Sacrifice of One

Chapter 11

With most of the communication stations located in the western part of Russia and those in East Germany being anywhere from one to two thousand miles away from Moscow, there was a problem transmitting messages. Most small land sets and portables have one to ten watts of transmitting power. Without a boost or a relay station, most of them only have the ability to transmit from five to fifty miles. The only solution for the field commanders is to transmit their messages to Berlin. From there, the fastest way for those stations to make contact with Moscow is by phone.

Messages started arriving at KGB headquarters at 1000 hours Moscow time. In Antolov’s outer office, a private sat at his desk, transcribing phone messages on a Hermes Rocket manual portable typewriter.

Field commanders were reporting the sighting of a KA-27 heading east, approaching the East German border. Some reported sightings from the north. There was no surprise in their conflicting reports, their inconsistencies, or timeframes. Discipline among Russian communication operators was practically non-existent. Following rules and regulations was mostly done indiscriminately, and security wasn’t always top priority.

By order of Premier Gorshevsky, Antolov had sent a general message to Berlin with instructions to notify all field commanders near the border, directing them to stop the aircraft by any and all means. The lag time between receiving one of the messages and passing it along, whether from carelessness or not, could mean success or failure.

The time was now 1220 hours. Antolov drummed his fingers on his desk as he read the latest message. Commander Yarnov reported the aircraft was brought down near the Grunewald Forest inside East Germany. The American POWs were rescued by a helicopter with American markings. Yarnov also reported the sighting of a Russian officer near the American helicopter.

It was the next sentence that Antolov could not believe. He read it over and over. Yarnov stated the Russian officer was firing at the Russian and East German troops.

He tossed the paper on his desk. “Grigori,” he said aloud. In the beginning of the accident investigation, Antolov believed Moshenko had either died in the accident or had been taken hostage.

Had Comrade Tarasov been right? Did Moshenko become too friendly with that American, picking up western ways, western thoughts? Still, he, Antolov, never had any reason to doubt Moshenko’s loyalty over the years. What could have sent him over the edge? Had he decided to defect? Was he coerced? No. That cannot be the reason for causing Moshenko to fire at his own countrymen. But the report said he was!

“Damn you, Grigori!” He slammed his fist on the desk.

Two hours later he was still reading messages. His anger had hardly subsided when there was a knock at his door. “What is it?” he angrily shouted. An enlisted man opened the door and handed him another message. Antolov waved him off. With his mind still enraged, he tried to focus on the paper.

A Major Losevsky reported to Berlin that he has detained someone at a communication station in Grunewald. This person was one of those who apparently had been involved in the rescue of the POWs and was then captured during the firefight. Losevsky states the prisoner does not have any identification but was heard shouting in English during the fight. He presumes he is American.

Antolov tapped the paper against his mouth. Could this be Grigori’s American friend? What was his name? Rushing to the file cabinet, he dialed the combination lock, then pulled out the metal drawer, flipping through folder after folder, until one caught his eye. He lifted it out. Across the red tab it read: Stevens, Grant — Captain — U.S. Navy. “This must be him,” Antolov said to himself. This was the name given to him by Comrade Tarasov.

He swung around and hurried back to his desk, calling for the private in the outer office. “Call Berlin. Have them contact Major Losevsky! Tell him he is to keep that prisoner in his custody until he receives further orders from me!” Antolov made a decision to hold off having the American flown to Moscow. Too much was happening. He would not take any further action until the situation had calmed down or until the premier tells him otherwise. And besides, Major Losevsky may need some extra time in extracting information from this Stevens.

He called the private back into his office. “Tell the major he has authority to interrogate.”

He reached for the phone. “Get me Premier Gorshevsky.” He waited. “Sir, I have news.”

“I am waiting, Mikhail,” an annoyed Gorshevsky answered. This whole situation was not progressing to his liking. He wanted answers.

“Sir, it has been reported by one of our field commanders that the aircraft was brought down inside East German territory.”

“And you have more to tell me?”

“All aboard the aircraft seemed to have survived the crash. There was an intense firefight, and four of our comrades were killed, two injured.” Antolov began sweating profusely, as he continued. “The commander indicated another helicopter, with American markings, landed during the fighting. Sir, I regret to tell you the five Americans were taken aboard that aircraft.” Antolov could hear Gorshevsky’s heavy breathing, and he still had more information to give him.

