Sacrifice of One

Chapter 5

Before daybreak a storm moved rapidly through D.C., being driven by thirty knot winds with occasional forty knot gusts. Rain droplets were still splashing against the two office windows, with daylight trying to break through fast-moving gray clouds.

Adler got up and looked down at his dress blues trousers. The bottom of both trouser legs were still wet. When he and Grant arrived at 0530, the storm was still going strong. Rain came down so heavily, storm drains backed up.

He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, then put a foot on the chair, trying to put a shine back on his black shoes. Folding the handkerchief, he put it back in his pocket, then he went around the desk, stretching his back as he walked to the window.

He pulled up the blind, focusing his eyes on the horizon. “Looks like the storm’s finally over. Jesus! That was like a mini-hurricane!”

Grant sat behind the desk, rocking back and forth in the black leather chair. “Huh? What’d you say, Joe?”

Adler turned away from the window, then stood opposite Grant, resting his fists on the desk. “I said, it looked like a mini-hurricane went through here.” No answer again. “What’s on your mind? Grigori?” he asked as he came around and pulled a chair closer to the desk.

“Grigori, the POWs, the mission.”

Adler leaned back, pushing the chair so it rested on its two back legs. Locking his fingers behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling, with the same three issues going through his mind. “Yeah, and we still don’t have any clear direction.” Looking again at Grant, he asked, “Are we gonna wait for him to call again or get our asses over to Germany?”

Grant got up then sat on the corner of the desk. “Once our gear is at Andrews, we’ll head out.” He snapped his fingers, remembering he had to call Zach. The medical staff had to be notified.

As soon as Grant hung up the phone, Adler asked, “Say, skipper, wanna go get some breakfast in the geedunk? We’ve got time.”

“Maybe that’s what I need. Some protein to help me think better. Come on.”

Adler punched the ground floor button with a knuckle, immediately hearing the elevator motor beginning to whine. He gave Grant a sideways glance, seeing him staring up at the lighted floor numbers above the elevator door.

“Come on, skipper; give your brain a rest, okay?”

“You’re right, Joe.

The sound of the motor stopped, the doors hissing as they parted. Just as the two men stepped inside, they heard hurried footsteps coming down the hall. As the doors started closing, someone shouted, “Captain Stevens!” Adler quickly put a hand out, pushing them open again.

Zach skidded to a stop in front of the elevator, saying out of breath, “You’ve gotta come to the admiral’s office, sir! The colonel’s on the red one!”

Torrinson was sitting behind his desk, holding the receiver, with his eyes focused on the outer office. He tried to remember the last time a call came in from a KGB officer. Never.

“Sir?” Grant said, standing just outside his office.

Torrinson motioned him and Adler in, then held the receiver out. Grant walked toward the desk and reached for the phone. Torrinson pushed his chair back, and walked over to the window, standing there quietly, with his arms behind his back. Adler stayed by the door.

“I’m here, Grigori,” Grant answered, as he stood to the side of the desk, rubbing his fingers briskly across his forehead.

“Grant, I will arrive at Domodedovo Airport before 1800 hours tomorrow, Russia time. I will be told upon my arrival where I must go to pick up the passengers.”

Domodedovo Airport is twenty-nine miles south southeast of Moscow. It was officially opened in 1965, with the intent to handle long distance domestic travel in the Soviet Union. In 1975 the airport was selected for the inaugural flight of the supersonic Tupolev Tu 144.

Moshenko turned around in the phone booth, with his eyes scanning every person walking by. Then, with a lowered voice, he said, “I have told Alexandra everything, Grant. She agrees with me. We have decided.”

Grant’s heart jumped. He sucked in a deep lungful of air, then exhaled through tight lips. “I understand.”

Moshenko continued, “I have given her the codes we use. If I do not have time to call you, you contact her when you arrive. She will be waiting for you. I will try to give her as much information as possible.”

“You sure that’s what you want to do?”

