“Yes, he is. We received a transmission from him not long after Zhu was extracted.”
“Any plans to pull him out?”
“There hasn’t been any indication his cover’s been blown.”
Carr nodded, “Good. Good.” He came back to his desk, sat down, and rolled his chair closer. “Okay. Now, can either of you add anything else?”
“As of right this minute, no,” Bancroft replied. “Everyone at Langley knows this is top priority, Mr. President.”
“Same at the NSA,” Prescott said.
Carr rested his elbows on the desk, and intertwined his fingers. He tapped his hands lightly against his mouth, before saying, “I think it’s time to bring in the Alpha Tango boys, gentlemen.”
“You want to use them, instead of another SEAL team?” Prescott said, as he put the folder back in his briefcase.
Carr gave somewhat of a smile. “They are SEALs, Trevor.”
“They were SEALs, Mr. President.”
Carr was surprised by the response. “General, you were brought on board from the beginning. You knew we’d call on those men when incidents ruled out using our military. That team exists specifically for times like this. And in case you’ve forgotten, I know Grant Stevens and Joe Adler personally. If you have any doubts as to their abilities, I’ll vouch for both of them. We will use Alpha Tango, General.”
“I apologize, Mr. President. I didn’t mean for my comment to come across the wrong way. Those men are some of the best this country has to offer.” Prescott let a few silent seconds pass before he asked, “Will you order the whole team to go on the mission, sir?”
Carr breathed a sigh. “It’ll be left up to Captain Stevens to make that call.” He stood and extended a hand to each man. “All right. You gentlemen get back to your offices, and keep me posted no matter what time it is.”
As soon as the two men left the office, Carr reached for the phone. His next conversation would be with Colonel James Maclin at State.
Chapter 3
By fifteen hundred hours the temperature was quickly approaching ninety-three degrees. In the lower level of Bridge House, it had already risen to one hundred two. Windows, ventilation, fresh air were non-existent.
All that remained on this level — and barely intact — were three cells. Each was eight by eight, had a wooden door with a latch and lock on the outside only. On the lower edge, a half-moon shape had been carved out, big enough for bowls to be passed through, bowls of rice for World War II POWs. The insides of these cells were completely bare. A single light bulb hung from above, but electricity no longer flowed through the wires.
Sitting on the filthy, rough concrete floor, leaning against a wall, Navy SEAL Lieutenant John Becket used the back of his hands to wipe sweat from his eyes. He smoothed back strands of brown hair from his forehead. Losing so much water had him worried. He — and probably Kidd — hadn’t had a drop to drink since they were captured. The temperature in the room was rising, as was his body temperature.
Weapons were taken when they were hauled into the Chinese boat. They’d been brought into this building blindfolded. Before the blindfolds were removed, they were stripped of wetsuits, watches, K-bars. Everything. Then they were thrown in these dank rooms… cells of some type.
He’d looked around this room several times, but there wasn’t anything to see. Not a bunk, or blanket, not even a bucket to piss in.
He took a deep breath, then began crawling across the floor, getting close to the door. He waited and listened, making sure it was quiet in the passageway. He leaned closer to the bottom of the door. “Jake!” he called in a loud whisper. “Jake!”
“Here, LT,” P.O. First Class Jake Kidd responded, as he stretched out on his belly, bringing his head close to the opening. “Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m good, Jake. How’s your arm?”
Kidd bent his elbow, sliding his arm across the concrete, trying to see his forearm in the darkness. He ran a finger over the wound, feeling caked blood stuck in blond hair. “Bleeding’s stopped,” he answered as he rested his chin on his fist. “Bullet just grazed me.”
Hearing noises overhead, their eyes focused on the ceiling. When it was quiet again, Jake asked, “Where the hell do you think we are, LT?”
“From the sound of traffic on the way here, I think we might be in Shanghai. I’d guesstimate we’re less than ten miles from the water.”
“Yeah, but I mean here… this building.”
Becket looked around the nearly pitch dark room. “Don’t know, Jake.”
“Do you think they’re looking for us, sir?”
“You can bet your ass they are!”
Becket assumed the question would eventually come up. Both of them had never been prisoners before, except during their SERE training (Survival, Escape, Resistance, Evasion). SERE was the high level course of the Code of Conduct.
Special Forces men were required to take SERE-C training, the “High-Risk” course. Navy SERE training was held in the mountains of Maine and NAS North Island, CA. Trainees learned what to do when things went from bad to worse.
Becket knew that if the CIA and NSA “boys” had done their jobs, the U.S. probably knew he and Kidd were being held here. But he also realized the ChiComs (Chinese Communists) could move the two of them to another location at any time. The odds of him finding out ahead of time where they’d be taken were astronomical. But if he could leave a note, or something to show they had been here…
“Jake!” he whispered.
“Yeah, LT.”
“Jake, see if you can find anything to write with, to scratch a message in the wall or floor… anything, Jake!”
Becket and Kidd started crawling around their cells, feeling with their fingers, rubbing with their palms, touching every square inch, trying to find something.
Becket crawled back to the door. “Any luck, Jake?”
“Negative, sir. Now what?”
Becket lowered his head, rubbing his fingers in small circles on his temples. “I’m thinking, Jake. I’m thinking.”
Chapter 4
A bolt of lightning flashed across the early morning sky, followed by a deep, long rumble of thunder that rattled windows. The quick-moving storm was passing directly over D.C.
Rain pelted the black Corvette’s windshield as Grant wove the vehicle in and out of light traffic along Virginia Avenue. An hour and a half earlier his beeper woke him out of a sound sleep. The lighted display revealed a sequence of numbers from Scott Mullins: State ASAP.
Grant was worried. Something “heavy” was going down. He immediately phoned Adler. Men, weapons, equipment, aircrafts were to be made ready for a mission yet to be named.
Every team member lived within five miles of one another and within forty-five minutes of the house in Virginia. Extra sets of clothing, for any kind of weather, were stored in bedroom closets. When a call came for a mission, there’d be no need to respond. As Team members they were on alert 24/7/365. They’d automatically make the drive to their “home base.”
The rain was getting heavier as Grant approached 23rd Street. Traffic was still light. Brake lights from a bus, taxis, and a few cars flashed on and off as vehicles slowed. He turned onto 23rd.
The Harry S. Truman Building — the Department of State — was ahead on the left. He made a left onto D Street. With his parking permit in full view, he turned up the concrete ramp to the parking garage.