There was a scraping sound, as if something heavy was being dragged across concrete. Adler moved closer, crouched, and looked inside. Two uniformed men were trying to move a piece of equipment down the center of the building, getting closer to their position. Adler stood, held up two fingers, and pointed aft.
Leaving the door partway open, Grant stepped in front of him. Raising his hand, he pointed forward with a finger. They crept into the building, seeing the two men, who had not yet seen them.
Taking quick strides toward the two, Grant and Adler gripped their pistols with both hands, pointing them straight ahead. Grant shouted in Russian, “Hands up! Hands up!” The men spun around, throwing their arms straight up.
While Grant kept the Russians in his sights, Adler rushed to them, yanked their sidearms from their holsters, then tucked each pistol in his waistband.
Again Grant shouted, “Down on the ground!” Both men fell at Adler’s feet. Adler holstered his weapon, and pulled a wrap of cord from inside his jacket.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grant caught a sudden movement. He swung his weapon right, and fired. The noise sounded like a cannon in the confined space.
Adler snapped around, seeing another Russian stagger from behind a row of equipment boxes, with a pistol in his hand. He fell forward, with his face smacking hard on concrete. Immediately, Grant swung his Makarov back toward the Russians laying on the floor.
Adler took a long, deep breath, then started tying the guards’ hands behind their backs. Pulling a rag from his pocket, he ripped it in half, and shoved each half into the mens’ mouths. Drawing his weapon again, he stood over the two.
Grant rushed to the man he shot. He kicked the pistol aside, seeing blood pooling under the body. Getting on one knee, he put two fingers on the man’s neck, hearing a long gurgling sound, the final breath leaving the body.
He got up and scanned the perimeter, looking for any place to hide the two guards, some place where they’d be out of sight when their reliefs showed up, hoping a few extra minutes would help with their escape. Nothing he could do about the pool of blood.
Jogging back to Adler, he yanked one of the guards to his feet, with Adler doing the same. With firm grips on the mens’ arms, they went toward the back of the building, stopping behind a tractor. “Get down!” Grant ordered. The two dropped to the floor. Adler pulled out another piece of cord, tying the man’s arms to the tractor. He did the same for the other guard, before tying their feet, then he double-checked the gags were secure.
With the job done, the two of them ran to the door, looking outside for Moshenko, motioning him toward them.
Moshenko slipped through the fence, hurrying toward the building with his pistol drawn. “You are both all right?” he whispered.
Grant nodded, then said, “Start looking for a chopper.” Then to Adler, “Go get the men and gear. Keep them outside. Stay with Grigori. I’m gonna check for any comm gear.” Adler nodded and took off.
Grant walked the room, searching. There had to be some kind of comm equipment. A metal table behind a stack of boxes had a TA-57 wire radio with a transistorized amplifier built in. It was an old unit, probably from the late 50s. He ripped the wire connecting the phone to the base unit, then smashed the dials inside the case. Best I can do, he thought. He heard footsteps, and turned to see Adler, signaling for him to go.
Rushing past the hog-tied guards, he gave them a quick two-finger salute, as he said, “Da sveedahnya!” He continued running to the door.
By the time he got to the back of the building, the chopper’s rotors were already winding up. Moshenko found a KA-27 fueled and ‘froggy,” as Adler liked to say. Grant caught up to Adler. They climbed into the cabin together.
The men were strapped in, waiting. “Ready?” Grant asked. Five thumbs up gave him his answer. He went to the cockpit, scrambled into the seat to Moshenko’s right and slipped his arms through the harness. “Everything look like it’s working?”
“All the gauges appear to check out,” Moshenko answered.
Already grinning, Grant purposely looked at his friend, as he said, “Then let’s boogie on outta here!”
“I will ask you later about this ‘boogie’ thing,” Moshenko responded.
Chapter 10
Home of Premier Gorshevsky
Moscow
A piercing, double ring from the phone jolted him from a deep sleep. Gorshevsky rolled over in bed, fumbling for the phone. “Yes?”
