Last Op

Chapter 20

Torrinson stood by the office window. He looked overhead, letting his eyes follow numerous white streaks criss-crossing an early evening sky. Airports were busy around the D.C. area. Jets took off constantly from National, Baltimore, and the air force bases.

With his arms behind his back, he turned and took slow steps toward the middle of the room. His thoughts were on another air base in St. Mawgan, England.

He was worried. When it came to Captain Stevens and Lieutenant Adler being on a mission, one would think he’d be used to it by now. But worry came too easily, especially when he was kept out of the loop.

His intercom buzzed and he went to his desk.

“Yes, Zach.”

“Sir, a Lieutenant Colonel Donaldson from St. Mawgan is on the Red 1.”

Torrinson rolled his swivel chair closer, then sat down. He shoved aside a plate of cold, half-eaten cheeseburger and fries. “Colonel Donaldson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you bring me up to speed on what’s happening over there, Colonel?”

“Well, sir, we’ve established extra security around the compound and the bunker. The base C.O. ordered a couple of choppers to fly over the entire area. So far we haven’t heard or seen anything suspicious around the outside perimeter.”

Torrinson drew in a long breath. “Have you heard anything from Captain Stevens or Lieutenant Adler?”

“Not directly, sir. Gunny Baranski met with them and the EOD men, but that was just to bring everyone on board.”

Torrinson nodded to himself. “Captain Stevens said he and Lieutenant Adler found a boat with IRA and explosives onboard.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Have any bodies been found?”

“We haven’t gotten any word on that, sir. But to tell you the truth, with the amount of explosives that Captain Stevens saw, and the size of the explosion he described, it’ll take a long time to find any human parts.”

“I see.” Torrinson then asked with concern, “And yet you still haven’t been told to stand down?”

“No, sir. We haven’t. I don’t know if anybody’s heard from Captain Stevens. What would you like me to do, Admiral?”

Without hearing otherwise from Grant, Torrinson had no alternative but to leave security as it was for the time being. Grant had to have his reasons, unless…. Torrinson reprimanded himself for even having negative thoughts.

“Colonel, Captain Stevens was to contact Brit CID in Newquay. My suggestion is to put a call in to them and see if they have any updates.”

“But wouldn’t Captain Stevens contact you before calling the Brits, sir?”

Torrinson shook his head and smiled. “You don’t know the captain like I do, Colonel. I suggest you call CID.”

“All right, sir.”

“One other thing, Colonel. Even though I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, there’s to be no mention of what’s stored at St. Mawgan.”

“Of course, Admiral. I’ll call you as soon as I talk with CID.”

“Be sure to call me whether or not you have new info.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

Torrinson hung up then leaned against his chair, swiveling it back and forth. Should he call the EOD compound? Was there a possibility Grant already contacted the team since his last call? Too many questions. Too many damn unanswered questions.

“Where the hell are you, Captain?” he said under his breath. How many times had he asked himself that question over the past years?

Exasperated, Torrinson rubbed his hand over the top of his head, and got up abruptly. He grabbed a Tootsie Pop from the jar, then tossed the wrapper on the plate. Pacing back and forth across his office, he hardly realized he was crunching the hard candy into pieces.

A sudden sense of sadness crept into his being. It was almost hard to believe, but soon he’d no longer have his view from the window… or this job.

Aside from his last duty station at SPECWARCOM (Special Warfare Command) in Coronado, NIS had been a dream assignment, frustrations put aside. Every job had frustrations and anxieties.

He stopped his pacing, finding himself standing in front of a mirror with a bronze eagle, a present from his wife when he made admiral. Looking at his reflection, he brushed his fingers along his temple. He admitted he had a few more gray hairs since he’d been at NIS. “All your fault, Captain Grant Stevens,” he laughed quietly. His assignment to NIS was, in part, because of Grant Stevens’ recommendation after Eugene Morelli died.

But the time had come. He was being assigned his own carrier strike group with the Pacific fleet — the USS John Preston.

What kind of irony was that? The carrier was the same one where Grant and Joe successfully uncovered a Russian mole.

He turned away from the mirror. As soon as Grant and Joe returned from England he would have to break the news. After their last op he was the one who worried they were about to retire, leave the Navy.

