“Maybe. We’ve got clearance for thirty-three thousand feet. You’ve flown this route enough to know if we pick up the jet stream, we’ve gotta be prepared for CAT winds.” (Clear air turbulence is caused by vertical and horizontal wind shear associated with jet streams.)
“We’ll stay on alert,” Grant replied, seeing nothing but blue sky and a couple of jet trails. He pointed toward one. “Think that might be our ‘boy’ up ahead?”
“Possible,” Garret answered, as he leaned forward trying to get a better view.
“Kick this ‘baby’ into high, Matt,” Grant said, giving the jet trail one more glance. “I’m gonna go sit with the guys. Give a shout if you need anything.” As he left the cockpit, he detected a change in engine noise, feeling the aircraft surge forward.
*
Grant sat in an aft facing seat across from Adler, who was chowing down on a freshly prepared MRE of beef stew. Grant wrinkled his nose. “You really enjoying that?”
“I know. I know. They’ve already been labeled ‘Meals Rejected by the Enemy’ but it’s hard to get good food at thirty thousand feet. I brought you that.”
“Thanks.” Grant picked up a wrapped peanut butter sandwich. “But don’t eat all those Oreos,” he said, pointing to the open package.
Stalley called out, “Anybody want a drink?”
“Bring me a Coke, Doc!” Grant said.
As Stalley handed him the drink, Grant asked, “Did you eat?”
Stalley swallowed orange soda. “Besides the Snickers, tried a package of those franks and beans earlier.”
“Ohhh, Doc! Why’d you do that?”
“Sir?”
“Doc! We’re in an aircraft. You know--no windows to open!”
It finally dawned on the young corpsman. “Oh shit!”
“We’d prefer you didn’t, Doc!” James said standing two rows away.
When the laughter died down, Grant called everyone. “Gather ’round, guys. Let’s talk about what we’ve got ahead of us. Speak up if you’ve got any feedback. Matt, you listening?”
“Affirmative!”
Any plans the Team made all hinged on the Russians still being at Shannon Airport. If they already departed for Moscow, that would mean a whole different ballgame. Time wasn’t in their favor.
But there was one other possibility--the last option. It would mean NSA having on its best “ears.” If they could find out the specific location those weapons were going, then A.T. might have the time to get into Russia undetected. But retrieving the weapons would be out of the question. They’d have to be destroyed. President Carr had given “his blessings” to make it happen.
*
Preparing for their mission, they reviewed call signs, hand signals. Weapons were ready. They discussed the airport, location of buildings, color of fuel trucks, distance from the terminal to private aircraft area, anything and everything that would give them a heads-up.
Grant sat back, and stretched his arms overhead. “You guys try and get some rest.” No one protested. He leaned over the armrest. “Matt! You awake?!” No answer. “Matt?!” Grant bolted from his seat and went to the cockpit, seeing Garrett greeting him with a wide smile.
“Shit! I won’t make that mistake again.” He went back to the cabin.
Adler changed seats. “Well, what are you gonna do when you finally see him?”
“Kalinin?” Adler nodded. “He’s just another ‘asset,’ Joe. Part of another op.”
“You still haven’t remembered where you saw him?”
Grant rested his elbows on his knees, squeezing one fist then the other. “No.”
Since the first time they all saw Kalinin’s picture, Adler wondered if he should even broach the subject. But knowing Grant the way he did, Grant had already thought about it.
He leaned closer. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go aft.”
They walked to the rear of the plane, where engine noise was a little louder, helping to drown out some of their conversation.
Sitting opposite one another, Adler leaned forward. “Look, I’ll find it hard to believe if you tell me you haven’t thought that your. . .”
Grant tried keeping his voice low. “What, Joe? That maybe my dad had a fling? That he cheated on my mom? That that guy could be my half-brother?!”
“That’s what’s been bugging you, not that you couldn’t remember where you saw him.” Grant lowered his head, staring at his balled up fists. Adler waited briefly, then said, “You knew your dad, the kind of man he was, the relationship the two of you had. And you know how much he loved your mom and you . . and being a corpsman. Come on! Do you really believe that could’ve happened?!”
