CHAPTER 13
Vladimir lay on the flat, hard mattress trying to wake from his night’s rest. He barely remembered going to sleep. Despite the discomfort endured he had slept straight through the night, courtesy of the events over the last few days. His shoulder hurt from being in the same position too long; it almost felt dislocated. Must have slept on it wrong, he thought, as he rotated it back to life while sitting on the edge of the bed. In the morning light he could see that his eight-foot-by-eight-foot room was more of a cell. The lack of window coverings, other than vertical steel bars preventing an exit, enhanced the austere accommodations. No toilet or basin. No closet. Just the bed and a small desk. The only light in the room was activated by a wall switch and came from a bare bulb hanging on a drop cord from the ceiling. He reflected on the comparatively soft duty he had enjoyed while in Alaska when contrasted with the meagerness of homeland hospitality.
Outside his door he heard shuffling and then an abrupt knock. After pulling on his pants, he opened the door. Sirak’s admin saluted and offered directions down the hall to a communal bathroom. “Agent Sirak will be ready to see you in twenty minutes.” There was none of the social dialogue he had come accustomed to while working with the Americans, no acknowledgement that he had traveled a great distance and that his body clock thought it was still the middle of the night; there was just the hard stare of a comrade not wishing to disappoint his superior.
“Tell Agent Sirak I’ll meet him for breakfast at six thirty, as agreed. Come back here in fifteen minutes, and I’ll be ready,” Vladimir replied with an authoritative tone, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. As the admin quickly departed another soldier stepped from around the corner and remained on duty outside Vladimir’s room. It came as no surprise to him that he had most likely been under guard all night.
“Good morning, Agent Dubisskiy. I trust you rested well?” Agent Sirak said upon Vladimir’s arrival at the table set for breakfast in a private dining area. “Please be seated. Our sleeping accommodations aren’t much I’m afraid, but I doubt you noticed after such a long trip.”
“Thank you. All I needed was something flat.” Despite the immense power this man had garnered with his direct connection to Stalin, Vladimir felt relatively at ease with him. Maybe it was the agent’s comfortable directness or his willingness to communicate man to man without the shield of the office. Maybe it was just the fact they both shared a common role in their agent experiences. Regardless, Vladimir was beginning to feel a sense of importance with his new, although not totally comprehended, responsibility. After all, very few agents could claim they shared a private breakfast with the head of Russian Counterintelligence. Yet, he also knew that he was being drawn in, the way a cobra dances with its victims until within striking range. There were no friendships here—no false pretenses.
Vladimir was very hungry and was happy for the generous breakfast. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had good bliny. The traditional egg and flour crepe-like dish was perfectly done and accompanied by caviar and lox. A second course of oladyi pancakes served with sugar and jam and sausages was more than he could handle. Over tea, both men smoked and enjoyed the brief break from their tension-filled world.
“I hope our food makes up for our lack of accommodations.”
“It’s beyond excellent,” Vladimir replied. “It has been a long time since I’ve had such a meal.” He knew the gesture of providing a variety of well-prepared foods imparted importance to what was expected of him.
“We have several people that you will meet in training for your new assignment. First will be Igor Kurchatov, the scientific director developing a working design for an atomic bomb. Do you know what I mean, Agent Dubisskiy, by an ‘atomic bomb’?”
“I know it’s immense in its destructive capabilities, but I only know about it in general terms.”
“In simple scientific terms the destruction is caused by an isotope of uranium-235 reaching an explosive critical-mass reaction. It’s not only its ability to eliminate a city as large as Berlin that matters, though. We know the German, American, and Japanese scientific communities are all being challenged to build one. Stalin, however, has been more consumed with the western front and the war with Hitler and still must be convinced of the future for such a weapon. But believe me: the first country to develop the atom bomb will have control over the world. Right now, the Americans and British are our allies, but that will end with the defeat of Germany.