“Sir, this is Mikhail. I have news.”
Gorshevsky reached for a light switch. He squinted and blinked when the light came on. Resting on his elbow, he said, “I am listening.”
“We received word from Defense Minister General Alexi Boyra that one of our helicopters, a KA-27, was commandeered during the night from a maintenance facility near Shelkovka, sir.
“Guards reporting for duty found the men they were replacing, bound and gagged. Their only means for contacting General Boyra was by using a radio from one of the aircraft. Apparently, the attackers destroyed the communication equipment.”
“Go on,” Gorshevsky said, as he threw off the covers, then swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“The guards reported the facility was overrun by a number of attackers. One comrade was killed. According to these men, only one of the attackers spoke, although very little. We can only assume these guards are telling the truth, sir.”
“Mikhail, do you believe the ones who took the aircraft were the same individuals reportedly seen at Domodedovo?”
“The coincidence is too great, sir. A small truck was found abandoned just outside the facility’s grounds. No identification, nor plates were found with the vehicle. One peculiar piece of information is that two holes, one on each side in the back of the truck, were discovered. It appears that someone was trying to get more air inside. We haven’t determined what type of explosive was used.”
“As if someone were transporting passengers,” Gorshevsky commented with disgust.
“Yes. Passengers.”
“Have you succeeded in tracking the individual or individuals who may have planted the device?”
“We are interrogating two, sir.”
Gorshevsky stepped across the room, then lowered a window. “And what of Colonel Moshenko?” he asked, walking back to the bed, feeling bile creeping up to his throat.
“It will be some time before we have a total body count from the wreckage. In the meantime, that leaves two other possibilities we must consider: First, Colonel Moshenko was taken prisoner, and two, he may have defected, and it was he who leaked the information about the Americans.”
“Do you realize what you are saying?” the premier’s voice boomed.
“I do, sir, but as I said, those are only possibilities, and we must leave all open. But to add to the situation, we have been unsuccessful in contacting his wife, at home or the hospital. No one has seen her.”
Gorshevsky’s back went rigid. His face flushed. Blood pounded against his skull. “Mikhail, I want you to notify every division commander from Shelkovka to Berlin.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Antolov interrupted, “but with the time of the attack, they are well beyond Shelkovka, and probably approaching East Germany.”
“Then find them! Stop that aircraft! And, Mikhail, I want any or all of the bastards who perpetrated this...this crime, kept alive.”
“I will see to it, sir.” Conversation over.
As furious and concerned as he was, Gorshevsky thought beyond the current situation. If he managed to keep the aggressor, or aggressors, alive and in custody, he would have another chance at an exchange of prisoners.
*
Aboard a Russian KA-27
Somewhere Over Poland
Close to the East German Border
0545 Hours - Local Time
The sun had already been up for over an hour. They’d been flying without incident. Moshenko kept the chopper low, moving fast. Flying, as Grant once said, was in his blood. I
f it had not been for the dire situation they found themselves in, he’d be in his glory.
Grant turned, looking back toward the cabin. Adler knelt by the open door. Staying just behind the bulkhead, looking forward, he held onto a safety line.
The men sat rigidly in their seats, strapped in securely. They all realized the chance these three men were taking for them. Over the past years they’d been held in captivity, it would have been easy to give up, give up on themselves, give up on their government, give up on ever being free. Unexpectedly, this has become their second chance. These men were giving them that chance, trying their damnedest to make it possible for them to go home.
The strap of Adler’s fully loaded Uzi was over his shoulder, the weapon hanging by his side. Wind whipped across his body whenever he’d lean slightly, trying to get a better view, trying to spot potential trouble. But they were flying close to one hundred sixty miles an hour, nearly maximum speed for the KA-27. The ground passed rapidly, especially flying at one hundred fifty feet above it.
Moshenko was pushing it. He eyed the gauges. “We have just crossed the border. We are in East Germany. We have less than one hundred kilometers to Berlin.”
