With it quiet again, the men continued up three flights of stairs, stopping briefly at the end of the third floor hallway. Lights were dim. The sound of a radio came from behind the first apartment door. Antolov motioned the men further down the hall, looking for number 5.
The guards took their places, one on each side of a scuffed wooden door. Antolov walked nearer, turning his head, hearing someone inside. A window slammed shut.
He tapped on the door, then spoke. “Comrade Tarasov. This is Director Antolov. Please open the door.” Silence from inside. “Comrade!” he shouted.
Suddenly, a door behind them opened, and the three men swung around. A young man started to step out of his apartment, and with eyes wide, seeing Uzis, immediately jumped back and slammed the door.
Antolov called again. “Comrade Tarasov! I am asking you for the last time. Open the door!”
Hurried footsteps were heard inside, then the slamming of a door, or drawer. Antolov didn’t have a good feeling. He stepped back and motioned for his men to break in the door.
The instantaneous sound of the door shattering, and a sound of a pistol discharging, reverberated throughout the building.
Antolov pushed past his men, stepping over and around fragmented pieces of door. His eyes fell on the body of Comrade Vladimir Tarasov, laying beneath a window located at the front of the apartment. Blood and brain matter slid down the glass above the body.
He walked across the room, with his arms behind his back. Standing over the body, he looked down at a contorted face frozen in time, from a bullet fired through the mouth, blowing out the back of the head.
Antolov could only shake his head. Now, there would be no definitive answers. Nothing to explain why Tarasov had decided Colonel Moshenko must die. And why aboard an aircraft carrying the American POWs? Twofold perhaps, Antolov reasoned. Caused by a deranged mind.
One fact he did have: A guard who was meant to be on the flight that day reported he had developed a stomach virus, constantly puking. In his confession he stated he collaborated with Tarasov and was the one who planted the devices. That is the only fact Antolov had. That is all he can tell the premier.
Unfortunately, the only other person who could possibly fill in the blanks is Colonel Grigori Moshenko.
Chapter 13
Distinct smells and flurries of activities at Landstuhl Regional Medical Hospital are no different from any other hospital. Every minuscule particle of air carried with it a smell of antiseptic. A voice over the PA system was paging doctors. Nurses hurried down hallways, carrying trays with pills and hypodermics. Doctors in green hospital gowns walked side by side, discussing patients. Volunteers pushed carts with magazines and newspapers.
Somehow, Rear Admiral John Torrinson had found a way to ignore all this. His special flight, authorized by President Carr, brought him to Tempelhof. He’d been pacing this same hallway ever since he arrived, waiting with Adler and the Moshenkos.
With his arms folded across his chest, and his head hanging down, he felt old beyond his forty-eight years. These were the times he dreaded. It was a deep pain of knowing someone who’d given his all for so long, fought for everything he believed in, willing to sacrifice himself to save others, was now possibly fighting for his own life.
“Sir?” Torrinson slowly turned around. “Here ya go, admiral,” Joe Adler said, handing Torrinson a paper cup of black coffee.
“Thanks, Joe.” Torrinson looked into Adler’s bloodshot eyes with prominent dark circles underneath. He, too, was feeling the stress.
“It’s straight up, sir. Didn’t know if you took it with or without anything.”
“Definitely need it straight up today, Joe,” Torrinson answered, forcing a slight smile. He took a sip, then raising his eyes, he looked Adler dead-on, speaking softly. “One of these days the three of us are going to have a discussion about that chopper. You know… the one you and Grant ‘borrowed’?”
“Yes, sir. Be happy to.”
Torrinson sipped at his coffee, taking a brief glance down the passageway. Positioned along white stark walls, there are a row of gray molded plastic seats. Sitting in those seats are five Navy SEALs.
Sitting next to them is a man and a woman, each with a CIA authorized “Visitor” badge hanging from a chain around their necks. Grigori Moshenko squeezed Alexandra’s hand, whispered in her ear, then stood and walked toward Adler and Torrinson.
“Do you think we will have to wait much longer?” he asked, impatiently, but obviously with concern.
Torrinson gave a slight shake of his head. “No way to tell, colonel.” All three looked at the double doors, under the sign “SURGERY.” Waiting for them to swing open was nerve-racking, but praying that when they did, someone would be bringing good news.
Adler stepped away from Torrinson and Moshenko, with his eyes glued to the doors. He still couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact that Grant was somewhere behind those doors, in surgery, possibly…
Suddenly, one door swung open. A surgeon, wearing green surgical scrubs, took long strides toward the waiting visitors, as he removed his surgical mask. He was about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair, about 5’10”, and appeared to be in good physical shape.
Adler took backward steps, until he was between Moshenko and Torrinson, with his eyes never leaving the doctor coming toward them.
As soon as the SEALs saw the doctor, they got up, and letting Alexandra go ahead of them, they hurried down the hall to join the others.
Alexandra laid a hand on her husbands back, and he moved over, allowing her to squeeze in. She grabbed his hand.
Captain Paul Engleston introduced himself then began. “Well, folks, as you probably already know, Captain Stevens took one helluva beating, and I’m betting more than one.
“We did a full CAT scan and took X-rays. I had some concern about vertebrae C3 and C4 with the swelling, but it was only bruising. The scan also showed a contusion on his liver. He’s got a simple fracture of two ribs, and a broken index finger. We set his shoulder then had to do extensive repairs to the rotator cuff. Looks like he had some surgery on it not too long ago, right?”
Torrinson responded, “He did.”
Engleston commented, “Whoever did this to him probably noticed that scar.” He continued, “There’re a couple of injuries on the back of his head and forehead, that needed sewing up, so between those and the bullet, the result was a concussion. But, the good news is there isn’t any sign of a skull fracture.
“We stitched an area here,” he indicated by touching a section above his temple, “where the bullet grazed him. And he had several additional places on his body, front and back, that needed stitching up.” Engleston looked down, shaking his head. “Considering the beating he took, he’s one lucky man.”
He raised his head then looked around at the faces staring back at him, waiting for him to put a period on the diagnosis. “Look, it’s going to take some time, but I expect him to make a complete recover. With those rib injuries and contusion on his liver, though, he’ll be here at least another five to six weeks convalescing. We’ll start him on therapy for his shoulder while he’s here. The whole recovery process might be slow.”
His gray eyes scanned the group in front of him, as he asked, “Who’s the corpsman that worked on him?” Chief Kenton pointed a finger at Stalley. Doc Engleston put his hands on his hips, as he said, “Well, petty officer, you sure as hell made my job easier by caring for him the way you did! Good work, son.”