“Injuries?” Grant asked.
“Gunshot wounds. We got most of the bleeding stopped, but they need treatment pretty soon. They’re in there,” he indicated the barracks, pointing with his finger.
“And dead?”
“Two, sir. We put the bodies in the hangar.”
“Christ,” Grant said quietly, lowering his head. He despised the term “collateral damage,” thinking “innocent victims” seemed more appropriate, more compassionate. They were human beings. He looked up, blowing out a long breath, then he called, “Joe.”
Adler was standing behind him. He thrust his hands into his pockets, with a grim look on his face. “I heard, Skipper. I’ll go.” He walked off slowly.
Grant kept his eyes on Adler walking away, as he said to Moore, “Ray, get that tech. Go with him to send a transmission to Naples. Request a chopper to get the wounded out of here. Maybe there’s a carrier in the Med.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“One more thing, Ray. Did you find any of the attackers, dead or otherwise?”
“Two dead by the generators; assumed they’re the ones who cut the power; two by the fence line that were dressed like guards, four more that our ammo found its way into, and the two you and Vince took care of.”
“And there’re three more in the truck. Christ!” There wasn’t time for a decision on bodies. Then Grant thought about the bodies by the generator and the guards. Those men couldn’t have been killed by EOD. They were too far from the fighting. Somebody was tying up loose ends.
“Okay, Ray. Go.” Moore took off. Grant motioned for Taylor. “Craig, you got my gear?”
“In the barracks, sir. You want me to… ”
“No. I’ll go. I need to change outta these clothes,” he commented, looking down at the blood stain across the front.
Moshenko had stayed quietly out of the way, until Grant looked at him. “Come on, Grigori.”
As they walked into the barracks, Russo came rushing up beside them. “Sir?”
“What’ve you got, Vince? Anything else?” Grant asked, as he went to get his rucksack off a chair.
“They’ve got a cave picked out. I know the area a little. It’s called Grotta Mazzamuto. Its a very mountainous area, without any population, just some hiking trails.”
“Okay. Looks like that guy is going for a ride with us. Put him in the truck.”
Adler walked in, concentrating his stare toward the far wall, where the injured Italians were laying. His pace quickened as he spotted Luigi.
Kneeling beside the Italian, he spoke quietly, “Luigi, come stai?” (How are you?)
The now frail-looking man opened his eyes, and recognizing Adler, he smiled weakly and nodded.
“We’ll take care of you, my friend,” Adler smiled, patted the old man’s hand, then he stood and went over to Grant.
“How’s he doing?” Grant asked with concern.
“Looks weak, Skipper. They all look pretty bad. What are we gonna do for them?”
“I’ve sent the senior chief with the AFN tech to call Naples. If the fleet’s close, maybe they can get a chopper off a carrier. I think that’s the best we can do, Joe. If that doesn’t pan out, maybe we can contact a hospital. The closest one’s probably in Catania.” He laid a hand on Adler’s shoulder. “Look, let’s just wait for NAS, okay?”
Adler nodded, looked over his shoulder toward the wounded, then turned again to Grant, this time with fire in his eyes. “When we goin’ after those bastards?”
“We?”
“I know you’re going. Don’t even think about leaving me here, ’cause you know that won’t work.”
Grant’s mouth curved into a smile. “I know that as fact. But right now I’m ordering you to get some coffee and something to eat. You hear me?”
“Whatever you say.” Adler walked off slowly to the galley.
Grant was changing back into his cammies when Moshenko stepped near him. “Will I be helping you?” Looking directly into Grant’s eyes, he continued, without waiting for the initial answer. “I am sure you have something planned already, do you not?”
“I do, Grigori, and yes, I’m including you. I don’t give a flying fart what either of our government’s thinks or says.”
Moshenko leaned closer and just stared up at Grant. In his thick Russian accent and pronouncing the words slowly, he asked, “‘Flyeeng fart?’ What is this ‘flyeeng fart’?”
With a wide grin, Grant only said, “I’ll explain later.” He lifted his holster from the chair, slipped it around his waist, fastened the buckle, and readjusted his .45, when he heard Moore in his earpiece. “You need to come to AFN, sir.”
Grant took off running, pressing the PTT. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Naples bureau chief’s on the line.”
Grant didn’t know what to expect, but hoped the bureau chief had some good intel.
Moore had the door open. “Follow me.” Both of them took the stairs two at a time, finally reaching the second level. The door to the tech room was already wide open.
Wright looked up and handed the phone to Grant with a slight nod of his head. Introductions could wait.
“Stevens here.”
“Captain, Jack Edwards here. I guess Admiral Torrinson told you I might be calling.”
“Yes, sir, he did. But first can I ask if you had any luck getting a chopper for us, to pick up the wounded here, sir?”
“You were lucky, Captain. A carrier was heading to Augusta Bay. A helo lifted off not long ago. You should catch sight of it within a half hour.”
Grant gave Moore a thumb’s up before saying to Edwards, “Wait one, sir; let me pass the word.” He turned to Moore. “Ray, head over to the barracks; tell them a chopper’s on the way, maybe half hour. Have them do what they can to get those men ready for transport.” Moore didn’t hesitate and took off. Grant resumed his conversation with Edwards. “Sorry, sir. Have you got anything for me? Have you heard from your agent yet?”
“Agent Fierra still hasn’t contacted me, but you’ve gotta understand this isn’t an easy task. These ‘padroni’ (godfathers) aren’t usually willing to sit down and have chats with the CIA. It’s just something they have an aversion to.”
Grant dropped his hat on the desk and briskly rubbed his hand over the top of his head in frustration. Considering his past experiences with the Agency and his lack of confidence in it, he wanted to end the conversation, until Edwards said, “But, again, you may still have some luck on your side.”
“Why’s that?”
“Since Fierra is half-Sicilian and speaks Sicilian, he’s got a head start.”
“Sorry, sir, but if that’s all he’s got… ”
“Hold it, Captain! Let me finish, will ya?”
“I’m listening.”
“We suspect that Falcone doesn’t have a clue about this ‘Diavoli’ group even being in existence.”
Grant started pacing next to the desk, wondering how Edwards came up with that conclusion. “From what I understand, he’s head of one of the largest organizations in Sicily.”
“Yeah, he is. Doesn’t mean he knows everything.”
Bullshit, Grant thought. He got where he is because he does know everything. “Look, sir, my gut tells me he’s gotta know, but let’s assume for the time being he doesn’t. Does your agent plan to tell him?”
“Depends.”
“Did you say ‘depends’?” Grant’s voice went deeper and louder. “Depends on what?” He wanted to reach into the phone and shake the shit out of Edwards.
“Look, Captain, this conversation’s beginning to take a nasty turn that… ”
More freakin’ games, Grant thought disgustedly. “No, you look. We’ve got dead and wounded, innocent Italians. We just rescued an EOD team that this goddamn group took as hostage. Now, why do you suppose they wanted EOD? Do you have any clue what they took from here?” Grant heard nothing but silence from the other end of the line. “Whether Falcone knows or doesn’t know, hardly makes any damn difference. Those canisters are being taken someplace, and you’re wasting my time with this bullshit conversation.” He slammed the phone down. A second later he noticed the tech staring up at him. “You’re Sam Wright?” he asked, trying to force a smile, and extending a hand.