Operation Gold Eagle

Chapter 7

Cabin shades were lowered, filtering the morning sunlight, as most of Team Alpha Tango slept. A sound of screaming jet engines couldn't wake them, as they stretched out on bench seats, slumped over tables, slouched in seats. While it may have been for only a few hours, that sleep might be all they'd get for a while.

Grant and Adler were already pulling out coffee mugs from cabinets, while eating peanut butter sandwiches.

"So, what's the plan of attack for today?" Adler asked, licking peanut butter from his fingers.

Grant brushed strands of brown hair from his forehead, then sniffed the hot coffee, trying to get his eyes to focus on his submariner. "I told Scott I'd call him at 1000. In the meantime, we'll start getting our gear ready, and go over our plan."

"A plan, he says," Adler snorted. "She sure as hell better still be there."

"What's for breakfast?" Slade interrupted, as he rubbed his hands briskly over his bald head, feeling the beginnings of new fuzz.

"We have peanut butter, and peanut butter. Take your pick," Grant grinned, handing him a mug of coffee. Then, responding to Adler, Grant answered, "Guess we can't be sure, Joe. We've just gotta go with what we know. There's always a possibility for another intercept, but I have my doubts we'd be lucky enough."

"Think the Russians have her guarded?" Slade asked, sitting on a bench seat.

"With the unrest going on, you can bet your ass they do, Ken." He looked toward the front of the cabin. "Maybe it's time for reveille."

"I'll go," Slade volunteered.

"That's okay, Ken. I've gotta talk with Matt and Rob." He poured coffee into two mugs, then started walking down the aisle toward the cockpit. "Reveille, guys! Up and at 'em. Coffee's ready." He flicked a finger against Novak's head. "Hey!!" Moans, groans, and grunts precipitated body movement.

Grant moved on to the cockpit. "You guys awake?"

Garrett stretched his arms overhead. "Best night's sleep I've had in a while."

"Bullshit," Draper laughed, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"Have some java." Grant handed each a mug. "There're some peanut butter sandwiches aft. When Joe and I call Scott, we'll make a food run in the terminal."

Garrett blew a short breath into the coffee. "What'll you be talking to him about?"

"We've gotta have that chopper and boat in order to make this op work, Matt. He should confirm either way when I make the call."

"So we don't know if we're staying here or … "

"I think we need to haul ass from Schonefeld asap. I don't want to leave you guys or the plane here much longer. Too many questions might be asked. So if you hang tight, I should know soon enough."

A three-story, red brick building, Friedrichshain (Vivantes) Municipal Hospital, was the first municipal hospital in Berlin. Located at Landsberger Allee, on the east side of Friedrichshain Park, it was approximately one mile from busy Alexanderplatz.

An East German ambulance driver stood by a window near the emergency entrance, noticing two men approaching the vehicle. One man opened the rear doors, and climbed inside, while the other first inspected the driver's side, then walked around to the passenger side.

The driver rushed outside, throwing a cigarette to the ground. Without even thinking, he angrily shouted, "Get away from that vehicle!"

Kalinin was standing next to the passenger door. As he swung around his jacket opened, revealing a holstered Makarov and his KGB badge hooked to his belt.. The driver abruptly came to a stop within a few feet of the ambulance.

Kalinin readjusted his jacket. "Are you the driver?!" The worried man nodded. "Who did you bring in recently?"

"Two men."

Kalinin stepped closer. "Do not make me ask you one question at a time."

"There … there was an accident, but they were not injured because of the accident. They had gunshot wounds."

"Do you know if they are alive?"

"They are in intensive care, barely alive. The other two are in the morgue."

Kalinin motioned with a hand, "Go." The driver rushed into the hospital, then backed farther away, trying to stay out of sight.

Agent Zykov climbed out of the ambulance, secured the doors, then walked toward Kalinin, who asked, "Did you find anything that could help us?"

"Nothing."

They walked into the emergency entrance, scanned a plaque listing departments and floor numbers, then took the elevator to the second floor.

Footsteps and voices echoed in the long, narrow corridor. Everything was sterile white, except for stainless hand rails fastened to both sides. Gurneys with crisp white sheets were outside three rooms. Doctors filled out charts. Nurses carried trays with medicine, syringes.

At the end of the corridor, stainless steel double doors led into the Intensive Care unit. Kalinin and Zykov spotted two men standing just to the side of the doors, talking quietly to one another.

"CIA," Kalinin whispered. He unbuttoned his jacket, ensuring badge and weapon were in plain sight. "Come on."

As the two Russians slowly approached, the CIA agents watched them closely, and took up positions directly in front of the double doors.

"KGB," Special Agent Abbott quietly said.

"Just like we expected," Special Agent Zwick replied.

