Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 13

He stepped back in order to see overhead, where the man had been shot. Another seaman was was.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p.

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 s.h.i.+p 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.

Safe House Alexandria 0500 Hours 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 doc.u.ments were in order, along with his Russian diplomatic pa.s.sport. His American pa.s.sport was concealed in the lining of his suitcase.

He finally sat up, holding his hand against his stomach, feeling the "rumble." No time to eat, he thought. He'd wait till he was aboard the plane. He went to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles of c.o.ke he bought last night. He started drinking as he went upstairs to the main bedroom.

Blinds on both windows were closed. He started cleaning from the opposite side of the room and worked his way backwards until he got to the closet, panel and equipment. Time-consuming, but essential.

Russian Emba.s.sy 0600 Hours KGB Zelesky rushed into the emba.s.sy, then ran to the elevator, pounding the b.u.t.ton with a knuckle. Finally, the doors parted and he stepped inside, staying within a few inches of the doors. The elevator stopped with a jolt, and as the doors started opening, he jammed his heavy hands between them, forcing them apart.

A door to the amba.s.sador's residence was just ahead, off a small entryway. Zelesky rang the bell then rapped his knuckles against the door. "Amba.s.sador!"

"Yes?!" Vazov called, as he sat up in bed.

"I must see you!"

Vazov put on a robe. As he started opening the door, Zelesky hurried past him. Vazov closed the door, then tied his robe. "What is so important, Misha?!"

Zelesky held a manila envelope toward him. "You must look at this! I found it at one of the American's drop sites."

Vazov grabbed the envelope as he watched Zelesky through narrowed eyes. What he removed from the envelope shocked him. "This cannot be! I will not believe it is. . ."

"Look more closely!"

Vazov drew the official-looking color photograph closer, finally noticing brown eyes, not hazel. "Who is this?!"

"Turn it over."

On the back, printed in black ink, was a name: Captain Grant Stevens, U.S. Navy.

Vazov walked slowly to the dining room table, all the while staring at the photograph. He pulled a chair out then sat down heavily. "The resemblance is remarkable."

A number of questions ran through Vazov's mind, mostly worrisome ones. Why would the American traitor suddenly release this photograph? He still had not asked for anything in exchange for the information. Did this person have something to do with the weapons?

Continuing to look at the picture, Vazov said, "Misha, see if there is a dossier on this 'Stevens.'" Zelesky left for the records room in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Vazov dropped the picture on the table. It was most imperative he contact the defense minister in Moscow, and Kalinin. He went to his bedroom to dress.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the tile, echoing in the long, second floor hallway, as Vazov hurried to the comm room. He wasn't about to wait until this evening.

Corporal Brusinsky spun around in his chair, as the amba.s.sador burst into the room.

"Send this coded messages immediately," Vazov said, stepping near the counter holding the comm equipment. Brusinsky grabbed a pad and pen. "To Captain Ivanov aboard the Igor Brobov. 'Reconfirm package is aboard and you are proceeding as instructed. Immediate response required.'" Without hesitation, he began dictating the second message. "This goes to Defense Minister Andrei Troski. 'Merchandise being s.h.i.+pped today. Notify receiver.'"

Vazov left the room, then went to the opposite end of the hallway to his office. He unlocked the door, then turned on an overhead florescent light. No matter how early it was, he had to make the call to the FCD. Since he, Vazov, was the only person to know the ident.i.ty, he'd have to privately communicate with him by phone.

He had his hand on the scrambler, when he decided to call Kalinin, hoping he hadn't left for Dulles. He dialed.

Kalinin was wiping down blinds, when the phone rang. He rushed to the side table, and picked up the receiver with the cloth. "Mr. Amba.s.sador?"

"Nicolai! Good. You are still there."

"What is it, sir?"

"Misha found an envelope at one of the American's drop sites."

"More information or directions?"

"No. A photograph of an American naval officer."

Kalinin sat on the couch. "Not him, I a.s.sume."

"No, Nicolai, it is someone who looks just like you, except for the color of eyes."

Kalinin never expected that response. "Like me?! Who is it?!"

"A name on the photograph was 'Captain Grant Stevens.' Does that sound familiar?"

Kalinin was quiet, thinking about his time in the Navy and the defense contractor he worked for. "I do not recall that name, nor do I remember seeing anyone who looked like me, sir!"

Vazov leaned back, shaking his head slowly. "Misha is looking through our files to see if we have a dossier on him. I do not understand why the photo was given. . ." A sudden knocking at the office door made Vazov break off the conversation. "Enter!"

Corporal Brusinsky walked to the desk, handed Vazov a paper, then immediately left.

"Sir?" Kalinin said.

"A moment, Nicolai. I have a message from Captain Ivanov." As he scanned the communication, sweat formed on his brow. His heart thumped against his chest. "No!" he shouted, pounding a fist on the desk.

Kalinin abruptly stood, concerned. "Mr. Amba.s.sador! What is wrong?!"

Vazov didn't immediately respond as he reread the message. He finally answered Kalinin. "A team of men boarded the Igor Brobov during the night and stole the weapons."

Kalinin was stunned. "But I received a message from him earlier in the evening saying the weapons were safely onboard!"

