A Cold Flight To Nowhereville

by Steve Fletcher

  “Oh no, never. I never allowed myself to become settled somewhere I was working, that would have been too dangerous. Better to keep my distance, protect myself, you know?”

  “But you slipped up here, didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “So it seems.”

  “I thought agents weren’t supposed to have a soft side, Katie. Yours seems to be showing.”

  He was teasing her, but she didn’t respond with her usual heat. Over the days he’d slipped into an American pronunciation of her name and she seemed not to mind. “They have been good to me here. Taking me in and all, accepting me as one of them. I never became attached to this place until Kingfish died.”

  “We’re going to have to leave, you know.”

  He watched her as emotions played over her face and she struggled with her thoughts. It was an appealing process. “I know. It sort of feels like I have failed these people who trusted me. That’s the danger of growing too accustomed to a place.”

  He took a copious slug of vodka. “You know, Katie, I don’t fail at things very often. I was an ace in Korea, flight instructor, test pilot, the works. I don’t go into something thinking I’m going to fail at it, and I don’t. But…this time I screwed my mission up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something I’ve been thinking about,” he mused. “I don’t do that kind of thing often so I’m not very good at it. Introspection, I mean. But I didn’t have to get into a dogfight with those MiGs. I could have gone low and run into the weather. But I didn’t even think about that, you know? It didn’t even occur to me. I got into a one-versus-three and I lost my jet, so here I am. I don’t think what I did was very smart. More stick than forehead, as we say back home.”

  “I don’t know that you could have helped that,” she murmured.

  “I think I could have,” he responded dourly. “Rather should have. But my point was that failing at something makes you think, sort of. It makes you wonder about things you didn’t wonder about before. Things you didn’t bother to think about before. I seem to be doing a lot of that and I’m not really used to it. It’s kind of a new experience.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem too,” she admitted. “Everything was supposed to go smoothly. I get the handoff, I deliver to you, and I leave. No problems. But…things haven’t gone that way, and I don’t seem to be handling it very well.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you’re just dealing with things you didn’t deal with before.”

  “You mean things that were there but I wasn’t paying attention to? Like feeling bad for Ilia’s sake?”

  “Maybe. Something like that.”

  “No man has ever spoken to me like this before, you know,” she giggled, draining her cup.

  He grinned back. “What, you’ve never had a conversation with a guy before?”

  “Of course I have! But not like this. Not with one that ever shared things with me like you do.”

  “Eh,” he muttered, “you’re just tanked.”

  Impulsively she leaned forward and kissed him. He felt the softness of her lips on his, the gentle warmth of her breath on his cheek. Her kiss was warm and sweet and gentle, and he kissed her back with an unexpected ardor. Presently she drew back.

  “What was that for?” he smiled.

  “During the war,” she murmured, “I was raped by a German soldier. This way, I know where things will stop.”

  He grinned, puzzled and bemused, as she rose with a sly smile. “Goodnight, John.”

  Tyuratam, Kazakhstan

  Katia wondered why her contact was being so slow in contacting her. What was the delay? There was only normal activity around the village, no soldiers other than the usual ones appeared, no KGB, no nothing. All was as it had ever been. What was he doing? All they had to do was make a simple brush pass and she could be done with this waiting. But perhaps things had not settled down quite enough on the facility yet, perhaps he felt he could not make the transfer without coming under suspicion. Yes, that was probably it. As the American would say, he was waiting until he was certain the heat was off.

  She leaned her forehead against a cold metal shelf in the aisle of Ilia’s store, pausing in her restocking work, thankful she was out of sight of the counter where her old friend was conversing with one of the villagers. It was difficult to concentrate these days. It was difficult to hide her preoccupation from her normal acquaintances, difficult to hide her distraction from Ilia. She felt as if she was coming apart and it was an enormous burden to try to adjust.

  The heat was off. It was one of his American sayings, perhaps it didn’t translate precisely into Russian but the meaning came across well enough. He had several of those unfamiliar phrases, foreign to her but unique to him. Sometimes the things people said and the way they said them were just words, components of communication, easily said and easily forgotten. But with others, every word seemed to be colored with personality. One could not repeat those words, or even think them, without hearing the speaker’s voice, seeing their mannerisms, feeling the essence of them.

