In the Mouth of the Wolf

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant turned and went to the window, noticing the fog had lifted, with blue sky starting to break through patchy clouds. Maybe it was a good sign. He asked Russo, “So, you think you’d be able to hold your own if need be?”

  “Yes, sir! Would not be a problem.”

  Going silent for a moment, Grant turned his thoughts again to his foremost concern. Each of the men kept looking at him, suddenly noticing something in his eyes, the expression on his face changing. It was more than just worry or concern. None of them had ever seen him look this way. They glanced at each other then back at Grant.

  Grinding his right fist against his other palm, Grant finally said, “Look, before I get into more details, I gotta tell you that this has turned into more than a possible international incident. I mean, it’s personal. . . to me.”

  “What is it, sir?” questioned Moore, staring at Grant through clear gray eyes.

  “Colonel Grigori Moshenko was there as part of a Russian contingency, and Lieutenant Joe Adler was on TAD.”

  Grant didn’t have to explain any further. Every SEAL knew of Joe Adler. And they’d heard of Grigori Moshenko, Colonel, KGB. Both were friends of Captain Stevens.

  “Shit, sir!” exclaimed Lewis, knocking over his chair as he jumped up. “Is he okay? Are they okay?”

  Grant could only shake his head. “Don’t know. Nothing’s been confirmed as far as injuries or anyone being killed. All Admiral Torrinson could tell me was that a technician in the AFN building had broadcast a brief call, picked up by NAS Naples. This tech shutdown his broadcast just as the shooting stopped.”

  Moore finally stood, walked over near Grant, and raised his hands in the air, shaking them. “Wait a minute, sir. You mean there wasn’t any security? They found all that shit, but there wasn’t any security?”

  Grant just shook his head. “Think they only had some hired locals.”

  “Well, ain’t that just fuckin’ great! No, it isn’t great. It’s fuckin’ stupid!”

  Grant reached over and put a hand on Moore’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Ray.”

  “What the fuck, sir?” Cranston exclaimed, immediately pounding his fist on his thigh.

  “I know, Paul.”

  “But, sir, Lieutenant Adler, he, I mean, he was with the Teams, sir. He’s trained. He’s worked with you, sir. I’m sure he’s okay, sir, you know. . ” Cranston usually wasn’t the one to run out of things to say. It was different this time. It was becoming personal to all of them.

  Grant knew it was time to move on. “Look, everybody needs to calm down. I know you’ve all got more questions, like motive, reasons. So do I, but nobody has any firm answers at this point. In the meantime, we've gotta start putting this op together.

  “The admiral's expecting my call by 1100 hours with all the details. I’ve asked him to requisition us a C-130. Don’t know any other way to get us there any faster.

  “We’ll have to inventory the equipment we’ve still got left from last week’s op, then see what we can get from the base here. If there’s anything else, the admiral said he’d have it flown in by a chopper out of Bremerhaven.” Grant took a brief moment of silence, then said, “Craig, Paul, you do the inventory, and. . . ” A knock at the door interrupted him. “Come.”

  An airman entered and asked, “Captain Stevens?”

  “That’d be me.”

  “Sir, this came into Operations for you.” He stepped closer to Grant, handing him two sealed manila envelopes, each marked, “Captain Grant Stevens - Confidential - Eyes Only.”

  “Thanks, airman. That’ll be all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the door closed, Grant unsealed the first envelope, withdrawing the warning order. He read it thoroughly before folding it and putting it in his jacket pocket. The next envelope had four photos and a topographical map. The photos, all eight-by-ten, had been taken by a satellite two days earlier.

  The first photo showed a complete overview of the countryside around AFN. In the next three photos the camera had honed in close enough until the buildings were clearly defined. He passed them to Moore before unfolding the map, detailing an area that surrounded the facility for one mile.

  Grant slid his finger along the map, tracing a couple of different routes they could take, depending on the wind, depending on where they hit dirt.

