Sacrifice of One

by Jamie Fredric

  “Late tonight or early morning.”

  “You don’t plan on taking any action, do you? I mean, making any negative comments, tarnishing his record, or...?”

  Hannigan interrupted, “The man was what the military would call ‘AWOL,’ Mr. President. He disappeared, went to Russia, then to East Germany!”

  “And for what purpose, Ed? To take a damn vacation? To defect? No! To assist two of our Navy officers in helping save the lives of American POWs. To help a KGB officer and his wife escape to the West. Would you still consider that AWOL?”

  Not giving Hannigan a chance to reply, he continued, “And even if he had come to you before, to ask your permission, would you have agreed to let him go? Come on, Ed! For Christ’s sake! The man was killed while performing an act of heroism!” Hannigan didn’t respond. Carr decided to let it rest for the moment. His intercom buzzed. “Yes, Rachel.”

  “Mr. President, Admiral Torrinson is on line one.”

  “Admiral, please tell me you have some good news.”

  “Mr. President, the SEALs found Captain Stevens. He’s alive, sir.”

  Carr’s face broke into a huge smile. He gave a thumb’s up to the two men. “Can you give me a brief rundown, admiral?”

  “Yes, sir. He was found at a cabin somewhere in a place called Grunewald Forest in East Germany. The Russians were using it as a small communication station.

  “A brief message from the SEALs stated he had a gunshot wound and had been badly beaten, Mr. President. We won’t know the extent of his injuries until the doctors at Landstuhl examine him. The Moshenkos, Lieutenant Adler, and I are on our way there now, sir.” Without hospital facilities available at Ramstein Air Base, patients are sent to the Army’s Landstuhl Regional Medical Hospital, three miles south of Ramstein.

  “I’m assuming all the SEALs returned unharmed?”

  “Yes, sir. They did.”

  “All right, admiral. Keep me informed.” Carr decided not to inquire about any Russian or East German military casualties. It would be in Torrinson’s final report anyway.

  No sooner had Carr ended his call, when a light on his red phone started blinking. He waited until his secretary notified him.

  “Mr. President, Premier Gorshevsky and his interpreter are on line one.”

  Carr gave Hannigan and Kruger a glance. Before picking up the receiver, he hit the speaker button. “Premier Gorshevsky?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “What can I do for you?” Carr asked, as he winked at the two men.

  “Mr. President, I would like to discuss with you the possibility of a prisoner exchange.”

  “Interesting,” Carr responded. “You did say ‘exchange’ didn’t you?”

  “I did. You have been holding Comrade Boris Chernov, or, I should say, your CIA has been holding him for quite some time.” Carr eyed Hannigan, who shrugged his shoulders. Gorshevsky continued, “I have also been informed that our Colonel Moshenko is now in your hands.” Whether or not the report was correct about Moshenko firing at Russian troops, Gorshevsky wanted him back in Russia.

  Carr responded, “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you no longer have our five Americans, who were, at one time, POWs in the hands of the North Vietnamese. Would you care to tell me how those men ended up in your country, Mr. Gorshevsky? I’m curious, and I’m certain the American people and our Allies would like some kind of explanation.”

  Gorshevsky let the question go. The President was smart enough to have figured out the POWs were to have been his bargaining tool. Instead, he replied, “I realize we no longer have your Americans, Mr. President.”

  “So, if not those men, who could you possibly have that you want to exchange?”

  “I have been informed that our soldiers have taken a Captain Stevens into custody. This captain has killed several of our men, Mr. President. He...”

  “Just a minute. You say he ‘killed’ your men? Under what circumstances did that happen? Was it during the altercation when your soldiers were trying to prevent the five Americans from escaping to freedom? If that’s the case, I’d say Captain Stevens was protecting his fellow Americans, Mr. Premier. Surely, you agree.”

  Again, Gorshevsky had to sidestep

  the issue. “According to the dossier we have on him, I believe he works for your Admiral Torrinson. I wonder what information we can obtain from him regarding your Naval Investigative Service. But, putting that aside, I am willing to exchange him for Comrade Chernov.”

