"We can only hope," Adler whispered.
Grant swiveled his head, looking at the men readjusting earpieces, confirming holstered weapons were secured. "Okay. Time to move out. Let's go."
There was no stopping until they reached the next forest, hoping the road was clear when they crossed. Beyond the forest — Drazowe.
Slade held up a fist, bringing everyone to a halt. Pressing the PTT, he whispered, "Road." The asphalt surface didn't have any painted lines, but was about two lanes wide. There weren't any road signs visible along the shoulders in either direction. Grant sent James and Diaz to recon east and west again.
They were less than a half mile north of the town. The lack of sound seemed unnatural, when suddenly they heard Diaz in their earpieces. "Zero-Niner, Three-Six. Take cover! Vehicle heading to you!"
"Roger!" Grant responded.
They started backing up, ducking behind trees and staying low, just as headlights appeared, coming from the west. All eyes followed the vehicle as it passed, traveling about 35 mph, with its headlights fanning out across the shoulders of the road. Even in the dark, A.T. recognized the light truck, a four-door, canvas top Russian GAZ-69A.
Diaz and James came hustling back, just as red taillights disappeared over the horizon.
"That vehicle's gotta be going to the base," Grant commented. "Let's move."
Confirming no other lights were coming from either direction, the men sprinted across the blacktop, taking sanctuary in the forest, their last safe haven before reaching their objective.
The Team's up close and personal look at Drazowe took them by surprise. A town, not a military base. Or so it seemed. No cyclone fence, no guard house, no visible signs of security, no lights. The Russians most likely prohibited outdoor lighting, as though it were a "blackout" during WW II, when windows had dark curtains, preventing any light from passing through.
Thickets of pines and broadleaved trees were scattered in and around the entire area. Two- and four-story red brick buildings were along the far side. Rows of small attached homes ran perpendicular to the buildings. Overhead, drooping wires were strung from telephone poles.
One, two-lane road appeared to be the only ingress/egress from the town. But once the road "entered" the town, it changed to single lane, forming a circular route, starting on the east side, with smaller streets branching off it. Streets were at varying angles, some were dead-ends. There wasn't any rhyme or reason the way the property was laid out.
Team A.T. stayed hidden, silently observing a base like no other. And that was the worry. Guards couldn't be disposed of without knowing where they were.
"Mike, stand watch. Everybody else, back," Grant whispered. Novak screwed down the rifle's silencer, then got down on his belly, stretched out, then readjusted the scope. The rest of the men gathered in a small circle, kneeling down, keeping low profiles.
"There's gotta be at least twenty to thirty acres of buildings. Anyone see a standalone house?" Grant asked looking around the circle. No response.
"And all we got is a fuckin' address and house number," Slade commented, disgustedly.
"Maybe Oleniv decided to keep her closer. Maybe she's 'bunking' with him," Adler suggested.
"Or maybe she's been 'found out,' and that's why not a fuckin' sole is within sight," Grant added. The thought of the operative being in the hands of Russians turned everyone's stomach.
They were wasting valuable time. They had to act. Grant leaned closer. "Okay, here's what we do."
Novak kept moving his rifle a little at a time, stopping often to zero in on possible trouble spots. To the west, two officers walked out of a bunker. Novak kept his index finger close to the trigger, as he centered his crosshairs on the taller man. Smokers; no danger to the guys,he reasoned, before slowly aiming at another location. Staring through the scope, he found the Team, then continued on watch.
Team A.T. cautiously walked the perimeter, within the tree line, heading for the garage where the vehicle was last seen. Slade led the way, when suddenly the whole Team came to a stop, dropping onto the ground, a ground that seemed to be vibrating. Then, a noise they were all familiar with — a tank. They were within 40 yards of a mound covering an old bunker. They had confirmation: the Russians were using tunnels to hide equipment, and possibly 5,000 troops.
Sounds continued from beneath them, but that wasn't their objective. Grant pressed the PTT, whispering, "Move."
Slade brought them close enough to the garage where he had a view straight through the building. A slightly uphill, narrow driveway curved into the garage, allowing access from front and back. It was deep enough to hold two vehicles.
Slade scanned the area. "Eyes on one vehicle, one UF."
Grant pressed the PTT, calling Novak. "Seven-Three, A.T. near vehicle. Are we clear?"
"Wait one." Novak quickly made a scan of the area around and close to A.T. "Clear."
The Russian driver took off his "pilotka" (a foldable military cap with straight sides and a creased or hollow crown, similar to a "piss-cutter"). He laid it in the rear of the truck, then lit up a cigarette.
Whispering, Grant gave the order, "Go."
Slade's and James' mission: keep the guard alive, deliver him to Grant for a serious G2. They drew their silenced Makarovs, quietly walking into the garage with their weapons aimed straight ahead. Staying close to the truck, James took the right side, Slade the left. They smelled cigarette smoke, just as the guard flicked the butt to the front of the driveway. As he turned to get his cap, Slade whipped around the corner, jamming his pistol into the man's face. James came from behind, reached around and slapped his hand across the mouth, immediately dragging the stunned man through the garage and into the trees, into the dark.
James kept his hand pressed tightly across the Russian's mouth, then slammed him against a tree. A low grunt stuck in the man's throat. Slade and Diaz each grabbed an arm, yanked them back, then quickly tied his arms and legs with paracord, securing him to the tree.
Grant drew his K-bar from the leg strap, then stepped close to the soldier, noticing a name printed on his uniform. He pressed the cold steel blade against the man's throat, then spoke in Russian. "Comrade Yolin, my friend here will release his hand when it is time for you to answer my questions. Blink if you understand." His request was immediately obeyed. "Keep your voice low when you answer. But if you try to yell, or if I think you are lying, I will not hesitate to slit your throat. Is Oleniv's woman here?" James loosened his hand slightly.
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"They brought her to Comrade General Oleniv's office."
"When?"
"Today."
Their question was answered. Pankova's cover had been blown.
"Where is his office?"
Yolin shifted his eyes to the right, afraid to move his head. "There."
Across from the garage was a white brick building, one story, no more than 600 square feet. A door was nearer to the left side, with three windows to the right of it.
Grant turned again to the Russian. "Where are the guards?"
"Inside bunkers."
Grant applied more pressure with the knife. "Outside. I mean outside!"
"Two are posted … outside perimeter at each quadrant."
"And the remaining troops?"
"Underground. They are in the tunnels."
Grant's eyes met Adler's, who took the hint and slapped a strip of duct tape across the Russian's mouth, then with a fist to the jaw, he knocked the man unconscious.
Grant contacted Novak, speaking softly. "Seven-Three, guards at four quadrants. Do you have eyes on?"