A Cold Flight To Nowhereville

by Steve Fletcher

  The situation suggested by the heightened security at the gate confused her. She forced herself to analyze the evidence logically. It did not seem to be a typical KGB reaction if they were certain something actually was going on. Nor did it seem likely that they were looking for a handler, either, or even someone in particular; had that been the case she would have expected to be apprehended along with Ilia at the main gate and taken to interrogation. But she and Ilia had been allowed onto the Facility without escort. The most reasonable explanation she could come up with was that the KGB had sniffed something in the wind but had no name to put to their suspicions yet. It was not like the KGB to take partial measures, but times had changed under Premier Khrushchev. How long would it take them to learn the truth? And how much time did she have left?

  Do you know what I am thinking, Ilia?

  She knew in an instant that the pass would not be made today. With heightened security like this, her contact would not dare attempt the brush-pass. She was certain she would not even see him. Nor could she make herself suspicious by looking for him. Now she would have to make a decision either to wait until the alert passed and make the drop again, risking the possibility that the KGB would learn of her and arrest her before she could safely leave, or pull the plug on the operation right now. But in either case she had to make her rendezvous at Kyzylorda the day after tomorrow, and now she would not have the film to turn over to her handler.

  They passed the Oxygen/Nitrogen plant and the road forked, one branch proceeding more or less straight to the launch gantry, the second angling off to the west towards a large building, a few smaller ones, and a cluster of tents. She did not notice an unusual level of activity at the Facility. Soldiers and heavy equipment seemed concentrated east around the launch gantry and a few scientists were walking along the road between the plant and the rest of the facility. She calmed herself. She had gotten used to the solitude of life in Tyuratam village; she had forgotten what life in the rest of the Soviet Union was typically like. And she had not had any exposure to the KGB in over a year. This feeling of wariness, of constantly looking over one’s shoulder, was one she remembered well. Now, suddenly, it was the normal tenor of life in Tyuratam that seemed unusual to her.

  Ilia pulled off the road onto a gravel lot fronting a long tent that served as the mess hall, braking to a halt in front of the main entrance. A few soldiers were standing around smoking, dressed in cook’s outfits. “Don’t worry, Katia,” he murmured. “It’s only an exercise. There won’t be any trouble, I’m sure.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I just become uneasy when the beast stirs itself.”

  “Mm,” he grunted stoically, nodding his understanding. “Stick close to the truck today, don’t go into the mess tent. We’ll do our business and be on our way, eh?”

  She was more in control now, calmer. As she stepped out of the truck she made certain her shawl was over her head, as much for protection from the freezing wind as concealment, and drew her shoulders in to make her posture appear worse than it was. Surreptitiously she scanned the lot. No buildings were very close, the large assembly building was a few hundred meters to the west and some low concrete buildings a hundred meters to the east was partially obscured by the sea of tents. Away in front of the Assembly building she could see a small knot of men smoking.

  One of them was watching her. Impossible to tell his expression at this distance, but she felt his gaze. The man was tall, gaunt, smoking with a group of his fellows. As she glanced at him he made a random gesture with his hand, palm out, downwards, as though stretching. She saw it clearly. He said something to the group and they all turned to look at Ilia and his truck, pointing and no doubt conversing about fresh vegetables for lunch.

  It was her contact. He was telling her to wait. The signal to lie low could not have been mistaken. Wait.

  There were a few soldiers and an officer hanging around the tents conversing and a single officer a short ways away from them was standing by himself. She did not recognize him but his blue cap identified him as KGB. She noticed he could not see the group at the assembly building from where he was standing.

