“Oh, do I have to?” he yawned.
“We’re meeting the admiral at 0930 before we meet with the President.”
Grant’s words finally hit home, as Adler responded, “Wait a minute! Did you say ‘with the President’?”
“That’s affirmative! And listen, you’d better chow down but good before we leave. Don’t know when we’ll get to eat today.”
“Roger that! Hey, you want me to drive?”
“As long as the ‘horse’ has enough fuel.” The “horse” is Adler’s red ’67 Mustang. “Pick me up at 0845, in case there’s a traffic problem.” Even though Grant’s apartment is less than two miles from the White House, traffic could be obscene, part from government employees and part from tourists.
He hung up, went to the kitchen, and rinsed his cup. He turned down the hall to the bedroom to grab a towel off the closet’s top shelf.
Walking across the hall to the bathroom, he adjusted the shower water, stripped off his skivvies, then stepped in the tub, pulling the vinyl shower curtain across the rod.
Billows of steam started enveloping the entire bathroom. The exhaust fan never seemed to do its intended job. He stood under the spraying hot water pelting his body, washing away the soap. Resting a hand against the tile, he started questioning the upcoming meeting at the White House.
The answers he was coming up with started making his blood boil. Politics. Goddamn politics! he angrily thought. With elections coming up, they could try to use those men for their own benefit. If that’s the case, what the hell would he be able to do about it anyway?
He wondered, What am I supposed to tell the President and admiral? He didn’t even know where the POWs were being held. And until he did, he couldn’t put any kind of plan together.
He momentarily stopped shampooing his hair when another question popped into his mind. How the hell could he get Grigori and Alexandra out of Russia, if that’s what Grigori really wanted? Even though Grigori was KGB, that wouldn’t give him any kind of protection. If anything, it would put him in even greater danger. The KGB will go ballistic if they find out one of their own has plans to defect… and disclosed a State secret about American POWs. His name would be on the “hot list” with everyone looking for him.
Unless… unless he can use Grigori’s authority to their advantage to get out of Russia. Wait a minute, Stevens. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.
He had tried to cover his comment to Tony last night in the conference room. Right now he only hoped nothing had been leaked back to the White House.
Rinsing off the remaining soap, he grabbed a towel from the hook, and dried himself quickly. Wrapping it around his waist, he opened the door to let the steam escape, then wiped the mirror.
As he slathered shaving cream on his face, he looked at his reflection, saying to himself, “Maybe you’re thinking too much.” He was placing all these questions on pure assumption at this point, but he didn’t like being unprepared. And he didn’t like assuming.
The razor glided across his skin as he continued thinking. But why the hell was this meeting being rushed? Why didn’t they wait until Grigori called on Friday? Was the President going to direct him on what he could and could not do to rescue the POWs? Or when? If it turned out to be a case of when, that would confirm his suspicions — politics. Gotta knock off this assuming, he thought, as he splashed water on his face, then dried it with a towel.
He walked across the hall to his bedroom. Taking his short-sleeve, white dress shirt from the closet, he hooked the hanger over the door. He eyed the six rows of ribbons on the left side, making sure the gold SEAL pin, the ‘Budweiser’ was centered above them, and his gold jump wings were centered on the pocket underneath. He readjusted his name tag over the right pocket.
He’d just bought a new set of shoulder boards with four gold stripes (captain) and a gold star (line officer). Line officers derived the name from the eighteenth century British tactic of employing warships in a line of battle to take advantage of cannons on each side of the ship. The vessels were known as “ships of the line” and those who commanded them were called “line officers.”
Once he finished dressing, he grabbed his white shoes from the floor and went into the living room. He laced up his shoes, took a quick check of the time, then stood in front of a mirror hanging by the door.
Picking up his cover (cap) from the table, he stared at the gold leaves, or “scrambled eggs” as they’re called, thinking of the many times when he wished his dad were still alive, to share his special moments, to share his life.
Mike Stevens, HMCS (Hospital Corpsman Senior Chief), was killed during the last days of the Korean War, when Grant was barely twelve years old. The only picture he has of his dad, now faded and creased, always remains tucked inside in his wallet.
He put on his cap, making sure the eagle emblem was in line with the buttons on his shirt, known as the gigline.
There was a rapping at the door. “It’s me, skipper!”
He grabbed his keys from the table and left.
In the basement beneath the West Wing of the White House is the Situation Room. After the failed invasion of the Bay of Pigs, which was attributed to a lack of real time information, President John F. Kennedy decided to have the room constructed.
Throughout the room are secure communications systems. In the walls, behind wood panels, are a variety of audio, video, and other systems.
With their covers tucked under their left arms, Grant and Adler were led through the room and into a small breakout room next to it, big enough for only one round table and four swivel chairs.
Just beyond this room is a phone booth, referred to as a “Superman tube” because of its shape, with a clear, curved glass door that slides open from right to left. There are two type of phones, one for regular calls and the other for top secret calls. The top secret phone has a regular receiver on the left with a yellow “box” to the right. Both look similar to phones inside civilian phone booths, except these sit one on top of the other.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Admiral John Torrinson said, with his arm outstretched. He stepped around one of the leather chairs positioned near the back wall.
“Morning, admiral,” Grant smiled, shaking his boss’ hand.
“Sir,” Adler said, reaching for Torrinson’s hand.
“Have a seat,” Torrinson motioned. Grant and Adler complied, placing their covers on their laps. Torrinson glanced at his watch. He sat back in his chair, with his eyes moving from Grant to Adler. “We’ve still got a few minutes before the President is due in. Is there anything else you need to tell me about your meeting with Agent Mullins?”
“Didn’t you speak with Director Hannigan yesterday, sir?” Grant asked, not sure where the conversation was going.
“I did. He informed me of a phone call made to the Agency by your friend, Colonel Moshenko, and the reason for his call.”
“Sir, that was basically what we discussed. I was totally surprised when Tony, I mean, Agent Mullins said it was Grigori. But that’s all I know, sir, except to learn there are supposedly five American POWs being held somewhere. Grigori is planning to call tomorrow around noon, and hopefully, he can give us further details.”
Torrinson leaned toward the conference table, detecting something in Grant’s eyes. “Captain, you don’t believe those men are the same men you tried to rescue back in ’75, do you?”
Grant took a deep breath. “I don’t know, sir, but even if they aren’t, we’ve gotta get them back. They deserve to be home, sir.” Grant hesitated, unsure whether he should let Torrinson know his concern. What the hell, he thought. “Sir, you don’t think this issue is going to turn into a political game, do you?”