Zykov threw out a question. "Nicolai, both those incidents happened about the same time, right?"
"From what we know, yes. Why?"
"What if Reznikov's men carried out both? They freed Reznikov, then took Dotsenko captive."
Kalinin was taken aback by the question. "Think about that, Oleg. The incidents occurred within a short time of one another, and from a distance. Comrade Komarov said seven men attacked him. Unless our intel people are completely screwed up, Reznikov only has two associates. See my point?"
"Yes."
Kalinin rubbed a hand across his forehead. "What worries me is there has not been any ransom request yet, nor a body."
"And what reason would there be for them to kill him?"
"Only one I can think of, Oleg -- revenge. And the only way to prove any of it is to find Dotsenko as ordered."
Kalinin shook his head, trying to clear the jumbled shit screwing around with his brain. "First things first," he mumbled. "We must go."
Chapter 9
Military Terminal
Tegel Airport
1600 Hours
Four engines of a C-130 Hercules fired up. The pilot engaged generators, set flaps down 40%. Receiving direction from an airport marshaller, the Herc rumbled past another Herc and a Gulfstream, as it taxied toward Runway 08.
Team A.T. remained in the Gulfstream ensuring gear and weapons were ready, hashing out final plans for the op, waiting for the arrival of a Sea Knight.
This mission would become one of its most difficult, most dangerous: penetrating a secret Soviet base. A.T. didn't have diagrams, maps, positions of men or artillery. All that sat images revealed were vehicles scattered around the interior of the property. But there still wasn't proof either way if civilians lived within.
All A.T. had was an address, but whether that address led them to the "asset" was yet to be seen.
*
MILOPS
"Listen, Scott, the Team's been discussing what happens if this op turns to shit."
"Don't like the sound of that."
"Gotta be realistic, but not pessimistic. Take a look at your map."
"Hold on a sec." Mullins walked close to a large map hanging on a wall. "Okay. Now what?"
"Do you see a small island in between Sweden and Poland? It's about 30 miles off Sweden's coast."
Mullins leaned closer, putting his index finger on the spot. "Yeah. I see it."
"What'll it take to get the chopper permission to land there?"
Mullins let out a long whistle. "That's a bitch of a request, Grant!"
"I know, but Sweden's been on good turns with the U.S., and like I said, it's a 'just in case.' I realize this request will most likely end up at the 'big house,' but there's a helluva lot at stake."
"I'll see what I can do. How long will you be at Tegel?"
"We've gotta wait for dark, so that means around 2130 or so."
"Okay. If you don't hear from me . . ."
"Yeah."
Mullins glanced at a clock on the corner of his desk. "The chopper should be there on schedule. Oh! Forgot to tell you that the crew's been on SpecOps missions before, mostly with the SEALs. Guess that means they can handle any bullshit you might throw at them, right?"
"I'd be surprised if they couldn't! Hey, how the hell did you manage that, I mean find a special crew?!"
"I have my ways. It has to do with special folks in higher places."
"Well, when you talk to those special folks, extend our thanks and gratitude."
"Will do."
"Joe and I've gotta get back to the guys. Do me a favor. Call Grigori. Just tell him you talked with us, okay? He won't ask any questions."
"Be happy to. Stay safe, my friends."
*
1755 Hours
A.T. milled around the Gulfstream, anxious for the chopper to arrive. They'd already grabbed something to eat, and bought a supply of candy bars.
Grant leaned against the steps' handrail with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes went from man to man, as details of the op went through his brain again. He and the men had reviewed every aspect, every possible scenario, both good and bad. But every once in a while, a completely different scenario, one that hadn't been calculated in the equation, could turn an op upside down. Each man had experienced it, each man had lost a team member, a friend, even an "asset."
"We've taken this op apart piece by piece," Adler commented, as he walked closer. "Have you found any 'holes'?" Grant just shook his head. "Then don't you think you need to give that brain a rest?"
"Wish I could, Joe. You know this is just me."
Adler's blue eyes softened. "Yeah. I know."
"Chopper comin' in!" James reported, pointing.
The chopper was flying from the west, within the 20 mile wide boundary of the center corridor at 8,000 feet.
"'Boys' are on time," Adler commented, looking at his beat-up Benrus diving watch.
Grant started walking away from the Gulfstream, prepared to meet the chopper crew. "We'll need the extra time to review the op with the crew, plus check out the boat."
Adler caught up to him. "I know you're concerned, but you'd be lying if you told me you didn't have one ounce of excitement inside you right about now. I'm right, aren't I?!"
Grant didn't answer, just punched his good friend's shoulder, knocking him sideways.
"That's what I thought."
Air whipped around the Team as the Sea Knight hovered briefly before its wheels touched concrete. On board were two pilots, one crew chief, and one aerial gunner with a door-mounted Browning AN/M2, .50 cal machine gun.
Inside the cockpit, a pilot glanced out his side window, giving the approaching men a quick two-finger salute. As the engines wound down, the ramp lowered, which was an open invitation for Team A.T. to board and inspect.
Grant and Adler held back a few steps, taking a moment to scan the immediate area, looking for any prying eyes, especially civilian eyes.
"This is what we needed, boss," James said, as he and the other men hauled out the Zodiac, then carried it to the other side of the chopper. Paddles and a coiled length of rope were in the bottom. The 55 hp engine was secured.
"Everything good with the boat?" a smiling Lieutenant Anderson asked, with the other three crewmen catching up to him.
Grant offered his hand to Anderson. "We couldn't have asked for more, Lieutenant, and we appreciate you, uh, volunteering for the upcoming 'trip.'"
"An opportunity we couldn't pass up , sir! Would you happen to be Captain Stevens?"
"Yeah, that's me," Grant smiled.
Introductions were made, then Grant said, "Listen, why don't you all come aboard the Gulfstream. We'll discuss what we've got in mind."
*
2145 Hours
The chopper crew was on board the Sea Knight, preparing for flight. The weather prediction from Tegel to the coast was for light cloud cover, northeast winds at four knots. Once over the Baltic Sea, they could expect normal westerly winds, possibly increasing to eight knots.
Team A.T. started filing out of the Gulfstream. A decision was made to forgo wetsuits. They were dressed entirely in black, wearing close-fitting pants and long-sleeve sweaters, covering their bullet resistant vests. Rucksacks were in one hand, rifle straps for AK-47s were slung over opposite shoulders, Makarovs secured in holsters. Doc Stalley had his corpsman's medical bag, and the extra vest. Novak had his sniper rifle.
Inside their waterproof vests they had compact binoculars, signal flares, extra rounds for AKs and Makarovs, an MK6 CS vial of tear gas, survival kit, a set of lock picks, duct tape, wraps of paracord (parachute cord), phony passports and “haul ass” money sealed in plastic. Diaz and Adler had wraps of det cord, small blocks of C4, and chemical pencils. They all had "flash-bang" grenades, that exploded into intense white lights, leaving attackers temporarily blinded. The extremely loud noise would disrupt hearing and sense of balance.
Once the Team secured gear and weapons insi
de the cargo bay, they carried in the boat. Seat belts snapped closed as the men settled on a continuous row of fold-down jump seats. They all glanced toward the forward section, seeing a gunner standing behind his .50 cal, repositioning the 27' link-belt to the right side, and finally adjusting a Starlighter scope.
Crew Chief Phil Brenner handed each man a small box of foam earplugs, then he approached Grant. "Sir, you might want to wear this. It'll make communicating with me and Lieutenant Anderson a helluva lot easier."
"Thanks," Grant said, as he took the helmet, then put it on and adjusted the wire mouthpiece. "Listen, is it okay if we leave our rucksacks on board?"
"Sure."
In the cockpit, Anderson leaned over his armrest, looking toward the cargo bay. "You all ready back there?!"
"Good to go!" Grant answered, giving a thumb's up.
Anderson opened the throttle completely, increasing the speed of the rotor. He pulled up slowly on the collective, effectively changing the pitch of all rotor blades by the same amount simultaneously. Depressing the left foot pedal, he kept pulling up on the collective. The chopper got lighter on its the wheels, then slowly left the ground. Anderson nudged the stick forward.
*
The rush of wind and vibrations throughout the cargo bay intensified as the chopper flew through the center corridor and into the French Sector. Turning north, Anderson adjusted their course, skirting along the Soviet Sector.
Pilot and co-pilot looked through NVGs, seeing nothing but darkness. Looking through the Starlighter scope, the gunner very slowly pivoted the machine gun, watching for any sign of Soviet or East German aircraft. Opposite him, Crew Chief Brenner had on NVGs, looking out the starboard window.
Team A.T. sat quietly, every man focused on the mission. They planned, approved, revised, planned, approved, over and over. Now it was almost time to put everything into action. In their minds they pictured where they were headed: the beach, then a 1.5 mile trek through forest and open country. Their target, though, remained obscure. An unknown number of buildings, homes. Barracks were indistinguishable. An armory for weapons disguised as . . . what? What, if anything, could be hidden in old bunkers? Maybe German or Soviet howitzers?
Grant heard Anderson's voice. "Captain Stevens, five miles to DZ."
"Roger." Grant leaned toward Adler, talking above the noise. "Five miles to DZ!" Word went from man to man.
A.T. adjusted throat mikes, letting the earpieces hang inside the front of their sweaters. Black watch caps were pulled lower.
"Over LZ," Anderson reported to Grant. The sound of the chopper changed, vibrations increased, as it began its descent. A motor whined as the ramp lowered. The noise and wind intensified.
Getting ready to release seat belts, A.T. looked toward the opening. Pitch black. Feeling the tilt of the chopper, they waited.
Brenner came closer, holding onto a bar above the windows, running the length of the cargo bay. "We'll watch for your signal, sir! Good luck!"
Grant gave him the helmet, then extended his hand, shaking Brenner's with a firm grip.
The team released their seat belts, stood and prepared for departure, as water started rushing over the ramp. Adler was the first one in the boat, assuming the position as coxswain, ready to lower the props into the water. The rest of the Team scurried in, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, holding onto a rope circling the gunnel. Brenner gave the boat a final shove as it began floating off the ramp. Once the boat was clear, he waited for Grant's signal, then he contacted the pilot. Immediately the chopper began its ascent, with water pouring off the ramp. It disappeared into the darkness, flying low, flying without any lights, heading for the small island.
*
Off Coast of Poland
June 22
0015 Hours
Day 4
A.T. flipped down NVGs, adjusted earpieces, straddled the gunnel and began paddling to shore. Grant was at the port bow, opposite Novak, who had his laser-guided rifle poised and ready. Slade and Stalley were starboard, Diaz and James port. Paddling in unison, with precision, strength, and silence, they guided the boat toward the beach, while Adler kept one hand on the tiller, ready to fire up the engine if they had to haul.
On shore, tree branches swayed in the eight knot wind, water lapped against the shore. There was nothing but darkness from east to west along this section of Poland's coast.
The men started slowing the boat's forward motion when they were 100 yards off the beach, gradually bringing it to nearly a complete stop. Novak looked through the AN/PVS high-powered scope (passive night vision) attached to his rifle. The scope was specifically designed for night ops -- a Starlighter.
"Clear so far," he reported.
Then quietly, they paddled slowly east, staying parallel to the beach, while Novak searched. Turning the boat around they headed west, going through the same process.
"Clear," Novak whispered. "No eyes on us."
"Any guard towers?" Grant asked.
"Negative, but can't see beyond trees."
"How wide's that beach?" Grant asked softly.
