by Mike Jenne
“Of course, what’s truly ironic here is that the man who died might have been the guilty party, which leaves the surviving nine set to suffer mightily for his indiscretion. I suppose that doesn’t lend you any solace, though.”
“True,” croaked Yohzin.
“So, tell me, brother, are you familiar with an American missile called the Sprint?” asked Abdirov, consulting a note card.
“I am,” replied Yohzin. “The Sprint is a hypersonic, solid-fueled anti-ballistic missile with a nuclear warhead. It works in conjunction with a phased array radar system on the ground, which provides guidance to intercept reentry vehicles.”
“Correct. To be specific, the compromised information in question concerns radar frequencies for the Sprint prototype.”
“Sprint radar frequencies?”
“Da.”
Yohzin smiled. “I clearly remember how that information was handled, and I can assure you that I never even saw those frequencies,” he explained. “All the information about the Sprint was secured in a special notebook. We were required to sign an access log to use the notebook, and it could only be viewed in a special area within the archives. Since radar information fell outside my area of expertise, I never looked at the notebook because I had no reason to. The GRU can check the access log to verify my claim, plus they can immediately identify those individuals who were granted access to the notebook.”
Looking toward the floor, Yohzin felt a great sense of relief, as if a tremendous weight had been hoisted from his shoulders. What he told Abdirov was the absolute and unadulterated truth. Restraining an urge to laugh outright, he was almost giddy with delight; the fearsome GRU was not looking for him. He felt strange, though, since it was now abundantly obvious that someone else had been secretly passing information to the Americans. And then he also felt trepidation, since it was quite feasible that he could be inadvertently ensnarled in the GRU’s dragnet, despite his meticulous efforts to cover his tracks.
He looked up to see Abdirov staring at him. The disfigured general’s one-eyed gaze was like a powerful x-ray beam penetrating deep into his soul. As his scarred eyelid twitched, the corners of Abdirov’s distorted lips turned up momentarily, as if he was blissfully content with the evidence that his trusted associate could not be found culpable, and then his smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. He obviously realized that someone who was wily enough to purloin an intensely guarded secret code from a Perimetr engineer’s notebook would find little difficulty in snatching a few radar frequencies from a much less secure source.
Abdirov spoke. “I think that it goes without saying that I need you here until we have the Krepost in orbit and the crew aboard. The timing is such that the GRU should still be working on their five priority suspects even as we launch. With any luck, they will have this unfortunate mess resolved long before it becomes too much of a nuisance for us, but as I said earlier, you should expect to be placed under greater scrutiny than usual. You should act accordingly, little brother, so that you don’t arouse undue suspicions.”
“I understand, Rustam.”
“Gregor, I am confident that you are not the man that the GRU is searching for. I think that I can keep them at bay and steer them toward that access log you described. If need be, if worse comes to worse, I can pull some strings and have you placed under special duty here, under sort of a house arrest, at least until we get the Krepost upstairs. That way, the GRU can maintain a constant vigil on you while you work. I know that would be extremely awkward, but there is much work yet to be done, so I want you to be prepared to endure some hardships until this little storm subsides. Fair enough with you, Gregor Mikhailovich?”
“Da, Rustam. Plenty fair.”
Residential Complex # 4
Znamensk (Kapustin Yar-1), Astrakhan Oblast, USSR
7:12 p.m., Thursday, September 7, 1972
Yohzin arrived home almost an hour earlier than he normally did. Excited, he was winded as he quickly climbed the stairs. Magnus bounded ahead of him with his pink tongue flailing from the side of his mouth.
Arriving at the third-floor landing, Yohzin paused to catch his breath and wait for his thumping heart to settle. His heart pounded in his chest not only because of exertion, but also out of sheer excitement. As terrible as it was, Abdirov’s news about the leak was truly momentous. But there were important items to report as well, and only a limited amount of space available to summarize the developments.
