He pushed off and swam hard away from the trawler, stroking and kicking as fast as he could to escape being sucked under. Once clear, he turned, seeing the Russians with Grant ahead of them going forward toward the bow, his mind telling "Panther" to hang on just a little longer. Swimming towards the port side rendezvous point, he set off his mini light for Grant's easy detection.
Grant was counting the minutes, anticipating that Adler would complete his work on schedule. Trying not to be conspicuous, he quickly scanned the water, seeing the mini light bobbing in the water. That was the signal!
He hurled the two bomblets, laced with chlorine and with contact fusing, onto the deck. Within the blink of an eye, he dove for the black water.
The instantaneous explosions released thick smoke, engulfing the Russians. The caustic material burned the eyes and lungs of everyone on deck. A few involuntary bursts of AK47 rounds cracked the air.
Grant dolphin kicked hard to separate himself from the trawler's wake current and broke clear of its pull. As the force lessened, he surfaced about thirty feet away, the trawler's stern just passing him. He set off the tracking device attached to the inside of his sleeve.
"Commander! Over here!" yelled Adler.
Grant laid into the familiar frogman's kick, swimming long strokes toward Adler, knifing through the choppy water. They both looked up and saw the Russians, still in pain from the chlorine assault, some of them vomiting, others rubbing their eyes.
Grant spotted Vernichenko halfway up the ladder, leaning against the arm rail, wrenching violently. Nearly all of the chlorine cloud had disappeared. The KGB officer was desperately trying to find the American through the smoke and darkness. "Get that spotlight back here!" He jumped off the ladder and raced down the port side, hanging over the railing. The light found its mark. So intent on killing Grant, Vernichenko failed to put two and two together, not questioning the appearance of a second diver. "Shoot! Shoot!" The blinded guards fired aimlessly into the water off the stern.
Adler shouted, "I think we've really pissed them off, sir!" Bullets spewed erratically around the two Americans, with the Russians being still partially blinded. "Shit!" Adler spat out.
Grant snapped his head around, toward his teammate. "What!"
Adler had his hand pressed against the front of his right shoulder. "Caught one in the same damn spot!"
Grant reached out and grabbed Adler's left arm, dragging him and shouting, "We're getting outta here! Hang on, Joe! We're goin' under!"
"Go!" Adler yelled back, sucking in a lungful of air laced with saltwater.
After swimming at a depth of fifteen feet for a minute, Adler signaled he was okay and Grant let go. Staying at a shallow depth, they swam as hard and as fast as they could for another minute. Adler's shoulder throbbed. The freezing water seeped into his suit. The strength in his arm was deteriorating, so he tucked his hand into his belt. His lungs ached and he pulled hard with his good arm, until he felt Grant take hold of it.
No longer hearing the staccato sound of AK47s or the zip sound of bullets hitting water, the two Americans surfaced. Grant unbuckled his UDT life vest and slipped it over Adler's head, pulling it tightly around him. With the loss of blood and cold water seeping into Adler's suit through the bullet hole, Grant knew they didn't have much time. "Press it against your shoulder!"
He looked back, seeing the menacing shape of the Rachinski coming hard to port, powerful light beams splitting the night, guiding its way. "Goddammit!"
"This isn't a good thing, sir!" Adler yelled.
Without warning, and less than fifty feet from them, the coal black sail of the SSN Bluefin slowly broke the water's surface, the red port navigation light coming into view.
Grant shouted, "Hang on, Joe!" He pulled Adler in a cross-body carry, sidestroking to the sub. Yes, Captain Stafford; timing is everything!
Stafford scurried through the hatch into the topside Conn, grabbing the 1MC and yelling, "Man the deck gun!" Six sailors poured out of the hatch, two of them ramming a 40mm gun into a deck mount while another slammed a full magazine into the top of the gun.
Aboard the Rachinski, Vernichenko had raced into the wheelhouse, his face distorted with anger, screaming at the helmsman, "Ram them! Kill the Americans!" The helmsman's face turned ashen. Jerking his head around, he fixed his stare on Captain Boris Belenko, waiting for confirmation.
"N'yet!" shouted the Captain defiantly, immediately barking his own orders. "Right full rudder!" The helmsman spun the wheel rapidly. Belenko turned sharply, confronting Vernichenko. "If we kill the Americans and ram the submarine, we will surely start a war. I will not do it, Comrade. I will not risk my boat and men for you or your mission! It is more important that we reach Captain Zeneski's submarine!"
Vernichenko grabbed the Captain's arm, crushing the uniform sleeve in his fingers. Pulling on Belenko's arm as if trying to wrench it from the shoulder, he shouted, "Look around you. Who is to know?"
"You fool!" Belenko shouted, yanking his arm away from Vernichenko's grasp. "You know their submarine doesn't operate independently. By now someone knows where they are and what they're doing! Enough!" Vernichenko bristled. He was like a man gone mad, losing all sense of reasoning. His hand dropped to the handle of his pistol. Belenko lowered his stare to the KGB officer's pistol. "I can assure you that would be your death warrant, Comrade Vernichenko."
Two plumes of white water rose into the air, the shells fired from the Bluefin landing close to port midships of the trawler. "Look! Look!" Vernichenko swept his arm overhead. "You've been fired upon! You must defend yourself! Ram them!"
Captain Belenko shook his head, glaring into the reddened, angered face. Vernichenko knew he'd lost and rushed outside, racing down the port side toward the signal bridge. His knuckles turned stark white as his thick fingers curled around the rail, his mind imagining Commander Stevens' neck locked in his muscular grip. "N'yet! N'yet!" he shouted.
Two lifelines were thrown over the side of the sub into the choppy sea. Grant reached for a lifeline and quickly tied it under Adler's arms. He shouted up at the sailors hanging over the edge. "Pull him up! He's hit in the shoulder! Get him to sickbay!"
They pulled hard, reaching for Adler then quickly covering him with a blanket. Grant gave a quick glance over his shoulder as he grabbed the line. "Come on, goddammit! Let's get it over with!"
For a couple of fleeting seconds, a muffled sound rumbled beneath the dark sea before the fantail of the Rachinski lifted from the water, erupting in a ball of fire. Smaller explosions immediately followed as flames devoured ordnance. The deck was awash in an orange-white glow, fire enveloping everything in its path. The inferno ignited fuel, hurling particles of ship metal and casings skyward and into the wheelhouse, shattering windows, striking bodies. With its screws destroyed, the trawler continued veering right out of control, smoke and flames beginning to surge throughout. A second charge ignited, opening a hole in the bulkhead, water pouring into the engine room. The trawler's list was unmistakable.
Grant was being pulled up the side of the sub. He rolled onto his back, staring at the trawler just as a final, violent explosion shook it, blowing away the remaining section of wheelhouse. The Rachinski's starboard side was completely underwater, the port side just a smoldering, blackened shell. As if being sucked down by a giant vacuum, the trawler disappeared beneath the Sea of Japan. The trawler and all aboard ceased to exist beneath a bubbling, steam-filled sea.
And then there were none, Grant scoffed without remorse, remembering Cuba and the face of Sergei Vernichenko.
Chapter Ten