  “Let’s see that closeup photo, Ray,” he asked Moore as he held out his hand. “Okay. Here’s what looks to be a hangar. I understand that’s where EOD is storing the recovered munitions. And here’s the AFN building where the transmission came from. All indications show that the Diavolo group came in from here.” He moved his finger in an arch, going from the AFN building to the opposite side. “This looks like the dig site.” The men gathered around him and Moore, leaning closer as he tapped the photo. “Now, I would think it’s more than likely they posted guards around that.”

  “What’s that building?” asked Moore, as he pointed to a building near the hangar.

  Grant held up the photo. “Don’t know, but I suspect it might be the temporary quarters. There doesn’t appear to be any other place they could use.” He stood abruptly, slapping the photo against his thigh. “Dammit! We’ve just got so little to go on. We don’t know if they’re still on the property. We don’t know where the hostages are being held. We. . . ”

  “We don’t know shit, sir,” responded Cranston.

  “You’re right, Paul. We don’t know shit. We’ve just gotta work with what we do know. Okay, get back to doing that inventory.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cranston responded, then turned and headed for the gear.

  “Hope you’ve got some ideas, Senior Chief” Grant said, sitting on a chair across from Moore.

  “Wish I did, sir. Wish I did.”

  “Guess this is one of those ‘fly by the seat of our pants’ missions then, huh?” Grant laughed, giving Moore a punch in the shoulder.

  “Believe it is, sir. But we’re up for the challenge.”

  Chapter 7

  AFN Compound

  The attack had come so rapidly, Grigori Moshenko didn't have time to fire off a single round. But the Russians were luckier than those caught outside. And perhaps by not firing, it had kept him and the two Russian civilians out of harm’s way. The building they were in was at the far end of the facility, and from the sound of the gunfire, the attack had come from the west end. This had given him time to get himself and his comrades to safety.

  The interior was still in complete darkness, when he whispered for Tarasov and Rusnak to follow him. They climbed the stairs as quickly and quietly as they could, sliding their hands on the wall, trying to find their way, until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. He remembered seeing a vent in the ceiling at the end of the hallway where they slept. Finally spotting it, he boosted each man through the opening, then he reached up for them to lift him. It took the strength of both Russians, working together, to pull up the solidly built Moshenko.

  Once he put the vent cover back in place, Moshenko put a finger to his lips, trying to keep his new “charges” quiet. Then he signaled them with his hand. Tarasov and Rusnak nodded, understanding the KGB officer wanted them to stay where they were. Sitting on the cold, damp concrete, breathing heavily, Tarasov and Rusnak tried to catch their breath. Their clothes were disheveled and covered in soot, a far cry from their normally impeccable appearance.

  Immediately after the gunfire stopped, footsteps were heard pounding across the floor, as the attackers ran in and out of the rooms beneath where the three Russians were hiding. Shouting to each other in Italian, they finished checking rooms, then hurried down the stairs, joining the rest of the group outside.

  Moshenko stayed low and crept toward the edge of the flat roof, keeping his Makarov close to his side. Peering over the edge, he looked for guards. Seeing none at the time, he continued walking around the perimeter, bent over, keeping low. Thinking back to when he first heard gunfire, he started hustling back across the roof, signaling his Russian comr
ades to stay put.

  Slowly kneeling down on the concrete, he inched his way toward the edge, then stretched out on his stomach, clawing his way closer until he was able to see below.

  And what he saw were bodies, scattered helter skelter. It was impossible for him to tell if any of them were attackers, Italians, or even if any were still alive. Squinting, he tried to focus, tried to see if any of the bodies were wearing uniforms. Breathing a sigh, he lowered his head. He only hoped Adler was safe.

  His attention was drawn to the helo, where two men were walking around it with their rifles slung over their shoulders. That wasn’t good. Next they’d be looking for him and his comrades.

