In the Mouth of the Wolf

by Jamie Fredric

  Moore handed them to Grant and asked, “What’s the plan, sir?”

  “Vince and I’ll work our way outside and. . .”

  “Sir, you can’t be serious.” Even as he made the statement, Moore knew protesting wasn’t going to help.

  “There’re too many of them for us to try to take out, and those canisters are a whole other issue,” Grant answered.

  “What are our orders, sir?”

  Grant was working fast. He checked his .45, slipped it back in his waistband, then motioned for Russo. Turning back to Moore, he said, “Once our truck is out of sight, you stop that last truck. Don’t let it outta here. G2 whoever’s onboard; find out where they’re going. I know it won’t be easy, Ray, not knowing the language, but. . .”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll manage!”

  “And you’re gonna have to find any other hostages, then, you make contact with that guy in the AFN building. Have him call Naples, or better still, call the admiral.”

  “And just what am I supposed to tell him, sir?”

  Grant’s brown eyes narrowed, staring straight into Moore’s eyes. “Is that an attitude I hear, senior chief?”

  “Uh, no, sir; no, sir.”

  “You tell him exactly what’s happened!” He picked up the Uzi and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Sir, how are we gonna contact you? We’ve gotta know where you are.”

  “Vince, you got the radio?”

  “Yes, sir.” He tapped the front of his shirt.

  “You, Ray?”

  “Simpson has it, sir.”

  “And Ray, keep the GPS handy.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Grant stared at Moore, almost as if he wasn’t even seeing him, before he said, “Ray, I don’t know what they’ve got planned or where the hell they’re going.” He wasn’t accustomed to uncertainty. It gnawed at his insides.

  “It’ll work, sir,” Moore said reassuringly.

  Practically ignoring the response, Grant looked back at Moshenko. “Grigori, you’re going to have to stand by, okay?” Moshenko nodded. “You go down to the second floor and get in one of the rooms. Ray will come for you when it’s clear.”

  Grant pulled his cap down closer to his eyes. “Ray, get Paul.” Grant hardly took a breath, when Cranston reported back.

  “Paul, any changes down there?”

  “Not much, sir. There’s still a light down in the tunnel. Two men just climbed out. They were carrying something, but couldn’t tell what.”

  Grant kept walking towards the vent. “What about EOD?”

  “Still in the truck. Three guards climbed in with them.”

  “That’ll be our objective, Vince. Listen, you talk when you have to, but keep it simple, understood?”

  “Yes, sir, understood.”

  “Any indication which one might be the leader, Paul?”

  “One guy’s been standing near the dig. He’s got an Uzi. He’s been there the whole time we’ve been watching. And he appears to have two very large bodyguards stickin’ real close.”

  “Describe him,” Grant said as he was handing his Uzi down to Moshenko.

  “Average height, large body, half bald with hair around the sides; wearing dark jacket and pants. One more thing, sir.”

  “Speak,” Grant said.

  “That guy and his two bodyguards got into a four-door Fiat at the head of the caravan.”

  “Guess he needs special treatment,” Grant scoffed as walked to the vent. Standing at the edge of the opening, Grant turned to Moore. “If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes after the truck pulls out, you do what you’ve gotta do.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me, Ray.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Grant turned away, lowered himself through the vent opening, and held onto the sides momentarily. Not hearing any sounds below, he dropped to the floor. One by one the SEALs followed.

  Chapter 11

  AFN Compound

  Joe Adler sat with his men behind the window of the cab, sitting on upside down old crates. Hemp-style rope held their wrists securely. Three guards stayed toward the tailgate, holding their Uzis close.

  The Americans’ bodies were beat down to parade rest. They were looking pale and haggard. During the long ordeal, they’d been kept inside the old hangar, unable able to speak, or sleep, or eat. The reason behind this journey they were about to make was unclear. Adler constantly ran his mind around the idea that their being held captive was because of what had been brought out of the tunnel. But another very real possibility loomed. They were being held for ransom. Four U.S. Navy men, trained in explosive ordnance disposal. There was that possibility.