“There was at least one other person onboard who we presume was American, and was apparently part of that operation.” Should he tell him about the captured American? Or tell him about Grigori? Antolov was already picturing Lubyanka Prison… from the inside.

“Mikhail, tell me you have some good news.” Gorshevsky walked over to an antique credenza, removed a bottle of Stolichnaya (Stoli) vodka, then took it with him to his chair. He poured half a glass.

“Sir, we have taken someone into custody. He is being held at one of our smaller communication outposts in Grunewald by a Major Losevsky. We believe he is the American friend of Colonel Moshenko, a Captain Stevens.”

“How can you be sure that is him?”

“He fits the description given by Comrade Tarasov, and the photograph in our dossier.” Antolov lifted the second page of the dossier. Stevens, he repeated in his mind. “Sir, can you wait a moment while I read this dossier? There is something familiar about that name.”

Scanning the page, Antolov finally made the connection. Lieutenant Ostrova! Grigori! Steiner! He remembered. It was this Stevens who helped end the attempt to murder Politburo members that day. Would this fact change his and the premier’s decision on holding this American? Or would it now give the premier a distinct advantage during his negotiations with President Carr?

Antolov relayed his findings and thoughts to Gorshevsky. “Perhaps you can negotiate the captain’s release in exchange for Comrade Chernov, since we no longer have the five Americans.”

“You may be right, Mikhail, but on one hand the Russian government owes a great deal to this Stevens.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Then on the other hand, with this current situation, he is responsible for the deaths of our comrades, and taking Colonel Moshenko hostage.”

“Sir, I am not totally convinced Colonel Moshenko was taken hostage.”

Gorshevsky’s eyebrows shot up. “Why is that, Mikhail?” He gulped down a mouthful of vodka.

“We know Colonel Moshenko is on friendly terms with this American. Why would he be taken hostage, sir?”

Gorshevsky felt his temples pound. He burped up foul tasting stomach bile. It burned his throat. He gulped down another mouthful of Stoli, then coughed. “Mikhail, are you trying to tell me you believe Colonel Moshenko left willingly, and has… defected?” The word “defected” nearly choked him.

“During the firefight, Major Losevsky reported seeing Colonel Moshenko board the rescue aircraft and assist the Americans in getting onboard, sir. He also claims he saw Colonel Moshenko firing at our troops, seemingly protecting the Americans.”

Silence. “Did you say ‘at our troops,’ Mikhail?”

“I did, sir.”

Hair on the back of Gorshevsky’s neck stood on end. His questions on who leaked the information about the American POWs, and the destruction of the aircraft from Domodedovo seem to have been answered. Grigori Moshenko! “Mikhail, do you believe your KGB officer, Grigori Moshenko, was actually working with the Americans?”

Antolov had time to consider other possibilities, and he responded, “Sir, what was reported has not been proven. You know that during battle, sometimes incidents can be misconstrued. We only have a report from this one officer. At this time, I do not wish to make any conclusions. What we have for now is pure speculation, on my part also, sir.”

“Well, then, do you believe they are the ones who detonated the device on the helicopter to throw us off our investigation?”

“I do not think so, sir. Why would they destroy their only means of transportation? Look at what they had to do to obtain another aircraft. I still believe someone else was behind the destruction of that helicopter.”

“Do you have any idea who that may be?” the frustrated premier asked, as he poured another drink.

“I have my suspicions, but further inquiries and interviews must be made before I am certain.”

Gorshevsky slumped down in his chair, sipping on the vodka. Questions and answers were leading nowhere. “And what of the American you are holding? Do you know if any information has been extracted from him?”

“At last report, no. I will have Berlin contact the major as soon as we are finished here. Do you want him brought to Lubyanka, sir?”

