For another two hours they huddled over a map, discussing a route, then went over final, critical details. Satisfied they’d covered and prepared for every possible situation, Simpson and Lewis drove the trucks to Motta, searching for gas, while Womack, Cranston and Russo organized their gear, checked all weapons and ammo.
Grant, Adler and Moore sat together. “I’m in on this one, right, Skipper?” Adler questioned, as he continued picking at the crusty leftover bread.
Grant nodded. “Roger that, Joe; need your EOD expertise for sure. Look, you’d better give your men the details. Even though they’re staying behind, they should know what we’ve got planned. And tell them they’ve got ‘guard duty’ until the admiral brings somebody in.” Adler pushed his chair back, then left.
When Simpson and Lewis returned with the vehicles, Grant had them secure the two Italians in the back of one. Grant took some pleasure in seeing the look on Rocca’s face when he discovered Castalani was still alive, realizing he’d been duped into giving up information.
With nearly a three hour drive ahead of them, they had to depart AFN no later than 1830 hours. It was imperative they searched the yacht and were on their way by 0130 hours. Imperative.
Chapter 20
Except for occasional drifting clouds, the sky was clear, winds were no more than eight knots, the evening cool, tranquil. Seawater lapped against boats in the marina and rocks that lined the quay. In the distance were the distinct sounds of cranes and heavy machinery from the commercial docks, where work never ceased, with the loading and unloading of cargo containers.
Grant, Adler, and the team grabbed their gear, then jumped out of the truck. Keeping his eyes trained on Castalani, Grant quietly said, “In bocca al lupo, men.” He gave a quick look at Russo, who nodded and gave a thumb’s up.
Seven men, dressed in cammies, faces streaked with camouflage paint, and rucksacks slung over their shoulders, silently crept in and out of a row of trees that encompassed a small park by the quay. Grant held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. He and his men were approximately two hundred yards from the main entrance of the marina, the only way for vehicles to access the docks.
Standing near a small wooden guardhouse were two men, smoking cigarettes, wearing simple uniforms of black pants, black jackets. They carried small Galesi Model 6 pocket automatic pistols with six shot magazines in side holsters.
Grant pulled out his NVG’s, and began creeping closer to the end of a pebble path leading to the quay. Most of the boats were under thirty feet, with the exception of three larger vessels moored along an outer dock.
As he knelt on one knee, he moved the NVGs side to side, until finally spotting the yacht, with the name “Sacco di Soldi” painted in black Italic lettering across its stern. The starboard side mooring lines were fastened securely to concrete pillars along the edge of the pier. It’s location was opposite the quay, making access to the Tyrrhenian Sea easy and quick.
Continuing to look through the NVGs, he scanned every angle of the boat, noticing dark curtains had been drawn across all windows on the bridge and lower decks, except for a sliding glass door at the stern. Rocca’s statement appeared to be correct. So far Grant didn’t see any guards or crewmen aboard. But that could change.
He scooted back toward his men. Barely whispering, he told them the location, pointing to the yacht, and the location of the marina guards.
Between them and the yacht was mostly open ground. They’d have to take advantage of any boats along the docks, ducking in and out of the shadows and structures as they made their way to the target. Grant briefly thought how much easier this would be with scuba gear. After all, water was the SEAL’s playground.
He and Adler would be the first to head out, with the remaining men following in assigned order, except for Russo who would stay with the prisoners. The SEALs had given themselves a max of twelve minutes to get everyone onboard.
Once their knives were secure in their leg straps, Grant and Adler drew their .45s from side holsters, and as quietly as they could, jacked back the slides. They couldn’t take a chance by depending solely on their knives, not without knowing for sure if or how many men might be aboard, still not fully trusting what they had been told. They had to be prepared if all hell broke loose.
Then, checking one more time, the two crouched low, and hustled to get to the first moored boat, a twenty-five foot cabin cruiser. Everything was relatively quiet along the pier. First impression was nobody seemed to be aboard any of the boats, but also realizing there was always a slim chance someone could be asleep below deck. They had to take that into consideration, and go into what Adler called, “stealth mode.”
Grant leaned around the port side, and seeing no one, he waved Adler forward. Crossing a short pier, they stopped, looked around, then made a dash to the yacht.
A teak gangway at midships undulated with the motion of the boat. Looking up toward the bridge one more time, Grant silently climbed up, with Adler following, walking backwards, watching both their backs. Stepping onto a narrow, teak deck, Grant pointed, and they began working their way toward the stern.
A single sliding glass door blocked their entry to the main deck. Reaching for a handhold, Grant gave a slight tug. Locked. They both peered inside the darkened cabin, crowded with upholstered chairs and couches, small tables with fancy, colored glass lamps that lined both port and starboard bulkheads. In the middle was a large round table, with six high-backed wooden chairs surrounding it. The outline of a ladder came into view at the forward section, leading up to the bridge.
Suddenly, a small light came on in the bridge. They jumped back, one on either side of the door. Grant held up a hand, with his palm facing Adler. Still hearing nothing, he cautiously leaned forward, seeing a man standing at the head of the ladder. He seemed to be stretching, as if he was just waking up.
Grant and Adler looked at each other, as if both were saying, Shit! Without any way to easily get inside now, their only option was to try to lure the guy out to them.
Grant reached for his penlight and flashed it twice toward the stern, signaling the team to hold their positions. Now he worried they would fall behind on their strict time schedule.
He holstered his weapon and started to reach for his knife, then hesitated. He couldn’t take a chance on any blood gushing from a wound, leaving evidence on deck. He pointed to Adler, making the motion of a “neck snap.” Adler gave a nod, then made his way around the starboard side, crouching below the windows, trying to get as close as he could to the bulkhead before slamming his palm against the window.
Grant backed up, stepping along the narrow port side deck, just around the corner from the door. He positioned himself with his elbows close to his side and forearms raised, his hands opening and closing in anticipation.
Another small light suddenly came on, this time in the cabin. They had no way to tell whether the man was still on the bridge, or already in the cabin. Until the lock on the glass door “clicked” and the door slid to the side.
Adler turned slightly, facing aft, preparing himself just in case. He had to take the chance, knowing Grant was ready and waiting. He gave the bulkhead a quick, sharp slap.
The man jumped, then stepped onto the deck cautiously, his head turning toward the pier. Grant leaned his head around the corner, spotting the Uzi. No ordinary crewman, he smirked.
There was only about four feet from where the man stood until he reached the starboard side… and Adler. Grant took a step from around the corner, then moved silently and swiftly. In nearly the blink of an eye, he reached around the man’s head, shoved the jaw to the right with his left hand, as his right hand held the back of the head, then in one swift, lightning motion, immediately snapped it back to the left. Hanging onto the sagging body, Grant softly called, “Joe!”