Grant motioned for Moshenko to come closer, and he whispered, “We’re taking… ”
Moshenko held up a hand, with his palm facing forward, as he stepped directly in front of Grant. “They are here, on the aircraft.”
Grant opened his mouth, but no words came out. The feeling going through him was totally unexpected. Finally, he managed to ask, “All of them?” Moshenko nodded. Grant snapped his head left, staring at Adler. “Joe?”
“It’s what we’ve waited for, skipper,” Adler quietly said, grabbing hold of Grant’s arm.
Grant took a deep breath. “Grigori, play along. We’re taking you hostage. Let’s go.”
Moshenko walked to the open cargo door, with Grant close behind, holding his pistol in plain sight. Two Russian guards stood by the door with their Uzis trained on the prisoners.
Moshenko briefly looked up into the cabin, then climbed the portable steps, as he said, “Put down your weapons.” Surprised, but without even considering questioning a KGB officer’s command, the guards obeyed, laying the Uzis on the deck.
As Grant climbed aboard, he shouted in Russian, “Get over there! Sit!” He pointed the pistol toward the seats.
Adler held them at gunpoint, as they backed up slowly, sitting in the seats behind the Americans. He came around and stood behind them. The Russians were completely oblivious to the fact that their “lights” were about to go out. Within the blink of an eye, the butt of Adler’s pistol collided with each skull. Both men slumped in their seats.
The Americans all sat with their heads bowed, completely still. They were dressed alike. Black trousers, long sleeve dark gray shirts, no belts, black work shoes. Their hair was cut very short, especially around the sides. It was difficult to tell their ages, but probably late thirties to early forties. Their skin was sallow, their bodies undernourished. Grant guessed they’d probably been fed more lately than they had been over these last years, in preparation for what was to be their release. He still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew he’d never forget.
“Colonel,” Grant said, motioning with the pistol, “go up front.” Moshenko took the seat to the right of the pilot where a navigator and weapon systems operator normally sit. Grant positioned himself behind the pilot, ordering, “Hands behind your head!” The order was immediately followed by both men.
Grant looked back at Adler, who hadn’t taken his eyes from him. Using two fingers, Grant pointed at his own eyes, then twirled a finger in the air, with a slight jerk of his head. Adler checked the Russians were still unconscious, then bolted from the cabin.
Tension inside the helo increased with each passing minute for Grant, as Adler made his search. Grant could only keep his fingers crossed that he was wrong, otherwise, the plan was shit.
Within minutes, Adler climbed back into the cabin. He rushed over to Grant. The look of distress on his face was more than obvious, as he held out his hand. In his palm was a small box, similar in color to the chopper. He pointed down, indicating it had been planted directly under the fuel tank. He figured C-4 was inside, just enough to do the job, enough to ignite the fuel. Then, he raised his eyes, pointing overhead, and circled his fingers. Another one, slightly larger, was planted somewhere near the rotors. There was no way he could get to it, nor did they have the time.
Grant wanted to puke. The idea of losing POWs again was beyond his comprehension. The thought that he, Adler and Moshenko would have also perished hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Adler went to the door and jumped out. No time to disarm, he thought. He ran behind the helo and placed the box on the ground for the time being. Whoever planted it would be expecting the helo to disappear. And if Grant was right, the detonation would occur when the chopper was in flight. Somebody wanted to ensure this chopper was destroyed.
Plan A had just been shot all to hell. Grant’s original plan was to have Moshenko fly the chopper to the final destination. Now, without an aircraft, getting out of Russia was going to be one tough son-of-a-bitch.
Adler came aboard then hurried aft, taking a small rectangular case out of his satchel. Inside were four hypodermic needles, each pre-filled with sodium pentathol. He returned with two and injected the “knockout drops” into each Russian’s arm, with more than enough leftover if he needed it. Stashing the case in the satchel, he went to the cockpit, seeing Grant motioning for him.
Grant backed away from the pilot, and whispered to Adler, “Watch him.” He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t waste time. Whoever planted the device was probably waiting until the helo was well past the airport before setting it off. That could also mean somebody was positioned nearby, waiting to signal the chopper had departed.
Adler stood directly behind the pilot, keeping the barrel of his weapon touching the man’s head, making certain there wasn’t any chance the man could turn around.
With his weapon in hand, Grant hid it behind his back, then lifted the mask from his face. He walked over to the Americans. They were sitting completely still, unsure what was happening, hesitant to lift their heads from years of being dominated, controlled.
A knot suddenly formed in Grant’s throat. Squatting next to the seats, he talked barely above a whisper. “Gentlemen, my name’s Grant Stevens and that’s Joe Adler,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re here to take you home.”
All five heads snapped up, staring at this stranger who was speaking to them in English, telling them they were going home.
Grant would never be able to explain to anyone what he was witnessing from these men at this moment. Tears filled their eyes. The man sitting nearest him grabbed hold of his arm. Grant tried to look at each man, as he said, “Now listen… you’ve gotta get off this chopper. You just follow Joe. Okay?”
He started to stand but the man wouldn’t let go of him. Grant looked down at him, quietly saying, “It’s okay.” He pulled down the mask, and went to the cockpit, standing behind Adler. “Get them outta here. I’ll be right behind you.”
Grant had to continue with the ruse, just in case something else went wrong. Grabbing hold of Moshenko’s arm, he pulled him off the seat. “Colonel, you are now our hostage. You are coming with us.” He “handed” him over to Adler.
Once everyone was off the chopper, Grant turned to the pilot, jerking the headphones from his head. He pulled the connecting spiral-wound cord from the comm gear, and tossed the headset out the door. “You are lucky. I am going to let you go, only because I want you to fly this aircraft to your next destination. Tell those waiting what we have done, that we have the colonel and these men. Soon they will hear our demands. Do you understand me?” If for any reason there wasn’t a detonation, Grant was trying to protect Moshenko by making everyone think he was a hostage. If the chopper did go down, then…
The pilot lowered his arms. His relief was obvious as his head bobbed up and down. ”Da! Da!” He didn’t have a clue who these two men were, but only assumed they were Russians. At the moment, it hardly mattered. He just wanted to fly!
“Now, start the engine! In five minutes you take off! Five minutes — or else you will be seeing me again!” Grant immediately backed up. When he was at the door, he jumped down, and grabbed the headset from the ground.
Everyone was waiting at the rear of the helo. He rushed to Adler, and still keeping his voice low, said, “Put that box back under the chopper… fast! Meet us at the truck.” Adler didn’t even hesitate. He went and got the box.
“The truck’s straight over there,” Grant pointed for the men. “You run in front of me. Go!” Knowing the pilot would be watching, he grabbed Moshenko’s arm and pulled him across the field, heading for the trees.