“Not that? What then?”
Kalyugin smirked. “The rocket carrying it, of course. The 70th was in Moscow during the war—I was in Germany. Are you familiar with Peenemunde?”
Grigor nodded. “The Nazi rocket facility. They produced the V-1 and V-2.”
“Just so. Do you remember who was in charge of the facility?”
“Of course. Werner von Braun. Everyone knows that, comrade Director.”
“Ah. And everyone knows the Americans got the clever bastard. But everyone does not know that we got the rest of his staff, who were mostly working on the rocket boosters. This is why we have such an advantage over the Americans. They know about guidance, but we know how to build the boosters.”
Grigor thought about that. It happened that from time to time the Director had information related to his field of work that he did not. “I don’t know much about the state of the Imperialist’s research; since I have been here I’ve fallen a little out of touch. They made some announcement about the International Geophysical Year but I don’t remember what it was.”
“Hmm. So do our enemies have a presence here? That is the question, isn’t it? They’d love to get a good look at the insides of our R-7 rocket, whether it works yet or not. And you are my friend, Grigor Petrovich, so I shall tell you my thoughts, eh? I don’t have any evidence to suggest that either the Americans or British have penetrated our operation here…until this death, there has not been anything of a suspicious nature going on here, other than the usual petty thefts, drunkenness and that business at the motor pool.”
Again he swiveled slowly around to stare out the window, his gaze on the distant horizon where the wind-scalloped sand dunes stretched far away. “No, all is proceeding well on that front, is it not? But I am suspicious. Do you ever hear much of defections and subversion from the kolkhozniks? No you don’t. They’re too stupid. They steal, they get drunk, but most of them aren’t even able to read Pravda. Where is it that subversion starts?”
“The universities,” Grigor replied quietly.
“Yes, comrade. Exactly correct. Among the intelligentsia. We find a conundrum: the state demands conformity, but to achieve superiority over our enemies, we must train students to be outstanding. There is a certain tendency to non-conformity in the creation of an outstanding scientist.”
“Of course,” Grigor agreed. “The nature of scientific research requires thought in directions that contradict that which is commonly accepted.”
“Such is inherently dangerous,” Kalyugin replied impassively. “For if one will permit oneself to think new and different thoughts about the field of science, one may think the same thoughts about one’s party. This is how the enemy ensnares them. He offers them money—the damned capitalists seem to have it in abundance but I think that is maskirovka they put on for our benefit—he promises them a new Ford automobile, he tells them ‘Give us state secrets and you shall have a great dacha, friend!’ and then some of the more foolish ones believe.” He sighed hugely. “And here we have a whole facility full of these idealistic raz’yebuy.”
He fell silent for a while. “I am not going to make a report of this Nikolai business yet. I have enough pull within the Directorate to sit on it for a while. No, we shall have Pasha have a talk with your boychik and that other one who found him. An autopsy shall be performed on the body, and then we shall see.”
Groom Lake, Nevada
Major Hardin sat for a moment in stunned silence. The only sound was of a single red ribbon affixed to the grill of the air conditioner, lazily flapping in the forced breeze. He felt as though he’d just been the recipient of a hard punch to the stomach. “You’re kidding,” he managed at last, flatly.
“No, we’re serious,” Weiss replied easily. “You don’t need to look so shocked. We fly the U2 over their airspace. Why not one of their own jets?”
“That’s over their airspace, not in it! You don’t think the Soviets will mind if a foreigner in a stray MiG shows up and wants to borrow the plans for their new rocket?” Hardin pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of his flight suit and lit one. After Weiss’s incredible statement he needed a smoke.
“Probably,” Weiss admitted. “But it’s not quite as simple as that. You see, Major, Ike won’t support a U.S. op into the area right now. Not with this Egypt business. He’s even getting cold feet about the overflight program and we may have to go to the mat to keep that one going. But the Brits have an idea for an op, and as long as it’s under their auspices—and they take the heat if everything goes south—we think we can get Ike to sign off on it.”