  She restocked the shelves furiously, dusting the surfaces as she placed the dry and canned goods from the shipment that had just been delivered. Ilia was chatting with Viktor, one of the old pensioners who lived nearby, exchanging news from the Facility, gossip about their friends, who was sleeping with whom, the weather, the usual. She listened, as she always did, for any snippet of information that might be of use or intended for her. But her thoughts were distant and on neither her work nor the conversation. She brushed an angry tear away, glad she was out of sight in this aisle as she struggled to control her roiling emotions and mask them with work.

  Why had she kissed him? That had been the wrong thing to do, but they were half sloshed and she thought things were moving in that direction. But that wasn’t quite true, was it? John hadn’t been trying to seduce her or even doing anything remotely inappropriate, he was behaving like a gentleman with her as he always did—even when three sheets to the wind. No, the desire was all hers. She had wanted to kiss him. She hadn’t been prepared for what she got: an aching sweetness that stirred butterflies in her stomach and sent an unfamiliar thrill coursing through her, making her long to repeat the experience. Of all the unexpected things that had happened, this was beyond doubt the most remote in her mind. Was she truly that inexperienced?

  The past few days she would leave when the shop closed as she always did but now she would hurry home, as she hadn’t before. Now she realized it was born from a desire to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his presence, to be near him. Her home had felt lonely and cold this past year, filled with memories—however unpleasant—of her former husband. But the American was full of life and lent that to her house, making it seem warm and homey and a pleasure to return to. He’d ask her how her day went and listen as she told him. He’d complain about a book he was reading and she would sit beside him on the sofa to explain some unfamiliar words. She’d cook dinner on her small stove while they talked and laughed together.

  The usual hardness of her heart, all her carefully constructed defensive walls, all were in shambles now. It wasn’t all John’s fault, she knew that, but a lot of it was. And yet she could not get angry with him, demand he treat her like a stupid whore the way other men did so that she could put herself back together. He was just being himself and it was turning her into an emotional wreck. She wouldn’t permit herself to put a name to what was making her house seem so nice these days. But oh, how her emotions fought against her will.

  Towards midafternoon Genrikh the butcher barged in. “Privyet, Viktor! How’s things? Privyet, Ilia. I need some sugar for Manya. Say, that reminds me. Where’s Katya?”

  She composed herself and went to the counter. “Privyet, Genrikh. How is Manya?”

  “Oh, bad tempered as ever. I was making a delivery of pork this morning and your scientist friend was in quite a mood. He said to tell you there will be fireworks when he sleeps with you!” The stout butcher laughed. “He
was in a mood all right. Said you will not fail to please him!”

  The final code word! “Oh there will be fireworks all right. It’s my temper he’ll be getting!”

  They all laughed.

  Genrikh’s news acted like a tonic, calming her and settling her emotions. The final code had been given and now they had to leave. This she was prepared for. She could react to this.

  The remaining hours dragged by until finally Ilia closed the shop. She was tempted to hug him, kiss his grizzled cheek, thank him for all he had done for her. But of course it wouldn’t do. Instead she bid him her usual farewell, she would see him in the morning, and left him to lock up. She couldn’t act in any manner different than she had ever affected, though she dearly wanted do. Her eyes stung with fresh tears as she left the old man and his shop behind, this time for good.

  Her heart was racing as she made her way down snow-covered avenues in the gathering darkness, trying not to rush to her house. She opened the door and saw the familiar figure of the American on the sofa, his novel open in his hands. “Hi,” he greeted her cheerfully.

  “John, come on,” she said in tight, clipped tones. “The code word has been given and we have to leave.”

  It took him a moment to respond, but then his eyes flew wide. “Oh. Damn! What was it?”

  “’Fail.’ It means we are to meet at the failsafe point. There was another word I didn’t understand.”

