Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  "I want to get inside."

  Zykov parked the car, then they cautiously hustled to the rear of the embassy. Windows had been blown out, glass littered the sidewalk and street, but the lower part of the building itself remained somewhat intact. A hidden rear entrance, behind a panel of false cement blocks, would be their means of access.

  Kalinin placed a hand against the stainless steel door, checking for heat. He punched in a code on the small panel, then pushed the door open. Smoke still hung low inside the building. They put their sleeves across their mouths, breathing shallow as they climbed the stairs, avoiding glass and debris. Once on the next level, they paused, trying to see through mounds of fallen ceiling and walls. Water dripped from the overhead. Equipment and desks were burned and strewn everywhere. They splashed through water sprayed from fire hoses. It wasn't looking good for anyone who'd been inside.

  Noises toward the front of the building gave them some hope, until the voices they heard were German, probably the bomb squad and firemen.

  Kalinin motioned to Zykov, pointing back toward the stairs. "Hurry! We must check the basement and files," he whispered.

  Climbing over chunks of collapsed ceiling and walls, they cautiously worked their way to file cabinets. Most had damage, except for ones closer to the stairwell.

  The voices seemed to be coming closer. Kalinin rushed to one of the cabinets. Even after unlocking it, he had to brace a foot against it, and pull until the drawer finally gave way. He grabbed three files, then glanced overhead, following the sound of voices with his eyes. He shoved the drawer in, but was unable to lock it. "Come on, Oleg." The two clambered over debris, hurrying to get outside.

  By the time they reached the car, Kalinin had already made a decision. "Oleg, take these files then drive to intel."

  "Where are you going?!"

  "I will talk more with the police and maybe the bomb squad and get as much information as possible. Moscow will want specifics. As soon as you get to intel, call Comrade Borskaya's residence."

  Zykov dug his keys from his pocket. "You do not think he is there, do you?"

  "We must check. We will need help, Oleg, because someone must guard all the sensitive materials inside the embassy. Put that question to him. Then make sure intel has finished with that transmission from Drazowe." As Zykov opened the door, Kalinin stopped him. "See if there's another vehicle. We cannot drive this in its condition."

  Once the Volga was out of sight, Kalinin blew out a long breath. His head pounded. Pressing fingers against his eyes didn't help the pain. "Move it, Kalinin," he grumbled, before starting to jog to the opposite end of the road. Traffic was backed up in every direction. Curiosity seekers rushed past him. Sirens from two more ambulances grew louder. The crowd separated, watching the approaching vehicles.

  He spotted a phone booth at the next corner, then he started running, as he dug coins from his pants pocket. Sorting through the change, he pulled out enough pfennings, dropped the correct change into the slot, then dialed the number he'd memorized. (100 pfennings equaled one Mark.)

  Less than two minutes later, he came out of the phone booth. It was time to head to intel, but he decided to look for embassy employees who may have made it out of the destruction. But as he wove his way in and out of the crowd of onlookers, all he saw were unfamiliar faces. Shaking his head in disbelief, he picked up his gait. Ten minutes later he was at Kronenstrasse.

  No sooner had he opened the office door, when Zykov came rushing up to him. "Nicolai! Comrade Borskaya is all right!"

  Kalinin's eyes searched around the room. "Where is he?!"

  "Premier Gorshevsky ordered him and Comrade General Komarov to Moscow! They left for Schonefeld ten minutes ago."

  "What about the ambassador, Oleg?! Has he reported in or been seen?!"

  "No. It does not look good for him or his staff."

  "Dammit!"

  "Did you find out anything from the police?"

  Kalinin closed the door then walked farther away from the intel staff. "No. Rescue vehicles were still arriving, but no one had come out of the building. I searched through the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face, but never saw anyone." He leaned a shoulder against a wall. "Can I assume you informed Borskaya about my recognizing Reznikov leaving the scene?"

  "I did. I have never seen him so angry."

  "Who will guard the embassy?"

  "He called in two of our counterparts working at Stasi headquarters. They should arrive in an hour or so."

  "Did he leave any instructions for us?"

  "Find Reznikov."

