Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  He had almost finished gathering in the shroud lines from his chute when someone appeared from behind the shed. Although he wasn't able to distinguish the face clearly in the pitch black night, Grant focused on a very pronounced limp as the man began walking quickly toward him.

  "Captain!" Manfred Kronauer said with an outstretched arm. The seventy-three year old impressed Grant with his athletic build. His white shock of thick hair was held down by his boater's cap that was so familiar in this part of Europe. He had a jolly face, one that belied an inner sadness because only a few years before, his son, Hans, had been shot by the Russians as he attempted to escape to the West. Ever since then, Manfred had been known to the West as a "friendly" who operated this safe house.

  He pumped Grant's hand feverishly. Grant held tight to the old man's leathery hand as he challenged him with a password. Instantly, Manfred rattled off the response, adding, "You think someone else would dare look like this?"

  Grant's face broke out in a grin. "Nah, just like to keep you on your toes."

  The old man's hearty laugh sliced through an uncanny silence. He turned and began plodding toward the shed, his big boots leaving imprints in the soil. "Now, come. I have some food waiting for you."

  Grant followed, as he thought it was good to see the old man again. Instinctively, he swiveled his head left and right, checking his surroundings.

  Manfred pushed open the wooden door made of vertical planks with three support boards forming a Z on the inside. Grant preceded him into the shed, while Manfred checked the barnyard and fence line before entering behind him. The lower edge of the door scraped across soft, dark soil as he closed it.

  Cobwebs clung to the upper corners of the shed’s pitched roof timbers. Rakes, shovels, and other farming implements leaned against one corner of the room. A large, heavy grinding wheel rested in the middle of the barely eight foot square room. The old German struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp sitting on a workbench scattered with tools. Even though an old canvas drop cloth had been hung over the window to prevent light from escaping, he adjusted the lamp’s flame till the wick barely glowed.

  Grant piled the nylon chute on the workbench before dragging the grinding wheel across the dirt. He bent down on one knee and brushed away some of the dirt, revealing a small rusted O-ring embedded in the slat of wood. He pulled up on the trapdoor. The room below not only served as a safe place, but also contained basic communication equipment, the German's means for 'talking' to his Western contacts.

  Manfred, carrying the kerosene lamp, watched as Grant stared down into a ghostly murkiness. "Do you wish for me to go down first?"

  "Did you make a sweep for any unfriendlies that might be lurking about?" Grant responded with a smile as he reached for the lamp.

  "Swept clean, my young friend!"

  Backing down the narrow, flat rungs of the wooden ladder, Grant hung the lamp from a hook suspended from a beam. "Come on down, Manfred. I'll get my gear."

  For nearly eighteen hours Grant stayed in the makeshift room. The two discussed plans for getting him to his departure point before he would even consider taking a few hours rest. As they talked, Grant snacked on some fresh bread and churned butter, and a few links of bratwurst. Times were tough in the East but Manfred always provided the essentials.

  As soon as it was dark, the two men drove along a deserted country road. Manfred dropped Grant off at a secluded spot. It was at the edge of a pine tree forest within sight of the Spree River. Already wearing his wetsuit, Grant slid off the truck seat then closed the door as quietly as he could. He swept the surrounding area with eagle eyes. The only sounds he heard were the soft rustling of the pines, and behind him, towards the south, was the faint whistle of a freight train.

  Manfred rolled down the window and leaned his arm on the edge as Grant approached. His cheerful attitude hid the genuine concern that he felt for this young man and his sensitivity to his position here in the East. "I wish I could help further, Captain, but I'm afraid you are on your own from here."

  "You've done enough, my friend. I hope you know that. Now, you'd better get outta here." Grant squeezed the old man's arm with a strong, friendly grip, his appreciation and regard for Manfred unmistakable. The old German’s smile broadened and an eruption of facial wrinkles almost obliterated his eyes as he waved then drove off.