Gorshevsky’s voice rose with each word. “What I want, Mikhail, are answers. I want him to be kept alive. I do not care if he stays at that outpost, or is brought to Lubyanka!” Gorshevsky had a thought. “Wait!” He got up, went to his desk, and removed a large map from a drawer. Once he unfolded it, he located Grunewald, then with a finger, traced a route toward Berlin. “Yes. Here it is,” he said aloud, as he tapped a spot just southwest of Berlin. “Keep him where he is. That location is not far from Potsdam. If an exchange can be negotiated, he can be brought there.” The city of Potsdam lay just outside West Berlin after the construction of the Berlin Wall. The walling off of West Berlin isolated the city. The Glienicke Bridge that crosses the Havel River, connected the city to West Berlin and was the location of previous spy exchanges.

Gorshevsky continued, “I want them to get as much information from him, as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sitting within fifty yards of Hangar A, a chopper was waiting on the tarmac. In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot were going through a final few items left on their checklist: fuel, oil, lights, position beacon, transponder, oxygen.

Lieutenant Joe Tommasi pointed out the side window. “Here they come, Wade!” He immediately turned on the battery switch, rolled the throttle to idle detent and pulled the start trigger switch at the end of the collective. The collective is the pitch lever responsible for up and down movements. During takeoff, the pilot uses the collective to increase the pitch of the rotor blades by the same amount.

Once the engine reached forty percent, he released the switch. Within fifteen seconds, the engine was at idle.

Turning in his seat, Tommasi leaned slightly over his armrest, looking aft, watching the five SEALs climb aboard. They were outfitted in jump gear with RAM air chutes, reserve chutes, helmets, oxygen masks hanging around their necks, with goggles and rucksacks in hand.

“Ready for go, lieutenant?” Tommasi called to Lieutenant Jason Monroe. Monroe held his arm up, giving a thumb’s up.

Tommasi checked the surrounding area confirming it was clear, then he engaged the blades.

Co-pilot Lieutenant Wade Learey radioed the tower. “Tempelhof tower, November Charlie five six requesting clearance for takeoff. Over.”

“November Charlie five six you are cleared for takeoff. Winds eight knots, southwest. Over.”

“Five six requests climb to Foxtrot Lima one five. Over.” Learey requests permission to climb to flight level of fifteen thousand feet.

“Standby five six. Affirm your climb to Foxtrot Lima one five. Over.”

“Roger, tower. Out.”

Constant harassment of Allied aircraft around Berlin by the Russians caused some concern, but the chopper only had to get clear of Tempelhof airspace. The DZ (drop zone) for the SEALs’ HAHO jump was five miles beyond the base. Their intended LZ was twenty miles away in East German territory, the Soviet Zone. Their intent was to put their boots on the ground within two miles of their objective.

While they waited, the SEALs rechecked each other’s equipment, until they finally heard Learey shout, “Time to go on oxygen, gentlemen.”

“Let’s go men,” Lieutenant Monroe said.

Putting on their rubber aviator masks, they adjusted the straps, cranked on the O2, then put on their goggles. The last thing they did was secure their rucksacks to the D-rings attached to their reserve chutes.

Standing together near the open door, they waited for the signal from the co-pilot, waited for the green light, ready to make their jump.

And as they waited those final moments, each of them, in their own way, mentally prepared for the mission, preparing to rescue one of their own.

A musty smell of pines, evergreens and decaying plant matter permeated the air in the forest. Somewhere close by was a sound from a hooting owl, and in the distance, a mournful cry of a lone wolf. These sounds could not, and would not divert the SEALs’ attention.

Dressed completely in black, the five men, with watch caps pulled low and black paint covering their faces, remained hidden in the forest for a half hour.

Lieutenant Monroe signaled the Team forward. As they walked closer to their objective, still one hundred yards away, each step they took was cautious and deliberate. Their boots barely left depressions in the thick layer of pine needles covering the ground, still wet from a recent heavy rain.

Monroe held up a fist. The SEALs immediately stopped, all of them getting down on one knee. He held a Starlighter scope to his eye, scrutinizing the area around the old farm, focusing on the main building, which was nothing more than a mere cabin. A light shown from the only window close to the front door. No movement, in or out, had been spotted.

Continuing to use the scope, his eyes followed the property around the cabin. A barn and small outbuilding were the only other structures. An old wooden animal pen, made from uneven logs, sliced in half horizontally, was next to the barn. A gate hung loosely from rusted hinges.

