Tales of the Granger Brothers
Book Two: Cliffton Forrest
By Suisan, Twisted Evilette with assistance from AmyD, the other Twisted Evilette
CVN74 Battle Group
CVN65 Enterprise
Persian Gulf Deployment
0300hrs Saturday Zulu Time
0700hrs Saturday Local Time
2000hrs Friday Los Angeles, CA
Chief Petty Officer Granger tried to stifle the yawn he felt building as he stepped through the hatchway into the cubby that housed the Cryptological section on the Big E, but ended up yawning anyway. The entire section had been placed on 'alert' three days ago and, coming in for day four, the Chief realized he was nearing the end of his endurance for back-to-back watches with barely a watch between for down time.
Not a single member of his work section was on station, yet, which was how it should be – the 'boss' should always be at post before the rest of his (or her) team. He walked over to where the Crypties had gotten permission to set up a coffee urn, maintained by the Cook's Mates, and after finding his usual mug, poured himself a cupful and sipped at the bitter brew.
"I'm surprised you weren't stopped from setting foot in here, Chief. Figured the Marine Guard or Master at Arms would've hauled you off for a 'talk' already."
Cliffton felt his shoulders tense up the second the man behind him had started yakking, the voice belonged to someone he usually avoided – only the current situation played merry havoc with Lt. Commander Hardtell's well-thought-out scheduling. He turned to face CPO Bartosz. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Bartmunch?"
"Oh, right … the communiqué came in *after* your last duty watch. You don't know." Bartosz's smile was one that Cliffton could only categorize as 'slimy.'
"No, I don't have a clue and won't until you tell me – so go ahead and tell me."
"I'm not even sure I can – legally – tell you, Granger … I mean, it's pretty much a 'given' that if there's one traitor in a nest of vipers, then there are others."
Now not only was he not fully awake, Cliffton was also thoroughly confused. "Vipers? Traitors? Bartmunch, you been smokin' something you shouldn't – again?"
CPO Fredrick Bartosz flapped a piece of paper in Cliffton's face, the way it was flapping told him it had come in on the confidential wireless, and continued to gloat. "At least I'm not the CPO standing here who has a fucking traitor in the family. You did tell me, once, that your youngest brother is named 'Colby' right? Or am I confusing you with some other 'Granger'?"
Quicker than Bartosz had apparently expected, Cliffton reached out and snagged the paperwork from the other man's hand. He carefully set his mug of steaming coffee down on the countertop as he rapidly scanned the information, his heart starting to pound a swift tempo in his chest even as it dropped toward his stomach. "Regret to inform you … yada yada yada … has been placed under arrest … oh shit!"
"Yeah, ain't it a hoot? Your FBI Agent of a brother gets arrested for being a fucking spy for the gawddamn ChiComs – even as we're sitting here coordinating satellite intercepts for the real spies at the CIA. Coincidence? I doubt it. Hell, I bet you're the next member of your family who'll be arrest---!"
Chief Petty Officer, Cryptological Technician Admin, Cliffton Forrest Granger didn't let CPO Fredrick Bartosz finish his statement before his fist was planted in the other man's face. "Shut your suck." The words were quiet, barely traveling beyond where the two men were standing.
"Oooh, touched a nerve there, huh, Chief?" Bartosz was holding his jaw, but still flapping his lips. He looked over his shoulder at the rest of his watch, "Guess CPO Granger didn't know after all, boys!" He turned back to face Cliffton. "If I were you, I'd go ahead and just fucking confess, Granger. Who knows, the way you are, you might just love Club Gitmo." His voice lowered, but not so much others in the room wouldn't hear what he said. "After all, you keep running off to the same area of Dubai every time we put into port, bet you got yourself a sweet little Arabian to poke. Going to convert to Islam anytime soon there, Granger?"
He knew he shouldn't have thrown the first punch, and he really knew he should've just walked away after Bartosz's last comment, but Cliffton wasn't exactly thinking properly. However he was thinking. "Hey, Bartosz, watch it, someone spilled something there on the deck." He pointed downward, causing the other man to look, which is when he threw the next punch. "Whoa! Sorry about that, Bartosz. Should've warned you sooner. You all right? No? Let's step outside for a minute…" He practically grabbed the man by the back of his duty dungarees and tossed him at the hatch. "Man, how many times do you have to be told, Bartosz? You unstep the latch first, then push the hatch open." That was when CPO Bartosz finally realized he was about to get his ass kicked and started to fight back.
Cliffton wasn't as fast as he had been in his youth, but he wasn't a slow poke either. He was, however, pissed off and not thinking straight, which affected his ability to avoid punches. So he actually let Fred Bartosz land a few licks, especially when it meant that – by taking those blows – he could close in tight on the man and deliver three hits in exchange for one. Even in the close confines of the causeway between CIC and Crypto.
The thunder of heavily booted feet echoed through Cliffton's ears just before someone stronger than he grabbed him from behind and tossed him to the deck – even as someone else ripped Bartosz from his grasp.
"Bartosz! Granger! What the fuck are you two doing?!" The voice that roared down the causeway from CIC belonged to none other than Lieutenant Commander Conrad Hardtell. "Make way, Marines." The Lt. Commander pushed past two of the four burly Marines from the Big E's security contingent and came to a stop in front of Cliffton. "You don't look all that bad." He turned and peered at Bartosz. "You, on the other hand … Take him to Sick Bay and do not let him out of your sight, Corporal." The Marine holding Bartosz upright nodded, then along with one other Marine, escorted the battered CPO away. "Granger, what the hell brought that on? I thought you were past your anger issues?"
"Sir, I was." Without another word he handed the balled up facsimile sheet, Cliffton hadn't let it go before beating the snot out of CPO Bartosz, and waited as Hardtell smoothed the page out and read the information.
"I just heard about this … your youngest brother, I believe?" Granger nodded. "From the way CPO Bartosz looked, I'm assuming he used this to somehow piss you off?" Another tight nod of acknowledgement. "Fine. You knew what would happen … Marines, take CPO Granger to the brig. I need to go tell the Old Man about this and see what we need to do next. Dismissed."
CVN65 Enterprise
Persian Gulf Deployment
1147hrs Saturday Local Time
Cliffton was lying back on a bunk in the brig when the hatch popped open and a female in Marine utilities and wearing the three up and two down stripe insignia of a Gunnery Sergeant on her camouflage utilities stepped through. He moved to stand up, only she waved him back.
"Relax, CPO Granger. I'm just here to talk with you for a few minutes before going to talk with CPO Bartosz in Sick Bay." She didn't remove her cap and that's when Cliffton realized she was carrying a sidearm. That meant she was probably a Master-At-Arms, but he didn't recognize her so she wasn't from the Big E's compliment of Marines.
"Yes, Ma'am." He still stood up and waited to sit back on the bunk until after the Gunny had sat down on the bench across from him.
"Don't 'Ma'am' me – I work for a living." She groused even as she smiled at him. "CPO Granger, I'm Gunnery Sergeant Dunbar, I'm currently assigned as a supernumerary to the Stennis, but I'm here as a favor to Rear Admiral MacIvers in my guise as a NCIS Agent. And, as I'm sure you are expecting, I've got a few questions for you." She pulled a mini-digital recorder from her breast pocket. "You don't mind if I record this?"
"No, Sergeant."
