In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 19

Grant sat near the end of the long wooden table, balancing himself on the back legs of a chair, rocking back and forth. He couldn’t waste any more time if this op was going to end today like he promised Torrinson.

His next order of the day was to contact Edwards in Naples. He had to convince him to set up a meeting with Falcone. Maybe it wouldn’t take much convincing considering what happened to Agent Fierra, whether or not Fierra died because of an accident or not. It was still an agent lost.

He stopped rocking suddenly. The front chair legs struck the floor. Wait one, he thought. What if they made Falcone just think there was going to be a meeting? What if they send him to some bullshit location while the team investigates the yacht? At this point, the yacht seems to be the most logical place for Falcone to have stashed the canister. Easy to hide. Easy to transport. Easy to dispose of.

He rested his elbows on his knees. Could it be? Is it possible Falcone wants to dispose of the canister and Castalani? And at the same time? “Change of plans, Stevens!” he spat out, as he jumped up, sending the chair backwards.

“Skipper!” Adler yelled from the other side of the room, as he and Moore started running.

Grant turned toward them, holding up a hand. “Whoa! Hold it, guys! Just had a thought.”

“Christ! That must’ve been one helluva thought!” Adler exclaimed loudly.

Grant started past them. “I’ve gotta call Edwards. Ray, have the men check every piece of gear. Joe, have your men start working on closing that tunnel. And see if you can find Keith. Maybe he’ll be good enough to bring us something light to eat.”

“Still got a huge pot of leftover pasta, boss.”

“Carbs. Sounds good, because this day’s got long written all over it.”

Adler yelled after him. “You gonna fill us in?”

Running across the compound, Grant raised a hand, giving Adler a slight wave.

Leaning back in a swivel chair with his feet propped up on his desk, fifty-two year old Jack Edwards was gnawing on the eraser of a yellow pencil. His new prescription black, horn-rimmed bifocals were resting on top of his head, nearly completely covered by a shock of gray hair.

Dropping his feet to the floor, he reached for a manila folder. Pulling his glasses from his head, he adjusted them on his nose as he was opening the folder. Two pieces of fax paper were attached to the right hand side. The top paper had a heading, OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER.

Resting a forearm on either side of the folder, he perused the report for the third time, his eyes zeroing in on one particular box, number eleven: Blood (Type; Alcohol Content). The report showed Agent Fierra’s blood type as A+ (A positive). But it was the next notation that caused Edwards both distress and rage: Alcohol Content — .093 %.

He kept drawing circles around the figure with his pencil, pressing harder and harder, until the point snapped off. Edwards knew that Fierra wasn’t a drinker because of medication he was taking.

“That fuckin’ bastard!” he shouted, throwing the pencil on the desk. Flopping back against the chair, he swiveled it rapidly back and forth, stopping suddenly when his intercom buzzed. He flipped the switch. “What, Gail?”

Forty year old, recently divorced, bleached blonde Gail McCarthy had just been posted to Naples as Edwards’ secretary. Still trying to regain her self-confidence and self-esteem, she was finding it difficult to understand Edwards’ occasional outbursts, and responded timidly, “Jack, there’s a Captain Stevens on line one.”

Edwards started to press the yellow blinking button, hesitated, then punched it with a knuckle, finally picking up the receiver. “Captain Stevens, your timing’s perfect.” Without giving Grant a chance to speak, Edwards immediately continued, “Let me read you something from a fax I received not too long ago.”

The two men discussed the report, with Grant relaying all the information he got out of the two Italians. And after nearly forty minutes of conversation, Edwards stood slowly, not quite sure if he heard Grant correctly. “Would you repeat that, Captain? What exactly is it you want me to do?”

Confirming Grant’s request, Edwards finally responded, with amusement in his voice. “Sure. Sure. I know somebody. Absolutely! He’s very dependable.” Edwards was nearly jumping out of his skin, ready for “bear.” He flopped down in his chair. “Okay, consider it done, as long as you do me a favor.”

Grant stepped through the doorway of the barracks, sniffing the odor of a cigar. Moshenko was coming down the stairs, carrying his luggage in one hand, a cigar in the other. Tarasov and Rusnak were standing near the galley, waiting.

