Pale Blue

by Mike Jenne

  “The plane will be here in just a few minutes,” said Smith, escorting Luba to a place beside the road. “The pilot won’t shut off the engine while he’s on the ground, so it’s going to be very loud. Most importantly, stay right here until I come to get you.”

  The boys were excited with the nocturnal adventure, but what teenaged boys would not be delighted with the idea of a nighttime ride in a mysterious airplane?

  As Smith stood to talk on a small radio, Luba crouched down with the boys as she heard the buzzing noise again, this time from the south. In seconds, a dark silhouette swooped out of the sky and landed on the dirt track. If Luba didn’t know any better, and if she didn’t see with her own eyes that the plane was still intact, she would have been sure that it had crashed.

  “Remember!” yelled Smith, standing up to walk toward the plane. “Stay right here!”

  Smith approached the plane and slid open a large side door, much like the sliding door on a cargo van. He yanked out a pair of blocks and quickly chocked the wheels of the airplane.

  In the moonlight, Luba could see that the cargo area was almost completely filled by three large metal drums. The pilot climbed down from the airplane and immediately started disconnecting hoses from the drums. He and Smith wrestled the containers out of the airplane and rolled them into the low scrub growing beside the road, not too far from where Luba and the boys waited. Residual fuel sloshed onto the ground. Once they had concealed the drums, Smith returned to the airplane, pulled out some objects, and returned to Luba.

  “This is an inflatable life vest,” he explained, holding an object toward her. “You pull this toggle to inflate it. Put this one on, and put the other two on your sons.”

  “Is this really necessary?” she asked, pulling the vest over her head.

  “It is,” replied Smith. “We’re going to be over the Black Sea about fifteen minutes after we take off, and will be flying very low over the water for most of the trip. You will be glad you have that in case we’re forced to ditch.”

  Luba noticed that the pilot appeared to be limping. “Is he injured?” she asked.

  “He nearly died in a bad crash,” answered Smith. “Now he has a wooden foot.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come with me,” said Smith, throwing his canvas parachute bag onto his shoulders.

  “Climb in,” yelled Smith, heaving his bag into the cargo compartment. “We’ll be in the air for a few hours, so you will probably be more comfortable sitting on your suitcases instead of that bare metal.”

  Once Luba and the boys were embarked, Smith retrieved the chocks, clambered in, and slid the side door closed. The pilot revved the engine, the plane lurched forward, and in seconds, roared into the air.

  While still a teenager, Luba had taken flying lessons at a sport aviation club, so she knew the mechanics of what she was witnessing. She was fairly certain that the plane was a Swiss-made single-engine aircraft built especially for STOL—Short Take-Off and Landing—operations in high mountain terrain. The pilot had to be exceptionally competent and extremely brave to land his plane in the dark, on unfamiliar terrain, on a stretch of road barely as long as a soccer pitch.

  So even if she didn’t know who these people were or where they were headed, she trusted her husband and knew that she was in good hands.

  Headquarters of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye (GRU)

  Khodinka Airfield, Moscow, USSR

  5:15 p.m., Friday, November 3, 1972

  Yohzin’s day of reckoning had arrived. After enduring five excruciating days of brutal interrogation at the Aquarium, his inquisitors had declared it was time for him to accept his final judgment.

  His impending death sentence had endowed him with incredible clarity: absolutely shattered by his interrogation, he was more than ready to die. His eyelids twitched, and he was delirious from hunger and exhaustion. Blood-laced saliva dribbled from his lower lip.

  If nothing else, the interrogators’ methods were barbaric but extremely efficient. Yohzin was painfully sure that his tormentors had successfully encouraged him to recall the contents—including even the most mundane of technical trivia—of every single message that he had passed to the Americans in the past three years.

  Probably the oddest aspect of their interrogation was that they believed that he was somehow responsible for the fate of the Krepost. Vasilyev had stopped communicating with Control shortly after Gogol had docked. For a while, before Yohzin was dragged away from Kapustin Yar last week, the prevailing theory was that both men had somehow perished in a confrontation, but the GRU now suspected that Yohzin had somehow sabotaged the mission when he was allowed to return to Control. His interrogators spent an almost inordinate amount of time in an attempt to force him to admit his complicity.

