While the wounded were being cared for then carried onboard, Adler was feeling relief for the help his friends would receive. But as he glanced over at Grant, he saw a concerned look, something was bothering him, and he asked, “Anything I can help with, Skipper?”
With the all too familiar stance, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, and head down, Grant responded, “Joe, we’ve gotta do something with the bodies; can’t just leave them.” They both went quiet for a moment, until Grant said, “Look, have the senior chief contact Keith. He’s the guy in Motta. There’s gotta be a funeral home or morgue.”
“I take it you’re just concerned about the Italians that were killed?”
“Yeah. I’d personally dig a hole for those other bastards. . .if I had the time.”
“So whadda we do with them?”
Grant looked down momentarily before responding, “Ask Keith to contact the local police.”
“Be right back.”
Grant stood quietly until Moshenko stepped near him. “I have a concern.”
Still keeping an eye on the wounded being put aboard the chopper, Grant answered, “Speak to me, Grigori.”
“What do I do with Tarasov and Rusnak?”
“Is that more of a concern than you going on an op with us?” Grant smiled.
Moshenko didn’t hesitate with a response. “Da!”
Grant thought for a moment. “Think if you left them here they’d be less trouble. EOD will keep an eye on them. Unless you want to lock them in their room.”
Moshenko thought about that briefly, then decided, “I think it best not to. They will not have any means to make contact with anyone outside.”
“Look, I just talked with Admiral Torrinson and informed him of your situation. He confirmed that he’ll call our secretary of state, who’ll have the responsibility of contacting your ambassador.”
Moshenko took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “How is Washington this time of year?” he asked through a tight grin.
“Why? You thinking about making a trip?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Moshenko replied, “Perhaps.”
Slapping his friend on the back, Grant said, “You love Russia too much, Grigori. But one day if you want to make that happen, my friend--you and Alexandra--you know that I’ll be there for both of you. I’ll help with all the power that’s in me, if and when that time comes.”
“I know, Grant. I know.”
Grabbing their hats, they shielded their eyes from flying dirt as the helo lifted off. One task completed, Grant thought, before he said, “Grigori, go give the comrades their orders, then hurry back. We’ll start loading up.” He spotted Wright coming towards him. “Sam, do me a favor. Go check to see if the admiral’s called.”
Adler mustered alongside. “Well, Skipper, where do we go from here? You got a plan yet?”
“Gut tells me those trucks are still on the road. They probably want to get to their destination before daylight.”
“So, whadda we gonna do? Fly over looking for a trail of headlights?” Adler smirked.
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Adler stepped back. “I take it you’re not shittin’ me.”
“Would I ever shit you, Joe?”
“I was kinda hoping this was the time. Oh, what the hell! I’ve got nothing better to do!”
“Didn’t think so. Look, we’ll use those two trucks, putting my men in one. . .”
“Guess you want them to think we’re still hostages, right?”
“Roger that. Russo can take the lead and ride with the one driver, Ray with the other.”
“What about us? You and me?”
“We’ll fly with Grigori.”
With a raised eyebrow, Adler said, “You really enjoy making this shit up as you go along, don’t you?”
“Part of my DNA, Joe. Keeps it interesting, huh?”
“Roger that!”
Grant punched Adler in the shoulder. “Give the men a quick and dirty, then get them going. Tell them to not burn up the road, though. We’ll keep in contact with them.” He looked past Adler seeing Wright waving. “Uh oh,” he said, as he took off running, yelling over his shoulder, “Hold the truck!”
Once Grant was in the office, Wright handed him the phone. “Stevens.”
Torrinson cut right to the chase. “Grant, you have a conversation with Jack Edwards?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s really pissed, Captain.”
“No more than me, Admiral. He’s. . .”
“Hold it! Before you go off half-cocked, he needs your help.”
Grant sat on the edge of the desk, glancing at his watch. “Needs my help?”
“Seems his agent Fierra’s gone missing.”
“Another agent gone missing?” Grant said, not afraid to hide his sarcasm.
“Yeah, well, remember, the last time you had something to do with it.”
Grant ignored the comment. “What am I supposed to do, sir? We’ve got a helluva lot on our plate as it is.”
“I realize that, but the last time he was heard from was right after he met with Falcone. He never checked back in with Edwards.”
“Shit!”
“Exactly. Now, all I can say is that your immediate concern is those canisters. Stay on track for now.”
“Sir, were you able to find out anything on what we’re supposed to do with them. I mean, how do we dispose of them?”
“All you can do is get them back to AFN. Let EOD finish the job.”
“But, sir, Joe said he was still waiting for recommendations on how to dispose of them.”
Torrinson let out a long sigh. “If you can get them back to AFN, we’ll just have to wait. It’s just critical we get them back in our possession.”
“Understand, sir.” Nothing Torrinson said put Grant at ease. “The men are ready, sir, but I’ve got to make a change to my original plan. Will be in contact somehow, sir.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
Grant handed the receiver to Wright. “You’d better stick close to your office, Sam.”
“Oh, believe me, I will!”
