In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 8

A turbo-prop C-130 Hercules was parked outside Hangar 4. The Herc was probably the most versatile, tactical transport in existence and was the prime transport for paradropping troops and equipment into hostile areas. It was used for electronic surveillance, SAR (search and rescue), and aerial attacks. One of the most remarkable abilities of this aircraft was it could land and take off from a carrier deck without the use of arresting cables or catapults. It was powered by four Allison T56-A-15 turboprop engines and had a range of over twenty-three hundred miles. For this particular operation a refueling stop would be scheduled on the return flight at NAS Naples.

The pilot for this flight was Colonel Al Cummings, a man about 5’10” with a slim build and short black hair, and making his first tour at Rhein-Main. He’d been on station for only three months.

Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat was Lieutenant Colonel Drew Flanagan, nearly the same height as Cummings. The redheaded Flanagan had flown the 130s in Vietnam, and would be the first to admit that it was his favorite aircraft.

With fueling complete, hoses were retracted and the fuel truck backed away. The two officers walked around the outside of the aircraft, making visual and hands-on inspections. Flanagan walked forward, ducking down to look at the nose gear, a modified tricycle-type that folded forward into the fuselage.

Cummings inspected the tandem main gear, also a modified tricycle-type. Its retraction was vertical into the fuselage blister fairings.

A distinct sound of chopper’s rotors caught their attention. They walked away from the plane, watching as a Seahawk made it’s slow descent about fifty yards from where they were standing.

“Must be the helo from Bremerhaven bringing the equipment for our passengers,” shouted Cummings. Just as he finished his comment, he saw seven men running across the airfield. “Come on, Drew. We’d better start our checklist and be ready for them.” He waved the flight engineer and navigator towards them.

Within minutes, Cummings and Flanagan had settled into their seats, checking compass, fuel, oil levels, altimeter. Getting final information from Base Ops, the four digit transponder code was set.

A transponder was an electronic device that produced a response when it received a radio-frequency interrogation. The device assisted in identifying an aircraft on radar and on other aircraft’s collision avoidance systems. The code was frequently called a “squawk” code which came from its origin in World War II, the “Identification Friend or Foe” (IFF) system, code-named “Parrot.”

Completing their checklist, they were ready to fire up the engines, and ready to accept their passengers and cargo.

Aboard the Seahawk, two men dressed in flight suits and helmets stood by the open door, motioning for airmen standing by to begin unloading the cargo.

It was now up to the C-130 loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Mike Brewster, to see that all cargo was evenly distributed inside the cargo bay, then secured so nothing shifted during flight, preventing an overload of sensitive sections of the airframe and cargo floor. Rollers in the floor of the cargo compartment enabled quick and easy handling of cargo pallets and could be removed to leave a flat surface, if necessary. The design of the Herc employed a cargo floor at truck-bed height above the ground, with an integral “roll on/roll off” rear loading ramp.

The SEALs dropped their rucksacks outside the open cargo bay, waiting until the loadmaster signaled them aboard. When they were cleared, they climbed the ramp, sat on the webbed jump seats, and locked their seatbelts in place.

Simpson leaned toward Russo, frowning as he said, “Hey, Vince, I could swear we just did this.”

“Yeah, me, too,” responded Russo, “and in the words of Yogi Berra, ‘it’s deja vu all over again.’”

Brewster walked around the cargo one more time, giving it a quick inspection, checking tie-downs. Then he walked over to the panel on the aft bulkhead, and flipped the switch that started the hydraulics. He kept an eye on the ramp as it raised, and once it was secured, he spoke into his mouthpiece, confirming with the flight deck they were good for takeoff.

Nodding his head in response, he then walked over to Grant. “Captain Stevens?” Grant nodded. “Sir, Colonel Cummings would like you to come to the flight deck before we takeoff.”

“Lead the way.”

At the flight deck, Brewster made the introductions. “Captain Stevens, this is our pilot Colonel Cummings, our co-pilot Colonel Flanagan, our flight engineer Lieutenant Young, and our navigator Lieutenant Nelson.”

