"You're all set, Senior Chief, Commander!" Brockton yelled above the sound of rotating blades as he pointed inside the helo. "And the scooters checked out."
"Okay, Jerry,” Adler nodded. "You two get back to the locker."
The men saluted Grant, then ran aft to the locker. Grant and Adler stood next to the Sea King, dressed out in drysuits, their face masks hanging around their necks.
Grant turned to Simmons. "Brad, call Mullins and tell him to ask Kodiak to bring the Bronson's speed to under five knots. Then, call Admiral Morelli. Let him know we're on our way. I'll contact him once we're settled."
"Good luck!" Simmons nodded then reached for Grant's hand, then Adler's.
The elevator rose to the level of the flight deck. The helo pilot brought the engines to full power, the sound continuing to disrupt an unusual silence. The Sea King lifted off the deck with its two passengers leaning out of the opening, scrutinizing the carrier's flight deck, an absence of activity painting an eerie picture. They noticed, also, that the F-14 in which Donovan perished had been taken to the forward elevator and brought down to the hangar bay. Grant's thoughts went to the pilot of that ill-fated plane, and he shook his head. "CAG's gotta get that guy flying soon, Joe." Adler agreed.
Once clear of the port side angle deck, the helo dipped closer to the water, hovering in place while a scooter was lowered, with Adler hanging on from the cable above it. Grant followed the same procedure. The backwash from the helo's blades and light sea chop tossed both men and equipment around in the water. Finally, a cable was attached to the cocoons, lowering them to within reaching distance. Grant looked up at the pilot and signaled him with a thumb's up. Attaching the cocoons to their utility belts, they started the motors of the underwater scooters, waiting for the carrier to pass. Then, they put the units into a shallow dive, running only ten feet below the surface, steering towards the Bronson.
Tony Mullins stood at the stern, chewing a fresh piece of bubblegum. He raised the night vision binoculars. The Rachinski's running lights showed it was positioned at one six five degrees off the Bronson. "Ah-ha! There you are, you bastard!" Mullins stepped over to the port quarter looking for any sign of Grant and Adler. They'd instructed him to have two lines ready, each with a hangman's knot that was to be lowered to the waterline. He leaned over, seeing the ropes bouncing on top of the Bronson's eight knot wash. Just as he looked at his watch, there was a noticeable change in the sound of the engines. He smiled and shook his head, still amazed. Kodiak responded on schedule… the Bronson was now moving at a snail's pace.
Two dark forms began emerging from the sea, rising and falling on the waves. Mullins was tempted to shine the flashlight but remembered Grant said no extra lights. “Over here!" he yelled.
The two divers aimed their scooters toward his voice. Once next to the ship, Grant and Adler attached the cocoons to one of the ropes. "Pull it up," Grant yelled, "then drop the rope back down!"
They followed along with the scooters, until Mullins lowered the second rope, then they climbed the ropes after attaching a scooter to each one. Dropping over the side onto the deck, Grant immediately pulled off his mask and gloves, a smile on his face as he reached out, grabbing hold of Mullins' outstretched hand. "Tony! Great to finally meet you."
"You, too, Grant!"
"This is Senior Chief Adler, my partner in crime," Grant said as he began hand-over-hand motions to haul up the scooter.
"Agent Mullins," Adler said with a nod.
"Please, call me Tony," he said as the two shook hands. Adler turned and started hauling the scooter up the side. "Here," said Mullins, "let me help." He grabbed the rope, then said over his shoulder, "Listen, before we go below, let me show you where our 'friends' are."
With the scooters stored at the stern, Mullins stood close to the rail, pointing with his finger and said, "There it is."
"Can I borrow your spy glasses?" Grant asked. Just the slight pressure of the binoculars pressing against his forehead sent a sharp pain across the back of his eyes. His vision blurred and he shook his head. "Goddammit!"
Mullins looked questioningly at Adler, who shaped his hand to resemble a gun, then pointed to his head. Mullins nodded in understanding. "Hey, let's get the hell out of the cold, and I'll give you a personal tour after Kodiak winds this baby back up."
Two Russian divers knelt beside the mini-sub, making final calculations, ensuring the battery was fully charged and finally, tightened the bolts holding the platform beneath the sub. The two jumped to attention at the sound of Vernichenko's voice.
"You are ready?"
Reznakov and Grimecko answered in unison, "We are, sir!"
"When you have finished here, come to my cabin and we will discuss the details one last time."
At 2315 hours the three men were sitting around the wooden table examining the black and white sketches of the Bronson, drawn accurately to scale, each showing different angles. Vernichenko pointed to their objective. "You must ensure the safety of the microchip at all cost, even more so than the weapon itself." He put the cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he spoke. "The microchip and weapon are the most critical parts of the ship. With that technology, we will be on equal ground with the Americans.
“You will neutralize the American on board, then wait for my signal. Then you'll immediately send an encoded message to the ship's command center, advising them of a course change." He pointed a finger at Resnakov. "You will stay aboard while Grimecko leaves in the sub. When you are close to the carrier, that is when you will set the self-destruct mechanism. There will be much confusion among the American ships, giving you time to pick up Alexei and come back here. Once you have returned, we will rendezvous with Commander Zeneski for transferring the chip and weapon." Vernichenko stood, both divers immediately jumping to attention. "Synchronize your watches. It is now 2330 hours. You'll leave the Rachinski at precisely 2345 hours." He gave each man a hard stare. "You have your orders." The divers snapped a rigid salute, then rushed from the cabin.
Grant and Adler had changed into their fresh sweat clothes and strapped on their .45's. They unpacked the Uzi's and carried them along, instinct telling them to be prepared.
"This is still unbelievable," Grant said as they walked inside the bridge.
Going down to the 03 level, Mullins led them to his private mess hall and poured fresh, hot coffee into standard, white Navy cups. "Come on," he motioned, "and I'll show you SNAGS and the brainpower for this baby's weapon. Expect that's what the Russkie's are most interested in."
Up one level, the totally secured, watertight room was not what the two visitors imagined. The walls, deck and overhead were stainless steel. A sliding deck hatch responded to a coded signal from a small hand-held opener, not unlike a garage door opener, except the consequences would be extremely harsh if the wrong code was punched in. The unlucky individual would suddenly be holding a half pound of barastol explosive, instantly turning into thousands of pieces of flying shrapnel. Mullins removed the remote from his shirt pocket and pressed the accurate code. The hatch slid sideways like a pocket door.
"So, this is what our friends would like to get their sticky hands on," Grant remarked as he stepped through the sliding hatch opening, immediately walking to the SNAGS, examining and memorizing every detail. The small 'dish' sat on the rails that led up toward the overhead hatch.