  Adler kept his eyes on the men hurrying around the compound, some of them carrying old ammo boxes. They started piling into a line of trucks strung out in front of the one he and his men were in. Most of the shouting going on seemed to be coming from the lead vehicle, like orders being “barked.”

  As engines started turning over, headlights and taillights came on. Trying not to be conspicuous, Adler tried to see how many other vehicles there were and what they were carrying, but it was impossible for him to make out. Within a couple of minutes, the lead vehicle drove off. It passed through the main entrance, then as its lights faded, another truck started moving.

  Adler counted the time it took for the second truck to leave. Five minutes. He was distracted for a moment as two additional guards showed up, but he didn’t pay close attention to them as he tried to maintain his concentration.

  Vince Russo looked up at one of the guards sitting in the truck. Speaking in Italian, he said, “We were told to take this truck.” The guards just nodded. They didn’t move from their positions, pointing for the two men to go farther back.

  Russo stepped onto the truck bed. Grant climbed up after him, taking a look one more time behind him, making sure they were still the next to last truck in the caravan.

  There wasn’t much room to maneuver, and they had to walk sideways to get past the guards, bumping against knees and kicking shoes. Keeping his head down, Grant sat opposite Adler, squeezing in between Russo and EOD Taylor.

  Adler sat with his head lowered, paying more attention to what was happening with the vehicles and trying to ignore the new guards, until he noticed a pair of dirty, black boots, sticking out from under tattered trousers, directly in front of him.

  Only raising his eyes, he settled his stare on hands holding an Uzi, strong hands with scars. His pulse quickened. He sat back, trying not to draw attention to himself, then he slowly lifted his head. Grant’s eyes were fixed on his, both men keeping their deadpan expressions, except when Grant gave a quick wink.

  Adler gave a sideways glance at his men, then getting Taylor’s attention, he shifted his eyes back to Grant then back to Taylor, finally giving an inconspicuous thumb’s up.

  The truck driver shifted into first, and the vehicle lurched forward, backfiring when he stepped on the gas, then it stalled. One of the guards jumped out of the back and ran to the driver’s side, shouting and waving his arms. In typical Italian style, the driver just shouted back, giving the guard the popular “up yours” hand motion--twice.

  The other two guards were leaning over the side, paying more attention to the commotion than anything else.

  Grant elbowed Russo before sliding his one leg back. Slowly, he reached under his sock, withdrew the knife, then slid it inside the sleeve of his jacket. Russo did the same with his. Seeing the guard hurrying to the back of the truck, Grant shifted the Uzi next to his right leg, within Taylor’s reach. Then, carefully, he pulled his .45 from his waistband, quietly placing it behind Taylor.

  Once the guard was aboard, the driver pulled away. He no longer saw any lights from the vehicles ahead. Smacking the steering wheel in anger, he swore. “Merda! Merda!” In his cracked, rearview mirror he glanced at the vehicle behind him, knowing he had to keep on schedule. The truck backfired every time he stepped on the gas, and trying to m
akeup time, he continued pressing the accelerator.

  **

  Inside the barracks, looking out the second story windows, the remaining SEALs and Grigori Moshenko could only watch as the truck disappeared into the night.

  Moore glanced at his watch, marking fifteen minutes. At the end of that time, if Grant and Russo hadn’t returned, he had to follow orders. But right now, they had to stop the last truck, search for any survivors, make contact with the guy in the AFN building, and hope there weren’t any more members of the group lurking around.

  “Excuse me,” Moshenko said, tapping Moore on the back.

  “Yes, sir?” Moore replied, as he pulled the sling of his M16 from his shoulder.

  “I must help you look for hostages. I will see that Tarasov and Rusnak remain here, out of the way. Please. . .let me help.”

  Moore hesitated for a brief moment. Although having met the Russian just a brief time ago, he felt as if knew him well, and after all, he was Captain Stevens’ friend. “All right, sir, but wait until we take care of the truck. I’ll have one of the men come get you.”

