Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  One, two-lane road appeared to be the only ingress/egress from the town. But once the road "entered" the town, it changed to single lane, forming a circular route, starting on the east side, with smaller streets branching off it. Streets were at varying angles, some were dead-ends. There wasn't any rhyme or reason the way the property was laid out.

  Team A.T. stayed hidden, silently observing a base like no other. And that was the worry. Guards couldn't be disposed of without knowing where they were.

  "Mike, stand watch. Everybody else, back," Grant whispered. Novak screwed down the rifle's silencer, then got down on his belly, stretched out, then readjusted the scope. The rest of the men gathered in a small circle, kneeling down, keeping low profiles.

  "There's gotta be at least twenty to thirty acres of buildings. Anyone see a standalone house?" Grant asked looking around the circle. No response.

  "And all we got is a fuckin' address and house number," Slade commented, disgustedly.

  "Maybe Oleniv decided to keep her closer. Maybe she's 'bunking' with him," Adler suggested.

  "Or maybe she's been 'found out,' and that's why not a fuckin' sole is within sight," Grant added. The thought of the operative being in the hands of Russians turned everyone's stomach.

  They were wasting valuable time. They had to act. Grant leaned closer. "Okay, here's what we do."

  Novak kept moving his rifle a little at a time, stopping often to zero in on possible trouble spots. To the west, two officers walked out of a bunker. Novak kept his index finger close to the trigger, as he centered his crosshairs on the taller man. Smokers; no danger to the guys,he reasoned, before slowly aiming at another location. Staring through the scope, he found the Team, then continued on watch.

  Team A.T. cautiously walked the perimeter, within the tree line, heading for the garage where the vehicle was last seen. Slade led the way, when suddenly the whole Team came to a stop, dropping onto the ground, a ground that seemed to be vibrating. Then, a noise they were all familiar with -- a tank. They were within 40 yards of a mound covering an old bunker. They had confirmation: the Russians were using tunnels to hide equipment, and possibly 5,000 troops.

  Sounds continued from beneath them, but that wasn't their objective. Grant pressed the PTT, whispering, "Move."

  Slade brought them close enough to the garage where he had a view straight through the building. A slightly uphill, narrow driveway curved into the garage, allowing access from front and back. It was deep enough to hold two vehicles.

  Slade scanned the area. "Eyes on one vehicle, one UF."

  Grant pressed the PTT, calling Novak. "Seven-Three, A.T. near vehicle. Are we clear?"

  "Wait one." Novak quickly made a scan of the area around and close to A.T. "Clear."

  The Russian driver took off his "pilotka" (a foldable military cap with straight sides and a creased or hollow crown, similar to a "piss-cutter"). He laid it in the rear of the truck, then lit up a cigarette.

  Whispering, Grant gave the order, "Go."

  Slade's and James' mission: keep the guard alive, deliver him to Grant for a serious G2. They drew their silenced Makarovs, quietly walking into the garage with their weapons aimed straight ahead. Staying close to the truck, James took the right side, Slade the left. They smelled cigarette smoke, just as the guard flicked the butt to the front of the driveway. As he turned to get his cap, Slade whipped around the corner, jamming his pistol into the man's face. James came from behind, reached around and slapped his hand across the mouth, immediately dragging the stunned man through the garage and into the trees, into the dark.

  James kept his hand pressed tightly across the Russian's mouth, then slammed him against a tree. A low grunt stuck in the man's throat. Slade and Diaz each grabbed an arm, yanked them back, then quickly tied his arms and legs with paracord, securing him to the tree.

  Grant drew his K-bar from the leg strap, then stepped close to the soldier, noticing a name printed on his uniform. He pressed the cold steel blade against the man's throat, then spoke in Russian. "Comrade Yolin, my friend here will release his hand when it is time for you to answer my questions. Blink if you understand." His request was immediately obeyed. "Keep your voice low when you answer. But if you try to yell, or if I think you are lying, I will not hesitate to slit your throat. Is Oleniv's woman here?" James loosened his hand slightly.

  "Yes."

  "Where is she?"

  "They brought her to Comrade General Oleniv's office."

  "When?"

  "Today."

  Their question was answered. Pankova's cover had been blown.

