Code Name Antares

Chapter 15

Shannon Airport was located approximately forty miles east of Ireland’s west coast and the North Atlantic. Situated along the River Shannon, the small airport had one asphalt runway, 10,500 feet long. Even though it had become the first transatlantic gateway between Ireland and the U.S., very rarely were planes waiting to takeoff or land.

Sunset had been at nineteen thirty hours. Ground temperature was hovering around forty-two degrees and dropping. Winds remained constant at twenty knots.

Grant switched on landing lights, and lowered cabin lights, before he lowered the landing gear. Garrett communicated with the control tower, then he adjusted the plane’s heading, speed, and altitude.

Team A.T. looked out windows, trying to get a glimpse of their destination. Adler called out, “Get your glasses! Be ready to look for that plane!”

Terminal, control tower, parking lots, and hangars were all on the starboard side of the runway. If the Russian jet already landed, it’d be parked away from the terminal.

The controller in the tower checked that runway and flight path were clear, updated the Gulfstream with weather and wind conditions, then gave clearance for it to land on Runway 06. Winds buffeted the aircraft as it began its final approach.

“Lot of lights out there,” Adler reported, as he kept scanning the area. “Hope they won’t be a problem.”

“Get ready for touchdown!” Grant warned.

A gust of wind caught the Gulfstream, just as tires were about to meet runway, slamming it hard against asphalt. Tires didn’t blow. Garrett kept it under control, gradually slowing to taxiing speed.

“Target acquired!” Novak shouted. “Three o’clock! Tail numbers confirmed!”

“Is it refueling?!” Grant asked, as he doused all cabin lights.

“Can’t see it anymore, boss! Have to wait till we come around!” Everybody shifted to the port side, with glasses poised.

Following the controller’s instructions, Garrett proceeded to a designated parking site. He made a right off the runway, then headed in the direction of the terminal. Approaching the concrete section of the airfield, he made a slight turn left, following a curving, painted yellow line.

“There it is!” Adler confirmed. “Still no sign of a fuel truck.”

“They must’ve just landed,” Grant commented quietly. “Nice job, Matt!”

Stalley swung the glasses to another area. “Think I see fuel trucks, LT! Eleven o’clock!”

“Moving?”

“Static!”

An airport marshaller, wearing headphones and a reflective orange vest, came from around the Antonov then waited for the Gulfstream. Placing himself near the yellow line, he stood far enough away in order for Garrett to see him at all times, head-on with Garrett’s left shoulder. Using illuminated wands, he signaled the plane forward. Garrett kept the nose wheel on the yellow line, rolling forward, until the marshaller held both wands overhead, then immediately crossed them. Garrett brought the plane to a stop and gave a quick salute to the marshaller, who immediately walked toward the airfield. The Gulfstream was fifty feet from the Russian plane, nose to tail, and about five hundred feet from the terminal, located at its four o’clock.

Grant and Garrett ran through the final checklist, then Grant went to the cabin and leaned toward a window. They may have lucked out. This section of the airfield had fewer lights, giving them more shadows they could take advantage of. “Seen any civilians in the immediate area?”

Novak checked starboard side, Stalley, port. Both answered, “Negative.” Novak added, “But looks like maintenance workers are coming and going around the terminal.”

“Doc, keep watch from the cockpit. Mike, starboard window.” Grant said, as he sat across from Adler, Slade and James. “Any sign of the crew, Doc?”

“Negative,” Stalley reported. “Wait! Both of ’em are coming out of the plane now. A fuel truck’s driving across the airfield.”

They waited. “Update, Doc.”

“Truck’s within range. Parking starboard side now, maybe twelve to fifteen feet from the plane. That’s where those two guys are heading.”

“We can’t delay,” Grant said, adjusting his throat mike and earpiece.

“Hate to ‘rain on your parade',” Adler said, “but what about the passengers?”

The right side of Grant’s mouth curved up. “When have we ever let small details get in our way?”

“Pretty much never. So we go with a diversion?” Adler asked, knowing the answer.

“Just like we planned, Joe.” He turned toward the cockpit. “Hey, Matt. You finished with the fuel paperwork?”

