The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Khalid paused when he heard the Russian refer to him by rank. It was a sign of respect the Russian rarely used.I will have to keep him properly paid , he thought while he opened the report.Until I can afford to boil him alive in oil and feed his liver to the dogs, that is.

  “Let us start with the pilot training,” the Iraqi leader suggested.

  “The first class of Iraqi pilots to reach advanced training at Al Sahra consists of twelve men, all very promising. We expect at least ten to graduate, perhaps all twelve if there are no accidents.”

  “Will they be able to deal with American pilots?”

  “Not for at least two years,” General Puzitsky answered. “We have just opened the advanced aerial combat training grounds over the Al Jazirah Desert. The student pilots are very good, but they need experience. They will get that quickly in the simulated air combat they will have against their Russian instructors.”

  “The artillery training?” Khalid flipped a page.

  “They are also ahead of schedule,” General Puzitsky replied. “Two battalions of long-range artillery equipped with South African 155-mm G-5s are already fully qualified. Ten more should be ready in six more months.”

  “Antiaircraft defenses?”

  “The first five brigades ofAntey, S-300V antiballistic interceptor missiles have been delivered and are operational. They are presently being manned by Russian personnel. Iraqi personnel are being trained and should be operational in six months.” The general paused to contemplate Khalid briefly. “As you know, these missiles not only can intercept ballistic missiles but also high flying aircraft as far away as one hundred kilometers.…”

  “Yes, General, I know,” Khalid interrupted. “That is why I bought them.”

  Bored, the Iraqi leader started to flip through the rest of the report. “Let’s see, tanks—the T-90s are being delivered. Infantry—training proceeding to schedule. Navy—mine layers in training in progress.… Ah, yes, the ‘special project,’” he said as his interest suddenly perked up again. “Just how well isNew Babylon doing?” he asked as he laid the report on the table.

  “We will test fire it in about two weeks,” the general replied, a faint smile betraying his amusement.

  “What?” Khalid’s face showed his astonishment. “How? You weren’t supposed to be able to fire that cannon for another year yet!”

  “Dr. Bull did a good job for your predecessor,” the Russian answered quietly. “The tunnels were finished years ago. The recoil system and breechblock was already in place, as was the aiming equipment. Since the Coalition peacekeeping inspection teams never dreamed that such a weapon existed, they never searched it out and blew it up as they did the two other cannons designed by Dr. Bull. That left us with only the need to make the barrel sections and assemble them. The first ten sections of the barrel have already been delivered and assembled. The last ten are presently on a ship and will be here in two days. All we have to do is bolt them into place and align them. That should take only a few days.”

  “But test firing it?” Khalid appeared confused, proud and worried all at the same time.

  “We have to, sooner or later, Marshal Khalid,” the Russian replied. “Dr. Bull left an incomplete set of ballistic tables for this cannon—he never had a chance to finish them before he was assassinated. Therefore, we will have to fire several ranging shots to gather information and then calculate our own tables.”

  “But won’t the Americans notice?”

  “We’re planning to fire only ten test shots and all will land in the deserts of eastern Iraq. The longest shot will be only six hundred kilometers—that’s still about half the way to Tel Aviv. However, nobody but us will see the shots, or them landing.”

  “How long before the cannon is operational?” Khalid scratched his chin pensively.

  “Within a month, given the necessary projectiles,” General Puzitsky answered.

  Field Marshal Khalid Rashid Ribat, Commander-in-Chief of all Iraqi armed forces, rubbed his chin more vigorously. He hadn’t expected thatNew Babylon , the third long-range super gun designed by Dr. Gerald Bull for Saddam Hussein, would be ready for at least a year. All his plans had been based on that time schedule. The rebuilding of the Iraqi military machine will still take at least that long. It should still be that long before he had his first Iraqi-built nuclear weapons. However, that too had been resolved unexpectedly. A shadowy Austrian arms merchant had mysteriously acquired five hundred kilograms of weapons grade plutonium recovered from surplus Russian tactical weapons. Just how he had obtained the material was a deep, dark secret, but it had undoubtedly been stolen from the recycling plant near Moscow. Khalid happily paid the price the man asked, nearly a billion dollars. It was a bargain at twice the price.

