Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 14

As they rode the elevator, Zykov asked, "Will he be well enough to answer questions?"

"I spoke with a doctor earlier. Baskov has recovered enough from his wound and concussion, and could be discharged tomorrow morning. So, yes, he will answer questions."

The two men got off the elevator, then asked directions for the ward where Baskov was being cared for. Noises echoed from gurneys being pushed along the stark corridor, along with the footsteps of the KGB agents. They stopped by the doorway. Four beds were in the room, lined up along one wall. The first had a patient. Baskov was in the third bed. His head was bandaged, his arm in a sling.

Kalinin spoke softly. "Oleg, you stay here while I question him. Keep everyone away but doctors and nurses." Zykov nodded and posted himself near the entrance.

As Kalinin walked into the ward, he mentally reviewed questions he'd ask the suspect. This might be the only chance they had for finding Reznikov — and discovering who was behind it all.

Baskov spotted Kalinin coming toward him, noticing the KGB badge hooked on his belt. While he'd been in hospital, he'd expected to be questioned, but now that the moment arrived, he began to panic. Stay calm!he said silently.

Kalinin stood at the foot of the bed, as he reached for a small recorder in his pants pocket. Locking eyes with Baskov's, he waited briefly, then asked, "Do you know why I am here?" Baskov didn't respond. Kalinin walked around the side of the bed, and pulled a chair close, but he didn't sit. Inconspicuously, he laid the recorder on the stainless steel bedside table, pressing the "on" switch. Standing close to the bed, his height alone added to the intimidation factor. Keeping his voice low, he cut right to the chase. "Tell me why you became involved with the terrorist Reznikov."

Baskov's body shuddered, his eyes went wide. He tried to deny the accusation. "I am only a driver for the embassy staff. I would not turn against the Motherland!"

"What if I told you I had proof you had a connection with a very, very high official in Moscow."

Baskov looked away, and stared up at the ceiling. His brain became like a jumbled mess, trying to determine how it was possible KGB knew.

Kalinin continued. "I know you were the handler for those terrorists, provided money, assigned their attacks. I also know you leaked the information to Reznikov's men on when and where he would be transported after the exchange at Glienicke Bridge." Kalinin smiled inwardly, noticing sweat beads forming below Baskov's bandaged head.

"Of course, you had no idea you were to become the target of an attack that same night. You are lucky to be alive, Comrade Baskov." Kalinin leaned closer. "Then again, perhaps you would have been luckier if you had died, with what I know about you." Baskov paled, but remained quiet. So Kalinin went on. "Have you heard of the East German prison near Schonefeld? I am certain you have. That was where Reznikov was held. Would you like me to tell you how they treat prisoners? Or how about KGB prison in Potsdam? Maybe I can just tell you the only way to get out of either is by death, or being shipped off to one of our gulags. Then there is Black Dolphin prison. Wherever you are sent, Comrade, I guarantee no one will attempt to rescue you."

Kalinin brought himself to his full height. "But there is a way for you to avoid most of those places." Seeing the fear in Baskov's eyes nearly weakened Kalinin's resolve to keep "pounding" away — nearly. He leaned closer again. "Confirm who you took orders from, and tell me where Reznikov and his men are hiding." Kalinin pulled back his sleeve, and tapped his watch. "You have five seconds."

Baskov squeezed his eyes shut, as an image of Reznikov and his men flashed through his mind, when he had convinced the three to become terrorists.

As Baskov started talking, Kalinin sat down. By the time he finished, Kalinin felt overwhelmed with the information revealed to him.

Silence between the two men lasted only briefly, when Kalinin shoved his chair back, palmed the recorder, and pressed the "off" switch. "You are to repeat everything you told me to Agent Zykov. Do you understand?!" Baskov's chest was heaving. All he could do was nod in response.

Kalinin felt his pulse racing as he walked toward Zykov. "Oleg, I want you to record everything he has to say — everything. He has confessed."

Zykov took a step back, slowly shaking his head in surprise. "Confessed?!"

"Yes. Tell him to begin when he was on staff at the Kremlin." Kalinin leaned toward his partner. "I am going to request that the other patient be transferred to another room. I want Baskov to feel completely alone. Wait until that happens, then you start recording. And, Oleg, whatever you hear, you will not repeat to anyone for the time being. Too much is at stake. You will soon understand."

He started to turn when Zykov grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?!"

"I have to make a couple of phone calls. When you are through, meet me at the car." He walked away. But he didn't plan on making any phone calls. He left the building, and walked, and walked, and continued walking. What he learned from Baskov shook him to his core. Everything Baskov revealed could be proved. There wasn't any doubt about it. But the responsibility for presenting the evidence to Director Antolov now rested entirely on his shoulders — him — a new KGB agent who now had it in his power to possibly bring down the Premier of the Soviet Union.