Monroe motioned the men forward until they made it to the edge of the forest. Again, he stopped them. From this point to the cabin, there wouldn’t be any cover. After taking one final look through the scope, he stashed it in his rucksack.

Crouching low, they made a dash across the field. When they were nearly fifty yards from the cabin, they heard voices, saw a glow from a dim light. Stopping abruptly, they dropped to the ground, flattening their bodies against damp grass and patches of mud. Waiting briefly, Monroe slowly looked up.

Two men appeared out of the darkness, coming from the south side of the property, walking toward the cabin. One was carrying a lighted kerosene lamp. As they stopped by the front door, there was a small, brief flicker of light. A match.

The shorter of the two men opened the door, blew out the lamp’s flame, then went inside, leaving the door open. A large, bulky man, wearing shirt and trousers with suspenders, possibly a Russian uniform, stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. A kerosene lamp, hanging above a table, appeared to be the only source of light inside.

Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Major Losevsky dropped it near his foot, grinding it into the dirt with a heel of his black boot. Tilting his head slightly, he blew a final lungful of smoke into the air. He went inside and closed the door.

Seeing no one else, Monroe came to a crouch position, with the other SEALs following his lead. At his signal, they sprinted to the side of the cabin, pressing their backs against the rough-hewn wooden logs, with their weapons held in front of their bodies.

Monroe turned his head, looking at Petty Officers First Class Bill Restin and Frank Clayton. He signaled Restin to check inside the front window, then motioned Clayton around to the back.

Then, he signaled Chief Petty Officer Al Kenton and Hospital Corpsman Petty Officer Second Class Cal Stalley, to check the two other buildings. Lowering their NVGs, the two took off around the back of the cabin.

Restin stepped around Monroe, and raised his NVGs. Keeping his body against the logs, he slowly eased himself toward the front of the cabin. Leaning just enough to look around the corner, and seeing it was clear, he took side steps toward the window. Inhaling then holding his breath, he slowly leaned until he was able to get a glimpse inside the main room.

A rectangular wooden table was positioned in the middle of the room, located about ten feet from the door. Two men, maybe in their late twenties, sat at the table, facing the door. They were dressed in Russian uniforms, and each had sidearms holstered. Field jackets hung from the back of each chair, one with the insignia of a major.

The third soldier, the one who had smoked the cigarette outside, stood by the end of the table, rubbing his knuckles and back of his hands with a cloth. Tossing it aside, it landed on a Makarov at the edge of the table.

He drew his Walther P-1 pistol from his side holster and started wiping it down with a rag. The P-1 is a modified P-38, double action, semiautomatic pistol.

Holding it up toward the lamp, he swiped the rag across the barrel and handle. Satisfied it was clean, he holstered the gun, then shoved the rag in his back trousers pocket. Sliding a chair from under the table, he sat down, locked his fingers behind his head, and began rocking his chair back and forth.

The three soldiers continued carrying on a steady conversation, occasionally punctuated with loud laughter. Each man had a small glass in front of him, and in-between the laughter, they’d sip on some brown liquid. Restin spotted a tall bottle in the middle of the table. Medovukha, an old Balto-Slavic, honey-based alcoholic beverage is a drink very similar to mead, and stronger than a regular beer.

Restin’s eyes roamed around the room. He didn’t see anyone else, but did notice three AK-47s, with magazines inserted, leaning against a large stone fireplace. Another kerosene lamp was on the mantel, but unlit. On a makeshift table next to the fireplace was a rectangular brown wooden box, with the top open, leaning against the wall. A thick black cord ran from the box to a phone receiver on the table. A field radio.

Restin slowly brought his head back, then edged his way along the logs, meeting up with Monroe around the side. He held up three fingers. Clayton emerged from the back, shaking his head.

The three slipped their rifle slings over their heads, and drew out .45s with silencers. They couldn’t take any chances of gunfire being heard, with the possibility of other troops in the area.

Now they’d wait until getting word from Chief Kenton.

Separating slightly, Chief Kenton and Petty Officer Stalley proceeded cautiously and silently. Most of the ground leading to the outbuildings was dirt. Because of the recent rain, they couldn’t avoid patches of slippery, thick mud.

