Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  WARNING ORDER

  A Cold War Novel

  by

  Jamie Fredric

  Warning Order

  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 @ 2010 Jamie Fredric

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter One

  East Berlin - November 1977

  Day 1

  Without missing a step, a tall, lanky jogger, dressed in a heavy blue sweatsuit, put a gloved hand to his forehead as he shielded his eyes from a glaring searchlight. He waved to the men aboard the patrol boat, consciously making an effort to look directly at them. Over the sound of the idling engine he could faintly hear muffled voices speaking in Russian.

  A silhouetted figure, standing on the bow, held a boat hook in one hand as he stared suspiciously at the jogger. He raised his other hand then gave a downward turn. The boat coxswain responded by slowly pulling back the throttle to slow ahead. He cautiously maneuvered the boat closer to the riverbank, relying on the lookout to spot any hazards. The blue-white beam of the searchlight swung from port to starboard across the bow of the Russian harbor craft, lighting up the shoreline. The beacon served as an intimidating prelude to death for those who dared attempt a desperate dash to freedom. As the boat drifted closer to the shoreline, one of the Russian’s onboard came more clearly into the jogger’s view. It was then he spotted the AK47, menacingly pointing directly at him. All he could hope for was that the Russian wasn’t trigger happy.

  For several long seconds the glaring light lingered on the lone figure as steadfastly as a magnet adheres to metal. A soldier standing at the bow grunted to the coxswain, “Nyet!” as he moved the light forward, surveying each of the beam's resting places. He continued directing the spotlight along the embankment, while he occasionally issued steerage orders to the coxswain. He moved the light in a long arc, searching the riverbank, straining his eyes to focus on each and every detail. The coxswain gradually changed course as he increased speed and steered the boat with its passengers back toward the middle of the Spree River. It didn't take long before it had drifted into the inky blackness beneath the bridge overpass and eventually disappeared from sight.

  Passing under a dimly lit street lamp, the jogger raised his arm closer to his face, squinting to read the time on his watch. He lengthened his stride and continued making his way along the path. The sound of his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement temporarily drowned out the pounding of his heart. He continued along the eight foot wide path, running through the slight hillocks of the public grounds near the riverbank.

  The sputter of the boat engine and lapping water against muddy shoreline were sounds that made him reflect back on his family's summer home on the lake. He'd spent so many hours during the quiet summer days and nights contemplating his future, a future he knew would eventually lead him to East Berlin. The training, intelligence briefs, and weapons' classes were all designed to allow him to succeed and survive. But now that all seemed like eons ago.

  Living in East Germany he knew that even ordinary sounds or circumstances could suggest danger, betrayal, or even death. The repeated warnings by his instructors to keep a constant vigil echoed in his mind. They pounded home their credo: Don't let your guard down. With that, his mind snapped back to the present. He'd made this same jog, along this same path, every night for the past three weeks, whether or not he'd had a long day, whether or not he was dogged tired, no matter what the weather. He never varied his routine. By doing so he'd gone against every grain of what he'd been taught. But as crazy as it had sounded, those were his specific orders, with no other explanation provided. Inwardly, he questioned the orders, but, nonetheless, he obeyed, knowing they were designed to ensure his survival--and too many people were depending on his surviving.

  Suddenly, a bone-chilling shiver raced down his spine, commanding his full attention. He gradually pulled up and jogged in place, turning slowly, making a quick scan down the path he'd just traveled. He turned his head slightly, straining to explore his surroundings with his peripheral vision. The noise he had heard wasn't anything he could specifically put his finger on, but it seemed to emanate from the water. As he raised his arms overhead faking a stretch, he refocused on the surface of the river, trying to pick up anything unusual. The Spree, once green in color and clear, was now murky and sullen, carrying on it all manner of leaves, twigs, and other nameless floating debris. The telltale froth of pollution lay in each small, protected eddy.