“We are sure.” Before Grant could comment further, Moshenko said, “My friend, your mission to help these men, it will put you in grave danger. You will let me know if this task, to help us, will add to that danger. I do not want you… ”

Grant detected the emotion in Moshenko’s voice, as he responded, “Remember my words, Grigori. Remember.” There was quiet between both men. Grant cleared his throat, finally saying, “We have a flight to Tempelhof this morning. You call Admiral Torrinson if you need to reach me, okay?”

“Yes, my friend. We will be waiting for you. Da sveedahnya.”

“Da sveedahnya.”

Grant put the phone down slowly, with his hand lingering on the receiver. He suddenly felt a heaviness on his chest, his heart. The realization hit him hard. Had he instigated this? Had his honest offer to help his friend, come to this… a defection?

Torrinson turned away from the window, walked toward Grant, then stopped directly in front of him. “Captain, are you going to fill me in?”

Grant looked into the eyes of John Torrinson. His boss wanted an answer, expected an answer. Could he tell him everything?

Without taking his eyes from Torrinson’s, Grant answered, “Grigori’s been given instructions to go to Domodedovo Airport tomorrow at 1800 hours, Russia time, sir. At that time he’ll be told where the POWs are.”

“And?”

“That’s all he knows, sir.”

Torrinson knew there was more, just from listening to the conversation. “Grant, I think we’ve been honest with each other since I came onboard. Am I right?”

“That’s affirmative, sir.”

“Then, I want you to be honest with me right now. What the hell’s going on?”

Adler walked a few paces farther away from the door, debating whether he should slip out into the outer office. Shit, skipper; how the hell are you gonna handle this? He didn’t have any doubt that nothing, barring prison, would prevent Grant from helping Moshenko.

Grant took a deep breath, then took a step away from Torrinson. Adler’s eyes darted from Grant to Torrinson, concerned on what the next move would be, and who’d be making it.

Finally, Grant turned around, standing with his arms behind his back, at parade rest. “Sir, what Grigori is doing is… well, sir, it takes balls, sir. He’s my friend and I’m really concerned. But in order for us to get final info on the POWs, he knows it’ll be almost impossible for him to contact us. He feels the only way he can do it is through Alexandra, his wife, sir.”

Now Torrinson understood, or so he thought. He went behind his desk and sat in his swivel chair, contemplating. “What do you plan on doing, Grant?”

“Have to wait till we’re in Germany, sir, but I don’t see any other way. Unless Grigori finds a way to contact you or me, I’ll have to contact Alexandra.”

“Are you telling me that’s all, captain? That’s it?” Torrinson inquired, skeptically.

“Yes, sir. That’s all.”

The silence that suddenly hung over the office was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. Torrinson slapped at the switch. “What is it, Zach?”

“Sir, confirmation from Andrews. Does Captain Stevens need to confirm with them?”

Torrinson looked at Grant, who said, “I can take it on Zach’s phone, sir.” He needed to get the hell out of the admiral’s office post haste. Adler closed the office door behind them.

Once Grant and Adler left, Torrinson slumped down in his chair. He had always trusted Grant, hardly ever questioned his decisions because he knew the job would get done. But something was going on this time, something too private for even Grant to discuss. What the hell is going on? Torrinson questioned, frustrated.

He swung his chair around, and got up quickly. Pacing back and forth behind his desk, he kept trying to understand what Grant was being so secretive about.

Reviewing the words he heard from Grant’s conversation, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Can’t be! Under his breath, he said, “Defection? Moshenko wants to defect?” As incredulous as it sounded, it made sense. Moshenko wanted Grant’s help to defect!

So, he now had a decision to make. Should he confront Grant and try to get the truth out of him one more time? Or should he let Grant proceed with part two of the mission as if he, Torrinson, didn’t have a clue?

Torrinson crossed his arms over his chest. He walked slowly to the mirror near the couch. Staring up at the eagle attached to the top, a thought hit him. Maybe Grant is keeping this close to the vest because he doesn’t want to get me involved. He wants to protect me. Torrinson contemplated the notion.

