Blue Darker Than Black

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Blue Darker Than Black Page 5

by Mike Jenne


  As he strolled along the oxbow bend of the Moscow River that encircled Filyovsky Park, Yohzin recalled the unusual incident at the Paris Air Show last month, when the Germans made contact with him. He had attended the prestigious event at the behest of the GRU, which wanted him to scrutinize new American rocket and spacecraft technology on display. True to their nature, probably concerned that he might capitalize on the foreign travel to defect to the West, the GRU assigned a pair of operatives to keep watch over him. After distracting his GRU babysitters, an unseen German had briefly spoken to him before slipping him a note with a Moscow phone number. Although he hadn’t seen the man’s face, the voice was very familiar, and he was almost certain that he was one of the former V-2 engineers Yohzin had worked with just after the War.

  Yohzin suspected that the brief encounter in Paris was some form of recruitment effort, perhaps a prelude to an invitation to participate in espionage, but he still held out hope that his old German friends were sincerely reaching out to him. Although he should have immediately reported the approach, he held onto the note as he mulled over the offer for several days, anxious to know if it was worth the risk.

  Finally, last night, he was done vacillating. His curiosity overcame his reluctance and he called the phone number. After agreeing to a day and time, a calm voice hastily dispensed instructions for a clandestine meeting this morning in the park.

  With tail wagging briskly, Yohzin’s faithful Alsatian—Magnus—kept pace at his left heel. On a quiet stretch of the river, a light sheen—possibly an oil film—glistened on the water’s surface. Yohzin walked for approximately fifteen minutes before locating a distinctive landmark that had been designated as a starting point. He carefully counted paces before spotting a dark-shaded stone that jutted out slightly from a stone wall, perhaps just a fraction of a centimeter.

  “Sitz, hund,” ordered Yohzin, gesturing toward a spot next to the stone wall as he tugged lightly on the dog’s lead. He crouched down and tightened his shoelaces. Making sure that no one was within the immediate vicinity, he slightly dislodged the loose stone and retrieved a tightly folded scrap of paper that had been wedged beside it.

  He took a seat on a nearby park bench and unfolded yesterday’s edition of Pravda. Pretending to read the newspaper, he memorized the terse instructions on the tiny note. The directions were simple enough: He was to continue walking on the path by the river until he saw a man wearing a gray jacket carrying a dark green umbrella under his left arm. The man would ask for directions to the nearest subway station, and Yohzin was to direct him to the Filyovsky stop on Minskaya Street. If it was not safe to meet, the man would carry the umbrella under his right arm. Likewise, Yohzin would carry his rolled newspaper in his right hand if it was safe to meet, or in his left if it was not.

  After he digested his instructions, he digested the paper … literally. In accordance with his instructions, he slipped it into his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed the evidence. Surprisingly, the taste wasn’t entirely unpleasant, even slightly sweet, and the scrap all but melted in his mouth. Yohzin suspected that the note was written on edible rice paper.

  Following the specified security precautions, he walked on. Conscious that he might be strolling to his doom, Yohzin’s heart pounded in his chest. His palms were sweaty, his hands trembled, his stomach was queasy, and a rivulet of sweat burned his eyes. He was well aware that the clandestine meeting could be an insidious trap orchestrated by the GRU or KGB, and in mere moments, he could be in a dire predicament, even more perilous than working around experimental rockets. Now regretting his decision, he almost pivoted around to walk back to his car. But he elected to press on, so strong was the luring prospect of seeing his German associates again.

  The path narrowed as it traversed a low area that was a maze of dense thickets, lush undergrowth, and tangled vines. Slowing his pace, peering through a gap in the vegetation, Yohzin glimpsed a man who matched the physical description he had been given. The man had obviously selected a blind spot in the path for their meeting place. Still very apprehensive, Yohzin looked for potential escape routes. Also conscious that the stranger might be accompanied by confederates, lurking in the shadows, he vigilantly scanned the surroundings.

