Part 12 (1/2)

With most of the crew now secured, there wasn't a need to wait longer. Slade looked back at Grant, who gave a quick nod. Slade checked it was clear, then motioned everyone forward. They headed up the steel ladder, quietly but quickly. Three more levels to climb before reaching the bridge and radio room.

They stopped on every landing, checking it was clear. It was eerily quiet, except for engine noise and the usual sounds of a s.h.i.+p underway. An increase in wind, and waves splas.h.i.+ng against the hull gave Grant some concern about Stalley in the Zodiac.

Finally, they climbed the last ladder and stepped onto the deck. Lights inside the bridge lit up the entire length of deck. Even though they couldn't hear voices, they counted on at least three men in the wheelhouse and at least one in the radio room.

Ducking below windows, they kept moving until reaching the bridge. The element of surprise might prove to be an issue. The door leading to the bridge was through a watertight door. Instead of having a door handle, it had a ”wheel” similar to one on a submarine's hatch. The door swung outward when opened. But with the weather being fairly decent, Grant guessed it wasn't ”dogged down” on the other side. He'd have to take a chance. The men nodded they were ready.

He banged the .45's handle against the door, as he called out in Russian, ”Captain!”

Without any hesitation or inkling of danger, Ivanov responded, ”Enter!”

Grant spun the wheel and pulled the door open. The four men burst into the room. Motioning with his weapon, Grant shouted orders in Russian. ”Hands behind your head! Hands behind your head! Move! Move!” The three Russians moved closer together, with total surprise and shock on their faces.

Slade and James rushed past them, through the chart room and into the radio room. Gremesky barely made it out of his chair, when Slade grabbed his arm and slammed him to the deck. ”Hands behind you!” Slade ordered in Russian.

The young seaman's eyes were wide like saucers and he immediately obeyed. James pulled parachute cord from his utility pouch, knelt down, and tied Gremesky's wrists and ankles.

Adler quickly searched the three men, checking for weapons. Finding none he backed away, letting his eyes roam the perimeter.

Grant shouted, ”Where is the crate, Captain?!”

The two seaman on the bridge snapped their heads left, waiting for Ivanov to respond. Instead of answering, he demanded, ”Who are you?! What are you doing . . . ?!”

Grant cut him off and asked again with his voice deep and low, ”I know it is...o...b..ard. For the last time. . . where is the crate?!” He stepped closer to Ivanov, within an arm's length away.

Ivanov remained quiet. Grant balled up his fist and sunk it deep into the man's solar plexus, sending him to his knees, trying to get his breath back, wincing in pain.

Seaman Krupinski shouted, ”Captain!” and started to move toward Ivanov, when Grant caught him on the chin with the back of his hand. Krupinski collapsed on the deck, blood oozing from a cut.

Ivanov was still on his knees, bent over, panting. Grant stood over him, until he heard Novak in his earpiece, ”Seven-Three, Three-Six coming in!” Novak and Diaz rushed through the doorway, immediately moving behind Grant and Adler.

Slade called out in Russian, ”Found it!”

Grant swung around, looking toward the radio room, as Slade and James were pulling the crate from under the chart table. James whipped the tarp off the box.

Grant turned to Novak and Diaz, motioning for them to tie up the three men, as Adler stood guard. Grant went to the chart room. Staring at the crate, he could only shake his head, mostly from relief, but also from surprise. A quick inspection showed it hadn't been tampered with. He motioned to Slade, who immediately dragged Gremesky to the bridge.

Grant whispered to James, ”Call in Matt. Then disable the radio--disable, DJ, not destroy.”

James nodded, then Grant left the room, closing the door. James sat by the radio set, and dialed in the prearranged frequency. Even though the door was closed, he spoke softly. ”Alpha Tango calling Seasprite. Come in Seasprite.”

”Seasprite here. Go ahead, Alpha Tango.”

”Package retrieved. Will signal with flare when ready for pickup on 'Lido' deck. Do you copy?”

Garrett laughed, then responded, ”Copy that! Out!” He glanced at the fuel gauge. Still more than enough, he thought, but a few extra gallons wouldn't hurt, especially with winds picking up. He stayed focused on the s.h.i.+p, as he turned on the navigation/collision lights.

Captain Ivanov tried sitting up straighter, the pain in his chest barely subsiding. He adjusted his eyegla.s.ses as he silently questioned who these strangers were. The Russian language being spoken by the two sounded perfect, especially by the one who seemed to be in charge. But he couldn't be certain they were Russians.

