Silent Vengeance

Chapter 4

Gentle rolling hills, covered with blackjack oaks, white oaks, and interspersed with tall prairie grass, surrounded Skiatook Lake. The 10,500 acre man-made lake was accentuated by steep picturesque bluffs. An abundance of bass, crappie, channel catfish, and several species of sunfish made it one of the best sport fishing lakes around.

Light from a brilliant sun, set against a cobalt blue sky, glistened on the water. The temperature had already reached 82 degrees, with a high of 89 expected. Fishermen had pulled in their lines hours earlier, anticipating the usual disruption from speed boats and skiers. Most of the fish were already in deeper, cooler water.

A quarter mile from the lake, two men knelt on a roof, hammering roofing nails, replacing worn shingles on the small ranch-style house. They worked in unison as a team, as they had over the years.

Wearing soiled jeans and a sweat-soaked white T-shirt, Grant took off his black baseball cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He screwed down his cap, then reached for another shingle, noticing only four more were left inside the torn, brown paper wrapping. He looked over the top of his aviator sunglasses. "We're almost done, Joe."

Adler stretched his back and glanced behind him. "Not exactly the R&R we planned on."

"Maybe not, but your dad needed the help. And besides, it's been therapeutic, something we both needed."

"I hear ya. Beating the shit out of something with a hammer tends to be therapeutic!"

After a brief trip to San Diego, the two friends arrived at Skiatook three days earlier, with the intent of having a relaxing visit with Adler's dad, Tom, and getting in some fishing and swimming. But after noticing a stack of shingles strategically piled by the front door, they volunteered their services.

Adler took off his old, faded green, EOD "barrack's" cover (hat) before he sat down. He stretched his legs out, brushing off shingle debris from his tattered fatigue pants. "Hey, why don't we 'hit the playground' after lunch? Maybe we could ask Jackie and Olivia to join us. It should give them enough time before we go dinner."

"Sounds like a good idea. The lake's been perfect." Grant stood up and carefully made a slow three-sixty. "You must've had some great times here, Joe. Funny that we both grew up near water — me the Russian River, and you Skiatook."

"Guess the Navy was meant to be for both of us." Adler tilted his head back, sniffing the air. "Dad's got that pie in the oven."

Grant laughed. "You can tell it's a pie?!"

No sooner had he gotten the words out, when they heard, "It's mighty quiet up there!" Tom Adler shielded his eyes as he looked up at the roof.

Grant leaned over the edge, and snapped a quick salute. "Mission accomplished, sir!"

"And we're ready for lunch!" Adler added, as he crawled near the edge.

"Well, then, get your butts down here! You clean up and I'll start frying those catfish." The sixty-four year old was close to 5'10" with a slim build, brown hair with heavy streaks of gray, and deep facial creases. His hands, rough and scarred, attested to the fact he'd been in construction his whole adult life. A broken hip a year earlier limited his ability to maintain the thirty-year old home.

Dishes and silverware had been cleared from the table, and were soaking in a sink filled with soapy water. Kitchen windows were wide open, allowing a slight breeze to circulate through the room. An 8" wall vent fan next to the gas stove hummed quietly, unable to draw out lingering fish odors.

Tom picked up a knife, and pointed the tip toward the apple pie, with four slices already missing. "Who wants another slice?"

"Maybe a little later, Dad."

"Grant?"

Grant waved a hand back and forth. "Have to pass. I'm full up to here," he motioned by tapping a finger against his forehead.

Tom laid the knife across the pie, then sipped some freshly brewed iced tea. "So, tell me how far you've gotten in this new venture you're both heading up."

Grant responded, "The best way we could think of to put the word out, Tom, was to meet with some friends at the base in San Diego. We already made stops in Norfolk and Little Creek."

"You might end up with your hands full."

"Yeah," Grant smiled, "that's what we're counting on."

"Have they started clearing the property?"

Adler rocked the chair back. "Not yet. We had to have plans drawn up, then approved. With that behind us, we finally lined up contractors. We're meeting with them next week."

"You're not using the whole 200 acres, are you?"

