Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 17

Wearing a pair of blue gym shorts, Grant stretched his arms high overhead, and leaned side to side, as he walked to the living room window. Tomorrow he'd resume his sit ups and push ups, and maybe do some laps at the pool.

He raised the white blinds, in time to catch a brilliant sunrise. Waters of the Potomac glistened. Boats were already traversing the river, most on a course to the Chesapeake Bay and the waters around Virginia. This time of year blue crabs were plentiful.

"Time for breakfast," he yawned.

Padding across the carpet in his bare feet, he went to the kitchen. Cheerios would be the morning meal. He poured a bowlful, added ice cold milk, and eyed fresh coffee still splashing into the clear glass pot. He ate a spoonful of cereal on his way to the window.

The phone rang. He glanced at his watched, then picked up the receiver. "Stevens."

"Hey, Grant!"

"Morning, Scott! You're up kinda early!"

"Yeah, one of those nights. But I knew you'd be up!"

"What can I do for you?"

"Just wanted to see how you and the guys were doing, whether you all recuperated after your trip."

"Yeah, we're okay, buddy. Sleep does wonders for the old body. Appreciate you asking."

"Are you still having a meeting with the President?"

"It's scheduled for 0900."

"Can you give me a hint on its purpose?" Mullins laughed.

"Don't mean to sound so clandestine, but I'd rather wait. Listen, Scott, can you come to Eagle 8 today?"

"Sure. What time?"

"I'll call you after Joe and I are out of the meeting. Why don't you drive to my apartment, then you can follow us?"

"I'll wait for your call. Good luck with the meeting."

Grant turned on the TV, then sat on the couch. After 15 minutes of switching channels, nothing new was being reported. Russia was still preparing for Gorshevsky's funeral. Discussions were ongoing over the resignations of Bancroft and Platt. Reporters were waiting for a White House press conference, anticipating an explanation. Positive reactions were expressed with the President's nomination of Ray Simmons as the new director.

No one had mentioned CIA Special Agents Steve Leamon and Marty Fitzgerald. But at Langley, inside the main building on the north wall, a star for each of them had been carved into the Memorial Wall. Beneath the stars, in the "Book of Honor," their names were added to a list arranged by year of death. The book was encased in stainless steel and topped by an inch-thick plate of glass.

Grant switched off the TV, and carried the empty bowl to the kitchen. The strong coffee smelled good. "This should get the old 'pump' going."

Blowing a breath into the hot liquid, he sipped slowly as he leaned against the counter, thinking about the mission. But Gorshevsky's death still bugged him. There had to be more to the story. He needed to think, and the shower was a good place to do it.

Hot water beat against his broad shoulders. He tilted his head back, trying to get the "gray matter" to function more efficiently.

But it was his gut that was trying to tell him something again. What? Did Nick present his evidence to Antolov? Was it possible he got even further up the "food chain" and confronted Gorshevsky?! The Russian media reported the Premier had a stroke. How convenient. The Kremlin could be lying its balls off.

Too much frustration was setting in. "Dammit!" It was time to give up trying to figure it out. He shut off the water, and grabbed a towel from the hook. There was only one way he'd ever find out the truth — Nick. But that in itself was nearly an impossible mission.

"Time to rest the old brain, Stevens." As he stepped out of the shower, he heard the phone. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he hurried into the living room, as he swept away water dripping from his hair. "Stevens."

"Mornin', skipper!"

"Hey, Joe! Morning!"

"I take it our meeting at the White House is still on."

"Haven't heard otherwise. Listen, maybe we should ride together. Can you pick me up at 0830? Traffic might be a bitch that time of morning."

"Not a problem. Hey, are we gonna meet the Team at Eagle 8?"

"That's the plan. I'm hoping Matt had luck getting our benefactors 'on board.' He hasn't called so that might be a good thing."

"Guess we won't have time to stop for breakfast."

"Not even a possibility. Besides, I just had some cereal."

"So! I had frozen waffles."

Grant laughed. "Why don't we do this? On our way to Eagle 8, we can stop at the Italian restaurant you've been raving about, and pick up lunch for everyone."

Sounding pathetic, Adler moaned, "If I have to wait, I have to wait."

Pushing strands of wet hair off his forehead, Grant said, "Scott's gonna meet us here after the meeting. He'll follow us out to Eagle 8."

