"Sir?"
"Well, I understand they call that SEAL pin a 'Budweiser.' Can you explain why, or would that be a breach of SEAL security?"
Grant shook his head and grinned. "No, sir, it's no secret. After graduation from BUD/S, new SEALs celebrate by ordering a round of Bud boilermakers, then they drop in the pins, drink till the glass is empty, and then catch the 'Budweiser' with their teeth. And it looks like the Bud emblem a little, don't you think, sir?"
Stafford laughed. "It certainly does! I guess this is just another fine tradition to be carried on in typical Navy fashion!"
He motioned to two seats attached to the bulkhead and separated by a table. "Now have a seat, and let's discuss these orders of yours." The two men sat at the desk, and Stafford noticed Grant's hands. There were old scars on the back of both hands. Stafford's immediate impression was they were very strong hands. "Are you into martial arts, Grant?"
Somewhat surprised by the sudden change in conversation and the Captain's astute observation, Grant rubbed his hands together as if trying to conceal secrets, then he responded, "I… I've been known to break a few… uh, shall we say, boards, sir." Maintaining a deadpan expression, he added, "Tried a piece of granite once, but it didn't work out. Now I only pick on Cool Whip and pillows."
Stafford roared again. As their eyes met, Stafford detected the moment as being uncomfortable for Grant, and he hastily changed the subject. "This operation is going to get a little dicey. Are you sure you can count on your contact being prepared? He better be squared away and ready for you. You've got to agree that timing is going to be everything on this one."
"Yes, sir, very true, but I know Joe Adler. I can vouch for him," he replied emphatically, "and I know I can depend on him throughout this assignment, sir. That's the way it has to be… for both of us."
"I see." Stafford's brow wrinkled as he centered his stare on Grant, thinking the younger officer a bit cocky. Well, for the line of work he's in, maybe that's what it takes to survive the tough ones. "I'm sure you're right, Grant," he said, nodding his head. "According to Morelli, you and this Adler have a working history."
"Yes, sir, we do," Grant answered simply.
Stafford knew it was time to get on to business. He placed the papers on the table. "Now, give me all the details."
The two officers sat in the stateroom for another hour, reviewing, calculating, and planning. They had fourteen hours to prepare, and nothing could be left to chance.
Senior Chief Boatswain's Mate Joe Adler of the EOD team stepped into the EOD locker and slammed the steel vault-like door behind him. Lieutenant John Britley turned around from the desk, and asked, "How's it going topside?" Britley ran the tip of the eraser along the one inch scar above his right eyebrow, the result of his first wrestling match while a sophomore at the University of Wisconsin.
"No problems since Lieutenant Hall's Tomcat came in with the hung Phoenix, sir." Adler pushed up the sleeve of his red jersey, glancing at his watch. "Uh, sir, it's about time for—"
Britley dropped the pencil and shoved the chair back. "Say no more, Senior Chief. I'll see if I can get into trouble topside." He smoothed back a lock of black hair from his forehead, and then grabbed his hat. "Report to the flight deck when you're through."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The EOD locker was located in the aft part of the hangar bay one level below the flight deck. It was one of the most secure areas on the carrier, save the nuclear storage magazines, which only Britley, his team and the Gunners Mate techs had access to. The security was necessary not only because of all their gear, but because of nuclear weapons documentation that required extra security. The notebooks and papers were stored in special metal trunks that only EOD Officer Lieutenant John Britley and Adler had the combination for.
The 10 x 18 compartment had four bunk beds, along with a small 'head' and shower. The shower doubled as their personal "rain locker", and in case of decontamination, an emergency wash-down station, with a disposable drain where the water washed into sealable fifty-five gallon drums. But depending on which way the drain valve lever was pushed, the water could also flow into the ship's waste system. The locker was also equipped with dedicated electrical wiring with a battery powered lantern backup for emergencies. Should the carrier lose power, for any reason, the battery would kick in, lighting up the "battle" lanterns and keep the electronic combination vault door operable.
Considering the EOD team was only five to six men and could make an entire cruise with little or no attention paid to them — no inspections, no watches, and no shore duty — it was the perfect cover, with total seclusion whenever necessary. The team members had been told of Grant's plan. They'd be making themselves scarce, only using the locker during work hours, and only after Adler had been informed. Within their tight-knit community, they didn't worry about leaks, their own line of work calling for total security, individual safety forcing them to depend on one another. The exhaustive security clearance procedures they had passed ensured their 'zipper' mouth demeanor. Besides, the special warfare camaraderie forbid throwing any team member under the bus for any reason. Whenever instructed on the importance of security measures, their standard, flip reply would be: "Don't worry… we're cleared for stupid and ridiculous."
Adler dropped his starched, green EOD hat, called a “barracks cover”, on the desk, then went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. Clear, soft blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror as he wiped the towel over his chin. His weathered face exhibited more creases and more lines these days, a far cry from the face of a sixteen year-old who'd run away from an orphanage in St. Paul to join the Navy. Twenty-two years he'd given Uncle Sam, the first fourteen as UDT, the last eight as EOD.
Stashed away in his brain were instructions for disarming every known type of ordnance in the world. Like his team members, it wasn't the known ordnance they feared, it was the so-called 'hippie bombs', IEDs, the unknowns. How ironic, he thought. Here I am disarming bombs, and while I was UDT, I was blowing them up — intentionally. But it was these assignments and duties that cost him a marriage, the one regret of his long career. Otherwise, there wasn't a minute he would have changed. He smiled thinking about the bumper sticker on the rear of his red 1967 Mustang: EOD — WHAT A BLAST.
Putting on his MK6 transceiver headset, he adjusted the miniature mouth mike. The small unit would be powerful enough since his contact was only about a mile away from the carrier. He looked at his battered, matte gray Benrus diving watch. Right on time… 1030 hours. He flipped the switch. "Adler here."
"How ya doing, Joe?"
"Good, sir." Adler could hear the smile in Grant's voice. They'd been through the shit and sticks together not all that long ago with the Libyan raids.
"Did you get the info?"
"Roger that, sir. Scheduled time is 2030 hours. I'll call and nail down a confirmation."
"Very well."
"I'll be lookin' for you, 'Panther'." It'd been a long time since he had used the code name Grant once used in the field.
"Roger. See you tonight! Out."
Adler locked the door and said quietly, "This is gonna be good!" As he made his way across the hangar deck, an instant snapshot of a past incident flashed through his mind, causing him to remember his friend and how impressed he'd been with him during one of those raids in the Libyan desert. While he set the shaped charges on the terrorist training camp's ammo supply, Grant managed to hold off ten or twelve Libyans and then pulled a wounded British SAS operator out of the shit storm, carrying him 400 meters back to the LZ (Landing Zone).