“My name’s Jordan.”
“Okay. And our ‘friend’ is?”
“When we get to our destination. I promise.”
*
Packed snow along the narrow country road crunched beneath the Jag’s wide steel-belted radial tires, as the car followed in the tracks of previous vehicles. Bright high beams illuminated a mixture of tall pine and fir trees, most with branches drooping, as heavy, wet snow clung precariously to them.
The car had gone almost three miles when it came to a T in the road. A large metal sign had a yellow arrow pointing right. Next to it another sign had an arrow pointing left with the words: Dead End. The driver turned left, onto a lane just wide enough for one car.
A metal gate slowly came into view. Its width stretched across the entire lane. Fastened to each of the support posts was wire, three rows high, that extended beyond the trees. Practically hidden from view were security cameras, aimed at vehicles entering and leaving the premises. A sign, screwed into the top of the gate, had a red lightning bolt painted above the words: Danger - Electric Fence.
The driver slowed the Jag to nearly a crawl. A sensor in the gate picked up a signal from a device hidden in the front bumper. The gate swung back. Continuing forward, the vehicle was less than five seconds past the gate, when a timer electronically started. The gate closed.
Grant shifted in the seat, now regretting he didn’t have his weapon. He still couldn’t see anything ahead, until faint lights became visible. A ranch-style log home. The house itself was nearly four thousand square feet, with attached triple garage. Tall trees completely surrounded the home, as if trying to conceal it. All windows were made of one-way glass and bulletproof.
Another sensor activated, and the garage door, the one closest to the house, swung up. It had not quite opened completely, when the driver pulled the Jag forward. As soon as he shut off the engine, the garage door closed.
The three men exited the car. Sounds of doors slamming echoed within the expansive space. Grant noticed two vehicles already parked inside: a black Lincoln Continental and a white Cadillac Sedan de Ville.
He let his eyes roam around the rest of the interior. A single row of metal cabinets with locks lined the entire back wall. Double-door, fire-resistant, burglar-proof gun cabinets, about seven feet in height, were placed against the side wall.
No tools. No garbage cans. No grease stains on the concrete floor. Except for snow melting from the tires, it was spotless.
“Shall we go inside?” Jordan Young asked.
“Lead the way,” Grant answered, as he wondered who the Lincoln and Caddy belonged to. He pulled off his gloves and watch cap, giving a sideways glance at the driver, who gave him a nod, and immediately started wiping down the car with a clean rag.
If ever there was a time when Grant had his curiosity peaking, this was that time. With all his senses on full alert, he followed Young into the house.
Natural hickory wood floors began at the door and continued on as far as Grant could see.
Young opened a closet door just past the bath, then started removing his coat. “You can hang your jacket in here,” he said to Grant as he handed him a hanger.
Grant hung the jacket in the closet, then adjusted his thick blue cable-knit sweater, pulling it down over the waist of his pants. He caught up to Young.
At the end of the hall, to the left, was a dining area. A long, rectangular walnut table was in the center, with ten high-back wooden chairs. Each seat was covered in dark brown leather.
To the right was a kitchen with brand new appliances, and just beyond that, the front door. In a small nook next to the door was an eight-foot bar, made of walnut and topped with a slab of black marble. A copper sink had been inserted into the marble slab, close to the end of the bar.
The main living area took up the rest of the space. It was large and open, free of decorations. No pictures or paintings. No knick-knacks. No antlers or deer heads fastened to walls.
On one long wall was a massive, natural stone fireplace. Orange-yellow flames flickered and crackled from logs stacked on a metal grate. Embers drifted chaotically upward, disappearing into the chimney. The entire room was warmed by the fire.
Attached to the wall above the rough-cut cedar mantel was a security monitor. 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.
Two men came from behind the bar, each holding a glass of what appeared to be Scotch over ice.
Young said, “Captain, these gentlemen have been waiting for you.”
“Any more surprises, sir?” Grant asked.
“Let me introduce you to Clark Talbott and Mason Sinclair,” Young said, motioning to each man.
Clark Talbott reached for Grant’s hand. “Captain.”
Grant gave a quick nod and returned Talbott’s handshake. “Sir.”
Talbott had wavy, thinning “salt and pepper” hair, and pale gray eyes behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. His deep suntan was a result of a recent trip to his vacation home on the French Riviera. A dark blue suit exuded self-confidence. . .and Armani. His leather shoes were by Gucci.
Mason Sinclair extended his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Captain Stevens. We’ve heard many stories about you.”
“Hope not bad, sir,” Grant smiled as he shook Sinclair’s hand.
“On the contrary,” Sinclair replied, as he put his lips to the glass then took a drink.
Sinclair had short, thick, yellow-blond hair, dappled with streaks of gray. He was 5’10”, about the same as Talbott. Sinclair wasn’t as trim as Talbott, though. A slight paunch was apparent beneath his suit, a suit that was black with thin gray stripes.
The three men were all about the same age, in their early sixties, although Young didn’t look his age. What they did have in common was the same expensive taste in clothes and shoes.
