Sacrifice of One Read online

  Sacrifice

  of

  One

  by

  Jamie Fredric

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright @ 2012 Jamie Fredric

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

  Also by Jamie Fredric:

  Mission Critical

  Navy SEAL Grant Stevens - Black Ops 1

  Warning Order

  Navy SEAL Grant Stevens - Black Ops 2

  In the Mouth of the Wolf

  Navy SEAL Grant Stevens - Black Ops 3

  For All Those Who Served

  “Uncommon Valor Was A Common Virtue.”

  ~Admiral Chester Nimitz

  Prologue

  Along the Border of

  Laos and North Vietnam

  Near Mu Gia Pass

  2200 Hours

  March 1975

  The Mu Gia Pass is a mountain pass in the Annamite Range between northern Vietnam and Laos, and the principal point of entry into the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Laos. All around the Pass the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) had built up air defenses with AAA (anti-aircraft artillery). Both entrances are now protected by SAM-2s (surface-to-air missiles), making air support for Grant Stevens and his SEAL Team practically nil.

  From nearly twenty-eight thousand feet, with their DZ (drop zone) thirty miles away from the intended target, they made their jump from a C-130 Hercules.

  This HAHO jump was one of the highest, most difficult, and dangerous for the SEALs. It was a mission for which each man had volunteered. They were attempting the rescue of five American POWs.

  The United States government had these men officially listed as MIAs. Recent intel gathered by the CIA indicates they are, in fact, POWs. Their recent transfer from Thai Hoa to the Mu Gia Pass location prompted a plan for their rescue.

  Why these five men were never declared as POWs by the North Vietnamese mattered little to the SEALs. Their mission was to bring them home.

  Their LZ was a small clearing on a plateau above Mu Gia Pass, about one klick west of the compound identified by the CIA. If all went as planned, and if luck stayed on their side, a Huey gunship would extract them from inside the compound.

  Taking a chance by calling in a chopper was a risky move, to be sure, but it was the fastest way for extraction. And not knowing the condition of the POWs, it was imperative to get them out without a dangerous trek back through the jungle. If a chopper couldn’t land, or if disaster struck, only then would the jungle become their last chance for survival.

  *

  The temperature was hovering around fifty-five degrees when the SEALs’ boots hit the ground. This evening had been specifically chosen for their mission. The weather, light cloud coverage, and no moon were all the right conditions.

  Already dressed in full camouflage with green paint streaking their faces, they gathered up their chutes and rucksacks, then ran to the edge of the jungle, quickly burying the jump gear. They took some time to let their eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness, and allowing their senses to tune into the sounds of the Vietnam jungle.

  They each checked their equipment: pencil flares, H.E. (high explosive) hand grenades, extra clips of fifty rounds each for their Uzis, a .45 with silencer and two extra clips, medical kit with atropine, quinine tablets, flashlight, and water.

  Grant took a reading from his compass, glanced around, then motioned his men forward. There’d be no stopping until they reached the camp and the POWs. They lowered their NVGs (night vision goggles).

  Tall trees formed a thick canopy over the forest. During daytime hours, perhaps only slivers of sunlight could filter through. Heavy vines dipped low to the ground. Some reattached themselves to trees on the opposite side, criss-crossing the forest. Different varieties of palms, ferns, and moss covered the jungle floor. The smells of decaying plant matter and dead animals permeated the air.

  Navigating through the dense foliage would be tricky and dangerous, at best, but they had to be exceptionally wary of other hazards, natural to the environment. Snakes. King cobras, kraits, and bamboo vipers, any one of which could cause paralysis or death. There were centipedes and scorpions, harder to see, but still dangerous.

  But this was to be the SEALs intended route. They dared not follow any paths, where the chance of walking into booby-traps increased dramatically. Hidden and disguised, the traps were meant to maim or kill in a heartbeat. Even though they’d probably make better time along a beaten down path, they couldn’t take that risk with so much at stake.

  *

  Separating from one another, they moved slowly, methodically, as they followed a small stream. This was the same stream that meandered through their LZ. It eventually flowed over a limestone cliff, tumbling down into the Mu Gia Pass.

  Somewhere in the distance, south and southeast of their position, there was a muffled sound of gunfire and rumblings from explosions, sounding like distant thunder. Two months earlier, in January, the VC had recaptured all the territory it had lost during the previous dry season. President Thieu declared the Paris Peace Accord was no longer in effect. Another dry season offensive had begun.

  Unlike the chaos beginning again in South Vietnam, the SEALs were facing absolute quiet ahead of them. Grant began to worry. He didn’t like the feeling gnawing at his insides. Could the intel be completely inaccurate? Is it possible the POWs are no longer being held at the compound? Or maybe they were never there.

  According to the coordinates given to him, Grant determined the compound was less than two hundred yards from their present position. He signaled for his men, and one by one, they gathered around him. They’d stay closer together until the compound came into view.

  By now they had expected to hear something, anything, from the compound, even at this late hour. The silence was eerie...but more than anything, it was unsettling.