  "No mention of Dotsenko?!"

  "Not a word."

  Kalinin pictured the scene that would take place in Moscow. "I would not want to be either one of those men, Oleg, having to answer to the premier."

  Zykov nodded in agreement, then said, "The transcription from Drazowe is on the desk over there."

  "Did you read it?" Kalinin asked as they pulled two chairs closer.

  "Not completely."

  Kalinin got Boris Yellen's attention and motioned him over.

  "Yes, Comrade Kalinin?"

  "Do you remember any transmissions that could relate to the bombing?"

  "Not offhand. Anything picked up with key words relating to 'bombs' is brought to my attention immediately. But I will check." He immediately went to each man, with the same question. Then sat at his desk, reviewing the book ledger.

  *

  Earlier that morning, dressed in a cheap black suit, and carrying an old satchel-type, brown briefcase, Pavel Orlov approached the Soviet guard standing by the arched entryway near the sidewalk. He presented his Russian identification papers, then more than willingly opened his briefcase for inspection. Papers, folders, pens, pencils, scissors, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The guard reexamined the papers, then passed him through.

  Once inside, he walked up to the second floor, politely nodded to employees that passed, then he turned down another short hallway, finding a door marked "Storage." Confirming he was alone, he hurried inside.

  What he did next was exactly the same as he did the last visits, and he kept the preparation time to under three minutes. He opened the briefcase, removed a thin piece of chipboard that concealed a false bottom. Hidden were small blocks of C-4, sticks of dynamite, two short wraps of det cord, two small timers, electrical tape.

  He completed the IEDs in his time allotted, hid one behind bottles and large cans of cleaning fluid, then stashed the second in the briefcase. Once he was in the hallway, he went down to the first floor, following signs pointing to the men's room, located at the opposite side of the main entryway.

  Voices inside made him pause, but he had to complete the task. Two men were washing their hands. He nodded to them, put down the briefcase, then turned on a faucet. A minute later he was alone. He immediately planted the second device in the bottom of a metal trash can, then threw a mound of dry toilet paper on top.

  He stopped briefly near the door, exhaled a long breath, then he left. There wasn't any need to examine the three devices previously installed at opposite ends of the building. Without stopping, he walked out the front door, past the guard, then headed to the next street, where Reznikov and Botkin were waiting in the vehicle, prepared to drive to their next two targets.

  Located ten miles southeast of Berlin center, at Berlin-Karlshorst, was the headquarters for the East German Border Command Center. The command was charged with manning the crossing points into West Berlin and guarding the entire border perimeter.

  Five minutes from the Command Center was the 6th Independent Motorized Rifle Brigade. In April, 1945, the Red Army's commander of the 1st Belorussian Front established his headquarters at the former Wehrmact mess hall in Karlshorst. It was here, on May 7, 1945, that Germany unconditionally surrendered.

  Surprisingly, neither the rifle brigade compound nor the command center had an over abundance of security. Several guards, carrying AK47s, patrolled the grounds. The East German populous feared th
e Stasi (East German State Security), and that normally prevented any form of attacks against military or government. The organization was tasked with spying on the population, mainly through a vast network of citizens turned informants. No one could be trusted. The Stasi was one of the most effective and repressive intelligence and secret police agencies in existence. But for most civilians, if they were going to risk their lives, it would be attempting an escape to the West.

  Parked midway between both complexes, Reznikov waited in his vehicle, ready to start the engine. Botkin and Orlov were in position, each man set, and waiting. Their targets were in the open, giving them an unobstructed view. Their paths for retreating -- memorized.

  Reznikov looked at his watch, beginning to count down the last minute. Two RPGs fired simultaneously, launching two H.E. grenades (high explosive). One hit the Border Command Center's armory, the other the Rifle Brigade armory. Both were perfect hits.

  The two attacks left eleven soldiers dead at the Command Center, six at the brigade.

  *

  Tegel Airport

  Outside MILOPS

  Day 4

  Heavy cloud coverage prevented ray's from the morning sun from breaking through. Winds picked up, the temperature dropped to fifty degrees.

