Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  Once in the confinement of the EOD locker, Adler shut the door behind them. "Well, that seemed to go well!" he laughed, shaking his head.

  Grant threw his cap on the bunk. "Now, we just have to wait." He looked at his watch, then reached for his stash of Snickers bars in the desk drawer and tossed one to Adler. "If Brad's not back in thirty minutes, go check on him, Joe." Putting on the headset, he adjusted the radio frequency, hoping to pick up a transmission.

  Fifty-five minutes later, there was a tapping at the EOD locker door, and a grinning Brad Simmons rushed in. Grant swung the chair around, pulling off the headset. "You got it...you got the fuckin' picture!"

  "Damn straight, we did!"

  Grant waited impatiently. Finally hearing the familiar voice, he said, "Admiral! Scramble this, sir."

  Morelli hit the scramble button. "We're clear, Grant."

  "I'm confirming, sir. It's Donovan."

  Morelli slumped into his chair. "Good work, Grant, and to Lieutenant Commander Simmons and Senior Chief Adler, as well."

  "Thanks, Admiral; I'll tell them. But we still don't know what they've got planned exactly, or when."

  "I know, I know," answered a drained Morelli.

  "Sir, we were able to get his picture when he entered the DC locker, which means he probably contacted the trawler from there." Grant heard a muffled "shit". "I'm sorry I wasn't able to pick up the transmission. Sir?"

  "Go 'head," Grant.

  "He knows who I am, sir."

  "You sure?"

  "No doubt. I went to the bridge--"

  "You what?"

  "I had to force his hand, Admiral. It was the only way I could get him to move." Grant waited a moment then asked, "What do you want me to do now, sir?"

  Morelli knew exactly what Grant was asking. "That decision will have to come from higher up. Let me get back to you, say, by 1500 hours, your time."

  *

  Adler, Simmons, and Grant confined themselves to the EOD locker. Since flight ops were canceled until 2000 hours because of the replenishing exercise scheduled, the remaining EOD team members made themselves scarce.

  While they waited, Grant sent a message to sub Captain Reggie Stafford, ensuring that the Bluefin stayed close to the Bronson. His next call went to Tony Mullins. "We found him, Tony. We found the mole."

  "No shit? Who? Who the hell is it?"

  "Captain Mike Donovan."

  Mullins nearly choked, spitting Coke down the front of his green polo shirt. "You're fuckin' with me...right?"

  Grant felt drained, but it had only just begun. "I'm serious as hell."

  "Christ." Mullins asked the obvious. "Did you get orders from Washington?"

  "We're waiting for Morelli to call. One of us will contact you. Listen, Captain Stafford is going to be hangin' close to you now."

  Mullins shook his head. "Ya know, with all this fucking technology sitting on this ship, I'm still completely helpless. Why don't we just blow the bastards out of the water?"

  Grant smiled. "You've got my vote. Unfortunately, Washington won't accept it. I don't know what they'll decide. Maybe they'll try and negotiate with the Russians and Chicoms, you know, dropping a word here and there like, 'we'll blow your asses off the planet before you can spit' kind of negotiations."

  "That'd be the fastest way," agreed a laughing Mullins.

  "I've gotta go. Washington is due to call. I might be seeing you soon, Mullins-san."

  *

  Except for the distinct, muffled sound of the ship's engines, there was dead silence in the EOD locker as Grant adjusted the headphones. "Yes, sir?"

  "Grant..." Morelli took a deep breath. "You're to terminate...with prejudice."

  Grant lowered his head, then looked up at Adler and Simmons, who were standing side-by-side, staring back at him. As much as he despised Donovan, despised his act, it was the uniform Grant now saw, a U.S. Navy uniform. "Yes, sir." He stood up, shoving the chair back. "Anything else, Admiral?"

  "You're to notify Admiral Hewlett and the XO. The XO will assume command when the time comes. You may need to question him about anyone Donovan may have been close to and keep an eye on them, too."

  "Very well, sir."

  Morelli felt uneasy, hearing the change in Grant's voice. "Are you okay, Commander?"

  "Just...tired, sir. What about the trawler, sir, the Rachinski?"

