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 passed in front of the bridge.
As Slade continued scanning the area, he pressed the PTT button. “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 passageway. 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 passageway, 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 doorknob, 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.
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 ship underway. An increase in wind, and waves splashing 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 onboard. 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 ship, as he turned on the navigation/collision lights.