A Cold Flight To Nowhereville

by Steve Fletcher

  “So, Katia,” he called out, leaning on his register as the morning wore on, “I heard the shipment come in last night. Some factory must be wearing out its gears providing parts for that place. Maybe they will fire a rocket soon, eh?”

  “Just what we need!” she sang back. “Do you think many things in the Soviet Union work the first time? It will probably come down on our heads!” Ilia was absent-minded and sometimes his thoughts were unpredictably random, but he seemed to be keeping himself a little more on track today.

  He chuckled. “It probably will at that; so they placed the facility by our village. They’ll be thinking what a shame it would be to have a mis-fire and not kill a few people in the process, and Georgia is too far away so they might as well drop their rockets on us. Wise, Katia, wise! The Germans had the things figured out, though.”

  “Ahh,” she scoffed. “The Germans.”

  “Oh, but they did. Clever fellows, the Germans. Their rockets came down right where they wanted them to, right on the Imperialist’s heads.”

  She looked up, fixing him with her dark eyes and brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face. “Right where they wanted them to? Suppose they were aiming them at America?”

  Ilia shrugged. “Then they probably got shipped off to the gulags for missing the mark so badly!”

  She smiled at him. “Who cares what they’re working on up there? We’re better off not knowing, I think.”

  “You’re right, Katia. So much activity. I could wish they’d picked another spot to build their rockets, though.”

  “I don’t know, Ilia. You’ve done all right. Your business has grown, you have a truck now, they leave us alone.”

  “For the moment,” he mused. “But the pace of their activity is frantic. Things will change, eventually. More will come, more housing, more businesses, and more trouble. I think I enjoyed this place more when it was a sleepy little village, not a bustling town.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you, Katia. Probably you’ll pick yourself up a husband one day, eh? So many eligible young men!”

  She laughed at that. “Oh, that’s all I need. I’ve had one, thank you, and that was quite enough. I enjoy things the way they are, and I don’t intend to change!”

  “A young, pretty girl unmarried?” He clucked and shook his head. “It’s not right, Katia! Folk should get married.”

  “So I did,” she retorted. “That’s not to say they should get married over and over!”

  A fugitive gust of wind blew a perekati polya into the doorway, and clucking in exasperation Ilia went to close the door and shoo the tumbleweed out. How she had come to love the sweet old man. Almost, she felt a pang of regret for what she would have to do to him. For who she was and what she purposed would mean the gulag for Ilia. Even though he was utterly and completely unaware of the complex persona that lay beneath her simple, placid surface, and even though he hadn’t the first idea of the terrible purpose in her heart, he would still go to the gulag for knowing her. But the ‘dog in the manger’ was a tedious argument. She had no time for a philosopher’s sophistry, nor had she any intention of allowing her life to be determined by the supposed welfare those about her. The course of her life lay on a path all its own, one of her determining, and if that intersected the paths of others—for better or worse—what was that to her? Such thoughts required a hard heart, and sometimes an innate and troubling softness lurking somewhere inside her struggled with them. On the whole though, such thoughts were easily dismissed.

  But in quiet moments when she paused her work and regarded Ilia, leaning on his broom and mumbling an old Kazakh tune as he stared out the doorway at a clump of perekati polya tumbling by, and she felt the peace of the little shop surrounding her like the warm waters of a deliciously hot bath, almost she could regret what she purposed.

  Almost.

  Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan

  Ushakov stood on the gravel outside the Department of Security, shielding his match from the cold wind as he lit his cigarette. It was midmorning, and the sun warmed his face as he scanned the compound. Two young soldiers were walking by on the road that angled by the MIK-2-1 building, heading towards the launch gantry, their caps tilted back jauntily on their heads. Since they were soldiers in the construction battalion, they did not carry the ubiquitous Kalashnikov AK-47 machine guns. Those were kept in the facility armory and carried only by the troops on guard detail at the facility perimeter. These two, he reflected, would do. “Comrades!” he called easily. “Come over here.”