"Good." She sat back, her legs crossing in front of her as she leaned against the wall. "Did you know your brother was arrested for allegedly spying for a foreign state prior to walking into Crypto this morning?"
"No. The first I'd heard of it was Bartosz crowing about it."
"Would you be surprised to learn that the members of his watch I've already talked to have confirmed that he withheld that particular communiqué from the Skipper's information packet just so he could, and I'm going to quote here, 'get your goat'?"
Cliffton let out a snort of disgust. "No, that wouldn't surprise me in the least, Sergeant."
She quirked an odd smile at him. "I take it you and Bartosz have a 'history' of conflict?"
It was his turn to grin. "You could say that… Might be more accurate to say we just can't stand each other."
"Lieutenant Commander Hardtell praised the two of you, you more than Bartosz I think, but called you both Oil and Fire. Combustible. Which is why he worked to get the two of you on opposite shifts." She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees as she asked the next question. "I found it very curious that Bartosz volunteered to cover for another CTA on shift that would bump up against yours. Any idea why he'd do that, Chief?"
He shook his head. "Not really. Unless he was looking for a reason to get up in my face again." Cliffton thought back to the last time he had 'tangoed' with Bartosz. "Which would be a pretty stupid move in his part – the last time we ended up in the boxing ring on the flight ready deck and I wiped the floor with him."
"So I've heard." She sat back up straight. "Are you always so quick to fight, Chief?"
"No, not really. Gunny … would you mind not calling me 'Chief'?" He tried his most disarming smile on the Marine, but from her expression, she wasn't buying it. "It's just that my father is a Chief of Police and every time you say 'chief' I feel like I should turn and see him standing behind me."
"Fair enough, Granger." She stood up and he made to follow suit but once again, she waved him back down. "Don't mind me, Granger, I just think better on my feet." He nodded, having had the same problem himself for a while – at least since attaining Admin status. "Right, okay, I still have to intervie—talk with CPO Bartosz, but right at this moment unless something really drastic and contradictory comes up against you, I'm going to be recommending a Captain's Mast for you. Are you ready to face the consequences of that?"
"Yes, Ma'… Gunny. I knew what could – and should – happen to me before I ever threw a punch."
"Good man. I've also been given the task of re-vetting your security clearance. Anything I should know about before I dig it up?"
Cliffton met her intense blue-gray gaze and weighed his options. He could give her part of the truth and wait to see just how good she was, the Navy never put dunces in NCIS, or he could just tell her the whole, unvarnished truth. "Gunny, before I answer that – what is your current clearance level?"
Her expression was calculating and thoughtful before Gunnery Sergeant Dunbar answered. "High enough that I've been asked to reevaluate your clearance level without anyone back at DoD or DoN throwing a major hissy."
He nodded. Cliffton made his choice. "Gunny, when you go digging, you're going to find I've met with a United Arab Emirates citizen several times in the last three deployments I've been on here in the PG. You'll also find a flag on my file that was placed there by The Company at the behest of my maternal grandfather."
"Really? And why would your grandfather have that kinda pull with Spook Central?"
"He was a station chief for them – in Argentina – shortly after they became 'Spook Central' as you called it."
Dunbar sat back down on the bench, hard. "Damn! Really? Hay-zus on a pogo-stick. You're related to Bobby 'Top Act' Larsen?" Cliffton had never heard that particular nickname for his grandfather, but nodded an affirmative. She whistled low enough not to alert her fellow Marines just outside the hatch. "Well, that's going to make reevaluating your security clearance either a real breeze or one bitch of a cluster."
"Gunny, just so you know, I don't know anything for certain but I know here—" he placed his right hand over his heart, "―that my brother isn't the traitor he appears to be at this moment."
She turned off the recorder and pocketed it before saying anything in response. "Granger, I hope to hell you're correct about that, but you have to admit – it isn't very often the FBI screws up so publicly when tossing that particular accusation around." There wasn't much Cliffton could say to that, so he settled for just nodding and staring at a point on the deck just beyond the toes of his soft-soled deck shoes. Until a pair of brightly polished combat boots stepped into his field of vision and he looked up when the Sergeant touched him on the shoulder. "Chief Petty Officer Granger, stay out of trouble for the rest of the cruise, will ya? I'd like to get back to Camp Pendleton and my team there without further incidents on the Big E. Got that?"
"Yes, Gunny. No more wiping the deck with fellow CPOs." He stood up when she stepped back and knocked on the hatch.
"If you decide you need to work off excess energy, contact Gunny Wilmoth here. He's always looking for new sparing partners."
"I'll do that." Cliffton watched her leave, feeling a little better about his soon-to-be-faced disciplinary hearing. The sound of the metal hatch clanging closed behind Marine Gunnery Sergeant Dunbar no longer sounded like the death knell of his career.
Of course, once his mother found out what he'd done, he was dead anyway. But, in his own defense, CPO Buttmunch Fredrick Bartosz had bad-mouthed his little brother….
Five Weeks Later
CVN65 Enterprise
Persian Gulf Deployment
0200hrs Local Time
"Chief?" Cliffton tried to ignore the prodding and rolled over onto his side. "Chief? Chief, I know you just got to bed but Skipper's requested your presence ASAP."
He flopped back onto his back in the bunk and blinked his eyes open and groaned as he realized he wasn't dreaming. Petty Officer Roger Brennan really was standing over him in his quarters, trying to rouse him from the first decent chance he'd had a chance to grab in 40 days. "Pee-Oh Brennan, you have one minute to explain why you're in my quarters, and not at your duty station, before I bounce you out of here. Make it good. Go." Cliffton started to mentally count to sixty.
"Chief, the Skipper got some sort of encrypted message – I didn't see it personally – and after he read it, he sent me to come get you and take you to his ready room."
That brought Cliffton to full awareness and he swung off the bunk. "Who handled the decrypt?" He was racking his brain, trying to recall who was on duty and couldn't get past the fatigue-induced fog in his head.
"Senior Chief Denauge. She happened to be walking by when the communiqué came in and I realized I didn't have the clearance or the decrypts to perform it myself." Brennan reached behind him and snagged the duty-shirt and pants from the wall peg where Cliffton had placed them before collapsing into his bunk. "Here, Chief. Skipper was pretty adamant that I bring you fast as possible."
Throwing the clothes on, Cliffton followed Petty Officer Brennan through the corridors of the Enterprise, buttoning up his shirt and tucking it in as they quickly walked toward the bridge and CIC. Brennan peeled off, back into Crypto-Communications and his duty station, while Cliffton continued a few more paces bow-ward, then knocked on the hatch leading to the ship's command ready room.
"ENTER!" Rear Admiral MacIvers voice echoed through the hatch and Cliffton stepped on into the room. Trying desperately not to think about the last time he'd faced MacIvers – at the Captain's Mast disciplinary hearing that resulted in his losing one-month's wages and being placed on close-quarters 'arrest' for 5 days.
"Chief Petty Officer Granger, reporting as ordered, sir."
"Close the hatch, Granger, and relax." MacIvers invited, even as the older man stood up, approached the built-in credenza where he poured two cups of coffee – handing one to Cliffton – before sitting back down behind the desk.
Cliffton took the coffee, gratefully, and sipped at the heady brew even as he managed to find a seat and, with a nod of permission from MacIvers, sat down. "Sir, why am I here?"