“Captain,” he said under his breath, “you drive me nuts sometimes.” That brought a smile. It also brought up another issue. How could he let Grant take the fall if it should all turn to shit? No matter which way they let it happen, their asses could be in serious trouble. “Unless… ” He hurried to his office door and swung it open.

Grant was just ending his call, when Torrinson rushed out of his office. He pointed toward Grant, then Adler, as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Captain, lieutenant, into my office!”

Adler closed the door behind him, then walked near Grant. Both of them stood in front of Torrinson’s desk, braced at attention, anticipating a reaming.

“Gentlemen,” he said, before stepping next to Grant, “it is my opinion that Colonel Moshenko has informed you of his plan to defect. Am I correct, Grant?”

The words hit Grant with full impact. He didn’t think he had it in him to deny the fact any longer, especially with what was at stake. With his eyes staring straight ahead, he answered, “Yes, sir. That’s a possibility, sir.”

Torrinson lowered his head, as he slowly walked behind his desk. “At ease, gentlemen.” Both men stood at parade rest. Torrinson asked, “Joe, do you have anything to say?”

“Not at this time, sir.” Adler had no idea where Grant was going to take this G2 (interrogation).

“I see.” Torrinson eased himself down into his chair, then said, “Why don’t you step outside for a minute, Joe.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Adler braced, then turned and left. Shit!

“Okay, Grant. Let’s you and me hash this out. Why the hell don’t you want to keep me in the loop on this?” He motioned for Grant to sit.

“Sir, I wasn’t positive until Grigori’s last phone call. I’ve got a whole lot running through my brain right now. I’m worried for him and for what he’s doing. I’m worried for Alexandra. And, sir, I don’t have any damn idea on how to make it happen, how to keep them both out of harm’s way. No excuses, sir, but I haven’t had time to put that plan together.”

“I understand, Grant, but you still haven’t answered me.”

“Sir, the more left out of the picture, the more won’t have to answer later, if it all turns to….if it doesn’t work out, sir.”

Torrinson gave a brief smile before saying, “You mean if it all turns to shit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, since I already know, I may as well be brought in, Grant.”

On one hand Grant was relieved, on the other it was somebody else to worry about. “Yes, sir.”

Torrinson tapped the switch on the intercom. “Zach, send Lieutenant Adler back in.”

Once Adler was seated, Grant asked, “Sir, do we need to bring the President in on this?”

Torrinson rested his elbows on the desk and intertwined his fingers. “I plan on doing that, once you advise me the Moshenkos are safely in your hands.”

“Understood, sir.”

Torrinson stood, immediately followed by Grant and Adler. He came around the desk and extended his hand, first to Grant, then to Adler. “Gentlemen, on your way. May fair winds be always at your backs — along with your friends!”

“So, what’s next, skipper?” Adler asked, as he closed the door to Grant’s office. “Can you think of anybody else who can give us a good reaming before we leave?” he smirked.

“Shit, Joe!” Grant responded. “Couldn’t get out of that one. Had no choice but to bring the admiral in.”

“You don’t have to explain to me. Time to move on, right?”

“Affirmative.” Grant sat on the corner of his desk and picked up the phone receiver. “While I call Tony, why don’t you get our gear from your car? When you get back, see if Zach can arrange transportation for us to Andrews.”

“Aye, aye, skipper!” Adler rushed out of the office.

Grant dialed Mullins’ direct line. “Hey, Tony!”

“Grant! What’s happening?" He went silent for a second before saying, “Say, wait a minute. You wouldn’t be hauling ass, would ya?”

“Yeah, if you ever stop yakkin’ your jaws!” Grant laughed. “We’re getting ready to leave for Andrews. The President got us a Nightingale for bringing back the POWs. We’re flying into Tempelhof.”

