Operation Gold Eagle Read online

  OPERATION GOLD EAGLE

  Grant Stevens

  and

  Team Alpha Tango

  by

  Jamie Fredric

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © - 2014, Jamie Fredric

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  Other Books by Jamie Fredric:

  Mission Critical

  Black Ops 1

  Warning Order

  Black Ops 2

  In the Mouth of the Wolf

  Black Ops 3

  Sacrifice of One

  Black Ops 4

  Last Op

  Black Ops 5

  Shanghai Mission

  Code Name Antares

  *

  Visit: jfredric.blogspot.com

  Dedication

  For All Those Who Have Served

  *

  All Gave Some, Some Gave All

  Team Alpha Tango

  Home Base - “Eagle 8”

  Grant Stevens - Captain, (Ret.); graduate U.S. Naval Academy; born in California; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’1”; fluent in Russian and Japanese; Code name “Panther”; Team call sign: “Yankee Zero-Niner”

  Joe Adler - Lieutenant, (Ret.); born in Oklahoma; brown hair, blue eyes, 5’10”; fluent in German; Code name “Mustang”; “Yankee Two-Seven”

  Frank Diaz - CPO; born in NY; black hair, brown eyes, 5’9”; EOD; fluent in Spanish, some Portuguese; “Yankee Three-Six”

  Ken Slade - CPOS (Senior Chief), (Ret.); born in Alaska; bald; brown eyes; 5’10”; pointman/navigator; speaks the Inuit language, and Russian; “Yankee Four-One”

  Cal “Doc” Stalley - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Virginia; dark blond hair; blue eyes; 5’10”; corpsman; fluent in French, some Chinese; youngest of the Team; “Yankee Five-Two”

  Darius “DJ” James - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Florida; dark brown hair; brown eyes; 5’9”; communications; speaks some Turkish, Arabic; “Yankee Six-Eight”

  Mike Novak - Petty Officer 1st Class; born in Wisconsin; dark blond hair; hazel eyes; 6’0”; sniper; speaks Hungarian and some German; “Yankee Seven-Three”

  Matt Garrett - Captain, (Ret.); graduate of U.S. Naval Academy; born in Maryland; brown hair; brown eyes, 6’0”; fluent in French and German; “Yankee Eight-Four”

  Rob Draper - Lieutenant; OCS, Newport, R.I.; born in Connecticut; brown hair; hazel eyes; 5'9"; fluent in French; "Yankee Niner-Niner"

  Chapter 1

  U.S. Army Compound

  West Berlin

  October

  0200 Hours

  After an entire day of rain, clouds were finally breaking up, allowing brief glimpses of stars and a quarter moon. An Army guard ducked his head out of the shelter, checked the weather, then pulled off his rain gear, hanging it inside the guardhouse. Readjusting his helmet, then his hip holster, he slowly walked across the paved driveway. He glanced through the bars of the white, wrought iron fence, then tugged on the gate, ensuring it was secured. There hadn't been any traffic for over an hour, and as he looked up and down the tree-lined street, there still wasn't any sign of headlights or pedestrians.

  On his way back to the guard house, he glanced over his shoulder at the metal flag pole, hearing the sound of flag snaps clanging against the pole in a brisk ten knot wind. The constant drone of two generators and the flag snaps were all that interrupted the otherwise quiet evening. He took his position in front of the guardhouse.

  At the back of the compound, a second guard patrolled next to the seven-foot high chain-link fence. Across the top concertina wire (razor wire) stretched along three sides of the compound. He backed up a couple of steps, then looked toward the right corner, noticing one of the security lamps flickering. He made a mental note to report it to maintenance. From where he stood he wasn't able to check all the security cameras, but assumed they were all operating. Tapes would be reviewed in the morning.

  He stopped next to the pass office building, and checked the lock. Taking out a pack of Lucky Strikes, he tapped the bottom then grabbed one with his lips. Feeling for a lighter in his pocket, his eyes scanned the compound one more time. Smoking was prohibited while on duty. He ducked behind the building, then lit the cigarette. This would be his last smoke until after his patrol around the rest of the compound. Taking a long drag, he blew out a steady stream of smoke, looking up at the smoke dissipating in the night air. After two more quick drags, he stepped around the side of the building. Before he had time to flick the butt outside the fence, a bullet, fired from a silenced weapon, struck center mass. He stumbled backward. The last thing he saw was a deep color of red, spreading across the front of his uniform. He collapsed.

  The shooter continued aiming his weapon, sweeping it side to side as he scanned the compound. Two other men with bolt cutters began snipping the wire, cutting away a "panel" big enough to not impede their escape.

  With weapons drawn, they grabbed brown leather satchels, and ducked through the opening. While two of them dashed across the parking lot, the third dragged the guard into the building's shadow. Picking up his satchel, he ran to the corner of the two-story barracks, immediately standing guard. The other two men had already started unrolling det cord, starting from opposite ends of the building. Spaced every four feet, attached to the det cord, were sticks of dynamite, three to a "pack."

