Part 14 (2/2)
Grant picked up a piece of toast, then smeared on peanut b.u.t.ter, as he looked at each of his men. Even though there were a couple of f.u.c.k-ups before and during the first part of the op, these men were the best he and Adler could've chosen. The mission to China proved their worth. He respected them, trusted them. And he had a feeling those f.u.c.k-ups would be the last. Lessons learned.
”Chow down quick, guys,” he finally said. ”And you might want to put away some extra caffeine. FYI, I've got your pa.s.sports. Matt, you have all official papers in the plane?”
”Yeah. Just need a flight plan. Plus, I need to throw a few extra 'Lurps' in my car.” (LRPs: Food Packet, Long Range Patrol, also called ”long rats.”) ”And take more of those MREs we've been asked to sample,” Adler requested.
Refres.h.i.+ng their coffee, they all carried the coffee mugs to the dining room table. MP5s, .45s, K-bars were spread out on the table. Stalley had his medical bag next to his chair. Once he finished with his weapons, he'd check supplies, sorting, counting, refilling bottles, adding more tape, more battle dressings, and a couple extra syringes.
The phone rang. ”Stevens.”
”Grant, Scott here.”
”Any changes?”
”No.”
”I a.s.sume you notified the President about the cargo s.h.i.+p.”
”Yeah. That's why I'm calling. Made him somewhat relieved, but . . .”
”I know. Look, Scott, he wanted to keep us and the investigation 'under the radar,' but we may need more help besides NSA. CIA always has its 'ears' on. Maybe they already have something but don't know it.”
”Do you wanna talk with him?”
”Not necessary, but I'll leave that up to him.”
”It might take awhile before I can reach him again.”
”Do your best.” Expecting another call, Grant carried the phone to the table, stretching the cord to its max, then repeated his conversation with Mullins to everyone. For the time being, Team A.T. was ”dead in the water.” Grant was beyond impatient.
Adler started cleaning up his kitchen mess, plunging his hands into hot, soapy dishwater.
”Joe, forget that for now,” Grant said over his shoulder.
Clips were ejected, and weapons were systematically broken down, a process each man could do with his eyes closed.
Grant was wiping down the gun with a cloth rag, when his motion slowed.
”Uh-oh,” Adler said quietly to himself, as he sat across from him, seeing the clenched jaw. ”Why are those 'wheels' spinning? Look, we're ready whenever you are. But you've gotta tell us what, where, and concerns. Out with it.”
”If that plane gets too far ahead of us, we may never catch it or the weapons. We can't f.u.c.k this up.”
”You still plan on waiting here?”
Grant nodded. ”It'll take less time, Joe.” The phone rang again. ”Scott?”
”NSA boys are working their a.s.ses off for you!”
”And?”
”Intercepted a couple of messages from the emba.s.sy to the cargo s.h.i.+p and one to Moscow.”
”They know about us 'lifting' the weapons, I a.s.sume.”
”You can say that. Plus, Moscow still wants its half of the weapons. So for now, the Afghans are out of the picture.”
”Is that it?”
”All for now!”
Grant loaded ammo into new clips. Not much was said by anyone, as they worked quickly, efficiently, waiting for the phone to ring again.
It did. Grant rammed a clip 'home' then answered, ”Scott?”
”Grant! Flight time's 0830! They've scheduled Shannon as the fuel stop.” (Shannon, Ireland was the westernmost non-NATO airport.) Grant checked his watch. ”We can do it!”
”Do what?!”
”Scott, thanks, but we've gotta move! I'll call you on the way to the airfield!”
This might be their last chance. He slammed down the phone, then swung around toward Garrett. ”Matt, we'll take your gear. You head out now. Set a flight plan for Shannon, Ireland. We'll be right behind you!”
Grant turned to the others. ”Listen up! Get what you need from in here, maybe a change of clothes.” He asked Stalley, ”Doc, is your medical bag. . .?”
”Yes, sir!”
”Okay! Let's go!”
Boots pounded against the wood floor as they hightailed it to the bedrooms. Adler unplugged the coffee pot, confirmed stove was off, then made a quick detour to the pantry and grabbed a few packages of Oreos.
Within five minutes, with gear and weapons in hand, they were out the door.
Dulles International Airport 0815 Hours The pilot and co-pilot were in the c.o.c.kpit, going through the final checklist before departure of the emba.s.sy's private jet, an Antonov I, similar to a Gulfstream in size, but lower to the ground like a 737. The jet, with a modified cabin, had become standard equipment for most of Russia's emba.s.sies.
The co-pilot noticed a vehicle approaching, then left the c.o.c.kpit, and waited at the top of the stairs for his pa.s.senger.
Kalinin backed the pickup truck close to the open cargo hold. He got out then lowered the tailgate, as he noticed a U.S. Customs agent walking toward him with a clipboard in hand.
Leaning slightly in order to read the name tag on the agent's green jacket, he greeted him in broken English. ”Good morning. . .Agent Davison.”
”Morning. Can I see your pa.s.sport and doc.u.ments for any diplomatic pouches you're carrying?”
”Of course.” Kalinin removed his pa.s.sport and papers from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and handed them to Davison.
The agent laid everything on the clipboard, opened the pa.s.sport and compared the picture to the man in front of him, examined all pertinent information, then date stamped one of the pages. He gave the pa.s.sport back to Kalinin, and unfolded the doc.u.mentation. He pointed to the truck. ”Would you remove anything that's going with you?”
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