"Shut the hell up! Just leave me alone. If you can't handle the weather, maybe you'd better go wait in the damn car!"
"Sure… whatever you say. Let me know if you want anything." Somewhat befuddled by the outburst, Bradley backed away. He tramped across the grass, mumbling, “Screw you.”
Several moments passed. Lampson continued staring into the Spree River, then diverted his gaze toward East Berlin. Military jeeps and canvas covered trucks were strung out along the roadway. German shepherd guard dogs, caught up in the frenzy, strained against their leashes, dragging their handlers. Chills ran up and down his spine as he listened to the fierce barking of the agitated animals. Bright searchlights, moving in criss-crossing patterns, were aimed on the river. An occasional whistle blared, voices echoed, orders shouted. But the main action wasn't happening along the shoreline. A battle for life or death was taking place underwater.
Lampson shook his head, amazed he was on friendly soil again, but a nagging feeling in his stomach wouldn't quit. As he waited, his thoughts strayed to a flashback of years and circumstances that brought him to this very moment.
He spent the first twelve years of his life as an Army brat. In 1951 his father was assigned to the Naval Communications Station at Bremerhaven, Germany, as the Army Security Company's liaison officer. Instead of living in base housing, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Lampson opted to live in town, thereby exposing his eight-year old son to the culture and language of his ancestors. As is usually the case with children, Rick picked up the language quickly, speaking it almost fluently within a matter of months. For most of the local people it was easy to forget the blond, blue eyed child was an American.
Colonel Lampson retired after his tour with the Naval Security Group. Upon returning to the United States, the family settled in the western part of Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley. The Colonel humored himself as a freelance consultant with the National Security Agency.
Family summers were spent at Cave Mountain Lake. Those were special days and nights for Rick. He would listen to his father's fictional tales of intrigue and secret goings-on. With every new story, Rick swore eternal silence if his father would just tell him of his exploits behind the high electric fences and vaulted rooms.
The Colonel would spin tales for Rick that were composed of partial facts, but for the most part were large doses of imagination. Rick would hang on every word and later, as he lay in bed, he would daydream about his father's exploits and place himself into the glamorous spy adventures. He knew what his destiny would be even at his young age. He would be his father's son.
Immediately after graduating college with a masters' degree in biochemistry, Lampson was recruited by the CIA. Besides his expertise in biochemistry, he was an expert chess player, able to remember sixty moves.
The Company was branching out in all directions during those years. They needed bright, young people to fill hundreds of real and imagined vacancies with the Langley, Virginia, field office and headquarters in Washington, D.C.
During the early days of his employment, Rick worked in the secret labs hidden away in the hills surrounding Camp A.P. Hill and Camp Perry in Virginia. Poisons, antidotes and a cornucopia of other half-baked ideas were his daily fare. The Cold War paranoia poured millions of dollars into any project the 'Alphabet Soup' groups could dream up.
During 1974, which proved to be a banner year for Rick and his employer, reliable intelligence sources started coming out of East Germany that gave strong evidence the Germans were experimenting with new types of drugs and biological warfare. In particular, a list of lethal virus strains and other equally potent extracts of Monkey Virus "B", anthrax, and nerve agents were all known to be a part of their experiments. Agents had penetrated the production sites with amazing results. Recruiting East German spies became an easy task. Being aware of the treachery of the ruling class within their own country, East Germans were ready to assist the other side at the drop of a hat. Knowing where and whom to recruit kept the U.S. intelligence community out of hot water.
Rick's personal background could not have been any more perfect. He found himself a part of a plan to steal — or at least analyze — the materials the Company was concerned about. He had the credentials and soon found himself on his way to Camp Perry, known as ‘The Farm’ to the CIA, and the field agents' training course. He'd join other students, known as "career trainees" for the eighteen-week course.
Lampson's cover was identified as a NOC, non-official cover, meaning he wouldn't have the benefit of diplomatic immunity should he be discovered. He was supplied with precise, fake identity papers, and items such as receipts and ticket stubs, known as pocket litter. Then, during the winter of 1975, Lampson, carrying only one suitcase, was smuggled into East Germany, thereby officially becoming Professor Eric Brennar.
Instantly refocusing his thoughts, Lampson resumed his search up and down the embankment, trying to penetrate the night's blackness. Shaking uncontrollably, he pulled the wet, thin woolen blanket tighter around him, for all the good it was doing. He waited anxiously by the river's edge, ignoring the water lapping against his soggy sneakers. His body was chilled through to the bone. He trembled mostly from the cold, but a contributing factor was definitely from one helluva rough evening. Now he could only imagine what was happening beneath the surface of the river on the side of East Berlin.
Then something caught his eye and he began walking quickly along the riverbank. The sparse brown grass was slick and flattened, making him nearly lose his balance as he tried maneuvering down the slope. His eyes fixed on what appeared to be two black, unearthly objects rising languidly from the depths. Two human forms emerged, making their way up the embankment.
Lampson rushed up to both divers, first grabbing Grant’s hand and then Adler's, shaking them vigorously. A shit-eating grin covered his face and he finally let out a relieved laugh. "Christ, I don't know who the hell you two are, but all I can say is thanks! I owe you big time!"
Grant and Adler pulled off their face masks, both of them grinning. Grant spoke up first. "We're Navy, Mr. Lampson. I'm Grant Stevens, and this is Joe Adler. Glad we could help."
"You're SEALs, right?" Lampson nodded his head, as if answering his own question.
"Something like that, sir," Grant responded.
Lampson seemed to be on a high now. "Damn! That was great! Just great! But I've gotta tell you, Grant, you sure as hell have a knack for scaring the living shit out of somebody!"
"Sorry, sir, but it was nec… "
"No, no. No need to apologize, believe me. You got me out like you were supposed to, didn't you? And in one piece!"
"That's why we get paid the big bucks," Adler replied, as he snapped his swim fins into his thigh straps. He looked sideways at Grant who had pulled off his wetsuit hood. "You okay, Skipper?" he asked, seeing a wince cross Grant's face.
"Not a problem, Joe." A knife wielded by one of the Russian’s had sliced through his wetsuit, leaving a two-inch gash in his left forearm, just above his wrist. Blood trickled down the back of his hand.
Joe voiced his concern. "Hey, Skipper, we need to get you to sickbay. That water was pretty nasty."
"Yeah, might need a stitch or two. You want to sew me up?"
"No sweat. I brought a medical kit. It's in the trunk of the limo. I've got some saline but don't have enough sterile dressing."
"Maybe a couple of butterflies and some antiseptic will hold me till we can get back to the Embassy."
Adler nodded. "Roger that, sir."