Hardin had been singled out for missions before, but never one quite like this. For a moment he almost suspected Weiss of making a bad joke, then decided he didn’t seem like the kind to have much of a sense of humor. The history lesson was making a lot more sense now. As yet he didn’t have enough information to decide whether or not he wanted anything to do with Weiss or his operation—but then neither was he likely to get much choice in the matter. “You won’t mind if I ask a few questions, will you? Why don’t the Brits mount the op themselves?”
Weiss shook his head. “They have the situation with Egypt all screwed up, and Moscow’s fit to be tied. At this point it’s just a matter of time before the Israelis make a move and if they do Britain, and probably France, are committed. It’s a wonder we’re not involved in this one somewhere. But the Brits don’t have the resources or the support from the PM for an op of this magnitude. And their supply of Russian-speaking MiG pilots is a little limited.”
“MiG pilots?” he laughed. “I’ve got maybe 25 hours in the MiG-17. And my Russian is pretty damn rusty!”
“Sounds like you’re the expert,” Bob Davis informed him with a grin.
“Moved and seconded,” Donaldson laughed.
Davis continued. “You’ll be better at both when, and if, the op goes down. See, John, the Brits also can’t handle a MiG on their territory right now. They’re a lot closer to the Soviet Union and are under almost constant surveillance.”
“That was one of the reasons we were able to get a MiG out of the Egypt situation,” Weiss went on quietly. “We cut a very close-hold deal with Nasser, the specifics of which I don’t want to get into. We have a secure location to test it in, the Brits don’t. Except maybe RAF Bentwaters, but they have other things going on there at the moment. And right now you’re the leading western expert in the MiG-17.”
He winced. There went another clearance or two. The deal had probably been to get Washington to use whatever influence it could to keep the Israelis from clobbering Egypt. “Okay. What about Air America? They’re already in that part of the world.”
General Chennault’s postwar operation to ferry supplies to China was officially known as Civil Air Transport, or CAT. Unofficially, those connected with the program usually referred to it by its more common name, Air America. After a few years of successful operations the CIA quietly bought into the organization and expanded CAT’s mission. Since then CAT had flown in an improbable assortment of locations including Burma, Tibet, Taiwan, Indonesia, Manchuria and Vietnam. Hardin had considered flying for Air America, if he ever got around to retiring. But that was quite a few years off yet.
“They actually may have a few Air America pilots with the language,” Davis mused, “but they’re bus drivers, not fighter jocks. Gooney Birds are about the sportiest thing those guys fly.”
“Some of ‘em have F-86 hours,” Hardin protested. “And they’re a little more up on field ops than I am.”
“Okay,” Davis agreed, “but even if you could get an Air America pilot to qualify in a MiG-17, you’d have to find ‘em first. That organization being what it is there’s really no telling where those guys are at any given time.”
Weiss nodded. “We thought about Air America, but they fall into the same category as the U2 pilots. There isn’t enough time to bring them up to speed.”
Hardin had to admit that from Weiss’ standpoint he looked perf
ect for the job. He was qualified in the MiG and had enough of the language to get by, and while his experience with field intelligence operations was virtually nil it wasn’t as if he was going to be called on to do much. It sounded more like what Weiss needed was a courier, and his chances of finding one with a better set of qualifications than Major John Hardin were exactly zero. Those, he judged, were also about how the odds of him talking Weiss out of this plan were running. He would be better served trying to figure out how much thought someone had put into this scheme. “Okay. For the sake of argument should I assume the Brits have someone in place at Baikonur?”
