Grant started regaining consciousness, unaware of the cold, hard, rough concrete under him. His head throbbed. His body ached. He felt nauseous, dizzy. Just trying to open his eyes was difficult, and when he did, the room would spin wildly. Keeping them closed didn’t help much. Somewhere in the distance a horn blared, the sound penetrating his brain like a knife, and he clamped his hands over his ears, waiting for the sound and pain to stop.
Just as it subsided, he let out a moan, crossing his arms over his stomach, as sudden, excruciating pains made him ball up and roll on his side. He couldn’t prevent the vomit creeping up into his throat, then spewing out his mouth. Gagging, choking, he swiped a hand over his mouth and rolled on his back again. Sprawled out, he looked through half-opened eyes, trying to focus on the overhead, but dizziness prevented that. Even with his sweatsuit, low blood pressure caused chills to shake his weakened body.
Pure instinct made him attempt to get up, to move. Struggling, he rolled on his side again, then using every ounce of strength he could muster, he managed to get on his hands and knees. He wasn’t able to focus through the dizziness, but he thought he detected something ahead. A wall. He started crawling, barely able to stay in a straight line. But he had to get close, needing it for support, or else he’d never be able to stand. Beginning to feel nauseous again, he stopped and took some breaths.
The crawl seemed to take hours, but finally he reached out and touched the damp, rough, cinder block surface. He swallowed hard, trying to prevent puking. Pressing both palms against the wall, with his head hanging and eyes closed, he slowly, unsteadily started to stand, but his legs wanted to buckle. He leaned his forehead against the blocks, waited, then rolled on his back, spreading his legs apart for balance. Resting his head back, and keeping his eyes closed, he took short, slow breaths. Between the dizziness, constant puking, and low blood pressure, he wasn’t able to think clearly.
Then the pain picked up where it left off. He held his head with his hands, trying to stop the throbbing. Nauseousness struck, and he vomited again. His legs started giving way. Even before his body hit the floor, his world went dark.
Off and on during the next two hours he’d become semi-consciousness. The vomiting had all but stopped, when bouts of dry heaves picked up where they left off. With each attempt to stand, his legs would give out. He was weak, dehydrated, but at least the dizziness wasn’t as intense.
His conscious moments were brief, hardly long enough for him to figure out where he was. His brain captured distorted snapshots of pipes, ductwork, and wires hanging high above. Lights came and went, shining through an overhead window. Gradually, those lights no longer caused eye pain.
But he was still too disoriented to question, nor did he understand that everything he was going through was from the drugs wreaking havoc on his mind and body.
Slowly, he started coming around. The dizziness and nauseousness had begun to subside. He took long, deep breaths, trying to clear his brain, but instead, he inhaled a sickening, acrid odor. Dried vomit on his sweatshirt, on the concrete. He immediately rolled on his back, but his arms were caught under him. Struggling was getting him nowhere. Then his brain finally registered… his wrists were tied.
“What the…?!” His voice was hoarse, his throat raw, both caused by the vomiting and dehydration. He laid still, running his tongue over dried, cracked lips. Swallowing was nearly impossible due to lack of saliva.
A noise off to his left. Then a small light came on, nearly blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut, when he heard a voice. “Well, finally awake, I see.”
Squinting, he turned his head left then right, but he couldn’t see anyone. A moment of dizziness, and he went still. Then, he tried sitting up, without success. A sound of footsteps coming closer, then something scraping against the floor.
“Need some help?”
Grant blinked, trying to clear his vision. When he looked to the side, who he saw left him dumbfounded. “Jack?!”
Without responding, Jack Henley reached under Grant’s arm, helped him up, then held onto him until he sat unsteadily in the wooden chair. Immediately getting down on a knee, Henley picked up a piece of rope, then quickly lashed Grant’s legs to the chair.
Henley came around to the front, staring down at Grant. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Dizziness overtook Grant, and his head rolled back. He opened his eyes wide, and he looked again at Henley, trying to understand. “What …?”
“Here. You look like you need a drink.” Henley unhooked a canteen from his belt, then unscrewed the top, letting it hang from a small chain. He held the canteen to Grant’s mouth.
Grant swallowed enough water, then coughed, but even plain water sent his stomach churning. His brain started functioning better, but it didn’t clear his total confusion or answer the question: why the hell didn’t Henley untie him?
Henley screwed the top back on the canteen, then dropped it on the concrete. Grant flinched from the sound.
“Jack, what… what’s goin’ on?!” His voice sounded gravely, but he answered his own question when his eyes fell on a Beretta tucked in Henley’s waistband. “Jesus Christ, Jack! You’re… ‘Primex’?!” He nodded to himself, as he understood the code name: Primary explosive. EOD. Henley was in charge of the EOD team at St. Mawgan, England.
Henley drew the weapon from his waistband, then held it behind his back. “Finally pulled one over on the ‘great’ Grant Stevens.”
Grant was beyond surprised, trying to understand Jack Henley. When they met in England, after all the years that had passed since they graduated from the Naval Academy, Henley made some statements to Grant with a hint of jealousy attached. But this… this was beyond reason. There had to be more to it. “Why, Jack?!”
Henley started his story. After resigning his commission, he returned to the States from England. Even though he was angry, lonely, and discontented, he took a job with the Department of the Navy as a paper-pusher, but a job. He had access to top secret information and was responsible for signing off on paperwork for the development of new weapons.
After a few months on the job, someone in his office approached him, probably from hearing his disgruntled comments on procedures, the Navy, and government in general. The two met several times before his new “friend” made a proposaclass="underline" help provide information to the Russians on the upcoming delivery of top secret rifles.
Grant found it difficult to take in what Henley was telling him, part from the drugs and part from total disbelief. Apparently, Henley hadn’t even questioned the motives of the individual, nor did he even wonder if it could be a setup. The guy could’ve been FBI, CIA, Naval Intelligence. Instead, Henley jumped at the offer.
Then Henley added more to the unbelievable story. “Rumors started circulating about an ‘off the books’ team who made a daring rescue of two SEALs captured by the ChiComs. And you know what? Your name kept cropping up.” He waited, expecting some kind of response or reaction from Grant. Nothing. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”
Grant tried focusing on Henley through squinted eyes. “You must’ve had a million chances. Why not sooner, Jack? Just me! Four… four good men died because of this fuckin’ deal you made!” He coughed, and forced a swallow.
“You’re so fuckin’ right! And if it wasn’t for my ‘associate,’ I would’ve. Believe me. But he insisted I wait until the operation was completed.”
“Who… who was the asshole?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yeah. I would. What difference does it make? I have a feeling it won’t matter.”