by Mike Jenne
As a lark, right at the cusp of calling it quits on this fiasco, Morozov decided to skim through the accumulation of travel vouchers to determine if there was anything that might shed additional light on Carson’s activities. Strangely, in the swollen pile of administrative trivia, he discovered something especially odd. He located a travel voucher that showed Carson departing his normal duty station—Wright-Patterson Air Force Base—on June 9, 1969—for a temporary duty assignment at Hickam Field, Hawaii. Curiously, although the document theoretically placed Carson at Hickam Field, it did not reflect his return travel to Ohio, even though it was filed the following week on June 16.
Intrigued, Morozov sifted through the stack of vouchers and swiftly discerned an unusual pattern. There were thirteen travel vouchers showing Carson on temporary duty at Hickam Field. They almost invariably cited that Carson travelled from Ohio to San Diego, and then proceeded from San Diego to Hawaii on government-owned aircraft. The corresponding travel orders uniformly stated that he was authorized or may be required to alter his itinerary as necessary to accommodate his mission.
Oddly, with only five exceptions, the travel vouchers did not reflect a homeward leg from Hawaii back to Wright-Patterson. It was as if Carson ventured to Hawaii and disappeared, only to magically reappear in Ohio to file the requisite paperwork to receive his travel pay. Morozov laughed quietly, thinking that it was like that popular American television show where future space travelers were “beamed” hither and yon.
Suddenly, as if a brilliant floodlight had been switched on, there was clarity. Morozov gasped as everything meshed. Amazed that the Americans could be so sloppy, he was astonished at how simple it was to assemble the pieces. He was angry with himself for not spotting the trend earlier. Painstakingly flipping through the vouchers, he wrote down a series of date sequences for the temporary duty periods in Hawaii. Giddy with anticipation, his heart thumped in his chest. He then curtly directed one of his archivists to make copies of the vouchers, and then hustled to Popov’s table.
“Please go away,” begged Popov. “I’ve watched you toiling for hours now, and I know that you’re up to no good.”
“Listen,” said Morozov quietly. “Months ago, you hinted that seven of our satellites had mysteriously vanished. I have to assume that you must also know when they vanished.”
“Please leave me,” pleaded Popov. His hands trembled and his broad face glistened with a greasy sheen of perspiration. “Puzhalsta! Nothing good can come of this.”
Ignoring him, Morozov consulted his notes and matter-of-factly recited his list of date sequences. With every interval that he cited, Popov’s eyes opened progressively wider as his brow furrowed deeply. Swallowing deeply, he nodded at almost every sequence.
“So, did I find all seven?” asked Morozov, flipping the card over.
“Not all of those dates are correct,” confided Popov. “There are two extras that I cannot account for, but yes, Anatoly Nikolayevich, you found all seven.”
“Spasiba, Dmitry Anatolyevich,” replied Morozov, thanking Popov. “You’ve been immensely helpful.” He returned to his table, and softly ordered: “Fetch me a typewriter! Now! I have an important report to write!”
5:36 p.m.
Pounding on the keys in a clattering frenzy, Morozov finished the last page and tugged the flimsy paper from the Groma portable typewriter. He quickly collated the report, placed the autographed image of the Type Four reconnaissance satellite’s data plate inside the front cover, and signed his name to the document header. As the members of his section looked on in horror, he purposely strode to the elevator, clutching the report to his chest, and jabbed the button for Federov’s floor.
Morozov emerged from the elevator and explored the hallways until he found the Bureau of Special Cooperation. An attractive Kazakh woman in a sergeant’s uniform occupied the desk in the anteroom. “I am Major Anatoly Nikolayevich Morozov,” he announced loudly. “Third Class Analyst, Department of Archives and Operational Research. I am here to see General Federov. Now.”
Revealing a dazzling collection of stainless steel caps, the pretty sergeant smiled and politely replied, “The general is in his office, but he is not to be disturbed.”
“I have a report for him,” declared Morozov.
“Leave it with me, Comrade Major. I’ll hold it for the general.”
