Warning Order

Chapter Eleven

Joe Adler peered through a Starlighter scope into a cloudy, early morning sky. "It's not looking too good, sir. That storm front's moving in fast." The feel of a cold, damp wind reinforced his statement. "The ceiling can't be more than three thousand feet."

"Grigori loves a challenge!" Grant responded while keeping his head in constant motion, his eyes searching the sky. As he glanced overhead, he strained to hear the familiar sound of a chopper. He thrust his hands into his back pockets, as he retraced his footsteps, pacing back and forth in front of Adler. They both knew time was of the essence now. Moshenko had to get them to Lampson.

Adler kept the scope pressed against his eye as he asked, "You leave that envelope of money for Manfred?"

"Yeah. Dropped it on the kitchen table," Grant responded, giving a quick glance at his watch. "Come on, Grigori," he muttered. “It’s nearly 0430.”

As if on cue, a dull, repetitive sound off in the distance gradually became louder. Both men looked toward the northwest, Adler making a quick sweep with the Starlighter. "Got it!" he shouted. "Two five zero degrees!"

Grant finally caught site of a black shape heading straight at them. The chopper was coming in at no more than 150 feet above ground level. He grabbed hold of his baseball cap as the helo began its descent. Dirt and debris violently swirled around the two men, both of them shielding their eyes. As soon as the skids touched down, Grant and Adler made a dash for the chopper, Adler climbing aboard first. Grant was ready to pull himself up into the cockpit when he glanced over his shoulder, seeing Manfred standing just outside his doorway, waving the envelope of money. Grant stepped away from the chopper and snapped the elderly gentleman a smart salute before he climbed aboard.

Two beams of bright lights stretched ahead of a black four-door Audi, guiding it along the winding single lane road. The driver, Albert Richter, wrapped his hands around the steering wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions. He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing nothing but total blackness following them.

The passenger, Horst Schinkel, flipped on the overhead reading light and spread the map across his lap. He followed their route with his finger. "We should be there in twenty minutes," he said, taking a look at the green light illuminating the dashboard clock.

Richter slowed the car as it approached a T intersection, then swung the wheel to the left and stepped on the accelerator. The headlights swept across pitch black fields, flat and desolate.

Schinkel leaned his head closer toward the open window and motioned toward Richter. "Pull over and shut off the lights!"

Richter switched off the headlights. He quickly downshifted. The steering wheel jerked in his hands as the front tires encountered the rough, irregular shoulder. "What?"

"Shut up!" Schinkel ordered. He grabbed the night vision goggles from the floor as he shoved the door open. He hit the ground running before the car came to a full stop, not even thinking about the fact that the car’s reading lights were still on.

Richter threw the gearshift into park and jumped out, running around the front of the car. The toe of his heavy leather boot caught on a half-buried corroded motorcycle muffler, a remnant from World War II. He fell to his knees, his palms skidding along the loose dirt, with the entire incident completely ignored by Schinkel.

A chopper was flying straight and low, no more than one hundred twenty feet off the ground. Resembling a prehistoric black bug, it flew past the two Germans. Schinkel watched the unusual sight through the goggles, Richter from his ground level location.

"Let's go!" Schinkel shouted, as he made a dash for the car, catching Richter by surprise, who had to scramble along on his knees before getting his feet back under him.

The Audi's tires spit gravel as Richter floored the accelerator, the car fishtailing as it hit the road pavement. His palms were bloody. The open wounds stung as he gripped the steering wheel. "What was it?" he asked, now even more confused.

"A Russian KA-18," he confirmed. If there was one thing Horst Schinkel knew about, it was aircraft. He reached behind the driver's seat and grabbed a night scope from the floor lying next to an AK-47. Looking through the scope, he quickly sighted the chopper again, estimating its speed between 80–90 kph. "Step on it," he growled at Richter.

The heavy, muscular East German tried to sort his thoughts: Flying that low, and close to top speed, somebody's trying to avoid radar. But — Russians? There weren't any airfields in this sector. He made a decision. They were all headed in the same direction, and since the target wasn't far from where they were, they’d have nothing to lose by tailing the chopper. They could always break away if it proved to be nothing.

Richter concentrated on the road ahead of them, staying on alert for any sudden change that Schinkel might throw at him again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the front of the scope Schinkel had aimed at the windshield. "Keep at this speed. I still have it in sight."