  "Where is his office?"

  Yolin shifted his eyes to the right, afraid to move his head. "There."

  Across from the garage was a white brick building, one story, no more than 600 square feet. A door was nearer to the left side, with three windows to the right of it.

  Grant turned again to the Russian. "Where are the guards?"

  "Inside bunkers."

  Grant applied more pressure with the knife. "Outside. I mean outside!"

  "Two are posted . . . outside perimeter at each quadrant."

  "And the remaining troops?"

  "Underground. They are in the tunnels."

  Grant's eyes met Adler's, who took the hint and slapped a strip of duct tape across the Russian's mouth, then with a fist to the jaw, he knocked the man unconscious.

  Grant contacted Novak, speaking softly. "Seven-Three, guards at four quadrants. Do you have eyes on?"

  "Wait one." Novak slowly searched.

  Diaz and James took defensive positions, watching for guards, while listening to Grant. "Joe, Doc, come with me. The rest of you, be ready to haul ass in the truck."

  "Zero-Niner, have eyes on UFs, south and west quadrants only."

  "Roger," Grant whispered. "'Asset' in building across from garage. A.T. using vehicle for egress. Be ready. Copy?"

  "Copy that." Novak scooted backwards, then crouched low, headed closer to the road, then set up behind a tree, continuing watch.

  With their Makarovs grasped firmly, pointing straight ahead, Grant, Adler and Stalley crept out of the garage, scanned the area, then Grant confirmed, "Seven-Three, A.T. on the move."

  "Roger."

  They sprinted across the road. Flattening their bodies against the brick wall near the door, the three listened for any sounds from inside. Grant reached for the door knob. Turning it slowly, he found it was unlocked, then he continued opening the wooden door.

  The room was dark, quiet. They entered slowly, cautiously, seeing light coming from under a door at the end of a short hallway. Stalley hung back, covering Grant and Adler's sixes as they edged closer to the room. Suddenly, they all stopped. A voice emanated from behind the door. A man shouted in Russian. Then, silence again. What they heard next made their blood boil. A loud slap. Then, a slight whimper.

  Grant noticed the door opened into the hallway. He motioned to Adler, who took a position directly in front of it. Grant and Stalley stood behind him, ready. Without waiting further, Adler yanked the door open. Grant then Stalley rushed past him.

  A Russian officer, with his uniform jacket unbuttoned, was standing in front of a woman, with his arm raised, and hand balled up into a fist. His head jerked up, his eyes unbelieving, as three men appeared out of nowhere.

  Without hesitation, Grant fired. The round penetrated the officer's throat. He slapped his hand against the bloody wound, as he stumbled backwards, gasping for air. His brain barely had time to register, when Grant fired again. The second round slammed into the forehead, sending brain matter splattering against the wall.

  Grant backed away, then turned to see Stalley kneeling in front of Sophia Pankova. She was conscious, but her face was swollen, cut, bruised. A trickle of blood ran down her temple and lip. Her white blouse was torn, spotted with red. Bruises were on her neck. Her hair was in disarray.

  Stalley cut the rope tying her arms to the chair, as Grant knelt down. He brushed a strand of hair from he
r eyes, then, in English, he said softly, "We're Americans, 'Silent Willow.' 'Gray Fox' helped us find you. We're here to take you home."

  Her head dropped forward, as tears fell from her reddened eyes.

  Grant pointed to the extra protective vest Stalley had. "You need to put that on." Stalley helped her secure the straps.

  She started to stand, unsteadily at first, with Stalley giving her some assistance.

  Grant took the lead. Stalley had an arm around Pankova's shoulders. Adler brought up the rear. When they got to the door, Grant first contacted Novak. "Seven-Three, are we clear?"

  "UFs to your south; unable to see your west. Copy?"

  "Copy. A.T. on the move in five."

  "Roger that."

  Grant stood in the doorway, motioning for the Team. Slade started the engine, allowing the truck to roll down the driveway, bringing it to a stop in front of the building. Headlights remained off.

  Adler climbed into the front passenger seat, as Grant and Stalley helped Pankova into the second row of seats, sitting her in between them. In the rear, Diaz and James knelt behind the canvas opening, with rifles ready.