  The soldiers appeared apprehensive at being summoned to the Security building, casting glances at each other warily and straightening their caps so that the characteristic red star was perpendicular to the ground. “Oh don’t worry, comrades, you’re not in trouble. I have need of your assistance.”

  Appearing somewhat mollified, the troops approached. “Yes, comrade? How can we assist? We were on our way back to the dig site.”

  “That’s fine. I won’t keep you long. What are your names?”

  “Dmitri Osipov.”

  “Yuri Kovalenko.”

  “Good. Comrades, you’re going to assist me in a little task.” He dropped his voice a conspiratorial notch. “I have no need to tell you that this is to be kept a secret, have I?”

  They shook their heads. They knew he was KGB and Ushakov hardly needed to request their silence. Low-ranking soldiers would go out of their way to avoid discussing the KGB whatsoever. “Come with me.” He motioned them to follow as his booted feet crunched on the gravel, heading for the scientist’s barracks. “We’re going to conduct a facility inspection. This is to be kept quiet and no one is to know.”

  In fact, the chekist was in a bit of a dilemma. His suspicions about the scientist Loginov would not stay tucked away in the corner of his mind into which he’d placed them, they kept nagging at him. He had made up his mind to search the scientist’s personal effects, but the legality of what he intended was dubious. He had not informed Kalyugin as he was fairly certain approval would not be forthcoming. Nor could he interrogate the scientist further. But if his suspicions were correct and Yaroslav Ivanovitch Loginov knew more about Nikolai’s death than he let on, most of the blame would fall directly on him for failing to discern it. To be sure Kalyugin would accompany him to the Lubyanka, but his would be the worse lot. The thought of being on the wrong end of an interrogation did not sit well with Pavel Sergeivitch, and he decided he trusted his instincts more than he trusted Kalyugin’s political inhibitions. But to do what he intended was risky. At the moment there was a stigma on seizure of property, possibly searches as well. Too many abuses had happened during the “cult of personality” years, and comrade Khrushchev had stripped the Second Chief Directorate, if not the entire KGB, of much of its former power. Article 58 of the Penal Code ostensibly gave the organs of the KGB the power of search and seizure, but had been misused badly and now the reformists were reexamining its intentions. Kalyugin was treading very lightly, and would not permit any searches or seizures without cause. So far Ushakov had been unable to come up with one.

  They reached the barracks, a wide, low concrete structure. It was empty, as he had known it would be. He surreptitiously scanned the compound. Most of the scientists would be either in the MIK-2-1 building or farther away at the Oxygen/Nitrogen plant. MIK-2-1 was closest but the Security building blocked the view of the barracks. That was good. If he did his work quickly he should not be discovered. “Come here, Dmitri. I want you to stand watch here at this door. Let me know if anyone approaches. You, Yuri, go around to the side and do the same at that entrance.” Dmitri assumed a watchman’s stance as his companion trotted off around the corner of the barracks.

  It was a sad state of affairs when a chekist had to swear his subordinates to silence.

  Ushakov entered the barracks. He would have to move quickly to avoid discovery. He would rather not have enlisted any aid, but he needed someone standing guard in case he was spotted. He scanned the
rows of bunks, walking rapidly up the length of the building until he spotted the scientist’s name scrawled on a piece of tape attached to a footlocker. None of the footlockers were secured, and he knew it would only be the greatest folly for Loginov to leave something incriminating in such a place, but precaution demanded he check.

  He opened the locker’s hinged lid and rummaged through the scientist’s things. A few chemistry textbooks: these he leafed through but found nothing untoward. Some photographs, probably of family, a pad of paper with scrawled notes and equations. He spent more time on the pad but saw nothing amiss. Some extra clothing, a hat, a scarf, gloves. Nothing else.

  He slammed the locker closed in frustration and rifled the bunk quickly. But he had known he would not find anything. He was not even certain what he was looking for. Lighting another cigarette, he exited the barracks. “All right, Dmitri, that will be all. You may fetch Yuri and return to work.”