Within five minutes, the aircraft's speed seemed to decrease as the Audi started to gain on it. There still weren't any other lights or vehicles in the vicinity. The chopper was approaching a tree line just northeast of their location. Richter jumped hearing Schinkel's gruff voice shouting, "Shut off the headlights — now!" He directed Richter to continue along the roadway. Even if this turned out to be nothing, Schinkel had to investigate. Traveling at barely fifteen kph and in complete darkness, they found a rutted trail that led in an easterly direction. Tall heavy shrubs lined both sides. At some points the trail was barely wide enough for the car to fit through. Spindly branches drooped overhead, scraping along the Audi's roof. Gusts of wind slapped branches against its windshield.

Richter's forehead broke out in a sweat, his eyes aching from trying to see through the blackness. Schinkel put on the night vision goggles, supplying directions for Richter to follow. Downshifting to second gear, Richter tried to press on the accelerator as little as possible, preventing the engine from making any unnecessary noise. They weren’t able to see the chopper, but knew by the distinct sound that it was somewhere close up ahead.

The car encountered an uphill grade. "Slow! Slow!" Schinkel gruffly whispered. "Right here — stop!" He made sure they were still camouflaged by shrubbery and trees, because ahead of them wasn’t any cover, just open ground. The car came to rest on a small rise. Richter immediately turned off the engine, then rested his arms on top of the steering wheel and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands before rolling down his window. With the help of the night scope, they were close enough to be able to see images on the field.

"Wait here," Schinkel ordered, as he got out of the car. He crouched low, traversing the incline, then got down and hugged the ground, bringing the scope to his eyes, and then he waited.

Winds from the approaching storm buffeted the four-seat chopper as it made a 360 degree sweep around the inside perimeter of the predetermined LZ. The three men aboard scanned the pitch black field. Moshenko guided the chopper toward an oddly shaped object positioned nearly dead center of the field. As it approached, the VW's headlights flashed twice.

Marie kept her eyes on the hovering helo. Her instructions from Grant had been to not tell Lampson about his soon-to-be mode of transportation, only that she'd been instructed to deliver him to this field on this particular night. Once again, Grant was trying to be protective. She glanced at Lampson sitting in the seat beside her, his tall body looking cramped and uncomfortable in the little car. He rolled down the window, then immediately shielded his eyes from flying debris while he strained his neck to keep an eye on the descending helicopter.

"I suppose Captain Stevens told you not to advise me about the type of transportation he'd be providing?" Lampson asked with a touch of sarcasm. He pulled off his steel-rimmed glasses and shoved them into his jacket pocket.

"He only told me to be here at this time," Marie responded quietly. As the chopper's skids touched earth, she turned on the car's parking lights.

The two Americans jumped from the chopper. Grant had his .45 drawn; Adler carried an Uzi. Their eyes were fixed on the VW as they ducked under the rotating blades then ran toward the car. Adler stopped just shy of the car, taking up a position in front of the boot, continuously sweeping the area with his eyes. The Uzi followed the same sweep, at the same pace.

The propellers continued rotating while Moshenko stayed inside, his hand resting on the control stick, ready to lift off when all were aboard. The Russian had already removed his military cap and jacket, making it impossible to tell who or what he was.

Grant reached for the car door handle and pulled open the passenger side door. "Let's go," he shouted above the noise of the chopper. As Lampson was extracting himself from the car, Grant said, "You've gotta trust me, Rick. No questions. Just listen and do as I say." He leaned toward the open car window. "Marie, wait a second and I'll be right back." Grant again turned his attention to Lampson as he pointed to Moshenko. "Our friend over there is going to get you out of Germany and take you some place safe."

Lampson's heart started pounding. He squinted, trying to prevent flying dust from blinding him, as he tried to identify the chopper. From his angle, he wasn't able to see the red stars painted on the outside of the twin tail sections.

Grant shook Lampson's shoulder, getting his attention. "I think I know where your kids are, Rick." Lampson didn't have time to react as Grant grabbed hold of his arm and led him away from the VW and out of Marie's earshot. "It's gonna take a few more days to finish up here." Then he poked an index finger into Lampson's chest. "Now listen to me. You've got to do exactly what Colonel Moshenko tells you. Exactly! You understand?"

Lampson tried to step back but Grant's grip was firm. Completely taken by surprise, Lampson had hoped he misunderstood the name that just heard. "You're turning me over to a Russian?" he asked incredulously and with obvious panic rising in his voice.

"I told you to trust me! And if I can trust Grigori, you sure as hell can! Now, let's go!" He held onto Lampson's arm, practically dragging him toward the chopper, with Adler bringing up the rear.

Lampson looked up into the cockpit and into the face of a smiling Soviet military officer, who waved him aboard as he shouted at him in Russian. Grant translated: "Grigori wants to welcome you to Russia!'" Lampson's eyes blinked and he started to turn around to say something, when Grant all but shoved him into the chopper. "Keep an eye on him, Grigori! We'll be right back."

