Shanghai Mission

by Jamie Fredric

  “Appreciate it. Look, I know it might be putting that guy at risk, but the Agency’s done it before on critical missions.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Now, is your Team ready?”

  Grant glanced at his submariner. “I called Joe as soon as I got your message. They all should be at the house about now.”

  “How about equipment? You need to replenish anything?”

  “No. No. We’re good. Restocked after we got back from Nicaragua.”

  “I know you and your men have a lot to discuss, Grant. Call me on the mobile or from the house and let me know if there’s anything else you’re gonna need.”

  “Fuel!” Grant responded with somewhat of a grin.

  “Have you already got a flight plan in mind?”

  Grant looked to his left, then walked over to a world map tacked on a wall. He traced out a route with his finger. “I can tell you right now we’ll be taking the ‘Great Circle Route.’ From D.C. it’s shorter to go straight to Elmendorf, then on to Atsugi. From there it’ll probably be a 130 (C-130 Hercules) for a HAHO.” Grant rubbed the back of his neck. “None of us like those nighttime HAHOs, but there isn’t any other way.” He looked at Mullins and grinned. “Unless the President can get us a sub!”

  Mullins jotted a note, as he commented, “I have a feeling if that’s what it would take, the President would get it for you! In the meantime, I’ll request the Herc, then have those bases put on alert. Top secret, of course.”

  The “Great Circle Route” is the shortest distance between two points on the Earth’s surface. Grant’s plan was to fly from D.C. to Elmendorf Air Force Base near Anchorage, Alaska, then on to Atsugi Naval Air Facility, Japan.

  “I’m assuming the Coral Sea’s still in those waters?” Grant asked, returning to the desk.

  “Yeah, she is.” Mullins made another note. The carrier’s captain must be notified that the mission, the men, and whatever the outcome, were all Top Secret.

  “The ‘Ageless Warrior,’” Grant commented softly.

  “Right. She’s seen a lot of action in her day. By the way, that’s her code name--‘Ageless Warrior.’”

  “Got it. Listen, Scott, see what you can do about that operative. If he’s in Shanghai, maybe he can meet us at our LZ. It’s imperative we know if those men are still in that building. The sooner he’s involved, the better chance we’ll have in finding them. I have a feeling CIA and NSA won’t be picking up much, if any, chatter from here on out.

  “I’ll get with the Team and come up with our best LZ, then contact you.” Grant pushed back his jacket sleeve, glancing at his submariner. “I’ve gotta go. Hey! What’re the odds of getting copies of those photos?”

  Mullins slipped the two photos inside the folder. “Here. You may as well take everything,” he smiled as he handed Grant the folder. “You’ve got a shredder, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve gotta review all this with the Team, so that means we’ll be discussing it in flight. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment.” Mullins walked around the desk, and reached for Grant’s hand. “Be careful.”

  “Hope you get more intel for me before takeoff, Scott.”

  “I’ll try my damnedest.”

  As Grant stood in the doorway, he held the folder up. “Thanks, buddy.”

  *

  Grant dug his keys out of his jacket pocket, opened the door, then tossed his ball cap on the passenger seat. Momentarily resting his arm on the car’s roof, he tried to sort it all out: the flight, the Team, the SEALs, the mission.

  The slam of a car door in the next aisle brought him back to the present. He slid behind the steering wheel, closed the door, then started the engine. The ’74 Vette’s 454 “Big Block” roared to life, sounding even louder in the expansive garage.

  He drove out of the parking garage, then headed for Highway 50. Rain, thunder, and lightning had nearly stopped, but heavy dark clouds still rolled across the sky. Headlights burned brightly. Windshield wipers swished back and forth, smearing road oils, and brushing away water kicked up by tires.

  Crossing the bridge over the Potomac, he continued on Highway 50, following the road out of D.C. and into Virginia. Once the traffic thinned, he pressed down on the accelerator.

  This was his time to think, to put everything in perspective, in order, before meeting with the Team. But his mind kept getting clouded with thoughts of the two SEALs. Prisoners.

