Vortex- Berlin

by Lee Jackson

  Next to him, Atcho stirred uneasily. Sofia looked dumbfounded. She began a retort. “Major Horton, if you don’t want…”

  “Now don’t get your britches in a twist,” he interrupted with his most charming smile. “I’m just trying to make sure I understand things.”

  “What’s your point?” Burly broke in.

  “Just checking to make sure I got a handle on everything,” Horton said genially. “You want some of our Flag Tour teams to be part of this. I want to know what I’d be getting us into. Can I go on?”

  Burly nodded impatiently.

  “So, while Miss Sofia…” He winked at her. “While she’s doing all of that…” He laid the Texan accent on thick now and pointed at Ivan. “This here Russian is going to play like a KGB agent, and these old guys from the lost Bay of Pigs...” The five men glared at him. He glanced at them. “No offense, fellas. I just wanna be accurate.”

  He addressed the full group again. “These guys are going to round up two old people on canes, a young couple, and two kids, including a toddler.” As he spoke, his eyes swept the ceiling as if searching for sanity. “Then they’re going to wander through the crowds in East Berlin to the US Embassy, which isn’t allowed to help them, and where, by the way, we think a nuclear bomb will be planted.”

  He faced Juan directly and indicated Rafael. “Are you really going to take your team in to do that? Do you trust him to get you in and back out?” He pointed at Ivan. “Are you going to put your lives in this guy’s hands? He might just want to turn you all over to the Russkies.”

  Ivan eyed Horton with an implacable expression. Juan locked his eyes on Horton, but otherwise showed no emotion. He turned slowly to Fernando and Pepe, who returned his gaze soundlessly. Then he shifted his view to Rafael, and then Ivan. Finally, he rested his eyes back on Horton. “We’ll take our chances.”

  Horton studied him momentarily. “OK.” He turned to Atcho. “And then there’s you.” He chuckled as he said it. “You get yourself kidnapped by a guy you thought you’d killed once and put in prison once, and I had to put my mission at risk to save your scrawny ass from wandering the streets—on the wrong side of the Wall? Isn’t that about the size of it?”

  A narrow grin crossed Atcho’s lips. “You have a unique way of viewing things, Major Horton.” He shrugged. “You summarized my entire existence in one sentence, but you are essentially correct.”

  Horton studied him. “I want to make sure I got a sharp picture.” He paused a moment longer. “Now, you’re going after this General Yermolov—I haven’t got clear in my head yet if he’s American or Russian—but he’s bad. And you’re going after him and three nuclear bombs, which, we just learned, are in Stasi hands. Oh, yeah—and we don’t know who controls the Stasi.”

  He shook his head as if in total disbelief. “If you don’t succeed,” he waved his hand dismissively at the others, “it doesn’t matter what they do, because it’s all going up in a mushroom cloud anyway. That’s the plan?”

  Atcho held his steady gaze. “You have a good grasp of the situation.”

  Horton put his hands on the table in front of Atcho and stooped so that their eyeballs were even. “And you want to use my teams to help in all of this?”

  Atcho met Horton’s eyes. He leaned forward. “I’ll get Yermolov and the bombs, Major,” he said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. “With you, or without you.”

  Horton stared a moment longer. “OK.” He abruptly sat down, stretched his legs, twiddled his thumbs, and stared up at the ceiling.

  The room remained quiet. At last, Burly cleared his throat. “Major Horton, are you done? Do you have any more questions?”

  Horton looked up as if startled. All eyes were on him. “Oh—sorry, sir.” He scrambled back up to his feet. “Like I told you before, I’m just a dumb grunt. Sometimes I forget decorum.” He winked. “See, there’s one of them big words again. I hope I used it right.” He looked around at the impassive faces and laughed. “I’m in.”

  Burly wiped the back of his neck. Atcho breathed a sigh of relief. Sofia remained unmoving.

  “You S-O-B,” Rafael called across the room. He grinned. Even Ivan subdued an involuntary smile, while Juan, Fernando, and Pepe nudged each other and chuckled.

