In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 11

Joe Adler sat with his men behind the window of the cab, sitting on upside down old crates. Hemp-style rope held their wrists securely. Three guards stayed toward the tailgate, holding their Uzis close.

The Americans’ bodies were beat down to parade rest. They were looking pale and haggard. During the long ordeal, they’d been kept inside the old hangar, unable able to speak, or sleep, or eat. The reason behind this journey they were about to make was unclear. Adler constantly ran his mind around the idea that their being held captive was because of what had been brought out of the tunnel. But another very real possibility loomed. They were being held for ransom. Four U.S. Navy men, trained in explosive ordnance disposal. There was that possibility.

Adler kept his eyes on the men hurrying around the compound, some of them carrying old ammo boxes. They started piling into a line of trucks strung out in front of the one he and his men were in. Most of the shouting going on seemed to be coming from the lead vehicle, like orders being “barked.”

As engines started turning over, headlights and taillights came on. Trying not to be conspicuous, Adler tried to see how many other vehicles there were and what they were carrying, but it was impossible for him to make out. Within a couple of minutes, the lead vehicle drove off. It passed through the main entrance, then as its lights faded, another truck started moving.

Adler counted the time it took for the second truck to leave. Five minutes. He was distracted for a moment as two additional guards showed up, but he didn’t pay close attention to them as he tried to maintain his concentration.

Vince Russo looked up at one of the guards sitting in the truck. Speaking in Italian, he said, “We were told to take this truck.” The guards just nodded. They didn’t move from their positions, pointing for the two men to go farther back.

Russo stepped onto the truck bed. Grant climbed up after him, taking a look one more time behind him, making sure they were still the next to last truck in the caravan.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver, and they had to walk sideways to get past the guards, bumping against knees and kicking shoes. Keeping his head down, Grant sat opposite Adler, squeezing in between Russo and EOD Taylor.

Adler sat with his head lowered, paying more attention to what was happening with the vehicles and trying to ignore the new guards, until he noticed a pair of dirty, black boots, sticking out from under tattered trousers, directly in front of him.

Only raising his eyes, he settled his stare on hands holding an Uzi, strong hands with scars. His pulse quickened. He sat back, trying not to draw attention to himself, then he slowly lifted his head. Grant’s eyes were fixed on his, both men keeping their deadpan expressions, except when Grant gave a quick wink.

Adler gave a sideways glance at his men, then getting Taylor’s attention, he shifted his eyes back to Grant then back to Taylor, finally giving an inconspicuous thumb’s up.

The truck driver shifted into first, and the vehicle lurched forward, backfiring when he stepped on the gas, then it stalled. One of the guards jumped out of the back and ran to the driver’s side, shouting and waving his arms. In typical Italian style, the driver just shouted back, giving the guard the popular “up yours” hand motion — twice.

The other two guards were leaning over the side, paying more attention to the commotion than anything else.

Grant elbowed Russo before sliding his one leg back. Slowly, he reached under his sock, withdrew the knife, then slid it inside the sleeve of his jacket. Russo did the same with his. Seeing the guard hurrying to the back of the truck, Grant shifted the Uzi next to his right leg, within Taylor’s reach. Then, carefully, he pulled his .45 from his waistband, quietly placing it behind Taylor.

Once the guard was aboard, the driver pulled away. He no longer saw any lights from the vehicles ahead. Smacking the steering wheel in anger, he swore. “Merda! Merda!” In his cracked, rearview mirror he glanced at the vehicle behind him, knowing he had to keep on schedule. The truck backfired every time he stepped on the gas, and trying to makeup time, he continued pressing the accelerator.

Inside the barracks, looking out the second story windows, the remaining SEALs and Grigori Moshenko could only watch as the truck disappeared into the night.

Moore glanced at his watch, marking fifteen minutes. At the end of that time, if Grant and Russo hadn’t returned, he had to follow orders. But right now, they had to stop the last truck, search for any survivors, make contact with the guy in the AFN building, and hope there weren’t any more members of the group lurking around.

“Excuse me,” Moshenko said, tapping Moore on the back.

“Yes, sir?” Moore replied, as he pulled the sling of his M16 from his shoulder.

“I must help you look for hostages. I will see that Tarasov and Rusnak remain here, out of the way. Please… let me help.”