  Carr thought Gorshevsky sounded as if he were trying to exchange a damn pair of Russian shoes. “And how can I be sure you are holding Captain Stevens? What proof do you have?”

  “I can give you proof, if that is what you want, or, we can just set a place and time to make the exchange and resolve the matter completely. Perhaps we can meet in Potsdam, where other friendly exchanges have taken place between our two countries.”

  Carr leaned back in his chair, swiveling back and forth, as he sipped at a glass of water. “This is all very sudden, Mr. Premier. But I hope you won’t be too disappointed when I tell you this exchange is never going to happen.”

  Gorshevsky let the words sink in, totally astonished. “Never going to happen? You do not wish to get your American back? Do you have any idea what we can do...?”

  “There is no need to threaten me or Captain Stevens, Mr. Premier,” Carr interrupted, looking forward to ending this game. He swung his chair back to center, then leaned on his desk. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Premier, and this has to do with your conscience.”

  “My conscience?”

  “Yes. You said you have a dossier on Captain Stevens. Surely in that file there is information on what the captain did for you and the Politburo, the risk he took. Am I correct?” Carr only heard a grunt from the other end. “Mr. Gorshevsky?”

  “Yes. You are correct. But that still did not give him the right to...”

  “All right. That’s enough. Now, let me tell you why I will not make an exchange, Mr. Gorshevsky. Let me rephrase that. I cannot make an exchange. I don’t know who gave you the information about your country having Captain Stevens in custody, but it is completely inaccurate. You see, Mr. Premier, as of approximately two hours ago, you no longer have custody of Captain Stevens. We do.” Trump card. Game over.

  Gorshevsky was breathing so heavy now, he was wheezing, completely dumbfounded by the news. Someone was making a fool out of him. Pictures of people who had been involved in this whole incident and investigation since the aircraft was destroyed, flashed in his mind.

  Thinking he was losing the upper hand, Gorshevsky tried to regain his composure somewhat. He turned his attention to the Colonel Moshenko matter. Nothing has been proven that Moshenko turned against his troops and the Motherland. He wanted to believe the Americans took him as a hostage. He finally asked Carr, “And what of our Colonel Moshenko? I know he was taken with the Americans. I am requesting you return him to my country.”

  “Are you telling me you have someone else in custody that can be exchanged for this colonel?”

  “No. Not at this time.”

  “Then I’m afraid this Colonel Moshenko must remain in our custody, Mr. Gorshevsky. And if I’m not mistaken, isn’t he an officer in your KGB?”

  “You know he is,” the agitated premier answered, reaching for another glass of Stoli. “But I have one other concern,” Gorshevsky said, swallowing a mouthful of vodka. “We have been unable to locate the colonel’s wife. There is no trace of her. Do you know anything about this, Mr. President?”

  “These past couple of days have certainly not treated you well, Mr. Gorshevsky. But I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Moshenko. I hope she’s safe and no harm has come to her. I tell you what, if you’d like, we’d be more than willing to assist in...”

  “Thank you, but that will not be necessary, Mr. President.”

  “Then I guess there’s nothing further to discuss. I believe our business is concluded. Good day, Mr. Gorshevsky.”

&nbs
p; *

  Ulitsa Kratsina Boulevard

  Moscow

  A black four-door Mercedes, with darkened windows, slowly pulled alongside a curb on Ulitsa Kratsina, followed closely by an older black four-door Volga.

  Both vehicles rolled to a stop. Engines were shut off. Two men got out of the Volga, then walked to the Mercedes, standing on the curb, with Uzis slung over their shoulders.

  Inside the Mercedes, Mikhail Antolov sat in the backseat, holding a folder on his lap. He took a final drag from his cigarette, then crushed it in an ashtray in the console. Several papers slid out of the folder when he tossed it on the seat. He knocked on the window. His driver opened the door, and Antolov got out. He adjusted his Makarov in his side holster, then buttoned his jacket, as he looked at the five-story apartment building in front of him.

  Antolov focused his eyes on a third floor apartment. Lights were shining from a single and a large five-paned window. Waiting no longer, he started toward the building, with his two men staying close behind.

