“Yeah, something like that.”
Vladimir knew he should change the subject. “I have noticed much activity over last two days with the small group of civilian visitors. Is it special delegation?” Vladimir’s comments always indicated an unusually perceptive understanding of military protocol and base politics. As a boy, his father was host to many delegations at Vladivostok. Whispered
conversations and heightened security kept people on the ready. “Everyone is on best behavior for sure,” he said.
Robert enjoyed Vladimir. Their conversations somehow took him away from his anger at his country over his parents’ situation, and his wartime responsibilities. Maybe it was because they generally talked about the base as if it were a movie or play. He enjoyed discussing their observations about the day-to-day base operations. Their different perspectives helped pass the time.
“I heard Cricket tell Captain Morgan in flight ops in Anchorage that these men were here from New Mexico … being taken on a flyover of the Yukon Flats area north of here.” Robert knew that Vladimir was familiar with Cricket since his pilots’ activities were controlled out of the very same flight ops group. “Pretty hush, hush from what I’ve heard.”
“Hush, hush? What das mean?” Vladimir asked, taking the last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out.
“You know. Like no one is supposed to know anything.”
“What is located at Yukon Flats area?”
“Not much. Just some played-out gold mines and a few trappers and Eskimos. Fort Yukon is the only town. An end-of-the-earth kind of place. There are about sixty people, and it gets extremely cold. You might have some relatives there since it came with the Alaska Purchase.” Robert smiled.
“Eighteen sixty-seven,” Vladimir replied in an even tone while squaring his shoulders to meet Robert’s smile.
“What’s 1867?” Robert asked, completely missing the connection in history.
“That is when we sold Alaska to America. Some of the old men still think it to be a huge mistake, like history-changing mistake.”
“Let’s just hope you don’t have any relatives living there if we go to war with Russia. They’ll all be put into camps, just like my parents. It pisses me off every time I think of their situation!”
“We have Siberia, you have intern camps. Small people always get hurt during wars.”
Vladimir shared Robert’s pain, but given his assignment, he knew it was unwise to connect on a human level. Vladimir’s father had been a loyalist to the Russian imperial family of Nicholas II. Along with his wife and children, Nicholas had been moved as a political prisoner in August 1917 to the Siberian capital of Tobolsk and in the spring of 1918 to Yekaterinburg. They were executed in the cellar of their prison house. Vladimir’s family was also among the early victims of the political fallout and the many subsequent executions during the civil war. He survived the atrocities through a coincidence of names. His father pleaded on Vladimir’s behalf, declaring in tears that his namesake, Vladimir Lenin, would find excellent use of his language skills. The boy was spared and at nineteen became one of the youngest comrades of the newly formed Cheka organization—birthplace to the KGB. The Cheka became a devastating weapon against the enemies of Lenin, inside and outside of the Russian Federation. Working undercover assignments over the years for the very organization that executed his family was a personal hell, but it was his only way out. Despite the many assassinations and corrupt entanglements of the Cheka, Vladimir survived the various political reorganizations. The Cheka became the NKVD in 1922 to address both internal security and state security. It endured one of its significant challenges in July of 1941, when Stalin was surprised by Germany’s attack on June 22, 1941. The Special Section of Counterintelligence was formed. Code and cipher systems were changed, and Vladimir was named one of its agents. While NKVD mostly focused on internal affairs of state and the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, GRU, on external affairs involving international espionage, Vladimir remained assigned to the NKVD overseeing the Russian pilot program in Alaska.
Robert and Vladimir each momentarily reflected on their private storehouses of hidden pain and sheltered emotions buried deep behind the stoic expressions they shared. Their mutual silence testified to a burden so heavy that it prevented a complete disclosure of their innermost thoughts.
Shifting back into the moment and breaking the silence, Robert said, “I’m on Captain Morgan’s flight tomorrow after the weather lifts. I’ll give you an ‘official’ report of Yukon Flats when I’m back.”
As Robert walked away, Vladimir poured another cup of coffee and considered his own situation. As a NKVD Agent, he had much to lose if his identity were uncovered.
It was in 1925, after three years as an apprentice cryptographer and four more years as a backup translator that he got his first real assignment. He was stationed as a “listening agent” attached to the Russian Consulate in Shimoda, Japan, on the Izo Peninsula south of Tokyo. His official objective was to translate sensitive Japanese documents that fell into the hands of operatives working undercover in the growing international trade activities of Japan. Under the direction of his superior in Moscow, Commander Boris Sidorov, however, his role was to secretly report on any suspicious matters of Bolshevik interest, thereby continuing the honorable Chekist profession of isolating individuals through spying, and thus making it impossible for anybody to trust anybody else. After a long year in obscurity, he discovered a series of documents completely discrediting the consulate general as nothing more than a traitor to the Federation. Large amounts of gold were being smuggled through a well-developed channel of Japanese and Russian operatives. Lenin himself had been advised of the discovery and the invaluable services of Vladimir Dubisskiy.