The Air Force C-9A, a modified version of the DC-9, is called theNightingale. It’s the only aircraft specifically dedicated to the movement of litter and ambulatory patients. Standard electric outlets throughout the cabin allow for the use of cardiac monitors, respirators, and infusion pumps. A control panel monitors cabin temperature, therapeutic oxygen, and vacuum systems. An auxiliary power unit provides electrical power for uninterrupted cabin A/C, quick servicing during stops, and self-starting for the two jet engines.

The aircraft can accommodate a maximum of forty litter or forty ambulatory patients, as well as multiple combinations of both. There are regular airline seats for ambulatory patients, all facing aft. All the seats and carpeting are blue, while the cabin is white with beige cabinetry.

The crew consists of pilot, co-pilot, flight mechanic, two flight nurses, and three aeromedical technicians.

Turning serious, Mullins said with a lowered voice, “You’ve got my number here and home if you need anything — anything.”

“Appreciate it, Tony.” He picked up a small manila envelope. “Got your ‘letter’ this morning. Can’t thank you enough, buddy.” Inside the envelope were new papers for the Moshenkos.

“My pleasure!”

Grant got off the desk and went to the window, separating the blinds, seeing Adler running to the Mustang. “Have you thought any more about our discussion the other night?”

“Yeah, I have, and why not leave it at that, okay?”

“Do I need to come to Langley and whip your ass?”

Mullins let out a laugh, then answered, “Like to see you try!” Mullins knew he wouldn’t have a chance up against Grant, especially with the black belt he has in karate. “But, hold the thought, okay?”

Grant didn’t have the time to argue. Whatever Mullins decided to do, was out of his control. “Okay, Tony. Be careful.”

“Will do, Grant. You do the same.”

Grant put the receiver down. Dammit, Tony! He wasn’t sure how to take Mullins’ response. Had he decided to not follow them to Germany like he initially intended? Or did he suddenly want to “throw caution to the wind” and possibly fuck up his career?

Adler opened the door and leaned in. “Skipper, van should be here in ten minutes.” He saw Grant’s expression. “Problem?” he asked as he walked into the office.

Grant gave a slight wave. “Hope not.”

“Agent Mullins? He didn’t do an about face on his decision, did he?”

Grant grabbed his cap from the chair. He gave Adler’s shoulder a slap as he walked past him. “Let’s go. I hear Germany calling.”

A gray U.S. Navy van pulled up to the security building on Virginia Avenue. A guard stepped next to the driver’s side.

The driver, Seaman Jason Phelps, displayed his id, while Adler rolled down the window in the backseat. He and Grant held their ids out.

“Morning, sirs,” the guard said, as he perused both cards, comparing the photos to the two officers and the expiration dates. Handing the cards back to Adler, he waved the van through, snapping a quick salute as the van passed.

Seaman Phelps made a right onto E. Perimeter Road. The next three miles would be slow going, in part from a twenty-five mph speed limit and part from rain water still washing across the right-hand lane.

When he’d driven just about three miles, he turned on the signal, and made a left onto Pensacola Street. Driving straight ahead, he followed the road until it ended at a stop sign, behind a group of buildings. Then he continued on the asphalt road that eventually turned into concrete.

“There’s the Nightingale, sirs,” he said pointing ahead to an aircraft with a red cross on its tail. He drove within thirty feet of the aircraft, killed the engine, then quickly opened his door and jumped out. Sliding the passenger door back, he asked, “Can I help you with your bags, sirs?”

“Thanks, seaman,” Adler responded, “but we’ve got them.” He and Grant got out then pulled their rucksacks from behind the seat and lifted their suit bags off the door hooks, slinging them over their shoulders.

“Looks like you got caught in that storm this morning, sir,” the driver said with a quick laugh, pointing toward the bottom of Adler’s trousers.

Adler leaned forward, looking at dark spots on his pants. “And I’ve still got squishies inside my shoes,” he laughed.

Grant noticed the pilot looking out his side window and gave him a thumb’s up. “Guess we’d better board. Thanks for the ride, Seaman Phelps.” They climbed the portable stairs into the cabin.

One of the crew met them at the door. “Welcome aboard, sirs.”

“Thanks,” both Grant and Adler responded.