“Anyway, Comrade Kurchatov will give you the necessary background to recognize the intelligence we need to observe the American progress.”
Vladimir knew all too well through his years as an agent that the paranoia of Stalin politics was always a factor in the progress of any significant undertaking. The standard of proof in any discussion with Stalin was not related to the question of whether the event was factually true, but whether Stalin believed you were lying about it. This always added unnecessary delay to the development of strategic events. Every person that Agent Dubisskiy met would need to vet him to make sure he wasn’t a possible political adversary. “How do you suggest I gain their trust for this assignment in the short time available?” Agent Dubisskiy asked, knowing that developing a trusting enough relationship to work with a new agent usually took months.
“Your involvement comes with the support of my office. They will not set traps of deceit or they will answer to me.”
It was all Vladimir could ask for, although the endorsement from Sirak would not eliminate the paranoia. It would only heighten the consequence. A betrayal against Vladimir would also involve Sirak, but a betrayal by Sirak would put Vladimir in the middle.
“The other man you’ll see today is Lavrenti Beria. He will coordinate the resources necessary to make such a project successful—elements like the supply of uranium, electric power, and ore. I think if you become familiar with our challenges, you will be more skilled in knowing what to look for in America. These men have been given instructions to make their staff available to ensure your knowledge is complete.”
“Thank you. Who are the other comrades involved?”
“They will contact you as your progress requires knowledge of them. Remember one thing!” Sirak slammed an open hand on the surface of his desk. “Alert me immediately of any individual who references the project code name, ‘First Lightning.’ That will be your trigger to bring them into your circle, as they will already know who you are.”
“First Lightning,” Vladimir said in confirmation.
“Yes, but under no circumstances are you to use this name without my authority. In the meantime, I suggest you take advantage of your training in languages by offering your services to teach Russian at Ladd and Elmendorf. Our intelligence suggests that interest will be high among some of the officers, and your services will be favorably received if kept on an informal basis. It seems that the Americans talk loosely when together. Blend in and you might overhear something of importance.”
Vladimir returned to his post in Fairbanks the third week of November, less than a week after his meeting with Agent Sirak. He needed time to think through the implications of his added assignment. Robert’s understanding of base activities would help, but Vladimir found out that Robert had left on furlough and would not return until the end of the month.
CHAPTER 14
Annette Island, Canada
November 21, 1943
My Dear Martha,
Couldn’t get past Sitka or Juneau yesterday as it was closed down tight. Had to come back to this muskeg island. Everything here is built on muskeg and shakes like jelly when the trucks run over it. We’re all lying in bed now. The wind is blowing outside and the heavy drizzle that started last night still persists. I’m going to sleep now—will mail it at the next Pan Am stop.
Yours,
Nick
The port of Prince Rupert was deemed to be especially important as an American sub-embarkation port and ammunition dump, but Canada’s ability to defend it aga
inst attack was very limited. The airfield constructed on Annette Island, Canada in ’42 was only sixty miles to the north of the port and started as an “on-loan” Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) project, a leftover work program sponsored by Franklin Roosevelt during the late ’30s as a substitute military build-up strategy to please a congress that wouldn’t approve legitimate military troops. Flight activity on the island increased dramatically following the June 3, 1943, Japanese attack on Dutch Harbor, just before Nick arrived in Alaska. War zone escalations wreaked havoc on the facilities. Permanent housing was completely inadequate. Everyone slept in tents. Nick hated the tents because the oil burners froze up when it got too cold. The good news was this CCC camp broke protocol and had a mess hall where a fellow could get a beer.
Nick was breaking in a new co-pilot, Fred Dollimer from Weirton, Pennsylvania, who was very inexperienced and abnormally introverted. Conversation, even in the shared tent, was sparse.
