In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 5

In the temporary barracks, located about seventy yards east of the AFN building, there was a single, glaring lightbulb in the galley on the first floor. Anyone staying here had to make due with the facility’s meager set up. The small propane tank, when it was filled, supplied just enough gas for the two-burner cooktop. There was an old sink, molded from concrete, that was probably from the war, and then there was what some would call a fridge, three cubic feet, incapable of retaining cold.

The men of EOD found it easier to drive into Motta, fifteen minutes away, to buy daily rations and just as easy to eat dinner there. Whatever food they brought back from the town was usually dried meats, cheese, and bread, anything that would last without refrigeration. And Italian pastries were always a definite buy, never lasting long enough to require refrigeration.

Adler and the EOD team occupied one large room on the second floor. The three Russians were given accommodations in a separate room, toward the back of the building, on the east end. In both rooms military cots had been lined up against the south wall. The setup was just like a typical military bunk room.

Adler sat on the side of his cot and yawned. “Okay, everybody, up and at ‘em!” He stood and raised his arms overhead, leaning side to side, trying to loosen muscles. Only in his late thirties, Joe Adler was beginning to feel the aches and pains from years of abuse inflicted on his body, from the training, the parachute jumps, the deep sea dives. "Wouldn’t have changed a thing!" he grinned to himself. He looked at his hands and wiggled his fingers. At least he had all of them!

“Come on! Up! Up!” he shouted as he flipped the light switch on and off.

Groans, early morning coughing, then feet hitting the floor meant the start of another day. They were all used to early reveille, any time around “oh dark thirty.”

One by one, Petty Officers Doug Taylor, Bill Lang, and Mark Justin slowly, and still half asleep, wearily dragged themselves to the only bathroom in the building across the hall. Water pressure was low and the current system couldn’t handle more than two showers at a time, so they had to take quick, three-minute, military-type showers, sometimes with cold water. The conditions were less than perfect, but they were just temporary as the men told themselves. They’d be on their way home in less than three days.

Adler put his hands on his hips and leaned back as far as his body would allow. Then standing up straight, he stiffly walked to one of two windows, rubbing away another patch of grime with the back of his hand. He was hoping to see some stars, hoping for a better day. Instead, there was just darkness. No stars, no moon.

Come on! All I’m asking for is maybe thirty-six hours of good weather. Can’t you just gimme that? he pleaded silently.

“Hey, LT, are we gonna have time for some eats?” asked Doug Taylor, as he was stepping into his green fatigue pants.

Taylor had already assumed what the response was going to be. Adler’s reputation for “chowing down” was well known throughout the EOD community. His friend, Captain Grant Stevens, referred to him as being built like a brick shit house. No matter how much or what type of food he ate, Adler’s weight never changed, always staying around one hundred eighty pounds, his 5’10” height supporting it nicely.

The rest of the team continued dressing, all the while grinning as they waited for an answer, keeping an eye on Adler as he went to his locker. He took out his green fatigues and finished dressing. Then he pulled out his holster from the top shelf and removed his .45, checked the clip, then slid the gun back in the holster, finally strapping it on his hip. Grabbing his barrack’s cover (hat) off the shelf, he headed toward the door. “Tell you what… you’re all confined to quarters until further notice.”

Toothy grins immediately vanished, and the men stood in the doorway looking at each other in disbelief, then back at Adler. “You can’t mean that, LT!” commented a disbelieving Bill Lang.

Adler pushed past them and started down the wooden stairs, grinning as he went.

“LT!” they shouted in unison.

Once he reached the bottom, he turned back around and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Come on, you pussies! And make sure you bring your weapons, not like yesterday morning!” He had to laugh as he heard the sound of pounding boots overhead.

An old, beat-up white bus drove into the compound, transporting several Italian construction workers from as far away as the small town of Santa Maria La Stella. Their work had come to a standstill when the tunnel had been discovered and work wouldn’t resume until the EOD team declared the area safe.

The area where the new water tower was being constructed had been completely cordoned off. But the Italians still showed up every day, managing to keep themselves busy with side projects around the compound.

The bus stopped in front of the barracks, and the workers got off, one by one, carrying their wooden tool boxes and paper bags with food. Giving sideways glances to the strange-looking helicopter parked inside the compound, they only briefly gave any thought to it, assuming the Americans would use it to transport the objects taken from the tunnel.

Luigi Nicosia smiled as he walked in and greeted Joe Adler. “Buon giorno, signore Joe!” Nicosia was a short man, in his early sixties, with thick, rough hands, and hair that was completely gray. Like many of his Sicilian countrymen, he had worked most of his life, starting at the age of eight, and he would continue to work until his body could take no more. It wasn’t always from the need to earn a living, but just from the love of being productive.

A smile on his weathered face quickly vanished when he noticed three additional men seated at the wooden table. The one in a Russian uniform got most of his attention. The Italian nodded at the three, then looked at Adler, anticipating an explanation.

“Mornin’, Luigi,” Adler said. Then he immediately added, “Luigi, these gentlemen will be visiting for a day.” Adler pointed at one and then the other Russian civilian. “That’s Comrade Tarasov and Comrade Rusnak.” The two men barely nodded in response. “And this gentleman is Colonel Moshenko.”

Moshenko stood and offered a hand to Luigi. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.”

Just the tone of Moshenko’s response eased the obvious surprise and tension the older Italian felt. Having lived through two world wars, the man usually did not feel at ease seeing strange foreigners in uniform on his country’s home soil.

