“I’ll go with the flow, buddy!” Mullins laughed.
“Hey, you haven’t caught hell from those on high for helping us, have you?”
“Negative. Haven’t heard a word so far.”
“Glad to hear it. Tony, listen. We’ve got our passengers but… ”
“Whoa! Wait a minute! You got them?” Mullins asked, excitedly.
“Yeah. They were already onboard.”
“Jesus, Grant! You did it!”
“Still got a long way to go before we can fill in our ‘dance card.’ The term ‘dance card’ refers to an AAR, an after action report, used at the completion of a mission.
“Yeah, but still… let me give you early congrats!”
“Hold the thought because we had a change in plans. We had to reclassify our intended transportation as extremely risky. We’ll be heading west and trying to find another mode of transportation. Once we do, may need your help.”
“Talk to me,” Mullins replied.”
“If we run into an emergency situation, we can use frequency 243.0, but give me an alternate channel. Okay. Got it. I’ll use your call sign “Legs.” Mullins had the nickname while an instructor at Combat Swimmers School. “Mine’s ‘Panther.’ I’ve gotta get back to the ‘apartment.’ Where will you be staying?”
“Your favorite place. Hotel Berliner.”
“And the name you’re using?”
“John Smith.”
“John Smith? You shittin’ me?”
“Would I shit you, friend?” Mullins laughed.
“John Smith it is.”
“Listen, Grant, when do you expect to fly?”
“Still on the hunt for our transportation, but hope by early morning.”
“In that case, I’ll take my ‘jammies’ to the chopper and wait for your transmission.”
“Your call,” Grant laughed.
“Give my best to the colonel and Joe.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Stay safe… and watch your back.”
“Wait! Tony, can I be patched through to NIS?” Grant heard Mullins questioning Greeley.
“You want a secure line, Grant?”
“Yeah, if possible.”
While he waited, Grant continued glancing around, watching for anybody out of the ordinary. Anybody trying to duck behind a newspaper, or standing too long in front of a glass window. He waited.
Although it was barely summer, the heat index was close to a scorching ninety-five degrees, with the humidity nearly as high. Without any breeze, gas fumes from thousands of vehicles driving along Pennsylvania Avenue hung heavy in the stillness, leaving an acrid taste in mouths.
Within twenty minutes of getting the phone call, Admiral Torrinson arrived at the White House. President Carr had called an urgent meeting between Torrinson, SECDEF Willard Kruger, Vice President Victor Blakely, and CIA Director Ed Hannigan.
Torrinson waited outside the Oval Office, standing in front of a floor to ceiling window near a secretary’s desk, looking out at the West Colonnade.
Valerie Castle, a petite blond, twenty-seven years old, was an assistant to the President’s secretary, Rachel. She stood at the door to the Oval Office. “Admiral Torrinson.” Torrinson swung around. “You can go in now.” She opened the door and he entered.
SECDEF Kruger was the only one in the room, sitting on one of two beige-striped couches, separated by a glass-top coffee table. He was leaning over the coffee table, scanning a double page document.
Torrinson stepped near the couch. “Mr. Secretary.”
“Oh, Admiral Torrinson. Have a seat,” SECDEF indicated with his hand. Kruger was in his first year as SECDEF. He was sixty-five years old, of medium height, wore round, horned-rimmed glasses, and had mostly gray hair.
“The President and Vice President should join us shortly. I believe they were finishing a call with Russian Premier Gorshevsky.”
Torrinson felt a sudden knot in his stomach, his thought immediately going to Grant and Joe.
Kruger looked beyond Torrinson and stood. Torrinson rose and turned to see the President and Vice President coming into the room. “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President,” he said, respectfully. They don’t look happy, Torrinson grimly thought.
CIA Director Hannigan followed on their footsteps. Hannigan was almost sixty-one years old, and constantly battling a weight problem. Cigarettes and food were his two vices. His dark brown eyes always seemed to be questioning. He was perfect for the job.
Vice President Gerard Blakely approached Torrinson and gave a brief nod and smile. “Admiral.” Blakely, a quiet spoken man, was fifty-eight years old, slim, under 5’8”, with wavy brown hair. Just from his expression one could tell he was still mourning the loss of his wife of thirty years. He took a seat next to Kruger.
President Carr dropped a folder on the coffee table, then extended his hand to Torrinson. “Admiral. Glad you could join us. Sit, please.” He pulled an ornate wooden chair back, then sat on the edge, immediately opening the folder. Getting right to the matter, Carr said, “Admiral, earlier today CIA intercepted a Russian communication. It seems one of their helicopters disappeared from radar around 7:30 PM, Russia time.” Torrinson leaned forward, rubbing his hands together, with a sick feeling growing in his stomach.
Carr continued, “Being the concerned person that I am, I called Premier Gorshevsky to offer our assistance. According to the premier, the aircraft had departed Domodedovo Airport on a scheduled flight. Its first stop was to be Minsk.
“They sent out search aircraft almost immediately. Less than seventy-five miles from Domodedovo, they found pieces of wreckage, or to be more precise, charred pieces wreckage, scattered a quarter of a mile from the main site. Looks like it exploded in midair.” Carr’s distress was obvious. He sat back, then asked Torrinson, “Admiral, have you heard from Captain Stevens yet?”
“Not yet, sir. Mr. President, have any bodies been found?”
Carr shook his head. “Whether they have or not, the premier didn’t give up that information, even after I asked. Nothing was specifically mentioned by either of us about who may have been onboard. With his not committing to answer me, I suspect it may be ‘our’ helicopter, Admiral.”
Silence pervaded the Oval Office, with the same grave concern on each man’s mind. Five American POWs, a KGB officer, and possibly two U.S. Navy officers. Carr spoke. “Admiral, do you have any way to reach the captain?”
“Not directly, sir. I can call the Berlin Embassy and alert the bureau chief. But you can rest assured, Mr. President, that as long as Captain Stevens is able, he will contact me.”
Carr almost hated to pose the question. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then, Mr. President, we still won’t know for sure. Plans can change. There are too many possibilities, sir. We’ll just have to give it some time.”
Hannigan cleared his throat before saying, “Mr. President, Admiral Torrinson, I’d like to interrupt for a moment. Admiral, do you know Agent Tony Mullins?”
Torrinson gave a slight shake of his head. “Not personally, sir. I only know he’s the agent who notified Captain Stevens when Colonel Moshenko called the Agency. Is there a problem?”
“The problem, admiral, is we haven’t seen or heard from Agent Mullins for a couple of days.”
Torrinson let his words out slowly. “In what way does this have to do with Captain Stevens or the Russian helicopter?”
“We’re still putting pieces together, but it just seems a little coincidental.”
“Coincidental? I say again, sir… how and what does it have to do with the…?”
Carr held up a hand to stop the conversation before it got “hot and heavy.” The dislike, or competition, between CIA and NIS was ongoing. “Gentlemen, let’s get back on track, okay?” He pushed his sleeve back and glanced at his Bulova. “Admiral, I suggest you head back to your office. When the captain contacts you, or you hear from the Embassy, you call me any time, any hour.”