They searched the first of the two buildings in typical CQB (Close Quarter Battle) fashion, finding nothing. The last outbuilding was at the rear of the farm property. From its appearance it could have been used for storage of small equipment. How many rooms was still the question. Their weapons were cocked and ready, as they approached quietly, remaining vigilant.

Standing at the dilapidated wooden door of the small building, ready to enter, Kenton gave a nod. He pushed the door open, cringing at the sound it made scraping across the dirty floor, with three rusted hinges squeaking.

They entered one behind the other, pausing as they surveyed their surroundings. The main room contained rusted, age-old farm supplies, scattered on the floor, piled in every corner, hanging from rafters. Thick cobwebs covered everything. Stalley turned his head, and readjusting his NVGs, he spotted a mouse scurrying into a hole in the corner.

He and the chief refocused their attention toward the back. Their eyes settled on a single wooden door. Chief Kenton motioned for Stalley to remain by the entrance, as he took one step at a time, walking toward the room.

The latch on the door was a slide-type, made of a flat piece of wood with a dowel as the handle. It was held in place by rough-hewn metal clamps. He took hold of the dowel with his left hand and slowly pulled the slide to the left until it was free. Taking a quick look at Stalley, he stood to the side and pulled the door back.

Pressing the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, and with his cheek close to the stock, the chief focused his eyes down the barrel. First, he looked along the far wall, then he took a step to the opposite side of the doorway, checking the wall and corners to his left. He slowly moved into the dark, musty-smelling room.

A bucket of water was near an overturned wooden chair about ten feet from the door, and just beyond it, he spotted the dark shape of a body sprawled in the middle of the floor.

He walked closer, then talked into his throat mike. “We found him! Back building!”

Stalley hurried past him. Falling on his knees next to Grant, Stalley slid his medical bag off his back and laid it open next to him. Leaning carefully, he put an ear next to Grant’s mouth, checking his breathing, making sure there wasn’t any obstruction, and simultaneously, focusing his eyes on Grant’s chest, seeing it rising and falling rhythmically (heaving). He laid his fingers on Grant’s wrist, checking the strength of his pulse.

“Is he alive?” Kenton asked as he leaned over Grant.

“Yeah, chief! He is!”

Kenton spoke into his throat mike. “He’s alive, sir!”

Monroe pressed a finger against his earpiece, hearing the chief’s message. He gave a quick thumb’s up to Clayton and Restin. Now it was time for the three of them to make it happen.

Raising their NVGs, they ducked low under the window, then stood again once they were in front of the door. Their .45s were held firmly with both hands, barrels pointing up. They each had a target. Clayton glanced at Monroe who gave a quick nod of his head.

With surprise as their advantage, Clayton kicked the door with all the force he could muster. Pieces of doorframe splintered. With perfect precision, the SEALs burst into the room, and with three muffled shots, it was over.

The Russians barely had time to blink, let alone reach for a weapon. The force of the bullet slammed the first Russian back against his chair, knocking him ass over end, with his head bent at a peculiar angle when he landed. The man next to him took a bullet just off center of his forehead, snapping his head back. His mouth fell wide open; his arms dangled by his side. The third man had started to turn and was “blown” sideways from a bullet just above his temple, knocking him completely off the chair. He landed on the floor with a thud,still in a seated position. With the size of the holes in their heads, an extra “tap” didn’t seem necessary, but just in case…

The SEALs did a quick search of the room. Clayton smashed the radio. Monroe picked up the Makarov on the table, seeing a cloth, smeared with blood. As they were leaving, Monroe reached up to the lamp and turned the wick adjustment mechanism until the flame went out.

They ran from the house, lowering their NVGs, rushing to catch up to Kenton and Stalley. As they ran, Monroe spoke into his throat mike. “We’re on our way, chief!”

“Frank! Take the watch!” Monroe ordered as they got to the building. He and Restin ran to the back room, moving close to Stalley. “How’s he doing, Cal?”

“Still trying to determine that, sir. His pulse is pretty good, all things considered.”

He leaned closer to Grant. “Captain Stevens! Can you hear me, sir?” No response. “Captain Stevens!” Grant’s arm was outstretched to the side. He struggled to lift his hand, managing to give somewhat of a thumb’s up, prompting Stalley to say, “Fuckin’ A, sir!”

