Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 14

Vikulin started to leave when Vazov called. "Wait!" He picked up the phone and called Kalinin. "Nicolai, Comrade Vikulin will be joining you on the flight. He has an 'appointment' with Director Antolov in Moscow."

"All right, sir. I will call you and verify a time." Kalinin had to wonder about the so-called 'appointment.' He still did not completely understand the inner workings of the KGB, but he imagined this was out of the ordinary.

After Vikulin and Zelesky left the office, Vazov sat quietly for several moments, then he went to the front window. Street lights were still on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flas.h.i.+ng lights as a street sweeping truck turned the corner on M Street.

Standing there with his arms behind his back, he decided he'd had enough of the foolish game. As soon as Zelesky returned he would have him take a message to a drop site, offering to meet "Primex." There had to be more explanation why the American turned against his country. Unless he found out why, he would never feel comfortable, wondering if he himself would become a "victim" of this man. Maybe he was being foolish with these thoughts, but traitors were always unpredictable.

Eagle 8 Virginia After all gear had been offloaded from the chopper then put in the SUVs, Grant returned to the c.o.c.kpit. "You sure you don't need any more help, Matt?"

"No. I've just got a few more items on the checklist."

"Okay. See you at the house."

Garrett checked off the last items on his sheet, then secured the chopper. A decision still hadn't been made when or if the Team would be leaving anytime soon, but the plane would be ready. As he ran to the Gulfstream, in the distance he could see red taillights through a dusty haze.

Adler was driving the first vehicle, with Grant in the pa.s.senger seat. The console phone rang. "Stevens."

"Grant, it's Scott."

"What've you got for me?"

"My contact at Dulles just called. Your 'boy' hasn't showed up yet but a flight plan was filed--D.C. to Moscow; no refueling location yet."

"Dammit!" Grant beat a fist against the armrest. "What about a flight time?"

"Nothing."

"How many pa.s.sengers?"

"That can change at any time, but for now only one's been listed. I needn't tell you his name."

"'Kalinin.'"

"To be more specific, 'Nicolai Kalinin.' He's traveling on a diplomatic courier pa.s.sport."

"Still no dossier on him?" Grant asked, but not expecting anything.

"Not a d.a.m.n thing. That guy's cover must be deeper than the depths of h.e.l.l."

Grant glanced at his submariner. "We're almost home. Call me there if anything changes."

"Will do." Call ended.

"Doesn't sound good," Adler said, giving a quick glance at Grant.

"A flight plan from D.C. to Moscow's been filed. Only one pa.s.senger registered--Kalinin."

"Now what?"

"Have to wait for Scott. Don't know what else we can do."

"What if we fly the Gulfstream to Dulles, then wait?"

Grant mulled over the suggestion. "Might work, but we'd probably be better off leaving from here, instead of getting caught up in Dulles flight control and air traffic. Besides, we've still got prep work to do."

Adler slowed the SUV as it approached the security gate. Within a couple of seconds, the automatic gate swung back. Both SUVs raced through.

The vehicles parked in front of the three-car garage, and the Zodiac was offloaded. Grant hurried into the house. Adler announced, "Listen up! If you want to clean up now then come back, do it--and fast!"

Slade responded for everyone, "We'll take care of gear first, LT."

Working quickly under time constraints, the men hosed down all gear touched by seawater, finally storing everything in a section of the garage. The Zodiac was carried in then lined up directly behind the other rubber boat.

Adler walked into the brightly lit s.p.a.ce, then knelt next to a door embedded in the concrete. The metal door was similar to one on an armored truck. He dialed the combination. Underneath the garage was a storage room. "Okay, guys," he said standing. "Get extra ammo, clips, and anything we need to refresh, then come into the house. We'll clean weapons inside. Secure this when you're through."

Garrett pulled up to the garage, then followed Adler into the house.