“It’s Eyes Only,” he answered. With no patience or time for sergeants, pretty or otherwise, he turned toward the heavy oak door, twisted the knob and threw it open.
The sergeant gasped. “You cannot do that!”
Ignoring her, Morozov swaggered into the office like a colonel leading his victorious battalion on parade. “Here,” he said, slapping the papers on the desk. As he waited, he looked at the memorabilia and keepsakes scattered throughout the office. There were several objects he had not seen in Federov’s office back in Washington, including a collection of judo trophies and a control stick recovered from the crash site of an American U-2 in Uzbekistan, but the same battered spetsnaz hatchet was displayed prominently over the fearsome Crippler’s credenza.
Despite the commotion, the Crippler didn’t even look up from his paperwork to acknowledge his presence. Morozov’s face burned as anger surged up within him. In a gesture worthy of Nikita Khrushchev, he reached down, slipped off one of his shoes, and then pounded its worn heel on Federov’s desk blotter. “You…will…pay…attention…to…me…Comrade…General.”
Furious, Federov finally gazed up. He looked as if he was ready to detonate.
“Here are your damned flying saucers from Ohio, Comrade General!” declared Morozov, hammering the report with his battered shoe. The heel snapped off and skittered away on the wooden floor. “Now it should be abundantly clear what the Americans were really doing in that damned hangar of theirs.”
Not waiting for Federov’s comment, Morozov turned and left. Awkwardly walking in the uneven shoes, he brushed right past the Kazakh sergeant and went directly to the elevator.
The creaking elevator began its agonizingly slow descent. By now, the Crippler certainly had digested at least the executive summary of his hastily prepared report. For a brief moment, Morozov contemplated pressing the button for the first basement sub-floor. After all, there was no time like the present to become accustomed with his new environs.
Moments later, as the elevator’s doors slid open, the Encyclopedia’s Director was waiting for him. “Anatoly Nikolayevich,” he said, shaking his head as he clicked his tongue. “That was a very brave gesture. And very stupid.”
“I assume that General Federov’s office has called.”
“Oh, yes,” answered the Director, blowing on the surface of freshly poured tea. “He insisted on speaking to me directly. Anatoly Nikolayevich, I cannot adequately convey to you just how much I dislike communicating directly with the Crippler. Anyway, he has already consumed most of your report. To say that he was angry would be an understatement.”
“So I’ve obliterated my chances at becoming a Second Class Analyst?” muttered Morozov.
“Da,” observed the Director. He took a sip of tea and added, “That’s true, but since you are being advanced directly to First Class Analyst, that should no longer be of concern to you.”
Morozov’s jaw dropped. “First Class Analyst?” he stammered. “Can this possibly be true? And what of my section? What will be become of them?”
“Silly man,” said the Director as he chuckled and clapped Morozov on the shoulder. “They are being promoted with you. You will retain them in your new assignment, unless you desire new personnel to work under you. And there’s another matter, something far more pressing.”
“Da?”
“You are to proceed to your apartment immediately and pack for a journey. General Federov has directed that you will accompany him to Vietnam in the morning. He intends to personally handle this situation.”
“Really? Surely you jest. I thought you said that Federov was angry with me.”
&
nbsp; The Director chuckled. “Anatoly Nikolayevich, the Crippler is indeed furious and many heads will surely roll, but you can rest confident that yours will remain where it is.”
Reeducation Camp # 4
7:15 a.m., Wednesday, April 4, 1973
Major Thanh had been away, attending a regional meeting in Haiphong, since Thursday. As he arrived back in his office at Camp # 4, he was met by a furious Bao Trung.
“We learned the American’s true name yesterday,” said Bao Trung. “He is an Air Force officer, Major Andrew Carson.”
“I am very aware of that development,” answered Thanh, setting down his Soviet-made plastic attaché and riffling through a stack of papers. He looked out the window to see the South Vietnamese prisoners laboring in the cemetery. “So, is there anything else?”
“Yes. Are you aware that Carson is fortunate to be alive?” asked Bao Trung. “He has come down with severe malaria, and your idiots neglected to recognize that he was deathly ill.”