MacIvers put his coffee mug down, then pushed a flimsy piece of paper around on the desktop without actually passing it to Cliffton. "Chief, we got word today about your brother . . . the one who was arrested five, six weeks ago?"
"Colby? What's happened?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the Admiral's next words, but also dreaded not knowing. The last time he'd gotten a chance to call home and got Mom on the line, he could tell she was hanging together by a mere thread.
"I'm not clear on the particulars but … Chief, your brother is in critical condition at a Los Angeles hospital and I've been given orders – from the State Department no less – to get your ass home."
"What?" Cliffton felt his heart drop into his stomach. "What the hell happened, Skipper? The last I knew, Colby was in a federal lock up awaiting trial!" He put the mug in his hand down on the desk before he dropped it.
"Like I said, I'm not clear on the details, but I do know he was pulled off a slow boat to China and air evac'ed to UCLA Medical Center. Apparently, he got into the middle of an international cluster fuck and got hurt in the process."
"Oh god—"
MacIvers stood up and came around the desk to place a supportive hand on Cliffton's shoulder. "Cliff, this can't be easy to hear, I know, and I'm about to make things worse … you've got fifteen minutes to pack as little as you need and get your ass up to the flight deck. Captain Potter is going to fly you outta here on her bird."
When he arrived at the Pilot's Ready Room, Cliffton found the Marine pilot waiting for him. She took his small duffle bag from him, even as she tossed a flight suit into his arms.
"Change, Chief. We need to be in my Harrier and ready to launch in five." She pointed him in the direction of the locker room. "Introductions will come later … move it, Chief."
Cliffton, still a little too foggy to be thinking straight, stumbled toward the indicated room – more like a large closet than a true room – and within a few minutes had changed out of his duty coveralls into the one-piece flight suit. When he stepped back out into the Ready Room, the Marine Captain was waiting for him and stepped right up to Cliffton, invading his personal space.
"Sorry, Chief. I would've asked one of the other pilots to come and check you, but the ones who are awake are actually flying patrol." Her smile was sly and strangely bashful. "Since I'm about to get up close and personal, Chief, maybe I should introduce myself. Captain Ginger Potter."
"Chief Petty Officer Cliffton Granger." He tried not to make any undo noises when the pilot dropped down on her haunches to inspect the way he'd closed off certain, lower, parts of the specialized suit that would keep him from blacking out at higher gravities. "Everything set to your satisfaction, Ma'am?" He asked when she stood back up.
"Someone neglected to tell me you've had flight time." She looked a little upset, but more put out than anything else. "Everything looks good, Chief." Captain Potter walked over to a spare locker and pulled out one of the many 'extra' helmets stored there and tossed it at him. "Let's go. My bird should be fully loaded and ready to go by now." She moved out of the Ready Room, tossing his travel bag toward him – over her shoulder – which he managed to catch with minimal juggling.
Cliffton wasn't sure what he was expecting, since the Big E didn't – currently – have any Marine pilots attached to its compliment of aerial warriors, but the VTOL Harrier jet sitting on the flight deck was definitely not it. The Petty Officer in charge of getting the Marine Captain's bird prepped for flight met both of them at the side of the blue-gray bird with the ladder that assisted both of them to climb into the hot seats. That was when he caught a glimpse of the Captain's call sign painted on the side of her jet and, for the first time since hearing his little brother was in the hospital, let out a slight chuckle.
"Bite it, Chief. I earned that call sign long before the books – or movies for that matter – became huge international hits." She sounded grouchy … and Cliffton realized the call sign was the more 'polite' version of what her fellow pilots probably called her.
"I wasn't going to say a thing, Captain." Cliffton settled into the Weapons/Radar Intercept Officer's slot, nodding thanks to the other CPO who handed him his ditty and the helmet. Once he was helmeted and plugged into the plane's communication system, he asked the question that had been burning his brain since spotting the VTOL bird. "Captain, you going to use the vertical take off or the catapult?"
Potter didn't say anything as the flight deck crew moved her bird into place on the runway. Once she was sure they were in the slot, she answered. "Cat – the other way uses up more fuel than I'm happy with, especially with having to meet up with an Air Force tanker halfway there to top the tanks."
Cliffton made double sure his restraints were properly done up, launching off a catapult was never what any sane person would consider 'fun' – not when the launch could ramp clear up into the 6+ gravities area, and found himself suddenly wishing he hadn't indulged in a cup of coffee before now.
"Witchlady, ready for launch, Big E." Potter was talking to the Enterprise's CAG or Flight Operations officer.
'Witchlady, you are clear for cat – have a safe flight and remember, first fuel bird will meet you off Sri Lanka over the IO.'
"Roger that, Big E. Flight command, you have control of the Witchbird."
The voice changed on the radio link in his helmet and Cliffton decided he didn't want to listen in, not really, but he heard the 'launch, launch, launch' from flight deck command just before the powerful catapults of the Enterprise grabbed the jet and took it from zero to one hundred and sixty plus miles per hour in less than three seconds. He tried to ignore the sudden drop off the deck before Captain Potter's skills brought her bird off the 'deck' of the Persian Gulf and she went into a nearly vertical climb into the darkness above. Cliffton was still trying to regain his stomach when the Marine opened her radio link to him.
"You okay back there, Chief?"
"Can we go back and pick my stomach off the E's deck?"
"Ha-ha … No. We've got a flight schedule to maintain and that means no backtracking. Believe it or not, your stomach will catch up with you – probably somewhere over the Arabian Sea." Potter flipped the bird to the right, then straightened her out just as fast. "Okay, that was the last course correction I needed to make. If you want, grab a nap."
"You sure about that, Captain?"
"Trust me, I'll wake you up in a damn hurry if something goes hinky or if someone tries to potshot my bird."
He wasn't reassured by the pilot's attitude, Cliffton had read one too many after actions report from Harrier jocks who barely made it out of hot zones. The jets were just too damn vulnerable to heat seeking artillery, which is probably why so few were assigned to duties in the Persian Gulf or other potentially intense combat regions. Shrugging and trying to settle into the RIO's seat as much as was possible, RIOs were usually a lot shorter than Cliffton was, he managed to find a fairly comfortable (as in, not too contorted) position and – trusting the Marine Captain to keep her word – dropped off into a catnap.
The bed, or rather the chair, he was sleeping in suddenly disappeared under him, then slammed back into his butt, jarring Cliffton wide awake. Then his stomach dropped down to his toes and the accompanying nausea hit the back of his throat just as he realized he was still in the fighter jet behind Marine Captain Potter and his stomach jumped up to where his heart was thumping at double time. He must have made some sort of noise over the radio, for the pilot was talking to him as Cliffton tried to get his stomach back under control.
"Sorry, Chief. I was hoping for a smoother refueling, but we're both being buffeted by alternating air masses and, just for grins and giggles, I'm having to buck that turbulence plus the usual draft of the tanker." Ginger's tone of voice sounded rather put out; as if the Air Force crew of the mid-air jet gas station had somehow planned the difficulties she was facing just to spite her.
Cliffton swallowed against the bile in his throat. "I'm sure the crew – didn't plan – this, Captain."
Potter managed, in some weird manner, to turn in her seat and glance over her shoulder at him. "Chief … you puke in this bird and, so help me, you'll sit in it until Pearl and I'll personally make sure you clean up your mess before you board another plane."
