“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.