Shanghai Mission

Chapter 24

Blackened snow, leftover from the previous week’s storm, was still piled along sidewalks and in alleyways. The nor’easter dumped nearly twelve inches of wet, heavy snow up and down the Eastern seaboard. The temperature had dropped into the low twenties every evening over the past several days.

Puffs of breath constantly wafted into the freezing air as Grant Stevens walked down G Street at a good clip. His gloved hands were shoved into the pockets of his brown leather flight jacket. Its fur collar gave some warmth to his neck. The jacket was given to him by the AE-6B pilot who flew him and Adler from an aircraft carrier back to D.C. after one of their missions.

He talked himself into taking this walk thinking the cold night air and a cup of hot, black coffee might be the answer. His intention was to only clear his brain… not freeze it.

Turning down a narrow side street, he was immediately hit by a blast of cold wind. He pulled his watch cap down over his ears, as he stepped over a small mound of frozen snow. Even with heavy socks, his boondockers (black, lace-up boots) barely kept his feet warm. “Colder than a witch’s tit,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. How many times had he heard that aboard a ship floating somewhere in the North Atlantic? Now he questioned why the hell he just didn’t put on a pot of coffee at his apartment.

The small cafe he frequented was situated between a watch repair shop and a used bookstore. It was one of those places only known by locals. A red neon sign hung inside a plate glass window, flashing an outline of a cup of coffee with steam rising from the cup.

The cafe had been around since the early fifties. The current owners refurbished the interior but still kept it decorated from that era. Booths and chairs were covered in shiny, red vinyl. The chair frames were made of chrome. Tabletops were standard white Formica. Against the wall next to the front door was a jukebox, original to the cafe. Tonight, it remained silent.

The door swung open. Grant stepped back, as he grabbed the curved, stainless steel handle. A young couple, bundled up like they’d been to the North Pole, rushed past him, running toward G Street.

Once inside, he removed his cap, and smoothed back strands of brown hair from his forehead. He picked out a booth near the back, away from the window, then headed for it. The cafe didn’t have any seating hostess. Customers were on their own. Tonight the place was practically empty, most likely because of the cold.

Standing next to the table, he gave a quick glance at three other customers sitting at the counter, all three hunched over coffee cups, sipping their hot drinks.

Removing his gloves, he shoved them and his cap into his pockets, then unzipped his jacket. He slid across the seat, feeling more comfortable near the wall.

A young waiter, wearing white shirt and black pants, walked to his table. He took a pencil from behind his ear, then used the tip of the eraser to push a blond curl from his forehead. “What can I get you?” he said lifting an order pad from his shirt pocket.

Grant looked momentarily at the kid without responding. The curly blond hair caught his attention.

“Something wrong, mister?”

“Oh, no. You just reminded me of a young man I met not too long ago.” Chris Southere. The young man was the nephew of one of the POWs.

“So, what can I get you?”

Grant saw a stick-on name tag on the shirt pocket. “Just black coffee, Brian.”

“You don’t want anything to eat?”

“Maybe later,” Grant answered, assuming the kid didn’t think his tip would be big enough from just an order of coffee. Gotta be a college student, he thought.

Grant blew warm breath into his hands as he watched Brian carrying an overflowing cup to the table. Some of the black brew splashed over the rim, running down the sides.

“Here you go,” Brian said, putting the white mug in front of Grant. He dropped the bill on the edge of the table.

As he started to leave, Grant said, “Hold it.” He removed his wallet from inside his jacket. “Are you in college?”

“Not yet. I start in September.”

Grant took out five dollars, picked up the bill and handed money and bill to the kid.

“I’ll bring your change in a minute.”

“Keep it,” Grant answered, as he slid the mug closer.

“But the coffee was only…!”

“I know.”

“Thanks! Thanks a lot, mister! Just let me know if you need anything else.”

Grant pulled a couple of paper napkins from a metal container and wiped the spilled coffee. He picked up the mug and took a sip.

A rush of cold air surged into the cafe as the front door opened, bringing with it a sound of street noise. A man walked into the cafe, with the door automatically closing behind him. He wore a black leather coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood there for a moment before removing his black leather gloves. He was tall, maybe in his early sixties, and somebody who looked to be in good shape. His hair had heavy streaks of gray, nearly covering dark brown strands.

Letting his eyes roam around the cafe, he finally settled his gaze on Grant. Then, he started walking toward the back of the cafe.

Grant put the mug on the table, keeping his eyes on the stranger. His senses immediately went on alert. He pressed his back against the seat, waiting, wrapping both hands around the hot coffee mug.

The man stopped next to the table. Grant looked up at this stranger, trying to pull out a name from somewhere in his brain, trying to match it to the face he was looking at. Nothing. A complete blank.

“Hello, Captain Stevens.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but you don’t look familiar. Am I supposed to know you?”

“Probably not.”

“Then let’s try this question. Do I know of you?” The stranger gave no indication he was about to reply. Grant pressed further, not sure if he wanted this to continue. “Come on. Give me something. Not even an introduction?”

“Perhaps in time. Would you mind if I sat with you for a while?”

“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”

The man slapped his gloves against his opposite palm, then smiled slightly. “Please. I’d like to talk with you.”

Trying to prepare himself for just about anything now, Grant responded, “The seat’s yours. But don’t plan on staying long.”

