SHANGHAI
MISSION
Grant Stevens
and
Team Alpha Tango
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 @ 2013 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.
Other Books by Jamie Fredric:
Mission Critical
Black Ops 1
Warning Order
Black Ops 2
In the Mouth of the Wolf
Black Ops 3
Sacrifice of One
Black Ops 4
Last Op
Black Ops 5
For All Those Who Have Served
All Gave Some, Some Gave All
*
To Gregg: Stay safe, my friend. Godspeed.
Introducing -
Team Alpha Tango
Grant Stevens - Captain, (Ret.); graduate U.S. Naval Academy; born in California; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’1”; fluent in Russian and Japanese; Code name “Panther”; Team call sign: “Yankee Zero-Niner”
Joe Adler - Lieutenant, (Ret.); born in Oklahoma; brown hair, blue eyes, 5’10”; fluent in German; Code name “Mustang”; “Yankee Two-Seven”
Frank Diaz - CPO; born in NY; black hair, brown eyes, 5’9”; EOD; fluent in Spanish, some Portuguese; “Yankee Three-Six”
Ken Slade - CPOS (Senior Chief), (Ret.); born in Alaska; bald; brown eyes; 5’10”; pointman/navigator; speaks the Inuit language, some Russian; “Yankee Four-One”
Cal “Doc” Stalley - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Virginia; dark blond hair; blue eyes; 5’10”; corpsman; fluent in French, some Chinese; youngest of the Team; “Yankee Five-Two”
Darius “DJ” James - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Florida; dark brown hair; brown eyes; 5’9”; communications; speaks some Turkish, Arabic; “Yankee Six-Eight”
Mike Novak - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Wisconsin; dark blond hair; hazel eyes; 6’0”; sniper; speaks Hungarian and some German; “Yankee Seven-Three”
Matt Garrett - Captain, (Ret.); graduate of U.S. Naval Academy; born in Maryland; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’0”; pilot; fluent in French and German; “Yankee Eight-Four”
Part I
The Missions
**
Part II
Team Alpha Tango
How It All Began
PART I
The Missions
Chapter 1
May
Nicaragua
0445 Hours
Day temperatures of ninety degrees seemed cool compared to the typical scorching hot days of summer that were still a month away. But heavy rains had already begun. Many areas of the lowlands were flooded.
Surprisingly, this night was unusually clear with a full moon. Winds were only ten knots, blowing from the east, just enough to rustle leaves of rosewoods and wild cedars.
Eight men cautiously, slowly wove their way through the heavily treed forest until they were within twenty yards of the clearing. Perspiration dripped from their bodies, and stung their eyes.
Their trek had taken nearly three hours after slogging through mud and muck before finally reaching their extraction site, an abandoned dirt runway. Two of them took up positions behind the others, keeping an eye out for any “unfriendlies” who might be tracking them.
Seven were dressed out in full camouflage gear. One wore civilian clothes. His hands were tied in front of his body. A strip of duct tape covered his mouth. Mud splattered his clothes, shoes, face. Dark brown hair that hung nearly to his shoulders was tangled and matted. He’d been manhandled since he’d been captured.
Grant looked quickly at his submariner. Forty minutes until sunrise, he thought. He raised the Starlighter, scanning the sky above the treetops. They had to be ready. There’d be little time between getting to the plane then taking off. Lights and sound of the plane would undoubtedly attract attention.
“Almost 0500. See anything, Joe?” he whispered.
“Not yet,” Adler answered. “Wait one! Ten o’clock.”
“I see it,” Grant responded. “Everybody! Get your gear!” He continued watching as the lights got brighter. Finally, they were able to hear the Gulfstream’s engines.
Cautiously making their way nearer to the edge of the clearing, they got down on a knee, keeping their weapons ready. Calculating wind direction, they had positioned themselves at the end of the field where they anticipated the jet would takeoff. They’d have to put their senses on full alert once the plane landed. With the noise of the engines, it’d be nearly impossible for them to detect anyone coming through the forest, determined to stop their escape.
Within minutes of their spotting the plane, it touched down nearly opposite from where they were hiding. The pilot held it steady as wheels bounced over uneven ground. Without coming to a complete stop, he turned the aircraft sharply, then revved the engines, racing back to the takeoff location. The co-pilot was already standing by the exit door. As the aircraft slowed, he unlocked the door, then hit the switch to automatically lower the steps. Then, he drew his .45 from his side holster.
Adler grabbed the civilian’s arm, running full bore for the jet, with Grant right behind them. The other five team members hung back, waiting until Grant and Adler were safe.
The pilot looked out his side window, keeping an eye on them as he revved the engines to a percentage of full power. Pressing hard on the brakes, he waited for his passengers to board.
Shoving the civilian through the doorway, Adler shouted, “We’re in!”
Grant signaled the men, “Move it! Come on!