“Say, is there any particular place we can stow our bags?” Grant asked.

“Let me take them for you, sirs. Why don’t you take your seats? I’ll tell Colonel Whitley we’re ready for departure.”

Grant and Adler settled into their seats and strapped on the seat belts. Grant looked around at the array of medical equipment. How many are still alive because of this aircraft? he wondered. One fact he did know. Nightingales had been used during “Operation Homecoming” at the end of the Vietnam war. They flew the former Hanoi POWs from where they first landed in the States, to their home bases. If luck stayed on his and Joe’s side, they’d be bringing five more men home on this one, along with his two friends.

“Skipper?” Adler tapped Grant’s arm.

“Yeah, Joe.”

“I grabbed some of these from the machine at NIS.” He held out a handful of candy bars across the aisle.

“And none too soon!” Grant said, snatching a Snickers.

The plane’s engines started winding up, the noise mingling with all the normal sounds of an aircraft preparing to depart.

Pressing his head against the seat, Grant’s mind wandered back to the failed mission in Vietnam. It’s not often in his line of work that a second chance comes along. Now, he was getting that second chance. He was going to make it right this time.

Ten minutes into the flight, the medical crew director unbuckled his seat belt, then went to the console where he checked readouts. He swiveled his seat around. “Captain.”

Grant swallowed a mouthful of candy bar. He leaned over the armrest, looking behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a small fridge over here, next to the one we keep the blood supply in. Sandwiches and drinks were brought onboard for you. Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.”

“Not a problem. Thanks.” He looked across the aisle at Adler. “Go ahead! I know your mouth’s drooling!”

Grant unsnapped his seatbelt then got up, slipping the crumpled candy wrapper in his trouser pocket. Deciding he needed a stretch, he walked a couple of rows back.

Resting a hand against the bulkhead near a small window, he wanted desperately to begin planning the rescue, but there just wasn’t a place to start until he heard from Grigori — or Alexandra.

He glanced at his watch. There was still another eight hours until they reached Germany. That would put it close to 2400 hours in Moscow. Grigori should be home. Grant was still feeling uneasy about putting Alexandra at risk with phone calls. The decision she and Grigori made was out of his hands, at least for now.

Adler walked up next to him. “Well, skipper, do you have any kind of plan yet? All our gear is ready, but that’s about it.”

Grant patted Adler’s shoulder. “I know.”

“I can’t help think about the President’s request, you know, no bloodshed. I sort of understand why he wants it done that way.”

“My thought, too. The quieter we do this, all the better. I’ll say this… if we don’t have any choice, we don’t have any choice. Our mission is to get those men home safely.” He brushed a hand over the top of his head, then slid it down behind his neck, squeezing the muscles. “We’ve gotta protect them, by any means.”

“I agree, boss.” Adler thought a minute. “Do you really think this whole issue will be kept quiet, I mean, out of the press?”

“Don’t know, but for their sake, I sure as hell hope so. They’ve been through enough. They don’t need to be put on display. But if the higher ups deem it so, there’s not any way in hell we can stop it.”

“Christ!” Adler spat out. “You think they would?”

“Why not?” Grant thought for a moment. “But, remember when Hanoi released the other POWs?”

“How could I forget?”

“It was as if a weight was lifted off the whole country. I guess there’s two ways to look at it.” With his head down, thinking of both possibilities, Grant returned to his seat.

These two men always knew when it was time to ease the tension, the anxiety. Adler took his seat across the aisle, biting into his second sandwich.

“Did you leave me any?” Grant asked, as he picked one up from the seat next to him.

Adler looked at the one Grant was holding in his hand, and pointed at it. “You mean you’re gonna need more than that one?”

Grant ignored the question, and reached into his jacket pocket. He held his hand out, with two sandwiches in his palm, and with a raised eyebrow, said, “I know you. Remember?”

“Were the hell did you get those?”

“Geedunk, my friend.”

“Well, aren’t you the Boy Scout? Always prepared!”

“Damn straight!”