  “Major Horton.” Atcho’s commanding voice broke through the murmur. Immediately, the room fell silent again. “Do you mind telling me what your decision is based on?”

  Horton stared at him. He tilted his head to the left and then to the right as if tabulating possible reactions to his response. Then he met Atcho’s gaze once more. “Hell, sir.” He appeared about to reveal a deep, dark secret. “I got a family too. I had to make sure you all would stick to your guns before I committed myself and my teammates. Besides,” the corners of his eyes creased with the beginnings of a grin, “we already know we can’t turn you loose by yourself in East Berlin. People get killed that way.”

  He laughed. Then his tone changed to one of deadly seriousness. “The way I got things figured, we’re gonna need five of our Flag Tour cars to support those missions. That means ten members of our intel teams all at once.”

  “Why so many?” Burly asked.

  Horton counted off on his fingers as he replied. “One to get Sofia joined up with her team in the East. Two more to get Rafael and his team over there. One to get Atcho and me in there. And one decoy. Don’t forget, each car already has two people.”

  “Why the decoy?”

  “Every time one of our cars goes through, the Stasi are on them like flies on buttermilk. One thing we got going for us is that the crowds are so thick these days. Nobody can hardly follow nobody. Does that make sense? You get my meaning, though.

  “I’d suggest we send one car through carrying only the normal crew. That one will draw the chase cars. Then we send three more in fairly quick order. We’d need to stagger them, so they don’t go through all at once. We don’t usually send that many teams out in such a short time, so they won’t be expecting them.

  “Our guys will still have to assume they’re being followed and take evasive action. The people in the back seats will have to duck down. It’ll be cramped, but it should work. The border guards don’t hardly know how to act these days, so I don’t expect them to stop us. Atcho and I will bring up the rear.”

  While he talked, the phone rang. Burly answered it. “It’s General Marsh,” he said after a moment. “He wants an update.”

  “Tell him I’ll come brief him now,” Sofia said, preparing to leave.

  “I’ll let him know,” Burly said. He looked around the room into the eyes of each team member. “Folks,” he said. “It’s time.”

  Horton had remained standing. “One thing before we head out,” he said. “I know you know this, Miss Sofia.” He caught her eye, and he did not smile. He looked around at the others. “This ain’t a cakewalk. Four years ago, Major Arthur Nicholson, a great soldier doing my job, got shot and killed by the Soviets. It’s serious business.”

  31

  Early that evening, Wolfgang Sacher looked about the great auditorium and fought to maintain composure. On his way to his daily press briefings in the early evenings, he had seen the crowds in the streets grow. Each day they became more restless, more openly hostile to East German officials—to him. For the past three days, he had been jeered when he reassured people that their government would soon deliver a brighter future.

  Each time he had made those optimistic comments, he had recited the East German Social Unity Party line, which he knew to be a lie. Even with the recent loosening of policy, the calcified Communist system could never deliver the quality of life enjoyed by Western countries. But Wolfgang knew that an irrevocable change was near. In a few hours, he would strike a blow that could culminate in the death of the tyrannical government. Delivering that blow, however, was fraught with risk.

  He looked past the gaggle of Western press to the main entrance of the hall. Sofia’s appearance there would signal that his family was under her
protection. Then, he could proceed with his announcement.

  As he shifted attention to other parts of the room, his view rested again on the Western press, and particularly on Tom Brokaw, the sonorous newsman of legendary fame. He scoffed. How difficult to try to be both dignified and eager to ask the ultimate question at the same time. These reporters try to be different in exactly the same way, but they rarely know what is really happening.

  He scanned the door again and caught himself. Still several hours to go. You can’t appear overly interested in what’s happening at the door. His nerves felt stretched, taut. He must keep a normal appearance. He had to be congenial while bloviating about the dubious achievements of the East German socialist state.

