Sacrifice of One

Chapter 14

Grant slid the food tray along the metal rack of the serving line, paid the bill then glanced around the room, looking for an empty table. He picked one out, farthest away from the serving line, noise, and closest to a wall. He chastised himself. Get over that damn back to the wall paranoia thing, Stevens.

Placing his tray on one of the small round cafe tables, he pulled out a red plastic chair, sat down, then put his cap upside down on an extra chair.

As he opened the first carton of milk, he glanced around the room, seeing a man and a boy sitting a few tables away.

The boy, who appeared to be about fifteen, was watching him. Grant smiled and gave a quick nod. The boy turned away.

After taking a healthy swig of cold milk from the carton, Grant picked up the cheeseburger with everything on it, relieved his appetite finally returned and his taste buds were back to normal.

For almost five weeks he’d been a “resident” in the convalescent ward. Classified as TAD (temporary additional duty), he went through therapy for his shoulder, and waited for the ribs and liver to heal. Today was the day he was finally going home.

Everything about the mission had finally reassembled in his brain. The POWs were no longer POWs, but were free men. He, Joe, Grigori, and Tony were able to make it happen. He would probably never find out if they were the same men from the failed mission in ’75. It no longer mattered. His second chance made it right.

Every mission he’d ever been on is filed away in his brain, there to be pulled out on a moment’s notice. Except this mission, this rescue, has affected him like no other. The faces of those men will remain with him for as long as he lives.

And then there was Grigori. He still couldn’t quite believe Grigori and Alexandra were in the States. How many times they talked about it, joked about it. They’d been there as long as he’d been in the hospital. Five weeks to get acclimated to a brand new way of life, with new identities, with just about new everything. He was eager get home.

He took another bite from the burger when he heard a voice. “Excuse me.”

He looked up. It was the boy he noticed earlier. Trying to swallow his mouthful of burger, he helped it along with a gulp of milk. Wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he finally asked, “What can I do for you?”

“That’s my dad over there.” Grant looked at the father and acknowledged him. “He said I could come over and talk to you. I’d like to sit with you for a little while, if that’s okay.”

“Sure!” Grant pulled a chair out and moved his cap to another. He extended a hand to the boy. “By the way, I’m Grant.”

“I’m Chris.” A nervous smile crossed his young face, revealing a row of white crooked teeth. He brushed a hand across his forehead, pushing aside blond curly hair.

“So, Chris, you and your dad headed back to the States?”

Chris nodded. “We’re flying back to D.C.”

“No kidding? That’s where I’m going. Is that where you live?”

“No. We’re from Indiana. My mom and little sisters are at home waiting for us.”

Grant noticed the boy seemed a bit nervous. He pushed his plate away, then leaned back. “Is there something you want to ask me, Chris?”

“You’re a Navy SEAL, aren’t you?”

There was a slight curve to the right side of Grant’s mouth. “Yeah. I am. Guess you noticed the ‘Budweiser’ here,” he said as he pointed to the gold insignia on his jacket.

“‘Budweiser’?” Chris frowned.

“Yeah. ‘Budweiser’ is the nickname for the SEAL insignia, the Trident. It looks like the Budweiser beer emblem, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “My dad likes Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

Grant laughed. “Nothing wrong with that!”

He took some extra time and explained the Trident and how the name “SEAL” was derived. “Tell you what. Once we’re underway, you come and find me. If you want, I’ll answer any questions you have about the Teams and Navy, okay?”

“I’d like that,” Chris answered with a grin. Then he glanced over at his dad.

“Something else on your mind?” Grant asked with a raised eyebrow.

Chris turned serious, lowering his head briefly as he started to say, “I’ve sorta been… well, I’ve sorta been a screw up the past couple of years.” He quickly added, “I don’t mean I’ve been in jail or anything like that! Just… stuff.” Innocent blue eyes looked up at Grant.

“Most of us probably have done some weird, questionable stuff during our lives, Chris, especially when we were young. Sounds like you’ve already taken a big step by recognizing that. It’s all part of growing up, you know?”

Chris nodded, seeming a little embarrassed at revealing his personal problem to a stranger… and a Navy SEAL. “My dad was in the Army, but I never really paid much attention to military stuff, and I really didn’t know anything about you guys until… until recently.”

“You’ve probably got more important things to do, anyway. How old are you? About fifteen?” Chris nodded. “Well, high school can be a great time in your life. Are you into sports?”

“Play baseball, second base.”

“Busy position, second base! I got stuck in center field!” Grant laughed, then said, “Hey! You thinking about joining up after college?”

“College? Would I hafta go to college?”

