Last Op

Chapter 5

A heavy fog enveloped the entire southwestern coastline. Newquay was “socked in” with visibility barely fifteen feet.

Grant walked out of the hotel, zipped up his windbreaker, then centered his baseball cap squarely on his head. He dug the car keys from a pocket in his Levis, wondering whether driving in this “pea soup” was smart, especially with him not being that familiar with Newquay roads.

The fog was thicker and wetter than he’d even seen in Frisco. But he’d made his decision to leave the hotel early, no matter what. He had to get to the base, to the EOD command, before his meeting with Henley. Talking with Adler was his first priority.

He started for the parking lot, squinting, trying to see through the fog, looking for the MG. He finally spotted the sports car. As he slid behind the wheel, he reminded himself that all he had to do was stay on the left side of the road and follow the white line. His temples were already throbbing.

There were two ways to get to St. Mawgan. The road to the back gate followed the cliffs running parallel to Newquay Bay and is normally a ten minute drive. No doubt it would take longer this morning.

The road to the main gate was about a mile further inland, adding on a couple of miles. Today, both routes were hazardous. He made his decision when he got to Porth Beach, and took Narrowcliff Road. More cars were on the road than he expected, most heading toward town. He figured they were used to it.

Twenty minutes later, he drove up to the guard’s station at the back gate. Two more vehicles pulled behind him. He held out his ID for the RAF guard, who saluted then passed him through.

With windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, he continued along the base road, seeing a fuzzy set of headlights in his rearview mirror.

The drive to the one-story concrete building housing the U.S. Navy’s EOD and security teams was slow-going. The MG’s low beams were unable to penetrate the thick fog. Suddenly, a sign for the compound appeared out of nowhere. He made a sharp right turn into the parking area, downshifted, then slowly pulled the MG next to a green Austin Mini 600. A blue Chevy Impala with Missouri license plates was on the other side of the Mini. On the south side of the building, barely visible, were two tractors with backhoes, then a jeep, a flatbed truck, and a gray van.

Shutting off the engine, he took his keys, got out and closed the car door. The fog was still thick. Somewhere, not far from where he was standing, there was a runway, but he sure as hell couldn’t see it.

He heard voices coming from inside the building, with a light showing from a window next to the door. As he started toward the building, a beat-up Jeep Wagoneer, with a muffler just as beat up, pulled into a parking space.

Grant turned and walked toward the car as Chief Larry Becker was getting out. He was wearing a long sleeve green fatigue shirt and fatigue pants. A “barrack’s” cover (hat) hid most of his bald head.

“Can I help you?” Becker asked as he slammed the car door, twirling the key ring on his index finger.

Grant spotted a rank identification on the hat. “Hope so, Chief,” he said, reaching for his wallet. He flipped it open, showing his ID. “I’m Captain Stevens.”

“Good to meet you, sir,” the burley chief said with a welcoming smile. He extended a hand to Grant, while silently questioning Grant’s presence at the compound, especially since he was wearing civvies. “Are you here on official business, sir?”

“I’ve been on leave, Chief. I ran into Jack Henley briefly last night and told him I’d meet him here this morning. I thought maybe I could get a tour.” He looked overhead. “May not be such a good idea today, though, huh?”

“Give it time, sir. Maybe by this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow,” Becker laughed. He looked around the parking lot. “Guess the commander’s not here yet. I don’t see his car, sir.” He walked ahead of Grant, opening the door. “Go ’head in. Make yourself comfortable, sir.”

Two petty officers were sitting near a desk. Petty Officer First Class Barry Thoms was sucking on a Coke, while Petty Officer First Class Marty Weaver had coffee.

Becker made introductions. “Barry, Marty, this is Captain Stevens.”

Immediately standing, the two gave a slight nod of their heads. “Morning, sir.”

“Morning,” Grant replied, removing his ball cap. “As you were, gentlemen.”

“Would you like coffee, sir?” Becker asked as he removed his hat, hanging it on one of six coat hooks lined up next to a metal file cabinet.

“Sounds real good, Chief. Black.”

Becker looked at Weaver, tilting his head in the direction of the coffeepot. Weaver went for the coffee.

Looking beyond Becker, Grant noticed a brass nameplate on an inner door: Commander Jack Henley. He glanced at his watch. There wasn’t much time to call Adler before his meeting with Henley. “Chief, before I meet with the commander at 0700, I’ve gotta make a call to the States.”

