When Adler was finished, Grant stood in front of Falcone, with legs apart, arms folded across his body, taking the “in charge” stance. He stared down at the man who had Agent Sam Fierra killed for no apparent, freakin’ reason, after Fierra was merely trying to give the weasel a head’s up. Grant would never be able to figure that out, never understand the bullshit reasoning by “Mafia man.”
With the power he held for so long, controlling so many of his “soldiers,” Falcone had probably never seen an intimidating look before. No one had ever dared. But he sure as hell was seeing one now from the brown, penetrating eyes of Grant Stevens.
Grant gave a quick, slight jerk of his head toward Russo, who knew that was his queue, and he stepped between the two chairs.
The speech had been memorized and would be brief: “Signore Falcone, we have given you Signore Castalani as promised. We thank you for allowing us to retrieve what was stolen by him from the American compound.” Both Italians thought their hearts would burst through their chests, blood pounded against their eardrums, the fear escalating rapidly.
Russo looked from one man to the other as he continued: “But we were saddened to learn that Agent Sam Fierra’s death was from unnatural causes and not accidental. Therefore, signori (gentlemen), we must do what is necessary. We are not sure if either of you will completely understand this. . .but it is payback time.”
Castalani’s eyes started to roll back in his head, until Russo snapped a finger against his cheek. “Don’t think so, Mr. Castalani. You’re gonna be awake for this!”
Grant waved Adler forward as he stepped toward the windshield, drawing the curtains aside. “Boatswain’s Mate” Joe Adler stood before the wheel, checking that both starboard and port running lights were on. Then he turned the key and primed the engines. He pressed the button, and the powerful twin engines roared to life.
Moore was standing on the aft deck, waiting for Grant’s okay. Once he got the nod, he immediately signaled Cranston and Womack to use their knives to slice through the lines, then he came forward to the bridge.
Adler moved the throttle slowly forward, and the yacht started on its journey into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Watching from the guardhouse, the two security men merely glanced at the yacht leaving the harbor, hardly giving it a second thought. It wasn’t anything unusual for Don Falcone to take his yacht for midnight cruises. They turned their backs from the pier, each lighting up a cigarette.
**
Grant stood on the bridge, with a hand resting on the handle of the .45 in his holster. He briefly glanced at his watch, the right side of his mouth curving into a smile. They were ahead of schedule.
He looked at Adler handling this large craft as easily as he handles his ’67 Ford Mustang. Then he glanced at the two Italians, staring wide-eyed at each other, wishing he could get into their heads right about now. What the two didn’t know was they were in for an even bigger surprise, a bigger rude awakening.
Chapter 21
Leaving Palermo Harbor
The Tyrrhenian Sea, a smaller water body of the Mediterranean Sea, was bounded by the islands of Corsica and Sardinia to the west, with mainland Italy’s regions of Tuscany, Lazio, Campania, Basilicata and Calabria to the east. Its maximum depth was twelve thousand four hundred eighteen feet.
The yacht “Sacco di Soldi” was cruising out of Palermo harbor, with a destination somewhere in the Tyrrhenian Sea. She was on a northeast heading, with coordinates 38N 13E, about four miles off the coast of Sicily.
The yacht cut through a wide, trailing wake of a cargo vessel now off its starboard bow, slowly making its way to the docks. Within minutes, she was clear of the harbor, and Adler pushed the throttle forward again. The bow started rising from the sea, as he accelerated the boat to her top cruising speed of fifteen knots. Once she reached that speed, he eased back slightly on the throttle, and her bow settled down.
Grant turned to Moore. “Ray, prepare the boat for launch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Moore signaled for Simpson and Lewis to follow him to the forward deck.
Simpson cranked up the motor of the hydraulic winch, swinging it starboard until the hook hung over the nine foot, white Zodiac. Keeping his eyes on Moore for directions, he lowered the hook until Lewis was able to reach it, finally attaching it to the boat hook. All they had to do was wait for Grant’s order to launch.
Russo stood next to Grant. “Anything else you want me to do here?”
“Why don’t you remove the tape from our friends’ mouths, Vince? Nobody’s around to hear whatever they might say or yell.”
Russo grabbed a corner of the tape on Castalani and ripped it off, then did the same to Falcone.
The Mafia boss jerked his head back and winced, then ran his tongue across his lips several times. Staring at Grant through dark eyes, he let loose with a string of Italian verbiage.
“Not happy?” Grant smirked. “Don’t think I heard anything in there with the word ‘lupo,’ Vince.”
Russo laughed. “You’re right about that, sir. He sure as hell hasn’t wished us any luck! And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not translate the rest.”
“You’re excused, Vince.”
Grant took off his cammie hat, then stepped out the port side door and stood by the rail. Wrapping his hands around the smooth metal, he looked down at the seawater rushing by, feeling the cool breeze. He leaned slightly over the rail, then turned his head as he looked toward the bow. The boat hit a slight swell, and a spray of seawater splashed against his face. Wiping a hand across his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then let his eyes roam across the sky.
