Now Torrinson understood, or so he thought. He went behind his desk and sat in his swivel chair, contemplating. “What do you plan on doing, Grant?”
“Have to wait till we’re in Germany, sir, but I don’t see any other way. Unless Grigori finds a way to contact you or me, I’ll have to contact Alexandra.”
“Are you telling me that’s all, captain? That’s it?” Torrinson inquired, skeptically.
“Yes, sir. That’s all.”
The silence that suddenly hung over the office was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. Torrinson slapped at the switch. “What is it, Zach?”
“Sir, confirmation from Andrews. Does Captain Stevens need to confirm with them?”
Torrinson looked at Grant, who said, “I can take it on Zach’s phone, sir.” He needed to get the hell out of the admiral’s office post haste. Adler closed the office door behind them.
Once Grant and Adler left, Torrinson slumped down in his chair. He had always trusted Grant, hardly ever questioned his decisions because he knew the job would get done. But something was going on this time, something too private for even Grant to discuss. What the hell is going on? Torrinson questioned, frustrated.
He swung his chair around, and got up quickly. Pacing back and forth behind his desk, he kept trying to understand what Grant was being so secretive about.
Reviewing the words he heard from Grant’s conversation, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Can’t be! Under his breath, he said, “Defection? Moshenko wants to defect?” As incredulous as it sounded, it made sense. Moshenko wanted Grant’s help to defect!
So, he now had a decision to make. Should he confront Grant and try to get the truth out of him one more time? Or should he let Grant proceed with part two of the mission as if he, Torrinson, didn’t have a clue?
Torrinson crossed his arms over his chest. He walked slowly to the mirror near the couch. Staring up at the eagle attached to the top, a thought hit him. Maybe Grant is keeping this close to the vest because he doesn’t want to get me involved. He wants to protect me. Torrinson contemplated the notion.
“Captain,” he said under his breath, “you drive me nuts sometimes.” That brought a smile. It also brought up another issue. How could he let Grant take the fall if it should all turn to shit? No matter which way they let it happen, their asses could be in serious trouble. “Unless...” He hurried to his office door and swung it open.
Grant was just ending his call, when Torrinson rushed out of his office. He pointed toward Grant, then Adler, as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Captain, lieutenant, into my office!”
Adler closed the door behind him, then walked near Grant. Both of them stood in front of Torrinson’s desk, braced at attention, anticipating a reaming.
“Gentlemen,” he said, before stepping next to Grant, “it is my opinion that Colonel Moshenko has informed you of his plan to defect. Am I correct, Grant?”
The words hit Grant with full impact. He didn’t think he had it in him to deny the fact any longer, especially with what was at stake. With his eyes staring straight ahead, he answered, “Yes, sir. That’s a possibility, sir.”
Torrinson lowered his head, as he slowly walked behind his desk. “At ease, gentlemen.” Both men stood at parade rest. Torrinson asked, “Joe, do you have anything to say?”
“Not at this time, sir.” Adler had no idea where Grant was going to take this G2 (interrogation).
“I see.” Torrinson eased himself down into his chair, then said, “Why don’t you step outside for a minute, Joe.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Adler braced, then turned and left. Shit!
“Okay, Grant. Let’s you and me hash this out. Why the hell don’t you want to keep me in the loop on this?” He motioned for Grant to sit.
“Sir, I wasn’t positive until Grigori’s last phone call. I’ve got a whole lot running through my brain right now. I’m worried for him and for what he’s doing. I’m worried for Alexandra. And, sir, I don’t have any damn idea on how to make it happen, how to keep them both out of harm’s way. No excuses, sir, but I haven’t had time to put that plan together.”
“I understand, Grant, but you still haven’t answered me.”
“Sir, the more left out of the picture, the more won’t have to answer later, if it all turns to....if it doesn’t work out, sir.”
Torrinson gave a brief smile before saying, “You mean if it all turns to shit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, since I already know, I may as well be brought in, Grant.”
