Grant’s mind flashed back to his five weeks of recuperation in the hospital. “I am, sir. One hundred ten percent, sir.” Grant hastily changed the direction of the conversation. “I realize we don’t know a helluva lot, sir, but will you be talking with SECDEF and SECNAV about what we suspect?”
“As soon as this conversation’s over. They’ll most likely pass what little information we have to the president and Secretary of State Freedman.”
“Do you think they’ll get SIS involved, or maybe Interpol, sir?”
“At this point, hard to say.”
“Sorry I don’t have more to tell you, sir. To make it worse, right now everybody on this base has to be considered a suspect. That includes Brits and Americans. But I’m going to have to chance it and talk with one of the marines, sir, since they’re in charge of security for the weapons.”
“I agree,” Torrinson replied. “Do you know who?”
Grant looked at Henley’s note. “There’s a Gunnery Sergeant Baranski I’ll talk with first, sir.” Grant lowered his head, wondering exactly how many could be involved. “This is going to be one helluva an op, Admiral.”
“You’re right, Grant.”
“Sir, since we still don’t know if this has to do with just the passing of documents or...”
“You actually think there could be a plan to use one of those nukes?”
“Have to consider all possibilities, sir.”
“I don’t know how soon there’ll be a meeting with the Joint Chiefs,” Torrinson said, “but in the meantime, I’ll discuss the possibility of putting one of our ships from the Med on alert.
“Mildenhall and Lakenheath are close if you need chopper support. I’ll see about contacting those base commanders.” He scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad.
“Thanks, sir.”
Torrinson swiveled back and forth in his leather chair. He looked at Adler, as he said to Grant, “Maybe you’d like some assistance.”
“That’s affirmative, sir! Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked with a smile in his voice.
Sending Adler to England was a given. “Maybe you’d better talk to Joe. Confirm what you need.”
“One more thing, sir. I’ve given the local police my address as the hotel, but might have to consider coming on base, especially with Joe bringing our gear. I’d rather there be questions on base than in the civilian community, sir.”
“Very well. Just keep me in the loop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Grant.”
*
Fifteen minutes later Grant ended his call with Adler. He looked at the notepad. It was time to get his ass in gear.
Opening the office door, he looked for Henley in the outer office. Four petty officers, standing around the desk, looked in his direction, and gave him a cursory greeting. “Sir.”
“Where’s Commander Henley?” Grant asked, with his eyes going to each man.
“He’s outside with the chief, sir,” Marty Weaver answered, motioning with his head.
Grant started toward the door without responding, but didn’t take his eyes from the four men. He’d been involved in these type situations before. Somebody like him comes along and eyebrows start to raise. Questions and rumors run rampant. It happened on the carrier and sub when he was on the hunt for a Russian mole.
The conversation he and Henley had in the office got loud and out of control. Whether or not the men in the outer office heard what was said couldn’t be helped now. He regretted it had gotten to that point. But with a small, tight-knit command like this one, these men will undoubtedly be ready to take Henley’s side, unless something’s going on that he hasn’t been made privy to...yet. He didn’t think it would be a problem, as long as they stayed out of his way.
He opened the door and stepped outside, seeing Henley and Chief Becker standing near one of the tractors. Henley was puffing away on a cigarette, pacing in front of Becker.
“Jack!” Grant called.
Henley flicked the cigarette onto the asphalt, then he walked toward Grant. Becker followed, gave Grant a quick nod, then went inside the building.
“Listen, Jack,” Grant said, as he motioned toward his car and started walking in its direction. “I’m sorry what happened in your office.” Henley remained quiet. Grant backed up against the driver’s side door. He hung onto the notepad as he crossed his arms over his chest. “No matter how the hell you feel about these guys, we’ve got one fuckin’ situation here. I know you realize that.”
“Never had to face anything like this,” Henley said quietly. “Guess it’s nothing new to you.”
Grant lowered his head briefly before looking back at him. “Unfortunately, no. Had more than my share.” He held up the notepad. “Can you think of anybody else that may need to be on this list?”
Henley glanced overhead briefly, as if in thought, then responded, “I don’t know if you want to talk to the bartenders at Sailor’s. Derek hung out there a lot.”
“Need everybody you can think of, Jack.” He jotted down the names. Ripping off the top sheet, he handed the notepad to Henley, then folded the paper in quarters, slipping it into his jeans. Taking out his car keys, he said, “I’ll get started on this list. Oh, either Admiral Torrinson or Lieutenant Adler could be calling from NIS. I’d appreciate you taking messages instead of your men. I’ll check back with you later.” He extended his hand to Henley, who grasped it firmly. “Look, Jack, I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, but I need you to stay ‘under the radar’ for now. If you hear from Brit CID, I’d like you to tell me about the conversation. One more thing. Remember...no mention of that letter,” Grant said, in a lowered voice.
“Right.”
“That includes the cops and CID.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Henley asked incredulously. “How the hell can I get away with that?”
