Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 17

As Grant and Adler were about to make a move up the steps, they heard in their earpieces, "Zero-Niner! Five-Two! Eyes on deuce, possible UFs! Take cover!" (UFs, unfriendlies) Hearing Stalley's warning in their earpieces, James and Novak took aim, directing their weapons toward the UFs.

Without hesitating, Grant and Adler rolled under the plane, staying in its shadow, and the shadow of the fuel truck, looking aft, waiting, not moving.

Garrett backed away from the fuel truck, keeping an eye on the two UFs. Then he inconspicuously adjusted his earpiece.

Spotting the two men as they ran around the tail of the plane, Grant and Adler slowly crabbed their way aft, taking shelter next to the starboard wheels. They were able to see both UFs, wearing long, black leather coats. Then they heard someone stomping through the cabin.

The two men stopped near the steps, then dropped two suitcases. One of them shouted in Russian, "Open it!" He pointed to the cargo hold.

Vikulin stood at the top of the steps. "Who are you!"

"We were ordered here from East Berlin by Comrade Director Antolov! Now, open the compartment!" Orders also dictated they verified weapons were onboard.

Vikulin wasn't satisfied. No mention of these two men had been made by the amba.s.sador, unless he had not been informed either. With everything that had happened recently, Vikulin wasn't about to trust two strangers.

"I must see your credentials!" he ordered. His shoes pounded on each step as he came down.

Kalinin stood in the doorway, with his hand gripping his Makarov behind his back.

The two men opened their coats, showing their KGB badges pinned to their suit jackets.

The sound of the fuel truck's engine caught everyone off guard. Then hearing the sound of voices, all three Russians reached for weapons in shoulder holsters. The crew came around from the nose of the plane, and stopped dead in their tracks.

Vikulin stepped aside, motioning for them to board. They hurried into the cabin, stepping in front of Kalinin, then went to the c.o.c.kpit, trying to avoid the situation by beginning their takeoff checklist.

One of the strangers took a step closer to Vikulin, as he removed a folded red ID card with the KGB symbol on front, and "KGB CCCP" printed across the bottom. He held it near Vikulin's face. "Comrade Vikulin, you are one of the reasons we are here."

Vikulin had no choice. He said to Kalinin, "Have them open the cargo door." Kalinin remained where he was, giving the order to the crew.

Grant and Adler held their breaths. Whatever was going to happen, they were going to be involved.

Refueling of the Gulfstream was completed. As the truck drove away, Garrett ran down the starboard side toward the tail, then stopped. He knew where Slade and the other two men were, but, as expected, he couldn't see them. He pressed the PTT, and whispered, "Eight-Four heading into plane." The Team now knew where he was. No response was necessary.

As he slowly made his way around to the port side, he had to act nonchalant. He was just another pilot, making a cursory inspection of his aircraft, checking under the wings, looking at tires, looking in the cargo area. He stopped briefly near the steps. The Russians were partially hidden by the Antonov's wing, but seemed to be checking inside the cargo hold. No one was paying attention to him.

He climbed the steps slowly, whispering into his throat mike, "Coming in, Doc." Once aboard, he rushed to the c.o.c.kpit, and climbed into the pilot's seat. "Do you see Grant and Joe?"

"They're near the starboard side tires."

Garrett brought the binoculars close, finally spotting Grant and Adler. Holding the gla.s.ses with his left hand, he drew his .45 from the shoulder holster. "Doc, watch for Grant's signal to fire up the engines."

"Roger." All they could do was wait, watch and prepare for anything.

Vikulin stood motionless, with his eyes going from one KGB man to the next. He finally said, "I have done nothing wrong. You need to question him!" he said pointing to Kalinin.

Kalinin stood in the doorway, not moving, not replying, the grip on his weapon remaining firm.

Across the airfield, a small vehicle was towing a BOAC 737 toward a hangar, while engines roared as a 707 landed on Runway 06. Grant had enough. He motioned to Adler. They crawled out from under the plane on the starboard side just behind the wing. Getting up into a crouch, they silently went to the tail end. The Russians were still in confrontation mode.

Grant spotted Garrett in the c.o.c.kpit with gla.s.ses on him and Adler. He held an arm up and twirled two fingers in the air, then held one finger. Garrett laid the gla.s.ses down, ready to start the engines in one minute. All lights would remain off until the Team was...o...b..ard. Only then would he notify the control tower they were ready for an airport marshaller.

Grant pressed the PTT, whispering, "Seven-Three, Zero-Niner. Confirm sights on targets."

"Sights on targets," Novak responded as he and James eased forward, staying hidden near the machinery. Slade waited for Grant's signal. Novak got down on the tarmac and stretched out on his belly with his weapon ready.

"Zero-Niner and Two-Seven going in." The entire Team heard Grant in their earpieces.

Grant gave Adler a nod. Adler took off, hustling along the starboard side of the plane, then positioned himself near the nose. Once he was in place, he pressed the PTT. "On three. One. Two. Three."

The timing was perfect. As Garrett started the Gulfstream's engines, the Russians were distracted just long enough. Grant and Adler came from opposite directions, with weapons pointed straight ahead.

