Warning Order

by Jamie Fredric

  "Oh, sir, to help cut out some time, can you send the warning order for my eyes only?" What others in the fleet call an operation's order that describes the movements and logistics of an operational mission, including who the players are, the SEALs call a “warning order.” It was simple...what, where, how, who, and when.

  "No problem, Grant. I'll ask Zach to take care of it and send it while you're there with the Embassy boys. But make sure you fill me in. The CIA's black fund is tied up in this new satellite shit so I might have to dip into another pot, which means I may need to get the money side of it okayed at SecDef."

  "Will do, sir."

  "Anything else?"

  "Oh, yes, sir, one more thing. I'd appreciate your running an intel check on a couple of East Germans."

  "Fire away," Torrinson responded as he started writing down the two names. He shook the pen, trying to get the last drop of ink to flow. "Okay. Greta Verner and Herman Schmitt. The girlfriend and the professor."

  "Yes, sir." Grant glanced at his watch. "It’s time to give the phone back to the crypto guys."

  "Good luck, Captain." Torrinson hung up the receiver, then stood up and stretched. Too late to make any calls, he reasoned. I may as well go home for a couple of hours. He went to the outer office and instructed his yeoman to prepare the warning order for Grant. Fifteen minutes later, he buttoned his jacket then stood in front of the oval mirror with a bronze eagle attached to the top, its wings spread wide. He adjusted his cap over salt and pepper hair, then left for home.

  Grant and Adler emerged from the scrambler room. An obviously annoyed Blake Kelley gave a sideways glance in their direction, then immediately adjusted his headset, mentally noting the twenty minute phone call. After seeing Kelley’s expression, Canetti looked in Grant's direction and shrugged his shoulders.

  Not wanting to upset the balance between Canetti and Kelley any more than he knew he already had, Grant held back a smile then said, "One more thing...the Admiral's sending me a warning order. It should be here in a few minutes, for my eyes only."

  "Be our guest. It'll come in on that scrambler over there," Canetti indicated with a thumb pointing over his shoulder.

  Grant waited by the special equipment. The message would be sent over high-speed spurt transmission at eight thousand words per minute. When it arrived at the crypto room, it printed out in code on a special tape. Once the transmission finished, Grant removed the tape and went into the private room where he had used the scrambler phone. Using his code book, he decoded the following message:

  TOP SECRET

  For: ComSpecOps Eyes Only (Commander,

  Special Operations)

  From: Director NIS

  Subject: Telcom November 11, 1977, 0400 Hours ET

  Re: Badger

  Proceed as confirmed our telcom. All official duties outside the original authorization must be approved by originator.

  Classified: TOP SECRET. Non-Declassifiable.

  Category III. Funding via NIS Ops/BL/ND.

  Support authorized at Embassy Level.

  By: Direction of Director of Naval Investigative Service - Rear Admiral John Torrinson

  Torrinson had confirmed their earlier telephone communication. 'Category III' indicated Grant as having top level White House security. Funding for the operation would be coming out of NIS budget, covering Operations/Black (covert)/Non-Disclosure.

  Grant folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Will have to get this to Wharton...one of these days. He buttoned the jacket then adjusted his cap squarely on his head before walking into the crypto room.

  Adler stepped closer to him. "Authorized?"

  Grant nodded, as he turned to Canetti and Kelley. "Appreciate the use of your equipment."

  "No problem, Captain," Canetti responded. "Guess you're both outta here now. Hey, give my regards to Uncle Sam when ya'all get back!"

  Grant just smiled. "Will do. Thanks again." He and Adler shook hands with the two men then left.

  Hotel Berliner - 1930 hours

  The wall-to-wall carpet in front of the hotel room window showed a distinct strip of pile that had been beaten down to parade rest. Lampson paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the street below, hoping to see any sign of Grant and Adler. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd glanced over at the phone, wishing it would ring. "Where the hell are they?" he said nervously, with a hint of irritation in his voice.

