Grant focused again on Mullins. "Tony, you contact Kodiak?"
"Yeah," he said out of breath. "They were ready to 'drop a cow'. I got them just in time." He slammed his fist against the bulkhead. "Fuck! I warned the Agency about something like this happening. Nobody wanted to listen!"
"Know what you mean, buddy," answered Grant nodding his head. "I voiced my opinion about putting SEALs on board to back you up." Shifting gears, he got back on track. "Joe, suit up. Make a quick check of the outer hull and make sure those divers didn't leave any 'boomers' behind."
"Aye, aye, sir." Adler nodded and left immediately.
"Tony, call Kodiak back and ask them to bring the Bronson to a crawl so Joe can make his inspection. I'm gonna start getting our gear together."
"You're going after them, aren't you?" grinned Tony Mullins. Grant nodded, then gave a sideways motion with his head. Mullins took the hint. "I'm outta here," he said over his shoulder, leaving for the Communication's Center.
Adler and Mullins were on the stern transferring gear to a cocoon. Already changed into his drysuit, Grant was in the control center, winding up a conversation with Brad Simmons but not giving him all the specifics of what he had planned. "Brad, call Admiral Morelli on scramble with the details of what's happened and tell him we're going after the Rachinski."
"Will do. What time do you want that chopper?"
Grant looked at his watch. "Have it here at 0215 with the equipment I asked you to get." Simmons acknowledged, then Grant added, "Got to contact Captain Stafford. Talk with you later, Brad."
They had to move now, under cover of darkness and before the trawler could make a run for it, although, his gut feeling told him Vernichenko would get the chip off the Rachinski, probably onto a sub.
During the night the Bluefin rode closer to the surface, trailing an antenna, 'listening' for messages. She'd get one tonight that read: "Captain Stafford. Need your help. Must talk on secured line. Commander Stevens." Grant could only wait, knowing Stafford would have to break radio silence.
Within five minutes, he heard the familiar, deep voice in his headset. "You looking for another ride?" Stafford laughed.
"Not this time, sir. We have a critical situation."
Stafford's back stiffened. "Talk to me, Grant."
"Sir, has your radar picked up a Russian sub in the area?"
"As a matter of fact, a Victor class was on the screen last night. We tracked it for awhile then it disappeared, that is, until two hours ago."
Grant's suspicions were confirmed. He and Stafford discussed plans, and as with their first meeting, timing was going to be everything. "Thank you, Captain. That's right… when you hear the signal, surface."
At 0215 hours the chopper was overhead, lowering a horse-collar. Grant ran down the starboard side toward the stern, just as Adler grabbed the cocoon. Grant immediately fastened a weapons’ vest around Adler's arm. With a thumb's up, Adler slowly lifted off the deck.
Grant turned to Tony, grabbing his hand. "Wish us luck!"
Mullins shook his head in disbelief. "Man, I can't believe what you guys are gonna do!"
With a tight grin Grant replied, "Hey, that's why we get all the good duty stations!" The winch started hoisting him up as he shouted down at Mullins, "Get some more cookies ready for the party!"
The chopper increased power, climbing to an altitude of 20,000 feet. When they passed 15,000 feet, Grant and Adler went on O2. They checked the tanks again, adjusted the straps on the oxygen masks and finally inspected the chute. Their swim masks were in place, hanging around their necks. Last, they secured their 'hushpuppies', the silenced, stainless steel .45s that were water-tested. They shoved the .45s back into their chest holsters and fastened the Velcro strap.
The pilot shouted over his shoulder, "We're almost at the drop zone, sir! Standby for green light!"
Grant raised his hand in acknowledgment. "Here we go, Joe. Stand in the door."
Adler nodded his head. "If we've gotta finish it, this is as good a way as any!" A grin broke over his face and he looked at Grant. "Hey! Is this where we do that 'Geronimo' shit?"
The two were about to make a tandem rig, high altitude high open (HAHO) jump from 20,000 feet into an atmosphere with a temperature of twenty degrees below zero. HAHO's were a silent insertion technique designed to strike fear and confusion into an enemy, by drifting silently into their midst from the blackness above. They'd be breathing oxygen from a belt tank flowing into an aviator-style mask and would continue using it down to a breathable air level. They both instinctively cranked open the O2 bottle, then checked their face masks and tightened their crotch straps.
"Joe, inflate your vest at 3,000 feet."
"Roger that!"
The green light came on overhead. They quickly exited the helo, Grant opening his chute almost immediately. As soon as he checked the tether lines and canopy, he nudged Adler and he released the stabo line used to drop a commando lower than the 'flyer'. Adler dropped twenty-five feet below Grant. The line was attached to Grant's chest straps, so both men were riding the same chute.
Their landing site was barely distinguishable, a speck of light in a vast sea, six miles away — the Rachinski. As they drifted silently, Grant got a quick fix on the still experimental GPS electronics package. He signaled Joe with a thumb's up as they drifted silently, then he checked the Rachinski's course. She hadn't changed.
After passing 14,000 feet, they removed their oxygen masks, letting them hang from the tanks attached to the front of their belts. After Adler dropped off, Grant's plan was to land on the fantail of the Rachinski, just as they had trained on mock raids during naval exercises. The difference this time was that Grant Stevens had every intention of being captured. It was the only way. The plan had to work or his ass would be in the wind.
At 3,000 feet Grant was maneuvering off the bow of the Rachinski and had a good head wind to keep aloft. At 1,500 feet they were forward of the starboard bow. With Adler hanging twenty-five feet below, just about at the level of the horizon, his detection was almost impossible when viewed from the trawler's bridge in the dead of night. And heavy, dark storm clouds rested against the horizon, making it a perfect night for the operation.
With one hand Adler held the magnetic pads tightly hanging from his utility belt by three foot pieces of rope. At twenty-five feet, he released the tether line. Legs together, head tucked in, life vest inflated, he hit the water heels first. He immediately popped up to the surface as the trawler started passing in front of him. With a swift motion, he pulled his swim mask up over his face, then cleared the water from it. With a couple of powerful kicks, he was at the trawler. He slammed the magnetic paddles against the trawler and holding on tight, he felt his body slide aft in the wake.
With the chute gliding down the starboard side, Grant swung inward. When he was about ten feet above the deck, he released the chest straps, and at four feet, pulled the leg straps' quick release and slipped out of the harness. He hit the deck and rolled to the side in a picture perfect PLF (Parachute Landing Fall). He instantly came up on one knee, raising his Uzi, anticipating a response.
And the response came within seconds. Armed Russians were running down both port and starboard sides of the trawler heading straight for him. The taller Russian yelled commands in Russian and then in broken English to Grant, ordering him to lay his weapon down, then to get to his feet.