Sacrifice of One

by Jamie Fredric

  Who the hell came up with the idea of a chopper to begin with? And why? Grigori can fly anything, and he confirmed he’d be going to head up security. Maybe there’d be a plane waiting at the next location. That’s a plausible explanation.

  Grant readjusted his body on the seat, getting more anxious. Suddenly, a terrifying thought came to his mind. Chopper or plane. Grigori. POWs. All in one place. “Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

  Adler nearly came out of his seat. “Shit! Now what?”

  Grant gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “Christ, Joe! What if the plan is to dispose of Grigori and the POWs on the way to East Germany? What if that chopper is going to go down, intentionally?”

  “You really don’t think...”

  “Jesus! I hope I’m wrong, Joe. I sure as hell hope I’m wrong. But no matter what I think, I’m going to be on that chopper. It’s too late to change plans.”

  “Hey, skipper. I’ve said this before, but don’t think about leaving me behind,” Adler said, keeping his eyes on Grant. “We’re in this together, no matter what the fuck happens.”

  “I know,” Grant replied. “Listen, get on the horn and call Tony. He should still be in range. He needs to get Alexandra out now. Tell him not to go to the safe house. They need to get out of Russia. And ask him if Grigori’s called.”

  Without questioning, Adler pulled the radio from the satchel.

  *

  Moscow

  Moshenko Apartment

  Mullins put a hand on the radio. He snapped his head around, looking at Alexandra, as he put a finger to his lips. He lifted the radio from his belt then quickly and silently went to the door. Going out into the hallway, and ensuring he was alone, he replied softly, “Cowboy here.”

  Adler kept it short. “Leave immediately. Forget the safe house. Go to final destination. Wait till contacted. Copy?”

  “Copy.”

  “Have you received any calls?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “You, too, my friends.” Mullins took a deep breath. Were his friends in trouble or just being cautious? Not the time to question or wonder. He went back inside the apartment.

  Alexandra stood by the stairs, waiting, but she had a suspicion they were leaving. Mullins stepped close to her. He had to make her understand completely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her new papers. Holding them in front of her, she stared, nodded, then immediately ran upstairs.

  She was already prepared for this exact situation, remembering what Grant told her. One final time, she opened a purse in the closet, making sure her “old” papers were there. Grabbing a black raincoat, she picked up a large handbag, made of needlepoint, that contained a change of clothes and a few essentials. Giving the room one last look, she tried with everything in her to keep her emotions in check. Then she turned and rushed down to meet Mullins.

  Mullins whispered, “Okay?” She tried to smile. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. Motioning for her to wait, he hurried to the exit door and looked around outside. Clear. Going back to the apartment, he offered her his hand and led her into the hallway, waiting briefly as she closed the door.

  Something tugged at his heart, knowing she was closing the door to the only life she ever knew, willing to risk it all for a husband she loved.

  He quietly said, “Metro.” She nodded then he motioned for her to walk ahead of him. Once on the main road, he caught up to her and held her arm. By staying in crowds, the chance of her being recognized was slimmer.

  Within ten minutes, they arrived at the station. He held the door open for her, and they entered the lobby. She pointed to her right, indicating the ticket counter. He took several folded Russian notes from his pocket, then held them out for her. She took a one hundred ruble note, then looked up at him, waiting for a destination. He said, “Sheremetyevo.”

  The station was crowded, which was in their favor. He kept his eyes on her as she stepped up to the ticket counter. Seeing her reach into her bag and take out her papers, he thought, Stay calm, Alexandra. She slid them under the glass opening and waited while the ticket seller examined them and her. He passed them back to her and she handed him the money.

  Picking up the tickets, she put everything in her bag, then started toward him. Mullins briefly diverted his attention to the ticket seller. The man made no deviation from his routine and helped the next customer. Mullins breathed a silent sigh.

  Alexandra saw him tilt his head to the left, indicating for her to continue to the train. He followed a few paces back, finally catching up to her on the escalator.

