Operation Gold Eagle

by Jamie Fredric

  Slade guided the BMW cautiously along the darkened road, using only parking lights. He waited for the word to go totally dark.

  "There's a sign for the lake, to the right," Adler pointed.

  "Okay, Ken," Grant said, "slow it down; turn-off should be a quarter mile ahead."

  Slade automatically shut off the lights, and slowed the car to under 20 mph. The Team flipped down their NVGs.

  "Anybody spot the house?" Grant asked, slowly moving his head.

  "Where the fuck is it?" Novak spit out.

  "Wait!" Adler said, trying to steady himself. "I think I see it, two o'clock."

  "That's it," Grant confirmed.

  Slade steered the BMW off the blacktop and across the grassy shoulder. Slipping the gearshift into neutral, he kept his foot off the brake, allowed the car to come to a natural stop, then threw it into "Park."

  "Ken," Grant said, "keep an eye out while we get our gear." Before he went to the rear of the car, Grant took a few paces forward, directing the NVGs toward the ground, spotting tire tracks leading across the property.

  Once the gear was out of the trunk, Slade made a U-turn and drove another 20 yards, before pulling into a brush-covered area. It was the best he could do for keeping the BMW out of sight. He hustled to rejoin the Team.

  With bullet-resistant vests already under sweaters, A.T. secured chest vests, and K-bars in leg straps. Slinging rifle straps over their heads, they kept the weapons close to their chests. Silenced Makarovs were holstered. Novak carried his sniper rifle with its Starlighter scope.

  Ahead of them was nearly 200 yards of nothing but open ground. Oak and beech trees lined the north and east sides of the property, too far to use for cover. Part of A.T.'s challenge of crossing old farmland would be avoiding broken pieces of sharp, rusted tools and machinery. But tonight, if they were found out, the men's greatest concern was for RPGs, knowing they were Reznikov's weapon of choice. All they had going for them was their stealth, the element of surprise, and the pitch black night.

  "Let's go," Grant said. The six men began moving forward, keeping distance between one another. They'd follow their preset plan, separating the closer they got to the house.

  After traveling close to 100 yards, Grant held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. They knelt on a knee, while they continued scanning with the NVGs. No movement near the house had been detected, the vehicle hadn't been spotted.

  Grant looked to his right, then signaled with his hand. Slade and James responded immediately, heading toward the right side of the house. Their assignment: confirm the Trabant was there. Everyone else waited.

  Novak got on his belly and aimed the rifle as he scanned the front of the house through the scope. He tapped Grant's shoulder. "Armed RPG near door." The rocket launcher leaned against the doorframe.

  Slade and James sprinted across the field as fast as they dared, not stopping until they were at the east side of the house, immediately pressing their backs against rough concrete blocks.

  Suddenly, everyone heard Novak in their earpieces. "Eyes on UF, north corner!" Team A.T. hit the dirt, stretching out on their bellies.

  Slade and James stayed close to the wall, cautiously moving toward the rear of the structure. James leaned around the corner, saw it was clear, then both men disappeared around the back.

  Slade pressed the PTT, and whispered, "Eyes on vehicle." They waited for further instructions, not knowing the current location of the UF.

  Sergei Botkin walked toward the front door, with his rifle strap slung over his shoulder. He stopped briefly, and puffed on a cigarette. Tilting his head back, he blew out a lungful of smoke, and flicked the butt to the side. He rapped his fist twice against the heavy wood, then waited. Within seconds, Orlov opened the door. Botkin ducked inside.

  Orlov carried his rifle as he came out. Botkin closed the door, securing it with both slide bolts.

  "Shift change," Novak whispered into his throat mike. "Guard heading east." He whispered to Grant, "Two raps on door for entry."

  With the vehicle still there, the odds increased for Reznikov being inside the house. But they had to confirm.

  Grant pressed the PTT. "Ken, G2 guard; confirm main 'target' inside. Copy?"

  "Copy." Slade shifted his rifle behind his back, drew out his K-bar, then took the lead, heading to the back east corner. He had to wait, not knowing if the UF would head in his direction. James drew his Makarov from the holster.

