A Cold Flight To Nowhereville

by Steve Fletcher

  He pulled his briefcase off the table and grabbed his coat, regarding her dispassionately. “I’m sorry about this, and maybe you’re right. I wish you well. But I simply cannot stay, this has become too risky. First Ushakov will interrogate Tyuratam then he’ll have more KGB crawling over Kyzylorda than you can spit at. As far as the pilot I don’t know what to tell you, but he will probably have his own orders. You’ll have to consult with him. I would recommend he hide his aircraft in the deserted hangar out there if he intends to stick around. And I’ll tell you one other thing.”

  He fixed his piercing eyes on her, fishing in the pocket of his coat and handing her a small pair of binoculars. “Here, you may need these. Don’t be too proud to admit it when an operation has failed. It happens in this game. We back up, we re-group, we move on. A soldier who keeps fighting after everything is lost will receive a medal for heroism, but he won’t be around to know it. Neither will you if you don’t know when to cut and run. Dasvidanya. Good luck.”

  Quietly he slipped out the door and she was alone, staring at the closed door in frustration and disbelief.

  Zahedan, Iran

  He spotted a small oasis of light in the dark desert, twenty miles or so off the MiG’s nose. Zahedan was a lonely place, a small outpost of civilization on the southern edge of the great Dasht-e Lut desert. He wondered briefly what would motivate someone to live there. Smith had called it a poor city, barely a whistle-stop on the main railroad line to Pakistan. And Hardin had long since observed that where the rails went, civilization tended to follow. He could not fathom, though, what served as the livelihood for the local population, unless the Iran-Pakistan railway did a land-office business. The British agent had marked the location of the airstrip on his kneeboard, a few miles southeast of town, but as the MiG closed the distance to Zahedan Hardin could not spot it. Wait—there it was. Three flashing strobes in a line to the southeast, maybe three miles distant. He banked the MiG into a long easterly arc to line up for final approach.

  Although Iran had been technically neutral at the outset of World War Two, there had been some confusion with Germany over exactly what that meant. By 1941 Allied forces had occupied the country and begun using Iran as a staging base for the Lend-Lease program, ferrying supplies by air to Russia. As Hardin extended the MiG’s landing gear and raised the flaps, gliding smoothly down onto the old runway at 130 knots, he could see the shell of a Curtiss C-46 lying on its side in a nearby sandbank. One wing jutted up at an angle, the old metal fairings catching the light of the moon. He felt a queer moment of nostalgia: birds like this one had supported Stillwell in Burma, flying “the Hump” over the Himalayas, usually at or over their maximum rated payload and dealing with weather conditions that had become the stuff of legend. Here in the desert there was so little humidity that the old crate would probably last forever, or until the Iranians finally cut it up for scrap.

  As he braked the MiG and turned onto the dark taxiway he could make out a deserted tower, something that might have been the operations building at one time, and an empty hangar. He slid the canopy back and a wash of dry, hot air entered the cockpit, bringing with it the scent of some desert plant he could not identify. From the darkness of the hangar bay a flashlight was glinting at him, signaling him to approach. As the MiG drew nearer to the hangar, he saw three swarthy Iranian men standing around beside the shape of a ’51 or ’52 Chevy pickup. One of the men was waving his flashlight at him, motioning him to enter the hangar. Hardin complied, and when the MiG was fully inside the dark bay he cut the engines.

  As the whine of the Klimov died away the Iranians leapt into motion. One backed the Chevy into the hangar while a second switched on some overhead lights. Not many were working, but in the dim illumination Hardin saw that the bed of the pickup was loaded with fifty-gallon drums. The third man trotted up to the MiG, speaking quickly. “Salaam! Khosh umadid! Haletanchetor asst?”

  Hardin stepped out onto the wing, removing his flight helmet and holding up a hand in what he hoped was the universal symbol for how are ya? “Do you speak English?”

  “Ah, English, sure!” The man and his two companions, each dressed in loose workmen’s slacks and dirty tunics, moved slowly around the MiG, touching the fuselage and grinning as they pointed out features to one another. “So this is a MiG-17, eh? Not bad, not bad!”