  Once at the lower level, she looked to the left, spotting a sign for Track 3. She tugged on Mullins’ arm, then pointed.

  While they waited, she reached into her purse and handed him a ticket. He leaned close, whispering, “Spaseeba.” They smiled at each other.

  The crowd began moving closer to the tracks as the sound of an approaching train grew louder. Air being pushed ahead of the train began swirling around the tunnel. Brakes started squealing. Mullins held Alexandra’s arm, drawing her near him, ensuring her safety.

  As the train stopped, the doors parted and a throng of passengers pushed forward, mingling with passengers who were trying to exit. Mullins stepped behind Alexandra as they entered the car, immediately guiding her to the opposite side, grabbing two seats.

  Part number one over, he thought. Part number two might be more difficult when they reached the airport. They would have to change trains only once, with a scheduled timeframe of forty minutes to the airport. He had no idea on departing flights to Berlin. They could be waiting hours, unless they got lucky. Either way, the plan was in motion.

  *

  Domodedovo Airport tower came into view just as a sound of jet engines grew louder. An Aeroflot 707 roared down one of the parallel concrete runways, took flight, then made a slow bank toward the West.

  Grant kept his eyes on traffic, as he negotiated a sharp curve. “It should be ahead, off to the right, Joe. Get those binoculars.”

  Reaching into the satchel, Adler rummaged around for the binoculars, then pulled them out. Adjusting the dial until he was able to see clearly, he scanned the grounds about a hundred yards ahead.

  Grant felt a knot in his stomach beginning to tighten, until Adler said, “There’s a Russian helo, skipper; looks like a KA-27.” The KA-27 (Kamov) replaced the aging KA-25. It has two Isotov turboshaft engines with co-axial rotors, a maximum speed of one hundred sixty-six mph, and can carry up to sixteen passengers.

  “See anybody?” Grant asked anxiously.

  “Not yet.”

  Grant shifted into second, slowed the truck, and continued on his current course. The road curved to the right, about fifty yards from where the helo was.

  “Wait, skipper! There’s the colonel getting out now.” Grant didn’t even attempt to stifle his long, exhaled breath. Adler readjusted the clarity of the glasses and said, “Uh-oh. Three more peeps just got out.”

  Grant nodded before turning his head briefly to look out the right window. “Yeah. Grigori said there’d be a pilot and two guards. They all wearing uniforms?”

  “That’s affirmative. Uh-oh.”

  “Again with the uh-oh’s?”

  “I’d suggest you keep driving. There’s a shiny black Mercedes driving toward the chopper. It’s got one of those small Russian flags near the left front bumper. Can’t make out what the other flag is on the other side.”

  “Wish Grigori had a chance to call Alexandra,” Grant said under his breath. “Joe! What time is it?”

  Adler pulled his sleeve back. “Closing in on 1748.”

  Doesn’t matter now, Grant thought. We’ve gotta get aboard that chopper.

  He had to take a chance to try and get Moshenko’s attention. “Joe. Keep an eye on Grigori. See if this gets his attention.” He hit the clutch, revved the engine a couple of times, then kept driving past the fie
ld.

  “He looked our way, skipper!”

  Seeing another vehicle rounding a curve in the distance, Grant suddenly said, “Hold on! I’m heading for those trees!” He made a sharp right turn.

  Adler braced his hands against the dashboard, pressing his body against the seat. Grant held the wheel tight, as the truck barreled across uneven ground, scraping grass and dirt. He hit the brakes and clutch. The truck skidded to a stop. He killed the engine, then looked across at Adler, as he rubbed his own shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Adler replied, as he moved his head side to side. “I won’t even question that move!”

  Grant jumped from the cab. “Start clearing any evidence from this truck. Make sure there isn’t anything identifying Grigori, and pull off the license plates.”

