The largest plane in the free world had a wingspan of nearly two hundred twenty-three feet, was two hundred forty-eight feet long, and sixty-five feet high. Each of its four turbofan engines had a thrust of forty-three thousand pounds. Its fuel capacity was just over fifty-one thousand gallons, enough to fill six and a half regular-size railroad tank cars. Its main cargo area could carry a maximum of three hundred forty passengers. On the second deck there were seventy-five passenger seats, facing aft for safety purposes, and one “head.”
One of two ways to access the upper deck was by a steep ladder leading from the cargo bay. Looking similar to, but larger than pull-down attic stairs, this access remains open at all times, so for the experienced C-5a travelers, selecting seats farther forward ensures a warmer, more comfortable flight.
“Sure one big sonofabitch, isn’t it, sir?” laughed Moore as he walked toward Grant, carrying his rucksack.
“Thinking the same thing myself, Ray!” Grant responded, nodding. He gulped down a last mouthful of the lukewarm coffee and tossed his cup into the trash. Looking beyond Moore, he asked, “Where’re the rest of the guys?”
Moore pointed over Grant’s shoulder. “There they are. Told them to pick up some boxed meals. They should’ve gotten a couple for you, too.”
“Appreciate the thought, Ray.”
Glancing at his watch, Grant was expecting to hear the call for everyone to begin boarding. Just as he bent down to pick up his gear, he heard over the loudspeaker, “Captain Grant Stevens, report immediately to Security. Captain Stevens, report to Security.”
“Uh oh,” Moore said, giving Grant a quick glance. “You want we should stay here, sir?”
“If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come to Security. I’ll leave my gear with you.”
He started pushing his way through the crowd, looking for the Security Office, finally spotting a rectangular sign above an entrance to a hallway. Turning a corner, he jogged along the tiled flooring, his footsteps echoing as he ran. All he could think was, Jesus! What the hell's goin' on now? Another sign at the end of the hall had a red arrow pointing to the upper level. He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
At the top of the staircase was a door with the word “SECURITY” written across the glass in black stenciling. He pushed the door open, then spotted two security guards near a water cooler.
The taller, slimmer guard looked toward him and asked, “Can I help you?”
“I’m Captain Stevens. Somebody paged me.”
“Oh, yes, Captain. That office over there has a secure phone with your call waiting.”
Grant stepped inside the office, then closed the door behind him. The room was completely austere, with only a metal desk, credenza, and several beige folding chairs, stacked against a wall. He walked over to the desk positioned in front of the credenza. After taking off his hat and placing it upside down on the desk, he reached for the receiver, then pressed a blinking yellow button. “Stevens.”
“Captain Stevens, Petty Officer Phillips here, sir.” Phillips is the yeoman for Admiral Torrinson.
“Zach, what’s going on?”
“Wait one, sir. Let me get the admiral.”
Within a matter of seconds Torrinson was on the line. “Grant, I take it you’re in Security?”
Grant leaned back against the desk, staring down at the grimy black and white linoleum, trying to prepare himself for whatever he was about to hear. It probably wasn’t going to be good, either. “Yes, sir. Admiral, what’s happening?”
Almost forty-nine years old, John Torrinson still loved his Tootsie Pops. He pulled a chocolate one from his mouth, then rested his forearms on his desk before beginning to respond. “Early this morning, Italy and Germany time, the AFN compound in Sicily was attacked.”
That immediately brought Grant to full attention, as he tried to get his brain wrapped around Torrinson’s words. “Attacked? Jesus Christ, sir!”
“SecNav, SecDef, the Joint Chiefs, just about everybody in the president’s cabinet has been behind closed doors in the White House since we got the word. I’m scheduled to meet with SecNav and SecDef in an hour.”
Grant paced behind the desk, kneading the back of his neck, the muscles tightening up like mooring lines. His primary concern went to the status of his friends and EOD team. “Sir, do you know if there were any casualties?”
