All that was left for them to do was wait… wait for the attack to begin.
Chapter 5
In the temporary barracks, located about seventy yards east of the AFN building, there was a single, glaring lightbulb in the galley on the first floor. Anyone staying here had to make due with the facility’s meager set up. The small propane tank, when it was filled, supplied just enough gas for the two-burner cooktop. There was an old sink, molded from concrete, that was probably from the war, and then there was what some would call a fridge, three cubic feet, incapable of retaining cold.
The men of EOD found it easier to drive into Motta, fifteen minutes away, to buy daily rations and just as easy to eat dinner there. Whatever food they brought back from the town was usually dried meats, cheese, and bread, anything that would last without refrigeration. And Italian pastries were always a definite buy, never lasting long enough to require refrigeration.
Adler and the EOD team occupied one large room on the second floor. The three Russians were given accommodations in a separate room, toward the back of the building, on the east end. In both rooms military cots had been lined up against the south wall. The setup was just like a typical military bunk room.
Adler sat on the side of his cot and yawned. “Okay, everybody, up and at ‘em!” He stood and raised his arms overhead, leaning side to side, trying to loosen muscles. Only in his late thirties, Joe Adler was beginning to feel the aches and pains from years of abuse inflicted on his body, from the training, the parachute jumps, the deep sea dives. "Wouldn’t have changed a thing!" he grinned to himself. He looked at his hands and wiggled his fingers. At least he had all of them!
“Come on! Up! Up!” he shouted as he flipped the light switch on and off.
Groans, early morning coughing, then feet hitting the floor meant the start of another day. They were all used to early reveille, any time around “oh dark thirty.”
One by one, Petty Officers Doug Taylor, Bill Lang, and Mark Justin slowly, and still half asleep, wearily dragged themselves to the only bathroom in the building across the hall. Water pressure was low and the current system couldn’t handle more than two showers at a time, so they had to take quick, three-minute, military-type showers, sometimes with cold water. The conditions were less than perfect, but they were just temporary as the men told themselves. They’d be on their way home in less than three days.
Adler put his hands on his hips and leaned back as far as his body would allow. Then standing up straight, he stiffly walked to one of two windows, rubbing away another patch of grime with the back of his hand. He was hoping to see some stars, hoping for a better day. Instead, there was just darkness. No stars, no moon.
Come on! All I’m asking for is maybe thirty-six hours of good weather. Can’t you just gimme that? he pleaded silently.
“Hey, LT, are we gonna have time for some eats?” asked Doug Taylor, as he was stepping into his green fatigue pants.
Taylor had already assumed what the response was going to be. Adler’s reputation for “chowing down” was well known throughout the EOD community. His friend, Captain Grant Stevens, referred to him as being built like a brick shit house. No matter how much or what type of food he ate, Adler’s weight never changed, always staying around one hundred eighty pounds, his 5’10” height supporting it nicely.
The rest of the team continued dressing, all the while grinning as they waited for an answer, keeping an eye on Adler as he went to his locker. He took out his green fatigues and finished dressing. Then he pulled out his holster from the top shelf and removed his .45, checked the clip, then slid the gun back in the holster, finally strapping it on his hip. Grabbing his barrack’s cover (hat) off the shelf, he headed toward the door. “Tell you what… you’re all confined to quarters until further notice.”
Toothy grins immediately vanished, and the men stood in the doorway looking at each other in disbelief, then back at Adler. “You can’t mean that, LT!” commented a disbelieving Bill Lang.
Adler pushed past them and started down the wooden stairs, grinning as he went.
“LT!” they shouted in unison.
Once he reached the bottom, he turned back around and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Come on, you pussies! And make sure you bring your weapons, not like yesterday morning!” He had to laugh as he heard the sound of pounding boots overhead.
An old, beat-up white bus drove into the compound, transporting several Italian construction workers from as far away as the small town of Santa Maria La Stella. Their work had come to a standstill when the tunnel had been discovered and work wouldn’t resume until the EOD team declared the area safe.
The area where the new water tower was being constructed had been completely cordoned off. But the Italians still showed up every day, managing to keep themselves busy with side projects around the compound.
The bus stopped in front of the barracks, and the workers got off, one by one, carrying their wooden tool boxes and paper bags with food. Giving sideways glances to the strange-looking helicopter parked inside the compound, they only briefly gave any thought to it, assuming the Americans would use it to transport the objects taken from the tunnel.
Luigi Nicosia smiled as he walked in and greeted Joe Adler. “Buon giorno, signore Joe!” Nicosia was a short man, in his early sixties, with thick, rough hands, and hair that was completely gray. Like many of his Sicilian countrymen, he had worked most of his life, starting at the age of eight, and he would continue to work until his body could take no more. It wasn’t always from the need to earn a living, but just from the love of being productive.
A smile on his weathered face quickly vanished when he noticed three additional men seated at the wooden table. The one in a Russian uniform got most of his attention. The Italian nodded at the three, then looked at Adler, anticipating an explanation.
“Mornin’, Luigi,” Adler said. Then he immediately added, “Luigi, these gentlemen will be visiting for a day.” Adler pointed at one and then the other Russian civilian. “That’s Comrade Tarasov and Comrade Rusnak.” The two men barely nodded in response. “And this gentleman is Colonel Moshenko.”
Moshenko stood and offered a hand to Luigi. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
Just the tone of Moshenko’s response eased the obvious surprise and tension the older Italian felt. Having lived through two world wars, the man usually did not feel at ease seeing strange foreigners in uniform on his country’s home soil.
“Buon giorno, signore,” Luigi said warmly, grasping Moshenko’s hand firmly. The friendly Italian noticed the Russian adjusting his Makarov pistol as he sat back down. The semi-automatic PM (Pistol Makarova) is a medium-size, straight blowback action, frame-fixed barrel handgun. The safety simultaneously blocked the hammer from contacting the firing pin and returned the weapon to the long-trigger-pull mode of double action when the safety was engaged. The Makarov was standard issue for the KGB and Russian military.
“Sit,” Adler finally said to Luigi as he indicated a chair next to him. He gave a quick nod and smile in Moshenko’s direction.
“Grazie, Signore Joe!” Luigi put his paper bag on the wooden table then pulled out a chunk of goat cheese. Slicing off a piece, he offered it to Adler, who gladly accepted it and popped the whole piece into his mouth. Luigi laughed. “Buonissimo, si?”