Grant laughed again. “Of course not. But I’d bet you’d make good officer material, and college will help get you there.” Chris just looked at him. “Uh-oh. Am I sounding like mom and dad?”

“No. No. It’s just… college, you know? More school.”

“Look. You’ve got time to think about it. You’ll make the right decision when the time comes. I’m sure your folks will help you.”

“I guess so.” He looked over at his dad. “Well, I think I’d better get back to my dad.” He pushed his chair back then stood, as did Grant. “Do you think I could write to you once in awhile?”

“Sure,” Grant said, reaching for a napkin. He took a ballpoint pen from a pocket inside his dress blues jacket. “Here’s my address.” He handed him the napkin. “Why don’t you give me yours?” Chris scribbled his name and address, then slid the napkin to Grant, as he watched him. Grant spun the napkin around. He tried to interpret the writing. “Is that Southern, or…?”

“It’s Southere.”

“Okay, Chris Southere. I’ll watch for your mail. Maybe I’ll see you on the plane.” He extended his hand, and Chris reached for it. Suddenly, a strange feeling went through Grant, and he rolled the name around in his mind. Southere. “Chris Southere,” he quietly repeated under his breath, as he looked again at the napkin. Then, he snapped his head up, looking directly at Chris, holding onto the boy’s hand, not letting it go.

Just from the way Grant repeated his name, by the look on his face, Chris knew. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of them who saved my uncle.” Grant was stunned. What were the odds of this chance encounter? Chris waved his dad over to the table, as he smiled and nodded.

The man was about six feet tall, close to Grant’s height, with dark blond hair, cut short in military style. He took long strides over to where his son was waiting.

Chris made the introductions. “Dad, this is Grant.” He looked at the napkin for a last name. “Grant Stevens. Grant, this is my dad, Alex.”

Alex Southere noticed the stripes on Grant’s jacket sleeve. “It’s ‘Captain’ Stevens, Chris. See those four gold stripes on his sleeve?”

Grant offered his hand. “Nice to… ” Alex took hold of his outstretched arm and pulled Grant against him. Grant let out a lowgrunt from a sudden pain in his shoulder and ribs.

“God bless you, Captain Stevens! God bless you!” The man held Grant like a vice. He finally stepped back, holding onto Grant’s shoulders, again with a firm grip. Grant lowered his right shoulder slightly, reaching for it with his left hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alex said, as he wiped at his eyes. “Don’t know my own strength sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir.”

Alex stared at Grant for what seemed like a long minute. It was then he noticed recent scars on Grant’s face, before he commented, “You’re the one.”

Grant asked with a quizzical expression, “The one, sir?”

“Yes. You’re the one who was in the hospital when my brother and the other men started undergoing their examinations. There were rumors a Navy SEAL was brought in because of injuries he received when… ” He decided he’d said more than enough. After all, they were just rumors. “We tried to see you but they wouldn’t allow us in. Naturally, we couldn’t find out your name.”

“I guess those are hospital regs, sir.”

Alex immediately realized the moment was becoming uncomfortable for Grant, knowing SEALs like to stay “under the radar,” avoiding recognition. But this chance meeting for all parties was beyond anyone’s imagination.

“My brother, Chris, hasn’t talked too much yet about his time in captivity, but he didn’t have enough words to describe what you did for him and the other men. You’ll be forever in our debt and prayers, captain.”

“I wasn’t the only one on that mission, sir.”

“Oh, I know, captain. Perhaps one day we can meet the others.”

A picture of Mullins flashed in Grant’s mind, as he answered, “Yes, sir. Maybe we can make it happen. By the way, sir, how is Chris, your brother?”

“He’s doing remarkably well, captain. We all realize it’s going to take some time for him to adjust being home, but we’ll be there for him.”

“Is he married, sir?”

“He was,” Alex answered simply.

“Understand, sir.”

Chris tugged on his father’s arm. “Grant, I mean, Captain Stevens said I could write to him, dad.”

Alex put an arm around his son. “Appreciate that, captain.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, sir.” Looking at Chris, he said, “One day you might see Chris wearing one of these uniforms.”

“I’d be proud,” Alex said, looking down at his son. “Well, I guess we’ve taken enough of your time. Oh, look at that,” he said pointing at the burgers. “We interrupted your lunch. Those burgers are probably ice cold. Let me buy you fresh ones.”

“Oh, no, sir. That’s okay. Believe me, I’ve eaten a lot worse,” Grant replied with a slight grin.

“I’m sure you have!” One more time, he offered his hand, this time being more careful. “Take care, captain, and again, God bless you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Chris, a fifteen year old boy from Indiana, probably never realized what an emotional impact this trip and this meeting would have on him. He looked at his father, then went to Grant, giving him a quick, heartfelt hug.