Torrinson rolled the Tootsie Pop back inside its slick paper wrapper, placing it on the ink-stained green desk blotter. “All we have so far are conflicting reports, Grant, none confirming either way.
“Right after the attack started an emergency transmission was picked up by NAS Naples, being sent by a lone technician inside the main AFN building. When his call came in, he said there was still shooting going on. NAS said the guy was ranting, almost hysterical before they could make any sense from what he was telling them.
“They tried to get all they could out of him during the short call, but just before he signed off, he said it sounded like the shooting had stopped.”
“Just like that, sir?! The shooting stopped just like that?!” That worried Grant even more.
“I know. So far it doesn’t sound good. Anybody in the compound probably didn’t have much of a chance to defend themselves or put up any kind of substantial fight.”
“And they more than likely didn’t have enough firepower, sir.” Another mistake. With what EOD was taking out of that tunnel, there should have been a contingency of marines for protection. Why’s it always after the fact, after a disaster, that the lesson has to be learned? Getting back on track, Grant asked, “Did NAS get any more out of that guy, sir?”
“They didn’t want to put him in any additional danger, fearing his position might be compromised, so they told him to hunker down and stay where he was. As soon as he felt it was safe, he was to try and contact them again. His transmission ended right after that.” Torrinson ran his fingers along his chin. Hesitating briefly, he added, “All we can hope is that he remained in hiding, but we can’t confirm that either.”
Grant hated not knowing, not being able to do anything, feeling helpless. “Sir, does anyone know who it was, I mean, who the attackers were? How many? Anybody get a name? Do we have anything, sir?”
“Slow down, Grant!” Torrinson was just as frustrated and just as concerned. But his worry also came from knowing he had to send Grant and his team out again. He responded, “The tech said after the shooting stopped, he heard shouting. He was pretty sure they were shouting something that sounded like. . . Wait until I look at my notes, Grant. It was something like ‘La Mano del Diavolo.’ I think that’s how it’s pronounced.”
“I’ll check with Russo on that, sir,” Grant answered as he clicked the top of his ballpoint pen and jotted down the information on an envelope.
“That’s all I’ve got for now.” Torrinson scrunched down in his chair, feeling exhausted.
“Understand, Admiral.”
“Look, Grant, you’re going to have to hang out there for awhile until I meet with both secretaries before a determination is made as to the next course of action they want us to take.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll. . .”
“Wait one, Grant. SecDef is on the other line.”
Grant squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a pounding in his temples. Within two minutes he heard Torrinson’s voice again. “Grant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re authorized as a ‘go’ for mission.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Do I need to wait for a warning order?” A “warning order” simply states what, where, how, who and when of a SEAL mission.
“I’ll have Zach fax it to Operations, your eyes only.”
“Yes, sir.”
Torrinson reached for his pen and slid a notepad closer to him. “Now, Rhein-Main should have some of the equipment you're going to need for this op.”
“We’ve already got our jump gear, sir, but I think I need to meet with the team to discuss the mission. I can guarantee we’ll
need additional weapons and ammo, and probably O2 bottles. Maybe we could get a helo from Bremerhaven to bring it in. You know, sir, like we did with the Lampson mission.”
“Okay, Grant. Get back with me with your requirements, and in the meantime, I’ll contact the Operations office to line up your transportation. What do you think? Helo?”
“If I’m not mistaken, sir, from what I remember, the distance from here to Sicily has gotta be close to fourteen hundred miles. Don’t think a helo will get us there fast enough, sir. A Herc’s cruising speed is about three hundred sixty mph and even at that, it’s going to take almost four hours. Can’t think of a faster way, sir, unless you can get us six Tomcats (F-14s).” Grant gave a slight laugh.
“Wish I could! Okay, look, I’ll shoot for the C-130.” Torrinson looked up at the wall clock above the office door. “Are you planning to make this a night op?”
“Let me see how long it's going to take to put this thing together, sir, but as of now, I can’t see it happening any earlier.” He only hoped it didn’t take any longer, knowing there were lives depending on him and his team. “I wish I could make it happen faster, sir.”
