Cindy Dees - Her Mission With A Seal

What the manifest didn’t say was that she also carried a passenger. A man named Markus Petrov. One of the most elusive spies ever to operate on American soil. A colleague of Nissa’s, an American spy named Max Kuznetsov whose mother had been killed by Petrov, had spent nearly a decade tracking the guy and had spent most of the past three years undercover in Petrov’s criminal organization learning his true identity.

It was a brilliant setup, actually. Petrov ran a Russian crime gang and used its proceeds to finance his extracurricular espionage activities. In the meantime, he hid behind the Russian mafia, who fiercely protected his identity.

Max and a team of Navy SEALs had destroyed most of Petrov’s criminal organization last week in a spectacular shoot-out deep in the bayous of south Louisiana. But Petrov had disappeared.

Unfortunately, Max also needed to go to ground, along with his fiancée, a psychic who had helped him identify Markus Petrov at long last. Until Petrov was apprehended, the two of them were in extreme danger and had been whisked into federal protective custody. This left no subject matter experts on Petrov except Nissa to help with the manhunt.

She’d been tracking Max’s progress in the Petrov case for years and was the CIA’s second most knowledgeable analyst when it came to the Russian spy. Which was why she was out here tonight doing her darnedest to drown. The SEALs needed someone who could make a positive ID on Petrov when they captured him on the Anna Belle.

The cargo ship had gone silent the moment it crossed into international waters, and the only reason they knew where it was now was compliments of a hurricane hunter aircraft that’d made a visual sighting of the ship on its last pass through Hurricane Jessamine that afternoon.

Were it not for that chance sighting, nobody would have any idea where Petrov and the ship he’d fled on had disappeared to.

The ship’s manifest said it was bound for the Dominican Republic with food and humanitarian supplies. Perhaps that part was true, at any rate.

One of the SEALs had a radio headset plastered to his ears. He shouted a course correction back to the muscular man wrestling the tiller, the team leader, Commander Cole Perriman.

He was easily six foot three and built like a god. The high-tech wet suit currently clinging to his torso was an exercise in truth in advertising. Every beautiful, perfect muscle was clearly outlined for her viewing pleasure. Thank you, God.

At the moment his hood was pushed back, and his short dark hair was plastered to his skull. Still, his face was handsome and rugged. She knew from earlier that his eyes were pale, icy blue and practically glowed against his darkly tanned skin.

The members of his team called him Frosty. Although the nickname initially made her think of cheerful snowmen, after two minutes in his presence, she understood the moniker. The guy’s nerves were made of pure ice.

Their pitifully small craft topped a massive swell, and she thought she caught sight of a black shape looming ahead. But then the rain squall around them intensified, and they slid down the back side of the swell into a black trough bordered by massive walls of water on all sides. Lord, the ocean was big. She felt tiny and insignificant in the face of these gigantic waves. She was not a particularly religious person, but a prayer entered her head now to whatever deity might hear her plea to please save them all from this insanity.

The only good part about being down in the troughs was they got a momentary break from the screaming winds trying to tear their faces off. The rain, blowing at a hundred miles per hour or more, felt like a power washer trying to scrub the flesh off her bones.

She would be more inclined to whimper in fear were it not for how unconcerned these guys seemed about the storm. They were self-possessed and untalkative, exuding a certain cool self-confidence.

“There’s the Anna Belle!” the one called Bass shouted as they topped another huge, heaving swell.

“Where are its lights?” she shouted back.

Commander Perriman answered from behind her, “Good question. They may have lost power. If they’ve taken on enough water, they could have flooded their engines and backup electric generators.”

“That sounds bad” Nissa ventured to reply.

The SEAL called Ashe responded, managing to infuse his voice with dry irony, even while shouting over the storm, “It would suck to be them in a storm like this without power.”

The big twin motors on their rigid inflatable boat powered them up a half dozen more mountain-steep swells before they finally drew close to the darkened container ship. It was actually the scariest moment of the journey so far when a swell tilted the Anna Belle way over on its side toward them, a huge pile of containers looming overhead, threatening to topple the ship and kill them all.

“Suit up!” Perriman ordered the team. All the hoods came up. Nissa already had hers up, and it held in place the earbuds and throat microphones the team would use to communicate once they boarded the Anna Belle. She covered her eyes with the night-vision goggles that had been stowed around her neck. The three men beside her leaped into lime-green relief against the heaving black sea.

“Ship’s listing pretty bad,” Perriman commented over their discrete radio frequency.

“Fifteen to eighteen degrees to the port side,” Ashe replied. He sounded like an expert sailor. “She’s looking top-heavy, too. With those containers stacked high like that, they act as a wall to catch the wind. Hurricane could blow the ship over if they get crossways of a big enough gust.”

Okay, that sounded really bad.

“Let’s get on and off her as fast as we can,” Perriman ordered. “I don’t like the looks of her seaworthiness.”

Great. The ship they were about to board was on the verge of capsizing and sinking. Just how every girl wanted to spend her Saturday night.

They tied off their craft to a cleat low on the hull of the Anna Belle, and then Bass, using welded rungs on the hull, climbed the side of the ship like a freaking monkey. He lowered a rope ladder from the deck down to them.

“Up you go, Nissa,” Cole ordered. He clipped a rope that Bass threw down onto the body harness they’d made her wear and which they’d used to lash her into their boat.

She looked up at the rope ladder swinging around over her head and gulped. He must have seen her hesitation because he moved up behind her and leaned forward to shout in her ear, off microphone, “I’ll be right behind you.”

Right. As if that was reassuring. At least she knew to grab the rope ladder from the side and not to try to go up it facing the rungs head-on. With one rope of the ladder against her cheek, she turned her feet pigeon-toed to climb the ladder.

It was okay for the first ten feet or so. But then the ship got sideways of a swell, and it tilted toward her sickeningly. The rope swung out into space. She wasn’t even over the SEALs’ boat anymore. Black water yawned below her. I’m going to die. Frozen in terror, she squeezed her eyes shut and clung to the ladder for dear life.

The ship tilted back the other way, and the ladder swung back toward the ship, slamming her into the cold steel hull. She lost her grip on the wet ladder and swung out to the side on the safety rope, smashing into the ship’s hull hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She screamed, but the sound was ripped away from her by a huge gust of wind and rain that hit her with the force of a fire hose.

“Grab the ladder!” someone shouted.

She opened her eyes and swung sickeningly out in space as the ship rolled again, black water reaching up to her and the listing ship looming above, as if it was about to come down on her head and drag her to the bottom of the sea.