by Walt Gragg
He would never be found. The only trace of him would be a thick trail of blood leading down the mountain that would disappear in a few days, along with the melting snows.
In the morning, the explosive ordnance team would shake their heads in disbelief. If the sandwiches had arrived thirty seconds later, the commandos’ mission would have been a complete success and America’s chances of strategically controlling the war nearly gone.
• • •
Half the American microwave communications between Germany and England, and from there on to the States, had disappeared with the loss of Langerkopf. The other 120 channels went through a single facility—Feldberg. The only other modern American satellite relay in Germany sat next to the Feldberg communication control station.
As at Langerkopf, the security at Feldberg consisted of a single airman with a 9mm Beretta. The airmen’s M-4s were two miles down a snowy hill at the detachment’s headquarters. Hearing Donnersberg’s warning, the Feldberg night-shift supervisor issued an order for the fifty airmen below to gather their weapons and rush to the top of the mountain. Once more, sleeping Americans were roused.
The Feldberg supervisor placed half his crew, six unarmed men, near the fence line to watch for any sign of the enemy. They had no weapons, so they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. Nevertheless, they could provide a warning. The six airmen stood in the shadows inside the fence. After a quarter hour in the freezing cold, the airmen were growing far more concerned about the pain in their extremities than the possibility of an enemy attack.
• • •
The five-man killing team sent to eliminate Feldberg was late. Fifteen minutes late. They’d left their safe house on the outskirts of Frankfurt right on schedule. But they’d taken a wrong turn within minutes of starting their journey. Driving a sputtering Opel down unfamiliar streets in the middle of a blizzard, the team leader had missed the turnoff. In the darkness, he’d driven three miles in the wrong direction before realizing his mistake.
The twenty-mile trip to Feldberg was to take no more than fifty minutes, even in this weather. Instead, the commandos had taken ninety to arrive at the end of a deserted farm road near the base of the high mountain. They’d tossed caution to the wind and scrambled up the mountainside at breakneck speed.
At any cost, their target had to be destroyed.
Five black-clad figures, protected by the forest’s oppressive darkness, reached the hilltop. The commandos split up. Three crawled through the snow to the rear of the compound. The communication tower and satellite ground equipment was their objective. The second team moved toward the front gate. The American guard shack was right in front of them.
The first team muffled their wire cutters and snipped a hole in the chain link near the tower.
From the shadows, an airman screamed, “Someone’s at the fence! Intruders near the tower! Intruders! Intruders!”
A commando crawled inside the wire, drew his knife, and hurled it toward the sound. The knife’s blade found its target. The voice in the darkness shrieked. The wounded airman dropped to his knees, clutching at the knife deep within his chest. The remaining killers rushed through the hole. The trio was upon the airman in a flash. The American let out a final scream.
“Dammit! Where the hell are you guys?” the shift supervisor screamed into the telephone. “We’re under attack up here!”
“Hang tight. They left five minutes ago. Should be there anytime.”
Ten cars were churning up the steep, snow-covered roadway. They were nearing the top. The guard leaped from the shack and drew his Beretta. He fired two rounds toward the tower. The sound of his firing crackled through the windswept night. The hurried shots missed everything.
The second set of assassins was hidden in the trees fifteen feet from the guard shack. They opened up with their machine pistols. The guard went down.
The commandos’ mission had been foiled. The pair stepped from the forest and ran inside the gate. Each blindly fired automatic rifle bursts into the walls of the prefabricated aluminum communication control building. The rounds ripped through the thin metal walls and tore into the communication equipment. Half the critical equipment on the Feldberg to Martlesham Heath, England, link was torn to shreds. Sixty of Feldberg’s 120 channels to England disappeared as the gunfire tore the sophisticated electronics equipment apart.
The commandos stopped to reload. They could hear the automobiles coming up the hill. The cars were growing louder by the second. Both turned toward the ominous sound.
One of the Americans was standing undetected in the area behind the night shift’s row of parked cars. He crept over to his own. He opened the driver’s door and crawled inside. Lying flat on the floorboard, he dug his keys from his pocket. The airman shoved the key into the ignition.
In one motion, he bolted upright and started the engine. The airman threw the car into gear and floored it. Tires spinning wildly, the car fishtailed. It smashed into the car next to it and spun back to the left. With snow flying from every crevice, it roared straight for the menacing black figures near the gate. The assassins turned toward the onrushing car. At the last possible instant, the commando leader dove out of the way. The other saboteur froze. The car smashed into the stationary figure, scooped him up, and, in a mighty crash, impaled him on the fence.
The leader leaped to his feet. He ran to the car. With blood streaming down his face, the driver looked up. The airman’s eyes held an instant of recognition. The leader stuck the nose of his machine pistol close to the windshield and squeezed the trigger.
The rescue convoy was quite near.
The sappers at the rear of the compound spotted another of the airmen hiding in the darkness near the building. They opened fire. Half a dozen bullets slammed the American against the wall. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Trails of blood oozed down the side of the building.
