Grant lay motionless. He tried to take a deep breath and grimaced. “Don’t...think...so,” he answered with a weak, raspy voice. “Don’t...want to.”
Stalley smiled and placed a comforting hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Understand, sir, and that’s okay. But I need you to try. Try and move your feet,” Stalley requested, as he looked toward Grant’s muddied stocking feet. Grant concentrated through the pain, fighting unconsciousness. “Another fuckin’ A! Good job, sir. Now, you just hang in there. I’m going to examine you. I’ll work as fast as I can. We’ll get you outta here soon, sir.
“Hold some light over here!” Three penlights lit up. It was then they noticed a rope still tied around one wrist. Even his throat had streaks of red.
Stalley took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut away what was left of Grant’s torn and ragged shirt. Severe bruising was over his entire upper body. Removing a stethoscope from the compartment, Stalley fitted the stethoscope’s earpieces, then placed the chest piece cup over Grant’s chest, checking that both lungs were expanded.
The corpsman put on a pair of rubber gloves, snapping them against his wrist, while he looked at Grant. “Those bastards were just in here,” he said quietly. “Some of these wounds are fresh.” Blood was everywhere, including his head and face. More splatters were along the top of his trousers. There were stains where blood had soaked through his trouser legs.
Monroe leaned close. “Is it possible the butt of a pistol would cause some of those deep bruises, Cal?”
Stalley nodded. “Very possible, sir, along with fists, and boots,” he said as he pointed to Grant’s legs, “with that blood on his trousers.” He scooted behind Grant, examining the injury on the side of his head. Dried blood was caked in his hair. “Most likely a bullet,” the corpsman commented quietly. Carefully, so not to move Grant’s head, he felt as much as he could along the sides and back, touching a couple of large lumps, feeling more caked blood. There wasn’t any way for him to tell if there was a skull fracture, but a concussion was more than likely. He looked up at the chief. “Chief, can you stabilize his head while I examine him?”
Tapping lightly with two fingers, he palpated where there was bruising, trying to determine if there was internal bleeding. An open two inch wound, just above Grant’s waistband, was still oozing. There were other smaller cuts. Those wouldn’t need immediate attention.
Lieutenant Monroe leaned closer. “What the hell did they hit him with to make those cuts?”
Stalley just shook his head slowly, “Can’t imagine, sir.” He methodically started moving his hands along Grant’s legs then arms, trying to determine if there were any broken bones. As he started feeling along the lower ribcage, Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir.” He commented quietly, mostly for Monroe’s benefit, “Feels like simple rib fractures on both sides; both bone’s are in alignment. We’ve gotta be extra careful getting him outta here.
“Only other break I can find is his index finger. Will take a look at his back before he goes on the litter.” He ran his hand across the collarbone to the right shoulder. A groan escaped from Grant’s throat. “Have a problem here. Shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Jesus Christ! They used him like a fuckin’ punching bag...and jerked his arm out of the socket?” Lieutenant Monroe said between clenched teeth. It sickened him to think what the next round of punishment would’ve been if they hadn’t showed up when they did. He knelt on the other side of Grant, leaning slightly, as he said quietly, “It’s over, captain. We took care of those bastards.”
Grant wanted to respond but was having a tough time. His throat was raw and dry, but he managed the words between swallows of whatever saliva he could muster. “Fuckin’ A.”
Monroe patted his shoulder then stood. He realized they’d have to devise a makeshift litter and secure Grant, just in case he had any back or neck injuries. He looked at Restin. “Bill, gather up any of his things that might be scattered around, then fix up a litter.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Restin circled the room, using his penlight, searching the perimeter, finding Grant’s windbreaker tossed in a corner. As he stood, something caught his eye and he looked up. “Oh, fuck! LT!”
Monroe hustled over to him. Restin pointed his penlight overhead. A rope had been thrown over a rafter. One end was tied to a vertical beam, the other hung down above them with a large hook tied to it.
