Sacrifice of One

by Jamie Fredric

  Grant was about to put Mullins on the spot. “Listen, Tony, I know this might be jumping the gun a little, but what’s the possibility of getting Grigori and Alexandra ‘new’ papers?”

  “‘New’ papers?”

  “Yeah. Don’t know if they’ll even need them, but we’ve gotta be prepared. If we have to get them out of the country, it’d be best if they no longer had the name ‘Moshenko.’ Guess I’m more concerned about Alexandra right now. I know you’ve got dossiers on them. Think you can do it?”

  “That’s one helluva tall order, Grant,” Mullins responded, scratching the back of his head.

  “I know. I know,” Grant answered. He shoved his hands into his windbreaker pockets, resisting the urge to cross his fingers. “Think you can?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Feeling some relief, Grant managed a slight smile then said, “Now, I know there’s something else you’ve got on your mind. Are you gonna tell us what it is?”

  “Listen, I know you haven’t had time to plan anything, probably haven’t even talked with Torrinson.”

  “Yeah, you’re right on both counts,” Grant answered. Abruptly, he took a step in front of Mullins. “Hold on! You’re not thinking of trying to make the trip with us, are you? Hell! We don’t even know if we’ll get authorization to go!”

  “Christ, Grant! Where’d you get a stupid idea like that?”

  Grant leaned closer. “Maybe stupid, but I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Mullins poked a finger into Grant’s chest. “You know I can get you anything you need, at just about any time. Weapons...anything.”

  “Yeah, I know you can, but you can do it without leaving home either.”

  Adler stepped between the two, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Okay, boys. Play nice now.”

  With his thumb, Grant pushed the brim of his cap farther back off his forehead, while he scrutinized Mullins’ face. He took a deep breath, before saying, “Look, Tony, how the hell could you pull that off? You think the Agency would send you with us? Or do you have unused vacation time?” He finally cracked a smile. “So, which is it?”

  “Haven’t decided,” Mullins responded. He turned and took a couple of steps away from the two, with his head hanging.

  Grant walked over to him and tugged on his sleeve. “Hey, Tony. What’s goin’ on?”

  “I’ve got a cousin who was declared MIA nearly six years ago, and...”

  “Jesus! I didn’t know. I’m really sorry to hear that. It’s gotta be tough for you and your family. Wait! You don’t think he’s one of those men, do you?”

  Mullins shook his head. “No. Those odds would be astronomical. No. I just feel like I’ve gotta try to help those guys, ya know?” Tears welled up in his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hands.

  Grant remained quiet. He had experienced the same sadness, the heartbreak, three years ago. Grabbing Mullins’ shoulders, he looked at him dead-on. “Listen, Tony, don’t fuck up your career, and possibly your life. If this is something you feel strongly about, your best option is to talk it over with your boss. You’ve worked with us before, so maybe that’ll be in your favor. If you want, I’d be willing to feel out the admiral...”

  “Thanks, buddy, but I guess I’d better think this out a little more, huh?”

  Grant gave an understanding nod. Then, with hands on his hips, and a shit-eatin’ grin, he asked, “So, can we still get that gear?”

  Chapter 3

  Moscow, Russia

  KGB Headquarters

  Office of Colonel Grigori Moshenko

  Thursday, 0700 Hours - Local Time

  With sunrise having been over two hours ago, the temperature’s already hovering at fifteen degrees Celsius. By the time the sun sets at 2200 hours, it’s expected to reach twenty Celsius.

  June weather in Moscow is surprisingly warm. Residents take advantage of every warm moment, every daylight hour, glad to be rid of snow, ice, freezing temperatures, and darkness. The Moskva River, once locked in ice, is again flowing freely, following its serpentine route through the city.

  Grigori Moshenko stood by his office window, one floor above Lubyanka prison, looking out at the square and statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, founder of the KGB.