“My idiots? Don’t be so hasty to judge them,” replied Thanh, wagging an official set of transfer orders that he was given in Haiphong. “Because as of this morning, you are now officially in command of the guard detachment, so they are now your idiots. And one more thing, Comrade Lieutenant Bao Trung, I hold you in the highest respect because you are a decorated combat veteran and I am not, but I strongly caution you to watch your tone. You are no longer a guest in this camp, you are my subordinate and will act accordingly.”
“But Comrade Major, those guards should have realized that there was something amiss.”
Thanh nodded. “Possibly, but in their defense, your American made no effort to let anyone know he was sick. If we had known he was ill, he would have been put in the infirmary.”
As if that would have helped, thought Bao Trung. Lacking any decent medicines and devoid of competent medical personnel, the infirmary could do little to help Carson. All they could have done was pump him full of quinine. Besides that, the infirmary was like a festering Petri dish filled with a broad spectrum of infectious diseases; Carson would have likely emerged from there much sicker than when he was admitted.
“He’s sick. He needs to see a doctor. A real doctor,” snapped Bao Trung. “Not a half-trained imbecile like the quack who oversees the infirmary.
“I agree, Bao Trung. But not to worry,” said Thanh, reading from a freshly printed cable transcript. “The Russians are bringing their own physician.”
“The Russians?” gasped Bao Trung.
“Yes. A spetsgruppa team is coming. They are apparently being rushed directly from the GRU headquarters in Moscow, under the direct command of a Soviet general no less. As I said, they’re bringing their own physician. She’s supposed to be a renowned specialist in tropical diseases. I suppose that they are very motivated to keep your American alive. Anyway, our headquarters has directed me to surrender Major Carson into the Soviets’ custody upon their arrival. So, Lieutenant, he will no longer be our concern.”
“So they’ll bring him back to Moscow?” Two listless prisoners lackadaisically swept the floor in Thanh’s outer office. Concerned that they were eavesdropping, Bao Trung glared at them, pointed at the door and tersely directed them to immediately leave.
“Moscow? What do you think?” asked Thanh, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re holding an American who has refused to correctly identify himself, and when he finally does identify himself, he also lets slip that he’s some sort of space traveler. The Russians learn of this, and they’re flying straight from Moscow. I don’t think they would go to all that fuss for a casual chat.”
Bao Trung swallowed and said, “Obviously.”
“Now, Lieutenant, in the interim, what should we do with your Major Carson?”
“What do you mean? Surely you’re not implying that we should question him some more.”
“No. The Russians should not arrive in Hanoi until late tonight, and probably won’t arrive here before the early morning. Certainly, I intend to spruce up the camp a bit, but what should we do with Carson? Should we stick him in the infirmary?”
Bao Trung closed his eyes and considered the situation. Wringing his hands, he opened his eyes and replied, “No, Comrade Major. I just came from visiting him. He is very sick, but he is comfortable in his cell. I think we should leave him there until our Soviet brothers arrive.”
11:23 p.m.
Tightly wrapped in blankets, convulsing from chills, Carson slept on a pallet made of straw.
A faint noise disrupted his stupor, and he awoke to glimpse a shadowy figure entering his cell. “Huh?” he asked, slowly realizing that his nocturnal visitor was Bao Trung. Faint moonlight shimmered through the cell’s solitary barred window; it was still very dark outside.
“Quiet!” whispered Bao Trung, squatting down as he prodded Carson with his finger.
“Is it morning?” asked Carson. He was terribly lightheaded and confused. “Is it time for me to go home?”
“It is nearly morning,” whispered Bao Trung. He placed a small candle in the corner and lit it. “We must be quiet, Drew. The other prisoners are sleeping. We must not awaken them.”
Drenched with sweat but still shivering violently, Carson sat up, drawing a flimsy cover around him. His bones ached, as if he had been run over by a steamroller. His skin was riddled with weeping sores and abrasions, especially on his joints and buttocks, from constantly lying on coarse concrete. Even though he had been provided a new mat and extra blankets, they were of little comfort. “What do you want?” he demanded in a raspy voice, stifling a yawn and rubbing his eyes. “Why are you here?”
