“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, assuming the role of coxswain. 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 altitude 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 button 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.
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 eyeglasses 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 analyzing 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.
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 glasses. “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. Passing 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 ass if plan ‘A’ turns to shit. Keep the glasses 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.