In The Mouth of the Wolf
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 @ 2011 Jamie Fredric
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For All Those Who Have Served
All Gave Some, Some Gave All
In 19th century Sicily, the word “mafioso”
signified a bully, arrogant but also fearless,
enterprising, and also proud.
To this present day, the definition still rings true.
Prologue
Scattered throughout the island of Sicily, in hill towns, caves, around the ancient Greek city of Agrigento, and along the southern coast, the Mafia had hidden vast amounts of supplies, accumulated over the years, and especially during and after World War II. Munitions and weaponry had been “acquired” through raids, bribery, and pure Sicilian ingenuity.
The Mafia (also known as “La Cosa Nostra”), a criminal syndicate that emerged in the mid-nineteenth century in Sicily, is a loose association of criminal groups that share a common organizational structure and code of conduct. Each group, known as a “family” (or “clan”), claims sovereignty over a territory in which it operates its rackets, usually a town or village or a neighborhood of a larger city.
Earlier in the year after receiving a tip, La Dogana (Customs) confiscated a fishing boat off Sicily’s northern coast near Palermo. What the officials found was more than just a typical daily haul of calamari, sardines, and octopus. Discovered below deck was a cache of weapons, more specifically, Uzis and M1 Garands.
The original destination for the weapons was the black market in Naples. Instead, Pino Falcone, the “Boss” and head of the Mafia’s Palermo organization, “greased the palm” of a Customs official for half the weapons confiscated by using the simple, effective means called Lira, money. Falcone’s reputation of using other methods of persuasion were not openly spoken about, but they were certainly well-known, making the official more than willing to accept Falcone’s generous offering.
Falcone is a representative of a mandamento, a district of three geographically contiguous Mafia families that make up the Sicilian Mafia Commission. The commission first came about in order to settle disputes between members of the various families and their bosses in order to discipline members of each family. The first Sicilian Mafia Commission for the province of Palermo was formed after a series of meetings between top American and Sicilian mafiosi in 1957. It was suggested the Sicilians follow the example of the American Mafia that had formed its commission in the 1930s.
Luigi Castalani, a mere “soldier” within Falcone’s organization, had in his possession the exact locations of munitions Falcone had stored throughout Sicily, having worked closely with the “Boss” over many years. Castalani looked to the future, his future, and had all intentions to rise above being just a “soldier.”
Knowing how much Falcone seemed to appreciate anyone with new ideas, and if he could make his plan work, there wouldn’t be any reason for Falcone to deny him a place in the upper echelon of the Palermo Cosa Nostra. Perhaps soon he would become a caporegime (captain) where he would be in charge of all the “soldiers.” And one day, if he proved himself worthy, he might even become the “Underboss,” with only Falcone himself being higher.
For months he planned and devised the means to syphon weapons from under the nose of Falcone. All the munitions and all the planning would allow him and his group known as “La Mano del Diavolo” (“The Hand of the Devil”), to prepare for and launch its attack, to infiltrate an American compound, to obtain the weaponry necessary to threaten governments along the west coast of Europe, extorting money, gaining power for the Mafia, for Falcone, and gaining power for himself.
He had to make his plan work, otherwise, there would not be any promotion. His life would be worthless. . .but more than likely, it would be over. Falcone would see to it either way.
Chapter 1
Rhein-Main Air Base, Germany
Apartment of Lieutenant Theresa Palmer
Grant walked across the beige shag carpeting on his way to a large picture window in the living room. The room itself was very plain, with white walls. The only decorations were a few black and white photographs of Bavaria, boats on the Danube, and the Tiergarten, the oldest public park in Berlin.
Standing by the window, he raised the aluminum window blinds, then rested a hand against the window frame, as he looked south down Ellis Road and the lights of Rhein-Main Air Base. Located adjacent to the busy Frankfurt International Airport, the noise from jet engines this evening didn’t seem to distract him as his mind reviewed the mission he and his team had just completed.
Three months earlier he received orders from Admiral John Torrinson, Chief of NIS (Naval Investigative Service), sending him on TAD (temporary additional duty) to Coronado where he reported to the commanding officer at Naval Special Warfare.
His assignment was to handpick a squad of SEALs and train with them. Eventually, their mission had taken them into Austria, on the hunt for an escaped dictator, who had been put on trial and convicted for genocide and crimes against humanity. He was sentenced to death, but escaped when soldiers still loyal to him, attacked a convoy that was taking him to prison. After months of being on the run, rumors started circulating of possible locations of his whereabouts.
The SEALs received their warning order, and a week after hitting the ground in Austria, they found him hiding in an underground storage room beneath a church in Jaidhof, a town northwest of Vienna.
**
The sound of a sultry voice interrupted his thoughts. “Having a problem, sailor?” Her arm brushed against his back as she tied the silk sash around her black negligee, the lacy material doing little to hide the willowy figure beneath.