"Jesus!" he mumbled quietly, as he shoved his hands into his pants pockets. The recorder brushed against his hand. The proof, the evidence on one small tape.

He came to a standstill and checked his watch, figuring Zykov should have finished taking the information. He jogged through the parking lot, seeing his partner standing by the Volga.

Both men leaned back against the car. Zykov stared at the recorder in the palm of his hand, hearing evidence in his mind he never would have imagined or expected. "What now, Nicolai?! What the hell do we do?!"

Kalinin took the recorder and slipped it into his jacket pocket. For now, the two recordings would be known only to him, with his being the more important one, recording all his questions, and intimidation tactics.

"Oleg, you must guard Baskov, while I return to intel. I must confirm the Premier's flight, then contact the East German police and have them send men here. You will be in charge of them and Baskov." He unlocked the trunk. "Here. Maybe you had better take these." He flipped a set of handcuffs to Zykov. "Secure him to the bed."

Kalinin needed to buy extra time. "While I am at intel, I had better check on any recent transmissions they may have picked up that could have to do with this. Baskov could always say we coerced him into that confession. It might take me awhile." The look on his partner's face gave away his immense concern for what the two of them were up against. He laid a hand on Zykov's shoulder. "Oleg, listen to me. It will be all right. We were doing our job, following all procedures as we were instructed. We will present our evidence, then it is up to Comrade Antolov to take the lead. Do you understand?"

"Yes, you are right."

"Time to get back to work."

In less than five minutes Kalinin was at the intel building. The Russian plane was not due until early afternoon the following day. He had to make a decision: either contact Antolov from intel or wait until he arrived in East Berlin. He would wait. His own phone call could be recorded by intel.

As he left intel and walked to the car, his next concern was planning the capture of Reznikov. He wanted to work with Grant and his Team, but if Antolov ever found out, how would he explain his involvement? "Shit!"

Grant pushed away his empty plate, wiped clean of the grilled trout, potatoes, and red cabbage. He took off his aviator sunglasses, cleaned them with a napkin, then put them on, pushing them back on the bridge of his nose. His attention returned to Adler, watching him savor his meal as if it were the last thing he'd ever eat.

The last bite of sausage, some mashed potatoes and sauerkraut were shoveled onto his fork. He twirled the fork slowly in front of his face, quietly sighed, then devoured the final mouthful.

Grant stifled a laugh. "Are you finished?"

"Never! What's for dessert? Hand me that menu." Speaking to the waitress in German, Adler ordered two coffees, and an apple strudel. When the waitress left, he rested his arms on the table, and said quietly, "It'll be interesting to hear what Nick has to say."

Grant rocked back in the chair, trying to get a clearer view down the street. "I'm worried, Joe. This might be our last shot at finding that sonofabitch Reznikov."

They both went quiet as the waitress brought their order, and Adler asked for the bill. As he cut into the strudel, he glanced at Grant. "Don't tell me you're not worried about Nick."

Grant sipped on the strong black coffee. "Can't imagine him having to face the director when the time comes."

"Yeah, but you're gonna be in the same boat when we get back to the States." He held up a hand. "I know. You've been there, done that, but still … "

Just then Grant spotted Kalinin walking toward the cafe. Kalinin signaled to follow him. Grant nodded. "There he is, Joe." He glanced at the bill, took Marks from his wallet, and dropped them on top of the bill. He pointed to the strudel. "Take that with you. C'mon." Adler scooped up the pastry, and followed him out the door.

After two blocks, Kalinin turned down a side street. The Volga was parked in the third space. As he unlocked it, he spotted Grant and Joe turning the corner. Without acknowledging them, he got in the driver's side.

The Americans walked past the car, then after doing a quick scan of the area, they doubled back, and immediately got in the Volga.

"Nick, you okay?" Grant asked, detecting an unfamiliar expression on Kalinin's face. Worried? Pissed?

Without responding to the question, Kalinin opened his hand, revealing the mini-recorder. "Baskov's full confession."

Adler leaned toward the front seats. "Jesus! Itwashim?!"

"Yeah, Joe. Here. Listen." He pressed the 'play' button.

After fifteen minutes, the recording automatically shut off. Fifteen minutes of hearing Kalinin's questions, and Baskov's voice shaking as he answered. Reasons for committing the attacks at times seemed preposterous, and the person who headed it all, even more so — Premier Gorshevsky.

Lowly Sergeant Baskov fell under Gorshevsky's control when the Premier discovered Baskov had a brother. He'd been convicted of drug possession and was sentenced to twenty years in a Siberian gulag. Baskov could either help with Gorshevsky's plan and have that sentence reduced, or never see his brother again.

Baskov revealed that during more than one of their meetings, Gorshevsky drank heavily. It was then he ranted about being totally embarrassed, ridiculed, made a fool of by his rival, President Andrew Carr. The escape of American POWs, and the defection of Colonel Grigori Moshenko only added insult to injury.

