“Only the Americans. We were all notified by the embassy, then we had a short meeting at my house. But I volunteered since I had one of the biggest vehicles in case you needed transportation.”
Grant nodded, then extending his hand, he shook Wagner’s, before saying, “Look, you’d better head back. I’d advise all of you to not leave Motta and stay out of sight. Right now we don’t have any idea what that group is planning. When it’s all clear, somebody from the embassy will probably contact you. Just keep that handy,” he said, pointing to the radio.
“Oh, I will, I will.”
Grant put a hand on Wagner’s back, gently pushing him toward the doorway.
Wagner turned around with a concerned look on his face. “Captain, any idea what’s happened? Do you think everyone’s okay?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, Keith. Now, go.”
“In bocca al lupo,” Wagner said, with a wave of his hand.
In the background, Russo gave an immediate response, “Crepi, Mr. Wagner!”
Once they were alone, Grant’s curiosity got the best of him. “Vince, what the hell was that all about?”
“Oh, you mean what Mr. Wagner said?” Grant nodded. “Well, sir, ‘in bocca al lupo’ is sorta like when someone says ‘buona fortuna’ meaning ‘good luck.’ Except it’s, well, it’s a more powerful wish, I’d have to say, one that’s more profound, intense. Translated it means ‘in the mouth of the wolf,’ sir.”
“And you answered…?”
“‘Crepi’ means may he die. It’s good when the wolf dies! Right, sir?”
“Roger that, Vince! Roger that,” Grant smiled, as he walked over to the bundle Wagner brought and started untying the rope. He pulled out a large paper bag that had been placed on top of the clothes. Opening it, he inhaled deeply, smelling the freshness of bread and probably some kind of dried meat. He turned it over to Moore. “Here ya go, Ray. See that everybody gets some. In the meantime, I’ll change into these. And Vince,” he said as he tossed the other set of clothes to Russo, “put these on under your cammies.”
“Aye, sir.”
The work clothes the civilian brought were clean, but it was obvious they were close to being worn out. That’d make it all the better. He slid his K-bar into the leg strap, a knife that had been with him since Vietnam. Then he put his cammies back on, shoving a frayed, black wool cap inside his shirt.
While they ate, the men sat on blocks of discolored, rough stone that had once held up the north wall of the church. Grant reminded everyone, “Have a feeling nobody at the base has eaten much, if anything. Let’s make sure there’s some left.”
Twenty-five minutes later, with earpieces adjusted, rucksacks on their backs, and rifles hanging off their shoulders, they started their journey. Their rescue mission to AFN would be across mostly open ground.
Somewhere east of them, there was a slight sound of water, a river, possibly flowing toward the city of Siracusa on the coast. With the route they were taking, they were far off any kind of road. The quiet almost seemed surreal.
Most of the fields they traversed were fields where wild, summer wheat had flourished. Now the soil was in fallow, waiting for spring and another crop. The soil was dark and rich, so rich they could smell it, and in some places, still soft beneath their boots.
Grant stopped, held up his hand, then waved the team toward him. “Time to check the map. We’ve gotta be getting close.” Having the men gather around him, he knelt on the ground and flattened the map, then he pulled his penlight from his pocket, tracing their route with the light. He folded the map and dropped it in the rucksack. Turning forty-five degrees, he focused on a ridge and pointed. “It should be just beyond that small ridge.” He looked overhead. The sky was still clear, filled with stars. Small blinking red lights from an aircraft high overhead, set on a northerly heading, were clearly visible.
He slipped his penlight into his pocket. “Okay, if anybody needs to take a ‘whizz,’ you’d better do it now.”
They all rushed off in different directions. Womack was the last one to return, carrying his camouflage hat, more commonly know as a “catch me/screw me” hat. Turned upside down, it was filled with wild figs. “Found these in that clump of trees.” He licked his lips. “Sweet!”
Everybody reached for the sugary fruit, with Moore hesitating, as he asked, “Say, Ken, which hand did you use to pick these?”
“The opposite one, Chief,” he smirked.
The fruit was gone; the break was over. Adjusting their rucksacks, they quickly picked up the pace, and twenty-five minutes later, they were at the base of the ridge. It wasn’t very high, less than thirty feet, but the angle was steep. They started their climb, brushing aside thick undergrowth, skirting around boulders. The ground was solid here, no soft soil, completely different from their trek since leaving the church.
Looking toward the top, Grant noticed a glow from lights on the other side. They all stopped, waiting for any sound coming from that direction. Nothing.
He motioned everyone forward. They crouched low and with only a few feet left until they reached the top, they stretched out on their bellies and crabbed their way to the peak. Peering over the edge, the compound came into view, about seventy-five yards away from the base of the ridge. An eight-foot high, chain link fence surrounded it, with the closest building about fifty yards beyond it.
Grant reached for the Starlighter. He mentally identified the buildings he’d seen in the photographs. At the far back, on the west end, was the main building where the network system was installed. He moved the scope along its outer walls, seeing there weren’t any windows, not even in the door.
Then he continued searching the inner compound area, spotting Grigori’s chopper. He couldn’t see any guards near it, and the side door appeared to be secured. He lowered the scope briefly, looked for another place to zero in on, then raised it again. Small flatbed trucks were lined up just beyond the chopper, about six, and what looked like a small car in the lead. They were pointing in a westerly direction.
He spotted the dig site where a light was shining from somewhere inside. Moving the scope back and forth, he noticed men walking to and from the trucks, some climbing out of the tunnel. But there wasn’t any sign of EOD or Grigori. And it was still impossible to tell how many infiltrators were still there.
Putting the scope back in his rucksack, he quietly said, “We’re aiming for that section of fence,” he pointed, “dead center of the building. Two at a time. Keep your eyes open.”
Grant and Moore were the first to start down the hill. Crouching as low as they could, they moved slowly, their heels digging in, preventing them from skidding down too quickly. Once they reached the bottom, they didn’t stop moving until they reached the fence line.
The rest of the team joined the two quickly, then they positioned themselves close together, laying in the thick, damp foliage, just outside the chain link fence.
They listened for any kind of sounds, watching for any movement. From their location, they could only see the building they assumed was the barracks, with the hangar west of it.
After ten minutes, Grant signaled for the men to split up to make a recon. They had to know what options they had and how much they were up against. Within seconds they disappeared, silently blending into the surroundings.
Grant started scanning the perimeter of the building. As he glanced up to the roof, something caught his attention. “Ray, hand me the scope.” He zeroed in on the spot where he thought he had seen movement. Nothing. Continuing to move the scope, following along the edge of the roof, he suddenly stopped. He smiled and whispered, “Grigori!” He silently questioned why he hadn’t seen Moshenko from the ridge. A second later, Moshenko had moved on, continuing his own recon.