At the end of his second year in Shimoda Vladimir met Okimi Nakamura. She spoke no Russian, of course, and worked in her father’s flower store by the river. She was eighteen and delicate with a tiny waist, small shoulders, and an indirect way of making eye contact. They met briefly while he was on one of his many walks by the river, where his unhurried pace that day was measured by the flow of the river’s current. She was leaving her father’s store when two rickshaws collided, blocking their progress. She was on her way to deliver some fresh-cut jasmine, and he was on his way to a routine meeting involving a translation for an NKVD operative. Their spontaneous eye contact temporarily suspended the confusion of the moment while they maneuvered around the accident. The exchanged gaze ended as quickly as it began when her almond-shaped eyes dropped immediately. In years to come he would hardly believe that this vision was anything other than a dream. He followed her without notice until she made her delivery and returned to her father’s shop.
The next day he entered the shop nervously. “Good morning,” he said quietly to her as she approached to help. His throat felt as if it were about to seize shut with anticipation.
The morning sun reflected off her eyes and her gentle smile seemed no less brilliant than the many bouquets of flowers filling the water pots throughout the store. “May I help you,” she replied with her eyes averted.
He carefully considered his thoughts in Russian and made sure of the correct translation before he said in Japanese, “I saw a lady on the street the other day carrying the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. I was hoping to find out what they were and if they had special meaning.”
“I will try. What did they look like?”
“They were white with perfectly formed petals, similar in shape to a water lily, but much smaller, and with an irregular stem.”
“Let me show you.” She led him across the dirt floor of the store to a wooden cutting bench. She pointed to bunches of jasmine and asked, “Are these what you saw?”
“Yes,” he said, reaching out to touch one of the petals.
Her hand intercepted his as she said, “You must not. It will leave a stain.”
His heart raced with the electricity produced by her fingers touching the back of his hand. It was as if his se
nses had been immediately filled to their limit and were about to burst. Struggling for composure he said, “I’ve never seen them before. They are extraordinary. There’s nothing like them where I come from in Russia.”
He was unsure of his next steps. He wondered if he should buy them or tell her that she was the lady he saw on the street with the flowers. Instead, he decided to ask, “Can you tell me about their meaning?”
“Do you know of hana kotoba?” she asked.
“No, I do not.”
“It is our Japanese flower language. In Japan, a samurai considers himself a person highly sensitive to art and beauty. They use the language to express their desires in their kimonos, as women do. He treasures flowers and takes them as a part of life as a warrior.”
“The jasmine, what does it mean?”
“It is offered as a gesture to express gracefulness in the person receiving the flowers. His intention is to express friendship. Is there someone you would like to present a bouquet to?”
“Yes. Yes, there definitely is.”
He left nervously after paying for the flowers. After two hours of pacing the streets of Shimoda rehearsing what to say, he returned to the shop to present the bouquet to Okimi, although at that time he had yet to know her name.
In the months that followed, Vladimir returned to shop regularly. He paid special attention to Okimi’s father and mother, presenting them with gifts when visiting the shop. He knew that Japanese culture frowned on mixed relationships and Okimi’s father and mother could be shunned in their community if the relationship wasn’t approved of. Initially, Vladimir barely acknowledged Okimi in favor of small talk with her father. Her parents were impressed with his Japanese and the thoughtfulness of his various gifts. Despite his lack of interaction with Okimi, their infatuation grew. His intelligence, patience, and quiet demeanor helped him bridge the chasm between his world of Lenin and Stalin and her world of the deity emperor Shōwa. Chaperoned walks gave way to the privilege of Vladimir being allowed to take her on walks alone along the river after her work was done. His hardened emotions from his years as a NKVD agent slowly relaxed with each encounter. Why he had allowed this to happen, he couldn’t answer, as he knew that his world would eventually destroy their relationship.
“You’re not happy tonight, Vladimir-san. Am I doing something wrong?”
“No, no, no. It is not you.” Their relationship had not progressed beyond holding hands, but at that moment his need to kiss her was beyond control. He cupped her chin with his hands and looked deeply into her brown eyes. He said, “You are the most perfect flower in the field.” With that their lips met, softly at first, yet with an unsure familiarity. They broke and smiled, allowing their bodies to reposition as close as possible on the bench. Their next kiss was complete with the passion of an unfulfilled love and a commitment to be one.
“I love you, Okimi, very much,” he said while holding her hands. “But I’m afraid it isn’t enough.”
“What do you mean?”
He wasn’t quite sure what he meant. He only knew the pain of having just received the crushing news that day of his reassignment. The war was changing everything. He had become greatly valued by the NKVD hierarchy as he had become recognized as a trusted comrade with important talents necessary to the Federation’s future international security.
“I have been ordered back to the Vladivostok military base to begin training as a pilot in the NKVD. I must leave for Russia tomorrow. I don’t know when we will be together again.”
The sorrow in her eyes broke his heart. She desperately reached for another kiss as if that would make what she just heard go away.
Vladimir returned to Shimoda only once, briefly. He and Okimi pledged their lives together, and he promised to return one day. The intensity of the war eliminated all possibility of that reunion occurring any time soon. Years of flying security missions for the war effort, coupled with extensive language training, prepared him for his current assignment coordinating the movements of Russian pilots and aircraft under the Lend-Lease Program at Ladd. More importantly, Russian counter-espionage intelligence had identified the United States’ activities in Alaska as critical to the Federation’s national security. An agent of Vladimir’s skill, with access to critical procedures and knowledge of flight operations, would be an important investment.
