Jamie Fredric
Code Name Antares
For All Those Who Have Served
All Gave Some, Some Gave All
Team Alpha Tango
Home Base — “Eagle 8”
Grant Stevens — Captain, (Ret.); graduate U.S. Naval Academy; born in California; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’1”; fluent in Russian and Japanese; Code name “Panther”; Team call sign: “Yankee Zero-Niner”
Joe Adler — Lieutenant, (Ret.); born in Oklahoma; brown hair, blue eyes, 5’10”; fluent in German; Code name “Mustang”; “Yankee Two-Seven”
Frank Diaz — CPO; born in NY; black hair, brown eyes, 5’9”; EOD; fluent in Spanish, some Portuguese; “Yankee Three-Six”
Ken Slade — CPOS (Senior Chief), (Ret.); born in Alaska; bald; brown eyes; 5’10”; pointman/navigator; speaks the Inuit language, some Russian; “Yankee Four-One”
Cal “Doc” Stalley — Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Virginia; dark blond hair; blue eyes; 5’10”; corpsman; fluent in French, some Chinese; youngest of the Team; “Yankee Five-Two”
Darius “DJ” James — Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Florida; dark brown hair; brown eyes; 5’9”; communications; speaks some Turkish, Arabic; “Yankee Six-Eight”
Mike Novak — Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Wisconsin; dark blond hair; hazel eyes; 6’0”; sniper; speaks Hungarian and some German; “Yankee Seven-Three”
Matt Garrett — Captain, (Ret.); graduate of U.S. Naval Academy; born in Maryland; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’0”; fluent in French and German; “Yankee Eight-Four”
Chapter 1
Petty Officer Sam Franklin drove the gray Navy truck along dark, winding, two-lane Palmer Road. He rolled down the window a couple of inches, flicked out the butt of a Lucky Strike cigarette, then exhaled a lungful of smoke from the side of his mouth.
Rolling up the window, he shot a quick glance toward Lieutenant Paul Wayne. “Sure will be glad when this cold snap is over, sir. I’m ready for warm weather.”
Wayne had an M16 laying across his lap. Both he and Franklin had .45s holstered. “Can’t do much about it, Sam, just keep the heater turned up. Maybe you’d rather be riding with Sid and Tom back there,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.
“No, sir. It’s just fine here.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Say, lieutenant, do you have any idea what we’re hauling in those crates?”
“Sam, you ask the same damn question whenever we make a pick up at the factory. What’s my standard response?”
“Need to know, sir. We don’t have the need.”
Even with high beams on, Franklin failed to see a pothole and drove straight through it.
“Whoa! What the hell, Sam?!” Wayne shouted. A noise overhead diverted his attention. “Sounds like a chopper. You’re not breaking the speed limit, are you? Might be cops.”
Franklin glanced at the speedometer. “No, sir! Right on the money!”
Wayne rolled down the window and stuck his head out. Scanning the night sky, he finally spotted flashing navigation lights. “Yeah, it’s a chopper, but it looks like it’s moving on.” He rolled up the window, then pounded the back of his fist on the rear divider. “You men stay on alert back there!” He reached for the M16, chambered a round with the charging handle, then flipped the selector lever to safe.
As the truck went around a curve, its high beams landed on two men standing in the middle of the road. Franklin hit the brakes. The truck went into a skid, but he over-compensated, and the rear tire caught the thick edge of blacktop. The sound was ear-piercing as the truck’s undercarriage scraped across asphalt until the truck came to rest in a shallow ditch. Two guards in the bed were thrown around, their bodies rolling into the side of the truck.
Wayne’s rifle landed on the floorboard. He and Franklin both drew their sidearms, but it was too late. Bullets shattered both side windows, killing the two instantly. Two attackers, dressed in cammies, with black one-hole masks pulled over their heads, cautiously walked closer, continuing to aim the Uzis toward the cab.
The two guards in the bed regained their balance, and scrambled for their M16s, when out of nowhere, two more attackers rushed from the woods. Both guards fired. A bullet struck one of the oncoming men. He yelped in pain, grabbed his side, and collapsed, as the other man fell to the ground near him. Everything went quiet. Both guards were breathing heavy, listening for any sound of movement. Anything could’ve happened up front.
The two attackers at the front of the truck couldn’t take a chance and fire randomly into the bed, possibly damaging the “merchandise.” Drawing weapons from side holsters, they eased their way along the truck, one on either side.
“Lieutenant!” one guard shouted. Silence. “Sam!” He started to lean forward, when weapons fired, killing him and the other guard.
Three attackers walked closer, peering into the bed. Blood oozed from under both guards, mingling into one pool.
Immediately, two of the men jumped up into the truck bed. The crates were still secured, intact, undamaged. Slicing through the restraining ropes, they shoved the crates toward the tailgate.
The lead man called in the chopper, as he swiveled his head, looking for navigation lights. He signaled with a flashlight as the chopper came into view, flying from the west. A bright landing light flashed on, and they heard the distinct thump-thump sounds of a Huey’s rotors. Its skids touched blacktop no more than twenty-five feet from the truck.
Pulling one crate from the bed, the two men carried it to the chopper, while the injured man was helped into the cargo bay. Within a matter of minutes both crates had been loaded. The attackers hopped onboard, the rotors picked up speed, and skids lifted off the blacktop. The pilot set it on a southeast heading. Within minutes, its lights disappeared over the horizon, on its way to making the first delivery.
A 1972 black Toyota pickup truck with a camper shell, was parked at the edge of a small clearing, facing toward a bumpy, narrow path, leading back to the main road.
The driver discovered this location months ago. He determined traffic entering and leaving the park during this time of year would be practically nil, and because of the time.
He was wearing nondescript clothes, all black: leather jacket, pullover sweater, jeans and Converse sneakers. He glanced at the clock on the dash, then pulled a black one-hole mask down over his face. The chopper should be getting close. The pilot had been given instructions to circle within close proximity of the clearing until spotting his signal.
A faint sound of rotors at his three o’clock. Grabbing a flashlight from under the seat, he got out, lowered the tailgate, then walked toward the center of the clearing. Holding the flashlight overhead, he pressed the switch on and off. The dark, clear night made the light seem brighter, acting like a beacon.
In less than a minute, a Huey was hovering overhead. Cold air swirled around him, with dirt, leaves and small debris caught up in it. The chopper’s landing light came on as it began its decent.
He hustled back to the truck, started the engine, then backed up, getting it as close to the cargo bay as he could. There’d be no wasting time now. He jumped out of the cab and rushed toward the chopper. Three men stood in the cargo doorway.