"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 ship, 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 ship 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 ship.

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 ship, 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 ship 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 ship 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 ship!"

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, splashing 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 ships, 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 ship. 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 ship, 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."

Gilyov pointed, as he said, "I know, sir. They were approximately at one o'clock. It could have been a plane, but it did not alter course. The lights appeared to stay in one position."

"Hmm," Ivanov said quietly. "Perhaps one of the American coast guard helicopters."

"It could have been, sir. It may have gone over the horizon."

Ivanov tapped Gilyov's arm with the binoculars. "Here. I doubt we will see it again. . .whatever it was."

Gilyov nodded, then went back to the chart room. As quartermaster, he stood day-to-day watches and was in charge of navigation, but under the watchful eye of the captain.

Captain Ivanov put his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other, as he walked to the chart room, located between the bridge and radio room. He leaned forward just enough to see under the chart table. Pushed against the wall was the crate, covered by a tarp. He was not comfortable having it aboard. Although he didn't think it was anything of danger, he was not accustomed to having so-called cargo delivered to his ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He believed that whatever was sealed inside the crate had to do with the military.

The men who delivered it were definitely Americans. Even though one of the men attempted to speak Russian, he destroyed the language.

Ivanov turned away. He walked slowly to the bridge, then stood behind Seaman Yegorov, who was at the helm. Ivanov began a.n.a.lyzing the situation: Americans, delivering something from the United States, to a Russian ship, that was to be picked up by a Russian helicopter. And here he was, a civilian captain of a cargo vessel, put in charge of this unknown object.

The ship was only making fifteen knots, considered a "slow speed" in order to save on fuel. He would have plenty of time to wonder.

Aboard the Zodiac The Zodiac was barely moving as it approached the ship from port side aft, remaining far enough away so it was still shrouded in darkness. The sound of the ship's engines and turning screws helped mask any noise from the rubber boat. The men stored their face masks in the bottom of the boat, except for Stalley, who kept his hanging around his neck.

"Take it to midships, Doc, so we can get a better look, then circle around to starboard," Grant directed.

Novak and James were using binoculars, scanning the port side. A lifeboat was suspended between two davits halfway down the side of the superstructure. "Don't see anybody yet, boss," Novak said.

As Stalley swung the Zodiac around, heading back to the stern, James focused on the superstructure. "Someone's at the forward bridge window."

Novak moved the gla.s.ses. "I see him. No. Two of them."

"Just tell me we're okay," Grant said.

"We're okay, boss," Novak replied.

Stalley drove past the stern, before cutting back, holding the boat steady as it bounced over the wake. Pa.s.sing behind the ship, they had a view of the helipad platform, raised above the deck about five feet.

As they headed down the starboard side, they still didn't see anyone. For this time of night it meant most of the crew was below deck, asleep. That's what Team A.T. was counting on. What they were preparing for was at least two or three men on the bridge, at least one in the radio room, and a couple down in engineering.

With the interior of the ship put to memory from a diagram Mullins had faxed, the Team knew exactly where they'd be going and how they'd get there: Grant and Adler would take the bridge. Slade and James, the radio room. Novak and Diaz would secure crew quarters and engineering. Stalley would man the Zodiac.

"Okay, Doc," Grant said. "Bring us alongside, close to the superstructure."

Stalley put the engine in neutral as the Zodiac drifted alongside the ship. The Team pulled their hoods back and readjusted the earpieces and throat mikes. Slade picked up a length of coiled rope laying in the bottom of the Zodiac, and slung it over his head, adjusting it so it hung off his shoulder.

Grant turned to Stalley. "Doc, try and stay close. Be prepared to haul a.s.s if plan 'A' turns to s.h.i.t. Keep the gla.s.ses and flares handy."

"Roger that, boss."

Novak balanced himself in the bottom of the Zodiac, separating a rope from a compact boarding ladder. Both were attached to the eye hook of a grapnel. Holding onto the rope, he watched for Grant to give the go ahead. Grant nodded.