Although he wasn’t leaving the Navy, he was leaving. Not too many times during his career was he affected by leaving men under his command. Why was this time so different?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Admiral?”

“Come on in, Zach.” He threw the Tootsie Pop stick on the plate.

The yeoman walked in carrying a manila folder. “I’ve got some papers for you to sign, sir.”

“Guess it’s time to return to reality.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing, Zach.”

“Just made some fresh coffee, sir. Can I get you a cup? We’ve still got some donuts to go along with that.”

He eyed the cold burger and fries, preferring something sweet. “Both sound good. I’ll have chocolate, if there’s one left.”

“Yes, sir.” Zach picked up the plate, and turned to leave.

Oh, Zach, just leave the door open.

“Yes, sir.”

Standing on a concrete balcony overlooking the old airfield, Razzag Aknin pressed binoculars against his eyes. His patience was wearing thin. The man Labeaux sent to Newquay was late in returning.

Setting the binoculars on the edge of the balcony, he readjusted the belt, sliding the scabbard closer to his belly. Withdrawing his janbia, he held it close to his face, swiveling the knife back and forth. Even in the blackness of night he could see his reflection in the shiny blade. He ran a finger along the smooth surface, noticing a dark speck near the hilt. The Englishman’s blood. He wiped it with a corner of his shirt. Then, he reinspected his most cherished possession, given to him by Abu Massi.

How many times had he wiped the blood of his enemies from this blade? Perhaps he would get another chance to use it before he left this island called England.

Turning his attention back to the runway, and still not seeing headlights, he decided to go through a checklist on the plane. Nothing could go wrong tomorrow.

Stepping heavily down the one flight of stairs, he glanced briefly at the room where the prisoners were being held.

Once outside, he stopped momentarily before proceeding to the plane. He looked back at the building, not understanding why Labeaux continued holding the two prisoners. Nothing had been gained from all the questioning. After he had eliminated the the man in the driveway, he volunteered his services to dispose of the man and woman. But Massi refused, explaining they were Labeaux’s concern… for the time being.

He refocused his attention on the plane, as he walked toward it, seeing Massi standing near the open doorway. Labeaux was still inside the cabin, sitting near a window.

Aknin began to question Labeaux being called one of the world’s most feared terrorists. So far, nothing Labeaux had said or done supported that claim. Aknin smiled as he went into the plane.

The only entry to the room was by a single wooden door, covered with sheet metal. Inside, a long wooden counter, splintered and worn, was bolted to the back wall. Old plugs, outlets, pieces of wires lay scattered on the floor. A section of map was still tacked next to the door. At eye level above the counter was a small rectangular window. Hanging from the ceiling by a frayed electrical cord was a flickering, weak bulb, the only light in the room.

Jack Henley sat on the cold concrete floor. His arms were behind his back, tied to a metal support post. His face was badly bruised. He was exhausted. During the entire time he’d been locked in this room, he refused to take his eyes from Victoria. She was on the opposite side of the room, with a rope around her wrists, and another rope around her waist tied to a leg of the counter.

He was thankful she hadn’t been physically harmed, but her quiet sobs tore through to his soul.

“Vicky,” he called softly. She kept her head down, ashamed to look at him. “Vicky,” he called again. “Look at me.” She raised her head. Her normally shiny, perfectly brushed blond hair was now tangled and messy, hanging in her eyes. Tears from reddened eyes streaked her face.

He had to reassure her and try to prevent her from totally falling apart. He spoke quietly. “Vicky, believe me when I tell you Grant’s looking for us. He’s looking for us, Vicky, and he will find us. I promise you he will. This’ll all be over soon.”

She didn’t have the strength or will to even attempt a smile. Why would anyone try to rescue her after what she’d done? She and her husband wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for her. And yet, through it all, it was her husband who had tried with all his being to protect her.

Looking at him now, she wished she had never married him, and not because she didn’t love him. If they had never met, he’d be living his life as an American naval officer, performing a job he loved, instead of facing death at the hands of terrorists — and Colin.

Seeing her brother’s face in her mind, and remembering the words he’d said, tormented her even more. She felt bile slowly creeping up into her throat. She started retching, then vomited, and that was immediately followed by a bout of dry heaves. Her body seemed to convulse before she slumped forward and then became quiet.

