“We just needed more intel. Fuck! We don’t know how many men are being held, or if they are being held. We don’t know how many ‘Diavolo’ things there are. All we’ve got are assumptions. So, basically, we don’t know shit!”
“Yeah, Chief,” Simpson said with a sly expression, “but we’ve got something they don’t have, something nobody else has got.”
“What’s that, Craig?”
“Well, Chief, we’ve got Captain Stevens!”
Moore leaned back and elbowed Simpson in the ribs. “You’re right, Craig. You’re goddamn right we do!”
Chapter 9
Aboard the C-130
1715 Hours
It was time to go through final checks. The whole process would be repeated again, ensuring the integrity of fasteners on the RAM air chutes. After checking the reserve chute, they gave the crotch straps one more tug, then checked the O2 in the tanks. They’d be breathing oxygen from a belt tank flowing into aviator-style masks and continue using it until they reached a breathable air level.
Brewster had positioned himself on the right side of the cargo bay near the bulkhead, talking into his microphone. By the sound and feel, it was obvious the plane was decelerating, preparing for the cargo door to open, preparing for the SEALs to jump.
He turned and walked near Grant, pulling the mouthpiece away. Leaning toward Grant, he said, “Sir, time to get ready. The door will be opening in five minutes,” he indicated by automatically holding up five fingers.
“Roger that,” Grant responded, then he signaled the team.
Almost in unison, they adjusted their helmets and goggles, pulled up the rubber aviator masks that had been hanging around their necks, and tightened the straps. Finally, they cranked on the O2 and checked the levels. Looking at Grant, they each gave a thumb’s up before standing.
Grabbing their rucksacks, they moved closer together, then attached their rucksacks to the ring on their reserve chutes. Grant looked at his men one more time before giving Brewster a final thumb’s up.
Brewster fingered the microphone, speaking to the flight deck. Standing by the controls, he started the process of lowering the cargo door. A high-pitched whine was heard as the hydraulics slowly began lowering the door. Wind and engine noise became more intense the wider the door opened. Pressure and temperature inside dropped quickly. The cabin was pitch black, except for a few small red lights.
The plane made an almost unnoticeable turn to port, and immediately leveled off. In the distance, looking to his right, Grant could see the western edge of a city, probably Palermo.
Finally, the whine stopped. Brewster walked along the right edge of the ramp, then got on his knees, making an inspection.
Grant and the team inched their way closer to the opening, walking awkwardly because of the rucksacks hanging low.
Brewster stepped closer to Grant, pointing to lights below, lights from the hill town of Enna. The town seemed to rise out of the blackness from the country surrounding it. He tapped Grant on the shoulder, getting his attention, then he held up two fingers. Two minutes to jump.
The SEALs checked their oxygen levels again, adjusted the straps of their aviator masks one last time, and mentally processed the mission.
They kept their eyes on Brewster, who glanced at his watch then held up one finger. One minute to jump. The SEALs separated, with Grant in front.
Getting final confirmation from the flight deck, Brewster folded his right arm across his chest, and in one swift motion, swung his arm out to the side, pointing to the exit, the signal for the SEALs to jump.
Diving head first and within seconds of one another, they fell into the emptiness, feeling the tremendous rush of cold air pressing against their bodies. Ten seconds later they each pulled a ring, releasing their black, RAM air chutes.
Brewster stood near the edge of the ramp with a pair of NVGs, watching and waiting until all chutes opened, declaring quietly, “A good jump.” He notified the flight deck then walked over to the bulkhead and pressed the switch. The ramp started lifting, and at the same time, the aircraft began accelerating.
From the flight deck Colonel Cummings confirmed Brewster’s message then said to Flanagan, “Let’s head to Naples, Dean.” The C-130 responded to the controls, and with its left wing dipping, started a slow, wide turn, on a heading that would take it to its refueling stop, leaving a fiery Mount Etna behind.