  He’d been up since well before daylight, unable to sleep. His wife, Alexandra, questioned his restlessness during breakfast, but there wasn’t anything he could tell her. Until he was certain, until he talked with Grant, he would have to keep his emotions in check, choose his words carefully, both at home and at KGB.

  In their twenty-seven years of marriage, he and Alexandra never kept secrets from one another, except State secrets, of course. This current situation he had become involved in, even though it was by his own choosing, had to do with Russia and KGB. Whatever the outcome, it would affect their lives beyond what they could imagine.

  If he decided to make the critical decision, he had faith that Grant would stay true to his word, true to their friendship. But foremost in his thoughts was Alexandra. Even if it didn’t work out for him, for whatever reason, he was confident Grant would see to her safety.

  He turned and went to his desk. There couldn’t be any notes, any traceable phone calls. Whatever he learned would remain in his head. He sat in his chair and looked up at the ceremonial sword once worn by his father during the reign of Nicholas II.

  Resting his elbows on the desk, he leaned his chin on his fists, keeping his gaze on the sword, as he wondered what his father would think of him. If he were still alive, would he try to prevent him from going through with his plan? It hardly mattered now.

  He pulled opened the middle desk drawer and lifted out a cigar, a Davidoff, from its wooden box. Swiveling his chair around, he got up and went to the window again. Rolling the unlit cigar between his fingers, he couldn’t help think about the years he’d known Grant.

  How different would his life be if he had never met him? He’d still love Russia and being part of the KGB, but would he have the ability to think beyond Russia, to another way of life? Grant was not one to criticize nor make any disparaging remarks about Russia, and he never put any thoughts in his head about defecting. He was a true friend. His missed his American friend.

  He put the unlit cigar to his lips, thinking about three days prior, when he was called to the office of Mikhail Antolov, Director of KGB. Not unusual, except with Antolov that day was Dmitri Osokin, Minister of Internal Security. Osokin had replaced Alexei Stoyakova, who was now a resident of Lubyanka Prison.

  What Moshenko was told that day disturbed him deeply. American POWs from Vietnam were being held by his government, in his country. Neither Antolov nor Osokin gave any explanation why the Americans were brought to Russia. Nor did they tell him who initiated the “plan.” Moshenko knew there really was only one person with that kind of authority. It had to be Premier Gorshevsky.

  Initially, Moshenko felt outrage in the act his government had committed, then disappointment in himself for never knowing. How could he have not known, especially being KGB?

  He soon realized two things: first, the only purpose for him to be in the meeting was to receive orders, orders that put him in charge of taking the Americans to East Germany; and second, the outrage he was feeling was obviously because of his closeness to his two American friends, Grant and Joe.

  A sound of screeching tires below his office window brought his mind back to the present. Looking at his Vostok watch, he still had thirty-six hours before he made the next call. There was more he had to do.

  *

  Grant’s Apartment

  0550 Hours

  Grant stretched his arms overhead and yawned as he walked in his bare feet down the hallway to the galley-style kitchen. Coffee and water were already in the stainless percolator. All he had to do was plug it in.

  Taking slow steps into the living room, he turned on the TV, then went to the double window and raised the blind. Light from an early morning sun reflecting off the Po
tomac hit him square in the eyes. “Whoa!” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  After blinking a few times to clear away the spots, he glanced overhead. Standing out against a clear blue sky were white jet trails, crisscrossing one another. To the right of his apartment he was able to see car traffic crossing bridges and overpasses, as government workers headed into the city.

  The aroma of fresh brewed coffee drifted into his senses. The final sounds of the last perks of the brew splashed against the lid. He walked back to the kitchen, and removed a mug from the cabinet next to the stove. Sammy the SEALemblem was imprinted on one side of the white mug. On the opposite side there was a simple inscription, Love, Jenny. His wife had given this to him on their first Christmas together. Somehow it managed to survive all the packing, all the moves, probably from him giving it the extra care.

