The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Shocked by Fred Kelder’s unexpected outburst, Jerry Rodell obediently sat in a worn club chair in front of Fred’s battered desk. Satisfied that he had control of the situation, Fred got up and searched through the books and papers stacked haphazardly in an old bookcase behind his desk. He found what he was searching for and opened a large black book as he walked to Jerry Rodell’s chair.

  “Have any idea what this is?” he asked, showing Jerry a photograph. It was of a metal box about the size of a pack of cigarettes, with a long wire trailing out of one end.

  “No, I have no idea,” Jerry answered. “I’d guess it’s a radio of some kind.”

  “It’s a heart pacemaker,” Dr. Fred Kelder said. “Every hear of it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you know that there are literally tens of thousands of people walking around with one of these inside of them.”

  “My dad had one,” Jerry replied. Both Madeline MacCauley and Dan Reinhardt quietly moved to behind his chair to watch.

  “Well,” Fred continued while sitting against the edge of his desk, “it’s really quite a crude device by today’s standards. And although the average pacemaker is a lot smaller and nearly absolutely reliable, it is really not very much more sophisticated than the one you’re looking at. That one was built over forty years ago.”

  Colonel Rodell glanced down at the photograph and examined it. Then he looked back up a Dr. Fred Kelder.

  “Recently, a lot of work has gone into pacemakers. The newest ones have little microcomputers in them that can sense the patient’s activity and change the heart rate appropriately. The whole idea of using minute electrical currents to stimulate the heart system has been expanded to stimulating the nervous system as well. For example, there are artificial ears and eyes under development. However, those are years away from being perfected. More practically, there is an electrical penile stimulator for those unfortunate men who can’t obtain an erection. The way it works is the patient turns it on by pressing a switch hidden under his skin, it stimulates the nerve that controls the flow of blood out of the penis, andviolà! ”

  “Tom Swift and his electric pecker,” Jerry quipped.

  “It’s not so funny if you happen to have that problem.” Dr. Kelder commented with an acrid tone.

  “The neural nexus?” Jerry prompted while he squirmed slightly in his chair.

  “I as just coming to that,” Dr. Fred Kelder replied somberly. “Since you’re a pilot, you already know that you need a g-suit to pull more than say four or five g’s. Do you know how it works?”

  “Certainly, it squeezes the legs and forces the blood up into the brain.”

  “That’s right, and with the recliner coach inMary Lou , you can pull perhaps twelve g’s. Yet with the new generation of antiaircraft missiles, you’d need to pull at least fourteen to fifteen to survive.Mary Lo u can pull fifteen, you can’t—at least as you are.”

  Fred stood upright and walked around to the back of his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out what appeared to be a heart pacemaker, except that it was smaller and had about a dozen wires trailing from one end.

  “This,” he said while holding the device out for Jerry to see, “is the somewhat grandiosely named the ‘neural nexus.’ It’s a logical development of the heart pacemaker and the penile prosthesis.”

  He walked round his desk and again sat on the front edge of his desk. “Here.” He handed it to Jerry Rodell who accepted it with apparent reluctance.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured Jerry with a gentle laugh, “it won’t hurt you. It’s only a mockup.”

  Jerry Rodell held the apparatus in his hand and hefted it. It was surprisingly light. After examining it for a moment, he handed it back, suspicious of what might happen if he held onto it too long.

  “How does it work?” he queried.

  “Glad you asked.” Fred laid the device on his desk, walked over to his whiteboard, and picked up the black marker pen.

  “If you give me a minute, I’ll draw you a picture.” He started drawing.

  As the other three quietly watched, Dr. Fred Kelder quickly drew a diagram of the lower portion of the human torso. Next, using red and blue colored pens, he added the iliac arteries and veins that supply the legs with blood. Finally, he quickly sketched in the stomach, intestines and other major viscera.

  “Here we have the greater, lesser, and least splanchic nerves, along with two mesenteric plexi and the hypogastric plexus.” He drew the nerves in, showing where each connected. Satisfied, he stood back to admire his work and then turned to Jerry Rodell.