Grant cleared his throat, trying to say something. Stalley leaned closer. “Say again, sir.” Grant managed to repeat the words slowly. “Yes, sir. Little Creek.” He laughed at Grant’s next comment, and replied, “Yes, sir! I agree.”

“What’d he say?” Monroe asked, curiously.

“He said it was about time we got here.” The rest of the Team couldn’t help but crack smiles, nodding in complete agreement, but wishing they’d made it sooner. Stalley got down to serious business again. “Can you move at all, sir?”

Grant lay motionless. He tried to take a deep breath and grimaced. “Don’t… think… so,” he answered with a weak, raspy voice. “Don’t… want to.”

Stalley smiled and placed a comforting hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Understand, sir, and that’s okay. But I need you to try. Try and move your feet,” Stalley requested, as he looked toward Grant’s muddied stocking feet. Grant concentrated through the pain, fighting unconsciousness. “Another fuckin’ A! Good job, sir. Now, you just hang in there. I’m going to examine you. I’ll work as fast as I can. We’ll get you outta here soon, sir.

“Hold some light over here!” Three penlights lit up. It was then they noticed a rope still tied around one wrist. Even his throat had streaks of red.

Stalley took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut away what was left of Grant’s torn and ragged shirt. Severe bruising was over his entire upper body. Removing a stethoscope from the compartment, Stalley fitted the stethoscope’s earpieces, then placed the chest piece cup over Grant’s chest, checking that both lungs were expanded.

The corpsman put on a pair of rubber gloves, snapping them against his wrist, while he looked at Grant. “Those bastards were just in here,” he said quietly. “Some of these wounds are fresh.” Blood was everywhere, including his head and face. More splatters were along the top of his trousers. There were stains where blood had soaked through his trouser legs.

Monroe leaned close. “Is it possible the butt of a pistol would cause some of those deep bruises, Cal?”

Stalley nodded. “Very possible, sir, along with fists, and boots,” he said as he pointed to Grant’s legs, “with that blood on his trousers.” He scooted behind Grant, examining the injury on the side of his head. Dried blood was caked in his hair. “Most likely a bullet,” the corpsman commented quietly. Carefully, so not to move Grant’s head, he felt as much as he could along the sides and back, touching a couple of large lumps, feeling more caked blood. There wasn’t any way for him to tell if there was a skull fracture, but a concussion was more than likely. He looked up at the chief. “Chief, can you stabilize his head while I examine him?”

Tapping lightly with two fingers, he palpated where there was bruising, trying to determine if there was internal bleeding. An open two inch wound, just above Grant’s waistband, was still oozing. There were other smaller cuts. Those wouldn’t need immediate attention.

Lieutenant Monroe leaned closer. “What the hell did they hit him with to make those cuts?”

Stalley just shook his head slowly, “Can’t imagine, sir.” He methodically started moving his hands along Grant’s legs then arms, trying to determine if there were any broken bones. As he started feeling along the lower ribcage, Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir.” He commented quietly, mostly for Monroe’s benefit, “Feels like simple rib fractures on both sides; both bone’s are in alignment. We’ve gotta be extra careful getting him outta here.

“Only other break I can find is his index finger. Will take a look at his back before he goes on the litter.” He ran his hand across the collarbone to the right shoulder. A groan escaped from Grant’s throat. “Have a problem here. Shoulder’s dislocated.”

“Jesus Christ! They used him like a fuckin’ punching bag… and jerked his arm out of the socket?” Lieutenant Monroe said between clenched teeth. It sickened him to think what the next round of punishment would’ve been if they hadn’t showed up when they did. He knelt on the other side of Grant, leaning slightly, as he said quietly, “It’s over, captain. We took care of those bastards.”

Grant wanted to respond but was having a tough time. His throat was raw and dry, but he managed the words between swallows of whatever saliva he could muster. “Fuckin’ A.”