“Not a problem, sir. Follow me.”

Grant unzipped his jacket, as he was handed a white mug of hot coffee. “Thanks, Petty Officer.”

Becker stood by Henley’s office door. “Uh, sir, would you mind if I make sure the office is…?”

“Go ahead, Chief. Understand,” Grant replied, knowing Becker wanted to ensure nothing of importance was in plain sight. Maybe Grant was a captain and NIS, but today, he was just a visitor.

Becker ducked behind the door, flipped on a light switch, then gave the desk and room a quick sweep with his eyes. He motioned for Grant. “Okay, sir.”

Grant walked into a small office, immediately smelling the stale odor of cigarettes. Except for a florescent overhead light, the only other light came from a single window. A typical military, gray metal desk and black swivel chair were positioned behind it, and two straight-back wooden chairs were in front.

Becker went behind the desk and opened the blinds, then asked, “Anything else, sir?”

“No thanks, Chief.”

“I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir.” Grant nodded, then Becker immediately left the room.

Grant sat on the corner of the desk and put his coffee cup on a green blotter marked up with stains, numbers, and doodles. He turned the rotary dial phone around, picked up the receiver, dialed a code, then a number. As the phone rang, he took a sip of coffee… good, potent, melt-your-spoon, Navy-style coffee.

After the fourth ring, he heard the familiar voice. “Adler.”

“Hey, Joe!”

“Skipper?”

“Yeah. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at the moment,” Adler laughed, as he reached around the corner and closed the bedroom door. He turned on a light. “Why the hell are you calling? You’re still on leave, aren’t you?” Before Grant responded, he said, “Uh-oh. What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“I’m at the base at St. Mawgan, at our weapons facility. Joe, do you remember the first time I met Grigori, you know, Spain, and the circumstances surrounding that meeting?”

“Yeah. But what…? Oh, shit!”

Grant was the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the dive team for the recovery of a nuclear bomb. A Vulcan had crashed into the Mediterranean off the coast of Spain. That was also the day Grant saved the life of Grigori Moshenko.

“Exactly. Can’t prove anything yet, but I’ve got one of my gut feelings with just the little info I do have.”

“And you want me to…?”

“First, contact Torrinson, or at least Zach. He’s usually in the office before the admiral. Give them a heads-up.” (Petty Officer Zach Phillips is the yeoman for Admiral Torrinson.) Grant glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting with a friend of mine in about fifteen minutes here in his office. He’s Commander Jack Henley; went to the Academy together. He’s in charge of the EOD team.

“A Brit friend of his turned up dead. What I got from the cops last night, it’s sounding like he was murdered. Brit CID is supposed to start investigating.”

“Are we gonna be involved?”

“Don’t know for sure, but this guy worked on base as a custodian.”

“Ahh,” Adler said, nodding his head. “A connection is being made.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Anyway, when Jack got home last night, he found a letter from this friend. I don’t know the contents yet, but he sounded pretty damn upset when I talked with him.”

Adler rubbed a hand briskly across his weathered face, feeling stubble. Seeing his reflection in the picture window, he ignored the fact he was standing in front of God and everybody in his skivvies. “You think it was one of those confession-type letters in case he was killed?”

Grant took a sip of coffee. “Maybe.” Just then he heard a car door slam. “Gotta go. I think Jack’s here. One more thing. There’s probably no need for concern, but run a background on Jack, okay? And while you’re at it, run one on his wife, Victoria. I don’t know her maiden name, but she’s British. I think Jack said she’s from St. Ives.” New spouses, especially foreign born, usually went through a security background check prior to marriage.

“I’ll head over to your office and make the necessary inquiries. If Zach isn’t in, do you want me to call him at home?”

“We need to get rolling on this, Joe.”

“Give me your contact number.” Adler scribbled down the number, then he asked, “Hey, do I need to pack?”

Grant laughed, knowing Adler was “hot to trot” for some action. “Stand-by for now, okay? Don’t forget, most of these guys are EOD, but if we get involved, I’d still rather have you at my six!”

“If the admiral okay’s it, what gear do we need?”

“Gotta be prepared for anything.”

“I get it! That means all our fun stuff for sea, air, and land, right?” Adler laughed.