Garrett checked the fuel gauge, making a mental note of remaining fuel. “Done,” he replied walking into the cabin. He dropped the paper on a seat then opened an overhead storage bin, taking out a shoulder holster holding his .45. Once he’d adjusted the holster, he put on a windbreaker and zipped it up to his throat, concealing the mike. He had to chance it that the earpiece wire wouldn’t be noticed.

“Okay, you know what to do,” Grant said. “Give us a couple of minutes first.” He leaned toward the cockpit. “Doc, you stay aboard. Keep those updates coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant turned toward the Team and nodded. Almost in unison, five men pulled down black one-hole masks, readjusted earpieces and throat mikes. Silencers were retightened, then a sound of clips being ejected, rammed back in, slides being jacked back. Alpha Tango was ready.

“Okay, Matt.”

Garrett went to the cockpit and hit the switch, lowering the door and steps. When he returned, Grant said, “Time to do your thing.”

Garrett stopped at the bottom of the steps, then put on a plain cover (cap), similar to a commercial pilot’s. As he walked around the nose of the Gulfstream, a blast of wind nearly took his cover. He grabbed the brim, then kept walking. It was up to him to stall the refueling of the Russian plane, keeping the pilots preoccupied as long as possible, giving the men enough time to take their positions.

Stalley reported, “He’s about halfway to the fuel truck. Doesn’t look like he’s been noticed yet.”

“Any time now,” Grant said softly. The Team gathered closer to the open door.

A sound of jet engines. Stalley swung the glasses toward the terminal. “A 707’s getting ready to taxi.”

“Should keep everyone busy for a while,” Grant said.

Stalley moved the glasses, focusing again on the Russian plane. “Okay. Matt’s at the truck. He got somebody’s attention. Go!”

Alpha Tango moved almost as quickly as a heartbeat, getting out then lining up alongside the plane. Grant eased himself closer to the nose, then held up a fist. Taking a quick look around, he motioned with a hand, signaling Novak, Slade and James. Crouching low, they ran at an angle away from the plane, heading toward a row of parked maintenance vehicles. While Slade covered their backs, Novak and James kept their eyes on the plane, Grant and Adler.

James verified the three were ready, then he pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. All in position. Copy?”

As he continued scanning the immediate area, Grant quietly responded, “Copy that.” From his position, he was unable to see the fuel truck or Garrett. He pressed the PTT. “Five-Two, still clear?”

“Clear.”

Grant and Adler took off, running to the Russian plane’s port side. Staying low, and close to the fuselage, they ducked under the wing. Adler tapped Grant’s shoulder, pointing to a closed cargo door. Taking it slowly, they stopped by the stairs, immediately hearing voices inside. The conversation seemed more one-sided. Grant recognized the voice — KGB Vikulin.

On the starboard side of the plane, Matt Garrett glanced at his watch, then turned to see another fuel truck driving across the airfield. In his earpiece he heard Stalley, “Eight-Four, everyone in position.”

Time to get refueling underway, Garrett thought. He walked toward the Gulfstream, waiting for the approaching truck.

The two Russian crewmen were obviously perturbed over the delay the American had caused. They handed over their paperwork, then backed away, as the driver began the refueling procedure.

The driver hopped out of the second truck, and Garrett handed him the paper, showing gallons and type of fuel. Following safety procedures, the driver attached a ground wire, and hooked up the fuel hose. Fuel started flowing almost immediately.

Stalley heard another sound, and focused the glasses on a small passenger bus coming toward the planes. Two men jumped out. The bus pulled away.

As Grant and Adler were about to make a move up the steps, they heard in their earpieces, “Zero-Niner! Five-Two! Eyes on deuce, possible UFs! Take cover!” (UFs, unfriendlies) Hearing Stalley’s warning in their earpieces, James and Novak took aim, directing their weapons toward the UFs.

Without hesitating, Grant and Adler rolled under the plane, staying in its shadow, and the shadow of the fuel truck, looking aft, waiting, not moving.

Garrett backed away from the fuel truck, keeping an eye on the two UFs. Then he inconspicuously adjusted his earpiece.

Spotting the two men as they ran around the tail of the plane, Grant and Adler slowly crabbed their way aft, taking shelter next to the starboard wheels. They were able to see both UFs, wearing long, black leather coats. Then they heard someone stomping through the cabin.