Moore hesitated for a brief moment. Although having met the Russian just a brief time ago, he felt as if knew him well, and after all, he was Captain Stevens’ friend. “All right, sir, but wait until we take care of the truck. I’ll have one of the men come get you.”

Moshenko smiled and nodded. “I will go and give Tarasov and Rusnak the order to stay in the room.”

Knowing they only had a few minutes to stop the truck before it pulled away, the SEALs cautiously but quickly came down the stairs. Rushing to the door, they split up and took positions on both sides, their weapons at the ready.

Moshenko came hurrying down the stairs with his Makarov drawn, the rifle strap slung over his shoulder. He was anxious to help but realized he had to stay behind.

The team kept their eyes focused on Moore, as he leaned toward the open door cautiously, then poked his head out. They were less than fifty feet from the target, but it was open ground, and the men in the truck had Uzis.

Smoke was billowing from the truck’s tailpipe. The driver revved the engine, keeping his eyes on the lead vehicle, waiting for his passenger to give the go ahead to move.

Hearing the truck’s engine revving, Moore gave the signal. Holding up his hand, he waved it forward, and the SEALs rushed from the building. They raced across the compound, splitting up and running in different directions, surrounding the vehicle.

Two men in the bed of the truck spun around, shouting “Americani!”

The driver jerked his head around, as the first shots rang out. Cranston and Womack fired back at the two in the truck bed, spinning them around from a spray of bullets.

Moore and Simpson ran toward the cab just as the driver attempted to speed away. They needed to get information. Firing into the cab was not an option.

Simpson ran in front of the truck, aiming his rifle directly into the cab at the same time Moore jumped on the driver side running board. “Stop!” Moore shouted.

The driver hit the brakes, and both he and the passenger threw their arms up, screaming, “No! No!”

Moore stepped down and pulled the door open, motioning for the driver to get out. He grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled him around to the back of the truck, purposely wanting to show him the two dead accomplices. He slammed the man’s body against the truck, making him yelp in pain.

Keeping his eyes and one hand on the Italian, he shouted, “Paul, get the colonel and check out the hangar! Ken, you go find the guy in AFN.” He and Simpson would start the interrogation… somehow, using hand signals if they had to. “Craig, see if these bozos have a map up front.”

Simpson looked on the dashboard then searched under the seat, finding a crumpled, hand-drawn map. Notes were written in Italian, but there were arrows pointing along a route. He smoothed the paper against the seat, then he rushed back to Moore. “Here ya go, Chief.”

Moore perused the map with a smile. “Guess this is what we need, Craig, unless the captain wants anything further.” He slipped the paper into his pocket. “Help me get these two in the truck. Let ’em sit next to their two dead buddies.”

Cranston and Moshenko approached the side of the hangar. With windows painted black, and no other way to give them a heads up, they were already behind the eight ball. More than anything, they worried what they might find.

They had been traveling less than five minutes, leaving the lights of the compound and the last truck behind them. But the going was slow, as the driver had to constantly swerve around potholes and deep cracks in the concrete surface, never repaired from previous earthquakes, and it probably never would be.

If their situation hadn’t been so serious, the Americans probably would have found it amusing, watching the guards trying to maintain their balance, trying to prevent themselves from falling out the back of the truck, letting loose with what was probably Italian swearing and hand pointing at the driver.

Grant was grateful the guards were distracted. It gave him just enough time to nudge Russo, getting his attention as he started sliding the knife from his sleeve, all the while keeping his eyes on Adler. Now was their chance.

He stood slowly, trying to maintain his balance as the truck pitched from side to side, the bed creaking with every sharp movement. He edged closer to the guards, and with one swift move, attacked the one closest to him, ramming his knife in just below the ribcage.

Russo was right behind Grant, ready to act. The guard started to jump up, when Russo grabbed him and jammed the knife into his chest, with a brief cry of agony leaving the man’s throat.

A shot rang out. Grant spun around, watching the third guard tumble out the back of the truck.

Waving a .45, Adler shouted, “Still have to cover your back, Skipper!”

Stunned at the sound, the driver nearly drove off the road, as his eyes focused on the mirror, not believing what he was seeing. He hit the brakes, with the truck skidding to a stop, throwing Grant and Russo off balance. Just as he started reaching for the Uzi on the seat, he saw one pointing at him through the glass window.

Taylor yelled, “Hands up! Hands up!” Whether the Italian understood the words or not, he threw the weapon to the side, and his hands up.