“That’s affirmative!”

“Be careful, skipper.”

“Thanks, Joe. Talk to you later.” He hung up, picked up his coffee cup, then walked nearer to the door, hearing his name being mentioned.

Henley opened his office door. Grant backed up, giving Henley extra room. No words were immediately spoken between the two men.

Henley took off his tan rain jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. He went behind his desk then sat down heavily on the swivel chair.

Grant put a foot up on the seat of a chair, resting an arm on his knee. “So, Jack, wanna talk? Guess you’ve got some questions.” He took a sip of coffee.

Henley swiveled the chair back and forth, continuing to stare at Grant. “Who you working for, Grant? What the hell’s your assignment in D.C.?”

“My boss is Rear Admiral Torrinson. We’re at NIS.” Grant swung the chair around, straddled it, then sat.

“NIS, huh? And you’re here, in England, because… ”

“I’m on two weeks’ leave, just like I told you last night. Believe me, I came to do some scuba diving. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting any of this.”

“Chief Becker called you ‘Captain’ Stevens.”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “You mean when did I make captain?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that important?”

“Just curious, that’s all.” Graduating from the Academy the same time as Grant, Henley felt a sudden twinge of envy.

“In ’75.”

“Went ‘up the ladder’ kinda quick, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah. I guess so. Take my word for it… it sure surprised the hell out of me.”

Henley put his elbows on his desk, wringing his hands. He’d stalled enough. “What happened to Derek?”

Grant reached over the chair, putting his cup on the corner of the desk. He folded his arms on top of the backrest. “What’s being discussed in this room, stays in this room, Jack. Do I make myself clear?”

Henley nodded. The look in Grant’s eyes made him think he didn’t dare fuck with this man, a man who he realized he knew so little about.

Grant relayed his conversation with Sergeant Fowley. When he finished, and before Henley could comment, he said, “Now, about that letter.”

Henley stood, then reached into his back pocket, removing a folded envelope. He walked around the desk, then sat on the edge, directly in front of Grant.

Grant sensed Henley was hesitant about turning the letter over to him. He got up and moved the chair to the side. Hooking his thumbs in his jeans’ back pockets, he finally said, “Listen, Jack, I’m really sorry what happened to your friend.” Henley didn’t respond, but kept fidgeting with the envelope.

Grant was getting nowhere fast, and with his fear that nukes were somehow involved, he wanted answers now. He needed a place to start, and he was betting it would be with that letter.

Maybe a different tactic would work. Henley needed a shove, and Grant was about to push. “I’ve gotta ask, so answer me this. Were you and this Carter involved in anything together?”

Henley abruptly pushed himself away from the desk, standing nearly toe to toe with Grant, looking up into penetrating eyes. “Where the hell do you get off even asking me that… Captain Stevens?” Henley asked loudly, while putting heavy emphasis on the word “Captain.”

Grant put his hands up and backed away. “Whoa, Jack! Don’t do this!” It was time to go on the offensive.

At 6’1” Grant was a few inches taller than Henley, and he looked down into a face red with anger. Stepping closer to Henley again, he put a finger against his chest, pushing him backwards. “And don’t give me that ‘captain’ shit! It’s still me you’re talking to. And if your ass is gonna need saving, believe me, you’ll want me on your side. So, back off!”

There was a rapping at the door. “Commander! Everything okay in there, sir?” Chief Becker asked after hearing the loud voices.

Without taking his eyes from Grant, Henley answered, “Yeah, Chief. Just a friendly discussion.”

“Okay, sir. Let me know if you need anything,” the chief responded, certain it was more than just a friendly discussion going on behind the door. He was just as certain that Captain Stevens sure as hell wasn’t at St. Mawgan for any damn tour.

Henley turned away from Grant, slapping the envelope against his hand.

Grant’s voice finally broke the brief silence. “Come on, Jack. Don’t you think it’s best if I see that before anybody else? Then we can take it from there.”

Turning slowly, and looking at the envelope, Henley finally held it toward Grant, who took it then leaned against the desk. “Am I correct in assuming that you haven’t shown this to anyone like I asked?”

“Vicki knew it was delivered. But Derek didn’t put any return address on it, so she doesn’t know who it came from.”