Abbott held up a hand, with his palm facing the two approaching men. Kalinin and Zykov stopped within five feet of the two. For a brief moment, the men eyed each other.

Finally, Abbott broke the silence. Staring at Kalinin, he asked with pauses between each word, "Do. you. speak. English?"

Kalinin arched an eyebrow. "If you cannot understand me, let me know, then I will speak slower."

Abbott smiled. "Thenyou'll understand when I tell you that you can't go in there," he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.

Kalinin stepped closer. "And you will understand me when I remind you that you are in East Berlin, in the Soviet Sector."

"Look, those are Americans in there," Abbott added, attempting to calm the situation. "We'd prefer no one saw them right now. Okay?"

Kalinin held up both hands, and stepped back. "Not a problem. But can you give me any information on what happened? Why they were taken here?"

"This was the closest hospital, I guess. As far as information, no. We don't know much more than you probably — except, of course, who they are. But I'm sure the East German police would be more than happy to fill you in."

Kalinin had already decided to go to the morgue, where the M.E. would be more forthcoming with answers. "You are probably right." He started to walk away, when he turned around. "Hope your men make a full recovery." Then he and Zykov left.

As they stood by the elevator, Zykov, who hardly spoke any English, asked, "What was said back there?" Kalinin filled him in, but Zykov was surprised by the answer. He asked, "Why did you not press the issue? We had every right to … "

"What was the point, Oleg? Just by those agents being here meant the injured were most likely CIA as well. Let the Americans think they have all the information."

The elevator doors hissed as they parted. Once inside, Kalinin pressed the button for the basement. He folded his arms tightly across his chest as he thought of another important matter: Ivan Reznikov. Where the hell was he? Who helped him escape?

The elevator stopped with a jolt, then the doors parted. The two men walked off, looking both ways down a dimly lit corridor. "There," Zykov said, pointing to double doors to the left.

Walking along natural concrete floors, their footsteps echoed in the expansive space, as they passed under three archways. The archways, ceiling, and support columns were covered entirely in eight inch white tiles. The interior looked more like a Russian subway than a morgue.

Stopping momentarily in front of the doors, they looked overhead at an oval light. If an autopsy was in progress, the light would glow red. It wasn't the case. The two men pushed open both swinging doors.

Just as the corridor was covered in white tiles, so was the autopsy room, sinks, and tables. Three portable, stainless steel storage cabinets with glass doors were positioned against a wall, opposite each autopsy table.

Kalinin stepped closer to a table. A white sheet covered a body. He started to lift a corner, when he heard a door open toward the back of the room.

"What are you doing here?!" M.E. Hans Bauer came from his office, walking slowly toward the two strangers.

Kalinin responded, "We are investigating the accident that happened near Glienicke Bridge. We understand two bodies were brought in, but I only see this one."

Bauer came closer, as he slipped a pen in his white lab coat pocket. "You will not find those two bodies here. The Americans took them before I even performed an autopsy."

The 6'2" Kalinin leaned toward the shorter Bauer. "Who the hell gave you permission to release them?!" Zykov went around the table, and stood next to the M.E.

"Wait! Wait! I have an authorization for the release." He rushed back to his office, then came back, waving a piece of paper.

Kalinin snatched it from his hand, with his eyes immediately going to the bottom of the page, looking at the signature. "Shit!" He flung the paper at Bauer, then he spun around, heading back to the elevator.

Zykov caught up to him. "What happened?! Who authorized …?!"

Kalinin punched the elevator button with a knuckle. "The East German Health Minister!"

Stepping into the elevator, Zykov questioned, "What? You think he was paid to release the bodies?!"

"Right now, I could give a shit! We have work to do."

Before leaving the hospital, Kalinin made an inquiry into Sergeant Baskov's condition. He was told the patient was stable.

As they walked to the Volga, Kalinin tossed the keys to Zykov. "You drive. I have to put my thoughts in order. We are running around in a damn circle."

He had tried to inspect the van, but again, the Americans beat him to it, and had it hauled away. He didn't have much confidence in finding anything from the shootout, but they still had to thoroughly search the area, knowing Borskaya wouldn't expect anything less.

Twenty minutes later, Zykov pulled the car onto the shoulder. "Not here," Kalinin said. "Park on the opposite side of the road."

As they got out, they focused their eyes on black skid marks that crossed the center line at an angle, as if the vehicle started to skid sideways. Indications of a fire extended from the right side, then across the middle line.

"Where do we begin?" Zykov asked, standing with his hands on his hips.

"The CIA probably went over this area inch by inch, but it is always possible they missed something. You look along the road, I will start by those trees," he pointed, "and work my way back here. Whoever helped Reznikov, had to have had a vehicle."