“I agree, sir.”
“Then on the other hand, with this current situation, he is responsible for the deaths of our comrades, and taking Colonel Moshenko hostage.”
“Sir, I am not totally convinced Colonel Moshenko was taken hostage.”
Gorshevsky’s eyebrows shot up. “Why is that, Mikhail?” He gulped down a mouthful of vodka.
“We know Colonel Moshenko is on friendly terms with this American. Why would he be taken hostage, sir?”
Gorshevsky felt his temples pound. He burped up foul tasting stomach bile. It burned his throat. He gulped down another mouthful of Stoli, then coughed. “Mikhail, are you trying to tell me you believe Colonel Moshenko left willingly, and has...defected?” The word “defected” nearly choked him.
“During the firefight, Major Losevsky reported seeing Colonel Moshenko board the rescue aircraft and assist the Americans in getting onboard, sir. He also claims he saw Colonel Moshenko firing at our troops, seemingly protecting the Americans.”
Silence. “Did you say ‘at our troops,’ Mikhail?”
“I did, sir.”
Hair on the back of Gorshevsky’s neck stood on end. His questions on who leaked the information about the American POWs, and the destruction of the aircraft from Domodedovo seem to have been answered. Grigori Moshenko! “Mikhail, do you believe your KGB officer, Grigori Moshenko, was actually working with the Americans?”
Antolov had time to consider other possibilities, and he responded, “Sir, what was reported has not been proven. You know that during battle, sometimes incidents can be misconstrued. We only have a report from this one officer. At this time, I do not wish to make any conclusions. What we have for now is pure speculation, on my part also, sir.”
“Well, then, do you believe they are the ones who detonated the device on the helicopter to throw us off our investigation?”
“I do not think so, sir. Why would they destroy their only means of transportation? Look at what they had to do to obtain another aircraft. I still believe someone else was behind the destruction of that helicopter.”
“Do you have any idea who that may be?” the frustrated premier asked, as he poured another drink.
“I have my suspicions, but further inquiries and interviews must be made before I am certain.”
Gorshevsky slumped down in his chair, sipping on the vodka. Questions and answers were leading nowhere. “And what of the American you are holding? Do you know if any information has been extracted from him?”
“At last report, no. I will have Berlin contact the major as soon as we are finished here. Do you want him brought to Lubyanka, sir?”
Gorshevsky’s voice rose with each word. “What I want, Mikhail, are answers. I want him to be kept alive. I do not care if he stays at that outpost, or is brought to Lubyanka!” Gorshevsky had a thought. “Wait!” He got up, went to his desk, and removed a large map from a drawer. Once he unfolded it, he located Grunewald, then with a finger, traced a route toward Berlin. “Yes. Here it is,” he said aloud, as he tapped a spot just southwest of Berlin. “Keep him where he is. That location is not far from Potsdam. If an exchange can be negotiated, he can be brought there.” The city of Potsdam lay just outside West Berlin after the construction of the Berlin Wall. The walling off of West Berlin isolated the city. The Glienicke Bridge that crosses the Havel River, connected the city to West Berlin and was the location of previous spy exchanges.
Gorshevsky continued, “I want them to get as much information from him, as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
*
Tempelhof Air Base
2245 Hours
Sitting within fifty yards of Hangar A, a chopper was waiting on the tarmac. In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot were going through a final few items left on their checklist: fuel, oil, lights, position beacon, transponder, oxygen.
Lieutenant Joe Tommasi pointed out the side window. “Here they come, Wade!” He immediately turned on the battery switch, rolled the throttle to idle detent and pulled the start trigger switch at the end of the collective. The collective is the pitch lever responsible for up and down movements. During takeoff, the pilot uses the collective to increase the pitch of the rotor blades by the same amount.
Once the engine reached forty percent, he released the switch. Within fifteen seconds, the engine was at idle.
Turning in his seat, Tommasi leaned slightly over his armrest, looking aft, watching the five SEALs climb aboard. They were outfitted in jump gear with RAM air chutes, reserve chutes, helmets, oxygen masks hanging around their necks, with goggles and rucksacks in hand.