The stranger dropped his gloves on the table then unwound his cashmere scarf from his neck. He sat down heavily on the vinyl seat, directly opposite Grant.

The waiter rushed over to the new customer. “Can I get you anything?”

Without taking his eyes from Grant’s, the man replied, “Not now.”

No words passed between the two men for what seemed like a very long minute. Red flags starting popping up in Grant’s brain, signaling caution. What made him more uncomfortable was the thought this guy could’ve followed him from his apartment.

He pushed the coffee cup aside, then propped his elbows on the table. Squeezing one fist with his other hand, he finally said, “Look, I don’t have ESP. So, are you gonna tell me what this is about?”

The man gave an almost indiscernible smile. “Let’s just say I have a proposition for you.”

Grant leaned back, then pulled the coffee mug closer to the edge of the table. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “A proposition? You won’t tell me who you are, but you want to make me a proposition?”

“Would it help if I told you that we have a mutual friend?”

“It would help even more if you told me who you and this friend of yours were.”

“What I will tell you, Captain, is that you come very highly recommended by this ‘friend.’”

Grant sipped on his warm coffee, looking dead-on at this stranger, a stranger whose answer was beginning to intrigue him. “I’m gonna get a warm-up. Want something?”

“Coffee.”

Grant motioned for the waiter, then ordered two coffees. Once the waiter left, Grant held the mug close to his lips, blowing some breath into the fresh, hot brew.

As the man stirred sugar into his coffee, Grant broke the brief silence. “Whoever this ‘friend’ is, I guess he didn’t tell you I’m no longer on active duty. I’ve retired. You don’t have to call me ‘Captain.’”

“Oh, no. He told me. That’s the main reason why I’m here.” The man continued stirring the coffee, then he leaned against the table and lowered his voice. “He told me about your ‘adventures’ and accomplishments over the course of your career. I know what you’ve done for this country. In my opinion, Grant Stevens, you still deserve to be called ‘Captain.’”

Grant put the coffee mug on the table and pushed it aside. Taking a quick glance around the cafe, he noticed that he and “whoever he was” were the only two customers remaining. Closing time was twenty-three hundred hours. It was approaching twenty-one fifteen.

Watching Grant look around the room, he asked, “I assume we’re alone?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are. Does that mean you’re about to give me more… ” Grant became quiet, then said suspiciously, with his eyes narrowing, “Tell me you’re not with the ‘Cowboys.’” He referred to the CIA, the “Cowboys In Action.”

“If you’re referring to the CIA, no, I’m not.”

Grant was feeling uneasy, and for more than one legitimate reason. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to fill me in; otherwise, one of us is outta here.”

“Why don’t we start with a name. You can call me ‘Mr. Young.’”

“‘Mr. Young’? That’s it? How long until we’re on a first name basis?” Grant smirked.

Young looked at his Rolex. “Tell you what. It’s still early in the evening. If you’re willing to take a ride with me, I’ll give you complete details as to why I wanted to meet you. I’ll even give you my first name, and the name of our friend.”

“How about you tell me now?”

Young just shook his head. “I’d rather not. Look, just come with me. Perhaps I’m the one taking the chance. I’m well aware of your karate abilities, and I can assure you, I’m not armed.”

Grant pictured his .45 locked in a small safe in his apartment. Bluffing, he patted the left side of his jacket. “Never leave home without it.”

He slid across the seat, then stood up. Standing next to the table, he pulled his gloves and watch cap from his pocket. “Well,” he finally said, “you’ve peaked my curiosity. Let’s go.”

Grant walked a half step behind Young as they made their way to G Street. Occasionally taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he wondered if he was being smart. Who the hell was this guy?

Young stopped by the curb, and readjusted his scarf. Grant cautiously walked up next to him. “Need to hail a cab?”

No sooner did he get the words out, when a silver, four-door Jaguar XJ12L pulled next to the curb and stopped. Young opened the back door and climbed in, scooting to the opposite side.

Grant leaned toward the open door, trying to get a look at the driver, who appeared to pay him no mind. Sliding onto the leather seat, Grant closed the door.

The interior of the Jag had that new car smell. The leather seats were a dark silver-color. The door trim, dashboard and steering wheel were natural walnut. A car phone was encased in the armrest between the two front bucket seats, with another phone mounted on a panel behind the driver’s seat. Every detail was first class.

Crossing the Potomac, they headed out of D.C. and continued west. Most of the route Grant was familiar with, until they turned south. They were leaving city lights behind, heading to the country. The Jag picked up speed.

Grant’s concentration was broken with the sound of Young’s voice. “Captain.”

Turning slightly in the seat, Grant looked at him and responded, “Mr. Young.”

“My name’s Jordan.”

“Okay. And our ‘friend’ is?”

“When we get to our destination. I promise.”

Packed snow along the narrow country road crunched beneath the Jag’s wide steel-belted radial tires, as the car followed in the tracks of previous vehicles. Bright high beams illuminated a mixture of tall pine and fir trees, most with branches drooping, as heavy, wet snow clung precariously to them.

The car had gone almost three miles when it came to a T in the road. A large metal sign had a yellow arrow pointing right. Next to it another sign had an arrow pointing left with the words: Dead End. The driver turned left, onto a lane just wide enough for one car.