Grant nodded while he opened the envelope then removed a single sheet of blue-lined paper folded in thirds. Unfolding it, he noticed the writing was continued on the back. Black ink had smeared in places, obscuring some letters. He could still make out the words that looked as if they were hastily written. He started reading:

Henley stood by the window, staring out across the runway. The fog had lifted but there was still heavy cloud coverage.

Taxiing to the south end of the runway was an RAF Vulcan B2. Keeping his eyes on the jet as it powered up its engines, Henley reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of Marlboro’s. Tapping the bottom of the pack, he removed one, put the pack back in his pocket, then took out a lighter. Taking a short drag, he dropped the lighter back in his pocket. He’d been trying to quit for a month. He was already on his second pack since last night.

The Vulcan went to full power, then blasted down the runway. Grant raised his voice over the sound of jet engines. “Jack!”

Henley snapped around, blowing out a lungful of smoke. He crushed the cigarette in a stained ceramic ashtray with the word “Guinness” printed in black on the outer edge.

“Let’s talk about this,” Grant said, as he flicked his index finger against the paper.

Henley came around the desk, and opened the office door. “Chief, did the rest of the men get back from the Marine compound?”

“They’re on their way, sir,” Becker answered.

“Okay. Check that everything’s ready to meet next week’s flights. And, Chief, see that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henley closed the door, walked past Grant, then sat on the opposite corner of the desk. “Let’s talk.”

“Give me your impression of this,” Grant said, holding up the letter.

“I’m worried, Grant.”

“Yeah. So am I. Do you have any idea who this ‘contact’ of his could be?”

Henley shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like anybody I’ve met. Derek’s never mentioned him.”

Grant glanced at the letter. “I know I’m only guessing, but it’s looking more like somebody might be passing info on the nukes.”

Henley got up, reached for his pack of cigarettes, thought otherwise, then shoved them back into his pocket. He kept his back toward Grant, as he asked, “How much trouble do you think I’m in?”

“Trouble? Just because you knew this guy?”

Henley turned toward Grant. “And because I’m in charge of the EOD team. Because I know what’s on this base! Because I’ve seen what’s on this base! Because… ”

“Hold it!” Grant said. “Too much assuming. You’re not the only one working on this base who knows what’s here. Sure, you knew Carter, but you think you were his only friend or acquaintance? Come on, Jack. We’re gonna have to think more rationally and try to piece this shit together.

“But first, I know you trust these guys,” Grant indicated with a thumb over his shoulder, “but this letter isn’t for discussion with them either. In fact, I think it’s best to keep everything under wraps for now. Let’s just wait till I talk with Admiral Torrinson.”

Grant rubbed his chin in thought. “There’s probably gonna be some scuttlebutt about what happened. Do any of these guys know you were friends with Carter?”

“Only if they happened to see us in Sailor’s.”

“We’ll deal with it if and when the time comes.”

“And what about the Brit cops? They’re bound to want to talk with me.”

“You won’t be able to avoid them. Let’s hope I can talk with the admiral before that. If this is leading to espionage, or the selling of nukes, we’ll all be talking to more than just local CID.” Grant folded the letter, then slid it back into the envelope before putting it in his pocket.

“You mean SIS (British Secret Intelligence Service).”

Grant nodded. “Maybe even Interpol.”

Headquartered at Century House in South London, the SIS was formed in 1909 as the Secret Service Bureau, established to supply the British Government with foreign intelligence. During World War II it became known as Military Intelligence, Section 6 (MI6).

Grant recognized the fact that he had to get a step ahead of the game whether or not anyone else would become involved. He had to get deeper into the investigation, and damn quick.

He picked up a notepad off the desk. “Here,” he said handing the pad to Henley. “Start writing.”

“Write what?”

“The names of anybody you can think of who knew Carter. And I need the name of the marine gunnery sergeant over at the compound.” Gunnery sergeants are commonly referred to by the informal abbreviation "gunny,” a nickname usually regarded as a title of both esteem and camaraderie. It was generally acceptable for use in all but formal and ceremonial situations. Gunnery sergeants are the same rank as the Navy’s CPOs (chief petty officers). They’re known for their wealth of knowledge, anything pertaining to base ops, base personnel. Most of it they obtain from scuttlebutt, yet somehow they have the ability to filter through it.

“Gunny Baranski? Why him and not the C.O.?” A corner of Grant’s mouth curved up. Henley answered his own question. “Right!” He started writing names.