Cummings pulled one side of his headset from his ear and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

Grant smiled. “Good to meet you all. Knew I could depend on Admiral Torrinson getting us this ride,” he commented.

“Not John Torrinson?” Cummings asked with surprise, turning even more in his seat, and resting an arm on top of the backrest.

“Yeah, he’s my boss at NIS. I take it you’ve met him?”

“Met him? Hell, we were in the same frat house at Oklahoma!”

“Small world, Colonel. Say, you’re not going to reveal any of your past escapades, are you?”

“Nah. At least not on this trip! When you come back through here, we’ll go to the club and have a lengthy discussion, okay?”

“I won’t have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, will I?” Grant laughed through perfect white teeth.

“That’s up to you!”

“I’ll chance it!” He glanced at his watch. “What’s our flight time to drop zone, Colonel?”

“If we kick this baby in the ass, and with a tail wind, just under four hours.” Cummings noticed Grant lower his head, knowing there was concern. “Wish we could make it faster, Captain.”

“Listen, you’re doing more than enough, and we appreciate it.” After a second, Grant asked, “What’s our route?”

“We’ll continue south through Germany, skirt the eastern border of Switzerland, then straight down through Italy until we reach Rome, then head across the Med to Palermo. From there it’s southeast to the town of Enna. Your DZ will be fifteen miles east-southeast of Enna.”

“The town, Enna, is about thirty miles from the facility, right?” Grant asked.

“That’s affirmative.”

“What altitude are you cleared for?”

Cummings checked his chart. “Twenty-two thousand.”

“As a side note, Captain, you should get a pretty good view of Mount Etna,” Flanagan said. “It’s been spewing fire for a couple of days now.”

“I’ll keep a lookout,” Grant answered with a grin. “Well, I’d better get back to my team. We’ve got some work to do.”

“Understand. Don’t know if I’ll see you before you make your jump, so let me wish you good luck.” Again, Cummings extended his hand.

Grant shook everyone’s hand. “Thanks.”

As soon as Grant left the flight deck, Cummings leaned to the side and looked at Flanagan asking, “Think you’d wanna be a SEAL?”

“Wouldn’t stand a chance. They don’t allow water-wings.”

Brewster came up to his passengers and handed them each a small box containing foam earplugs. The noise of the Herc’s engines were a constant, steady drone, but the level was extremely high. And the vibration was enough to rattle teeth.

At 1325 hours, Cummings proceeded to taxi across the infield, stopping once as a C-141 was landing. Then, he guided his aircraft to takeoff position at the end of Runway 22L, setting flaps, continuing to check gauges and dials, waiting for clearance.

He didn’t have to wait long. He brought the four turboprop engines to full power, let off the brakes, and the aircraft rumbled down the runway, taking off in what seemed like slow motion. Then it made a wide bank, making a turn toward the south. Their route leading them toward the island of Sicily.

Once at cruising altitude, Loadmaster Brewster came near the SEALs, announcing with a smile, “Gentlemen, feel free to walk about the cabin,” he indicated with a wide sweep of an arm.

Seatbelts immediately snapped open and the SEALs gathered close to Grant, needing to catch every word of the conversation, reviewing every aspect of the photos.

Grant glanced at his watch. They’d been in the air for almost a half hour. In just over three hours they’d be over the DZ. Time was ticking away. They had to come up with some kind of plan for getting into the compound.

“Look,” Grant said, “keep studying these while I go forward.”

Moore took the photos from Grant. “Whatcha got in mind, sir?”

“I’ll try to get more intel from D.C. Maybe Naples had another transmission from the guy in the AFN building. Gotta try something.” He stood and waved Brewster over to him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah. I’d like to talk with Colonel Cummings again. Possible?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

Once inside the cockpit Grant requested that a radio call be patched through to NIS, so he could try to get any updates on the situation. He leaned against the bulkhead, hoping they’d be able to get a call through, hoping for news.

“Captain, your call is ready. Just plug in that headgear over there.” The flight engineer pointed to a headset.

Grant slipped it on and adjusted the mouthpiece.

Torrinson spoke loudly, hearing the sound of engines. “Grant?!”