By now, Vladimir had drunk more coffee than he wanted. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of reflecting on what life might be like if he and Okimi ever saw that day they dreamt of so fervently years ago. Generally he was secure with his role with the NKVD, but at times like this his resolve weakened. Sitting in an empty mess hall in a foreign country, hoping for an outcome that was not likely to be, weakened the soul. He stood, inhaled deeply from his cigarette, and mentally packaged his dream, carefully so not to tarnish it, where he could retrieve it again as he had so many times in the past.
CHAPTER 11
“What’s up with Robert?” Red asked Nick once they found smooth air after takeoff.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got a burr under his saddle, right sure. I know I’m not the main hoss on this plane, but a little respect should come with the second seat. I might as well have been the hombre hired to shovel shit in the barn the way he responded to my simple good morning.”
“I’ll talk to him. We don’t need an attitude on board with the luminaries we’re carting around today. Take over for a few minutes.”
Their early-morning flight had taken them to the southeast of the Yukon Flats area, north of Fairbanks. They were to escort some ranking army brass and important civilians on a sightseeing tour of the Yukon Valley. They flew for about forty-five minutes northeast. They would turn around and make their approach with the sun rising at their back. The Yukon River was their marker as they flew at five thousand feet—lower than normal, since Nick’s instructions were to give these men a visual understanding of the terrain below. The early cloud cover was clearing and the river’s extraordinary positioning in the valley was a striking centerpiece, even for these experienced pilots, with the morning sun’s rays reflecting off the White Mountains to the west. The Yukon River was very important to the development of Alaska because it traversed the entire state from the Yukon Territory in the east to the Bering Sea in the west. Being the longest river in the region, it was the principal means of transportation during the Klondike Gold Rush. Nick spotted a paddle-wheel riverboat out the starboard windows and used it to engage his guests. “My name’s Nick Morgan. I’m your captain for this little excursion.”
“Good morning, Captain,” several of the men responded in unison.
“We’re a little informal on these trips, so if you don’t mind I’d like to introduce my crew.” Pointing to Robert, Nick said, “This is Flight Service PFC Robert Endo. He’s got about a year and a half with the USAAF and will take care of pretty much anything you need while on board.” Robert’s sullen expression went unnoticed. “I’m Captain Nick Morgan, as I said before, on loan from Northwest Airlines and serving in the Air Transport Command. The co-pilot keeping us on course is Red Johnson. I’m going to let him do a lot of the flying today since he got his wings as a crop duster in Oklahoma, and I was told you wanted an up-close view of the area. If he had his way, you’d be shaking hands with some of the locals we’ll pass along the way.” The men laughed. While Nick’s friendly nature put people at ease, his unmistakable sense of control gave them confidence.
The major with the gold-leaf cluster spoke first. “I’m Major James Gordon and these men are my guests on this project,” he said, indicating the other man in uniform and two other men in civvies. “As you know from your briefing papers, we’re not at liberty to discuss our objective, Captain. We do acknowledge your help, though.” His unwillingness to introduce the others made the point that they weren’t interested in striking up any kind of a friendship.
“Well, before I leave you, I want you to know that flying conditions are near perfect today, so we’l
l be at our best and still get you back home in one piece. Something I wanted to point out to you gentlemen, before we miss it, is the paddle-wheel riverboat traffic still in use. The Yukon River is the only highway down there. It’s been busy since the gold-rush days. And, it’s a pretty handy guide for us pilots, also.” The men showed interest in seeing the river. With their safety belts unfastened in the exceptionally smooth air, the two men on the port side got up and leaned over the seats to get a good look.
“How busy is the river today with the mining pretty much played out?” The gentleman asking the question was the one dressed in civilian clothing—khaki slacks and a plaid flannel shirt—and was probably in his early forties.
“You’re right about the gold being played out, but the mining isn’t completely dead. Nickel and copper are still being pulled out pretty regularly. The locals also rely on the river as a supply line for most of what they need to survive on over the winter. Right now, there’s still a fair amount of activity. But, by mid-November when the river starts to freeze, transportation shuts down fast. From then on, dog sleds and bush planes are the only way in or out until about May.”
“Who lives down there?”
“Mostly Eskimos of Russian descent, a few contractors, and some hard-core wilderness types. I also understand that the native village of Venetie is still active. Some talk of protecting the land and encouraging additional families to settle in the village. That’s about the extent of my knowledge.”
“Thanks for the introductions and information, Captain. We’ll let you know of our specific interests.” The major turned his shoulder away from Nick, leaving no ambiguity about the conversation being over.
Nick indicated to Robert as they moved forward in the cabin that he wanted to talk. “You seem a bit uncomfortable, Private. What’s up?” Nick only used rank in his discussion with his crew when he wanted absolute attention.
Robert’s demeanor was defensive, shifting on both feet and barely maintaining eye contact with his senior officer. “It’s personal, sir.”
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