“I know, Grant. Time is of the essence.”
Grant smiled. He and Torrinson always seemed to be on the same wavelength. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“We’ve got to anticipate any situation, Grant, especially since we don’t know what they’ve got planned for the hostages, assuming there are hostages.”
That same thought had passed through Grant’s mind, almost making him nauseous. Usually, he depended on his gut, his instinct, but all he had to go on this time was practically nothing. Again, that feeling of helplessness hit him.
Torrinson continued, “I mean, we don’t know if they plan on staying on base, if they plan on making a run for it, or. . .”
“Or if they plan on making use of the new-found weapons.”
“True, true,” Torrinson replied, grimly, momentarily closing his eyes. “And that’s one of the biggest concerns.” He rocked back and forth in his swivel chair, as he tapped the pen against his lips.
“Sir, do you think it’s possible this group is a renegade part of the Mafia? If what the tech heard and if Russo can translate it correctly, it may be the name of the group. And if that’s the case, I can’t imagine it not being renegade.”
“Still trying to determine that, but it’s looking that way. What we do know is that someone in Naples is trying to make contact with the head of the Palermo organization who controls the whole region.”
“The ‘Cowboys’?” Grant asked, with a raised eyebrow, and already having a pretty good idea the CIA was getting involved. (“Cowboys” is term used for the CIA, standing for “ Cowboys In Action”.)
“More than likely, but even for them, it won’t be an easy task.” Torrinson got up and stood by the corner of his desk, sliding the toe of his shoe back and forth on the deep blue carpet. “Well, Grant, can you think of anything else, anything you need?”
“Yes, sir, there is. Any way to get me a map or maybe recent photos or satellite images of the facility? It’d sure help in planning how we can attack this thing.”
“I’ll get right on it. Anything we can get, I’ll have faxed to Operations along with the warning order.”
“That’d be good, sir. I’ll have one of the men head over there.”
“No. You keep all of them with you. I’ll have the papers brought to you. Hold on a sec. Let me get Zach.” Torrinson called out to his yeoman, and a minute later, he was back with Grant. “Now, you’d better get going.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be in contact with you before 1100 hours my time, Admiral.”
“Look, Grant, I know you’re just coming back off a mission, but. . .”
“Not a problem, sir. We’ll take care of it. To tell you the truth, Admiral, I’m glad it’s my team that’ll be going in.”
Torrinson sat at his desk, nodding his head, understanding Grant’s willingness to take on this mission. They were the closest team to AFN and would take the shortest time to get there. But still, two missions, back to back. “Okay, Grant. On your way.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Grant held his cap in his hand, momentarily looking at the gold eagle and anchor emblem and gold braid. He rubbed the edge of his sleeve lightly across its shiny black brim, almost unconsciously, as he processed the information. Finally, he opened the door, then lingered in the doorway briefly. When he looked up, he saw the team milling around by the main door with all their bags piled in the corner of the room. They started toward him.
The look on Grant’s face practically answered Ray Moore’s question before he even asked it. He picked up his gear, and the rest of the men did the same. “Staying or going, sir?”
“Hold it a second, Ray,” Grant said, holding up a hand, before turning to one of the security guards. “Need to make a request, sir. Is there any place we can use for some private discussion? We’ll probably need it for at least two to three hours.” Grant thought he’d better add more clarification. “Will have to contact my boss at NIS in D.C. later, too.”
“Don’t see why you can’t use that same room, Captain.” Guard Tom Adams became curious and asked, “NIS, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm. Don’t think we’ve had any NIS boys here before,” Adams commented, as he started walking toward Grant.
Grant was positive that more curiosity-type questions were rattling around in the guard’s brain. He started turning back toward the office, knowing they couldn’t waste any more time. “Appreciate your cooperation, sir.” Adams stopped in his tracks and shrugged his shoulders, feeling he’d just been rudely shoved aside. Grant reached for his bags that Simpson was holding, then motioned with his head for the team to follow.