  East Berlin - Beneath the Spree River

  Creases formed at the corners of Grant's brown eyes, a smile hidden behind the black rubber mouthpiece. He winked, then held his hand in front of Lampson's face mask, giving him a thumb's up. Lampson was torn between throwing his arms around this stranger--his rescuer--or smashing in his face for scaring the living shit out of him. Weak and still trembling, he opted for replying with an 'okay' sign.

  For five weeks "Badger" had waited for the Company to extract him from East Berlin, never knowing how or exactly when it would happen because security was the driving force. Stevens had designed a way that made Lampson's rear end pucker to the extent that he knew it would take weeks before he'd ever find the seat of his sweatpants. But Grant Stevens was an expert in this type of operation, whenever the strategy called for inflicting complete, instant helplessness, facilitating this kind of snatch.

  Realizing that the cold water would soon become a factor since Lampson wasn’t wearing a wetsuit, Grant worked quickly in securing the extra Draeger rig's straps around the agent’s chest. The bubbleless Draeger (a rebreathing apparatus) would make it impossible for the East Germans or Russians to track them from the surface. But the Navy SEAL was fully aware that there'd be unfriendly divers hitting the water any time--if they hadn't already.

  Grant motioned for Lampson to follow him and both Americans began stroking hard, staying close to the bottom. They had nearly 500 yards of swimming ahead of them. For Grant, that wouldn’t be a problem...Lampson was another matter. And, they still had to navigate through barbed wire strung above and below the river. But this was the fastest and shortest way for them to reach the West, and Grant knew he could count on his partner waiting on the other side. He could only hope they'd be able to reach the border before any hostile welcoming committee blocked their escape.

  Lampson's arms and legs ached. His bout with the flu had sapped more of his strength than he realized. His swimming ability wasn't anywhere near Grant's and Grant wasn't about to let up. The Navy SEAL's powerful legs propelled him effortlessly through the water like a barracuda pursuing its prey, almost as if he were born to it.

  Now, Lampson started to panic again as Grant's black, wetsuited form began to disappear into the darkness. Then he felt the jerk of the buddy line that was attached to his shoulder strap. He kicked as hard as he could, but there wasn’t any doubt he was running out of steam. The strain on the buddy line was constant. Being dragged through the water was making him feel guilty for having to let Grant do the lion's share of the swimming. His life was completely in Grant's hands.

  Totally disoriented, he had no idea where they were heading or what was in store. He only knew that it was impossible for them to surface, considering the guards were undoubtedly swarming both sides of the riverbank and overpasses, waiting for them with their firearms locked and loaded.

  Lampson's breathing was heavy, making him consume too much of the precious oxygen. He wanted to scream out to Grant as he felt a growing fear tying knots in his stomach. He reminded himself to breathe slower! Slower! His natural negative buoyancy wasn't helping matters either, as his belly kept brushing against debris on the bottom. Suddenly, a heavy tree limb on the river bottom and directly in his path caught on his air hose, ripping the mouthpiece away. He pulled back, jerking the buddy line. Definitely out of his element, Lampson looked upward, knowing he wouldn't have a prayer on the surface.

  Grant immediately felt the jerking on the line and swam back. Grabbing hold of Lampson's shoulder, he crammed the mouthpiece back into Lampson's mouth and motioned for him to settle down. Lampson responded with a nod just as Grant grabbed the line an
d immediately started stroking through the water. The agent felt like a defenseless, squirming fish being unceremoniously reeled in by an expert fisherman.

  After what seemed like hours to Lampson, Grant finally stopped, got his attention, and pointed ahead of them as he quickly undid the buddy line. The extent of their visibility was barely ten feet. Lampson had to squint to make his eyes focus on a labyrinth of hazardous barbed wire strung across the river. Rusted and nearly invisible in the darkness, it completely blocked their path from the surface all the way to the riverbed. Lampson glanced down, focusing on the wire embedded into the river bottom, shaking his head in disbelief, wondering how the hell they were going to swim through the tangled mess.