**
They started maneuvering in the light wind, using the toggles to adjust their direction, finally coming together to form up in a stack, with Grant in the lowest position. It was up to him, using the GPS, to set their course, to guide the team to the LZ.
The lake just southeast of them finally came into view, and northeast was Mount Etna, spewing smoke and orange fire, looking formidable, ominous. Thick waves of red hot lava spilled over the mountain’s ridge, flowing slowly downhill, melting anything in its path. Grant thought in amazement, Freakin’ Mother Nature!
He glanced at his altimeter on the top of his reserve chute, then he started looking for more landmarks. He spotted Motta. The winds were still good. Finally he saw their objective: AFN!
Zeroing in on the church ruin, he pulled down on the toggle, steering more to the left, breaking away from the team. They took his lead and one by one broke away, leaving plenty of room between one another.
His altimeter showed one hundred feet. And then at fifty feet, he pulled down on both toggles, causing the chute to begin stalling. With his knees together and slightly bent, he pulled down a little more, then finally, at ten feet, he pulled down hard on both toggles. The chute stalled and he touched down.
The team landed all in close proximity to him. They unhooked their rucksacks from their reserve chutes, then, foregoing the normal figure-eighting of the shroud lines, they quickly gathered their chutes then rushed into the church ruins.
“Everybody okay?” Grant asked.
They all nodded and responded in unison, “Yes, sir.” Since they already had their green cammies under their jump gear, they were able to change quickly.
Grant looked at his watch. His immediate concern was whether or not Naples was able to contact someone in Motta. “Eric.”
“Yes, sir?” Lewis answered, as he was strapping on his weapon.
“Take. . . ” He stopped abruptly, snapping his head around, hearing a small branch cracking.
They all grabbed their weapons and took cover behind the stone wall. Grant motioned with his .45, sending Simpson and Lewis to the opposite side.
They honed in on the sound coming from the front of the church. Grant had his weapon in his right hand, holding it close to his cheek.
The movement stopped, and they heard a voice in a loud whisper. “Captain Stevens?”
Still being cautious, Grant responded, “Come on in, slowly, with hands up.”
Doing as he was told, the man came through what was, at one time, a doorway. He was of medium height, in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a University of Missouri sweatshirt and baseball cap. He stopped short, staring with eyes wide at seven men pointing weapons directly at him.
Grant stepped closer. “And you are?”
“My name’s Wagner, Keith Wagner. I was asked to bring these to Captain Stevens.” He reached behind him and lifted a cloth bundle off the ground.
Grant holstered his weapon and with a smile, extended a hand to Wagner. “I’m Grant Stevens, sir. We’re sure grateful to you.” He motioned to Russo. “Vince, take the package, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Russo responded, reaching for the bundle, giving a quick smile to Wagner.
Grant looked around the edge of the door. “You didn’t walk here, did you?” he questioned with surprise in his voice.
“Oh, no, no. I’ve got an old Jeep, but thought it best to park farther up, off the road.”
“Thanks for taking the precaution, Keith.” He turned to Moore. “Ray, get one of the radios and set the frequency. Keith, I don’t expect that we’ll be needing
your services again, but I’d like you to keep this with you. Do you know how to use it?” Wagner nodded. “Would you be willing to let us, shall we say, borrow your vehicle if the need arises?”
“It’d be my pleasure, Captain! Oh, by the way, I packed some food in that bundle, just in case you hadn’t eaten.”
Grant hadn’t even thought about food, until this moment, when he heard his stomach rumbling. “Appreciate it, Keith. Oh, one more thing. Any chance you could store our chutes and jump gear?”
“Sure. Just load them in the jeep.”
Grant motioned with his head, and the team took the cue.
“One more thing, Keith. Are any others in town aware of your being asked to help us?”
“Only the Americans. We were all notified by the embassy, then we had a short meeting at my house. But I volunteered since I had one of the biggest vehicles in case you needed transportation.”