Once behind the closed door, and with their gear stashed at the end of the room, the men carried the folded beige metal chairs away from the wall, then opened them near the desk where Grant was sitting on the corner.
He sat up straighter, as he folded his arms across his chest. And then he began. “I know you were looking forward to going home, and I understand you’re just as tired as I am, but that call was from Admiral Torrinson. We’ve got a new warning order. It seems a situation’s developed at the new Armed Forces Network facility in Sicily.”
“A ‘situation,’ sir?” asked Moore, scooting forward on his chair.
“Yeah, Ray. Don’t know if you’re very familiar with that place, so let me first give you some background.
“The site was built on top of an old airfield where damaged German fighters and bombers landed during World War II. Even before construction started, thorough searches had been made for any ordnance that could have gone undetected.
“Two weeks ago construction for a new water storage facility was begun a hundred yards or so from the main AFN building. Bulldozers unearthed what appeared to be an underground tunnel, with all the earmarks of having been built by the Nazis. It was running along the south side of the property, stretching about a hundred yards end to end. Quite a feat, gentlemen, since that area is not more than eighty feet above sea level.”
“No, shit!” Simpson grinned, then immediately apologized for his remark. “Uh, sorry, sir. That was completely uncalled for.”
Moore gave a quick glance at Simpson, a look only Moore could give, that of a hardened senior chief petty officer. Then he looked back at Grant and questioned in his gravely voice, “What’d they find, sir? I mean, besides the tunnel. It had to be something of significance, right?”
“You’re right, Ray. It was a pure treasure trove. The Nazis were gearing up for any invasion the Allies were planning. They had stockpiled assault rifles, mortars, machine guns, two of the first cruise missiles invented, the Henschel HS-293s, but most disturbing were the canisters of nerve gas, Sarin to be more specific.”
Sarin was discovered in 1938 by two German scientists attempting to create stronger pesticides. It is the most toxic of the four G-agent
s made by Germany. The compound, which followed the discovery of the nerve agent Tabun, was named for its discoverers: Schrader, Ambros, Rudiger and Van der Linde. Sarin is a clear, colorless, and tasteless liquid that doesn’t have any odor in its pure form. However, sarin can evaporate into a vapor (gas) and spread into the environment, being lethal at a distance of up to three-quarters of a mile, depending if any additives have been added to it. The gas usually travels horizontally, along the winds, so anyone above where it’s been released, is presumed to be safe.
“Whoa, sir!” Moore interrupted, with his bushy eyebrows shooting up. “You mean that shit’s been sitting underground all that time? Why, that’s gotta be almost. . . What? Thirty-, thirty-five years!”
“At least, and that’s only one of the problems,” Grant replied, as he stood and took a couple of steps toward the door, with all eyes following him. “With Italian civilians working on the water project, and God only knows who else was allowed to come and go, it was impossible to keep this under wraps, to keep it from the general public.
“An EOD team out of Little Creek was sent over. They were on site the next day.” Grant’s fists balled up, tension showing clearly on his face, his square jaw clenching. “According to the admiral, during the early morning hours, the base was infiltrated by what’s looking more like a renegade part of the Mafia.” He went back to the desk and picked up the envelope. Looking across at Russo, he said, “Vince, the tech heard shouting that he said sounded like, ‘La Mano del Diavolo.’ Not sure if I pronounced that correctly.”
“Yes, sir, that sounds correct. Translated it means ‘The Devil’s Hand.’”
“So, it probably is the name of a group. Have you heard of it?”
“No, sir. Sorry, I haven’t.
“How much Italian do you know, Vince?” Grant asked with a slight curve of his mouth.
“Enough to get by, sir, you know, food, vino, women.” Russo grinned, then immediately cleared his throat, adding, “More than enough, sir, mostly from hanging out with my grandparents and relatives. They were from Sicily, a little town outside Palermo called San Cipirello. They emigrated to the States as the Mafia started to take over the surrounding towns.”
In the Mouth of the Wolf Page 4