"Sounds good. See you at 0830."

Wearing T-shirts, and jeans or cutoffs, Team A.T. was prepared for a hot day. The temperature was already approaching 88 degrees, but inside the triple garage and the below ground storage magazine, the a/c kept the temperature at a cool 72 degrees.

In the shade of the garage, an oval metal tub was filled with ice, surrounding bottles and cans of Coke, Pepsi, and beer.

Stalley grabbed a Pepsi, popped the top, then sat cross-legged on the dirt. "Anybody have an idea why boss wants to talk with us?"

James squatted down in front of him, grinning. "Did you finish your homework like a good boy?" Stalley gave him a shove, knocking him on his ass.

"Here they come," Diaz said, walking closer to the front of the house. "You'll get your answer soon enough, Doc."

A red Mustang, black Vette, and a red Pontiac Trans Am followed one another, then pulled behind the other vehicles.

"Who's got the 'hot' Trans Am?" Stalley asked, trying to stand up quick, brushing dirt from his cutoffs.

"It's Scott," Slade answered. "Wonder why he's here?"

Doors slammed. Adler shouted, "Listen up! Lunch!" James and Slade grabbed the ice-filled tub, hauled it into the house, and put it on the kitchen counter.

As soon as everybody was inside, Grant motioned for Draper. "Hey, Rob, I don't think you've met Scott Mullins."

"Our 'go-to-man' at State!" Draper laughed, shaking Mullins' hand. "It's good to put a face to the voice."

"Nice to meet you, Rob," Mullins responded. "How'd you get yourself involved with this bunch?!"

"The power of persuasion, I suppose!"

Smelling food, the men gathered close to the counter. "Joe found a great Italian restaurant," Grant said, as he and Adler started taking wrapped subs out of paper bags.

"No surprise there!" Slade laughed, looking over Grant's shoulder.

"These are some of their specialties. We asked for a variety, so take your pick." Grant pulled Mullins' arm. "C'mon, Scott! These guys mean business when it comes to food. You snooze, you lose, buddy!"

Everyone was still eating, talking, having a good time, when Grant got up, went to the kitchen, and started making two pots of coffee. Once he'd finished, he let his eyes go from man to man, wondering what their reactions would be.

He knew Diaz was ready to "hang it up." The two of them had private conversations about Diaz' kid, who was at the age when problems were creeping up. After missing out on most of his son's life, he decided it was time to do his "dad" thing.

Grant caught Garrett glancing his way. He motioned for him to join him in the kitchen.

"Matt, have the gentlemen changed their minds? Are they having second thoughts?"

"Not at all, Grant. As I told you before, they were totally behind the idea. Hey! I didn't tell you this! After I presented your idea, they had their own little meeting. You're gonna love it!"

Grant leaned back against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. "I'm all ears."

"You know they own land just about everywhere. So, they're willing to donate areas that would coincide with training at different times of the year, like winter survival. Need I explain further?"

Grant slowly shook his head in amazement. "I don't know what to say, Matt. There's no way … "

"They don't expect anything."

"Yeah, I know."

Garrett lowered his eyes. "Wish my dad could've lived long enough to see his plan come to fruition."

Grant thought about his own father for a brief moment, before saying, "Matt, you're living his dream for him." Garrett simply nodded with a smile.

"Listen, I'd really like the guys to meet those three. Do you think they'd be willing to pay us a visit?"

"I don't see why not. I'll touch base with them."

Grant reached for some cups in the overhead cabinet. Steam spurted from the drip coffee makers, as final drops splashed into glass pots. "Ready for some coffee?"

"Your speciality, right?"

"That's affirmative!" Grant replied, jabbing Garrett in the ribs with an elbow. "Next to peanut butter sandwiches, of course." He held up the coffee pot. "Who wants coffee?!"

Trash was dumped, table cleaned, stomachs filled, with an aroma of strong coffee continuing to linger. Grant called everyone together. "Okay, guys, need you to gather 'round. Scott, you're sure as hell gonna have questions, but if you can 'hang tight' for now, we can have a side discussion."

"Sure," Mullins replied with a wave of his hand.

"And Frank, you can talk with the guys when we're through." Diaz nodded.

