You’ve been one of my best mates, Jack — even though you are a bloody Yank!
Derek
Henley stood by the window, staring out across the runway. The fog had lifted but there was still heavy cloud coverage.
Taxiing to the south end of the runway was an RAF Vulcan B2. Keeping his eyes on the jet as it powered up its engines, Henley reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of Marlboro’s. Tapping the bottom of the pack, he removed one, put the pack back in his pocket, then took out a lighter. Taking a short drag, he dropped the lighter back in his pocket. He’d been trying to quit for a month. He was already on his second pack since last night.
The Vulcan went to full power, then blasted down the runway. Grant raised his voice over the sound of jet engines. “Jack!”
Henley snapped around, blowing out a lungful of smoke. He crushed the cigarette in a stained ceramic ashtray with the word “Guinness” printed in black on the outer edge.
“Let’s talk about this,” Grant said, as he flicked his index finger against the paper.
Henley came around the desk, and opened the office door. “Chief, did the rest of the men get back from the Marine compound?”
“They’re on their way, sir,” Becker answered.
“Okay. Check that everything’s ready to meet next week’s flights. And, Chief, see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Henley closed the door, walked past Grant, then sat on the opposite corner of the desk. “Let’s talk.”
“Give me your impression of this,” Grant said, holding up the letter.
“I’m worried, Grant.”
“Yeah. So am I. Do you have any idea who this ‘contact’ of his could be?”
Henley shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like anybody I’ve met. Derek’s never mentioned him.”
Grant glanced at the letter. “I know I’m only guessing, but it’s looking more like somebody might be passing info on the nukes.”
Henley got up, reached for his pack of cigarettes, thought otherwise, then shoved them back into his pocket. He kept his back toward Grant, as he asked, “How much trouble do you think I’m in?”
“Trouble? Just because you knew this guy?”
Henley turned toward Grant. “And because I’m in charge of the EOD team. Because I know what’s on this base! Because I’ve seen what’s on this base! Because… ”
“Hold it!” Grant said. “Too much assuming. You’re not the only one working on this base who knows what’s here. Sure, you knew Carter, but you think you were his only friend or acquaintance? Come on, Jack. We’re gonna have to think more rationally and try to piece this shit together.
“But first, I know you trust these guys,” Grant indicated with a thumb over his shoulder, “but this letter isn’t for discussion with them either. In fact, I think it’s best to keep everything under wraps for now. Let’s just wait till I talk with Admiral Torrinson.”
Grant rubbed his chin in thought. “There’s probably gonna be some scuttlebutt about what happened. Do any of these guys know you were friends with Carter?”
“Only if they happened to see us in Sailor’s.”
“We’ll deal with it if and when the time comes.”
“And what about the Brit cops? They’re bound to want to talk with me.”
“You won’t be able to avoid them. Let’s hope I can talk with the admiral before that. If this is leading to espionage, or the selling of nukes, we’ll all be talking to more than just local CID.” Grant folded the letter, then slid it back into the envelope before putting it in his pocket.
“You mean SIS (British Secret Intelligence Service).”
Grant nodded. “Maybe even Interpol.”
Headquartered at Century House in South London, the SIS was formed in 1909 as the Secret Service Bureau, established to supply the British Government with foreign intelligence. During World War II it became known as Military Intelligence, Section 6 (MI6).
Grant recognized the fact that he had to get a step ahead of the game whether or not anyone else would become involved. He had to get deeper into the investigation, and damn quick.
He picked up a notepad off the desk. “Here,” he said handing the pad to Henley. “Start writing.”
“Write what?”
“The names of anybody you can think of who knew Carter. And I need the name of the marine gunnery sergeant over at the compound.” Gunnery sergeants are commonly referred to by the informal abbreviation "gunny,” a nickname usually regarded as a title of both esteem and camaraderie. It was generally acceptable for use in all but formal and ceremonial situations. Gunnery sergeants are the same rank as the Navy’s CPOs (chief petty officers). They’re known for their wealth of knowledge, anything pertaining to base ops, base personnel. Most of it they obtain from scuttlebutt, yet somehow they have the ability to filter through it.
“Gunny Baranski? Why him and not the C.O.?” A corner of Grant’s mouth curved up. Henley answered his own question. “Right!” He started writing names.
The phone rang. “Henley. Yes, sir, he’s right here.” He handed the phone to Grant. “It’s Admiral Torrinson.”
Grant covered the mouthpiece. “Jack, I’d like to talk with the admiral privately, okay?” Henley didn’t respond, but as he started to turn away, Grant took the notepad from his hand. Henley left the office… his office.
“I’m here, Admiral,” Grant said, sitting on the corner of the desk.
“Joe’s filled me in, Grant. Did you get any more information from Commander Henley?” Torrinson lifted two Tootsie pops from a glass jar, offering one to Adler.
“Not so much from him, sir, but what I gleaned from his friend’s letter isn’t giving me a warm and fuzzy, sir. This friend got himself into some serious trouble, and he was killed because of it.”
“Any idea on what that trouble was?” Torrinson asked, looking across his desk at Adler.
“Well, sir, I’m going with my gut again. I’d say information on nukes may have been in that package. Same old story, sir. You know, bad guys get what they want, lesser bad guy is wiped out.” Torrinson nodded with a half smile. Grant continued, “If Jack — Commander Henley — didn’t get that letter, sir, we wouldn’t have a clue that anything was going on.”
“So, what’s next, Grant?”
“I expect local CID will be interviewing Commander Henley pretty soon, sir, but they still don’t know about the letter. I wanted to speak with you first, sir, before deciding whether or not to give it up.”
“It’s evidence in his death, Grant. Don’t you think you need to turn it over?” Grant didn’t respond. Torrinson was getting one of his own feelings that Grant had no intention of giving up the letter. “Captain?”
“Sir, don’t know if you’ll agree, but I think I need to hang onto it for now.”
“I suspected as much. But what’s the point?”
“Well, sir, as of now, only Jack and I know about it. I think it’ll give me a head start, sir, before civilians get involved.”
Torrinson laughed, knowing Grant’s feelings about the CIA. “We’re talking about British officials, Grant, not the Agency!”
Yes, sir.” He lowered his voice, preparing to throw out a request. “Admiral, I hope you understand my reason for this request, but maybe we should keep the letter and its contents between us, sir.”
Torrinson’s eyebrows knitted together. “And for how long, Grant?”
“Just until I can verify information, sir.”
“Can I assume you want to verify the commander isn’t involved?”
Grant cleared his throat. “I don’t think he is, sir, but I’d still like to keep the letter on the QT for now.”