“Ray?”
“Yes, sir?” Moore handed an M16 to Cranston before walking to Grant.
“See if the shotgun mike is in there.”
Moore lifted out a black object that resembled a long tube, about eighteen inches in length, with a wire that ran from the handle to an earpiece. The opposite end had a “sight.” A collapsible dish opened around the mike in order to capture more sound. The directional microphone was called a “shotgun mike” and it was extremely sensitive.
“We’re good, sir.”
Grant nodded. “Joe says that can pick up a gnat’s fart,” he said, pointing to the mike.
Moore could see the worry on Grant’s face, even through the smile. “Ya know, sir, Lieutenant Adler’s right! Why, I’ve heard ’em myself on a couple occasions!”
“I’ll take your word for it. Here. Pack this Starlighter along with the shotgun mike in that rucksack. How’re the men doing on the weapons?”
“All the 16s and .45s have been checked out. They’re checking the extra clips. And Admiral Torrinson even got us each a medical kit.” Moore leaned closer to Grant and said quietly, “The admiral’s a good guy, isn’t he, sir? I mean, especially for an admiral.”
“Yeah, Ray, he is; after all, he’s one of us.”
“Right, sir.” Moore started to walk away, then turned back. “Sir, one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I know you’d like to have more of us on this one.”
“That's one of my concerns, Ray, not knowing what or how many we’ll be up against.”
“Well, sir, just remember. We may be few, but we are mighty!”
Grant nodded in total agreement. “I think you’d better write that one down!”
Moore’s head was bobbing up and down. “I will, sir, I will. That was pretty good, wasn’t it?” He backed away, nodding his head, then turned and joined the squad.
Grant watched his team, knowing what was ahead, thinking of a promise he makes to all his men, that “he would bring them back for another attack.” But all of them were aware that the mission always came first, then their safety, with his own safety always last.
The only difference with this mission was he had two friends who were involved. His friends were the ones who needed rescuing.
Totally absorbed in rethinking the jump and what they’d find on the ground, the sound of someone calling his name jarred Grant.
“Captain Stevens?”
“Yeah, Staff Sergeant?”
“Sir, Colonel Cummings wants you to know it’s forty-five minutes to DZ.”
Grant gave a quick look at his watch. “We’ll be ready.” He looked over at Moore. “Get moving, Ray.”
“Aye, aye, sir. All the equipment and weapons are ready, rucksacks packed.”
“What about the O2 bottles and reserve chutes? Good to go?”
“Affirmative, sir. We’re ready to suit up.”
“Then let’s do it.” Grant looked down the cargo hold, seeing Brewster motioning for him to come forward. “Be right back.” He rushed through the cargo bay to the flight deck, hoping Torrinson had something for him.
Grant slipped on the headset. “Admiral?”
“Okay, Grant, here’s what I’ve got. First, the agent out of Naples is Sam Fierra. He’s already in Palermo trying to make contact with the organization. Second, the embassy in Naples made contact with the Americans who work at AFN. Thank God they had to register with the embassy when they first arrived. Anyway, they’re all living in Motta, about fifteen minutes north.”
“That’s all I need, sir, except… ”
“Go ’head, ask.”
“Sir, any possibility the embassy could make contact again with one of the AFN guys?”
“Because?” Torrinson let the word drag out.
“Well, sir, our LZ is going to be about three klicks from AFN. That’s too far from Motta. I’m kinda hoping that guy could somehow get closer to us, bringing some clothes.” Grant could tell Torrinson was having some doubts, especially having a civilian involved. “That’s all he has to do, Admiral, then he’s outta there. Promise.” Grant heard what sounded like a sigh coming from Torrinson, and he tried to reinforce his reasoning. “We’ve gotta get into the compound, sir, and without any firepower until we find the hostages.”
“And just how’s he supposed to find you, Grant?”
“According to the satellite photo, there appears to be ruins of some kind. It’s the only one in that area, maybe an old church. We’ll meet him there.”
“And if there isn’t any meeting, Captain?”
Grant hesitated. “No answer at this time, sir.”
Torrinson shook his head, feeling unsettled. “Godspeed, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Grant left the flight deck. He paused for a moment, looking down the cargo hold at his men, who were sitting quietly, each of them in their own thoughts. That was the way it should be, had to be. Because once their boots hit the ground, they’d be a team, thinking as one, acting as one. But for now, they were individuals.
He walked by the row of jump seats. After changing into his jump gear, he sat down and latched his seatbelt. Remaining quiet, he just stared straight ahead. No matter how much he tried, how much he questioned, he couldn’t figure out why he was being affected this way, except for the fact that his two closest friends — and they were his two closest friends, considering the life he was leading — were in a life and death struggle.
He loosened his seatbelt, then slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, grinding a fist against his palm. He had just answered his own question. The fact was that he had no way of knowing if either of them were still alive, if they made it through the attack. Maybe it was something he didn’t want to admit could be possible. He chastised himself for even having the thought. It was time to change his goddamn attitude.
He was going to find them, find them alive, and attempt to rescue them. No, dammit, he thought. What the hell? Not attempt. He would complete the mission or die trying. Sitting back again, a corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Die trying. Jesus! Die trying? Damn straight!” he mumbled under his breath. The creed for Special Warfare Combatant-Craft crewmen crept into his mind. It seemed pretty damned appropriate: On Time, On Target, Never Quit.
Simpson and Moore sat opposite him. They muttered softly between themselves.
“So, whadda ya think?” asked Simpson.
“Don’t know, Craig. I mean, just look at him.” Moore tried to be nonchalant, slowly turning his head, looking across at Grant. “I guess it’s a lot different when you’re going on a mission and you know the faces, you know the people. Christ! We’ve gotta make this work.
“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
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.