  Novak kept the scope's crosshairs trained on the UF, who was walking at a "snail's pace," occasionally glancing toward the front of the property. Ten yards past the house, he turned around, and headed back.

  Slade was down on his belly, crabbing his way in a wide arch, planning to come up behind the UF. Slowly, he brought himself up into a low crouch, edging closer, with his K-bar firmly in his grasp. Not wasting any more time, he was behind the UF in a heartbeat.

  James was already on the move when Slade's hand was across the UF's mouth, with a knife against his throat. James grabbed the UF's rifle, as Slade dragged the man backward. The UF stared wide-eyed into alien-looking NVGs, feeling a pistol pressing against his chest. Within seconds the three men were behind the house.

  Grant waited, finally hearing Slade, "Confirming target inside."

  "Roger that," Grant replied, relieved. He pressed the PTT, ready to begin the next phase. "Frank, set timers in stockpile to eight." Diaz checked the surroundings, then took off, heading for the left side of the house. A.T. would most likely get the job done in five minutes, but the extra three couldn't hurt.

  They had to move now. Grant whispered to Novak, "Cover our sixes." Novak settled into the dirt, getting more comfortable.

  Grant pressed the PTT. "Bring UF to front. A.T. moving forward." He and Adler got up into a crouch, then hauled ass, heading for the door. Slowing down the closer they got to the house, they quietly took up positions next to the door.

  Adler quickly glanced at the RPG. That's gonna come in handy!he thought.

  He and Grant quietly shifted the rifles behind their backs, then drew the Makarovs.

  Slade and James were dragging the struggling UF. The strip of duct tape across his mouth didn't prevent guttural sounds escaping from his throat. James balled up a fist and struck him in the solar plexus, making him double over, quickly shutting him up. They stopped next to the door, opposite Grant and Adler.

  The four men rested the NVGs on top of their heads. Weapons were ready, when they heard Diaz in their earpieces. "Mark time -- now. Coming to you."

  Grant quickly set his submariner's timer for eight minutes. They waited for Diaz, who showed up within seconds.

  Slade stood behind the UF, holding onto his arms tied behind his back, watching for Adler's signal. They were prepared for what came next. Adler nodded, then beat his fist against the door with two sharp raps.

  Inside, Reznikov and Botkin sat at the table, studying a map, discussing their intended route to Sperenberg. Always cautious, their weapons were within reach. They glanced at each other, as Botkin said with annoyance, "He just took over the watch!"

  Reznikov motioned with a flick of his hand. "See what he wants."

  Botkin went to the door, and angrily slid the first bolt to the side, then the second. Light from inside barely showed through the opening, when Slade forced the UF inside with a powerful shove. Orlov stumbled, lost his balance and fell on the floor, rolling near the table. The heavy door smashed Botkin in the face, sending him on his ass. Blood spurted from his nose. Reznikov knocked his chair over, as he jumped up, not believing what he was looking at. Five armed men.

  "Stay where you are!" Grant shouted in Russian. "Hands up!"

  Slade and Diaz grabbed the two downed Russians, dragged them across the floor, then jerked them up next to Reznikov. Slade ripped the duct tape from Orlov's mouth, sliced through the rope tying his wrists, then he and Diaz immediately hustled back.

  At the same time, Adler pulled a penlight from his vest as he raced to the back of t
he room. He moved the light along the floor, then toward the wood beam, following the strung-out explosives. Wires ran down both walls, hanging nearly to the floor. He'd seen enough. He mustered alongside Grant.

  Grant continued glaring at Reznikov, seeing him look towards his weapon on the table. "Go ahead," Grant said, motioning with his Makarov. "Try it."

  Reznikov's mind was spinning. How the hell did these men find him? Who were they? He answered his own question, quietly grumbling, "Spetsnaz." (Russian Special Forces.) But suddenly all he could think about was the future for him and his men. If they survived this evening, they'd face interrogation at Lubyanka in Moscow. And if they survived Lubyanka, it could mean a firing squad. But with the deaths and destruction they caused, they'd surely be made to suffer. He pictured the harshest gulag on the face of the earth in northern Siberia. They'd never be heard from again.

