Chapter 11
Joe Adler sat with his men behind the window of the cab, sitting on upside down old crates. Hemp-style rope held their wrists securely. Three guards stayed toward the tailgate, holding their Uzis close.
The Americans’ bodies were beat down to parade rest. They were looking pale and haggard. During the long ordeal, they’d been kept inside the old hangar, unable able to speak, or sleep, or eat. The reason behind this journey they were about to make was unclear. Adler constantly ran his mind around the idea that their being held captive was because of what had been brought out of the tunnel. But another very real possibility loomed. They were being held for ransom. Four U.S. Navy men, trained in explosive ordnance disposal. There was that possibility.
Adler kept his eyes on the men hurrying around the compound, some of them carrying old ammo boxes. They started piling into a line of trucks strung out in front of the one he and his men were in. Most of the shouting going on seemed to be coming from the lead vehicle, like orders being “barked.”
As engines started turning over, headlights and taillights came on. Trying not to be conspicuous, Adler tried to see how many other vehicles there were and what they were carrying, but it was impossible for him to make out. Within a couple of minutes, the lead vehicle drove off. It passed through the main entrance, then as its lights faded, another truck started moving.
Adler counted the time it took for the second truck to leave. Five minutes. He was distracted for a moment as two additional guards showed up, but he didn’t pay close attention to them as he tried to maintain his concentration.
Vince Russo looked up at one of the guards sitting in the truck. Speaking in Italian, he said, “We were told to take this truck.” The guards just nodded. They didn’t move from their positions, pointing for the two men to go farther back.
Russo stepped onto the truck bed. Grant climbed up after him, taking a look one more time behind him, making sure they were still the next to last truck in the caravan.
There wasn’t much room to maneuver, and they had to walk sideways to get past the guards, bumping against knees and kicking shoes. Keeping his head down, Grant sat opposite Adler, squeezing in between Russo and EOD Taylor.
Adler sat with his head lowered, paying more attention to what was happening with the vehicles and trying to ignore the new guards, until he noticed a pair of dirty, black boots, sticking out from under tattered trousers, directly in front of him.
Only raising his eyes, he settled his stare on hands holding an Uzi, strong hands with scars. His pulse quickened. He sat back, trying not to draw attention to himself, then he slowly lifted his head. Grant’s eyes were fixed on his, both men keeping their deadpan expressions, except when Grant gave a quick wink.
Adler gave a sideways glance at his men, then getting Taylor’s attention, he shifted his eyes back to Grant then back to Taylor, finally giving an inconspicuous thumb’s up.
The truck driver shifted into first, and the vehicle lurched forward, backfiring when he stepped on the gas, then it stalled. One of the guards jumped out of the back and ran to the driver’s side, shouting and waving his arms. In typical Italian style, the driver just shouted back, giving the guard the popular “up yours” hand motion — twice.
The other two guards were leaning over the side, paying more attention to the commotion than anything else.
Grant elbowed Russo before sliding his one leg back. Slowly, he reached under his sock, withdrew the knife, then slid it inside the sleeve of his jacket. Russo did the same with his. Seeing the guard hurrying to the back of the truck, Grant shifted the Uzi next to his right leg, within Taylor’s reach. Then, carefully, he pulled his .45 from his waistband, quietly placing it behind Taylor.
Once the guard was aboard, the driver pulled away. He no longer saw any lights from the vehicles ahead. Smacking the steering wheel in anger, he swore. “Merda! Merda!” In his cracked, rearview mirror he glanced at the vehicle behind him, knowing he had to keep on schedule. The truck backfired every time he stepped on the gas, and trying to makeup time, he continued pressing the accelerator.
Inside the barracks, looking out the second story windows, the remaining SEALs and Grigori Moshenko could only watch as the truck disappeared into the night.
Moore glanced at his watch, marking fifteen minutes. At the end of that time, if Grant and Russo hadn’t returned, he had to follow orders. But right now, they had to stop the last truck, search for any survivors, make contact with the guy in the AFN building, and hope there weren’t any more members of the group lurking around.
“Excuse me,” Moshenko said, tapping Moore on the back.
“Yes, sir?” Moore replied, as he pulled the sling of his M16 from his shoulder.
“I must help you look for hostages. I will see that Tarasov and Rusnak remain here, out of the way. Please… let me help.”
Moore hesitated for a brief moment. Although having met the Russian just a brief time ago, he felt as if knew him well, and after all, he was Captain Stevens’ friend. “All right, sir, but wait until we take care of the truck. I’ll have one of the men come get you.”
Moshenko smiled and nodded. “I will go and give Tarasov and Rusnak the order to stay in the room.”
Knowing they only had a few minutes to stop the truck before it pulled away, the SEALs cautiously but quickly came down the stairs. Rushing to the door, they split up and took positions on both sides, their weapons at the ready.
Moshenko came hurrying down the stairs with his Makarov drawn, the rifle strap slung over his shoulder. He was anxious to help but realized he had to stay behind.
The team kept their eyes focused on Moore, as he leaned toward the open door cautiously, then poked his head out. They were less than fifty feet from the target, but it was open ground, and the men in the truck had Uzis.
Smoke was billowing from the truck’s tailpipe. The driver revved the engine, keeping his eyes on the lead vehicle, waiting for his passenger to give the go ahead to move.
Hearing the truck’s engine revving, Moore gave the signal. Holding up his hand, he waved it forward, and the SEALs rushed from the building. They raced across the compound, splitting up and running in different directions, surrounding the vehicle.
Two men in the bed of the truck spun around, shouting “Americani!”
The driver jerked his head around, as the first shots rang out. Cranston and Womack fired back at the two in the truck bed, spinning them around from a spray of bullets.
Moore and Simpson ran toward the cab just as the driver attempted to speed away. They needed to get information. Firing into the cab was not an option.
Simpson ran in front of the truck, aiming his rifle directly into the cab at the same time Moore jumped on the driver side running board. “Stop!” Moore shouted.
The driver hit the brakes, and both he and the passenger threw their arms up, screaming, “No! No!”
Moore stepped down and pulled the door open, motioning for the driver to get out. He grabbed the man’s jacket and pulled him around to the back of the truck, purposely wanting to show him the two dead accomplices. He slammed the man’s body against the truck, making him yelp in pain.
Keeping his eyes and one hand on the Italian, he shouted, “Paul, get the colonel and check out the hangar! Ken, you go find the guy in AFN.” He and Simpson would start the interrogation… somehow, using hand signals if they had to. “Craig, see if these bozos have a map up front.”
Simpson looked on the dashboard then searched under the seat, finding a crumpled, hand-drawn map. Notes were written in Italian, but there were arrows pointing along a route. He smoothed the paper against the seat, then he rushed back to Moore. “Here ya go, Chief.”