  Grant signaled for him to stay where he was, then pointed up to the surface at a dim glow filtering across their vision. Beams from flashlights and search lights circled in a kaleidoscope fashion. Grant knew they didn't have much time so he had to act fast. The East Germans and Russians were certainly going to send down their own divers or start throwing concussion grenades, and his bet was on divers--they wanted Lampson back in one piece--and he'd just end up being an added bonus.

  He shot a quick glance down river, then swam up close to the wire, pulled a small flashlight from his belt and began signaling. Instantly, a faint light on the other side began blinking back in response. He glanced at his diving watch then immediately swam back to Lampson.

  Grabbing hold of the agent's shoulder, he pulled him down, rudely shoving him face first into the muddy bottom. Lampson went as limp as a rag doll, nearly losing the mouthpiece. He didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. And from what had happened so far, he really didn't want to know.

  Grant took one last, quick look to make sure they still weren't being followed. Then, he shielded Lampson's body with his own, as his mind thought, Come on, Joe! Hit it!

  A muffled crack carried across the riverbed. Silt and debris shot over them in what seemed like slow motion. Lampson's eyes went to the size of saucers, staring into nothing but mud. His mind screamed, None of this shit was in my contract!

  The two Americans were tossed about slightly by the shock waves in the churned up water. Bits and pieces of rotted leaves and debris stuck in the band of Lampson's face mask. Not even hesitating long enough for the water to clear, Grant grabbed Lampson by the arm and hauled him up toward the mangled section of barbed wire.

  A familiar sound of escaping bubbles from scuba rigs caught Grant’s attention. As he had feared, coming straight at them were two divers. No second guesses here--they were, without a doubt, very unfriendly divers, intent on preventing this attempted escape. Russkie divers! Grant yanked a knife from his leg strap. The knife, a Navy MK1, had seen him through many CQB's (close quarter battles). Keeping his body between Lampson and the Russians, he gave the agent a shove forward toward a hole in the barbed wire conveniently made by Joe Adler with a wrap of det cord. The core of detonating cord, about the size of pencil lead, is a very high explosive called PETN. Wrapped around the explosive are layers of cotton fabric, rayon, and asphalt with a dark green, polyethylene cover. Det cord, only one quarter inch in diameter, burns at a rate of nearly twenty-six thousand feet per second.

  Pointing rapidly toward the opening, Grant gestured for Lampson to swim through and gave him one last, forceful shove before turning around, preparing to meet the approaching divers head-on.

  Lampson's sleeve caught on the jagged barbed wire, but this time he wouldn't let anything stop him. There wasn't anything he could do to help this Navy diver sent to rescue him. It was imperative that he get himself to the West. He knew his rescuer was aware of that, too.

  A wetsuited figure, appearing out of the darkness, swam up to Lampson, grabbed him and pulled him the few remaining feet through the obtrusive wire to safety and freedom.

  Joe Adler, Grant's long-time friend, gave Lampson the okay sign, checking to see if he was all right, then gestured for him to surface and swim toward the distant riverbank.

  Once Lampson was out of sight, Adler ripped his diving knife from his ankle scabbard then turned around and swam through the opening in the barbed wire and into Communist territory. The hell with orders! Adler wasn't one to normally sit back and let Grant have all the fun...and he wasn't about to start now.

  West Berlin - Embankment of the Spree

  Rain started falling steadily, the large droplets sounding like rubber bands snapping against paper as they bounced off fallen leaves. The temperature continued slipping, already closing in on thirty-seven degrees.

  The American Embassy's attaché, Pete Bradley, tried desperately to keep Lampson shielded with an umbrella after draping a wool blanket across his shoulders. Water dripped from the brim of Bradley's hounds tooth hat as he held the black umbrella high above, stretching to cover the 6'3" Lampson. "Mr. Lampson, you sure you wouldn't want to wait in the car?" Lampson didn't answer. He was too busy concentrating on the water, waiting for the two divers. "Sir, there's nothing you can do for..."

  "Shut the hell up! Just leave me alone. If you can't handle the weather, maybe you'd better go wait in the damn car!"