Grant tried to be nonchalant as he gave a quick glance down at his scuffed boondockers. He snapped his head up when he heard Young. “Captain, what can I get you to drink?”
“Coke.”
“With or without ice?”
“Ice, sir.”
As Young went to the bar, he said over his shoulder, “Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat. I’ll join you in a minute.”
The three men walked to the L-shaped, brown leather sofa situated about ten feet from the fireplace. Grant went around the oval, walnut coffee table, choosing to sit on the smaller section of the sofa.
“I’m sure Captain Stevens feels he’s been kept in the dark long enough,” Young said, handing Grant a tall glass of Coke along with a cocktail napkin.
Grant reached for both, then answered, “You’re right, sir, but I’ll be the first to admit that you sure as hell have my attention.”
Young sat on a matching leather chair at the end of the couch, facing Grant. “Will you continue to refer to each of us as ‘sir,’ Captain?” he asked with a brief smile.
Grant swallowed a mouthful of Coke. “That’s the way it’s been my whole career, sir. I might need some time to readjust.”
“Understand. And I hope you don’t mind, but we feel compelled to call you ‘Captain,’ okay?”
The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up. He nodded.
“Good. Now that that’s settled, suppose we begin.” Young sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Captain, do you remember the officer in charge of your Team when you first became a SEAL?”
“Sure. Sure I do. That was Lieutenant. . .” He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at Young. He put his drink on the coffee table, then stood up. Keeping his head down, he walked behind the sofa. He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, while he tried to let the idea sink in.
Young glanced at Talbott and Sinclair before he called softly, “Captain?”
Grant asked with astonishment, “Lieutenant Garrett?! Is that our mutual friend, sir? Lieutenant Matt Garrett?”
“Yes,
Captain. It is. But he’s no longer a lieutenant and no longer in the Navy.”
It didn’t happen often, but Grant Stevens was at a loss for words. He slowly came around the sofa, shaking his head. He sat down. “But I haven’t had any contact with him for. . .”
Sinclair spoke. “Maybe not, but we have. The Garrett family has been close friends of all three of our families for years. Matt’s dad, Hugh, was in business with Jordan, Clark, and I. We made our fortunes together.” Sinclair finished his drink and put the glass on the table. “I’m sorry to say that Hugh passed away almost two years ago. He wanted to see this ‘project’ through to its fruition. It just didn’t happen for him. But Hugh planned ahead and before he died, he turned everything over to Matt. By the way, Matt wanted to be here, but he’s been out of the country handling business dealings.”
Grant shook his head slowly. “But what does any of that have to do with me? I still don’t know why I’m here.”
“We asked Matt to recommend someone to us. He recommended you.”
Grant started to say something. Young held up a hand. “Just a minute, Captain. Matt has followed your career because he said he saw something in you from the beginning. Something special. And apparently, he was right.” Young hesitated briefly before he continued. “We are also aware that you probably don’t feel comfortable talking about what happened in East Germany.”
Without realizing it, Grant winced, not from pain, just from the memory. His hands balled up into fists, as he asked, “What the hell does East Germany have to do with any of this?”
“Because, Captain, it tells us about the kind of man you are.” Jordan Young stood, then took a couple of steps closer to Grant. Grant looked up at him, waiting for an explanation. “Captain, everything here--house, property, vehicles--all were specifically built and purchased for your use.
“We realize that additional equipment will be needed.” Young gave a half smile. “We know you SEALs like those C-130s, so we’ve got one at an airfield not far from here, as well as a Gulfstream.
“Whatever else you want and need, we’re prepared to pay for it--including your salaries. All of this is completely at your disposal. Of course, all this is predicated on your accepting our proposition.”
Grant stood again, as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make sense of Young’s statement. His brow furrowed. His confusion was obvious. “I just don’t understand! For my use?! At my disposal?!”
“Yes. At your disposal. You. . .and your team.”
A sudden thought struck Grant, making his temples throb. He backed away from Young. “I’m sorry, sir, but the word ‘mercenary’ isn’t in my vocabulary. It’s not my game. I hope you’re not expecting me. . .”
“Please, Captain,” Sinclair said, patting the cushion. “Sit down.”
Grant automatically stood at parade rest. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll stand.”
Jordan Young now regretted prolonging the whole purpose of this meeting. Captain Stevens deserved better.
“Captain, we apologize. Sit down and we’ll explain fully.”
Grant reluctantly sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he squeezed one fist, then the other. His eyes never left Young’s.
Young took a sip of his drink, then wiped a napkin across his lips before he continued. “Let me start by telling you we all served in the military. We know the differences between military and civilian mindsets.
“About three years ago the four of us came to a conclusion. We needed to organize a group of men, men who could be trusted, who were experienced and competent in covert operations. We’d supply and finance everything needed for such operations.”
Grant finally broke in. “But why? What’s the point when we’ve got SEALs, Green Berets, Rang. . .”
