by Mike Jenne
“Am I well enough?” muttered Carson. “Does that really make any difference?”
“I suppose not.” Bao Trung bent over, slipped his good arm around Carson’s thin waist, and helped him to his feet. “Are you ready to talk to them?”
Carson nodded.
“How do you feel?”
“Weak. And I have the chills again.”
“Sorry. Do you remember what we discussed before I left?” asked Bao Trung. “All you have to do is correctly identify yourself, and this will all be over. You should say no more, and it should pass very quickly.”
Squinting against the glaring sunlight, Carson nodded. All over, he thought. All over. One question, one answer, and it would all be over.
Helping the frail American to walk, Bao Trung escorted Carson to the inquisition cell. The three men from Hanoi were already present, but appeared to be in especially good spirits today. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Carson immediately noticed that there were no ropes, flails, canes or other implements of torture. Instead of forcing him to kneel in gravel, the interrogator gestured towards a chair. “You look thirsty,” observed the interrogator. “Water?”
Carson shook his head. He was terribly thirsty, but he was also anxious to put this ordeal behind him before the next round of chills racked his skeleton.
“As you wish,” said the interrogator. “Are you ready?”
Carson nodded. “I am.”
“What is your name and rank?” asked the interrogator.
“I am Andrew M. Carson, Major, United States Air Force,” divulged Carson truthfully and without hesitation.
Seated at a small table in a corner, Bao Trung consulted the mimeographed list and smiled. He announced something in Vietnamese, incomprehensible to Carson. The three members of the interrogation team grinned and congratulated themselves, as if it was a truly momentous occasion, and then one of the interrogator’s assistants left hurriedly.
“I am proud of you, Major Carson,” said Bao Trung, standing up to join the interrogator. “It’s all over. You’re going home.”
“What happens now?” asked Carson. He felt tremendously relieved, like the weight of the world had been hoisted from his weary shoulders, but wanted nothing else but to return to his cell to sleep.
“The arrangements are being made as we speak. Because you are ill, I have asked for an ambulance to be dispatched to pick you up. It will likely take a day or two, but we will care for you in the meantime.”
The interrogator closed his notebook, wound the stem on his Soviet-made watch, turned as if to leave, and then paused as if he had forgotten something. He leaned towards Bao Trung and whispered something in his ear. The lieutenant shook his head vigorously. The two men quietly argued for a moment. Carson had no idea what the polite disagreement concerned, but Bao Trung apparently conceded. He nodded and gestured towards Carson.
The aloof interrogator stepped forward, removed his wire-framed spectacles, smiled, and asked, “And what kind of aircraft do you fly, Major Carson?”
Since he had correctly identified himself and thought he was home free, the interrogator’s follow-on question took Carson entirely by surprise. Since he had mentally programmed himself to truthfully answer one question, to provide the one solitary answer that would grant him his passage to freedom, he panicked. In all of his adult life, even in years of flying under some of the worst conditions imaginable, Carson had never once panicked. Certainly, he knew what fear was, but not panic, at least not until now, not until this very moment.
Dazed, he scrambled for the steel refuge of his mental submarine, hoping that he could lock himself within, but his imaginary vessel had foundered on treacherous and unfamiliar shoals. Now, instead of viewing the proceedings at a distance through his pretend periscope, it seemed as if he was trapped on the outside, as if he were physically separated from his mind and body, hovering somewhere off to the side, unable to control his thoughts and actions.
Grasping his notebook, the patient interrogator repeated the question: “What kind of aircraft do you fly, Major Carson?”
“I’ve flown just about everything in the US inventory,” Carson heard himself boast. Since he had programmed himself to answer truthfully, once the floodgate was opened, the minute trickle became a surging torrent.
“Really?” asked the interrogator. “That’s interesting. If you’ve flown almost everything in the US inventory, then you must have flown some very fast aircraft. What’s the fastest speed you’ve flown? Mach One? Mach Two perhaps?”
“Faster.”
