Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 4

"Yeah, but I still . . . Oh, s.h.i.+t!" Grant finally realized they were looking at debris from pine trees--pine needles, pine cones, small branches, most scattered along both sides of the road. But mounds of debris, dirt and small stones indicated NIS probably swept the road clean.

"Right, Skipper! A chopper!" Adler said, continuing to move the light.

"Good work, 'Sherlock'!" Grant said, slapping Adler's shoulder. "Now, where'd they go?"

"Beats the s.h.i.+t out of me!"

"Boss!" Stalley yelled. "Found something over here!"

As Grant approached, Stalley got down on a knee, pointing to a dark spot on the asphalt. "I wouldn't swear to it, but I'm bettin' that's blood."

Grant aimed his flashlight beam on the spot, then he turned toward the ditch. "I doubt the guards would've left their vehicle, Doc. You're thinking one of the attackers took a bullet, right?"

"Yes, sir. I sure do," Stalley answered as he stood.

"You wouldn't know where they went, would you?"

"Uh, no, sir."

"That's okay, Doc. You're not the only one." Grant turned and started following the broken white centerline. Just as he was about to give up, his flashlight beam landed on something. He knelt on a knee, then his eyes followed the light further down the line about eight feet away. "Joe!"

Adler came rus.h.i.+ng across the road. "What'd you find?"

"What do these look like to you?" Grant aimed the light.

"Black sc.r.a.pe marks?"

Grant stood and punched Adler's shoulder, grinning as he said, "You know d.a.m.n well what they are. You were right. A chopper." The two black marks were left by the skids of the Huey.

It wasn't likely they'd find any more evidence. Grant at least had something to go on--a chopper was definitely part of the attack. "Hey, guys! Let's get outta here and head back to 'Eagle 8.'"

Eagle 8 Virginia 0345 Hours Three empty pizza boxes, two nearly empty buckets of fried chicken, an empty bag of chocolate chip cookies, bottles of beer and soda were scattered on top of the kitchen counter. A fresh pot of coffee percolated near the stove, with the smell of the strong brew drifting throughout the room.

National news was being broadcast on NBC, but sounds from the TV faded into the background. With rumpled clothes, unshaven, in need of showers, Team A.T. sat at the dining room table, each man in his own thoughts, trying to put together a means for locating the traitor--and missing weapons. Newspapers from the past two days were strewn around the table and floor.

Slade and Diaz each had a paper open, scanning every page, looking at articles, pictures.

Grant rocked his chair back and forth, balancing on the two back legs, when he heard the door at the end of the hallway close. "Hey, Matt!"

Garrett took off his coat as he came toward the living room. "Sorry I'm late. Rough weather coming across country."

"No problem. Get yourself something to eat and drink then join the party."

Garrett draped his coat on the back of the couch, then went to the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee, then took a chicken leg from the bucket.

Adler was slouched in the chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his fingers locked behind his head. "Time for a break," he said, as he got up. "I'm gonna get some coffee." As he walked by the bucket of chicken, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a wing. While he ate, he waited for the second pot of coffee to finish perking. Tossing the chicken bones in the trash, he licked his fingers, then poured the steaming black brew into his cup. "Anybody want a refill?" he said loudly, holding up the pot. Three hands went up. He unplugged the pot and carried it to the table.

Grant pushed his chair back and stood, while rubbing his fingers in small circles on his temples. The little information they had was getting them nowhere fast.

Jamming his hands into his back pockets, he started walking around the table. Four dead men because of two crates. How many more are gonna die? What the f.u.c.k are we missing?

"Hey, boss?"

"Yeah, Doc?"

"You feelin' okay?"

"Just frustrated and angry as all h.e.l.l, Doc. Thinking about those four guards who probably didn't have a chance."

"Yeah. I know what you mean," Stalley responded, running his fingers through his dark blond hair. He tried changing the subject, if only briefly. "How about some cold chicken? LT's left a few pieces," he laughed, tilting his head toward Adler.