  A sharp crack sent his heart pounding, and, instinctively, he ducked. Cautious about standing up too quickly, he glanced up, immediately breathing a sigh of relief, seeing a rotted tree limb swinging precariously from an aged birch tree. Jesus! You've gotta stop this shit! Keep your head on straight and get your ass back in gear! With a gloved hand, he brushed away rain droplets from his steel-rimmed glasses. But he was still wary, and he shifted his gaze, staring into the deserted, darkened park where he focused on a stand of large birch trees. Only a scattering of golden yellow leaves hung from the branches, valiantly resisting an endless assault by the swirling wind. His natural instinct was telling him to get the hell out of there. But he couldn't. He dared not deviate from the very specific instructions he’d been given.

  He resumed his pace, finally reaching the top of a small mound. From there he could see the Monbijou Brucke, a completely unremarkable, stone bridge. The dome shape of its underpass encircled the river like an ominous black hole. Fifty feet of deserted tunnel loomed threateningly ahead of him against the backdrop of a dark gray knoll. Shadows began toying with his imagination. Calm down! He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his knitted wool cap, as he noticed two guards approaching the bridge, staring in his direction.

  Thick, black fumes escaping from the twin chimneys of the Dorchmeyer coal factory mingled with the raw night air. An occasional strong gust of wind blew the acrid smell directly into his face. Not completely over his bout with a mild case of the flu, his throat was especially sensitive and every breath felt like he was swallowing a wad of fine grade sandpaper. Paranoia was in full control of him now. He momentarily glanced at a ragged dirt trail strewn with bottle caps and scattered pieces of broken glass bottles. It led up the embankment and through the park to the lighted security of Oranienburger Strasse, which ran parallel to his route. Fighting off an increasing panic attack, he proceeded toward the darkened underpass, trying to keep his senses on full alert and his gait steady.

  As usual, pedestrian traffic was practically nil at this end of the city. Patrols were frequent because the area was close to the border separating East from West. Within sight was the foreboding Berlin Wall, made up of two foot thick concrete blocks and built to a height of four meters. An illuminated control area, known as the "death area," ran along the eastern side of the wall. Anyone attempting to escape to the West and caught in this area was shot without question, without warning.

  For the jogger, though, most of the time it wasn't the patrols he feared. If anything, they should have given him some sense of comfort, for lack of a better word. This area was a dangerous place for anyone because of the high concentration of drug trafficking. There was always the threat of drug-related crimes. Addicts would kill solely for drug money—and the underpass was a perfect hiding place for them.

  Shaking his head, he desperately tried to dislodge the unsettling thoughts crowding his mind, his eyes becoming transfixed on the dark tunnel ahead. The entrance of the tunnel looked like a black void with no way out. He tried to reassure himself that it wasn't any safer up on street level. If that can be called reassurance, he gr
imly thought. And to top it off, he wasn't armed, making him all the more defenseless, but that was also a specific element of his orders. "You're sure in one bitchin' situation," he gruffly mumbled under his breath.

  Another sound disrupted his thoughts, but this was a familiar one. He shot a quick glance in the direction of the vast, windswept space of Alexanderplatz and the clock tower of Rotes Rathaus (Red Town Hall), so named because of the red brick and the current municipal headquarters of East Berlin. Ten o'clock! That one stupid delay, when he stopped to check his surroundings, had thrown off his timing by nearly two minutes. He swore under his breath, “Damn! I'm late.” Up to that point he'd passed each landmark along his route at the precise time, just as instructed.

  East German and Russian soldiers always made it a point to keep a wary eye on his movements but otherwise left him to his jogging. This evening was no exception. He reasoned that he'd become something of an oddity to them over the past few weeks, especially after he changed his jogging routine. His original orders stated that he was to be at this location an earlier time, but then those orders were changed, bringing him here at this later hour. The time may have changed, but not his routine. He was to always go just beyond the bridge, almost as far as Friedrich Strasse, then turn around and head back to the security of his flat. But in the back of his mind stood the irrefutable fact of why he was watched and followed. Did the guards have any clue as to who he really was? Whether or not they knew, they also had their orders--stay close to the subject and report anything unusual. They were told that he, like the others, was too valuable a commodity to lose. With their AK47s slung over their shoulders, two Russians on the bridge peered over the side, observing the jogger moments before he disappeared beneath them.