Grant stared at his friend. “Sixty miles of stomach churning. This’s been one helluva op, Grigori, and it’s still not over.” He glanced at the gauges. “How’s the fuel?”
“We are all right, my friend.”
“Think the ‘gas station attendants’ at our fuel stop recognized you?”
“I do not believe so.”
Grant looked out the windshield, spotting a small village at twelve o’clock. “Any installations we have to worry about?” He reached behind him and took out the binoculars.
Moshenko responded, “We have almost five hundred thousand troops in East Germany, Grant. Most are stationed in or near bigger cities. There are many small encampments scattered around the countryside. Many East German troops are being used to patrol borders but they also have encampments. I do not know how many communication stations they have.”
“What about airfields? Any in this area?”
Moshenko shook his head. “I do not believe so. But our helicopters can be anywhere.”
Grant didn’t even want to think about that possibility, as he looked at his watch, then went back to the glasses. By the time those two guards were discovered, it should’ve given us a big lead, he thought,unless somebody in Moscow put all the pieces together earlier. Scary thought.
There was always a possibility aircraft could be waiting ahead, patrolling. But they were flying in a Russian chopper. Maybe that’s all they had going for them.
There haven’t been any transmissions coming across the airwaves, nobody telling them to “land immediately or else.” Maybe it’s been too damn quiet.
No sooner had the thought passed through his mind, when out of nowhere there was a sound of bullets striking the underbelly of the chopper.
“We’re under attack!” Adler shouted. “Machine guns! Starboard!” He returned fire with the Uzi. More bullets hit near the tail fins, then again the underbelly. Moshenko sent the chopper into a climb, then he pulled the cyclic-pitch lever (the “stick”) left, banking to port.
Grant punched the release for the shoulder harness and rushed back to Adler, trying to maintain his balance as Moshenko flew evasive maneuvers. “You okay?” Grant shouted.
“Couldn’t see ’em, skipper! Jesus! They’re fuckin’ everywhere!”
Grant pulled the satchel closer to Adler, laying an extra clip for the Uzi on top, then he grabbed a clip for the Makarov. “Gonna call Tony!”
He pointed at the five men as he passed them, heading to the cockpit. “Keep those seatbelts buckled tight! We’ve got less than thirty miles! It might get worse!” Rushing to the cockpit, he fastened the seat harness, then put on the headphones, adjusting the mouthpiece. More gunfire erupted. Adler kept firing in quick, short bursts.
“How much farther?” Grant shouted at Moshenko.
“Maybe forty kilometers!” Moshenko continually maneuvered the chopper from port to starboard, trying to gain altitude, trying not to become an easy target. But if he climbed too high then lost control, they wouldn’t have a chance when they went down. His best bet was to keep outmaneuvering the attackers, while he hoped there weren’t any aircraft in pursuit or up ahead.
Gunfire again. More bullets ricocheted off the port side, this time under the cockpit.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” Grant shouted. He dialed the emergency frequency. “Panther calling Legs! Panther calling Legs! Come in!” Silence. “Panther calling Legs! Come in, Legs!”
“Legs here! Over!”
Grant yelled, “Taking fire! Taking fire! We’re about twenty-five miles out!”
“Stay with me! Keep that mike open!” Mullins shouted back.
More hits on the chopper. Adler rammed another clip into the Uzi, and resumed fire.
Suddenly, the chopper pitched violently. Moshenko gripped the stick with both hands. They started losing altitude. Off course now, they were south of Berlin.
Adler scooted to the other side of the door, holding onto a safety line. He leaned out as far as he could, seeing a stream of fuel. “Fuel leak!”
Grant shouted to Mullins, “Losing altitude! Fuel leak!”
“Gimme your position!” Mullins shouted back.
“Fifty-two degrees north, thirteen degrees east! Repeat! Fifty-two degrees north, thirteen degrees east! We’re going down!”
“On our way!” Mullins yelled, with his heart thumping against his chest.