  Giving his head a quick shake, he stood at the kitchen counter and poured a steaming half cup from the pot. He immediately took a couple of sips of the hot potent brew, feeling a need to jump-start his heart. He refilled the cup as he thought, Feels like a peanut butter kinda morning. He grabbed a slice of bread from the cellophane wrapper, and slathered on a heaping tablespoonful ofJif. Folding the bread in half, he took a bite, then went back to the living room.

  Sitting on the couch, he propped his feet up on the coffee table, and finished the bread. Sipping on his coffee, he tried to get his mind on the morning news. But a replay of the previous evening with Joe and Tony kept interrupting the broadcast, and he only picked up bits and pieces of what the announcer was saying.

  He kept trying to wrap his brain around the fact that POWs were still being held--and not in Vietnam. Even more surprising was Grigori making the call to the Agency. That worried him.

  And when he worried, he got hungry. Jesus, he thought, I’m turning into Joe! He got up and headed for the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal, when the phone rang. “Stevens.”

  “Captain Stevens, this is Zach, sir.” Red hair, blue-eyed Petty Officer Zach Phillips is the yeoman for Rear Admiral John Torrinson.

  “Hey, Zach. Morning. A little early, don’t you think? Did you sleep there?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, it’s early, and no, didn’t sleep here, but we’ve been here since 0530.”

  “I take it you mean you and the admiral?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “Okay, Zach, lay it on me. What time does the admiral want to meet?” Grant asked, taking a swig of coffee, as he sat on the couch armrest.

  “At 0930, sir, but not here. You and Lieutenant Adler are to meet him at the White House.”

  Grant nearly choked. “The White House?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re to meet with the President.”

  “The President?”

  The admiral’s yeoman laughed, then apologized. “Sorry, sir, but the admiral had an idea that’s what your reaction would be.”

  “Okay, Zach. Look, I’ll call Joe. Do I need to speak with the admiral before I leave?”

  “No, sir. He’s meeting with SECDEF and SECNAV at 0730. He’ll meet up with you before you see the President. He said he’d be in that small room off the Situation Room.”

  “Okay, Zach. Thanks.” He immediately called Adler.

  A gravelly, tired voice answered, “Adler.” He and Grant stayed up until nearly 0130, talking about the Langley meeting.

  “Reveille, Joe. Haven’t had your coffee yet?”

  “Pouring my third cup as we speak. What’s up?”

  “I’m putting you on notice to get out your best ‘Good Humor’ uniform. We’ve been invited to the White House today.” The nickname “Good Humor” uniform applied to the Navy’s summer service whites.

  “Oh, do I have to?” he yawned.

  “We’re meeting the admiral at 0930 before we meet with the President.”

  Grant’s words finally hit home, as Adler responded, “Wait a minute! Did you say ‘with the President’?”

  “That’s affirmative! And listen, you’d better chow down but good before we leave. Don’t know when we’ll get to eat today.”

  “Roger that! Hey, you want me to drive?”

  “As long as the ‘horse’ has enough fuel.” The “horse” is Adler’s red ’67 Mustang. “Pick me up at 0845, in case there’s a traffic problem.” Even though Grant’s apartment is less than two miles from the White House, traffic could be obscene, part from government employees and part from tourists.

  He hung up, went to the kitchen, and rinsed his cup. He turned down the hall to the bedroom to grab a towel off the closet’s top shelf.

  Walking across the hall to the bathroom, he adjusted the shower water, stripped off his skivvies, then stepped in the tub, pulling the vinyl shower curtain across the rod.

  Billows of steam started enveloping the entire bathroom. The exhaust fan never seemed to do its intended job. He stood under the spraying hot water pelting his body, washing away the soap. Resting a hand against the tile, he started questioning the upcoming meeting at the White House.

  The answers he was coming up with started making his blood boil. Politics. Goddamn politics! he angrily thought. With elections coming up, they could try to use those men for their own benefit. If that’s the case, what the hell would he be able to do about it anyway?