Now the older man looked less than comfortable. “We need to make sure this doesn’t leave the room. They say they have a man inside, but they aren’t sure how reliable he is and there’s difficulty contacting him because of the location. See, the Russians put Baikonur together in a hell of a hurry, and they gathered their staff pretty quickly. Apparently this one was someone MI-6 had been working on and it just happened that he got picked for the Baikonur job. I don’t know that I believe that. If it’s true, it’s the greatest stroke of luck. If it’s not, then they’ve got a mole that fed them the goods on the Baikonur site beforehand and they’d rather we didn’t know about it. Might be a little of both. If they got word in time and had a sleeper in the rocket program, they might have been able to activate him. Whatever the case is, something has definitely worked out in their favor. I’m not sure what the contact with this guy of theirs has been, and MI-6 gets a little cagey when we press the issue. I’d guess there hasn’t been much. But they seem confident enough to go forward with the op and we think we’re willing to gamble on it. Sal keeps kvetching at me about R-7 anyway and this would get him off my back.”
“Now that’s uncalled for, dammit,” Donaldson grinned.
Weiss reached for a map of the area, rolled up on the table, and spread it out. He jabbed a finger at the Black Sea. “What I was getting at earlier is this. The British have been in or around the Crimea since at least the 1850’s. They have, or had, a lot of contacts in the area. But when Hitler invaded Russia, the Ukrainians hailed the Nazis as liberators. That didn’t sit well with Stalin, and he deported everyone and their Uncle Ivan out to Kazakhstan, where Baikonur happens to be. So this means that a lot of the old Brit contacts from Ukraine are now in Kazakhstan.”
Hardin studied the map. “What about air defense? Where are the Brits planning on crossing the border?”
“Some of that depends on the range of the MiG-17. Anyone got those figures handy?”
“About 1000 miles, give or take.” This from Barry Frank, the second Lockheed tech.
“At altitude, dammit,” Hardin replied with a little heat. He was impatient with the figures analysts came up with, and while Frank was no analyst he was quoting one. “That’s at over twenty thousand feet with drop tanks. If you’re flying it low enough to get in under their air defense network, you double your fuel consumption and cut your range in half. Or more.”
“Look, Hardin,” Weiss said uncomfortably. “There’s another factor to this operation. We don’t think there will be enough fuel in the MiG to get the way back. To make it, the person flying will have to have the language and must know how to escape and evade. Since you’ve got combat time in Korea that makes you the choice. But it does mean escape and evade.”
“Oh, crap,” Hardin muttered, leaning back in his chair.
“Look,” Donaldson said, assuming a persuasive tone, “it’s probably not as bad as you’re thinking. Remember, the threat’s in Europe and they’re preoccupied with Egypt. The MiG will get you part-way back and then it will be a whole lot of nothing between you and the border.”
“What’s the range to Baikonur from the push point in Iran?”
“About a thousand miles,” Captain Holveck replied after a moment of thought. “And he’s right about the range.”
Hardin turned to the naval officer. “You’re a carrier driver?”
Holveck nodded. “I’m the air boss but yeah, something like that.”
“So this would be a carrier launch?”
“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Weiss grumbled. “But yes, that’s the plan. We’re going on the assumption that launching the MiG from a carrier would require a steam catapult, and we’ve got the only ones around. The MiG would be disassembled and shipped to Bill’s carrier, the Bennington. The Brits have carriers in the Pacific, but none of them can handle jets yet.”
“Don’t have the hangar height for ‘em,” Holveck said. “Another reason they need our help.”
“This just keeps getting better! Do you guys actually think you can get this thing to fly off a flattop?”
“Don’t see why not,” Barry Frank replied thoughtfully. “The 17 has an afterburner and they’ve redesigned the wing completely. Personally, I think it’ll fly.”
“Personally you’re not going to be flying it, either,” Hardin snapped. “Or dropping it into the drink off the end of the flight line, which would be a helluva deal.”
The tech scowled. “Take it easy, Shooter. Your jet’s light and small, the new wing generates a bunch of lift and stability, and we’re working up some thrust-to-weight figures now. We get paid to know this stuff. See, what worries me isn’t the thing flying, I think it’ll do that okay. It’s the catapult ripping half the undercarriage off. The Russians use some pretty crummy alloys and I think we’ll have to do some reinforcing on the catapult attach point.”
“What about shipping it to Iran, then reassembling it there?” Davis directed his question at Weiss who didn’t look very happy.
