Adler wrapped a length of gauze tightly around the dressing then tied it off. “Your wetsuit should help control the bleeding, Frank. Hang in there.”
Grant patted Diaz’s shoulder as he stood, then he rushed to the cockpit.
Whoever was firing the weapons, wasn’t about to give up so easily. A steady spray of bullets whizzed by the Seasprite. Garrett pushed the chopper to its limits, maneuvering it expertly, trying to stay out of the line of fire. He flipped on the landing light.
Grant pointed, “Flare! Two o’clock, hundred yards!” The chopper banked right. Grant headed to the cargo door. “Take us down!” Except for the sound of the chopper, it suddenly went quiet.
Standing in the doorway, Grant impatiently waited for the chopper to descend. Adler knelt on the opposite side, ready to toss out the ladder. The Zodiac was barely moving forward. Stalley kept it under control as the craft encountered wave after wave, along with the constant swirling wind from the chopper’s blades. He signaled he was ready.
James lowered the cables enough in order to manually “thread” each cable through the open panels. “Ready, boss!” He kept an eye on Grant, waiting for him to give an okay.
“At ten feet!” Garrett shouted.
Grant signaled James to lower the cables. Stalley maneuvered the Zodiac under the chopper, put the engine into neutral, then grabbed both cables.
He balanced himself on his knees as the boat rocked back and forth getting caught in the trough. Working quickly he hooked the two couplings on the stern, then the same for the bow. Finally, he raised the engine props out of the water, then secured it to the bottom of the boat. Signaling he finished, he rolled out of the boat, then popped up to the surface with a fist held high. Waves washed over him as he treaded water, bobbing up and down.
Grant hung onto a safety line, as he leaned out, then signaled with a thumb’s up. “Go!” The hydraulics whined as the boat slowly rose from the water. As soon as it was secured, Adler tossed out the climbing ladder. Stalley fought the waves, stroking hard, finally reaching the ladder. He grabbed hold, and started climbing.
As his head cleared the edge of the cargo bay, Grant reached for his hand, then hefted him aboard. “You okay?”
“Yes, sir!” Stalley grinned. “‘A’ okay!”
Grant called out, “Take us home, Matt!” Adler immediately hauled in the ladder. Air whistled into the cabin through the two open floor panels, as the chopper picked up speed.
Stalley pulled off his swim mask, pushed his hood back, then wiped seawater from his face. His smile disappeared when he saw Diaz on the deck. “Jesus! Frank!” He dropped to his knees and instinctively grabbed a pair of surgical gloves from his bag, then scissors. He cut open the leg of the wetsuit.
The chopper was being buffeted by stronger winds. Garrett called over his shoulder, “Hang on back there!”
Grant sat on the crate. “What do you think, Doc?”
“Bone isn’t broken. Bullet went clear through.” He cleaned the wound, put on another battle dressing, then wrapped the leg. “Need anything for pain, Frank?”
Diaz shook his head. “So far so good.”
Stalley tried steadying himself as he filled a syringe with antibiotics. “Can we get him to Bethesda?”
“I’ll contact Scott. He needs to tell us where we’re supposed to drop this off,” Grant answered rapping his knuckles on the crate, “then I’ll ask him to call Bethesda and tell them we’re bringing Frank. We’ll deliver him first. Will he be okay?”
“Yeah,” Stalley replied, “but I’ll keep an eye out for any increase in bleeding.”
As Grant started to get up, Diaz grabbed his arm. “Sorry, boss.”
Grant arched an eyebrow. “For getting shot?”
“Yeah, that too. But mostly because we fucked up not finding the weapons.”
Grant clamped his jaw, then finally answered, “We’ll talk later.” He went to the cockpit to call Mullins.
When he had finished the conversation, and had given the destination to Garrett, he asked, “How’s the fuel?”
Garrett tapped the fuel gauge. “We’ll be okay.”
Adler walked to the cockpit. “Where we making the delivery?”
“Where they were going in the first place — Indian Head. Fewer eyes, fewer questions by outside sources. Scott confirmed with the President. A special team will be waiting.”
“Think we’re gonna need a replacement for Frank?” Adler asked.
“For the rest of this mission, I don’t think we’ll have time to call in anybody else, Joe. We’re gonna have to go with six… plus Matt, unless he doesn’t want the job.”
Garrett shot a quick look at Grant. “Remember when you guys left me at Atsugi?” Grant nodded. “I was not a happy camper. This is what I’ve been waiting for! Fucking ‘A!’”
Confusion reigned supreme. Seamen were ordered to check all cargo holds, winches, any equipment or machinery that could have been tampered with. Inexperienced in any type of combat, they raced around almost frantically, shouting to one another, unbelieving what happened. Two crewmen were in sickbay with bullet wounds, one was dead with the back of his head blown out. His body was wrapped in a tarp, and stowed in the galley’s walk-in refrigerator.
Captain Ivanov was inspecting the deck where the body had fallen. Two seamen were on their knees trying to scrub away blood, brain matter and leaked urine, stopping often to puke.
He stepped back in order to see overhead, where the man had been shot. Another seaman was washing down that section of bulkhead.
Ivanov lowered his head, then turned and walked toward the helipad. He climbed the steel steps, then walked to the middle of the pad, standing on a large white X. He glanced out across the darkness of the Atlantic.
Questions arose: Who were those men? How did they know about the crate being onboard? Was it possible they were the same men who made the delivery, and for whatever reason…? No. That was a ridiculous option to even consider.
These men acted like a team of professionals. They didn’t permanently destroy equipment or machines. The radio and Morse Code key would eventually be repaired. And then there was the helmsman, who was given limited steerage of the ship.
Even though he and his crew were manhandled and threatened, they all survived, except for Officer Yeltzin. But it was Yeltzin who opened fire first. If he hadn’t, would he still be alive? Having those AK-47s on board may have been a curse.
But the attackers seemed to be experts, firing their weapons from a moving chopper, managing to kill one, and injuring two.
He was relieved the incident was over. He no longer had responsibility for the crate and its unknown contents. Now he could concentrate on getting his ship and its cargo to Russia.
Walking from the helipad, he remembered the message: no further contact was to be made until he heard from the carrier. He was fully aware the U.S. was always listening to transmissions. He would obey the instructions given to him, and wait for the Minsk.
Chapter 13
Laying on the couch, Nicolai Kalinin slowly opened his eyes, then rubbed his hands briskly over his face. The past hours hadn’t been restful ones. His sleep was constantly interrupted as he reviewed his plan for part two of the operation.
It was time to begin the same process he had done at the rental house… wiping down everything, taking no chances. Even though this place was only known to Russians, leaving fingerprints behind was too risky. He couldn’t depend on Vikulin or Zelesky.
His suitcases were already in the truck, stamped as diplomatic pouches. The pilot waiting at Dulles had been notified. All documents were in order, along with his Russian diplomatic passport. His American passport was concealed in the lining of his suitcase.