Carr continued perusing the report, as he asked, "What the hell does it mean, Ray?"
"Well, it's possible the PNA was preparing to set up a location in Bangkok. And knowing how they operate, it's possible they were buying weapons from the black market in Vietnam. Only a theory, sir."
"Any idea if they transported weapons back to the P.I.?"
Simmons shook his head. "If they did, it had to be by cargo ship. I could have an agent in Manila try to make inquiries. Records could be examined, but that would be extremely time-consuming. Our best option, sir, is to keep listening. The next time there's a transmission, we might be able to triangulate the location."
Carr handed the paper back to Simmons. "There's a helluva lot going on, gentlemen. I'm not sure if we should be concerned about those weapons for now. It's the drug that's doing great harm to our men. But the PNA, or whoever initiated this atrocity, had to expect it to be a 'one-time shot' only." Carr shook his head. "One time. Did they actually have the audacity to think they'd wipe out an entire crew?! No. It doesn't make sense. I can't believe they're planning to use this method of attacking again."
"Maybe it was a warning," SecDef Daniels suggested.
"And what would that warning be, Jerry?" Carr asked, with an angry tone.
"I'm sure they realized that out of the thousands of men on board, there would be those already 'hooked' and were willing to risk it. Maybe it was their way of saying this could happen any time. What if users were in ordnance? Or fuel? What if calculations for setting 'traps' were wrong?" (Arresting cables for landings were adjusted for every plane's weight and speed.)
"Okay. Okay, Jerry," Carr finally said, holding up his hand. "I think we get it."
"The consequences could have been disastrous, Mr. President."
Carr got up and walked to the window behind his desk, with all eyes following him. He rested a hand on the window frame, as his eyes followed drops of rain running down the glass.
"Mr. President," Secretary Daniels called.
"Yes, Jerry?"
"If you're thinking about sending in a team … "
Carr turned around, sliding his hands into his pants pockets. "I'm thinking along those lines."
"Well, to make your decision somewhat easier, word is that Admiral Torrinson had made a suggestion."
Carr responded with a hint of a smile. "The name 'Grant Stevens' wasn't the suggestion, was it, Jerry?"
"It was. I guess the time the two of them worked together at NIS carried over. What do you think, sir?"
"You know," Carr said walking back to the middle of the room, "every time those men have been called, they've accepted the mission. But they've already started moving forward with their training facility, so I don't know if that'll make any difference in the response." He lowered his eyes, then quietly commented, "Sending anyone over there with the little we know is undoubtedly extremely risky."
He stood next to his rocker, looking into the eyes of each man, as he drew in a deep breath. "When we're done here, I'll call Jim Maclin at State. His man can contact Captain Stevens, and see if Alpha Tango is willing to accept.
"If there's nothing else, gentlemen, we'll consider the meeting over." As everyone started for the door, Carr called, "Stan, ask Rachel to have Tom come in. We'll work on that press release."
Chapter 4
Gentle rolling hills, covered with blackjack oaks, white oaks, and interspersed with tall prairie grass, surrounded Skiatook Lake. The 10,500 acre man-made lake was accentuated by steep picturesque bluffs. An abundance of bass, crappie, channel catfish, and several species of sunfish made it one of the best sport fishing lakes around.
Light from a brilliant sun, set against a cobalt blue sky, glistened on the water. The temperature had already reached 82 degrees, with a high of 89 expected. Fishermen had pulled in their lines hours earlier, anticipating the usual disruption from speed boats and skiers. Most of the fish were already in deeper, cooler water.
A quarter mile from the lake, two men knelt on a roof, hammering roofing nails, replacing worn shingles on the small ranch-style house. They worked in unison as a team, as they had over the years.
Wearing soiled jeans and a sweat-soaked white T-shirt, Grant took off his black baseball cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He screwed down his cap, then reached for another shingle, noticing only four more were left inside the torn, brown paper wrapping. He looked over the top of his aviator sunglasses. "We're almost done, Joe."
Adler stretched his back and glanced behind him. "Not exactly the R&R we planned on."
"Maybe not, but your dad needed the help. And besides, it's been therapeutic, something we both needed."
"I hear ya. Beating the shit out of something with a hammer tends to be therapeutic!"
After a brief trip to San Diego, the two friends arrived at Skiatook three days earlier, with the intent of having a relaxing visit with Adler's dad, Tom, and getting in some fishing and swimming. But after noticing a stack of shingles strategically piled by the front door, they volunteered their services.
Adler took off his old, faded green, EOD "barrack's" cover (hat) before he sat down. He stretched his legs out, brushing off shingle debris from his tattered fatigue pants. "Hey, why don't we 'hit the playground' after lunch? Maybe we could ask Jackie and Olivia to join us. It should give them enough time before we go dinner."
"Sounds like a good idea. The lake's been perfect." Grant stood up and carefully made a slow three-sixty. "You must've had some great times here, Joe. Funny that we both grew up near water — me the Russian River, and you Skiatook."
"Guess the Navy was meant to be for both of us." Adler tilted his head back, sniffing the air. "Dad's got that pie in the oven."
Grant laughed. "You can tell it's a pie?!"
No sooner had he gotten the words out, when they heard, "It's mighty quiet up there!" Tom Adler shielded his eyes as he looked up at the roof.
Grant leaned over the edge, and snapped a quick salute. "Mission accomplished, sir!"
"And we're ready for lunch!" Adler added, as he crawled near the edge.
"Well, then, get your butts down here! You clean up and I'll start frying those catfish." The sixty-four year old was close to 5'10" with a slim build, brown hair with heavy streaks of gray, and deep facial creases. His hands, rough and scarred, attested to the fact he'd been in construction his whole adult life. A broken hip a year earlier limited his ability to maintain the thirty-year old home.
Dishes and silverware had been cleared from the table, and were soaking in a sink filled with soapy water. Kitchen windows were wide open, allowing a slight breeze to circulate through the room. An 8" wall vent fan next to the gas stove hummed quietly, unable to draw out lingering fish odors.
Tom picked up a knife, and pointed the tip toward the apple pie, with four slices already missing. "Who wants another slice?"
"Maybe a little later, Dad."
"Grant?"
Grant waved a hand back and forth. "Have to pass. I'm full up to here," he motioned by tapping a finger against his forehead.
Tom laid the knife across the pie, then sipped some freshly brewed iced tea. "So, tell me how far you've gotten in this new venture you're both heading up."
Grant responded, "The best way we could think of to put the word out, Tom, was to meet with some friends at the base in San Diego. We already made stops in Norfolk and Little Creek."
"You might end up with your hands full."
"Yeah," Grant smiled, "that's what we're counting on."