“Got my rucksack, boss,” Stalley answered, as he opened his door. Within a minute, he’d brought his rucksack back, then handed it to Grant.
The phone rang. “What’ve you got for me, Scott?” Grant asked.
“You are one lucky s.o.b., Grant!”
“So I’ve been told. What’s up?”
“NSA picked up a Morse Code. It hasn’t been decoded yet, because whoever was sending had ‘inserted’ another code. But what I can tell you is it originated from Alexandria. Sounds like it could be your ‘boy.’ It was signed with a code name ‘Antares.’”
“‘Antares,’” Grant said, with a mocking tone. “Seems appropriate — bright star, red supergiant.”
“Where the hell do you pull that shit from?!”
Grant ignored the question. “Okay, now tell me they got the destination point.”
“The ship they tracked it to was traveling along the azimuth of one of NSA’s intercepting stations. It was about a hundred miles off the coast.”
“And that ship was … ”
“A cargo ship, Grant, out of Cuba. Just like you suspected.”
“That’s gotta be it,” Grant finally said.
“Wait! There’s more! One of NSA’s geeks remembered intercepting a message just before the weapons were snatched. It went to the same ship, only that one came outta D.C. Care to venture a guess where that point was?”
“The Russian Embassy.”
“Bingo!”
“Do you have any info on the ship?”
Mullins gave a brief description, then said, “She’s the Igor Brobov, and she’s fully loaded.”
“What about crew? How many?” Grant tapped Adler’s shoulder, motioning for a pen.
“Hold on.” Mullins searched the paper. “Here it is. When she left Russia she had fifteen plus the captain. She could’ve picked up more in Cuba, so don’t hold me to that number.”
“Coordinates?” Mullins rattled off the numbers, as Grant wrote them in the palm of his hand. “Scott, fax me all you’ve got on that ship. We should be at Eagle 8 in about twenty minutes.”
“What about the President? Should I update him?”
“Told him I would, even though there aren’t any definitive answers yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I know this is all preliminary, Scott, but you might want to keep your Coast Guard contact’s number handy. Depending on what happens, we’ll try and reach you if we have an emergency.”
“Will do. But don’t let that emergency happen, Grant.”
“Assume you’ll call if that message is decoded.”
“You’re first on my list.”
“Listen, Scott, we’ve got a shitload 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 passing 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 hell 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
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 helluva 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 cockpit. “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. Assuming a slight nose up attitude 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.