"More than delighted!" Moshenko responded, as he reached into his coat pocket, then chucked the keys to Grant.
"Spaseeba. You can follow Manfred till he drops off Otto, then you should be able to make it into Berlin on your own."
Grant started to turn, when Moshenko grabbed his arm. "When this is over, my friend, we will all drink a toast with some of my best Russian vodka!"
Grant winked. "Salokov?"
"Da!" Moshenko laughed.
"Deal!" Grant threw a salute and sprinted across the field.
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.