  Moshenko smiled and nodded. “I will go and give Tarasov and Rusnak the order to stay in the room.”

  Knowing they only had a few minutes to stop the truck before it pulled away, the SEALs cautiously but quickly came down the stairs. Rushing to the door, they split up and took positions on both sides, their weapons at the ready.

  Moshenko came hurrying down the stairs with his Makarov drawn, the rifle strap slung over his shoulder. He was anxious to help but realized he had to stay behind.

  The team kept their eyes focused on Moore, as he leaned toward the open door cautiously, then poked his head out. They were less than fifty feet from the target, but it was open ground, and the men in the truck had Uzis.

  Smoke was billowing from the truck’s tailpipe. The driver revved the engine, keeping his eyes on the lead vehicle, waiting for his passenger to give the go ahead to move.

  Hearing the truck’s engine revving, Moore gave the signal. Holding up his hand, he waved it forward, and the SEALs rushed from the building. They raced across the compound, splitting up and running in different directions, surrounding the vehicle.

  Two men in the bed of the truck spun around, shouting “Americani!”

  The driver jerked his head around, as the first shots rang out. Cranston and Womack fired back at the two in the truck bed, spinning them around from a spray of bullets.

  Moore and Simpson ran toward the cab just as the driver attempted to speed away. They needed to get information. Firing into the cab was not an option.

  Simpson ran in front of the truck, aiming his rifle directly into the cab at the same time Moore jumped on the driver side running board. “Stop!” Moore shouted.

  The driver hit the brakes, and both he and the passenger threw their arms up, screaming, “No! No!”

  Moore stepped down and pulled the door open, motioning for the driver to get out. He grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled him around to the back of the truck, purposely wanting to show him the two dead accomplices. He slammed the man’s body against the truck, making him yelp in pain.

  Keeping his eyes and one hand on the Italian, he shouted, “Paul, get the colonel and check out the hangar! Ken, you go find the guy in AFN.” He and Simpson would start the interrogation. . .somehow, using hand signals if they had to. “Craig, see if these bozos have a map up front.”

  Simpson looked on the dashboard then searched under the seat, finding a crumpled, hand-drawn map. Notes were written in Italian, but there were arrows pointing along a route. He smoothed the paper against the seat, then he rushed back to Moore. “Here ya go, Chief.”

  Moore perused the map with a smile. “Guess this is what we need, Craig, unless the captain wants anything further.” He slipped the paper into his pocket. “Help me get these two in the truck. Let ’em sit next to their two dead buddies.”

  Cranston and Moshenko approached the side of the hangar. With windows painted black, and no other way to give them a heads up, they were already behind the eight ball. More than anything, they worried what they might find.

  **

  They had been traveling less than five minutes, leaving the lights of the compound and the last truck behind them. But the going was slow, as the driver had to constantly swerve around potholes and deep cracks in the concrete surface, never repaired from previous earthquakes, and it probably never would be.

  If their situation hadn’t been so serious, the Americans probably would have found it amusing, watching the guards trying to maintain their balance, trying to prevent themselves from falling out the back of the truck, letting loose with what was probably Italian swearing and hand pointing at the driver.

  Grant was grateful the guards were distracted. It gave him just enough time to nudge Russo, getting his attention as he started sliding the knife from his sleeve, all the while keeping his eyes on Adler. Now was their chance.

  He stood slowly, trying to maintain his balance as the truck pitched from side to side, the bed creaking with every sharp movement. He edged closer to the guards, and with one swift move, attacked the one closest to him, ramming his knife in just below the ribcage.

  Russo was right behind Grant, ready to act. The guard started to jump up, when Russo grabbed him and jammed the knife into his chest, with a brief cry of agony leaving the man’s throat.

  A shot rang out. Grant spun around, watching the third guard tumble out the back of the truck.

  Waving a .45, Adler shouted, “Still have to cover your back, Skipper!”