The silence inside the car was finally broken as Grant asked, "Is he still in the hospital?"

Kalinin nodded. "Oleg and a couple of East German police are standing guard. I had him handcuffed to his bed."

"Christ, Nick!"

"Yeah, but I'll worry later about what's next in the scheme of things. Right now we've gotta plan on tracking Reznikov. That farm where they're staying shouldn't be hard to find, with Baskov's explicit directions."

Grant looked at his watch. "We'll have time to put the op together, but we've gotta leave the embassy not long after dark."

Kalinin kept his eyes on his friend. "You know I want to be part of it when you find those bastards."

Understanding Kalinin's comment, Grant answered, "I know, but how would you explain that to Antolov, right?"

"Yeah. The only way I can help is to wait until you finish the op before turning the evidence over to him," he said with a sly grin.

"Think about this, Nick. The op should be over well before daylight. If you and your partner decided to look for Reznikov on your own, who knows what you'll find."

Kalinin let the suggestion roll around. "Are you saying you know how it's going to end?"

Grant shook his head. "It depends on the cooperation we get. Plus, there's always a possibility they could 'accidentally' fuck up fooling around with those explosives, you know?"

"Understand. I think Oleg and I will make the trip."

Adler had been thinking about the explosives inside the house. "We're still gonna have to be cautious not knowing completely about those interior explosives, you know, if Reznikov booby-trapped them."

"Roger that, Joe. It's too bad that Baskov didn't have time to finish his earlier work. Our problems could've been over. Nick, you think he told the truth about that?"

"Positive."

Adler leaned over the center console. "If Baskov had succeeded in killing those three, do you think the Premier would've let him live with what he knew?"

"Good point, Joe," Kalinin answered. "But, he won't have to worry about that now — just gulag time."

Grant turned sideways in the seat. "Listen, Nick, that was one helluva G2 you ran on that guy. You were masterful in getting him to reveal the info about the explosives."

"I'm KGB! It's what I do!"

In his mind, Grant heard those exact words spoken by his other Russian friend, Grigori Moshenko. He also knew with the info revealed about the POWs and Moshenko's defection, it wouldn't take long for Kalinin to realize who pulled it off.

"Nick, all I can say is, I'm mighty glad we've become friends — if you get my drift!" He glanced out the windshield, then side window. "We've gotta go. Joe, you head out first. I'll meet you at the car."

Adler reached over the front seat, offering a hand to Kalinin. "Nick, you take care of yourself. Maybe we'll talk before we fly outta here."

"Thanks, Joe."

Adler got out and walked away, not hurrying, but keeping up a steady pace.

Before he lost sight of Adler, Grant grabbed Kalinin's hand. "Nick, again, thanks for your help on this one. I wish we could've done more or at least filled you in, but that's the way it had to be."

"No problem, Grant. I was pretty much able to fill in the blanks anyway."

"Thought you would! Oh, one suggestion. I know you've already got two tapes, but think about another copy, in case you've gotta turn both of those over. CYA, my friend."

"CYA?" Kalinin asked with wrinkled brow.

"Cover your ass!"

The Russian laughed. "Oh, yeah. Hadn't heard that for a while! But I'll take care of it. Do you need a copy?"

"Only if you can get it to me without running into trouble."

After he got out of the car, Grant ducked down, and looked over the top of his sunglasses. "Listen, have Antolov call me if he has any questions!" He flashed a grin through perfect white teeth, then closed the door and took off after Adler.

A.T. sat in the conference room, reviewing a hand-drawn map of the property and Reznikov's hideout. Gear was ready, weapons loaded. All they needed was the plan of attack.

In the scrambler room, Grant and Adler put a call through to Scott Mullins. They couldn't delay any longer in getting the answer to the question: What the hell were they to do with Alexei Dotsenko?

After giving Mullins updates, and an overview on how they found Reznikov's hiding place, Grant couldn't leave it up to Mullins to pass the intel onto the White House. He'd have to take the responsibility and tell the President himself.

"Scott, we don't have much time, but if you can hook me up, I think it'd be best if I talk directly with the President. May as well get my ass reamed now."

"Hold on, Grant, and, good luck."

Carr answered the call on his scrambler. "Grant? What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that, sir. I mean everyone's okay, including Mr. Dotsenko."

"Then, what is it?!"

"Sir, we've discovered where Reznikov's hiding out."

"You found him?!"

"I should rephrase that, sir. We know of his last hiding place, but we're pretty damn sure he's still there. Since he usually attacks during daylight hours, tonight might be our best, and maybe our last shot. The op should be underway no later than 2300 our time."

"You haven't heard about him launching an attack, have you? Our intel hasn't picked up anything."