  Grant glanced at his watch. Five minutes to go. C'mon on, you sonofabitch. Reach for it!he silently demanded, setting his eyes on Reznikov.

  But it was Botkin who made a sudden move toward his pistol. Slade and James fired. A bullet pierced Botkin's head, the other went through his chest. His upper body fell against the table, then it slid backwards, leaving a trail of blood on the wood. He landed on the floor in a bloody heap. The two terrorists' eyes went from Botkin's body, back to the five men.

  Reznikov decided he wasn't going back to any gulag or face Lubyanka. That meant he would die in this building -- and within the next few seconds. Keeping his eyes on Grant, he lunged for his pistol. Five weapons fired multiple times, sending both Reznikov and Orlov backwards, before both bodies hit the floor.

  Grant immediately pressed the PTT. "Mike, we need that camera!" He turned to Slade, Diaz, and James. "Get the hell outta here! We'll be right behind you!"

  Novak handed his rifle to Slade as they ran past one another. Without needing details, he aimed the camera, taking two pictures of each body, then close-ups of each face.

  "Go!" Grant said. Novak ran from the room.

  Standing over the bodies of Reznikov and Botkin, Grant and Adler weren't about to risk it. Stranger outcomes had been known to happen. They double tapped each one, and then Orlov.

  As they ran toward the door, Grant spun around and raced back to the table, grabbing the map. He caught up to Adler, who was running with the RPG over his shoulder. Once they were away from the light, they flipped down the NVGs, then picked up the pace, trying to avoid ruts, vines and rocks crossing their path.

  When they were nearly at the road, they stopped and spun around, immediately flipping up the NVGs. "How much time?" Adler shouted, as he set the launcher firmly on his shoulder.

  Before Grant answered, the underground storage room exploded in a massive orange fireball, creating a powerful noise that shook the earth. The glow in the night sky was visible for miles.

  Adler took aim, and pulled the trigger. The H.E. grenade exploded on impact with the crumbling, concrete block house, immediately setting off the dynamite strung across the wooden beams.

  "Let's go!" Grant shouted, grabbing Adler's arm. Debris was beginning to rain down. Dried grass caught fire.

  "What about this?!" Adler yelled holding the launcher.

  "Toss it in the lake!"

  Boots pounded against blacktop, as they raced to the car, where Slade already had the engine running. Trunk, and passenger front and rear doors were open. Adler tossed the RPG in the trunk. Trunk lid, then doors slammed.

  "Go! Go! Go!" Grant shouted.

  Tires spit dirt and grass as Slade stomped on the gas. The rear end of the BMW fishtailed before he brought it under control. The engine roared as the BMW picked up speed.

  "There's the lake!" Grant pointed toward the windshield. "We've gotta dump the RPG!"

  Slade brought the car to a skidding stop on top of the two-lane bridge. Adler jumped out, grabbed the RPG from the trunk, and flung it as far as he could. Before it hit the water, he was in the car.

  A.T. was outta there.

  Chapter 15

  Schonefeld Terminal

  June 24

  0330 Hours

  Day 6

  After confirming Dotsenko and Stalley were safely aboard, and securing all gear, Adler and Grant drove to Terminal A before turning in the BMW. Traffic entering and leaving the airport was half of daytime traffic. Parking wasn't an issue.

  "C'mon, Joe," Grant said, "let's make the call." The first floor phones were the same he used last time. This time of morning, there were fewer passengers to worry about in the immediate vicinity.

  Grant dialed the secure line at State, using special numbers that disguised where the call was originating to/from. He noticed Adler eyeing a cafe. Motioning with his thumb, Grant said, "Go! And whatever you get, get some for everybody!"

  The phone continued ringing. If Mullins wasn't at the office, he probably transferred the call to his home.

  "Mullins."

  "Is thisthe Scott Mullins?!"

  "Grant! Jesus! Buddy, are you okay?!"

  "We're all good, Scott. Getting ready to head home."

  "I know you'll be kind enough to fill me in completely once you're back, but do I need to hook you up with the 'big guy'?"