  Stunned at the sound, the driver nearly drove off the road, as his eyes focused on the mirror, not believing what he was seeing. He hit the brakes, with the truck skidding to a stop, throwing Grant and Russo off balance. Just as he started reaching for the Uzi on the seat, he saw one pointing at him through the glass window.

  Taylor yelled, “Hands up! Hands up!” Whether the Italian understood the words or not, he threw the weapon to the side, and his hands up.

  Grant smiled broadly as he walked back to Adler, but he had more shit to do, and fast, hoping they were far enough away to lessen the sound of the shot.

  Cutting the rope from Adler’s hands, he ordered, “Get this truck off the road, and kill those lights! Vince! Pull that body off the road!” Russo jumped down. The body had tumbled into a ditch. He grabbed an arm and dragged it far enough from the road so it wouldn’t be seen, then he raced back to the truck.

  Adler cut the rope from the other men, pointing to Justin. “Get in the cab and go! You, too, Doug!”

  Justin and Taylor jumped from the truck and ran to the cab. Justin shoved the driver aside as Taylor jumped in the passenger side, grabbing the weapon off the seat.

  Shutting off the lights, Justin gunned the engine and drove into the field. With hardly any visibility, he drove over rocks, mounds of hard-packed dirt and broken branches. The steering wheel was nearly wrenched from his hands as the truck careened across a shallow ditch.

  Grant looked back in the direction of the compound. Not knowing if Moore had succeeded in stopping the last truck, he couldn’t take any chances. He shouted, “Go! Go!”

  Ten seconds later, the truck rolled to a stop. Justin immediately killed the engine and took his foot off the brake. Everyone kept low, staying motionless.

  “Vince. . .the radio.” Russo handed it to him, and Grant made his call. “Come in, Ray!”

  The response came instantly. “Ray here! We’re clear. We’ve got the truck.”

  “We’re coming back. Be there in less than ten minutes. Out.” Grant turned to Adler. “Let’s move.” Adler signaled Lang to get going, then he sat behind the cab. All the other men gave Adler and Grant some extra space.

  As they started past the body laying in the ditch, Grant said, “Hold it!” He jumped out of the truck. “Vince, give me a hand.” Picking up the body, they rolled it on the truck. “Go!”

  Grant walked to where Adler was sitting. Standing in fro
nt of him, he grabbed Adler’s shoulder with a firm grip. “You okay?”

  “I am now.” Adler took a breath, somewhat hesitant to ask as he looked up at Grant. “Did you find Colonel Moshenko?”

  Grant sat down, staring into the rugged, but tired face of his good friend. Resting his elbows on his knees he answered, “Yeah, he’s okay. He and the two Russians were hiding on the roof.”

  “All that time?”

  Grant nodded. “All that time.”

  “And what about the workers?”

  “Weren’t they with you?” Grant asked with surprise.

  Adler shook his head. “No. We were caught just as we were going inside the hangar when those bastards attacked. Most of the workers were around their tools and equipment near the barracks and the dig.”

  Grant studied Adler’s face for a moment before asking, “You got to know some of them, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. They were as friendly as hell, Skipper, always ready and willing to share anything they had, helping whenever they could.”

  “Look, Joe. There’s no sense worrying. We’ll find out soon enough.” He leaned back, unable to explain to Adler the worry he himself had when he first heard the news from Torrinson.

  Adler pulled his hat off and rolled it between his palms. He stared at Grant through bloodshot, blue eyes and with a half smile said, “Somehow I knew it’d be you coming.”

  “Damn right, Joe. Couldn’t trust anybody else!”

  They had been through too much together, on too many missions, knowing each other like the back of their hands. It turned into one of those moments when nothing else had to be said.

  Simpson shouted from the cab. “We’re back, sirs!”

  Grant and Adler stood. Looking over the rusted roof of the cab, they saw the SEALs waiting. Right there with them was Grigori.

  **

  As Justin pulled the truck in front of the barracks and shut off the engine, Grant’s thoughts were on Adler and his men. “Ray, you got anything hot for these guys?” he shouted at Moore as he jumped off the back.