Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  "Very well. I'll be talking with Scott as soon as I leave here, lining up details for our flight."

  Secretary Daniels removed a ballpoint pen from his suit jacket pocket, and clicked the top. "Captain, will you be requiring any additional 'heavy' equipment?"

  Grant understood Daniels' question meant chopper, boat. "Hard to say right now, Mr. Secretary. I probably won't know until we get more definitive information from Dotsenko."

  "And what about Colonel Moshenko?" Carr asked.

  "If Grigori knows anything that might jeopardize the op, I'll advise you immediately. Then you all can decide where to go from there."

  Carr handed Grant a piece of paper. Several names had been scratched out, except for one, and that was circled. "What do you think about that code name for the mission?"

  "'Operation Gold Eagle,'" Grant said aloud. "Think you picked a good one, sir."

  "Then that's what we'll go with." Carr rolled his chair back, then stood. Grant took the hint, and walking nearer, took hold of the President's offered hand. "Good luck, Grant."

  "Thank you, sir." He gave a quick nod to the men in the room, then he left.

  *

  Turning the Vette onto Virginia Avenue, heading back to his apartment, Grant ran the meeting through his mind, putting everything in order. He picked up the phone and dialed Moshenko's home number.

  "Hello?" a soft voice answered.

  "Hey, Alexandra! It's Grant."

  "Oh, Grant. It is good to hear you."

  Grant answered with an obvious smile in his voice, "And you. Your English is getting better all the time!"

  "Yes. I am learning much."

  "Well, you're doing great. Hey, is Grigori home?"

  "He is in yard." She corrected herself. "He is out in the yard. Do you want speak with him, Grant?"

  "No, that's okay. Just tell him Joe and I are on our way over."

  "I will. Lunch is ready, but I will have extra food for Joe!"

  "Hey! What about me?!"

  "Yes, and you, Grant!"

  "Looking forward to it! I've gotta go, Alexandra. We'll see you in a little while."

  Making a right turn, he pulled into the apartment building's garage, parked in his designated space, then immediately tried calling Adler at Eagle 8. Stalley reported Alder was out making a food run. Next to the importance of a mission, food was next on the list for Grant's best friend. He dialed the car phone.

  "Yo!" the familiar voice answered.

  "Joe! Where you at?"

  "In my car!"

  "No shit!"

  "I was on my way back . . ."

  "Need you to meet me at my apartment. We're going to make a short trip to Maryland. I'm hoping to get some feedback."

  "I take it you've got our 'traveling' papers?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Hey! Do I need to pick up any goodies to take?"

  Grant just shook his head, as he responded with a smile in his voice, "I've been advised lunch will be awaiting our arrival. Your reputation precedes you, Joe."

  "Outstanding! See ya in a few."

  Twenty minutes later the two friends were in the black Vette heading to the Moshenkos. Adler reached into a bag containing a dozen Dunkin' Donuts, then offered a raised sugar one to Grant.

  "No, thanks. I'll just suck on coffee."

  "So, fill me in."

  Grant detailed his meeting at the White House. "CIA wasn't too happy about givin' up so much of its secret shit."

  "They never plan ahead," Adler laughed, as he licked his fingers. "How the hell did they think we'd begin the op without full disclosure?"

  Grant gave a short laugh. "The President used his powers of persuasion to prod Bancroft into disclosing."

  "A cattle prod would've been much more fun!"

  Traffic increased as they drove through D.C. heading for Maryland. A normal twenty minute drive had taken thirty minutes when Grant finally pulled the Vette into the Moshenkos' driveway, parking behind a dark blue Ford sedan.

  Moshenko was sitting on the top step near the front door, smoking his favorite, a Davidoff Grand Cru cigar. He snapped a quick salute as he was standing. His 5'10" frame was still solid, the same as when he and Grant first met. The short black hair had a few more grays, however.

  Car doors slammed. "Hey, Grigori!" Grant waved.

  "Colonel," Adler said, holding up the bag of donuts.

  "My friends!" He greeted Grant then Adler, giving both a bear hug, slapping his good friends on the back. "It is good to see you! Come! Come! Let us go inside."

