Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  Sitting on couches across from one another were Vice President Evan Forbes and National Security Advisor Stan Hillman. Everyone awaited the arrival of CIA Director Bancroft, NSA General Prescott, and SecDef Daniels.

  The CIA still hadn't come up with any reasonable explanation as to how Reznikov escaped, leaving more questions than answers.

  Because the van and its passengers never reached Tempelhof on schedule, and because the agents never reported in, CIA in Berlin started searching. What they found was worse than they imagined. The charred, shattered remains of a van, bullet casings, blood splatters, pools of blood.

  Questioning the East German police was all but useless, except learning only four men were found at the scene and the name of the hospital where those men were transported. Special Agents Carl Traimore and Blake Torres were in intensive care, both with burns and gunshot wounds. The bodies of Special Agents Steve Leamon and Marty Fitzgerald were in the morgue. The whereabouts of Ivan Reznikov remained unknown.

  Forbes leaned back, watching the President, and finally asked, "Do you think Gorshevsky will be cooperative?"

  Carr pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. "Hard to say, Evan, but I have my doubts he'll want to offer assistance. He could probably care less whether or not we have Reznikov. All he wanted was Dotsenko."

  Hillman stood, stretching his back. "Think I'll go down to the Watch Room, see if anything's come in yet about Dotsenko." He glanced at his watch. "They should've reached the embassy by now." He left.

  Forbes leaned back, linking his fingers behind his head. "What about Stevens and his men? Are you thinking about pulling them out, and ending the mission?"

  "It's imperative they bring out Dotsenko and Pankova, especially now. But I'd like everyone's feedback before deciding." Carr tapped a fist on top of the phone, willing it to ring.

  Forbes reached for a black, insulated carafe and refilled his coffee cup. "Any decision on Reznikov? I mean, if you keep the Team over there, will you have them search for him, too?"

  Carr slowly shook his head. "Don't know. They've got a helluva lot on their 'plate' already. Think I'd better wait until Grant calls, or until CIA and NSA give us updates."

  Hillman came rushing back into the office. "They were just bringing this message to you, Mr. President. Dotsenko is safe at the embassy!"

  Carr read the message, saying softly, "Thank God." He focused again on Hillman. "Stan, any word if Captain Stevens was still there or whether he left for Schonefeld?"

  "Nothing was reported."

  "Do me a favor. Contact the embassy. Have the station chief call me on the scrambler." Hillman nodded then immediately left.

  "What are you thinking?" Forbes asked.

  "Maybe he knows something about that 'hit' since it was about the same timeframe the Team was to have snatched Dotsenko. If Grant is still there, maybe he can add . . ."

  A knock at the Oval Office door, and Carr responded, "Yes?!"

  "Mr. President," Director Bancroft said entering, with General Prescott, and SecDef Daniels right on his heels.

  Carr walked toward Bancroft, offering a hand. "Hank, sorry about the loss of your agents."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Have you heard anything further on the men in the hospital?"

  "Still critical."

  Carr put a hand on Bancroft's back. "Come on; have a seat."

  Handshakes went around, then Carr sat on the edge of his desk and got the meeting started. "Anything on Reznikov?"

  "Still nothing," Bancroft answered. "Whoever helped him escape has been quiet. But we've been monitoring East Berlin. They're more frantic about Dotsenko, and not knowing what happened to him. Our last intercept indicated the Russians who were in charge of the exchange have all but vanished. The embassy has sent agents on the 'hunt.'"

  Carr stood, as a slight smile crossed his face. "Two to one the Alpha Tango 'boys' had a hand in that."

  NS Advisor Hillman returned, acknowledging the three men with a nod. As he walked toward the President, he pointed at the scrambler. "A call should be coming in any . . ."

  Carr pressed the yellow blinking button, then picked up the receiver. "This is Andrew Carr."

  "Mr. President, Sam Nichols, Station Chief in Berlin."

  "Sam, let me first send my condolences for the loss of your men."

  "Thank you, Mr. President. They were good people."

  "I'm sure they were. And your men in the hospital?"

  "Still critical. As soon as there's any sign of improvement, and they can be moved, we'll have them flown to Landstuhl." The U.S. Army’s Landstuhl Regional Medical Hospital was located southwest of Berlin, approximately one hour flight time.

  "Director Bancroft will keep me informed of their condition, Sam."

  A brief silence ensued before Carr said, "I understand you have Alexei Dotsenko."

  "Yes, sir. Be assured we'll have one of our guards stay with him at all times."

  "I'm sure you'll take good care of him until it's time to bring him to the States. In the meantime, Sam, can you tell me if Captain Stevens is still on site?"

  "He is, sir. I believe he was in the crypto room using the scrambler."

  "Is he calling here?"

  "Don't know. If you want to chat with him, I can have someone get him."

  "I'd appreciate if you could, Sam. And, Sam, maybe you could give us some privacy when he arrives."

  Five minutes later, Carr heard, "Grant here, Mr. President."

  "Grant, were you just trying to call here?"

  "No, sir. I called Scott at State, since that's the s.o.p. for the Team."

  "Well, you've got me now. Hold on a minute while I put you on speaker. Vice President Forbes, SecDef Daniels, Director Bancroft, General Prescott, and my National Security Adviser are here. Okay. Fill us in. Were there any problems snatching Dotsenko?"

  "It was pretty much a straightforward op. One of the Russians was, uh, injured, but the other three men were unharmed. They're probably not too comfortable, but it was necessary to keep them out of commission for as long as possible."

  Carr nodded in understanding, then commented, "Guess that explains why I haven't heard from Gorshevsky. Grant, I assume you've been told about Reznikov?"

  "Yes, sir, but I don't have anything to add. We were just about ready to haul . . . I mean, depart the area when we heard gunfire, then an explosion, but we had no idea what happened." Grant hesitated before asking, "Mr. President, do you want us to continue with our mission, or has Reznikov taken over the 'top spot'?"

  Carr glanced around the room, looking at the expressions on the other men. "How much longer will you be at the embassy, Grant?"

  "We were getting ready to head back to the Gulfstream and start putting the op together. I'm hoping we can head out well before 2300 my time. But we'll stay here as long as you want us to, sir."

  "Do you want to tell me the location of the operative?"

  "Uh, I'd prefer not to at this time, sir." Grant was well aware that Team Alpha Tango went on missions considered as "plausible deniability" for the President.

  "I . . . understand, Grant. Hold on a minute." Carr put the phone on hold, then leaned back against his desk. "Gentlemen, I'm thinking we need to let the Team find the operative, and let the CIA handle Reznikov. I don't think we'll get any help from the Russians. Opinions? Thoughts?"

  Bancroft spoke. "I think that's the best plan. We need to get her out."

  Carr looked at the other men, who nodded their approval. "Grant, we want you to find and bring out the operative. Director Bancroft will have his agents in Berlin pursue Reznikov."

  "Very well, sir. I'll contact Scott before we depart from here so he can bring you up to speed."

  "Up to you, Grant, but don't let anything interfere with your completing that mission."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Godspeed, Captain."

  "Thank you, Mr. President."

  Chapter 6

  Konigstrasse

  East Germany
>
  0420 Hours

  Civil twilight, when the sun was six degrees below the horizon, but objects were clearly distinguishable. A tight grouping of Venus, Mars, and Jupiter could be seen without binoculars. The temperature hovered at 40 degrees.

  A Volga GAZ, four-door sedan continued traveling with headlights on as it drove slowly along Konigstrasse, the main road leading to and from the Glienicke Bridge.

  With a window rolled down, the passenger held a spotlight, aiming the intense beam into the trees on the north side, as the vehicle headed west. The intent was to drive to the bridge, then return, focusing the light on the south side.

  Holding the light steady, he allowed the beam to illuminate anything in its path. "Still nothing," he reported.

  The driver held the speed at 20 mph. "Just keep your eyes open. If anything is in there, it may not be easy to see. It will probably be far off the road."

  Lights in the distance grew brighter. Glienicke Bridge. Pulling slightly onto the shoulder, the driver made a U-turn. Again, the spotlight tried to penetrate the darkness beyond the trees. They passed the entrance for the Glienicke Palace, a bus stop, and two homes separated by more thick forest. He turned right, heading toward the next turn.

  The passenger strained his eyes, trying to see into the darkness beyond the reach of the spotlight. "Wait! Go back! Something caught the light!"

  Looking over his shoulder, the driver backed up the Volga, staying close to the shoulder. "Do you see anything?!"

  "Keep going -- slowly!" The vehicle was barely moving. "Stop! There!"

  Leaving the spotlight in the car, they grabbed flashlights, then ran from the vehicle, running into the forest, with the flashlight beams leading the way. The beams reflected off a bumper and rear window.

  Slowing their pace, they pulled their weapons from holsters, then continued moving forward. Shining the lights inside the Mercedes they saw Baskov stretched across the rear seat. Flinging the door open, they immediately checked for a pulse, finding Baskov alive, but unconscious, laying in his own blood.

  They had to find the other men, and started walking quickly, constantly swiveling their heads, shining the lights from side to side.

  They'd only walked about 30 yards, when the lights landed on three Russian officers tied to a tree. Shoving their weapons into the holsters, they rushed toward the men.

  The lead KGB agent got down on a knee in front of the senior officer, and removed the hood. "Comrade General Komarov, sir, it is all right. We are here by order of First Chief Directorate Borskaya. I am Agent Kalinin and this is Agent Zykov."

  Carefully, the duct tape was removed from their mouths, and finally, their arms untied. Kalinin assisted Komarov in standing. "Are you all right, Comrade General?"

  Komarov steadied himself against the tree. "Yes. Yes." He looked around. "Did you find Sergeant Baskov?"

  "We did, sir. He is alive, but we should get him to hospital quickly. And we must take you to Berlin. Comrade Borskaya is waiting for your report."

  They started walking toward the Volga, when Komarov pointed to the Mercedes. "And what about Sergeant Baskov?!"

  "Do you have a key for the Mercedes, Comrade?" Komarov shook his head. "Then, once you are settled in our vehicle, sir, we will transfer him to the rear seat. I am afraid two of your men must remain behind, though. We will send someone for them. That is the best we can do."

  Once Komarov was in the Volga, Kalinin and Zykov carried Baskov to the car.

  As he was driving, Kalinin glanced at Komarov. Even though Komarov was a senior KGB officer, Kalinin had to ask questions, and begin the investigation. "General, can you tell me anything about the men who did this?"

  Komarov rested an elbow on the door frame, with his fist lightly beating against his mouth. As a trained KGB officer he pictured the whole incident as if it were happening right then. "There were two vehicles. I believe they were Audis."

  "The men, General. Did you recognize any of them?" Kalinin pressed the accelerator.

  "No. They all wore masks, one-hole masks. But they carried Makarovs and AK47s."

  "What language did they speak?"

  "Russian." Komarov pounded his fist on the door frame. "This was a top secret exchange! How did they know?!"

  "I cannot answer that, except there had to have been a leak. This investigation will take time, sir."

  "Yes. Yes it will." Komarov stared ahead. Questions continued to enter his mind. "And how did they know the route we would be taking?! And that we would be going to Schonefeld?!"

  "As I said, General, there had to have been a leak, but if it were me, I would have determined Moscow wanted Comrade Dotsenko returned as quickly as possible. Schonefeld was the nearest airport."

  "Perhaps," Komarov nodded, before bringing up another disturbing question. "But what was their reason for taking him? Ransom?" Kalinin didn't respond. Komarov continued reviewing the incident. He mumbled softly, "Seven men pulled off a perfect operation. Who were they?"

  Kalinin resisted the urge to hit the brakes, as a strange chill ran up his spine. "How many men?!"

  "Seven. Why?"

  "I . . . I must collect all details in order to proceed with the investigation, General."

  Komarov suddenly remembered the distant gunfire and explosion when he and his men were attacked. "Do you know anything about an explosion that happened earlier this evening?"

  "Not much. The East German police were handling it. But we were going to investigate the area. It was confirmed two men were in hospital and two others were killed."