“Yes, sir. Any new transmissions from AFN, sir? Do you have more intel for me? Any more on hostage situation?”

“One came in two hours ago, confirming some hostages are being held in the old hangar.”

Grant looked up at the overhead, relieved. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Admiral!”

“Not to burst your bubble, Grant, but we still don’t know who the hostages are or how many.”

“I realize that, sir, but at least we’ve got more than we had before. At least we’ve got people to rescue.” Grant pressed one side of his headset against his ear as he asked, “Admiral, do you know if there’s been any contact yet with the Palermo organization?”

Torrinson spun his chair around, got up and walked to the window, looking out across at Chrystal City, and the last of the early morning lights still shining. Rubbing a hand across his tired eyes, he answered, “I’ve got a call into the bureau chief in Naples, a man by the name of Jack Edwards. He’s running that op. Hope to get word back from him within a couple of hours.”

“We’ll be on the ground by then, sir. Any chance you could get an answer before we make our jump at 1730 my time? And maybe you could get a name for me, the name of the Palermo ‘boss.’”

Torrinson laughed. “You don’t want too much, do you?”

“Who? Me, sir?” Grant responded with a smile in his voice.

“And just how do you plan on communicating with the Italians, I mean, do you speak that language, too?”

“Not my speciality, but Petty Officer Russo is fluent. He’s volunteered his services, sir.”

“‘Volunteered’?”

“I didn’t have any hand in his decision, sir.”

“All right, all right. Let me make that call.”

Torrinson glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll get back to you with an answer before you exit.”

Torrinson had just pulled the phone away from his ear, when he heard Grant call. “Sir!”

“Something else, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Just a thought, but there’s usually more than one guy manning the AFN center, right?”

“Don’t know how many, but yes. Only one was in the building at the time.” Torrinson's brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Well, sir, if we're lucky enough, maybe we can make contact with someone who hadn’t arrived yet.”

Now Torrinson was really curious. “Then what?”

“May need to borrow some civilian clothes to help us blend in.”

Torrinson was beginning to feel uneasy but also knew he had to trust Grant… whatever he was planning. “I'll see what I can find out. Just try and keep me in the loop, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, Admiral.”

“Now, is there anything else?”

Grant’s mouth curved into a smile. “Negative, sir!”

Handing the headset back to the flight engineer, Grant said, “I’m expecting the admiral to call again.” Then Grant asked Cummings, “How’re we doing on time?”

“On schedule. Weather’s clear all the way. There might be some turbulence up ahead going through the Alps, but it shouldn’t slow us down. Once we’re through that, it’ll be good. Ground winds shouldn’t be more than five knots. As of now, you can still plan on exiting at 1730 hours.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Grant went back through the cargo bay, feeling more relieved than he had since the mission started.

“Well, sir? Any news?” asked Moore, holding out the photos, anxious for a positive response.

Grant reached for them and sat down. “Yeah, Ray. Last transmission from AFN was two hours ago.” He pointed to the building in the photo. “This is where the hostages are being held.”

“Hot damn!” replied Moore, as he pounded a fist against nothing but air.

“You hot to trot for some action?” Grant laughed.

“Damn straight, sir!”

“For now that’s what we’ll have to go on and only hope they haven’t been moved.” He pointed to a building in the photo. “So, if this is the hangar, then our best shot will be the shortest route, coming in from back here, from the eastern side of the facility.” He lifted the map off the deck, with his eyes zeroing in on the town of Enna, then he traced a route that would take them by a large lake, closer to their DZ. From that point it would be about another fifteen miles. Then he tapped the map with an index finger. “This will be our LZ, gentlemen, about three klicks northeast of AFN. Colonel Cummings has given us a drop time of 1730 hours.” He looked at his watch. “It’s now 1530.” The men instinctively glanced at their watches. Grant continued, “Between the LZ and the compound is mostly open country. And it should be almost dark by the time we jump.”

“Just the way we like it,” Simpson grinned. “The darker the better, right, sir?”