  “What was it?” Hardin reached for their knapsack and headed for the kitchen.

  “Fireworks. There would be fireworks when he slept with me. I’m not sure what that meant by that.”

  He stuffed food into the knapsack. “Seems pretty clear to me. He means to start a fire or something as a diversion. Something to help him get off the base.”

  She considered that. “Yes, of course.” From her bedroom she produced a second knapsack and hurriedly stuffed a few garments into it.

  John’s voice came to her from the kitchen. “Do we know when it’s going to happen?”

  “No,” she called back. “But it must be soon. We’ll have to leave at full dark since we must walk to the failsafe point.”

  John stuck his head into the bedroom. “So how far from this place are we?”

  “Maybe 15 kilometers to the old gulag, northwest. Few remember it’s there, because the gulags are not marked on Soviet maps. They moved camps around often, depending on what work they had the prisoners doing, so it’s sometimes difficult to tell where a certain camp actually was. This one used to supply workers to the mine, long ago. Kingfish scouted it and it’s not on Facility grounds, I’ve never been there though. But he said it was there, an old cluster of gulag barracks in some hills east of a ravine.”

  “How long do you think we can wait for him? Assuming we find this place.”

  She looked at him, considering. “We could probably wait at failsafe for two or three days before food became a problem. I think if he hasn’t come by then he isn’t going to and we abort the mission.”

  “Better take some more,” the American muttered, returning to the kitchen. “We’ll need food to get us out of failsafe and to some kind of civilization.”

  Dark came quickly as she mooched around her house, feeling oddly unwilling to say goodbye to it as John bundled himself up and shoved his usanka on. “Come on, Katie,” he murmured presently. “We need to leave.”

  Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan

  Loginov lay sleepless on his narrow cot, his rough blanket covering him, listening to the sounds of the other scientists snoring around him. Quietly he rose from his cot. From one of the empty footlockers nearby he drew out a military enlisted man’s uniform, stolen a few days ago from the laundry, complete with usanka and scarf. It wasn’t the best fit but it would do. In the darkness of the barracks he threaded his way between the sleeping scientists to one of the frosted windows. He cleared a small circle with his hand and peered out towards the launch gantry.

  Things could not have worked out better if he’d wished for it. The clown Ushakov had overreached, Kalyugin had found out and now his nemesis was in hot water. Security had returned to normal, the morning patrols around the perimeter had been discontinued, the soldier who had been his omnipresent shadow was there no longer. Perfect! The mule had shown up as usual and Loginov had given the man the code phrase to deliver. He’d given his handler a full day to make it to the failsafe point, knowing she’d have to walk the distance. He didn’t plan to.

  There were only normal levels of activity at the launch site. The barracks bay was dark but he knew where Aleksei slept. Silently he made his way to his friend’s cot and crouched beside it, watching the young scientist sleep on his side, his thin blanket moving gently with the motion of his breathing. “It’s time, Aleksei,” he whispered, barely audible so the scientist would not rouse. “Time for me to leave. I must go to failsafe now. I’ve enjoyed our walks, my friend, I truly have. They’ll come for you soon and take you to the Lubyanka, and I suppose I should feel sorry for that.” He grinned in the darkness. “But some things are important, eh? Some things are worth doing…even if it’s for the sake of being the biggest asshole around. And I, my friend, am a very big asshole.”

  He rose to leave, then stooped down again and placed a pack of his harsh Kazakh cigarettes gently on the cot. “It’s easy to do,” he whispered. “Hide the cigarette here in your palm like so. Tuck it in like this. Do this…move your wrist like so…and the cigarette appears! You practice with these, Aleksei. You’ll have it down in no time.”

  He left Aleksei sleeping quietly. Gathering his coat around him and jamming his usanka down on his head, he made his way down the stairs and out the barracks entrance into the cold darkness. A single yellow light above the doorway case a wan glow over the snow lying in drifts against the side of the building, and a fitful gust of wind hit him in the face. Snow swirled around the entrance to the barracks as he scanned for his ever-present bodyguard, making sure he was not around. He wasn’t. Comrade Ushakov, you have forgotten to guard the criminal Loginov! An unforgivable oversight!