  He was confident that Smith had managed to gather Luba and the boys, as he promised, simply because Federov had not brought his family here to the Aquarium. Certainly his interrogators would have used his family as leverage against him, but they obviously had been deprived of that option.

  Federov, wearing full GRU dress uniform, entered his cell and announced, “It’s time.”

  “Listen, Comrade Colonel, before I die,” mumbled Yohzin, “I want to…apologize to…General Abdirov. I know that you sent him here.”

  Federov shook his head, and replied, “I’m sorry, Comrade General, but that’s not possible.”

  “But is he not…in a cell down the hall?” stammered Yohzin. “I’ve heard his voice. I know he is close.”

  “He was in a cell down the hall, but no longer. He died yesterday of a heart attack. The doctor tried to revive him to finish his session, but it was too late.”

  Yohzin groaned in anguish.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t have a chance to say farewell,” said Federov, clicking his tongue.

  “If I cannot see General Abdirov before I go, then can I at least say farewell to my family?”

  “Nyet,” replied Federov. “They are not here.”

  “They’re not?”

  Obviously embarrassed, Federov leaned close, and quietly said, “I suspect that you know where they are, even if I don’t. They never returned to Kapustin Yar as you claimed they would.”

  Yohzin smiled to himself.

  “Although your family had been spared from harm, I’m afraid to report that your precious dog was not so fortunate,” declared Federov. The GRU colonel dipped his hand into a pocket and held out a photograph. With his abdomen slashed open and his pink guts stacked to the side, Yohzin’s beloved Magnus was splayed open on a stainless steel table.

  “In a week or so, after the taxidermists have finished stuffing him, your dog will be on permanent display in the Aquarium’s museum,” noted Federov. “I’m sorry that you won’t be able to witness the exhibit.”

  “Poshol nahuj,” hissed Yohzin. His curse was barely audible.

  “Stand up and come here!” ordered Federov angrily, beckoning him toward the opposite wall. Once nearly pristine at the beginning of the week, the wall was spattered with dried spots of Yohzin’s blood.

  Famished and thirsty, weak from a lack of sleep, Yohzin could scarcely push himself out of the chair he had occupied for the past five days. As he finally managed to stand up, he came to recognize the importance of having toes; now lacking most of the digits on both feet, he found it almost impossible to maintain his balance. Wobbling, struggling to stand even somewhat erect, he half-waddled and half-staggered toward the broad-shouldered GRU colonel.

  “Major General Gregor Mikhailovich Yohzin, do you understand that you must die for your crimes against the Motherland?” asked Federov, drawing a diminutive Makarov automatic from a highly polished belt holster.

  Grimacing with what remained of his face, Yohzin croaked, “I do.”

  “Turn to the wall,” ordered Federov, sliding back the pistol’s slide to chamber a round.

  Yohzin pivoted clumsily to face the wall.

  “Comrade General, was it worth it?”
asked Federov.

  Was it worth it? Yohzin had lost his dearest friend, but stopped the madman he had become, and in the process may have saved most of the world from destruction.

  Was it worth it? He started to answer, but heard the flat crack of the Makarov firing behind him. His head snapped forward with the bullet’s impact and his face rebounded against the concrete slab. His knees buckled as his limp body sagged downward. Sprawled on the floor, he was surprised that he didn’t die immediately.

  As he felt his limbs grow cold as his life drained away, he saw the faces of his beloved Luba and his sons. Even if he did not, they would have the opportunity to bask in the glow of freedom. Was it worth it? he thought, recalling Federov’s last question. Yes, it was.

  15

  OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

  Arlington National Cemetery

  10:55 a.m., Monday, November 6, 1972

  “We need to chat, gentlemen,” said Wolcott, slipping off his white gloves. In honor of Mark Tew, he wore his dress uniform; it was the first time he had donned the blues since retiring more than four years ago.

