In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 18

With the chopper still one hundred feet above the ground, Grant yelled over the sound of the rotors, “Doug, grab that guy and hang onto him!”

Taylor grabbed Castalani’s jacket, pulled him up, then bending an arm behind his back, held it securely. Castalani winced, with fury building up inside him.

Grant and Adler stood by the open door, hanging onto the sides, looking down as the ground came at them, the rotating blades kicking up dirt beneath them.

At touchdown, Grant and Adler jumped out. Grant immediately cupped a hand around his mouth and yelled, “Ray, take care of this guy! Put him in there!” he ordered, pointing to the barracks. Moore grabbed Castalani’s arm and yanked him from the chopper, turning him over to Simpson and Russo.

As Grant and Adler were walking from the chopper, Moore asked, “You both okay?”

“We’re good. Any problems on the way back?” Grant asked.

“Negative. Everything’s been secured in the hangar.”

Grant glanced off to his right, and asked with surprise in his voice, “Where’d they come from?”

“Oh, the marines? Admiral Torrinson requested fleet to bring them in off the carrier as additional security. And, by the way, he’s waiting to hear from you.”

Moshenko caught up to them, thinking of Grant’s comments on the helo. “Excuse me,” he said laying a hand on Moore’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you have any food and drink for these men?”

“Yes, sir. We sure do. Come to the galley,” Moore responded.

“That’s a good idea, Skipper!” Adler commented.

“I’ll catch up to you later, Joe,” Grant said. “I’ve gotta contact NIS. The admiral’s been out of the loop for too long.” With that he took off jogging toward the main building.

A couple minutes later, Grant made contact. “Zach, Captain Stevens here.”

“Oh, sir! You’re back!”

“Yeah. Is the admiral in?”

“No, sir. He just left for home. Said he’d be back in an hour. Should I call him, sir?”

Grant looked at his watch. “No. I’m gonna grab a quick bite. Just tell him I’ll be here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Hey, Zach. Hold it. Can you patch me through to Jack Edwards in Naples?”

“Sure, sir. Wait one.”

Grant paced in front of the desk, ignoring the rumblings coming from his empty stomach. He had to find out if anything had been determined on Agent Fierra’s cause of death.

“Captain Stevens? Jack Edwards.”

“Yes, sir. Listen, sorry we got off to a bad start earlier. No excuse, but we had a helluva situation going here, sir.”

“Understand, Captain. What can I do for you? Wait! Before you answer, can you tell me what happened? Did you find who or what you were looking for?”

“Yes, sir. We did. Brought the canisters here and also captured somebody from the group. Haven’t had a chance to run a G2 yet, but pretty sure he’s the leader. Name’s ‘Castalani.’”

“Well, Captain, you just got yourself a winner there.”

“So, he is the ‘head honcho’!”

“Damn right he is. I got a surprise call from Pino Falcone not long after Castalani met with him. And, by the way, your instinct about Falcone knowing about the group was correct. Anyway, Falcone swore on the bible he didn’t have anything to do with Agent Fierra’s death.”

“Did you feel comfortable with that, sir?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Besides, Falcone knew we would have run any and all forensics.”

“Did you get those results?”

“I won’t go into details, but from the examination of the vehicle and of Agent Fierra’s body, it seemed to be an accident. We’ve sent the body back to Langley for autopsy anyway, for final confirmation.”

“I’m sure that gives you some relief, sir, but let me again extend my sympathy. It’s always tough to lose a team member.”

“Thanks. Say, what do you plan on doing with Castalani, if I can ask?”

Grant hesitated. “I still haven’t talked to Admiral Torrinson.” He left it at that. “Look, have to go. Maybe one of these days we’ll meet up.”

“You know where to find me.”

Except for the marines standing guard around the compound, everyone else was in the barracks. Grant walked in, his eyes meeting Castalani’s. The Italian was sitting at the far end of the table in between Russo and Simpson. Grant walked along the side of the table, stopping opposite the Italian. He put a foot up on a chair, and laid his forearms across his knee. Without taking his eyes from the man, he asked Russo, “Vince, has he offered up any information?”

“Been as quiet as a mouse.”

“What about our other Italian friend over there?”

“Nothing yet.”

