“What happens if I decide to just walk away from your offer? What happens to all this?” he asked, swiping his arm in an arc.
Sinclair answered. “If it came to that, there isn’t anything here that would indicate what our intentions were. All this could be sold or used by our families.”
Grant was astonished, to put it mildly. “So, what you’re saying is you don’t have anyone else in mind? I’m your only choice?!” He looked at the men, waiting for a response. Just by each expression, he had his answer. Abruptly, he got up. He needed to walk around. He had to try and assimilate what was being suggested.
Young glanced at Sinclair and Talbott, giving them an imperceptible shake of his head. They presented their case. Now it was up to Grant Stevens.
Young went to the bar. Using a bone-handled bottle opener, he opened another Coke. As he poured it into a clean glass, he took a quick look across the room, watching Grant pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.
In his mind Grant was hearing Admiral John Torrinson’s words, predicting he’d be promoted to admiral in the not too distant future. The military life he’d known for years would change dramatically if Torrinson's prediction came true.
But living the life as an admiral wasn’t something Grant Stevens could imagine. That life just wasn’t for him. Of course, he always had the option to turn down any promotion. And there was always a possibility he could even be passed over.
With his tour at NIS almost completed, his next assignment would have most likely been his own command. But he seemed to be at a point in his life when he had to put the military life behind him. It was time to move on, begin another phase of his life. Whatever that was had yet to be determined. He had enough money put aside, and then there was his military pension. Any decision didn’t have to be rushed.
He’d be the first to admit that the past couple of months had been an adjustment. After all the years he worked for “Uncle Sam,” just like that — he was retired. He could always be called back for needs of the service. But right now, he was a civilian — a “sand crab.” A “side-stepping beach creature!”
Now a new opportunity had come along. A job that was nearly identical to what he did in the Navy. Except this time there wouldn’t be any political bullshit — at least it didn’t sound like there would be any. But the biggest question was how the hell could he return to a way of life he just turned his back on?
He stood in front of the roaring fire and folded his arms tightly across his chest. The whole idea of what was just presented to him seemed preposterous. And yet, at the same time, intriguing. But would it be enough to draw him back into that life, the life of a covert operator?
Reality hit him full force. He couldn’t get it out of his system, no matter how much he busted his gut trying to make it happen. Joe was right. There was no denying it. It was part of his DNA.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, then came back to the couch. Young handed him the glass. Grant stared at the Coke, swishing around the fizzing liquid, causing ice cubes to clink against the glass. He finally looked up, then asked, “Have you already decided on who’ll be part of this ‘team’?”
Each of the three men suspected that Captain Stevens was going to accept their proposition. Talbott responded, “No, Captain. It’ll be your decision. Who, and also the number of men will be left entirely up to you. Now, I will tell you that we do have pilots in mind,” he smiled.
Grant nodded. “That’s assuming I accept your offer. Look, are you expecting an answer from me now, tonight?”
“If at all possible, yes,” Young responded, then lowered his head briefly. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “But we understand if you’d like a little time to consider our offer.”
Grant started to get one of his all too familiar feelings. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Young. “There’s a mission ready and waiting, isn’t there, sir?”
Young nodded. “Yes, Captain. There is.”
Except for the crackling fire, silence pervaded the room. Grant stared into the glass of Coke, shaking his head ever so slowly, saying under his breath, “Can’t believe I’m saying this.” He looked at Young. “All right, sir. I accept your proposition.”
Sinclair and Talbott downed the rest of their drinks. Putting the glasses on the coffee table, they stood. Each man extended a hand to Grant, thanking him.
“Can we get you something from the bar, Captain?” Talbott asked.
“No, sir. I’m good,” Grant responded holding up his Coke.
Young removed his brown leather wallet from his pocket. He opened it and took out a folded piece of paper. “Captain, here’s the name and phone number of your contact. Any further questions you have, he should be able to answer. I will tell you, though, there are some issues that will not be revealed or discussed. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Grant reached for the paper. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“He’s waiting for your call.”
“Are you trying to tell me he had a ‘vision’ that I’d accept your offer? You know, that ESP thing?” Grant laughed.
“Not exactly. While you’ve never met or even talked with him, he knew of you.”
Grant arched an eyebrow. He unfolded the paper, then he just stared at a name printed in black ink. He sat on the couch, completely taken aback. He held the paper toward Young, questioning, “Is this…?!”
“That’s right, Captain. Scott Mullins. Tony’s older brother.”
“Jesus Christ! Tony mentioned him, but… but this just doesn’t seem possible!”
Young sat next to Grant, who had his head down, staring at the paper, remembering his friend, Tony Mullins. Young spoke softly, emotionally. “It’s because of Scott that we knew about East Germany. He’d been briefed. He read the reports. He also informed us that you had additional surgery on your shoulder a few months ago.
“So you see, Captain, we’re just about up to date on you, your career. But in case you’re wondering, there isn’t anything we’ve been told — by anyone — that’s classified information.” Young patted Grant’s arm. “Look. You’ll have the opportunity to talk with him. I know he’s looking forward to your meeting.”
Grant stood then folded the paper and put it in his back pocket. “I… I think it’s time for me to leave, sir. You’ve given me a helluva lot to digest.”
“We understand. Sam will drive you back to your apartment.”
Adler kicked the covers off, rolled over, then sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Goddamn that doorbell!”
He pulled up his skivvies, then switched on a table lamp on his way to the door. “Hold your shorts! I’m comin’!” He looked through the peephole. “Skipper?”
“Joe! Open up!”
Before the door was completely open, Grant bolted past him. Yanking off his cap and gloves, Grant said with excitement, “We’ve gotta talk!”
Adler closed the door, then hurried to where Grant was standing in the middle of the living room, shoving his cap and gloves into his pockets.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Adler asked with his brow furrowed.
Grant took off his jacket and hung it on a chair. “You ready to go back to work?” Before Adler could respond, Grant turned and went to the kitchen. He started opening and closing cabinet doors. “Where the hell’s your coffee?”
Adler shook his head, totally confused. He walked to the opposite side of the kitchen and pulled down a can of Maxwell House and slid it across the white Formica counter.
Grant held the coffee pot under the faucet when Adler finally asked, “You sure you want coffee? You’re acting like you’ve already had too much caffeine!”