  On the north side of the intersection an electric tram slowed to pick up a passenger, its clanging bell sounding like a small hammer rhythmically striking an anvil. Distracted for just an instant as he approached the darkest section of the underpass, he glanced over his shoulder. His original instinct to make a beeline up to street level had been correct--but it was too late. Before he had time to react, a powerful arm was around his neck. Water trickled down the inside of his sweatshirt. Pressure against a key nerve caused partial paralysis of his throat, preventing him from crying out. His knees started to buckle. He tried struggling against his unknown attacker but was rendered powerless as he was dragged the short distance down the sloping embankment. He was totally off balance when they hit the water. In what seemed like milliseconds, he was completely underwater, feeling the unmistakable power of his assailant. As if being caught in a violent whirlpool, he was being pulled deeper into the depths of the cold Spree River.

  CIA operative Rick Lampson, alias Erik Brennar and code named "Badger" had no doubt he was going to die.

  Chapter Two

  The Russian guards leaned over the opposite side of the bridge waiting impatiently for Erik Brennar to appear. "Where is he?" First Officer Sokov shouted, as he turned and raced across the road to the other side of the bridge.

  "I still don't see him!" First Officer Brosovich yelled, a hint of panic rising in the young officer's voice. Without hesitation, he raced along the sidewalk, jumping down onto the sloping ground, his boots splashing in pools of rainwater and mud holes as he half ran, half slid down the bank. Once at the bottom, he pointed his flashlight toward the tunnel, its beam splitting the night's blackness. "Nothing!" the young Russian yelled. He spun around and let the beam settle on the swirling current. "Look! Here!" he blurted out as he slid further down the muddy incline, stopping himself just before tumbling into the water. His heels sunk into the muck as he counterbalanced his weight and stretched out his AK47 toward the dark object sinking beneath the water. He slid the front sight of the rifle under it, snatching the object from the water. He held up the dripping wool cap for Sokov to see, and then hastily started making a search under the bridge. Something reflected off the flashlight's beam and he ran toward it. "There’s no sign of him, only this!" he shouted. The young first officer felt his heart sink deeper into his 5'8" frame. His brown eyes almost began to tear, as he realized he had failed his assignment.

  Sukov rushed up to him, his once spit-shined black boots now splattered with mud. He reached for the steel-rimmed glasses Brosovich was holding. One lens had shattered and resembled a spider's web.

  Beads of sweat started forming across Sukov's brow. He knew the consequences for letting anyone escape. His shoulders slouched. "This will surely mean a posting to Siberia," he muttered. He glanced over at Brosovich who was nodding in the affirmative while he stared in disbelief at the wool cap.

  Almost in unison, the two guards turned their heads toward the Spree. Both of them were stunned by the swiftness of what had happened. Sukov suddenly realized he was wasting time. He immediately sounded the alarm, blowing short bursts into his police whistle. Its high-pitched tone shrieked like a wild banshee.

  A puff of white smoke escaped from the stern of the patrol boat as the coxswain gunned the engine. A shower of water erupted from the river as the craft abruptly turned to port and headed back downstream toward the sound of whistles. Its searchlight furiously sliced through the darkness, sweeping back and forth at every noise close to the water. Two soldiers took their positions on port and starboard sides, with their rifles pointed toward the surface of the river. Cold water rushed against the bow, spraying their heavy winter uniforms. They released the safeties on their automatic weapons, seeing the dark tunnel only fifty meters ahead.