  Alexandra walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flowered apron. Her dark hair was cut shorter than usual, curling just below her ears. "Grant and Joe!" She walked to Grant and gave him a hug, then tilted her head back, looking up into his brown eyes. "We are happy you are here," she smiled.

  "I'm next," Adler announced, with his arms spread wide.

  "Joe," Alexandra said, "I have cooked special for you. Come into dining room."

  Adler licked his lips, as his eyes roamed an array of steaming, hot food. "You outdid yourself, Alexandra! What is all this?"

  She pointed to each large dish: "Sweet cabbage soup; pirog (a yeast-raised dough formed into a circle and filled with meat, mushrooms, rice); beef stroganoff and noodles; Russian black bread, and apple cake for dessert."

  Adler couldn't stand to wait any longer. "Let's eat!" He slid a chair from under the table for Alexandra.

  "And I have something special for you both," Moshenko announced, coming from the kitchen holding two bottles of Budweiser.

  "You're both after our hearts!" Grant smiled, taking one of the ice cold bottles.

  Two hours later the three men were sitting on the back patio. Moshenko lit another cigar, then blew out a steady stream of smoke. "Now, what is it you wish to discuss, my friends?"

  Grant leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "Grigori, have you ever heard of Drazowe, Poland?"

  "You know of that place?!" He actually seemed surprised.

  "Uh, yeah, but just recently. I mean, we don't know a helluva lot yet. I was hoping you could give us more."

  "I will be honest with you, Grant. There were few people outside a certain circle of the government who were given details. I know I was KGB, but . . ."

  "Listen, Grigori, that's okay. Don't worry about it."

  Moshenko looked between Grant and Adler with a worried expression. "You have a new mission."

  "Think so."

  "If there is anything I can do . . ."

  Grant flashed him a grin. "How 'bout a couple more Buds?!"

  *

  Eagle 8

  Virginia

  2015 Hours

  The security gate automatically swung open, responding to a signal from a sensor under the bumper of Adler's red Mustang. He drove through, with Grant right behind him.

  As the gate started closing Grant saw in his mirror a green Ford F-150. Frank Diaz flashed his lights, waiting for the gate to reopen. Once he drove through, he stomped on the gas, getting within a few feet of the Vette.

  The closer they drove to the 4,000 square foot ranch-style log house, faint lights inside became more visible. With the sun still shining, security lights had not yet come on. Five other cars were already parked near the garages -- the remaining members of Team Alpha Tango.

  Responding to Grant's call, they arrived within twenty minutes. None of the men were currently married, and that was one of the reasons Grant and Adler selected them. Except for Doc Stalley, the youngest of the Team, everyone had been married at least once. They knew the hardships placed on families, the guilt they themselves felt for contributing to that hardship. They still had the occasional "relationships," and for them, those were enough.

  Even though the entire Team was on call 24/7/365, their life didn't match those of active duty SEALs. With A.T., when a mission was over, it was over. Chances of being sent to a world "hot spot" so soon after would be rare, and so far that hadn't happened.

&nb
sp; "Hey!" Diaz shouted, slamming the truck door. As he jogged toward Grant and Adler, he no longer showed any sign of his previous injury, a gunshot wound in the leg during the last mission.

  "What's up, Frank?" Adler responded, following Grant up the porch steps.

  "I was about to ask you two the same thing! I guess we've got the mission?"

  "Fill you in inside," Grant answered, as he opened the door.

  Recaps of baseball games were showing on TV, the sound all but drowned out by the men's voices. Sitting at the long, rectangular walnut dining room table, they were popping open cans of soda, beer, digging into bags of chips. A typical healthy meal.

  "I smell pizza!" Novak said, sniffing the air.

  Adler dropped five boxes on the counter. "Sorry the main course is late, guys!"

  Grant tossed his keys on the coffee table, shut off the TV, then went to a wall cabinet in the living room, and sorted through a box of maps, taking one out.

  "Hey, boss, you gonna have some food?" Stalley asked while he walked to the table, carrying two slices of pepperoni pizza.

