed it might be Grant's. Then he saw the Norinco. "What… ?" A heavy "thump" from the weightbelt dropping on the desk cut his words short. He picked it up, his expression changing instantly, mostly from confusion. "Where the hell did you get these? What the hell's going on, sir?" Adler shook his head as he examined the Russian's weapon. "Jesus! Now there're foreigners lookin' to zap you! You're one popular dude, sir!"
Grant collapsed on the edge of the bunk and threw his jacket on the floor. He squinted in pain as he rubbed his forehead. "Yeah… real popular."
Adler went to the desk and picked up the water and aspirins that Grant ignored earlier. "You'd better take these. So, you gonna tell me what happened?"
Grant leaned back gingerly against the wall and gave a shortened version of the incident. Staring down at the floor, he muttered, "Can't believe part of this scheme was for Donovan to do me in, Joe. It had to be a snap decision on his part. It had to be." He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe Vernichenko would have authorized him to do it, not as long as he was still needed to pull this thing off."
"Why send a commando then? Pretty risky, too, don't ya think, sir?"
Grant nodded. "Guess I was getting to be too much of a pain in the ass, Joe. He must have had a lot of faith in that guy, though." He mumbled under his breath, "Think my KGB buddy must still be carrying a grudge."
"Sir?"
"Remind to tell you sometime, Joe," he grinned. Then, as if the incident never happened, he changed the subject. "Now, fill me in."
Adler sat on the edge of the desk, confirming everything Grant had requested earlier. "The XO's secured a chopper for us. I asked that it be brought down to the hangar bay so we can load our gear." He glanced at his Benrus and tapped its face. "It should be out there." The radio sounded and Adler flipped the switch on, handing Grant the headphones.
"Commander," said Morelli in his official tone of voice, "you may not like this, but your orders are to capture the trawler, and if possible, with all hands intact, keeping them on board. You're to transfer the mini-sub to the carrier. Once you've succeeded, the Commies will be told and the trawler will be steered to a location near Russian waters where it will be anchored. Russian and Chinese representatives will be "invited" to watch a demonstration of the Bronson's power, with an implied threat, of course." Morelli hesitated slightly before adding, "If you encounter problems, any problems, the final outcome will rest in your hands. Do you understand, Commander?"
"Yes, sir. Understood." There was a brief pause in the conversation before Grant spoke up. "Senior Chief Adler and I are preparing to depart for the Bronson. Agent Mullins will be assisting us."
Vernichenko looked at his watch and pressed his face to the porthole in the communication's office, trying to see through the blackness. His excitement grew with the anticipated return of Kiriatkin and the completion of another successful mission. His breath fogged up a small section of the glass and he wiped at it with the back of his fist. He asked anxiously, "Is the signal still growing stronger?"
The radio operator pressed the earpiece against his ear, tilting his head, trying to pick up any change in the sound being emitted by the device on the raft. He answered with surprise, "It… it's growing weaker, sir."
Vernichenko spun around, his voice a deep, fierce roar. "Weaker?" The startled seaman nodded.
A tracking device had been attached to the motorized rubber raft that First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin took to reach the Preston. Once Grant had cut it loose, it rode on the currents, eventually drifting into the wake of a Navy supply ship close to the stern. Tossed about, taking on water, it grew heavier, the surface pressure from the screws finally dragging it under.
Vernichenko was about to call the bridge to change course toward the raft, when suddenly, the seaman pulled the earpiece away, a look of disbelief on his young face. "It's gone, sir. The signal — it's no longer there."
Vernichenko's immediate thought was Kiriatkin had been lost at sea. He turned back to face the window. The commando would never receive the accolades for his brave act. A photo of First Officer Anatoly Kiriatkin passed through Vernichenko's mind. The tall, muscular, thirty-nine year-old officer had stood proudly on the trawler's deck in his black wetsuit, saluting before going over the side of the Rachinski and into the rubber raft. Knowing Kiriatkin the way he did, he was astonished this could have happened.
Vernichenko reached for a pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, then withdraw one with his lips. The match flared, reflecting in the porthole's glass. He lit the cigarette, his thoughts quickly changing. Things should be easier for Alexei now with Stevens no longer there to annoy him. He smiled, raising the burning match toward the porthole as if in salute to Kiriatkin.
But the KGB officer was failing to adhere to his own guidelines — never assume.
Chapter Nine
Two EOD men shoved the gear toward the rear of the helo, sliding the two scooters in last. The scooters resembled small bombs, eight inches across and two and a half feet long. They each had watertight electric motors and batteries, with a small protected propeller in the rear. A handle was attached to both port and starboard rear fins. Similar to a motorcycle's operation, rotating the handles forward or back determined whether the scooter dove or headed for the surface.