There were times he missed being at sea, being aboard one of “Uncle Sam’s” ships. Although, as a SEAL and since working for NIS, he still found himself above and below decks of an assortment of vessels. He lost count of the number of destroyers, cruisers, subs, and carriers he had to take care of business aboard.
Scanning the immediate world around him, he only saw blackness, unable to distinguish where sea met sky. Running lights from other vessels were nowhere to be seen. It was a perfect night.
“Approaching our coordinates, Skipper,” Adler said over his shoulder.
Grant walked onto the bridge, smoothed back his hair, and put on his hat as he closed the door. “Vince, have Paul and Ken help you gather up our gear, then standby starboard side.” Russo climbed down the ladder and maneuvered around the furniture in the cabin.
Adler checked his coordinates, then started easing back on the throttle until they were moving at barely five knots.
“Here,” Grant said, reaching for the wheel. “I’ll take over while you go do your thing below deck.” Adler gave up control and left.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grant reveled in seeing the two Italians squirming in their chairs, trying desperately to loosen the bindings that securely held them in place. Now they were both shouting, not at each other, but something more along the lines of panic.
A short time later, Adler returned to the bridge, with Grant asking, “Got the remote?”
Adler patted his top pocket. “Safe and secure.”
“Guess it’s time,” Grant commented, easing back on the throttle until the engines started sputtering. He turned the wheel hard to port as fast and as far as he could. The yacht responded, beginning to travel in a large circle, as Grant held on. It wasn’t going to matter if it started drifting on the currents. How far and where could it go, after all?
Without waiting for Grant to ask, Adler picked up a role of duct tape. Running a piece around a metal spoke of the wheel several times, he then fastened the longer end to the wheel housing by running it completely around the metal surface at least five times, finally ripping the piece from the roll. He dropped the roll in his rucksack, then seeing a section of rope, he muttered, “May as well not take any chances.” Using the rope, he tied the wheel as a precaution. Finally, he said to Grant, “Think we need to make haste.”
Grant shouted to Moore, “Ray!
Lower that boat starboard!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Come on, Joe.” Adler grabbed his gear and followed Grant through the main cabin, then went to starboard side. “Ken, Vince, go forward and grab that line. Pull that boat here.” He pointed to the opening in the railing where the gangplank had been. Swiveling his head, he saw the short ladder, resting against the stern’s bulkhead. He ran to retrieve it. From the bridge, he heard panic shouting, maybe screaming was more the word. It was like music to his ears.
Once the Zodiac was hovering just above the water, Russo signaled the three men manning the winch on the upper forward deck to give him more slack. He grabbed the rope that was fastened near the outboard engine and began pulling the boat along the side of the yacht until it was below where Grant was standing. “A little more slack,” he shouted. “Okay, hold it!”
Grant leaned past him and attached the ladder to the side of the yacht. “Joe, you’re driving.”
Adler climbed into the Zodiac. He grabbed the end of a rope attached to the bow and tossed it up to Grant, who wrapped it around the rail. Adler had Russo tie off his end.
Once the boat was secure, Adler released the hook, signaled Moore to haul the cable out of the way, then he took up his position by the outboard motor, and started the engine.
Within a matter of seconds, everyone had gathered along the starboard deck, passed the gear to Russo, then one by one they climbed down into the Zodiac.
Grant took one more look up at the bridge before getting into the boat, stepping around gear stacked down its middle, taking a position on the starboard side.
With everyone kneeling around the Zodiac’s perimeter, ready to end this mission, Grant gave the order. “Release the lines! Kick it in the ass, Joe!”
**
The Zodiac flew across the water, spraying seawater over everyone. Every so often it would hit a slight swell with a loud “thump,” as it bounced across the wave.
They were already nearly a thousand yards from the yacht, when Grant looked back through his Starlighter, satisfied the vessel was still on its circular course.
“Slow as you go,” he shouted to Adler. He pulled his penlight from his pocket, then took a time check. “Keep your eyes out, men.”
Everyone began searching the sky, waiting, listening, when Simpson called out, “Two o’clock!”
They all turned, focusing on a bright light in the distance. It continued moving toward them, with the noise getting louder, a distinct sound of chopper rotors.
“Move it, Joe!” Grant slid the scope into a rucksack, then lit off one of the pencil flares, waving it side to side, high overhead.
The Chinook started descending, rotating one hundred eighty degrees, until the “ass end” was facing the Zodiac. Inside the cargo area the lights were on. The chopper was now low enough that someone could be seen standing close to the end of the ramp, someone signaling with a flashlight. The chopper continued descending.
“Joe! Get her lined up!” Grant shouted.
With the noise from both the chopper and the engine of the Zodiac, Adler shouted practically at the top of his lungs, “Gutsy move, Skipper!”
Moving in closer from their hundred yard position, they were now seventy yards away when the ass end of the chopper touched water. The pilot raised the nose slightly, at the same time pushing the stick forward, but barely. More seawater rushed into the open bay.
The man in the helo flashed the word “go” in Morse Code. Adler turned the handle of the throttle, steadily aiming the boat dead ahead.
Hanging onto the rope circling the top of the Zodiac, the SEALs leaned forward, steadying and balancing themselves as the boat rocked from the rotor wash kicking up the sea around them. The rocking grew more violent the closer it got, but Adler held steady.