“Buon giorno, signore,” Luigi said warmly, grasping Moshenko’s hand firmly. The friendly Italian noticed the Russian adjusting his Makarov pistol as he sat back down. The semi-automatic PM (Pistol Makarova) is a medium-size, straight blowback action, frame-fixed barrel handgun. The safety simultaneously blocked the hammer from contacting the firing pin and returned the weapon to the long-trigger-pull mode of double action when the safety was engaged. The Makarov was standard issue for the KGB and Russian military.

“Sit,” Adler finally said to Luigi as he indicated a chair next to him. He gave a quick nod and smile in Moshenko’s direction.

“Grazie, Signore Joe!” Luigi put his paper bag on the wooden table then pulled out a chunk of goat cheese. Slicing off a piece, he offered it to Adler, who gladly accepted it and popped the whole piece into his mouth. Luigi laughed. “Buonissimo, si?”

Adler knew that word meant “really good.” “Yes! Uh… si.” He’d picked up some Italian words since he’d been in Sicily, but never felt quite comfortable hearing them come out his mouth.

Luigi offered some to Moshenko, who put his hand up, and smiled, “No.”

Workers out in the center of the compound began milling around, each of them checking their tools, deciding what work they would attempt to accomplish that day.

Luigi squinted as he walked outside, looking overhead, and seeing only dark clouds, with morning light hardly visible on the eastern horizon. “Dio mio,” he exclaimed softly. Another day when they’d probably be ducking in and out of showers, protecting their precious tools, their means of earning a living.

The three Russians had remained seated at the table. Tarasov put on his wire-rimmed glasses and opened his briefcase. Removing a folder, he began reviewing paperwork, preparing for a tour of the facility. He looked at his watch. His meeting with the civilian technician was scheduled for 7:30.

Rusnak swallowed the last bit of Russian tea. He eyed Tarasov, who was ignoring him completely. Finally deciding to clean the glasses himself, he carried them to the sink and carefully washed and dried each one. Finally, he packed them again in the blue silk-lined box.

Adler got up and said to his team, “Okay. Time to start the day.”

They grabbed their hats and turned toward the door, each of them giving a quick, two finger salute to Moshenko as they passed him.

Adler stood briefly across from Moshenko. “We’ll be at the worksite most of the morning or inside the old hangar, sir. I’ll come looking for you when I have a break, okay?”

“Good, Joe. I will see you later.” The two shook hands and Adler left, putting on his hat once he was out the door.

Adler caught up with the team outside the temporary storage building. As soon as everything they hauled out of the tunnel had been removed and transported to the next safe location, this building would probably be torn down.

Taylor flipped the switch, turning on overhead lights strung in three single rows, ten lights per row. Within five seconds all power went out. “What the fuck?” Taylor exclaimed, as he tried the switch again.

No sooner had he gotten the words out, when bursts of gunfire sent the team racing for cover, drawing their weapons. But it was nearly impossible to see human shapes in the darkness, almost impossible to tell where the Italian workers were. All the Americans could do was return fire at muzzle flashes.

Adler was familiar with the sound of Uzis and automatic weapons. Their .45s wouldn’t be much of a match.

“Get back! Get back!” he shouted to his men, all of them scooting backward, trying to get behind some protection.

All Adler could hope for was that the darkness would give them the added cover they so desperately needed now. His thoughts went to Moshenko, not knowing where he and the two Russians were, hoping they made it to safety.

Outside they heard shouting and gunfire, total pandemonium. The workers were completely defenseless. They were running, trying to hide, but the attackers were coming at them relentlessly.

All the ammunition, rifles, and mortars EOD recovered from the tunnel weren’t going to do them any fucking good now. Adler scooted closer to one of the Jeeps, reached behind the driver’s seat, and pulled out an ammo box with extra clips for the .45s. “Taylor! Behind that seat! Get the extra ammo!”

Suddenly, it went strangely quiet, except for the distressing moans that were heard from the injured. Adler could only hope that bullets fired by him and his men found their way into the attackers. Chances of their innocent, Italian friends escaping the onslaught seemed slim, and that made him feel sick to his stomach.

His mind was racing. His men didn’t have enough ammo to defend against another all out assault. And with the amount of firepower the attackers apparently had, there wouldn’t be any reason for them not to launch another assault, and it probably would happen soon.

With all his experience in the field, on missions, Adler had a feeling what would happen next, especially if they could no longer find a way to defend themselves. He had to find something, something they could use as a signal, or some kind of communication device. He kept searching, looking, but kept coming up empty.

If they were taken as hostages, there wasn’t any doubt in his military mind that they’d be searched. He didn’t have anything or know of anything within his reach that’d be small enough to hide anyway.

For an instant, his thoughts went to his friend, Grant Stevens. If ever there was a time he needed him, now would be it!

Suddenly the silence was broken. “Americani!” Luigi Castalani shouted in very broken English from somewhere in the darkness. “You. come. out!”

Adler looked at his men. They were still down on one knee, firearms held with both hands, pointed straight ahead, waiting for his command.

If the attackers hadn’t come at them full force, trying to overtake them, then they must have an ulterior motive. Maybe it had to do with the weaponry the EOD team had already recovered from the tunnel. But Adler had even more concern for what was still in the tunnel… canisters… canisters of nerve gas.

He’d made his decision. He had to find a way to keep all of them alive, find a way to escape, and hope for rescue. They couldn’t let those canisters fall into the wrong hands.