Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 9

Four engines of a C-130 Hercules fired up. The pilot engaged generators, set flaps down 40 %. Receiving direction from an airport marshaller, the Herc rumbled past another Herc and a Gulfstream, as it taxied toward Runway 08.

Team A.T. remained in the Gulfstream ensuring gear and weapons were ready, hashing out final plans for the op, waiting for the arrival of a Sea Knight.

This mission would become one of its most difficult, most dangerous: penetrating a secret Soviet base. A.T. didn't have diagrams, maps, positions of men or artillery. All that sat images revealed were vehicles scattered around the interior of the property. But there still wasn't proof either way if civilians lived within.

All A.T. had was an address, but whether that address led them to the "asset" was yet to be seen.

"Listen, Scott, the Team's been discussing what happens if this op turns to shit."

"Don't like the sound of that."

"Gotta be realistic, but not pessimistic. Take a look at your map."

"Hold on a sec." Mullins walked close to a large map hanging on a wall. "Okay. Now what?"

"Do you see a small island in between Sweden and Poland? It's about 30 miles off Sweden's coast."

Mullins leaned closer, putting his index finger on the spot. "Yeah. I see it."

"What'll it take to get the chopper permission to land there?"

Mullins let out a long whistle. "That's a bitch of a request, Grant!"

"I know, but Sweden's been on good turns with the U.S., and like I said, it's a 'just in case.' I realize this request will most likely end up at the 'big house,' but there's a helluva lot at stake."

"I'll see what I can do. How long will you be at Tegel?"

"We've gotta wait for dark, so that means around 2130 or so."

"Okay. If you don't hear from me … "

"Yeah."

Mullins glanced at a clock on the corner of his desk. "The chopper should be there on schedule. Oh! Forgot to tell you that the crew's been on SpecOps missions before, mostly with the SEALs. Guess that means they can handle any bullshit you might throw at them, right?"

"I'd be surprised if they couldn't! Hey, how the hell did you manage that, I mean find a special crew?!"

"I have my ways. It has to do with special folks in higher places."

"Well, when you talk to those special folks, extend our thanks and gratitude."

"Will do."

"Joe and I've gotta get back to the guys. Do me a favor. Call Grigori. Just tell him you talked with us, okay? He won't ask any questions."

"Be happy to. Stay safe, my friends."

A.T. milled around the Gulfstream, anxious for the chopper to arrive. They'd already grabbed something to eat, and bought a supply of candy bars.

Grant leaned against the steps' handrail with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes went from man to man, as details of the op went through his brain again. He and the men had reviewed every aspect, every possible scenario, both good and bad. But every once in a while, a completely different scenario, one that hadn't been calculated in the equation, could turn an op upside down. Each man had experienced it, each man had lost a team member, a friend, even an "asset."

"We've taken this op apart piece by piece," Adler commented, as he walked closer. "Have you found any 'holes'?" Grant just shook his head. "Then don't you think you need to give that brain a rest?"

"Wish I could, Joe. You know this is just me."

Adler's blue eyes softened. "Yeah. I know."

"Chopper comin' in!" James reported, pointing.

The chopper was flying from the west, within the 20 mile wide boundary of the center corridor at 8,000 feet.

"'Boys' are on time," Adler commented, looking at his beat-up Benrus diving watch.

Grant started walking away from the Gulfstream, prepared to meet the chopper crew. "We'll need the extra time to review the op with the crew, plus check out the boat."

Adler caught up to him. "I know you're concerned, but you'd be lying if you told me you didn't have one ounce of excitement inside you right about now. I'm right, aren't I?!"

Grant didn't answer, just punched his good friend's shoulder, knocking him sideways.

"That's what I thought."

Air whipped around the Team as the Sea Knight hovered briefly before its wheels touched concrete. On board were two pilots, one crew chief, and one aerial gunner with a door-mounted Browning AN/M2, 50 cal machine gun.

Inside the cockpit, a pilot glanced out his side window, giving the approaching men a quick two-finger salute. As the engines wound down, the ramp lowered, which was an open invitation for Team A.T. to board and inspect.

Grant and Adler held back a few steps, taking a moment to scan the immediate area, looking for any prying eyes, especially civilian eyes.

"This is what we needed, boss," James said, as he and the other men hauled out the Zodiac, then carried it to the other side of the chopper. Paddles and a coiled length of rope were in the bottom. The 55 hp engine was secured.