Monroe spit. “Those fucking bastards!” Shaking his head, he looked at Restin then said, “Carry on, Bill.”
Restin found Grant’s belt and shoes. He didn’t expect to find any identification. Grant wouldn’t have had any. He found an empty holster in a corner, Russian made. Remembering the pistol on the table that the lieutenant snatched, he picked it up. He wrapped the windbreaker around mud-covered shoes. As he started securing the bundle with Grant’s belt, he noticed something and held his penlight close. “LT! Look, sir.” Monroe came nearer. “Think I found one of the things they may have hit him with, sir.” Blood was on the belt buckle. Monroe just shook his head. Restin finished and put the bundle near his gear, dropping the holster on top.
Corpsman Stalley’s next urgent task was to get fluid into Grant. Tearing open a small packet, he pulled out an alcohol wipe, and cleaned a patch of skin on the inside of Grant’s arm. Using two fingers, he gave light taps on the skin until he found a vein. Removing an IV needle from a plastic bag, he leaned close and inserted it. Ripping a piece of tape, he rolled it around Grant’s arm, securing the needle in place. Next, he removed an IV fluid pouch, held it overhead until the fluid flowed to the bottom of the tube near the shutoff valve. He handed the pouch to the chief as he attached the tubing to the needle. Once it was secure, he slowly adjusted the flow control, until the fluid started a slow drip.
As he worked, Stalley kept talking, trying to keep Grant conscious. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
Grant managed a hoarse, “Yeah.”
“Okay, sir. Stay with me now. You’ve got a wound that needs suturing.” Stalley was working swiftly and methodically. They didn’t want to waste too much time in this place. Grant needed help...and the prospect of running into more Russians, or East Germans, was none too appealing.
He squirted some saline solution around the wound, then cleaned the area with Betadine swabs. Once the wound had been sutured, he covered it with a small battle dressing, and secured it with adhesive tape.
Last, he squirted more saline solution on a piece of gauze, and very gently wiped blood from around Grant’s mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. They couldn’t give him anything to drink in case he had internal injuries. The best he could do was pour fresh water on some gauze and squeeze a few drops over his mouth.
“We’re ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said, as he pulled off the gloves then
stood.
“What about pain meds, Cal?” Monroe asked.
“No can do, sir, not with the concussion I’m sure he’s got. Don’t know how long he’s been out, but from now on, we’ve gotta keep him conscious.” Stalley hoped Grant wouldn’t get nauseous and have to puke, especially with his fractured ribs.
They put the litter next to Grant. Three of them spaced themselves evenly apart along his body.
Stalley gently straightened Grant’s injured arm, placing it close to his body. Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir,” Stalley apologized. He ripped a piece of tape and secured Grant’s arm to his body. “Sir, now we’ve gotta put you on a litter. This might hurt some. Are you ready?”
“Go,” Grant murmured.
“Chief, hand me your penlight then stabilize his head.” He directed the three men standing by. “On three, roll him slightly toward you, and I’ll check his back. Ready? One...two...three.” Stalley quickly did his examination. More deep bruising and lacerations. “Slip the litter under him, as close as you can near his side. Okay. Roll him back. Easy.” It was done.
They secured his legs and stabilized his head. Stalley opened a “space blanket” and covered Grant, tucking the edges under his body. Used to
prevent the loss of body heat, the blanket uses a material consisting of a thin sheet of plastic that’s coated with a metallic reflecting agent.
“Ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said.
Four men each picked up a corner of the litter, then with care, started their nearly two mile trek back to the planned extraction site.
Grant drifted in and out of consciousness during the journey. When he was awake, he felt lightheaded, dizzy. Things were very blurry, even the faces that sometimes were looking down at him, talking to him, reassuring him. His mind was constantly in a fog, unable to bring anything into focus. Most of the time it was completely blank. He knew he was being carried but couldn’t remember why or by whom. What he did know was that every part of his body was in pain, but he couldn’t remember why.