  Nothing had been on TV or published in the newspapers about the incident. The U.S. was going to keep it hush-hush as long as possible. If anyone made a first move, it’d probably be the ChiComs, denouncing the two men as spies. Unless they were going to use them as pawns, as leverage, in order to have--what the hell was his name? Zhu. Unless they want to have Zhu returned. With the information Zhu was turning over about the progress the ChiCom’s were making with their submarine program, that would hardly seem like an option for the U.S.

  This was beginning to sound like his mission in East Germany and the five POWs. At least he and Adler had somewhat of a head start then, mostly because of Grigori.

  This time the intel came from the CIA and the NSA from having “ears” on transmissions coming out of China. But the ChiComs were no dummies. They knew the U.S. was listening and watching. Was the Bridge House purposely mentioned just to send any rescuers in the wrong direction? “Christ!” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

  Mullins had to get him more accurate intel before the flight. Grant needed a name. He needed a way to contact the operative. And he needed it before the Team’s boots hit the ground--hit the ground in Communist China.

  Taking a quick glance at the speedometer, he eased back on the accelerator, bringing the speed down from seventy-five to sixty-five, but still ten mph over the limit. He diverted his eyes to the rearview mirror. No siren or flashing red lights yet. This stretch of road was a well-known hiding place for Virginia State Police. They no longer had plain black unmarked patrol cars. The new fleet of cars came in green, blue, white, gray, allowing them to blend in even more.

  Traffic was increasing, but most of it was heading in the opposite direction, towards D.C. He picked up the mobile phone from the center console and punched in a number. The secure phone at the house rang three times.

  “Adler.”

  “Joe. I’m fifteen minutes out. Everybody show?”

  “All present and accounted for, Skipper.”

  “Good. I’ve got most of the info, but I’m hoping Scott can feed us more intel before we leave.”

  “How’re we going? Ground or air?”

  “The C-11 (Gulfstream). We’re gonna be a long time in the air, my friend.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah.” Grant glanced again in his rearview mirror. “Got plenty to talk about. But we’ll be doing most of it in flight. Do you think we’ll be ready to leave in an hour?”

  “Less than that. We’ve already secured the Zodiacs to the Chevys. But are we gonna need them?”

  “Negative.”

  Adler was more than curious where the mission was taking them, but knew he’d have to wait for details.

  “Okay. I’ll have them ‘unhitched’ by the time you arrive. Everybody’s already stowed their gear in the vehicles, including yours.” He cleared his throat before saying, “Uh, Skipper, by the way. Just so you’re not surprised when you get here, somebody new reported in.”

  Grant shook his head, as if he’d heard wrong. “What the hell are you talking about?! How’d he even get access?!”

  “Uh. . .”

  “Joe!”

  “He had gate access to the property, Skipper! He. . .”

  “Tell me, Joe! Who?!”

  “Garrett. Matt Garrett.” (Garrett was the officer in charge of Grant's Team when he first became a SEAL.)

  Grant nearly drove off the road. He jerked the steering wheel as tires caught the edge of blacktop. Easing back on the accelerator, he asked with true surprise in his voice, �
��Matt’s there?!”

  “He’s our new pilot for the Gulfstream.”

  *

  Doc Stalley stood by the dining room table, examining the contents of his medical bag. He meticulously checked that every item was in its proper place. How quickly he responded determined the outcome of any emergency. As fast as he could reload his weapon with his eyes closed, was as fast as he could find anything in his bag.

  The door leading from the garage opened and closed. Slade and Novak walked into the living room.

  “Zodiacs are secured, LT,” Slade said, giving Adler a quick thumb’s up.

  “Thanks, Ken.”

  “Christ! You can cut the humidity with a K-bar,” Novak said, wiping sweat from his face.

  He and Slade rejoined Diaz and James at the kitchen table, who were almost finished eating their eggs, bacon and ham.

  “Okay. Where the hell’s my egg sandwich?” Novak growled with his hands on his hips, as he spotted his empty plate.