  He rushed around to the back, pulling his satchel close. They’d take everything Mullins and Moshenko provided, but hoped they wouldn’t need the “heavy” stuff: Uzi with extra clips; extra clips for the Makarov; MK6 (Mark Six) CS vials (tear gas), and two concussion grenades. Each grenade measured about one and a half inches high and wide, and six inches long. Black hard-pressed paper makes up the shell that encloses the explosive material inside. Because of the paper shell, there isn’t any shrapnel when the grenade explodes.

  Adler searched the cab thoroughly, looking for papers, ids, anything that could associate it with Moshenko. He couldn’t find any vehicle identification number. The colonel must have made a clean sweep himself; nothing’s here, Adler thought. With his task completed inside, he pulled his satchel out, then yanked off both front and rear license plates.

  “Got everything?” Grant asked, pulling his gear from the truck.

  “Only things were the plates. What do we do with ‘em?”

  “Put them with your gear. You’ve got det cord and pencils, right?” Adler nodded. “Get me the binoculars before you do that.” He took a few paces away from the truck, then got down on his belly, trying to get a better view under the trees.

  The Mercedes was still there. Someone was standing next to an open rear door. Probably a driver, Grant surmised. A large barrel-chested man, wearing a dark suit and hat, walked to the car. Above his left pocket was a row of medals. As he put a hand on the open door, he turned toward the helo. It was then Grant recognized him. Antolov!

  KGB Director Mikhail Antolov settled into the backseat. The driver closed the door, then immediately hurried around to the other side. Headlights and tail lights came on as the engine turned over. When the car started down the road, Grant diverted his attention back to the chopper. No definite sign of Grigori, just four sets of boots showing from underneath. He got up and dropped the glasses in the satchel.

  After a few minutes Adler came close. “All clear?”

  “Clear,” Grant responded. “Grab your shit. Let’s head over there.”

  Crouching, they inched their way closer to the open field, ducking behind large overgrown brush. They got on their bellies, crabbing their way closer, trying to get a better view. Adler peered through the binoculars, focusing on the helicopter, then tapped Grant’s arm, handing him the glasses, saying softly, “Grigori.”

  Grant readjusted the focus. One of the Russians stood behind Moshenko, who was slowly swiveling his head. Grant knew Moshenko was looking for him and Adler.

  Finally, Moshenko raised an arm and shouted what sounded like an order. The uniformed man gave a quick salute, then immediately turned and went to the other side of the helo, with Moshenko slowly following.

  Grant moved the binoculars, trying to catch sight of the black Mercedes, spotting two red tail lights, now just tiny dots in the distance. Grant breathed a sigh of relief. The car kept on its current path. He stashed the binoculars in the satchel.

  Getting up into squatting positions, they took ski masks from their belts, then pulled the black masks down over their heads. If they turned the pilot and guards loose later, they didn’t need their descriptions broadcast over the airwaves. KGB dossiers could be just as accurate as the CIA’s.

  Drawing pistols from their back waistbands, they took a final look around. Grant gave a nod, and crouching low, they ran like hell across the field. Their weapons, grasped tightly in their hands, hung close to their bodies. When they were within thirty feet, they slowed down, creeping closer, positioning themselves near the double tail fins, away from windows. They listened for any movement or voices.

  Adler squatted, then leaned sideways, looking at the opposite side where two men stood. He got up slowly, keeping his back against the helo, then held up two fingers. Suddenly, they heard a familiar voice. Grant understood Moshenko, telling the pilot to finish his preflight check list.

  Grant gave Adler a thumb’s up. They had to do it now. Just as they made the turn around the tail, Moshenko came around from the other side. All of them stopped in their tracks, staring at one another.

  Grant motioned for Moshenko to come closer, and he whispered, “We’re taking...”

  Moshenko held up a hand, with his palm facing forward, as he stepped directly in front of Grant. “They are here, on the aircraft.”

  Grant opened his mouth, but no words came out. The feeling going through him was totally unexpected. Finally, he managed to ask, “All of them?” Moshenko nodded. Grant snapped his head left, staring at Adler. “Joe?”

  “It’s what we’ve waited for, skipper,” Adler quietly said, grabbing hold of Grant’s arm.