"Everything good with the boat?" a smiling Lieutenant Anderson asked, with the other three crewmen catching up to him.

Grant offered his hand to Anderson. "We couldn't have asked for more, Lieutenant, and we appreciate you, uh, volunteering for the upcoming 'trip.'"

"An opportunity we couldn't pass up, sir! Would you happen to be Captain Stevens?"

"Yeah, that's me," Grant smiled.

Introductions were made, then Grant said, "Listen, why don't you all come aboard the Gulfstream. We'll discuss what we've got in mind."

The chopper crew was on board the Sea Knight, preparing for flight. The weather prediction from Tegel to the coast was for light cloud cover, northeast winds at four knots. Once over the Baltic Sea, they could expect normal westerly winds, possibly increasing to eight knots.

Team A.T. started filing out of the Gulfstream. A decision was made to forgo wetsuits. They were dressed entirely in black, wearing close-fitting pants and long-sleeve sweaters, covering their bullet resistant vests. Rucksacks were in one hand, rifle straps for AK-47s were slung over opposite shoulders, Makarovs secured in holsters. Doc Stalley had his corpsman's medical bag, and the extra vest. Novak had his sniper rifle.

Inside their waterproof vests they had compact binoculars, signal flares, extra rounds for AKs and Makarovs, an MK6 CS vial of tear gas, survival kit, a set of lock picks, duct tape, wraps of paracord (parachute cord), phony passports and “haul ass” money sealed in plastic. Diaz and Adler had wraps of det cord, small blocks of C4, and chemical pencils. They all had "flash-bang" grenades, that exploded into intense white lights, leaving attackers temporarily blinded. The extremely loud noise would disrupt hearing and sense of balance.

Once the Team secured gear and weapons inside the cargo bay, they carried in the boat. Seat belts snapped closed as the men settled on a continuous row of fold-down jump seats. They all glanced toward the forward section, seeing a gunner standing behind his .50 cal, repositioning the 27' link-belt to the right side, and finally adjusting a Starlighter scope.

Crew Chief Phil Brenner handed each man a small box of foam earplugs, then he approached Grant. "Sir, you might want to wear this. It'll make communicating with me and Lieutenant Anderson a helluva lot easier."

"Thanks," Grant said, as he took the helmet, then put it on and adjusted the wire mouthpiece. "Listen, is it okay if we leave our rucksacks on board?"

"Sure."

In the cockpit, Anderson leaned over his armrest, looking toward the cargo bay. "You all ready back there?!"

"Good to go!" Grant answered, giving a thumb's up.

Anderson opened the throttle completely, increasing the speed of the rotor. He pulled up slowly on the collective, effectively changing the pitch of all rotor blades by the same amount simultaneously. Depressing the left foot pedal, he kept pulling up on the collective. The chopper got lighter on its the wheels, then slowly left the ground. Anderson nudged the stick forward.

The rush of wind and vibrations throughout the cargo bay intensified as the chopper flew through the center corridor and into the French Sector. Turning north, Anderson adjusted their course, skirting along the Soviet Sector.

Pilot and co-pilot looked through NVGs, seeing nothing but darkness. Looking through the Starlighter scope, the gunner very slowly pivoted the machine gun, watching for any sign of Soviet or East German aircraft. Opposite him, Crew Chief Brenner had on NVGs, looking out the starboard window.

Team A.T. sat quietly, every man focused on the mission. They planned, approved, revised, planned, approved, over and over. Now it was almost time to put everything into action. In their minds they pictured where they were headed: the beach, then a 1.5 mile trek through forest and open country. Their target, though, remained obscure. An unknown number of buildings, homes. Barracks were indistinguishable. An armory for weapons disguised as … what? What, if anything, could be hidden in old bunkers? Maybe German or Soviet howitzers?

Grant heard Anderson's voice. "Captain Stevens, five miles to DZ."

"Roger." Grant leaned toward Adler, talking above the noise. "Five miles to DZ!" Word went from man to man.

A.T. adjusted throat mikes, letting the earpieces hang inside the front of their sweaters. Black watch caps were pulled lower.

"Over LZ," Anderson reported to Grant. The sound of the chopper changed, vibrations increased, as it began its descent. A motor whined as the ramp lowered. The noise and wind intensified.