  “What the neural nexus does is give us a way to remotely stimulate each of these nerves, either together or selectively—just like with a heart pacemaker. The effects of this stimulation are to increase adrenaline levels, decrease gastric activity and, most important, increase vasocontraction of the visceral blood vessels. In short, we can temporarily cut off blood flow to the viscera, saving it for the brain. It’s works just like the so-called g-suit you wear now, except that it is much more efficient and controllable.”

  “It also requires the pilot to be ‘rewired,’ as Dr. Reinhardt so delicately put it?” Jerry asked snidely, glancing around at Dan Reinhardt, who was standing behind him. Reinhardt blushed.

  “Yes, it does,” Fred replied. “You’d have to have an operation. You’d be off your feet for two or three days, and off flight duty for less than a month. After that, there would be no other effects, except you’d be able to pull up to fourteen or fifteen g’s in that airplane out there.” He pointed at the wall, vaguely in the direction whereMary Lou , the ATASF aircraft, was parked.

  “You’d be able to do what no other pilot can do,” Fred declared.

  Jerry sneered. “It also means spending the rest of my life dodging microwave ovens.”

  “What do you mean?” Fred Kelder had a surprised look on his face.

  “Haven’t you ever gone into a fast food restaurant and seen those little signs, ‘Pacemaker wearers beware—microwave ovens in use’? I can just see it now: I go in for a burger and French-fries and get a permanent hard-on instead.”

  “Oh,” Fred laughed. “That can’t happen. This doesn’t work that way. It’s computerized. It will only respond to computer generated codes, and.…”

  “Excuse me,” Jerry interrupted again. “What computer generated codes?”

  “The ones Cleo sends, of course,” Fred replied matter-of-factly.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Jerry said, staring straight into the doctor’s eyes. “You want me to let you implant that thing in my very precious body so your little darling out there can play whatever games it wants with my viscera?”

  “That won’t happen,” Fred insisted earnestly.

  “‘Trust me,’” Jerry snapped back. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “No,…” Fred began, but he recognized that Jerry Rodell was right. Given Cleo’s performance a few days earlier, he realized that Jerry had good reason to mistrust her. Fred emitted a loud sigh.

  “Okay,” he admitted, “I’m asking you to trust Cleo and to trust me. I’m asking a lot from you, Colonel, and I know it. However, with regard to the neural nexus, you have final control of it because you can simply reach down and unplug it from Cleo anytime you want. All you have to do is reach in the special pocket in your flight suit and pull the transmitter out.”

  Jerry responded with a stare.

  At least he stopped arguing, Fred Kelder told himself.

  “What transmitter?” Jerry inquired.

  “Oh, that,” Fred shook his head slightly. “I never explained the way it’s connected to Cleo, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t.” Jerry shifted in his chair nervously.

  “Well,” Fred said as he picked up the model of the neural nexus lying on top his desk. “Since we want the entire prosthesis inside the abdominal cavity, we use a low-power radio transmitter to broadcast the codes through your skin. The transmitter has a range of only a
few inches.”

  “What about spurious radio transmissions?” Jerry looked dubious.

  “As I said,” Fred replied wearily, “the coded instructions are long, complicated messages. Only those which are completely correct will cause any response by the device.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Jerry commented, still staring at the device.

  “You agree?” Fred probed gently.

  “Not yet, Doctor.” Jerry got up. “I want to think about it for a few days. My dad was a career officer in the Army, and the one thing he drummed into my head was ‘Never volunteer for anything.’ That’s always been good advice.”

  Fred Kelder leaned back on his desk and relaxed, allowing his body to slump while contemplating Jerry Rodell.

  General William Winslow made no attempt to hide his displeasure while he reread the orders for a third time.

  “You expect me to believe these orders?” he snarled, glaring up at Major Herbert Schuman, who was standing rigidly at attention before Winslow’s desk.

  “I would recommend that you confirm them if you have any question about their authenticity, sir,” Schuman replied firmly. Schuman wore his hair in an exceptionally short crewcut. He was a solidly built man, slightly under six feet tall. Humorless, he held a serious yet impassive look as he studied Winslow with dark penetrating eyes. He was not the sort to be intimidated by mere one-star generals.