The interrogator’s assistant consulted a reference book, and then excitedly uttered something in Vietnamese.
“You have flown faster than Mach Two? That’s very fast. Have you ever gotten close to Mach Three?”
“Faster,” replied Carson, slightly slurring his words. “Much faster.”
“Faster than Mach Three?” asked the interrogator incredulously, scratching his head.
The interrogator’s assistant flipped through several pages of his reference book, leaned forward, and whispered into his superior’s ear.
The interrogator smiled broadly, as if the answer to a mystery had been abruptly revealed, and then asked, “Tell me, Major Carson, do you have flight experience in the SR-71 Blackbird?”
Carson shook his head vigorously. He felt very sick, but still felt compelled to answer the inquisitor’s questions.
“You’re not rated in the SR-71? Well, if not the SR-71, then what?” asked the interrogator. “I can’t imagine that many aircraft fly as fast as the SR-71, except perhaps the X-15, and it’s rocket-powered. So, let’s approach this from another perspective: How high have you flown, Major Carson?”
“Very high. Much higher than fifty miles,” disclosed Carson spontaneously. His admission yielded a bitter memory, and he added, “You know, the Air Force awards the astronaut badge for flying over fifty miles.”
“So, Major Carson, you’re an astronaut?” asked the interrogator sarcastically. Snickering, he punched Carson lightly in the arm. He was obviously aware that the American was woefully ill; he spoke like a condescending parent playing along with a child’s silly joke. He turned and chatted with the other man in Vietnamese; the two shared a laugh, but Bao Trung’s impassive expression swiftly became a scowl of disapproval.
“I am an astronaut, but I’ve never received the astronaut badge,” declared Carson angrily. “Even though I am qualified for it.” His resolve was completely diminished by illness. He wished that he could compel himself to quit rambling, but he couldn’t.
“Really? You haven’t received your astronaut badge? I imagine that must be quite a disappointment. How unfortunate,” said the skeptical interrogator, gripping his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Grinning, struggling to maintain his composure, he scribbled some notes. “You know, Major Carson, I’ll concede that we live in a backwards country here, but occasionally we receive news from the outside world. I don’t ever recall seeing your name mentioned as an astronaut, so maybe the US Air Force has some logical reason for not awarding it to you.”
Unable to contain gales of laughter, the interrogator was literally in tears as he scrawled down a few more comments. He shared something with his assistant, and both laughed uproariously. The interrogator spoke to Bao Trung, waved at Carson, and departed the cell.
“I hope you enjoyed your little antic,” scolded Bao Trung, closing the door. “That was stupid, Major Carson. Your childish prank obligates them to file a formal interrogation report, which means you’ll be sitting here at least another day before you can be transported.”
“I’m sorry,” said Carson meekly, staring down at the dirty floor. He saw a fragment of gravel and cringed.
“You can be sorry with yourself,” snapped Bao Trung, lifting the frail pilot out of the chair. “You’ll have plenty of time for introspection back in your cell.”
Headquarters of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye (GRU)
Khodinka Ai
rfield, Moscow, USSR
10:32 a.m., Tuesday, April 3, 1973
After more than two years of laboring within the Encyclopedia, Anatoly Morozov was finally on the verge of becoming a Second Class Analyst. Although the official promotion list was not scheduled for release until Friday, his advancement was a foregone conclusion. His tireless Section was the most productive of all in the Encyclopedia, and everyone—especially the bosses—knew it.
As his four archivists excitedly whispered about the various perks that would be theirs next week, Morozov submerged himself in a historical account of the great patriotic battle of Stalingrad. As much as he relished the thought of the promotion, he steadfastly refused to dwell on it. After all, in this gloomy basement, fortunes could change in the blink of an eye.