  He wondered, What am I supposed to tell the President and admiral? He didn’t even know where the POWs were being held. And until he did, he couldn’t put any kind of plan together.

  He momentarily stopped shampooing his hair when another question popped into his mind. How the hell could he get Grigori and Alexandra out of Russia, if that’s what Grigori really wanted? Even though Grigori was KGB, that wouldn’t give him any kind of protection. If anything, it would put him in even greater danger. The KGB will go ballistic if they find out one of their own has plans to defect...and disclosed a State secret about American POWs. His name would be on the “hot list” with everyone looking for him.

  Unless...unless he can use Grigori’s authority to their advantage to get out of Russia. Wait a minute, Stevens. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.

  He had tried to cover his comment to Tony last night in the conference room. Right now he only hoped nothing had been leaked back to the White House.

  Rinsing off the remaining soap, he grabbed a towel from the hook, and dried himself quickly. Wrapping it around his waist, he opened the door to let the steam escape, then wiped the mirror.

  As he slathered shaving cream on his face, he looked at his reflection, saying to himself, “Maybe you’re thinking too much.” He was placing all these questions on pure assumption at this point, but he didn’t like being unprepared. And he didn’t like assuming.

  The razor glided across his skin as he continued thinking. But why the hell was this meeting being rushed? Why didn’t they wait until Grigori called on Friday? Was the President going to direct him on what he could and could not do to rescue the POWs? Or when? If it turned out to be a case of when, that would confirm his suspicions--politics. Gotta knock off this assuming, he thought, as he splashed water on his face, then dried it with a towel.

  He walked across the hall to his bedroom. Taking his short-sleeve, white dress shirt from the closet, he hooked the hanger over the door. He eyed the six rows of ribbons on the left side, making sure the gold SEAL pin, the ‘Budweiser’ was centered above them, and his gold jump wings were centered on the pocket underneath. He readjusted his name tag over the right pocket.

  He’d just bought a new set of shoulder boards with four gold stripes (captain) and a gold star (line officer). Line officers derived the name from the eighteenth century British tactic of employing warships in a line of battle to take advantage of cannons on each side of the ship. The vessels were known as “ships of the line” and those who commanded them were called “line officers.”

  Once he finished dressing, he grabbed his white shoes from the floor and went into the living room. He laced up his shoes, took a quick check of the time, then stood in front of a mir
ror hanging by the door.

  Picking up his cover (cap) from the table, he stared at the gold leaves, or “scrambled eggs” as they’re called, thinking of the many times when he wished his dad were still alive, to share his special moments, to share his life.

  Mike Stevens, HMCS (Hospital Corpsman Senior Chief), was killed during the last days of the Korean War, when Grant was barely twelve years old. The only picture he has of his dad, now faded and creased, always remains tucked inside in his wallet.

  He put on his cap, making sure the eagle emblem was in line with the buttons on his shirt, known as the gigline.

  There was a rapping at the door. “It’s me, skipper!”

  He grabbed his keys from the table and left.

  *

  The White House

  0920 Hours

  In the basement beneath the West Wing of the White House is the Situation Room. After the failed invasion of the Bay of Pigs, which was attributed to a lack of real time information, President John F. Kennedy decided to have the room constructed.

  Throughout the room are secure communications systems. In the walls, behind wood panels, are a variety of audio, video, and other systems.

  With their covers tucked under their left arms, Grant and Adler were led through the room and into a small breakout room next to it, big enough for only one round table and four swivel chairs.

  Just beyond this room is a phone booth, referred to as a “Superman tube” because of its shape, with a clear, curved glass door that slides open from right to left. There are two type of phones, one for regular calls and the other for top secret calls. The top secret phone has a regular receiver on the left with a yellow “box” to the right. Both look similar to phones inside civilian phone booths, except these sit one on top of the other.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Admiral John Torrinson said, with his arm outstretched. He stepped around one of the leather chairs positioned near the back wall.