A metal gate slowly came into view. Its width stretched across the entire lane. Fastened to each of the support posts was wire, three rows high, that extended beyond the trees. Practically hidden from view were security cameras, aimed at vehicles entering and leaving the premises. A sign, screwed into the top of the gate, had a red lightning bolt painted above the words: Danger — Electric Fence.

The driver slowed the Jag to nearly a crawl. A sensor in the gate picked up a signal from a device hidden in the front bumper. The gate swung back. Continuing forward, the vehicle was less than five seconds past the gate, when a timer electronically started. The gate closed.

Grant shifted in the seat, now regretting he didn’t have his weapon. He still couldn’t see anything ahead, until faint lights became visible. A ranch-style log home. The house itself was nearly four thousand square feet, with attached triple garage. Tall trees completely surrounded the home, as if trying to conceal it. All windows were made of one-way glass and bulletproof.

Another sensor activated, and the garage door, the one closest to the house, swung up. It had not quite opened completely, when the driver pulled the Jag forward. As soon as he shut off the engine, the garage door closed.

The three men exited the car. Sounds of doors slamming echoed within the expansive space. Grant noticed two vehicles already parked inside: a black Lincoln Continental and a white Cadillac Sedan de Ville.

He let his eyes roam around the rest of the interior. A single row of metal cabinets with locks lined the entire back wall. Double-door, fire-resistant, burglar-proof gun cabinets, about seven feet in height, were placed against the side wall.

No tools. No garbage cans. No grease stains on the concrete floor. Except for snow melting from the tires, it was spotless.

“Shall we go inside?” Jordan Young asked.

“Lead the way,” Grant answered, as he wondered who the Lincoln and Caddy belonged to. He pulled off his gloves and watch cap, giving a sideways glance at the driver, who gave him a nod, and immediately started wiping down the car with a clean rag.

If ever there was a time when Grant had his curiosity peaking, this was that time. With all his senses on full alert, he followed Young into the house.

Natural hickory wood floors began at the door and continued on as far as Grant could see.

Young opened a closet door just past the bath, then started removing his coat. “You can hang your jacket in here,” he said to Grant as he handed him a hanger.

Grant hung the jacket in the closet, then adjusted his thick blue cable-knit sweater, pulling it down over the waist of his pants. He caught up to Young.

At the end of the hall, to the left, was a dining area. A long, rectangular walnut table was in the center, with ten high-back wooden chairs. Each seat was covered in dark brown leather.

To the right was a kitchen with brand new appliances, and just beyond that, the front door. In a small nook next to the door was an eight-foot bar, made of walnut and topped with a slab of black marble. A copper sink had been inserted into the marble slab, close to the end of the bar.

The main living area took up the rest of the space. It was large and open, free of decorations. No pictures or paintings. No knick-knacks. No antlers or deer heads fastened to walls.

On one long wall was a massive, natural stone fireplace. Orange-yellow flames flickered and crackled from logs stacked on a metal grate. Embers drifted chaotically upward, disappearing into the chimney. The entire room was warmed by the fire.

Attached to the wall above the rough-cut cedar mantel was a security monitor. The screen was divided into six smaller pictures, each in black and white, focused on sections of the property. Every five seconds the pictures would automatically change.

Two men came from behind the bar, each holding a glass of what appeared to be Scotch over ice.

Young said, “Captain, these gentlemen have been waiting for you.”

“Any more surprises, sir?” Grant asked.

“Let me introduce you to Clark Talbott and Mason Sinclair,” Young said, motioning to each man.

Clark Talbott reached for Grant’s hand. “Captain.”

Grant gave a quick nod and returned Talbott’s handshake. “Sir.”

Talbott had wavy, thinning “salt and pepper” hair, and pale gray eyes behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. His deep suntan was a result of a recent trip to his vacation home on the French Riviera. A dark blue suit exuded self-confidence… and Armani. His leather shoes were by Gucci.

Mason Sinclair extended his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Captain Stevens. We’ve heard many stories about you.”

“Hope not bad, sir,” Grant smiled as he shook Sinclair’s hand.

“On the contrary,” Sinclair replied, as he put his lips to the glass then took a drink.

Sinclair had short, thick, yellow-blond hair, dappled with streaks of gray. He was 5’10”, about the same as Talbott. Sinclair wasn’t as trim as Talbott, though. A slight paunch was apparent beneath his suit, a suit that was black with thin gray stripes.

The three men were all about the same age, in their early sixties, although Young didn’t look his age. What they did have in common was the same expensive taste in clothes and shoes.

Grant tried to be nonchalant as he gave a quick glance down at his scuffed boondockers. He snapped his head up when he heard Young. “Captain, what can I get you to drink?”

“Coke.”

“With or without ice?”

“Ice, sir.”

As Young went to the bar, he said over his shoulder, “Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat. I’ll join you in a minute.”

The three men walked to the L-shaped, brown leather sofa situated about ten feet from the fireplace. Grant went around the oval, walnut coffee table, choosing to sit on the smaller section of the sofa.

“I’m sure Captain Stevens feels he’s been kept in the dark long enough,” Young said, handing Grant a tall glass of Coke along with a cocktail napkin.

Grant reached for both, then answered, “You’re right, sir, but I’ll be the first to admit that you sure as hell have my attention.”

Young sat on a matching leather chair at the end of the couch, facing Grant. “Will you continue to refer to each of us as ‘sir,’ Captain?” he asked with a brief smile.