  With a loud whisper, Grant said, "Go! Go!"

  Slade immediately stepped on the gas. He waited until they were close to Novak's position before turning on the low beams.

  Novak came running through the trees, heading for the back of the truck. Slowing just enough, Slade waited for Novak to dive in, before he jerked the wheel left, made a U-turn, and headed back to the main road.

  The truck was still in second gear, as it approached the main road. Suddenly, shots rang out. Bullets struck asphalt. Guards came out of nowhere, running toward them, firing their AKs, coming from the direction Novak had just vacated.

  Grant pulled Pankova down on the floorboards, keeping her out of the line of fire. Diaz and James opened fire with the AKs. Stalley and Grant fired their pistols out the side windows. Novak steadied himself, and fired off two rapid rounds, taking out two.

  They were already on the main road, when headlights from at least two vehicles shot out from the darkness.

  "Shit!" Adler shouted, glancing in the side mirror. "We've got bad company!"

  Slade kept the truck in second gear, pressing the accelerator, trying to get all he could out of the engine. Finally, he shifted into third, then instantly floored the pedal, putting more distance between them and the Russians.

  Grant turned, trying to look out the back, but didn't see headlights. That didn't mean the Russians had given up.

  Pankova started to sit up. "Stay down!" Grant shouted.

  Diaz shouted from the back, "Headlights! They aren't close, but they're comin'!"

  Slade focused on the road ahead. "We're almost where we crossed!"

  "Find us cover, Ken!"

  They rounded a curve. Slade yelled, "Hang on!" He swung the wheel left. The truck started sliding sideways, when he gunned the engine, sending the vehicle across grass and dirt, running over shrubs, narrowly missing trees.

  They'd run out of open ground. Slade hit the clutch and brake. Tires skidded on leaves and dirt, as the truck finally slowed, then rocked as it suddenly stopped. Killing the engine, Slade pulled his foot off the brake, dousing the brake lights.

  Hearing the sound of engines, Grant ordered, "Ken, Frank, cover our sixes! Give us five! Everybody else to the boat! Doc, DJ, take her!" Five men and Pankova disappeared into the dark forest, trying desperately to keep up the fast pace.

  *

  Two Russian troop carriers slowed, as men with flashlights shined the beams up and down the shoulder, looking for a place where the escaping vehicle could've turned off.

  "There!" someone yelled, pointing to tire tracks and disturbed dirt along the shoulder.

  Both drivers swung U-turns, then parked. Ten men jumped out, and readjusted their rifles. Flashlight beams lit the way, penetrating the darkness.

  An officer lingered by the road, calling the base, advising them the "intruders" were heading for the Baltic.

  The bow of the boat road lightly on the water, as the stern rubbed against sand. Pankova was sitting in the middle of the boat, looking exhausted and in pain. Adler knelt next to the stern, holding his rifle close. Grant, Stalley, James were positioned just off the beach, at the edge of the tree line, with their NVGs in place. Novak looked through his Starlighter. They anxiously waited and listened for a sound of hurried footsteps. Nothing but silence.

  "C'mon," Grant mumbled, as he swiveled his head, looking up and down the shoreline.

  Finally they heard Diaz in their earpieces. "Have you in sight!"

  Novak scanned the forest through the Starlighter. "I see 'em!" he reported in a loud whisper.

  The rest of the Team waited in defensive positions, keeping their eyes on the forest, watching for the two men.

  "There they are!" Grant pointed, seeing the men running like hell toward them. "Back to the boat!" Grant waited until the two caught up to him. "Were you followed?!"

  "We'll soon find out!" Diaz answered. "C'mon! Let's get the hell outta here!"

  Taking positions around the Zodiac, three men grabbed hold of the rope circling the gunnel, and started pulling, dragging it further into the water. Adler was already on board, lowering the props.

  Diaz, Slade and Grant splashed through the water, catching up to the boat. Everyone scrambled over the gunnel, knelt down, and aimed their weapons toward the beach. Novak was near Adler, his rifle poised and ready. Stealth mode was about to go "out the window."