“Only problem I’ve got is you! These visits are way too short!” Grant smiled as she stepped next to him. At 6’1” he was nearly a half foot taller than her, and he looked down into her hazel eyes. “Mmm. . . you smell good,” he said, leaning toward her.
“It’s just soap,” she smiled. With a deft, unconscious motion, she wrapped the long brown strands of hair behind her ear, then stood on her toes and kissed him. “ I’ve gotta go. Duty calls.” She spun around and headed for the bedroom.
He watched her until she disappeared behind the closet door. From the moment they met in Coronado, they hit it off, with their relationship turning into one that was more than casual and a little more than sexual. But commitment was never in the picture. They each had their careers.
Giving his submariner a quick glance, he followed her to the bedroom. “Look, since you’ve got duty, guess I may as well head back to the BOQ. Maybe I can grab some extra Z’s before the flight. Can you give me a ride?” He reached for a hangar holding his dress blues.
“Sure. Say, how’s that friend of yours?” she asked as she pulled on her stockings, attaching each one to a white, lace garter belt.
“Joe? He’s good. Right now he’s on TAD. Somebody within the higher ups requested he be in charge of an EOD team out of Little Creek. He’s at the new Armed Forces Network facility.”
The phone rang, she answered, then put the receiver on the nightstand. “It’s Senior Chief Moore.” She continued zipping up her uniform skirt, while at the same time trying to balance herself as she stepped into her black heels.
He picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Ray, what’s up?”
&nbs
p; “Sir, just checked with BaseOps. Our flight’s been rescheduled. We’ve got an earlier flight leaving at 0630.”
“Very well. I’ll meet you in front of the BOQ at 0530.”
“I’ll request a van for pickup, sir.”
“Appreciate it, Ray.” He hung up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Terri standing in the doorway, twisting her single-braided hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.
She asked with concern, “Something going on?”
“Our flight’s been rescheduled. We leave at 0630.”
“That’s a weird flight time.”
“One takes what one can get,” he grinned, mischievously, as he tucked his long-sleeve white shirt into his trousers.
She ignored his remark, and said, “I won’t be Stateside for another two months. Do you know if and when you’ll be back here or if we can meet in D.C.?”
“Don’t know. I'll touch base with you in a couple of days, okay?”
“Ha! Where’ve I heard that before? Well, you know where I keep the extra key.”
Ten minutes later they left the apartment.
**
On their way to the base, driving down Ellis Road, they passed the Berlin Airlift Memorial. Grant couldn’t help think about the important role Rhein-Main played after the end of World War II. In June 1948 the Soviet Union blocked access to the three Western-held sectors of Berlin, which lay deep within the Soviet-controlled zone of Germany. This move had cut off all rail and road routes going through Soviet-controlled territory in Germany. Rhein-Main became the primary American terminal in Western Germany for the great Berlin airlift. By the time the airlift ended, over two million tons of food and supplies had been delivered.
The concrete memorial was constructed in a small park. Nicknamed “the hunger rake,” the three arching “prongs” represent the three official air corridors used by aircraft passing over East German territory on flights between West Berlin and West Germany.
**
After showing their IDs to the guards, they were waved through the gate. Grant pointed out the window. “There’s the gedunk. Just drop me off there.”
Bringing the VW beetle to a rolling stop, she slipped the gearshift into park. “How will you get to the BOQ when you’re done? I won’t be able to take you.”
“Not a problem. I’ll walk or hop the duty bus.”
He got out, closed the door, then went around to her side as she rolled down the window. Leaning in towards her, he whispered, “Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure! And I might say the same!”
He gave her a long kiss, then backed away from the car. She waved out the window as she drove off. “See ya, sailor!”
As he walked into the cafe he removed his cap and slipped it under his left arm. He just started eyeing the menu when he heard, “Captain!”
Turning, he saw Senior Chief Moore waving him over to the table where the rest of the team was sitting. As he approached the table, they all stood. “As you were, gentlemen,” he smiled.
He looked around the table at each man. These men, who helped him complete another successful mission, had at one time experienced “Hell Week” during their SEAL training, where their instructors instilled in them the “Team mentality.” At the end of their training, they all came to embrace the prize, the “Holy Grail” of BUD/S, the ability to understand the word “Team.”
Senior Chief Ray Moore, with his rugged face, black hair, and a “take no prisoners” attitude. He’d been with Teams the longest and had made senior chief two years earlier.
Petty Officer First Class Craig Simpson, 5’10”, blond hair, baby face, and strong as an ox. Simpson was the “stand-up comedian” and always ready with a joke.
Petty Officer First Class Ken Womack had short-cropped brown hair, blue eyes, and a flat, wide nose, held together with a metal plate, the result of being hit with a baseball bat when he was in high school.
Petty Officer Second Class Paul Cranston was born and raised in South Carolina. The redheaded Cranston spoke fast and furious, with a deep southern twang.
Petty Officer Second Class Eric Lewis was the youngest member of the squad. At barely 5’8” Lewis always felt he had to prove something to himself. Becoming a SEAL had been his own mission in life. Once “Hell Week” was finished, his teammates recognized the fact that he had “muscles in his shit.”