  As he closed the gap, Yohzin shifted his newspaper to his right hand. He paused briefly, and looked towards Magnus; the dog’s hackles were raised, as if he knew that he was in the midst of great danger.

  “Pardon me, but I’m not from Moscow and I’m a little befuddled. Is there a subway station nearby?” asked the man in Russian, holding out a tourist map that depicted the Metro underground transit network. Slightly taller than Yohzin, the stranger was handsome, well groomed, and was graced with an athletic frame. He wore black-framed glasses that appeared to be of Soviet manufacture. His face bore distinct features that hinted of a Scandinavian lineage. He appeared to be in his mid to late thirties.

  “Uh, the closest stop is the Line Four concourse on Minskaya Street,” answered Yohzin in a faltering voice, using the pre-arranged safety phrase he had memorized earlier. Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered his composure. He gestured towards the southeast and added, “It’s about half a kilometer from here, in that direction.”

  “Spasiba,” replied the man. He then quietly asked a few questions to verify that Yohzin was legitimate.

  Although this stretch of the path was largely deserted, they weren’t entirely alone; even as they exchanged their verbal bona fides, a sailor swaggered by, wearing the insignia of the Black Sea Fleet. Likely home on furlough, the seaman was accompanied by a fetching young woman with brunette hair. Recognizing Yohzin’s rank as he drew near, the sailor saluted stiffly, and Yohzin returned the gesture.

  The “tourist” stooped down to admire Magnus. “What a handsome dog,” he commented. “Obviously a purebred. What kind is he?”

  Yohzin swiftly deduced that the stranger was not who he expected, since any German worth his strudel would have immediately recognized Magnus’s breed. He wasn’t Russian, either; his spoken Russian was too good. As if it had been entirely acquired in a sterile classroom, the stranger’s speech lacked any peculiar nuances or inflections that might have associated him with a particular region or city. Gnashing his teeth, Yohzin could not believe that he had been so naive, and stringently hoped that he had not been lured into a trap. “You’re not German?” he asked bluntly.

  “No,” answered the man, standing to his feet. He extended his hand. “American. I’m Smith.”

  Yohzin grudgingly shook the man’s hand. “Smith? Don’t Americans use first names as well?”

  “No, just call me Smith, at least for the moment. Sorry for the deception, but we weren’t sure you would cooperate if you knew it was us instead of the Germans.” Just a few feet above them, a gray dove swished by, on its way to light in a nearby tree.

  Glowering, Yohzin shook his head. He gestured for Magnus to lie down; the dog did so, and focused its gaze on a gaggle of geese frolicking at the river’s edge. Sensing the canine’s attention, the geese scattered.

  “The message in Paris stated that I might have an opportunity to see my German friends again,” said Yohzin. “Was that a lie?”

  “Not entirely. In time, we can arrange that meeting with your old acquaintances,” answered Smith, clearly striving to put him at ease. “But in the meantime, we have a favor to ask of you.”

  “You want information.”

  “Exactly,” answered Smith. “So, General Yohzin, are you willing to consider an offer? Since you came here, you had to suspect that we were interested in purchasing information. We know of your work with the RSVN. We’re willing to pay handsomely, depending on the quality and timeliness of what you might provide. It could be a very lucrative situation for you.”

  “Nyet,” replied Yohzin emphatically. He was amazed at the Americans’ cavalier willingness to engage in such an audacious gamble. “I am not interested in striking a bargain with you, Smith, regardless of your nationality. And money holds
absolutely no interest for me, since I couldn’t possibly spend it here without drawing undue attention to myself.”

  “Then perhaps you could spend it elsewhere,” noted Smith. He seemed to be slightly off balance, perhaps because he was likely accustomed to dealing with greedy opportunists who were primarily motivated by money or other material reward. “Maybe you could spend it in America. We could eventually spirit you out of the Soviet Union, and you could retire in the United States, with a king’s ransom to boot.”

