At 28,000 feet, the youngest full captain in the U.S. Navy, Grant Stevens, stepped out of a Navy Learjet. With his oxygen mask strapped in place, he fell into the nearly airless, minus fifty degree temperature. Reaching down, he pulled a ring that released his RAM air chute as he began a HAHO (High Altitude High Open) jump over West Berlin. He turned himself to the northeast and began guiding his silent descent toward his target ten miles away, east of the Iron Curtain. His LZ was a small farmhouse located about 30 minutes from downtown East Berlin. As he steered the "black cloud" into the wind and passed through twenty thousand feet, he focused on the city lights of Berlin. U-shaped lights ringed the road on the western side of the Brandenburg Gate. He continued in an easterly direction. The cold air numbed his cheeks below his goggles. He released the toggles several different times and shook his hands to return the blood flow to his fingertips. He had to talk to somebody about the damn, worthless gloves.
At thirteen thousand feet he steered more to the left as he began picking up lights from houses that he knew were near his LZ. He'd studied the pictures of previous recon flights that had photographed this area to help him become familiar with it. Three more miles; GPS was right on. He turned off the O2, and removed his face mask, letting it hang from around his neck. Checking to his right, he noticed that the blinking red light on the tail of the Learjet had all but disappeared. He looked at the ground again and noticed a long fence line stretching down the gray-colored, moonlit road. The lights of Berlin were nearly out of view as he lost altitude. He checked his altimeter. Forty-five hundred. Christ! Where the hell were the lights?
As he passed over the top of a small rise at only one thousand feet above the trees, he spotted three parallel lights with a yellow light at the end: the house light, barn light, and the shed. Drifting a little left, he jerked down on the left toggle and the canopy banked accordingly.
Two hundred feet above the ground he spotted two haystacks and a barn that were his targets. Estimating fifty feet to touchdown, he pulled down on both toggles and the air chute began to stall. He put his knees together, slightly bent, pulled down on the toggle a little more, and at ten feet, pulled down hard on both toggles. While facing into the wind, the “black cloud” above him stalled and he touched down.
He had almost finished gathering in the shroud lines from his chute when someone appeared from behind the shed. Although he wasn't able to distinguish the face clearly in the pitch black night, Grant focused on a very pronounced limp as the man began walking quickly toward him.
"Captain!" Manfred Kronauer said with an outstretched arm. The seventy-three year old impressed Grant with his athletic build. His white shock of thick hair was held down by his boater's cap that was so familiar in this part of Europe. He had a jolly face, one that belied an inner sadness because only a few years before, his son, Hans, had been shot by the Russians as he attempted to escape to the West. Ever since then, Manfred had been known to the West as a "friendly" who operated this safe house.
He pumped Grant's hand feverishly. Grant held tight to the old man's leathery hand as he challenged him with a password. Instantly, Manfred rattled off the response, adding, "You think someone else would dare look like this?"
Grant's face broke out in a grin. "Nah, just like to keep you on your toes."
The old man's hearty laugh sliced through an uncanny silence. He turned and began plodding toward the shed, his big boots leaving imprints in the soil. "Now, come. I have some food waiting for you."
Grant followed, as he thought it was good to see the old man again. Instinctively, he swiveled his head left and right, checking his surroundings.
Manfred pushed open the wooden door made of vertical planks with three support boards forming a Z on the inside. Grant preceded him into the shed, while Manfred checked the barnyard and fence line before entering behind him. The lower edge of the door scraped across soft, dark soil as he closed it.
Cobwebs clung to the upper corners of the shed’s pitched roof timbers. Rakes, shovels, and other farming implements leaned against one corner of the room. A large, heavy grinding wheel rested in the middle of the barely eight foot square room. The old German struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp sitting on a workbench scattered with tools. Even though an old canvas drop cloth had been hung over the window to prevent light from escaping, he adjusted the lamp’s flame till the wick barely glowed.
Grant piled the nylon chute on the workbench before dragging the grinding wheel across the dirt. He bent down on one knee and brushed away some of the dirt, revealing a small rusted O-ring embedded in the slat of wood. He pulled up on the trapdoor. The room below not only served as a safe place, but also contained basic communication equipment, the German's means for 'talking' to his Western contacts.
Manfred, carrying the kerosene lamp, watched as Grant stared down into a ghostly murkiness. "Do you wish for me to go down first?"
"Did you make a sweep for any unfriendlies that might be lurking about?" Grant responded with a smile as he reached for the lamp.
"Swept clean, my young friend!"
Backing down the narrow, flat rungs of the wooden ladder, Grant hung the lamp from a hook suspended from a beam. "Come on down, Manfred. I'll get my gear."
For nearly eighteen hours Grant stayed in the makeshift room. The two discussed plans for getting him to his departure point before he would even consider taking a few hours rest. As they talked, Grant snacked on some fresh bread and churned butter, and a few links of bratwurst. Times were tough in the East but Manfred always provided the essentials.
As soon as it was dark, the two men drove along a deserted country road. Manfred dropped Grant off at a secluded spot. It was at the edge of a pine tree forest within sight of the Spree River. Already wearing his wetsuit, Grant slid off the truck seat then closed the door as quietly as he could. He swept the surrounding area with eagle eyes. The only sounds he heard were the soft rustling of the pines, and behind him, towards the south, was the faint whistle of a freight train.
Manfred rolled down the window and leaned his arm on the edge as Grant approached. His cheerful attitude hid the genuine concern that he felt for this young man and his sensitivity to his position here in the East. "I wish I could help further, Captain, but I'm afraid you are on your own from here."
"You've done enough, my friend. I hope you know that. Now, you'd better get outta here." Grant squeezed the old man's arm with a strong, friendly grip, his appreciation and regard for Manfred unmistakable. The old German’s smile broadened and an eruption of facial wrinkles almost obliterated his eyes as he waved then drove off.
Creases formed at the corners of Grant's brown eyes, a smile hidden behind the black rubber mouthpiece. He winked, then held his hand in front of Lampson's face mask, giving him a thumb's up. Lampson was torn between throwing his arms around this stranger — his rescuer — or smashing in his face for scaring the living shit out of him. Weak and still trembling, he opted for replying with an 'okay' sign.
For five weeks "Badger" had waited for the Company to extract him from East Berlin, never knowing how or exactly when it would happen because security was the driving force. Stevens had designed a way that made Lampson's rear end pucker to the extent that he knew it would take weeks before he'd ever find the seat of his sweatpants. But Grant Stevens was an expert in this type of operation, whenever the strategy called for inflicting complete, instant helplessness, facilitating this kind of snatch.
Realizing that the cold water would soon become a factor since Lampson wasn’t wearing a wetsuit, Grant worked quickly in securing the extra Draeger rig's straps around the agent’s chest. The bubbleless Draeger (a rebreathing apparatus) would make it impossible for the East Germans or Russians to track them from the surface. But the Navy SEAL was fully aware that there'd be unfriendly divers hitting the water any time — if they hadn't already.