Garrett pulled up to the garage, then followed Adler into the house.
Coming out of the bedroom carrying his black boots, his “boondockers,” Grant was now wearing black sweater, black pants. He called Bethesda for an update on Diaz. The Team hadn’t had time to wait after getting an initial report from the emergency room doctor. Diaz would be kept overnight, on antibiotics and lactated ringer’s. Stitches would remain for about ten days. Latest patient information reported he was resting and in stable condition.
“How’s he doin’?” Adler asked, pulling a black turtleneck sweater over his head.
Grant sat on the couch and tied his boots. “He’s doing good, Joe. Listen, I’m gonna get stuff from the safe. I’ll start the coffee when I get back.”
“I’ll start breakfast.” Adler opened the refrigerator, and pulled out three dozen eggs, bacon, bread.
“What can I do, Joe?” Garrett asked, leaning on the counter.
Adler handed him the loaf of bread. “Toast.”
Coming back to the kitchen, Grant dropped a zippered black bag on the counter. Cash, passports, credit card. Any extra money needed, they’d have to withdraw from the offshore account. He and Adler had the number memorized.
The garage door slammed. The four men came into the room, laying rucksacks and weapons by the table, then they hustled to the baths and bedrooms.
Grant shouted after them, “Coffee and breakfast ready in under ten!” He made the coffee then went to the table and started spreading layers of newspapers on top, preparing to clean weapons. He picked up individual weapons, laying each on the table as he thought about what was ahead for A.T.
Soon they’d be on the move again. This time possibly Russia, his “home away from home.” A major problem loomed ahead. How the hell would they get to Moscow? They sure as hell couldn’t just fly into the country. The Gulfstream had been modified for parachute drops, but without a second “seat,” it was out of the question. He shook his head, frustrated.
They had to stop the Russian plane before it crossed into Communist territory. Sounded good, but how? A ‘sidewinder’ would do it, he smiled to himself. The most reasonable would be at a refueling stop. All they had to do was find out which one. He was depending on Mullins and the NSA.
Adler announced, “Breakfast’s served!” as he snatched a crispy piece of bacon off the plate.
Grant took a jar of Jif peanut butter from the cabinet, put it on the counter, then started pouring coffee into mugs as the men lined up, almost like in a Navy chow line. Instead of metal serving trays, they grabbed paper plates, plastic utensils. While they were gathered around the counter eating, Grant relayed the report from the hospital on Diaz’s condition.
Adler asked, “You’re worried about our next trip, aren’t you?” as he slid a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast toward Grant.
“And it’s not just about getting there. What happens if those weapons are ‘distributed’ to different locations? We wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell tracking all of them.”
Grant picked up a piece of toast, then smeared on peanut butter, as he looked at each of his men. Even though there were a couple of fuck-ups before and during the first part of the op, these men were the best he and Adler could’ve chosen. The mission to China proved their worth. He respected them, trusted them. And he had a feeling those fuck-ups would be the last. Lessons learned.
“Chow down quick, guys,” he finally said. “And you might want to put away some extra caffeine. FYI, I’ve got your passports. Matt, you have all official papers in the plane?”
“Yeah. Just need a flight plan. Plus, I need to throw a few extra ‘Lurps’ in my car.” (LRPs: Food Packet, Long Range Patrol, also called “long rats.”)
“And take more of those MREs we’ve been asked to sample,” Adler requested.
Refreshing their coffee, they all carried the coffee mugs to the dining room table. MP5s, 45s, K-bars were spread out on the table. Stalley had his medical bag next to his chair. Once he finished with his weapons, he’d check supplies, sorting, counting, refilling bottles, adding more tape, more battle dressings, and a couple extra syringes.
The phone rang. “Stevens.”
“Grant, Scott here.”
“Any changes?”
“No.”
“I assume you notified the President about the cargo ship.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling. Made him somewhat relieved, but … ”
“I know. Look, Scott, he wanted to keep us and the investigation ‘under the radar,’ but we may need more help besides NSA. CIA always has its ‘ears’ on. Maybe they already have something but don’t know it.”
“Do you wanna talk with him?”
“Not necessary, but I’ll leave that up to him.”
“It might take awhile before I can reach him again.”
“Do your best.” Expecting another call, Grant carried the phone to the table, stretching the cord to its max, then repeated his conversation with Mullins to everyone. For the time being, Team A.T. was “dead in the water.” Grant was beyond impatient.
Adler started cleaning up his kitchen mess, plunging his hands into hot, soapy dishwater.
“Joe, forget that for now,” Grant said over his shoulder.
Clips were ejected, and weapons were systematically broken down, a process each man could do with his eyes closed.
Grant was wiping down the gun with a cloth rag, when his motion slowed.
“Uh-oh,” Adler said quietly to himself, as he sat across from him, seeing the clenched jaw. “Why are those ‘wheels’ spinning? Look, we’re ready whenever you are. But you’ve gotta tell us what, where, and concerns. Out with it.”
“If that plane gets too far ahead of us, we may never catch it or the weapons. We can’t fuck this up.”
“You still plan on waiting here?”
Grant nodded. “It’ll take less time, Joe.” The phone rang again. “Scott?”
“NSA boys are working their asses off for you!”
“And?”
“Intercepted a couple of messages from the embassy to the cargo ship and one to Moscow.”
“They know about us ‘lifting’ the weapons, I assume.”
“You can say that. Plus, Moscow still wants its half of the weapons. So for now, the Afghans are out of the picture.”
“Is that it?”
“All for now!”
Grant loaded ammo into new clips. Not much was said by anyone, as they worked quickly, efficiently, waiting for the phone to ring again.
It did. Grant rammed a clip ‘home’ then answered, “Scott?”
“Grant! Flight time’s 0830! They’ve scheduled Shannon as the fuel stop.” (Shannon, Ireland was the westernmost non-NATO airport.)
Grant checked his watch. “We can do it!”
“Do what?!”
“Scott, thanks, but we’ve gotta move! I’ll call you on the way to the airfield!”
This might be their last chance. He slammed down the phone, then swung around toward Garrett. “Matt, we’ll take your gear. You head out now. Set a flight plan for Shannon, Ireland. We’ll be right behind you!”
Grant turned to the others. “Listen up! Get what you need from in here, maybe a change of clothes.” He asked Stalley, “Doc, is your medical bag…?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Okay! Let’s go!”
Boots pounded against the wood floor as they hightailed it to the bedrooms. Adler unplugged the coffee pot, confirmed stove was off, then made a quick detour to the pantry and grabbed a few packages of Oreos.