Grant raised his head, locking his eyes onto Adler’s. “You said it yourself, Joe. We look like brothers.”
“And just where the hell do you think that, uh, liaison could’ve happened? Was he in Europe during the war?”
“Right after.”
“Oh. Well, I still say bullshit. Look, for as long as we’ve known each other, you’ve been the one who could process information until you reached a reasonable explanation. You’re just hung up on the guy looking like you.” He poked an index finger against Grant’s forehead. “Get that brain working.”
Grant flopped back against the seat, knowing Adler was right. Before he could give any response, his friend added, “Hey, you know it’s said each of us has a twin somewhere in the world. You just happened to find yours. Too damn bad he’s a goddamn communist!”
Grant finally laughed. “Guess you haven’t found yours. I’m positive you would’ve spread the word by now.”
“Uh-uh. Mine’s still in hiding.”
“C’mon,” Grant said, giving Adler’s knee a light bump with his fist. “I’ll treat you to a cup of java, then we’ll go keep Matt company.”
*
Russian Embassy
0915 Hours
Zelesky knocked on the door, but didn’t wait for Vazov to respond. He opened it, then slammed it behind him. His jacket flapped open as he took hurried steps toward the ambassador’s desk. He dropped two envelopes on the blotter.
“Two envelopes?” Vazov asked, puzzled.
“One is yours, with the note offering to meet him. The second was already at the drop site, so there was no need to leave yours.”
Vazov turned the envelope over, seeing it had already been opened. “Should I even look, Misha, or perhaps you would care to tell me what is inside.”
Zelesky didn’t respond.
Vazov removed a single sheet of paper. Only three brief sentences had been written:
“I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. I will expect you to leave fifteen thousand American dollars at this drop site by midnight tomorrow. Don’t expect further contact.” Signed, “Primex.”
Vazov angrily crumbled the paper, then threw it toward Zelesky. “You had a chance to follow him that day at the train station! You and Petya should have done more to find him!”
“And what would have been the point?! He gave us something of great importance! Those weapons will be in Moscow before the day is through.” Zelesky took a step closer to the desk. “It is over. It is worth the money. Do you have that much on hand?”
Vazov merely nodded. “You will make the drop.”
“Are you going to contact Moscow, or should I?”
“It is best if I make the call.” Zelesky left. Vazov lifted the phone receiver, then he hesitated. He put the receiver back in its cradle, then he went to the window. The sky was perfectly blue, making him think of Nicolai Kalinin on an aircraft headed to his homeland. He remembered the conversation the two of them had the evening they met.
Rocking back on his heels, he wondered if his own return to Russia might be sooner than expected.
Chapter 15
Shannon Airport
2100 Hours - Local Time
Shannon Airport was located approximately forty miles east of Ireland’
s west coast and the North Atlantic. Situated along the River Shannon, the small airport had one asphalt runway, 10,500 feet long. Even though it had become the first transatlantic gateway between Ireland and the U.S., very rarely were planes waiting to takeoff or land.
Sunset had been at nineteen thirty hours. Ground temperature was hovering around forty-two degrees and dropping. Winds remained constant at twenty knots.
Grant switched on landing lights, and lowered cabin lights, before he lowered the landing gear. Garrett communicated with the control tower, then he adjusted the plane’s heading, speed, and altitude.
Team A.T. looked out windows, trying to get a glimpse of their destination. Adler called out, “Get your glasses! Be ready to look for that plane!”
Terminal, control tower, parking lots, and hangars were all on the starboard side of the runway. If the Russian jet already landed, it’d be parked away from the terminal.
The controller in the tower checked that runway and flight path were clear, updated the Gulfstream with weather and wind conditions, then gave clearance for it to land on Runway 06. Winds buffeted the aircraft as it began its final approach.