  His sweat suit reeked of cigarette smoke; butts from half the pack were mashed into the bottom of a glass ashtray. He cranked the handle at the bottom of the window frame. Cold, damp air invaded the room, the smell of rain unmistakable. Grabbing a lighter from the end table, he lit up another Marlboro then took a sip of Coke from the sweating bottle. He collapsed into the oversized, plush chair as he mentally reviewed his meeting with the bureau chief that had lasted nearly two hours. Grant would be happy to hear the debriefing was outside the Embassy walls.

  Wharton didn't need much convincing and was more than willing to accommodate Lampson after the agent expressed his need to experience true freedom again. They had walked in the late morning fog through the Tiergarten (Animal Garden), with its more than one million trees. Eventually, they parked themselves on the top step of the Bismarck monument. From that vantage point it gave them a bird's eye view of anyone and everyone. Near the end of the meeting, he persuaded Wharton to let him go back to the hotel for some much needed rest. With a complexion that had about as much color as bread dough, Lampson’s excuse was accepted without question. They agreed to meet early the following morning at Wharton’s office.

  A rapping at the door gave his heart a jump-start. He had his hand on the polished brass door lever, when he saw a paper sliding underneath with one printed word: Grant. As soon as he opened the door, Grant put his finger to his lips. Understanding that Grant wanted him to keep his mouth shut, Lampson backed up as the two officers entered, closing the door quietly behind them. The two were dressed in civilian clothes, wearing dark slacks and black T-shirts. Grant had on a brown leather jacket, Adler, black.

  Grant scanned the room quickly, spotting a door leading to the bathroom. He motioned for Lampson to follow him. After turning on the faucets full blast, both in the sink and shower, he whispered, "Rick, we're going to get you out of here and take you some place safe."

  With a worried look, Lampson said, "But Wharton's expecting me. I’m supposed to be at his office..."

  "Not your problem. Now, get your shoes. Joe's got some clothes for you to change into. We've gotta be ready to move out quick." Adler stood in the doorway and handed Lampson a black leather satchel. "One more thing, Rick. Could you describe Greta for me?"

  "She was tall, came up to here on me," he indicated by putting his hand just below his shoulder. "I guess that'd be about 5'9. She had blue eyes and long, light brown hair. Most of the time she wore it pulled back, you know, like in a pony tail." Lampson spoke as if he was staring at an oil painting.

  "Any distinguishing marks?"

  "Only a small scar on the left side of her forehead." A light bulb suddenly went off in Lampson’s head. "You're going back to East Berlin,” he asked excitedly, “aren't you?"

  "I don't have time to explain everything, but, yeah, we're going."

  The two officers privately discussed final plans while Lampson changed. He rolled down the collar of the cable knit turtleneck sweater, then knelt down to tie his sneakers. "You know there's somebody watching the lobby, don't you?"

  Adler winked. "Would you like a detailed description of both gentlemen?"

  Grant glanced toward the open bedroom window, hearing the rolling sound of thunder. He only had to look at Adler for Joe to act on cue. With a quick nod, Adler turned and headed for his pre-assigned task.

  A blinding strike from a powerful lightning bolt flashed against the tree-covered hills, and three seconds later, thunder reverberated across the city. Every light in the Hotel Berliner suddenly went out. Hallways were
as pitch black as underground caves, just as was intended.

  A single wooden door leading from the basement slowly opened. Joe Adler cautiously emerged, then he immediately made his way to the exit door at the end of the hall. Closing the door behind him, he pressed his back close to the exterior brick wall, looking up and down the alley. Taxi drivers lined their cabs along the curb in front of the hotel. Pedestrians hurried by. Twenty feet across from the hotel was the side delivery entrance of the Bruenhaus, one of West Berlin's main department stores. On their way to meet Lampson, Grant and Adler took a detour through the store, exiting at the delivery door. Adler used an invisible strip of tape to hold back the latch, ensuring they could regain entry.