The phone rang. “Henley. Yes, sir, he’s right here.” He handed the phone to Grant. “It’s Admiral Torrinson.”

Grant covered the mouthpiece. “Jack, I’d like to talk with the admiral privately, okay?” Henley didn’t respond, but as he started to turn away, Grant took the notepad from his hand. Henley left the office… his office.

“I’m here, Admiral,” Grant said, sitting on the corner of the desk.

“Joe’s filled me in, Grant. Did you get any more information from Commander Henley?” Torrinson lifted two Tootsie pops from a glass jar, offering one to Adler.

“Not so much from him, sir, but what I gleaned from his friend’s letter isn’t giving me a warm and fuzzy, sir. This friend got himself into some serious trouble, and he was killed because of it.”

“Any idea on what that trouble was?” Torrinson asked, looking across his desk at Adler.

“Well, sir, I’m going with my gut again. I’d say information on nukes may have been in that package. Same old story, sir. You know, bad guys get what they want, lesser bad guy is wiped out.” Torrinson nodded with a half smile. Grant continued, “If Jack — Commander Henley — didn’t get that letter, sir, we wouldn’t have a clue that anything was going on.”

“So, what’s next, Grant?”

“I expect local CID will be interviewing Commander Henley pretty soon, sir, but they still don’t know about the letter. I wanted to speak with you first, sir, before deciding whether or not to give it up.”

“It’s evidence in his death, Grant. Don’t you think you need to turn it over?” Grant didn’t respond. Torrinson was getting one of his own feelings that Grant had no intention of giving up the letter. “Captain?”

“Sir, don’t know if you’ll agree, but I think I need to hang onto it for now.”

“I suspected as much. But what’s the point?”

“Well, sir, as of now, only Jack and I know about it. I think it’ll give me a head start, sir, before civilians get involved.”

Torrinson laughed, knowing Grant’s feelings about the CIA. “We’re talking about British officials, Grant, not the Agency!”

Yes, sir.” He lowered his voice, preparing to throw out a request. “Admiral, I hope you understand my reason for this request, but maybe we should keep the letter and its contents between us, sir.”

Torrinson’s eyebrows knitted together. “And for how long, Grant?”

“Just until I can verify information, sir.”

“Can I assume you want to verify the commander isn’t involved?”

Grant cleared his throat. “I don’t think he is, sir, but I’d still like to keep the letter on the QT for now.”

“Very well, Grant, but just for now.”

“Thank you, sir. Oh, sir, I asked Joe to run a report on someone.”

“Wait one.” Torrinson handed the phone to Adler.

“Skipper?”

“Yeah, Joe. Did you find out anything on the two individuals?”

“Both reports came back clean, skipper, like you expected. Do you want the details?”

“Negative. Thanks, Joe.”

“Well, Grant, looks like your R&R has been interrupted.” Torrinson rocked back and forth in his chair.

“Looks that way, sir.”

“Tell me you’re operating at a hundred percent.”

Grant’s mind flashed back to his five weeks of recuperation in the hospital. “I am, sir. One hundred ten percent, sir.” Grant hastily changed the direction of the conversation. “I realize we don’t know a helluva lot, sir, but will you be talking with SECDEF and SECNAV about what we suspect?”

“As soon as this conversation’s over. They’ll most likely pass what little information we have to the president and Secretary of State Freedman.”

“Do you think they’ll get SIS involved, or maybe Interpol, sir?”

“At this point, hard to say.”

“Sorry I don’t have more to tell you, sir. To make it worse, right now everybody on this base has to be considered a suspect. That includes Brits and Americans. But I’m going to have to chance it and talk with one of the marines, sir, since they’re in charge of security for the weapons.”

“I agree,” Torrinson replied. “Do you know who?”

Grant looked at Henley’s note. “There’s a Gunnery Sergeant Baranski I’ll talk with first, sir.” Grant lowered his head, wondering exactly how many could be involved. “This is going to be one helluva an op, Admiral.”

“You’re right, Grant.”

“Sir, since we still don’t know if this has to do with just the passing of documents or… ”

“You actually think there could be a plan to use one of those nukes?”

“Have to consider all possibilities, sir.”

“I don’t know how soon there’ll be a meeting with the Joint Chiefs,” Torrinson said, “but in the meantime, I’ll discuss the possibility of putting one of our ships from the Med on alert.