Grant smiled broadly as he walked back to Adler, but he had more shit to do, and fast, hoping they were far enough away to lessen the sound of the shot.

Cutting the rope from Adler’s hands, he ordered, “Get this truck off the road, and kill those lights! Vince! Pull that body off the road!” Russo jumped down. The body had tumbled into a ditch. He grabbed an arm and dragged it far enough from the road so it wouldn’t be seen, then he raced back to the truck.

Adler cut the rope from the other men, pointing to Justin. “Get in the cab and go! You, too, Doug!”

Justin and Taylor jumped from the truck and ran to the cab. Justin shoved the driver aside as Taylor jumped in the passenger side, grabbing the weapon off the seat.

Shutting off the lights, Justin gunned the engine and drove into the field. With hardly any visibility, he drove over rocks, mounds of hard-packed dirt and broken branches. The steering wheel was nearly wrenched from his hands as the truck careened across a shallow ditch.

Grant looked back in the direction of the compound. Not knowing if Moore had succeeded in stopping the last truck, he couldn’t take any chances. He shouted, “Go! Go!”

Ten seconds later, the truck rolled to a stop. Justin immediately killed the engine and took his foot off the brake. Everyone kept low, staying motionless.

“Vince… the radio.” Russo handed it to him, and Grant made his call. “Come in, Ray!”

The response came instantly. “Ray here! We’re clear. We’ve got the truck.”

“We’re coming back. Be there in less than ten minutes. Out.” Grant turned to Adler. “Let’s move.” Adler signaled Lang to get going, then he sat behind the cab. All the other men gave Adler and Grant some extra space.

As they started past the body laying in the ditch, Grant said, “Hold it!” He jumped out of the truck. “Vince, give me a hand.” Picking up the body, they rolled it on the truck. “Go!”

Grant walked to where Adler was sitting. Standing in front of him, he grabbed Adler’s shoulder with a firm grip. “You okay?”

“I am now.” Adler took a breath, somewhat hesitant to ask as he looked up at Grant. “Did you find Colonel Moshenko?”

Grant sat down, staring into the rugged, but tired face of his good friend. Resting his elbows on his knees he answered, “Yeah, he’s okay. He and the two Russians were hiding on the roof.”

“All that time?”

Grant nodded. “All that time.”

“And what about the workers?”

“Weren’t they with you?” Grant asked with surprise.

Adler shook his head. “No. We were caught just as we were going inside the hangar when those bastards attacked. Most of the workers were around their tools and equipment near the barracks and the dig.”

Grant studied Adler’s face for a moment before asking, “You got to know some of them, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. They were as friendly as hell, Skipper, always ready and willing to share anything they had, helping whenever they could.”

“Look, Joe. There’s no sense worrying. We’ll find out soon enough.” He leaned back, unable to explain to Adler the worry he himself had when he first heard the news from Torrinson.

Adler pulled his hat off and rolled it between his palms. He stared at Grant through bloodshot, blue eyes and with a half smile said, “Somehow I knew it’d be you coming.”

“Damn right, Joe. Couldn’t trust anybody else!”

They had been through too much together, on too many missions, knowing each other like the back of their hands. It turned into one of those moments when nothing else had to be said.

Simpson shouted from the cab. “We’re back, sirs!”

Grant and Adler stood. Looking over the rusted roof of the cab, they saw the SEALs waiting. Right there with them was Grigori.

As Justin pulled the truck in front of the barracks and shut off the engine, Grant’s thoughts were on Adler and his men. “Ray, you got anything hot for these guys?” he shouted at Moore as he jumped off the back.

Moore pointed to Cranston. “Find some coffee!” Cranston took off running.

Adler got off the truck, grabbing hold of Grant’s arm. “You need to go after them, Skipper. You need to stop those bastards.”

Grant understood Adler’s remark, seeing the anger on his face. The emotion fueling his remark was undoubtedly because he had formed a bond with the Italian workers.

But for now, Grant had to move on. He walked toward Moore, seeing two bodies and two men sitting in front of them on the truck bed. “What’d you find out from the G2?”

“Since the communication was next to impossible, we searched for and found a map and had him point to the spot. It’s some kind of nature forest, or something, just south of Palermo.”

Grant called, “Vince!”

Russo came running. “Sir?”

“See if you can get any more info out of that guy.” Grant pointed to the truck.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else, Ray?”