  Her pulse quickened again as she joined in the work at the back of the truck, ensuring the soldiers took care when they hauled the sacks of vegetables out and carried them inside the mess tent. The KGB is here observing! She mentally reviewed the personnel list she had once seen for the fledgling Facility, but that had been so long ago that she could not recall many names clearly. At Tyuratam village she simply did not have access to those kinds of assets. She felt the KGB officer’s gaze on her and was careful not to look over at him, for to do so—to make eye contact that way—would surely betray awareness of him. She nagged the soldiers in the manner of a babushka, scolding them loudly, and the cough she affected from the cold weather was only partially an act. All the while she felt the officer watching her. He doesn’t watch Ilia…no, he watches me. He is clever, this one. He is smarter than other KGB officers. I have not seen a KGB officer in uniform here before, so perhaps this one does not usually wear one. He wants me to see him. He wants me to know the KGB is here. But he hangs back, he does not approach…oh, his stare will burn me! This one can see through people. He is one of the bad ones, one who can divine the workings of a person’s mind. I wish I could remember more names from the Baikonur list. This is why the Facility is on alert, because of this man. He has suspected things about the Contact. But someone is holding him back, so he doesn’t arrest everyone who comes through the gate! This one would if he had half the chance! He is in a struggle for power, and at the moment he must watch his step. Yes, it must be. But what does he see when he looks at me? An old babushka?

  It was worth hoping, but somehow she didn’t think so.

  It seemed ages before Ilia had finished his discussions with the cooks, who seemed pleased at the delivery, and returned to the truck. As he stepped on the starter and the engine choked noisily to life, he grinned at her. “You see, Katia? There is no problem. We’ll make some rubles for this trip. That’s one thing this project has plenty of, it’s rubles. And they’ll pay it out for food!”

  She felt a vast relief as they pulled out of the gravel lot onto the main road. She dared to sneak a covert glance at the KGB officer through the folds of her shawl, still pulled tight over her head, but he hadn’t moved. He simply stood, hands shoved into the pockets of his overcoat, smoking his cigarette, watching the truck leave. The sight of him sent a silent shiver through her. This one was a monster. Occasionally the KGB produced one such, devious beyond reason with powers of perception that approached the level of witchcraft. Those interrogated by ones like this one reported later that it had been like being turned inside out, a rape of the soul. All interrogations were bad; the ones these men were capable of were worse. They usually did not resort to coercion, either; they were too sophisticated for the crude methods of lesser men. It was rumored that Beria had been that kind of inhuman bastard. It was said Beria would visit the interrogation chambers just for fun.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to calm and slow the wild pace of her thoughts. She’d been rattled by the KGB officer, but he had not arrested her and that was significant. He didn’t know. Or he didn’t know for sure, or he didn’t have any evidence, or he was on the losing end of a power struggle. He was suspicious, that was all. Did he know of the contact? Did he know, or suspect, that the handoff was to have been made today? It didn’t seem likely. He’d been standing in a position to get a good look at the truck—but not at the assembly building at the same time, where her contact had been standing. No, he didn’t know. He was suspicious, that was all.

  She felt marginally better.

  U.S.S Bennington, CV 20

  CTF 79, Indian Ocean

  The Lockheed technicians had reassembled the MiG behind a huge canvas barrier set up in the hangar bay, in the area reserved for the hangar queens—aircraft repeatedly down for maintenance or repair. Holveck had his crew
conducting an exercise; he had called General Quarters and set condition Zebra. All crews were at their battle stations and all hatches were secured. The flight deck and hangar bay, though, were empty of all but the minimum crew required to launch the MiG. Barry Frank and Howard Frantz would handle the pre-flight. Launch was set for one hour after full dark.

  Hardin and Smith sat in their cabin, and for once no vodka was in sight. Smith spread a map of central Asia on the bunk, but by now Hardin had memorized its features. “Your flight plan is on kneeboards for you,” Smith told him. “Tonight it’s just to Zahedan. That shouldn’t be much trouble. Just don’t fly so low you run into something. The next morning, your first waypoint is at Herat in Afghanistan. The distance and compass headings are all on the kneeboards.”

  “I’d feel better if we had an airfield a little farther north than Zahedan,” Hardin groused hoarsely. He was smoking too much tonight. “This is going to be a hell of a long flight.”

  “That might have been arranged if we had more time. Given the time constraints, Zahedan was the only place we were certain still had an airfield and we could get people to with your JP-4. But Frantz tells me they’ve reworked the drop tanks to hold close to two hundred and fifty gallons each, you’re completely stripped down…”

  “Graham, that’s twelve hundred miles to Baikonur if it’s a foot.”