  Appropriately dismissed, the soldiers headed across the steppe towards the launch gantry. They did not look back. Smoking his cigarette, he headed back towards the Security building. His thoughts were troubled; although he had not found anything to incriminate the scientist, his suspicions were not allayed. For the first time in his career, he felt inadequate—as though he were for once faced with a situation he did not know how to handle. Am I becoming obsessive? Is the man innocent, and you just don’t want to believe it? Kalyugin will say so. Why the hell would Loginov have had anything to do with Nikolai’s death anyway? There’s no motive. And if he had, would he be so stupid as to leave evidence in his locker? To search in such obvious places must be the height of stupidity. But he could not bring himself to completely accept the argument for Loginov’s innocence. Mere lack of incriminating evidence did not, for him, expunge guilt. His every instinct told him Loginov was somehow involved in the death of the chekist. But the clues eluded him, and he did not know what to do next.

  Groom Lake, Nevada

  It was early morning, and the sun was up over the Groom Mountains, casting long shadows across the dry lakebed. There was an illusive coolness about the desert in the mornings, for even in October the day would prove just as hot as ever. But the desert was a lovely sight as he walked out of Hangar 18 and stared out over the long, empty runway to the mountains beyond. The sand was reddish-gray around the clumps of sage and barrelhead cactus—the tall saguaro didn’t grow in Nevada, you had to go down to Arizona to see those—and a small gust of wind whipped a tumbleweed out onto the alkali flat. He had to fly the MiG today, but not just yet. He wanted to take his motorcycle out first.

  He’d had one of the C-47’s bring his motorcycle here from Burbank, for he’d left it parked at Skunkworks after drawing this assignment. Some of the pilots rotated back to Burbank on the weekends but Hardin had no real reason to leave. He had no family to return to. Acquisition and maintenance of a wife and children took time and he had none to spare for those kinds of distractions. Out here he had jets, beer, cigarettes, his motorcycle and a place to sleep. What else was there? Nothing he needed, he’d long since decided. In a competition between flying and sex, flying won every time. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like women either, he liked them just fine. But they didn’t hold his interest as much as the other diversions in his life.

  His Indian was parked in the hangar close to the pre-flight briefing section. He’d bought it right after the Korean War ended, as he’d ridden Indians before the war and 1953 was the last year for Indian production. They were ostensibly still being made, but they weren’t real Indians, they were made by Royal Enfield. And to Hardin that was a crime, for now they didn’t look like Indians, they looked like Triumphs. He loved the traditional American styling and bought the last model-year. His Indian Chief Roadmaster was a beauty, a low-slung maroon frame with the traditional teardrop tank and massive finned cylinders. It boasted the traditional Indian skirted fenders, although the ’53 skirts were not as deep as previous years had been. Indian had scaled the fender skirt back some to complete with the much more popular Harley-Davidson models.

  It wasn’t in his nature to question a decision he’d made, or even think about it much. Still, as he approached his Indian and wondered when he’d ride it again, he felt the twitching of an odd anxiety. He hoped he hadn’t gotten in over his depth. The MiG-17 was out on the ramp, sleek and lethal as it gleamed in the morning sun, the canopy open, a technician working on something in the cockpit. It was a magnificent machine, and if the pilot knew what he was doing the MiG would be a match for anything in the U.S. inventory. He wondered how it would stack up against the Russian air inventory. But it was a misleading reverie: it was not a question of the jet’s abilities, he knew, but his own. And that was something he didn’t need to worry too much about.

  He adjusted his flight suit, strapped on his helmet, then straddled the bike and kicked the starter down hard. He had to kick it a few more times to be rewarded with the low rhythmic blub-blub-blub sound of the big V-Twin, but that was normal for these bikes. Twisting the throttle he eased it out of the hangar and onto the ramp, shifting into second gear and speeding onto the north taxiway. The V-Twin was a long-stroke, big-bore engine and as such didn’t have a lot of the snap of the smaller short-stroke bikes. It did, however, have lots and lots of low-end torque and if it had an upper speed limit Hardin had yet to find it. Into third gear, then fourth, and at 60 MPH he sped down the left side of the runway and out onto the alkali lakebed. It was as flat as you wanted, and with a 3-mile diameter was a perfect area to ride a big street bike around on.