  “Here?” asked Carson. He looked back toward the still-open grave. The official guests had departed over an hour ago, and the throng of mourners was just now dispersing; only a handful of well-wishers remained to express their condolences to Tew’s widow and grown children. A pair of civilian caretakers slowly collected the huge array of wreaths and flower arrangements. Silent evidence of the groundskeepers’ next chore, two shovels leaned against the side of their pick-up truck, which was parked next to a large pile of fresh dirt.

  “Now?” asked Ourecky.

  “Yup. Here and now. I need to chew the fat with both of you about some new developments.” He led the two men toward the shade of a nearby oak tree.

  “First things first,” drawled Wolcott, stooping over to retrieve a pack of Winstons from his left sock. He stood up, shook out a cigarette and snapped off the filter. “Carson, provided you agree to abide by the deal that Admiral Tarbox has wangled for you, you’re goin’ to Vietnam.”

  “Vietnam?” asked Carson, removing his hat as he looked nervously towards Ourecky. “Vietnam? Uh, Virgil, we had talked about that as a possibility, but I thought it was contingent on…”

  “No matter,” answered Wolcott, waving his hand in dismissal. He lit his cigarette with an engraved Zippo lighter and then took in a deep draw. “If I’m nothin’ else, pard, I’m a man of my word, as is Admiral Tarbox. I know that things didn’t ‘xactly work out as we agreed, but I feel like we promised you an opportunity to fly in Vietnam, so we’re makin’ good on it.”

  Grinning like he had just won an enormous jackpot in Las Vegas, Carson almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Since General Tew had always been so insistent that Carson would fly in Vietnam only over his dead body, Wolcott could not have picked a more appropriate place to break the news. But although he was thrilled with Wolcott’s revelation, he realized that there had to be a knotty tangle of strings attached. “You said that I had to abide by some bargain that Tarbox has struck?” asked Carson.

  “Yup.” Wolcott looked toward the Pentagon, just a half-mile away in the east. “Right now, the admiral is over there workin’ to drum up some additional funding, but he’ll be back in Ohio tomorrow. We’ll sit down for a powwow then. But let me forewarn you, son: some of his deal’s provisions are pretty danged strict, and if you don’t abide by them, the deal is off. Savvy?”

  “Agreed,” replied Carson. “But how about Scott? If I’m going overseas, is he going to MIT?”

  Wolcott drew on his cigarette, blew out a pall of smoke, and shook his head. “Not immediately. He will remain assigned to the Project, at least until you get back.”

  Crestfallen, Ourecky muttered, “But General Tew promised…”

  Gazing over the seemingly endless rows of headstones, as if making a tally of the deceased, Tarbox replied, “Here’s a news flash, son: General Tew is dead. Admiral Tarbox is now our head honcho, and what he says goes. He wants you to stay here until Carson gets back. Period.”

  “But it’s not fair,” grumbled Carson. As the words left his lips, a formation of four F-4 fighters zoomed by overhead. As they passed over the massive cemetery, one aircraft split off, leaving the other three in the famous “missing man” formation. The same four aircraft had executed a similar salute for General Tew less than thirty minutes ago; this maneuver was obviously for a pilot recently killed overseas.

  Wolcott waited for the noise to subside before speaking. “Fair? Son, it ain’t about bein’ fair or not,” he snapped. “Carson, let me make this clear: Ourecky will stay at Wright-Patt until you get back from your sightseeing tour. And if either one of you insist on balkin’ about it, then you can pretty much bet that any and all deals would come off the table. Do you understand, Carson? Savvy?”

  Carson clenched his fists behind his back. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  “And you, Major Ourecky, do you understand?” demanded Wolcott. “If you want to make some noise about the promises that Mark Tew made, then be my guest. But understand this, son, you might find a receptive ear and then zoom right off to MIT, but your buddy Carson would go no further west than Disneyland. Do you understand?”

  Ourecky nodded. “Yes, sir,” he croaked.

