Grant motioned for Lampson to follow him and both Americans began stroking hard, staying close to the bottom. They had nearly 500 yards of swimming ahead of them. For Grant, that wouldn’t be a problem… Lampson was another matter. And, they still had to navigate through barbed wire strung above and below the river. But this was the fastest and shortest way for them to reach the West, and Grant knew he could count on his partner waiting on the other side. He could only hope they'd be able to reach the border before any hostile welcoming committee blocked their escape.
Lampson's arms and legs ached. His bout with the flu had sapped more of his strength than he realized. His swimming ability wasn't anywhere near Grant's and Grant wasn't about to let up. The Navy SEAL's powerful legs propelled him effortlessly through the water like a barracuda pursuing its prey, almost as if he were born to it.
Now, Lampson started to panic again as Grant's black, wetsuited form began to disappear into the darkness. Then he felt the jerk of the buddy line that was attached to his shoulder strap. He kicked as hard as he could, but there wasn’t any doubt he was running out of steam. The strain on the buddy line was constant. Being dragged through the water was making him feel guilty for having to let Grant do the lion's share of the swimming. His life was completely in Grant's hands.
Totally disoriented, he had no idea where they were heading or what was in store. He only knew that it was impossible for them to surface, considering the guards were undoubtedly swarming both sides of the riverbank and overpasses, waiting for them with their firearms locked and loaded.
Lampson's breathing was heavy, making him consume too much of the precious oxygen. He wanted to scream out to Grant as he felt a growing fear tying knots in his stomach. He reminded himself to breathe slower! Slower! His natural negative buoyancy wasn't helping matters either, as his belly kept brushing against debris on the bottom. Suddenly, a heavy tree limb on the river bottom and directly in his path caught on his air hose, ripping the mouthpiece away. He pulled back, jerking the buddy line. Definitely out of his element, Lampson looked upward, knowing he wouldn't have a prayer on the surface.
Grant immediately felt the jerking on the line and swam back. Grabbing hold of Lampson's shoulder, he crammed the mouthpiece back into Lampson's mouth and motioned for him to settle down. Lampson responded with a nod just as Grant grabbed the line and immediately started stroking through the water. The agent felt like a defenseless, squirming fish being unceremoniously reeled in by an expert fisherman.
After what seemed like hours to Lampson, Grant finally stopped, got his attention, and pointed ahead of them as he quickly undid the buddy line. The extent of their visibility was barely ten feet. Lampson had to squint to make his eyes focus on a labyrinth of hazardous barbed wire strung across the river. Rusted and nearly invisible in the darkness, it completely blocked their path from the surface all the way to the riverbed. Lampson glanced down, focusing on the wire embedded into the river bottom, shaking his head in disbelief, wondering how the hell they were going to swim through the tangled mess.
Grant signaled for him to stay where he was, then pointed up to the surface at a dim glow filtering across their vision. Beams from flashlights and search lights circled in a kaleidoscope fashion. Grant knew they didn't have much time so he had to act fast. The East Germans and Russians were certainly going to send down their own divers or start throwing concussion grenades, and his bet was on divers — they wanted Lampson back in one piece — and he'd just end up being an added bonus.
He shot a quick glance down river, then swam up close to the wire, pulled a small flashlight from his belt and began signaling. Instantly, a faint light on the other side began blinking back in response. He glanced at his diving watch then immediately swam back to Lampson.
Grabbing hold of the agent's shoulder, he pulled him down, rudely shoving him face first into the muddy bottom. Lampson went as limp as a rag doll, nearly losing the mouthpiece. He didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. And from what had happened so far, he really didn't want to know.
Grant took one last, quick look to make sure they still weren't being followed. Then, he shielded Lampson's body with his own, as his mind thought, Come on, Joe! Hit it!
A muffled crack carried across the riverbed. Silt and debris shot over them in what seemed like slow motion. Lampson's eyes went to the size of saucers, staring into nothing but mud. His mind screamed, None of this shit was in my contract!
The two Americans were tossed about slightly by the shock waves in the churned up water. Bits and pieces of rotted leaves and debris stuck in the band of Lampson's face mask. Not even hesitating long enough for the water to clear, Grant grabbed Lampson by the arm and hauled him up toward the mangled section of barbed wire.
A familiar sound of escaping bubbles from scuba rigs caught Grant’s attention. As he had feared, coming straight at them were two divers. No second guesses here — they were, without a doubt, very unfriendly divers, intent on preventing this attempted escape. Russkie divers! Grant yanked a knife from his leg strap. The knife, a Navy MK1, had seen him through many CQB's (close quarter battles). Keeping his body between Lampson and the Russians, he gave the agent a shove forward toward a hole in the barbed wire conveniently made by Joe Adler with a wrap of det cord. The core of detonating cord, about the size of pencil lead, is a very high explosive called PETN. Wrapped around the explosive are layers of cotton fabric, rayon, and asphalt with a dark green, polyethylene cover. Det cord, only one quarter inch in diameter, burns at a rate of nearly twenty-six thousand feet per second.
Pointing rapidly toward the opening, Grant gestured for Lampson to swim through and gave him one last, forceful shove before turning around, preparing to meet the approaching divers head-on.
Lampson's sleeve caught on the jagged barbed wire, but this time he wouldn't let anything stop him. There wasn't anything he could do to help this Navy diver sent to rescue him. It was imperative that he get himself to the West. He knew his rescuer was aware of that, too.
A wetsuited figure, appearing out of the darkness, swam up to Lampson, grabbed him and pulled him the few remaining feet through the obtrusive wire to safety and freedom.
Joe Adler, Grant's long-time friend, gave Lampson the okay sign, checking to see if he was all right, then gestured for him to surface and swim toward the distant riverbank.
Once Lampson was out of sight, Adler ripped his diving knife from his ankle scabbard then turned around and swam through the opening in the barbed wire and into Communist territory. The hell with orders! Adler wasn't one to normally sit back and let Grant have all the fun… and he wasn't about to start now.
Rain started falling steadily, the large droplets sounding like rubber bands snapping against paper as they bounced off fallen leaves. The temperature continued slipping, already closing in on thirty-seven degrees.
The American Embassy's attaché, Pete Bradley, tried desperately to keep Lampson shielded with an umbrella after draping a wool blanket across his shoulders. Water dripped from the brim of Bradley's hounds tooth hat as he held the black umbrella high above, stretching to cover the 6'3" Lampson. "Mr. Lampson, you sure you wouldn't want to wait in the car?" Lampson didn't answer. He was too busy concentrating on the water, waiting for the two divers. "Sir, there's nothing you can do for… "