MISSION CRITICAL
A Cold War Novel
by
Jamie Fredric
Mission Critical
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright @ 2010 Jamie Fredric
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
Dedication
For All Who Have Served
Definition:
BUDWEISER -
1. An alcoholic drink
2. Insignia - Anchor/Trident/Eagle/Pistol -
an anchor represents the Navy, a 'Trident', the sea; an eagle 'Air'; and a pistol--always cocked, always ready--represents land.
Sea…Air…Land----the three operating environments of the U.S. Navy SEALs.
Prologue
The Sea of Japan -
Nervously, he drummed his fingers against the wall. His contact aboard the Rachinski was late and he worried. It wasn't like the KGB. Impatience aside, Russia's mole was in his glory, finally in his element. He was about to use all the skills he'd been taught, and suddenly, he wanted to scream out his Russian name, but instead, he spoke quietly. "Alexei Pratopapov! That is who I am." He would love to be there, wishing he could see the faces of the Americans when it was all over. But if all went as planned--and he had every confidence that would be the case--he would not have the pleasure to see their faces nor the opportunity to tell them, "Yes, it was me. I did this to you."
He stretched his arms overhead, feeling secure in his hiding place. He sniffed the air, imagining he smelled coffee. A good, strong cup of coffee would hit the spot, his one American vice, he admitted. He would miss it once he was back in his homeland. He had lived among the Americans for so many years, but his love for Mother Russia never wavered. Schooled in English from the age of three, he was still a young boy when he left his beloved Odessa, already being groomed for the day his country would need his services. Odessa--the "Pearl by the Sea." After all these years, would he even recognize it? Would he be able to adjust to Russian life again? Life in Russia was very different than in America, he admitted, especially after all the years gone by. But his superiors had promised him so much upon his return. He would not have to worry about money or security.
Unfortunately, he would have no one to share it with, at least not with his American wife. He pictured an official Navy car pulling into the driveway, a chaplain and Navy officer ringing the doorbell to his house on Sycamore Drive. There would be a brief memorial service and Katherine would be given a folded American flag. The United States Government would compensate her every month. After all, that's why he contributed to the Survivor's Benefit Fund, was it not?
A brief moment of despondency reached into his heart, but immediately he jolted himself back to reality, his thoughts angering him. Russians in his position did not feel sorry for themselves or others. It was time for him to begin thinking and feeling like the Russian he was. He jumped, startled by the crackling noise. He spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Yes, I'm here." No codes were being used, so the conversation was kept to a minimum.
"Our Chinese comrades have verified their position. They have agreed to our terms and conditions. We are going forward," the gruff voice aboard the Rachinski stated.
Alexei's heart pounded; his breathing was heavy. "I'm prepared."
"I will contact you tomorrow at our designated time. We will discuss the details. Comrade Gregorov has asked me to pass on his wishes for a successful mission."
Alexei envisioned the KGB bureau chief, and answered, "I understand. Convey my respects to our colonel and thank him."
He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie, then rewrapped it in the towel. He slid it back inside the small fan vent and retightened the screws on the louvered cover. Opening the door slowly, he looked up and down the passageway while staying hidden inside the closet. The Damage Control locker was a fairly safe place to hide, since it was only used by the fire fighting team to store their suits, hoses, OBA's (oxygen breathing apparatus), and devil's claws, used to tear apart mattresses that were on fire. Checking one more time to make sure no one was around, he locked the door, then began strolling down the passageway, arms locked behind his back.
He'd become a familiar site, roaming different areas of the ship, his "insomnia" once again preventing rest. "Poor bastard," they'd say noticing his bloodshot eyes in the morning. He would hear their comment and smile inwardly. One or two eyedrops of saltwater...and the charade would continue.
Chapter One
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, January 25, 1975
Powerful arm strokes and flutter kicks propelled the swimmer forward effortlessly, the water streaming over his shoulders, creating a mass of white turbulence in the pool's outside racing lane. Having grown up in the small town of Jenner, California, in Sonoma County, water became another way for him to release his pent up energy, whether it was hitting the surf along the coast or racing his friends in the Russian River. Today, he raced against no one but himself.
A voice echoed in the domed aquatic center. "Commander! Commander Stevens!"
The swimmer stopped and began treading water. As he shook water droplets from his head, he spotted the ensign standing at the edge of the pool's blue tile.
"Commander, I've got an urgent message for you. You're to report to Admiral Morelli on the double. He's waiting for you in his office, sir." Ensign Jason Pritchard was a bit short of breath after his run across the parking lot; the smell of chlorine seemed stronger as it hit his senses. He wrinkled his nose as he brushed the snow from his shoulders, then blew warm breath into his hands. The admiral's young aide resembled a child playing grownup, with a black raincoat that nearly dwarfed him. The epaulettes on his raincoat and cap brim were spotted with snowflakes.
Water dripped from Commander Grant Stevens' 6'1" frame as he climbed the ladder at the deep end of the pool. He had a swimmer's build, narrow waist and hips, emphasizing his muscular shoulders. He reached for a folded towel on the wooden bench.