  Hardin pointed to the open bay. “Shouldn’t you close that or something?”

  The Iranian grinned and waved a hand dismissively. “Who cares! Who’s going to see out here? The town is ten kilometers in the other direction and the only people around here are bandits! They don’t need airplanes.” He went to the pickup and from the bed pulled out a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun with 30-round box clip. “They come around, we tell them where to stick it. And besides, the door’s broken.”

  That seemed to be the end of the security issue. As Hardin gave the MiG a post-flight inspection, examining the area around the inlet for any signs of sand, one of the other Iranians came around the left wing. “Salaam! Did you have any troubles?”

  “No, no troubles.”

  “Oil pressure and all is okay?”

  “You’re mechanics?”

  “Ba’leh,” said the first Iranian, the one Hardin assumed to be the boss. “He’s the mechanic. He doesn’t have much tools here, but he’ll fix you up good.”

  “I’m a little worried about sand. It was drifting onto the taxiway and I might have sucked some in.”

  “I check,” the mechanic replied laboriously. “I don’t have tools to—how you say, you know, pull engine? But I check the…um…diffuser. And compressor, what stage I can.”

  Hardin nodded. The Iranians would have to remove the skin from the rear fuselage to access the main engine components and there was no need for a maintenance operation of that magnitude. “I don’t think I got any, at least not enough to do any damage. I would have been seeing it on the gauges.”

  “No wind tonight,” the boss Iranian said. “Not kicking up sand so I think you are okay. Besides, these Russki engines are not like your American ones. Yours are made very precise, yes? But these, they make them from pig iron! You throw bolts into the turbines and they don’t mind!”

  Hardin grinned, wondering where these men had been trained. They seemed to know their stuff. “I’ll take your word for that one. That’s my fuel over there in the truck?”

  “That’s fuel, yes. We have manual pump. You are leaving tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I need to be out of here by no later that eight.”

  “Good. There is a cot over there so you can sleep and some food in the truck. Inshallah, we will work tonight and have you ready to go.”

  Hardin recognized the term Inshallah. Graham had briefed him a little on Mideast customs. It wasn’t so much a word as a philosophy—as Allah wills. Inshallah applied to rulers, situations, life, luck or the lack thereof. Things were the way they were because it was the will of Allah. If Allah willed it, he would be ready to go tomorrow, and if Allah did not then he wouldn’t. It was a philosophy that did much to keep things in any given Mideast country the way they were, for were things not such a way because it was the will of Allah? He hoped the Almighty was favorably disposed to him. “Is there a bathroom around here?” He hadn’t thought to bring any of the Navy’s aptly named piddle packs.

  The Iranian grinned and pointed to the open hangar bay. “Just go that way and you’re there!”

  It seemed sacrilegious to relieve himself on the ramp, so he relieved himself against the hangar.

  Kyzylorda, Kazakhstan

  Katia sat alone in the spartan apartment, staring at nothing, her spirit in turmoil, her thoughts bleak. Always the knowledge that her handler had been there for her, ready to support her, had buoyed her. But he was gone and she felt bereft, more alone than she had ever felt before. Anger and frustration raged in her as she replayed his cold words in her mind. ‘Because you weren’t the planner, that’s why.’ The phrase was a grim condem
nation, a judgment of her and her abilities pronounced not by a nameless adjudicator but by someone on whom she had trusted and relied. He had coldly passed sentence on her. His departure had been a final betrayal of her trust.