  Grant took a deep breath. “Grigori, play along. We’re taking you hostage. Let’s go.”

  Moshenko walked to the open cargo door, with Grant close behind, holding his pistol in plain sight. Two Russian guards stood by the door with their Uzis trained on the prisoners.

  Moshenko briefly looked up into the cabin, then climbed the portable steps, as he said, “Put down your weapons.” Surprised, but without even considering questioning a KGB officer’s command, the guards obeyed, laying the Uzis on the deck.

  As Grant climbed aboard, he shouted in Russian, “Get over there! Sit!” He pointed the pistol toward the seats.

  Adler held them at gunpoint, as they backed up slowly, sitting in the seats behind the Americans. He came around and stood behind them. The Russians were completely oblivious to the fact that their “lights” were about to go out. Within the blink of an eye, the butt of Adler’s pistol collided with each skull. Both men slumped in their seats.

  The Americans all sat with their heads bowed, completely still. They were dressed alike. Black trousers, long sleeve dark gray shirts, no belts, black work shoes. Their hair was cut very short, especially around the sides. It was difficult to tell their ages, but probably late thirties to early forties. Their skin was sallow, their bodies undernourished. Grant guessed they’d probably been fed more lately than they had been over these last years, in preparation for what was to be their release. He still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew he’d never forget.

  “Colonel,” Grant said, motioning with the pistol, “go up front.” Moshenko took the seat to the right of the pilot where a navigator and weapon systems operator normally sit. Grant positioned himself behind the pilot, ordering, “Hands behind your head!” The order was immediately followed by both men.

  Grant looked back at Adler, who hadn’t taken his eyes from him. Using two fingers, Grant pointed at his own eyes, then twirled a finger in the air, with a slight jerk of his head. Adler checked the Russians were still unconscious, then bolted from the cabin.

  Tension inside the helo increased with each passing minute for Grant, as Adler made his search. Grant could only keep his fingers crossed that he was wrong, otherwise, the plan was shit.

  Within minutes, Adler climbed back into the cabin. He rushed over to Grant. The look of distress on his face was more than obvious, as he held out his hand. In his palm was a small box, similar in color to the chopper. He pointed down, indicating it had been planted directly under the fuel tank. He figured C-4 was inside, just enough to do the job, enough to ignite the fue
l. Then, he raised his eyes, pointing overhead, and circled his fingers. Another one, slightly larger, was planted somewhere near the rotors. There was no way he could get to it, nor did they have the time.

  Grant wanted to puke. The idea of losing POWs again was beyond his comprehension. The thought that he, Adler and Moshenko would have also perished hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  Adler went to the door and jumped out. No time to disarm, he thought. He ran behind the helo and placed the box on the ground for the time being. Whoever planted it would be expecting the helo to disappear. And if Grant was right, the detonation would occur when the chopper was in flight. Somebody wanted to ensure this chopper was destroyed.

  Plan A had just been shot all to hell. Grant’s original plan was to have Moshenko fly the chopper to the final destination. Now, without an aircraft, getting out of Russia was going to be one tough son-of-a-bitch.

  Adler came aboard then hurried aft, taking a small rectangular case out of his satchel. Inside were four hypodermic needles, each pre-filled with sodium pentathol. He returned with two and injected the “knockout drops” into each Russian’s arm, with more than enough leftover if he needed it. Stashing the case in the satchel, he went to the cockpit, seeing Grant motioning for him.

  Grant backed away from the pilot, and whispered to Adler, “Watch him.” He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t waste time. Whoever planted the device was probably waiting until the helo was well past the airport before setting it off. That could also mean somebody was positioned nearby, waiting to signal the chopper had departed.

  Adler stood directly behind the pilot, keeping the barrel of his weapon touching the man’s head, making certain there wasn’t any chance the man could turn around.

  With his weapon in hand, Grant hid it behind his back, then lifted the mask from his face. He walked over to the Americans. They were sitting completely still, unsure what was happening, hesitant to lift their heads from years of being dominated, controlled.