"Do you think I'll have time to change, Mr. Pritchard?" he asked, smiling.
"Uh, yes, sir. Of course, sir. I'll just phone the admiral to tell him I found you."
"Very well."
The ensign started to leave, then hesitated, deciding he'd better get more specific information, knowing the admiral the way he did.
"Excuse me, sir, but what time shall I tell him you'll be there?"
Grant gave his black submariner watch a quick glance, calculating he could make it in thirty minutes. "Tell him I'll be there by 1830, Ensign."
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Jason, how did you know where to find me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It was the admiral, sir. He suggested that I look here first. May I go now, sir?"
"Go ahead, Jason."
Ensign Pritchard saluted, and then quickened his pace as he headed for the hallway in search of a pay phone, his once shiny black shoes splashing in the puddles along the pool deck. He made a mental note to clean his shoes before the admiral saw him.
Grant rubbed the towel over his wet, dark brown hair and watched the young officer splashing smartly along the deck, off to complete his task for Vice Admiral Eugene Morelli. He had to appreciate the ensign's sense of urgen
cy, already aware of the fact that he'd better not piss off the Vice Admiral. Grant had experienced it one time himself, early on during his own stumbling, bumbling days as a "butter bar" ensign, referencing the thin, single gold bar worn on a shoulder board.
He threw the soaked, white towel over his shoulder and laughed to himself as he went to the showers. Ensign Pritchard didn't realize it now, but one day he'd eventually learn that 'Ball-Buster' Morelli was really a pretty good guy.
He stepped under the shower's spray and closed his eyes, his mind traveling back in time, when he and Morelli first met. Grant was right out of Annapolis, assigned to the Operations Department on his first ship, the guided missile cruiser Seattle. Morelli, then a commander, had been aboard for ten months. Grant's tour aboard the cruiser was cut short when he received his new orders to report for UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) Basic training in Coronado. Although their meeting had been brief, it was an impressionable one for the young officer. For a senior and junior officer to develop a close friendship was unusual, to say the least, but Morelli had quickly recognized Grant's talents and enthusiasm. And their friendship was due in part because of Morelli's own son, who was a Navy helo pilot and the same age as Grant. James Vincent Morelli, 30 years old, was stationed in Ben Cat, located in the stinking Rung Sat Special Zone, a major helo base for operations. A VC attack on the base camp ended his life nearly six years ago. Grant seemed to fill some of the void left in Gene Morelli's life.
He threw open the door and ran into the cold night air. "Better get your ass in gear, Stevens!"
A deep rumbling sound from the 454 "Big Block" engine of his 1974, black, Corvette Sport Coupe bore into the evening stillness as Grant pulled out of the parking lot. Within fifteen minutes he was at his destination, turning into the parking slot marked by a painted metal sign, "Special Operations Officer."
Wide, steel-belted Goodyear tires skidded on a patch of ice hidden by the fresh snow swirling around the blacktop. The Vette came to a stop at a slight angle within the painted white lines. Yellow letters, 'JSTDOIT', stood out clearly beneath the light of the California license plate. He got out, locked the door, and adjusted his cap as he leaned into a biting wind. How he missed the warm days on Silver Strand in San Diego, the infamous beach where SEALs did a portion of their training. On the other side of the coin, whether the seas were rough or calm, those miserable night swims in the waters of the Pacific were now just a memory.
"Christ! It's cold! Damn this weather!" Then he had to laugh, "You're turning into a wimp, Stevens!" Out of self-defense, he immediately broke into a fast jog, his bridge coat flapping open as he headed in the direction of the office building and his appointment.
Located off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway in Anne Arundel County, not far from the National Security Agency (NSA), the four-story structure was completely non-descript. A dismal gray color, the concrete and stucco building was featureless and plain, but unseen to outsiders, subterranean offices existed, containing an elaborate communications' intelligence network. Within the structure's walls were the Offices of the Naval Investigative Service.
The elevator lurched as it came to a stop at the fourth floor, the doors hissing as they parted. Grant rushed off, glancing at his watch, and giving himself a reprimand for cutting his timing so damn close. At the far end of the hallway he could see the light shining through the frosted glass of the office door. The closer he got, he started hearing the 'clicking' of the yeoman's typewriter keys as they struck the paper curled against the platen. As many times as he'd been here, he still wondered how anyone could sit in an office, typically decorated in the usual Navy style with pea-green bulkheads. He couldn't imagine how Second Class Yeoman Alex Gardner managed to look at puke-colored bulkheads all day long for the past fifteen months of his assignment.
Gardner looked up from his IBM Selectric typewriter, the stub of a sharpened No. 2 pencil tucked behind his ear. Recognizing Grant immediately, he gestured and said, "Go right in, Commander. The admiral's been expecting you."
"Thanks, Alex." The tone in the petty officer's voice made him worry that this wasn't about to be an amusing evening. He immediately detected the distinct odor of a cigar seeping from under the admiral's door. It was hard to believe Morelli still had those damn Havanas.
