The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  “We understand each other,” Fanning said.

  “I hope so,” said Justin. “That’s a long way to go in a small plane like this. I’d hate to have to try to swim halfway back.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Fanning said. “I’ve used her before. This little baby can really perform. Her normal range would be about eighteen hundred and fifty miles at five hundred miles an hour at a service ceiling of forty-five thousand feet. With her modifications, she’ll do forty-two hundred miles at five hundred and ninety miles an hour at the same altitude. That’s a lot of performance from a little lady like this. No one on earth would suspect her of flying that distance nonstop.”

  Justin was impressed by “her” credentials. “How fast can she go if we really have to haul ass outta someplace?” he asked.

  “Her maximum modified speed is seven hundred and twenty miles an hour. But forget about trying to fly four thousand miles. Her range drops off drastically when she’s burning that hot.”

  They stowed their gear, and Fanning fired her up. After an instrument check and instructions from the control tower, they taxied out to the runway for takeoff. They got final clearance from flight control and the powerful, sleek Learjet roared off the runway and banked out over Lake Michigan. Fanning was whistling “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” as they surged upward into the darkness.

  They were off to England.

  It was dinner time in Moscow. Leonid Travkin’s stomach growled from hunger. Across the desk from him sat Andrei Ulev. Travkin was leafing through the piles of reports and dossiers on his desk. As the director of the Soviet KGB, he was disturbed by its collective meaning.

  He had received the results from the analysis of the information that Bridges had given to Ringer as proof of SENTINEL’s existence and capabilities.

  “It has all been confirmed,” he said grimly. “Every fact is correct to the smallest detail. They know the locations of every missile silo in the Irkutsk district. Every single one has been pinpointed exactly. They have listed the names of every agent that we have painstakingly planted in their CIA and Pentagon. And their stated facts regarding our secret Siska-class submarines are absolutely accurate, from the armament and electronic capabilities to their exact positions on a stated date and time.

  “This SENTINEL is either the most devastating development since the splitting of the atom, or it is the most carefully contrived bluff the Americans have ever attempted.

  “They are notorious poker players, Andrei. But this much information would be impossible to obtain…”

  “It is all very difficult to believe, General,” Ulev began. “True, the information that Dr. Bridges has supplied is correct, alarmingly so, but the existence of such a computer is hard to believe. I cannot keep from feeling that this is all part of a grandiose hoax designed to get this Dr. Bridges into the Soviet Union. Once here, he could create havoc with our computer systems in only moments with his abilities.”

  “Yes, he could do that. But the accuracy of this information cannot be overlooked. It is impossible to gather so much information from even the most highly placed agents, without our becoming aware of it.

  “If this computer exists, we must have it. Dr. Bridges represents our only possibility. Once we have his information, we can determine its veracity before allowing him access to our computers.

  “Very elaborate security will have to be arranged to keep Bridges alive. The Americans will come for him, we may be certain of that. It will be a great deal more difficult to keep the information than it will be to get it.”

  Ulev nodded in agreement. They were bound to action. The evidence was too great in favor of the existence of SENTINEL to believe otherwise. There was also the matter of the three code names leaked out of British Intelligence. The data supplied with the code names had been analyzed very carefully. At least eight, and possibly eleven, missions had been linked to coinciding Soviet operations in the past two years. All of them, except one, were Soviet failures. And that one was very nearly a failure, averting disaster by only the narrowest of margins. So even the information supplied by Bridges concerning the secret security force of SENTINEL fit into place.

  Travkin was to bring the issue before the Central Committee and an ailing Brezhnev, himself, on this very evening. After a few moments of fitful meditation, he looked up from the papers on his desk.

  “Thank you, Andrei. You may leave now. I’ll advise you on the outcome of my meeting with the Central Committee this evening.”

  Ulev got up and left the office.

  Travkin picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a four-digit sequence, which opened a special scrambled line.

  After the connection was confirmed, he dialed again.

  He waited, listening.

