Admiral Morelli stared down at the message on his desk, smoothing the edges with the back of his hand. The secured flash message was sent by Brad Simmons from the Communication's Center of the Preston, quoting Grant word for word: "Nothing to fear from the Bear or the Dragon. Put them to rest. Grant."
Petty Officer Gardner buzzed the intercom, reporting that Secretary Allington was on the line. Morelli picked up the phone as he looked around the office. During the past few days, the only time he'd left was to shower and change. His aide, Ensign Pritchard, had brought him his meals. His gaze stopped at the couch, staring at the pillow still crumpled against the armrest.
Allington cleared his throat, his voice sounding anxious, exhausted. "Admiral Morelli? You have any news?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I just received word from Commander Stevens." He read Grant's message, then answered, "Yes, sir. Everything is under control. The incident's been defused. Once you resume conversations with the Chinese and Russians, Mr. Secretary, I'm certain they will not be taking any action. There shouldn't be anything more to worry about. The Commander will explain further when he returns."
Lieutenant Greg Connelly snapped a ready salute, and an instant later the AE-6B Prowler catapulted from the USS John Preston, beginning its long journey. Carrying spare external fuel tanks, the Prowler would be pushed to its limit since its mission was critical — deliver two passengers to Andrews Air Force Base.
Sitting in the rear seats behind the pilot and navigator, dressed in dark green flight suits and white helmets with red lightning bolts on the sides, were Grant Stevens and Joe Adler. The cramped quarters and long flight, with only one brief stop and three in-flight refuelings, would leave the four men weary and stiff.
A raw wind accosted the Prowler as it touched down on Runway 19L of Andrews Air Force Base, the tires screeching when rubber met concrete surface. The jet shuddered as Connelly threw the two powerful Pratt & Whitney engines into reverse, the force of the landing jolting all four men forward against their seat harnesses. Smoke and debris, caught by the wind, propelled outward from the tires, further blackening the remnants of a recent snowstorm lying in scattered piles along the edges of the runway.
Oblivious to the deafening noise pervading the aircraft, Grant stared out the port side canopy of the rear seat. But it was an empty stare, with questions and decisions racing through his mind. Where was he supposed to start? He'd have to get the okay from somebody.
He and Adler stepped down onto the tarmac and into a cold, fifteen knot wind smacking against their faces, the wind chill factor was seven degrees above zero. They stood by the jet as the navigator handed them their flight bags. "Thanks for the lift," Grant said, shaking hands with Connelly then with Lieutenant(j.g.) Gomez.
"Our pleasure, sir," responded Lieutenant Connelly, "just sorry the in-flight service wasn't up to par." He elbowed the navigator in the ribs and laughed.
Grant forced a smile without responding. He had too much on his mind. Adler shot him a sideways glance, then answered Connelly. "Uh, no problem, sir. We enjoyed the flight. Thanks for getting us safely back on home soil."
Grant started to leave, then said as an afterthought, "Listen, we'll get these flight suits and jackets back to you." Without waiting for a reply, he started walking away.
"No rush, sir," Connelly answered, his voice trailing as he looked questioningly at Adler.
"Come on, Joe," Grant called over his shoulder.
Both men pulled the fur collars up around their ears, Adler holding his arm close against his body, preventing unnecessary motion inside the sling. Their pace quickened and they made a dash across the runway. On the concrete sidewalk, patches of ice glistened under the harsh lighting of the entrance to the Operations building.
Grant held the door open for Adler. "Come on, Joe, we've got shit to do."
They went down the deserted main hallway, their footsteps echoing on the polished, hard flooring. Finding the men's room around the corner of the first passageway, they changed into their uniforms then continued down the hall. A black arrow on the sign at the bottom of the stairway pointed up to the main Operation's office on the second floor.
Grant could only hope that Buckley was in. He knew there was a secure phone in the office and Buckley was the perfect choice. He and Commander Stuart Buckley first met in Vietnam when Buckley was a Sea Wolf helo pilot. The last time they saw one another was in Coronado. Stu was a helo pilot attached to North Island supporting the students and Grant was teaching 'tadpoles' at school.
"Jesus," Adler said as he shivered, "I'm still cold. How 'bout a cup of coffee before we go in, sir?"
"No," Grant answered sharply. He immediately regretted his response and shook his head. "Sorry, Joe, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You know we've gotta get this done."
"I know, sir."
They walked to the large double doors marked "Operation's Office." Both men removed their caps, tucking them under their arms.
As Grant reached for the handle, Adler stopped him. "Commander, this is gonna mean… "
Grant nodded. "Yeah, Joe."
The large Operation's Office consisted of rows of metal desks, some back to back with tall gray file cabinets lining two walls. The bright overhead lighting was in sharp contrast to the dull decor. Although only a few early birds were in the office, the sound of ringing telephones continued to intermingle with clicking typewriters keys and slamming file drawers. Nothing appeared to distract or change the flow of business.
Grant and Adler maneuvered around three rows of desks, then turned toward the glass-enclosed office. A stocky man, shorter than Grant, with gray, short cropped hair, was in the outer office with his back to them, talking to his secretary. "Peggy, pull those two down off the board and send them to the south hangar. They're due for A&P inspection."
"I'll take care of it, Stu," replied Peggy Harrelson as she made a notation on the steno pad.
"Hey, Stu!" Grant called as he pushed the door open further.
Buckley's blue eyes widened when he turned and saw Grant, immediately flashing a broad grin. "Well, you ol' snake-eater! Where've you been?" Their hands slapped together in a firm, friendly handshake. He nodded, acknowledging Adler.
"This is Senior Chief Joe Adler, Stu," Grant said.
Adler and Buckley shook hands, Buckley asking, "Didn't you use to be with the Teams?"
"Yes, sir," Adler smiled.
Buckley turned back to Grant. "This is quite an occasion. You've gotta want something bad," he laughed. "When a steely-eyed, trained jungle fighter isn't in his cammies, he's lookin' for a favor!"
"You're right, Stu. We've gotta talk."
Buckley's smile gradually faded, noticing a disturbed expression on Grant's face, detecting a somber tone in his voice. "Peggy, we can pick this up later this morning."
"Alright, Stu. I'll go check on the report Frank's putting together." The veteran secretary picked up her stenography notebook from the edge of the desk. She nodded to the two strangers as she passed by them, closing the office door behind her.
Stu turned his attention back to Grant, placing a hand against his friend's back. "Let's go into my office."
A brief conversation took place, Grant relaying a minimal amount of information. "I'd like to use the scramble phone, Stu."
"Sure. No problem. You want I should leave?"
"It'd be best."
"Understood. I'll go get a cup of coffee." Stu noticed Adler giving an almost pleading look in Grant's direction, so he asked, "How do ya take your java, Senior Chief?"