The two men stopped near the steps, then dropped two suitcases. One of them shouted in Russian, “Open it!” He pointed to the cargo hold.

Vikulin stood at the top of the steps. “Who are you!”

“We were ordered here from East Berlin by Comrade Director Antolov! Now, open the compartment!” Orders also dictated they verified weapons were onboard.

Vikulin wasn’t satisfied. No mention of these two men had been made by the ambassador, unless he had not been informed either. With everything that had happened recently, Vikulin wasn’t about to trust two strangers.

“I must see your credentials!” he ordered. His shoes pounded on each step as he came down.

Kalinin stood in the doorway, with his hand gripping his Makarov behind his back.

The two men opened their coats, showing their KGB badges pinned to their suit jackets.

The sound of the fuel truck’s engine caught everyone off guard. Then hearing the sound of voices, all three Russians reached for weapons in shoulder holsters. The crew came around from the nose of the plane, and stopped dead in their tracks.

Vikulin stepped aside, motioning for them to board. They hurried into the cabin, stepping in front of Kalinin, then went to the cockpit, trying to avoid the situation by beginning their takeoff checklist.

One of the strangers took a step closer to Vikulin, as he removed a folded red ID card with the KGB symbol on front, and “KGB CCCP” printed across the bottom. He held it near Vikulin’s face. “Comrade Vikulin, you are one of the reasons we are here.”

Vikulin had no choice. He said to Kalinin, “Have them open the cargo door.” Kalinin remained where he was, giving the order to the crew.

Grant and Adler held their breaths. Whatever was going to happen, they were going to be involved.

Refueling of the Gulfstream was completed. As the truck drove away, Garrett ran down the starboard side toward the tail, then stopped. He knew where Slade and the other two men were, but, as expected, he couldn’t see them. He pressed the PTT, and whispered, “Eight-Four heading into plane.” The Team now knew where he was. No response was necessary.

As he slowly made his way around to the port side, he had to act nonchalant. He was just another pilot, making a cursory inspection of his aircraft, checking under the wings, looking at tires, looking in the cargo area. He stopped briefly near the steps. The Russians were partially hidden by the Antonov’s wing, but seemed to be checking inside the cargo hold. No one was paying attention to him.

He climbed the steps slowly, whispering into his throat mike, “Coming in, Doc.” Once aboard, he rushed to the cockpit, and climbed into the pilot’s seat. “Do you see Grant and Joe?”

“They’re near the starboard side tires.”

Garrett brought the binoculars close, finally spotting Grant and Adler. Holding the glasses with his left hand, he drew his .45 from the shoulder holster. “Doc, watch for Grant’s signal to fire up the engines.”

“Roger.” All they could do was wait, watch and prepare for anything.

Vikulin stood motionless, with his eyes going from one KGB man to the next. He finally said, “I have done nothing wrong. You need to question him!” he said pointing to Kalinin.

Kalinin stood in the doorway, not moving, not replying, the grip on his weapon remaining firm.

Across the airfield, a small vehicle was towing a BOAC 737 toward a hangar, while engines roared as a 707 landed on Runway 06. Grant had enough. He motioned to Adler. They crawled out from under the plane on the starboard side just behind the wing. Getting up into a crouch, they silently went to the tail end. The Russians were still in confrontation mode.

Grant spotted Garrett in the cockpit with glasses on him and Adler. He held an arm up and twirled two fingers in the air, then held one finger. Garrett laid the glasses down, ready to start the engines in one minute. All lights would remain off until the Team was onboard. Only then would he notify the control tower they were ready for an airport marshaller.

Grant pressed the PTT, whispering, “Seven-Three, Zero-Niner. Confirm sights on targets.”

“Sights on targets,” Novak responded as he and James eased forward, staying hidden near the machinery. Slade waited for Grant’s signal. Novak got down on the tarmac and stretched out on his belly with his weapon ready.

“Zero-Niner and Two-Seven going in.” The entire Team heard Grant in their earpieces.

Grant gave Adler a nod. Adler took off, hustling along the starboard side of the plane, then positioned himself near the nose. Once he was in place, he pressed the PTT. “On three. One. Two. Three.”

The timing was perfect. As Garrett started the Gulfstream’s engines, the Russians were distracted just long enough. Grant and Adler came from opposite directions, with weapons pointed straight ahead.