“Ready for go, lieutenant?” Tommasi called to Lieutenant Jason Monroe. Monroe held his arm up, giving a thumb’s up.
Tommasi checked the surrounding area confirming it was clear, then he engaged the blades.
Co-pilot Lieutenant Wade Learey radioed the tower. “Tempelhof tower, November Charlie five six requesting clearance for takeoff. Over.”
“November Charlie five six you are cleared for takeoff. Winds eight knots, southwest. Over.”
“Five six requests climb to Foxtrot Lima one five. Over.” Learey requests permission to climb to flight level of fifteen thousand feet.
“Standby five six. Affirm your climb to Foxtrot Lima one five. Over.”
“Roger, tower. Out.”
Constant harassment of Allied aircraft around Berlin by the Russians caused some concern, but the chopper only had to get clear of Tempelhof airspace. The DZ (drop zone) for the SEALs’ HAHO jump was five miles beyond the base. Their intended LZ was twenty miles away in East German territory, the Soviet Zone. Their intent was to put their boots on the ground within two miles of their objective.
While they waited, the SEALs rechecked each other’s equipment, until they finally heard Learey shout, “Time to go on oxygen, gentlemen.”
“Let’s go men,” Lieutenant Monroe said.
Putting on their rubber aviator masks, they adjusted the straps, cranked on the O2, then put on their goggles. The last thing they did was secure their rucksacks to the D-rings attached to their reserve chutes.
Standing together near the open door, they waited for the signal from the co-pilot, waited for the green light, ready to make their jump.
And as they waited those final moments, each of them, in their own way, mentally prepared for the mission, preparing to rescue one of their own.
*
Grunewald Forest
East Germany
2330 Hours
A musty smell of pines, evergreens and decaying plant matter permeated the air in the forest. Somewhere close by was a sound from a hooting owl, and in the distance, a mournful cry of a lone wolf. These sounds could not, and would not divert the SEALs’ attention.
Dressed completely in black, the five men, with watch caps pulled low and black paint covering their faces, remained hidden in the forest for a half hour.
Lieutenant Monroe signaled the Team forward. As they walked closer to their objective, still one hundred yards away, each step they took was cautious and deliberate. Their boots barely left depressions in the thick layer of pine needles covering the ground, still wet from a recent heavy rain.
Monroe held up a fist. The SEALs immediately stopped, all of them getting down on one knee. He held a Starlighter scope to his eye, scrutinizing the area around the old farm, focusing on the main building, which was nothing more than a mere cabin. A light shown from the only window close to the front door. No movement, in or out, had been spotted.
Continuing to use the scope, his eyes followed the property around the cabin. A barn and small outbuilding were the only other structures. An old wooden animal pen, made from uneven logs, sliced in half horizontally, was next to the barn. A gate hung loosely from rusted hinges.
Monroe motioned the men forward until they made it to the edge of the forest. Again, he stopped them. From this point to the cabin, there wouldn’t be any cover. After taking one final look
through the scope, he stashed it in his rucksack.
Crouching low, they made a dash across the field. When they were nearly fifty yards from the cabin, they heard voices, saw a glow from a dim light. Stopping abruptly, they dropped to the ground, flattening their bodies against damp grass and patches of mud. Waiting briefly, Monroe slowly looked up.
Two men appeared out of the darkness, coming from the south side of the property, walking toward the cabin. One was carrying a lighted kerosene lamp. As they stopped by the front door, there was a small, brief flicker of light. A match.
The shorter of the two men opened the door, blew out the lamp’s flame, then went inside, leaving the door open. A large, bulky man, wearing shirt and trousers with suspenders, possibly a Russian uniform, stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. A kerosene lamp, hanging above a table, appeared to be the only source of light inside.
Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Major Losevsky dropped it near his foot, grinding it into the dirt with a heel of his black boot. Tilting his head slightly, he blew a final lungful of smoke into the air. He went inside and closed the door.
Seeing no one else, Monroe came to a crouch position, with the other SEALs following his lead. At his signal, they sprinted to the side of the cabin, pressing their backs against the rough-hewn wooden logs, with their weapons held in front of their bodies.
Monroe turned his head, looking at Petty Officers First Class Bill Restin and Frank Clayton. He signaled Restin to check inside the front window, then motioned Clayton around to the back.
Then, he signaled Chief Petty Officer Al Kenton and Hospital Corpsman Petty Officer Second Class Cal Stalley, to check the two other buildings. Lowering their NVGs, the two took off around the back of the cabin.
Restin stepped around Monroe, and raised his NVGs. Keeping his body against the logs, he slowly eased himself toward the front of the cabin. Leaning just enough to look around the corner, and seeing it was clear, he took side steps toward the window. Inhaling then holding his breath, he slowly leaned until he was able to get a glimpse inside the main room.
A rectangular wooden table was positioned in the middle of the room, located about ten feet from the door. Two men, maybe in their late twenties, sat at the table, facing the door. They were dressed in Russian uniforms, and each had sidearms holstered. Field jackets hung from the back of each chair, one with the insignia of a major.
The third soldier, the one who had smoked the cigarette outside, stood by the end of the table, rubbing his knuckles and back of his hands with a cloth. Tossing it aside, it landed on a Makarov at the edge of the table.
He drew his Walther P-1 pistol from his side holster and started wiping it down with a rag. The P-1 is a modified P-38, double action, semiautomatic pistol.
Holding it up toward the lamp, he swiped the rag across the barrel and handle. Satisfied it was clean, he holstered the gun, then shoved the rag in his back trousers pocket. Sliding a chair from under the table, he sat down, locked his fingers behind his head, and began rocking his chair back and forth.
The three soldiers continued carrying on a steady conversation, occasionally punctuated with loud laughter. Each man had a small glass in front of him, and in-between the laughter, they’d sip on some brown liquid. Restin spotted a tall bottle in the middle of the table. Medovukha, an old Balto-Slavic, honey-based alcoholic beverage is a drink very similar to mead, and stronger than a regular beer.
Restin’s eyes roamed around the room. He didn’t see anyone else, but did notice three AK-47s, with magazines inserted, leaning against a large stone fireplace. Another kerosene lamp was on the mantel, but unlit. On a makeshift table next to the fireplace was a rectangular brown wooden box, with the top open, leaning against the wall. A thick black cord ran from the box to a phone receiver on the table. A field radio.
Restin slowly brought his head back, then edged his way along the logs, meeting up with Monroe around the side. He held up three fingers. Clayton emerged from the back, shaking his head.
The three slipped their rifle slings over their heads, and drew out .45s with silencers. They couldn’t take any chances of gunfire being heard, with the possibility of other troops in the area.
Now they’d wait until getting word from Chief Kenton.
*
Separating slightly, Chief Kenton and Petty Officer Stalley proceeded cautiously and silently. Most of the ground leading to the outbuildings was dirt. Because of the recent rain, they couldn’t avoid patches of slippery, thick mud.
They searched the first of the two buildings in typical CQB (Close Quarter Battle) fashion, finding nothing. The last outbuilding was at the rear of the farm property. From its appearance it could have been used for storage of small equipment. How many rooms was still the question. Their weapons were cocked and ready, as they approached quietly, remaining vigilant.
Standing at the dilapidated wooden door of the small building, ready to enter, Kenton gave a nod. He pushed the door open, cringing at the sound it made scraping across the dirty floor, with three rusted hinges squeaking.
They entered one behind the other, pausing as they surveyed their surroundings. The main room contained rusted, age-old farm supplies, scattered on the floor, piled in every corner, hanging from rafters. Thick cobwebs covered everything. Stalley turned his head, and readjusting his NVGs, he spotted a mouse scurrying into a hole in the corner.