“We finally talked the AFN guy out of the building. He was as white as a ghost, shakin’ like a leaf. His name’s Sam Wright. He’s in the barracks.”

“And what about the workmen?”

“A few of ’em had been herded into the tunnel. It took awhile for us to calm them down, too. It was a challenge to understand them, but they indicated they were ordered to load the canisters and munitions.”

“Injuries?” Grant asked.

“Gunshot wounds. We got most of the bleeding stopped, but they need treatment pretty soon. They’re in there,” he indicated the barracks, pointing with his finger.

“And dead?”

“Two, sir. We put the bodies in the hangar.”

“Christ,” Grant said quietly, lowering his head. He despised the term “collateral damage,” thinking “innocent victims” seemed more appropriate, more compassionate. They were human beings. He looked up, blowing out a long breath, then he called, “Joe.”

Adler was standing behind him. He thrust his hands into his pockets, with a grim look on his face. “I heard, Skipper. I’ll go.” He walked off slowly.

Grant kept his eyes on Adler walking away, as he said to Moore, “Ray, get that tech. Go with him to send a transmission to Naples. Request a chopper to get the wounded out of here. Maybe there’s a carrier in the Med.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“One more thing, Ray. Did you find any of the attackers, dead or otherwise?”

“Two dead by the generators; assumed they’re the ones who cut the power; two by the fence line that were dressed like guards, four more that our ammo found its way into, and the two you and Vince took care of.”

“And there’re three more in the truck. Christ!” There wasn’t time for a decision on bodies. Then Grant thought about the bodies by the generator and the guards. Those men couldn’t have been killed by EOD. They were too far from the fighting. Somebody was tying up loose ends.

“Okay, Ray. Go.” Moore took off. Grant motioned for Taylor. “Craig, you got my gear?”

“In the barracks, sir. You want me to… ”

“No. I’ll go. I need to change outta these clothes,” he commented, looking down at the blood stain across the front.

Moshenko had stayed quietly out of the way, until Grant looked at him. “Come on, Grigori.”

As they walked into the barracks, Russo came rushing up beside them. “Sir?”

“What’ve you got, Vince? Anything else?” Grant asked, as he went to get his rucksack off a chair.

“They’ve got a cave picked out. I know the area a little. It’s called Grotta Mazzamuto. Its a very mountainous area, without any population, just some hiking trails.”

“Okay. Looks like that guy is going for a ride with us. Put him in the truck.”

Adler walked in, concentrating his stare toward the far wall, where the injured Italians were laying. His pace quickened as he spotted Luigi.

Kneeling beside the Italian, he spoke quietly, “Luigi, come stai?” (How are you?)

The now frail-looking man opened his eyes, and recognizing Adler, he smiled weakly and nodded.

“We’ll take care of you, my friend,” Adler smiled, patted the old man’s hand, then he stood and went over to Grant.

“How’s he doing?” Grant asked with concern.

“Looks weak, Skipper. They all look pretty bad. What are we gonna do for them?”

“I’ve sent the senior chief with the AFN tech to call Naples. If the fleet’s close, maybe they can get a chopper off a carrier. I think that’s the best we can do, Joe. If that doesn’t pan out, maybe we can contact a hospital. The closest one’s probably in Catania.” He laid a hand on Adler’s shoulder. “Look, let’s just wait for NAS, okay?”

Adler nodded, looked over his shoulder toward the wounded, then turned again to Grant, this time with fire in his eyes. “When we goin’ after those bastards?”

“We?”

“I know you’re going. Don’t even think about leaving me here, ’cause you know that won’t work.”

Grant’s mouth curved into a smile. “I know that as fact. But right now I’m ordering you to get some coffee and something to eat. You hear me?”

“Whatever you say.” Adler walked off slowly to the galley.

Grant was changing back into his cammies when Moshenko stepped near him. “Will I be helping you?” Looking directly into Grant’s eyes, he continued, without waiting for the initial answer. “I am sure you have something planned already, do you not?”

“I do, Grigori, and yes, I’m including you. I don’t give a flying fart what either of our government’s thinks or says.”

Moshenko leaned closer and just stared up at Grant. In his thick Russian accent and pronouncing the words slowly, he asked, “‘Flyeeng fart?’ What is this ‘flyeeng fart’?”

With a wide grin, Grant only said, “I’ll explain later.” He lifted his holster from the chair, slipped it around his waist, fastened the buckle, and readjusted his .45, when he heard Moore in his earpiece. “You need to come to AFN, sir.”