He didn't say anything, just nodded and swallowed against another bout of rising bile as the Marine turned back to watch her flying. Cliffton had never been in a jet long enough to witness a mid-air refueling and the process was more than a little fascinating, and terrifying, especially with all the bouncing and sideways motions the fighter was being pushed through.
The gas 'pipe' on the jet hit the dead center of the odd looking basket on the end of the hose the tanker was dragging and, in a short amount of time, the Harrier was fully reloaded with 'go juice' and the pilot disengaged from the connection. She managed to fly up around to the front of the tanker and gave a little friendly 'wave' with her fighter's wings before leaving the Air Force plane in her wake.
"Next time we'll be over the South China Sea and nearing the day line, Chief. If you can, get some more sleep, I'll try not to rock the cradle as bad as I did this time." Cliffton tried to ignore her tone of voice, as it was rather condescending – typical fighter jock trash talk, but his stomach was very thankful the ferocious atmospheric instability was over. However, he couldn't close his eyes and while there was nothing but stars above, a few clouds around and sea below, he found it to be quite interesting.
The second refueling was less traumatic, but no less harrowing for Cliffton, especially as the two planes were racing ahead of a storm that was tossing bolts of lightning out away from the main body of the storm. His trepidation wasn't at all lessened when Potter admitted to him that mid-air refueling was akin to watching two porcupines mate – one wrong move, a single spark and both planes could go down in flames.
When Captain Potter finally put her fighter down on dry land, it was on the island of Guam and once he was able to climb out of the cockpit, Cliffton Granger ended up on his hands and knees, just off the runway, heaving his guts up. A gentle hand on his shoulder, when he sat back up on his heels, got him to look up and Potter was smiling somewhat sympathetically at him.
"Get it out of your system, Chief. I was serious about upchucking in my fighter. You do it, you clean it up, and you have to sit in it until we reach our final destination. NAS Pearl." She clapped him on the shoulder and started to walk toward the crew quarters, even as maintenance people swarmed the Harrier, but she turned back at the last second. "Oh! Chief Granger, don't forget – grab something to eat. It's a long leg we're about to embark on and I'm not stopping so you can fish."
He stared after her, glaring daggers into her back, but eventually Cliffton managed to climb back onto his feet and trudged over to where the Marine had gone. Behind the door off the flight line he found a small cantina, an open bunk area (nothing more than 6 cots tucked behind a flowing partition curtain wall) and – most importantly – a head complete with a shower area. Captain Potter was nowhere in sight but as he passed the women's head, he heard a shower running. Glancing over to where a small group of navy ratings sat in the cantina he spotted the highest ranking one and approached. Turned out the man he was looking at was a fellow CPO.
"You must be the CPO the Jarhead just told us about, come sit down and I'll get some chow for you, Chief." The burly looking cook got up and gestured for Cliff to sit in the very seat he'd just vacated.
"Chief … I'm not sure I could eat—"
"Nonsense! The Captain told us you're busting tail for stateside from the PG and you've had a hard time of it … trust me, you're going to need something to keep your strength up." The Mess Chief guided Cliffton into the chair and, without a word spoken, got the other two men (also cook's ratings) to vacate their seats and scamper into the kitchen area. "Just trust me, Chief, I won't steer a fellow CPO wrong, and you won't have any tummy troubles on the Agana-Barber Point leg of your flight." He turned to leave Cliffton alone, but turned back almost immediately. "Oh! It'll take about 15 minutes for my crew and I to get everything done up, why don't you grab a shower in the head over there?"
Cliffton took the Mess Chief's hint, and made his way toward the head/shower area. When he came back out, he felt more like himself, even though he'd had to climb back into the same flight suit he'd been wearing for-- He glanced at his watch and realized for the first time just how long he'd been in the air so far.
Twelve hours. Give or take 30 or so minutes and he wasn't even halfway to his destination yet. Of course, he wasn't sure where he was going just yet, other than back to the continental United States. Was he heading to Los Angeles, where his baby brother was hospitalized, maybe even dying? Or was he going to be flying into Boise for a drive up to Cascade for a family reunion or, and Cliffton tried to choke back the sadness of this thought, to bury his brother?
He shook off the gloomy thoughts and joined Captain Potter at the table he'd vacated earlier. She also looked fresher than she had been when she'd leaned over him on the flight line's apron and she was making inroads on a plate of …
"Here ya go, Chief." The Mess CPO sat a plate of food down in front of Cliffton while one of his fellow mess attendants offered him either a glass of tea or a cup of coffee. He opted for the coffee. "Chief Granger, I know you probably don't want to even think about eatin' right now, but trust me. My Ginger Chicken will fill you up and, as a bonus, the ginger will keep you from getting motion sick."
Cliffton nodded his thanks and, after taking a swig of the coffee, reluctantly picked up his fork and tasted the meal before him. The first forkful was followed by more and before he knew it, the plate was empty and Captain Potter was getting up from her seat.
"Get another helping if you want, Chief. I need to go see where the mech-dogs are with my bird and, if everything checks out, we'll be back in the air in about thirty-forty minutes."
Not wanting to press his luck, Cliffton pushed the plate away and one of the messmates came by to pick it up. The same young service member also happened to be carrying a carafe of fresh java brew and happily refilled the CPO's nearly empty mug.
The final leg of the Harrier flight was probably the smoothest of the entire journey to that time, and Cliffton wasn't sure if he was happy about that or if the lull in excitement made it easier for him to imagine all sorts of nasty scenarios for his youngest brother. Just about the time he'd thought to ask the CPO at the air field if there was a secure com, something that would allow him to make contact with a few of his CIA buddies and get the skinny on what Colby had been doing, Captain Potter came and told him her bird was ready and they needed to hop on it fast. It was only after they'd taken off and just as Potter made a course correction that Cliffton realized why the Marine fighter jock had been anxious to burn the hell out of Agana – there was a really nasty-looking storm pushing down on Guam.
Landing at Barber's Point, NAS Pearl to laymen, just over seven hours later was as gentle as any aviator or passenger for that matter could wish for. Ginger Potter was saying her goodbyes to Cliffton, and wishing him well, when two Navy personnel came up to them outside the crew quarters off the airstrip and, with very little in the way of introductions (the older one was a Senior Chief Petty Officer, the youngest a so-new-he-still-squeaked Ensign) they hustled him off to a waiting car. The trip was short, basically from one side of NAS Pearl to the other, where they showed him to one of the Transient Quarters and they left him to catch up on sleep. The SCPO, however, did warn him to be ready to get moving at the drop of a hat, they were just waiting on transport to arrive from stateside before kicking him back off the base.
He'd glanced at his watch, still set on Persian Gulf time, before laying back on the bed and closing his eyes, which is how he knew he'd only slept for five hours before the Ensign was banging on his door, waking him and rushing him back out to the airfield. Cliffton barely registered the make and model of the plane, a civilian Gulfstream VI from look of the exterior, before he was practically manhandled up the embarkation ladder and into the richly appointed passenger cabin. A member of the flight crew, he had a hard time thinking of the no nonsense woman as a flight attendant, made sure he was strapped into the luxury of a over padded leather seat before she turned, picked up a mic from a hidden panel and advised the pilot, "Package secure, let's go!"
