"I take it that a COD flight to the carrier hasn't been confirmed yet."
"Negative so far. Hey! Can I ask about the uniform thing, or should I wait until we're all in the air?"
"I'll explain later. Listen, did you get everything we might need from the safe?"
"We're good to go. Oh, Scott faxed you some sat images with specific areas circled. They'll give you something to analyze during the flight."
"Hmm. Sounds like a possible location for the facility. Okay, Matt. If there are any hangups, contact us here; otherwise, we'll meet you at the airport."
XO Carl Justine stood near the quartermaster's station, silently reading a message just handed to him. "Captain, we just received this from Washington."
Conklin lowered the binoculars, then swiveled around his high-backed leather chair. "What is it, XO?"
Justine held the paper toward him. "Looks like we'll be receiving some visitors."
Conklin perused the message. "Hmm. A couple of officers and five enlisted. I guess these are the men the admiral requested. I think he said the two officers worked for him at NIS."
Justine nodded. "Is there anything you want me to do?"
"Bring CAG on board about this. We need to send a message back to D.C., and tell the gentlemen to fly to Cubi. Then make preparations to fly them in on the next COD. And as far as quarters are concerned, they'll probably want to stay together. Find space for them, XO."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Conklin lifted the strap of the binoculars over his head, and put them on the chair. "I'll deliver this to the admiral." As he picked up his cap, he notified OOD Braebern, "You've got the bridge, Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir."
Chapter 5
Approaching the white-green wake churning behind the ship, a Grumman C-2 Greyhound, with landing gear and flaps down, remained on speed at 85–88 % RPMs, at an altitude of 500 feet. At 3/4 mile on speed, the plane began its intercept glide slope. Within fourteen seconds the Greyhound would "introduce itself" to the flight deck.
With one hand on the throttle and the other on the flight stick, the pilot gingerly maneuvered his aircraft, lining it up, staying focused on the "meatball." He checked in with the LSO (Landing Safety Officer) then checked his gauges and called in his name, speed and fuel weight. The tension on the arresting wires was immediately adjusted, set to match the weight and speed of the Greyhound. The flight deck crew was prepared for the plane's high speed arrival.
The Greyhound's wheels hit the flight deck, with its tailhook catching number three wire. Almost immediately a crew member ("hook runner") cleared the wire from the tailhook. The pilot followed signals from a yellow-shirted plane director, pointing him toward the island, then stopping him behind an E2 Hawkeye, already parked in the "Hummer Hole." The Greyhound stopped. Chains were attached to it and then to tie-downs embedded in the flight deck.
Team A.T. punched seat belt harness releases, and removed helmets. "It's good to be home," Adler snorted, then yanked his rucksack off an empty seat.
Grant slapped him on the shoulder. "The last time we were aboard, Joe, we had this boat 'under a microscope.'" As he picked up his cap, his mind drifted back to that mission, and his first contact with Tony Mullins.
Adler saw the expression. "You're thinking about Tony, aren't you?"
"Yeah. When we get back, Joe, we've gotta make a visit to Arlington."
"I agree."
As the ramp started lowering, distinct smells of fuel and sea drifted into the cabin. Grant turned and gave a thumb's up to the crew members who were looking toward the cabin.
The men walked down the ramp, stepping onto the all too familiar feeling of a carrier flight deck, with the sounds of a ship underway, something A.T. was very familiar with. But they immediately recognized that flight ops were still canceled. All aircraft were tightly arranged in specific locations, some with wings folded.
As they walked toward the island, Grant looked up to "Vulture's Row," a balcony platform offering a view of the entire flight deck. Leaning against the barrier were several officers, watching him and his Team.
"There's the admiral," Grant said. Both he and Adler stopped and snapped a salute. A smile was obvious on Torrinson's face, as he returned a quick salute.
A WTD (water tight door) opened and XO Justine stepped onto the flight deck. "Captain Stevens! Welcome aboard, sir! I'm Carl Justine, XO."
The two shook hands. "Thanks, XO." Grant introduced the men.
"If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your quarters. The captain figured you'd want to stay together. Since you're the only visitors on board, there's an available stateroom on 03 Level."
"Appreciate that, XO."
"Once you're settled in, the admiral would like you to report to his office."
"Would it be all right if my men joined us?"
"Affirmative, sir. The admiral's ordered everyone to report."
Torrinson stood by a porthole, with his arms behind his back, slapping one hand against the other. His request to have Grant and Joe report to the carrier went off without a hitch. During his time at NIS, the two men were the best at what they did in the strange, dangerous world of black ops. Most of the time he left them to their own initiative to get the job done. Make that, all the time.
A knock at the door made him turn. "Come!"
A security guard opened it. Grant and Adler led the Team into the room.
"Admiral! Sir!" Grant smiled broadly.
Torrinson walked toward Grant. Their hands slapped together in a firm grip. "Grant! It's great to see you!"
"And you, sir!"
Torrinson extended a hand to Adler. "Joe! How are you?"
"I'm good, sir!"
Torrinson took a step back, eyeing his former NIS operatives. "Well, I'll bet you never expected to be wearing those again!" he said, pointing at the service khaki uniforms.
"I think we were more surprised they still fit," Grant responded with a wide grin. "Oh, sir, let me introduce you to the men of Alpha Tango.
Handshakes went around, thenTorrinson turned toward Grant and Adler. "If we've got time, I'd sure like to hear about your exploits since you've, uh, retired."
Grant lowered his eyes before looking again at his former boss. "I think I can speak for Joe, too, that it hasn't exactly turned out like we expected."
"So I hear," Torrinson chuckled. "Come on. Let's go sit."
As they were sitting at the rectangular mahogany table, Grant immediately noticed a large plastic jar filled to the brim with Tootsie Roll Pops. "Still 'hooked' on them, sir?"
"Just like you and your Snickers candy, Grant." He pointed toward the jar. "Help yourselves, gentlemen. Mrs. Torrinson sees that I have a steady supply."
Grant asked, "How's shipboard life, sir?"
Torrinson leaned back against the black leather swivel chair. "Until recently, Grant, I've been enjoying the hell out of it."
Resting his arms on the table, Grant's expression turned serious. "Sorry about the men you've lost, sir. Have there been any other … incidents?"
"What was the last you heard?"
"Eight dead, four critical."
"Those numbers changed, I'm afraid. Counting the petty officer lost over the side, that would make ten dead, three very critical. None of those young men had even reached their 25th birthday."
"Wait one, sir," Grant said, holding up a hand. "Somebody went over the side?!"
"Afraid so. We determined he was the dealer. He left a note indicating he didn't have a clue what he was distributing."