  Garrett and Draper sat on the Gulfstream's stairs, both men looking through binoculars, searching for a break in the clouds, searching for the Sea Knight.

  "I hate this waiting, Rob," Garrett said. "I'd rather be out there with them."

  "Yeah. Me, too," Draper answered, refocusing the glasses, looking along the roofline of the terminal. "You think they'll take a chance and come back across the Soviet Zone?"

  "Guess it depends on how much of a hurry they're in."

  "As in injuries," Draper stated.

  Ten more minutes passed without any sign of the chopper. Garrett finally got up and started a visual inspection of the Gulfstream, trying to keep his mind occupied. There wasn't any sense in looking at his watch.

  "There it is!" Draper shouted, pointing west. "Guess they took the long way 'round!"

  They kept their eyes on the chopper, following it until its wheels settled on concrete. They weren't about to wait for the rotors to shutdown. Hurrying toward the tail end, they heard the whining motor lowering the ramp.

  Crew Chief Brenner stood to the side as A.T. carried the boat down the ramp. Each man acknowledged Garrett and Draper.

  Grant and Adler hung back, standing near Pankova. "Be right there," Grant said, looking towards the two men.

  Stalley stood on the ramp. "I think the boss wants to call Scott asap to find out what we do next. We've gotta protect Miss Pankova until she's no longer our responsibility." He boarded. The rest of the Team took defensive positions near the chopper.

  Grant and Adler walked down the ramp, joining Garrett and Draper. "C'mon," Grant said, slapping Garrett's shoulder. "Walk to Operations with us. We've gotta report to Scott."

  "Guess you'll give us the details once we're in the air," Garrett said.

  "It might be best, Matt," Grant responded opening the door, "but a lot has to do with what Scott has to say."

  "Tell ya what. We'll wait in the plane."

  After getting authorization from the OOD (Officer of the Day) to use a scrambler in the secure room, Grant dialed Mullins' office.

  "Grant?"

  "Hey, Scott!"

  "I seem to detect good news in your voice. You found her, didn't you?"

  "Without going into details, yeah, we did. She's quite a woman."

  "Where is she?"

  "The Team's guarding her on the chopper. But what I need to know is what happens now? Has a decision been made how she gets back to the States? Is Dotsenko still at the embassy?"

  "He is, but first I've gotta report up the 'chain' and tell them she's safe at Tegel."

  "Maybe mention that her cover was 'blown' and she went through some rough interrogation. That should get somebody's attention."

  "Jesus! How'd the Russians find out?"

  "Scott, can you get my questions answered first? We really have to . . ."

  "No need to say anymore." Mullins scooted forward on his chair. "Stay on the line, 'cause this might take awhile."

  Grant leaned back against the desk, tapping the receiver against his palm. "Dotsenko's still at the embassy."

  Adler arched an eyebrow. "Why the hell didn't they fly him out?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine, Joe." He glanced at his submariner. "Do me a favor. Check with the chopper crew and see if they've reported in to anybody. And maybe we should transfer Pankova to the Gulfstream. It might be more comfortable for everyone. The guys can take shifts watching her."

  Adler stood and readjusted his holster. "Maybe some drinks and food would help, too!"

  "I'm sure they would," Grant answered, not surprised by the suggestion.

  After all the hours spent with the Team on the op, Grant was finally alone, having time to think, to sort out details, maybe answer his own questions. But a question answered brought another unanswered. In his mind, the whole op to rescue both Dotsenko and Pankova began to reek. Why the fuck did the U.S. give up such a valuable commodity? That still bothered him.

  He started pacing. An all too familiar feeling rushed through him, when he suddenly brought himself to a standstill. "Christ!" What if the CIA wanted Dotsenko back in Russia, where he'd be more valuable instead of running a goddamn phony spy ring in D.C.? What if Dotsenko was a willing participant, just to save Pankova? Was the Team's taking him to the embassy part of the plan? But then what? What was supposed to happen next?

  Rubbing both temples vigorously, he almost didn't want to believe the whole fucking idea flashing through his mind. All the years he'd been involved with CIA one way or other, the Agency had been like a burr stuck in his ass. Was he just reaching here? Was he intentionally trying to pin something on the 'Cowboys'? Was . . . ?