  He glanced one more time around the auditorium, steeling himself against his urge to look at the entrance. During a moment when no one paid him much attention, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed an envelope. He inserted it among the papers on his desk. Then he tapped the microphone. “We are ready to begin today’s press conference. I’ll make a few general remarks, and then take your questions.” The crowd quieted. He leaned back in his chair and launched into his routine defense of the Communist system. “No one is unemployed, hungry, or homeless in East Germany...”

  Ranulf entered Baumann’s office carrying two duffle bags. His eyes widened when he saw the desk with three identical suitcases setting on it. A nervous little man he did not know sat in a chair in front of the desk. The man bore an uncanny resemblance to Yermolov, but was older, thinner, and bent, with no hint of arrogance. Veniamin Krivkov.

  Klaus occupied a chair near him. Director Baumann sat across the desk.

  Yermolov stared out the window. He turned only long enough to see Ranulf enter. “We’re all gathered. Director Baumann, will the nuclear engineers be joining us?”

  Baumann shifted in his seat. “They’ll be here momentarily. Is there anything you need from them aside from checking the systems?”

  Yermolov shook his head. He turned to Veniamin. “I trust you completely, Cousin,” he said with slight sarcasm, “but everyone makes mistakes.” He watched Ranulf cross the room and place the duffle bags on the desk. “Is that the money?”

  Ranulf nodded. “Three million dollars in one bag, and two million in the other, all in old, untraceable bills. I used every bit of pressure I could and paid a lot of bribes to get it. This could be our only chance. I got as much as I could.” He shifted uneasily under Yermolov’s intense scrutiny.

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Two men entered. One carried a small satchel. Baumann stood. “These are the engineers.”

  Yermolov reverted to the cordial personality of General Paul Clary. ““Please come in. I’m sorry I don’t have time for formalities. We need your assessment of these devices.” He indicated the three suitcases and introduced Veniamin. “This man designed and built them. We need to know if they will work.”

  Visibly nervous, the engineers approached the desk.

  Veniamin looked equally unsettled. He opened the first case, and then the other two. Without fanfare, he went through the same explanations he had given Klaus. As he showed the engineers the various digital displays and data entry screens, their eyes grew wide with horror, but they made no comment. When he flipped the switch to arm the fail-safe system and run through the testing cycles, their fear was palpable.

  They asked a few questions about the structure of the elements inside the rocket-shaped tube, and then watched as Veniamin, with painstaking care, disarmed the one he had used to illustrate. Then he walked through the process on the remaining two bombs. When finished, he closed all three suitcases. “You can test communications between any suitcase and its corresponding remote by pressing this button.” He showed them. “When this diode lights up, that tells you they are communicating but will not set the bomb off. To do that, you must press this button.” He pointed it out. “You press it to arm it, hold it five seconds, and then press it down farther to detonate. I designed it that way to prevent accidental detonation.”

  Fear grew to incredulous terror on the engineers’ faces. They stood, speechless. The one who carried the satchel removed an instrument from it. He moved forward with obvious hesitancy. “Do you have a port where I can measure radioactivity?”

  Reluctantly, Veniamin re-opened one of the suitcases. He lifted off the metal plate and exposed the port.

  The engineer studied the tube and its attachments. He opened the port and held the instrument close to it. A clicking noise sounded.

  “Well?” Yermolov inquired, still in the genial personality of Paul Clary.

  The two engineers glanced at each other and then at Yermolov. They nodded. The senior engineer spoke up. “The radiation levels are correct. As Mr. Veniamin indicated, all three of these devices are viable nuclear bombs.”

  Klaus watched in fascination. Only after Veniamin had closed the suitcase did he speak up. “I’ve seen the procedure four times, and it’s been identical each time. I’m confident I can arm them and get to a safe place to blow them.” His eyes gleamed. “This will work. I’ve scouted the target. I can have the bomb placed within an hour.”

  The room fell quiet. Yermolov looked pleased. He resumed staring out the window. “I might be imagining it,” he mused after a moment, “but the crowds seem larger than ever tonight. They’re filling the street, they’re denser, and they’re headed toward Alexanderplatz.” He turned away and addressed Baumann. “Are you hearing anything out of the ordinary?”