Back in his hiding place, Horst Schinkel couldn’t believe his luck. He'd never seen Brennar, but with the description Steiner had given him, there was no doubt that’s who he was now looking at through the scope. Steiner never let his men make their own decisions, but this was one time Schinkel would change that rule. The opportunity was too good to pass up. He gave Richter an order to start the car.

Grant and Adler snapped their heads around, as a set of headlights suddenly came out of the darkness, obvious that a vehicle was traveling at a high rate of speed. Grant yelled, "Go! Go! Get outta here!" Lampson started shouting frantically, but it was too late, as Grant slammed the chopper door.

As suddenly as lightning strikes, so can plans be altered during covert ops. Moshenko gave one quick look at Grant knowing he had to leave the two behind. His primary objective was to get Lampson out of Germany. His friends were on their own. The rotors whined, cranking up to full power. Barely off the ground, a strong gust of wind hit the chopper broadside, one of its skids striking the ground. Moshenko reacted in a split second and got the chopper airborne.

The two Americans raced back toward the VW to try and head off the oncoming vehicle. The unfamiliar car barreled across the field, aiming right at them like a raging bull. Suddenly, machine gun fire erupted from the car's passenger side window, sending bullets whizzing around the ascending chopper. Two smashed into the cockpit, narrowly missing Lampson. Moshenko put the chopper into a sharp forty-five degree turn to starboard, applying power. He had to fly low to avoid radar, but now speed would be their only salvation.

The Americans immediately responded, firing their weapons simultaneously. Grant crouched low, and then flung open the VW door, pulling Marie briskly from the seat and shoved her to the ground. The attacking car, an older black Audi, sped past them on the VW's passenger side. Adler hit the deck, the barrel of the Uzi red hot. Bullets ripped into both vehicles.

"Get down!" Grant shouted to Marie. With lightning speed, he ejected the empty clip, reloaded, then resumed rapid fire as he attempted to shield her with his body.

With the chopper all but disappearing into the darkness, the driver of the Audi turned his attention to the two men by the VW. He put the car into a 180 degree spin, aimed it directly at the VW, and then gunned the engine.

Grant and Adler jumped up, one on either side of the little car. Crouching down in a shooter's stance, with guns aimed straight ahead, they opened fire on the oncoming vehicle. A barrage of bullets struck the Audi. Its front tire exploded. White hot steam shot upward from a demolished radiator. The windshield and headlights disintegrated. The car went into an uncontrolled spin fifty feet in front of them. Its tires kicked up clouds of dirt that obscured it from view momentarily. The Audi's rear end slid around. The car rocked back and forth before finally coming to a stop head-on with the Volkswagen.

"Stay down, Marie!" Grant shouted over his shoulder. She sat on the ground, curled up into a ball, huddling behind the open door with her arms protectively covering her head. Grant rammed a fully loaded clip into the .45.

Gusts of wind continued swirling dust around them. Their eyes adjusted rapidly to the blackness. Still not able to see into the car, they walked toward it in a high state of readiness. Grant motioned with his hand for Adler to approach from the driver's side, while he trained his sites on the passenger side. Reaching the dusty, bullet-ridden car, they proceeded cautiously, leaving plenty of room between them and the Audi. They edged closer, finally able to see the driver, who was dressed in civilian clothes, completely bloodied, and slumped over the steering wheel. His chest looked like a strainer and the front of his face had nearly been blown away. Blood was sprayed throughout the interior. Adler's Uzi had found its target multiple times.

Still unable to see the passenger who'd fired the machine gun, Grant walked along the side of the car, gripping his .45 with both hands. He aimed the muzzle directly ahead of him as he stepped nearer, all his senses on alert. A man's bulky body lay crumpled on the front seat. Grant took another step, confirming the back seat was empty. He again turned his attention to the passenger, noticing a throat and head wound, the blood flowing down across a large barrel chest and beginning to soak through a brown sweater. The back of his head was resting against the center console, revealing a short, muscular neck. Grant reached inside the car and snatched the Uzi off the man's chest.

Adler ducked down, looking through the car at Grant. "A G2 (interrogation) session's out of the question."

"Your aim gets better with age," Grant answered.

Adler came around the front of the Audi, glancing at the shattered windshield, then stooped to look down at the dead assailant. "I'd say those holes in him were made by a .45. I believe they're yours." He stood opposite Grant with his Uzi hanging loosely by his side.

Grant leaned against the Audi, deep in thought, holding the assailant's gun in front of him as if examining it. But his question had nothing to do with the gun. "How the fuck did they find out, Joe?"