  The hotel door swung open. Grant and Lampson moved next to Adler. Like stealthy objects traveling in unison, the three men made a dash across the alley, quickly disappearing into the department store's basement. Once again Lampson was just along for the ride.

  They were grateful the store was still crowded, as they wove in and out of last minute shoppers who were scurrying about before the 8:30 closing time. Large brass, swinging front doors came within sight, fifty feet ahead of them.

  Once outside, Adler whispered to Lampson, "Stay with me, sir." Grant dropped back several paces, tugging on the brim of his black baseball cap.

  One block away a cream-colored, double-decker bus was slowing. Passengers gathered in the aisles, ready to make a hasty exit from the rear door. An anxious throng of pedestrians waited to board the bus before the threatening storm released its fury on them. The wind was already gusting to twenty knots, making them grab hats and parcels while trying to shield their eyes from swirling dirt and leaves.

  The three Americans pushed their way into the crowd, managing to jump onto the platform at the front of the vehicle. Once the bus passed the third stop, Adler inconspicuously grabbed Lampson's lower sleeve and edged toward the rear exit, with Grant hanging close behind. Adler looked out a side window, spotting the rental car he'd registered under an assumed name with fake Austrian identification papers.

  Five minutes later and with Adler behind the wheel, their black BMW was speeding down the Autobahn, traveling at 150 kph heading for Bergfeld, a small hamlet just north of West Berlin in the Soviet sector.

  Grant reached into his inside jacket pocket, then handed Lampson a manila envelope. "Get familiar with your new identity before we reach the checkpoint. There's an Austrian passport and another set of identification papers."

  Lampson thumbed through a new passport with his photo, showing an issue date four years prior and pre-stamped to reflect past travels. "Remarkable," he mumbled as he removed a brown leather wallet from the envelope, containing Austrian and German currency, photos of a fictitious wife and daughter in Vienna, and business cards.

  The BMW’s windshield washers swished back and forth, smearing a thin film of road oil across the glass but quickly cleared as rain pelted the car. Reflections of red taillights shimmered on the wet pavement as traffic slowed to a snail's pace as they approached the checkpoint. Adler handed their passports to a guard outfitted in rain gear. After a few questions, he passed them through without incident.

  Adler pressed down on the accelerator, never letting up. His eyes constantly scanned the rearview mirror as he purposely wove the car in and out of the thinning traffic. He focused on a set of headlights that appeared to be following every move the BMW made.

  "See somebody trying to hitch a ride?" Grant asked without turning around.

  "Not sure. Just in case, let's see if we can send him on his way, shall we?" One hand tightened around the leather-covered steering wheel, the other reached for the gearshift.

  Grant pressed himself against the black leather seat, turning just enough to see out the back window. "Hang on," he warned Lampson, who immediately grabbed hold of the door armrest.

  A steady flow of traffic stretched ahead in their lane. The suspicious auto was three cars back behind a truck. Adler eased back on the accelerator. Heavy spray being kicked up by a Volkswagen's tires brought the visibility down to near zero. The VW's taillights were nothing but a fuzzy, red blur. Adler crept closer, leaving no room for error. He waited for a truck in the middle lane to close in. Then, with one swift move, the BMW shot out from behind the Volkswagen and directly in front of the truck, missing both bumpers by inches. The truck started fish-tailing on the slick road, its driver fighting to maintain control. Cars following it slammed on their brakes, unable to find any means of escape as they went out of control. In his rearview mirror Adler saw the truck slide sideways, finally coming to a stop, blocking all lanes. A sickening sound of metal striking metal could be heard above the roar of the BMW's engine.

  "Oops," Adler grinned. Then, immediately taking advantage of the havoc he'd just wreaked, he floored the accelerator. The headlights behind him quickly became nothing more than blurry, white dots in the distance.

  Grant turned halfway around in the seat. He took off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, then rested his elbow on the backrest, reacting like it was just another day at the office. "Guess you're curious where we're taking you, Rick," he grinned.