In the radio room James cut the microphone wire. The radio was equipped with a Morse key, so he unplugged it and stashed it in his utility pouch. Communication would still come in, but nothing could go out. He left the room, and gave Grant a thumb's up.

Grant pointed to Slade, James and Diaz, saying to Slade in Russian, ”Ready it for pickup.”

The three carried the crate from the bridge, heading for the starboard ladder. Setting it down, Slade lashed the roped around the crate while James and Diaz positioned themselves on a step below, ready to put their backs against it. Wrapping one end of the rope around his waist, Slade started lowering.

Four ladders, four levels later, they were on the deck. They carried the crate toward the helipad, putting it near the steps. They'd wait till the chopper touched down before lifting it to the pad.

Slade turned aft and pointed toward lights. ”There's Matt.” He pressed the PTT. ”Zero-Niner. Four-One. Ready to signal.” He wasn't expecting a reply. The three men moved in front of the crate, getting down on a knee in defensive positions.

On the bridge, Adler kept scanning his surroundings, when something caught his eye. He scrambled around the tied men, looking behind the radar indicator. An AK-47 propped up, leaning against the bulkhead. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the weapon, holding it for Grant to see.

Grant's jaw tightened as he walked closer to Krupinski, who had a hand pressed against his chin, trying to stop the bleeding. Grant squatted in front of him, and asked in Russian, ”Are there any more weapons?” No response. He grabbed Krupinski's forearm, squeezing until the Russian winced in pain. Grant jammed the barrel of his gun against the man's temple. ”I asked you . . !”

”Yes! In engineering. There is one that I know of!”

f.u.c.k! Grant thought. He motioned for Novak to follow him off the bridge. Adler automatically took a position a few paces from the prisoners, looking out of the corner of his eye, knowing Grant was more than just p.i.s.sed.

Grant rested the barrel of his weapon against his shoulder, looking down at the deck, expecting Novak to explain without him even asking.

Novak leaned closer, talking softly. ”Three men secured. We searched but didn't find weapon. Don't know where it could've been, boss.”

”Any chance there's somebody roaming the 'bowels' with it?” Grant asked, with his stomach beginning to tighten.

”f.u.c.k, boss! You know we didn't have time to search the whole f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.+p! Mullins gave us a count of souls on board and . . .”

Grant held up his hand. ”No more excuses, Mike. Go tell Frank to get that fuel line ready.” Novak took off, swearing to himself.

Grant looked toward the bow. Winds were stronger than when they boarded, but that was the least of his worries. He shook his head, thinking it'd been twice somebody from the Team f.u.c.ked up during this op. They couldn't afford f.u.c.k ups. He was p.i.s.sed.

He pressed the PTT. ”Four-One. Zero-Niner.”

”Go ahead Zero-Niner,” Slade responded, looking toward the bridge.

”Signal Matt. Copy?”

”Copy that.” Within seconds, Slade fired the flare.

Garrett was ready. With the lights of the s.h.i.+p in his sights, he nudged the cyclic lever forward. The nose dipped until the chopper reached just over fifteen knots, then it transitioned from hover to forward flight.

Before returning to the bridge, Grant had to advise Adler. He pressed the PTT, and spoke softly. ”Joe, possible crew member with weapon; possibly more. I'm coming in. Want you to lash helmsman to wheel to allow steering.”

As soon as Grant walked onto the bridge, Adler began his task. Checking the helmsman was secure, he backed up, saw Grant give a slight tilt of his head, and knew that was his cue to get the h.e.l.l off the bridge.

Giving the Russians one last glance, Grant finally left the bridge. He slid his .45 into the holster, then lifted the MP5's strap over his head. He started walking along the deck, with his weapon ready, focusing on the bow and along the cargo holds. The sound of the chopper got his attention. Peering through the bridge windows, he saw it descending.

He took off, running along the deck, stopping every now and then to scan the main deck. He surmised that if there was anyone Novak and Diaz had missed, and probably with a weapon, everyone in engineering, crew's quarters and bridge would be turned loose before any counter-a.s.sault was attempted.

It was quiet. Too f.u.c.king quiet. But then he thought he heard something, possibly someone running. Slinging the weapon's strap over his head, he ran to the ladder. With an arm resting on each railing, he stretched his legs out in front of him, and slid down the ladder, just like he did when he was aboard s.h.i.+p. He used the same process three more times. Sliding off the last ladder, he hit the deck running, racing toward the helipad.