Dressed completely in black, the five men, with watch caps pulled low and black paint covering their faces, remained hidden in the forest for a half hour.
Lieutenant Monroe signaled the Team forward. As they walked closer to their objective, still one hundred yards away, each step they took was cautious and deliberate. Their boots barely left depressions in the thick layer of pine needles covering the ground, still wet from a recent heavy rain.
Monroe held up a fist. The SEALs immediately stopped, all of them getting down on one knee. He held a Starlighter scope to his eye, scrutinizing the area around the old farm, focusing on the main building, which was nothing more than a mere cabin. A light shown from the only window close to the front door. No movement, in or out, had been spotted.
Continuing to use the scope, his eyes followed the property around the cabin. A barn and small outbuilding were the only other structures. An old wooden animal pen, made from uneven logs, sliced in half horizontally, was next to the barn. A gate hung loosely from rusted hinges.
Monroe motioned the men forward until they made it to the edge of the forest. Again, he stopped them. From this point to the cabin, there wouldn’t be any cover. After taking one final look through the scope, he stashed it in his rucksack.
Crouching low, they made a dash across the field. When they were nearly fifty yards from the cabin, they heard voices, saw a glow from a dim light. Stopping abruptly, they dropped to the ground, flattening their bodies against damp grass and patches of mud. Waiting briefly, Monroe slowly looked up.
Two men appeared out of the darkness, coming from the south side of the property, walking toward the cabin. One was carrying a lighted kerosene lamp. As they stopped by the front door, there was a small, brief flicker of light. A match.
The shorter of the two men opened the door, blew out the lamp’s flame, then went inside, leaving the door open. A large, bulky man, wearing shirt and trousers with suspenders, possibly a Russian uniform, stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. A kerosene lamp, hanging above a table, appeared to be the only source of light inside.
Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Major Losevsky dropped it near his foot, grinding it into the dirt with a heel of his black boot. Tilting his head slightly, he blew a final lungful of smoke into the air. He went inside and closed the door.
Seeing no one else, Monroe came to a crouch position, with the other SEALs following his lead. At his signal, they sprinted to the side of the cabin, pressing their backs against the rough-hewn wooden logs, with their weapons held in front of their bodies.
Monroe turned his head, looking at Petty Officers First Class Bill Restin and Frank Clayton. He signaled Restin to check inside the front window, then motioned Clayton around to the back.
Then, he signaled Chief Petty Officer Al Kenton and Hospital Corpsman Petty Officer Second Class Cal Stalley, to check the two other buildings. Lowering their NVGs, the two took off around the back of the cabin.
Restin stepped around Monroe, and raised his NVGs. Keeping his body against the logs, he slowly eased himself toward the front of the cabin. Leaning just enough to look around the corner, and seeing it was clear, he took side steps toward the window. Inhaling then holding his breath, he slowly leaned until he was able to get a glimpse inside the main room.
A rectangular wooden table was positioned in the middle of the room, located about ten feet from the door. Two men, maybe in their late twenties, sat at the table, facing the door. They were dressed in Russian uniforms, and each had sidearms holstered. Field jackets hung from the back of each chair, one with the insignia of a major.
The third soldier, the one who had smoked the cigarette outside, stood by the end of the table, rubbing his knuckles and back of his hands with a cloth. Tossing it aside, it landed on a Makarov at the edge of the table.
He drew his Walther P-1 pistol from his side holster and started wiping it down with a rag. The P-1 is a modified P-38, double action, semiautomatic pistol.
Holding it up toward the lamp, he swiped the rag across the barrel and handle. Satisfied it was clean, he holstered the gun, then shoved the rag in his back trousers pocket. Sliding a chair from under the table, he sat down, locked his fingers behind his head, and began rocking his chair back and forth.
The three soldiers continued carrying on a steady conversation, occasionally punctuated with loud laughter. Each man had a small glass in front of him, and in-between the laughter, they’d sip on some brown liquid. Restin spotted a tall bottle in the middle of the table. Medovukha, an old Balto-Slavic, honey-based alcoholic beverage is a drink very similar to mead, and stronger than a regular beer.
Restin’s eyes roamed around the room. He didn’t see anyone else, but did notice three AK-47s, with magazines inserted, leaning against a large stone fireplace. Another kerosene lamp was on the mantel, but unlit. On a makeshift table next to the fireplace was a rectangular brown wooden box, with the top open, leaning against the wall. A thick black cord ran from the box to a phone receiver on the table. A field radio.
Restin slowly brought his head back, then edged his way along the logs, meeting up with Monroe around the side. He held up three fingers. Clayton emerged from the back, shaking his head.
The three slipped their rifle slings over their heads, and drew out .45s with silencers. They couldn’t take any chances of gunfire being heard, with the possibility of other troops in the area.
Now they’d wait until getting word from Chief Kenton.
Separating slightly, Chief Kenton and Petty Officer Stalley proceeded cautiously and silently. Most of the ground leading to the outbuildings was dirt. Because of the recent rain, they couldn’t avoid patches of slippery, thick mud.
They searched the first of the two buildings in typical CQB (Close Quarter Battle) fashion, finding nothing. The last outbuilding was at the rear of the farm property. From its appearance it could have been used for storage of small equipment. How many rooms was still the question. Their weapons were cocked and ready, as they approached quietly, remaining vigilant.
Standing at the dilapidated wooden door of the small building, ready to enter, Kenton gave a nod. He pushed the door open, cringing at the sound it made scraping across the dirty floor, with three rusted hinges squeaking.
They entered one behind the other, pausing as they surveyed their surroundings. The main room contained rusted, age-old farm supplies, scattered on the floor, piled in every corner, hanging from rafters. Thick cobwebs covered everything. Stalley turned his head, and readjusting his NVGs, he spotted a mouse scurrying into a hole in the corner.
He and the chief refocused their attention toward the back. Their eyes settled on a single wooden door. Chief Kenton motioned for Stalley to remain by the entrance, as he took one step at a time, walking toward the room.
The latch on the door was a slide-type, made of a flat piece of wood with a dowel as the handle. It was held in place by rough-hewn metal clamps. He took hold of the dowel with his left hand and slowly pulled the slide to the left until it was free. Taking a quick look at Stalley, he stood to the side and pulled the door back.
Pressing the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, and with his cheek close to the stock, the chief focused his eyes down the barrel. First, he looked along the far wall, then he took a step to the opposite side of the doorway, checking the wall and corners to his left. He slowly moved into the dark, musty-smelling room.
A bucket of water was near an overturned wooden chair about ten feet from the door, and just beyond it, he spotted the dark shape of a body sprawled in the middle of the floor.