  “They’re the damnedest orders I have ever received,” Winslow grumbled. “Signed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Hillman himself, and then passed directly to me, ignoring the appropriate chain of command.”

  “General, sir,” Major Schuman said sternly, “the orders originated from the White House. Admiral Hillman was just following the Commander-in-Chief’s direct verbal orders.”

  “The president?” General Winslow exclaimed. “You mean that the President of the United States issued these orders?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. President Hayward has been informed that the Russians are aware of Velvet Rainbow’s existence and that they are trying to steal the secret computers associated with the project. There’s a leak somewhere, and it’s my job to find it.”

  “All by yourself?” General Winslow gave the major a scornful look.

  “No, sir,” Schuman barked, “I’m only one of over a thousand people involved. I’ve brought twenty people with me to Groom Lake, and there are another fifty assigned to Nellis. My assignment is to review security procedures here. My cover is that I’m your new chief of security clearances, which I really am.”

  General Winslow reread the orders a fourth time. They were simple and to the point. He was to extend to Major Schuman every courtesy and assist the major in his investigation. The orders further stated that Major Schuman was cleared on all aspects of the Velvet Rainbow project. All records, papers and personnel files relating to the project were to be made available to the major upon his request.

  Just what I need,Winslow thought bitterly while he put the orders down,a goddamn watchdog!

  “Very, well, Major,” he said, “I expect daily written updates.”

  Schuman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. My orders are to not transmit anything in writing except to my direct superior.”

  “You expect me to permit you to run around in my project and not keep me informed?” Winslow snapped angrily.

  “No, sir.” Schuman glared at the general, clearly not afraid of any form of retribution. “I have explicit orders on that too, sir. I’m to keep you informed verbally. I have also been ordered to inform you that you are not to keep written notes regarding our conversations nor to discuss them with anybody else.”

  Winslow sighed. “Very well, Major. Welcome to Groom Lake and to the United States Air Force.”

  Major Schuman blanched. “Sir?”

  General Winslow leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying his little victory. “You’re no more an Air Force officer than I’m a Zulu war chief, Major Whoever-you-are.”

  Shaken, Schuman stared at Winslow. His mouth hung open slightly.

  “You think that you spooks and snoops are the only ones capable of spotting impostors, don’t you,” Winslow said. “My guess is that you’re from the Marines. You act like one of those gung-ho career officers. Well, we’re just a little more sophisticated than that in the Air Force, Major. If you want to succeed in this assignment, I strongly recommend that you stop marching around like a parade-ground drill instructor. And let your hair grow—nobody in the Air Force wears quarter-inch crewcuts.”

  Major Schuman’s expression confirmed the general’s guesses. Satisfied, Winslow waved his hand toward the door.

  “Now get out of here,” he ordered, “and if anybody gives you the slightest difficulty or fails to cooperate with you completely and fully, refer them to me. And I want to hear from you daily, understand?”

  “Yes, General, sir.” the Major snapped to attention and saluted. General Winslow grimaced.

  “You didn’t hear a damn thing I said to you, did you?” Winslow growled. “I’m ordering you to walk, not march; and I expect you to spend one hour this evening practicing slouching in front of a mirror. Now go find that leak.”

  “Dobroe utro,Good morning, Grigori Pavlovich,” Aleksei Ilyich Dekanozov, the Director of SVR, said as he got out of his desk chair to greet Lieutenant-General Grigori Pavlovich Sechenov, his First Deputy Director.

  “Dobroe utro,” Grigori replied.

  “How is our friend, Mr. Keesley?” Dekanozov asked. He pointed to a pair of armchairs set by the fireplace.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Grigori chuckled, “even though he’s as mad as a wet hen. I told him that we knew about their CLEO computer.”

  “You what?” Normally impassive and unreadable, there was no question about the alarm in Aleksei Dekanozov’s expression.

  “I told him that we were aware of their new CLEO computer,” Grigori answered as he sat in one of the chairs. “And that we also considered it a strategic weapon, or a killshot, and therefore insist that it must be disclosed to us under the terms of our agreements.”

