He threw open the door and ran into the cold night air. "Better get your ass in gear, Stevens!"
A deep rumbling sound from the 454 "Big Block" engine of his 1974, black, Corvette Sport Coupe bore into the evening stillness as Grant pulled out of the parking lot. Within fifteen minutes he was at his destination, turning into the parking slot marked by a painted metal sign, "Special Operations Officer."
Wide, steel-belted Goodyear tires skidded on a patch of ice hidden by the fresh snow swirling around the blacktop. The Vette came to a stop at a slight angle within the painted white lines. Yellow letters, 'JSTDOIT', stood out clearly beneath the light of the California license plate. He got out, locked the door, and adjusted his cap as he leaned into a biting wind. How he missed the warm days on Silver Strand in San Diego, the infamous beach where SEALs did a portion of their training. On the other side of the coin, whether the seas were rough or calm, those miserable night swims in the waters of the Pacific were now just a memory.
"Christ! It's cold! Damn this weather!" Then he had to laugh, "You're turning into a wimp, Stevens!" Out of self-defense, he immediately broke into a fast jog, his bridge coat flapping open as he headed in the direction of the office building and his appointment.
Located off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway in Anne Arundel County, not far from the National Security Agency (NSA), the four-story structure was completely non-descript. A dismal gray color, the concrete and stucco building was featureless and plain, but unseen to outsiders, subterranean offices existed, containing an elaborate communications' intelligence network. Within the structure's walls were the Offices of the Naval Investigative Service.
The elevator lurched as it came to a stop at the fourth floor, the doors hissing as they parted. Grant rushed off, glancing at his watch, and giving himself a reprimand for cutting his timing so damn close. At the far end of the hallway he could see the light shining through the frosted glass of the office door. The closer he got, he started hearing the 'clicking' of the yeoman's typewriter keys as they struck the paper curled against the platen. As many times as he'd been here, he still wondered how anyone could sit in an office, typically decorated in the usual Navy style with pea-green bulkheads. He couldn't imagine how Second Class Yeoman Alex Gardner managed to look at puke-colored bulkheads all day long for the past fifteen months of his assignment.
Gardner looked up from his IBM Selectric typewriter, the stub of a sharpened No. 2 pencil tucked behind his ear. Recognizing Grant immediately, he gestured and said, "Go right in, Commander. The admiral's been expecting you."
"Thanks, Alex." The tone in the petty officer's voice made him worry that this wasn't about to be an amusing evening. He immediately detected the distinct odor of a cigar seeping from under the admiral's door. It was hard to believe Morelli still had those damn Havanas.
Before Grant left on his last job in Cuba to do a photo check of the island's ports, Morelli made one of the few personal requests he'd ever asked of Grant. He wanted a box of Cohiba cigars. The superior quality cigar, extremely difficult to obtain, was expressly used by a privileged few, Castro always having a supply, serving them to heads of state and diplomats. Morelli had two reasons for making the request: first, the cigars were his favorite, and second, it was a test to see if the Navy SEAL could actually do it.
Confident, Grant had answered, "Piece of cake, sir." Then he asked with a crafty smile, "By the way, which size? Grande?"
Now, standing in front of the office door, Grant removed his cap, tucked it under his left arm, and then knocked, hearing the admiral's voice, "Come!"
"Evening, Admi—"
“Grant! Want you to meet Sam Phillips, one of the ‘Cowboys in Action.’”
CIA Agent Phillips gave the admiral a disapproving sideways glance as he stood and reached for Grant's hand. "Commander." Grant just nodded.
Admiral Eugene Morelli, Chief of Naval Investigative Service, shoved the thick manila folder to the corner of his desk toward Grant. "Here, take a look at this. The Agency has some scoop that this is beginning to take on the look of a fast 'dance card.'" Morelli referred to the name given to after action reports.
Grant looked at the folder stamped with half inch red letters "TOP SECRET", then did a quick assessment of the CIA agent, glancing back at Morelli who picked up on Grant's expression and chuckled to himself. The ache in his right shoulder made him remember the time Grant pulled him out of a burning chopper during a training exercise in Virginia that went haywire. Obviously, that was his personal reason for liking Grant. On a professional level, he knew Grant was the best covert 'frog' in the Teams or any of the so-called agencies. With his extensive experience as intelligence officer, coupled with his being a Navy SEAL with more than 60 combat patrols and 13 years covert ops background, Commander Stevens was one of the premier operators the country had at its disposal.
Grant hung his cap on the wooden coat rack by the door, then went to the desk and reached for the manila folder. He eyed Phillips again, noticing what he thought was a bad suit, and the overcoat seemed a bit much.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the first few pages of the printed report, then he started pacing back and forth across the carpeted office. He dropped the folder on the edge of the desk. "Admiral, can we talk privately?"
Phillips stood abruptly and excused himself, commenting out of the corner of his mouth, "Hey, when you rope chokers get your act together, buzz me back in when you’re ready. I'll be in the outer office.” The door slammed.
Grant spun around and blurted out, "Admiral, what's that clown doing here?"
Morelli had a knack at pushing the right buttons. "Look, I know you're still miffed about Cuba, and the Lumumba fiasco didn't help your opinion of the Agency either."
"Damn right, Admiral. You know it's the covert operators and the special ops guys that come under fire and take the heat because they're fed old intel, sometimes three weeks old. And that's not good enough, sir."
Morelli noticed the fire in Grant's eyes. If anything got Grant Stevens' ire it was incompetence, especially if it meant losing men or caused a mission's failure.
"I agree, I agree," nodded Morelli, "but I think you need to hear this one. Will you do that for me?"
Grant yanked the folder off the desk. "Yes, sir… I'll listen." He sat in the big, leather chair, purposely selecting it over the uncomfortable wooden straight-back. His anger subsided as he became thoroughly engrossed in the report.
Normally a speed reader, Grant let his mind take in every word, never stopping, skipping nothing. "Jesus Christ!" He shot a quick glance at Morelli. "Uh, sorry, sir."
Morelli tugged on the skin sagging around his jawline, something that was becoming a perpetual habit. "No need. That's my sentiment exactly. Now, let's talk."