"We've portioned off about 50 on the east side. Matt did most of the calculations, so that should be enough."

"You've got a helluva job ahead of you," Tom added.

Grant responded, "In the end, it'll be worth it. We're all looking forward to helping young men challenge themselves, maybe give them a new direction and outlook in life. And we'll be adding another chapter to our lives."

"How much do you think you'll have done before winter sets in?"

"We're hoping to get the roads cut and areas cleared where the Quonset huts are going. But the first major job is to install electric fencing where the property was divided, and add additional security cameras."

The phone rang. "I'll get it," Adler said as he started to stand.

"No, Joe. Stay where you are," Tom said. "You and Grant relax. Finish your iced tea. You both need to get more fluids in you." He headed for the living room.

Grant reached for a clear glass pitcher. "Refill?" Adler slid his tall glass across the white, enamel top table. Droplets of moisture fell from the pitcher as Grant poured the tea. "Now I know where you got your love of food. Your dad's a great cook."

Adler squeezed a wedge of lemon in the honey-colored liquid, then dropped it in the glass. "He and mom always cooked together. It seemed to be a ritual. They… "

"Hey, Grant," Tom called as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing his hip. "It's for you."

"It must be one of the guys. Thanks, Tom." Grant pushed his chair back, then walked into the living room, as he gulped down a mouthful of iced tea. He picked up the receiver. "Stevens."

"Grant. It's Scott. Don't ask questions. Call me back using the secure number." The line went dead.

"Shit!" Grant mumbled, already worried. He dialed, heard a series of beeps, then brief silence.

"Mull… "

"What's going on, Scott?"

"There's a mission … "

"A mission?! C'mon, Scott! We'll be back in Virginia in a couple of days. You know we've got a helluva lot of work to do on the property. We're expecting contractors to … "

"I know. I know."

"Then why us?! Why not a Team from Little Creek or Coronado?!"

"You've been hand-picked," Mullins laughed.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Does the name 'Torrinson' ring any distant bells?"

"Admiral Torrinson?!"

"He's the one. He requested that the President send you and the Team to the Preston. It's floating around somewhere in the Indian Ocean."

Grant covered the mouthpiece, and called, "Joe!"

Adler pushed his chair back. "Be back shortly, Dad."

"Take your time, son. The dishes aren't going anywhere." He cut another piece of apple pie.

Adler hustled into the living room. "Wait until you hear this!" Grant cautioned.

"Oh, and by the way," Mullins continued, enjoying the hell out of the conversation, "the President sends his greetings."

"Say what?!"

"You and the Team have been called back to serve… temporarily, of course. It was the best way Admiral Torrinson could get you aboard with the least amount of questions."

Grant mumbled, "No crawling up a hawes pipe this time."

"What'd you say?"

"Tell you some other time. So, I guess we don't have any choice in the matter."

"Listen, you can't tell me you'd turn this down under the circumstances."

"You know me too well, my friend." Grant looked up at Adler. "Hope your uniforms still fit."

"Huh?!"

"Fill you in as soon as I find out more. Okay, Scott, lay it on me."

Twenty minutes later, Grant had the Team's new mission. "Who's the CO on the Preston?"

"Hold on." Mullins sifted through papers. "Captain Jim Conklin. Sound familiar?"

"No. Listen, have you notified the Team?"

"Will leave that up to you. Any idea if you'll fly back here or…?"

"Too much wasted time. Do me a favor. Contact Matt first. You've got his numbers. Brief him then he can call the guys, and have them meet at Eagle 8. Once he's done that, tell him to call us here."

"Will do. What about supplies?"

"We all did an inventory before Joe and I left, so we should be good. If I know Matt and Rob, the Gulfstream's already fueled. Tell them gear is the same as last op, but add all diving gear, camies, and a set of uniforms. Christ! They're gonna go apeshit hearing 'uniforms.'"

"I'll break it to them gently. Anything else? How about money?"

"More than enough in the accounts. Matt knows what to bring. Dammit! And you'd better ask him to call the contractors and tell them to stand down. Oh, one more thing. Find out if there are any COD flights scheduled to fly to the carrier. Maybe we can hook up with one."