He and the chief refocused their attention toward the back. Their eyes settled on a single wooden door. Chief Kenton motioned for Stalley to remain by the entrance, as he took one step at a time, walking toward the room.
The latch on the door was a slide-type, made of a flat piece of wood with a dowel as the handle. It was held in place by rough-hewn metal clamps. He took hold of the dowel with his left hand and slowly pulled the slide to the left until it was free. Taking a quick look at Stalley, he stood to the side and pulled the door back.
Pressing the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, and with his cheek close to the stock, the chief focused his eyes down the barrel. First, he looked along the far wall, then he took a step to the opposite side of the doorway, checking the wall and corners to his left. He slowly moved into the dark, musty-smelling room.
A bucket of water was near an overturned wooden chair about ten feet from the door, and just beyond it, he spotted the dark shape of a body sprawled in the middle of the floor.
He walked closer, then talked into his throat mike. “We found him! Back building!”
Stalley hurried past him. Falling on his knees next to Grant, Stalley slid his medical bag off his back and laid it open next to him. Leaning carefully, he put an ear next to Grant’s mouth, checking his breathing, making sure there wasn’t any obstruction, and simultaneously, focusing his eyes on Grant’s chest, seeing it rising and falling rhythmically (heaving). He laid his fingers on Grant’s wrist, checking the strength of his pulse.
“Is he alive?” Kenton asked as he leaned over Grant.
“Yeah, chief! He is!”
Kenton spoke into his throat mike. “He’s alive, sir!”
*
Monroe pressed a finger against his earpiece, hearing the chief’s message. He gave a quick thumb’s up to Clayton and Restin. Now it was time for the three of them to make it happen.
Raising their NVGs, they ducked low under the window, then stood again once they were in front of the door. Their .45s were held firmly with both hands, barrels pointing up. They each had a target. Clayton glanced at Monroe who gave a quick nod of his head.
With surprise as their advantage, Clayton kicked the door with all the force he could muster. Pieces of doorframe splintered. With perfect precision, the SEALs burst into the room, and with three muffled shots, it was over.
The Russians barely had time to blink, let alone reach for a weapon. The force of the bullet slammed the first Russian back against his chair, knocking him ass over end, with his head bent at a peculiar angle when he landed. The man next to him took a bullet just off center
of his forehead, snapping his head back. His mouth fell wide open; his arms dangled by his side. The third man had started to turn and was “blown” sideways from a bullet just above his temple, knocking him completely off the chair. He landed on the floor with a thud,still in a seated position. With the size of the holes in their heads, an extra “tap” didn’t seem necessary, but just in case...
The SEALs did a quick search of the room. Clayton smashed the radio. Monroe picked up the Makarov on the table, seeing a cloth, smeared with blood. As they were leaving, Monroe reached up to the lamp and turned the wick adjustment mechanism until the flame went out.
They ran from the house, lowering their NVGs, rushing to catch up to Kenton and Stalley. As they ran, Monroe spoke into his throat mike. “We’re on our way, chief!”
*
“Frank! Take the watch!” Monroe ordered as they got to the building. He and Restin ran to the back room, moving close to Stalley. “How’s he doing, Cal?”
“Still trying to determine that, sir. His pulse is pretty good, all things considered.”
He leaned closer to Grant. “Captain Stevens! Can you hear me, sir?” No response. “Captain Stevens!” Grant’s arm was outstretched to the side. He struggled to lift his hand, managing to give somewhat of a thumb’s up, prompting Stalley to say, “Fuckin’ A, sir!”
Grant cleared his throat, trying to say something. Stalley leaned closer. “Say again, sir.” Grant managed to repeat the words slowly. “Yes, sir. Little Creek.” He laughed at Grant’s next comment, and replied, “Yes, sir! I agree.”
“What’d he say?” Monroe asked, curiously.
“He said it was about time we got here.” The rest of the Team couldn’t help but crack smiles, nodding in complete agreement, but wishing they’d made it sooner. Stalley got down to serious business again. “Can you move at all, sir?”
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