Grant nodded, then extending his hand, he shook Wagner’s, before saying, “Look, you’d better head back. I’d advise all of you to not leave Motta and stay out of sight. Right now we don’t have any idea what that group is planning. When it’s all clear, somebody from the embassy will probably contact you. Just keep that handy,” he said, pointing to the radio.
“Oh, I will, I will.”
Grant put a hand on Wagner’s back, gently pushing him toward the doorway.
Wagner turned around with a concerned look on his face. “Captain, any idea what’s happened? Do you think everyone’s okay?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, Keith. Now, go.”
“In bocca al lupo,” Wagner said, with a wave of his hand.
In the background, Russo gave an immediate response, “Crepi, Mr. Wagner!”
Once they were alone, Grant’s curiosity got the best of him. “Vince, what the hell was that all about?”
“Oh, you mean what Mr. Wagner said?” Grant nodded. “Well, sir, ‘in bocca al lupo’ is sorta like when someone says ‘buona fortuna’ meaning ‘good luck.’ Except it’s, well, it’s a more powerful wish, I’d have to say, one that’s more profound, intense. Translated it means ‘in the mouth of the wolf,’ sir.”
“And you answered. . . ?”
“‘Crepi’ means may he die. It’s good when the wolf dies! Right, sir?”
“Roger that, Vince! Roger that,” Grant smiled, as he walked over to the bundle Wagner brought and started untying the rope. He pulled out a large paper bag that had been placed on top of the clothes. Opening it, he inhaled deeply, smelling the freshness of bread and probably some kind of dried meat. He turned it over to Moore. “Here ya go, Ray. See that everybody gets some. In the meantime, I’ll change into these. And Vince,” he said as he tossed the other set of clothes to Russo, “put these on under your cammies.”
“Aye, sir.”
The work clothes the civilian brought were clean, but it was obvious they were close to being worn out. That’d make it all the better. He slid his K-bar into the leg strap, a knife that had been with him since Vietnam. Then he put his cammies back on, shoving a frayed, black wool cap inside his shirt.
While they ate, the men sat on blocks of discolored, rough stone that had once held up the north wall of the church. Grant reminded everyone, “Have a feeling nobody at the base has eaten much, if anything. Let’s make sure there’s some left.”
**
Twenty-five minutes later, with earpieces adjusted, rucksacks on their backs, and rifles hanging off their shoulders, they started their journey. Their rescue mission to AFN would be across mostly open ground.
Somewhere east of them, there was a slight sound of water, a river, possibly flowing toward the city of Siracusa on the coast. With the route they were taking, they were far off any kind of road. The quiet almost seemed surreal.
Most of the fields they traversed were fields where wild, summer wheat had flourished. Now the soil was in fallow, waiting for spring and another crop. The soil was dark and rich, so rich they could smell it, and in some places, still soft beneath their boots.
Grant stopped, held up his hand, then waved the team toward him. “Time to check the map. We’ve gotta be getting close.” Having the men gather around him, he knelt on the ground and flattened the map, then he pulled his penlight from his pocket, tracing their route with the light. He folded the map and dropped it in the rucksack. Turning forty-five degrees, he focused on a ridge and pointed. “It should be just beyond that small ridge.” He looked overhead. The sky was still clear, filled with stars. Small blinking red lights from an aircraft high overhead, set on a northerly heading, were clearly visible.
He slipped his penlight into his pocket. “Okay, if anybody needs to take a ‘whizz,’ you’d better do it now.”
They all rushed off in different directions. Womack was the last one to return, carrying his camouflage hat, more commonly know as a “catch me/screw me” hat. Turned upside down, it was filled with wild figs. “Found these in that clump of trees.” He licked his lips. “Sweet!”
Everybody reached for the sugary fruit, with Moore hesitating, as he asked, “Say, Ken, which hand did you use to pick these?”
“The opposite one, Chief,” he smirked.