“Victoria!” Henley cried out. “Oh, Jesus Christ! Vicky!” He frantically tried to get to her, but his efforts were futile. The rope cut into his wrists the more he struggled. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “You fucking bastards! Get her out of here! Get her out of here! Help her!

“Vicky! Listen to my voice! Don’t give up! I love you! Do you hear me? I love you!”

As dark as it was, Webb had been driving without headlights for nearly five miles. He kept the speed of his beat up car just under forty kph, following Grant’s instructions to the letter. The feel of a .45 pressing against his temple was all the incentive he needed.

Grant turned in the seat, just enough to see the van following close. “How much farther?” he asked Webb.

“A couple kilometers.”

“Pull over.” Grant lowered the weapon, and rested his arm on the backrest. He lowered the window, then waved Adler to him.

Adler leaned toward the window. “What’s up?”

“We’re a couple kilometers from the airfield. You got the diagram?” Adler unfolded the paper, then took out his penlight, shining it on the diagram. Just then a set of headlights came toward them, the vehicle slowing as it got closer. Adler slowly dropped his hand, resting it on top of his holster.

Pulling next to Webb’s car, the driver leaned out the window. “You blokes need any help?”

Grant tapped the back of Webb’s head with the .45. Webb responded, “No thanks, mate.” The driver gave a wave, then drove off.

Once the taillights were no longer visible, Grant and Adler studied the diagram. They had to assume that whoever was holed up at the airport would have posted a lookout.

He pointed to an area on the diagram, asking Webb, “Is there a way to get to this point without being seen if someone had binoculars?” Webb gave directions to a turnoff that was a safe distance away from the airfield and the building.

Grant handed the paper to Adler, as he said to Webb, “I don’t have to remind you what’ll happen if this diagram… ”

“I’ll be better off with you than with that fucking, bloody Labeaux, or the Arabs!” Webb answered with his shoulders hunched.

“I wouldn’t count on it if I were you,” Grant replied in a threatening tone. Then he turned to Adler. “We good?”

“Damn straight we are!”

Petty Officer Zach Phillips stood just outside Torrinson’s office. “Sir, it’s Lieutenant Colonel Donaldson again on the Red 1.”

Torrinson reached for the phone, then hesitated, hoping he didn’t hear bad news. He picked up the receiver. “Colonel?”

“Admiral, I just got off the phone with a Chief Inspector Townsend at CID. He was in contact with Captain Stevens just a short time ago, sir.”

“Fill me in, Colonel,” Torrinson said, relieved. He swung his chair around, staring at pictures of Silver Strand Beach in Coronado and his classmates at the Academy. He wasn’t really focused on the pictures. He was focused on the words Donaldson was saying.

For the next fifteen minutes, Donaldson relayed the information, while Torrinson remained quiet.

Finally Donaldson said, “That’s all I have for you, sir. Oh, one more comment from Chief Inspector Townsend, sir. Captain Stevens said for you to remember the desert. Hope you know what that means, sir.”

Torrinson did indeed know what that meant. There was a mission in Libya he’d read about after he took over for Admiral Morelli. Grant was telling him that Massi and Aknin were involved.

Torrinson didn’t know how long he’d been holding his breath, until he finally said, “Colonel, proceed with Captain Stevens’ orders for base security, and that includes his orders to EOD. Fill the team in on what we’ve discussed, including about Commander Henley. They’re to remain at the compound and not leave the base. Those are my orders, Colonel.”

“I understand, sir. Should I call you if I hear from Captain Stevens?”

Torrinson didn’t care for the word “if” being thrown in there. He looked at the clock. “Yes, Colonel, but call me in two hours anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

Torrinson disconnected the call, but hung onto the receiver. He had to make other calls, including one that would alert a carrier in the Med, the USS John F. Kennedy, sending it to GQ (general quarters).

He rolled his chair to the side, spotting Zach standing by the file cabinets. “Zach! Get SECDEF on the line. Then dig out a file from a few years back. Captain Stevens and Lieutenant Adler had a mission in Libya. They were working with SAS.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” the yeoman responded, immediately dialing SECDEF. As he waited for a response, he pulled the phone closer to the edge of the desk, stretching the cord to its max. He started looking through files.

“Sir, SECDEF’s on the Red 1!” He hung up, then grabbed the file and hurried into Torrinson’s office. Laying the folder on the desk, he immediately left.