“Simple. Don’t bring it up. You and I are the only ones who know about it, except for the admiral and Joe. For the time being, I’ll hang onto it, then take care of it at the right time. For now you tell the cops whatever else they wanna know about Carter. That’s it. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Grant opened the car door, then slid behind the wheel. As he started the engine, he rolled down the window. “I think it’s best I check out of the hotel and move on base, probably tomorrow morning. Joe will be arriving tonight or early tomorrow bringing our gear. Could you have the chief make arrangements for us?”
“I’ll get right on it.” Henley rested his hand on the edge of the door. “I’ll help you all I can, Grant.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I lost my cool earlier.”
“Forget it.” Grant put the car into gear. “Talk with you later.”
Chapter 6
In the distance off the port side and thousands of feet below the modified 707, lights along the southeast coast of Cyprus twinkled like stars in the night. Within moments, the island was no longer in sight, the aircraft once again flying in total darkness.
Razzag Aknin reached overhead and jabbed at a button with a thick, stubby index finger, shutting off a small reading light. He readjusted his heavy-framed body in the plush seat, trying to get comfortable. Swiveling the seat around, he settled his eyes on Abu al-Massi (pronounced Ma-sigh), Libya’s Chairman of the General People’s Committee.
Massi sat near the front bulkhead, completely absorbed in reviewing official papers spread across a Formica-topped table.
Aknin leaned his head back, watching Massi through half-closed eyes. Being selected as the bodyguard for the chairman was a great honor. Only one other person was more powerful within the Libyan government than Massi: Chief of State, Tarek Masrata.
Masrata had two goals in mind when it came to Chairman Massi. The first was to train him on how to be adept in the political arena of the Middle East. The second was to mold Massi into a person who would invoke the word “fear” with just the mention of his name. Masrat
a accomplished both goals.
The upcoming meeting would be Massi’s trial run in the beginning episode for Libya to increase its power throughout the Middle East.
*
The aircraft had flown nearly eleven hundred miles when it started its descent. Its destination was the city of Aleppo, about ninety miles east of the Turkish border.
A double row of low-level lights guided the 707 to an isolated area behind a small maintenance building. As the engines began to wind down, double doors in the plane’s underbelly slowly opened. When they were fully extended, a hydraulically-driven platform lowered. A black, four-door Mercedes was anchored in the middle.
Bodyguard Aknin leaned out the plane’s exit door, feeling the brisk coolness against his leathery skin. He hustled down the stairs, holding an Uzi close to his body, then trotted over to the car, releasing the tie-down hooks. He watched closely as the automobile was driven off the platform then pulled in front of the stairs.
Stepping down onto the first step, Aknin said over his shoulder, “Sir, the car is ready.” Hearing Chairman Massi walk up behind him, he led the way down the stairs.
*
The Mercedes, with headlights off, gradually rolled to a stop on a narrow, deserted side street just north of the Grand Mosque of Zakariah. The mosque, one of the largest in the world, was situated in the center of the old city of Aleppo.
The front passenger door swung open and Aknin emerged. He walked a few paces away from the car, and scanned the area, even though a moonless night and twisting alleyways limited visibility. He cocked his head to the side, listening for the slightest sounds. Cautiously sidestepping back to the car, he remained vigilant as he opened the rear door.
Massi rubbed his fingers across the barrel of his Beretta. He slipped it into the leg holster, then exited the car. Standing briefly near the open door, he adjusted his “thawb,” a traditional ankle-length, long sleeve garment, similar to a cotton robe. Glancing overhead, he breathed in deeply, then looked at Aknin, signaling he was ready to go.
They had nearly two hundred meters to cover. By staying in alleyways of the souks, Aknin was confident he could control the security. The narrow streets were too small for vehicles, but he was armed and ready for any possible close encounters. He adjusted a jewel-encrusted leather scabbard holding his janbia, a short, curved-blade dagger, hanging from a belt around his loose white cotton shirt.
Once they turned down Souk Al Zarb Street, the shadowy form of the massive Citadel of Aleppo loomed before them. Sitting on a small, but steep mound, the citadel had been used for defensive purposes since the Bronze Age.
They followed a dry moat surrounding the site along Hawl al-Qalla Street, until reaching a bridge crossing the moat. They walked more quickly now, no longer able to hide in the shadows of the covered souks.
Aknin reached out, stopping Massi’s forward movement. “Sir, perhaps you should stay here while I check ahead.”
Massi nodded as he looked toward the entrance. The men he was here to meet may have brought their own entourage. He pressed his back against the stone bridge, which resembled a high viaduct with curved arches.
Aknin sidestepped up the wide stone steps. At the top was a fortified gateway, several stories high, its medieval architecture built with stone.
Reaching the main gateway, Aknin disappeared into the shadows. Within two minutes, he hustled back toward Massi’s location, giving a slight nod.
Massi took the lead. They passed through the entrance gate, then a set of large steel doors. Climbing a short flight of stairs, they went through another door before finally reaching their destination.
Massi stopped just inside the extravagantly restored throne room. Its main feature was the ornate, wooden ceiling, intricately carved with lavish shapes and designs.
Hearing Aknin close the door behind him, Massi quickly took in his surroundings. The two men standing near the far wall cautiously smiled. Similar to Massi’s black thawb,the two men wore white. A black, double-wrapped cord held a white headdress in place.