  Diaz shifted his eyes to the right and tilted his head toward the bar, where Adler was sitting on a bar stool.

  Without turning around, Adler swallowed a mouthful and replied, “Thou shall not leave food unattended.”

  “Damn!” Novak laughed, as he went to the fridge. “How could I be so stupid and forget one of your top Commandments.

  Adler looked up at Matt Garrett and winked, before glancing at his diving watch. “Skipper should be here anytime now.”

  Garrett stood behind the bar, drinking a cup of black coffee. His suit bag was draped over the back of the sofa. A black leather satchel was on the floor next to it.

  He was dressed in a dark gray business suit and white shirt. His hair was dark brown, cut short, with a few streaks of gray at the temples. He was forty-three years old, nearly 6’ tall, and still in good shape.

  The life he’d known for years suddenly changed dramatically when his father died. Taking over the family business so early hadn’t been in his plans. He resented having to leave a life he’d known for so long, his life serving in the Navy. The only saving grace was the possibility of still being somewhat involved in a life he missed. It had all hinged on Grant Stevens’ answer.

  Garrett took a sip of coffee as he hooked his index finger in the knot of a blue and white paisley tie, pulling side to side until it loosened.

  Hearing a door slam, he came from around the bar. For months he’d been anticipating this reunion.

  Adler swiveled around. “Can’t wait for this!” he laughed, wiping his mouth with a small napkin.

  With a broad smile and outstretched arm, Garrett said, “Hey, Grant!”

  Grant snapped a quick salute, as he hurried across the room. He grabbed Garrett’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “Jesus, Matt! It’s great to see you!”

  Garrett laughed, “I wasn’t sure how you were going to react.”

  “Why would you think that?” Grant asked as he slipped off his jacket.

  “I’m the one who got you into all of this!”

  Grant glanced at Adler. “Guess Joe didn’t tell you.”

  “Huh? Not sure what you mean.”

  “It’s in our DNA, Matt!” He slapped Garrett on the side of his shoulder. “Listen, I think we’re ready to get this show on the road. First, I’ve gotta change.” Grant pointed to Garrett’s suit. “Will you be traveling in style or something more comfortable?”

  Garrett walked over to the couch and picked up his suit bag and satchel. “Give me five.” He rushed off to a bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll talk on the way to the airport! Plus, you’ve gotta fill me in on our intended route.”

  Heading for the bedroom, Grant just shook his head, still totally surprised.

  Ten minutes later, as he was coming into the living room, the phone rang. He hurried to answer it.

  “Stevens.”

  “Grant! Glad I caught you. I’m faxing some new satellite photos as we speak.”

  Grant motioned to Adler, “Joe, check the fax. They’re coming across now, Scott. Listen, you know how much we appreciate your help on this.”

  “I’m still waiting for that name, Grant. Keep the phone lines open aboard the Herc!”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Godspeed, my friend.”

  As Grant hung up, Adler brought him the copies. They started looking through them, when Garrett came back into the living room. He’d changed into a pair of black jeans, black T-shirt and was carrying the satchel. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

  “Yeah, you’re right!” Grant responded with a grin.

  It was time to head out, time to get the mission started. He turned around seeing the team, gathered near the hallway, waiting for him to give the word. “Let’s move.”

  Without hesitation, voices responded in unison: “Hooyah!”

  Chapter 5

  Japan

  Breaking through a layer of clouds hanging over Tokyo Bay, with the lights of Yokosuka in the distance, the Gulfstream was fast approaching Atsugi. Taking direction from the tower, pilot Matt Garrett adjusted the aircraft's heading, speed and altitude.

  Approaching the airport ahead of the Gulfstream, a Navy pilot in an F-4 Phantom was practicing nighttime touch and go’s. The aircraft’s wheels barely touched the runway when the pilot went to full power. Afterburners glowed brilliantly as the plane began its steep climb.

  The controller in the tower checked that the runway and flight path were clear, updated the Gulfstream with weather and wind conditions, then gave clearance for it to land.