"It's pointing more and more to some asshole in the Embassy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it still doesn't explain how they knew we’d be here. We never mentioned where we were taking Lampson, and never mentioned Marie's name anywhere near the Embassy or the hotel."

"You remember that set of headlights we flew past? You think it was these guys?"

"Could've been. Christ! Talk about luck if it was!" A picture of Lampson screaming at him just before the chopper lifted off made him pause. Bits and pieces of words being shouted hadn't registered until this instant.

Adler waited patiently for an explanation. Then, he lifted the submachine gun and rested the barrel against the front of his shoulder. "Speak to… "

Grant held up his hand. Adler immediately went silent. Grant closed his eyes, picturing the scene in his mind, attempting to hear Lampson's words, visualizing his mouth movements. His eyelids shot open. An instant later his fist struck the car's roof, the sound like a sledge hammer pounding sheet metal. He immediately began pacing back and forth, shaking his head. Even in the darkness Adler detected anger on Grant's face. "Jesus Christ! The stupid bastard! I specifically told him not to contact anyone, to keep his goddamn mouth shut!"

"That's affirmative."

"I should've yanked his ass out of that chopper!” Grant jerked his arm up, as if pulling a heavy object. “He put everybody in danger, everybody… "

Adler stepped in front of his friend, bringing Grant to a sudden stop. He found it hard to remember a time when he'd seen Grant so infuriated. "Care to explain?"

"A letter! He sent that scientist, Von Wenzel, a fuckin' letter!"

"Uh oh," Adler responded, as he stepped back, giving Grant a wide berth. "Think he wanted to know if Greta showed up?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Grant answered, slowly getting his voice and behavior back under control. "And no, I don't think Von Wenzel informed on him." Just then the VW came into his peripheral vision. "See if you can find papers on these two. I need to talk with Marie, then we need to get our asses out of here. Daylight's not too far off." He handed the German’s machine gun to Adler, then holstered his .45. As he walked across the ruts created by the Audi, he brushed dust and soil from his clothes. He bent down and picked up his cap, slapping it back and forth against his thigh, shaking off the dirt.

Marie was still sitting on the ground with her back against the running board, her chin length dark blonde hair disheveled and hanging in front of her eyes. Afraid to look up, her body went rigid with the sight of a man suddenly standing in front of her.

Grant knelt down on one knee, brushing hair from her face. He took one of her hands in his, feeling it trembling. "It's over, Marie."

She looked up into the strong, handsome face, coated with a fine layer of dust. Grant's brown eyes stared at her, his face showing concern and caring. Then he asked, "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

Her blue eyes refused to tear. "I'm all right."

"I'm sorry this happened. I… "

"No, no," she interrupted, "I never thought I would ever react this way. It's been so many years, but the sounds of the guns brought back horrifying memories." Even though time was against them now, Grant was not about to pressure her into hurrying and let her continue at her own pace. "I was barely a teenager when World War II was drawing to a close. The Nazis stormed into our village, trying to make a stand against the advancing Allies." Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, overflowing onto her cheeks. She brushed them aside. "My father and two young brothers died during the fighting. They were used as human shields by the Nazis."

She was sobbing now. Grant drew her close, cradling her in his strong arms. Since the day they met, three years prior, Grant had known Marie to be a woman of determination and fortitude, belying her frail, slender build. The middle-aged woman had spent nearly two decades of her life offering assistance to the Allies, providing a safe house and transportation whenever she was called upon to do so.

He helped her to her feet. "I'm going to talk with Joe. Why don't you sit in the car and rest. We won't be much longer." She nodded and forced a smile, creases forming around her mournful eyes. Then, she climbed into the back, hugging her knees close to her chest like a small child trying to make herself feel safe.

Grant walked away with his head bowed, feeling guilty for having placed her in a terrifying situation, for having exposed her to the violence.

Adler interrupted his thoughts. "Is she okay?"

Grant nodded, then asked, "Find anything?"

Directing the flashlight beam over the blood-spattered identification papers he'd pulled from the bodies, Adler responded, "Couple of names — Albert Richter and Horst Schinkel. Don't mean squat to me. You?"

"I'll ask Grigori to check with Lampson. Don't want to bring in the Admiral yet."

Adler grinned. "Can't understand why not." He walked closer to the Audi and shinned the flashlight down on the muscular passenger. "Did you notice this?"

Grant leaned toward the window, seeing the disfigured index finger. "I'll be damned!"

"What?"

"He was the one in the photo holding Lampson's kids."

Adler snapped off the flashlight. "Do we need to classify this as a 'royal fuck up,’ boss?"