Moshenko motioned to the two, indicating for them to head to the chopper. He walked up to Grant. “My friend, walk with me.”

Grant hooked his thumbs in his back pockets as the two men walked side by side. “Grigori, I’m really concerned about… ”

“Do not be, Grant. I will be fine. Believe me. My trip home will be a ‘piece of cake’ as you say.” Stepping next to the helo, he slid the door back.

Both Tarasov and Rusnak turned toward Grant. Surprisingly, they each extended a hand, and said, “Spaseeba, Captain Stevens.”

Grant responded, “Pazhahlsta.” (You’re welcome.)

The two Russians climbed into the helo, immediately taking their seats, then fastened the seatbelts. Rusnak made sure the box containing the tea cups was secured on the seat near him, also fastened with a seatbelt.

Moshenko shoved his luggage toward the cockpit, then dropped the stub of his cigar on the ground, grinding it with the toe of his shoe. Then he turned to Grant, throwing his strong arms around him in a bear hug. “I will keep your words in my mind, Grant,” he whispered, slapping him on the back. He turned away, then climbed into the helo.

Grant called after him. “Grigori, give Alexandra a hug from me, okay?” The request finally got a smile from Moshenko, before he headed to the cockpit.

Grant started backing up as the rotors started revolving, the blades picking up speed. Moshenko adjusted the collective pitch control lever, and the helo started its vertical climb.

Adler stepped next to Grant, both tilting their heads, following the chopper during its climb. They stood at attention, holding a salute, seeing Moshenko looking down at them through the windshield.

When the chopper passed three hundred feet, Moshenko finally adjusted the cyclic pitch control, changing the pitch of a blade, causing it to take a “larger bite” of air during the after part of the rotor’s revolution. The helo tilted slightly, with its nose down, as Moshenko eased the stick forward, setting a course east, flying to meet up with the Leningrad.

When the chopper was out of sight, Grant brushed his hair off his forehead, saying to Adler, “Let’s go.”

“Did you talk with Edwards?”

“That’s where our planning comes in, Joe,” he grinned.

EOD continued working in the tunnel, and after Adler reviewed complete instructions on how he wanted the job done, he put his three men in complete control of closing it off. They decided the best way to proceed was to set the charges along the beams, causing a cave-in. Since the height of the tunnel was no more than seven feet, the Italian workers could use bulldozers to scoop up dirt from outside the compound, and backfill the tunnel. Once the surface had been leveled, a concrete pad was planned for the water storage on one end. Adler suggested a helo pad be constructed near the opposite end.

Inside the barracks, the SEALs prepared for the mission. Russo succeeded in obtaining the requested information from Rocca. He reported the name of the marina where Falcone’s yacht was docked as “Aquasanta Marina.” The registered name of the vessel is “Sacco di Soldi” (lots of money). Registry: Monaco. According to Rocca, a maximum of five crewmen maintain the vessel, but they’re only onboard when Falcone decided to cruise. He never had guards specifically for his boat, mostly because everyone knew who the owner was. And since the marina was private, security was automatically provided.

For another two hours they huddled over a map, discussing a route, then went over final, critical details. Satisfied they’d covered and prepared for every possible situation, Simpson and Lewis drove the trucks to Motta, searching for gas, while Womack, Cranston and Russo organized their gear, checked all weapons and ammo.

Grant, Adler and Moore sat together. “I’m in on this one, right, Skipper?” Adler questioned, as he continued picking at the crusty leftover bread.

Grant nodded. “Roger that, Joe; need your EOD expertise for sure. Look, you’d better give your men the details. Even though they’re staying behind, they should know what we’ve got planned. And tell them they’ve got ‘guard duty’ until the admiral brings somebody in.” Adler pushed his chair back, then left.

When Simpson and Lewis returned with the vehicles, Grant had them secure the two Italians in the back of one. Grant took some pleasure in seeing the look on Rocca’s face when he discovered Castalani was still alive, realizing he’d been duped into giving up information.

With nearly a three hour drive ahead of them, they had to depart AFN no later than 1830 hours. It was imperative they searched the yacht and were on their way by 0130 hours. Imperative.