Coming out of the bedroom carrying his black boots, his "boondockers," Grant was now wearing black sweater, black pants. He called Bethesda for an update on Diaz. The Team hadn't had time to wait after getting an initial report from the emergency room doctor. Diaz would be kept overnight, on antibiotics and lactated ringer's. St.i.tches would remain for about ten days. Latest patient information reported he was resting and in stable condition.

"How's he doin'?" Adler asked, pulling a black turtleneck sweater over his head.

Grant sat on the couch and tied his boots. "He's doing good, Joe. Listen, I'm gonna get stuff from the safe. I'll start the coffee when I get back."

"I'll start breakfast." Adler opened the refrigerator, and pulled out three dozen eggs, bacon, bread.

"What can I do, Joe?" Garrett asked, leaning on the counter.

Adler handed him the loaf of bread. "Toast."

Coming back to the kitchen, Grant dropped a zippered black bag on the counter. Cash, pa.s.sports, credit card. Any extra money needed, they'd have to withdraw from the offsh.o.r.e account. He and Adler had the number memorized.

The garage door slammed. The four men came into the room, laying rucksacks and weapons by the table, then they hustled to the baths and bedrooms.

Grant shouted after them, "Coffee and breakfast ready in under ten!" He made the coffee then went to the table and started spreading layers of newspapers on top, preparing to clean weapons. He picked up individual weapons, laying each on the table as he thought about what was ahead for A.T.

Soon they'd be on the move again. This time possibly Russia, his "home away from home." A major problem loomed ahead. How the h.e.l.l would they get to Moscow? They sure as h.e.l.l couldn't just fly into the country. The Gulfstream had been modified for parachute drops, but without a second "seat," it was out of the question. He shook his head, frustrated.

They had to stop the Russian plane before it crossed into Communist territory. Sounded good, but how? A 'sidewinder' would do it, he smiled to himself. The most reasonable would be at a refueling stop. All they had to do was find out which one. He was depending on Mullins and the NSA.

Adler announced, "Breakfast's served!" as he s.n.a.t.c.hed a crispy piece of bacon off the plate.

Grant took a jar of Jif peanut b.u.t.ter from the cabinet, put it on the counter, then started pouring coffee into mugs as the men lined up, almost like in a Navy chow line. Instead of metal serving trays, they grabbed paper plates, plastic utensils. While they were gathered around the counter eating, Grant relayed the report from the hospital on Diaz's condition.

Adler asked, "You're worried about our next trip, aren't you?" as he slid a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast toward Grant.

"And it's not just about getting there. What happens if those weapons are 'distributed' to different locations? We wouldn't have a s...o...b..ll's chance in h.e.l.l tracking all of them."

Grant picked up a piece of toast, then smeared on peanut b.u.t.ter, as he looked at each of his men. Even though there were a couple of f.u.c.k-ups before and during the first part of the op, these men were the best he and Adler could've chosen. The mission to China proved their worth. He respected them, trusted them. And he had a feeling those f.u.c.k-ups would be the last. Lessons learned.

"Chow down quick, guys," he finally said. "And you might want to put away some extra caffeine. FYI, I've got your pa.s.sports. Matt, you have all official papers in the plane?"

"Yeah. Just need a flight plan. Plus, I need to throw a few extra 'Lurps' in my car." (LRPs: Food Packet, Long Range Patrol, also called "long rats.") "And take more of those MREs we've been asked to sample," Adler requested.

Refres.h.i.+ng their coffee, they all carried the coffee mugs to the dining room table. MP5s, .45s, K-bars were spread out on the table. Stalley had his medical bag next to his chair. Once he finished with his weapons, he'd check supplies, sorting, counting, refilling bottles, adding more tape, more battle dressings, and a couple extra syringes.

The phone rang. "Stevens."

"Grant, Scott here."

"Any changes?"

"No."

"I a.s.sume you notified the President about the cargo s.h.i.+p."

"Yeah. That's why I'm calling. Made him somewhat relieved, but . . ."