With the Zodiac less than fifty feet away, the man inside the chopper lowered himself into a half crouch, trying to peer through the heavy spray of water being kicked up. Water already covered the lower part of his black boots. Hanging onto a rope secured to the inside bulkhead of the helo, he was prepared to jump out of harm’s way at the snap of a finger.
At fifteen feet, Adler cut the engine and forced the prop out of the water, just as the Zodiac slid into the chopper.
The SEALs jumped out, grabbed their gear, and rushed forward. Grant and Adler drew their knives and slashed the Zodiac’s shell, and quickly shoved it into the sea. With the churning water, it wasn’t long before the boat disappeared.
The stranger standing with them made sure everyone was clear, then signaled the co-pilot with a thumb’s up. Immediately, the chopper started its vertical climb, briefly with its nose up, dumping the sea water from its “belly” as it rose.
The SEALs came together near the door, waiting for the final move, waiting for Grant to deal with Falcone and Castalani.
Grant turned his attention to the open starboard side door, his eyes zeroing in on the yacht. He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned.
“Captain Stevens?” the man inquired, as he took off his helmet and goggles, then tucked them under his arm.
Grant responded, “Yes, sir.”
“Jack Edwards, Captain.” The two men slapped their hands together in a firm, steady grip.
“Helluva pickup, sir!” Grant laughed. But before Edwards had time to say anything further, Grant said, “Wait one, sir. We’ve gotta put the period on this op.” He looked across at Adler. “Do it now, Joe.”
Adler stepped to the door and pulled the remote from his pocket. The size of a pack of cigarettes, the remote had a preset frequency, had a green button for safety, and a red for armed, with a toggle switch on the side for transmitting the signal.
They all stared at the yacht, first noticing a small yellow glow from somewhere deep below deck. Following in the blink of an eye, an orange-red ball of fire lit up the sky and sea with a horrific sound. The once glorious yacht was blown to smithereens, along with the men who had evil in their hearts.
Bits and pieces of flaming debris continued falling, scattering across the water. Within just a matter of minutes, all that remained of the “Sacco di Soldi” was a debris field, starting to spread, drifting on the current.
The SEALs turned away, moved closer to the forward section, then sat on the deck, glad it was over, and tired as hell.
Grant turned to Edwards, anticipating a question. He asked Adler over his shoulder, “No need to worry about the gas, right, Joe?”
Adler came closer. “Right, skipper. I made sure the canister was destroyed by wrapping it inside some C-4, so it should’ve been underwater, but whatever drifted into the air, I’m sure quickly evaporated. I know one of the ways to be protected is to be higher than the gas, which we definitely are.”
“That answer your question, sir?” Grant smiled at Edwards.
Edwards slapped Grant’s shoulder. “Appreciate what you all did for Agent Fierra.”
“It never should’ve happened, sir,” Grant responded, shaking his head. “Falcone was a bastard for taking him down like that.” Edwards nodded in agreement. Grant leaned forward, looking around Edwards, toward the cockpit. “Say, who the hell is flying this thing? We’re gonna have to buy all of you a drink one of these days!”
“You said you wanted somebody who could fly, and I couldn’t think of anybody more qualified than a friend of mine, Pete Davis. We flew together in Korea.”
“Well, he did one helluva job, sir! You all did. And I won’t even ask where and how you acquired the chopper!”
“Aww, c’mon, Captain. Just like you, we have our ways.”
Adler stood next to Grant, looking at Edwards, as he thought how lucky Edwards was. Compliments to Agency folks by the Skipper weren’t usually handed out easily or frequently!
“I’ll make introductions when we’ve got a spare minute,” Edwards responded, “but in the meantime, where do you boys want to go now?”
“Need to get Joe back to AFN, sir, then we could use a ride to Naples. Possible?”
Edwards turned and headed for the cockpit, saying, “I’ll see what I can do!”
**
AFN
0250 Hours
EOD tech Doug Taylor received a radio call from a chopper pilot, informing him they were delivering passengers to AFN. With everyone still on alert after the attack, Taylor notified the marines to expect the arrival of a Chinook.
At 0250 hours, the chopper touched down in the compound. Even with the blades of the helo still rotating, the SEALs jumped from the open door, leaving their gear on board, and headed for the barracks.
Adler walked to the door and sat down, dangling his legs over the side, waiting for Grant, who was talking with Edwards.
Within five minutes, Grant finally met up with him. “Listen, Joe, Edwards is gonna wait while I put in a quick call to the admiral. You go see your men, then report back. If I’m not here, meet me in the tech’s office.” He slapped Adler’s arm, before running off to the AFN building.
**
Sam Wright put the call through, then left Grant alone. Grant relayed complete details of the op, ending with the demise of the yacht and its passengers.
“Okay, Grant,” Torrinson sighed. “Fill in your ‘dance card’ and come on home.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Jack Edwards is flying us to Naples. We’ll wait for a Space-A flight.”
“Negative.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll take care of it. You just check in.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.” A knock at the door, and Adler came in. Grant waved him over.
In the Mouth of the Wolf Page 18