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Navy SEAL Grant Stevens -
Black Ops 5
by
Jamie Fredric
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright @ 2012 Jamie Fredric
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
Books by Jamie Fredric:
Mission Critical
Navy SEAL Grant Stevens -
Black Ops 1
Warning Order
Navy SEAL Grant Stevens -
Black Ops 2
In the Mouth of the Wolf
Navy SEAL Grant Stevens -
Black Ops 3
Sacrifice of One
Navy SEAL Grant Stevens -
Black Ops 4
Home of the Free
Because of the Brave
All Gave Some
Some Gave All
For All Those Who Served
Prologue
RAF (Royal Air Force) St. Mawgan is located on the southwest coast of England just ten minutes north of the popular seaside town of Newquay (pronounced ‘Newkey’). Originally a civilian airfield, it was “requisitioned” at the outbreak of World War II as a satellite base of nearby RAF St. Eval. During the period 1940 to 1941, the Germans bombed St. Eval because of its strategic importance.
In June 1943 the U.S. Army Air Force took over the base and carried out a number of major improvements. A new control tower was built and the main runway was widened and extended, turning it into one of the widest runways in England. Reopened as a Coastal Command base in 1951, it was used for maritime reconnaissance, flying Lancaster and Schackleton aircraft.
Beginning in 1956, the Vulcan, a jet-powered, delta wing strategic bomber, was flown by the RAF, then replaced in 1962 by a more improved Vulcan B2. The new aircraft featured more powerful engines, a larger wing, an improved electrical system, and ECM (electronic countermeasures). The Vulcan was the backbone of the United Kingdom’s airborne nuclear deterrent.
On October 2, 1969, an RAF crew flew the Nimrod XV230 aircraft to its base at St. Mawgan, where the Nimrod maritime operational training unit (MOTD) was formed.
Since 1962, two jets in every major RAF base were armed with nuclear weapons. They were on standby permanently under the principle of QRA (Quick Reaction Alert). Vulcans on QRA were to be airborne within four minutes of receiving an alert, as this was identified as the amount of time between warning of a USSR nuclear strike being launched and the time it would arrive in Britain.
In 1965 Prime Minister Harold Wilson and President Lyndon Johnson signed an agreement to store U.S. nuclear depth bombs at St. Mawgan for the Dutch Navy’s ASW (anti-submarine warfare) aircraft and for other members of NATO. Similar weapons for U.S. and British aircraft were also stored at this base.
The MK 57, a tactical nuclear weapon, was designed to be dropped from high-speed tactical aircraft. It had a streamlined casing to withstand supersonic flight and weighed about five hundred pounds. It was later reclassified as the B57.
B57s were under U.S. Marine Corps guard at RAF St. Mawgan.
Chapter 1
Near RAF St. Mawgan
Cornwall, England
0130 Hours
Friday
The piercing sound of a high revving engine shattered the silence of the quiet English countryside. Traveling along a dark, narrow two-lane road, the red car hit speeds up to one hundred ten miles an hour on the straightaways. The driver handled the 1275cc Austin Mini Cooper ‘S’ like a race driver, shifting gears rapidly just before putting the car into a slide around the curve. Then he simultaneously hit the clutch, shifted again, then stepped on the gas. Five inch J wheels dug into the blacktop.
There was little room for error. Lining both sides of the road were Cornish hedgerows, made of large stone blocks on either side of a narrow earthen bank, held in place with interlocking stones. But Derek Carter knew this road even better than the very street he grew up on.
For twenty-five years he’d lived with his parents, in the same house, on the same street in Bodmin. After graduating high school, he worked as a caretaker for the local primary school.
He’d driven the infamous Bodmin Moor at its worst, with fog so thick he resorted to hanging his head out the window, trying to follow a painted white line down the middle of the road. An even greater and more exciting challenge was driving a road without lines under the same conditions.
Adverse conditions, a feel for the road, a car responding to his slightest touch. That’s where his love of driving began.
Then two years ago he landed a position at RAF St. Mawgan. Although the job was again as a caretaker, he was grateful to finally be out of Bodmin.
He rented a one-room flat over a clothing store in the center of Newquay, not far from the Sailor’s Arms pub, a popular hangout for locals.
*
He practiced the route night after night. He had nothing to say about the time, nor the place of the drop. All he had to do was drive.
Every curve, every road imperfection had been memorized. He knew what lay beyond each individual curve. Fifty yards past curve number five was the first of two turnoffs, leading into open fields and private property. The second was twenty-five yards past curve number nine. If he suspected he was being followed, one of these turnoffs might be his only chance to lose the vehicle.
With each practice run he tried driving faster, pushing it, trying to knock minutes off his time. He even attempted to make the drive without headlights, but the road was too dark, the risk too great. He wasn’t that crazy.