  Continuing forward, their senses went into overdrive. Now, more than ever, they’d have to be aware of booby-traps set around the camp. Whether there were prisoners inside or not, the possibility was still very real.

  The hundred fifty yards they just covered seemed to take hours. Finally, Grant held up his fist, bringing everyone to a stop. He motioned them to him. He flipped up the NVGs, then looked through a Starlighter.

  In a small clearing ahead, no bigger than a half football field wide and half again as deep, were two huts, one slightly larger than the other. They were constructed from bamboo, with palm fronds covering the roofs. Both were raised off the ground about three feet. There still wasn’t any sign of movement.

  Grant brushed a hand across his forehead and eyes, wiping away beads of sweat, part from the humidity and part from a past mission flashing through his mind.

  Only a few years earlier he and Chief Kilborn parachuted behind enemy lines into North Vietnam. An exploding booby-trap threw them into a “hell hole” where POWs had been held at one time. It wasn’t until the U.S. airstrike was over, that they were able to scramble out of the pit, then hustle back through the jungle to their extraction site.

  Moving the scope, he looked for any sign of an underground prison, usually nothing more than a filthy pit with a bamboo “gate” covering the opening. A bad feeling started coursing through his body. Could this be another trap like the one he and Kilborn had run into?

  His men were all shaking their heads. No activity had been seen. Grant had no choice. He signaled, sending two of his men to search the back of the small compound.

  Stowing the scope in his rucksack, he flipped do
wn the NVGs. He and the other four men started forward slowly, watching the ground, watching the compound, watching the ground. Finally, they were just outside the perimeter. Still nothing. If they didn’t find any POWs, or any trace they’d even been here, he was going to Langley and personally beat the shit out of the bastard who fed them wrong intel.

  Still no sign of guards. This wasn’t good. Grant’s eyes searched along the perimeter, systematically looking for any tripwires. He motioned for his men to separate and start into the compound with him.

  He stopped, seeing his two men appear from the back of the compound, shaking their heads. He held up his hand, palm facing them, signaling for them to stay where they were. He and the other men continued across the camp cautiously, leaving space between each other, turning around with every couple of steps, alert to any sound.

  When they reached the middle of the compound, Grant signaled two of his men to search inside the huts, two to inspect the opposite perimeter. Two others stood guard with their weapons primed and ready.

  He started inspecting the compound, looking for any sign the POWs had been here. He stopped every few feet, trying to focus on anything out of the ordinary. Stepping closer to the perimeter, taking careful steps, he followed it around toward the larger hut.

  There was something different in the way the ground looked about three feet ahead of him. As he stepped closer, he could tell it had been disturbed. Leaves and broken fronds were trampled into the soft earth. The path led off into the jungle. He took a short step forward, looking further down the path, seeing evidence that a machete had been used to hack off low-hanging limbs and fronds. The knot in his stomach was twisting tighter than a mooring line.

  He looked down. Something just in front of his boots caught his eye, and he squatted down. Picking up a small twig, he moved aside some dead leaves, then he just stared. It still hadn’t dried completely, but there wasn’t a doubt in his military mind what it was--vomit, coffee ground-looking vomit, which meant somebody’s stomach was bleeding.

  Hearing a signal from his men, he hurried over to the hut. They were pointing to the middle step. More of the same type vomit was on the edge. Some had dripped over the side.

  Grant sat down heavily on the bottom step. Laying his weapon across his knees, he slumped forward, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. His men stood by in silence.

  They were here--the American POWs had been here. Grant and his men were too late.

  Chapter 1

  Washington, D.C.

  Grant’s Apartment

  June 1978

  1730 Hours

  The fifth floor furnished apartment on Virginia Avenue overlooked the Potomac River. Within the nine hundred square foot space was a small kitchen, one bedroom, one bath, and living room, with simple furnishings throughout, no pictures, no curtains. Easy to take care of, easy to move out of when new orders were received. That’s all Grant Stevens needed or wanted.

  He was in the bedroom pulling a white skivvy shirt over his head when he heard a knock at the door. “Wait one!” He smoothed back his brown hair, still damp after his shower.

  Walking across the carpeted hallway in his stocking feet, he tucked his shirt into the back of his dark blue slacks as he opened the door. “Hey, Joe! Come on in. You’re early.”

  “That’s because I’m hungry,” Adler indicated by patting his stomach. He closed the door behind him.

  “Like that’s a surprise!” Grant laughed, while he buckled his belt. All the years they’d known one another, Adler had hardly changed. The clear blue eyes were still sharp, the same crew cut--albeit with a few more gray hairs, the rugged face, his 5’10” frame still held a body weight hovering around one eighty. Grant always said he was built like a brick shithouse.

  “How about a beer?” Grant asked as he stepped into the kitchen to the right of the front door.

  “Sure. I’ll have one.” Unzipping his beige windbreaker, he asked, “How ya doing, skipper?” He took the cold bottle Grant handed him.