Grant gave a quick nod, but he knew that night jumps weren’t a favorite of SEALs. They weren't always the best course of action to take. The level of risk increased dramatically. But when circumstances called for a quiet insertion into a hostile environment, a HAHO jump, a high altitude, high open technique, couldn’t be beat, night or day.

Moore took a couple of steps toward the center of the cargo area, balancing himself with legs apart as the plane hit some turbulence. Standing with his hands on his hips, he looked at Grant with a questioning expression.

“Something on your mind, Senior Chief?” Grant asked with his brown eyes narrowing. He leaned back, hooking a hand in the webbing.

“Sir, you planning on using that new GPS thing?”

“Used it on my last two missions, Ray. Believe me… it works like a charm. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if in a couple years it became standard equipment. Got any doubts?”

“No, sir, I believe you. But would you mind if I used my old standby compass?”

“Not at all, just as long as you hang close and follow me in.”

“Of course, sir. You know it takes awhile for us old guys to break our habits!”

Grant knelt down next to one of the containers. “Understand.”

He raised the lid and perused its contents. Inside was all the sensitive equipment, scopes, transceivers, NVGs (night vision goggles). He looked up at Moore. “Have the men start getting the M16s ready. Don't know what else the admiral had packed for us, but think there'll probably be some pencil flares and maybe some thermite grenades. Whatever there is, just divide up like we usually do.”

“Aye, aye, sir. We’ll get started.” Moore just had to give the men a look and they gathered around the container, kneeling down, working methodically.

Grant reached into the container and took out two Starlighter scopes. Similar to NVGs, peering into a Starlighter was like looking at a negative, only images were light to dark green. He put them on the seat before pulling out a throat mike. A small battery with a dangling antenna, attached to a waistband. A wire ran from the battery to the throat mike and earpiece. To communicate, the user would press and hold the PTT (push-to-talk) button then release it when finished. Each man had exactly the same equipment, allowing them to hear all conversations.

“Ray?”

“Yes, sir?” Moore handed an M16 to Cranston before walking to Grant.

“See if the shotgun mike is in there.”

Moore lifted out a black object that resembled a long tube, about eighteen inches in length, with a wire that ran from the handle to an earpiece. The opposite end had a “sight.” A collapsible dish opened around the mike in order to capture more sound. The directional microphone was called a “shotgun mike” and it was extremely sensitive.

“We’re good, sir.”

Grant nodded. “Joe says that can pick up a gnat’s fart,” he said, pointing to the mike.

Moore could see the worry on Grant’s face, even through the smile. “Ya know, sir, Lieutenant Adler’s right! Why, I’ve heard ’em myself on a couple occasions!”

“I’ll take your word for it. Here. Pack this Starlighter along with the shotgun mike in that rucksack. How’re the men doing on the weapons?”

“All the 16s and .45s have been checked out. They’re checking the extra clips. And Admiral Torrinson even got us each a medical kit.” Moore leaned closer to Grant and said quietly, “The admiral’s a good guy, isn’t he, sir? I mean, especially for an admiral.”

“Yeah, Ray, he is; after all, he’s one of us.”

“Right, sir.” Moore started to walk away, then turned back. “Sir, one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I know you’d like to have more of us on this one.”

“That's one of my concerns, Ray, not knowing what or how many we’ll be up against.”

“Well, sir, just remember. We may be few, but we are mighty!”

Grant nodded in total agreement. “I think you’d better write that one down!”

Moore’s head was bobbing up and down. “I will, sir, I will. That was pretty good, wasn’t it?” He backed away, nodding his head, then turned and joined the squad.

Grant watched his team, knowing what was ahead, thinking of a promise he makes to all his men, that “he would bring them back for another attack.” But all of them were aware that the mission always came first, then their safety, with his own safety always last.

The only difference with this mission was he had two friends who were involved. His friends were the ones who needed rescuing.

Totally absorbed in rethinking the jump and what they’d find on the ground, the sound of someone calling his name jarred Grant.

“Captain Stevens?”

“Yeah, Staff Sergeant?”

“Sir, Colonel Cummings wants you to know it’s forty-five minutes to DZ.”