  **

  An eerie silence now seemed as loud as the gunfire that had disrupted the early morning hours. Moshenko sat near the vent, but away from the other two Russians. None of them were dressed warmly, having little time to save themselves, let alone try to find their coats. It wasn’t cold, just very damp. Moshenko had a slight advantage since his heavy wool uniform was giving him more protection than the suits the other two were wearing. He smiled, smugly, not feeling sorry for either of the comrades.

  He pulled his pistol from his front waistband, and rubbed the barrel with the edge of his jacket, trying to wipe away any dampness. Even though he knew he hadn't fired it, he still ejected the clip and counted the rounds. Vos’yem’. Only eight.

  Leaning his head back, he looked toward the sky. Daylight was officially still an hour away, but with the heavy cloud cover, the darkness would remain beyond that, he was certain.

  “Colonel,” Tarasov whispered. Moshenko crawled closer. “What can you do? Must we stay here like this?” Tarasov implored, shivering.

  Moshenko wasn’t the least bit surprised by the question or the tone in which it was asked. “Comrade, I am willing to listen to your suggestions as to how we may extricate ourselves from the current situation. Are you fully aware of what we are confronted with here?” Moshenko was trying to keep his voice as low as possible but finding it difficult.

  Rusnak was briskly rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them. “Colonel Moshenko, we are aware. But you are trained in military matters, unlike the two of us. Surely you can do something!”

  A picture flashed through the KGB officer's mind of him tossing both comrades off the roof, but decided against it since that would only give away his position. He responded, “If you wish, I can lower each of you back down into the building where you can warm your poor, cold bodies, hiding and hoping the invaders will not find you. I prefer to stay here as long as necessary, waiting to be rescued.”

  Tarasov sat up straighter, pulling his collar up, holding it closed in front of his neck. “Rescued? How do you know?”

  Becoming the smug one, Moshenko answered, “Comrades, we are on an American facility. Do you not think they are aware of what is happening? That they are already planning something in order to take their facility back, planning a rescue?”

  Making a quick decision, Tarasov said, “We will wait for awhile, but then... ”

  “Then what? What will you do?”

  “We will give up,” Tarasov answered with finality.

  The KGB officer’s dark eyes narrowed, staring hard at both men. “I can assure you, Comrade, that I will not give up. And believe me when I say this, neither will either of you.” He reached into his side pocket and withdrew a silencer. Screwing it on the barrel of his pistol, he didn’t take his eyes from Tarasov.

  Rusnak backed away, stunned. “You would not. . ”

  “Oh, would I not, Comrade Rusnak?” It was getting increasingly difficult for Moshenko to keep his voice lowered. “True Russians do not give up. Do you not remember the battle at Stalingrad?”

  The battle of Stalingrad in World War II was one of the bloodiest in the history of warfare, lasting nearly six months with casualties amounting to nearly two million, both civilian and military. Germany’s military suffered crippling losses, and it’s defeat in that city was the turning point in the war, with their forces attaining no further strategic victories in the East.

  “Now, have you decided?” Moshenko asked, waving the pistol back and forth in front of the men. With their faces frozen in fear, the two nodded, feeling they had no choice but to agree.

  “Good, good,” Moshenko responded. He turned and went to his previous location, away from the two. He was searching for the right word. Wimps. That was it. After a few minutes, he decided to move to the front of the building where he could watch any activity that might transpire. While he kept an eye out, he couldn’t help but wonder about Joe Adler and his team.

  A sudden thought crossed his mind, one of his friend, Grant Stevens. Immediately, he looked up into the sky, thinking it was time to start watching for his friend.

  Gripping his pistol, holding it against his cheek, he would watch the grounds below, but he would also watch the sky.

  Chapter 8

  Rhein-Main Air Base

  1245 Hours

  A turbo-prop C-130 Hercules was parked outside Hangar 4. The Herc was probably the most versatile, tactical transport in existence and was the prime transport for paradropping troops and equipment into hostile areas. It was used for electronic surveillance, SAR (search and rescue), and aerial attacks. One of the most remarkable abilities of this aircraft was it could land and take off from a carrier deck without the use of arresting cables or catapults. It was powered by four Allison T56-A-15 turboprop engines and had a range of over twenty-three hundred miles. For this particular operation a refueling stop would be scheduled on the return flight at NAS Naples.