  Two ear-splitting explosions and intense white lights lit up the horizon, catching trees and brush on fire. Thick smoke filled the night sky above the forest. Diaz and Slade had each placed a flash-bang grenade on opposite sides of the trail, using paracord as tripwire. Maybe all the Russians wouldn't be taken out of commission, but it was a start.

  "C'mon, Joe! Move!" Grant shouted, keeping his eyes on the shoreline.

  With the engine primed, Adler locked the engine's lift lever, set the handle to neutral, set the gas button to "on" then pulled the rip cord. The engine sputtered, then caught. He immediately adjusted the tiller, setting the boat in motion, then he hunched forward. The bow rose out of the water, and as the speed increased, it settled back down.

  "Company! One o'clock!" Novak shouted, seeing several Russians running from the east end of the beach. They lined up, and took aim with their rifles.

  Pankova was sitting up, trying to stay balanced, when Grant pointed at her. "Get down!" She curled up in the middle of the boat, pressing her hands over her ears. "Mike! Fire at will!"

  Novak's first shot put one Russian down, then another. The Team opened up. The Russians returned fire. Bullets whizzed over the boat, and along port and starboard, narrowly missing the hull, striking the water.

  With the throttle fully open, Adler steered the boat on a zigzag course, keeping it on a heading of north northeast. Water flew out from under the hull with each quick change of direction. Finally, the boat was out of firing range of the AKs, but the Russians continued firing. Adler kept the power on.

  Whether in international waters or not, everyone knew they were still in danger and immediately refocused, searching for possible patrol boats.

  When land was out of sight, Grant picked up an aluminum tube flare gun near his feet. One inch in diameter, twelve inches in length, it could fire as high as 1,000 feet. Aiming the gun high and at a slight angle, he fired. Within seconds the charge exploded with a loud bang, releasing a bright burning flare suspended from a small parachute that began drifting down very slowly. All they could do was wait and watch for the Sea Knight.

  Slade removed a flare from his chest vest, ready to light it when the Sea Knight was in range. A sound in the distance, a chopper, got their attention. But the sound wasn't coming from the direction they expected, instead it came from west southwest. Suddenly, a bright spotlight flashed, casting its beam across the water.

  "Holy fuck!" Slade shouted.

  Within seconds of spott
ing the enemy chopper, Adler noticed tiny dots on the northeastern horizon. "One o'clock!" The Sea Knight's navigation lights grew brighter.

  Grant's attention was drawn again to the other chopper. "Mike! Kill that goddamn spotlight!" Adler held the boat steady, no longer zigzagging as he waited for Novak to take a shot.

  Novak spun around, landing on his butt. He braced himself, adjusted the scope's crosshairs, took a breath, then squeezed the trigger. The light exploded. Adler immediately realigned the bow with the oncoming Sea Knight, as the enemy chopper briefly hovered, then suddenly started toward them again.

  Novak kept his scope trained on the UF chopper. "Gunner!"

  "Take him out!" Grant ordered.

  The Sea Knight was in full view now, with its gunner poised behind his .50 cal. Before Novak could fire, the Sea Knight gunner fired a warning burst past the port side of the enemy chopper, then another under it.

  Adler kept the boat moving the same speed, heading toward the Sea Knight, when the enemy chopper made a wide turn to starboard, going back the same way it came from, most likely to a base in East Germany.

  "Damn!" Stalley said, swiping a hand across his forehead under his watch cap.

  Slade lit the flare, marking their position for the Sea Knight. Adler slowed the boat. The chopper was hovering, when the pilot turned it 180 degrees. The cargo ramp was already lowered as the chopper descended, with a slightly nose up attitude.

  Crew Chief Brenner hustled through the cargo bay, assuring jump seats along both sides were up and secured temporarily. Hanging onto a safety line, he walked halfway down the ramp, with water beginning to splash over his boots. Crouching down, with NVGs in place, he looked into the darkness of the Baltic Sea. He adjusted the mouth wire, reporting to Lieutenant Anderson, "Fifty yards out! Closing fast!"

  Adler held the tiller steady, then decreased speed, lining up the bow with the ramp.

  Grant put a hand on Pankova's back. "Hang on!"

  "Twenty yards!" Brenner reported, as he tugged on the line, drawing himself closer to the bulkhead.