“Mildenhall and Lakenheath are close if you need chopper support. I’ll see about contacting those base commanders.” He scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad.

“Thanks, sir.”

Torrinson swiveled back and forth in his leather chair. He looked at Adler, as he said to Grant, “Maybe you’d like some assistance.”

“That’s affirmative, sir! Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked with a smile in his voice.

Sending Adler to England was a given. “Maybe you’d better talk to Joe. Confirm what you need.”

“One more thing, sir. I’ve given the local police my address as the hotel, but might have to consider coming on base, especially with Joe bringing our gear. I’d rather there be questions on base than in the civilian community, sir.”

“Very well. Just keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, Grant.”

Fifteen minutes later Grant ended his call with Adler. He looked at the notepad. It was time to get his ass in gear.

Opening the office door, he looked for Henley in the outer office. Four petty officers, standing around the desk, looked in his direction, and gave him a cursory greeting. “Sir.”

“Where’s Commander Henley?” Grant asked, with his eyes going to each man.

“He’s outside with the chief, sir,” Marty Weaver answered, motioning with his head.

Grant started toward the door without responding, but didn’t take his eyes from the four men. He’d been involved in these type situations before. Somebody like him comes along and eyebrows start to raise. Questions and rumors run rampant. It happened on the carrier and sub when he was on the hunt for a Russian mole.

The conversation he and Henley had in the office got loud and out of control. Whether or not the men in the outer office heard what was said couldn’t be helped now. He regretted it had gotten to that point. But with a small, tight-knit command like this one, these men will undoubtedly be ready to take Henley’s side, unless something’s going on that he hasn’t been made privy to… yet. He didn’t think it would be a problem, as long as they stayed out of his way.

He opened the door and stepped outside, seeing Henley and Chief Becker standing near one of the tractors. Henley was puffing away on a cigarette, pacing in front of Becker.

“Jack!” Grant called.

Henley flicked the cigarette onto the asphalt, then he walked toward Grant. Becker followed, gave Grant a quick nod, then went inside the building.

“Listen, Jack,” Grant said, as he motioned toward his car and started walking in its direction. “I’m sorry what happened in your office.” Henley remained quiet. Grant backed up against the driver’s side door. He hung onto the notepad as he crossed his arms over his chest. “No matter how the hell you feel about these guys, we’ve got one fuckin’ situation here. I know you realize that.”

“Never had to face anything like this,” Henley said quietly. “Guess it’s nothing new to you.”

Grant lowered his head briefly before looking back at him. “Unfortunately, no. Had more than my share.” He held up the notepad. “Can you think of anybody else that may need to be on this list?”

Henley glanced overhead briefly, as if in thought, then responded, “I don’t know if you want to talk to the bartenders at Sailor’s. Derek hung out there a lot.”

“Need everybody you can think of, Jack.” He jotted down the names. Ripping off the top sheet, he handed the notepad to Henley, then folded the paper in quarters, slipping it into his jeans. Taking out his car keys, he said, “I’ll get started on this list. Oh, either Admiral Torrinson or Lieutenant Adler could be calling from NIS. I’d appreciate you taking messages instead of your men. I’ll check back with you later.” He extended his hand to Henley, who grasped it firmly. “Look, Jack, I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, but I need you to stay ‘under the radar’ for now. If you hear from Brit CID, I’d like you to tell me about the conversation. One more thing. Remember… no mention of that letter,” Grant said, in a lowered voice.

“Right.”

“That includes the cops and CID.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Henley asked incredulously. “How the hell can I get away with that?”

“Simple. Don’t bring it up. You and I are the only ones who know about it, except for the admiral and Joe. For the time being, I’ll hang onto it, then take care of it at the right time. For now you tell the cops whatever else they wanna know about Carter. That’s it. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Grant opened the car door, then slid behind the wheel. As he started the engine, he rolled down the window. “I think it’s best I check out of the hotel and move on base, probably tomorrow morning. Joe will be arriving tonight or early tomorrow bringing our gear. Could you have the chief make arrangements for us?”

“I’ll get right on it.” Henley rested his hand on the edge of the door. “I’ll help you all I can, Grant.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I lost my cool earlier.”

“Forget it.” Grant put the car into gear. “Talk with you later.”