Jamie Fredric
Warning Order
Chapter One
Without missing a step, a tall, lanky jogger, dressed in a heavy blue sweatsuit, put a gloved hand to his forehead as he shielded his eyes from a glaring searchlight. He waved to the men aboard the patrol boat, consciously making an effort to look directly at them. Over the sound of the idling engine he could faintly hear muffled voices speaking in Russian.
A silhouetted figure, standing on the bow, held a boat hook in one hand as he stared suspiciously at the jogger. He raised his other hand then gave a downward turn. The boat coxswain responded by slowly pulling back the throttle to slow ahead. He cautiously maneuvered the boat closer to the riverbank, relying on the lookout to spot any hazards. The blue-white beam of the searchlight swung from port to starboard across the bow of the Russian harbor craft, lighting up the shoreline. The beacon served as an intimidating prelude to death for those who dared attempt a desperate dash to freedom. As the boat drifted closer to the shoreline, one of the Russian’s onboard came more clearly into the jogger’s view. It was then he spotted the AK47, menacingly pointing directly at him. All he could hope for was that the Russian wasn’t trigger happy.
For several long seconds the glaring light lingered on the lone figure as steadfastly as a magnet adheres to metal. A soldier standing at the bow grunted to the coxswain, “Nyet!” as he moved the light forward, surveying each of the beam's resting places. He continued directing the spotlight along the embankment, while he occasionally issued steerage orders to the coxswain. He moved the light in a long arc, searching the riverbank, straining his eyes to focus on each and every detail. The coxswain gradually changed course as he increased speed and steered the boat with its passengers back toward the middle of the Spree River. It didn't take long before it had drifted into the inky blackness beneath the bridge overpass and eventually disappeared from sight.
Passing under a dimly lit street lamp, the jogger raised his arm closer to his face, squinting to read the time on his watch. He lengthened his stride and continued making his way along the path. The sound of his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement temporarily drowned out the pounding of his heart. He continued along the eight foot wide path, running through the slight hillocks of the public grounds near the riverbank.
The sputter of the boat engine and lapping water against muddy shoreline were sounds that made him reflect back on his family's summer home on the lake. He'd spent so many hours during the quiet summer days and nights contemplating his future, a future he knew would eventually lead him to East Berlin. The training, intelligence briefs, and weapons' classes were all designed to allow him to succeed and survive. But now that all seemed like eons ago.
Living in East Germany he knew that even ordinary sounds or circumstances could suggest danger, betrayal, or even death. The repeated warnings by his instructors to keep a constant vigil echoed in his mind. They pounded home their credo: Don't let your guard down. With that, his mind snapped back to the present. He'd made this same jog, along this same path, every night for the past three weeks, whether or not he'd had a long day, whether or not he was dogged tired, no matter what the weather. He never varied his routine. By doing so he'd gone against every grain of what he'd been taught. But as crazy as it had sounded, those were his specific orders, with no other explanation provided. Inwardly, he questioned the orders, but, nonetheless, he obeyed, knowing they were designed to ensure his survival — and too many people were depending on his surviving.
Suddenly, a bone-chilling shiver raced down his spine, commanding his full attention. He gradually pulled up and jogged in place, turning slowly, making a quick scan down the path he'd just traveled. He turned his head slightly, straining to explore his surroundings with his peripheral vision. The noise he had heard wasn't anything he could specifically put his finger on, but it seemed to emanate from the water. As he raised his arms overhead faking a stretch, he refocused on the surface of the river, trying to pick up anything unusual. The Spree, once green in color and clear, was now murky and sullen, carrying on it all manner of leaves, twigs, and other nameless floating debris. The telltale froth of pollution lay in each small, protected eddy.
A sharp crack sent his heart pounding, and, instinctively, he ducked. Cautious about standing up too quickly, he glanced up, immediately breathing a sigh of relief, seeing a rotted tree limb swinging precariously from an aged birch tree. Jesus! You've gotta stop this shit! Keep your head on straight and get your ass back in gear! With a gloved hand, he brushed away rain droplets from his steel-rimmed glasses. But he was still wary, and he shifted his gaze, staring into the deserted, darkened park where he focused on a stand of large birch trees. Only a scattering of golden yellow leaves hung from the branches, valiantly resisting an endless assault by the swirling wind. His natural instinct was telling him to get the hell out of there. But he couldn't. He dared not deviate from the very specific instructions he’d been given.
He resumed his pace, finally reaching the top of a small mound. From there he could see the Monbijou Brucke, a completely unremarkable, stone bridge. The dome shape of its underpass encircled the river like an ominous black hole. Fifty feet of deserted tunnel loomed threateningly ahead of him against the backdrop of a dark gray knoll. Shadows began toying with his imagination. Calm down! He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his knitted wool cap, as he noticed two guards approaching the bridge, staring in his direction.
Thick, black fumes escaping from the twin chimneys of the Dorchmeyer coal factory mingled with the raw night air. An occasional strong gust of wind blew the acrid smell directly into his face. Not completely over his bout with a mild case of the flu, his throat was especially sensitive and every breath felt like he was swallowing a wad of fine grade sandpaper. Paranoia was in full control of him now. He momentarily glanced at a ragged dirt trail strewn with bottle caps and scattered pieces of broken glass bottles. It led up the embankment and through the park to the lighted security of Oranienburger Strasse, which ran parallel to his route. Fighting off an increasing panic attack, he proceeded toward the darkened underpass, trying to keep his senses on full alert and his gait steady.
As usual, pedestrian traffic was practically nil at this end of the city. Patrols were frequent because the area was close to the border separating East from West. Within sight was the foreboding Berlin Wall, made up of two foot thick concrete blocks and built to a height of four meters. An illuminated control area, known as the "death area," ran along the eastern side of the wall. Anyone attempting to escape to the West and caught in this area was shot without question, without warning.
For the jogger, though, most of the time it wasn't the patrols he feared. If anything, they should have given him some sense of comfort, for lack of a better word. This area was a dangerous place for anyone because of the high concentration of drug trafficking. There was always the threat of drug-related crimes. Addicts would kill solely for drug money — and the underpass was a perfect hiding place for them.
Shaking his head, he desperately tried to dislodge the unsettling thoughts crowding his mind, his eyes becoming transfixed on the dark tunnel ahead. The entrance of the tunnel looked like a black void with no way out. He tried to reassure himself that it wasn't any safer up on street level. If that can be called reassurance, he grimly thought. And to top it off, he wasn't armed, making him all the more defenseless, but that was also a specific element of his orders. "You're sure in one bitchin' situation," he gruffly mumbled under his breath.