  Guards began streaming from their posts in various buildings. Others jumped from the back of a passing military truck and lined up along the riverbank. The routine was all too familiar for soldiers assigned to East Berlin. Nearly forty-five East Berliners had already been killed trying to flee the city by one means or other. The Spree River was the second most likely choice for escapees and it continued to be guarded closely.

  "Move! Move!" Sukov shouted, frantically motioning soldiers down to the water, some disappearing into the tunnel, as others formed a line on each side along the bank.

  Beneath the Spree River

  The shock from the cold water made Lampson feel as if he’d been hit by a hammer. Suddenly, a jolt sent tremors up his legs as his heels struck the river bottom. His lungs burned for oxygen. His mind began to slip into unconsciousness. Flailing his arms around him, he frantically tried to grab onto his assailant. A mental picture flashed before his eyes, picturing himself clamped in the steel-like jaws of an alligator that was taking its prey to the muddy bottom, waiting for him to drown.

  With a swift motion, his attacker reached around him and shoved something against his mouth. Lampson jerked his head to the side, fearing an attempt to force gas or poison into him. What the hell was the difference? Poison, gas, or drowning--none of the choices seemed to be an acceptable means of dying. But survival finally took hold and he again thrashed about, trying to grab any part of the menacing force, but he was unsuccessful and his body started growing weaker. Without warning he was spun around and the object was rudely shoved against his mouth again. Tasting the rank river water nearly made him gag, but then his brain began to register. Instinctively, he sucked in air from a scuba mouthpiece. Air! Compressed air!

  Suddenly, a face mask was pushed against his face and Lampson finally opened his eyes and blinked through the water-filled mask, trying to reorient himself. He immediately leaned his head back and pressed the top of the face plate with his palm, blowing air through his nose, clearing his mask. At least he managed to remember that much from his training. Within seconds his vision cleared and he found himself looking through hazy visibility into the face of a total stranger.

  Twenty-one hours earlier

  At 28,000 feet, the youngest full captain in the U.S. Navy, Grant Stevens, stepped out of a Navy Learjet. With his oxygen mask strapped in place, he fell into the nearly airless, minus fifty degree temperature. Reaching down, he pulled a ring that released his RAM air chute as he began a HAHO (
High Altitude High Open) jump over West Berlin. He turned himself to the northeast and began guiding his silent descent toward his target ten miles away, east of the Iron Curtain. His LZ was a small farmhouse located about 30 minutes from downtown East Berlin. As he steered the "black cloud" into the wind and passed through twenty thousand feet, he focused on the city lights of Berlin. U-shaped lights ringed the road on the western side of the Brandenburg Gate. He continued in an easterly direction. The cold air numbed his cheeks below his goggles. He released the toggles several different times and shook his hands to return the blood flow to his fingertips. He had to talk to somebody about the damn, worthless gloves.

  At thirteen thousand feet he steered more to the left as he began picking up lights from houses that he knew were near his LZ. He'd studied the pictures of previous recon flights that had photographed this area to help him become familiar with it. Three more miles; GPS was right on. He turned off the O2, and removed his face mask, letting it hang from around his neck. Checking to his right, he noticed that the blinking red light on the tail of the Learjet had all but disappeared. He looked at the ground again and noticed a long fence line stretching down the gray-colored, moonlit road. The lights of Berlin were nearly out of view as he lost altitude. He checked his altimeter. Forty-five hundred. Christ! Where the hell were the lights?

  As he passed over the top of a small rise at only one thousand feet above the trees, he spotted three parallel lights with a yellow light at the end: the house light, barn light, and the shed. Drifting a little left, he jerked down on the left toggle and the canopy banked accordingly.

  Two hundred feet above the ground he spotted two haystacks and a barn that were his targets. Estimating fifty feet to touchdown, he pulled down on both toggles and the air chute began to stall. He put his knees together, slightly bent, pulled down on the toggle a little more, and at ten feet, pulled down hard on both toggles. While facing into the wind, the “black cloud” above him stalled and he touched down.