“Thinking the same thing myself, Ray!” Grant responded, nodding. He gulped down a last mouthful of the lukewarm coffee and tossed his cup into the trash. Looking beyond Moore, he asked, “Where’re the rest of the guys?”
Moore pointed over Grant’s shoulder. “There they are. Told them to pick up some boxed meals. They should’ve gotten a couple for you, too.”
“Appreciate the thought, Ray.”
Glancing at his watch, Grant was expecting to hear the call for everyone to begin boarding. Just as he bent down to pick up his gear, he heard over the loudspeaker, “Captain Grant Stevens, report immediately to Security. Captain Stevens, report to Security.”
“Uh oh,” Moore said, giving Grant a quick glance. “You want we should stay here, sir?”
“If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come to Security. I’ll leave my gear with you.”
He started pushing his way through the crowd, looking for the Security Office, finally spotting a rectangular sign above an entrance to a hallway. Turning a corner, he jogged along the tiled flooring, his footsteps echoing as he ran. All he could think was, Jesus! What the hell's goin' on now? Another sign at the end of the hall had a red arrow pointing to the upper level. He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
At the top of the staircase was a door with the word “SECURITY” written across the glass in black stenciling. He pushed the door open, then spotted two security guards near a water cooler.
The taller, slimmer guard looked toward him and asked, “Can I help you?”
“I’m Captain Stevens. Somebody paged me.”
“Oh, yes, Captain. That office over there has a secure phone with your call waiting.”
Grant stepped inside the office, then closed the door behind him. The room was completely austere, with only a metal desk, credenza, and several beige folding chairs, stacked against a wall. He walked over to the desk positioned in front of the credenza. After taking off his hat and placing it upside down on the desk, he reached for the receiver, then pressed a blinking yellow button. “Stevens.”
“Captain Stevens, Petty Officer Phillips here, sir.” Phillips is the yeoman for Admiral Torrinson.
“Zach, what’s going on?”
“Wait one, sir. Let me get the admiral.”
Within a matter of seconds Torrinson was on the line. “Grant, I take it you’re in Security?”
Grant leaned back against the desk, staring down at the grimy black and white linoleum, trying to prepare himself for whatever he was about to hear. It probably wasn’t going to be good, either. “Yes, sir. Admiral, what’s happening?”
Almost forty-nine years old, John Torrinson still loved his Tootsie Pops. He pulled a chocolate one from his mouth, then rested his forearms on his desk before beginning to respond. “Early this morning, Italy and Germany time, the AFN compound in Sicily was attacked.”
That immediately brought Grant to full attention, as he tried to get his brain wrapped around Torrinson’s words. “Attacked? Jesus Christ, sir!”
“SecNav, SecDef, the Joint Chiefs, just about everybody in the president’s cabinet has been behind closed doors in the White House since we got the word. I’m scheduled to meet with SecNav and SecDef in an hour.”
Grant paced behind the desk, kneading the back of his neck, the muscles tightening up like mooring lines. His primary concern went to the status of his friends and EOD team. “Sir, do you know if there were any casualties?”
Torrinson rolled the Tootsie Pop back inside its slick paper wrapper, placing it on the ink-stained green desk blotter. “All we have so far are conflicting reports, Grant, none confirming either way.
“Right after the attack started an emergency transmission was picked up by NAS Naples, being sent by a lone technician inside the main AFN building. When his call came in, he said there was still shooting going on. NAS said the guy was ranting, almost hysterical before they could make any sense from what he was telling them.
“They tried to get all they could out of him during the short call, but just before he signed off, he said it sounded like the shooting had stopped.”
“Just like that, sir?! The shooting stopped just like that?!” That worried Grant even more.
“I know. So far it doesn’t sound good. Anybody in the compound probably didn’t have much of a chance to defend themselves or put up any kind of substantial fight.”
“And they more than likely didn’t have enough firepower, sir.” Another mistake. With what EOD was taking out of that tunnel, there should have been a contingency of marines for protection. Why’s it always after the fact, after a disaster, that the lesson has to be learned? Getting back on track, Grant asked, “Did NAS get any more out of that guy, sir?”
“They didn’t want to put him in any additional danger, fearing his position might be compromised, so they told him to hunker down and stay where he was. As soon as he felt it was safe, he was to try and contact them again. His transmission ended right after that.” Torrinson ran his fingers along his chin. Hesitating briefly, he added, “All we can hope is that he remained in hiding, but we can’t confirm that either.”
Grant hated not knowing, not being able to do anything, feeling helpless. “Sir, does anyone know who it was, I mean, who the attackers were? How many? Anybody get a name? Do we have anything, sir?”
“Slow down, Grant!” Torrinson was just as frustrated and just as concerned. But his worry also came from knowing he had to send Grant and his team out again. He responded, “The tech said after the shooting stopped, he heard shouting. He was pretty sure they were shouting something that sounded like… Wait until I look at my notes, Grant. It was something like ‘La Mano del Diavolo.’ I think that’s how it’s pronounced.”
“I’ll check with Russo on that, sir,” Grant answered as he clicked the top of his ballpoint pen and jotted down the information on an envelope.
“That’s all I’ve got for now.” Torrinson scrunched down in his chair, feeling exhausted.
“Understand, Admiral.”
“Look, Grant, you’re going to have to hang out there for awhile until I meet with both secretaries before a determination is made as to the next course of action they want us to take.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll… ”
“Wait one, Grant. SecDef is on the other line.”
Grant squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a pounding in his temples. Within two minutes he heard Torrinson’s voice again. “Grant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re authorized as a ‘go’ for mission.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Do I need to wait for a warning order?” A “warning order” simply states what, where, how, who and when of a SEAL mission.
“I’ll have Zach fax it to Operations, your eyes only.”
“Yes, sir.”
Torrinson reached for his pen and slid a notepad closer to him. “Now, Rhein-Main should have some of the equipment you're going to need for this op.”
“We’ve already got our jump gear, sir, but I think I need to meet with the team to discuss the mission. I can guarantee we’ll need additional weapons and ammo, and probably O2 bottles. Maybe we could get a helo from Bremerhaven to bring it in. You know, sir, like we did with the Lampson mission.”
“Okay, Grant. Get back with me with your requirements, and in the meantime, I’ll contact the Operations office to line up your transportation. What do you think? Helo?”
“If I’m not mistaken, sir, from what I remember, the distance from here to Sicily has gotta be close to fourteen hundred miles. Don’t think a helo will get us there fast enough, sir. A Herc’s cruising speed is about three hundred sixty mph and even at that, it’s going to take almost four hours. Can’t think of a faster way, sir, unless you can get us six Tomcats (F-14s).” Grant gave a slight laugh.