  "Sure…whatever you say. Let me know if you want anything." Somewhat befuddled by the outburst, Bradley backed away. He tramped across the grass, mumbling, “Screw you.”

  Several moments passed. Lampson continued staring into the Spree River, then diverted his gaze toward East Berlin. Military jeeps and canvas covered trucks were strung out along the roadway. German shepherd guard dogs, caught up in the frenzy, strained against their leashes, dragging their handlers. Chills ran up and down his spine as he listened to the fierce barking of the agitated animals. Bright searchlights, moving in criss-crossing patterns, were aimed on the river. An occasional whistle blared, voices echoed, orders shouted. But the main action wasn't happening along the shoreline. A battle for life or death was taking place underwater.

  Lampson shook his head, amazed he was on friendly soil again, but a nagging feeling in his stomach wouldn't quit. As he waited, his thoughts strayed to a flashback of years and circumstances that brought him to this very moment.

  *******

  He spent the first twelve years of his life as an Army brat. In 1951 his father was assigned to the Naval Communications Station at Bremerhaven, Germany, as the Army Security Company's liaison officer. Instead of living in base housing, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Lampson opted to live in town, thereby exposing his eight-year old son to the culture and language of his ancestors. As is usually the case with children, Rick picked up the language quickly, speaking it almost fluently within a matter of months. For most of the local people it was easy to forget the blond, blue eyed child was an American.

  Colonel Lampson retired after his tour with the Naval Security Group. Upon returning to the United States, the family settled in the western part of Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley. The Colonel humored himself as a freelance consultant with the National Security Agency.

  Family summers were spent at Cave Mountain Lake. Those were special days and nights for Rick. He would listen to his father's fictional tales of intrigue and secret goings-on. With every new story, Rick swore eternal silence if his father would just tell him of his exploits behind the high electric fences and vaulted rooms.

  The Colonel would spin tales for Rick that were composed of partial facts, but for the most part were large doses of imagination. Rick would hang on every word and later, as he lay in bed, he would daydream about his father's exploits and place himself into the glamorous spy adventures. He knew what his destiny would be even at his young age. He would be his father's son.

  Immediately after graduating college with a masters' degree in biochemistry, Lampson was recruited by the CIA. Besides his expertise in biochemistry, he was an expert chess player, able to remember sixty moves.

  The Company was branching out in all directions during those years. They needed bright, young people to fill hundreds of real and imagined vacancies with the Langley, Virginia, field office and headquar
ters in Washington, D.C.

  During the early days of his employment, Rick worked in the secret labs hidden away in the hills surrounding Camp A.P. Hill and Camp Perry in Virginia. Poisons, antidotes and a cornucopia of other half-baked ideas were his daily fare. The Cold War paranoia poured millions of dollars into any project the 'Alphabet Soup' groups could dream up.

  During 1974, which proved to be a banner year for Rick and his employer, reliable intelligence sources started coming out of East Germany that gave strong evidence the Germans were experimenting with new types of drugs and biological warfare. In particular, a list of lethal virus strains and other equally potent extracts of Monkey Virus "B", anthrax, and nerve agents were all known to be a part of their experiments. Agents had penetrated the production sites with amazing results. Recruiting East German spies became an easy task. Being aware of the treachery of the ruling class within their own country, East Germans were ready to assist the other side at the drop of a hat. Knowing where and whom to recruit kept the U.S. intelligence community out of hot water.

  Rick's personal background could not have been any more perfect. He found himself a part of a plan to steal--or at least analyze--the materials the Company was concerned about. He had the credentials and soon found himself on his way to Camp Perry, known as ‘The Farm’ to the CIA, and the field agents' training course. He'd join other students, known as "career trainees" for the eighteen-week course.

  Lampson's cover was identified as a NOC, non-official cover, meaning he wouldn't have the benefit of diplomatic immunity should he be discovered. He was supplied with precise, fake identity papers, and items such as receipts and ticket stubs, known as pocket litter. Then, during the winter of 1975, Lampson, carrying only one suitcase, was smuggled into East Germany, thereby officially becoming Professor Eric Brennar.