For a brief moment Grant backed away, as his anger subsided. He pictured the five men and their expressions when they learned they were finally going home.
But then he leaned toward Adler again, saying with his voice low and eyes narrowed, “And what about Tony? You remember him. He died trying to save my ass, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did. But don’t bullshit me and say you wouldn’t have done the same for him! Hell! Look what you did to save all of us! We were able to get our asses outta East Germany because of you!”
Grant’s shoulders went slack. His voice became calm. But still, he questioned. “Jesus Christ, Joe. Just tell me why the hell we do this?”
“Why, skipper? It’s in our DNA.”
Jamming his hands into his back pockets, Grant turned away from his friend, saying softly, “Yeah, well, maybe it’s time to alter my DNA.”
Torrinson stood by the counter near Zach’s desk, ignoring the aroma of coffee. Neither he nor his yeoman spoke, but occasionally looked toward the office door. Torrinson’s concern was that both his men were about to make a critical, life-changing decision. The outcome of this last op could be all that was needed to push one or both of them out of the Navy.
Voices coming from behind the door suddenly went silent. He walked into his office and closed the door. “Grant. Joe.”
Grant had his head down, swiping fingers across his eyes. He and Adler braced at attention, both of them staring straight ahead.
With his fists clenched by his side, Grant cleared his throat before speaking. “Sir, I apologize. I wasway out of line. I regret letting it happen, sir.”
Adler spoke quietly. “Me, too, sir.”
“As you were, gentlemen.” The two men complied, standing at parade rest. “I told you both to treat this room as yours. And, Grant, what happened just now? You were not out of line.
“Don’t either of you think for one minute that during my career I haven’t had those same thoughts and questions, or haven’t voiced my opinions to my superiors...and sometimes quite emphatically. We’re humans, not damn supermen without any compassion.
“Look, every mission comes with risk, and not just for you. You both know that. Mrs. Henley made a choice, whether or not she thought it was right at the time. She put herself in danger, then dragged her husband into the quagmire. I believe her decision to take her life was made from the beginning when she realized there wasn’t any way out.
“And as far as Commander Henley resigning his commission, well, he recognized he’d made a mistake. He probably blamed himself for allowing the situation to get out of control, and then for his wife’s fateful decision.”
Torrinson placed a comforting hand on Grant’s shoulder. The two officers stared into each other’s eyes, as Torrinson said, “No, Captain, you and Joe successfully completed that mission. God only knows how many lives you saved.
“But you went beyond that mission when you were willing to stand up for the commander. In my opinion, that was just as big of a risk, all things considered.”
He took a step back, clasping his hands behind him, as if at parade rest. His gaze went back and forth between the two men. “Grant, Joe, if and when the time comes for you to leave this man’s Navy, remember...once a SEAL, always a SEAL.”
Due Out Spring, 2013:
Navy SEAL Grant Stevens
Book 1
(Untitled)
Excerpt:
Washington, D.C.
February
2030 Hours
The temperature had dropped into the low twenties every evening over the past several days. 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.
His gloved hands were shoved into the pockets of his brown leather flight jacket with its fur collar pulled up. Puffs of breath constantly wafted into the air as Grant Stevens walked along G Street at a good clip.
He talked himself into taking this walk thinking the cold night air and a cup of hot, black coffee might be the answer. All he wanted to do was just clear his brain, not freeze it. He was grateful Lieutenant Connelly had given him the jacket when he and Adler flew back to D.C. from the carrier.
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 laughed quietly. 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, and he grabbed the stainless steel handle, holding it for a young couple bundled up like they’d been to the North Pole. He gave them a polite nod. Once inside, he removed his cap, and smoothed strands of brown hair from his forehead.
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. He picked out a booth near the back, away from the window. He headed for it.
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.
He shoved his gloves and watch 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 had 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. He had to be a college student.
Grant blew warm breath into his hands as he watched Brian carrying an overflowing cup to the table. Some of the black brew spilled 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. “You in college, Brian?”
“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! 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 th
e 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 stood there for a moment before taking off a pair of black leather gloves, then he smoothed his windblown hair. As he did, he let his eyes roam around the cafe. He settled his gaze on Grant.
Grant put the mug on the table watching the stranger, who was wearing a black leather coat, with a black scarf wrapped around his neck. He was tall, maybe in his early forties, and somebody who looked to be in good shape. His dark brown hair had a few streaks of gray at the temples. He started walking toward Grant.
Grant immediately went on alert. He pressed his body against the back of 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 but a complete blank.
“Hello, Stevens. Captain Grant Stevens.”
Grant’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry, but you don’t look familiar. Am I supposed to know you?”
“Probably not.”
“Then let’s try this question. Do I knowof you?”
The stranger gave no indication he was about to reply.
“Come on! Give me something! Not even an introduction?” Grant wasn’t sure if he wanted this to continue.
“Perhaps in time. Would you mind if I sat with you for awhile?”
“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”
The man slapped his gloves against his opposite palm, then just slowly shook his head and waited.
Trying to prepare himself for just about anything now, Grant responded, “The seat’s yours...but I hope you’re not planning on staying long.”
The stranger dropped his gloves on the table then unwound his 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 dismissed the kid with a quick backward wave of his hand.
No words passed between the two 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 probably followed him from his apartment.
He pushed the coffee cup aside, and rested 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, Stevens.”
Acknowledgements
“BTF” - As always, for your willingness to offer your extensive knowledge, suggestions--exceptional humor!
For the bravery and dedication of service men and women everywhere:
Thank you!
Cover Photo - U.S. Navy Seaman Eric Norcross/Released
Table of Contents
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the auth...
Books by Jamie Fredric:Mission CriticalNavy SEAL Grant Stevens -Black Ops 1Warning Order
Home of the Free
Prologue
Chapter 1Near RAF St. MawganCornwall, England0130 HoursFriday
Chapter 2Porthgwarra,Small Coastal VillageNear Land’s End
Chapter 3Newquay, Cornwall1930 HoursFriday
Chapter 4Atlantic HotelNewquay2230 Hours
Chapter 5NewquayDay 2 0600 Hours
Chapter 6
Chapter 7Newquay HarborSaturday1030 Hours
Chapter 8Celtic Sea
Chapter 9EOD St. Mawgan
Chapter 10Newquay Harbor1415 Hours
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13Newquay Harbor
Chapter 14SundayDay Three0045 Hours
Chapter 15Newquay Police StationSunday0700 Hours
Chapter 16
Chapter 17St. Mawgan1200 Hours
Chapter 18EOD
Chapter 19St. Columb Major2150 Hours
Chapter 20NIS1715 Hours EST
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23NISWednesday0645 Hours
Due Out Spring, 2013:Navy SEAL Grant StevensBook 1(Untitled)Excerpt:
Acknowledgements
Last Op Page 23