Grant gave a quick look at his watch. “We’ll be ready.” He looked over at Moore. “Get moving, Ray.”

“Aye, aye, sir. All the equipment and weapons are ready, rucksacks packed.”

“What about the O2 bottles and reserve chutes? Good to go?”

“Affirmative, sir. We’re ready to suit up.”

“Then let’s do it.” Grant looked down the cargo hold, seeing Brewster motioning for him to come forward. “Be right back.” He rushed through the cargo bay to the flight deck, hoping Torrinson had something for him.

Grant slipped on the headset. “Admiral?”

“Okay, Grant, here’s what I’ve got. First, the agent out of Naples is Sam Fierra. He’s already in Palermo trying to make contact with the organization. Second, the embassy in Naples made contact with the Americans who work at AFN. Thank God they had to register with the embassy when they first arrived. Anyway, they’re all living in Motta, about fifteen minutes north.”

“That’s all I need, sir, except… ”

“Go ’head, ask.”

“Sir, any possibility the embassy could make contact again with one of the AFN guys?”

“Because?” Torrinson let the word drag out.

“Well, sir, our LZ is going to be about three klicks from AFN. That’s too far from Motta. I’m kinda hoping that guy could somehow get closer to us, bringing some clothes.” Grant could tell Torrinson was having some doubts, especially having a civilian involved. “That’s all he has to do, Admiral, then he’s outta there. Promise.” Grant heard what sounded like a sigh coming from Torrinson, and he tried to reinforce his reasoning. “We’ve gotta get into the compound, sir, and without any firepower until we find the hostages.”

“And just how’s he supposed to find you, Grant?”

“According to the satellite photo, there appears to be ruins of some kind. It’s the only one in that area, maybe an old church. We’ll meet him there.”

“And if there isn’t any meeting, Captain?”

Grant hesitated. “No answer at this time, sir.”

Torrinson shook his head, feeling unsettled. “Godspeed, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Grant left the flight deck. He paused for a moment, looking down the cargo hold at his men, who were sitting quietly, each of them in their own thoughts. That was the way it should be, had to be. Because once their boots hit the ground, they’d be a team, thinking as one, acting as one. But for now, they were individuals.

He walked by the row of jump seats. After changing into his jump gear, he sat down and latched his seatbelt. Remaining quiet, he just stared straight ahead. No matter how much he tried, how much he questioned, he couldn’t figure out why he was being affected this way, except for the fact that his two closest friends — and they were his two closest friends, considering the life he was leading — were in a life and death struggle.

He loosened his seatbelt, then slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, grinding a fist against his palm. He had just answered his own question. The fact was that he had no way of knowing if either of them were still alive, if they made it through the attack. Maybe it was something he didn’t want to admit could be possible. He chastised himself for even having the thought. It was time to change his goddamn attitude.

He was going to find them, find them alive, and attempt to rescue them. No, dammit, he thought. What the hell? Not attempt. He would complete the mission or die trying. Sitting back again, a corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Die trying. Jesus! Die trying? Damn straight!” he mumbled under his breath. The creed for Special Warfare Combatant-Craft crewmen crept into his mind. It seemed pretty damned appropriate: On Time, On Target, Never Quit.

Simpson and Moore sat opposite him. They muttered softly between themselves.

“So, whadda ya think?” asked Simpson.

“Don’t know, Craig. I mean, just look at him.” Moore tried to be nonchalant, slowly turning his head, looking across at Grant. “I guess it’s a lot different when you’re going on a mission and you know the faces, you know the people. Christ! We’ve gotta make this work.

“We just needed more intel. Fuck! We don’t know how many men are being held, or if they are being held. We don’t know how many ‘Diavolo’ things there are. All we’ve got are assumptions. So, basically, we don’t know shit!”

“Yeah, Chief,” Simpson said with a sly expression, “but we’ve got something they don’t have, something nobody else has got.”

“What’s that, Craig?”

“Well, Chief, we’ve got Captain Stevens!”

Moore leaned back and elbowed Simpson in the ribs. “You’re right, Craig. You’re goddamn right we do!”