Immediately, Stalley, James, Diaz, left their positions, racing toward the plane. Just as they reached the aircraft, blasts from automatic weapons erupted from within the forest. Muzzle flashes pinpointed the position of at least a dozen men, wearing old green fatigues, who were tearing through the last fifty yards of cover.
The two remaining team members, Novak and Slade, returned fire at the oncoming attackers. Within seconds of reaching the clearing, both men tossed stun grenades. Turning quickly and ducking down, they hauled ass, running in a zigzag pattern.
The “flash-bang” grenades exploded, bursting into intense white lights that left the attackers temporarily blinded. The extremely loud explosion caused them to lose all sense of hearing. With the fluid in their ears disrupted, they became completely disoriented, and dropped their rifles. Some fell to their knees, others stumbled around, trying to regain balance while waiting for some semblance of normal vision to return. The physical effects wouldn’t last long, but it would be just enough time for Novak and Slade to reach the aircraft.
Grant stood at the bottom of the steps, shouting, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Novak and Slade practically dove into the cabin.
Once everyone was inside, Grant took up a position just to the side of the door looking for any sign of a secondary attack. “Get us outta here!” he shouted to the pilot. The co-pilot immediately secured the door, then hurried to the cockpit.
The Team hardly finished buckling seat belts when the pilot suddenly released the brakes, as the jolt forced everyone against their seats.
Building up speed rapidly, the plane
began its takeoff roll. With throttles steadily being pushed to full power, it sped over the old runway. The pilot maintained the jet’s attitude and its angle of incidence. As it reached the rotation speed, he raised the nose to its roll-out angle. The nose wheel left the ground, just as a sound of rifle fire erupted behind it.
The plane’s ascent continued as the wings cut into the wind, changing the speed of the air over the top. Finally, it was airborne. Within no time it began a slow, wide bank. Eighteen minutes later it reached its cruising altitude. Its heading: Northeast. Its final destination: Virginia.
Grant focused on the man facing him, who was breathing hard, sweating profusely. Enrique Caldera was second in command to Paolo Sentiva, Nicaragua’s drug kingpin. Caldera had established a connection in the U.S., and had been in charge of running drugs between Nicaragua and Texas.
Every two months Caldera would make clandestine trips to Texas, meeting with his contacts, and always crossing the border with one or two bodyguards during the dead of night. His biggest mistake, and eventually his downfall, was killing a DEA agent.
He’d been on the run and in hiding for almost six months. The killing of the agent put him on the Most Wanted list. The CIA and the NSA started “listening.” Their break came when they picked up a conversation between Caldera and Sentiva, pinpointing Caldera’s location in the town of Amparo.
Grant Stevens and his new team of covert operators were sent in. They found Caldera, then all they had to do was deliver him to agents waiting in Virginia.
Without taking his eyes from the stocky-framed Caldera, Grant said to Adler, “Joe, get rid of the tape.”
Adler had his fingers on the edge of the tape, just as Novak leaned over the back of Caldera’s seat.
Novak swiveled his head, sniffing the air. “I’m beginning to detect a slight odor in here.”
“I smell something, too.” Diaz squeezed his nostrils as he stood in the aisle. “Damn!”
“You’re both right,” piped up James, as he pointed toward Caldera’s pants. “Say. . .you aren’t sportin’ any ‘skid-marks’ in those skivvies of yours, are you?” The term referred to streaks of poop.
Caldera was too freaked out to respond to the question, or he just didn't understand.
“Okay, guys,” Adler said. “We get the picture.” The three men laughed as they sat down. Adler motioned toward the galley. “Get everyone something to drink, Doc.”
Stalley got up. “Even him?” he asked, tilting his head toward Caldera.
“Yeah. Even him.”
Adler finally pulled off the tape. Caldera winced, then immediately rubbed his bound, dirty hands across his mouth. Taking in short, quick breaths, his dark brown eyes went from man to man before settling them back on Grant.
Caldera started calming down, finally getting his wits about him. He began to return to the conniving, masterful drug dealer he was. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes focused on Grant’s. “I’ve got money in a U.S. bank. More than enough for you and your men. If. . .”
“Look!” Grant shot back. “We don’t give a ‘flying fart’ about how much ‘dirty’ money you’ve got. We just came to pick you up. So I’d suggest you sit back and enjoy the ride. The last thing I wanna do is hurt you.” The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up, as he added, “But it’s still high on my list.”
Doc Stalley stood next to the aisle seat, holding a small bottle of orange juice, offering it to the drug dealer. Caldera didn’t even look up as he swung his bound arms against Stalley’s hand.
Novak reached over the seat, and roughly yanked Caldera back, as he warned, “We’ve been known to hit back -- and mighty hard. So I’d watch my manners if I were you.”