  He looked at his boss and saw the alarm in Aleksei’s face. “You seem upset, sir,” he commented in dismay. He rarely saw any emotion Aleksei Dekanozov’s expression. Even as a boy, Aleksei was renown for being taciturn and unemotional.

  “You told them that we knew?” Aleksei repeated. The worry showed.

  “Certainly,” Grigori replied, clearly surprised by Aleksei’s reaction.

  “But they’ll have to figure out that you’ve penetrated their Velvet Rainbow project and have ashtepsel, spy, in it.”

  “Obviously.”

  “That means that the Americans will tear apart the whole project looking for the source of that information,” Aleksei continued anxiously. “They’re bound to uncoverZerkalo , Looking Glass, yourshtepsel .”

  “Zerkalois safe from discovery, trust me.”

  Aleksei Dekanozov responded with a frown.

  Grigori crossed his legs. “I had a very good reason for leaking that information to Keesley.”

  “And that reason, Grigori Pavlovich?” Aleksei prodded.

  “Have you ever studied chemistry?”

  “Certainly,” Aleksei Dekanozov replied. His expression became impassive again.

  “Then you know what quicksilver, mercury, is,” Grigori noted, leaning back into his chair. “Once when I was still a lad, my chemistry teacher poured a drop of it on my hand and warned me to hold on to it. The harder I tried, the easier it slipped through my fingers. I want that CLEO computer, and by putting the Americans on guard, I will cause them to let it slip through their fingers like so much quicksilver.”

  “You have a plan?” There was a tinge of suspicion of Aleksei’s voice while he eyed Grigori.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s why I asked to see you. I don’t likeOperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka, Operation Armored Fist. It’s too risky. There are too many things that can go wrong. Even if they don’
t, we still stand an excellent chance of destroying that computer when we shoot that plane down.”

  “What would you have us do, raid their secret base in Nevada?” Aleksei’s deadpan look successfully hid whether he was joking or not.

  Grigori laughed at the thought. “Of course not. That would be an act of war. The Americans might even get upset if we were to do that and take back all that money they’ve invested inRodina . We couldn’t have that, could we? Besides, we’d have to use thoseSpetsnaz y of the GRU to mount such a raid and that would make Marshal Dobrovolsky, our overweight defense minister, most upset.”

  The faintest hint of a smirk appeared on Aleksei’s lips. “Yes, that would.”

  “So we’re stuck with Operation Armored Fist.” Grigori sneered.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Aleksei Dekanozov’s expression had become glacial.

  “Marshal Dobrovolsky’s plan is what the Americans call ‘too cowboy,’” Grigori told him. “What guarantee do we have that the Israelis won’t go ahead and drop a nuclear missile on that gun site? What’s the guarantee that the Americans won’t manage to attack it with their F- 117As and destroy the cannon? What’s the guarantee that even if we do entice them into sending that magic airplane and its computer into Iraq that we’ll actually shoot it down? And even if we do that, what is the guarantee that the computer isn’t destroyed?”

  “Life is full of risks,” Aleksei replied dryly. “That’s why we have a job.”

  “We have a job because we are successful, not because we take stupid risks,” Grigori snorted. “We both agree that we must obtain that computer’s technology forRodina . However, there are other ways of doing that. Other ways that do not require Marshal Dobrovolsky’s or his military’s help—ways that give us full credit for the feat and puts that fat pig Dobrovolsky into our debt.”

  Aleksei Dekanozov eyed Grigori Sechenov for a moment, thinking. Grigori had long known of Dekanozov’s burning ambition to rise to the top, to be President of Russia. Nor had Aleksei hidden his contempt for Vladimir Golovanov, calling him azhopa, asshole, orzalupa , prickhead, in private. His opinion of Marshal Dobrovolsky was little better. Yet he needed Dobrovolsky’s support and that was why he had originally agreed to participate in Operation Armored Fist—a plan he himself thought to be stupid at best. However, he had little choice. He needed to make Dobrovolsky happy. Now Sechenov appeared to have come through with a solution. Perhaps he could use it to his own ends.