One of the assassins ripped the satchel from his back. He set the timer for ten seconds and tossed it toward the satellite terminal. The satchel landed within a few feet of the satellite dish. The charge exploded, leaving behind nothing but an unrecognizable mass of twisted, smoldering metal.
The line of cars crested the hill. They roared toward the compound. The commando leader was right in front of them. As they sped toward the gate, the three passengers in the first car stuck their M-4s out the windows. They started firing. Caught in the open, the saboteur ran toward the rear of the facility. His companions waited near the communication tower to cover his escape. They returned the Americans’ fire.
It was an eighty-yard run through deep snows with the soaring cars clipping at his heels. The ruthless killer was in incredible physical condition. But the distance was much too great. Like a pack of hungry wolves, the line of cars raced after the fleeing figure. The commando leader blindly fired as he ran.
The first car closed in for the kill. From twenty yards away, the airmen unleashed a long burst from their M-4s. Lines of bullets danced across the leader’s back. The saboteur somersaulted in the snow. He sprawled forward, face buried deep within the drifts. He was already quite dead.
Nevertheless, the Americans were in no mood to take any chances. For good measure, the speeding car ran over his bloody corpse.
With their leader out of the way, the remaining commandos fired everything they had. A hail of bullets smashed the first automobile’s windshield. The driver took a round to the face. The car spun out of control. The airman sitting next to him grabbed for the steering wheel. It was, however, too late. The speeding car veered to the left and smashed into the base of the burning satellite equipment. The automobile burst into flames. All four airmen were trapped by the raging fires.
The airmen in the next pair of cars raced side by side through the compound. Six M-4s returned the three commandos’ automatic-pistol fire. Two of the invaders fell. The wounded saboteurs dragged themselves toward the hole in
the fence. The opening was just a few feet away. Another burst of gunfire from the swarming Americans, and the pair moved no more. In a desperate attempt to save his own life, the final saboteur ran for the fence. He squeezed through the hole and disappeared into the darkness. Twenty airmen leaped from their cars and raced to the wire. They started firing in the direction the black figure had taken.
The commando wouldn’t get far. The next day they would find his bullet-riddled body in a thorny thicket one hundred yards down the hillside.
• • •
The sabotage of the American strategic communication system was over for the moment. But the Russians weren’t finished yet.
General Yovanovich’s plan called for four initial targets—the three largest military communication facilities in Germany and one of the smallest. Langerkopf, where the site had been destroyed. Donnersberg, where a shift of hungry soldiers had survived. Feldberg, second only in size to Donnersberg. And on the top of the Zugspitz, the highest mountain in the German Alps, a tiny relay that served as the only American communication link with Italy. If all of the sappers had succeeded, communication between America and her field commanders would’ve nearly disappeared. In Germany, communication between the air bases and the ground forces the fighter aircraft were intended to protect would be severely handicapped. America would fight this war almost blind.
As it was, the loss of Langerkopf and the two satellite ground stations destroyed significant portions of the communication system, crippling the Americans. Langerkopf served as one of only two facilities connecting Germany and England. And it also tied together the majority of communications west of the Rhine River. The American fighter bases at Ramstein and Spangdahlem received most of their communication services through the destroyed site.
Even with their losses, the sabotage hadn’t caused the crushing defeat of American command and control General Yovanovich had envisioned. The Americans had been staggered by the swiftness and intensity of the Russian attacks. They had to do something to restore their ability to strategically control the war or face certain defeat against the superior armored forces pouring through the border.
Precious time was passing. There was no more of it to waste if the Americans were going to have any chance of winning the war. They had to overcome the saboteurs’ destruction.
And they had to do it now.
CHAPTER 18
January 29—12:58 a.m.
NCO Housing Area, United States European Command Headquarters
Patch Barracks, Stuttgart
In his warm two-bedroom apartment, Army Staff Sergeant George O’Neill fell asleep next to his wife, Kathy. The twenty-eight-year-old O’Neill had decided to stop studying at about 11:30, when the couple’s nineteen-month-old son, Christopher, awoke and started his nightly screaming. It had taken George forty-five minutes to calm the child and return him to his dreams. Christopher quieted, O’Neill slid into bed next to his wife. Snuggling next to her on the brutally cold night, George decided that a prolonged bout of lovemaking just might be in order. But when his amorous advances didn’t awaken Kathy, he gave up and rolled over. In a short while, he fell asleep.
As he drifted off, O’Neill should have been more concerned than he was. He was aware that an evacuation of dependents had begun. Even so, he believed it would be another two weeks before the Stuttgart area, well to the west of the border, would be affected by the order.
With the Warsaw Pact’s war games scheduled to end in a few days, O’Neill was confident the evacuation order would be rescinded long before it would threaten to separate him from Kathy and Christopher.
The gangly George O’Neill wasn’t a handsome man. And he wasn’t very comfortable around people. Unlike her husband, the irresistible Kathy O’Neill was quite attractive. Petite, with shoulder-length blond hair and a pixie smile, she was a real charmer. Everyone who met smiling Kathy took to her immediately. Her zest for life was obvious to those with whom she came into contact. Many times, as she stood in the bathroom watching George shave, a silly grin would come over her sweet face. For as she stared at him, she would realize there was no doubt she’d married Ichabod Crane. Nevertheless, she loved her Ichabod. And she knew her Ichabod loved her. To Kathy’s credit, when she’d met George, she’d taken the time to look beyond his features. What she found hidden there was a man of substance. Now, four years into a wonderful marriage, she knew her instincts had been correct. For her, he was the perfect husband. And for George, there couldn’t have been a better wife.