  "A decision hasn't been made whether to use the Bronson. Will need you as standby. Can you be ready to 'erase' it, make it look like an accident?"

  Grant looked at Adler and winked. "It'd definitely be our pleasure, sir."

  Morelli stood by the window; daybreak was still over two hours away. He turned when his office door opened, seeing PO Gardner carrying in a cup of steaming coffee, motioning for him to put it on the desk. "You've got your work cut out for you, Grant."

  "Not to worry, Admiral. I've got excellent help." He pulled off his headphones and turned to Simmons. "Brad, I need you to contact Admiral Hewlett and XO Masters." Simmons moved closer, already guessing what his assignment was going to be. "You're to inform them about Donovan. I suggest you talk to them together. Maybe you can use the guise that you need more information for NIS Headquarters regarding Seaman Koosman. Try to find out if Donovan..." Grant cut himself off and grinned. "Hell, I don't need to tell you. You know the damn routine!"

  *

  Off the Island of Sado

  1900 Hours

  Steward Mindina placed a fresh pot of coffee on the table and adjusted the cup and napkin until they were positioned to his satisfaction. He turned to Donovan, who was standing by the open locker, buttoning his long-sleeve khaki shirt, thinking about his meeting on the bridge. "Will there be anything else, Captain?" Mindina asked as he removed the silver tray from the corner of the table. Receiving no answer, he took a step closer, then called louder, "Captain?"

  Donovan turned his head, his expression more lifeless than a museum statue. "No, nothing." He slammed the metal locker door, the sound like a shotgun blast, startling Mindina. "You can go, Edward."

  "Very well, sir," Mindina responded, his brown eyes wide with surprise. "Are you alright, Captain?" he asked, concerned.

  "Yes, yes. On your way out, tell Private Johnson he's off duty till 2000 hours."

  Mindina closed the cabin door and relayed the message to the Marine, standing rigidly at attention. Private Johnson acknowledged Mindina with a nod, unbuckled the holster, and wrapped the leather strap around the firearm as he started down the passageway.

  Hidden in the shadows, one deck down, Grant made certain the coast was clear, then climbed the ladder. The broken piece of antenna had been taped to the photograph. He slid the top half of the photograph under the door, then rapped his fist against the steel.

  "Come!" Donovan responded angrily. When no one answered, he walked to the door, seeing the photograph. Cautiously opening the door, he swiveled his head, looking up and down the passageway, seeing no one. There was only the faint sound of voices coming from the bridge. He picked up the photograph, slammed the door, as beads of sweat formed on his brow, his mind becoming confused. He started walking to his desk, then stopped, lowering his eyes to stare again at the picture and the antenna tip stuck under the tape. Why hadn't they come for him? An answer to the question didn't seem to matter. He had to take care of Stevens and hope it would give them the time they needed.

  Walking quickly to the safe next to the locker, he spun the dial several turns. He yanked a walkie-talkie taped to the underside of the top, thinking how easy they made things. A casual stroll past the Quarterdeck one evening, where a careless shore patrol officer left the device, made it easy to slip it into a pocket. Unlocking the porthole, he aimed the antenna toward the open sea.

  KGB Officer Vernichenko answered immediately. "You have news for me, Comrade?"

  Alexei's back straightened. "Yes, I have news," he answered as he glanced toward the desk. "I'm sure I've been discovered. They know who I am."

  "How can you be sure?"


  "Stevens and I had a brief meeting on the bridge earlier. Perhaps it was his arrogance, but I knew then." Alexei explained the photograph incident and where the picture was taken. "And I'm positive he's the one who left the photograph under my cabin door."

  Vernichenko responded, "I've done my own checking on our friend 'Chief Stevens'. He's not a 'chief', but a 'commander', and he's not just a Navy SEAL. He's working for Washington with their Naval Investigative Service." Vernichenko sounded confident as he continued. "It's too late for them anyway. We're moving forward. Moscow is expecting us to carry out the original plan before daybreak. They weren't pleased we had to wait these extra hours." He sat back, staring up at the ceiling, taping his finger against his lips, thinking out loud. "That's why the Americans moved so suddenly into the Sea of Japan."

  "I don't understand."

