“As am I, Joe.”
“Sir, will you… ”
“That’s affirmative, Joe. I’ll call you! And Joe… remarkable job getting those men back.”
“Thank you, sir.”
President Carr was in his bedroom sitting on a dark blue upholstered wing chair wearing his white robe. The news from Admiral Torrinson about the POWs made him ecstatic, and the defection of the Russian KGB officer put the icing on the cake.
But then Torrinson relayed information about Captain Stevens and Agent Mullins. One dead, one captured and injured. He thought it best that Torrinson leave immediately for Germany and authorized a plane.
He still hadn’t heard from Premier Gorshevsky. A thought crossed his mind, seeing the panic going on inside the Kremlin. A KGB officer defecting. Then again, maybe they still don’t know the colonel wasn’t on the chopper that was destroyed. Or maybe they think he’s become a hostage. Maybe they don’t know, he thought. There were too many maybes.
He stood, retied the robe’s sash, then walked across the blue carpeted floor, feeling the weight of the presidency on his shoulders. Putting his arms behind his back, he slapped one hand against the other.
The POWs are safe, but now, there’s an American captured. One American Navy officer, who risked it all, laid his life on the line for men he didn’t even know. Would this be the sacrifice of one for many? Carr pondered.
If the SEALs couldn’t find Captain Stevens, if their mission failed, would he, Carr, approach the premier, and offer to make an exchange? His original decision to not even consider an exchange of the POWs had now come back to bite him in the butt. It resulted in injuries and death.
Whatever it takes, he will not leave Captain Stevens behind. It would be inhumane for him to do so.
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.”