  As they approached the building, Antolov stepped aside and waited as his men opened the single prefabricated wooden door. Once inside, he motioned both men ahead of him. The lead man stood near the bottom step of the stairwell. Resting a hand on the rusted metal railing, he tilted his head back, looking up three flights of concrete steps, swiveling his head to see all angles.

  A sound of voices, then a door slamming, made them back up. A middle-aged man and woman came around the first floor landing. Antolov’s guards stepped out of the shadows, stopping the couple before they reached the bottom step, holding them at bay. The woman gasped, seeing the weapons. Antolov remained in the shadows, shaking his head, saying, “N’yet.” Tugging on the man’s jacket sleeve, a guard swung his Uzi to the right. The couple knew it was time for them to leave, and they ran from the building.

  With it quiet again, the men continued up three flights of stairs, stopping briefly at the end of the third floor hallway. Lights were dim. The sound of a radio came from behind the first apartment door. Antolov motioned the men further down the hall, looking for number 5.

  The guards took their places, one on each side of a scuffed wooden door. Antolov walked nearer, turning his head, hearing someone inside. A window slammed shut.

  He tapped on the door, then spoke. “Comrade Tarasov. This is Director Antolov. Please open the door.” Silence from inside. “Comrade!” he shouted.

  Suddenly, a door behind them opened, and the three men swung around. A young man started to step out of his apartment, and with eyes wide, seeing Uzis, immediately jumped back and slammed the door.

  Antolov called again. “Comrade Tarasov! I am asking you for the last time. Open the door!”

  Hurried footsteps were heard inside, then the slamming of a door, or drawer. Antolov didn’t have a good feeling. He stepped back and motioned for his men to break in the door.

  The instantaneous sound of the door shattering, and a sound of a pistol discharging, reverberated throughout the building.

  Antolov pushed past his men, stepping over and around fragmented pieces of door. His eyes fell on the body of Comrade Vladimir Tarasov, laying beneath a window located at the front of the apartment. Blood and brain matter slid down the glass above the body.

  He walked across the room, with his arms behind his back. Standing over the body, he looked down at a contorted face frozen in time, from a bullet fired through the mouth, blowing out the back of the head.

  Antolov could only shake his head. Now, there would be no definitive answers. Nothing to explain why Tarasov had decided Colonel Moshenko must die. And why aboard an aircraft carrying the American POWs? Twofold perhaps, Antolov reasoned. Caused by a deranged mind.

  One fact he did have: A guard who was meant to be on the flight that day reported he had developed a stomach virus, constantly puking. In his confession he stated he collaborated with Tarasov and was the one who planted the devices. That is the only fact Antolov had. That is all he can tell the premier.

  Unfortunately, the only other person who could possibly fill in the blanks is Colonel Grigori Moshenko.

  Chapter 13

  Landstuhl Regional Medical Hospital

  Three Miles South of Ramstein

  Distinct smells and flurries of activities at Landstuhl Regional Medical Hospital are no different from any other hospital. Every minuscule particle of air carried with it a smell of antiseptic. A voice over the PA system was paging doctors. Nurses hurried down hallways, carrying trays with pills and hypodermics. Doctors in green hospital gowns walked side by side, discussing patients. Volunteers pushed carts with magazines and newspapers.

  Somehow, Rear Admiral John Torrinson had found a way to ignore all this. His special flight, authorized by President Carr, brought him to Tempelhof. He’d been pacing this same hallway ever since he arrived, waiting with Adler and the Moshenkos.

  With his arms folded across his chest, and his head hanging down, he felt old beyond his forty-eight years. These were the times he dreaded. It was a deep pain of knowing someone who’d given his all for so long, fought for everything he believed in, willing to sacrifice himself to save others, was now possibly fighting for his own life.

  “Sir?” Torrinson slowly turned around. “Here ya go, admiral,” Joe Adler said, handing Torrinson a paper cup of black coffee.

  “Thanks, Joe.” Torrinson looked into Adler’s bloodshot eyes with prominent dark circles underneath. He, too, was feeling the stress.