"Apparently this happened after midnight." Both men were quiet, trying to a.s.similate the incident.

Kalinin finally broke the silence. "Sir?" No response. "Mr. Amba.s.sador! Was there any further information?! Does he have any idea who those men were?!"

Vazov perused the message again. "He said there were six onboard. Two spoke Russian. They left the s.h.i.+p by helicopter. One of the s.h.i.+p's crew was killed, two injured."

Kalinin paced the room. "We must get more information from him. What kind of weapons did they use? Were there markings on the helicopter? Anything, sir! It is vital we find out!"

"Yes. Yes. Of course."

"Should I still prepare to leave for Moscow with the remaining weapons?"

"I have sent a message to Defense Minister Troski, advising him s.h.i.+pment will be today. He should confirm soon. I will phone you."

Vazov put the phone down, just as there was a knock at the door, and the communication corporal rushed in again. "Mr. Amba.s.sador, a message from Moscow!" Vazov ripped the paper from his hand, then waved him away.

Vazov read the message, and immediately phoned Kalinin. "Nicolai."

"Yes, sir."

"Moscow is notifying the base. Do you have everything ready?"

"Not quite. I have just started downstairs. The radio and Morse key are cleaned and secured again. Weapons are in the truck. I will call the pilot to file a flight plan."

"And what about a flight time?"

"I will wait until I am positive things here are completely cleaned, then I will call."

"Be sure to give me your exact departure time, Nicolai. I may want to send Comrade Vikulin with you for additional security."

"Yes, sir, I will. Have you received further information on those six men?"

"Not yet. I will try to contact the Brobov before you depart."

Kalinin hung up. Six men,he thought. But how? How could they have discovered his plan, and know the exact cargo s.h.i.+p? And what does Stevens have to do with anything? Kalinin slapped the cleaning cloth against his thigh as he paced the room. Then, he abruptly stopped, remembering the men who followed him that day. He closed his eyes, trying to picture them. Were they part of the team that boarded the s.h.i.+p? He could never understand how they knew he'd show up that morning. Unless it was pure luck. Coincidences were always possible, but not this many. Yet, all of them affected him.

The door swung open. Zelesky came in carrying a folder. He dropped it in front of Vazov, pointing to a name along the side.

Vazov scanned the papers inside. Certain areas were highlighted, catching his attention: Navy SEAL; Naval Investigative Service; speaks Russian and j.a.panese. He turned to the next page, but it was blank. The last entry was nearly a year ago, when Amba.s.sador Balicov died.

"Misha, find Petya. The two of you may have work to do." Zelesky immediately left. Vazov pressed the intercom, calling for the communication corporal. When Brusinsky arrived, Vazov dictated a message to be sent to Kabul, advising weapons would not be delivered. No explanation was given.

Then, holding the dossier, he called Kalinin. "Nicolai, I have very interesting information on 'Stevens.' He is fluent in Russian and he is a Navy SEAL. His dossier is. . ." Vazov looked up as Zelesky walked in with Vikulin. "Nicolai, I must go."

Kalinin wondered about the amba.s.sador's report. "Navy SEAL," he said out loud. It had to be. A team of Navy SEALs boarded the cargo s.h.i.+p. And the two men outside the emba.s.sy were part of that team.

His worry now was finis.h.i.+ng his work at the house, then getting to the airport. Too much had gone wrong in a short expanse of time. And if he was right about the men being SEALs, they were the reason.

Russian Emba.s.sy "Has Misha explained the situation, Petya?" the amba.s.sador asked.

"Only briefly."

"Here. Look at this," Vazov said, picking up the photograph.

Vikulin walked closer to the desk and reached for the photo. He stared at the face, remembering his meeting with Kalinin. Everything suddenly became clear. Everything explained completely. He threw the photograph on the desk, then turned away. He should have known, with all the specific questions asked of him. How could he have been fooled? He brushed beads of sweat from his forehead as he debated how much, if anything, he should tell Vazov.

Vazov was obviously curious. "Do you know this man?!" Vikulin didn't respond. "Petya!"

Vikulin saw Zelesky out of the corner of his eye, watching him closely. He made a mistake in his over-reaction to the photograph. There wasn't any way to make a denial. "Mr. Amba.s.sador, I had a meeting with someone who I thought was Comrade Kalinin, but. . ."

"You had a meeting with this man?! A private meeting?!"

"I am afraid so."

Vazov angrily shoved his chair away from the desk, and abruptly stood. "You?! A KGB officer?! Explain!" Vikulin proceeded to relay full details of the meeting. The longer he talked, the redder Vazov's face became.

He asked Zelesky, "Did you have knowledge of this?"

Zelesky shook his head. "No."

Vazov turned his attention again to Vikulin. "Confirm you did not discuss anything about the weapons."

"I did not! They were never brought up."

Vazov continued staring at the KGB officer. "Do you expect me to believe it is completely coincidental that you talked with this man, then the weapons were taken from the s.h.i.+p, and then we get this photograph?!"

"We did not discuss the weapons!"

"I will have to report this to Director Antolov (Mikhail Antolov, KGB). But I am making the decision to send you back to Moscow. You will report immediately to the director once you arrive. He will be expecting you."