They were truly soul mates. Fortunately for both, the bond between them was immutable. For like many marriages, theirs had suffered tragedy. Within days of arriving in Germany, the couple’s firstborn child, Emily—a four-month-old, bright-eyed baby girl—had died of sudden infant death syndrome.
It was Kathy who’d found her. And it was Kathy who’d borne the brunt of the grief and guilt that followed. Alone all day and most evenings while George went to work or attended college classes, she’d suffered in silence. Luckily, within three months of Emily’s death, Kathy had become pregnant with Christopher. And while she’d never fully recover from the taking of her first child, Christopher’s arrival had eased the pain. With Christopher in her arms, her boundless love for life had returned.
A classic underachiever, O’Neill had enlisted in the Army eight years earlier because he couldn’t figure out anything better to do with his life. It was Kathy who’d given him the direction he needed. Despite an extremely challenging job, since his arrival in Germany O’Neill had attended the University of Maryland’s on-base college program. For thirty months he’d carried more than a full load of classes. He’d given up his lunch hours, his evenings, and his Saturday mornings to sit at uncomfortable wooden desks in the base education center.
As the couple’s last six months in Germany neared, O’Neill was three months away from completing his bachelor’s degree in business administration. Four courses to finish, and he would be a college graduate. He took great pride in the fact that if he received an A in these final classes, he would graduate summa cum laude. Or as he’d told Kathy after a particularly demanding week, “thank the laude.”
After a full day’s work, he would devour a hasty meal. A quick kiss for mother and child, and he would hustle off to class until nine. Afterward, he’d study until late into the night. He slept little. On the weekends, he’d have a firm grip on a textbook from the moment he awoke until well after dark. Without someone as supportive as Kathy, O’Neill would never have been able to maintain the torrid pace he set for himself. Even the patient Kathy had expressed how nice it would be when she finally got her husband back. Yet each believed the sacrifices they were making would be worth it.
During the past year, he had received well-paying management offers from a handful of America’s leading telecommunication companies. And while the couple’s decision wasn’t yet firm, it appeared that when they left Germany, they’d also leave the Army behind.
He’d been asleep for scarcely fifteen minutes when the phone in the living room began to ring, shattering his brief peace. He glanced over at Kathy. His soundly sleeping wife was just beginning to stir. In a fog, he stumbled out of bed and headed for the living room. Christopher’s renewed screams were added to the unexpected clamor. O’Neill grabbed the phone and was surprised to find Navy Petty Officer First Class Mike Gallagher on the other end of the line. George did his best to clear away the cobwebs and overcome his confusion at the unexpected call. In thirty months, no one from his unit had ever disturbed him at home.
“What’s up, Mike?” O’Neill asked.
“Sorry to bother you, George, but Defcon One was called an hour ago. They’ve got me calling all the guys who live on the base. Report to the office as soon as you can. I’ve still got to notify Benning and Whitehall. See you when you get here.”
Without waiting for a response, Gallagher hung up. O’Neill stood in the middle of
the living room, telephone still in his hand, while his addled brain tried to accept what he’d just heard. He couldn’t shake his disbelief. This had to be a dream. Defcon One could only mean one thing—his country was at war.
Christopher continued to wail. Kathy hurried into the child’s room. O’Neill returned to the bedroom and started putting on his uniform. While he finished lacing his boots, Kathy wandered in holding the now-contented toddler to her breast.
“What’s going on, George?” she said.
O’Neill figured that until he found out what was happening, the less he said the better.
“Don’t know, Kath. That was Mike Gallagher on the phone. He said they need me to come back to the office for something.”
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“He didn’t say, but it might be all night.”
O’Neill threw on his field jacket, wrapped an olive-green scarf around his neck, shoved his hands into his gloves, and put on his cap. With a kiss for mama and baby, he hurried from the second-floor apartment. He raced down the cold steps and out the front door. The moment he stepped through the doorway, the fearsome blizzard smacked him across the face. Any cobwebs lingering in his brain instantly disappeared.
The couple’s car was buried beneath two feet of snow and ice. Rather than fighting to free it, O’Neill decided to walk the half mile to his office. He pulled the scarf up around his ears and started down the cobblestone street. With every step he took, the snow and ice crunched beneath his feet. The iridescent glow of the base’s ancient streetlamps surrounded him. There were other shadowy figures in the narrow streets purposely heading in different directions. But he never noticed. His mind was far too preoccupied with the implications of what Gallagher had told him.
Near the small base’s western fence, O’Neill bounced up the steps of a single-story office building. He swung open the glass door. He stopped to pull out the identification badge hanging from a chain around his neck. A quick flash of the badge for the MP sitting at the desk just inside the doorway, and he continued on his way.