  He trotted out into the steppe, heading towards the area where he and Aleksei usually walked. The darkness was virtually complete and the few lights burning in the MIK-2-1 Building and the Oxygen/Nitrogen plant further away did nothing to illuminate the surrounding desert. For a moment he felt a surge of panic as he cast about the snow blindly, looking for a single specific rock now obscured by a blanket of seamless white. But after a dint of searching he managed to locate the rock under which he’d hidden his camera. He drew a small plastic-wrapped bundle out and felt elation as he held the small Minox camera. Bet you’d give a year’s pay to have this, Ushakov! He stuffed the camera down into a pocket of his coat, thought for a moment, then reached in again to fiddle with it. A wide grin spread over his features as he headed towards the Plant, off a half a kilometer to the east. A few trucks were rumbling down the road and he hid behind a dune until they passed. Quickly he dashed across the main road, looking at the red pairs of taillights heading south, and trotted up the access road to the Oxygen/Nitrogen plant. He opened the door and entered the dark building.

  The door opened directly into the equipment room and Loginov was immediately surrounded by the low hum of giant machines. Close by the door he spotted a rag-bucket and hauled it over a little closer to a wooden workbench nearby. He struck a match and dropped it into the bucket, watching as the oil-soaked rags flared immediately. Soon the fire would be working its way up the wooden bench where it would be further fueled by the tins of caustics the scientists carelessly left there. That would keep them busy for quite some time. Satisfied, he left the Plant and headed north across the steppe to the motor pool.

  The motor pool was a flat area of hard-packed dirt, now covered with snow and broken by tire tracks, with an open-bay garage around which were parked the vehicles belonging to the 217th. Out of service or broken construction equipment typically sat alongside the small fleet of ZiS trucks, flatbeds and Ural motorcy
cles that were waiting to be used. Typically there might be a single soldier on duty, checking the vehicles out to whoever might need one. Tonight was no different. Why should anyone suspect anything? Were they not all good comrades? A few floodlights mounted on the garage bay illuminated the parking area, shining on a scraper, a few flatbed trucks, a single half-track and two or three Ural motorcycles. Loginov wrapped a scarf around his face both for protection from the cold and to obscure his features as he stepped out of the darkness into the area of light. He spotted the soldier on duty standing idly inside the bay, smoking and watching the activity at the distant launch gantry. “Hey comrade!” Loginov called. “I’ve got the dirty duty down at the junction. Okay if I take a motorcycle?”

  “Sure,” the youth replied. “Take the far one there, it’s in the best shape. Unless you want a sidecar, then take the one next to it. But it’s a piece of junk.”

  “No, that one will work fine.” He located the motorcycle, a large olive drab copy of a German war-era BMW, and straddled it. According to official sources the Ural had been reverse-engineered from a few captured BMW’s, but rumors more commonly held that the Red Army had stolen an entire BMW factory from occupied Germany, thus giving the Soviet Ural a distinctly foreign appearance. But unlike its German counterpart the Ural’s construction was dreadful, its workmanship haphazard and the quality of the metallurgy atrocious. They ran, but not for long and when they broke they were as good as scrap.

  “Have whoever you’re relieving bring it back. You’re going to freeze on that thing, you know!” The soldier grinned at him.

  Loginov kicked the starter and the engine caught easily, surprising him since Urals were notoriously cold-blooded. “Yes, I know! But I’d rather be on one of these than in some big piece of crap truck!” It will also make finding me more difficult! He backed the Ural out of its parking spot and kicked the shifter down into first gear, opening the throttle and easing the cycle down the dirt track and onto the road. The duty soldier waved idly. Yes, we’re all good comrades here! Why should you suspect treachery? But you’ll pay for it when Ushakov figures out what’s happened! And given the level of activity going on around the facility that probably wouldn’t take long. He sped past the Oxygen/Nitrogen plant and through one of the dark windows saw an orange glow. Nobody knew the Plant was on fire yet but they soon would.