Throughout the journey, Stalley carried the IV pouch, occasionally checking the drip flow. He’d lean close to Grant, trying to stimulate him into staying awake by talking or tapping his shoulder. With his suspicion that Grant had a concussion, it was vital now that he stay conscious as much and as long as possible.
*
At the Edge of the Grunewald Forest
They were closing in on the location where they hid their jump gear. Stopping about fifty yards from the water’s edge, they gently laid the litter on the ground, then slid their rucksacks from their backs. So far the only sounds came from water lapping against the shore and a high-pitched train whistle off in the distance, blaring in three short bursts each time it sounded. Across the water, on land, nothing moved. The nearest village was over three miles west.
Lieutenant Monroe signaled for Clayton and Restin to scope out the area. He and the chief took defensive positions near Grant. Stalley quickly checked the IV flow, examined the needle in Grant’s arm, then put a hand on his forehead, checking for any sign of fever.
Staying away from the shoreline, away from exposing themselves, Clayton and Restin stayed low, combing the area cautiously, thoroughly. Clayton used the scope, moving it slowly as he searched along the opposite bank, while Restin kept his attention on the river, confirming no patrol boats were in the area.
Hustling back to the others, they reported their findings to Monroe, then got down on a knee and positioned themselves several feet away from Monroe and Kenton, putting a double perimeter around Grant.
Lieutenant Monroe reached for his radio. Trying to keep his voice low, he called, “Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Come in Alpha One. Over.”
One of the pilots sitting aboard a Huey, waiting on the tarmac at Tempelhof, keyed his mike. “Delta Tango this is Alpha One. Over.”
“Delta Tango confirms package is safe. I say again, package is safe. Ready for extraction. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Roger, Delta Tango. Alpha One underway. Out.”
Stalley leaned close to Grant, patting his shoulder. “It’s almost over, sir.”
With Tempelhof being only twenty-five miles from their location, they expected the chopper to reach them in under ten minutes. The SEALs quickly gathered all their gear, making sure everything was secured. Then they double checked their weapons.
Clayton slung his rifle strap over his head, then took out the Starlighter, keeping watch for the chopper and any unsociable Russians or East Germans.
In the distance they heard the familiar whomp whomp whomp rapid sound of a Huey. “Two o’clock!” Clayton reported.
Monroe pulled a penlight from his pocket. The chopper was coming in really low. He held the light overhead, and signaled.
Stalley leaned over Grant, protecting him from flying debris. “Your ride’s finally here, sir!”
The pilot maneuvered the chopper, so the nose was facing the water. Standing by the door, manning his M60 machine gun, the gunner waited until the helo was ready to touch down. As soon as the skids hit dirt, he unfastened a stretcher laying across canvas seats. He jumped out, then pulled the stretcher from the chopper. Keeping low, he raced toward the SEALs.
Monroe was hurrying toward the chopper. He pointed, “Over there!” to the gunner, then, he assumed a defensive position next to the chopper, watching his men put Grant on the stretcher.
Stalley ran alongside Grant. When they reached the chopper, he was the first to climb aboard. The men hoisted the stretcher into the cabin, putting it on the seats. Stalley immediately fastened safety belts around Grant.
The gunner resumed his standing position behind the M60, readjusting the wire mouthpiece attached to his helmet. With his hands gripping both handles, he was ready to fire if he had to.
Monroe and the chief got onboard, as Restin and Clayton jumped out, gathering their gear, then handing everything up to the chief.
Suddenly, the gunner swung his M60 around and shouted, “Headlights! Eight o’clock!” A more disturbing sound caught everyone’s attention...a chopper, coming from due East.
Restin and Clayton scrambled aboard. Monroe shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”
The pilot responded immediately. The skids were barely off the ground, when gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes from at least four weapons came in rapid succession from two approaching vehicles. Pings sounded as bullets hit the tail of the Huey.