  Garrett followed directions to proceed to Hangar 183. As the Gulfstream made the turn toward the hangar, a C-130 came into view with its ramp lowered, waiting for its passengers.

  As the engines of the Gulfstream wound down, the co-pilot, Paul Butler, left the cockpit, preparing to open the exit door.

  Garrett was flipping switches and going through a checklist. He was about to take off his headset when the controller spoke again. Garrett responded, “Ten four.” He turned in his seat. “Grant!”

  Grant dropped his rucksack on the seat, then went to the cockpit. “What’s up, Matt?”

  “You’ve got a call in Operations.”

  “Oh, shit,” Grant mumbled. “Listen, Matt. I’d like to talk more before we takeoff. We’ve still got years of catching up to do. Meet me aboard the Herc, unless you’ve gotta. . .”

  “Meet you there. And by the way, Paul and I’ll be here waiting to take you home. I’m just sorry we can’t take you the rest of the way. But I think the flyboys will get you there without a hitch,” he smiled.

  “They’ve always come through in the past. Can’t see why this time would be any different!” Giving Garrett a thumb’s up, he turned and went back to the cabin, saying to the men, “Have a call in Operations. Put the gear aboard the Herc then see if you can get something to eat. I think there’s a mini-mart somewhere.”

  “I’ll get your gear, Skipper,” Adler said, grabbing the rucksack. “And I’ll bring you some food.”

  Grant slapped Adler’s shoulder, then hurried out of the plane, giving his watch a quick glance.

  As he jogged to Operations, he thought it could only be one person calling--Scott Mullins. But Mullins had already given him the information before leaving D.C. Maybe he got the operative’s name, or. . . “Oh, Christ,” he said under his breath. Had something happened to the two SEALs? Grant shook his head, trying to rid the thought. The Team would be up shit creek if the NSA or CIA had lost those men.

  He slowed his pace as he neared Operations. He reached for the door handle and glanced back at the C-130. Lights inside the cargo bay illuminated the ramp. Members of the flight crew and the Team were walking up and down the ramp.

  Once inside Operations, he swiveled his head, looking for somebody on duty. A petty officer walked through a doorway behind the main desk. Grant walked toward him.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Petty Officer Second Class Tyler Clark asked.

  Grant removed his wallet
from his back pocket, and flipped it open. In one plastic slot was his retired military ID and opposite it was his new card. “Yeah, Petty Officer. I understand there’s a call for me.”

  Clark examined both cards, focusing mainly on the Department of State ID, with a color photo and different colored stripes. The stripes indicated Top Secret, White House level clearance. “Oh, yes, sir. Follow me.”

  He came from behind the desk and went to a door on the opposite wall. He punched in a code on the keypad and opened the door. “Right in here, sir. Take all the time you need.”

  “Appreciate it.” Grant walked in and closed the door.

  The windowless room was only ten by thirteen but brightly lit by overhead fluorescents. Both side walls were lined with file cabinets, each with combination locks. A gray metal desk was situated in front of the long wall. Side by side on the desk were two phones: one red, one black. Behind the desk a metal table held a “scrambler.” The special machine was used to send high-speed spurt transmissions at eight thousand words per minute.

  Grant went to the desk and turned around the red phone. He picked up the receiver, then punched a yellow blinking button.

  “Stevens.”

  “Grant, it’s Scott.”

  “What have you got for me, Scott?”

  “The last transmission the Agency received from its operative was the SEALs were still being held in Bridge House. All other intercepts by CIA and NSA have been unsuccessful. The ChiComs are being very quiet. But each agency is confident they’re still at that location.”

  Grant leaned back against the desk. “I have a feeling there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  “I’d say it’s more like two ‘shits.’”

  “Christ! What the hell’s wrong?”

  “Which bad news do you want first?”

  Grant’s pulse shot up. “Just. . .tell me.”

  “First, the CIA hasn’t released the name yet.”

  “Oh, shit! Can’t you get somebody higher up to hold their feet to the fire? Jesus, Scott!”