Grant took off running, pressing the PTT. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Naples bureau chief’s on the line.”

Grant didn’t know what to expect, but hoped the bureau chief had some good intel.

Moore had the door open. “Follow me.” Both of them took the stairs two at a time, finally reaching the second level. The door to the tech room was already wide open.

Wright looked up and handed the phone to Grant with a slight nod of his head. Introductions could wait.

“Stevens here.”

“Captain, Jack Edwards here. I guess Admiral Torrinson told you I might be calling.”

“Yes, sir, he did. But first can I ask if you had any luck getting a chopper for us, to pick up the wounded here, sir?”

“You were lucky, Captain. A carrier was heading to Augusta Bay. A helo lifted off not long ago. You should catch sight of it within a half hour.”

Grant gave Moore a thumb’s up before saying to Edwards, “Wait one, sir; let me pass the word.” He turned to Moore. “Ray, head over to the barracks; tell them a chopper’s on the way, maybe half hour. Have them do what they can to get those men ready for transport.” Moore didn’t hesitate and took off. Grant resumed his conversation with Edwards. “Sorry, sir. Have you got anything for me? Have you heard from your agent yet?”

“Agent Fierra still hasn’t contacted me, but you’ve gotta understand this isn’t an easy task. These ‘padroni’ (godfathers) aren’t usually willing to sit down and have chats with the CIA. It’s just something they have an aversion to.”

Grant dropped his hat on the desk and briskly rubbed his hand over the top of his head in frustration. Considering his past experiences with the Agency and his lack of confidence in it, he wanted to end the conversation, until Edwards said, “But, again, you may still have some luck on your side.”

“Why’s that?”

“Since Fierra is half-Sicilian and speaks Sicilian, he’s got a head start.”

“Sorry, sir, but if that’s all he’s got… ”

“Hold it, Captain! Let me finish, will ya?”

“I’m listening.”

“We suspect that Falcone doesn’t have a clue about this ‘Diavoli’ group even being in existence.”

Grant started pacing next to the desk, wondering how Edwards came up with that conclusion. “From what I understand, he’s head of one of the largest organizations in Sicily.”

“Yeah, he is. Doesn’t mean he knows everything.”

Bullshit, Grant thought. He got where he is because he does know everything. “Look, sir, my gut tells me he’s gotta know, but let’s assume for the time being he doesn’t. Does your agent plan to tell him?”

“Depends.”

“Did you say ‘depends’?” Grant’s voice went deeper and louder. “Depends on what?” He wanted to reach into the phone and shake the shit out of Edwards.

“Look, Captain, this conversation’s beginning to take a nasty turn that… ”

More freakin’ games, Grant thought disgustedly. “No, you look. We’ve got dead and wounded, innocent Italians. We just rescued an EOD team that this goddamn group took as hostage. Now, why do you suppose they wanted EOD? Do you have any clue what they took from here?” Grant heard nothing but silence from the other end of the line. “Whether Falcone knows or doesn’t know, hardly makes any damn difference. Those canisters are being taken someplace, and you’re wasting my time with this bullshit conversation.” He slammed the phone down. A second later he noticed the tech staring up at him. “You’re Sam Wright?” he asked, trying to force a smile, and extending a hand.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” The strength in the hand shaking his made Wright wince.

“Sorry,” Grant apologized. “Still pissed.” Wright nodded. “I’ve gotta thank you for what you did, for taking the chance you took with all that was happening outside.”

“I felt really bad for… ” Wright brushed a hand across his bloodshot brown eyes.

“What? For staying in here? For protecting yourself?” Wright gave a brief nod. “Think about this. If you had gone out there, you might be one of the wounded, or worse. And how would we have found out about anything, if you didn’t send those transmissions?”

“I… I suppose you’re right.”

“You bet your ass I’m right.” Grant started toward the door. “I’ve gotta go. You sure you’re okay?”

Wright nodded as he stood, commenting, “I’d like to help with the wounded, if that’s okay.”

“Let’s go.” As Wright started past him, Grant took hold of his arm, pulling him back. “Look. You’re gonna have to stay here after we’re gone. I’ll contact Keith and have him bring the rest of the men that work with you.”

Wright looked as if he was about to panic. “But… but what about security? We don’t have any!”