Petty Officer Second Class Vince Russo’s nickname was “Adonis,” with his dark curly hair, brown eyes and all-around good looks. The name wasn’t exactly one the Navy SEAL enjoyed being called by his teammates. But when it came to the ladies, he had no qualms boasting about it.
“How’s it going, sir?” Moore asked with somewhat of a smirk. They had noticed Grant drive up with Terri, knew there was a relationship, but also recognized the fact that it wasn’t any of their business.
“Good, Ray. Glad to be going home. Hey, what’s good to eat here?”
Ken Womack laughed. “It’s a gedunk, sir! Your choices are far and few between.”
Grant laid his cap upside down on the chair’s red vinyl seat. “Guess that means burgers. Be right back.” He returned with two cheeseburgers, a carton of milk, and seven Snickers candy bars. He usually had a stash of the candy with him, but there hadn’t been much time on this trip. He picked up a plastic knife and smeared some ketchup on the bun. Getting ready to take a bite, he pointed to the candy. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, sir!” Simpson smiled, as he and five others reached for the chocolate bars.
“Think I’ll pass,” Moore said.
“Then that’s one extra for me,” Grant laughed, snatching the last one from the table.
An hour later he walked into his room at the BOQ. Flipping on the wall switch, a dim light on the nightstand came on and he stood there briefly, before dropping his key on the dresser. The room was sparsely furnished. Besides the dresser and nightstand there was a single bed with a dark blue bedspread, and a small wooden desk with matching straight-back chair. Don’t need anything else, he thought. The life he led was lonely at times, and it was times like this when he felt the loneliness even more. He was nearly thirty-seven years old, but he couldn’t begin to imagine sharing this life--his life--with anyone. It just wouldn’t seem fair.
Once he had showered and shaved, he flopped down on the crisp white bed sheet, drawing the top sheet over him. Clasping his hands behind his head, he tried to relax, but it was happening more often, every time he was coming from or going on a mission.
The same pictures flashed in his mind, almost like a slideshow. Grigori, Joe, Moscow, Tony Mullins on the Bronson, Libya, the op in Cuba, Bolivia. Over and over the images slid by until the face of Eugene Morelli jolted him. “Dammit! This shit’s gotta stop!” he mumbled.
He threw off the sheet and sat up. Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he lingered there briefly, with his head hanging down. Finally, he got up and went to get a drink of water. He swished the warm water around in his mouth, then angrily threw the paper cup in the trash. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he slowly walked to the only window in the room, pushing a short, white curtain aside.
Standing there, staring out into the night, but not seeing anything, he tried to make himself understand. He’d been on rescue missions, search and destroy missions, seen things, done things no humans should have to see or have to remember. If only he didn’t have to remember.
There was no way to get away from it. He’d have to live with his past and whatever was in his future. He never felt any guilt, never would feel any guilt, but still, he’d have to live with it.
Forcing himself back to bed, he started invoking his karate discipline of relaxation. He concentrated on slowing down his breathing and heart rate, letting all other thoughts disappear. In under ten minutes, he was finally asleep.
Chapter 2
Outside the town of Enna, Sicily
Taking off his new Fendi sunglasses and resting them on top of his head, the driver pressed down on the accelera
tor of his black Alfa Romeo Spider. He glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing a red, four-door Fiat Giulietta Berlina sedan beginning to fall farther behind. With so many pressing matters he had to contend with the past couple of months, toying with his bodyguards, Massimo Gallo and Dino Luca, seemed to be his only distraction.
Both men resembled characters out of a gangster movie, with barrel chests, broad shoulders, hands the size of ham hocks, and lifeless eyes. Neither of them were quick on their feet, and their IQs were as high as un asino (a donkey). He selected them solely on their appearance, as the intimidation factor was a high priority.
As he looked in the mirror, he visualized in his mind the two men using every vulgar word in the Italian language as they did their best to catch up to him this evening. Basta, he thought. Enough. He eased up on the accelerator.
Luigi Castalani, about 5’6”, in his mid-forties, and heavy set, was born in and grew up in Palermo. His pockmarked face and blue eyes were always an embarrassment to him during his growing up years. Even though nearly eighteen percent of Sicilians have blue eyes, Castalani felt like an outsider, always wondering if his father was actually his natural father.
During and after World War II, living on the streets of Palermo became a way of life for young men. For many it meant survival. Castalani was one of those young men, taking to the streets of his home, bullying and intimidating. He’d dropped out of high school early, but he had what many deemed more important than an education. He had developed a knowledge of the streets.
Following in the footsteps of his Uncle Francesco, he joined the Palermo Cosa Nostra at the age of eighteen. On advice from his uncle, he made it a point to stay close to Pino Falcone, with full intention of learning the ways of the Mafia, learning how to control, learning how to always come out on top, no matter who he stepped on along the way, and if necessary, who he “disposed of.” It was a matter of survival and power.
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