  "Grant! Where the hell are you?!"

  Grant snatched the receiver off the desk. "Sorry, Scott!" He turned, hearing the buzz, indicating the secure door unlocked. Adler came in carrying two paper cups with hot coffee. He handed one to Grant, then put a paper bag on the desk, with roast beef sandwiches inside.

  Grant resumed his conversation with Mullins. "Scott, Joe just came in. I'll put you on speaker. Okay. Now before I run something by both of you, tell us the rest of this mission. It might be the deciding factor whether or not my theory is total bullshit."

  Adler sat on the edge of the desk, blowing breath into his coffee. All the years he and Grant had known each another, there wasn't much that surprised him. So, he'd just wait for the details.

  "Should I be worried?" Mullins asked.

  "Probably."

  "Shit!" Exhaling a long breath before continuing, Mullins began. "Here are the details: The two 'assets' will not -- I repeat -- will not be transferred together. SecDef has ordered a 'Prowler' from the Enterprise to Tegel. It'll be her escort back to Andrews." The AE-6B Prowler was a four-seater aircraft, derived from the two seater A-6 Intruder. The Prowler's main function was the jamming of radar and communication.

  "I assume we're to wait until it arrives?"

  "Affirmative. It's already in the air. Expected ETA is 0900 your time." Grant put the paper cup on the desk, and glanced at his watch, hearing Mullins say, "There's not to be any delay in getting that plane back in the air, Grant. Mid-air refueling's been authorized."

  "We'll see that it happens."

  "One more thing. I mentioned the interrogation she went through. A corpsman will be on the Prowler, just as a precaution in case she has any issues during flight."

  "Good thinking, Scott. Now, I have a feeling there's gonna be more for getting Dotsenko out. Whether I reveal my bullshit idea hinges on what you have to say."

  "There is, Grant, but I . . . uh, haven't been entrusted with that information."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?!"

  "Hey! Just cool it, goddammit! You know I'm not always
made privy to details."

  Grant's head started pounding. "What then?! What am I supposed to do?!"

  Adler was about to take a drink, when his hand stopped in mid air. "Uh-oh."

  Suddenly, there were three sharp raps at the door. "Captain Stevens! Captain Stevens!"

  Grant and Adler jerked their heads around, then Adler immediately went to the door and opened it. Lieutenant Franklin, OOD, looked back and forth between Grant and Alder. "Beg pardon, sirs, but we just received word that the Soviet Embassy in Berlin was bombed!"

  Grant and Adler shot looks at one another before Grant questioned, "Bombed?!"

  "Yes, sir! Still no report on casualties."

  Grant returned to his conversation with Mullins. "Scott! Did you hear that?! The Soviet Embassy was bombed!"

  "Holy shit!"

  Petty Officer Simms came rushing into the room. "Sirs, two other locations -- bombed, sirs!"

  "Hold on, Scott! Petty Officer! Where'd those bombings happen?!"

  "An East German command center for border guards, and the Soviet's Rifle Brigade, sir!"

  Grant's eyes narrowed as he looked at Adler. "That sonofabitch Reznikov."

  "My thought, too. I'd better go tell the guys."

  "Try not . . ."

  "I'll be sure she can't hear me, but I'll tell them all about the Prowler." Adler took off, breaking into a run.

  Grant directed his eyes to Franklin. "Keep me posted, Lieutenant." Franklin and Simms took their cue, and left.

  "Jesus, Scott!"

  "Word's beginning to come across the wires! And I heard what you said. You really think it was Reznikov?"

  "Sounds like he's pissed at everyone. This may change everything on getting Dotsenko out."

  "I'll call . . . Uh-oh. Grant, hold on. There's a call coming in that probably has something to do with this shit."

  While he waited, Grant began thinking about meeting Dotsenko at the U.S. Embassy. But that was as far as he got, when he heard, "Grant, you're to go to the embassy! You'll be contacted when this shit calms down!"

  Grant rubbed a hand over his head. "What if it doesn't, Scott? What if this is just the beginning of Reznikov's higher plan?"