As he and his father were nearing their table, Grant walked up behind them. “Chris, wait a minute. Here. I want you to have this.” He held his hand out. In his palm was his gold Trident.

One shocked fifteen year old, with eyes the size of dinner plates, was almost at a loss for words, as he shook his head. “Oh, no! I can’t!”

“I insist, Chris. I just ask that you keep it in a secure place for now. Then when the time comes, and you make it through BUD/S, I’d be honored if you wore it. Okay?”

Chris took it in his hand. His fingers curled around the pin, holding it tightly. He nodded his head, as he stared up at Grant. “Would you mind if I had Uncle Chris keep this for me?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think that’s a very mature decision. Listen, Chris, I hope you understand I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. If you decide not to try for BUD/S, or even if you don’t want to enter any branch of service, whatever you decide to do, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice. But I still want you or your uncle to hang onto the Trident.” Grant had to take a deep breath before he said, “You know, Chris, Mr. Southere, this whole experience has been special for me, too. I’d really like to keep in touch with all of you. Okay?”

Chris nodded. His father again offered a hand to Grant. “Thank you, captain.” Then, he put an arm around his son’s shoulders. They went to their table.

Grant sat down. Sitting there quietly, he reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He drew the photo out from under the flap, unfolded it, and looked at his dad. Then raising his eyes, he focused on a father and son.

A haze drifted across the eastern horizon, as a thin veil shrouded an early morning sun. The day’s forecast was for a high of ninety-six degrees, humidity eighty-five percent. Both not unusual for late July.

Traffic on all roadways was typical for the time of day, heavy and congested, with sounds of blaring horns, trucks braking, cars backfiring.

In Arlington National Cemetery there was peace and calm, as if noise from the outside world had been silenced.

Two Navy officers, wearing their summer service whites, walked side by side along a path, looking for a specific row, a specific headstone.

Finally locating the row, they walked across freshly mowed grass, being respectful of the hallowed ground, being cautious where they stepped.

Joe Adler stopped in front of a headstone. He looked at Grant and tilted his head slightly to the right. He spoke quietly. “Here he is.”

Grant walked nearer, standing next to Adler, looking down at a white marble marker. Engraved in black concrete dye was an inscription:

They both stood quietly in front of the headstone, each in their own thoughts. A few minutes passed when Grant reached into his shirt pocket. Getting down on one knee by the stone, he laid his own Bronze Star medal with “V” from Vietnam, at the base.

In the center of the star is a superimposed bronze star, the center line of all rays of both stars coinciding. The reverse side has the inscription “Heroic or Meritorious Achievement” then Grant’s name. It’s suspended from a ribbon with white, scarlet, white stripes; a center stripe of ultramarine blue; then white, scarlet, white stripes.

Grant bowed his head, as he pressed his palm against the stone. “Rest in peace, Tony.” He got up. Both he and Adler braced at attention, then snapped a salute.

They started to leave, but Grant paused and touched the top of the headstone. “Thanks, Mullins-san. Won’t ever forget you, buddy.”

As they slowly walked along the path, Adler looked at Grant and asked, “You okay?”

“Been better. You?”

“Same.”

Grant pointed to a wooden bench positioned under a dogwood tree. “Let’s sit over there for a minute.”

More visitors started arriving. Most came just to pay their respects to all buried here, some specifically looking for markers, carrying flowers and small American flags.

Grant raised his aviator sunglasses, and brushed his fingers across his eyes. Then he leaned forward, unconsciously rubbing his palms together. He glanced around the cemetery grounds, at row upon row of white marble headstones. No matter what angle the markers are viewed from, they’re all in perfect alignment.

Without turning to look at Adler, he asked quietly, “How many more times will we have to do this, Joe?” Adler knew Grant wasn’t expecting an answer.

Lowering his head, Grant closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. With the beginning sound of a lone bugle playing taps, he and Adler stood. They turned toward the American flag, flying at half staff, then saluted their respect to an unknown soul.

When it was quiet again, Adler asked, “You think it’s time to head over to NIS?”

“Guess we’d better get going,” Grant answered as they turned toward the parking area.

“Hey, skipper, I know we’ve been hashing it out. Is today the day we talk to the admiral? He’s gotta be wondering.”

“Just as soon as we get back.”