  It is the will of God!he decided.It is the will of God that I am to succeed in my sacred effort.

  “That is very good news indeed, General Puzitsky,” he announced. “I am directing you to personally oversee the completion ofNew Babylon . I want to make that cannon operational as soon as possible—within a month. That is a direct order.”

  “Yes, sir,” the general replied. The Russian’s face was calm and unemotional, impassive, not betraying in the least the excitement and exultation that churned inside of him.

  Chapter Three

  Jerry Rodell sat in the rear seat of the T-38 trainer, content to let General Winslow fly. Forbidden by Air Force regulations from flying high-performance jets because of his age, General Winslow had obtained one of the trainers for his personal use. He was now using it to get some precious flying time as they flew to Groom Lake.

  Jerry turned his head to admire the view from the canopy. They were at only ten thousand feet and already descending as they crossed Student Gap, as Red Flag exercise participants designated the Pahroc Gap, some ninety miles northwest of Las Vegas. Normally, it was the portal to the mock air battles for those taking part in a Red Flag exercise. However, today Student Gap was a portal to a new world for Jerry Rodell—he had at long last been invited to the Ranch, or Dreamland, as the Air Force now preferred to call its top-secret base at Groom Lake.

  “Watertown tower, this is Romeo Five-three, inbound, at the Gap,” Jerry heard Winslow call on the radio; he smiled at the transparency of the ruse. Although the existence of a military base at Groom Lake had been acknowledged years ago, there is still officially no such place as Groom Lake Air Force Base. It’s not on the aeronautical maps; even those used by most military pilots. Instead of showing the 30,000-foot long runway that runs diagonally over the southwest corner of the ancient lakebed, the military maps of the area show only a roughly 25- mile-square restricted airspace surrounding Groom Lake designated as Area 51. It is marked on flight maps as Dreamland. It is more colloquially known by the Air Force pilots who daily fly around the restricted airspace as “The Box.”

  Jerry watched Winslow fly. Although a competent pilot, General Winslow was rusty. He was over-controlling the little trainer, causing it to bounce up and down as he strove to keep it flying straight and level. Still, Jerry was happy to let him fly, for landing at Dreamland uninvited was definitely a cardinal sin, punishable by a mandatory visit to the base commander, the infamous General Randall Teuschler, known locally as King Randall the Terrible.

  Yes,Jerry thought to himself while he looked out of the canopy again.Better that Winslow takes the heat if there are any screw-ups .

  “Romeo Five-three, Watertown, cleared to land runway three-two left, winds ten from three, one, zero,” Jerry heard over his earphones as Dreamland’s control tower responded to General Winslow’s call. “Barometer two-niner, niner-five,” the tower added a few seconds later. “Land long and wait for the pumpkin wagon on Delta North.”

  Both Winslow and Rodell chuckled at the reference to the pumpkin wagon. Years before, the first commanding officer at Groom Lake decided that the elite air police unit guarding the base should have a distinguishing emblem. For reasons not fully understood by anyone else, he chose a sand-c
olored beret. Unfortunately, the color actually ordered was a shade too orange and so gave the air police the appearance of wearing pumpkins on their heads. Although the air police rarely wore their berets, they were still universally known as pumpkins, or pumpkin heads, probably as much for their apparent lack of intelligence as for their headgear.

  Jerry peered through the windshield. In the distance, on the far southwestern edge of the lakebed, he could make out the large hangars that hid Dreamland’s secrets from spying Russian satellites. Clustered nearby were smaller buildings; all were painted a light sand color, as though to camouflage them. Nearer the lake, situated well away from the runway, stood the water tower, incongruously painted in a brilliant red and white checkerboard pattern. Here and there, large white telemetry dish antennas used to monitor test flights were scattered in no discernible pattern.