  Joining the det cord at the mid-way point of the building, the two men glanced at the man on watch. He gave a thumb's up, and they immediately began inserting chemical pencils into the dynamite sticks. Each pencil had a three minute fuse, and contained a one inch ampoule of acetone, that when crimped would allow the acetone to eat away a plastic washer holding back a striker under spring tension. When the washer eroded, the spring would drive the striker into the explosive detonator, setting off the device.

  They completed their task. Ivan Reznikov signaled. The ampoules were crimped. The three men ran like hell, sprinting through the fence opening, trying to reach their vehicle before the explosion.

  At the main gate the guard heard an engine starting. He rested a hand on his weapon, and went to the gate, leaning his head against the wrought iron, trying to detect anything, anybody. He moved farther to the right along the fence, when a horrific explosion rocked the ground. He spun around. What he saw took his breath away. The remains of the barracks spewed fire. The first floor had collapsed under the weight of the second. Wood burned. Men screamed. Sirens blared. Men from other buildings were rushing toward the destruction.

  He started to run, when he heard a vehicle coming closer. He turned and drew his weapon, as an older East German car sped away into the darkness.

  The final casualty toll: 35 killed, 60 severely injured.

  *

  Phillip Braxton had assumed the ambassadorship to Germany after being appointed by President Andrew Carr. Four months after the barracks' bombing, he and his aide were being driven from the embassy to attend a meeting in Bonn with the diplomates of France and England. His official vehicle flew the American flag on the right front fender.

  As the vehicle approached the outskirts of Bad Godesberg, the driver slowed just enough, anticipating the sharp curve. As the vehicle went into the curve,
two RPGs were launched from behind a hill. One struck the engine compartment, the other the rear, immediately exploding the gas tank.

  The attack killed the driver and aide instantly. The ambassador survived the blast, but succumbed to his horrific injuries on the way to the hospital.

  Over the next fifteen months, two more attacks on American installations claimed the lives of 50, both military and civilian.

  With help from the West German BND (Federal Intelligence Service), the CIA positively identified Ivan Reznikov from security tapes as lead participant in the Army compound bombing. All indications implicated him in the attack on Ambassador Braxton, and the following two attacks.

  Reznikov took over the No. 1 spot on America's Most Wanted list.

  Chapter 2

  Two Years After Barracks' Bombing

  Eagle 8

  Virginia

  June 15

  0830 Hours

  Patches of blue began appearing in the morning sky, as broken clouds were nudged along on six knot winds. A cool breeze kept the temperature at 60 degrees. The weather was perfect for Team A.T. to inspect and make necessary repairs to the property, restock ammo and explosive materials, and ensure the C-130 and Gulfstream were ready to fly.

  Grant, Adler and James were walking the east side of the property. They'd been out since 0630, checking security cameras and fence. James had a map pinpointing the location of cameras. They paid special attention to the electric fencing by checking controllers, ground and jumper wires, joining wires, and ensured all posted warning signs were secured.

  Taking a break before examining the next section, Adler held up a thermos. "Who's for some java?" Both Grant and James unhooked mugs from their belts.

  The three started sipping the brew, when the radio crackled. Grant answered, "Speak."

  "Boss," Stalley replied, "you've got a call from Scott on the secure phone. He's still on hold."

  "On my way."

  "Don't tell me. Scott called, right?" Adler asked.

  "Yeah. He's still on hold, which means something's going on. Here, Joe, you keep the radio. You and DJ get as much done as you can. I'll call when I find out what the hell's happening." He dumped the coffee out of the mug as he started jogging back to the house, already concerned about his upcoming conversation with Scott Mullins.

  Ten minutes later, Grant picked up the receiver. "Scott?"

  "Hey, Grant. Sorry to interrupt, but does the name 'Ivan Reznikov' sound familiar?"

  "Damn straight it does! The bastard's been eluding us for . . . Oh, shit! He hasn't caused . . . ?"

  "No, but the Russians located him."

  "They actually found him?!"

  "Don't know how or where, but yeah, they did. A top secret exchange is supposed to take place between Reznikov and somebody named 'Dotsenko.'"

  "Never heard that name. Did you say it's classified as top secret?"

  "That's what I've been told."

  "Where's it gonna take place?"

  "Glienicke Bridge."

  "We've never been involved in a spy exchange, Scott. Why this one?"

  "That's all I've been told. Listen, if you think you and the Team want to handle it, just say so, 'cause the President wants to meet with you asap."

  "Can you give me a half hour?"

  "I'll call you back." Conversation over.

  Grant phoned Adler and James, then Garrett and Draper at the airfield. He went to the kitchen, put on two fresh pots of coffee, then he went outside. The rest of the team was busily washing SUVs, Zodiacs, checking fuel levels, tire pressure. Diving and jump gear were next.

  Grant let out a short, high-pitched whistle, then motioned with his hand. "I need all of you inside."

  "What's goin' on, boss?" Novak asked, as he, Stalley, Diaz and Slade followed him into the house.