Grant swallowed a mouthful of Coke. “That’s the way it’s been my whole career, sir. I might need some time to readjust.”

“Understand. And I hope you don’t mind, but we feel compelled to call you ‘Captain,’ okay?”

The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up. He nodded.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, suppose we begin.” Young sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Captain, do you remember the officer in charge of your Team when you first became a SEAL?”

“Sure. Sure I do. That was Lieutenant… ” He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at Young. He put his drink on the coffee table, then stood up. Keeping his head down, he walked behind the sofa. He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, while he tried to let the idea sink in.

Young glanced at Talbott and Sinclair before he called softly, “Captain?”

Grant asked with astonishment, “Lieutenant Garrett?! Is that our mutual friend, sir? Lieutenant Matt Garrett?”

“Yes, Captain. It is. But he’s no longer a lieutenant and no longer in the Navy.”

It didn’t happen often, but Grant Stevens was at a loss for words. He slowly came around the sofa, shaking his head. He sat down. “But I haven’t had any contact with him for… ”

Sinclair spoke. “Maybe not, but we have. The Garrett family has been close friends of all three of our families for years. Matt’s dad, Hugh, was in business with Jordan, Clark, and I. We made our fortunes together.” Sinclair finished his drink and put the glass on the table. “I’m sorry to say that Hugh passed away almost two years ago. He wanted to see this ‘project’ through to its fruition. It just didn’t happen for him. But Hugh planned ahead and before he died, he turned everything over to Matt. By the way, Matt wanted to be here, but he’s been out of the country handling business dealings.”

Grant shook his head slowly. “But what does any of that have to do with me? I still don’t know why I’m here.”

“We asked Matt to recommend someone to us. He recommended you.”

Grant started to say something. Young held up a hand. “Just a minute, Captain. Matt has followed your career because he said he saw something in you from the beginning. Something special. And apparently, he was right.” Young hesitated briefly before he continued. “We are also aware that you probably don’t feel comfortable talking about what happened in East Germany.”

Without realizing it, Grant winced, not from pain, just from the memory. His hands balled up into fists, as he asked, “What the hell does East Germany have to do with any of this?”

“Because, Captain, it tells us about the kind of man you are.” Jordan Young stood, then took a couple of steps closer to Grant. Grant looked up at him, waiting for an explanation. “Captain, everything here — house, property, vehicles — all were specifically built and purchased for your use.

“We realize that additional equipment will be needed.” Young gave a half smile. “We know you SEALs like those C-130s, so we’ve got one at an airfield not far from here, as well as a Gulfstream.

“Whatever else you want and need, we’re prepared to pay for it — including your salaries. All of this is completely at your disposal. Of course, all this is predicated on your accepting our proposition.”

Grant stood again, as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make sense of Young’s statement. His brow furrowed. His confusion was obvious. “I just don’t understand! For my use?! At my disposal?!”

“Yes. At your disposal. You… and your team.”

A sudden thought struck Grant, making his temples throb. He backed away from Young. “I’m sorry, sir, but the word ‘mercenary’ isn’t in my vocabulary. It’s not my game. I hope you’re not expecting me… ”

“Please, Captain,” Sinclair said, patting the cushion. “Sit down.”

Grant automatically stood at parade rest. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll stand.”

Jordan Young now regretted prolonging the whole purpose of this meeting. Captain Stevens deserved better.

“Captain, we apologize. Sit down and we’ll explain fully.”

Grant reluctantly sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he squeezed one fist, then the other. His eyes never left Young’s.

Young took a sip of his drink, then wiped a napkin across his lips before he continued. “Let me start by telling you we all served in the military. We know the differences between military and civilian mindsets.

“About three years ago the four of us came to a conclusion. We needed to organize a group of men, men who could be trusted, who were experienced and competent in covert operations. We’d supply and finance everything needed for such operations.”

Grant finally broke in. “But why? What’s the point when we’ve got SEALs, Green Berets, Rang… ”

“That’s correct, Captain, but there are times when even those teams can’t get authorization for a mission. It’s always political. Somebody’s afraid of ‘stepping’ on someone’s toes. There are also those times when funding becomes an issue. You know those can be the roadblocks.”

“Yes, sir. I sure do.”

“Maybe this will help ease your mind. The government is completely aware of our organization.” He held up a hand. “Let me clarify that. A certain branch of our government is aware. We are completely legal. We have not, we will not break any laws.

“I will also tell you that we will be out of the picture once you make your decision. Your contact will handle everything from then on — missions, equipment, everything.”

“How did you know I’d retire? How did you get all this done in such a short timespan?”

Talbott wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We already had this property and the house. Once we learned of your retirement, all we had to do was make certain… modifications.”

“What happens if I decide to just walk away from your offer? What happens to all this?” he asked, swiping his arm in an arc.

Sinclair answered. “If it came to that, there isn’t anything here that would indicate what our intentions were. All this could be sold or used by our families.”

Grant was astonished, to put it mildly. “So, what you’re saying is you don’t have anyone else in mind? I’m your only choice?!” He looked at the men, waiting for a response. Just by each expression, he had his answer. Abruptly, he got up. He needed to walk around. He had to try and assimilate what was being suggested.

Young glanced at Sinclair and Talbott, giving them an imperceptible shake of his head. They presented their case. Now it was up to Grant Stevens.