  Sergei leaned forward, close to the microphone, his voice a snarling whisper. "You, my friend...it was because of you. With you as a suspect, they wanted to see what we would do...I'll stake my career on it."

  "Then explain why I'm still in command?" Alexei shot back.

  "Perhaps the photograph incident was to frighten you into making a mistake. After all, you have the right to inspect any area of the ship. You have master keys. How could they know your true reason for being in that room?" He paused a moment. "They must not have complete proof. But with their attention on you, our plan may be easier to carry out now."

  Alexei was beginning to feel like a piece of bait, losing the importance of his original mission. "I assumed they--"

  "You know we don't assume, Comrade," he said condescendingly. With his lips nearly touching the microphone, Vernichenko's tone was threatening. "And, Comrade, I advise you to avoid Stevens from now on. No personal agenda will be tolerated. You will not jeopardize our mission. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes," answered Alexei, trying to disguise his anger, wondering if Vernichenko was psychic.

  Vernichenko immediately said, "This will be our last transmission. Now, tell me, do you have the devices in place?"

  "I've set them in the RAM Room and in after-steering. The hydraulic lines will be severed; the ship will be out of control." The RAM was the hydraulic system used for rudder control while after-steering had backup, manual control lines in case the bridge-to-steering became non-functional.

  Vernichenko nodded approvingly. "That's good. At the crucial moment, you will set off the devices and your mission will be complete. We will meet soon, Comrade." He stood up and angrily slapped at the radio switch, ending the transmission.

  The trawler lurched, throwing him sideways. He grabbed his black leather coat and went out on deck, balancing himself against the wheelhouse. A cold spray washed over the bow as the boat crashed into a wave. He wiped the water from his face, enjoying the harshness of the evening. "So, 'Captain Donovan', you have been discovered. Perhaps this is not so bad for us--but what about for you?" He smiled. A military man himself before joining the KGB, he believed in serving his country purely for the love of Russia. Alexei had been promised a very comfortable living once his assignment was completed, cutting against the grain of Vernichenko's ideals.

  All the months of planning were soon to culminate. Whether Alexei Pratopapov survived was not critical. And he had not been given specific orders to ensure Alexei’s survival. In his eyes, the mole was just a pawn being used for one purpose, and one purpose only--the Bronson's technology. He stepped into the wheelhouse, as the door slammed behind him. "Captain, change our course toward the American carrier," he ordered. He pointed to the young third officer standing next to the radar table. "You. Go below and tell First Officer Kiriatkin to meet me in my cabin in fifteen minutes. Tell him to prepare his equipment."

  He went by the navigator and stared at the compass, thinking, "Comrade Pratopapov," he said quietly, "in the meantime, I think I will give you a little gift--the body of Stevens."

  Chapter Eight

  USS Preston

  2030 Hours

  Flight ops had been underway for the past thirty minutes, the sound of jet engines continuous. Adler walked into the EOD locker and unzipped his green jacket. "So, you come up with anything yet?" He dropped his jacket on the desk then pulled the chair closer.

  Grant was stretched out on the bunk, staring at the ceiling. He turned over, propping himself up on an elbow. "Yeah, think so. But I'm gonna need your help again, Joe."

  "Sure. No problem, sir."

  Grant pushed himself off the bed, running his fingers through his hair. "We've gotta do it now, while flight ops are underway."

  Twenty-five minutes later, Joe Adler walked onto the bridge, the red overhead lights giving the appearance of a photographer's dark room. Captain Donovan was leaning over the radar screen. Dean Morehouse stood near the doorway leading to the Roost.

  "Hey, CAG, need to get some ordnance info from you about the F-14's for tonight's operation," Adler said loudly.

  "Sure, Senior Chief." The two men spoke for only five minutes, Adler taking the conversation where he wanted it to go. "Appreciate your help, CAG. I tried to get Chief Stevens to come up here with me. Don't believe he's seen night ops from this level, but he's down in the aft hangar bay doing his ritual laps." That was it...Adler's assignment. Now, Grant could only wait and see if Captain Donovan made a move.

  *

  Bridge

  USS Preston

  "XO!" Donovan bellowed.

  "Sir!"