"Outta where?" Mullins asked as he continued writing notes.

"It depends where the carrier's steamin' in the Indian Ocean, but I'd say either Diego Garcia or Cubi Point."

"And if no COD?"

"The admiral's got the 'pull' to send anything. Brief Matt."

"Okay. I'm on it. What timeframe are we talking?"

"By the time the guys arrive here, I'd say we'll be on our way between 1800 and 1900, Tulsa time."

"That should give me enough time to get authorization for you to land and refuel at Elmendorf and Atsugi. Anything after those will depend on that COD flight."

"Okay, Scott. Firm up those stops with Matt." Grant glanced at his submariner. "Look, you've got more to do then us right now, so you'd better get started. We'll wait right here for Matt to call. The next time I call you will be when we're ready to depart from Tulsa. Unless you have anything else… "

"I know. I'll talk with you later, buddy." End of conversation.

Adler scooted toward the edge of the couch. "Just hearing one side of that conversation didn't give me a warm and fuzzy, especially the part about uniforms!"

Grant managed a half smile. "Our favorite 'uncle' has called us back, Joe."

"Huh?! Wait! You'd better start from the beginning!"

Grant relayed the details about the drugs, deaths, and ended with, "Torrinson thought there'd be fewer questions if we boarded in uniform, but I doubt we'll be staying long. When somebody finally pinpoints where that shit's coming from, we'll be gone." He glanced toward the kitchen. "Hope your dad won't be too disappointed that we're cutting our visit short. I know we promised… "

Adler gave Grant's shoulder a light punch. "Don't worry. He'll understand. Besides, we got the roof done!"

"And tell him not to worry about phone charges."

"Roger that."

As Adler stood, Grant said, "C'mon back when you're through. Need your input before Matt calls."

"You realize that we've gotta cancel dinner tonight with Jackie and Olivia — and cancel plans for tomorrow. That should get their adrenaline pumpin'!"

Grant shoved the phone at him. "Here! You make that call. I'll go give your dad our apologies."

"Chicken shit!" Adler chuckled.

"Whoa! I am not related to Chicken Shit … maybe Jack and definitely Bull, but not Chicken."

"Would ya please just go talk with dad."

"Grant, we'll be taking off in fifteen," Matt Garrett reported.

"That should put you here 1700 my time."

"That's what I calculated. Confirm we're to land at Tulsa International. There's an overflow airport at R. L. Jones, Jr."

"Tulsa International. Guess we'll be flying the Great Circle Route."

"Affirmative. Scott confirmed refueling at Elmendorf and Atsugi, with landing authorized. He's working on authorization from Diego Garcia and Cubi."

"I take it that a COD flight to the carrier hasn't been confirmed yet."

"Negative so far. Hey! Can I ask about the uniform thing, or should I wait until we're all in the air?"

"I'll explain later. Listen, did you get everything we might need from the safe?"

"We're good to go. Oh, Scott faxed you some sat images with specific areas circled. They'll give you something to analyze during the flight."

"Hmm. Sounds like a possible location for the facility. Okay, Matt. If there are any hangups, contact us here; otherwise, we'll meet you at the airport."

XO Carl Justine stood near the quartermaster's station, silently reading a message just handed to him. "Captain, we just received this from Washington."

Conklin lowered the binoculars, then swiveled around his high-backed leather chair. "What is it, XO?"

Justine held the paper toward him. "Looks like we'll be receiving some visitors."

Conklin perused the message. "Hmm. A couple of officers and five enlisted. I guess these are the men the admiral requested. I think he said the two officers worked for him at NIS."

Justine nodded. "Is there anything you want me to do?"

"Bring CAG on board about this. We need to send a message back to D.C., and tell the gentlemen to fly to Cubi. Then make preparations to fly them in on the next COD. And as far as quarters are concerned, they'll probably want to stay together. Find space for them, XO."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Conklin lifted the strap of the binoculars over his head, and put them on the chair. "I'll deliver this to the admiral." As he picked up his cap, he notified OOD Braebern, "You've got the bridge, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir."