Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  "I think we need to haul ass from Schonefeld asap. I don't want to leave you guys or the plane here much longer. Too many questions might be asked. So if you hang tight, I should know soon enough."

  *

  Friedrichshain (Vivantes) Municipal Hospital

  Intensive Care Unit

  East Berlin

  0815 Hours

  A three-story, red brick building, Friedrichshain (Vivantes) Municipal Hospital, was the first municipal hospital in Berlin. Located at Landsberger Allee, on the east side of Friedrichshain Park, it was approximately one mile from busy Alexanderplatz.

  An East German ambulance driver stood by a window near the emergency entrance, noticing two men approaching the vehicle. One man opened the rear doors, and climbed inside, while the other first inspected the driver's side, then walked around to the passenger side.

  The driver rushed outside, throwing a cigarette to the ground. Without even thinking, he angrily shouted, "Get away from that vehicle!"

  Kalinin was standing next to the passenger door. As he swung around his jacket opened, revealing a holstered Makarov and his KGB badge hooked to his belt.. The driver abruptly came to a stop within a few feet of the ambulance.

  Kalinin readjusted his jacket. "Are you the driver?!" The worried man nodded. "Who did you bring in recently?"

  "Two men."

  Kalinin stepped closer. "Do not make me ask you one question at a time."

  "There . . . there was an accident, but they were not injured because of the accident. They had gunshot wounds."

  "Do you know if they are alive?"

  "They are in intensive care, barely alive. The other two are in the morgue."

  Kalinin motioned with a hand, "Go." The driver rushed into the hospital, then backed farther away, trying to stay out of sight.

  Agent Zykov climbed out of the ambulance, secured the doors, then walked toward Kalinin, who asked, "Did you find anything that could help us?"

  "Nothing."

  They walked into the emergency entrance, scanned a plaque listing departments and floor numbers, then took the elevator to the second floor.

  Footsteps and voices echoed in the long, narrow corridor. Everything was sterile white, except for stainless hand rails fastened to both sides. Gurneys with crisp white sheets were outside three rooms. Doctors filled out charts. Nurses carried trays with medicine, syringes.

  At the end of the corridor, stainless steel double doors led into the Intensive Care unit. Kalinin and Zykov spotted two men standing just to the side of the doors, talking quietly to one another.

  "CIA," Kalinin whispered. He unbuttoned his jacket, ensuring badge and weapon were in plain sight. "Come on."

  As the two Russians slowly approached, the CIA agents watched them closely, and took up positions directly in front of the double doors.

  "KGB," Special Agent Abbott quietly said.

  "Just like we expected," Special Agent Zwick replied.

  Abbott held up a hand, with his palm facing the two approaching men. Kalinin and Zykov stopped within five feet of the two. For a brief moment, the men eyed each other.

  Finally, Abbott broke the silence. Staring at Kalinin, he asked with pauses between each word, "Do . you . speak . English?"

  Kalinin arched an eyebrow. "If you cannot understand me, let me know, then I will speak slower."

  Abbott smiled. "Thenyou'll understand when I tell you that you can't go in there," he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.

  Kalinin stepped closer. "And you will understand me when I remind you that you are in East Berlin, in the Soviet Sector."

  "Look, those are Americans in there," Abbott added, attempting to calm the situation. "We'd prefer no one saw them right now. Okay?"

  Kalinin held up both hands, and stepped back. "Not a problem. But can you give me any information on what happened? Why they were taken here?"

  "This was the closest hospital, I guess. As far as information, no. We don't know much more than you probably -- except, of course, who they are. But I'm sure the East German police would be more than happy to fill you in."

  Kalinin had already decided to go to the morgue, where the M.E. would be more forthcoming with answers. "You are probably right." He started to walk away, when he turned around. "Hope your men make a full recovery." Then he and Zykov left.

  As they stood by the elevator, Zykov, who hardly spoke any English, asked, "What was said back there?" Kalinin filled him in, but Zykov was surprised by the answer. He asked, "Why did you not press the issue? We had every right to . . ."

  "What was the point, Oleg? Just by those agents being here meant the injured were most likely CIA as well. Let the Americans think they have all the information."

  The elevator doors hissed as they parted. Once inside, Kalinin pressed the button for the basement. He folded his arms tightly across his chest as he thought of another important matter: Ivan Reznikov. Where the hell was he? Who helped him escape?

  The elevator stopped with a jolt, then the doors parted. The two men walked off, looking both ways down a dimly lit corridor. "There," Zykov said, pointing to double doors to the left.

  Walking along natural concrete floors, their footsteps echoed in the expansive space, as they passed under three archways. The archways, ceiling, and support columns were covered entirely in eight inch white tiles. The interior looked more like a Russian subway than a morgue.

  Stopping momentarily in front of the doors, they looked overhead at an oval light. If an autopsy was in progress, the light would glow red. It wasn't the case. The two men pushed open both swinging doors.

  Just as the corridor was covered in white tiles, so was the autopsy room, sinks, and tables. Three portable, stainless steel storage cabinets with glass doors were positioned against a wall, opposite each autopsy table.

  Kalinin stepped closer to a table. A white sheet covered a body. He started to lift a corner, when he heard a door open toward the back of the room.

  "What are you doing here?!" M.E. Hans Bauer came from his office, walking slowly toward the two strangers.

  Kalinin responded, "We are investigating the accident that happened near Glienicke Bridge. We understand two bodies were brought in, but I only see this one."

  Bauer came closer, as he slipped a pen in his white lab coat pocket. "You will not find those two bodies here. The Americans took them before I even performed an autopsy."

  The 6'2" Kalinin leaned toward the shorter Bauer. "Who the hell gave you permission to release them?!" Zykov went around the table, and stood next to the M.E.

  "Wait! Wait! I have an authorization for the release." He rushed back to his office, then came back, waving a piece of paper.

  Kalinin snatched it from his hand, with his eyes immediately going to the bottom of the page, looking at the signature. "Shit!" He flung the paper at Bauer, then he spun around, heading back to the elevator.

  Zykov caught up to him. "What happened?! Who authorized . . . ?!"

  Kalinin punched the elevator button with a knuckle. "The East German Health Minister!"

  Stepping into the elevator, Zykov questioned, "What? You think he was paid to release the bodies?!"

  "Right now, I could give a shit! We have work to do."

  Before leaving the hospital, Kalinin made an inquiry into Sergeant Baskov's condition. He was told the patient was stable.

  As they walked to the Volga, Kalinin tossed the keys to Zykov. "You drive. I have to put my thoughts in order. We are running around in a damn circle."

  He had tried to inspect the van, but again, the Americans beat him to it, and had it hauled away. He didn't have much confidence in finding anything from the shootout, but they still had to thoroughly search the area, knowing Borskaya wouldn't expect anything less.

  Twenty minutes later, Zykov pulled the car onto the shoulder. "Not here," Kalinin said. "Park on the opposite side of the road."

  As they got out, they focused their eyes on black skid marks that crossed the center line at an an
gle, as if the vehicle started to skid sideways. Indications of a fire extended from the right side, then across the middle line.

  "Where do we begin?" Zykov asked, standing with his hands on his hips.

  "The CIA probably went over this area inch by inch, but it is always possible they missed something. You look along the road, I will start by those trees," he pointed, "and work my way back here. Whoever helped Reznikov, had to have had a vehicle."

  Chapter 8

  Schonefeld Terminal

  0945 Hours

  Within two minutes of one another, Grant and Adler walked into the ground level of Terminal A. Wearing jeans, T-shirts and windbreakers, they blended in with the hundreds of other visitors and passengers.

  Taking the escalator to the first floor, Grant spotted a bank of phones straight ahead. He passed them and continued toward large windows running the length of the terminal. Perusing the airfield briefly, he slowly turned around, and observed a continuous flow of passengers, hustling down corridors, running toward escalators.

  Adler waited a moment at the top of the escalator, then went to the right. Staying within thirty feet of Grant, covering his six, he leaned against a pillar. Keeping his eyes in Grant's direction, he sniffed the air. I smell food!

  Grant glanced at his watch, showing 0958. He went back to a phone and started dialing three series of numbers. Once completed, he turned toward the window, seeing Adler out of the corner of his eye. Grant waited. Even though he'd dialed a secure line, they'd still use caution during their conversation.

  Mullins answered. "Merry Christmas!"

  "You got the 'presents'! You're a good man 'Charlie Brown.'" Grant rested a shoulder against the wall, exhaling a long breath.

  "Can't take all the credit. One of your friends sorta had a hand in it."

  "Send him our thanks."

  "Will do. Now, the main present will arrive at 1800 your time. Oh, and you're cleared for landing."

  "Roger. Listen, I'll contact you from our next stop." Grant looked around the terminal. "As soon as we get clearance, our asses are outta here."

  "Talk to ya soon."

  "Thanks again." He hung up and gave an imperceptible nod to Adler, then he walked into the cafe, bought food for the Team, then left. Adler did the same.

  *

  Carrying three bags of food each, Grant and Adler rushed into the plane. Grant announced, "Chow down, guys. I'd like to get rolling in an hour. Matt, we've got authorization to land at Tegel."

  "Jesus, boss," James exclaimed, taking two of the bags, "that's a helluva short flight. Why don't we just taxi the whole way?!"

  "I know, DJ, but Scott managed to get us a chopper and boat and that's the delivery point. And I'm counting on there being fewer 'eyes' on us. Besides, we can't leave Matt and Rob here. We've already spent too damn much time on the ground."

  Ten minutes later, Draper gulped down the last mouthful of bratwurst on a roll, and took a swig of Coke. It was time to start pre-flight check with Garrett. He set the radio frequency for the tower.

  Grant walked through the cabin. "Might be a good idea to stow your gear before you settle in." He joined Adler aft, who was storing coffee cups in the overhead bin.

  Grant glanced toward the cockpit, when Draper announced, "We're ready to roll!" Seat belts clicked in place. Grant sat on a bench seat, with Adler opposite him.

  Garrett and Draper finalized the checklist: compass, fuel, oil levels, altimeter. With final information from the tower, Draper set the four-digit transponder code.

  A transponder was an electronic device that produced a response when it received a radio-frequency interrogation. The device assisted in identifying an aircraft on radar and on other aircraft's collision avoidance systems. The code was frequently called a "squawk" code which came from its origin in World War II, the "Identification Friend or Foe" (IFF) system, code-named "Parrot."

  Cleared to taxi, the Gulfstream rolled across the infield, with sounds of flap motors, hydraulics, electric valves adjusting. The plane was second in line for takeoff. Finally, Garrett and Draper received clearance to taxi to Runway 07.

  Draper contacted the Tower. "Schonefeld Tower, Mike 581, at Runway 07, ready for takeoff. Over."

  "Standby Mike 581." Pause. "Affirm Mike 581 cleared for takeoff Runway 07. Winds eight knots, northeast. Over."

  "Roger, tower. Cleared takeoff Runway 07. Mike 581. Out."

  Gauges and dials were rechecked. The engines wound up, and Garrett advanced the throttles close to fifty percent. He released the brakes, sending the Gulfstream barreling down the runway.

  Adler leaned back, watching Grant. The setting of the jaw, grinding of teeth, meant one thing: a problem with the op.

  "Out with it," Adler finally said.

  Talking above engine noise, Grant answered, "This one's gonna be a bitch, Joe."

  "So, what's new?!"

  Resting his arms on his legs, rubbing his hands together, Grant added, "The nighttime sat image didn't show many lights inside the town, but there were some scattered well outside the perimeter, probably because of unrest breaking out in the whole country."

  "Might be a good idea to 'hit' the beach earlier than we planned. That should give us more time for a thorough recon."

  "That's what I'm thinking."

  Adler ran a hand along his jaw, feeling stubble. "Maybe we should leave two of the guys at the beach to set up a diversion when we're ready to haul ass."

  "I don't know about that, Joe. We don't have a damn clue when it comes to how many UFs we'll have to confront. We'll need the whole Team. Think this has turned into a 'fly by the seat of our pants' op."

  "We've flown those often enough. Hey! I know you've been in that water before. What's the temperature like this time of year?"

