"Hey, Chief Stevens, isn't it?" CAG said loudly as he walked over to shake Grant's hand.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw Donovan’s head snap up, the chair start to turn, then stop. Yeah,you bet your ass you know who I am.
“You haven’t met the captain,” said CAG as he started toward the forward part of the bridge. “Captain, this is Chief Stevens."
"It's too bad we couldn't have met under better circumstances, Captain," Grant said. Donovan nodded in acknowledgment, but there was a visible slump to the shoulders as an ashen but hard face stared at Grant Stevens. He remained quiet, his vocal cords feeling as if they'd been severed.
"Excuse me, Captain," interrupted Joe Adler as he walked quickly across the bridge, "but Chief Stevens is needed down on deck two."
"Let's go, Senior Chief. Hope we can talk again sometime, Captain." Grant gave somewhat of a salute and immediately rushed from the bridge. Donovan regained his composure, glaring into the back of Grant Stevens.
Once in the confinement of the EOD locker, Adler shut the door behind them. "Well, that seemed to go well!" he laughed, shaking his head.
Grant threw his cap on the bunk. "Now, we just have to wait." He looked at his watch, then reached for his stash of Snickers bars in the desk drawer and tossed one to Adler. "If Brad's not back in thirty minutes, go check on him, Joe." Putting on the headset, he adjusted the radio frequency, hoping to pick up a transmission.
Fifty-five minutes later, there was a tapping at the EOD locker door, and a grinning Brad Simmons rushed in. Grant swung the chair around, pulling off the headset. "You got it… you got the fuckin' picture!"
"Damn straight, we did!"
Grant waited impatiently. Finally hearing the familiar voice, he said, "Admiral! Scramble this, sir."
Morelli hit the scramble button. "We're clear, Grant."
"I'm confirming, sir. It's Donovan."
Morelli slumped into his chair. "Good work, Grant, and to Lieutenant Commander Simmons and Senior Chief Adler, as well."
"Thanks, Admiral; I'll tell them. But we still don't know what they've got planned exactly, or when."
"I know, I know," answered a drained Morelli.
"Sir, we were able to get his picture when he entered the DC locker, which means he probably contacted the trawler from there." Grant heard a muffled "shit". "I'm sorry I wasn't able to pick up the transmission. Sir?"
"Go 'head," Grant.
"He knows who I am, sir."
"You sure?"
"No doubt. I went to the bridge—"
"You what?"
"I had to force his hand, Admiral. It was the only way I could get him to move." Grant waited a moment then asked, "What do you want me to do now, sir?"
Morelli knew exactly what Grant was asking. "That decision will have to come from higher up. Let me get back to you, say, by 1500 hours, your time."
Adler, Simmons, and Grant confined themselves to the EOD locker. Since flight ops were canceled until 2000 hours because of the replenishing exercise scheduled, the remaining EOD team members made themselves scarce.
While they waited, Grant sent a message to sub Captain Reggie Stafford, ensuring that the Bluefin stayed close to the Bronson. His next call went to Tony Mullins. "We found him, Tony. We found the mole."
"No shit? Who? Who the hell is it?"
"Captain Mike Donovan."
Mullins nearly choked, spitting Coke down the front of his green polo shirt. "You're fuckin' with me… right?"
Grant felt drained, but it had only just begun. "I'm serious as hell."
"Christ." Mullins asked the obvious. "Did you get orders from Washington?"
"We're waiting for Morelli to call. One of us will contact you. Listen, Captain Stafford is going to be hangin' close to you now."
Mullins shook his head. "Ya know, with all this fucking technology sitting on this ship, I'm still completely helpless. Why don't we just blow the bastards out of the water?"
Grant smiled. "You've got my vote. Unfortunately, Washington won't accept it. I don't know what they'll decide. Maybe they'll try and negotiate with the Russians and Chicoms, you know, dropping a word here and there like, 'we'll blow your asses off the planet before you can spit' kind of negotiations."
"That'd be the fastest way," agreed a laughing Mullins.
"I've gotta go. Washington is due to call. I might be seeing you soon, Mullins-san."
Except for the distinct, muffled sound of the ship's engines, there was dead silence in the EOD locker as Grant adjusted the headphones. "Yes, sir?"
"Grant… " Morelli took a deep breath. "You're to terminate… with prejudice."
Grant lowered his head, then looked up at Adler and Simmons, who were standing side-by-side, staring back at him. As much as he despised Donovan, despised his act, it was the uniform Grant now saw, a U.S. Navy uniform. "Yes, sir." He stood up, shoving the chair back. "Anything else, Admiral?"
"You're to notify Admiral Hewlett and the XO. The XO will assume command when the time comes. You may need to question him about anyone Donovan may have been close to and keep an eye on them, too."
"Very well, sir."
Morelli felt uneasy, hearing the change in Grant's voice. "Are you okay, Commander?"
"Just… tired, sir. What about the trawler, sir, the Rachinski?"
"A decision hasn't been made whether to use the Bronson. Will need you as standby. Can you be ready to 'erase' it, make it look like an accident?"
Grant looked at Adler and winked. "It'd definitely be our pleasure, sir."
Morelli stood by the window; daybreak was still over two hours away. He turned when his office door opened, seeing PO Gardner carrying in a cup of steaming coffee, motioning for him to put it on the desk. "You've got your work cut out for you, Grant."
"Not to worry, Admiral. I've got excellent help." He pulled off his headphones and turned to Simmons. "Brad, I need you to contact Admiral Hewlett and XO Masters." Simmons moved closer, already guessing what his assignment was going to be. "You're to inform them about Donovan. I suggest you talk to them together. Maybe you can use the guise that you need more information for NIS Headquarters regarding Seaman Koosman. Try to find out if Donovan… " Grant cut himself off and grinned. "Hell, I don't need to tell you. You know the damn routine!"
Steward Mindina placed a fresh pot of coffee on the table and adjusted the cup and napkin until they were positioned to his satisfaction. He turned to Donovan, who was standing by the open locker, buttoning his long-sleeve khaki shirt, thinking about his meeting on the bridge. "Will there be anything else, Captain?" Mindina asked as he removed the silver tray from the corner of the table. Receiving no answer, he took a step closer, then called louder, "Captain?"
Donovan turned his head, his expression more lifeless than a museum statue. "No, nothing." He slammed the metal locker door, the sound like a shotgun blast, startling Mindina. "You can go, Edward."
"Very well, sir," Mindina responded, his brown eyes wide with surprise. "Are you alright, Captain?" he asked, concerned.
"Yes, yes. On your way out, tell Private Johnson he's off duty till 2000 hours."
Mindina closed the cabin door and relayed the message to the Marine, standing rigidly at attention. Private Johnson acknowledged Mindina with a nod, unbuckled the holster, and wrapped the leather strap around the firearm as he started down the passageway.
Hidden in the shadows, one deck down, Grant made certain the coast was clear, then climbed the ladder. The broken piece of antenna had been taped to the photograph. He slid the top half of the photograph under the door, then rapped his fist against the steel.