Young went to the bar. Using a bone-handled bottle opener, he opened another Coke. As he poured it into a clean glass, he took a quick look across the room, watching Grant pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.

In his mind Grant was hearing Admiral John Torrinson’s words, predicting he’d be promoted to admiral in the not too distant future. The military life he’d known for years would change dramatically if Torrinson's prediction came true.

But living the life as an admiral wasn’t something Grant Stevens could imagine. That life just wasn’t for him. Of course, he always had the option to turn down any promotion. And there was always a possibility he could even be passed over.

With his tour at NIS almost completed, his next assignment would have most likely been his own command. But he seemed to be at a point in his life when he had to put the military life behind him. It was time to move on, begin another phase of his life. Whatever that was had yet to be determined. He had enough money put aside, and then there was his military pension. Any decision didn’t have to be rushed.

He’d be the first to admit that the past couple of months had been an adjustment. After all the years he worked for “Uncle Sam,” just like that — he was retired. He could always be called back for needs of the service. But right now, he was a civilian — a “sand crab.” A “side-stepping beach creature!”

Now a new opportunity had come along. A job that was nearly identical to what he did in the Navy. Except this time there wouldn’t be any political bullshit — at least it didn’t sound like there would be any. But the biggest question was how the hell could he return to a way of life he just turned his back on?

He stood in front of the roaring fire and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The whole idea of what was just presented to him seemed preposterous. And yet, at the same time, intriguing. But would it be enough to draw him back into that life, the life of a covert operator?

Reality hit him full force. He couldn’t get it out of his system, no matter how much he busted his gut trying to make it happen. Joe was right. There was no denying it. It was part of his DNA.

He wiped sweat from his forehead, then came back to the couch. Young handed him the glass. Grant stared at the Coke, swishing around the fizzing liquid, causing ice cubes to clink against the glass. He finally looked up, then asked, “Have you already decided on who’ll be part of this ‘team’?”

Each of the three men suspected that Captain Stevens was going to accept their proposition. Talbott responded, “No, Captain. It’ll be your decision. Who, and also the number of men will be left entirely up to you. Now, I will tell you that we do have pilots in mind,” he smiled.

Grant nodded. “That’s assuming I accept your offer. Look, are you expecting an answer from me now, tonight?”

“If at all possible, yes,” Young responded, then lowered his head briefly. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “But we understand if you’d like a little time to consider our offer.”

Grant started to get one of his all too familiar feelings. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Young. “There’s a mission ready and waiting, isn’t there, sir?”

Young nodded. “Yes, Captain. There is.”

Except for the crackling fire, silence pervaded the room. Grant stared into the glass of Coke, shaking his head ever so slowly, saying under his breath, “Can’t believe I’m saying this.” He looked at Young. “All right, sir. I accept your proposition.”

Sinclair and Talbott downed the rest of their drinks. Putting the glasses on the coffee table, they stood. Each man extended a hand to Grant, thanking him.

“Can we get you something from the bar, Captain?” Talbott asked.

“No, sir. I’m good,” Grant responded holding up his Coke.

Young removed his brown leather wallet from his pocket. He opened it and took out a folded piece of paper. “Captain, here’s the name and phone number of your contact. Any further questions you have, he should be able to answer. I will tell you, though, there are some issues that will not be revealed or discussed. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Grant reached for the paper. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“He’s waiting for your call.”

“Are you trying to tell me he had a ‘vision’ that I’d accept your offer? You know, that ESP thing?” Grant laughed.

“Not exactly. While you’ve never met or even talked with him, he knew of you.”

Grant arched an eyebrow. He unfolded the paper, then he just stared at a name printed in black ink. He sat on the couch, completely taken aback. He held the paper toward Young, questioning, “Is this…?!”

“That’s right, Captain. Scott Mullins. Tony’s older brother.”

“Jesus Christ! Tony mentioned him, but… but this just doesn’t seem possible!”

Young sat next to Grant, who had his head down, staring at the paper, remembering his friend, Tony Mullins. Young spoke softly, emotionally. “It’s because of Scott that we knew about East Germany. He’d been briefed. He read the reports. He also informed us that you had additional surgery on your shoulder a few months ago.

“So you see, Captain, we’re just about up to date on you, your career. But in case you’re wondering, there isn’t anything we’ve been told — by anyone — that’s classified information.” Young patted Grant’s arm. “Look. You’ll have the opportunity to talk with him. I know he’s looking forward to your meeting.”

Grant stood then folded the paper and put it in his back pocket. “I… I think it’s time for me to leave, sir. You’ve given me a helluva lot to digest.”

“We understand. Sam will drive you back to your apartment.”

Adler kicked the covers off, rolled over, then sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Goddamn that doorbell!”

He pulled up his skivvies, then switched on a table lamp on his way to the door. “Hold your shorts! I’m comin’!” He looked through the peephole. “Skipper?”

“Joe! Open up!”

Before the door was completely open, Grant bolted past him. Yanking off his cap and gloves, Grant said with excitement, “We’ve gotta talk!”

Adler closed the door, then hurried to where Grant was standing in the middle of the living room, shoving his cap and gloves into his pockets.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Adler asked with his brow furrowed.

Grant took off his jacket and hung it on a chair. “You ready to go back to work?” Before Adler could respond, Grant turned and went to the kitchen. He started opening and closing cabinet doors. “Where the hell’s your coffee?”