"Yeah, sure. Sounds, good." Grant watched the youngest team member walking toward the kitchen. The two of them had a bond of sorts, in part because Stalley helped save his life, but as a corpsman, Stalley reminded Grant of his father, Mike Stevens, HMCS, killed in Korea. (Hospital Corpsman, Senior Chief) Words from the TV newscaster finally started registering with Grant: ". . . have brought more troops into Afghanistan." He swung around, picked up the remote, and turned up the sound.

With his arms folded tightly across his chest, he began taking in every word being reported. The news reporter reviewed events that occurred three months prior on December 27: "Seven hundred Soviet troops landed in Afghanistan disguised as Afghan military. Within these troops were KGB and GRU special forces officers from the Alpha and Zenith Groups, who took control of major governmental, military and media buildings in Kabul. Simultaneously, other objectives were occupied. The operation was fully completed by the following morning. But the overthrow of the old government seems to be causing more opposition to the Soviets being in Afghanistan."

Chairs sc.r.a.ped across the wood floor as Novak and James got up. They walked toward the TV and stood next to Grant, listening to the report, and watching the video being shown.

The news reporter continued: "Soviet troops are finding themselves drawn into guerilla warfare, fighting against urban uprisings, tribal armies, and sometimes against mutinying Afghan Army units. Soviet-led Afghan forces are fighting against multi-national insurgent groups, the Mujahideen."

The more Grant heard, the more he found himself putting small pieces together. "Sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

"What's happening, Skipper?" Adler shouted from across the room.

But before Grant responded, Slade called, "Boss, you need to read this!" He folded the paper in half and laid it down. As Grant got to the table, Slade pointed to an article.

Grant read the caption: Wreckage Discovered Off Coast.

"Jesus Christ!" he said under his breath.

The article stated the previous night an explosion had been seen off the Delaware coast. The following morning debris had been spotted by the Coast Guard but bodies had yet to be found. Examination of debris indicated it was a Huey. Efforts to find the registered owner had so far failed. The investigation was still underway.

"Well, boss, you think the weapons went down with the chopper?" Slade asked, rubbing a hand briskly over his s.h.i.+ny, bald head.

"What I think, Ken, is somebody's tying up loose ends."

Adler handed him a cup of coffee. "And you know this to be how? That gut of yours?"

Grant remained quiet, rolling around different scenarios, coming up with two possibilities, neither of which gave him a "warm and fuzzy."

"Well?" Adler asked.

"Gotta call Scott," Grant said, turning to go to the phone, acting as if he didn't even hear Adler.

"Hold it!" Adler said, grabbing his arm. "No secrets allowed!"

Grant put his head down, slowly shaking it. When he raised it, seven pairs of eyes were staring at him, waiting for an explanation. "If I'm correct, our mission will encompa.s.s more than just tracking down a traitor." He s.h.i.+fted his eyes to Adler, who returned a look through narrowing blue eyes.

"Are you saying we've got another mole on our hands?!"

"There's more going on here than just meets the eye. Somebody sold those weapons to somebody else who plans on using them, or at least use the technology." He tilted his head toward the TV. "And Afghanistan seems the perfect place." Setting his eyes on his men, he finally said, "Look, why don't you all get some shut-eye. We've got work to do tomorrow. DJ and Frank, plan on setting up surveillance at the Russian Emba.s.sy."

"Are we lookin' for anything or anybody in particular?" Diaz asked.

"Good question, Frank, but you guys have plenty of 'know how' to pick out anything suspicious. Take gla.s.ses, scopes, and maybe one of the cameras with a long-range lens."

"Roger," James answered.

Grant happened to glance at a large security monitor above the fireplace. "DJ, check camera number four," he said pointing to the screen. "Seems to have some interference."

"On it, boss." The screen was divided into six smaller pictures, each in black and white, focused on sections of the property. Every five seconds the pictures would automatically change.

"Hey, Mike!" Grant called.

"Yeah, boss?" Novak answered, leaning around the corner as he was pulling a skivvy s.h.i.+rt over his head.

"Sorry I didn't mention it sooner, but the President's given his okay for you to try out one of those prototypes."

Novak's eyes lit up, as he came into the living room. "No s.h.i.+t?!"

"Yeah. No s.h.i.+t. You're to report to Captain Ramsay at Indian Head. I want you to leave at first light."

"I'm guessing I'm taking my car?"