  "Around 70 degrees, maybe a little cooler."

  "If we end up getting wet, we should be okay for a while then."

  "Yeah, but we'll have to get the 'asset' in the boat quick. That's why we need to land on the beach."

  "Are we running out of options?"

  "Pretty much."

  Grant glanced at his submariner. "We'll have enough time before the chopper lands to put our heads together again."

  "Approaching Tegel!" Draper shouted from the cockpit. Engine noise changed, wheels were lowered, as the Gulfstream banked starboard, beginning its final approach along the middle corridor

  "If only all our flights could be this short!" Adler commented, stretching to look out the window.

  *

  Embassy of the Soviet Union

  Vladimir Borskaya stood behind his desk, waiting for his agents to report. A knock at his door. "Come!"

  Kalinin and Zykov entered, with Zykov immediately closing the door.

  "Comrades," Borskaya said, pointing a callused index finger back and forth between the two men. "I hope you have good information for me."

  The agents remained standing. Kalinin began, "I wish we did, sir. We have run into dead ends at every turn." Borskaya mumbled something unintelligible. Kalinin continued, "I only have a few facts to give you. The four men from the van were definitely CIA. The two still in intensive care were unaccessible to us, blocked by two other agents. The bodies of the two men killed in that incident had been released from the morgue by the East Berlin Ministry of Health." That should get a rise out of you! Kalinin thought.

  He was right. Borskaya's voice intensified. "He released them to the Americans?!"

  "Yes, sir. Confirmed by the medical examiner." Before Borskaya could respond, Kalinin said, "But to tell the truth, sir, while that should not have happened, I doubt there would have been anything we could have learned from inspecting those bodies."

  "And what about Reznikov? Anything?"

  "Comrade Zykov and I investigated the incident scene. All removable evidence had been confiscated by either the East German police or the CIA. All we found were tire tracks well off the roadway, which meant Reznikov got away in another vehicle."

  "Any idea where h
e is or who else could have been involved?"

  "Still nothing. He, or they, will most likely remain out of sight for at least a short while. Once we are through here, Comrade Zykov and I will continue looking for him. Have you spoken with Comrade Komarov or his men?"

  "Yes. He described how they were intercepted on the way to Schonefeld."

  "We took his driver, Sergeant Baskov to hospital, but I am sure he informed you of that."

  "And what of Comrade Dotsenko? I assume you still have not found him."

  "I am afraid not. The little information the general could provide indicated several men were involved. I might also add, according to the general, Comrade Dotsenko was treated very poorly, dragged from the Mercedes, and shoved into the perpetrators' vehicle." Kalinin decided to tread carefully on the subject of the team, not thoroughly convinced who they were. But something deep within him said Grant Stevens and his men were in Berlin.

  "Comrade!" Borskaya said, not getting a response from Kalinin.

  "Sorry, sir. What did you say?"

  "Do you have any idea where Comrade Dotsenko might be?!"

  "Uh, no, sir. And we still do not know the reason he was taken. Once we know that . . ."

  "You find out! Do you hear me?!" Borskaya roared.

  "Yes, sir. I promise you we will."

  "Go . . . and tell the sergeant to find Comrade Komarov. I have more questions for him."

  "Yes, Comrade Borskaya," Kalinin answered. He and Zykov left the office.

  As they walked out of the embassy, Kalinin took off his jacket, hooked a finger under the collar, then slung it over his shoulder. It was obvious he was pissed.

  Zykov glanced at him as they stood by the car. "Where do we go from here?"

  "We look for Dotsenko."

  "What about Reznikov?"

  "Dotsenko. Come on."

  "Where to?" Zykov opened the driver side door.

  "To Schonefeld. We have got to start somewhere." As they drove away, Kalinin questioned himself. Why the hell was he going to Schonefeld? If it was Grant who snatched Dotsenko, would he try to get him out of the country? Or possibly stash him someplace, maybe the U.S. Embassy? But why would the U.S. turn Dotsenko over in an exchange, and then kidnap him? Feeling more frustration, Kalinin ran his hands down both sides of his brown hair.