At fifteen feet, Adler cut the engine and forced the prop out of the water, just as the Zodiac slid into the chopper.
The SEALs jumped out, grabbed their gear, and rushed forward. Grant and Adler drew their knives and slashed the Zodiac’s shell, and quickly shoved it into the sea. With the churning water, it wasn’t long before the boat disappeared.
The stranger standing with them made sure everyone was clear, then signaled the co-pilot with a thumb’s up. Immediately, the chopper started its vertical climb, briefly with its nose up, dumping the sea water from its “belly” as it rose.
The SEALs came together near the door, waiting for the final move, waiting for Grant to deal with Falcone and Castalani.
Grant turned his attention to the open starboard side door, his eyes zeroing in on the yacht. He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned.
“Captain Stevens?” the man inquired, as he took off his helmet and goggles, then tucked them under his arm.
Grant responded, “Yes, sir.”
“Jack Edwards, Captain.” The two men slapped their hands together in a firm, steady grip.
“Helluva pickup, sir!” Grant laughed. But before Edwards had time to say anything further, Grant said, “Wait one, sir. We’ve gotta put the period on this op.” He looked across at Adler. “Do it now, Joe.”
Adler stepped to the door and pulled the remote from his pocket. The size of a pack of cigarettes, the remote had a preset frequency, had a green button for safety, and a red for armed, with a toggle switch on the side for transmitting the signal.
They all stared at the yacht, first noticing a small yellow glow from somewhere deep below deck. Following in the blink of an eye, an orange-red ball of fire lit up the sky and sea with a horrific sound. The once glorious yacht was blown to smithereens, along with the men who had evil in their hearts.
Bits and pieces of flaming debris continued falling, scattering across the water. Within just a matter of minutes, all that remained of the “Sacco di Soldi” was a debris field, starting to spread, drifting on the current.
The SEALs turned away, moved closer to the forward section, then sat on the deck, glad it was over, and tired as hell.
Grant turned to Edwards, anticipating a question. He asked Adler over his shoulder, “No need to worry about the gas, right, Joe?”
Adler came closer. “Right, skipper. I made sure the canister was destroyed by wrapping it inside some C-4, so it should’ve been underwater, but whatever drifted into the air, I’m sure quickly evaporated. I know one of the ways to be protected is to be higher than the gas, which we definitely are.”
“That answer your question, sir?” Grant smiled at Edwards.
Edwards slapped Grant’s shoulder. “Appreciate what you all did for Agent Fierra.”
“It never should’ve happened, sir,” Grant responded, shaking his head. “Falcone was a bastard for taking him down like that.” Edwards nodded in agreement. Grant leaned forward, looking around Edwards, toward the cockpit. “Say, who the hell is flying this thing? We’re gonna have to buy all of you a drink one of these days!”
“You said you wanted somebody who could fly, and I couldn’t think of anybody more qualified than a friend of mine, Pete Davis. We flew together in Korea.”
“Well, he did one helluva job, sir! You all did. And I won’t even ask where and how you acquired the chopper!”
“Aww, c’mon, Captain. Just like you, we have our ways.”
Adler stood next to Grant, looking at Edwards, as he thought how lucky Edwards was. Compliments to Agency folks by the Skipper weren’t usually handed out easily or frequently!
“I’ll make introductions when we’ve got a spare minute,” Edwards responded, “but in the meantime, where do you boys want to go now?”
“Need to get Joe back to AFN, sir, then we could use a ride to Naples. Possible?”
Edwards turned and headed for the cockpit, saying, “I’ll see what I can do!”
EOD tech Doug Taylor received a radio call from a chopper pilot, informing him they were delivering passengers to AFN. With everyone still on alert after the attack, Taylor notified the marines to expect the arrival of a Chinook.
At 0250 hours, the chopper touched down in the compound. Even with the blades of the helo still rotating, the SEALs jumped from the open door, leaving their gear on board, and headed for the barracks.
Adler walked to the door and sat down, dangling his legs over the side, waiting for Grant, who was talking with Edwards.
Within five minutes, Grant finally met up with him. “Listen, Joe, Edwards is gonna wait while I put in a quick call to the admiral. You go see your men, then report back. If I’m not here, meet me in the tech’s office.” He slapped Adler’s arm, before running off to the AFN building.
Sam Wright put the call through, then left Grant alone. Grant relayed complete details of the op, ending with the demise of the yacht and its passengers.
“Okay, Grant,” Torrinson sighed. “Fill in your ‘dance card’ and come on home.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Jack Edwards is flying us to Naples. We’ll wait for a Space-A flight.”
“Negative.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll take care of it. You just check in.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.” A knock at the door, and Adler came in. Grant waved him over.
“Joe’s here, Admiral. I’ll let him give you a report on the tunnel and munitions.” Grant handed the receiver to Adler, then he left.
Leaning against the edge of the helo’s open door, Grant looked around at the compound, where just a short time ago, hell broke loose.
Keith Wagner arranged for the Diavoli dead to be taken away. Whether or not families were contacted, was up to the funeral home. Grant had no idea on Italian protocol for burials, and he really didn’t have concern about those men.
And as far as the injured, innocent victims, they were all accounted for in Catania, and would be released soon, returning to their homes.
The marines were still pulling duty, but for how long was still unclear. With the tunnel sealed and all munitions removed, the only security needed would be for the facility itself, and that should be at a minimum. The fence had yet to be repaired, security cameras would be installed, and marines were to be posted at the main gate, 24/7.
Grant turned to see Adler heading toward him. “Well, Joe, you fill in your AAR (after action report)?”
“Affirmative, Skipper. Had Sam put me through to command at Little Creek.”
“Now what?” Grant asked.
“Gotta get the stuff outta here. They’ve scheduled a couple of trucks out of Naples, coming across the Straits of Messina by ferry.”
“What about the canisters, Joe? They’re not going by truck, are they?”
“Negative. The commission’s flying in a team of experts. They’ll take the stuff outta here with a chopper, I guess. In any case, they’ll finally be out of our hands.”
“Any idea on how much longer you and your team will be here?”
“I’d say at least another week.”
Grant nodded. “I’ve gotta get out of here. Hang on a sec.” Jogging over to the barracks, he shouted to his men, “Let’s go! Your ride leaves in five minutes!”
Walking across the compound, Grant was followed by the SEALs and EOD. As they approached the helo, a sound of applause and whistles greeted them, as the men from AFN gathered around.
Unaccustomed to receiving any accolades, or any welcome home greetings, the teams were caught completely off guard.
After shaking hands and accepting thanks, Grant’s men climbed aboard the helo.
Edwards was standing by the door, and Adler reached up, offering his hand. “Appreciate what you did for us, sir.” Grant was nodding in agreement.