The three men spotted Adler, started to react, when Grant came from behind, shouting in Russian, "Hands up! Hands up!" The Russians spun around, with their hands still on their holstered weapons. Again Grant shouted, "Hands up! I will shoot!" Hands slowly raised. He pointed to Kalinin, "You too! Hands up!" Kalinin brought his hand from behind his back, then he raised both hands, still holding his Makarov.

"Drop it! Now!" Grant ordered.

Kalinin leaned forward and dropped the weapon on the ground. "Down here!" Grant motioned with a hand. Kalinin slowly came down the steps. Seeing the Russian up close and personal gave Grant a brief, unsettling moment.

Suddenly, Slade came out of nowhere, rushing toward the plane, aiming his weapon. Surprised again, the Russians snapped their heads around, watching Slade run behind them. Without stopping, he ran up the steps, taking charge of the crew.

Grant ordered again, "Drop your weapons. Now!" The three KGB men remained defiant, angered, focusing their stare on Grant, until seeing Adler move into position just beyond them. Still, no one budged.

Enough of this s.h.i.t! Grant thought. He backed up a step, held up his left fist, raised one finger, then he immediately made another tight fist.

An instantaneous sound of a loud clap in the distance. One of the KGB men shouted in pain, grabbing his right arm where the bone had shattered. He collapsed on the tarmac, with blood running down his arm.

Again, Grant shouted, "Now! Drop them!" Vikulin and his KGB counterpart finally removed weapons from shoulder holsters, letting them fall to the ground.

Mike Novak readied himself again, waiting for Grant to signal.

Kalinin was standing near Vikulin, not taking his eyes from Grant. He knew without a doubt that these were the same men who were on the cargo ship. Suddenly, the connection was made. The man in the photograph he'd been informed of. The American who looked like him. Although all he could see were brown eyes because of the mask, he thought, It's got to be him!

Grant continued in Russian. "Now, the three of you, transfer those pouches to that aircraft," he indicated with a quick movement of his weapon. "As a warning, I have more men ready. Move!"

Reluctantly, slowly, the three Russians pulled the pouches from the cargo hold, dragged them to the Gulfstream, and shoved them in. Kalinin's head throbbed. What was happening felt surreal.

Grant heard Stalley in his earpiece, "All clear."

"Back to the plane," Grant ordered. It was time to make a decision. What to do with the Russians, especially Kalinin?

The three Russians walked toward the plane, with Grant and Adler covering them. They were just beyond the cargo hold when, without warning, Vikulin fell to his knees, pulled another weapon from an ankle holster, then turned, and aimed it directly at Kalinin. In a split second, Grant reacted, tackling Kalinin from behind. Both men landed hard on the tarmac. The stray bullet from Vikulin's weapon punctured the fuselage under the pa.s.senger compartment. Three rapid, m.u.f.fled shots rang out, all finding Vikulin's chest, all from Adler's .45. Slade rushed from the c.o.c.kpit. Standing in the open doorway, he kept his weapon aimed toward the c.o.c.kpit.

The sound of the Gulfstream's engine may have masked the gunfire, but the Team couldn't count on it and had to act fast.

Adler immediately aimed his weapon at the remaining KGB man. Grant jumped up, grabbed Kalinin's arm and jerked him to his feet.

Novak and James stayed in place, waiting for Grant's orders. Stalley left the c.o.c.kpit, then he ran down the stairs, and immediately took up a defensive position near the nose.

Grant made his decision. He pointed to the uninjured Russian, then to the man laying on the tarmac. "You! Get him onboard!" He looked up at Slade and pointed to Vikulin's body. "Get the crew!" Within a couple of minutes, all Russians were onboard. . . except for Kalinin.

Kalinin was astounded, part from Vikulin wanting him dead, and part from the efficiency with which this team of men carried out the operation. All he could do was wonder who they were. . . and what were their plans for him?

Grant pressed the PTT. "Five-Two, are we clear?"

"Clear."

Grant signaled for Novak and James to come in, then he turned his attention to Kalinin, and said to Adler, "He's coming with us. Put him onboard. I've gotta finish here. Tell Matt to hold off on final takeoff procedures." Kalinin was led away. Once he was...o...b..ard, Adler came out of the plane, standing watch with Stalley.

Novak shoved Kalinin toward the rear of the plane, then motioned with his weapon for him to sit.

"I speak English," Kalinin stated.

Novak laughed. "Well, of course you do! Silly me!" He backed up, but continued keeping his weapon aimed at the Russian.

Grant hustled into the Russian plane, taking a quick look at Vikulin's b.l.o.o.d.y body laying in the aisle, aft. The injured Russian was laying on a bench seat, looking pale and in obvious pain.

Grant walked closer to the c.o.c.kpit, making sure the two men were paying attention. "You will start takeoff procedures in exactly five minutes. We will be waiting until you have departed. But, be aware that we have the ability to monitor your transmissions, so you should be careful what you say and who you say it to." He made eye contact with each man, before looking at KGB, then moving slowly toward the exit door, he said, "And in case you are wondering why. . . there is a device planted under this aircraft." He went quiet for a moment. "Once you have reached fifteen thousand feet, we will no longer have the ability to activate it. Need I say more?" Absolute silence. "Idti (go)," he said to Slade. They rushed down the steps, one behind the other, then picked up the Russians' weapons that were laying on the ground.