“We’re having the rest of the men from Motta come in, okay?” Wright nodded.
Grant’s mind was spinning as he rushed across the compound, meeting up with everyone. “Change of plans, men.” He turned to Moshenko. “Grigori, I need you to stay here. Joe and I will be going in the truck.” Without a word, Adler took off to retrieve the gear from the Russian chopper.
“There is nothing I can do?” Moshenko asked with disappointment in his voice.
“If that driver tries bullshitting us with bogus directions, I’ll call in. You’ll take Taylor and see if you can spot those other trucks. We may need help guiding us in.” Grant laid a hand on Moshenko’s shoulder. “Just don’t take any chances, you hear?”
“Of course,” Moshenko replied.
“And we may still need a way out, Grigori. You’ll be in ‘standby’ mode once you come back here.”
Adler stepped near the two, saying, “Excuse me, Skipper, but we’re ready.”
“Joe, tell Taylor to get a radio, scope and NVGs. He’ll go with Grigori when the time comes.”
“Roger.”
Moshenko grabbed Grant’s hand with a strong grip. “I will wait. Good luck, my friend.”
As they headed for the truck, they stopped in their tracks, feeling a rumble deep in the earth. Snapping their heads around, they stared as huge orange plumes of lava shot up from the volcano. Already, a path of scalding lava was cascading down the side of Etna.
“Oh, Christ!” Grant spat out.
“Not too freakin’ good, Skipper!” Adler yelled, as he jumped up on the bed of the truck.
Grant took one quick look at the mountain and shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”
Chapter 12
Northern Sicily
Near Grotta Mazzamuto
Just west of Golden Hill Terzo is Grotta Mazzamut
o, a mountainous region of rocks derived from the sedimentation of animal shells and skeletons in the seabed from the Mesozoic era. There are many outcroppings made up of volcanic rocks, many places suitable to hide almost anything. Even better was the fact that the Grotta Mazzamuto was uninhabitable. Only during daylight hours did hikers venture into the area, and only rarely.
Castalani had done his research, studied maps and personally investigated the best site for storing everything they had taken from AFN. And with a region so vast, so remote, the likelihood of their location being discovered was practically nil.
The rest of his plan was simple. Once the canisters and weapons had arrived safely, he’d drive to Palermo and advise Falcone of his accomplishment. He would leave it up to Falcone as to what he wanted to do from that point on.
**
Castalani and his bodyguards had been traveling for nearly forty minutes, when he suddenly shouted, “Lento! (slow) Lento!” There were no signs, no natural landmarks to indicate a turnoff, but he knew they were close just by the mileage. Shining his flashlight along the shoulder for about twenty feet, he finally spotted the upside down V he made months earlier with five large rocks.
The driver made a slow turn left, easing the car off the road. Castalani looked through the window, seeing a mere hint of headlights showing on the horizon, and knew the vehicle carrying the canisters was not far behind. Since all the drivers had the exact same instructions on how to find the turnoff, he was feeling more comfortable, more at ease.
“Stop and let me out,” he ordered. “You continue to the cave. I will ride in the truck.” He slammed the rear door of the Fiat, then watched as the car pulled away slowly, traveling at no more than fifteen miles an hour.
Over the next two kilometers it would have to traverse grass, dirt, rocks, and hills angled at twenty-five degrees in places. The car wasn’t built for this type of terrain. Caution was high priority.
As the truck approached, Castalani walked to the middle the road. Holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the headlights, he pointed with the other, signaling the driver to turn.
The driver, Paolo Conti, stopped the vehicle, unable to hide the surprised look on his face. “Is everything all right, sir?” he asked as Castalani got up into the cab.
Motioning with his hand, all Castalani said was, “Proceed.” He turned briefly to look at the tarp covering the steel containers tied down in the truck bed.
Five minutes later, Conti was still holding onto the steering wheel in almost a death grip. He leaned close to the windshield, trying to see through squinted eyes. “Very difficult,” he grimaced. Then his eyes went wide, seeing in his rear view mirror the scalding red hot lava shooting from Etna. “Look!” he shouted, indicating with a thumb over his shoulder.
Castalani turned around to look briefly. “Do not worry. We are more than one hundred miles from Etna. Pay attention to your driving.” He was right about the distance, since any ash from past eruptions was usually carried by winds to the south or east, and lava had never reached Palermo.
Just then the steering wheel jerked from the Conti’s hands as the ground started shaking. He slammed on the brakes. For a mere few seconds the two men could hear a rumble as the truck shook.
“My God!” Conti cried. He started to open the door, when Castalani grabbed his arm.
“No! What is the matter with you?” he shouted.
And just as suddenly as it had started, the quaking stopped. The men sat quietly, waiting and listening. Finally Castalani ordered, “Now, proceed!”
They continued driving into the blackness, with Castalani having Conti read off the mileage. When he heard what he was waiting for, Castalani held a hand in front of Conti, saying, “This is it.”
He got out of the truck, shining his flashlight back and forth in front of his path. Walking carefully, he aimed the light upward. Directly in front of him was a thick row of pines and underbrush. He proceeded up a slight incline, pushing aside tree branches, stepping over brush.
