Part 11 (1/2)

”You're first on my list.”

”Listen, Scott, we've got a s.h.i.+tload of work to do. Appreciate all you've done, buddy. Owe you big time.”

”Stay safe, Grant.” End of conversation.

”Well, Skipper, sounds like we'll be traveling.”

Grant nodded. ”Take us home, Doc. . . and step on it.”

Traffic pa.s.sing in front of the gas station was sporadic. As the light on the corner turned red, Stalley stomped on the gas, sending the Ford fishtailing.

”Joe, call the house. Tell the guys to start getting gear ready.”

”What about the list you gave me?”

”Especially that. I wanna be outta there by twenty-three hundred--if not sooner.”

While Adler made the call, Grant leaned back and closed his eyes, as he tried to think things out. He didn't have any proof the weapons were aboard the cargo s.h.i.+p, but it sure as h.e.l.l seemed the most logical. He hoped NSA could decode the message before the Team departed.

Then there was the matter of the safe house. Was the mole still there, especially after sending the message? Or was he on his way to Moscow? He ruled that out. Mullins would've known.

The only guarantee about this whole op? There wasn't any. He made his decision, relying once again on his 'gut.'

Chapter 12.

Over the Atlantic Ocean 175 Miles off East Coast Wednesday - Day 3 0010 Hours Prevailing twelve knot winds were blowing from the southeast, driving three foot waves with intermittent whitecaps. Weather forecasters predicted an increase in winds to possibly twenty knots by noon. The water temperature was forty-two degrees.

The Seasprite was flying close to maximum speed, staying two hundred feet above the Atlantic. Secured to the chopper's undercarriage was a Zodiac. The modifications to the chopper made it possible. Carrying it this distance and speed was risky, but a risk that had to be taken. Rappelling onto the s.h.i.+p would have been even riskier.

Matt Garrett kept the chopper on course, heading for the coordinates given by Mullins. Somewhere in the distance was the their target--the Russian cargo s.h.i.+p.

Grant scanned the blackness ahead. ”Are we getting close, Matt?”

”Within twenty miles. You should be able to see her lights just about now. We still haven't been hailed.”

”Let's hope it stays that way,” Grant commented.

Garrett automatically brought the chopper lower, then kept it at seventy-five feet above the water. He doused the navigation/collision lights, keeping it in stealth mode as long as possible. ”Keep an eye out for any aircraft.”

Grant picked up NVGs. ”How's the fuel?”

Garrett glanced at the gauge. ”More than enough to get us there. It's the return trip when we might need a refill!”

”Shouldn't be a problem,” Grant said, confidently. ”Keep an eye out, men! We're getting close!” He resumed his search for aircraft.

”We didn't have much time to talk, Grant, but I'm curious about something. Now that Mullins confirmed one crate's aboard that s.h.i.+p, how are you gonna find it? There are a h.e.l.luva lot of hiding places.”

”Yeah. Tell me about it. But something tells me the captain was left in charge.”

”Like the bridge?”

”Like the bridge.”

”Mast head light!” Adler shouted, as he leaned away from the open cargo bay. ”One o'clock!”

More of the s.h.i.+p started coming into view. Her superstructure was four levels, shaped like a compressed, wide T. Not every window had lights, just the bridge. Each of four winch housings had a light on top, one on the signal mast.

Grant turned to leave the c.o.c.kpit. ”You're on your own, Matt.” He patted Garrett's shoulder before going to the cargo bay to join the Team.

Dressed out in wetsuits, with hoods and swim shoe boots, they slipped their face masks over their heads, letting them hang around their necks. Scuba tanks and swim fins wouldn't be needed this op. What they did have were waterproof throat mikes and utility pouches. Each pouch was about eleven inches wide, with a waterproof zipper and a Velcro flap. On the outside was an oral inflation tube for sucking out excess air, or for inflation to give extra flotation capability.

Adler and Diaz had det cord, a small block of C4 and chemical pencils, each with a three minute delay. Use depended on how ”cooperative” the crew was or wasn't, and whether the s.h.i.+p had to be disabled. Doc Stalley had a few battle dressings, tape, syringes, morphine. His full medical bag would remain onboard the chopper. Everyone carried flares, utility knives, wraps of parachute cord, and duct tape.

Weapons were .45s with silencers, K-bars secured in leg straps, but instead of their usual Uzis, they were armed with MP5s.

Garrett started deceleration. a.s.suming a slight nose up att.i.tude and lower collective, he brought the chopper to fifty feet above the water.

”At fifty feet! Target two miles!” he shouted over his shoulder. ”Have not received any hailing from s.h.i.+p!”

The Team adjusted throat mikes and earpieces underneath their swim hoods, slung the submachine gun straps over their heads, and finally put on swim masks and adjusted the straps.

”One mile!” Garrett reported. ”At ten feet!”

James checked the cables on the overhead double anchor bar, confirmed both floor panels were fully open, then he hit a switch, and the two cables started unwinding, lowering the Zodiac. Each cable split into a Y, with a coupling at the end of each intersection for attaching to port and starboard on the boat. Just as it hit the water, everyone but James slid out of the cargo bay, splas.h.i.+ng into the water within a few feet of the boat, and each other.

Stalley was the first one in the boat, a.s.suming the role of c.o.xswain. He scooted around a rope and rope ladder laying in the bottom.

The remaining Team scrambled onboard. Adler was at the bow, starboard. He undid the bow couplings, Diaz, the stern. Stalley signaled James, who raised and secured the cables, then closed the two panels.

Garrett was looking over his shoulder at James, who gave a thumb's up, then he disappeared from the cargo bay. Garrett waited five seconds, then nudged the cyclic lever forward. As the chopper rose, he put it into a tight turn to port, kept it low, then flew a mile before ascending to an alt.i.tude of one hundred feet. All he could do was keep an eye on the fuel gauge, watch for other aircraft and s.h.i.+ps, then wait.

Stalley put the throttle handle in neutral, set the gas b.u.t.ton to on, then pulled the cord. The engine fired up. He adjusted the choke, then watched for Grant's signal.

Grant was near the bow, port side. He motioned with an arm. ”Go!” Everyone leaned forward, with Grant and Adler aiming the MP5s straight ahead.

Keeping their heads slightly raised, they kept their eyes on the s.h.i.+p. The Zodiac's nose rose out of the water as Stalley ”kicked” it into high, then it settled back down. Salt spray washed over them as the Zodiac met the waves head-on. The closer they got to the s.h.i.+p, the more Stalley reduced speed.

Aboard the Igor Brobov Bridge Seaman Boris Gilyov, quartermaster, stood near a window, taking another look aft through binoculars, focusing his attention on the horizon. ”I do not see those lights anymore, Captain. They just. . . disappeared.”

Captain Sergei Ivanov grabbed the binoculars from the young seaman. ”When did you last see them?”

”Ten minutes ago, sir.”

Ivanov rested his eyegla.s.ses on top of his head, then looked through the binoculars, slowly swiveling his head. ”I do not see anything.”