Getting ready to release seat belts, A.T. looked toward the opening. Pitch black. Feeling the tilt of the chopper, they waited.

Brenner came closer, holding onto a bar above the windows, running the length of the cargo bay. "We'll watch for your signal, sir! Good luck!"

Grant gave him the helmet, then extended his hand, shaking Brenner's with a firm grip.

The team released their seat belts, stood and prepared for departure, as water started rushing over the ramp. Adler was the first one in the boat, assuming the position as coxswain, ready to lower the props into the water. The rest of the Team scurried in, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, holding onto a rope circling the gunnel. Brenner gave the boat a final shove as it began floating off the ramp. Once the boat was clear, he waited for Grant's signal, then he contacted the pilot. Immediately the chopper began its ascent, with water pouring off the ramp. It disappeared into the darkness, flying low, flying without any lights, heading for the small island.

A.T. flipped down NVGs, adjusted earpieces, straddled the gunnel and began paddling to shore. Grant was at the port bow, opposite Novak, who had his laser-guided rifle poised and ready. Slade and Stalley were starboard, Diaz and James port. Paddling in unison, with precision, strength, and silence, they guided the boat toward the beach, while Adler kept one hand on the tiller, ready to fire up the engine if they had to haul.

On shore, tree branches swayed in the eight knot wind, water lapped against the shore. There was nothing but darkness from east to west along this section of Poland's coast.

The men started slowing the boat's forward motion when they were 100 yards off the beach, gradually bringing it to nearly a complete stop. Novak looked through the AN/PVS high-powered scope (passive night vision) attached to his rifle. The scope was specifically designed for night ops — a Starlighter.

"Clear so far," he reported.

Then quietly, they paddled slowly east, staying parallel to the beach, while Novak searched. Turning the boat around they headed west, going through the same process.

"Clear," Novak whispered. "No eyes on us."

"Any guard towers?" Grant asked.

"Negative, but can't see beyond trees."

"How wide's that beach?" Grant asked softly.

"Twenty-five, maybe thirty yards max."

Grant looked over his shoulder at the men. "No tides here. Once the boat's hidden, we're gonna have to make our footprints disappear. Be prepared to act."

All they could hope for was that guards who may have been posted along this stretch of beach had been reassigned to larger cities or ports where there was more civil unrest.

A.T. couldn't delay any longer. Grant held up his arm, and made a motion forward.

Novak continued looking through the scope, scanning the entire beach, as the men stroked like hell, propelling the boat toward shore.

They carried the boat across the beach then concealed it within the trees; footprints were brushed over with pine branches. With Slade as pointman, Team A.T. moved quietly through the forest.

Heading south, they followed an old trail strewn with leaves and pine needles, until it broke off in two directions. They continued south, brushing aside low, leafy bushes, ferns, avoiding twigs, pinecones, anything that could make a sharp sound. A slight rustling of leaves overhead was all that disturbed the silence.

Slade pressed the PTT. "Clearing, twenty yards."

The men caught up to him. Ahead was nearly a half mile of open ground before they reached any cover.

Crouching low, staying together, they edged closer to the clearing. Finally, getting down on a knee, they focused on the entire area.

Grant whispered, "DJ, scope the area east, Frank, west. Five minutes." The two quietly went toward their objectives.

"Mike, see any lights anywhere?" Grant whispered.

"Negative," Slade answered.

Novak slowly moved the rifle, while looking through the scope. "Negative. Kinda creepy."

"Yeah," Grant said, "but remember, within a hundred mile radius all inhabitants were relocated and homes razed."

"Isn't there a road somewhere close?" Adler asked.

"According to the map, there should be one running parallel to the coast about a half mile ahead. We've gotta cross it before the next forested area."

Diaz and James returned at the same time. "What'd you find?" Grant asked.

"Didn't see or hear anything," Diaz responded.

James gave a thumb's down. "Nothing moving, no lights, but I did see an unmanned guard tower about 200 yards from here. Looks like all extra men may have been reassigned."

"We can only hope," Adler whispered.

Grant swiveled his head, looking at the men readjusting earpieces, confirming holstered weapons were secured. "Okay. Time to move out. Let's go."

There was no stopping until they reached the next forest, hoping the road was clear when they crossed. Beyond the forest — Drazowe.

Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. Pressing the PTT, he whispered, "Road." The asphalt surface didn't have any painted lines, but was about two lanes wide. There weren't any road signs visible along the shoulders in either direction. Grant sent James and Diaz to recon east and west again.

They were less than a half mile north of the town. The lack of sound seemed unnatural, when suddenly they heard Diaz in their earpieces. "Zero-Niner, Three-Six. Take cover! Vehicle heading to you!"

"Roger!" Grant responded.

They started backing up, ducking behind trees and staying low, just as headlights appeared, coming from the west. All eyes followed the vehicle as it passed, traveling about 35 mph, with its headlights fanning out across the shoulders of the road. Even in the dark, A.T. recognized the light truck, a four-door, canvas top Russian GAZ-69A.

Diaz and James came hustling back, just as red taillights disappeared over the horizon.

"That vehicle's gotta be going to the base," Grant commented. "Let's move."

Confirming no other lights were coming from either direction, the men sprinted across the blacktop, taking sanctuary in the forest, their last safe haven before reaching their objective.

The Team's up close and personal look at Drazowe took them by surprise. A town, not a military base. Or so it seemed. No cyclone fence, no guard house, no visible signs of security, no lights. The Russians most likely prohibited outdoor lighting, as though it were a "blackout" during WW II, when windows had dark curtains, preventing any light from passing through.

Thickets of pines and broadleaved trees were scattered in and around the entire area. Two- and four-story red brick buildings were along the far side. Rows of small attached homes ran perpendicular to the buildings. Overhead, drooping wires were strung from telephone poles.

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 her 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 spotting 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.

Adler cut the engine's power, lifted the props out of the water, just as the boat slid across the ramp. The Team scrambled out, tugging the boat into the cargo bay.

"Home and secured!" Brenner reported, as he raised his NVGs.

Within seconds, rotor noise and vibration increased two-fold as Anderson started the chopper's ascent. Water flowed over the end of the ramp, dumping back into the sea. The cargo door raised, sealing everyone inside.

Stalley helped Pankova out, then made sure she was seated with seat belt locked. "Ma'am, can I give you aspirin now? It should help relieve some of your pain."

"Yes. Thank you."

Brenner passed around earplugs, then he stopped by Grant. "Sir, Lieutenant Anderson would like a word."

Grant took off his watch cap, tucked it under his belt, then handed his rifle to Adler.

On his way to the cockpit, he stopped by the gunner, offering his hand. "Good shootin' back there. Thanks."

"My pleasure, sir."

"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" Grant asked, leaning into the cockpit.

"Yes, sir. We're heading back to Tegel, but I've requested a flight path that'll take us outta harm's way this time. It might take longer, but I think you'll agree, sir."

"Couldn't agree more," Grant answered with a slight grin. "We've had enough excitement for one day." He turned to go back to the cargo bay, but paused a moment, looking at Pankova. The bruise on her cheek already turned black and blue; her eye was almost swollen shut. Stalley had dressed and treated cuts on her temple and forehead.

Grant walked in front of her, then knelt on a knee. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Somewhat. You know, after all we've been through together, I don't know any of your names." She winced trying to smile. "Or are they government secrets?"

"No, ma'am, not really secrets, but I guess most of the time we like to 'fly under the radar' so to speak. Listen, just to ease your mind, Alexei is safe at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin."

She breathed a heavy sigh, and reached for Grant's hand, feeling its strength and comfort. But then she realized what he'd said. "He's in Berlin?"

"Yes, ma'am, but that'll be explained later." Grant gave only a hint of a smile, then added, "We'll be landing at Tegel. We'll have to contact Washington to confirm where … "

"Where I'm to be sent?"

"Yes, ma'am. We land at the military terminal, so there'll be security for you. I have my doubts you'll be staying long, though." Grant stood. He motioned to Stalley, mouthing the word 'water' and tilting his head toward Pankova. Stalley handed her a filled paper cup.

"I know it's noisy in here," Grant smiled, "but you try and get some rest."

Plopping down on the seat next to Adler, he fastened the seat belt, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Whatcha thinking?" Adler asked loudly over engine noise.

Grant kept his eyes closed. "Just wondering if CIA found Reznikov."

"Well, while you wonder about that, I'll picture the huge steak I'm gonna order at the first restaurant we see."

Grant slowly rocked his head side to side, and just smiled.