  Yohzin smiled and asked, “How do you know that I’m not going to just call the GRU and have you arrested? How do you know that this is not a trap?”

  The American chuckled and replied, “And how do you know that this is not a trap? I could just be a thug, biding my time until I bash in your skull, or I could be a GRU officer myself. How would you know? In any event, if the GRU or KGB was to swoop in and nab us right now, you would certainly have some explaining to do. Anyway, we’re just chatting here, exploring possibilities. It’s merely a conversation.”

  Yohzin shook his head. “Maybe, but I am still not inclined to sell my nation’s secrets, and since I seriously doubt that you might entice me to do so, perhaps it’s best that we just go our separate ways and forget that we ever met.”

  “If you insist,” said Smith. “It was nice to make your acquaintance, even if we could not come to an agreement. That phone number will always be answered, in case you change your mind. If the notion of money offends you so much, perhaps you might think of a more palatable arrangement.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Yohzin. “And I think it’s futile to pursue this discussion any further.”

  “Circumstances often change, Comrade General.”

  “And just as often, they don’t,” replied Yohzin, turning to leave. He softly clicked his tongue, and Magnus took his place at his left heel. “Do svidaniya, Smith.”

  3

  THE GHOST FROM WEST VIRGINIA

  Forward Operating Base—Command and Control North

  MACV-SOG

  Da Nang, Republic of Vietnam

  1:25 p.m., Monday, August 4, 1969

  Sergeant First Class Nestor Glades patiently sat through the final debriefing with his team, recounting the intimate details of a six-day mission to locate an NVA communications relay site. The mission had been a resounding success and he had brought back his team—unscathed—as well as two high-value prisoners. Now it was time to go home, back to the States, yet again.

  Glades was a “One-Zero,” a recon team leader, assigned to the Military Assistance Command Vietnam Studies and Observations Group or MACV-SOG. MACV-SOG was a secretive special operations organization that conducted highly classified reconnaissance and strike missions throughout Southeast Asia. With his unprecedented string of successful missions and long-standing record for bringing his teams home intact, Glades was regarded as living legend by his peers in MACV-SOG.

  In the tradition of his departure routine, a ritual that he had repeated six times in the past four years, Glades would meticulously clean his small arsenal of personal weapons—his CAR-15, an AK-47, an M79 grenade launcher, a Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun, an M1911A1 Colt .45 caliber pistol, a silenced High Standard .22 caliber pistol, and a Ka-Bar combat knife—before carefully wrapping each in oiled cloth and packing them into two plywood footlockers.

  He would clean his personal equipment and web gear with the same degree of care, and stow them with the weapons. Then he would lock the footlockers and surrender them to the supply room, where they would be waiting for him when he returned in six months.

  After the footlockers were securely stowed and his duffle bag was packed, he would compose a brief letter to Deirdre, his wife, to let her know that he was homeward bound. Then he and his team would retreat to the compound’s small club, where they would knock back more than a few beers as they reminisced over fallen comrades. Then, as part of his close-out ritual, Glades would open a C-ration can containing sliced peaches in syrup, a can that he had carried through his entire tour. Like partaking in some peculiar form of communion, the men would pass the little green can around the circle, and each man would eat a slice and sip some of the sweet juice.

  After sharing the peaches with his teammates, he would solemnly hand the team over to his “One-One,” the assistant team leader. The One-One would take on the role of the team’s One-Zero; in the days to come, he would mold them into his own vision of what a recon team should be. With luck, half a year later, if the new One-Zero did a good job, many of the men would still be alive and Glades would resume leadership of the team.

  Like most MACV-SOG teams, his was a mixed element, composed of US Special Forces and indigenous—“indig”—soldiers, usually fierce Nung or Montagnard mercenaries. The indig troops were intensely superstitious, and despite his diligent efforts to dissuade them, they fervently believed he was endowed with supernatural powers that could be harnessed to protect them as well. On the camp, the indig troops fought over any vacancy that came available on his team. Some went so far as to bribe the camp barber for samples of his hair, swept from the plywood floor in the tent that served as a makeshift barbershop. The shorn hair was woven into amulets, which fetched a hefty price by local standards.