The three men spotted Adler, started to react, when Grant came from behind, shouting in Russian, “Hands up! Hands up!” The Russians spun around, with their hands still on their holstered weapons. Again Grant shouted, “Hands up! I will shoot!” Hands slowly raised. He pointed to Kalinin, “You too! Hands up!” Kalinin brought his hand from behind his back, then he raised both hands, still holding his Makarov.

“Drop it! Now!” Grant ordered.

Kalinin leaned forward and dropped the weapon on the ground. “Down here!” Grant motioned with a hand. Kalinin slowly came down the steps. Seeing the Russian up close and personal gave Grant a brief, unsettling moment.

Suddenly, Slade came out of nowhere, rushing toward the plane, aiming his weapon. Surprised again, the Russians snapped their heads around, watching Slade run behind them. Without stopping, he ran up the steps, taking charge of the crew.

Grant ordered again, “Drop your weapons. Now!” The three KGB men remained defiant, angered, focusing their stare on Grant, until seeing Adler move into position just beyond them. Still, no one budged.

Enough of this shit! Grant thought. He backed up a step, held up his left fist, raised one finger, then he immediately made another tight fist.

An instantaneous sound of a loud clap in the distance. One of the KGB men shouted in pain, grabbing his right arm where the bone had shattered. He collapsed on the tarmac, with blood running down his arm.

Again, Grant shouted, “Now! Drop them!” Vikulin and his KGB counterpart finally removed weapons from shoulder holsters, letting them fall to the ground.

Mike Novak readied himself again, waiting for Grant to signal.

Kalinin was standing near Vikulin, not taking his eyes from Grant. He knew without a doubt that these were the same men who were on the cargo ship. Suddenly, the connection was made. The man in the photograph he’d been informed of. The American who looked like him. Although all he could see were brown eyes because of the mask, he thought, It’s got to be him!

Grant continued in Russian. “Now, the three of you, transfer those pouches to that aircraft,” he indicated with a quick movement of his weapon. “As a warning, I have more men ready. Move!”

Reluctantly, slowly, the three Russians pulled the pouches from the cargo hold, dragged them to the Gulfstream, and shoved them in. Kalinin’s head throbbed. What was happening felt surreal.

Grant heard Stalley in his earpiece, “All clear.”

“Back to the plane,” Grant ordered. It was time to make a decision. What to do with the Russians, especially Kalinin?

The three Russians walked toward the plane, with Grant and Adler covering them. They were just beyond the cargo hold when, without warning, Vikulin fell to his knees, pulled another weapon from an ankle holster, then turned, and aimed it directly at Kalinin. In a split second, Grant reacted, tackling Kalinin from behind. Both men landed hard on the tarmac. The stray bullet from Vikulin’s weapon punctured the fuselage under the passenger compartment. Three rapid, muffled shots rang out, all finding Vikulin’s chest, all from Adler’s .45. Slade rushed from the cockpit. Standing in the open doorway, he kept his weapon aimed toward the cockpit.

The sound of the Gulfstream’s engine may have masked the gunfire, but the Team couldn’t count on it and had to act fast.

Adler immediately aimed his weapon at the remaining KGB man. Grant jumped up, grabbed Kalinin’s arm and jerked him to his feet.

Novak and James stayed in place, waiting for Grant’s orders. Stalley left the cockpit, then he ran down the stairs, and immediately took up a defensive position near the nose.

Grant made his decision. He pointed to the uninjured Russian, then to the man laying on the tarmac. “You! Get him onboard!” He looked up at Slade and pointed to Vikulin’s body. “Get the crew!” Within a couple of minutes, all Russians were onboard… except for Kalinin.

Kalinin was astounded, part from Vikulin wanting him dead, and part from the efficiency with which this team of men carried out the operation. All he could do was wonder who they were… and what were their plans for him?

Grant pressed the PTT. “Five-Two, are we clear?”

“Clear.”

Grant signaled for Novak and James to come in, then he turned his attention to Kalinin, and said to Adler, “He’s coming with us. Put him onboard. I’ve gotta finish here. Tell Matt to hold off on final takeoff procedures.” Kalinin was led away. Once he was onboard, Adler came out of the plane, standing watch with Stalley.