Adler shook his head, totally confused. He walked to the opposite side of the kitchen and pulled down a can of Maxwell House and slid it across the white Formica counter.

Grant held the coffee pot under the faucet when Adler finally asked, “You sure you want coffee? You’re acting like you’ve already had too much caffeine!”

“We’re gonna need it. We’re leaving at first light.” Not even measuring the coffee grounds, he just dumped them into the filter, put the filter in the pot, then plugged it in.

“I’m asking again! What the hell are you talking about?!” Grant started to respond, when Adler put up both hands. “Wait a minute! I have a feeling you might be yakkin’ your jaws for a while.” He walked to the fridge. “Let’s eat! How about some bacon and eggs?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Grant answered with a grin through perfect white teeth. “I’ll make the toast. Where’s the peanut butter?”

As the smell of bacon drifted throughout the apartment, Grant started talking, and he kept talking right through breakfast. He was like a kid who’d just gotten a peek at his Christmas presents.

He tore off a corner of toast smeared with peanut butter, then wiped up remaining egg yolk from the dish. “So. Whadda ya think?” he asked before popping the bread into his mouth.

Adler picked up his coffee cup. “What do I think?! Didn’t I tell you this shit was in our DNA?!”

“I guess that means it’s a ‘go’ then?”

“Damn straight it’s a go!” Adler eyed the last half of toast in a saucer. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“It’s all yours,” Grant laughed as he pushed his chair back. He picked up his dish and fork, then put them in the sink. Tossing the balled up napkin in the trash can, he turned and leaned back against the counter. “There’s something else, Joe, I mean, there’s somebody else.”

Adler put his dish in the sink, then turned on the hot water and squeezed in some dish soap. “Who?”

“Our contact at State. It’s… it’s Scott Mullins.”

Adler turned slowly. “You don’t mean… ”

“Yeah. Tony’s brother.”

“Christ! Did you know he had a brother?”

Grant walked back into the living room and went near the window. Sunlight was starting to cast a glow across the horizon. He continued looking toward the skyline, as he answered, “Yeah, but he only mentioned Scott in passing. He never told me what he did, or where he worked, just that he did a lot of work out of the country.”

Grant glanced at his watch, then turned around. “C’mon, Joe. Get dressed. We’ve gotta hit the road. I’ll tell you more on the way.”

Adler walked past him, asking over his shoulder, “Where the hell are we going?”

“We need to give that property a thorough inspection in daylight. I’m positive there’s more out there than what I saw last night.”

“So, have you become a magician, too?” Adler asked, as he watched the gate automatically swing back.

“There’s an electric eye under the bumper. From what I’ve been told, there’s one for all the vehicles.”

Grant turned the Vette off the driveway, following a recently plowed path around the right side of the house, leading to another garage with three doors. He stopped in front of the left one, then pushed a button on a small garage door opener on his key ring. All three doors simultaneously lifted. He and Adler got out of the car, noticing two large generators to the left side of the building.

Parked inside were two brand new Chevy Suburbans. Both were black with four-doors. Each vehicle had wide, steel-belted radial tires. They were fully equipped, with a few extra options installed: 454 engines; bullet-proof glass; reinforced roofs, door panels, and undercarriages; and security systems. In the end parking space were two Zodiacs, lined up one behind the other.

“I’m really beginning to like your friends!” Adler laughed, as they started walking around the Suburbans.

Grant let his eyes roam the interior of the garage, commenting, “There’s gotta be another space somewhere.”

“For what?”

“They had to think about our special gear, Joe — the explosive kind. Matt probably gave some feedback when this was being built.” He started walking the inside perimeter. “C’mon. Let’s see if we can find where it is.”

Starting from opposite ends, they worked their way toward the middle, but found nothing. Then Adler got down on a knee, and looked under the vehicles. “You got keys to the Chevys?”

“What’d you find?”

“Looks like there’s some sort of cover under this one; can’t tell what it is.”

Grant backed the vehicle out of the garage.

“I’d say this is what you were looking for,” Adler said, pointing. Embedded in the concrete was a door that was similar to one on an armored truck. “Have any idea what the combination is?”

Grant pulled off his gloves, as he stared down at the lock. He hadn’t been given any combination. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried to think of everything discussed during his meeting with the three men. Dates, times, anything with numbers.

Then Adler saw the grin, and he said, “Okay. This I’ve gotta see.”

Grant knelt down and started dialing. When he stopped, he motioned with his hand. “Care to give it a try?”

“Get the hell outta here!” Adler reached for the handle and pulled. “Shit!” Looking up at Grant, he asked, “Gonna tell me?”

Grant stood. “The date I graduated BUD/S.”

Adler pulled the door back on its hinges. “You can actually remember that far back?” he smirked.

Grant ignored the comment. “Looks like another door down there. I don’t see a light switch. See if there’s a flashlight in the glovebox.”

He stood at the top of the metal stairs, when suddenly, a light on the sidewall turned on. “Must be a timer when the door opens.”

Adler stood behind him. “You’ve gotta have two keys for each of those,” he pointed. Two mortise-type locks were set into the door.

Grant sorted through the keys, separating four that were similar in size. He unlocked the door.