“Lot of lights out there,” Adler reported, as he kept scanning the area. “Hope they won’t be a problem.”
“Get ready for touchdown!” Grant warned.
A gust of wind caught the Gulfstream, just as tires were about to meet runway, slamming it hard against asphalt. Tires didn’t blow. Garrett kept it under control, gradually slowing to taxiing speed.
“Target acquired!” Novak shouted. “Three o’clock! Tail numbers confirmed!”
“Is it refueling?!” Grant asked, as he doused all cabin lights.
“Can’t see it anymore, boss! Have to wait till we come around!” Everybody shifted to the port side, with glasses poised.
Following the controller’s instructions, Garrett proceeded to a designated parking site. He made a right off the runway, then headed in the direction of the terminal. Approaching the concrete section of the airfield, he made a slight turn left, following a curving, painted yellow line.
“There it is!” Adler confirmed. “Still no sign of a fuel truck.”
“They must’ve just landed,” Grant commented quietly. “Nice job, Matt!”
Stalley swung the glasses to another area. “Think I see fuel trucks, LT! Eleven o’clock!”
“Moving?”
“Static!”
An airport marshaller, wearing headphones and a reflective orange vest, came from around the Antonov then waited for the Gulfstream. Placing himself near the yellow line, he stood far enough away in order for Garrett to see him at all times, head-on with Garrett’s left shoulder. Using illuminated wands, he signaled the plane forward. Garrett kept the nose wheel on the yellow line, rolling forward, until the marshaller held both wands overhead, then immediately crossed them. Garrett brought the plane to a stop and gave a quick salute to the marshaller, who immediately walked toward the airfield. The Gulfstream was fifty feet from the Russian plane, nose to tail, and about five hundred feet from the terminal, located at its four o’clock.
Grant and Garrett ran through the final checklist, then Grant went to the cabin and leaned toward a window. They may have lucked out. This section of the airfield had fewer lights, giving them more shadows they could take advantage of. “Seen any civilians in the immediate area?”
Novak checked starboard side, Stalley, port. Both answered, “Negative.” Novak added, “But looks like maintenance workers are coming and going around the terminal.”
“Doc, keep watch from the cockpit. Mike, starboard window.” Grant said, as he sat across from Adler, Slade and James. “Any sign of the crew, Doc?”
“Negative,” Stalley reported. “Wait! Both of ’em are coming out of the plane now. A fuel truck’s driving across the airfield.”
They waited. “Update, Doc.”
“Truck’s within range. Parking starboard side now, maybe twelve to fifteen feet from the plane. That’s where those two guys are heading.”
“We can’t delay,” Grant said, adjusting his throat mike and earpiece.
“Hate to ‘rain on your parade',” Adler said, “but what about the passengers?”
The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up. “When have we ever let small details get in our way?”
“Pretty much never. So we go with a diversion?” Adler asked, knowing the answer.
“Just like we planned, Joe.” He turned toward the cockpit. “Hey, Matt. You finished with the fuel paperwork?”
Garrett checked the fuel gauge, making a mental note of remaining fuel. “Done,” he replied walking into the cabin. He dropped the paper on a seat then opened an overhead storage bin, taking out a shoulder holster holding his .45. Once he’d adjusted the holster, he put on a windbreaker and zipped it up to his throat, concealing the mike. He had to chance it that the earpiece wire wouldn’t be noticed.
“Okay, you know what to do,” Grant said. “Give us a couple of minutes first.” He leaned toward the cockpit. “Doc, you stay aboard. Keep those updates coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant turned toward the Team and nodded. Almost in unison, five men pulled down black one-hole masks, readjusted earpieces and throat mikes. Silencers were retightened, then a sound of clips being ejected, rammed back in, slides being jacked back. Alpha Tango was ready.
“Okay, Matt.”
Garrett went to the cockpit and hit the switch, lowering the door and steps. When he returned, Grant said, “Time to do your thing.”