  "Not right now, Doc." He sat on the couch and unfolded a map.

  Adler was opening a can of Coke in the kitchen, when Garrett leaned across the counter. "Is he okay, Joe?"

  Adler looked over his shoulder at Grant. "Yeah, he's fine. You know him when he's got that brain going 'full tilt' on an upcoming mission."

  Garrett picked up a slice of cheese pizza, then joined the men at the table.

  Adler grabbed another Coke and took it to Grant. "Here. Caffeine is a requirement."

  "Thanks, Joe." He popped the top as he continued studying the map.

  Adler sat on the arm of the couch. "The way you're looking at that tells me you see problems."

  "Maybe not problems, but more like large obstacles."

  Adler lowered his voice. "One of those obstacles wouldn't be this, would it?" He tapped a spot on the map. Grunewald, Germany.

  "How many times have you asked me that, Joe?!"

  "Hey! Don't get your ass in a twit. I worry about you."

  "Yeah, I know. But a helluva lot of other guys went through more shit than me. I'm over it, Joe. End of story. Okay?"

  "Roger that."

  One side of Grant's mouth curved up. "If you weren't my best friend, I'd beat the crap out of you right about now!"

  Adler held up his hands and leaned back. "Consider me afraid!"

  "What's goin' on over there?!" Novak shouted.

  Grant picked up the map, then stood. "C'mon. We've gotta put our heads together." He snatched a folder from the counter, then went to the dining room table, spreading out the map.

  "Make some room, guys," Adler said, pulling out a chair. James and Diaz moved their chairs away from each other.

  After Grant explained the reason for the Team being asked to participate in an exchange, he proceeded to discuss the mission. "Okay, code name for the mission is 'Operation Gold Eagle.' Destination: Germany and Poland. There'll be two parts to the mission, but let's discuss the extraction of the operative in Poland. In that folder is information on both 'assets.' Take a good look, 'cause we've gotta shred everything before we depart."

  Adler held a photo in each hand, then turned them over and read the print: "Pankova, thirty-seven; 5'4"; medium length light brown hair; brown eyes; fair skin. Dotsenko; forty-one; 5'9"; short salt and pepper straight hair; small scar on chin." He passed them to Diaz.

  For the next twenty minutes Grant detailed everything he gleaned from his White House meeting.

  "Do you think she's still alive, boss?" Stalley asked with concern.

  "Hard to say, Doc. There isn't proof either way."

  "Christ!" Draper spat out. "How the hell didn't we know about that place?!"

  "Look, our mission isn't to recon the area specifically, but I'm sure somebody will want to question us when we return. Our immediate mission is extract the operative. She's the one with all the intel. So, take a look at this map." Grant slid his finger along a route. "Here's Berlin, and here's Drazowe. That's about 160 miles. From the Baltic coast inland to that town is less than two. The kicker is, we won't know exactly where she is until we have Dotsenko. I couldn't convince them to get the info from him while he was here, so . . ." He pulled out a chair, sat down, and rocked back, balancing on the two back legs. "Let's talk."

  Novak's hand shot up like a kid in a classroom. "I have a question. How do we get to that area," he indicated by moving his hand in a circle above the map, "if this whole fucking space is in the Soviet Sector?"

  "You catch on quick, Mike," Grant answered with a half smile. "That's one of the obstacles."

  Chapter 4

  Schonefeld Airport

  East Germany

  June 19

  1930 Hours

  Day 1 of Mission

  Two and a half hours after refueling in Shannon, Ireland, the Gulfstream touched down on Runway 07 of Schonefeld Airport, East Germany. Located ten miles south southeast of Berlin, the airport was situated just outside the boundary of the Berlin Wall.

  An airport marshaller stood well in front of the Gulfstream, and head-on with Garrett's left shoulder. Garrett guided the plane along a white line, steering toward a concrete area. The marshaller motioned him forward until the Gulfstream lined up next to a Beechcraft with Swiss registration. The marshaller crossed his wands overhead, signaling Garrett to stop.

  Just before departing Virginia, the Team received intel from NSA. Intercepted transmissions indicated the KGB had orders to transport Dotsenko directly to their aircraft at Schonefeld immediately after the exchange.