  The Stasi director shook his head. “The crowds have grown every day. There are rumors of announcements, but no confirmations. Just people building up silly hopes.”

  Yermolov thought that over. “Are your men ready to move?”

  Before responding, Baumann looked to Ranulf, who nodded. “They’re assigned to their targets. They can act on a moment’s notice.”

  “Excellent!” Yermolov seemed genuinely pleased. He turned back to the window.

  One of the nuclear engineers interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, do you still need us?”

  Yermolov smiled. “No, go ahead, and thank you.” As soon as the door had closed behind them, his demeanor transformed back to that of the cold, calculating renegade Soviet general. He snapped at Baumann. “Don’t let them out of the building. We can’t allow them to tell anyone what they saw here. Retire them permanently.”

  He saw a look of shock cross Veniamin’s face. “What did you think,” he demanded, “that we were playing children’s games last year? How about now? You brought me three bombs. Those engineers are a tiny fraction of the carnage everyone will witness.”

  He shifted his glare to Baumann, who picked up the phone and placed a call. The director spoke in low tones and hung up. “It’s handled. They won’t be a problem.”

  Yermolov continued to watch through the window. The crowds grew. Suddenly, he whirled, startling the gathered men. “Gentlemen,” he barked, “it’s time to implement.

  “Ranulf, move your squads into position.

  “Klaus, plant the first bomb. Do it now. Let me know when it’s done.

  “Veniamin, help him set the remote-control frequency.

  “Director Baumann, make reservations for Klaus and me to Moscow on the next diplomatic flight.”

  All four men stared, shocked. Klaus’ eyes gleamed. He opened one of the suitcases and laid it flat on the desk. Veniamin sat in a stupor.

  Klaus grabbed him by the collar. “Let’s go,” he snarled. “I don’t have much time.” He jerked Veniamin to the desk. “Walk me through it. Make sure I do it right.”

  His violent action spurred the others. Ranulf stood and lumbered out the door. Baumann appeared in shock but turned to his telephone.

  “Veniamin.” Yermolov’s voice carried such force that everyone stopped to see what he would do. “Arm that bomb but disable the timing device. Set the frequencies and the fail-safe. Give me the remote. I’ll keep it with the others.”

  Klaus scrut
inized him. “If you want bombs set in Chechnya or anywhere else,” he said evenly, “you’ll make sure I’m safe.”

  Yermolov spoke calmly. “You have nothing to worry about. Come back when you’re done.” You’re my dog on a leash.

  Thirty minutes later, Klaus left Baumann’s office. He carried one suitcase.

  Klaus chortled when the American Embassy came into view. He drove one of the Stasi Wartburgs. Crowds flowed past him, ebullient, celebratory. Pedestrians’ bright eyes over big smiles and laughter created an air of expectancy. Their mood and demeanor were strange anomalies in East Berlin. But when they saw Klaus’ Stasi vehicle, their expressions turned grim and openly contemptuous.

  Klaus smirked. You fools have no clue what’s coming your way. He pictured the suitcase in the trunk of the car and grinned with satisfaction. A lot of infidels will pay the price for their sins tonight. The Great Satan will feel the wrath of Allah.

  He parked across the sidewalk in front of the embassy. A line of Polizei kept watch on both sides of the street. He stood at the edge of the passing crowd, legs apart, arms crossed, his face a mask of agitated authority.

  Behind him, the US Marine embassy guards noticed his arrival. A Stasi car stationed near their entrance was not unusual. Given the crowds, that one should be there now was not surprising.

  They had been alerted that strange events would likely take place that evening, including that a family could be seeking asylum—and that they might have to beat a hasty retreat into the fortified bunker in the basement. The group of asylum seekers would include a set of grandparents, a married couple, and two small children. If the family avoided the Stasi and Polizei successfully, the Marines were to assist their entry. The family would be escorted by an armed patrol of five men, all US citizens.