  Wolcott stubbed out his cigarette against the bark of the oak tree and then “fieldstripped” the butt. Scattering the unburned tobacco, he softly said, “Look, boys, you have to trust me when I tell you that there is much more in the wind. Ourecky, I know how anxious you are to hightail it out of here, but I have to tell you that Admiral Tarbox has some tremendous opportunities in store for you both. Really, I’m achin’ to tell you about them, but I can’t, at least not for the time bein’. All I’m askin’ is that you be patient with me. Can you do that, son?”

  Looking toward Carson, Ourecky swallowed deeply and replied, “Yes, Virgil, I can do that.”

  Auxiliary Field Ten, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida

  2:35 p.m., Thursday, November 9, 1972

  Glades had just emerged from the swamps, where he had been evaluating students during the last phase of the Ranger course, when he received an urgent message to report to Aux Field Ten. He had been in the field for the entire duration of the Ranger students’ final twelve-day patrol, and hadn’t even had the luxury to shower and change his uniform. His boots were caked with black muck, and his soaked OG-107 jungle fatigues stank from sweat and grime.

  He parked his borrowed jeep in front of the headquarters for the 116th Aerospace Operations Support Wing at Aux Field Ten. As he strolled into the single-story, he had to maneuver around a string of airmen carrying out furniture, boxes, and filing cabinets.

  Looking up from his packing chores, an Air Force master sergeant directed Glades into the office of Brigadier General Isaac Fels, the Wing commander. As Glades entered the office, he saw that Fels was using sheets of newspaper to wrap mementos and framed photographs.

  As his uniform dripped water on the red carpet, Glades saluted and formally reported to the lanky, bald-headed Air Force general. “The commander at the Ranger Camp said that you wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Nestor? Come on in and have a seat,” declared Fels, cordially gesturing to a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “I guess that you’ve heard that the Wing is being deactivated. The formal ceremony will be next week.”

  “I’ve heard you were shutting down, sir,” replied Glades. “Seems like a shame to me. You’ve got a bunch of very well-trained troops here.”

  “No argument,” said Fels, swathing an intricately carved wooden model of a CH-53 helicopter in newsprint. “But our mission is over. Anyway, Nestor, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you. Back from Vietnam?”

  “I rotated back in April, sir,” replied Glades, dutifully occupying the plush chair that Fels offered.

  “MACV-SOG again?”

  Glades nodded. “Yes, sir, but I seriously doubt that I’ll go back over agai
n.” With the South Vietnamese assuming responsibility for their in-country and cross-border clandestine missions, MACV-SOG had folded in May. It had been replaced by ‘Strategic Technical Directorate Assistance Team 158,’ a detachment that advised the Vietnamese special operations forces in their new role.

  “Don’t be too quick to assume that you’ll never return,” noted Fels.

  “Do you know something that I don’t, sir?” asked Glades. “As it stands, sir, I’m supposed to be here at Eglin through June, and then I report to Fort Bragg.”

  “Maybe.” Fels placed a framed certificate in a cardboard box and then sat down in a chair next to Glades. “Nestor, I called you over here to ask a favor. I have a mission that’s custom-made for you, if you’ll accept it. It’s strictly a volunteer assignment.”

  “A mission, sir?” asked Glades. “But didn’t you just say that you folks were shutting down entirely?”

  “This is different. Very different. You might consider it a personal favor. And as I said, it’s entirely voluntary. If you’re not comfortable with it, you can walk right out the door and I wouldn’t think any less of you. Granted, it’s your call whether you go or not, but I think I can dangle a little enticement to sweeten the deal.”

  “And what would that be, sir?”

  “You won’t be out of pocket any longer than five months, but once you’re done, you can have your pick of any assignment or any post that you want. To be frank, Nestor, I’ve heard it through the grapevine that you’re not too happy to be headed back to Fort Bragg, so this could be quite an opportunity for you.”

  Nodding, Glades replied, “You’re right about Bragg, sir. I just never did blend in very well up there. The guys in the regular Special Forces groups play it a little too fast and too loose for me. But my choice of a follow-on assignment? I have to admit, that’s a mighty powerful draw.”

  “I’ve already squared it with the personnel assignment branch at the Department of the Army. So, I have to assume that you’re at least somewhat curious about the task?”