  "You have the bridge. I'm going to the flight deck then grab something to eat."

  "Aye, aye, Captain."

  "Captain's off the bridge!" the boatswain's mate announced.

  Donovan stopped by his cabin. He made a decision...he'd take care of Stevens, and screw what Vernichenko directed. There'd be no way for him to find out. Stevens' death would make it that much easier for him to carry out his plans and, ultimately, his own escape. His intention was to make Grant simply disappear, and what better way than into the depths of the Sea of Japan.

  Hurriedly going to his locker, he reached on the top shelf, groping toward the back, then removed a deep, metal box. Laying it on the edge of the desk, he unlocked it. The Smith & Wesson .38 had only been fired at the practice range. His stare fixed on the gun as his thumb pressed each round into its chamber. He removed the leg holster and strapped it to his leg, secured the gun and pulled his pants leg down. As he straightened up, there was a brief glimpse of a reflection in the porthole, the face of a man who was one step closer to fulfilling his role, to becoming the Russian he was born to be. The lines around his eyes and creases in his forehead seemed much deeper, perhaps reflecting the depth of his commitment and dedication. He brushed away the beads of sweat along his temple, his hand as steady as a rock. He smiled briefly, then left the cabin.

  *

  Hangar Bay

  Except for one Sea King chopper being checked for an oil leak and a Phantom with landing gear trouble, all other aircraft were up on the flight deck. The hangar bay was nearly empty.

  Grant was into his sixth lap around the perimeter of the hangar bay, his Navy blue shorts and drab olive green undershirt showing dark, wet patches, perspiration dotted his brow. The rhythmic sound of his sneakers hitting the deck was but a distant sound somewhere in his mind, his concentration totally on his surroundings. Unseen beneath his undershirt was a smaller version of a K-bar, hanging upside down by a leather thong, making withdrawal easy and rapid. He'd learned the survival trick from his platoon commander on his first trip to Vietnam. The feel of the cool metal against his chest kept him focused.

  He was just coming into the darkened area at the rear of the jet engine shop. Something that looked like a human figure caught his eye; he slipped his hand under his T-shirt, closing his fingers around the K-bar.

  The after mooring line reels, six feet high and resembling giant bobbins, would be a good place for someone to hide. He stared harder, but a second later, whatever may have been there was gone. He withdrew his hand from under
his shirt, instantly regretting his move...but it was too late.

  "Hold it, Stevens!" Donovan said in a gruff whisper. Grant stopped short, seeing the outline of a gun in Donovan's hand as he remained in the shadows. Donovan backed up one step and again ordered, "Move over here with your hands behind your head." He motioned to his right with the gun. Grant took a couple of steps, moving closer to the bulkhead, both of them in the shadows, impossible to be seen by anyone in the hangar bay.

  "So, Chief Stevens--"

  Grant's inflection was meant to imply contempt. "It's 'Commander', Captain."

  Donovan's voice was slightly muffled by the sound of the screaming engines of an Intruder taking off above them. "Thank you for reminding me, Commander. I'd just been informed of your true rank."

  "You mean by Comrade Vernichenko?" Grant shot back.

  "That's unimportant now. You succeeded in Cuba when you destroyed our laboratory, our plans, but I'm afraid you will not succeed this time."

  The two men had only four feet separating them, Grant trying to inch his way closer. Dropping the military formality, he said, "You've gotta know I'm not the only one who's aware of you, Donovan...or do you prefer I use your real name?"

  "It's Alexei, Alexei Pratopapov. And it doesn't matter who else knows. All this will soon be over. Right now I'm here to eliminate you, you who has been like a thorn in the side of Russia." There was a mocking tone in his voice, as he added, "A very small thorn, but still, an annoyance."

  Grant was trying to buy some time. "Aren't you wondering why you haven't been thrown unceremoniously in the brig, Alexei? Aren't you the least bit curious?" He could detect a slight shake of Donovan's head. "No? Well, let me tell you anyway," he stated coldly and matter-of-factly, his voice deep. "We've got orders to terminate you...with prejudice."

  There was a slight droop of the shoulders, the gun lowered just a fraction for a moment, but it was the moment Grant was anticipating. He had enough of the bullshit.