'Package? Since when did I become a commodity?' He thought to himself, even as his body sank into the seat as the pilot pushed the jet into take off and the wheels left the ground with nary a bump or jostle. The female flight crew member, a petite brunette in a all-blue jumpsuit, came back to him once the plane leveled out after reaching what Cliffton assumed had to be a cruising altitude of just over 8,000 feet.
"Sorry about the bum's rush, Chief Granger. We hit a snag just out of San Fran and had to double back for something or we would've been here when you landed from Guam." She helped him undo the seat belt, a more complicated affair than he expected on a civilian plane. "When we got the word from Secretary Hamilton, we put the boogie under our tails and burned out of Andrews like the very devil himself was on our six. Is there anything I can get you from the galley? We're fully loaded for bear, name it, I probably have it in the larder."
"Andrews? You were in Washington?" He shook his head, trying to clear it and sort the information the young woman had dropped. "Question?" He asked and she nodded a 'go ahead.' "First off … your name, please? And can you please explain what you meant by 'Secretary Hamilton' – cause I don't recognize the name as part of the Department of the Navy's Chain of command."
The woman laughed, but not impolitely. "That's because she's not … she's State. I'm Sergeant Wilhite, by the way. The pilots are Colonel Stambaugh and Major Marlow. We're under orders to get you, Chief Petty Officer Cliffton Granger to either Los Angeles or San Francisco ASAP, we'll know which as soon as the Colonel can get a sit-rep."
Cliffton nodded in appreciation of the information. "Tell me, if you can, Sergeant, is there any word—"
"Chief, we know your situation. The last we heard, just before we left San Francisco - the second time, your brother was holding his own and Secretary Hamilton was trying to get in to see him." Warm brown eyes bored into his as Wilhite laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Of course, the information we had was old before we got it and it's starting to grow mold by now. Let me get up to the flight deck and see if we can get a better update for you, all right?" She stood up. "Now, you never did answer my question, is there anything I can get you from the galley?"
"Coffee?" He asked and her smile turned brilliant as she nodded, walked down the aisle and out of his line of sight for a few minutes before returning with a steaming mug of coffee and a handful of sweeteners (real and artificial) and cream in tiny tubs.
"Wasn't sure how you took your java, Chief." She carefully placed the mug down on the table next to his chair – a piece of furniture he hadn't even realized was there until that very moment – before she placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's more brewing, the galley's just past the last couch toward the front, feel free to help yourself if you need a refill before I get back from the flight deck."
"Thanks, Sergeant, but I really just have an overwhelming need to slug the coffee back and to curl up for a nap."
"I don't blame you. You've been hopping all over the globe … that's bound to wear anyone out, much less someone who isn't used to moving at the speeds pilots think of as 'slow.' Besides, those chairs are real comfortable … I'll grab a blanket for you, it gets a little chilly in the cabin, even in this beauty of a plane, at 10,000 feet."
Cliffton roused a bit from his longest 'nap' as two things happened; his stomach had decided it was hungry and he felt the jet bank to the left, making a course correction. He straightened up in the seat and peered out of the window and was a little surprised to see it was still daylight outside, but not at all startled to see nothing but water below the broken cloud deck underneath the plane. He pulled the blanket up a little closer to his chin, ready to fall back to sleep – trusting the US Air Force flight crew knew their business and would keep them safely in the air, but he spotted Sergeant Wilhite coming out of the flight deck area and smiling at him.
"I see you woke up before I could wake you, Chief." She announced as she stopped and, touching a part of the wall near the galley, caused a screen to drop down about three feet in front of Cliffton's seat. "There's someone on the secure sat-feed who wants to talk to you." Wilhite pointed out the camera cleverly hidden just above a hard-mounted photo of the Commander-in-Chief. "Just act natural, Chief. I'll patch the call through as soon as I think you've had a chance to get as presentable as you need to be for this call."
He dropped the blanket into the seat beside his and wished the Sergeant had given him a better idea how much time he had to look 'presentable,' and did his best to appear awake and ran his hand over his close cropped hair. Hopping his hair didn't look too much like he'd been sleeping just a few minutes prior and wishing he could just ignore the call and go right back to his siesta.
The screen in front of him flashed with a standard color test screen, then bright white, then he was looking at a woman with dark, curly hair styled very neatly and facial features that reminded him of the women he'd seen on and around the islands of the Mediterranean sea. And she was grousing in a way that nearly made him laugh, but he bit his tongue, as he didn't know whom she was. "Is this damn thing working – Oh! Sorry about that, Chief Granger. Technology is a wonderful thing, when it works. Don't you agree?"
"Yes ma'am." He sat up a little straighter, hoping she would introduce herself – soon – before he blundered and said what was running through his head.
"Your mother wasn't joking. You do look like your brother Colby. Who, by the way, is recovering nicely and should be released to return to Idaho to fully recuperate in a day or two."
For the first time in nearly two days of flying halfway around the world, with little or no real rest, worried to death about 'Squirt' … Cliffton felt the tension around his heart release. Which is probably why all the lessons he'd ever had about military protocol went right out the proverbial window. "Thank you for that information, ma'am, but who the hell are you?"
Her laughter matched her actions on the screen and Cliffton found he liked that sound, it was light, lilting and carried genuine mirth and – unless he was mistaken – just a tiny bit of true embarrassment. "Oh, my boss would love to hear how I totally screwed the protocol pooch on this call. Chief Granger, I'm Alexandra Hamilton, Assistant Secretary at the Bureau of East Asian and Pacific Affairs in the State Department."
Cliffton pulled his body up as straight as he could manage and still stay in the video pick up area. "Ma'am! Wait … Sergeant Wilhite said a 'Secretary Hamilton' at State was responsible for this flight… that wouldn't have been you, would it ma'am?"
"I'm afraid so, Chief. I think it's a small price to pay to the family of the agent who just plugged a major leak at the Department of Justice and, in a way, made our jobs at State a little more … exciting, shall we say?"
"Squirt managed to do all that?"
She laughed again. "I'm not sure I needed to hear your brother's nickname, Chief … thank goodness I'm on a fight to Beijing and won't be seeing Agent Granger again any time soon."
"Sorry, ma'am … it just kinda slipped."
"Psshaw! And stop calling me 'ma'am' – I'm close to your own age, Chief. Please, call me Alex." Her smile lit up the screen.
"Fine … Alex … but only if you'll stop calling me Chief – that's my father's title, I'm just Cliff."
"Thank you, Chi… Cliff." Alexandra Hamilton was interrupted by someone just outside the range of the video pick up on her end, someone she hissed 'later' at before returning her attention back to the camera. "Sorry about that, Cliff. Any idea how long you'll be on emergency family leave?"
Cliffton shrugged. "Never thought much beyond just getting home, Alex … but I suspect I'll have ten, maybe twenty, days before I have to report back to base for reassignment."
"That's right, we hauled you out of the PG, right? Sea duty?" He nodded confirmation of her very educated guess. "Will you be heading back to the 'Lucky E' immediately upon return to duty or will you have a new assignment?"
He blinked, there weren't too many people outside the Navy and it's extended family that knew the crew designation of the USS Enterprise, other than the obvious "Big E." The "Lucky E" moniker had be hung on the carrier in WWII when Admiral Halsey had led the carrier to the most decorated status for any ship in the Navy. Period. He shook his head before answering. "I'm not real sure, ma'am, uh, Alex. Depends on what BuPers decides is the best course of action to meet the needs of the service."