Novak shoved Kalinin toward the rear of the plane, then motioned with his weapon for him to sit.

“I speak English,” Kalinin stated.

Novak laughed. “Well, of course you do! Silly me!” He backed up, but continued keeping his weapon aimed at the Russian.

Grant hustled into the Russian plane, taking a quick look at Vikulin’s bloody body laying in the aisle, aft. The injured Russian was laying on a bench seat, looking pale and in obvious pain.

Grant walked closer to the cockpit, making sure the two men were paying attention. “You will start takeoff procedures in exactly five minutes. We will be waiting until you have departed. But, be aware that we have the ability to monitor your transmissions, so you should be careful what you say and who you say it to.” He made eye contact with each man, before looking at KGB, then moving slowly toward the exit door, he said, “And in case you are wondering why… there is a device planted under this aircraft.” He went quiet for a moment. “Once you have reached fifteen thousand feet, we will no longer have the ability to activate it. Need I say more?” Absolute silence. “Idti (go),” he said to Slade. They rushed down the steps, one behind the other, then picked up the Russians’ weapons that were laying on the ground.

As they ran to the Gulfstream, Slade laughed. “Monitor transmission? Activation? Christ, boss! You sure as hell know how to weave a tale!”

“Worth a shot!”

Without saying a word to anyone, or looking at Kalinin, Grant headed to the cockpit. Climbing into the co-pilot’s seat, he put his .45 on his lap, then pulled the face mask over his head, brushing a hand quickly over his hair.

“What now?” Garrett asked.

Grant glanced at his submariner then refocused again on the plane. “Gave them five minutes to start takeoff procedures. Once they’re rolling, contact the tower. I’ll fill you all in once we’re underway.” He hit the switch, securing the steps and door.

He and Garrett went through the checklist for takeoff procedures. They were almost through the list, when the Antonov’s lights came on, engines wound up. A marshaller posted himself at the front, then signaled with lighted wands. The plane began rolling, passing along the starboard side of the Gulfstream.

As it made the turn toward the runway, Grant breathed a sigh. “Okay, Matt. Our turn.”

Garrett adjusted his headphones and mike, set the frequency, then contacted the control tower for permission to taxi. Takeoff was from Runway 024, right behind the Russians. Garrett received heading and altitude. Following the airport marshaller’s signals to proceed toward the runway, Garrett gave a quick salute.

Grant glanced over his shoulder, into the darkened cabin. Kalinin paid no attention to the aircraft leaving without him, but stayed focused on the cockpit.

“They’re underway,” Garrett said. The Antonov lifted off the runway. It began a slow, wide turn, putting it back on an easterly heading. Before long, its navigation lights were no longer visible.

Garrett contacted the tower. “Shannon Tower, Mike 581 (M581) ready for takeoff.”

“Mike 581. Cleared for takeoff Runway 024.”

“Cleared takeoff Runway 024. Mike 581.”

The Gulfstream was at cruising altitude twenty-nine thousand feet. Head winds were strong. Flight time to D.C. was estimated to be close to eight hours.

“Matt, do you need anything to eat or drink?”

“Maybe a Pepsi. I’ll eat something later.”

Grant came out of the cockpit. “Hey, DJ. Get Matt a Pepsi.”

James came forward with the drink and Grant said, “Stay with him for a while, okay?”

“Sure, boss.”

The rest of the Team knew it was time for Grant to meet Kalinin. They remained quiet, but heads turned as he started down the aisle. Adler stopped him, saying softly, “Listen, Skipper, back there… I should’ve searched that guy.”

Grant just nodded, laying a hand on Adler’s shoulder, then he continued toward Kalinin.

Stopping by the compact refrigerator, Grant took out two Cokes. He turned, seeing the Russian sitting on the edge of a seat, leaning forward with his head hanging down.

“How about something to drink?” Grant asked, as he held the can toward Kalinin. The Russian reached for it, but didn’t look up. Grant popped the top on the can, then sat opposite him.

The only intelligent, non-combative conversations Grant ever had with a Russian were with Moshenko. That friendship started when Grant rescued his now very good friend from a sinking chopper. This was going to be a helluva lot different.

As he downed a good portion of soda, Grant told himself he had to get into the guy’s head. Even without speaking to him, he had a feeling they were on the same level playing field.