They went into an empty room. It was at least twenty-by-twenty. Adler scoped out the area, looking at the overhead and sidewalls, finally commenting, “Ya know, this looks like one of those specially made storage magazines. They must’ve dropped it into this hole,” he said, as he motioned with his arms, “then built around it.”

“Think you’re right, Joe.”

“More than enough space to hold det cord,” Adler said with a laugh.

“Guess we’ve seen enough,” Grant said as he started up the stairs.

With everything locked and the garage doors closed, they got back in the Vette, and Grant backed the car down the path, and parked in front of the house.

Adler got out, took a couple of steps, then he slowly made a one-eighty as he commented, “It sure is quiet out here.”

“Quiet’s good. I’m meeting with Scott tonight, so you and I have gotta put our heads together and come up with a team. We’ll start with at least five names, and maybe a few extra in case we get turned down by somebody.”

“You actually think any of those guys would?”

“People change, Joe. Families could make a difference.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Then I guess this’ll be our meeting place?”

“Affirmative. Oh, one more thing. When we’re through here, we’ll take a ride to an airfield not far from this place. There’s a C-130 and a Gulfstream waiting for us.” The aircraft had Grumman’s U.S. military designation C-11. The basic airfoils for the main area of the wing were similar to those of the A-6 Intruder. It can accommodate up to 14 passengers, and is powered by two Rolls-Royce Spey turbofan engines. Its max speed is 581 mph; cruising speed 483 mph; range 3,680 miles.

“Jesus! How the hell much money do your friends have?!”

“Don’t think we could count that high!”

Looking at Grant as Grant unlocked the front door, Adler had to laugh. “You’re enjoying this shit, aren’t you?”

“Old habits, my friend!”

Fresh, hot coffee finished perking in the kitchen, sending aromas of the brew throughout the apartment. Grant sat on the edge of the couch, taking a gulp of Coke from the bottle. He was waiting for a knock on the door or ring of the bell. He was waiting for Scott Mullins.

Another chapter of his life was about to begin, albeit, still as a covert operator, but now as a civilian. All financing for missions would come from four men who came out of nowhere, looking specifically for him. And any minute he’d be meeting his contact. The man who’d handle all future missions for him and his men.

Suddenly, there were two sharp raps on the door. He swallowed the last mouthful of Coke, then carried the bottle to the kitchen. He dropped it in the trash as he walked to the door then opened it.

The appearance of the man standing in front of him caught him off guard. The resemblance was uncanny: Same color brown hair, brown eyes, same build, same 5’10” height. No doubt about it. This was Tony Mullins’ brother.

For an instant Grant felt a sudden twinge of sadness, then he smiled and extended a hand. “Scott!”

Mullins returned Grant’s firm handshake. “Great to meet you, Grant!”

“Come on in!” Grant closed the door. “Still colder than hell out there, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to remember what Tony used to say, something he got from you.”

“You mean ‘colder than a witch’s tit’?”

“That’s it!”

Grant laughed, then said, “Take your coat off. You can hang it on that hook.” He pointed next to the door.

Mullins put a leather briefcase on the floor, then put his gloves in his pocket, unwrapped a scarf then hung up his coat.

“Well, how about some coffee to warm you up? Or I can get you something with more of a ‘kick.’ Or, I can put the ‘kick’ in the coffee!”

“Let’s start with plain old coffee.”

“How do you take it?”

“Straight.”

Grant poured the steaming coffee into two white mugs, handed one to Mullins, then led the way into the living room.

“Have a seat,” Grant said, motioning to the couch. He sat in a chair opposite the couch then sipped the coffee. Staring at the hot brew, he kept his head lowered before saying, “Listen, Scott. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Tony, for what happened. He was a good friend. I’ll never forget him, or forget what he tried… ”

Mullins leaned forward, and put the mug on the table. He rubbed his hands together, as he looked at Grant. “You mean when he tried to save you?”

All Grant could do was nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“Look, Grant, I’ve read the reports. I’ve talked to certain people. I know what happened as if I’d been there.” He stood up and walked to the window. Grant followed him with his eyes.

Mullins turned around, came back to the couch and sat down. “Tony wanted to be there, Grant. His head was as hard as this,” he smiled, as he wrapped his knuckles on the table.

Grant finally relaxed, then grinned. “Harder! Our disagreements were a common occurrence! We came toe-to-toe a couple of times.” There was a brief pause between the two before Grant said, “What say we talk about why you’re here. Maybe we can start with who you’re working for. I’m curious who’ll be signing off on our missions.”

Mullins wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. “I’m part of the State Department’s ‘family tree.’ My boss is Operations Officer, Stan Zigler. He reports directly to the Deputy Director, Galen Porter, who in turn reports to the Director, Colonel James Maclin. Only the four of us within State will be aware of you and your team.” He blew into the mug before taking a sip.

Grant nodded. “And since the missions and equipment aren’t being financed with government funds… ”

“Exactly. No prior approvals will be required.”

“I have a feeling there’re more involved, Scott — and outside of State. I was told everything will be completely legal. So that tells me somebody higher up has to make the decision when my team will be needed, and that somebody has to approve the missions,” Grant said with a raised eyebrow.

“That’ll be up to the man in the White House. He’ll disseminate any information he obtains from briefings with the CIA and FBI. He’ll make his decisions from those briefings then contact the Director.”

“The NSA’s gotta be ‘hiding’ in there somewhere. There’s no way in hell those folks would be left outta the loop.”