"Twenty-five, maybe thirty yards max."
Grant looked over his shoulder at the men. "No tides here. Once the boat's hidden, we're gonna have to make our footprints disappear. Be prepared to act."
All they could hope for was that guards who may have been posted along this stretch of beach had been reassigned to larger cities or ports where there was more civil unrest.
A.T. couldn't delay any longer. Grant held up his arm, and made a motion forward.
Novak continued looking through the scope, scanning the entire beach, as the men stroked like hell, propelling the boat toward shore.
*
They carried the boat across the beach then concealed it within the trees; footprints were brushed over with pine branches. With Slade as pointman, Team A.T. moved quietly through the forest.
Heading south, they followed an old trail strewn with leaves and pine needles, until it broke off in two directions. They continued south, brushing aside low, leafy bushes, ferns, avoiding twigs, pinecones, anything that could make a sharp sound. A slight rustling of leaves overhead was all that disturbed the silence.
Slade pressed the PTT. "Clearing, twenty yards."
The men caught up to him. Ahead was nearly a half mile of open ground before they reached any cover.
Crouching low, staying together, they edged closer to the clearing. Finally, getting down on a knee, they focused on the entire area.
Grant whispered, "DJ, scope the area east, Frank, west. Five minutes." The two quietly went toward their objectives.
"Mike, see any lights anywhere?" Grant whispered.
"Negative," Slade answered.
Novak slowly moved the rifle, while looking through the scope. "Negative. Kinda creepy."
"Yeah," Grant said, "but remember, within a hundred mile radius all inhabitants were relocated and homes razed."
"Isn't there a road somewhere close?" Adler asked.
"According to the map, there should be one running parallel to the coast about a half mile ahead. We've gotta cross it before the next forested area."
Diaz and James returned at the same time. "What'd you find?" Grant asked.
"Didn't see or hear anything," Diaz responded.
James gave a thumb's down. "Nothing moving, no lights, but I did see an unmanned guard tower about 200 yards from here. Looks like all extra men may have been reassigned."
"We can only hope," Adler whispered.
Grant swiveled his head, looking at the men readjusting earpieces, confirming holstered weapons were secured. "Okay. Time to move out. Let's go."
There was no stopping until they reached the next forest, hoping the road was clear when they crossed. Beyond the forest -- Drazowe.
Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. Pressing the PTT, he whispered, "Road." The asphalt surface didn't have any painted lines, but was about two lanes wide. There weren't any road signs visible along
the shoulders in either direction. Grant sent James and Diaz to recon east and west again.
They were less than a half mile north of the town. The lack of sound seemed unnatural, when suddenly they heard Diaz in their earpieces. "Zero-Niner, Three-Six. Take cover! Vehicle heading to you!"
"Roger!" Grant responded.
They started backing up, ducking behind trees and staying low, just as headlights appeared, coming from the west. All eyes followed the vehicle as it passed, traveling about 35 mph, with its headlights fanning out across the shoulders of the road. Even in the dark, A.T. recognized the light truck, a four-door, canvas top Russian GAZ-69A.
Diaz and James came hustling back, just as red taillights disappeared over the horizon.
"That vehicle's gotta be going to the base," Grant commented. "Let's move."
Confirming no other lights were coming from either direction, the men sprinted across the blacktop, taking sanctuary in the forest, their last safe haven before reaching their objective.
*
Drazowe, Poland
The Team's up close and personal look at Drazowe took them by surprise. A town, not a military base. Or so it seemed. No cyclone fence, no guard house, no visible signs of security, no lights. The Russians most likely prohibited outdoor lighting, as though it were a "blackout" during WW II, when windows had dark curtains, preventing any light from passing through.
Thickets of pines and broadleaved trees were scattered in and around the entire area. Two- and four-story red brick buildings were along the far side. Rows of small attached homes ran perpendicular to the buildings. Overhead, drooping wires were strung from telephone poles.
Operation Gold Eagle Page 8