On one hand Grant was relieved, on the other it was somebody else to worry about. “Yes, sir.”
Torrinson tapped the switch on the intercom. “Zach, send Lieutenant Adler back in.”
Once Adler was seated, Grant asked, “Sir, do we need to bring the President in on this?”
Torrinson rested his elbows on the desk and intertwined his fingers. “I plan on doing that, once you advise me the Moshenkos are safely in your hands.”
“Understood, sir.”
Torrinson stood, immediately followed by Grant and Adler. He came around the desk and extended his hand, first to Grant, then to Adler. “Gentlemen, on your way. May fair winds be always at your backs--along with your friends!”
*
NIS
Special Operations Office
0815 Hours
“So, what’s next, skipper?” Adler asked, as he closed the door to Grant’s office. “Can you think of anybody else who can give us a good reaming before we leave?” he smirked.
“Shit, Joe!” Grant responded. “Couldn’t get out of that one. Had no choice but to bring the admiral in.”
“You don’t have to explain to me. Time to move on, right?”
“Affirmative.” Grant sat on the corner of his desk and picked up the phone receiver. “While I call Tony, why don’t you get our gear from your car? When you get back, see if Zach can arrange transportation for us to Andrews.”
“Aye, aye, skipper!” Adler rushed out of the office.
Grant dialed Mullins’ direct line. “Hey, Tony!”
“Grant! What’s happening?" He went silent for a second before saying, “Say, wait a minute. You wouldn’t be hauling ass, would ya?”
“Yeah, if you ever stop yakkin’ your jaws!” Grant laughed. “We’re getting ready to leave for Andrews. The President got us a Nightingale for bringing back the POWs. We’re flying into Tempelhof.”
The Air Force C-9A, a modified version of the DC-9, is called theNightingale. It’s the only aircraft specifically dedicated to the movement of litter and ambulatory patients. Standard electric outlets throughout the cabin allow for the use of cardiac monitors, respirators, and infusion pumps. A control panel monitors cabin temperature, therapeutic oxygen, and vacuum systems. An auxiliary power unit provides electrical power for uninterrupted cabin A/C, quick servicing during stops, and self-starting for the two jet engines.
The aircraft can accommodate a maximum of forty litter or forty ambulatory patients, as well as multiple combinations of both. There are regular airline seats for ambulatory patients, all facing aft. All the seats and carpeting are blue, while the cabin is white with beige cabinetry.
The crew consists of pilot, co-pilot, flight mechanic, two flight nurses, and three aeromedical technicians.
Turning serious, Mullins said with a lowered voice, “You’ve got my number here and home if you need anything--anything.”
“Appreciate it, Tony.” He picked up a small manila envelope. “Got your ‘letter’ this morning. Can’t thank you enough, buddy.” Inside the envelope were new papers for the Moshenkos.
“My pleasure!”
Grant got off the desk and went to the window, separating the blinds, seeing Adler running to the Mustang. “Have you thought any more about our discussion the other night?”
“Yeah, I have, and why not leave it at that, okay?”
“Do I need to come to Langley and whip your ass?”
Mullins let
out a laugh, then answered, “Like to see you try!” Mullins knew he wouldn’t have a chance up against Grant, especially with the black belt he has in karate. “But, hold the thought, okay?”
Grant didn’t have the time to argue. Whatever Mullins decided to do, was out of his control. “Okay, Tony. Be careful.”
“Will do, Grant. You do the same.”
Grant put the receiver down. Dammit, Tony! He wasn’t sure how to take Mullins’ response. Had he decided to not follow them to Germany like he initially intended? Or did he suddenly want to “throw caution to the wind” and possibly fuck up his career?
Adler opened the door and leaned in. “Skipper, van should be here in ten minutes.” He saw Grant’s expression. “Problem?” he asked as he walked into the office.
Grant gave a slight wave. “Hope not.”