Grant nodded. "Yeah. We've gotta make sure the SUVs are ready."

"Okay, boss."

Novak turned to leave, when Grant called, "And, Mike. In case you've got any ideas. . . that weapon isnot to leave the base." Novak kept walking. "Do you copy, mister?!"

"Aye, sir! Copy that!" Novak said over his shoulder, as he continued grumbling, "Guess I'll have to be satisfied with our new issues."

Grant couldn't help but smile as he put his hand on the phone.

The new issues were the HK MP5SDs. The weapon featured a integral but detachable aluminum sound suppressor and a lightweight bolt. A bullet would leave the muzzle at subsonic velocity so it didn't generate a sonic shock wave in flight. The MP5SD was designed to be used with standard supersonic ammo with the suppressor on at all times. With the design of the suppressor, the weapon could be fired with water inside.

Grant stood by the side table. "Matt, I'll fill you in as soon as I call Scott."

Garrett sat on the couch, swallowing a mouthful of warm coffee. "Whenever you're ready."

"First tell me. Do you feel comfortable turning over the business to your employees?"

"They've been basically running it for a while now. I'm confident they can handle it. Besides, I'll be checking in every now and then. Of course, they'll never know exactly when."

"You've had a h.e.l.luva responsibility since your dad died, Matt."

"Life throws curves sometimes, but. . . hey! If it weren't for dad and his friends, there may not be Team Alpha Tango, right?"

"It still amazes me they planned all this," Grant responded. "Have you seen or talked with them?"

"We talk on the phone, but they still want to keep a low profile when it comes to our 'little' group."

"Sure wish the guys could meet them."

"It could happen," Garrett answered.

Adler came back into the living room, wiping his face with a towel. "Hey, Skipper, are you considering bringing Grigori in on this?"

"If this is a Russian mole, Joe, maybe he can pull some info from his brain that might give us something to go on." He glanced at his watch. "I'm gonna call Scott at home. I'm hoping he'll be able to patch me through to the President in a couple of hours."

"C'mon, Scott! Pick up!"

"Yeah," Mullins answered in a gruff, sleepy voice.

"Scott, it's Grant."

"Grant? What's wrong?" He rubbed a hand over the top of his brown hair, then threw off the covers. Stifling a yawn, he sat on the side of the bed, trying to get his eyes to focus on the clock.

"Your phone's not secure, so I'll explain fully when I see you. In the meantime, as soon as you get to the office, I'd like. . . Wait! Never mind. I'll . . ."

"What the h.e.l.l?! You wake me up and then say 'never mind'?!"

"Just hold your shorts! What I started to say was I'll meet you at your office at 0700. I a.s.sume you'll be there, right?"

"Yeah. I'll be there. But you'd better bring strong coffee. And donuts!"

Chapter 7.

Near Russian Emba.s.sy Tuesday - Day 2 0620 Hours Winds were blowing anywhere from ten to fifteen knots, carrying on them a smell of rain. Sunrise was still a half hour away. Street lamps illuminated sidewalks. Lights in front of building entrances cast shadows across driveways. A few pedestrians hustled down sidewalks along both sides of the street, most wearing raincoats or windbreakers. Some were more prepared and carried umbrellas.

Across the street, and a half block north of the Russian Emba.s.sy, DJ James and Frank Diaz sat in Diaz's green Ford F-150. James had his window rolled down half way, trying to prevent windows from fogging.

Two large thermos bottles of hot coffee leaned against the backrest. Between the two men was an open paper bag with four unwrapped McDonald's Egg Mcm.u.f.fins, and two crumbled wrappers.

Diaz took a sip of coffee from the thermos' plastic cup. He pressed binoculars against his eyes. While he scanned the emba.s.sy grounds, he asked James, "Think boss knows something we don't, DJ?"

James chewed a last mouthful of m.u.f.fin, then washed it down with coffee. "You know LT always jokes about his 'gut instinct.' Me personally? I'd rely on it every time, Frank." He tossed the wrapper in the bag, then pulled out another, tapping Diaz's shoulder. "Here. I'll keep watch."

While James used the gla.s.ses, he asked, "Have you heard from your kid lately?"