  He thundered over the lakebed at 70 MPH, the wind whipping around him and pushing his dark glasses hard onto his face. The bike kicked up a haze of whitish dust as he headed towards the northern boundary and he opened the throttle wide, feeling like the master of all creation. Over the roar of the engine he could hear the distinctive whine of a turbine, loud and growing louder, and looking over his shoulder he saw a MiG-15 coming up beside him at thirty feet off the deck. As it streaked past the pilot made a rude gesture and pulled the tiny jet into a gentle climb. Hardin grinned and energetically returned the gesture. Lieutenant Mark Lucas was flying one of the MiG-15s this morning, purportedly doing some BFM, but making a low pass over his supervisor hardly counted as Basic Flight Maneuvers. He’d chew him out for it later.

  Today he was scheduled to put in more flight hours in the MiG-17. Approval for the operation had arrived by coded transmission the day before and now they were just waiting for the Bennington to reach San Diego so the MiG could be loaded. Lockheed would probably take it apart and crate it tomorrow, so today was his last chance to get in some instrument flying. He’d go head-down and take it north to Rachel, then northwest to Tonopah, south to Mercury and then back again. He would have to nail it, too, because flying instruments over Iran and the Soviet Union would be much, much worse. At least here he could take a look and get a basic idea of where he was.

  He slowed near the edge of the salt flat, coasting to a halt and killing the motor. Walking a ways out into the desert he lit a cigarette, letting it dangle from his lips while he watched the sunrise. “What do you think, pop?” he murmured.

  His father had been gone for several years and they’d never talked much, but since introspection wasn’t Hardin’s strong suit it helped to couch things in terms of a discussion. And as it was a discussion he’d never have to have, that made it easier. “Did I screw up by taking this job?” It wasn’t a question he’d asked of himself more than a handful of times in his life.

  The Company could sure come up with some half-assed plans. They were probably blaming the whole idea on the Brits so nobody would think the CIA was responsible for something so asinine. And it had been a nice little maneuvering job they’d done on him, knowing he couldn’t very well refuse if he hoped to have any career left. And they couldn’t even figure out any better egress than escape and evade? God! Figure your own way out! It was laughable. Well…laughable to anyone but John Hardin. And they’d probably
known that too. They had chosen him because he had the necessary skills for something of this magnitude. The thought appealed to his ego. And should he actually be successful, there were no limits to what his career might achieve.

  More forehead, less stick?

  “I’ll pull it off,” he shrugged presently, flipping his cigarette away into the brightening desert.

  Tyuratam, Kazakhstan

  Genrikh, the local butcher, stamped into the shop. He was a burly man with strong arms and a florid complexion who grinned widely and smelled atrocious. “Ilia Leonidovitch! How are you today, comrade?”

  “Privyet, Genrikh! What’s got you in such a good humor today?”

  “I heard a joke today, a good one. It goes like this: there’s an informer who calls the KGB to report his neighbor Rabinowitz is an enemy of the State. Right? The informer reports that Rabinowitz is hiding undeclared diamonds in his firewood. So the chekists show up at Rabinowitz’ house and break every stick of wood, don’t find any diamonds, swear at Rabinowitz and leave. Then the phone rings at Rabinowitz’ house and a voice says, ‘Did the KGB come and chop your firewood? Good! Now it’s your turn to call, I need my vegetable patch plowed!’”

  They all laughed. It was a good joke.

  “Just made a delivery of fresh beef up to the Project,” the butcher continued.

  “So what’s new that way?”

  “The usual.Plenty of activity. I need to pick up a sack of flour, Lludmila is running low. Katia! Bring me a sack of flour, would you? And Katia, some worker said to tell you that his pockets are full of rubles and he’ll soon be visiting you! Ha!”

  Such jokes and flirtations were commonplace. She heard them from the soldiers in town and from the workers at the facility when she and Ilia went in the truck to deliver goods to the mess hall. “Oh, is that what he said?”