Monroe patted his shoulder then stood. He realized they’d have to devise a makeshift litter and secure Grant, just in case he had any back or neck injuries. He looked at Restin. “Bill, gather up any of his things that might be scattered around, then fix up a litter.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Restin circled the room, using his penlight, searching the perimeter, finding Grant’s windbreaker tossed in a corner. As he stood, something caught his eye and he looked up. “Oh, fuck! LT!”

Monroe hustled over to him. Restin pointed his penlight overhead. A rope had been thrown over a rafter. One end was tied to a vertical beam, the other hung down above them with a large hook tied to it.

Monroe spit. “Those fucking bastards!” Shaking his head, he looked at Restin then said, “Carry on, Bill.”

Restin found Grant’s belt and shoes. He didn’t expect to find any identification. Grant wouldn’t have had any. He found an empty holster in a corner, Russian made. Remembering the pistol on the table that the lieutenant snatched, he picked it up. He wrapped the windbreaker around mud-covered shoes. As he started securing the bundle with Grant’s belt, he noticed something and held his penlight close. “LT! Look, sir.” Monroe came nearer. “Think I found one of the things they may have hit him with, sir.” Blood was on the belt buckle. Monroe just shook his head. Restin finished and put the bundle near his gear, dropping the holster on top.

Corpsman Stalley’s next urgent task was to get fluid into Grant. Tearing open a small packet, he pulled out an alcohol wipe, and cleaned a patch of skin on the inside of Grant’s arm. Using two fingers, he gave light taps on the skin until he found a vein. Removing an IV needle from a plastic bag, he leaned close and inserted it. Ripping a piece of tape, he rolled it around Grant’s arm, securing the needle in place. Next, he removed an IV fluid pouch, held it overhead until the fluid flowed to the bottom of the tube near the shutoff valve. He handed the pouch to the chief as he attached the tubing to the needle. Once it was secure, he slowly adjusted the flow control, until the fluid started a slow drip.

As he worked, Stalley kept talking, trying to keep Grant conscious. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

Grant managed a hoarse, “Yeah.”

“Okay, sir. Stay with me now. You’ve got a wound that needs suturing.” Stalley was working swiftly and methodically. They didn’t want to waste too much time in this place. Grant needed help… and the prospect of running into more Russians, or East Germans, was none too appealing.

He squirted some saline solution around the wound, then cleaned the area with Betadine swabs. Once the wound had been sutured, he covered it with a small battle dressing, and secured it with adhesive tape.

Last, he squirted more saline solution on a piece of gauze, and very gently wiped blood from around Grant’s mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. They couldn’t give him anything to drink in case he had internal injuries. The best he could do was pour fresh water on some gauze and squeeze a few drops over his mouth.

“We’re ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said, as he pulled off the gloves then stood.

“What about pain meds, Cal?” Monroe asked.

“No can do, sir, not with the concussion I’m sure he’s got. Don’t know how long he’s been out, but from now on, we’ve gotta keep him conscious.” Stalley hoped Grant wouldn’t get nauseous and have to puke, especially with his fractured ribs.

They put the litter next to Grant. Three of them spaced themselves evenly apart along his body.

Stalley gently straightened Grant’s injured arm, placing it close to his body. Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir,” Stalley apologized. He ripped a piece of tape and secured Grant’s arm to his body. “Sir, now we’ve gotta put you on a litter. This might hurt some. Are you ready?”

“Go,” Grant murmured.

“Chief, hand me your penlight then stabilize his head.” He directed the three men standing by. “On three, roll him slightly toward you, and I’ll check his back. Ready? One… two… three.” Stalley quickly did his examination. More deep bruising and lacerations. “Slip the litter under him, as close as you can near his side. Okay. Roll him back. Easy.” It was done.

They secured his legs and stabilized his head. Stalley opened a “space blanket” and covered Grant, tucking the edges under his body. Used to prevent the loss of body heat, the blanket uses a material consisting of a thin sheet of plastic that’s coated with a metallic reflecting agent.

“Ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said.

Four men each picked up a corner of the litter, then with care, started their nearly two mile trek back to the planned extraction site.

Grant drifted in and out of consciousness during the journey. When he was awake, he felt lightheaded, dizzy. Things were very blurry, even the faces that sometimes were looking down at him, talking to him, reassuring him. His mind was constantly in a fog, unable to bring anything into focus. Most of the time it was completely blank. He knew he was being carried but couldn’t remember why or by whom. What he did know was that every part of his body was in pain, but he couldn’t remember why.