"No, sir, nothing definitive, but we do know that the Premier and his party are to arrive in East Berlin sometime tomorrow afternoon. That could be his next target." Grant waited for the big question.

"Captain, how did you find him?"

That was the question. "Mr. President, I know you recall the name Nicolai Kalinin."

"Sure, but … Hold it!" Carr spun his chair around. "Was he your informant?!"

Grant cleared his throat. "Sir, if you'll bear with me, I'll try and explain." Hearing nothing but Carr's breathing, Grant continued. "Nick's been assigned to the embassy as KGB. He was in charge of the investigation after Dotsenko, uh, disappeared, and then the search for Reznikov."

"Jesus Christ!" the President said quietly, between clenched teeth.

Grant grimaced. He had no choice but to finish. "Let me clarify, sir, that he doesn't have any information on Dotsenko. Nick contacted me; we met and decided to work together on finding Reznikov." Before Carr could say anything, Grant added, "But it turned out to be more, sir, a helluva lot more."

"I'm listening."

"Mr. President, with tremendous G2 skills, Nick not only found the location of the hideout, but he found the person who was the group's handler, and the … "

Carr waited, but he knew it wasn't like Grant to have so much hesitation. "Finish, Grant!"

"We know who was behind the attacks on the barracks, the ambassador, and the others. Nick has the handler's confession on tape, reasons why, and person identified. No bull, sir, just facts."

"You can tell me anytime you're ready, Captain, but it'd better be damn soon."

Grant just blurted it out. "Premier Gorshevsky, Mr. President. He was the cause of all those deaths and destruction."

Not what Carr expected. "Holy … Grant, any chance that's a mistake?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, sir. None, Mr. President." Silence. Grant finally spoke. "Nick has the handler in custody, and he has the tapes. All are secured. He's assumed responsibility for taking the tapes to Director Antolov when he arrives in East Berlin."

"What are his chances for making that 'stick'?"

"I'll think he'll do fine."

"And can you trust him about withholding the 'non-information' on Dotsenko?"

"He knows Dotsenko is missing but not where he is. As far as who kidnapped him, well, that's pure conjecture. If he's questioned, he'll be telling the truth without giving us away. And can I trust him? With my life, Mr. President."

"He sounds like a younger version of Colonel Moshenko, Grant."

"I believe he is. Oh, about Mr. Dotsenko. Doc is still with him at the hotel, and I'd like your permission to have him escorted to the Gulfstream before our mission. The camera with photos from the airport, his Russian passport and airline ticket are secured. Two or three men will remain with him on board. I'll direct Matt to depart at 0500 — with or without everyone."

"Just how much trouble are you expecting?"

"Well, sir, from what we've been told, Reznikov's hideout is loaded with explosives, both inside and out. We know where and how the handler placed them, but the group could've changed or added anything. And apparently, they have a sh… — a stockpile buried on the property."

Carr blew out a breath, as he swiveled in his chair. As much as he wanted Reznikov on U.S. soil, facing prosecution … "Grant, I would like some form of proof that you got him, but you let your mission 'play out' the best way possible. Is that clear?"

"Completely, sir."

"All right. Contact Agent Mullins when the Gulfstream's two hours out from Stateside. Secret Service agents will be ready at Andrews. Godspeed, Captain."

Team A.T. sat around the table, listening to a brief overview Grant was giving on his call to the President. Then, Grant asked, "Who went to the hotel last?"

"I did, boss," James replied. "Everything was quiet. I brought them dinner."

"Thanks, DJ." He focused on Garrett and Draper. "Matt, Rob, you're to pick up Doc and Dotsenko, then go directly to Schonefeld. Before you leave here, put most of the gear and weapons in the second vehicle.

"Listen, Matt, if none of us make it to you by 0500, you're to depart immediately. Be sure to notify Scott when you're a couple of hours from the States. Secret Service will be waiting at Andrews."

"Understand," Garrett nodded. "What time should we leave here?"

"Now, before it gets too dark."

As Garrett and Draper rolled their chairs back, Garrett asked, "Do we need to contact Doc ahead of time?"

"Negative. Even though you're passing through Checkpoint Charlie, maybe you'd all better use your U.S. passports."

Garrett reached for Grant's hand. "Take care of yourself. We'll see you all in the a.m."

Handshakes went around to every man, then Garrett and Draper left.

Grant rolled his chair closer to the table, then glanced at his watch. "It's about 20 miles to Lanke, so we should be outta here by 2300. It'll be plenty dark by then.

"Now, tell me what you've come up with. How do we attack that property?"

The temperature was still in the low sixties, with a light breeze at six knots. In the interior of the forests, foxes, badgers, wild boar roamed, searching for food, occasionally venturing across the open fields. Sounds of screeching owls, a distant high-pitched train whistle, constant cricket chirps seemed more distinct in the surrounding quiet.

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 the 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.