“I’ll leave EOD here. It’s the best I can do for now. Besides, I doubt there’ll be any more problems. They took what they were after.” Grant thought for a second, before asking, “Can you put a call through to NIS in D.C. now?”

Walking back behind the desk, the tech answered, “Sure.”

Grant gave the details for the call, and within a minute, Torrinson’s yeoman was on the line.

“Zach, this is Captain Stevens. Need to talk with the admiral ASAP.”

“Grant!” Torrinson shouted. “What the hell’s happening? Where are you?”

“Sir, we’re still at AFN, getting ready to haul.”

“Where…?”

Grant knew he was pressing his luck, not explaining the plan to Torrinson, but he was running out of time. “Sir, please; I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta make this quick. We’ve got to get some kind of security for AFN as soon as possible. All I can do for now is direct that EOD stay here temporarily. Maybe you can contact the Italians and have their police brought in, too. Can you help them, sir?”

Torrinson was trying to face the fact that he was about to be left out of the loop. The concern in Grant’s voice made him uneasy, but he was going to put his trust in Grant Stevens again. “I’ll work on it. Any contact there?”

“Best to call this number, sir. You’ll be talking with Sam Wright. If you need to talk with EOD, Sam will find them.” Grant blew out a breath through tight lips. “Thanks, Admiral.” He had one other request for Torrinson. “Admiral, Colonel Moshenko and the other two Russians are safe. Think we need to contact the Russian ambassador?”

Torrinson jotted a note on the yellow pad. “Will contact State when we’re through here.”

Grant was quiet and Torrinson knew the conversation was over. “I know, Grant, you’ve gotta go.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.” Grant lowered the phone slowly, staring at it as he put it in the base. He started for the door, motioning for Wright to follow.

They rushed downstairs then ran across the compound. “Go,” Grant said to Wright, pointing to the barracks.

Moore and Adler came up to Grant, with Adler immediately asking, “What’s the plan, Skipper?” Grant eyed his friend, studying the rugged, tired face. Adler responded, reassuringly, “I’m fine.” He held up two fingers, and said, “Scout’s honor.”

Without taking his eyes from Adler, Grant said to Moore, “Ray, use that radio and contact Keith Wagner in Motta. Tell him to bring the rest of the American workers. They need to plan on staying here.”

“Aye, sir. I’m on it.”

“Where’s Grigori?” Grant asked, looking around.

“He went to get the comrades,” Adler responded, as he looked over his shoulder. “Here he comes.”

Grant took a quick check of his watch and signaled for Moshenko. “Grigori! Get my team!” He turned to Adler. “Joe, listen, I talked with the admiral. Gotta leave your team here until the admiral can get security sent in.”

“Understand, Skipper. I’ll go tell them. But what about…?

“Move, Joe! Then get your ass back here so we can get this op going! Everybody! Get your gear. Load it into those trucks! Put mine in the helo!” He had a quick thought. “Paul, get the rope from the roof.”

Adler came running back. “All set, Skipper. Now, do you think we’ll need any extra ammo? We’ve got some in the hangar.”

Grant was feeling better seeing Adler returning to his old self. “Think we’re good, Joe. It’d be best if your guys kept it anyway. Listen, can you give me the short version on what was left in the tunnel before the attack?”

Adler reached into his top pocket, lifting out a small black spiral notebook. He flipped through several pages before finding the last notation, then he read, “Six grapefruit-size canisters; two heavy mortars; H.E. (high explosive) anti-personnel bombs; five boxes of rifles; three boxes of machine guns. We got the cruise missiles out first.” The Henschel HS-293 was an anti-ship missile with a liquid propellent rocket motor. It weighed approximately twenty-three hundred pounds with a length of twelve feet.

Grant stared in disbelief. “How the hell did you get those out?”

“Same way they got them in,” Adler grinned. He pointed to the east side of the compound. “Right over there was the exit from the tunnel. They’d poured concrete and made a ramp. The missiles were already mounted on wheeled platforms. We set up a pulley system. And don’t worry. We already sealed off that end.”

He didn’t have to wait for Grant to ask and he called out, “Doug! Get me a quick count of what’s in the tunnel!” Adler turned back to Grant. “Ya know, Skipper, those canisters were meant to be put inside missiles as a means of delivery. Is it possible they don’t know that?” he questioned, as he slid the notebook back into his pocket.

“Still gotta worry, Joe.”

“Oh, I agree! I agree!”