Grant pounded his fist on the table. “Enough of this bullshit. Ray! You, Ken and Eric take Castalani upstairs. Gag and tie him to anything in there. And once you’ve got him settled, I want it to sound like you’re beating the crap out of him. Maybe that’ll loosen this guy’s tongue.”

“Got it, sir.” They jerked Castalani off the seat, dragged him across the room, then roughly pushed him up the stairs.

Grant turned his attention back to the other Italian, giving him a hard stare. “Okay. Vince, Paul, same thing with this guy. Take him to one of the other rooms and tie him down. We’ll see if all the noise will jar his memory.” The two SEALs immediately took their charge upstairs.

Grant sat down heavily near Moshenko and Adler. “Here ya go,” Adler said as he slid a bowl of steaming, hot spaghetti in front of him, along with a cup of black coffee.

Grant’s eyes opened wide in amazement, as he breathed in the delicious-smelling aroma. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“That’s what I said,” Adler laughed. “Wait until you taste it!”

Grant looked around the room, spotting Wagner leaning against the doorway to the galley, with a black apron wrapped around his waist, and waving a wooden spoon. Grant snapped a quick two-finger salute to the generous man.

Moshenko put a hand on Grant’s back. “Eat. You need to eat.”

Grant asked, “Did everybody have some?”

“Yes, yes. Now eat.”

They all glanced up, hearing the ruckus above them. “Music to my ears,” Adler grinned.

Grant just nodded, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth, savoring the spicy sauce as the long strands of pasta swirled around his tongue. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he leaned closer to Adler. Pointing his fork toward Wagner, he whispered, “He’s coming home with us!”

“Shit, Skipper! We’d weigh five hundred pounds eating like this.”

“Yeah, but we sure as hell would die happy, Joe!”

Adler nodded and grinned, finally asking, “So, what have you got in mind for our friends upstairs?”

Grant twirled the last strands of spaghetti on his fork. “Only thing we can do. Return them to Falcone in Palermo.”

“Oh, I like it!” Adler laughed.

Grant turned to Moshenko. “What do you think, Grigori? Ready for another trip?”

“It would be my pleasure!”

“By the way,” Grant said, “how are your comrades doing? Did they give you any flak?”

“I believe they are truly grateful for what you and your men have done to rescue them, to keep them alive.”

“Where are they?” Grant asked, looking around.

“They have gone to their room.”

“Uh, Grigori,” Grant said, looking over Moshenko’s shoulder at the two Russians hurrying down the stairs. “Think you need to explain what all the noise is about.”

Moshenko swiveled around in his seat and held up a hand, stopping Tarasov and Rusnak in their tracks. Before he went to them, he said to Grant as he pointed, “You are being summoned.” Sam Wright was motioning for him.

Grant got up yawning, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling stubble. “What’s up?”

“Admiral Torrinson’s on the line, Captain.”

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Sam? I’ll catch up.” As Grant walked toward the building, he wondered how he was going to convince Torrinson to let him take the two Italians back to Palermo. They’d completed the mission. They rescued. They recovered. Now he’s going to tell the admiral he wants to make a “return.” He hoped he didn’t have to fill in the “dance card” until this op was really over.

Standing by Wright’s desk, Grant picked up the phone. “Grant here, sir.”

“Captain, you and your men okay?”

Grant hadn’t heard it often, but now he thought he was hearing annoyance in Torrinson’s voice. “We’re all in one piece, sir. And, sir, before you chew my ass out, I’m sorry you were left out of the loop for so long.”

Torrinson sucked on his Tootsie Pop, as he rocked back and forth in his leather swivel chair. Instead of candy, he should’ve been sucking on some Pepto. “What makes you think I was going to chew your ass out? I mean, I’ve just been sitting here waiting for information, hoping to hear from my best operator, hearing about earthquakes and volcanoes, worrying about Sarin gas!”

Grant sat down heavily on a wooden chair by the desk. Holding the phone against his ear, he leaned forward, both elbows resting on his knees. “I say again, sir, I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Sorry?”

“Uh, sir, I just thought… ”

“No, Grant. You misinterpreted what I was saying, or how I was saying it. Look, let’s just start this conversation over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First, was there any damage at AFN from the quake?”