  “This is Travkin speaking,” he said, as the other end came to life. “Centaur is needed. Make the usual arrangements for oh-two-hundred hours.

  “Yes…yes, very good.” He hung up the phone.

  He had just called on his most trusted agent, Centaur. He was one of the very best in Soviet Intelligence. Like SENTINEL, Centaur’s greatest advantage was that he was also a secret.

  Alexi Kuradin was being called out of retirement for one last mission of vital importance. If any man alive could succeed against such overwhelming odds, Alexi Kuradin could do it.

  But Travkin thought about his old friend, Centaur, and about what he was sending him up against. He wondered how much the Americans knew about Centaur, how much they could have learned about him a year ago in England, when he had so narrowly escaped with his life. They almost had him then. How much did they learn? That was the question. How much of his secret did they know?

  EIGHT

  Who has, has. That is the sum of human morality in politics. The ruling power must realize that the conquered masses have no rights. They are subject to whatever design the conqueror may impose, whether it be slave labor or utter destruction.

  With this realization in mind, we embarked on the road to the fulfillment of our destiny. We were not deterred by humanitarian qualms, knowing that the welfare of our Fatherland required conquest, subjugation, dispossession, and the extermination of foreign nations. It is a fact of historical record that the creation of greater nations necessitates the destruction of lesser ones.

  We prepared for total victory, ignoring all possibility of defeat.

  Entry No. 16 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  Soviet interrogation methods had come a long way since the Stalinist days, when information was successfully extracted from countless subjects by many direct, painful techniques. Technology had come to the forefront. Drugs began opening closed mouths and minds; psychological tortures began to replace physical ones; and newer, more effective methods of creating physical stress were devised to accommodate those subjects specially designated to receive it. The direct physical methods were still sometimes preferred when a specific charge was to be answered with a specific confession, when only certain words were needed—and quickly.

  Ivan Kutz was an interrogator. He was a leftover from the Stalinist era and had enjoyed the opportunities presented during the two major reorganizations that followed the death of Stalin. He was a master at delivering pain and twisting the body, until the mind screamed out, “Enough! I will tell you anything that you want to know!” Illya Bodonov had been delivered to Kutz for just that purpose.

  The room was small, stuffy, and rank with the smell of pain and fear. Except for a bright, restricted cone of light in the center of the room, there was almost complete darkness. In the center of that cone, Illya Bodonov sat strapped to a chair.

  The chair had leads and wires running from it from various positions. Electrical shocks could be delivered to any part of the body with the flick of a switch. Just at the darkened edge of the cone of light sat a table with a narrow box with numerous switches, to which the wires from the chair were connected. There was also a rheostat power source used to control the intensity of
the electrical shocks. The switches controlled the duration.

  Bodonov had proven to be a very stubborn man. This delighted Kutz. The more Bodonov resisted, the more Kutz liked it. He invariably abandoned the newer techniques and resorted to his “convincer,” an old leather-wrapped stick that he had used so successfully in the days of Stalin. It worked well for him; it was more direct.

  Kutz did not trust the new technical devices. They never allowed him to accurately judge the amount of pain he administered. He always started the interrogations using them, but ultimately reverted back to his time-proven method. A split eyebrow or broken teeth were easier to gauge than the invisible electricity he discharged with the switches. His success justified his means.

  Kutz received to his care only those subjects considered “one-way” prisoners. The Soviet concepts of prison, enemies of the state, and dangerous individuals are rather black and white in viewpoint. There were many “one-way” prisoners, required to give their confessions before the necessary dispensation of justice.

  Kutz circled Bodonov, his shiny boots just visible at the outer edge of the circle of light. The questions shot out of the darkness at Bodonov like sharp stinging darts. Bodonov could see the switches at the edge of the table that controlled the current running to his testicles and other parts of his body. The hand would come white from the darkness, as though coming through a black curtain, to trip one of the switches. It would be followed by the same questions repeated over and over. Bodonov answered none of them. And then the electrical shocks stopped. From out of the darkness, then flashed the stick. The target was always different, possessing a unique pain of its own.