"I know. Look, Scott, he wanted to keep us and the investigation 'under the radar,' but we may need more help besides NSA. CIA always has its 'ears' on. Maybe they already have something but don't know it."

"Do you wanna talk with him?"

"Not necessary, but I'll leave that up to him."

"It might take awhile before I can reach him again."

"Do your best." Expecting another call, Grant carried the phone to the table, stretching the cord to its max, then repeated his conversation with Mullins to everyone. For the time being, Team A.T. was "dead in the water." Grant was beyond impatient.

Adler started cleaning up his kitchen mess, plunging his hands into hot, soapy dishwater.

"Joe, forget that for now," Grant said over his shoulder.

Clips were ejected, and weapons were systematically broken down, a process each man could do with his eyes closed.

Grant was wiping down the gun with a cloth rag, when his motion slowed.

"Uh-oh," Adler said quietly to himself, as he sat across from him, seeing the clenched jaw. "Why are those 'wheels' spinning? Look, we're ready whenever you are. But you've gotta tell us what, where, and concerns. Out with it."

"If that plane gets too far ahead of us, we may never catch it or the weapons. We can't f.u.c.k this up."

"You still plan on waiting here?"

Grant nodded. "It'll take less time, Joe." The phone rang again. "Scott?"

"NSA boys are working their a.s.ses off for you!"

"And?"

"Intercepted a couple of messages from the emba.s.sy to the cargo s.h.i.+p and one to Moscow."

"They know about us 'lifting' the weapons, I a.s.sume."

"You can say that. Plus, Moscow still wants its half of the weapons. So for now, the Afghans are out of the picture."

"Is that it?"

"All for now!"

Grant loaded ammo into new clips. Not much was said by anyone, as they worked quickly, efficiently, waiting for the phone to ring again.

It did. Grant rammed a clip 'home' then answered, "Scott?"

"Grant! Flight time's 0830! They've scheduled Shannon as the fuel stop." (Shannon, Ireland was the westernmost non-NATO airport.) Grant checked his watch. "We can do it!"

"Do what?!"

"Scott, thanks, but we've gotta move! I'll call you on the way to the airfield!"

This might be their last chance. He slammed down the phone, then swung around toward Garrett. "Matt, we'll take your gear. You head out now. Set a flight plan for Shannon, Ireland. We'll be right behind you!"

Grant turned to the others. "Listen up! Get what you need from in here, maybe a change of clothes." He asked Stalley, "Doc, is your medical bag. . .?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Okay! Let's go!"

Boots pounded against the wood floor as they hightailed it to the bedrooms. Adler unplugged the coffee pot, confirmed stove was off, then made a quick detour to the pantry and grabbed a few packages of Oreos.

Within five minutes, with gear and weapons in hand, they were out the door.

Dulles International Airport 0815 Hours The pilot and co-pilot were in the c.o.c.kpit, going through the final checklist before departure of the emba.s.sy's private jet, an Antonov I, similar to a Gulfstream in size, but lower to the ground like a 737. The jet, with a modified cabin, had become standard equipment for most of Russia's emba.s.sies.

The co-pilot noticed a vehicle approaching, then left the c.o.c.kpit, and waited at the top of the stairs for his pa.s.senger.

Kalinin backed the pickup truck close to the open cargo hold. He got out then lowered the tailgate, as he noticed a U.S. Customs agent walking toward him with a clipboard in hand.

Leaning slightly in order to read the name tag on the agent's green jacket, he greeted him in broken English. "Good morning. . .Agent Davison."

"Morning. Can I see your pa.s.sport and doc.u.ments for any diplomatic pouches you're carrying?"

"Of course." Kalinin removed his pa.s.sport and papers from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and handed them to Davison.

The agent laid everything on the clipboard, opened the pa.s.sport and compared the picture to the man in front of him, examined all pertinent information, then date stamped one of the pages. He gave the pa.s.sport back to Kalinin, and unfolded the doc.u.mentation. He pointed to the truck. "Would you remove anything that's going with you?"