“It’s time,” said Bao Trung quietly. “The Russians will arrive soon.”
“The Russians?”
Bao Trung nodded solemnly in the flickering candlelight. “They’re coming for you,” he said sternly. “You wouldn’t stop blabbering, so now there are consequences.”
“But I was just joking,” muttered Carson. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Be quiet! Take off that prisoner uniform,” hissed Bao Trung, pulling a bundle of folded clothes from a small sack. “Quickly. Put these on.”
Still confused, Carson slowly stripped out of his uniform. Made of cotton, bearing thick vertical stripes of maroon and gray, the shoddy pajama-like garments were a snug fit when he first arrived at Camp # 4, but now they sagged loosely on his emaciated frame. His hands trembled so much that he couldn’t loosen the trousers’ drawstring; Bao Trung had to assist him.
As Carson dressed, Bao Trung reached into a breast pocket and extracted a small shard of dried white clay. Using the kaolin as chalk, he scrawled a name on the concrete wall.
“What are you writing?” asked Carson, reading the block-lettered name as he struggled to button his unfamiliar shirt.
“None of your concern,” answered Bao Trung sternly. “Face the door while I finish here. Quit dawdling and get dressed.”
26
PALE BLUE
Cambridge, Massachusetts
1:25 p.m., Tuesday, May 28, 1974
Andy fussed and squirmed in his booster seat as Bea futilely tried to feed him macaroni and cheese left over from last night’s dinner. He evidently had eaten his fill, so she wiped his messy face with a damp cloth and lowered him to the floor to play with his favorite Tonka toy firetruck.
As she scrubbed dishes in the sink, listening to Elton John singing “Candle in the Wind” on the radio, she surveyed their disheveled kitchen. The rickety table was stacked high with textbooks. On the wall, a cork bulletin board was covered with graphs, diagrams, and class schedules. It seemed like their snug little apartment was in a perpetual state of upheaval.
They had been in Cambridge for over a year. It had taken a while for her to adjust to the college town atmosphere and the foreign culture of academia, but despite the chaos, she had grown to enjoy this life. After the past five years of constant uncertainty, with Scott often disappearing with little or no warning, this was a happy time in their marri
age, possibly the happiest time that they had ever enjoyed. It brought back memories of her early childhood, when her father was still alive and going to college himself, before he was killed in Korea.
As a stand-by flight attendant with Delta, Bea still flew at least three times a week, almost exclusively on short regional hops from Logan Airport. She occasionally made it back to Dayton to check in on Jill’s mother and Rebecca. Bea had been bitten by the college bug herself; pursuing a business degree, she also started classes at Boston College last winter.
Since Andy had started kindergarten, their entire little family was in school now. As much as she enjoyed it, her life was a complicated existence; between her commitments as a student, part-time flight attendant, wife and mother, her schedule was tight. Thank goodness there was always an ample supply of coeds willing to babysit Andy.
Even though Scott would remain in the Air Force, their future was at least somewhat more predictable. After defending his thesis and graduating next spring, he was slated to return to Wright-Patterson for a three-year research assignment. Planning ahead, she was already making arrangements to transfer to a college in Dayton to finish her degree. She also hoped that they could find a house near Jill’s mother.
Scott had found his place at MIT; he was in his natural element in this high-powered academic world. Far removed from the Air Force, he blended into the college environment; sporting hair down to his shoulders and a scruffy beard, he rarely wore anything but jeans, dark T-shirts, and a well-worn pair of Vibram-soled Vasque hiking boots. All of his uniforms, accoutrements and military memorabilia were buried deep in the back of their bedroom closet.
Although he didn’t conceal his Air Force affiliation, he didn’t exactly go out of his way to aggressively advertise it, either. If they didn’t know any better, most observers would likely guess that he was returning to MIT for an advanced degree after spending the past few years employed in the aerospace industry. With the space program on the downswing, there were more than a few MIT grad students who fit that bill.