From a nearby table, Popov—his friend and fellow analyst—guffawed. Morozov tried to ignore the distraction, but Popov persisted in his uproarious laughter. Finally, Morozov set aside the heavy Stalingrad tome, jumped to his feet, and angrily strolled to Popov’s table. “Dmitry Anatolyevich, what is so damned funny?” he queried. “I’m trying to concentrate on my reading, and your…”
“I’m sorry, but I just could not restrain myself,” confided Popov, wiping tears from his eyes. “Please excuse my skepticism, but our stalwart Vietnamese comrades have just informed us that they captured an astronaut.” Because of his previous background in Cosmic Intelligence, despite the fact he had been ousted from that august bureau for technical incompetence, Popov was routinely tasked to review any space-related dispatches that arrived in the Encyclopedia. Consequently, any scrap of intelligence that mentioned space flight, in even the vaguest sense, would eventually land on his table.
“What?” asked Morozov. “Astronaut? I haven’t seen anything in the news or reports.”
“Your old boss from Washington sent this down. Surely he should know better than to waste my time.”
“My old boss?” asked Morozov. “Federov? The Crippler?”
“One and the same,” replied Popov, nodding knowingly. “Federov has been promoted to general, and has just taken over the Bureau that oversees the spetsgruppa in Vietnam. You know: The Bureau of Special Cooperation. They receive all the reports about captured American technology and prisoners.”
“Oh. I wasn’t even aware that he had returned to the Aquarium.” Morozov’s face burned even as the lie slipped his lips. He knew full well that Federov had been posted to Moscow and was doing his utmost to avoid him.
“Anyway, this astronaut business came out of an interrogation report from the questioning of an American in their custody. I wager that Federov’s staff shot it down the tube just to aggravate me. Those inconsiderate bastards! It’s not as if I don’t have better things to do.”
“May I, Dmitry Anatolyevich?” asked Morozov, pulling out an empty chair and sitting down.
“I suppose there’s no harm in you looking at it.” Popov glanced around before guardedly slipping the document to Morozov. “Especially since it’s obviously just harmless fluff. Clearly, one of their American prisoners is playing some childish prank on them.”
Morozov flipped the card over to examine it.
“Those Vietnamese monkeys should have never forwarded this to us,” jeered Popov. “I deplore these sorts of ludicrous reports. My time is much too valuable to be squandered on this moronic prattle.”
Nodding in agreement, Morozov covered his mouth and snickered as he scanned the poorly written report. It was downright hilarious, right until he saw the American prisoner’s name. “Carson?” he muttered aloud.
“What is it?” asked Popov. “Please don’t tell me that there’s actually something in there. I don’t have time to be chasing this inane crap this morning.”
Carson, thought Morozov, studying the name on the document. There wasn’t much to the report—just the name, a date, and a few relevant numbers—so he quickly committed the pertinent details to memory. What serendipity! It was finally a chance for vindication.
“So what is it?” asked Popov. “Is it something I should be concerned about?”
Morozov noted the control number in the header of the document before casually sliding it back across the table. “Nothing for you to worry over,” he answered. “Do you have plans for lunch today? Perhaps you would like to join me in a game of chess?”
“Perhaps,” replied Popov, applying a rubber stamp to the document. He blew softly on the fresh magenta ink before scribbling his initials across the header.
With mental gears aggressively spinning, Morozov pivoted away and slowly ambled back to his section, pausing momentarily at the samovar to draw a glass of tea. “Snap to,” he ordered quietly, sitting down at his Section’s table. “There’s work to be done.”
“But we have not received a tasking in over an hour,” observed his senior retriever, the middle-aged woman from Stalingrad. She adjusted her faded blue cotton blouse, the same one she wore almost every day. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“What on earth? I am not talking about anything on earth,” replied Morozov, jotting down notes on a card. “Listen to me. I want you to find me these things without drawing attention to yourself. Now. Get cracking.”
The woman read his notes, rolled her eyes, and quietly growled, “You idiot! Can you not think of anyone but yourself, Anatoly Nikolayevich? We are dependent on you. Here you are, just about to be promoted, and you’re still willing to put all of your accomplishments at risk because of this damned obsession of yours. Your frittering will put all of us at risk.”
