He stopped, seeing his two men appear from the back of the compound, shaking their heads. He held up his hand, palm facing them, signaling for them to stay where they were. He and the other men continued across the camp cautiously, leaving space between each other, turning around with every couple of steps, alert to any sound.
When they reached the middle of the compound, Grant signaled two of his men to search inside the huts, two to inspect the opposite perimeter. Two others stood guard with their weapons primed and ready.
He started inspecting the compound, looking for any sign the POWs had been here. He stopped every few feet, trying to focus on anything out of the ordinary. Stepping closer to the perimeter, taking careful steps, he followed it around toward the larger hut.
There was something different in the way the ground looked about three feet ahead of him. As he stepped closer, he could tell it had been disturbed. Leaves and broken fronds were trampled into the soft earth. The path led off into the jungle. He took a short step forward, looking further down the path, seeing evidence that a machete had been used to hack off low-hanging limbs and fronds. The knot in his stomach was twisting tighter than a mooring line.
He looked down. Something just in front of his boots caught his eye, and he squatted down. Picking up a small twig, he moved aside some dead leaves, then he just stared. It still hadn’t dried completely, but there wasn’t a doubt in his military mind what it was — vomit, coffee ground-looking vomit, which meant somebody’s stomach was bleeding.
Hearing a signal from his men, he hurried over to the hut. They were pointing to the middle step. More of the same type vomit was on the edge. Some had dripped over the side.
Grant sat down heavily on the bottom step. Laying his weapon across his knees, he slumped forward, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. His men stood by in silence.
They were here — the American POWs had been here. Grant and his men were too late.
Chapter 1
The fifth floor furnished apartment on Virginia Avenue overlooked the Potomac River. Within the nine hundred square foot space was a small kitchen, one bedroom, one bath, and living room, with simple furnishings throughout, no pictures, no curtains. Easy to take care of, easy to move out of when new orders were received. That’s all Grant Stevens needed or wanted.
He was in the bedroom pulling a white skivvy shirt over his head when he heard a knock at the door. “Wait one!” He smoothed back his brown hair, still damp after his shower.
Walking across the carpeted hallway in his stocking feet, he tucked his shirt into the back of his dark blue slacks as he opened the door. “Hey, Joe! Come on in. You’re early.”
“That’s because I’m hungry,” Adler indicated by patting his stomach. He closed the door behind him.
“Like that’s a surprise!” Grant laughed, while he buckled his belt. All the years they’d known one another, Adler had hardly changed. The clear blue eyes were still sharp, the same crew cut — albeit with a few more gray hairs, the rugged face, his 5’10” frame still held a body weight hovering around one eighty. Grant always said he was built like a brick shithouse.
“How about a beer?” Grant asked as he stepped into the kitchen to the right of the front door.
“Sure. I’ll have one.” Unzipping his beige windbreaker, he asked, “How ya doing, skipper?” He took the cold bottle Grant handed him.
“Doin’ good.”
“Weren’t you supposed to see Doc Irwin today?” Adler pointed to Grant’s shoulder. The lower part of a scar showed just below his T-shirt sleeve.
“Yeah, I did. He finally released me from his clutches.”
Following Grant into the living room, Adler asked, “So I take it your shoulder’s good as new?”
Grant motioned for Adler to sit on the couch as he answered, “Never will be good as new, Joe, but shouldn’t limit my activities, and it feels a helluva lot better than before. Got back from the pool about an hour ago. Did my usual number of laps without a problem.”
“What was that? Two?” Adler smirked.
“Smart ass. Made it to three!”
Light from a bright, setting sun began streaming through the double windows. Grant walked past Adler. “So, where do you want to go for dinner?” he asked as he adjusted the blinds.
“I’m in the mood for steak. Wait a minute! I know! Maybe we could get steak!”
“While you decide which, and where, I’ll go finish dressing.” Just then, the phone rang. Grant turned around and came back to the couch, picking up the receiver on the end table. “Stevens.”
“How the hell are ya, Grant?”
It took Grant a second before finally recognizing the voice. “Well, I’ll be damned! Tony!” He backed up then sat on the couch armrest, grinning from ear to ear. Tony Mullins was the CIA agent aboard the USS Bronson, during the time the Russians attempted a takeover of the sophisticated ship.
Mullins laughed. “Long time no hear, buddy!”
Adler leaned toward the receiver, saying, “How ya doing, Agent Mullins?”
“That was Joe, Tony. So, when’d you get back in town?”
“Arrived from Korea a week ago. Sorry I didn’t make contact sooner.”
“Not a problem. I’m just glad you called! Where the hell are you now?”
“At Langley.”
“Of course. A place near and dear to my heart,” Grant laughed. “Hey, listen! We were getting ready to go grab a bite to eat. Why don’t you meet us? We’ve got some catching up to do.” Grant took a swig of beer, waiting for a response. “Tony?”
“We need to talk, Grant.”
Grant put the bottle on the coffee table, giving Adler one of his oh shit looks. Adler scooted forward near the edge of the cushion, rolling the cold bottle between his palms, staring up at Grant.
“I’m listening.”
“Can you and Joe come out to Langley tonight?”
“Sure. I suppose we can.”
“You both still have White House clearances, right?”
“Yeah, we do. I’m assuming that’s a ‘just in case,’ right?”
“Roger that. I’ll leave word and your passes at security, then you come to the lobby. I’ll meet you there. How does 2000 hours sound?”
Grant checked his submariner. “We can do it. Tony, you know I’ve gotta ask, but has Admiral Torrinson been brought in on whatever the hell this is about?”
“The director should be informing him as we speak. Look, Grant, I’m sorry I can’t fill you in right now, but… ”
“No explanation necessary. It’s all part of the game we play. See you at 2000 hours.” Grant hung up, lingering briefly before hearing Adler.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“Not a clue,” Grant answered. “We’re meeting Tony at Langley. He’ll fill us in when we get there.”
“I take it we’re not eating,” Adler said disappointed. He took a last mouthful of beer, then carried the bottle to the garbage pail in the kitchen.
“We can get something on the way.” Grant grabbed his beer off the table, and followed Adler toward the kitchen. As he turned down the hallway to the bedroom, he said over his shoulder, “There’s some leftover roast beef in the fridge if you want to make a sandwich. There should be some Swiss cheese.”
“No steak, but I suppose it’ll have do,” Adler mumbled. “Do you want me to make you one?”
“Negative.”
Reaching into the fridge, Adler pulled out a dish of rare roast beef, cheese, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of yellow mustard.
Grant stood in front of the dresser mirror buttoning his light blue, long-sleeve Oxford shirt. He tried to come up with a reason for Mullins’ call, a reason to go to Langley. Nothing came to mind.