The fruit was gone; the break was over. Adjusting their rucksacks, they quickly picked up the pace, and twenty-five minutes later, they were at the base of the ridge. It wasn’t very high, less than thirty feet, but the angle was steep. They started their climb, brushing aside thick undergrowth, skirting around boulders. The ground was solid here, no soft soil, completely different from their trek since leaving the church.
Looking toward the top, Grant noticed a glow from lights on the other side. They all stopped, waiting for any sound coming from that direction. Nothing.
He motioned everyone forward. They crouched low and with only a few feet left until they reached the top, they stretched out on their bellies and crabbed their way to the peak. Peering over the edge, the compound came into view, about seventy-five yards away from the base of the ridge. An eight-foot high, chain link fence surrounded it, with the closest building about fifty yards beyond it.
Grant reached for the Starlighter. He mentally identified the buildings he’d seen in the photographs. At the far back, on the west end, was the main building where the network system was installed. He moved the scope along its outer walls, seeing there weren’t any windows, not even in the door.
Then he continued searching the inner compound area, spotting Grigori’s chopper. He couldn’t see any guards near it, and the side door appeared to be secured. He lowered the scope briefly, looked for another place to zero in on, then raised it again. Small flatbed trucks were lined up just beyond the chopper, about six, and what looked like a small car in the lead. They were pointing in a westerly direction.
He spotted the dig site where a light was shining from somewhere inside. Moving the scope back and forth, he noticed men walking to and from the trucks, some climbing out of the tunnel. But there wasn’t any sign of EOD or Grigori. And it was still impossible to tell how many infiltrators were still there.
Putting the scope back in his rucksack, he quietly said, “We’re aiming for that section of fence,” he pointed, “dead center of the building. Two at a time. Keep your eyes open.”
Grant and Moore were the first to start down the hill. Crouching as low as they could, they moved slowly, their heels digging in, preventing them from skidding down too quickly. Once they reached the bottom, they didn’t stop moving until they reached the fence line.
The rest of the team joined the two quickly, then they positioned themselves close together, laying in the thick, damp foliage, just outside the chain link fence.
They listened for any kind of sounds, watching for any movement. From their location, they could only see the building they assumed was the barracks, with the hangar west of it.
After ten minutes, Grant signaled for the men to split up to make a recon. They had to know what options they had and how much they were up against.
Within seconds they disappeared, silently blending into the surroundings.
Grant started scanning the perimeter of the building. As he glanced up to the roof, something caught his attention. “Ray, hand me the scope.” He zeroed in on the spot where he thought he had seen movement. Nothing. Continuing to move the scope, following along the edge of the roof, he suddenly stopped. He smiled and whispered, “Grigori!” He silently questioned why he hadn’t seen Moshenko from the ridge. A second later, Moshenko had moved on, continuing his own recon.
“Where, sir?” Moore asked quietly.
“He’s gone. Christ! He’s been hiding up there all this time.” He felt a knot in his stomach. Somehow they had to let him know they were here. He had to chance it. He looked back at the building, then reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a penlight.
Moore reached over and put a hand on Grant’s arm, trying to stop him. “You sure you wanna use that, sir?”
“Can you think of anything else?”
Moore looked at the building then back at Grant and just shook his head.
“Watch for guards,” Grant whispered as he kept his eyes on the roof, waiting for Moshenko to reappear, hoping it wouldn’t be long.
Five minutes later, he spotted him. “Ray, use the scope; keep an eye on him.” Grant started signaling, using the International Morse Code, over and over, sending the same message: GRANT.
“Sonofabitch,” Moore smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. “He’s seen it, sir. Shit! He’s even givin’ a thumb’s up!” Grant shut off the penlight as Moore asked, “Now what?”
Grant breathed a sigh of relief, then responded, “Got your wire clippers?”
“Whoa, sir! We don’t know enough of what’s going on in there.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait until the men get back and hope they’ve got some kind of good intel. We’ve gotta start somewhere. Now, cut that wire.”
In the Mouth of the Wolf Page 7