He glanced quickly in the rear view mirror. His instructions were to be sure that no one followed him to the rendezvous point. No one. The drop had been made on time, in the exact location specified, at the fork in the road, then five paces to the left of the signpost. Within seconds of picking up the package, he was back on the road.
The package. Just a large envelope, sealed inside a plastic bag. He’d tossed it on the passenger seat, not giving it a second thought. His only concern was making the delivery, not what was inside the envelope.
Still no sign of headlights behind him. Now, there were only four more miles to go to the quarry where he’d meet his contact. All he had to do was hand over the envelope, then pick up his money. After that, his drive to Poole should only take three hours, and with twin ten gallon fuel tanks, he wouldn’t have to stop, giving him plenty of time to catch the ferry to Cherbourg. From there he intended to disappear into the French countryside.
*
China Clay Pits
Near St. Austell
Cornwall
China clay is highly decomposed granite, rotted by the action of water. Powerful jets of water are directed against the sides of the pit, washing away everything in their path. The clay, together with sand, stones, etc., is carried to the bottom of the pit. After repeated washings, the clay is separated from the waste, pumped up to the surface, then undergoes further washing and filtering. The resulting waste is conveyed to the top of the burrow and tipped out by special apparatus. Once sand and impurities are removed, the clay is taken to a long, one story building with a furnace at one end and a tall chimney at the other. The floor is heated, the surplus moisture is extracted, and finally, the clay is loaded into railway trucks for transp
ort.
*
Gearing down, Carter turned off the main road onto Peters Hill Road. As instructed, he drove past the first quarry to the end of the road, then he crossed Old Pound Road to the next larger quarry.
He brought the Cooper to just under twenty miles an hour. Driving past a set of buildings, he glanced at a lighted sign above the door on the first building indicating it was the office. The next long building appeared to be the drying facility. Both buildings were dark inside. He turned left, then made a right at the fork. His instructions were to drive to the top of the clay pit above the water-holding pond; then he was to wait.
Driving up the hill, he flipped on the high beams, then followed a narrow road for about a hundred yards. The tires kicked up white clay residue, spraying the powdery substance across the car’s underbelly and lower door panels.
He turned on the overhead light and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes early. Shutting off the headlights, he left the parking lights on. Opening the glove box, he removed a pack of Players No. 6 cigarettes, the most popular brand in England. He tapped the bottom of the pack, then drew one out between his lips. Tossing the pack into the glove box, he opened his door, got out, then lit the cigarette with a disposable lighter. He took a long drag, making the tip of the cigarette glow red hot. Leaning back against the car, he slowly blew out individual rings of smoke, watching each one dissipate into the air.
Flicking off an ash, he glanced overhead. The evening was cool with a perfectly clear night sky. The silence gave him a chance to think about his new life in France and what it would be like.
He took another drag from the cigarette, when he spotted a glimmer of light. Headlights. He dropped the cigarette, then walked behind the Cooper and waited. Gradually, the sound of a car engine cut into the silence. Headlights grew brighter.
The vehicle was still thirty yards away, around the backside of a curve, when it stopped. He started walking when it started forward again, coming around the curve, continuing toward him. Carter squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead. Then, the car came to a standstill. The driver killed the engine.
Leaving the headlights on, the driver got out and closed the door. From the brief moment the inside overhead light came on, Carter got a glimpse of the driver, but not enough for recognition. What he did recognize was the vehicle--a dark-colored Range Rover.
The man came toward the front of the Rover. Carter didn’t move. “I assume you have the envelope, Mr. Carter.”
Carter immediately recognized the voice and accent as the same person who contacted him, who asked him to be part of something. Something important. Something extremely confidential. Carter judged the man to have had proper upbringing, probably having attended a school such as Oxford.
“I have it,” Carter answered, lowering his hand and turning his head slightly to avoid the bright headlights. “I assume you have my money?” No answer. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned around and started to walk to the front of the Cooper.
The man gave a word of warning. “I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Don’t worry. The bloody package is on the passenger seat. Okay?” No response, so Carter opened the door and lifted the envelope from the seat. Walking slowly, he held it out in front of him until he was just a few feet away, finally getting a better glimpse of his contact: medium height, blond or possibly gray hair, small features, wearing shirt and tie, dark slacks, dark cardigan sweater.
“Now, please back up against your car while I check the contents,” the man said.
Carter obeyed. “I don’t have a bloody weapon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Placing the envelope on the side of the hood, the man ignored Carter’s remark, then proceeded to remove the envelope from the plastic. He slid a finger along the seal and pulled out three papers, holding them in front of the headlights. Smiling briefly, he stuffed them back inside the envelope.
Carter extended an arm and pointed toward the envelope. “I guess that’s what you were looking for. I’ll take my money and be on my way. I have plans.”
“I appreciate the risk you took, Mr. Carter, and I thank you for making the delivery on time and without incident.” He held up the envelope, saying, “I am grateful that you did not let your curiosity get the best of you.” He reached into his trousers side pocket and withdrew a thick, white envelope, holding it toward Carter.