Grant was still trying to assimilate Torrinson’s words. He answered, “Uh, no, sir; doesn’t look like it. Most of it happened north, where we were. Sam’s checked everything in here; doesn’t appear to be any problem with the network, only a few broken windows in the barracks. The generators are still working.” Grant went on to explain the destruction of the cave and armament.

“So, you transported the canisters back to AFN?” Torrinson asked.

“Senior Chief Moore and the team brought them back, sir. Joe and I took care of the munitions. Right now, the canisters are stored in the hangar. We’re waiting for orders on how we’re supposed to dispose of them.”

“I’m still waiting for that answer, too, Grant. At one time it would have been as simple as ‘burial at sea’, but that was outlawed around 1974. So, we’re back to square one.”

Grant had more than one concern. Was the gas still active? Even though it seemed secure in the containers, the rough trip out of AFN and then the return trip could have weakened the inner structure. If that was the case, none of them would have a chance, unless…

Torrinson interrupted. “Is EOD going to securely close off the remainder of the tunnel?”

“Yes, sir, as soon as we’re totally under control here. By the way, sir, thanks for bringing in those marines.” Okay, he thought. Time to bring up the G2. “Sir, some of my men are running a G2 on… ”

Suddenly, the door burst open, with Moore rushing in. “Sir! You’ve gotta come with me!”

“Admiral! Something’s going down! Can I call you back, sir?”

Torrinson hated times like these. Sometimes he wished he were actually part of the ops he was in charge of, out in the field, so he wouldn’t be left out of the loop. “Go! I’ll be waiting!”

Grant and Moore ran side by side across the compound with Grant trying to find out what the hell was happening, as Moore only gave him quick response. “We got some shit from one of the Italian’s! It ain’t gonna make you happy!”

They ran inside the barracks, seeing Moshenko sitting quietly at the table, with an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.

Adler was standing at the foot of the stairs, with his hands shoved into the side pockets of his fatigues, looking none too happy.

Grant rushed up to him. “Joe! What’s happened?” The conversation was about to eliminate all military protocol, and turn into one where two friends just hashed it out.

Adler had an expression that just didn’t fit, one Grant wasn’t used to seeing. “I don’t understand how it happened. I did the inventory on everything in that tunnel. I… ”

Grant stepped closer to his friend. “What did that Italian say? Tell me!”

“He and a compadre managed to steal one of the canisters.”

Grant backed away slowly, speechless. But then his brain kicked in, and he shook Adler’s shoulder. “Joe! Listen! There wasn’t any way for you to see what they took out of that tunnel and what they finally put in the cave.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t see what was in the cave, did I? That’s where I should’ve noticed the count was wrong!”

Grant tried to drive his point home. “I say again… you didn’t see how many they took out of the truck and stashed in the cave. Did you?” Adler shook his head. “And most of that stuff was covered in tarps when we got there, wasn’t it?”

Adler finally looked up, staring into Grant’s eyes, feeling he’d failed at his job. “Still no excuse. It was my responsibility. I should’ve taken a count. Right? You know I’m right.”

Grant turned away, with his head bowed. Adler was right. It had been his responsibility. Grant’s jaw was beginning to ache from bearing down on his teeth with so much pressure. Finally, he turned to face Adler again, trying to reason. “And what the hell were we supposed to do up there in the cave even if you had noticed? We did what we had to do and as fast as we could. We didn’t have time to piss, for Christ’s sake.”

He leaned closer, poking a finger into Adler’s chest. “You wanna beat yourself up? Go ahead. But what we’ve gotta do now is we need to hunt down that goddamn canister.” Grant kept looking at his friend. “Hey! Get your head back on straight, you hear me?”

Adler took a deep breath, and with his eyebrows knitting together, he asked, “So where the hell do you think the sixth one is?”

“How the hell should I know?” Grant answered, throwing his arms up. He turned to Moore. “Ray, go get those bastards and bring ’em here.” Moore ran upstairs.

Doors on the second floor smacked into the walls as they were flung open. The Italians were being manhandled, pushed into the hallway, then dragged down the stairs.

Grant took hold of Castalani’s shoulder as he was just about to put his foot on the last step. He yanked him to the floor, pulling him toward the corner, causing Castalani to half crawl, half walk as Grant moved swiftly, holding him securely in his grasp. He released his hold after he shoved him against the wall. That’s when he finally noticed the Italian’s face was still red and swollen, with dried blood on his lips and at the corner of his nose.

“Craig, Ken, watch this guy,” Grant ordered. Then he walked over to the younger, smaller man, put a hand on his back, and shoved him toward the table. With a strong hand, he pressed on the Italian’s shoulder, forcing him into the chair.

Grant spun another chair around and sat on it backwards, folding his arms on the backrest, staring hard at the Italian. “Okay, Vince, let’s hear it.”

Russo began relaying the story that this man, Gino Rocca, told him. Rocca and his friend, Paolo Conti, were new to the group, recruited by a man named Giovanni Bruno. Rocca and Conti had been friends from childhood, coming from the small town of San Giuseppe Jado, about seventeen miles south of Palermo. Rocca had just recently been released from prison in Palermo when Bruno started recruiting members.

According to Rocca, neither Bruno nor Castalani ever promised anyone money for participating but just continued ramming home the point the group was specifically being formed for the good of the Mafia.

It had only been a little more than two weeks ago that Castalani learned what had been discovered in the tunnel. That’s when he started to put his plan in motion.

Two men, who had been hired as guards, were paid off by Castalani to spy on the Americans, to try to learn what had been discovered. The assignment had been easy. Even though they were never allowed into the tunnel, mostly all they had to do was watch and listen to conversations by the Italian workers, who were on better terms with the Americans.

Grant sat quietly, patiently, never taking his stare from Rocca, who nervously fidgeted in his seat, with his bloodshot eyes going from Grant to Castalani. All the while Grant kept mentally processing the information being relayed by Russo.

Finally, Grant put a hand up, and said, “Hold it. When did these two guys come up with their ‘plot’ to steal one of the canisters? And why the hell would they want to take such a risk? We’re talking Mafia for Christ’s sake!”

“According to him,” Russo said, “it was an opportunity for money. They didn’t think anyone would notice a canister missing from the truck. And eventually, they planned to extort money from us Americans.”

Grant indicated with his thumb, “Him? He planned this? Doesn’t look like he has the balls to defy Castalani, let alone Falcone.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what he told me.”

Grant narrowed his eyes as he stared at the Italian. His gut was telling him something entirely different. This guy was lying. “Vince, ask him what Falcone promised him and his partner.”

“Excuse me, sir?” a surprised Russo questioned.

“You heard me. Ask him.”

As soon as the words left Russo’s mouth, Rocca stiffened and responded vehemently, “Niente! Niente!”

“Nothing, sir.”

Grant turned in his chair, seeing Castalani with his eyes on him. “Let’s try the game again,” he said quietly. “Vince, draw your weapon.” Without questioning, Russo pulled his .45. Grant got up and shoved his chair with his foot, sending it careening off the wall. He immediately took hold of Rocca around his neck, holding the cold steel blade against the jugular. “Now,” he said to Russo, “go with Ray and Craig, and drag Castalani outside… and I mean drag! Warn the marines, then fire your weapon in the air.” Grant caught a glimpse of Moshenko, lighting up a cigar, enjoying the game being played out by his friend.

“Sounds like a plan, sir,” Russo calmly said. He walked across the room with the weapon in full view. A quick explanation was all that was necessary, and the three SEALs hauled Castalani out the door. In less than five minutes, after warning the marines, the shot from Russo’s .45 sounded like a cannon going off. Russo came back in, holstering his weapon, giving a nod in Grant’s direction.

A slight trickle of blood, mixed with sweat, ran down Rocca’s neck where the tip of the knife jabbed him. The one English word he knew, he repeated rapidly, “Okay! Okay! Okay!”

Grant finally got what he was looking for. His own final confirmation that Falcone had known about the group. ‘Mafia man’ made the threats against these two men, who he had personally selected, and then had them steal the canister. Apparently, Falcone had his own plan for Castalani, his own plan for teaching him, and maybe the whole group, a lesson. It’d be a way to enforce the fact that anybody else who may have the same notion, better not fuck with him.

Grant put in a call to Torrinson, giving him the full scoop. Torrinson asked with concern, “Any idea where that canister is?”

“No, sir. Not yet. So far the Italian we questioned was only given partial information, since his partner was the one delivering the goods to Falcone or taking it wherever he’d been instructed. But I’m not convinced this guy doesn’t know more, sir”

Torrinson knew what was coming next. “And you have plans to do what, Captain?”

“Well, find the canister, sir! And return our Italian friend.”

“You don’t mean to Falcone, do you?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I do.”

“And you plan on doing that how?”

“Have to consider contacting Jack Edwards.”

Torrinson was silently giving approval by nodding his head. Then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. You said ‘friend.’ Don’t you have two Italians there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m thinking about just returning Castalani, since he’s the one who Falcone’s wanting to get his hands on. I might just let the other guy fend for himself. He’ll probably live in fear for the rest of his life, anyway.”

Torrinson pushed away his plate with a half-eaten cheeseburger and cold french fries remaining. “This sure has turned into one hell of an op, Grant,” he commented as he took a sip from a can of flat Pepsi.

“I know, sir.” Grant rubbed a hand across his forehead, with his thoughts briefly turning to sleep he hadn’t had in — he couldn’t remember how long it’d been. Dark circles under his eyes only proved the fact. “Oh, sir, any word on the injured Italians the chopper took out of here?”

“The medical staff on the carrier did their best to patch them up, then they made arrangements with the civilian hospital in Catania to transport them there. That’s where they should be by now.”

“All of them, sir?”

“As far as I know. Oh, by the way, State’s heard from the Russian ambassador.”

Uh oh, Grant thought. “Yes, sir?”

“Ambassador Yakunin has requested that Colonel Moshenko proceed to East Germany with Tarasov and Rusnak.”

“Sir, you don’t think they’re aware of Grigori’s helping on this one, do you?”

“I sure as hell didn’t spread the word.”

“Of course not, sir. I didn’t mean to imply that, sir.”

Torrinson laughed to himself. Every once in awhile he liked to yank Grant’s chain. “Do you think he’ll have a problem with his comrades possibly spilling the beans?”

“Grigori can take care of himself, and he has a certain way with people, comrades or not.”

Torrinson reached for his cheeseburger again, took a bite, then spit it out. Grabbing his cloth napkin, he tried to wipe the cold grease off his tongue. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Have to talk with the team, sir, but I can guarantee this will be finished today.”

“Good luck, Grant.”

Five minutes later Grant was walking across the compound slowly, with his head down and his hands shoved into his back pockets. Halfway to the barracks, he stopped, clasped his hands behind his head and looked up. He just stood there, trying to put his thoughts in some kind of reasonable order.

Should he touch base with Jack Edwards? Edwards already had somewhat of a loose relationship with Falcone. But he couldn’t even be sure if Edwards would be willing to make the introductions.

He shook his head and started pacing. It ate him up thinking he had to deal with the Agency, but he may have no choice. He didn’t think he could just drive up to the warehouse and expect Falcone to let him in. No. He had to contact Edwards. Make Falcone aware he’d be delivering his “package.”

Okay, then what? He pounded his forehead with his fist. “Think, Stevens, think,” he said under his breath. Negotiate with Falcone. Maybe a trade. Castalani for the canister. Simple enough, and sometimes simple is best — but sometimes simple is stupid. But what if Falcone had his own plans for Castalani and the gas? He may not want to give it up so easily.

Moore and Adler walked up behind him, with Adler asking, “Anything we can help with, Skipper?”

Grant turned, was silent for a minute, then said, “Ray, try one more time to see if you can find out where that canister was being taken. Get as many details as you can.” Noticing that Castalani was still sitting on the ground, he added, “And get one of the marines to put that bastard in the hangar. Keep him out of sight.” Moore rushed off.

Grant stepped closer to Adler, staring at him dead on. “You get your head straight yet?”

“I’m ready to go forth, my fearless leader! When we gonna get this show on the road?”

“As soon as I touch base with Jack Edwards.”

“You pulling him in on this?” Adler’s eyebrows raised, not expecting the comment, especially knowing how Grant usually felt about Agency peeps.

“Think it’s best. Don’t think we can just drop in on Mafia. Since Edwards has been on speaking terms with Falcone, he’s probably our only hope to get in the door.” Grant looked over Adler’s shoulder, seeing Moore holstering his sidearm as he hustled toward them.

“Did you use more friendly persuasion, Ray? Hope you got something.”