Once he was on the other side of the trees, in front of him was a huge opening in the side of the hill, hiding nothing but darkness. The light from his flashlight barely penetrated the opening.
He walked farther into Conza cave, stepping over and around large rocks, avoiding puddles of water. The depth and size of the cave gave added protection for storing the canisters and weapons, and for hiding the Americans.
He heard footsteps coming toward him, the light from a flashlight growing brighter, leading the way for the two bodyguards. They stepped closer, waiting for any instructions.
“Go start unloading the truck. Put the containers at the back of the cave. When the Americans come, be sure you position them directly next to the containers. One of you will stand guard over them, the other post yourself near the entrance. Keep an eye on the others as they unload the remaining trucks.” Both bodyguards just nodded, then left. They were men of few words.
Castalani slowly followed them. Making one last 360 degree visual inspection within the small confines of the flashlight, he started backing out of the cave. As he stepped through the trees, he saw headlights in the distance.
Conti was in the bed of the truck. He folded the tarp back, exposing the canisters. Shining a flashlight, he continued looking for kerosene lamps. He kicked the tarp into a corner, re-covering one of the steel canisters. Backing up against the wooden slats of the truck, he made sure he gave both bodyguards enough space to remove the remaining canisters.
When Castalani came near, Conti leaned over the side. “Will you be staying until everyone has arrived?”
“No, only until this one is unloaded. Once it is, I’ll take the car, then you leave with this truck. Those two,” he said pointing to the bodyguards, “know what to do.”
“How many others will be staying?”
“Bruno will decide who stays with him, but tell him no more than a total of six.”
“How long until you return?” Conti asked as he returned to his search.
“I should be back tomorrow, perhaps close to sunset.”
“Ah,” Conti said, holding up two lamps.
“Get one lamp into the cave.” Castalani looked again toward the oncoming vehicle as its lights got brighter. “That’s Bruno. His truck must be unloaded as quickly as possible.”
Conti lit a match, then touched the wick of the lamp before handing it to Castalani. Wanting to verify all information, Conti asked, “Do you want us to take the trucks to our homes or do you have another location?”
“Take them to my warehouse on the docks. The guards there have been informed. Now, take the lamp and stay by the trees. Get some light up there.”
Conti raised the lamp, trying to illuminate his path. Just then another rumble beneath his feet brought him to a dead stop. His body rocked from side to side, as he tried to maintain his balance.
Castalani was growing tired of Conti’s fear, especially for a man who had experienced volcanic eruptions and earthquakes throughout his life. The added pressure of the attack and knowing what was in the containers had undoubtedly jarred his nerves.
“You stop this foolishness, do you hear me?!” Castalani shouted. He had enough to worry about and only hoped he didn’t have to be concerned about any of the others. He turned his attention to the oncoming truck.
Chapter 13
Road to Conza Cave
Driving in complete darkness, constantly having to navigate hairpin turns, unsure of the accuracy of the map he was holding and of the directions given by the Italian, Grant was beginning to feel less comfortable. He scooted toward the edge of the seat, looking up through the windshield, hoping to get a bearing from the stars, but there was nothing visible, just complete cloud coverage.
Adler saw him out of the corner of his eye. “What’re you thinking?”
“Think we might need to call Grigori. Flash your lights for Vince, then start slowing down.”
Russo was keeping one eye on the driver, the other on the road, when
he saw the headlights. Immediately, he said to the driver, “Alto!” Motioning with his hand, he indicated for the driver to pull off to the side of the road.
Once they had stopped, Grant said to Adler, “Joe, go tell them why we’re stopping while I call Grigori.” Adler jumped out and jogged to the truck.
Grant picked up the radio. “Come in Doug. Over.”
“Doug here. Over.”
“Get Grigori.”
A second later, Grant heard the familiar voice. “Moshenko.”
“Grigori, need you to fly. Try to find that caravan. You have the destination. Contact me when you do. Copy?”
“Copy. We are on our way.”
Grant put the radio on the seat just as Adler got in the truck. “We good?” Adler asked.
Grant just nodded, then threw the map on the seat. “Enough of this shit. Think I need to pay a visit to that driver.” He reached down and pulled the razor sharp K-bar from his leg strap then jumped out of the truck.
Adler leaned out the open window and called, “You gonna pull an ‘Otto Neuss’?” Adler referred to an East German involved in one of their past missions.
Grant flashed a quick grin through the windshield. He stopped briefly by the bed of the front truck. “You fellas doing okay?”
The SEALs stood at the same time, looking over the side. Moore answered for them. “We’re good. What’s goin’ on?”
“Need to take care of some business with our Italian friend.” Grant continued walking around to the driver’s side. He yanked open the door, grabbed the startled man by the collar and jerked him from the truck. “Vince! Let’s go!”
Half pulling, half dragging the Italian, Grant took him to the opposite side of the road, then down the embankment, into the darkness. Jerking the man down to his knees, Grant pressed the knife against the jugular. “Vince, translate. Tell him no more games. I want accurate directions now.”
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