As they were nearing the Vette, Grant dug his keys out of his pocket. Adler started walking around him when Grant put a hand in front of him. “Hold up a minute, Joe.” Adler turned. Grant stood directly in front of his friend, staring into the familiar blue eyes. “This is the only time I’m going to bring this up.” He took a breath before continuing. “I know it’s been tearing you up inside, but that day, the day the chopper went down, you were following my orders. You got those men and Grigori to safety. It was you who completed the mission, Joe.” He lightly poked a finger against Adler’s chest. “That’s what I won’t forget. That’s what I want you to remember. Do you understand what I mean, Joe?”

Adler gave the slightest nod. “Yes, sir.”

Giving Adler’s shoulder a light tap, he turned to open the car door. “Okay. Just wanted to set the record straight.” He removed his cap, then slid behind the steering wheel. “Let’s move.”

“Morning, captain, lieutenant,” Zach said, standing behind his desk as the two came into the office. He put a pencil behind his ear, then picked up an armful of file folders.

“Morning, Zach,” the two responded. They tucked their caps under their left arms. Grant removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket.

“The admiral said for you to go in as soon as you got here, sirs.”

As Grant turned toward the door, Adler said, “Think I’ll have a cup of coffee, skipper, until you’re ready for me to come in.”

Grant knocked on the door. “Come,” Torrinson said.

Grant closed the door behind him. “Morning, admiral,” he said as he walked to the desk, bracing at attention.

“Morning, Grant. Have a seat. I’ll be right with you as soon as I sign these last two papers.” Grant complied, then put his cap on the corner of the desk. Torrinson dropped the papers in the basket, finally looking up at Grant, as he leaned back against his chair. “So, Grant, how you feeling today?”

“I’m doing better, sir, but I’ve still got those exercises for my shoulder.”

“I know you swim almost everyday, right?”

“Usually I do, sir, but doc advised I give the ribs a couple more weeks, just in case. Sure don’t like being this way, sir, you know, not a hundred percent.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Grant.” Torrinson leaned against his desk, tapping his pen on the green blotter. “You said you were going to Arlington this morning.”

“Yes, sir. Joe and I just came from there.”

Seeing a look in Grant’s eyes, Torrinson said, “It’s never easy, Grant.”

“No, sir. It never is.”

“Oh, by the way. I went over to CIA yesterday afternoon. Had some final business with Director Hannigan. While I waited in the lobby, I noticed another star was added to the Memorial Wall. Agent Mullins’ name is now in the Book of Honor.”

“Glad to hear that, sir. He deserves to be there, you know? It’s one of the few times the Agency’s done something right, sir,” Grant commented with all seriousness.

Knowing Grant’s feelings toward the Agency, Torrinson couldn’t help but smile, while he nodded his head in agreement. “I have a feeling President Carr had something to say about it.”

“Tony was a damn good agent, admiral,” Grant replied emphatically. “CIA shouldn’t have needed a ‘push’ from the President.”

“I fully agree, but it’s over, Grant. They made it right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve got something for you,” Torrinson said, as he opened his middle desk drawer, pulling it against his stomach. “Promised I’d have these for you when you got back.” He lifted out two packages of Snickers candy and pushed them across the desk in front of Grant. “Up to you if you want to share with Joe.”

“Appreciate it, sir. Thank Mrs. Torrinson for me.” He smiled, then said, “Why don’t you have Joe come in?”

Once Adler was seated, Torrinson asked, “So, have you been to see Colonel and Mrs. Moshenko?”

“We have, sir,” Grant answered. “Stopped in last night. It was sort of surreal, you know, seeing them here. I’m just relieved Joe got them out safely, sir.” Adler gave Grant a sideways glance. Grant continued, “Only one problem I can see, admiral.”

Torrinson sat up straighter and asked with concern, “Oh, no. What problem is that?”

“Well, sir, just can’t get used to calling them Uri and Natasha Leonov! It just doesn’t roll off the tongue quite like ‘Moshenko,’ sir.”

Torrinson let out a relieved sigh, then laughed, “Okay, okay. Those are the names CIA decided on, so that’s the way it is.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant answered with a sly grin.

“By the way,” Torrinson said, leaning back, “I got a call from Rachel, the President’s secretary. The two of you have a personal meeting with the President this afternoon at 1400 hours. Believe he has something for both of you.”

“Sir?”

“Think it’s something for your uniforms.”

“All right, sir,” Grant answered. He and Adler gave each other a quick look.

“Now, gentlemen, I know you both want to discuss something with me.” Torrinson picked up a pen and started tapping it on his desk. “You’ve had time to mull things over, and I know you’ve talked to one another.

“I realize this has to be one of the toughest decisions of your lives. So tell me. Do either of you, or do both of you want to ‘hang it up’ and resign your commissions?”

Grant and Adler both looked at each other then back at Torrinson. Grant responded, “Not us, sir. Somebody must’ve fed you wrong intel!”