  Why did the fact that she wasn’t the original planner make such a difference to him? Had she not done her work well this past year? Had she not infiltrated the daily life of the village, using who she needed in order to keep in touch with her contact, with nobody the wiser? In truth Kingfish hadn’t been the planner of the operation either, someone else had done that. That unknown someone had placed Kingfish in charge, but that was all. Kingfish had worked out the code phrases and set up the failsafe point, but there was no great difficulty to that. He had died shortly thereafter and the rest had been up to her. And she felt pride in the work she had done. But her erstwhile marriage was problematic: there had been tensions and perhaps he had communicated something of that to her handler. But those tensions had not been professional, instead more rooted in Kingfish’s frustration that she had not been interested in a physical relationship. That came, she was sure, from the mindset among men of his ilk that women were honeypots, swallows, assets useful only for sex. What of that had he said to her handler? Had they ever spoken of her, shared an off-color joke or two at her expense? ‘Who’s worse at sex, Katia or a nun?’ Clearly her handler did not have a favorable impression of her abilities. It’s not…

  She stopped herself before the final word fair. She would not permit herself to think it. She was a professional and self-pity was an indulgence she fought against, though the temptation was there. But to what end? No good purpose would come of it. Her confidence had been badly shaken, the studied hardness of her heart had cracked. Briefly, while she struggled with her emotions, she considered abandoning the mission. She could flee Kyzylorda, as her handler had. But that was no more acceptable than self-pity, for just as she had relied on her handler, her contact relied on her. She would not treat him the way she had been treated. She would not leave him depending on someone who was no longer available. And if she cut and run so easily, what use would she be to her superiors? She firmed her resolve. There was a humanistic element to her thoughts, a compassion that conflicted with the cold nature of her business. Were she colder, less human, perhaps she would have abandoned the mission. But that compassion was a part of her as well, and she found herself unwilling to completely ignore it. Screw them! I will complete this mission if there is any way possible!

  Zahedan, Iran

  The MiG idled at the distant end of the old runway while Hardin checked his wristwatch. He had slept only fitfully while the Iranians had worked on the jet but whether that was from the chatter, the food he’d eaten, or nerves, he could not say. He felt a queer lightness in his stomach as he looked down the runway and the morning sun glinted off the canopy. Twelve hundred miles north was his destination, and the knowledge that he was about to fly into the Soviet Union, formally so distant and hypothetical, now came home to roost with a vengeance. Did the U2 drivers get this feeling? He doubted it. Flying above eighty thousand feet would give him a feeling of immunity, and that feeling was noticeably absent this morning. He was not accustomed to this feeling and cursed himself for his perfunctory attitude of the past month. Push time was hardly the moment to develop cold feet.

  Seven AM. He had the jitters too badly to wait another hour and had decided to launch an hour ahead of schedule. If all went well he’d be at the target an hour early but this gave him some leeway in case he got lost. No doubt Smith would have kittens. The Iranians had refueled the MiG and the mechanic had found some sand in the compressor’s first stage, but had cleaned it out and seemed confident that there was no damage. Fortunately the runway was clear of sand; only the north taxiway seemed affected by the drifts. The MiG had been pushed out of the hangar and now sat on the ramp, facing the south taxiway.

  He fastened his Russian helmet on, clambered up onto the wing of the MiG, and slid down into the cockpit. He initiated the start sequence, and when the engine caught he eased the jet down the taxiway and onto the runway. The Iranians now stood beside their Chevy on the empty ramp, shielding their eyes from the morning sun and watching. Hardin took a last look around the lonely airfield and the old Curtiss transport lying against a scalloped dune, then released the brakes and shoved the throttle forward.

  The Klimov howled as the MiG advanced down the runway. He could see the Iranians grinning and pumping their fists before climbing into the Chevy and speeding along the ramp, paralleling him as far as they could. He eased the stick back and at 140 knots the MiG left the runway, climbing gently into the clear morning sky. He retracted the gear and came out of afterburner quickly to conserve fuel, continuing to climb to a thousand feet where he leveled off and brought the MiG’s nose to 005 degrees. At this heading he would cut across the northwestern section of Afghanistan and enter Turkmenistan somewhere north of Herat. For this leg of the flight he would be flying over one of the less mountainous parts of Afghanistan, a basin of low foothills that lay between the taller mountains in the center of the country and the eastern part of Iran. On his kneeboard he saw sporadic hills with marked elevations of five thousand feet, but he would hug the terrain and stay low enough to keep himself out of trouble. He throttled up to 460 knots.