Grant ignored the question, trying to make some sense of what was happening. "These guys had to be FSG. Steiner's behind this. We're gonna have to rely on Grigori to get us some answers."

"Whadda we do with them in the meantime?"

Grant surveyed the area, remembering their flyover in the chopper. He pointed toward the northeast, where a stand of trees appeared as jagged shadows against the horizon. He estimated the distance to be about half a mile. "Drive the car into those trees. We're pretty far off the beaten path, but we'd still better camouflage it. I'll follow you in the VW… as long as it starts."

They pulled the driver from behind the steering wheel, then pushed him through the open back door, the body flopping over on the upholstery like a discarded piece of rubbish. As Grant slammed the door, Adler unlocked the trunk. He ripped out a piece of the carpet to use as a cover on the front seat to prevent blood from staining his clothes, as he asked Grant, "Think Marie'll be safe?"

"Can't take any chances, Joe. We'll take her back to West Berlin. It's one more reason for us to finish this shit ASAP."

"Roger that!"

Twenty minutes later, the Audi had been hidden, covered by pieces of brush and branches. The two passengers' identification papers and everything from the glovebox were burned and the ashes buried. With the Volkswagen riddled with bullet holes, they would have to find alternate means of transportation in order to pass through the Soviet checkpoint. This car would have to be ditched on the outskirts of Marie's village… and before daybreak.

A desperate situation calls for desperate measures. 'Nimble fingers' Adler would have to steal another car, selecting a completely nondescript mode of transportation, more than likely another popular Volkswagen then switch the license plates.

Their cover story would be that Marie was taking her two Austrian friends to Tegel Airport for their return trip to Vienna. But Grant had to do some fancy talking to convince her she'd have to seek safety and protection in West Berlin. Whether she agreed or not, he'd see to it that she made the trip. He instructed her to tell her boarders at the rooming house that she would be going away for a few days to care for a cousin recovering from an auto accident. He gave her enough Deutsche Marks for her to register at the Hotel Berliner for five days.

A plan had been quickly put together in determining how to protect her. Over the past years she'd been supplied by West German intelligence with several passports and matching identification papers. Grant suggested she use the Austrian passport when she checked into the hotel, using the assumed name of "Erica Rhone". Before leaving for the airport, they removed the back seat of the "acquired" VW and hid her fake passport and papers inside. The Uzi and .45 were wired to the underbelly of the car — a chance they had to take.

As soon as they arrived at the airport, they drove directly to MILOPS. There, Grant placed a call to an NIS officer stationed at the air base at Tempelhof.

In less than two hours a West Berlin taxi pulled up to a side entrance at MILOPS. The driver, in his early thirties, hopped out of the cab then walked briskly around the rear. A Baltimore Colts patch was sewn just under the epaulette on the right sleeve of his khaki windbreaker. "Captain Stevens?" he asked, his blue eyes going from Grant to Adler.

Grant extended a hand. "That'd be me."

"I’m Glen Webster," he grinned as he shook hands with Adler and Marie as Grant introduced them.

Although they never met, Grant had heard stories about Webster. At 5'9" with an average build, Webster easily concealed the fact that he was a man who possessed a fifth degree black belt in Shotokan karate, a traditional style that emphasizes discipline and the ancient art of the "one punch kill.” His strength, quickness, and sharp mind had made him a valuable asset to the NIS and the occasional covert op.

Adler tuned in on the conversation but tried to be inconspicuous as he swept the area with his eyes, as would a Secret Service agent with responsibility for guarding a president.

"As I explained over the phone, Glen, we'd like you to take Marie to the Hotel Berliner. And since Joe and I will be, shall we say, out of pocket for a couple of days, we'd sure appreciate it if you could… "

"Hell, Captain, it'd be my pleasure to check on the little lady!" A light flush came over Marie's face as he looked at her. Sensing he may have embarrassed her, Webster immediately reached for her suitcase. "Let me help you with that, ma'am. Are you ready?"

She buttoned the top button of her raincoat and answered, "Yes, Herr Webster, in a moment." She turned to Grant, and gave him a hug.

He smiled. "Can't thank you enough, Marie. You came through for us again."

She stood on her toes in order to kiss him lightly on the cheek, but he still had to lean forward in order for her to reach him. She laid a hand gently against his chest. "Take care of yourself, Grant. I'll expect to see you again."

Then, she stepped over to Adler, giving him a hug. Adler hugged right back. "Thanks for your help, Marie."

"And you, Joe Adler, be careful," she laughed and shook a finger at him.

They watched the cab drive down the apron of the runway and make a right turn, heading toward the Autobahn. They were comfortable in the fact that Marie would be safe.