“Hey, Fred,” Nick said. “What do you think about our navy’s efforts in Truk?” The war news was about all they shared outside of flight duties. In this case, Truk, the forward headquarters of the Japanese Combined Fleet in the Caroline Islands, about six hundred miles southeast of Guam, was the one bright spot for discussion. On November 11, the navy’s attack on the base crippled the Japanese fleet.
“Half their cruisers and half their fighter planes were lost, as I understand it,” Fred replied. “With Admiral Koga’s flagship and operations headquarters on the battleship Musashi in the bay at the time, it was great news.” Fred prided himself on having his facts straight. Since Koga was Yamamoto’s replacement as commander in chief of the Combined Fleet this strike by the navy was significant. Saying nothing more, Fred turned out the light on his side of the tent and rolled over to get some shut-eye, which gave Nick time to himself. Talking with Fred was like having a conversation with a good parts manual—a minimalist use of words to convey a thought with no expression or desire for interaction based on unfounded opinion. With any luck they would get out of Annette and on to Seattle tomorrow, Nick hoped.
Seattle, Washington
November 23, 1943
My Dear Martha,
Saw the ferry when we came in last evening. It is camouflaged now. Ceiling out of Juneau yesterday morning was pretty tight, but we skimmed out over the water through the fiords and channels and made it to the States. Seattle is full of air-raid shelters and traffic lights only have a narrow slit of light showing. All signs are turned out in the evening, of course.
Yours,
Nick
Nick loved his trips to Seattle, despite the occasional stopover on Annette Island. Living conditions at the base were good, and off-base activities were interesting. Once Nick checked in he decided to “mosey” over to the officer’s club. He would have never “moseyed” anywhere before, but since he’d been flying with Red all kinds of new words—“mosey,” “June bug,” “chicken neck,” and “sodbuster”—were creeping into his vocabulary. He laughed to himself at the thought that Red could probably use them all in one sentence and still communicate a coherent thought. It was around eight o’clock by the time Nick ordered a beer.
“Are you still nursing that same beer, Captain?” the somewhat familiar voice asked from behind. “And I can see that it is captain.” Nick swiveled to see none other than Captain Marshall Smith, his first captain, flashing a big smile and extended hand.
“I’ll be tarred ’n’ feathered. It is a small war. How are you, Captain?” The men shook hands, enthusiastically expressing the genuine gratitude that only men at war could understand through a chance encounter. Seeing a familiar face reassured both parties that there was hope for a favorable outcome to the war. Upon catching a glimpse of the gold-leaf cluster, Nick quickly interjected, “Sorry, Major. Didn’t notice the promotion. I hope you’ll say ‘yes’ to a cold one on me to celebrate?”
“You’re damned right I will, soldier. By the way, have you ever been back to the Shisho Volcano?”
“As a matter of fact, I won my steak dinner back off a co-pilot from Oklahoma.” Their laughter exposed just about every wrinkle on their faces. Major Smith sat down with ease at the table.
“I thought you were in Edmonton training new pilots?
“I was. And believe me, they were new. But, the army’s got me on a new assignment here. Not sure what to make of it yet.”
“How so?”
“You’re familiar with the big Boeing plant, right?”
“You mean the one under disguise?”
“Yeah, that one.” Most of the pilots had flown near enough to Boeing’s largest production plant to see one of the most unique camouflage efforts of the war. Seattle was the home to the Bremerton Ship Yards and Boeing’s aircraft plants, which were producing twelve B-19s a day in one plant alone. People were afraid that they were a primary target for a major Japanese attack. The plant had been covered with an elaborate mesh of wood, chickenwire, canvas, and natural materials to make it look like a normal Seattle neighborhood, sitting as peaceful as you can be on a hillside—at least from an enemy pilot’s point of view. “Ingenious, by the way,” said Major Smith, “designed by some guy named William Bain. Just like a movie set.
“Well, it seems that we just plain run out of pilots to test these planes and shuttle them into use, so some brigadier general has it in his mind to train women to do the job. The program’s called WASP—Women Air Force Service Pilots.”