"Of course, how silly of me to forget that." She made a few notations on a note pad in front of her on the desk before glancing back up. "Chief, your brother did a fine job collapsing the ring of traitors sucking at the teet of the US Government. You may hear a few things that will make you doubt your brother's loyalty—"
"Never! No grandson of Bob Larsen would ever turn coats on this country."
"That's just what your mother told me. Anyway, no matter what you hear, before you jump to conclusions, ask Colby what happened and why. He'll be given clearance to discuss things with your entire family – but I'm going to advise the DoJ that he's to be told you are cleared to hear the full story."
"Why?"
Her smile was tinged with sadness and remorse, which caused the band of tension to return to grip Cliffton's heart. "Because you have the security clearance to hear it and, to be honest, he's going to need someone he can lean on and talk to. How much do you know about what happened to your brother, Chief?"
"Next to nothing. What can you tell me, Alex?"
Before the video conference call between them ended, Cliffton wished he'd never asked that last question as he heard, in no uncertain terms, what had happened to his baby brother. And, worse, Alex Hamilton played the tape Mason Lancer had made while he methodically tortured Colby James and Cliffton watched as his baby brother died. Alex apologized, profusely, for causing him distress, which Cliffton barely managed to shake off.
"No, I needed to know. If CeeJay's going to talk to me about this … the bastard's dead, right?"
"Yes, Cliff, Lancer is dead. Shot by Carter."
"Too good for the sonuvabitch. Sorry, Alex, I shouldn't cuss like that in your presence."
"No need to apologize, Cliff. You should've heard me after I endured my first viewing of that … crap piece of film. I shocked the hell out of the FBI Director and turned the air in Washington a deep blue."
"Wouldn't be anything I hadn't heard before, Alex. I am an old salt you know."
"So I understand. I hate to cut this short, Cliff, but I have a few more calls to make before I try to readjust my internal clock to match Beijing." Her brown eyes lit up with a teasing challenge. "If you're ever in Washington, stop by State and I'll take you to lunch, CPO Granger."
He smiled in a way that he hoped conveyed his delight in the invitation. "I may just do that, Alex. Good luck in Beijing and kick the Chairman in the balls for me, will ya?" His reward was to hear her laugh one more time before the video feed cut off and he was facing a blank screen.
Sergeant Wilhite came back to tell him, about ten minutes after he'd talked with Assistant Secretary Hamilton, that they'd gotten a request from the State Department, via Vandenburg Air Force Base's flight operations, to bypass Los Angeles and take him directly to …
"Chief, I hate to have to ask this but … Colonel Stambaugh needs to know … is there a decent air field near Cascade, Idaho that's rated to handle a bird like this, or should I start making phone calls to arrange for transport for you from Boise or Twin Falls? None of us are sure which is closer…"
"Boise's the closest, Sarge, but I'm pretty sure the Cascade Air Field is rated for this type of aircraft." He waved a hand around the luxury jet. "From what my folks have told me, the 'well-to-do-jet-set' crowd that has discovered the joy of skiing in Idaho's mountains have started to use our airfield when the one up McCall way is over taxed. Most of their jets aren't as nice as this one."
"Sounds like some pretty real estate. As for the planes of the Rich and Infamous … Uncle Sam gets better deals." Her smile was bright for a second before she nodded her head, mostly to whatever she'd decided mentally. "Okay, we'll need to refuel once we're feet dry anyway. I guess Major Marlow can take a few minutes to check the updated information files." She made it a point to check her watch, and then reached over Cliffton to pick up and return the blanket to him. "Might as well curl up again, Chief. We're still about 2, maybe 3, hours out from mainland."
He took the blanket, but instead of pulling it back over his rapidly ripening flight suit, Cliffton folded it up and put it back on the chair. "First things first, Sarge. Where's the head and is that a fresh pot of coffee I smell?'
"The head? Oh! The latrine facilities. Back toward the tail section, last door on the left. As for the coffee, I just started it but it should be ready when you get back. I'll leave a fresh cup out for you. Black, right?"
"Yeah, thanks." He stood up and tried not to look like he was practically running to locate and use the head, but at the same time, he didn't care if he looked silly. Returning to his seat a few minutes later, Cliffton found the Sergeant was true to her word as there was a large mug of fragrant black coffee waiting for him in the cup holder on the table near his sinfully comfortable chair. As he reached out to pick up the cup he spotted a bright blue, 2 inch by 2 inch, sticky note tacked onto the handle with cramped, but clearly legible, printing on it.
"Chief, we'll be landing to refuel at Vandenburg AFB. We should be there in about two hours, maybe less. Tail Wind! Tracie W." After reading the short note, Cliffton realized he finally knew Wilhite's first name wasn't actually 'Sergeant.'
Cliffton had gotten so turned around in his head that he, literally, had lost all sense of what time it was - let alone what time zone he was, so he was a little surprised when the State Department jet landed at Vandenburg Air Base to see it was dark outside. He looked at Sergeant Tracie Wilhite. "Uh, what time is it, Sarge? Locally, I mean?"
"Coming up 0045 hours. The Colonel said you have about 30 minutes, maybe less, to stretch your legs and do whatever else you want – but don't leave the immediate vicinity of the air strip." She was taking time to secure her dark blonde hair, it had fallen over the flight from its swept-up style, and making sure her flight cap was properly adjusted before opening the hatch and dropping the egress stairs.
"Understood. Any place I can make a long-distance phone call from? Other than the plane?"
Wilhite looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then nodded. "Come with me, I know there's a phone in the NCO lounge you can use." She cracked open the hatch, lowered the steps, then with a shout toward the cockpit, led the way to the lounge she'd spoke of. When Cliffton stepped through the door behind her, he was greeted by a dark-skinned woman about his age, wearing the blue on blue uniform of the USAF and the rank of a Senior Master Sergeant.
"Wilhite, what the hell did you State Department fly-babies forget now?"
"Nice to see you again, Sergeant Washington. We didn't forget anything; we're just loading up on fuel before taking the Chief Petty Officer here up to Idaho. Can he borrow your landline for a few?"
"Squid, huh? Oh! This is part of that stink that blew up down LA way, right?" Cliffton wondered just how the woman knew about that, until he recalled the only thing faster than military grapevines was the speed of light itself. Instead of answering her question aloud, he just nodded. "Sure, I suspect you need to make sure there's someone waiting for you when you get up north. Come around here, Chief and … is it a land line or cell you'll be calling?"
Cliffton shook his head, up until the Senior Master Sergeant had asked, he'd been planning on calling his folks home but the number had flown from his head, leaving behind only Lars' cell number. "Uh, cell phone, civilian if that matters?"
"Not really…" She lifted the handset, punched a few buttons, then handed him the phone as she vacated the desk and motioned for him to sit down. "Just dial the number direct, I think I can justify the Air Force eating the cost of a call." Then she and Wilhite moved away to give him some privacy and to talk. He dialed the number and prayed Lars would forgive him for calling this late … and that he'd read the situation correctly and Lars was at the house in Cascade and not at his place in Montana. It was only as the first ring sounded over the connection that Cliffton thought to look at a wall clock and – seeing the time was well past midnight – hoped his oldest brother was awake enough to understand.