Kalinin finally looked up. He had to agree. They did resemble one another, except the American had brown eyes, more scars, and maybe was a few years older. His eyes dropped to Grant’s hands, scarred and obviously strong.

The silence between the two men was about to be broken. “Why’d you save me back there?” Kalinin asked.

Grant put the can in a cup holder, then scooted closer to the edge of the leather seat. “Because it’s my job to take you back to the States… alive.” He locked eyes with Kalinin’s, then added, “Or maybe it was pure reaction to protect a defenseless… ”

“Don’t consider me ‘defenseless.’”

“Okay. Maybe poor choice of words, but you didn’t have a weapon, did you? And you sure as hell weren’t diving for cover.”

Kalinin rolled the cold can between his palms. “You’re Grant Stevens, aren’t you?”

Grant tried to conceal his surprise. “And I’ll bet you’re Nicolai Kalinin. Or would you prefer I call you by your American name?” He didn’t have a clue what that was, but bluffed anyway.

Kalinin wasn’t falling for it. “‘Comrade Kalinin’ will be fine.”

Adler had been leaning on the armrest, straining to hear over the engine noise. He whispered to Novak, “This is getting good.”

Grant gave somewhat of a smile. “‘Comrade Kalinin.’ Just doesn’t roll off the tongue easily. Think I’ll call you ‘Nick.’” Kalinin opened the Coke and took a long drink.

Grant pointed to scrape marks on Kalinin’s face. “Do you need something for that? We’ve got… ”

“Not necessary.”

Grant pushed himself back, then put his hands behind his head. “I’ve gotta tell you something.” Kalinin appeared to finally relax somewhat, as Grant continued. “I’ve seen you before. It was years ago, but I’m pretty damn positive.”

“I don’t know where that could’ve been.”

“Well, we both know you’re what we call a ‘sleeper’ which means you’ve been in the States for a helluva long time, probably since you were a little kid.” Grant sat forward again, staring straight on at the Russian. “And I’ll bet you were either in the U.S. Navy or at least worked for a defense contractor aboard one of our ships.”

Kalinin’s expression never changed. “Interesting idea, but still just a guess.”

Grant knew he had him. “No,” he said slowly shaking his head. “I think I’m right on the money.”

Sudden slight air turbulence caught them by surprise. Grant stood, balancing himself against a seat. “Buckle up. Be right back.”

Adler got up and followed him toward the cockpit, then waited. Grant leaned forward between the seats, looking for possible storm clouds. “What’s up, Matt?”

“Caught some CAT winds. I’ve received clearance to thirty-four thousand feet. We should have a smoother ride from there.”

“You need me?”

“Should be okay.” As Grant started to leave, Garrett asked, “How’s the meeting?”

Grant glanced at Kalinin. “Think I’ll reserve my comments for the time being. Oh, listen, Matt. Let me know when I can contact Scott.” Garrett gave a thumb’s up. Grant left the cockpit, then leaned against the bulkhead, preparing to talk with Adler, who was sitting on an armrest.

“Well, did you get your answer, or are you still allowing that foolish thought to cloud your brain?”

“All clear, Joe.”

“And?”

“I told him I’d seen him before.”

“Did you tell him where?”

“Yeah. Gave him something to think about, but I still can’t get his American name.”

Adler slapped Grant’s shoulder. “Give it time!”

Grant glanced toward the rear of the plane, seeing Kalinin drinking Coke. He looked like any other guy, wearing black slacks, a white shirt under a dark blue pullover sweater, now slightly soiled from rolling on filthy tarmac. He could be a ballplayer, a teacher — even a U.S. Navy officer. Lowering his voice, he said to Adler, “Joe, between you and me, if things were different, my gut tells me we could be friends.”

“Then what you’ve gotta do when we land, sure as hell will be damn unpleasant.”

“Tell me about it,” Grant responded. “Say… why don’t you go talk with him for a while. You know how to make friends and influence people.”

“I’ve tried teaching you the secret, but…,” Adler said over his shoulder.

Off and on during the remainder of the flight, Grant Stevens and Nicolai Kalinin conversed, with Grant trying to put Kalinin more at ease, hoping he’d spill information. Not an easy task, considering Kalinin was on his way back to the States, with a “welcoming committee” of special agents ready to assume control.