As his sons studied their lessons in their room and Luba busied herself preparing dinner in the kitchen, Yohzin closed the door to his study, quietly locked it, and then sat down to write his report. He donned his reading glasses, slid open the bottom drawer of his oak desk, felt for a concealed latch, and removed a small box from a hidden compartment.
The box contained several objects, including a tiny cipher book, as well as several small sheets of graph paper specially treated to burn spontaneously and completely. There were also several strips of an almost translucent paper like onion skin, each approximately the width of a fingernail and about sixty centimeters—two English “feet”—in length.
He unscrewed the lid to a small plastic vial and extracted a dark brown pellet. To the untrained eye, the tiny pellet would resemble a medicine capsule, but a closer examination would reveal that it was not made of gelatin that would swiftly dissolve in gastric acid, but of a special acid-resistant plastic intended to remain intact during a transit of the digestive tract. First, after carefully composing his thoughts and distilling them down into the simplest phrasing, he wrote his weekly report on the graph paper, so that each individual letter occupied a single block. Since there was so much information to convey, brevity was crucial. In terse language, he conveyed that the Krepost was set for launch on Wednesday next week, with the Soyuz following the next day. Since his American handler—“Smith”—clearly knew that he was at Kapustin Yar, he felt no need to specify the launch site. He briefly described the potential delay with the second freighter and mentioned that it might cause the Krepost crew to return to Earth earlier than planned.
He reported the potential security breach that Abdirov had described; with that, he indicated that he would be under more intensive GRU scrutiny, but felt confident that he could continue reporting, at least until the noose grew too tight. The last portion of his message was the longest; he submitted a preliminary request for his family to be extracted. He didn’t specify a time and date, but did identify a location—the remote cabin occupied by Luba’s parents—by precisely plotted latitude and longitude coordinates. If nothing else, the Americans should be able to ascertain that his tenure at Kapustin Yar was drawing to an end, so they could formulate the necessary plans to be executed on a contingency basis. Not wanting to alarm the Americans, he did not report Abdirov’s intent to drop the Egg.
Then, consulting the cipher book for the day’s transcription code, he entered a second letter in each of the adjacent blocks. Satisfied with the transcription, he tore the day’s page from the cipher book. Carefully writing in the tiniest of script, he painstakingly transcribed his encrypted report to one of the flimsy strips of onion paper. It was a much longer dispatch than usual, so it required writing on both sides of the strip. Once done, and after he had triple-checked it for any errors or other discrepancies, he lit a match and ignited the graph paper and today’s cipher page. The two pieces of chemically treated paper disappeared in a flash.
He lit a cigarette from the still-burning match before carefully wrapping the strip of fragile paper around a sewing needle. He then gradually wound it progressively tighter until the snugly furled spool would fit neatly into the plastic capsule. Using the needle as a guide, he poked the spool into the capsule and then assembled the two halves. Holding the capsule in his left hand, he stashed the cipher book and his other secret writing materials in the drawer’s hidden compartment.
Yohzin rolled the capsule between his palms as he contemplated his actions. He was amazed that he had maintained
his deceitful routine for years, but there had never been the slightest indication that his activities had been detected or his behavior suspected. He contemplated his family’s forthcoming departure. Ideally, as Smith had explained, an extraction agent would make physical contact with them before escorting them to a safe house, where they would remain for several days—or even longer—until it was safe to spirit them out of the country. From the way Smith had described it, the process would be like passing through a magic tunnel into an utterly new and prosperous life. They would be provided with all of their needs—including an automobile, a home, and brand new identities—in America. As far as the Soviet Union was concerned, Yohzin and his family would just simply cease to exist.
Yohzin wondered how Luba and the boys would react to the revelation that he was a traitor. Even though he had long been placing them all at enormous potential peril, they knew absolutely nothing of his clandestine activities. In fact, he literally passed his secret messages under Luba’s nose. While he was certainly driven by mostly selfish motives, he hoped that they would eventually understand that he had risked everything for their benefit, so that they could live a better life outside of this repressive society.
