He started for the parking lot, squinting, trying to see through the fog, looking for the MG. He finally spotted the sports car. As he slid behind the wheel, he reminded himself that all he had to do was stay on the left side of the road and follow the white line. His temples were already throbbing.
There were two ways to get to St. Mawgan. The road to the back gate followed the cliffs running parallel to Newquay Bay and is normally a ten minute drive. No doubt it would take longer this morning.
The road to the main gate was about a mile further inland, adding on a couple of miles. Today, both routes were hazardous. He made his decision when he got to Porth Beach, and took Narrowcliff Road. More cars were on the road than he expected, most heading toward town. He figured they were used to it.
Twenty minutes later, he drove up to the guard’s station at the back gate. Two more vehicles pulled behind him. He held out his ID for the RAF guard, who saluted then passed him through.
With windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, he continued along the base road, seeing a fuzzy set of headlights in his rearview mirror.
The drive to the one-story concrete building housing the U.S. Navy’s EOD and security teams was slow-going. The MG’s low beams were unable to penetrate the thick fog. Suddenly, a sign for the compound appeared out of nowhere. He made a sharp right turn into the parking area, downshifted, then slowly pulled the MG next to a green Austin Mini 600. A blue Chevy Impala with Missouri license plates was on the other side of the Mini. On the south side of the building, barely visible, were two tractors with backhoes, then a jeep, a flatbed truck, and a gray van.
Shutting off the engine, he took his keys, got out and closed the car door. The fog was still thick. Somewhere, not far from where he was standing, there was a runway, but he sure as hell couldn’t see it.
He heard voices coming from inside the building, with a light showing from a window next to the door. As he started toward the building, a beat-up Jeep Wagoneer, with a muffler just as beat up, pulled into a parking space.
Grant turned and walked toward the car as Chief Larry Becker was getting out. He was wearing a long sleeve green fatigue shirt and fatigue pants. A “barrack’s” cover (hat) hid most of his bald head.
“Can I help you?” Becker asked as he slammed the car door, twirling the key ring on his index finger.
Grant spotted a rank identification on the hat. “Hope so, Chief,” he said, reaching for his wallet. He flipped it open, showing his ID. “I’m Captain Stevens.”
“Good to meet you, sir,” the burley chief said with a welcoming smile. He extended a hand to Grant, while silently questioning Grant’s presence at the compound, especially since he was wearing civvies. “Are you here on official business, sir?”
“I’ve been on leave, Chief. I ran into Jack Henley briefly last night and told him I’d meet him here this morning. I thought maybe I could get a tour.” He looked overhead. “May not be such a good idea today, though, huh?”
“Give it time, sir. Maybe by this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow,” Becker laughed. He looked around the parking lot. “Guess the commander’s not here yet. I don’t see his car, sir.” He walked ahead of Grant, opening the door. “Go ’head in. Make yourself comfortable, sir.”
Two petty officers were sitting near a desk. Petty Officer First Class Barry Thoms was sucking on a Coke, while Petty Officer First Class Marty Weaver had coffee.
Becker made introductions. “Barry, Marty, this is Captain Stevens.”
Immediately standing, the two gave a slight nod of their heads. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Grant replied, removing his ball cap. “As you were, gentlemen.”
“Would you like coffee, sir?” Becker asked as he removed his hat, hanging it on one of six coat hooks lined up next to a metal file cabinet.
“Sounds real good, Chief. Black.”
Becker looked at Weaver, tilting his head in the direction of the coffeepot. Weaver went for the coffee.
Looking beyond Becker, Grant noticed a brass nameplate on an inner door: Commander Jack Henley. He glanced at his watch. There wasn’t much time to call Adler before his meeting with Henley. “Chief, before I meet with the commander at 0700, I’ve gotta make a call to the States.”
“Not a problem, sir. Follow me.”
Grant unzipped his jacket, as he was handed a white mug of hot coffee. “Thanks, Petty Officer.”
Becker stood by Henley’s office door. “Uh, sir, would you mind if I make sure the office is…?”
“Go ahead, Chief. Understand,” Grant replied, knowing Becker wanted to ensure nothing of importance was in plain sight. Maybe Grant was a captain and NIS, but today, he was just a visitor.
Becker ducked behind the door, flipped on a light switch, then gave the desk and room a quick sweep with his eyes. He motioned for Grant. “Okay, sir.”
Grant walked into a small office, immediately smelling the stale odor of cigarettes. Except for a florescent overhead light, the only other light came from a single window. A typical military, gray metal desk and black swivel chair were positioned behind it, and two straight-back wooden chairs were in front.
Becker went behind the desk and opened the blinds, then asked, “Anything else, sir?”
“No thanks, Chief.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir.” Grant nodded, then Becker immediately left the room.
Grant sat on the corner of the desk and put his coffee cup on a green blotter marked up with stains, numbers, and doodles. He turned the rotary dial phone around, picked up the receiver, dialed a code, then a number. As the phone rang, he took a sip of coffee… good, potent, melt-your-spoon, Navy-style coffee.
After the fourth ring, he heard the familiar voice. “Adler.”
“Hey, Joe!”
“Skipper?”
“Yeah. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Not at the moment,” Adler laughed, as he reached around the corner and closed the bedroom door. He turned on a light. “Why the hell are you calling? You’re still on leave, aren’t you?” Before Grant responded, he said, “Uh-oh. What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“I’m at the base at St. Mawgan, at our weapons facility. Joe, do you remember the first time I met Grigori, you know, Spain, and the circumstances surrounding that meeting?”
“Yeah. But what…? Oh, shit!”
Grant was the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the dive team for the recovery of a nuclear bomb. A Vulcan had crashed into the Mediterranean off the coast of Spain. That was also the day Grant saved the life of Grigori Moshenko.
“Exactly. Can’t prove anything yet, but I’ve got one of my gut feelings with just the little info I do have.”
“And you want me to…?”
“First, contact Torrinson, or at least Zach. He’s usually in the office before the admiral. Give them a heads-up.” (Petty Officer Zach Phillips is the yeoman for Admiral Torrinson.) Grant glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting with a friend of mine in about fifteen minutes here in his office. He’s Commander Jack Henley; went to the Academy together. He’s in charge of the EOD team.
“A Brit friend of his turned up dead. What I got from the cops last night, it’s sounding like he was murdered. Brit CID is supposed to start investigating.”
“Are we gonna be involved?”
“Don’t know for sure, but this guy worked on base as a custodian.”
“Ahh,” Adler said, nodding his head. “A connection is being made.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Anyway, when Jack got home last night, he found a letter from this friend. I don’t know the contents yet, but he sounded pretty damn upset when I talked with him.”
Adler rubbed a hand briskly across his weathered face, feeling stubble. Seeing his reflection in the picture window, he ignored the fact he was standing in front of God and everybody in his skivvies. “You think it was one of those confession-type letters in case he was killed?”