  For the Americans, it was a standing joke that as recon men drew close to the end of their tours, they often found religion or Glades or both. If they were willing to submit to his relentless work ethic and incessant training regimen, then the odds were favorable that they would walk upright off the Freedom Bird, instead of being carried off horizontally in an aluminum box.

  But this prospect of survival carried an exacting price. While they were in camp, the days were long and the routine was hard. Actual missions were a respite. Glades and his team intently rehearsed every aspect of every mission, from tasks so seemingly simple as stopping for a map check to how they would handle a wounded prisoner after an ambush.

  When he was finally satisfied with a rehearsal, then he would toss in different variables and unknowns. How would they react if a key man was wounded? What if a vital piece of equipment failed to function? Rather than rely on fads, fancy gimmicks or untested gizmos, he distilled missions down to simple plans that could be executed in even the worst of circumstances.

  They practiced IADs—Immediate Action Drills—until they were rote. They practiced individual skills until they became second nature. One day during monsoon season, the rain came down so hard that even Glades would not take them out to the ranges; instead, they stayed in their team hut and practiced changing magazines—over and over and over, thousands of times—until their fingers bled. He was not content to merely go through the motions and had no tolerance for anyone who didn’t share his point of view.

  Glades excelled in two significant areas. First, he was unmatched in his ability to find objects and people in the most dire of conditions. Second, he was unrivalled in his aptitude to lead men to seek and kill enemies of the United States of America. So he felt very secure in his job, since his skills and natural talents were constantly in great demand. Invariably, there was always something missing that needed to be located. And in lieu of that, there was always someone who needed to be killed.

  Because of his unique abilities, he had an unusual relationship with the US Army and MACV-SOG. He came and went just about as he pleased. Like a ghost of sorts, he was virtually invisible to the Army’s normal personnel management system. Instead of being assigned at the impersonal whims of the Army, he rotated between MACV-SOG and the Florida Ranger Camp at Eglin Air Force Base.

  At Eglin, he trained junior officers and NCOs undergoing the final phases of Army Ranger School, shaping them into fighters and leaders who would keep their men alive and effective. He also returned to his home in Milton, just outside Eglin, to get reacquainted with Deirdre and their three children. Life would be normal for a while, or relatively so, until he returned to Vietnam six months later. And the cycle would go on indefinitely, so long as the war was
being fought, until he was dead or was too damaged to return to combat.

  As he packed his weapons, he recalled his childhood in West Virginia, where he grew up as the son of a coal miner. If asked, Glades usually attributed his uncanny marksmanship and field savvy to his father, but in truth, his extraordinary abilities were borne from a peculiar mix of childhood hunger and his mother’s love. His mother had given him many other gifts as well.

  When he turned seven, his father handed him an ancient Remington .22 caliber rifle. For Glades, it was a memorable occasion, a red letter day, because he rarely saw his father above ground in daylight except on Sunday, when the miners and their families packed into the Methodist church on the outskirts of the soot-choked company town.

  His father escorted him out behind their home, a ramshackle clapboard cottage exactly like the hundred other houses provided by the company. He gave Glades a ten-minute lesson on how to line up the rifle’s sights and carefully pull the trigger to send the bullet true. Then, his father solemnly counted out five .22 caliber rimfire bullets from a faded yellow box. He told his son that the five rounds were his five chances to kill a rabbit or squirrel for the dinner pot, and if the boy failed to bring home meat for the family stew, there would be a hard lesson to learn.

  His older brother had previously undergone this same ritual, and had failed at his five chances, so Glades already knew the harsh consequences: There would be a severe beating with his father’s heavy leather belt, and then the cherished rifle would be taken away forever. The welts and bruises would heal, but the shame would linger indefinitely.

 

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