Strolling out of his study, he consulted his wristwatch. He glanced into his sons’ room to see the teenagers hunched over a ponderous stack of textbooks. Concealing the plastic capsule in his left palm, he walked into the kitchen and sniffed the air. He smiled; Luba was cooking lamb dumplings—chebureki—one of his favorite meals.
Magnus sat beside his dish, patiently waiting for his master’s command. Glancing up to ensure that his wife was facing away, Yohzin dropped the opaque pellet into the dog’s bowl and ordered, “Essen.”
Magnus responded obediently. The small kitchen was filled with chomping and crunching noises as the Alsatian swiftly devoured its dry kibble—and the capsule—in short order. In moments, the stainless steel bowl was scoured clean.
Yohzin examined the bowl, making sure that it was absolutely empty, patted the dog on the head and quietly said, “Gut. Braver hund.”
“You and your dog,” said Luba, grinning as she turned away from the stove. “I don’t know which one of you is crazier.”
Yohzin walked into the kitchen and placed his hands on his wife’s narrow hips. He brushed a smudge of flour from her nose before kissing her gently on the left cheek. “Luba, dearest, you know that I love you more than anything else in this world, don’t you?”
Smiling, she asked, “Oh, Gregor, where is this going? Let me guess: You want another child, right?”
“I do, but we can wait. Luba, I need you to do something, but you cannot tell anyone. Not your friends and not even the boys,” he said quietly.
“What is it, Gregor?”
“You know that they test some dangerous things here, don’t you?” confided Yohzin, looking toward a window.
She nodded. “I’ve heard rumors that they sometimes launch rockets with atomic bombs on them. Is that really true?”
“Luba, you know that I can’t be very specific.”
“I know. So you are concerned that we are in even more danger now than we usually are?”
He nodded, and said, “You know that suitcase that we are required to keep packed for emergencies?” He looked toward an open closet in the living room; the valise, made of lacquered pasteboard, was visible at the bottom of the closet. It contained some basic things—an extra set of clothes for them and the boys, a few cans of food, some basic toiletries, as well as a few other items—two books and a deck of cards—to keep them entertained for a short interlude. Like the other residents in the apartment complex, they were mandated to always have the suitcase ready in case of a rapid evacuation.
“Da. I checked it just last week, Gregor. The women’s auxiliary captain came by with some iron rations to stick in there. Anyway, are you concerned about anything specific? Would you like for me to open the bag so you can examine it?”
He cleared his throat and replied, “No. I am just very concerned that if we have to evacuate, then we may not be allowed to return here.”
“Because of contamination?” she asked.
He nodded solemnly. “Assuming that we may not be able to come back, I want you to put some extra items in the suitcase: photographs, immunization records, the boys’ report cards from school. Try not to be too obvious about it, but take down those family portraits in our bedroom, especially the ones of your parents and mine, and put them in there as well. I just want the boys to see where we came from, just in case we have to suddenly depart from here.”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing,” he added. “I know it might be a little aggravating, but whenever we go on a trip, I want us to bring that suitcase with us, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” she asked.
“In case an accident happens here while we’re travelling, and we are not able to return.”
“Oh. That makes sense. You had said that Rustam might grant you a furlough so that we can visit my parents. If we go, should we bring it with us then?”
He nodded. “Da. Good idea. Better to be safe than sorry. And Luba…”
“Yes, dear?”
“Remember that you can speak of this to no one. We don’t want to cause a panic.”
Flight Crew Isolation Quarters
Burya Test Complex, Kapustin Yar Cosmodrome
11:15 p.m., Sunday, September 10, 1972
Four weeks prior to an impending mission, the flight crew and some critical support personnel were quarantined—in a manner of speaking—in a small cluster of secluded cottages. Vasilyev wasn’t fond of his musty little cottage, but at least it was a quiet asylum; it was virtually impossible to get any decent rest in the dormitories where bachelor officers were housed. There, every night was filled with raucous parties and boisterous escapades. Of course, it was likely somewhat quieter than usual in the dorms tonight, since most of the residents had packed into the dayroom after midnight to watch the Soviet basketball team beat the vaunted Americans at the Munich Olympics.