Throughout the journey, Stalley carried the IV pouch, occasionally checking the drip flow. He’d lean close to Grant, trying to stimulate him into staying awake by talking or tapping his shoulder. With his suspicion that Grant had a concussion, it was vital now that he stay conscious as much and as long as possible.

They were closing in on the location where they hid their jump gear. Stopping about fifty yards from the water’s edge, they gently laid the litter on the ground, then slid their rucksacks from their backs. So far the only sounds came from water lapping against the shore and a high-pitched train whistle off in the distance, blaring in three short bursts each time it sounded. Across the water, on land, nothing moved. The nearest village was over three miles west.

Lieutenant Monroe signaled for Clayton and Restin to scope out the area. He and the chief took defensive positions near Grant. Stalley quickly checked the IV flow, examined the needle in Grant’s arm, then put a hand on his forehead, checking for any sign of fever.

Staying away from the shoreline, away from exposing themselves, Clayton and Restin stayed low, combing the area cautiously, thoroughly. Clayton used the scope, moving it slowly as he searched along the opposite bank, while Restin kept his attention on the river, confirming no patrol boats were in the area.

Hustling back to the others, they reported their findings to Monroe, then got down on a knee and positioned themselves several feet away from Monroe and Kenton, putting a double perimeter around Grant.

Lieutenant Monroe reached for his radio. Trying to keep his voice low, he called, “Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Come in Alpha One. Over.”

One of the pilots sitting aboard a Huey, waiting on the tarmac at Tempelhof, keyed his mike. “Delta Tango this is Alpha One. Over.”

“Delta Tango confirms package is safe. I say again, package is safe. Ready for extraction. Acknowledge. Over.”

“Roger, Delta Tango. Alpha One underway. Out.”

Stalley leaned close to Grant, patting his shoulder. “It’s almost over, sir.”

With Tempelhof being only twenty-five miles from their location, they expected the chopper to reach them in under ten minutes. The SEALs quickly gathered all their gear, making sure everything was secured. Then they double checked their weapons.

Clayton slung his rifle strap over his head, then took out the Starlighter, keeping watch for the chopper and any unsociable Russians or East Germans.

In the distance they heard the familiar whomp whomp whomp rapid sound of a Huey. “Two o’clock!” Clayton reported.

Monroe pulled a penlight from his pocket. The chopper was coming in really low. He held the light overhead, and signaled.

Stalley leaned over Grant, protecting him from flying debris. “Your ride’s finally here, sir!”

The pilot maneuvered the chopper, so the nose was facing the water. Standing by the door, manning his M60 machine gun, the gunner waited until the helo was ready to touch down. As soon as the skids hit dirt, he unfastened a stretcher laying across canvas seats. He jumped out, then pulled the stretcher from the chopper. Keeping low, he raced toward the SEALs.

Monroe was hurrying toward the chopper. He pointed, “Over there!” to the gunner, then, he assumed a defensive position next to the chopper, watching his men put Grant on the stretcher.

Stalley ran alongside Grant. When they reached the chopper, he was the first to climb aboard. The men hoisted the stretcher into the cabin, putting it on the seats. Stalley immediately fastened safety belts around Grant.

The gunner resumed his standing position behind the M60, readjusting the wire mouthpiece attached to his helmet. With his hands gripping both handles, he was ready to fire if he had to.

Monroe and the chief got onboard, as Restin and Clayton jumped out, gathering their gear, then handing everything up to the chief.

Suddenly, the gunner swung his M60 around and shouted, “Headlights! Eight o’clock!” A more disturbing sound caught everyone’s attention… a chopper, coming from due East.

Restin and Clayton scrambled aboard. Monroe shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

The pilot responded immediately. The skids were barely off the ground, when gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes from at least four weapons came in rapid succession from two approaching vehicles. Pings sounded as bullets hit the tail of the Huey.

The gunner fired off bursts of M60 rounds, as the helo started forward, with its nose dipping slightly. It was headed on a course back to Tempelhof, to a waiting Nightingale, trying to outrun the other chopper.