  “It’s straight up, sir. Didn’t know if you took it with or without anything.”

  “Definitely need it straight up today, Joe,” Torrinson answered, forcing a slight smile. He took a sip, then raising his eyes, he looked Adler dead-on, speaking softly. “One of these days the three of us are going to have a discussion about that chopper. You know...the one you and Grant ‘borrowed’?”

  “Yes, sir. Be happy to.”

  Torrinson sipped at his coffee, taking a brief glance down the passageway. Positioned along white stark walls, there are a row of gray molded plastic seats. Sitting in those seats are five Navy SEALs.

  Sitting next to them is a man and a woman, each with a CIA authorized “Visitor” badge hanging from a chain around their necks. Grigori Moshenko squeezed Alexandra’s hand, whispered in her ear, then stood and walked toward Adler and Torrinson.

  “Do you think we will have to wait much longer?” he asked, impatiently, but obviously with concern.

  Torrinson gave a slight shake of his head. “No way to tell, colonel.” All three looked at the double doors, under the sign “SURGERY.” Waiting for them to swing open was nerve-racking, but praying that when they did, someone would be bringing good news.

  Adler stepped away from Torrinson and Moshenko, with his eyes glued to the doors. He still couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact that Grant was somewhere behind those doors, in surgery, possibly...

  Suddenly, one door swung open. A surgeon, wearing green surgical scrubs, took long strides toward the waiting visitors, as he removed his surgical mask. He was about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair, about 5’10”, and appeared to be in good physical shape.

  Adler took backward steps, until he was between Moshenko and Torrinson, with his eyes never leaving the doctor coming toward them.

  As soon as the SEALs saw the doctor, they got up, and letting Alexandra go ahead of them, they hurried down the hall to join the others.

  Alexandra laid a hand on her husbands back, and he moved over, allowing her to squeeze in. She grabbed his hand.

  Captain Paul Engleston introduced himself then began. “Well, folks, as you probably already know, Captain Stevens took one helluva beating, and I’m betting more than one.

  “We did a full CAT scan and took X-rays. I had some concern about vertebrae C3 and C4 with the swelling, but it was only bruising. The scan also showed a contusion on his liver. He’s got a simple fracture of two ribs, and a broken index finger. We set his shoulder then had to do extensive repairs to t
he rotator cuff. Looks like he had some surgery on it not too long ago, right?”

  Torrinson responded, “He did.”

  Engleston commented, “Whoever did this to him probably noticed that scar.” He continued, “There’re a couple of injuries on the back of his head and forehead, that needed sewing up, so between those and the bullet, the result was a concussion. But, the good news is there isn’t any sign of a skull fracture.

  “We stitched an area here,” he indicated by touching a section above his temple, “where the bullet grazed

  him. And he had several additional places on his body, front and back, that needed stitching up.” Engleston looked down, shaking his head. “Considering the beating he took, he’s one lucky man.”

  He raised his head then looked around at the faces staring back at him, waiting for him to put a period on the diagnosis. “Look, it’s going to take some time, but I expect him to make a complete recover. With those rib injuries and contusion on his liver, though, he’ll be here at least another five to six weeks convalescing. We’ll start him on therapy for his shoulder while he’s here. The whole recovery process might be slow.”

  His gray eyes scanned the group in front of him, as he asked, “Who’s the corpsman that worked on him?” Chief Kenton pointed a finger at Stalley. Doc Engleston put his hands on his hips, as he said, “Well, petty officer, you sure as hell made my job easier by caring for him the way you did! Good work, son.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without the Team, sir,” Stalley answered as he looked at his fellow SEALs. Engleston totally understood the comment.

  Moshenko spoke softly to Alexandra, trying his best to keep up with the translation. When he finished, she laid her head against his arm, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “When can we see him, doc?” Adler asked, anxiously.

  “They’re getting him ready to go to the recovery room. I’d say maybe in a couple of hours after they move him to a bed in the ward. But don’t expect too much from him. The anesthesia will last for awhile, plus he’s on pain medication.”