Carrying three bags of food each, Grant and Adler rushed into the plane. Grant announced, "Chow down, guys. I'd like to get rolling in an hour. Matt, we've got authorization to land at Tegel."
"Jesus, boss," James exclaimed, taking two of the bags, "that's a helluva short flight. Why don't we just taxi the whole way?!"
"I know, DJ, but Scott managed to get us a chopper and boat and that's the delivery point. And I'm counting on there being fewer 'eyes' on us. Besides, we can't leave Matt and Rob here. We've already spent too damn much time on the ground."
Ten minutes later, Draper gulped down the last mouthful of bratwurst on a roll, and took a swig of Coke. It was time to start pre-flight check with Garrett. He set the radio frequency for the tower.
Grant walked through the cabin. "Might be a good idea to stow your gear before you settle in." He joined Adler aft, who was storing coffee cups in the overhead bin.
Grant glanced toward the cockpit, when Draper announced, "We're ready to roll!" Seat belts clicked in place. Grant sat on a bench seat, with Adler opposite him.
Garrett and Draper finalized the checklist: compass, fuel, oil levels, altimeter. With final information from the tower, Draper set the four-digit transponder code.
A transponder was an electronic device that produced a response when it received a radio-frequency interrogation. The device assisted in identifying an aircraft on radar and on other aircraft's collision avoidance systems. The code was frequently called a "squawk" code which came from its origin in World War II, the "Identification Friend or Foe" (IFF) system, code-named "Parrot."
Cleared to taxi, the Gulfstream rolled across the infield, with sounds of flap motors, hydraulics, electric valves adjusting. The plane was second in line for takeoff. Finally, Garrett and Draper received clearance to taxi to Runway 07.
Draper contacted the Tower. "Schonefeld Tower, Mike 581, at Runway 07, ready for takeoff. Over."
"Standby Mike 581." Pause. "Affirm Mike 581 cleared for takeoff Runway 07. Winds eight knots, northeast. Over."
"Roger, tower. Cleared takeoff Runway 07. Mike 581. Out."
Gauges and dials were rechecked. The engines wound up, and Garrett advanced the throttles close to fifty percent. He released the brakes, sending the Gulfstream barreling down the runway.
Adler leaned back, watching Grant. The setting of the jaw, grinding of teeth, meant one thing: a problem with the op.
"Out with it," Adler finally said.
Talking above engine noise, Grant answered, "This one's gonna be a bitch, Joe."
"So, what's new?!"
Resting his arms on his legs, rubbing his hands together, Grant added, "The nighttime sat image didn't show many lights inside the town, but there were some scattered well outside the perimeter, probably because of unrest breaking out in the whole country."
"Might be a good idea to 'hit' the beach earlier than we planned. That should give us more time for a thorough recon."
"That's what I'm thinking."
Adler ran a hand along his jaw, feeling stubble. "Maybe we should leave two of the guys at the beach to set up a diversion when we're ready to haul ass."
"I don't know about that, Joe. We don't have a damn clue when it comes to how many UFs we'll have to confront. We'll need the whole Team. Think this has turned into a 'fly by the seat of our pants' op."
"We've flown those often enough. Hey! I know you've been in that water before. What's the temperature like this time of year?"
"Around 70 degrees, maybe a little cooler."
"If we end up getting wet, we should be okay for a while then."
"Yeah, but we'll have to get the 'asset' in the boat quick. That's why we need to land on the beach."
"Are we running out of options?"
"Pretty much."
Grant glanced at his submariner. "We'll have enough time before the chopper lands to put our heads together again."
"Approaching Tegel!" Draper shouted from the cockpit. Engine noise changed, wheels were lowered, as the Gulfstream banked starboard, beginning its final approach along the middle corridor
"If only all our flights could be this short!" Adler commented, stretching to look out the window.
Vladimir Borskaya stood behind his desk, waiting for his agents to report. A knock at his door. "Come!"
Kalinin and Zykov entered, with Zykov immediately closing the door.
"Comrades," Borskaya said, pointing a callused index finger back and forth between the two men. "I hope you have good information for me."
The agents remained standing. Kalinin began, "I wish we did, sir. We have run into dead ends at every turn." Borskaya mumbled something unintelligible. Kalinin continued, "I only have a few facts to give you. The four men from the van were definitely CIA. The two still in intensive care were unaccessible to us, blocked by two other agents. The bodies of the two men killed in that incident had been released from the morgue by the East Berlin Ministry of Health." That should get a rise out of you! Kalinin thought.
He was right. Borskaya's voice intensified. "He released them to the Americans?!"
"Yes, sir. Confirmed by the medical examiner." Before Borskaya could respond, Kalinin said, "But to tell the truth, sir, while that should not have happened, I doubt there would have been anything we could have learned from inspecting those bodies."
"And what about Reznikov? Anything?"
"Comrade Zykov and I investigated the incident scene. All removable evidence had been confiscated by either the East German police or the CIA. All we found were tire tracks well off the roadway, which meant Reznikov got away in another vehicle."
"Any idea where he is or who else could have been involved?"
"Still nothing. He, or they, will most likely remain out of sight for at least a short while. Once we are through here, Comrade Zykov and I will continue looking for him. Have you spoken with Comrade Komarov or his men?"
"Yes. He described how they were intercepted on the way to Schonefeld."
"We took his driver, Sergeant Baskov to hospital, but I am sure he informed you of that."
"And what of Comrade Dotsenko? I assume you still have not found him."
"I am afraid not. The little information the general could provide indicated several men were involved. I might also add, according to the general, Comrade Dotsenko was treated very poorly, dragged from the Mercedes, and shoved into the perpetrators' vehicle." Kalinin decided to tread carefully on the subject of the team, not thoroughly convinced who they were. But something deep within him said Grant Stevens and his men were in Berlin.
"Comrade!" Borskaya said, not getting a response from Kalinin.
"Sorry, sir. What did you say?"
"Do you have any idea where Comrade Dotsenko might be?!"
"Uh, no, sir. And we still do not know the reason he was taken. Once we know that … "
"You find out! Do you hear me?!" Borskaya roared.
"Yes, sir. I promise you we will."
"Go … and tell the sergeant to find Comrade Komarov. I have more questions for him."
"Yes, Comrade Borskaya," Kalinin answered. He and Zykov left the office.
As they walked out of the embassy, Kalinin took off his jacket, hooked a finger under the collar, then slung it over his shoulder. It was obvious he was pissed.
Zykov glanced at him as they stood by the car. "Where do we go from here?"
"We look for Dotsenko."
"What about Reznikov?"
"Dotsenko. Come on."
"Where to?" Zykov opened the driver side door.
"To Schonefeld. We have got to start somewhere." As they drove away, Kalinin questioned himself. Why the hell was he going to Schonefeld? If it was Grant who snatched Dotsenko, would he try to get him out of the country? Or possibly stash him someplace, maybe the U.S. Embassy? But why would the U.S. turn Dotsenko over in an exchange, and then kidnap him? Feeling more frustration, Kalinin ran his hands down both sides of his brown hair.