Probably not by happenstance, the isolation cottages were maintained by a trio of spectacularly attractive maids, who just happened to reside in their own dwelling in the center of the cluster. In a bout of loneliness, Vasilyev did avail himself of a maid’s company one night. He still felt terribly guilty the next morning, even though it had been over a year since his wife—Irina—was killed along with his daughters in a car crash.
His day had been long and excruciating; in the hectic pre-launch schedule, every single minute was spoken for. Unfortunately, today was largely devoted to tedious lectures concerning the internal wiring of the experimental fuel cell. Tomorrow, he and Gogol were slated to spend several hours in a launch procedures simulator. Right now, gazing at his cot by the wall, he just looked forward to putting his head on the pillow and falling asleep.
He climbed out of his coveralls, folded them neatly, and placed them in a chair. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, switched off the lamp, and eagerly slid into bed.
He had no sooner fallen asleep before he was jarred awake by pounding at the door.
Gogol’s voice. “Open up!”
Holding his breath, Vasilyev was frantic. What to do? He could pretend like he wasn’t here, not answer the door, wait until the commotion passed, and hope that Gogol would move on. With any luck, Gogol might assume that he had joined in on the drunken carousing over at the bachelor quarters.
“Open up now!” bellowed Gogol.
An idea flashed in his mind. He pushed the coarse wool blanket aside, jumped to his feet, quickly wrapped himself with a sheet, and quietly padded across the room. Grinning, he cracked open the door, put a finger to his lips, and winked at Gogol.
“So, you’re entertaining one of those damned trollops?” blared Gogol. “So what! Let me in!” He jammed his broad shoulder against the heavy wooden door and shoved it open. As he staggered inside, Gogol was clearly in severe pain. He was no longer
merely limping, but actually hobbling.
“I’ve depleted my fuel supplies,” he declared, holding out an empty Minsk Kristall bottle. “I’ve come for a resupply.” A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips. He was woefully disheveled, and although it seemed implausible, he was still clad in the same rumpled coveralls that he had worn yesterday.
Vasilyev retrieved an unopened bottle from the nightstand and handed it to Gogol. When the cosmonaut demonstrated that he lacked the dexterity to open it, Vasilyev twisted off the cap. Gogol threw the cigarette into the sink and took a long pull from the bottle.
Vasilyev sincerely hoped that the loathsome monster would be content to take the bottle and leave, so he could anesthetize himself with strong drink in the privacy of his own cottage, but that was not to be. Gogol belched loudly and then flopped onto Vasilyev’s narrow bed, evidently intent on lingering.
“I thought…you had a woman in here,” observed Gogol. “Or was that just a figment of your imagination? Anyway, bring yourself a cup, kitten. We who are doomed to die together will drink together.”
“I don’t think that it’s a good idea, sir,” replied Vasilyev. “You know that we have a very early day, and…”
“I said that we will drink together,” declared Gogol. “And I am your commander, Comrade, so consider yourself commanded. Tonight, we drink, and we will accept our fates when the sun rises.” A string of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
Vasilyev fetched the plastic tumbler that he used to brush his teeth. He reluctantly held it out, and Gogol filled it.
“Your toe still hurts?” asked Vasilyev. “You’re limping badly for just a stubbed toe.” He sipped from the tumbler, hoping that he could nurse the alcohol until Gogol eventually went on his way.
“I didn’t stub my toe, idiot,” muttered Gogol. “It’s just an ingrown toenail, but now it’s become infected and it’s killing me.” He dug two large white codeine pills from his chest pocket, crunched them between his stainless steel teeth, and chased them with a gulp of vodka. He repeated the process with two large yellow pills.