  He felt better for being airborne, more at ease and in his element. Doubts had been creeping in the last few weeks and were becoming more problematic to banish, but this was where he felt best. He was confident, even serene as he smelled the familiar scents of a jet: old leather, grease, dust and the faint smell of ozone from hot circuits. The comparison between flying and sex was really not much of a contest. The uninitiated never understood that.

  The guard channel was quiet. He spotted a city far to the east, and shortly thereafter a second: Zaranj and Farah, both in Afghanistan. He had no intention of flying completely on instruments unless he absolutely had to, and so long as there were recognizable landmarks he intended to make use of them. He marked his position and time on his kneeboard map with a pencil. So far the weather was still clear, but far to the north he thought to see some clouds gathering. The MiG’s gauges showed no problems, although at this altitude he was burning fuel at a faster rate than he liked. The Afghan countryside was a bleak moonscape, broken in the far distance by rugged mountains, and once he thought to see a group of colorful tents. No doubt they belonged to whatever nomads considered the harsh countryside their home.

  He neared his first waypoint, spotting the city of Herat almost directly off the MiG’s nose. Fuel or not, this is cutting it too close! I’m gonna fly right over the top of the place! He banked left to skirt the city, then brought the nose to 012 degrees. That would take him across the southeast section of Turkmenistan, then practically bisect Uzbekistan, then into Kazakhstan. He had to keep to his heading without variance, since according to his maps recognizable features in this area of Turkmenistan were few and far between. In about half an hour he should see a river going from northwest to southeast, and a small town called Kerki. If he didn’t see those he was lost.

  The problem is I’m not sure where the Russian border is. The U2 pilots said that you always knew when you crossed the Russian border: it was a strange feeling, one they couldn’t adequately describe. But you always knew. He decided to give himself fifteen minutes from the Herat waypoint before climbing. He counted the minutes off on the chronometer and then eased the stick back, throttling up to climb to twenty thousand feet. Now there were sporadic cumulus clouds, and far to the north the weather looked to be worsening. Flying in weather would be a major setback, as he wouldn’t be able to see anything at all. Or, if the weather was bad enough, he would have to lose altitude to get below it and cut his range by a third or more. He marked his time carefully on the map and throttled back again to 460 knots. At that airspeed on a heading on 012 he should see the river in another fifteen minutes.

  He began to sense a curious weight on his spirit, a kind of claustrophobic heaviness
that edged gradually over him. It was a dour and depressive feeling that seemed to battle with an odd quickening of the senses. So this was what the U2 pilots were talking about…now he understood that feeling of crossing an invisible barrier. He was now, he knew, inside Russia.

  He flew over some mountains, the granite crags speckled here and there with snow. The sound of the Klimov through his flight helmet was a low, powerful whistle as air was rammed through the diffuser into the compressor. He studied his map and did some quick arithmetic in his head, marking his estimated position with a pencil. Farther to the west the countryside seemed to level off and become arid plains. He began to hear chatter on the guard channel in Russian. Some tower somewhere was talking to an aircraft; it sounded to him like an exercise flight. He found himself understanding most of what was being said with the exception of a few terms that he guessed were slang. He decided he could cut his British contact some slack for not knowing every idiosyncrasy of the Russian language.

  Monitoring his fuel situation was tricky, since the MiG’s instruments didn’t know how to handle the modified drop tanks. In prior flights the Klimov seemed to burn a minimum of 500 gallons per hour. In his experience with the MiG-15 a light on the panel would glow red when the rear tank ran dry. At that time the pilot needed to switch off the booster pump so it wouldn’t burn out, after which he would have somewhere around 200 gallons of fuel remaining in the front tank. At least that was true in the MiG-15, and the MiG-17 seemed to have the same light-switch arrangement although the larger airframe held more in the tanks. Nonetheless, when the rear tank ran dry he would be in a critical fuel situation and would need to find somewhere to land. That better not happen for a good long time yet. There was also a G-limit placed on maneuvering with the drop tanks, but his problem was that he didn’t know exactly what that was. He guessed it would be somewhere around three or maybe four G’s.