  Winslow decreased his altitude rapidly as they crossed the aptly named Jumbled Hills just to the east of Groom Lake and began his approach into the landing pattern. As ordered by the tower, the general kept his plane in the ground effect a few feet above the cement strip and flew down the first two-thirds of the runway. A minute later, they were parked on taxiway Delta North, watching a cloud of dust rush their way.

  “Well, we’re at Dreamland,” Winslow said with a smile.

  “Looks more like Dante’s inferno,” Jerry replied.

  Winslow laughed. “I guess so, but it’s all in the eyes of the beholder. Some of the munchkins end up loving it out here.”

  Jerry gazed around at the scenery—what there was of it. The desert was a wild collection of rocks, gravel, and sand—all thrown around carelessly by the forces of nature. The vegetation was equally disordered. A hundred yards to the west, a collection of Joshua trees, each covered with short blade-like leaves, stood above the other plants like a convention of scaly stick men.

  Jerry Rodell shuddered. “Only a rattlesnake could love this place.”

  A white four-wheeled off-road vehicle came to a stop in front of them. It was unmarked except for a large blue and red police-car light bar mounted on the roof. The two men sitting in the front wore camouflage fatigues and dark sunglasses. The man in the right seat consulted a clipboard on his lap and after a brief conversation with his companion, waved for Winslow to follow. An instant later, the driver turned around and headed back toward the row of hangars about a half-mile away, revealing for the first time the conspicuous yellow and black “FOLLOW ME” sign on the back of the truck.

  “Welcome to Dreamland, Jerry, the land of munchkins and pumpkins,” General Winslow chuckled, advancing the throttles to taxi their aircraft behind the pumpkin wagon.

  General Winslow dutifully taxied his aircraft behind the white truck at what seemed to Jerry to be a snail’s pace. Curious as to where they were headed and anxious to find out just what General Winslow had brought him all the way here to see, he began to fidget as the little procession continued slowly down the taxiway.

  First, they passed the Red Hat squadron hangers filled with the Air Force’s collection of MiG, Yak, and Sukhoi military aircraft. Next came a row of administrative buildings, followed by a parking ramp cluttered by Beech King Air utility aircraft. That was soon replaced by another ramp with three Boeing 737s parked on it. They were painted white with a red stripe on either side of the fuselage. Beyond that, they were unmarked except for civilian aircraft registration numbers: no airline names or logos of any kind. Jerry had often seen similar the aircraft at Nellis Air Base before, but he never asked what they did. They were just one of those mysteries you weren’t suppose to ask about.

  What struck Jerry was the quietness of the place. Except for their T- 38, the King Airs and the 737s, no other aircraft were to be seen or heard. It was as though the base had been abandoned. Nevertheless, he knew better. Everything had been neatly put away out of sight because he was there. He was an outsider, an intruder.

  Finally, the pumpkin wagon turned off the taxiway and headed across yet another concrete apron towards what was the largest hanger by far at the base. Officially known as Hanger 18, the locals simply called it “the big hanger.” Although Jerry had no way of knowing it, it had originally been built to house a monstrous delta-winged aircraft that could climb nearly into space. There it launched a smaller aircraft riding piggyback that could and did fly all the way to orbit. However, that project had been canceled, to be replaced by a smaller, simpler and more cost-effective solution that was now undergoing final tests in one of the other hangers nearby.

  At long last, General Winslow halted his airplane and, following the hand signals of the ground crew, shut down the engines.

  “We’re there, Jerry,” the general announced as the engines whined down. Two ground crewmen rushed up with ladders and hooked them to the side of the aircraft. “Get out and I’ll show you around.”

  “Thanks,” Jerry replied in a mumble. “I was beginning to wonder if we were going to drive right off the base.”

  “Forget to go to the john first?” There was a twinkle in Winslow’s eye—he had noticed Jerry’s fidgeting.

  “Ah, yes,” Jerry admitted not wanting to admit his real reason for his restlessness. “It was suppose to be only a few minutes flight.”

  “There’s a john in the guard shack.”

