"I've considered that, sir, but I'm betting the Germans haven't let them in on the whole scenario. I'm also ninety-nine percent sure the Russians won't retaliate against us if we destroy the dissidents' lab. When word leaks out to the rest of the world, not only about the drug, but that the Russians were the ones behind the project from day one, they'll have to think twice. I can get proof of that through Lampson. Besides, sir, I think they'll be grateful for our help, since they're the intended victims scheduled to take the brunt of this."
Torrinson pressed his back against the leather swivel chair, propping a foot against the desk. He noticed a crumb clinging to his black tie and flicked it off. He was quiet for a moment, absorbing what Grant had said. Since he'd been at NIS, Torrinson had learned that Grant didn't ‘stick it out’ without a pretty good chance that he could bring home the bacon. "You're only ninety-nine percent sure, Captain?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
"Yes, sir. Ninety-nine percent. Joe's figured in the other one percent."
"Ahh, I see. Well, with you two, how could I have thought otherwise?" The clear glass jar filled with a supply of Tootsie Roll Pops caught his eye, and he leaned forward and removed its cover. "Have you thought about the Russians maybe having their own agenda on how to make use of these particular items?"
"Yes, sir, I have. Right now it's pure guess, but with them being embroiled in the Mongolian situation, that could be a remote possibility."
Torrinson had read the intelligence reports on the Mongolian border flare-ups. "Like you said, Grant, it's a remote possibility. I'd better run it by SECDEF (Secretary of Defense) anyway." He unwrapped a cherry pop and tossed the paper onto the dirty dish. "Say, do you still have that friend of yours on the other side of the fence?"
Grant winked at Adler, realizing they were about to get the Admiral's verbal authorization. Adler responded with a grin and gave a thumb's up as Grant answered, "Yes, sir. Grigori Moshenko is still active. We've kept in touch. I know I can depend on him and use him as the pivot man. He's helped our intelligence community in the past, sir… along with other things."
"It's the other things you have to tell me about some day." Torrinson smiled, as he rolled the Tootsie Pop over his tongue. "You snake-eaters sure stick together, don't you?"
"Not all of us, sir, only a select few." Trying to ease some of Torrinson's concern, Grant added, "Tell you what, sir. I won't make a decision about the East German lab until I've discussed the situation with Grigori."
Torrinson pulled the pop from his mouth. "Fair enough, Grant. Now, listen, I'll give you carte blanche," he stated while he shook the pop in the air. "But you'd better find a way to keep me in the loop. I want to know what the hell's going on at all times, you understand?"
"Yes, sir. Understood. I'll have Wharton cranked in and he'll keep you on course, sir."
Torrinson was well aware that he was putting his own ass on the line, hoping it all didn't blow up in their faces. He trusted the SecDef and decided at that moment to use a little CYA (cover your ass) and would brief the secretary. But as Grant pointed out, too much was at stake in this game to bring in the National Security Agency folks right now.
Torrinson had put his trust in the thirty-six year old Grant Stevens numerous times over the past couple of years, as had his predecessor, Admiral Morelli. Grant Stevens' instincts under duress were simply uncanny. He was a "steely-eyed" natural born jungle fighter. Torrinson knew that whether God-given or SEAL training endowed, Grant would always have the "mission first mentality." The mission always came first, followed by the safety of his men, with his own safety coming in last place. That attitude had become common knowledge in the small group of exceptional black operators. Grant’s men were aware that his decisions would always be mission- and survival-oriented, so whenever he asked for volunteers, there was always a long line. The men knew their jobs and Grant never failed to ensure their safety. There simply wasn't a better team commander when it came to the planning and execution of difficult missions. Grant's favorite saying to his men was, "I'll bring you back for another attack."
"Okay, Grant. What kind of logistics are we talking about here?"
"Well, sir, at least 10,000 Deutsche Marks and 5,000 East German Marks for bribes and ‘haul ass’ money. We've already got most of our gear, but I'd like to have an Uzi with silencer, extra chemical pencils, two pounds of C4 (plastic explosive) and two MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas). If you can put 'em on a helo out of Bremerhaven, we should have them in a couple of hours. I'll pick them up at MILOPS (Military Operations) tower at Tegel Airport." Torrinson nodded to himself, jotting down Grant's request on a pad of yellow legal paper. "We'll put together an ingress and egress plan then schedule to pick up Lampson around 1930 tonight. Joe and I will phone our contacts and set up our 'back doors' in case it goes bad. All things considered, Admiral, I should have a 'dance card' coming to you within two hours of finishing this entire op." A dance card is an after action report, an AAR.
"Oh, sir, to help cut out some time, can you send the warning order for my eyes only?" What others in the fleet call an operation's order that describes the movements and logistics of an operational mission, including who the players are, the SEALs call a “warning order.” It was simple… what, where, how, who, and when.
"No problem, Grant. I'll ask Zach to take care of it and send it while you're there with the Embassy boys. But make sure you fill me in. The CIA's black fund is tied up in this new satellite shit so I might have to dip into another pot, which means I may need to get the money side of it okayed at SecDef."
"Will do, sir."
"Anything else?"
"Oh, yes, sir, one more thing. I'd appreciate your running an intel check on a couple of East Germans."
"Fire away," Torrinson responded as he started writing down the two names. He shook the pen, trying to get the last drop of ink to flow. "Okay. Greta Verner and Herman Schmitt. The girlfriend and the professor."
"Yes, sir." Grant glanced at his watch. "It’s time to give the phone back to the crypto guys."
"Good luck, Captain." Torrinson hung up the receiver, then stood up and stretched. Too late to make any calls, he reasoned. I may as well go home for a couple of hours. He went to the outer office and instructed his yeoman to prepare the warning order for Grant. Fifteen minutes later, he buttoned his jacket then stood in front of the oval mirror with a bronze eagle attached to the top, its wings spread wide. He adjusted his cap over salt and pepper hair, then left for home.
Grant and Adler emerged from the scrambler room. An obviously annoyed Blake Kelley gave a sideways glance in their direction, then immediately adjusted his headset, mentally noting the twenty minute phone call. After seeing Kelley’s expression, Canetti looked in Grant's direction and shrugged his shoulders.
Not wanting to upset the balance between Canetti and Kelley any more than he knew he already had, Grant held back a smile then said, "One more thing… the Admiral's sending me a warning order. It should be here in a few minutes, for my eyes only."
"Be our guest. It'll come in on that scrambler over there," Canetti indicated with a thumb pointing over his shoulder.
Grant waited by the special equipment. The message would be sent over high-speed spurt transmission at eight thousand words per minute. When it arrived at the crypto room, it printed out in code on a special tape. Once the transmission finished, Grant removed the tape and went into the private room where he had used the scrambler phone. Using his code book, he decoded the following message:
TOP SECRET
For: ComSpecOps Eyes Only (Commander,
Special Operations)