Grant walked to the head of the table, folding his arms across his chest. Adler stood just to the side.

"I've been thinking about this for a while. Joe and Matt have already been filled in. I'd like your questions, comments, and honest opinions, okay?"

"Sure, boss," was the reply from every man.

"A training facility. That's what I'd like to start here."

"Interesting concept," Slade nodded.

"As I said to Joe, there are a lot of young men who probably believe they can't make it into SpecOps, and maybe they can't. But the facility might be a confidence builder, if nothing else."

"What kinda training are you thinking about?" James asked.

"I don't want to break them down then build them back up, DJ. In the beginning it'd be mostly physical and mental work. We've only got so much to work with here."

"As in no swimming pool," Stalley commented.

"Roger that, Doc, but there are some off-site swimming 'holes' we might be able to use."

"What about weapons training?" James asked. "Would that be a problem?"

"Matt already did research, checked on permits. There's enough property to set up a gun range, that'll allow tactical training with up to 180 degrees of firing mobility. We're far enough away from civilians, so noise shouldn't be a factor.

"I know you're probably wondering about the extra equipment and cost. Our benefactors have given their 'blessing' to the project. We can buy what we need. Now, we'll probably be able to train a max of six at a time. I think that's a good number."

Adler took a step forward. "Understand that this is just a short version of what we've discussed. You'll all be involved in formulating schedules, workout routines, classroom sessions. That sort of stuff."

"Right, Joe," Grant said.

James swallowed a mouthful of beer. "Are you planning on having them stay here?"

"Not here, as in the house. The plan is to bring in some portable buildings, farther away from the house. Same thing for indoor training sessions. And there'll be another entrance closer to those facilities. We've still got a lot to work out." Grant looked at Garrett. "Matt, you want to fill them in on what you just told me?"

Garrett repeated the off-site training possibilities at different times of the year.

"Wow!" was all Stalley could say.

Grant rested his hands on the top of a chair. "This is what it boils down to. Eventually, we should be able to pick out a good 'crop' of men, enough to form maybe four squads. You'll each be assigned to a squad, having full responsibility." Grant looked around the table. "Speak."

"What's goin' on, boss?" Slade asked, moving his chair closer to the table.

"Joe and I will be stepping back some. It's time."

Stalley's mouth dropped open. "Boss, you can't mean … "

Grant held up a hand. "Only stepping back, Doc. You won't be rid of us just yet."

James scrunched up his face. "Won't we be accepting any more missions from the President?"

"Whether or not you decide to scrap the training idea, A.T. will carry on as usual. Scott will still be our 'go to man.' Joe and I will still be in charge of your missions. But just be aware that there'll be certain missions he and I will go on — alone. We've already had a discussion with the President."

"Holy shit, boss!" Stalley spat out.

"Look, I know you've been 'blind-sided' with this, but here's the deal. It's gonna be up to you whether this whole idea is a 'go' or not. As I said earlier, I want you to be completely honest with me. I expect you to be."

"What if it isn't a 'go,' boss?" Slade asked quietly.

"Then it's over, Ken. But Joe and I will still be stepping back." Grant's eyes went from man to man. "Listen up! You'd better not think you'd be hurting my feelings if you don't wanna do this! Got that?!" Heads bobbed up and down. "Okay, let's take a break. While Joe and I talk with Scott, you see if you can come up with a decision. Take it outside if you feel more comfortable."

A.T. filed out of the living room, heading for the door leading to the garages. Diaz trailed behind, wondering if he was making the right decision. It boiled down to continuing a way of life he loved, or spending valuable time with his son.

Once outside, the men "bombarded" Garrett with additional questions. All indications were they had already reached a decision.

Grant and Adler filled Mullins in on their meeting with President Carr. Mullins commented, "So, nothing will change as far as my 'relationship' with you guys."

"Lucky you! Nothing changes," Grant answered with a grin. "Hey, here's a thought. If this plan moves forward, why don't you consider spending some of your free time on site?"

"You mean in training?!"

"Why the hell not?"

It didn't take Mullins long to reply, "Yeah, why the hell not?!"

Just then, they heard the door open, then footsteps along the wood floor. Grant turned in the chair, draping an arm over the back. He watched each man walk by, then line up alongside the table.

By their expressions alone, Grant knew they made their decision.