Garrett stopped at the bottom of the steps, then put on a plain cover (cap), similar to a commercial pilot’s. As he walked around the nose of the Gulfstream, a blast of wind nearly took his cover. He grabbed the brim, then kept walking. It was up to him to stall the refueling of the Russian plane, keeping the pilots preoccupied as long as possible, giving the men enough time to take their positions.
Stalley reported, “He’s about halfway to the fuel truck. Doesn’t look like he’s been noticed yet.”
“Any time now,” Grant said softly. The Team gathered closer to the open door.
A sound of jet engines. Stalley swung the glasses toward the terminal. “A 707’s getting ready to taxi.”
“Should keep everyone busy for a while,” Grant said.
Stalley moved the glasses, focusing again on the Russian plane. “Okay. Matt’s at the truck. He got somebody’s attention. Go!”
Alpha Tango moved almost as quickly as a heartbeat, getting out then lining up alongside the plane. Grant eased himself closer to the nose, then held up a fist. Taking a quick look around, he motioned with a hand, signaling Novak, Slade and James. Crouching low, they ran at an angle away from the plane, heading toward a row of parked maintenance vehicles. While Slade covered their backs, Novak and James kept their eyes on the plane, Grant and Adler.
James verified the three were ready, then he pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. All in position. Copy?”
As he continued scanning the immediate area, Grant quietly responded, “Copy that.” From his position, he was unable to see the fuel truck or Garrett. He pressed the PTT. “Five-Two, still clear?”
“Clear.”
Grant and Adler took off, running to the Russian plane’s port side. Staying low, and close to the fuselage, they ducked under the wing. Adler tapped Grant’s shoulder, pointing to a closed cargo door. Taking it slowly, they stopped by the stairs, immediately hearing voices inside. The conversation seemed more one-sided. Grant recognized the voice--KGB Vikulin.
On the starboard side of the plane, Matt Garrett glanced at his watch, then turned to see another fuel truck driving across the airfield. In his earpiece he heard Stalley, “Eight-Four, everyone in position.”
Time to get refueling underway, Garrett thought. He walked toward the Gulfstream, waiting for the approaching truck.
The two Russian crewmen were obviously perturbed over the delay the American had caused. They handed over their paperwork
, then backed away, as the driver began the refueling procedure.
The driver hopped out of the second truck, and Garrett handed him the paper, showing gallons and type of fuel. Following safety procedures, the driver attached a ground wire, and hooked up the fuel hose. Fuel started flowing almost immediately.
Stalley heard another sound, and focused the glasses on a small passenger bus coming toward the planes. Two men jumped out. The bus pulled away.
As Grant and Adler were about to make a move up the steps, they heard in their earpieces, “Zero-Niner! Five-Two! Eyes on deuce, possible UFs! Take cover!” (UFs, unfriendlies) Hearing Stalley’s warning in their earpieces, James and Novak took aim, directing their weapons toward the UFs.
Without hesitating, Grant and Adler rolled under the plane, staying in its shadow, and the shadow of the fuel truck, looking aft, waiting, not moving.
Garrett backed away from the fuel truck, keeping an eye on the two UFs. Then he inconspicuously adjusted his earpiece.
Spotting the two men as they ran around the tail of the plane, Grant and Adler slowly crabbed their way aft, taking shelter next to the starboard wheels. They were able to see both UFs, wearing long, black leather coats. Then they heard someone stomping through the cabin.
The two men stopped near the steps, then dropped two suitcases. One of them shouted in Russian, “Open it!” He pointed to the cargo hold.
Vikulin stood at the top of the steps. “Who are you!”
“We were ordered here from East Berlin by Comrade Director Antolov! Now, open the compartment!” Orders also dictated they verified weapons were onboard.
Vikulin wasn’t satisfied. No mention of these two men had been made by the ambassador, unless he had not been informed either. With everything that had happened recently, Vikulin wasn’t about to trust two strangers.
“I must see your credentials!” he ordered. His shoes pounded on each step as he came down.
Kalinin stood in the doorway, with his hand gripping his Makarov behind his back.
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