“Agent Mullins? He didn’t do an about face on his decision, did he?”
Grant grabbed his cap from the chair. He gave Adler’s shoulder a slap as he walked past him. “Let’s go. I hear Germany calling.”
*
Andrews Air Force Base
0900 Hours
A gray U.S. Navy van pulled up to the security building on Virginia Avenue. A guard stepped next to the driver’s side.
The driver, Seaman Jason Phelps, displayed his id, while Adler rolled down the window in the backseat. He and Grant held their ids out.
“Morning, sirs,” the guard said, as he perused both cards, comparing the photos to the two officers and the expiration dates. Handing the cards back to Adler, he waved the van through, snapping a quick salute as the van passed.
Seaman Phelps made a right onto E. Perimeter Road. The next three miles would be slow going, in part from a twenty-five mph speed limit and part from rain water still washing across the right-hand lane.
When he’d driven just about three miles, he turned on the signal, and made a left onto Pensacola Street. Driving straight ahead, he followed the road until it ended at a stop sign, behind a group of buildings. Then he continued on the asphalt road that eventually turned into concrete.
“There’s the Nightingale, sirs,” he said pointing ahead to an aircraft with a red cross on its tail. He drove within thirty feet of the aircraft, killed the engine, then quickly opened his door and jumped out. Sliding the passenger door back, he asked, “Can I help you with your bags, sirs?”
“Thanks, seaman,” Adler responded, “but we’ve got them.” He and Grant got out then pulled their rucksacks from behind the seat and lifted their suit bags off the door hooks, slinging them over their shoulders.
“Looks like you got caught in that storm this morning, sir,” the driver said with a quick laugh, pointing toward the bottom of Adler’s trousers.
Adler leaned forward, looking at dark spots on his pants. “And I’ve still got squishies inside my shoes,” he laughed.
Grant noticed the pilot looking out his side window and gave him a thumb’s up. “Guess we’d better board. Thanks for the ride, Seaman Phelps.” They climbed the portable stairs into the cabin.
One of the crew met them at the door. “Welcome aboard, sirs.”
“Thanks,” both Grant and Adler responded.
“Say, is there any particular place we can stow our bags?” Grant asked.
“Let me take them for you, sirs. Why don’t you take your seats? I’ll tell Colonel Whitley we’re ready for departure.”
Grant and Adler settled into their seats and strapped on the seat belts. Grant looked around at the array of medical equipment. How many are still alive because of this aircraft? he wondered. One fact he did know. Nightingales had been used during “Operation Homecoming” at the end of the Vietnam war. They flew the former Hanoi POWs from where they first landed in the States, to their home bases. If luck stayed on his and Joe’s side, they’d be bringing five more men home on this one, along with his two friends.
“Skipper?” Adler tapped Grant’s arm.
“Yeah, Joe.”
“I grabbed some of these from the machine at NIS.” He held out a handful of candy bars across the aisle.
“And none too soon!” Grant said, snatching a Snickers.
The plane’s engines started winding up, the noise mingling with all the normal sounds of an aircraft preparing to depart.
Pressing his head against the seat, Grant’s mind wandered back to the failed mission in Vietnam. It’s not often in his line of work that a second chance comes along. Now, he was getting that second chance. He was going to make it right this time.
Ten minutes into the flight, the medical crew director unbuckled his seat belt, then went to the console where he checked readouts. He swiveled his seat around. “Captain.”
Grant swallowed a mouthful of candy bar. He leaned over the armrest, looking behind him. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s a small fridge over here, next to the one we keep the blood supply in. Sandwiches and drinks were brought onboard for you. Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.”
“Not a problem. Thanks.” He looked across the aisle at Adler. “Go ahead! I know your mouth’s drooling!”
Grant unsnapped his seatbelt then got up, slipping the crumpled candy wrapper in his trouser pocket. Deciding he needed a stretch, he walked a couple of rows back.