Mullins nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Nobody would dare omit them.”

Grant stood then pointed to Mullins’ coffee mug. “Warm-up?” Mullins handed him the mug. As Grant walked into the kitchen, he said over his shoulder, “What about funds? What if we need ‘haul ass’ money?”

“Your benefactors have set up an offshore account. You can make withdrawals from any bank, foreign or domestic.”

Grant came back into the living room and handed Mullins the coffee before commenting, “I guess most of the conversations will be between you and me.”

“That’s right. I’ll give you a mobile number and a special number to a secure phone at my home. I’d like to set up code names, mostly for when you’re in the field.”

Grant sat on the edge of the couch. “Think it’d be a good idea for Joe to have one, too — just as a backup.”

“I assume you mean Joe Adler?”

The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up. “Yeah. I do. Do you have code names in mind?”

“How about you take ‘Panther 1’?”

Grant’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Mullins. “You’re scaring me, Scott. Wait a minute. Tony?”

“Who else?”

“Don’t tell me you’re ‘Mountain Man’?”

“Actually, ‘MM 2.’ Suits me, don’t you think?” Mullins laughed, rubbing a hand over his clean shaven face.

Grant pictured the first time he met Tony Mullins aboard the Bronson. He was sporting straggly hair and beard.

Grant responded, “Not yet. But you’ve got time! Oh, how about we give Joe the code name ‘Mustang’?”

Mullins started writing. “Care to explain?”

“In Navy speak, a ‘mustang’ is an enlisted man who came up through the ranks to officer level. And, well, Joe’s got this hot ’67 red Mustang.”

“Sweet!” Mullins smiled before picking up his coffee mug. “Have you had a chance to look at the vehicles and equipment waiting for you?”

“Didn’t have much time the night I met those gentlemen.” Grant reached into his pants pocket. “They gave me these before I left the property.” He held up a ring of keys. “Joe and I drove out there early this morning.” He sat back, resting his right foot on his left knee. “Christ, Scott! Who are those guys? Where the hell did they get the kind of money to support this? They’ve gotta have endless resources.”

“Don’t know. What I can tell you is you’re one step ahead of me.”

“How so?

“You’ve met them. I haven’t.”

“You’re shittin’ me, right?”

Mullins shook his head. “Phone calls only, and always the same person.”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “And that person didn’t give you a name?”

“When he does call — which isn’t often — the call comes in on a specific line, and only rings on my phone. The identity of those men is need to know. That includes the White House, the Director, Deputy Director, and now… you. In my opinion, the main connection is the White House, and most likely the President. And that remains between you and me.”

“Understood. Do you think they had to sign any type of non-disclosure agreement?”

Mullins pondered the question. “You know, that’s interesting you should ask. Right now, I can’t answer, but let me see if I can find out.”

Grant remained quiet for a moment. So far he hadn’t been asked to sign anything. Since that was the case, he’d tell his men — his new Team — everything. They had a right to know as much as him. If there was such a document, they’d all sign.

His next question was probably the most important. The answer, even more so. He leaned forward, staring at Mullins. “I want you to answer me straight up. What happens to us if an op goes ‘south’ and it turns into one big ‘clusterfuck’? What happens if we can’t get out — for whatever reason? Will we be ‘hung out to dry’?” Without hesitation Grant held up a hand and added, “Ya know, Scott, on second thought, don’t bother trying to answer. I don’t want to put you on the ‘hot seat.’ The decision would most likely come from higher up anyway.”

“Look, Grant, I’m officially your contact — your only contact — wherever you are in the world. No matter what happens, as long as you can reach me, I’ll do my damnedest to get you home… by whatever means I can come up with. That’s a goddamn promise.”

“You sure sound a helluva like Tony!” Grant laughed. But then his expression changed, and he turned serious again. “I want you to promise you won’t do anything foolish, Scott. I don’t want you to end up… ”

“Like Tony?” Scott interrupted.

“Yeah. Like Tony.” Grant finally gave somewhat of a grin, as he stood up. “Let's take a break. How about some brandy? I’ve got a new bottle just waiting to be opened.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

Ten minutes later, Mullins asked, "Have you thought about who you want on your team?"

"Joe and I put together a list. We’ve worked with each of them at some time or other over our careers.”

“Have you contacted them?”

Grant shook his head. “It might take too long for us to track them through BUPERS. Is there any way you can facilitate the process?” (BUPERS is the Bureau of Personnel.)

Mullins put his briefcase on a cushion next to him then opened it. He removed a legal-size notepad, and handed it and a pen toward Grant.

“No need for those,” Grant said, as he reached for a piece of paper on the end table, then handed it to Mullins. “The last we knew, six of them were stationed in Coronado, four in Little Creek. We’re pretty certain they’ve either retired or finished their tours, which could mean they went back to their hometowns.”

Mullins glanced at the page, noticing a “C” or “LC” next to each name.

“There are ten names, Scott, but for now, we'll only choose five men. The extras are just in case any of them turn down the offer, and if we decide to expand the team at a later time. Once you get the info for those ten, Joe and I'll make the calls.” Grant leaned forward and rubbed his hands together, as he added, “They’re all good men.”

Mullins dropped the paper into his briefcase. "Have you come up with a team name?"

"Yeah. Team Alpha Tango."