“That’s correct, Captain, but there are times when even those teams can’t get authorization for a mission. It’s always political. Somebody’s afraid of ‘stepping’ on someone’s toes. There are also those times when funding becomes an issue. You know those can be the roadblocks.”
“Yes, sir. I sure do.”
“Maybe this will help ease your mind. The government is completely aware of our organization.” He held up a hand. “Let me clarify that. A certain branch of our government is aware. We are completely legal. We have not, we will not break any laws.
“I will also tell you that we will be out of the picture once you make your decision. Your contact will handle everything from then on--missions, equipment, everything.”
“How did you know I’d retire? How did you get all this done in such a short timespan?”
Talbott wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We already had this property and the house. Once we learned of your retirement, all we had to do was make certain. . .modifications.”
“What happens if I decide to just walk away from your offer? What happens to all this?” he asked, swiping his arm in an arc.
Sinclair answered. “If it came to that, there isn’t anything here that would indicate what our intentions were. All this could be sold or used by our families.”
Grant was astonished, to put it mildly. “So, what you’re saying is you don’t have anyone else in mind? I’m your only choice?!” He looked at the men, waiting for a response. Just by each expression, he had his answer. Abruptly, he got up. He needed to walk around. He had to try and assimilate what was being suggested.
Young glanced at Sinclair and Talbott, giving them an imperceptible shake of his head. They presented their case. Now it was up to Grant Stevens.
Young went to the bar. Using a bone-handled bottle opener, he opened another Coke. As he poured it into a clean glass, he took a quick look across the room, watching Grant pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.
In his mind Grant was hearing Admiral John Torrinson’s words, predicting he’d be promoted to admiral in the not too distant future. The military life he’d known for years would change dramatically if Torrinson's prediction came true.
But living the life as an admiral wasn’t something Grant Stevens could imagine. That life just wasn’t for him. Of course, he always had the option to turn down any promotion. And there was always a possibility he could even be passed over.
With his tour at NIS almost completed, his next assignment would have most likely been his own command. But he seemed to be at a point in his life when he had to put the military life behind him. It was time to move on, begin another phase of his life. Whatever that was had yet to be determined. He had enough money put aside, and then there was his military pension. Any decision didn’t have to be rushed.
He’d be the first to admit that the past couple of months had been an adjustment. After all the years he worked for “Uncle Sam,” just like that--he was retired. He could always be called back for needs of the service. But right now, he was a civilian--a “sand crab.” A “side-stepping beach creature!”
Now a new opportunity had come along. A job that was nearly identical to what he did in the Navy. Except this time there wouldn’t be any political bullshit--at least it didn’t sound like there would be any. But the biggest question was how the hell could he return to a way of life he just turned his back on?
He stood in front of the roaring fire and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The whole idea of what was just presented to him seemed preposterous. And yet, at the same time, intriguing. But would it be enough to draw him back into that life, the life of a covert operator?
Reality hit him full force. He couldn’t get it out of his system, no matter how much he busted his gut trying to make it happen. Joe was right. There was no denying it. It was part of his DNA.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, then came back to the couch. Young handed him the glass. Grant stared at the Coke, swishing around the fizzing liquid, causing ice cubes to clink against the glass. He finally looked up, then asked, “Have you already decided on who’ll be part of this ‘team’?”
Each of the three men suspected that Captain Stevens w
as going to accept their proposition. Talbott responded, “No, Captain. It’ll be your decision. Who, and also the number of men will be left entirely up to you. Now, I will tell you that we do have pilots in mind,” he smiled.
Grant nodded. “That’s assuming I accept your offer. Look, are you expecting an answer from me now, tonight?”
“If at all possible, yes,” Young responded, then lowered his head briefly. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “But we understand if you’d like a little time to consider our offer.”
Grant started to get one of his all too familiar feelings. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Young. “There’s a mission ready and waiting, isn’t there, sir?”
Young nodded. “Yes, Captain. There is.”
Except for the crackling fire, silence pervaded the room. Grant stared into the glass of Coke, shaking his head ever so slowly, saying under his breath, “Can’t believe I’m saying this.” He looked at Young. “All right, sir. I accept your proposition.”
Sinclair and Talbott downed the rest of their drinks. Putting the glasses on the coffee table, they stood. Each man extended a hand to Grant, thanking him.
“Can we get you something from the bar, Captain?” Talbott asked.
“No, sir. I’m good,” Grant responded holding up his Coke.
Young removed his brown leather wallet from his pocket. He opened it and took out a folded piece of paper. “Captain, here’s the name and phone number of your contact. Any further questions you have, he should be able to answer. I will tell you, though, there are some issues that will not be revealed or discussed. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Grant reached for the paper. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“He’s waiting for your call.”
“Are you trying to tell me he had a ‘vision’ that I’d accept your offer? You know, that ESP thing?” Grant laughed.
“Not exactly. While you’ve never met or even talked with him, he knew of you.”
Grant arched an eyebrow. He unfolded the paper, then he just stared at a name printed in black ink. He sat on the couch, completely taken aback. He held the paper toward Young, questioning, “Is this. . .?!”
Shanghai Mission Page 18