“You may not believe me when I say this, Major, but that’s one hell of an idea!” Nick responded. The major was unaccustomed to an enthusiastic response when discussing the program.
“You’re the first person I’ve heard say that. And, I hope you’re right because they got me running the show for these ladies to get airworthy right quick.”
“My excitement is because of one Martha Morgan, my wife. I never saw anyone, including myself, handle the E-2 we flew the way she could. No reason she couldn’t fly anything you threw at her.” Nick knew that Martha was struggling with the pregnancy, the need for security and family, and the opportunities she was missing out on. This WASP program would make Martha ache even more for the freedom she craved.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, as this program has a lot of the regulars upset. Ego, I would say, is at the heart of matters. It could be people are jealous of this Jackie Cochran, who will be coming on board to help in the training, too. She is one hell of a pilot, but it will still take more than one pilot for the program to work if we’re going to get these planes where they can do the most good.
“Hell, it doesn’t stop there, Nick. Why, there are women all over Seattle who have taken over critical war jobs, including working for Boeing on the assembly line for the B-29 Superfortress. ‘Rosie the Riveter’ is what they are being called.”
Nick raised a glass to the major and said, “I’ll bet you a steak dinner that you’ll get a silver cluster for how well these ladies perform in flight.”
“That’s a bet I’d like to win.” While Major Smith wasn’t the kind to bet on a career promotion, the idea of becoming Lieutenant Colonel Smith did sound good.
Nick thought of how excited Martha would be to be part of this program. With the baby coming, however, it was just out of the question. Martha would have been perfect, he thought, someone who Jackie Cochran would be impressed with.
“What’s next for you, Nick?”
“Just a long-overdue leave for the holidays, I hope. I’ve got to ship some boys out to Bethel tomorrow. And from there, I’ll likely be on to Nome and then back to Anchorage. After that, timing should be just about right to do a Thanksgiving furlough shuttle to Fairbanks and on to Minneapolis.”
Once up on top the next day and with a three-quarter empty plane on their flight to Bethel, Nick thought it a perfect time for a little flying experience for Fred. It also would give Nick time to re-read his letter from Martha that he had received at the Pan Am mail stop in Seattle. It was his habit to save these letters and enj
oy them over and over.
November 12, 1943
My Dearest Nick,
It seems like this stretch of absence from you has been the hardest of all. I try to stay busy with my work at Sears, but explaining the use of tools to women who have never used them is frustrating. I know they are trying to do their best with their husbands away, but it gets pretty boring.
My mom came over to talk today, but we don’t seem to be able to communicate very well. She knows that you’re the most important thing for me, and, well, she can’t seem to get past our eloping. Don’t get me wrong, Nick, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but I don’t want to lose my mom either. We need to figure something out when you get home.
Our baby’s doing a pretty good job of keeping me sick. Every morning it’s the same thing! You’d think with all the vomiting that I’d be able to hold my weight steady. Oh, no! I’ve gained five and one-half pounds already and my clothes are beginning to not fit. I can’t wait for you to come home, but by then I’ll be as big as a balloon. You’ll still love me, won’t you? Things will be better next April when the baby arrives. Do you think it will be a boy or a girl? I hope it’s a boy for you. I like the name “George.” Or, maybe “Henry,” after your dad? No, “Henry Morgan” sounds like a maker of brandy. Maybe “Nick, Jr.”? That’s a good name, too.
I really liked the pictures you sent of the new Alaskan Highway, if that’s what they’re going to call it after the military gets done with it. Thanks for telling me that the pictures in Life Magazine were from Adak. My girlfriends at work think that Alaska is wonderful and that the pictures are all so beautiful. They imagine us together and believe I’m lucky being married to someone who does exciting things like you. It’s hard for them to understand how lonely it gets at home and how much I’d like to be there doing things with you. If it wasn’t for the baby, I’d do anything to be there.
Fatal Incident Page 9