  The pilot for this flight was Colonel Al Cummings, a man about 5’10” with a slim build and short black hair, and making his first tour at Rhein-Main. He’d been on station for only three months.

  Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat was Lieutenant Colonel Drew Flanagan, nearly the same height as Cummings. The redheaded Flanagan had flown the 130s in Vietnam, and would be the first to admit that it was his favorite aircraft.

  With fueling complete, hoses were retracted and the fuel truck backed away. The two officers walked around the outside of the aircraft, making visual and hands-on inspections. Flanagan walked forward, ducking down to look at the nose gear, a modified tricycle-type that folded forward into the fuselage.

  Cummings inspected the tandem main gear, also a modified tricycle-type. Its retraction was vertical into the fuselage blister fairings.

  A distinct sound of chopper’s rotors caught their attention. They walked away from the plane, watching as a Seahawk made it’s slow descent about fifty yards from where they were standing.

  “Must be the helo from Bremerhaven bringing the equipment for our passengers,” shouted Cummings. Just as he finished his comment, he saw seven men running across the airfield. “Come on, Drew. We’d better start our checklist and be ready for them.” He waved the flight engineer and navigator towards them.

  Within minutes, Cummings and Flanagan had settled into their seats, checking compass, fuel, oil levels, altimeter. Getting final information from Base Ops, the four digit transponder code was set.

  A transponder was an electronic device that produced a response when it received a radio-frequency interrogation. The device assisted in identifying an aircraft on radar and on other aircraft’s collision avoidance systems. The code was frequently called a “squawk” code which came from its origin in World War II, the “Identification Friend or Foe” (IFF) system, code-named “Parrot.”

  Completing their checklist, they were ready to fire up the engines, and ready to accept their passengers and cargo.

  Aboard the Seahawk, two men dressed in flight suits and helmets stood by the open door, motioning for airmen standing by to begin unloading the cargo.

  It was now up to the C-130 loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Mike Brewster, to see that all cargo was evenly distributed inside the cargo bay, then secured so nothing shifted during flight, preventing an overload of sensitive sections of the airframe and cargo
floor. Rollers in the floor of the cargo compartment enabled quick and easy handling of cargo pallets and could be removed to leave a flat surface, if necessary. The design of the Herc employed a cargo floor at truck-bed height above the ground, with an integral “roll on/roll off” rear loading ramp.

  The SEALs dropped their rucksacks outside the open cargo bay, waiting until the loadmaster signaled them aboard. When they were cleared, they climbed the ramp, sat on the webbed jump seats, and locked their seatbelts in place.

  Simpson leaned toward Russo, frowning as he said, “Hey, Vince, I could swear we just did this.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” responded Russo, “and in the words of Yogi Berra, ‘it’s deja vu all over again.’”

  Brewster walked around the cargo one more time, giving it a quick inspection, checking tie-downs. Then he walked over to the panel on the aft bulkhead, and flipped the switch that started the hydraulics. He kept an eye on the ramp as it raised, and once it was secured, he spoke into his mouthpiece, confirming with the flight deck they were good for takeoff.

  Nodding his head in response, he then walked over to Grant. “Captain Stevens?” Grant nodded. “Sir, Colonel Cummings would like you to come to the flight deck before we takeoff.”

  “Lead the way.”

  At the flight deck, Brewster made the introductions. “Captain Stevens, this is our pilot Colonel Cummings, our co-pilot Colonel Flanagan, our flight engineer Lieutenant Young, and our navigator Lieutenant Nelson.”

  Cummings pulled one side of his headset from his ear and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

  Grant smiled. “Good to meet you all. Knew I could depend on Admiral Torrinson getting us this ride,” he commented.

  “Not John Torrinson?” Cummings asked with surprise, turning even more in his seat, and resting an arm on top of the backrest.