Adler moved the light in a circle on the ground. “See that?” Without waiting for Grant to answer, he directed the light up toward the top of the trees, then made an arc with it until it pointed to the opposite side.
“Yeah, but I still … Oh, shit!” Grant finally realized they were looking at debris from pine trees — pine needles, pine cones, small branches, most scattered along both sides of the road. But mounds of debris, dirt and small stones indicated NIS probably swept the road clean.
“Right, Skipper! A chopper!” Adler said, continuing to move the light.
“Good work, ‘Sherlock’!” Grant said, slapping Adler’s shoulder. “Now, where’d they go?”
“Beats the shit out of me!”
“Boss!” Stalley yelled. “Found something over here!”
As Grant approached, Stalley got down on a knee, pointing to a dark spot on the asphalt. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’m bettin’ that’s blood.”
Grant aimed his flashlight beam on the spot, then he turned toward the ditch. “I doubt the guards would’ve left their vehicle, Doc. You’re thinking one of the attackers took a bullet, right?”
“Yes, sir. I sure do,” Stalley answered as he stood.
“You wouldn’t know where they went, would you?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“That’s okay, Doc. You’re not the only one.” Grant turned and started following the broken white centerline. Just as he was about to give up, his flashlight beam landed on something. He knelt on a knee, then his eyes followed the light further down the line about eight feet away. “Joe!”
Adler came rushing across the road. “What’d you find?”
“What do these look like to you?” Grant aimed the light.
“Black scrape marks?”
Grant stood and punched Adler’s shoulder, grinning as he said, “You know damn well what they are. You were right. A chopper.” The two black marks were left by the skids of the Huey.
It wasn’t likely they’d find any more evidence. Grant at least had something to go on — a chopper was definitely part of the attack. “Hey, guys! Let’s get outta here and head back to ‘Eagle 8.’”
Three empty pizza boxes, two nearly empty buckets of fried chicken, an empty bag of chocolate chip cookies, bottles of beer and soda were scattered on top of the kitchen counter. A fresh pot of coffee percolated near the stove, with the smell of the strong brew drifting throughout the room.
National news was being broadcast on NBC, but sounds from the TV faded into the background. With rumpled clothes, unshaven, in need of showers, Team A.T. sat at the dining room table, each man in his own thoughts, trying to put together a means for locating the traitor — and missing weapons. Newspapers from the past two days were strewn around the table and floor.
Slade and Diaz each had a paper open, scanning every page, looking at articles, pictures.
Grant rocked his chair back and forth, balancing on the two back legs, when he heard the door at the end of the hallway close. “Hey, Matt!”
Garrett took off his coat as he came toward the living room. “Sorry I’m late. Rough weather coming across country.”
“No problem. Get yourself something to eat and drink then join the party.”
Garrett draped his coat on the back of the couch, then went to the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee, then took a chicken leg from the bucket.
Adler was slouched in the chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his fingers locked behind his head. “Time for a break,” he said, as he got up. “I’m gonna get some coffee.” As he walked by the bucket of chicken, he snatched a wing. While he ate, he waited for the second pot of coffee to finish perking. Tossing the chicken bones in the trash, he licked his fingers, then poured the steaming black brew into his cup. “Anybody want a refill?” he said loudly, holding up the pot. Three hands went up. He unplugged the pot and carried it to the table.
Grant pushed his chair back and stood, while rubbing his fingers in small circles on his temples. The little information they had was getting them nowhere fast.
Jamming his hands into his back pockets, he started walking around the table. Four dead men because of two crates. How many more are gonna die? What the fuck are we missing?
“Hey, boss?”
“Yeah, Doc?”
“You feelin’ okay?”
“Just frustrated and angry as all hell, Doc. Thinking about those four guards who probably didn’t have a chance.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Stalley responded, running his fingers through his dark blond hair. He tried changing the subject, if only briefly. “How about some cold chicken? LT’s left a few pieces,” he laughed, tilting his head toward Adler.
“Yeah, sure. Sounds, good.” Grant watched the youngest team member walking toward the kitchen. The two of them had a bond of sorts, in part because Stalley helped save his life, but as a corpsman, Stalley reminded Grant of his father, Mike Stevens, HMCS, killed in Korea. (Hospital Corpsman, Senior Chief)
Words from the TV newscaster finally started registering with Grant: “… have brought more troops into Afghanistan.” He swung around, picked up the remote, and turned up the sound.
With his arms folded tightly across his chest, he began taking in every word being reported. The news reporter reviewed events that occurred three months prior on December 27:
“Seven hundred Soviet troops landed in Afghanistan disguised as Afghan military. Within these troops were KGB and GRU special forces officers from the Alpha and Zenith Groups, who took control of major governmental, military and media buildings in Kabul. Simultaneously, other objectives were occupied. The operation was fully completed by the following morning. But the overthrow of the old government seems to be causing more opposition to the Soviets being in Afghanistan.”
Chairs scraped across the wood floor as Novak and James got up. They walked toward the TV and stood next to Grant, listening to the report, and watching the video being shown.
The news reporter continued: “Soviet troops are finding themselves drawn into guerilla warfare, fighting against urban uprisings, tribal armies, and sometimes against mutinying Afghan Army units. Soviet-led Afghan forces are fighting against multi-national insurgent groups, the Mujahideen.”
The more Grant heard, the more he found himself putting small pieces together. “Sonofabitch!”
“What’s happening, Skipper?” Adler shouted from across the room.
But before Grant responded, Slade called, “Boss, you need to read this!” He folded the paper in half and laid it down. As Grant got to the table, Slade pointed to an article.
Grant read the caption: Wreckage Discovered Off Coast.
“Jesus Christ!” he said under his breath.
The article stated the previous night an explosion had been seen off the Delaware coast. The following morning debris had been spotted by the Coast Guard but bodies had yet to be found. Examination of debris indicated it was a Huey. Efforts to find the registered owner had so far failed. The investigation was still underway.
“Well, boss, you think the weapons went down with the chopper?” Slade asked, rubbing a hand briskly over his shiny, bald head.
“What I think, Ken, is somebody’s tying up loose ends.”
Adler handed him a cup of coffee. “And you know this to be how? That gut of yours?”
Grant remained quiet, rolling around different scenarios, coming up with two possibilities, neither of which gave him a “warm and fuzzy.”
“Well?” Adler asked.
“Gotta call Scott,” Grant said, turning to go to the phone, acting as if he didn’t even hear Adler.