Massi stepped closer to Syria’s Jamal Assad and Algeria’s Malu Yacine. He studied the two men’s faces. His words, and the deep grating tone with which they were delivered, sent a chill through his co-conspirators. “The future of our countries is about to change, and we are about to change it.”
Still wary, Yacine and Assad kept their distance from the Libyan. What had been promised seemed impossible, but when the proposal had been presented to the Syrian and Algerian governments, it seemed their only risk would come in the form of money.
Assad stroked his dark beard as he questioned, “Can you tell us who? Who is the mastermind behind this?”
Massi hesitated before responding. “Victor Labeaux.”
“Labeaux?!” Assad gasped.
Malu Yacine stepped forward. “Everyone has heard of this man. But have you met him?”
Massi answered, “Yes. We have met.”
“And do you trust him?” Yacine asked.
“He and I have...an understanding.”
“An understanding? What is this understanding, or can you not tell us?”
Massi gave a wry smile. “He is very aware of my, shall we say, reputation, Malu. A very simple threat was enough for him.”
“You actually threatened him? One of the most feared terrorists in the world, and you threatened him?”
“I did.”
Algeria’s Yacine had yet another concern. “With all that money at his disposal, he could disappear...”
“That will not happen,” Massi said with a raised voice, attempting to change the direction of the conversation. “If it will make you both feel better, Aknin and I will be going to England very soon.”
The statement caught both men completely off guard. Yacine finally spoke. “You are telling us that you will be participating?”
“Now do you understand why you must not worry? I have everything under control.”
Chapter 7
Newquay Harbor
Saturday
1030 Hours
The temperature still hadn’t gone beyond forty-two degrees. The promise of a sunny day faded as a new wave of clouds rolled across the rugged Cornish coastline. All commercial fishing boats had pulled out of the harbor before the morning fog completely lifted.
A small group of tourists followed their tour guide along the breakwater, passing in front of Grant, but paying him no mind. He sat on the bench, stretching his arms across the backrest while he waited.
Getting Gunnery Sergeant Phil Baranski off base, away from eyes and ears, had been his priority. If anybody knew anything about what was going on, he hoped it would be Baranski.
Turning his head, he saw a man walking towards him. He looked to be in his late twenties, with his brown hair cut “high and tight.” He was wearing a pair of old Levis, with a black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest. The sleeves of the jacket were folded above his wrists. Looking directly at Grant, he gave a quick two-finger salute.
Grant smiled as he stood to greet the marine, extending a hand. “Gunny, thanks for coming. It’s good to meet you.”
Baranski returned Grant’s handshake with a firm grip. “You, too, sir!” As he smiled, dimples appeared in his clean-shaven face.
Grant gave a quick look around. A couple of small boats were moored to the breakwater, with two men on deck doing maintenance. No one was at the west end by the harbor entrance.
“Let’s take a walk,” Grant said as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
Baranski kept his eyes straight ahead, as he asked, “What can I help you with, sir?”
“What we’re about to discuss is top secret.”
“Understand, sir.”
“I believe there’s been a serious breach of security at St. Mawgan.”
Baranski came to a standstill, turning to look at Grant. “I can assure you, sir, it’s not any of my men!”
“I’m sure you know your men, Gunny, but I’d like you to keep this
under wraps for now.” Grant started walking again.
“Then who, sir? Do you have any idea?”
Grant shook his head. “Pretty much in the dark. Don’t have a helluva lot to go on. Any chance you’ve heard of someone by the name of Derek Carter?”
“Sure, sir. He’s one of the custodians on base. He’s taken care of some maintenance issues we’ve had at the barracks.”
“Hewas one of the custodians, Gunny.”
“Was, sir?”
“Yeah. Some kind of car accident.”
“Damn! That’s too bad. But where’s the security breach come into this, sir?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got something that’s leading me to believe that.”
“Understand, sir. Tell me what you can.”
Grant proceeded to fill in the few details he had and his own suspicion that nukes were involved.
Coming to the end of the breakwater, Grant stopped and leaned against the wall. “That’s all I’ve got. Have you heard any scuttlebutt, anybody spouting off or bragging that could point us in the right direction?”
Baranski rubbed the back of his neck as he took a few steps away from Grant, trying to remember conversations, or scuttlebutt. “Sorry, sir, but haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary.”
“Shit,” Grant mumbled under his breath.
Baranski hesitated, uncertain whether he should bring it up. “Don’t know if this means anything, sir, but do you know Commander Henley’s brother-in-law works on base?”
Grant wasn’t sure how he should react to the piece of news, wondering why Henley held that back. “He failed to mention that. But what’s the connection, Gunny?”
“Well, sir, I’ve seen Mr. Webb and Mr. Carter together on base. The two of them have been with the commander at Sailor’s more than once. It could just be that they’re all friends, sir.”
“Do you know Webb’s first name?”
“I think it’s Colin, sir.”
“And just where does this Colin Webb work?”
“He’s a mechanic who works on the Nimrods, sir.”
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