Before Grant left on his last job in Cuba to do a photo check of the island's ports, Morelli made one of the few personal requests he'd ever asked of Grant. He wanted a box of Cohiba cigars. The superior quality cigar, extremely difficult to obtain, was expressly used by a privileged few, Castro always having a supply, serving them to heads of state and diplomats. Morelli had two reasons for making the request: first, the cigars were his favorite, and second, it was a test to see if the Navy SEAL could actually do it.
Confident, Grant had answered, "Piece of cake, sir." Then he asked with a crafty smile, "By the way, which size? Grande?"
Now, standing in front of the office door, Grant removed his cap, tucked it under his left arm, and then knocked, hearing the admiral's voice, "Come!"
"Evening, Admi--"
“Grant! Want you to meet Sam Phillips, one of the ‘Cowboys in Action.’”
CIA Agent Phillips gave the admiral a disapproving sideways glance as he stood and reached for Grant's hand. "Commander." Grant just nodded.
Admiral Eugene Morelli, Chief of Naval Investigative Service, shoved the thick manila folder to the corner of his desk toward Grant. "Here, take a look at this. The Agency has some scoop that this is beginning to take on the look of a fast 'dance card.'" Morelli referred to the name given to after action reports.
Grant looked at the folder stamped with half inch red letters "TOP SECRET", then did a quick assessment of the CIA agent, glancing back at Morelli who picked up on Grant's expression and chuckled to himself. The ache in his right shoulder made him remember the time Grant pulled him out of a burning chopper during a training exercise in Virginia that went haywire. Obviously, that was his personal reason for liking Grant. On a professional level, he knew Grant was the best covert 'frog' in the Teams or any of the so-called agencies. With his extensive experience as intelligence officer, coupled with his being a Navy SEAL with more than 60 combat patrols and 13 years covert ops background, Commander Stevens was one of the premier operators the country had at its disposal.
Grant hung his cap on the wooden coat rack by the door, then went to the desk and reached for the manila folder. He eyed Phillips again, noticing what he thought was a bad suit, and the overcoat seemed a bit much.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the first few pages of the printed report, then he started pacing back and forth across the carpeted office. He dropped the folder on the edge of the desk. "Admiral, can we talk privately?"
Phillips stood abruptly and excused himself, commenting out of the corner of his mouth, "Hey, when you rope chokers get your act together, buzz me back in when you’re ready. I'll be in the outer office.” The door slammed.
Grant spun around and blurted out, "Admiral, what's that clown doing here?"
Morelli had a knack at pushing the right buttons. "Look, I know you're still miffed about Cuba, and the Lumumba fiasco didn't help your opinion of the Agency either."
"Damn right, Admiral. You know it's the covert operators and the special ops guys that come under fire and take the heat because they're fed old intel, sometimes three weeks old. And that's not good enough, sir."
Morelli noticed the fire in Grant's eyes. If anything got Grant Stevens' ire it was incompetence, especially if it meant losing men or caused a mission's failure.
"I agree, I agree," nodded Morelli, "but I think you need to hear this one. Will you do that for me?"
Grant yanked the folder off the desk. "Yes, sir...I'll listen." He sat in the big, leather chair, purposely selecting it over the uncomfortable wooden straight-back. His anger subsided as he became thoroughly engrossed in the report.
Normally a speed reader, Grant let his mind take in every word, never stopping, skipping nothin
g. "Jesus Christ!" He shot a quick glance at Morelli. "Uh, sorry, sir."
Morelli tugged on the skin sagging around his jawline, something that was becoming a perpetual habit. "No need. That's my sentiment exactly. Now, let's talk."
"Uh, why don't you buzz Phillips back in, sir? I promise I'll be good." He flashed Morelli a shit-eatin' grin through perfect, white teeth.
Morelli pushed the buzzer on the intercom and shook his head. Phillips came back in and sat in the wooden chair. Grant was across from the ornate walnut desk, the folder still gripped in his hand, concern in his eyes. "From the report, I see the situation's gotten worse over the last 72 hours. Any ideas, sir?"
The gray-haired senior officer reached for the cut crystal lighter on the corner of the desk blotter. Gnawing on the cigar tip, he looked at the younger officer then at the CIA agent. He relit the Lanceros panatela, then leaned back in his swivel chair, blowing a steady stream of white smoke across the desk, pointing the cigar at Grant.
"Agent Phillips has some information indicating the Russians and Chinese have expressed considerable interest in our latest weapons’ platform."
Ignoring Phillips, Grant replied, "As long as the CIA has known one was in bed with the other, why do they need us? They have operators--"
"That's why I called you in, Grant!" the cigar-smoking officer cut in sharply. Morelli leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk, the cuffs of his white shirt rolled back, revealing smeared black residue along the edges. He stared hard at the 36 year-old Navy officer. "Look, you're the best intel officer here at NIS, and water-borne ops isn't the Agency's best hand. We need a plan, and we need it pronto!"
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