  "Well, maybe I can point you in the right direction, Comrade Kalinin. That timeframe was close to when the CIA agents were transporting Reznikov."

  Kalinin rolled the suggestion around in his brain. "Very possible."

  Lights of Berlin were on the horizon, slowly fading as daylight approached. Kalinin turned on the motorway, then stomped on the gas, speeding toward East Berlin.

  *

  After transferring Baskov to the emergency room at Friedrichshain Municipal Hospital, Kalinin drove Komarov to the embassy. He pulled the Volga next to the curb in front of the main entrance, and kept the engine running.

  Komarov got out, then leaned toward the car. "I was expecting you to accompany me."

  "Sorry, sir, but Comrade Borskaya expects us to start the investigation. We must inspect the scene of that incident as soon as possible. Then we must report our findings to him." Without saying anything further, the officer showed his ID to a guard, then walked through the gated archway.

  Zykov finally got in the front seat, and brushed a hand over his short, black hair, before asking with concern, "You think he will report our leaving him?"

  Kalinin didn't waste any more time, and drove away. "Do not concern yourself with that, Oleg. We have more important work to do."

  "If you say so."

  Driving through East Berlin, Kalinin couldn't help but think about the Russian embassy's private jet, still waiting to transport Komarov and Dotsenko to Moscow. Just the thought took Kalinin back through memories of his years in the U.S. He had a mission to bring stolen U.S. weapons to Russia, weapons that never reached their destination, because seven men pulled off a successful mission. Now, troubling but curious questions raced through his mind. Was it you, my friend, you and your men? Are you here, Grant Stevens?

  Chapter 7

  Schonefeld Airport

  Aboard the Gulfstream

  0800 Hours - Local Time

  Cabin shades were lowered, filtering the morning sunlight, as most of Team Alpha Tango slept. A sound of screaming jet engines couldn't wake them, as they stretched out on bench seats, slumped over tables, slouched in seats. While it may have been for only a few hours, that sleep might be all they'd get for a while.

  Grant and Adler were already pulling out coffee mugs from cabinets, while eating peanut butter sandwiches.

  "So, what's the plan of attack for today?" Adler asked, licking peanut butter from his fingers.

  Gran
t brushed strands of brown hair from his forehead, then sniffed the hot coffee, trying to get his eyes to focus on his submariner. "I told Scott I'd call him at 1000. In the meantime, we'll start getting our gear ready, and go over our plan."

  "A plan, he says," Adler snorted. "She sure as hell better still be there."

  "What's for breakfast?" Slade interrupted, as he rubbed his hands briskly over his bald head, feeling the beginnings of new fuzz.

  "We have peanut butter, and peanut butter. Take your pick," Grant grinned, handing him a mug of coffee. Then, responding to Adler, Grant answered, "Guess we can't be sure, Joe. We've just gotta go with what we know. There's always a possibility for another intercept, but I have my doubts we'd be lucky enough."

  "Think the Russians have her guarded?" Slade asked, sitting on a bench seat.

  "With the unrest going on, you can bet your ass they do, Ken." He looked toward the front of the cabin. "Maybe it's time for reveille."

  "I'll go," Slade volunteered.

  "That's okay, Ken. I've gotta talk with Matt and Rob." He poured coffee into two mugs, then started walking down the aisle toward the cockpit. "Reveille, guys! Up and at 'em. Coffee's ready." He flicked a finger against Novak's head. "Hey!!" Moans, groans, and grunts precipitated body movement.

  Grant moved on to the cockpit. "You guys awake?"

  Garrett stretched his arms overhead. "Best night's sleep I've had in a while."

  "Bullshit," Draper laughed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

  "Have some java." Grant handed each a mug. "There're some peanut butter sandwiches aft. When Joe and I call Scott, we'll make a food run in the terminal."

  Garrett blew a short breath into the coffee. "What'll you be talking to him about?"

  "We've gotta have that chopper and boat in order to make this op work, Matt. He should confirm either way when I make the call."

  "So we don't know if we're staying here or . . ."