Taylor wasn’t gone long, and he rushed back to Adler. “LT, the only thing left is one box of the machine guns!”

Adler shot a look at Grant, as he commented, “No wonder they had so many trucks.” He motioned to Taylor, “Okay, Doug. Thanks.” Taylor left. Adler rubbed a hand across the stubble on his face. “That’s one reason why they were here so long.”

“Why’s that?”

“Those damn mortars. They weigh over two hundred pounds. They must’ve broken them into the three sections.”

Grant was just nodding his head, but he had another major concern. “How unstable do you think those canisters are?”

“They were packed individually in protective steel containers, but… I really don’t know. There’s the possibility it’s been degraded after all that time, but again, I don’t know. I do know that if certain oils or petroleum products had been added, the ‘shelf’ life can be extended, but there’s no way to know that either. Christ! We were waiting for orders on how they wanted us to dispose of the shit.” He grabbed one hand with the other and cracked his knuckles. “What the hell are we gonna do when we find them?”

Grant jammed his hands into his pockets, took a couple of steps, then turned back to Adler. The jaw tensed as he ground his teeth. “What if we’re too late, Joe? If they’re leaking, we could walk right into that shit and it’d be all over.” He looked around at the men who were about to go with him. Going on a mission where you could see your enemy was one thing. But how would they confront something they couldn’t see? How could he expose them, literally, to an unseen enemy?

Adler stepped closer. “I know what you’re thinking, Skipper. Don’t even go there. You know you won’t be able to stop any of us, even with an order.”

Grant’s insides were twisting into a knot. “Think it’s time for us to hang it up, Joe? We been doing this shit too long?”

Adler knew the torment Grant could put himself through; he’d seen it before. “It’s all we know.”

A faint smile showed on Grant’s face. “You mean like we were born for it?”

“Why the hell not?”

Several minutes later, everyone gathered around Grant, who started to say, “We’ve… ” Just then they snapped their heads around, hearing the sound of a chopper coming from the carrier. Grant shouted, “Ray, get ready for them!”

Once the helo had safely landed in the compound, two Navy corpsmen hopped off, carrying medical bags. Another two seaman followed with stretchers. Moore waved them to the barracks.

While the wounded were being cared for then carried onboard, Adler was feeling relief for the help his friends would receive. But as he glanced over at Grant, he saw a concerned look, something was bothering him, and he asked, “Anything I can help with, Skipper?”

With the all too familiar stance, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, and head down, Grant responded, “Joe, we’ve gotta do something with the bodies; can’t just leave them.” They both went quiet for a moment, until Grant said, “Look, have the senior chief contact Keith. He’s the guy in Motta. There’s gotta be a funeral home or morgue.”

“I take it you’re just concerned about the Italians that were killed?”

“Yeah. I’d personally dig a hole for those other bastards… if I had the time.”

“So whadda we do with them?”

Grant looked down momentarily before responding, “Ask Keith to contact the local police.”

“Be right back.”

Grant stood quietly until Moshenko stepped near him. “I have a concern.”

Still keeping an eye on the wounded being put aboard the chopper, Grant answered, “Speak to me, Grigori.”

“What do I do with Tarasov and Rusnak?”

“Is that more of a concern than you going on an op with us?” Grant smiled.

Moshenko didn’t hesitate with a response. “Da!”

Grant thought for a moment. “Think if you left them here they’d be less trouble. EOD will keep an eye on them. Unless you want to lock them in their room.”

Moshenko thought about that briefly, then decided, “I think it best not to. They will not have any means to make contact with anyone outside.”

“Look, I just talked with Admiral Torrinson and informed him of your situation. He confirmed that he’ll call our secretary of state, who’ll have the responsibility of contacting your ambassador.”

Moshenko took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “How is Washington this time of year?” he asked through a tight grin.

“Why? You thinking about making a trip?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Moshenko replied, “Perhaps.”

Slapping his friend on the back, Grant said, “You love Russia too much, Grigori. But one day if you want to make that happen, my friend — you and Alexandra — you know that I’ll be there for both of you. I’ll help with all the power that’s in me, if and when that time comes.”

“I know, Grant. I know.”

Grabbing their hats, they shielded their eyes from flying dirt as the helo lifted off. One task completed, Grant thought, before he said, “Grigori, go give the comrades their orders, then hurry back. We’ll start loading up.” He spotted Wright coming towards him. “Sam, do me a favor. Go check to see if the admiral’s called.”