  “Doin’ good.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to see Doc Irwin today?” Adler pointed to Grant’s shoulder. The lower part of a scar showed just below his T-shirt sleeve.

  “Yeah, I did. He finally released me from his clutches.”

  Following Grant into the living room, Adler asked, “So I take it your shoulder’s good as new?”

  Grant motioned for Adler to sit on the couch as he answered, “Never will be good as new, Joe, but shouldn’t limit my activities, and it feels a helluva lot better than before. Got back from the pool about an hour

  ago. Did my usual number of laps without a problem.”

  “What was that? Two?” Adler smirked.

  “Smart ass. Made it to three!”

  Light from a bright, setting sun began streaming through the double windows. Grant walked past Adler. “So, where do you want to go for dinner?” he asked as he adjusted the blinds.

  “I’m in the mood for steak. Wait a minute! I know! Maybe we could get steak!”

  “While you decide which, and where, I’ll go finish dressing.” Just then, the phone rang. Grant turned around and came back to the couch, picking up the receiver on the end table. “Stevens.”

  “How the hell are ya, Grant?”

  It took Grant a second before finally recognizing the voice. “Well, I’ll be damned! Tony!” He backed up then sat on the couch armrest, grinning from ear to ear. Tony Mullins was the CIA agent aboard the USS Bronson, during the time the Russians attempted a takeover of the sophisticated ship.

  Mullins laughed. “Long time no hear, buddy!”

  Adler leaned toward the receiver, saying, “How ya doing, Agent Mullins?”

  “That was Joe, Tony. So, when’d you get back in town?”

  “Arrived from Korea a week ago. Sorry I didn’t make contact sooner.”

  “Not a problem. I’m just glad you called! Where the hell are you now?”

  “At Langley.”

  “Of course. A place near and dear to my heart,” Grant laughed. “Hey, listen! We were getting ready to go grab a bite to eat. Why don’t you meet us? We’ve got some catching up to do.” Grant took a swig of beer, waiting for a response. “Tony?”

  “We need to talk, Grant.”

  Grant put the bottle on the coffee table, giving Adler one of his oh shit looks. Adler scooted forward near the edge of the cushion, rolling the cold bottle between his palms, staring up at Grant.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Can you and Joe come out to Langley tonight?”

  “Sure. I suppose we can.”

  “You both still have White House clearances, right?”

  “Yeah, we do. I’m assuming that’s a ‘just in case,’ right?”

  “Roger that. I’ll leave word and your passes at security, then you come to the lobby. I’ll meet you there. How does 2000 hours sound?”

  Grant checked his submariner. “We can do it. Tony, you know I’ve gotta ask, but has Admiral Torrinson been brought in on whatever the hell this is about?”

  “The director should be informing him as we speak. Look, Grant, I’m sorry I can’t fill you in right now, but...”

  “No explanation necessary. It’s all part of the game we play. See you at 2000 hours.” Grant hung up, lingering briefly before hearing Adler.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “Not a clue,” Grant answered. “We’re meeting Tony at Langley. He’ll fill us in when we get there.”

  “I take it we’re not eating,” Adler said disappointed. He took a last mouthful of beer, then carried the bottle to the garbage pail in the kitchen.

  “We can get something on the way.” Grant grabbed his beer off the table, and followed Adler toward the kitchen. As he turned down the hallway to the bedroom, he said over his shoulder, “There’s some leftover roast beef in the fridge if you want to make a sandwich. There should be some Swiss cheese.”

  “No steak, but I suppose it’ll have do,” Adler mumbled. “
Do you want me to make you one?”

  “Negative.”

  Reaching into the fridge, Adler pulled out a dish of rare roast beef, cheese, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of yellow mustard.

  Grant stood in front of the dresser mirror buttoning his light blue, long-sleeve Oxford shirt. He tried to come up with a reason for Mullins’ call, a reason to go to Langley. Nothing came to mind.

  He gave his hair a quick comb, then stepped into his loafers, grabbing his black windbreaker from a hanger. As he walked to the kitchen, he swallowed the last mouthful of beer, and dropped the bottle in the trash next to the stove. Looking up at Adler, he laughed. “You got enough stuffed in your mouth?” Adler’s cheeks were bulging with sandwich material. “You look like an overgrown chipmunk.”

  Adler pushed the last food remnants in with a finger. “I was hungry...and in a hurry! You sure we’re stopping on the way?”

  Grabbing his keys from the side table, Grant slung his windbreaker over his shoulder. “Get a couple of root beers from the fridge.” As he opened the door, Adler handed him a bottle. “Come on,” Grant said, “and wipe those crumbs from your shirt. No crumbs allowed in the Vette!”

  Chapter 2

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  1945 Hours

  The H-shaped, 1.4 million square foot building housing CIA Headquarters was built from precast concrete. In 1959 President Eisenhower placed a time capsule and laid the cornerstone. Afterwards, the capsule and cornerstone were removed for safekeeping until the building was completed. In 1961 President Kennedy presided over the dedication.