Carter’s full attention was on the envelope. He had no idea someone was behind him. The envelope was almost within his grasp, when everything went black. He didn’t know what hit him. He collapsed in a heap by the rear of the Cooper, not dead, but unconscious. A trickle of blood slid down his temple, rolling across his eyelid.
Standing over him, holding a Smith & Wesson, was Victor Labeaux’s assigned bodyguard, Brady Farrell. He re-gripped the pistol by the handle, then put it in his leather shoulder holster.
He bent down, put his hands under Carter’s arms, then dragged him to the front of the Cooper, propping him up in the passenger’s seat. Walking around to the driver’s side, he signaled Labeaux. Farrell shoved his stocky girth behind the Mini’s steering wheel.
Following a path that transport trucks drove on during daylight work hours, he kept the car in first gear, with parking lights only, slowly going uphill until the path leveled off.
Checking that Carter was still unconscious, he put the car into neutral, then dragged Carter to the driver’s side. After Carter was secured behind the wheel, Farrell rolled the window down. Grabbing the steering wheel, he directed the car closer to the edge of the pit until the front wheels started sliding on damp ground. A final push and the car went over the rim.
Picking up speed, the small car skidded across the slick surface, until the tires hit patches of dry clay. The momentum flipped it over onto its roof. The windshield shattered. Wet and dry clay sprayed throughout the interior. Going into a spin, the Cooper continued sliding down the steep hill, finally hitting the water, throwing greenish water and sludge everywhere. Within seconds, the car, and Derek Carter disappeared.
Labeaux slowly walked to the opposite side of the Rover and got in the passenger side. Closing the door, he stared into the darkness, waiting for Farrell to return.
Chapter 2
Porthgwarra,
Small Coastal Village
Near Land’s End
During summer months, it wasn’t unusual for the water temperature to reach sixty-two degrees in the Celtic Sea. When the sea was calm, visibility underwater could be sixty-five feet, but the currents here can be strong. It’s at this point where sea meets the English Channel.
Today he wore a regular wetsuit, more than enough to keep him comfortable, considering the temperatures he’d been exposed to in the past. He still remembered the sensation of sudden chills as freezing water would seep into the neck of his drysuit when missions took him into the Bering Sea, North Atlantic or Pacific.
He didn’t have his Draeger, only scuba tanks, swim fins and mask. Grant Stevens wasn’t on any mission, but on two weeks’ leave. And he was in one of his favorite playgrounds--water.
Six days ago he arrived at RAF Mildenhall and spent the night at the military lodge. The next day he rented a car and drove seventy miles to London. After making a quick stop at Navy Headquarters on Audley Street, he headed to his final destination for some well deserved R&R.
Newquay, once just a small fishing port, had grown into a favorite vacation spot for the British. The population was normally fifteen thousand, but during the summer season it swelled to nearly one hundred thousand. This coast of England had become known as the “Cornish Riviera.”
Quaint shops lined narrow streets throughout the downtown area, with Newquay Harbor sheltering a small fleet of fishing boats and private boats, both motor and sail.
Tolcarne, Towan and Fistral were three of the popular wide, soft sand beaches near downtown, with Fistral being a famous beach for surfers. A well-known fact for those who came here, was the tide al
ong this coast could range from ten to twenty feet.
Grant wasn’t here for sightseeing, though. He came specifically for scuba diving. The southern point of the U.K. was known for having some of the best dive sites in all of Cornwall.
*
Hearing the sound of scuba bubbles, Grant swam around the forward section of a sunken ship. Today’s dive was a non-penetration dive, meaning he and his dive buddy would only swim over and around the outside of this particular wreck. He checked the oxygen levels in his tanks then gave an okay sign to his dive buddy who was swimming toward him.
When Grant drove down from Newquay in search of a dive boat, he met Chaz Davis. Davis was one of the owners of the dive shop, Ro An Mor (in Cornish means “Pride of the Sea”), and the dive boat--Goin’ Down. When Davis asked about Grant’s diving qualifications, Grant simply said he was a Navy diver on leave.
Davis, thirty-two years old, was nearly six feet tall, with straight, sandy-colored hair hanging just below his ears. He looked as if he worked out at the gym everyday, but it was the constant lifting of scuba tanks and swimming in strong currents that kept him in shape.
He reached for a small underwater slate and pencil attached to his weight belt. He wrote: “Reef?”
Grant responded with a thumb’s up, and the two swam side by side toward the granite pinnacle.
The granite pinnacle of the Runnel Stone rose from one hundred fourteen feet or more, to within twenty feet of the surface. At one time the pinnacle used to show above the surface at low water. In 1923, the SS City of Westminster was headed to Rotterdam when it struck the pinnacle, knocking the top off. The remains of the ship rested in ninety-eight feet of water, jammed into a gully on the eastern side of the stone.
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