In the Mouth of the Wolf

Chapter 7

The attack had come so rapidly, Grigori Moshenko didn't have time to fire off a single round. But the Russians were luckier than those caught outside. And perhaps by not firing, it had kept him and the two Russian civilians out of harm’s way. The building they were in was at the far end of the facility, and from the sound of the gunfire, the attack had come from the west end. This had given him time to get himself and his comrades to safety.

The interior was still in complete darkness, when he whispered for Tarasov and Rusnak to follow him. They climbed the stairs as quickly and quietly as they could, sliding their hands on the wall, trying to find their way, until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. He remembered seeing a vent in the ceiling at the end of the hallway where they slept. Finally spotting it, he boosted each man through the opening, then he reached up for them to lift him. It took the strength of both Russians, working together, to pull up the solidly built Moshenko.

Once he put the vent cover back in place, Moshenko put a finger to his lips, trying to keep his new “charges” quiet. Then he signaled them with his hand. Tarasov and Rusnak nodded, understanding the KGB officer wanted them to stay where they were. Sitting on the cold, damp concrete, breathing heavily, Tarasov and Rusnak tried to catch their breath. Their clothes were disheveled and covered in soot, a far cry from their normally impeccable appearance.

Immediately after the gunfire stopped, footsteps were heard pounding across the floor, as the attackers ran in and out of the rooms beneath where the three Russians were hiding. Shouting to each other in Italian, they finished checking rooms, then hurried down the stairs, joining the rest of the group outside.

Moshenko stayed low and crept toward the edge of the flat roof, keeping his Makarov close to his side. Peering over the edge, he looked for guards. Seeing none at the time, he continued walking around the perimeter, bent over, keeping low. Thinking back to when he first heard gunfire, he started hustling back across the roof, signaling his Russian comrades to stay put.

Slowly kneeling down on the concrete, he inched his way toward the edge, then stretched out on his stomach, clawing his way closer until he was able to see below.

And what he saw were bodies, scattered helter skelter. It was impossible for him to tell if any of them were attackers, Italians, or even if any were still alive. Squinting, he tried to focus, tried to see if any of the bodies were wearing uniforms. Breathing a sigh, he lowered his head. He only hoped Adler was safe.

His attention was drawn to the helo, where two men were walking around it with their rifles slung over their shoulders. That wasn’t good. Next they’d be looking for him and his comrades.

An eerie silence now seemed as loud as the gunfire that had disrupted the early morning hours. Moshenko sat near the vent, but away from the other two Russians. None of them were dressed warmly, having little time to save themselves, let alone try to find their coats. It wasn’t cold, just very damp. Moshenko had a slight advantage since his heavy wool uniform was giving him more protection than the suits the other two were wearing. He smiled, smugly, not feeling sorry for either of the comrades.

He pulled his pistol from his front waistband, and rubbed the barrel with the edge of his jacket, trying to wipe away any dampness. Even though he knew he hadn't fired it, he still ejected the clip and counted the rounds. Vos’yem’. Only eight.

Leaning his head back, he looked toward the sky. Daylight was officially still an hour away, but with the heavy cloud cover, the darkness would remain beyond that, he was certain.

“Colonel,” Tarasov whispered. Moshenko crawled closer. “What can you do? Must we stay here like this?” Tarasov implored, shivering.

Moshenko wasn’t the least bit surprised by the question or the tone in which it was asked. “Comrade, I am willing to listen to your suggestions as to how we may extricate ourselves from the current situation. Are you fully aware of what we are confronted with here?” Moshenko was trying to keep his voice as low as possible but finding it difficult.

Rusnak was briskly rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them. “Colonel Moshenko, we are aware. But you are trained in military matters, unlike the two of us. Surely you can do something!”

A picture flashed through the KGB officer's mind of him tossing both comrades off the roof, but decided against it since that would only give away his position. He responded, “If you wish, I can lower each of you back down into the building where you can warm your poor, cold bodies, hiding and hoping the invaders will not find you. I prefer to stay here as long as necessary, waiting to be rescued.”

Tarasov sat up straighter, pulling his collar up, holding it closed in front of his neck. “Rescued? How do you know?”

Becoming the smug one, Moshenko answered, “Comrades, we are on an American facility. Do you not think they are aware of what is happening? That they are already planning something in order to take their facility back, planning a rescue?”

Making a quick decision, Tarasov said, “We will wait for awhile, but then… ”

“Then what? What will you do?”

“We will give up,” Tarasov answered with finality.

The KGB officer’s dark eyes narrowed, staring hard at both men. “I can assure you, Comrade, that I will not give up. And believe me when I say this, neither will either of you.” He reached into his side pocket and withdrew a silencer. Screwing it on the barrel of his pistol, he didn’t take his eyes from Tarasov.

Rusnak backed away, stunned. “You would not. ”

“Oh, would I not, Comrade Rusnak?” It was getting increasingly difficult for Moshenko to keep his voice lowered. “True Russians do not give up. Do you not remember the battle at Stalingrad?”

The battle of Stalingrad in World War II was one of the bloodiest in the history of warfare, lasting nearly six months with casualties amounting to nearly two million, both civilian and military. Germany’s military suffered crippling losses, and it’s defeat in that city was the turning point in the war, with their forces attaining no further strategic victories in the East.

“Now, have you decided?” Moshenko asked, waving the pistol back and forth in front of the men. With their faces frozen in fear, the two nodded, feeling they had no choice but to agree.

“Good, good,” Moshenko responded. He turned and went to his previous location, away from the two. He was searching for the right word. Wimps. That was it. After a few minutes, he decided to move to the front of the building where he could watch any activity that might transpire. While he kept an eye out, he couldn’t help but wonder about Joe Adler and his team.

A sudden thought crossed his mind, one of his friend, Grant Stevens. Immediately, he looked up into the sky, thinking it was time to start watching for his friend.

Gripping his pistol, holding it against his cheek, he would watch the grounds below, but he would also watch the sky.