  The British agent sighed patiently. “Look, John. We knew from the get-go that part of this operation was going to be on foot. There’s no way around that.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just going to have to fly at altitude once I cross the Afghan border. There’s no other way. I’d rather be low but I want to walk the shortest distance possible, too.”

  “It’s not like the Russian military is all over that part of the world, either. Remember, the threat is Europe, not Asia. They ship their exiles there because no one else wants to visit the bloody place! If you’ve half a head for E and E and a pair of wire-cutters I honestly don’t think you’ll have much difficulty.”

  Hardin had figured it that way too.

  “Here’s the target area,” Smith said, jamming a finger at a spot in southern Kazakhstan. “It’s a town called Kyzylorda. If you’re in the right area at all, finding it shouldn’t be a problem since there’s so little there. Just follow the SyrDariaRiver, here. If you can find that, you’re scot-free. Our contact there is code-named Kingfish. He’ll meet you at the airstrip in Kyzylorda, which you’ll have to find by yourself. You’ll fly this leg during the day. The Russians never fly at night, and if they picked you up on radar it would be a dead giveaway that something wasn’t right. There’s a better chance of this working if you go in daylight.”

  “Security at the airstrip?”

  “None that we know of. Kyzylorda was a big town at one time, but now it’s mostly dead. We don’t think the airstrip is even in use and hopefully a runway will be clear. Kingfish should take care of that. So you set the bird down and if anyone asks, say you got lost and ran out of fuel, and Kingfish will find you.”

  “He’ll find me,” Hardin repeated. “Who is this guy? Is he the one with the plans? And what am I supposed to do while I wait for him to show up?”

  “John, I need you to understand something. Because of the possibility of capture, I can’t give you any information other than that. The department isn’t willing to risk compromise of other assets that we may or may not have. It has to be this way. If all goes as planned, Kingfish will meet you and give you a roll of film. There is a code phrase you’re to know: ‘my uncle Ivan doesn’t know his head from his ass.’ Use that in a sentence, any kind of sentence, just use that phrase. The response will be ‘Your uncle Ivan should work for the MVD.’”

  “Okay, I’ve got it,” he muttered. “And if this Kingfish doesn’t show up?”

  “You get out any way you can.”

  “How the hell is he going to know when I’m supposed to be there?”

  “Captain Holveck will transmit a coded message, at my direction, on a frequency of my specification, indicating that you are on your way. It will be relayed to Kingfish. There will be a twelve-hour waypoint time for you to get to Zahedan and refuel. The Iranian towers shouldn’t be talking to you, they’ve been notified that a U.S.-Iran exercise is ongoing. If they do come up on guard, just tell them you’re an exercise flight. Then, you must depart Zahedan at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning. If you average 460 knots you should be in the target area in about two hours. The best we can hope for timing-wise is to get close. Kingfish will be ready for you approximately fourteen and a half hours after the transmission of our signal.”

  Hardin flipped through the pages of his kneeboard, reviewing his route of flight, headings and airspeeds. “Okay. I should be okay on ingress. Getting out’s another story but I feel confident enough about ingress. What about air defense?”

  “They’ve got the SA-1 surface to air missile, but that’s a new system and only around Moscow. Their primary air defense radar system is the Tall King. They’ve got sites here at Balkash and down here at Andizhan, and I’ve drawn their coverage in on your kneeboards. It’s got a hell of a range, John, so if you’re above a hundred feet they’re definitely going to be seeing you. We’re betting they won’t think much of a stray MiG, though.”

  “How do you guys find this stuff out?”

  The Brit grinned. “We actually found out from your chaps at the CIA. You see, they’ve been using a huge antenna to capture Tall King signals when they bounce off the moon. Then they figure in the earth’s rotation, the moon’s rotation, do a little math and come up with the radar site that originated the signal. Clever as hell!”

  “Okay, I take my chances with the radar. What else have you got?”