Adler mustered alongside. “Well, Skipper, where do we go from here? You got a plan yet?”

“Gut tells me those trucks are still on the road. They probably want to get to their destination before daylight.”

“So, whadda we gonna do? Fly over looking for a trail of headlights?” Adler smirked.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Adler stepped back. “I take it you’re not shittin’ me.”

“Would I ever shit you, Joe?”

“I was kinda hoping this was the time. Oh, what the hell! I’ve got nothing better to do!”

“Didn’t think so. Look, we’ll use those two trucks, putting my men in one… ”

“Guess you want them to think we’re still hostages, right?”

“Roger that. Russo can take the lead and ride with the one driver, Ray with the other.”

“What about us? You and me?”

“We’ll fly with Grigori.”

With a raised eyebrow, Adler said, “You really enjoy making this shit up as you go along, don’t you?”

“Part of my DNA, Joe. Keeps it interesting, huh?”

“Roger that!”

Grant punched Adler in the shoulder. “Give the men a quick and dirty, then get them going. Tell them to not burn up the road, though. We’ll keep in contact with them.” He looked past Adler seeing Wright waving. “Uh oh,” he said, as he took off running, yelling over his shoulder, “Hold the truck!”

Once Grant was in the office, Wright handed him the phone. “Stevens.”

Torrinson cut right to the chase. “Grant, you have a conversation with Jack Edwards?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s really pissed, Captain.”

“No more than me, Admiral. He’s… ”

“Hold it! Before you go off half-cocked, he needs your help.”

Grant sat on the edge of the desk, glancing at his watch. “Needs my help?”

“Seems his agent Fierra’s gone missing.”

“Another agent gone missing?” Grant said, not afraid to hide his sarcasm.

“Yeah, well, remember, the last time you had something to do with it.”

Grant ignored the comment. “What am I supposed to do, sir? We’ve got a helluva lot on our plate as it is.”

“I realize that, but the last time he was heard from was right after he met with Falcone. He never checked back in with Edwards.”

“Shit!”

“Exactly. Now, all I can say is that your immediate concern is those canisters. Stay on track for now.”

“Sir, were you able to find out anything on what we’re supposed to do with them. I mean, how do we dispose of them?”

“All you can do is get them back to AFN. Let EOD finish the job.”

“But, sir, Joe said he was still waiting for recommendations on how to dispose of them.”

Torrinson let out a long sigh. “If you can get them back to AFN, we’ll just have to wait. It’s just critical we get them back in our possession.”

“Understand, sir.” Nothing Torrinson said put Grant at ease. “The men are ready, sir, but I’ve got to make a change to my original plan. Will be in contact somehow, sir.”

“Good luck, Captain.”

Grant handed the receiver to Wright. “You’d better stick close to your office, Sam.”

“Oh, believe me, I will!”

“We’re having the rest of the men from Motta come in, okay?” Wright nodded.

Grant’s mind was spinning as he rushed across the compound, meeting up with everyone. “Change of plans, men.” He turned to Moshenko. “Grigori, I need you to stay here. Joe and I will be going in the truck.” Without a word, Adler took off to retrieve the gear from the Russian chopper.

“There is nothing I can do?” Moshenko asked with disappointment in his voice.

“If that driver tries bullshitting us with bogus directions, I’ll call in. You’ll take Taylor and see if you can spot those other trucks. We may need help guiding us in.” Grant laid a hand on Moshenko’s shoulder. “Just don’t take any chances, you hear?”

“Of course,” Moshenko replied.

“And we may still need a way out, Grigori. You’ll be in ‘standby’ mode once you come back here.”

Adler stepped near the two, saying, “Excuse me, Skipper, but we’re ready.”

“Joe, tell Taylor to get a radio, scope and NVGs. He’ll go with Grigori when the time comes.”

“Roger.”

Moshenko grabbed Grant’s hand with a strong grip. “I will wait. Good luck, my friend.”

As they headed for the truck, they stopped in their tracks, feeling a rumble deep in the earth. Snapping their heads around, they stared as huge orange plumes of lava shot up from the volcano. Already, a path of scalding lava was cascading down the side of Etna.

“Oh, Christ!” Grant spat out.

“Not too freakin’ good, Skipper!” Adler yelled, as he jumped up on the bed of the truck.

Grant took one quick look at the mountain and shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”