“Affirmative. Last that clown knew, his friend was to deliver the canister to Falcone someplace not far from the commercial docks.”

Again Grant smacked his fist into his palm. “I knew that bastard had more to say.” But then he started feeling frustrated again. “Shit! Please don’t tell me it’s the warehouse. There’re too many damn places they could’ve hidden that canister.”

“Negative. Not the warehouse. Seems Falcone has a freakin’ hundred foot Benetti yacht docked in a marina just north of the warehouse location. That guy,” Moore indicated with a thumb over his shoulder, “is pretty certain from directions given to him and his partner, that that’s the location of the canister.”

This particular yacht was built at Benetti Yachts. A luxury yacht with three decks, she has a beam of twenty feet and maximum depth draught of eight and a half feet. Her hull was built out of steel and the superstructure over the hull is fashioned out of aluminum. With her twin GM diesel engines, her top speed is approximately fifteen knots and a cruising speed of twelve knots, giving her a range of thirty-eight hundred miles.

On the forward deck is a hydraulic winch, allowing easy launching and retrieving of a nine foot inflatable boat, a Zodiac. The transom of the inflatable is rigid, providing strength for the mounting of its outboard motor.

“Makes more sense than a warehouse,” Adler commented. “But that’s one helluva big boat, Skipper.”

Grant nodded in agreement, before turning to Moore. “See if Vince can get a marina name and the name of that yacht, and any specific details. We’ll be right behind you.”

He thought about Adler’s question, trying to reason where a canister could be stowed — a canister of nerve gas, on a vessel that size. But there wasn’t any reason for Falcone to think his secret wasn’t still safe. Grant was betting it was stored where Falcone could keep an eye on it, like maybe the bridge. With the canister being the size of a grapefruit, it wouldn’t take up much room.

They were going to have to give themselves enough time for the search, and before daylight. Grant glanced at his watch. It was 1145 hours. The drive to Palermo would take two and a half to three hours.

“So? Any idea on where to start looking?” Adler asked.

“I’d say start at the bridge and work our way down, Joe.”

Adler nodded, asking, “You still thinking of bringing Edwards in on this?”

“Don’t see any way around it. Oh, by the way, the admiral reported that the injured Italians were transported from the carrier to a hospital in Catania.”

Adler blew out a long breath, then asked, “All of them?”

“He seemed to think so. Feel better?” Grant asked, laying his hand on Adler’s shoulder.

“Yeah, sure do.”

Grant noticed Moshenko leaning against the doorframe, puffing on a cigar. “Joe, give us a minute.” Adler went inside. Grant anchored his thumbs in his back pockets and propped a foot on the doorstep. “Grigori, listen. I talked with Admiral Torrinson about your helping us.”

“And he said…?” Moshenko asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

“Ambassador Yakunin has requested you take the comrades to East Germany like originally planned. I’m sorry, Grigori.”

Moshenko flicked an ash from the cigar, looking down, shaking his head. “Very disappointing, Grant.”

“Look, Grigori. You went through one helluva ordeal here, not to mention saving our butts up at the cave. You need to fly outta here, then go home to Alexandra. Hey, you don’t think the comrades will ‘rat’ on you, do you?”

“‘Rat’ on me?” Moshenko asked, wrinkling his brow.

“Yeah, squeal on you, tell somebody what you did for us.”

“No, I do not think they will ‘rat’ on me. I reminded them you saved their lives, and I will remind them again if I must.” His face broke out in a mischievous grin, revealing his chipped front tooth. “And we will be flying over a good deal of open water on our way. Strange things happen over water, Grant, no?”

“You’ve read and listened to too many stories, my friend,” Grant answered, giving a wink.

Moshenko broke the end from his cigar, tucking the remainder into his jacket pocket. “I will need to make contact with the Leningrad.” The Russian ship was a Moskva class helicopter carrier.

“Sure, Grigori. You need to use the phone in the AFN building?”

Moshenko shook his head. “I will use the radio in the helicopter.”

He started to walk away, when Grant grabbed his arm. “You remember the conversation we had about D.C.?” Moshenko nodded. “I’ll be there for you, my friend. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Looking back as he was entering the barracks, Grant could tell Moshenko had some concern for his immediate future. Now Grant had to erase the feeling of guilt for getting his good friend involved in the op.