  Smith turned and rummaged in his duffel, then tossed a package wrapped in brown paper onto the rack. “Russian clothes and an overcoat. They’re packed tight so it’s going to look like you slept in them for a week, but that can’t be helped. A Soviet passport is in there too. It’s not what you’re thinking, it’s the document identifying you and permitting you to move around inside the country. All Soviet citizens have a passport. We’re calling you Vladimir Aksenov—it’s two of the most common names over there—and you’re from Alma-Ata in east Kazakhstan. You’re assigned to the 513th Fighter Regiment of the PVO and you’ve become lost, if any tower should ask you.”

  “The 513th? Where are they based out of?”

  “We haven’t a clue. Neither will they. Now this package will go in the cockpit with you, and you by-damn better not lose it.”

  Hardin nodded, turning the package over in his hands. It would probably fit in the rear of the cockpit between the seat and the fuselage. “Hey—how do they deconflict close passes? The way we do, or do they have some strange procedures? Just in case.”

  Graham shook his head. “Nose high goes high. Now, you’ll take a .45 and several clips in your flight suit but when you’re on foot they go wherever you can conceal them. You’ll wear the boots you have on, just get a good coat of dirt on ‘em and nobody will know better. Finally this.” He held up a small white capsule, something the corpsman might have given him for a headache.

  “Cyanide?” Hardin asked quietly. “That bastard Weiss didn’t tell me about that part.”

  The British agent grinned. “You might have known it was coming had you been a little more up on the U2 program, John. All U2 pilots get them. As far as when to use it—well, we mainly leave that up to you. Lastly this.”

  He tossed a small silver device, about the size of a cigarette pack, onto the bunk. “A standard transmitter. It’s got a range of a hundred miles or so. Use it when you think you’re close to the border and we’ll pick up your signal. It will tell us you’re close.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. “Well,” Smith said finally, “I suppose you’d better suit up.”

  Tyuratam, Kazakhstan

  Katia was badly preoccupied. She had a pot of cabbage soup cooking on her stove but did not feel u
p to eating. She stood by her window, huddling into her coat and chain-smoking as she watched the snow swirl in the early evening darkness outside. It had just begun snowing and she would have ordinarily enjoyed an early snow, but now she barely noticed the weather. She had been inattentive enough during the day that Ilia had remarked on her state and wondered what was wrong. But she could not tell him.

  Everything had changed. And while she was capable of handling a change of plans, she was left in a bit of a quandary. Originally, she had planned to make off with Ilia’s truck and after her rendezvous would not have returned. After delivering the film of the R-7, she would make her way south and cross the border into Iran. But now, since she didn’t have the film, she would have to return to Tyuratam! And what to do with the courier who would be arriving in Kyzylorda to meet her? Leave him there? Bring him back with her to wait and see what her contact worked out? She didn’t have the first inkling. Her handler in Kyzylorda did not know of the latest events at the Facility. She was supposed to meet the courier tomorrow, but she would need to meet with her handler tonight to let him know what was taking place and get instructions.

  As she exchanged her dowdy skirt for a warm pair of trousers she fretted about Ilia’s truck. She would have to leave him a note now, so that he wouldn’t report it to the Army as stolen before she could get back with her instructions. She hadn’t planned on this. Taking a pencil and a scrap of paper she jotted a quick message.

  Ilia:

  I must borrow your truck tonight and tomorrow. I have to go to Kyzylorda once more to see my boyfriend before the roads become too bad. You didn’t know I had one, did you? I also want to get a few more things before the snow moves in. I hope you understand and will not be too angry with me!

  Katia

  She folded the note and slid it into the pocket of her coat. Bundling herself up, she doused the fire in the stove and fetched her lighter from the sewing box. She left her hut through the back door, keeping to the back ways as she threaded the dark path between the rude huts, making her way towards Ilia’s shop. Lights burned in the windows of some of the huts, but most of the windows had been frosted over. The wind was fierce and snow whipped her; if it fell any harder there would be a blizzard. Finally she arrived at the back entrance to Ilia’s store and opened it with her key.