Resting a hand against the bulkhead near a small window, he wanted desperately to begin planning the rescue, but there just wasn’t a place to start until he heard from Grigori--or Alexandra.
He glanced at his watch. There was still another eight hours until they reached Germany. That would put it close to 2400 hours in Moscow. Grigori should be home. Grant was still feeling uneasy about putting Alexandra at risk with phone calls. The decision she and Grigori made was out of his hands, at least for now.
Adler walked up next to him. “Well, skipper, do you have any kind of plan yet? All our gear is ready, but that’s about it.”
Grant patted Adler’s shoulder. “I know.”
“I can’t help think about the President’s request, you know, no bloodshed. I sort of understand why he wants it done that way.”
“My thought, too. The quieter we do this, all the better. I’ll say this...if we don’t have any choice, we don’t have any choice. Our mission is to get those men home safely.” He brushed a hand over the top of his head, then slid it down behind his neck, squeezing the muscles. “We’ve gotta protect them, by any means.”
“I agree, boss.” Adler thought a minute. “Do you really think this whole issue will be kept quiet, I mean, out of the press?”
“Don’t know, but for their sake, I sure as hell hope so. They’ve been through enough. They don’t need to be put on display. But if the higher ups deem it so, there’s not any way in hell we can stop it.”
“Christ!” Adler spat out. “You think they would?”
“Why not?” Grant thought for a moment. “But, remember when Hanoi released the other POWs?”
“How could I forget?”
“It was as if a weight was lifted off the whole country. I guess there’s two ways to look at it.” With his head down, thinking of both possibilities, Grant returned to his seat.
These two men always knew when it was time to ease the tension, the anxiety. Adler took his seat across the aisle, biting into his second sandwich.
“Did you leave me any?” Grant asked, as he picked one up from the seat next to him.
Adler looked at the one Grant was holding in his hand, and pointed at it. “You mean you’re gonna need more than that one?”
Grant ignored the question, and reached into his jacket pocket. He held his hand out, with two sandwiches in his palm, and with a raised eyebrow, said, “I know you. Remember?”
“Were the hell did you get those?”
“Geedunk, my friend.”
“Well, aren’t you the Boy Scout? Always prepared!”
“Damn straight!”
Chapter 6
Tempelhof Air Base
Berlin, Germany
2330 H
ours - Local Time
A light steady rain splashed against the plane’s windshield as it broke through heavy cloud cover, with the runway lights of Tempelhof coming into view. In the distance the city lights of Berlin were barely visible on the horizon.
A complex of four-story apartment buildings stood on both sides of the plane’s landing approach, three hundred yards from the end of Runway 27R. A long row of double landing lights were centered down several acres of brush, separating the apartments.
The plane touched down on concrete, with its six tires kicking up standing water. Within five minutes the C-9A pulled up to the terminal. The whining sound of the engines slowly decreased, until there was silence. Grant and Adler snapped open their seat belts and started gathering their gear.
While they waited for someone to open the door, Grant walked to the cockpit. He poked his head into the cabin. “Thanks for the flight, gentlemen."
“Our pleasure,” smiled Jim Whitley.
“Will you be hanging out here till we’re ready to fly back?” Grant asked.
“That’s right; presidential orders and all that,” Whitley laughed. His smiling face turned serious. “In all honesty, we’d be more than willing to help out, with or without those orders. We’ll stay here as long as it takes, captain.”
“Appreciate that.”
As Grant turned, Adler stepped next to him. “You take your suit bag. I’ve got this,” Adler said, taking Grant’s rucksack. “Go on ahead and make your call. I’ll be right behind you.”
*
Base Operations
2345 Hours
A long rectangular sign was fixed above the glass entryway. The white sign with black letters read: BASE OPERATIONS. Grant jogged up the concrete steps, then pushed open the glass door. He checked in at the desk. An airman inspected his ID and official papers. “Oh, Captain Stevens, sir. I’ve got an urgent message for you.” He left the counter.
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