"Lars Granger." At least he sounded awake …
"Lars? It's Cliff. I'm at Vandenburg Air Force Base. I should be in Cascade by 03:00. Can you fetch me from the air field?" He looked for, and found, a pen and a blank notepad and started to scribble numbers from memory – in case Lars wasn't available, he needed to get home. He got a little worried when his brother didn't immediately respond, Lars had a bad habit of answering his phone as a teen, then falling back to sleep, without realizing he was supposed to be talking. "Lars? I don't have a lot of time here, can you get me at the airfield or should I try to make arrangements with Aunt Doris or Sergeant Huston?"
"Of course I can! What the hell are you doing in the states?" Lars finally responded, causing Cliffton to chuckle dryly.
"I'll tell you when I get there. See ya soon." He hung up the phone and, looking at the first number he'd scribbled down, then the clock on the wall again, he decided that trying to call his father at that moment was not a good thing. Tomorrow – later today rather – would be soon enough to learn the latest from Lars on Squirt's condition. Cliffton stood up as the Senior Master Sergeant came back over. "Thanks for letting me spend the Air Force's dime, Sarge."
Her smile was warm and a little sad at the same time. "It's not a problem, Chief Granger. Tracie told me of your situation … When you see your brother, you thank him for me personally, will ya? Maxine Washington." She stuck a hand out in a friendly gesture and he shook the woman's hand, not at all surprised by her firm grip.
"Thanks, Sergeant Washington, but if I know my brother … he's going to hate all the attention this … incident … has generated for him and the family."
Her head tipped to one side as her chocolate brown eyes appraised him with a slight smile on her face. "Let me guess, he's one of those who'll say he was 'just doing his job' and not understand what all the fuss is about?"
"Ah, you've met him—" Cliffton responded, knowing that SMSgt. Maxine Washington probably hadn't met Colby, but people like him and or just plain knew the type.
"Nope. But you know what? I'm not letting him 'get away' with that 'aw shucks' attitude, you see him, you give him this—" And before Cliffton could begin to guess what she was about, the woman had planted a kiss on his cheek. "Now, if I know Colonel Stambaugh's type … he's been cracking the whip over the refuelers and is just about ready to lift tail and get out of here but before you run off with Tracie back to the bird, let's get you a little something to eat from the cantina."
Cliffton shook his head. "No thanks, Ma'am, if it's all right. I ate a bit more than I probably should've at Guam and, to be honest the way the Colonel flies …" He mimed getting airsick, which made Maxine laugh.
"Oh, I understand completely, Chief. All right, go'wan, get'cher butt outta my area and get back up to your Eye-Dee-Ho." SMSgt. Washington waved him and Wilhite out of the lounge and they made their way back to the jet sitting on the tarmac. Sgt. Wilhite noticed the engines were spinning up and hurried Cliffton back up the stairs into the bird before lifting the steps back into the plane and securing the hatch. She'd not even made it to her seat before the pilots put the jet into motion and she quickly sat down in the nearest available seat – conveniently right next to Cliffton - rather than trying to get to the jump seat she'd used previously.
"Sorry, Chief." Wilhite apologized for jostling his elbow as she rose to her feet after the plane was in the air. "Let me see if I can find out what lit a fire under the Colonel's bum."
Cliffton just nodded in response as he was trying to get his stomach to behave and stop trying to crawl out of his body … pilots were not sane people. They seemed to enjoy trying to make service members, who weren't pilots, air sick and delighted when they actually managed it. He looked up at Sergeant Wilhite as she reappeared from the cockpit area. "So, Staff Sergeant Wilhite, any clues as to why the Colonel's flying like a fighter jock all of a sudden?"
"Yeap. We've got a dry front pushing into Washington State from the Aleutians that has the higher elevation winds out ahead of it exceeding 100 miles per hour. We're trying to beat it to Cascade's air field so we can then use the tail winds it'll generate to get down to Nellis, where we'll pick up a few more State Department personnel and get them over to Taiwan."
He shook his head. "Sounds like a long day for you, the Major and the Colonel."
"Nope. We'll switch crews out completely once we hit the ground at Nellis Air Force Base."
Cliffton nodded; being a support member on a floating airfield, he'd learned over the years just how important flight crew rest was to pilots – and to maintenance people. The Orion crews, the sub-hunters, would often run 24-hour patrols with crews switching out every six hours, but the P-3's would get a full maintenance check after just 12 hours in the air. "I understand completely. If I'm guesstimating our air time correctly, we're basically going to hit cruising altitude pretty darn quick, stay there for maybe 45 minutes then start our descent?"
Tracie Wilhite smiled broadly. "I guess you really are more than just a typical seadog, Chief." She handed him the blanket he'd used earlier. "I'll wake you just before we land – remember, for us it is going to be a long touch n' go … you'll pretty much be left on the tarmac whether or not you have a ride." The Staff Sergeant actually looked apologetic.
"No problem, Sergeant. Push comes to shove … I can actually hike to the house. Cross-country it's about an hour and a half walk, if I follow the roads, it'll take me two, maybe three, hours." He didn't open the blanket, just balled it up and, with a little twisting and turning in the chair, tucked the wadded up cloth under his head, closed his eyes and, within moments, was dreaming about dragging a hale and healthy Colby up to the top of Deadwood Summit.
He was jostled awake by Sergeant Tracie Wilhite just before she returned to her seat and he dry scrubbed his face in bleary confusion, until he heard the jet's engines whining as the pilot air braked and banked to the left even as the plane lost altitude. Cliffton tried to recall what he'd been dreaming before Wilhite had awakened him, but all he could recall was that it involved Squirt, gunshot wounds and a twisting maze of white hallways.
He'd barely managed to realize they were landing before the wheels hit pavement, breaks squawked and squealed and Tracie was up from her seat and opening the egress door. Cliffton, remembering what she'd said earlier about getting out fast, undid the seatbelt, grabbed his small duffle bag from under the seat and stumbled toward the hatch.
"Good luck, Chief." Tracie offered just before he ducked out the door.
"Thanks, and please thank the pilots for me and my family, Tracie." He lurched down the narrow drop-down steps and scrambled out of the way of the jet's wings even as the Sergeant yanked the steps back up and solidly sealed the hatch with a firm thud. He'd no sooner cleared the plane's operational area, then Cliffton found himself engulfed in a bear hug of an embrace even as the pilots spun the engines back up, taxied down the runway and took off. No sooner had the jet's landing gear left the tarmac, whomever was running the tower at Cascade Air Field plunged the entire area back into darkness by turning off the lights.
"What the fuck?" Lars was saying, but all Cliffton could concentrate on at the moment was just how cold it was on the tarmac with the winds coming out of the northeast – directly over Cascade Lake.
"Can we talk in the car? It's freezing out here." Cliffton pleaded with his older brother, who nodded, took the duffel bag from him and lead the way over to the side of the airfield were a black – at least he assumed it was black – Cadillac Escalade sat, its rear compartment slowly opening to the signal sent by Lars' electronic key fob. Once they were inside the passenger compartment, silence fell between them while Lars drove back to the house and Cliffton tried to absorb the heat pouring from the vents.
Clearly, Cliffton had forgotten just how chilly it could be in Cascade, even in June.