  "Just give him this shorthand version. The three individuals were taken care of, and we snapped some helpful photos."

  "Outstanding, Grant!"

  "That's all I've got for now. I see Joe coming with a shitload of food. And I'm starvin'!"

  "Okay, buddy. Enjoy your meal! I'll expect a call when you're two hours out. Safe trip!"

  *

  Friedrichshain Municipal Hospital

  0500 Hours

  Kalinin was sitting in a chair, with his legs stretched out, his fingers intertwined behind his head. His eyes were closed, but he was totally aware of sounds in the room. Zykov leaned a shoulder against the wall, fighting to stay awake.

  Expecting the police to return in five minutes from their break, Kalinin stood up and stretched his arms high overhead, then glanced down at prisoner Baskov. He was still asleep, mostly from the meds he'd been administered. Kalinin jiggled the handcuffs secured to the metal bed and Baskov's wrist, before walking to the main aisle. Slipping his hands into his pants pockets, he wondered about Grant and his men. Was their op over? Was it a success? With the last conversation he had with his two friends, and although no specifics were given, he doubted Reznikov and his men were still alive. Kalinin silently confirmed that if he were in control of that situation, he'd have it end the same.

  He jerked his head up, hearing the two East Germans coming into the ward. He walked over to Zykov, and tapped his shoulder. "Oleg! Come on."

  "What?!" Zykov said, shaking his head.

  "We must go."

  Zykov slowly stood, then stretched. "Where? Where are we going?"

  Kalinin didn't answer as the two East Germans came near the bed. He had to leave them in charge of Baskov, but he'd make sure they realized their responsibility.

  "No one but doctors and nurses are to come near this man. The Premier and KGB Director Antolov will arrive soon. Do you understand?"

  Both men nodded, taking their positions alongside the bed. Just the mention of both those Russians made them realize this was no time for screwing up.

  Kalinin took the lead as he and Zykov left the ward. As soon as they were in the main corridor, Zykov asked, "Just where are we going?"

  Kalinin punched the elevator button. "We have to find Reznikov's hideout before Director Antolov arrives."

  "But there are just the two of us! What if . . ."

  The elevator doors parted. The two men stepped aside as a nurse wheeled out a gurney with a sleeping patient. Once the men were in the elevator and on their way down, Kalinin answered, "If the director arrives and finds out we have not at least investigated that place, what do you think his reaction will be, Oleg, especially when I give him the recording?!"

  The elevator lurched as it came to a stop. The two men immediately exited, and as they
walked to the front double doors, Zykov asked, "Why did we not go yesterday, as soon as we had the prisoner's confession?"

  Good question. Now come up with a reasonable answer,Kalinin told himself. "You know how much paperwork there is, and trying to get the East Germans to assist is a task in itself. And it took me longer than expected to review all the transmissions intel had gathered. Besides, it was already dark by the time I got back. Come on."

  *

  As they approached their destination, flashing lights appeared on the horizon.

  "Those could be either police or fire trucks," Zykov commented.

  "Slow down." Kalinin reached for the binoculars behind the console. He focused the glasses. "I see both, Oleg, and an ambulance."

  They drove another 200 yards. Kalinin pointed, "Pull over." From where they parked, they had a clear view of the open field. They both got out of the car. Kalinin looked through the glasses. "Shit! That was the hideout! There is nothing left!"

  "Can you make out anything?!" Zykov asked staring ahead.

  "Just rubble, and worse than the embassy." He handed the glasses to Zykov. "I will talk with someone, and hope I can get details. Director Antolov will want as much information as possible, especially if those three men are buried under that mess."

  Kalinin jogged toward two East German policemen. He lifted his KGB badge from his belt, displaying it for the two men.

  After a few minutes, he walked back to Zykov. "Did they find any bodies, Nicolai?"

  "Nothing that could be identified. From what they saw, three men, or what was left of them, were buried under that mess of concrete block and destroyed wooden beams. When the underground explosives blew, it probably set off the dynamite in the house."

  "From the looks of it," Zykov said, shaking his head, "I would say they were blown to bits."