“Possible, I suppose. But we’d have to get the Shah onboard to get it into the country, and we’d need an equipped Iranian facility to put it back together. We would lose positive control. With this plan we don’t need everyone in Iran on board, we just have to tell certain people to look the other way for five minutes. So far I’m not hearing a valid reason that this thing wouldn’t fly off a carrier, so until I do we’ll stick with the original plan. The Bennington will steam to a point off Bandar Beheshti in Iran. The MiG will be reassembled and fitted to handle a catapult. After launch, it will proceed north, at night, to Zahedan. It’s about midway between Pakistan and Afghanistan and it’s got an old World War Two airstrip. We can get JP-4 into there by rail, and Iran’s our backyard anyway. From there it will be north along the border and into Russia. Bob, will the MiG use JP-4?”
“That’s what we’ve been using in it. Seems okay.”
“This is all swell, but you’re talking about flying over Iran on instruments,” Hardin mused uncomfortably, thinking of navigating across vast stretches of unfamiliar territory without any visible landmarks to guide him. “Then that’s the last refuel, there in Zahedan. You’re flying instruments again into Russia.” The U2 actually had a sextant to help the pilot get a fix on his location if he was really lost.
“You flew instruments across half of Korea,” Bob Davis told him.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it, Bob,” he replied, shooting a look at his superior. “And I was a little more familiar with Korea than I am with Russia.”
“There’s always CHAYKA,” Barry Frank mused.
“What’s that?” Weiss asked.
“Soviet radio nav system,” Davis replied. “Based on our LORAN-C. Stations transmit pulse groups on a 100-kilohertz carrier, and a CHAYKA receiver measures the time intervals between the pulses and figures the distance out. The MiG’s got one and it seems to pick up U.S. LORAN just fine. The problem, though, is that the central part of the Soviet Union might as well be Mars. We don’t have a clue what kind of CHAYKA chains they have set up there, so you couldn’t depend on it to get bearings. ”
Hardin shook his head. “I’m not as worried about navigation as I am about fuel. If I have a map, a chronometer and a compass I can figure out where I am. But if this bird hasn’t got the legs for it we might as well stop talking.”
“We didn’t get any drop tanks
with this MiG,” Howard Franz sounded almost apologetic, “so we’re going to use some F-86 tanks. They hold more than Ivan’s version and we can mod them to hold a little more than that. Range figures so far are based on the Russian 100-gallon drop tank and around 400 gallons in the fuselage, so we think you’ll have more legs than that. We’ll mod the onboard tanks too.”
“And the thing will handle like a goddam brick. What about their air defense network?” Hardin asked. The scheme had originally sounded ridiculous, but as he worked through some of the details in his head it was beginning to seem a little less laughable. Except for egress. But if he could make it far enough into southern Uzbekistan, he was confident that he could figure a way across the border without being caught. In spite of his reservations he was becoming interested in this scheme.
“Our information’s kind of iffy for the area you’d be flying in,” Colonel Donaldson admitted. “In some areas their air defense seems to be pretty tight. In other areas it’s a joke. So far they don’t seem to be aware of the U2 overflights.”
“I disagree with that,” Weiss argued, “but it’s just my opinion. I think they’re seeing the U2 just fine, but they can’t do anything about it yet.”
“I think there are areas down in that part of the world where you could fly the entire 8th Air Force line abreast over the border and no one would ever notice,” Donaldson continued. “And they haven’t come up with an IFF system for their fighters yet so they aren’t looking for a friendly squawk.”
“The guys at Hof have just started picking up some signals in the L-band that look like they could be an IFF type of system,” Frank added. “Since Litton only started making ‘em in ’51 this puts Ivan five years behind us, and their IFF sets are going to be a lot simpler. They may not even have an equivalent of encrypted mode four yet, just a simple ‘you’re a target or you’re not’ interrogation. But I guess it’s all academic since they haven’t deployed them on their fighters yet.”
A Cold Flight To Nowhereville Page 4