Steadying themselves, the men knelt in the boat, aiming their weapons upward, keeping watch. As the Zodiac rose up on a wave, Novak tossed the grapnel hook high, with the boarding ladder unravelling behind it. Just as the hook went over the railing, he jerked down on the rope before the hook could hit the deck, then he pulled, securing the hook on the rail. Pulling on it again, he drew the Zodiac closer to the ship, then handed the end to Stalley.

The Team slid their MP5s around to their backs, making it easier to climb, then they drew their .45s. Slade was the first man up, with the rest of the team close behind. When he was close to the railing, he slowly raised up, checking all was clear. Keeping his .45 ready, he climbed over the rail and rushed for cover against the superstructure. James, Novak and Diaz immediately followed, with Grant and Adler bringing up the rear. As Adler went over the rail, he unhooked the grapnel, grabbed the rope, then lowered the hook into the Zodiac. Finally, he tossed the rope to Stalley, then rushed to join the Team.

Stalley put the engine into gear, waited until the ship had pulled ahead, then he slowly increased speed. Turning to port, he headed beyond the stern.

Winds started picking up, blowing at fifteen knots. Seas were getting rougher. Wave height was now four feet with an increase in whitecaps.

Staying close to the superstructure, the Team eased its way aft until Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. He peered around the corner. The aft deck was clear, but bright lights weren't going to make it easy for them.

Grant and Adler backed away from the superstructure, trying to get a better view overhead. Access to the bridge was by way of steel ladders, one on each of four levels, with the top one leading to a deck that pa.s.sed in front of the bridge.

As Slade continued scanning the area, he pressed the PTT b.u.t.ton. "Clear."

"Go," Grant responded. They all knew what to do, and where to go without further directions.

Novak and Diaz slipped around the corner, went through a watertight door, then started down a steel ladder to the next level.

Holding their .45s with both hands, they waited, listening for voices. Quiet. They immediately went down the second ladder, ending at a pa.s.sageway. The sounds from the engine room were a constant rumble, directly beneath them.

Novak started forward, with Diaz right behind him. The first door led to the crew's quarters. No light showed from underneath.

Hurrying along the pa.s.sageway, they checked other doors, ensuring they were locked. No voices. Nothing.

They returned to their target room. Novak went to the starboard side of the door. Diaz put an ear against it, then shook his head. They didn't have a clue how many men were inside. Slipping the .45s into the holsters, they pulled the MP5 straps over their heads.

Keeping his back close to the bulkhead, Novak carefully reached for the doork.n.o.b, and began turning it. Besides engine noises, now they heard snoring and grunts. They entered cautiously and quietly, immediately inhaling stale cigarette smoke and body odor. Leaving the door slightly ajar enabled them to see more clearly. Four rows of bunk beds, stacked in threes, were pushed against the far bulkhead. Four beds were empty.

Diaz found the light switch by the door, and nodded to Novak. As he sealed the door, he flipped the lights on and off, again and again.

Grumbles, moans, and what was probably swearing in Russian sounded throughout the room. Novak and Diaz stood close to the door, the weapons aimed straight ahead. Finally, two of the Russians sat up, stunned by what they saw. They shouted, getting the remaining crew's attention. Confusion and surprise was obvious on each face. Novak tapped an index finger against his mouth. The noise quieted down.

Holding his weapon in his right hand, Novak motioned with his left for the men to get on the floor, on their stomachs. Some were in skivvies, others totally nude, but there wasn't any hesitation in the quick response, as feet hit the deck.

While Diaz stood guard, Novak quickly and expertly hogtied each man with parachute cord. Strips of duct tape were slapped across mouths.

Completing their task, they shut off the light, then locked the door.

Diaz pressed the PTT. "Zero-Niner. Three-six. Crew secured. Going to next target." They hustled down to the next level, on their way to engineering.

Grant pressed the PTT and responded, "Copy that. Report to bridge when secured."

"Roger," Diaz responded.