Adler slung the Uzi’s strap over his head, scurried to a seat, snapped the belt closed, then yanked it tight. He shouted at the men in front of him. “Hang tight! The colonel’s the best there is!”
Moshenko still had some control, enough where maybe, just maybe, he could prevent a tragedy, but the ground was getting closer at an alarming rate.
“Over there!” Grant pointed.
A clearing, just at the edge of a forest. Fighting to maintain control, Moshenko banked the chopper. It started resisting his control. Aiming for the outer edge of the clearing, he was trying to come in parallel to the tree line. He was trying to reduce speed, struggling to adjust the angle, trying to prevent a direct hit. But they were coming in fast.
“Come on, Grigori! You can do it!” Grant shouted, as he grabbed both straps of the harness. Then over his shoulder he warned, “Brace yourselves!”
The sound and tremendous force when it plowed into the earth was horrendous. Almost instantly, it rebounded for a brief second, then hit again, skidding on its belly. Dirt, grass, rocks shot up from every angle. The ass end smacked hard, snapping off the twin tail fins, causing the undercarriage wheels to rip off. Still skidding, it rolled on its side, causing first the left then right nose wheels to collapse, then break off, sending the forward section into a nose-dive. The upper swirling rotor blade broke, spiraling away in different directions. The radar under the cockpit and half the cockpit were partially buried in soil.
Suddenly, it was over. Grant shook his head, raising it slowly. The sudden jolt of the hit, made him feel like his spine had been shoved up into the top of his head. Shattered pieces of windshield were sprayed around the cockpit, on him and Moshenko. He was still strapped in, feeling the pressure of the harness against his chest. Fumbling for the harness release, he called, “Grigori!”
“Yes. Yes.” He automatically released the seat harness.
“Come on! We’ve gotta get outta here!” As he got off the seat, he readjusted the holster, feeling for the Makarov. He felt off balance, almost disoriented, as he started for the cabin. He rubbed his neck, moving his head side to side, as he shouted, “Joe!”
“Here, skipper!” Adler was shaking his head, and rubbing his face. He unsnapped the seatbelt, got up slowly, then made a dash to get extra clips for the Uzi.
Grant rushed to the men. They were all alert, but shaking almost uncontrollably. A couple of them had their he
ad between their knees, their breathing coming in short, quick breaths. All of them fumbled for a seatbelt release. “Everybody okay?” Five heads nodded. “Come on! Let’s go!” He helped them with the belts, then stood by as each man passed him. Their legs were unsteady as they headed for the door.
“Grigori! Come on!” he yelled.
From the angle of the chopper, they’d have about a
six foot drop to the ground. “Joe, get out and help them!” Adler jumped down, immediately reaching to help each man to safety.
Moshenko was behind Grant. “You okay, Grigori? Nothing’s damaged?”
“I am okay.” He was still amazed they were all walking. He lowered himself out the door.
Gripping the pistol with one hand, Grant yanked the Uzi and extra clips from his satchel, then slung the strap over his shoulder. “Joe!” He handed both satchels to Adler, before he jumped out.
He immediately started scanning their surroundings, looking for a safer place. Then he pointed, “Over there! Get away from the chopper!” A smell of fuel hit their senses. They started running, when they heard the sound of a chopper. “It’s gotta be Tony!” Grant yelled, swiveling his head, finally spotting the helo coming from the northwest.
Out of nowhere, shots rang out. They all dropped to the ground, snapping their heads around. Running out from the trees were uniformed men, Russians and East Germans, more than twenty of them, firing with AKs and pistols.
“Stay down! Stay down!” Grant ordered, pointing at the men. He, Adler, and Moshenko positioned themselves in front of them. “Come on, Tony!”
The three returned fire, taking down two of the advancing assailants. But bullets continued hitting dirt around them, zipping by their heads, hitting the KA-27.
The rescue chopper started descending about thirty yards behind them, preparing for touchdown. Grant shouted, “Grigori! Here!” He gave Moshenko his satchel. He and Adler already had all the ammo. “Take the men! Go! Go!”
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