“Watch your tone. Do as you are ordered.”
She shook her head and softly balked. “Nyet. We are not obligated to follow an order that is invalid and illegal. Nothing good can come from this goose chase. The best we can hope for is that our lives will be spared and that we will remain trapped on this floor forever, but more likely we’ll all be dragged upstairs for your indiscretions.”
“Listen to me, woman,” he said sternly, squelching her with a flat voice that was just barely above a whisper. “Perhaps you’re right, and this is just a wild goose chase. That said, I promise you this: if you do not cooperate with me now, I will immediately file a request that you be transferred from this section. So, it’s up to you. You can roll the dice and bet on my instincts, and perhaps be promoted with me, or you can rot on this floor forever as you attempt to curry favor with your new section head. Now, what will it be?”
3:02 p.m.
Even though the reluctant woman and his other retrievers put forth their best efforts, there was little to be found that Morozov had not already pored over in the past. He had repeatedly read Carson’s personnel dossier and intimately knew the pilot’s career. He could quote from memory the types of aircraft that Carson was qualified to fly, his certifications on various systems, his previous duty assignments, his stints at various professional development courses, etc., etc.
There just wasn’t any new information to be digested. Although he had a virtual copy of Carson’s official military personnel transcript, a folder that was effectively a duplicate of the one maintained by the United States Air Force, the records had obviously been cleansed of even the slightest bits of information that might be of value.
On paper, Carson was just another pilot; granted he was an exceptionally qualified and competent pilot, but he was just a pilot. The interrogation report from Vietnam indicated that Carson had claimed that he was an astronaut, by virtue of flying something—perhaps some sort of new reconnaissance craft—higher than fifty miles and faster—much faster, the report stated—than even the American’s SR-71 Blackbird. Perhaps that be true, but although he was qualified as a test pilot, there was not a shred of evidence in his records that indicated that he had flown anything particularly unusual.
Besides Carson’s personnel file, Morozov’s retrievers had discovered a copy of Carson’s military pay records in the Encyclopedia’s stacks. The Encyclopedia was presently being modernized, but the process was slow. Alt
hough most of the Encyclopedia’s archival documents were currently being reduced to microfiche film, the copies of Carson’s official personnel file and pay records were still maintained in unwieldy paper format.
Grasping at straws, almost at the point of surrender, Morozov closed the personnel record and shoved it aside. Yawning, he sipped lukewarm tea as he flipped open the cover to Carson’s pay records. He knew it was a futile gesture; surely, there was nothing of value that could be found in the copies of pay stubs, vouchers, income tax withholdings, and other minutia.
As he reviewed the musty papers, Morozov was terribly frustrated. Unlike the scarce extract of his personnel record, Carson’s financial record contained too much information. As the insidious Crippler had himself insinuated years ago in Washington, an effective clandestine agent must develop an intuitive sense of when he is being led astray; in the same vein, an agent must cultivate a knack concerning what information is relevant and what is not, and focus his energies only on that which is vital.
The nincompoop who had accumulated this information obviously lacked that degree of insight, because he or she had clearly devoted a tremendous amount of energy to amassing a useless stack of drivel and trivia. Moreover, since the Encyclopedia’s available space was at such a premium, Morozov was surprised that the record wasn’t more effectively screened to cull the documents that were of little use.
Although the Americans had been fastidious about erasing any vestiges concerning operational matters from Carson’s records, their accountants had been simultaneously fussy about how money was handled and accounted for. Buried in the back of Carson’s otherwise innocuous pay records was a fairly thick stack of travel vouchers.
Morozov was familiar enough with the American’s pay system to know that whenever an Air Force officer travelled anywhere on official orders, he was mandated to submit a travel voucher—a summary accounting of all his travel-related expenses—upon his return to his regular duty station. Because there was so much fraud and abuse associated with travel expenses, the vouchers were regularly subjected to intense scrutiny to flush out fraudulent claims.