As they ran to the Gulfstream, Slade laughed. "Monitor transmission? Activation? Christ, boss! You sure as h.e.l.l know how to weave a tale!"

"Worth a shot!"

Without saying a word to anyone, or looking at Kalinin, Grant headed to the c.o.c.kpit. Climbing into the co-pilot's seat, he put his .45 on his lap, then pulled the face mask over his head, brushing a hand quickly over his hair.

"What now?" Garrett asked.

Grant glanced at his submariner then refocused again on the plane. "Gave them five minutes to start takeoff procedures. Once they're rolling, contact the tower. I'll fill you all in once we're underway." He hit the switch, securing the steps and door.

He and Garrett went through the checklist for takeoff procedures. They were almost through the list, when the Antonov's lights came on, engines wound up. A marshaller posted himself at the front, then signaled with lighted wands. The plane began rolling, pa.s.sing along the starboard side of the Gulfstream.

As it made the turn toward the runway, Grant breathed a sigh. "Okay, Matt. Our turn."

Garrett adjusted his headphones and mike, set the frequency, then contacted the control tower for permission to taxi. Takeoff was from Runway 024, right behind the Russians. Garrett received heading and alt.i.tude. Following the airport marshaller's signals to proceed toward the runway, Garrett gave a quick salute.

Grant glanced over his shoulder, into the darkened cabin. Kalinin paid no attention to the aircraft leaving without him, but stayed focused on the c.o.c.kpit.

"They're underway," Garrett said. The Antonov lifted off the runway. It began a slow, wide turn, putting it back on an easterly heading. Before long, its navigation lights were no longer visible.

Garrett contacted the tower. "Shannon Tower, Mike 581 (M581) ready for takeoff."

"Mike 581. Cleared for takeoff Runway 024."

"Cleared takeoff Runway 024. Mike 581."

Over the North Atlantic The Gulfstream was at cruising alt.i.tude twenty-nine thousand feet. Head winds were strong. Flight time to D.C. was estimated to be close to eight hours.

"Matt, do you need anything to eat or drink?"

"Maybe a Pepsi. I'll eat something later."

Grant came out of the c.o.c.kpit. "Hey, DJ. Get Matt a Pepsi."

James came forward with the drink and Grant said, "Stay with him for a while, okay?"

"Sure, boss."

The rest of the Team knew it was time for Grant to meet Kalinin. They remained quiet, but heads turned as he started down the aisle. Adler stopped him, saying softly, "Listen, Skipper, back there. . . I should've searched that guy."

Grant just nodded, laying a hand on Adler's shoulder, then he continued toward Kalinin.

Stopping by the compact refrigerator, Grant took out two c.o.kes. He turned, seeing the Russian sitting on the edge of a seat, leaning forward with his head hanging down.

"How about something to drink?" Grant asked, as he held the can toward Kalinin. The Russian reached for it, but didn't look up. Grant popped the top on the can, then sat opposite him.

The only intelligent, non-combative conversations Grant ever had with a Russian were with Moshenko. That friendship started when Grant rescued his now very good friend from a sinking chopper. This was going to be a h.e.l.luva lot different.

As he downed a good portion of soda, Grant told himself he had to get into the guy's head. Even without speaking to him, he had a feeling they were on the same level playing field.

Kalinin finally looked up. He had to agree. They did resemble one another, except the American had brown eyes, more scars, and maybe was a few years older. His eyes dropped to Grant's hands, scarred and obviously strong.

The silence between the two men was about to be broken. "Why'd you save me back there?" Kalinin asked.

Grant put the can in a cup holder, then scooted closer to the edge of the leather seat. "Because it's my job to take you back to the States. . .alive." He locked eyes with Kalinin's, then added, "Or maybe it was pure reaction to protect a defenseless. . ."

"Don't consider me 'defenseless.'"

"Okay. Maybe poor choice of words, but you didn't have a weapon, did you? And you sure as h.e.l.l weren't diving for cover."

Kalinin rolled the cold can between his palms. "You're Grant Stevens, aren't you?"

Grant tried to conceal his surprise. "And I'll bet you're Nicolai Kalinin. Or would you prefer I call you by your American name?" He didn't have a clue what that was, but bluffed anyway.

Kalinin wasn't falling for it. "'Comrade Kalinin' will be fine."

Adler had been leaning on the armrest, straining to hear over the engine noise. He whispered to Novak, "This is getting good."

Grant gave somewhat of a smile. "'Comrade Kalinin.' Just doesn't roll off the tongue easily. Think I'll call you 'Nick.'" Kalinin opened the c.o.ke and took a long drink.

Grant pointed to sc.r.a.pe marks on Kalinin's face. "Do you need something for that? We've got. . ."

"Not necessary."

Grant pushed himself back, then put his hands behind his head. "I've gotta tell you something." Kalinin appeared to finally relax somewhat, as Grant continued. "I've seen you before. It was years ago, but I'm pretty d.a.m.n positive."