He woke up, looked around and, for a few minutes, experienced a moment of sheer panic. He couldn't recall where he was, how he'd gotten there or why he was naked. Then Cliffton took a second gander at the room and, with an explosive sigh of relief, realized he was home.
In Cascade.
Safe.
Waiting on news of, or from, Colby James. Throwing back the quilted comforter on his bed, Cliffton climbed out of the sack and stretched before looking at the US Navy themed clock someone had hung on the wall in place of his old Seattle Seahawk one. 1830 hours, or maybe 0630 … the light filtering past the blinds gave no clue as it was close to the time of year when daylight lasted longer. He turned back to the bed and found a towel wadded up in the folds of the quilt and a little more of his memories for the past few days resurfaced in his mind.
Chuckling and shaking his head, he located his gear and shaving kit and, after securing the towel back around his waist, padded on bare feet back into the shared bathroom between his and Lars' room. He had taken a shower when he'd gotten home, he had a somewhat fuzzy memory of that, but Cliffton was programmed from a young age that a shower was the best way to wake up, so that's what he was going to do.
Coming back out of the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, Cliffton felt a little more human but still completely at a loss as to what time it was. Pulling a set of sweats from his carryall duffle, he got dressed and started down stairs to see if he could figure out if he was still on Dubai time or if, by some quirk of fate, he had managed to trick his brain into Cascade time.
In the living area he found Cody sacked out on the sofa, looking almost as cute as he had as a child. Then he let loose a loud snore and Cliffton revised his opinion of his little brother. Padding into the kitchen, he discovered Lars in there, clearly in the midst of trying to fix a meal of some sort. "Lars, I know Mom taught you how to do that."
The eldest of the Granger kids turned away from the stove, greasy tongs in hand and Lars smiled at him – just before handing the utensil over to him. "Cliff, good, you watch the chicken while I get the veggies seasoned and tossed in the microwave." Which is how Cliffton found himself, once again, in charge of making sure the pan-fried chicken didn't scorch in his mother's kitchen – even if Catherine Granger wasn't there.
Once the meal was complete, sans overcooked chicken, and with the addition of Cody's mashed potatoes to the mixed veggies Lars had cooked up Cliffton finally got a chance to ask a question that had started plaguing him halfway through the meal. "Was it just my imagination or did Auntie Doris come into my room at some point and tuck me in?"
Cody started to chuckle, and then gave up and just full out laughed, which Lars joined in. Once both were under some semblance of control, Cody answered. "Yeah, she stopped by and when Lars here told her you'd made it home, she scooted up stairs so fast neither of us could stop her. Good thing you were mostly covered … but she still woke the nearly dead with her gasp-not-quite-a-scream when she realized you'd fallen asleep in the all together."
Cliffton's jaw dropped. "I thought I dreamed that –"
Lars was quick to reassure him. "Nope. According to Dee, you woke up, had a small conversation with her, then dropped back off to sleep in mid-word. Which is the only reason Cody and I didn't wake you before noon." He shook his head. "You scared Dee half to death, bro, dropping off like that."
He felt the blood rushing to his face as he blushed. "I did not—"
"You did. Between "Guam" and whatever word you were going to say next. She stepped into the bathroom to fill a carafe of water for your bedside stand and looked back at you only to find you had your head down on your chest, lightly snoring."
"I did?" He asked, trying hard to ignore Cody who wasn't trying to hide his snickers.
Lars nodded, then handed his cell phone over to Cliff. "Check the old messages, she sent me an Emm-Peg of the event. After you'd started snoring."
Cliffton did as instructed and turned a deeper shade of red as he watched the short clip, and listened to the sound – a saw mill made less noise – before closing the cell and complaining. "Man....my body's clock is so screwed up, it'll never get right again."
"You will. Probably just in time to have to rescramble it back to Dubai time."
"Gee, thanks." Cliffton handed Lars his cell phone back. "How's Squirt doing?"
"Doing better. Lots better from the sound of things." Lars admitted as he gathered up the empty plates from the table.
"Yeah, enough so that he got whapped by Agent Reeves for being a smartass." Cody supplied, a huge grin on his face.
"You two talked to Squirt and didn't wake me?" Cliffton grumbled at his brothers.
"No, Doris said you needed your rest and, frankly, Cliff, after seeing you late last night, I had to agree with her." Lars explained.
"You guys cudda woke me—"
"And suffer the Wrath of Aunt Dee? No thanks!" Cody admitted.
Cliffton had to agree with Cody … Doris Speeck had one hell of a temper. "Right, understood. So Squirt's doing all right?"
"Doing real good." Lars looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Cliff ... do you really not recall what I told you last night?"
"Um.... Kinda. You said he was going to be moved to a regular room. But now you're telling me you just talked to him. So what did he say?"
"A lot. And very little."
"Lars, I didn't just get my ass dragged half way around the world to hear double talk..." Cliffton glared at his older brother.
"I don't mean to be cryptic, Cliff ... the truth is while he talked a lot, there wasn't a whole lot of substance. He broke the news to Cody about his having CPR done on him--" Lars looked at him and Cliff schooled his face to show concern, but not shock. After all, he'd seen the raw footage and really wished Alex Hamilton hadn't shown him. "--got thwaped for being a smartass by Agent Reeves, one of his team mates, and then pretty much promised to do his old chores when he got home."
Cliff grinned. "He's gonna be fine. If he's being a smartass, he'll be fine." He let out a huge breath.
"Yeah, that's pretty much the consensus around here too." Cody chimed in.
Before he could ask Lars any more questions, Cliffton heard a vehicle crunching across the gravel in the driveway and Lars turned around to peek out the window above the sink before shaking his head and looking back at Cliffton. "Bro, you're timing is still atrocious. Doris is back and she's brought reinforcements."
Cliff peered over his brother's shoulder and saw Aunt Dee climbing from her car with four or five other people joining her. "What's Auntie Dee up to?"
Lars' grin turned wicked as he answered. "Cleaning Crew and Party Planning." He stepped out of the kitchen and hollered a greeting to Auntie Doris, and the other 'honorary aunts' before yelling for Cody - who stomped back out of the living area, already wearing coveralls.
Cliff groaned but followed his brothers out onto the porch.
He'd managed to assist the cleaning crew with a few things, like holding the ladder as Cody went after the spider webs in the upper rafters of the barn, before being chivvied back into the house and ordered to do what had to be done there. He didn't argue with Doris. No one but Catherine Granger ever argued with Aunt Doris, the woman was too tough, too hardheaded and too scary to piss off.
That meant he was in charge of dusting, fifty-two pick up and general over all cleaning.
Well, the supervision of such chores anyway. Two of the cleaning crew, Aunt Crystal and another who's name escaped him, had already done the lion's share of the chores, but had no shame or apologies when they handed him cleaning materials and sent him upstairs.
For him they'd left the dreaded bathrooms. Oh well, at least they hadn't handed him a toothbrush and told him to scrub the decks. And, on the plus side, he'd heard Doris explain to them that, should he just stay upstairs, they weren't to disturb him as he was still recovering from Jet Lag.
It didn't matter how tired he got, or how much he just wanted to climb into the bed in his old room and just collapse. He had to get this place ship-shape so that his folks wouldn't have to worry about anything except getting Colby James home. That's all that was important right now, Squirt was coming home and he was going to be all right.
~*~ END ~*~
~*~ Book Two ~*~
Book Three To Follow