  During the flight to Ireland, A.T. made preliminary plans for the 'snatch' of Alexei Dotsenko.

  While Garrett and Draper sat in the cockpit going through the final checklist, the rest of the men gathered in the cabin, standing near Grant. He opened a map of the area, smoothing it down with a hand.

  Munching on an Oreo cookie, Adler looked over Grant's shoulder. "Do you think that road is the best one for us to do our 'work'?"

  Grant ran a finger along a black line leading from the airport. "I think so, Joe. We won't have to pass through security checkpoints."

  Slade took a sip of Coke. "Are we gonna have a problem driving through East Germany without proper papers?"

  Adler shook his head. "No. Any citizen of the Western Allied powers has authority to use all designated transit routes. The Soviets travel just about anywhere, anytime they want. But we've done it before, right, skipper?"

  "Roger that, Joe. It's passing through checkpoints that can be hairy at times, but we'll still be taking all our passports."

  "Maybe we'll be okay," James said, "but what about our 'traveling companion'?"

  "I've got a new U.S. passport for him."

  "And our gear and weapons?" Novak asked, worried about his sniper rifle.

  "We'll leave everything on the plane, Mike, except for sidearms and rifles. Once Dotsenko is at the embassy, and he's given us her location, we're coming back to Schonefeld to plan part two of the op." Grant stood, as he was folding the map. "Any questions?" Silence. "Okay, let's go rent the vehicles. Joe, Frank, you'll be driving. We'll depart Schonefeld ten minutes apart, then join up. I'd like to check out the route before dark, then again around midnight tonight."

  Only one road was a direct route from and to the airport that followed the perimeter of the Berlin Wall, taking the least amount of time. Returning to Schonefeld, vehicles had to make a right-hand turn off Konigstrasse, then 100 yards farther away, a left turn, putting them back on course for the airport. A.T. found the route to be the safest, quickest place to make the snatch.

  While the Team left to grab something to eat in the terminal, Grant and Adler remained in the plane. Cabin lights were low, shades lowered.

  Grant was stretched out on one of the bench seats, with his fingers locked behind his head. Hearing the sounds of jet engines hardly distracted him from his thoughts, thoughts that had nothing to do with the current missi
on.

  Adler had gone aft to grab a couple of Cokes from the small fridge. He walked back through the cabin, sat opposite Grant, then set one can on the table, and popped the top on his. As he started to drink, he paused, seeing Grant deep in thought.

  "What's wrong?"

  Grant slid his legs over the side, then sat up. Brushing his hands over the top of his head, he looked across the aisle. "Joe, I've been thinking."

  "No shit. It was pretty obvious."

  "I'd like to run something by you."

  "Fire away."

  "There's no denying that both of us love the hell outta what we do, right?"

  "Affirmative! We never would've gotten back into it after we retired if we didn't."

  Grant leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. "My mind says I could do this for another ten, twenty years. But the . . ."

  "But the bod says otherwise."

  "Exactly. So, what would you say to a change in direction again?"

  "As long as it's not sitting in a rockin' chair, what've you got in mind?"

  "Maybe start something like a training facility, a camp."

  "Seriously? And do what?"

  "There're a lot of young men out there who can't make it, or think they can't make it into Special Forces. Maybe we could prepare them for the reality of what it takes, prepare their bodies and minds. The rough stuff would come later," he laughed.

  Adler sipped his Coke. "Sounds almost like 'fun in Coronado' again."

  "Almost. I doubt we could ever match that."

  "It could work," Adler commented, rubbing his chin. "Are you talking weapons training, too?"

  "Everything, Joe. I'm looking down the road, of course, but depending on how many signed up, we could form squads."

  "Jesus! You have been thinking about it! You realize the idea opens up a whole shitload of questions. What happens to the Team? What'll our benefactors have to say? Jesus! What about the President's reaction?!"

  "I realize all that, Joe. I was thinking the Team might be willing to become instructors, even the 'youngster.'" Grant referred to Doc Stalley. "As far as your other questions, well, we might be getting ahead of ourselves."