The gunner fired off bursts of M60 rounds, as the helo started forward, with its nose dipping slightly. It was headed on a course back to Tempelhof, to a waiting Nightingale, trying to outrun the other chopper.
Chapter 12
Kremlin
Office of Premier Gorshevsky
Gorshevsky had been waiting for hours, waiting for word from Antolov, hoping Major Losevsky was able to extract information from the American. “This ‘Stevens’ is the only one who can give me answers,” he mumbled to himself, as he paced in front of the window.
His stomach started to churn from his frustration, and too much vodka. Tea,he thought. He took a step to the credenza. A small double charcoal burner, called a samovar, was on the left side of the piece of furniture. One burner had a teapot with a very concentrated infusion of tea, while the other pot held plain hot water. He poured tea from the teapot into a traditional tulip-shaped glass then diluted it slightly with plain water.
As he sipped the tea, he went back to the window, just as his phone rang. “Mikhail?”
“Yes, Mr. Premier. Berlin has not yet received any further response from Major Losevsky. His last message indicated Stevens had still not given them any information.”
Gorshevsky took a slow, deep breath. They were getting nowhere. “Send a message to Berlin. I want that American to talk. And remember, Mikhail, he needs to be kept alive.” At this point, Gorshevsky didn’t give a damn what condition Stevens was in when he was finally exchanged for Chernov.
“I understand, sir.”
“One more issue, Mikhail. Has anyone found the colonel’s wife?”
“No, sir. We have checked all airports, trains, any transportation we could think of. There is nothing to indicate she has left Russia.
“Three of my men have gone to the apartment. They found her papers in one of her handbags. All her clothes appeared to be there, undisturbed. Nothing was out of order. And the recording devices have been checked. Again, nothing.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Mr. Premier, what if she was taken by the Americans?”
“And for what purpose?”
“Perhaps to make Colonel Moshenko cooperate in taking the Americans. That would be a reasonable explanation for him being on the American helicopter.” But it still doesn’t answer why he fired at our troops,Antolov thought. He decided not bring up the possibility of defection again until he had definite proof.
“That is not making any sense, Mikhail. You said Colonel Moshenko was a friend of this American. If that is the case, why would they find it necessary to take Mrs. Moshenko?”
“Just because they are friends, sir, does not mean he was willing to help with the escape of the five men. Perhaps the Americans needed a way to make him cooperate.
“Sir, I believe I have said this before, but Colon
el Moshenko has been a loyal party member, a loyal officer. I never had any reason to believe otherwise.”
Gorshevsky mulled the statement over, before asking, “Do you believe she is being held somewhere in Russia?”
“We have not been able to trace any movement, sir. Our next course of action will be to take her photo to every subway and train station, and also the airports.”
“Very time-consuming, Mikhail. Right now we must focus on that captured American and find out who destroyed our aircraft, and get definitive answers concerning Colonel Moshenko,” Gorshevsky responded with definite annoyance in his voice. “I will keep all this in mind when I talk with the American President. When we talk again, Mikhail, I hope you will tell me what I want to hear.”
“I will, sir.” End of conversation.
Gorshevsky looked at the wall clock. Having the information just relayed by Antolov should be enough to start the American President thinking about an exchange. He swallowed the last mouthful of tea, then picked up the receiver on the red phone.
*
Oval Office
The White House
President Andrew Carr opened a folder with the Presidential seal displayed on front. Thumbing through papers inside, he removed a typed sheet and placed it on top of the others. Before he continued reading, he poured a glass of water. “How about you, Ed?” he asked.
CIA Director Hannigan shook his head. “No, thanks,” he responded, holding a can of Pepsi.
“What about you, Will?”
SECDEF waved his hand, “None for me.”
Carr took a decent swallow of cold water, then rubbed the glass against his cheek, as he asked Hannigan, “When are you expecting Agent Mullins’ body to arrive?”
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