As he raised his hands, Grant thought, It's good to be home. No doubt, the Russians were waiting for him. He was positive now… there had to be a leak in the chain of command, and a helluva lot deeper than he'd thought.
Five AK47s were pointed directly at him, the muzzles as close as four feet. With the rocking of the trawler, and with everyone trying to maintain their balance, it would have been easy to escape — but that was not in the immediate plan.
One of the guards shouted an order, and instantly, another cautiously walked toward the American and collected the 'hushpuppy' strapped to his chest. After handing it to one of his comrades, he returned to Grant, patting him down. Finding nothing, he shook his head, then returned to the ring of guards.
Grant smiled to himself, biting his tongue, not letting on he understood them. He glanced up when he saw movement on the afterdeck of the wheelhouse. The silhouetted figure stared at him for a long moment, his hands motionless behind his back. He started toward the ladder leading down to where the American was standing. Grant strained his eyes to give some substance to the silhouette approaching him, but he had a good idea who it was.
As the Russian reached the bottom step, he looked at the American again. His slow, heavy footsteps pounded on the deck as he walked, stopping within two feet of Grant.
Sergei Vernichenko fixed his stare on him, a stare as cold and emotionless as a dead man's. He drew his arm from behind him and put his cigarette in his mouth, drawing in deeply. He studied Grant before bellowing in broken English, "Your name! Who are you?"
Grant couldn't let on who he was, not yet. "Smith, Chief John Smith.”
"And Chief John Smith, what could possibly bring you to the Rachinski… alone?"
Grant started to reach for the pouch on his utility belt, when one of the guard's shouted, "N'yet!" nudging his rifle into Grant's stomach.
"I came to deliver something to you," Grant said.
Vernichenko stood motionless, then gestured for the guard to back off. Grant reached inside, withdrew Donovan's Russian passport that was sealed in plastic and flipped it at Vernichenko, who showed no response, no emotion while he glanced at the photograph. Finally, he looked up at Grant. "So, you have captured Alexei. I suspected so after—"
Grant shook his head. "N'yet."
This time, Grant noticed a fleeting moment of surprise from the Russian. "So, you have disposed of him. He was careless." Trying to sound unconcerned, he added, "We were through with him anyway because he no longer fit into the remainder of our plans. You have done me a favor, Chief Smith."
"Do you want to fill me in on what was supposed to happen if we hadn't disarmed the line cutters he planted?" Grant asked as he tried to balance himself against the trawler's rocking motion.
Vernichenko pulled his shoulders back, staring hard at Grant. "With your steering capabilities gone, our commando was to set the timer of the self-destruct mechanism on the Bronson, then steer it into your angle deck, igniting your fuel and ordnance, destroying the Bronson and as much of the carrier as possible. You would have assumed it was just an unfortunate accident. And Alexei would have, shall we say, disappeared in the melee while, in fact, he was to be picked up by the commando."
"It appears your plans have been sidetracked," Grant said mockingly.
Vernichenko nodded, but then answered, "Perhaps we do not have your weapon, and your Bronson still prowls the ocean, but we do have what we were truly after… the microchip."
"You got the chip," Grant continued, searching for more information, "and we got our mole."
The Russian pointed a finger at Grant. "Ahhh, you must remember, just because you cut off the head of a snake peering from beneath the bush, you still do not know how far the body stretches."
That was all Grant needed — final confirmation. There was someone else involved. He glared into the Russian's eyes as he reached down and unfastened the weightbelt, hurling it against Vernichenko's feet. One of the guard's reacted instantly and rammed the butt of his rifle hard into Grant's right kidney, dropping him to his knees.
Vernichenko was distracted by the incident momentarily but said nothing. Then, he glanced down. His eyes narrowed, straining to focus on the belt. He reached down, taking hold of the buckle, the hammer and sickle insignia coming into the light. His head snapped up, the same anger rushing through him as that day in Cuba. He did not have a good feeling about this American.
Grant got up slowly, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He stared at the Russian before finally straightening up, already relishing the next few minutes. It was his turn to take over the controls. "We haven't been formally introduced… you are KGB Officer Vernichenko, I presume?"
Sergei stared at the American, a unusual chill running up his spine as he nodded. He leaned closer to Grant, then asked between clenched teeth, "And you are Smith?"
"I lied! My name's Stevens, Commander Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy."
The sound of the weightbelt slamming on the deck echoed across the trawler. A guard jumped aside as it narrowly missed his leg. Vernichenko's voice exploded. "N'yet! It can't be you!"
Grant's brown eyes flashed as he stared dead on into the KGB officer's face, taking a step forward, intentionally trying to provoke the Russian. "Believe it, friend!"
Vernichenko looked at Grant in disbelief, as an impression of his dead friend, Andre Mishenski, stood out clearly in his mind's eye. "It was you in Cuba… you who was responsible for the murder of my men!"
Grant shrugged his shoulders, his mouth turning up into a half smile. He was now playing the role of taunter, on the offensive, not letting up. His voice was intentionally loud, his Russian flawless. "Da. And would you like to know what happened to Alexei? Should I also describe my encounter with your would be assassin? Would you like to know what I did to his body?"
Veins stood out in Vernichenko's thick neck like tree roots rising from the earth. He bellowed, "Enough! I can assure you," he hissed, crushing the cigarette beneath the toe of his black boot, "this will be the last time we shall meet." He took a step closer to the American, a grim, unnatural look contorting his face. Each word sounded sharp and distinct. "We shall be rendezvousing with our submarine soon, Commander Stevens, for transferring the microchip." Eye-to-eye with Grant, he repeatedly poked his index finger into Grant's chest, leering at him. "And then, I think I will also transfer you to them… but only after I have finished with you! Do svidaniya, Commander Stevens, U.S. Navy!" He spun around and shouted to the guards, "Bring him forward!"
Grant silently scoffed, Transfer my ass! Not in this lifetime, Russkie!
The armed escort prodded him along the port side of the trawler, when the boat suddenly lurched. Unnoticed, Grant had the opportunity to loosen his sleeve. Two CIA developed MK36 impact smoke bombs, each the size of a quarter, slid into his palm.
Meanwhile, Adler had made his way to midships, planting an IED against the side of the trawler, setting the timer to four minutes. The mine had a magnetic face with a shaped charge inside. He crimped the chemical pencil attached to the charge. It contained acetone that would eat its way through a thin plastic washer. Once it did, the firing pin would ignite the detonator and the charge would cut through the three inch thick hull allowing sea water to come raging through the orifice, pouring into the engine room at 300 gallons a minute.
He was getting dangerously close to being caught up in the pull of the screws, but he continued moving further down the side. He planted another IED, this one closer to the screws, closer to the ordnance stowed beneath the deck used for the trawler's rear three inch deck gun. This timer was set for three minutes.