Grant loosened his seat belt, and rested his arms on his knees. He and Adler locked eyes, giving a short nod of approval to each other.
The two of them made good choices when they selected these men. Each had been hard-core SEALs, “snake-eaters.” They were dedicated, willing to sacrifice everything for their team members, for their country.
Exhaling long, slow breaths, the men glanced at each other with relief on their faces. After five days, they could finally relax. They completed their first mission as a team: Cal “Doc” Stalley, corpsman; Mike Novak, sniper; Ken Slade, pointman/navigator; Darius “DJ” James, communications; Frank Diaz, EOD.
When the aircraft reached cruising altitude, Grant took one more drink of juice, then rested his head against the backrest. Giving Caldera one last look, he finally closed his eyes.
His thoughts drifted back to the day his new life, his new “career” began, when four very wealthy men came into his life, extending to him an intriguing proposition. Equipment, transportation, salaries, money in offshore accounts. Every mission would be sanctioned by the President of the United States. All that was requested of him? Organize a team.
Nicaragua had been their first mission, a very successful mission. For seven men -- all former Navy SEALs - this was just the beginning.
Grant smiled to himself. Team Alpha Tango had become a reality.
Chapter 2
Three Months Later
Near Shanghai, China
0100 Hours
Two miles off the East Coast of China, with the lights of Shanghai bright on the horizon, six men, dressed in wetsuits, paddled a Zodiac silently, positioning it between two islands.
Using NVGs and Starlighters, they confirmed the area was clear. The coxswain raised the engine’s props out of the water, as the six others continued paddling toward the smaller island. Their route was along a desolate, narrow inlet, formed by high ridges on either side.
Entering shallow water, the seven men eased themselves off the gunnel. Grabbing hold of the rope circling the boat, they lifted it, then splashed through the shallow water. They hurried farther off the beach until they had some cover behind low dunes and shrubs. The straps of their rifles were slung over their heads, keeping their weapons close to their chests. The weapons were cocked and ready.
There they’d remain hidden for two more hours. Then it would be time to head toward their ultimate destination. A ten minute window was established for the intended “package” to signal it was safe to make the extraction. Without that signal, and not within the allotted time, the mission would be scrubbed, and the men aboard the Zodiac would head back to international waters.
*
East China Sea
0300
Lifting the Zodiac, the men carried it down the sandy embankment. Their wetsuit booties splashed the water as they shoved off from shore. Then one by one they climbed into the rubber boat and straddled the gunnel. Picking up paddles laying in the bottom, the six men started stroking in unison. The coxswain lowered the engine slowly until the screws disappeared underwater. With one hand wrapped around the tiller, he rested the other on the gunnel.
When they were finally within sight of land, the men aboard the Zodiac slowed their pace. They maneuvered the rubber boat, keeping it within the designated coordinates. It was nearly time.
Keeping their eyes focused toward the shore, they finally spotted a small light flashing International Morse Code, signaling the code word: STAR. There wouldn’t be any response from them, no further signal from the man on shore.
Without any hesitation, the men started paddling, leaning as far forward as possible, making themselves less noticeable, smaller targets.
Coming into view was a long pier, jutting out into the sea at least two hundred feet. According to the operative, the pier was used by fishermen, and only during daylight hours. The area surrounding it was remote.
Slowing their strokes, they stayed perfectly on course, perfectly on time. One of the men toward the bow lifted a Starlighter, aiming it toward the pier. He finally spotted their “package.”
The man was stretch out on his stomach near the edge of the pier, ten feet from the end. He raised his head just enough to be able to look for any sign of the Americans.
Suddenly, a rubber boat seemed to co
me out of nowhere. He was surprised at how quietly it moved across the water. Men aboard were stroking with paddles, hardly making any sound, hardly disturbing the water.
The man put the flashlight in his burlap sack, then drew the string tightly around it. Glancing down at the water, he was grateful he wouldn’t have far to jump, since it was high tide.
“Clear,” the wetsuited figure at the bow whispered to the team. He stashed the scope in a rucksack, then moved to midships. Kneeling in the bottom of the Zodiac, he balanced himself as the boat floated closer to the pier.
The other men backstroked with the paddles, expertly slowing the forward momentum of the boat. As they pulled alongside the pillars, Lieutenant General Peng Zhu dropped his burlap sack into the boat. Then, without waiting to be helped, he sat up, then slid off the wooden platform. The sound of his body landing in the middle of the Zodiac reverberated in the silence. One of the men pulled him down, and immediately threw a tarp over him.
Turning the Zodiac one hundred eighty degrees, the six men began stroking, heading for open water.
*
0400 Hours
The Zodiac skimmed across the surface of the water. Sitting next to the engine, the coxswain was ready to fire up the fifty-five “horses” should trouble come out of nowhere. He swiveled his head as he looked around, confirming they weren’t being followed.
Shanghai Mission Page 1