  "Let's wait for the others," Grant answered, as he opened a top cabinet and took out coffee cups.

  Ten minutes later everyone had arrived. Sitting at the long dining room table, drinking coffee or Coke, each man focused his attention on Grant, anticipating they were about to learn of a new mission.

  "Hey, Grant," Matt Garrett said, "before we get started, I want to let you know there are some new 'presents' in the garage. Actually, to try on." The men always knew when the word "presents" was mentioned, A.T.'s benefactors had supplied the latest and greatest of something, even if it was still in the testing stage.

  Grant looked around the table, knowing everyone's curiosity was getting the best of them. "May as well tell us, Matt."

  "Body armor."

  "No shit?!" was echoed by more than one man.

  "A big no shit, guys! They're bullet resistant vests, with front, back and side coverage, and fully removable ballistic inserts. I haven't taken any out of the boxes, but I understand they're the type that can be worn under clothing, concealable."

  "You said 'bullet resistant'?" James questioned with raised eyebrow.

  "Best we can do for now, DJ."

  "Two to one it'll stop a bullet better than my shirt!" Diaz quipped. "I'll take one!"

  "Okay," Grant said, "we'll check those out right after we finish here. Now, you've all heard about Ivan Reznikov and know that he's been on our Most Wanted list." Heads bobbed up and down. "According to Scott, the Russians found him, and an arrangement's been made to offer somebody we've been holding in exchange for Reznikov."

  Adler asked, "Do you know who?"

  "Somebody by the name of 'Dotsenko' but I never heard of him. Speak up if you have." Silence.

  "So, what the hell does 'Uncle Sam' want us to do?" Novak asked, with brow furrowed.

  "Don't exactly know, Mike. Look, I realize we normally don't handle these spy exchanges, so there's gotta be a helluva lot more to this. Scott's due to call back expecting our answer. So, with the very little we do know . . . do we accept the mission?" There wasn't any doubt in Grant's mind what the overwhelming response would be. "Hell yes" and "hooyah" gave him his answer.

  "Ok. I'm supposed to meet with the President asap, and probably the NSA and CIA." He looked toward Garrett. "Can I assume the Herc and Gulfstream will be ready?"

  "Just name the day, then take your pick," Garrett replied. "All we need is a flight plan."

  Grant nodded, then directed his attention to Draper. "I know you haven't had any real time to settle in, Rob, but nothing's changed much from our Navy days."

  Draper smiled. "Lookin' forward to picking up where I left off! The opportunity to possibly fly a Herc again doesn't come along too often." Rob Draper was the newest team member. For eight years he'd flown C-130s. His last duty station was Jacksonville, Florida.

  Adler raised his coffee mug. "Welcome aboard to organized chaos!"

  Grant pushed his chair back. "You all finish up outside. We can add or subtract gear once we find out about the mission." Chairs slid across wood floor as the men got up.

  Grant called, "Hey, Mike!"

  "Yeah, boss?"

  "Plan on taking your sniper rifle."

  "Which one?" Novak asked with his fingers crossed.

  "You decide."

  "Yes!" Novak exclaimed, pumping his fist against the air, already planning on the laser guided rifle.

  "Get the hell outta here," Grant said, grinning.

  Draper leaned against the table. "What the hell was that all about?"

  "During our last mission we recovered stolen laser-guided rifles, completely computerized with GPS. The President authorized release of one prototype to us. Mike's been in 'love' ever since. I'm sure he'll be more than happy to give you a demo."

  Chapter 3

  Five Days Prior to Exchange

  White House

  1250 Hours

  Dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, long-sleeve white shirt, with a gray/blue/white diagonally striped tie, Grant followed an assistant down to the Situation Room, located in the basement of the West Wing. Throughout the room were secure communications systems. In the walls, behind sound-absorbing wood panels, w
ere a variety of audio, video, and other systems. In the center was a long mahogany table, capable of seating six along each side, with the President's chair at the head, facing a large TV screen on the opposite wall.

  "Have a seat, Captain Stevens," gray-haired Edna Hartley said, as she opened the door.

  "Guess I'm early," Grant commented, noticing no one else in the room.

  "The President and the others will join you shortly. Water, soft drinks and coffee are on the credenza."

  "Thank you, ma'am." As he walked into the room, he glanced toward the opposite end of the Sit Room, making him aware he wasn't entirely alone. On the other side of a wall was the National Security Council room, known as the "Watch Room." Computer terminals could be fed both classified and unclassified data from around the country and the world. The Sit Room staff was composed of approximately 30 personnel, organized around five "watch teams" that monitored international events 24/7/365, and regularly briefed the President. The staff helped the President connect with intelligence agencies and important people all over the world.

  Grant wondered where this meeting would lead, and what A.T. would be asked to do. Then another thought hit him, or maybe it was his gut "talking" again. Mullins said the exchange was top secret. Why top secret?he thought. Spy exchanges were normally handled by the Agency, and usually turned into a media circus.

  He walked slowly toward the back of the room, continuing to wonder. Pausing briefly, he turned around, just as the door swung open.