  Pronounced dark circles under Lampson's eyes were in sharp contrast against his pale skin. He slouched down in the seat, a sense of relief overcoming him, but perhaps that reaction was too soon. He smiled weakly.

  Grant continued, "Marie Lutger runs what we know as a boarding house, big enough for three regular boarders, with an extra room in the attic. She's a widow who's been working for the West Germans for the past eighteen years, always ready to lend a helping hand."

  "She's good people," Adler commented.

  Grant nodded. "You'll have to blend in with the town folk, Rick, but make sure you stay with the Austrian visitor routine. I don't know how long this is gonna take." His voice was firm, his words emphatic. "You've got to be patient and don't do anything that'll put you, or us, in any added danger. In case you're wondering why we're not flying you back to the States right away, it's because that's exactly what your new-found teammates will be expecting. Every airport and harbor is probably being watched. If we were being followed, they most likely thought we were taking you to Bremerhaven. Keeping you here for a couple of days should throw them off." Lampson nodded, already aware that the next days would be even harder than the past few months. "We'll try and make contact with you as soon as we know something."

  "This is it," Adler cut in as he eased back on the accelerator, shifted to a lower gear, and started making the turn off the highway. No other car was behind them.

  Grant looked through the windshield at a pitch black country road. Beams from the BMW's headlights stretched before them, the only means of light. He turned back to Lampson. "We've got a suitcase in the trunk that’s packed with extra clothes and essentials. In the side pocket are an extra two thousand Deutsche Marks."

  "There isn't much you've missed, Captain. Now, are you going to tell me what your plans are?"

  "Afraid not. The less you know the better."

  "You mean, in case they find me, don't you?"

  Without answering, Grant turned around as the car slowed, the flickering lights of the village coming into view. Adler adjusted the windshield washers to a slower speed as the rain turned into a sprinkle. He downshifted into second gear and the sound of the engine became a low rumble. The drive along the old cobblestone street put a slight shimmy in the steering wheel as the wide tires encountered large, irregular, slippery cobblestones.

  "There's the street," Grant pointed.

  Adler turned the BMW left onto the narrow lane, driving slowly up the winding incline, hugging the curb. The street was lined with shops and private homes, the black and white timbered buildings nestled side-by-side. He pulled up in front of a three-story structure, the number '552' hanging from a tarnished brass plate above the door's archway. "This is it," he said, shifting into park.

  A small, dim light came out of nowhere, seemingly suspended in mid-air, bob
bing up and down, aiming right for them. Grant instinctively slipped his hand inside his jacket, easing the .45 from his shoulder holster. An old man, riding a bicycle with a white headlight, glanced briefly at the BMW, then continued pedaling past the idling car. Adler stared into the side view mirror until the man and his bicycle disappeared around the bakery shop on the corner.

  "End of the line, Rick," Grant said, as he opened the car door. "I'll get your suitcase."

  Lampson leaned forward from the back seat, shaking Adler's shoulder. "Joe, thanks for everything you've done...and for what you're going to do."

  "Our pleasure, sir," Adler grinned.

  "Good luck, Lieutenant."

  Lampson met Grant at the back of the car, reaching for the brown leather suitcase. Curious, he asked, "You didn't forget to bring any of your so-called equipment, did you, Captain?"

  Grant closed the trunk lid. "Couldn't take any chances that we might be stopped and the car searched. Everything's securely tucked away," he winked.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lampson noticed the front door of the house being opened, a light shining through the crack. "Any last minute instructions, Captain?"

  "Stay close to home, Rick. If you feel threatened--by anyone or anything--Marie will help. She'll know who to contact. And she’s got a small 'security blanket' for you with enough ammo that should see you through. There’s the standard hidden compartment in your suitcase, just in case."

  Lampson reached out to shake Grant's hand, their grip strong and firm. "Good luck, Captain. I owe you more than my life on this one."

  Grant closed the car door and rolled down the window. "Be sure to tell Marie we said ‘danke.’" He flashed a grin and snapped a quick salute as the car pulled away.