  Thankful to be free of the cockpit, and anxious to see what the mysterious project might be, Jerry Rodell climbed down the side of General Winslow’s aircraft and felt his boots crunch reassuringly onto the concrete apron. He paused to glance around at the base. They were parked just outside the fence surrounding the large hangar.

  “Good afternoon, General, sir,” a voice boomed from the other side of the aircraft. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight, sir.”

  Jerry rounded the nose of General Winslow’s aircraft, only to be confronted by an air police master sergeant. Dressed in starched and pressed camouflaged fatigues, he stood rigidly at attention, saluting General Winslow.

  Strack!It was the only word Jerry could think of to describe the sergeant when he first saw him. It was an almost derogatory term used to describe overly “spit and polish” soldiers.Goddamn strack out here in the middle of nowhere, Jerry Rodell thought when he saw the man. The sergeant’s trousers were tucked into his spit-polished boots and a pumpkin-colored beret topped his head at a rakish angle. His parade- ground attire was completed by a carefully bloused yellow bib-scarf around his neck. The sergeant relaxed slightly as General Winslow returned his salute.

  “Colonel, sir,” the air policeman bellowed. He snapped to attention again as Jerry Rodell approached. Jerry studied the apparition, forcing himself not to shake his head in disbelief. He casually returned the sergeant’s salute while he joined General Winslow beside the airplane.

  “If you gentlemen would follow me, sirs,” the sergeant said, going at last to a parade rest position. “I’ll escort you to building 431, the guardroom for Hangar 18. However, before we go inside, may I warn you that, as visitors, you must be escorted at all times while inside the hangar’s security fence. Since all air police on this base are authorized to use deadly force, I would highly recommend that you instantly obey the orders any of us pumpkin heads.” A faint but friendly grin was forming on the sergeant’s face.

  Jerry glanced at General Winslow, who was taking the lecture with unexpected calm; the sergeant’s tone would have been more appropriate for boot recruits than senior officers. Yet, to Jerry’s surprise, Winslow stood calmly and took it.

  “Excellent, Sergeant,” Winslow congratulated the air policeman enthusiastically. “That’s the way I want it done in my hangar complex. I don’t care if the sonofabitch is the president, I don’t want anybody, including myself, who is not wearing a resident badge walking around by himself inside of that fence.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Now, if you’ll follow me.” He began walking toward the guardhouse.

  “In case you are wondering,” Winslow remarked to Jerry as they walked. “I was named projec
t manager for what’s inside Hangar 18 several months ago. Sadly, when I took over, I found security lax. My philosophy is that if you treat the boss like everybody else, everybody gets treated the same. Therefore, if you treat the boss strictly by the book, everybody gets treated strictly by the book. My standing orders apply to me as well as everyone else who enters the Hangar 18 complex. And please remember that they are under strict orders not to hesitate to use deadly force.”

  “I understand,” Jerry responded in a restrained voice as they reached the door of the guardhouse. The air policeman opened it and stood aside to permit General Winslow and Jerry to enter first.

  “General, sir,” a woman’s voice called jubilantly as Jerry followed Winslow into the main room of the building. “Will you be staying overnight?”

  The question seemed to Jerry more an invitation than an inquiry. A young female captain was standing at attention behind her desk. Her loosely fitting fatigues did little to hide her obvious charms.

  “No, Captain,” Winslow answered while returning her salute. “I’ll be here for just a few hours today.”

  Jerry Rodell couldn’t help but notice that a tinge of disappointment developed in her smile.

  Privileges of rank, he thought wistfully.

  “Colonel Rodell,” Winslow said formally, “I would like you to meet Captain Wilma Korfman. She’s in charge of security for this hangar complex.”

  “Colonel, sir,” she murmured with a demure look, as though she were appraising him.

  “Wilma,” Winslow asked while unzipping the top of his flight suit a few inches, “are Colonel Rodell’s clearance papers in order?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “They came in yesterday.” Her air became completely professional as she reached into the top drawer of her desk and withdrew a thick folder.

  “All we need to do is verify his fingerprints and take his picture before he can go visit your mistress, General. If you’d come this way, Colonel,” she requested, walking toward a machine that looked like a photocopier.