Adler knew that word meant “really good.” “Yes! Uh… si.” He’d picked up some Italian words since he’d been in Sicily, but never felt quite comfortable hearing them come out his mouth.
Luigi offered some to Moshenko, who put his hand up, and smiled, “No.”
Workers out in the center of the compound began milling around, each of them checking their tools, deciding what work they would attempt to accomplish that day.
Luigi squinted as he walked outside, looking overhead, and seeing only dark clouds, with morning light hardly visible on the eastern horizon. “Dio mio,” he exclaimed softly. Another day when they’d probably be ducking in and out of showers, protecting their precious tools, their means of earning a living.
The three Russians had remained seated at the table. Tarasov put on his wire-rimmed glasses and opened his briefcase. Removing a folder, he began reviewing paperwork, preparing for a tour of the facility. He looked at his watch. His meeting with the civilian technician was scheduled for 7:30.
Rusnak swallowed the last bit of Russian tea. He eyed Tarasov, who was ignoring him completely. Finally deciding to clean the glasses himself, he carried them to the sink and carefully washed and dried each one. Finally, he packed them again in the blue silk-lined box.
Adler got up and said to his team, “Okay. Time to start the day.”
They grabbed their hats and turned toward the door, each of them giving a quick, two finger salute to Moshenko as they passed him.
Adler stood briefly across from Moshenko. “We’ll be at the worksite most of the morning or inside the old hangar, sir. I’ll come looking for you when I have a break, okay?”
“Good, Joe. I will see you later.” The two shook hands and Adler left, putting on his hat once he was out the door.
Adler caught up with the team outside the temporary storage building. As soon as everything they hauled out of the tunnel had been removed and transported to the next safe location, this building would probably be torn down.
Taylor flipped the switch, turning on overhead lights strung in three single rows, ten lights per row. Within five seconds all power went out. “What the fuck?” Taylor exclaimed, as he tried the switch again.
No sooner had he gotten the words out, when bursts of gunfire sent the team racing for cover, drawing their weapons. But it was nearly impossible to see human shapes in the darkness, almost impossible to tell where the Italian workers were. All the Americans could do was return fire at muzzle flashes.
Adler was familiar with the sound of Uzis and automatic weapons. Their .45s wouldn’t be much of a match.
“Get back! Get back!” he shouted to his men, all of them scooting backward, trying to get behind some protection.
All Adler could hope for was that the darkness would give them the added cover they so desperately needed now. His thoughts went to Moshenko, not knowing where he and the two Russians were, hoping they made it to safety.
Outside they heard shouting and gunfire, total pandemonium. The workers were completely defenseless. They were running, trying to hide, but the attackers were coming at them relentlessly.
All the ammunition, rifles, and mortars EOD recovered from the tunnel weren’t going to do them any fucking good now. Adler scooted closer to one of the Jeeps, reached behind the driver’s seat, and pulled out an ammo box with extra clips for the .45s. “Taylor! Behind that seat! Get the extra ammo!”
Suddenly, it went strangely quiet, except for the distressing moans that were heard from the injured. Adler could only hope that bullets fired by him and his men found their way into the attackers. Chances of their innocent, Italian friends escaping the onslaught seemed slim, and that made him feel sick to his stomach.
His mind was racing. His men didn’t have enough ammo to defend against another all out assault. And with the amount of firepower the attackers apparently had, there wouldn’t be any reason for them not to launch another assault, and it probably would happen soon.
With all his experience in the field, on missions, Adler had a feeling what would happen next, especially if they could no longer find a way to defend themselves. He had to find something, something they could use as a signal, or some kind of communication device. He kept searching, looking, but kept coming up empty.
If they were taken as hostages, there wasn’t any doubt in his military mind that they’d be searched. He didn’t have anything or know of anything within his reach that’d be small enough to hide anyway.
For an instant, his thoughts went to his friend, Grant Stevens. If ever there was a time he needed him, now would be it!
Suddenly the silence was broken. “Americani!” Luigi Castalani shouted in very broken English from somewhere in the darkness. “You. come. out!”
Adler looked at his men. They were still down on one knee, firearms held with both hands, pointed straight ahead, waiting for his command.
If the attackers hadn’t come at them full force, trying to overtake them, then they must have an ulterior motive. Maybe it had to do with the weaponry the EOD team had already recovered from the tunnel. But Adler had even more concern for what was still in the tunnel… canisters… canisters of nerve gas.
He’d made his decision. He had to find a way to keep all of them alive, find a way to escape, and hope for rescue. They couldn’t let those canisters fall into the wrong hands.
Chapter 6
Tall lights circling the airfield barely penetrated an early morning fog. It was looking like another dreary day. Grant sipped black coffee from a paper cup, while he hoped they wouldn’t be delayed. He was leaning against one of the open double doors on the lower level of the terminal that led out to a staging area. Boarding was scheduled to begin at 0600.
Luggage for Space-A travelers had been separated and stored inside a wooden cage-like container just outside the terminal. Most of the thirty-five people who were trying to get comfortable on the molded plastic seats were families being transferred back to the States, along with a few retirees. Some were drinking coffee, some cans of Coke, any means necessary to get caffeine into their systems.
Grant just shook his head, watching a few little kids running around unsupervised, with their parents still trying to wake up. Hope they work off all that energy by the time we board, he thought. He was looking forward to some down time during the long flight.
Parked about a hundred yards from the terminal was the C-5a that would carry him and his team home. No matter how many times he'd flown the plane, he was still amazed at its sheer size. The C-5a is commonly described as “the box the C-141 came in.”
The largest plane in the free world had a wingspan of nearly two hundred twenty-three feet, was two hundred forty-eight feet long, and sixty-five feet high. Each of its four turbofan engines had a thrust of forty-three thousand pounds. Its fuel capacity was just over fifty-one thousand gallons, enough to fill six and a half regular-size railroad tank cars. Its main cargo area could carry a maximum of three hundred forty passengers. On the second deck there were seventy-five passenger seats, facing aft for safety purposes, and one “head.”
One of two ways to access the upper deck was by a steep ladder leading from the cargo bay. Looking similar to, but larger than pull-down attic stairs, this access remains open at all times, so for the experienced C-5a travelers, selecting seats farther forward ensures a warmer, more comfortable flight.
“Sure one big sonofabitch, isn’t it, sir?” laughed Moore as he walked toward Grant, carrying his rucksack.