  Bodonov’s right eye was swollen shut. The left eye was reduced to a narrow slit with long, deep cuts both above and below it. His lower lip was badly split and swollen, the upper one puffed and lacerated, where the teeth had gone through it before they were smashed.

  Kutz enjoyed the stubbornness of his subject. He rather hoped that Bodonov would hold out for a while longer.

  But Kutz knew that Vasily Trushenko was watching him from the back of the room—from the darkness. He knew that Trushenko wanted that confession and expected it. Kutz had to deliver, and soon. He was being assessed, he felt. He admired Trushenko and badly wanted his admiration in return. This was his chance to impress him. Pleasure aside, he would have the confession now.

  The stick flashed out of the darkness, catching Bodonov on the point of the shoulder. He writhed and groaned painfully, but no words came out of his mouth.

  “You will tell us now!” Kutz screamed. “You will answer all of my questions.”

  Nothing.

  The stick flashed again, this time to the ear. Bodonov twisted away and groaned again, rocking his head slowly. He knew that he was “one-way.” The questions made it clear what they were after. He would not help them get Dmitri Chakhovsky. Chakhovsky was a great man and should not be allowed to fall to this slime.

  Kutz shot in at Bodonov pulling his head back by the hair. He stared into the open eye. His expression bore menace.

  Bodonov for the first time got to look at the face of his tormentor. He strained to see it clearly through the closing eye, through the tears that involuntarily filled it. The vision was badly blurred. The face looked sinister and distorted. He spat into it.

  Kutz went into a rage. He began clubbing Bodonov on the elbows and wrists. He stopped suddenly, remembering that Trushenko was there. The urge to kill Bodonov temporarily subsided. Temporarily. He brought himself under control.

  “Bring in the girl,” Kutz snapped. “We shall see how tightly your lips are sealed.” He glared at Bodonov. Kutz was shaking with rage.

  Bodonov glared back.

  “I will give you one last chance to answer all of my questions. When did you first meet Dmitri Chakhovsky?”

  Nothing.

  “Do you make love to your sister?”

  Nothing.

  “You have unnatural sexual relations with other men and small children. Do you deny that?”

  Nothing.

  “Did you make love with Dmitri Chakhovsky?”

  No answer.

  “Tell me of Dmitri Chakhovsky and the small children he used to satisfy his perverted sexual desires.”

  “What you say is not true,” Bodonov said, his first words since being taken away from his bed.

  “So you speak,” Kutz shouted. “You will tell me what I want to know,” he screamed, his voice breaking slightly. He waited.

  Nothing.

  “Your sister has already confessed to us.”

  Bodonov looked up in puzzlement. His sister? They had not taken his sister. They would not…

  The door opened.

  “Do you doubt that what I tell you is true?” Kutz asked with a menacing grin that showed his teeth. “I can show you. Bring her here,” he ordered.

  Trushenko remained silent in the background. He knew that this was the critical point with Bodonov. He would talk now, or would never talk.

  Two guards helped a weak and brutalized figure into the shaft of light. Bodonov strained to see the figure clearly through his left eye. He could distinguish the long black hair, a badly bruised face, and mangled hands, the fingers broken and twisted, the bruised breasts and body.

  His beautiful sister. What had they done to her? For what? Whom had they hurt? It was of no consequence to the state. He looked up at Kutz. He still could not see him clearly through the tears. But he stared at him.

  Kutz watched the face, saw the eye behind the wetness staring at him. He had won. He knew it. Now for the clincher.

  He leaned down placing his face close to Bodonov’s. His tone was no longer menacing, but soft and tender. “We will leave your sister alone and see that she gets immediate help and medical attention…if you tell us what we want to know. Otherwise”—the voice hardened to a threatening tone,—“you will be forced to watch as we break—”

  “I will tell you,” Bodonov said before Kutz could finish. “I will tell you what you want to know.” Bodonov began to sob as he strained to see his sister. “You have promised. You will leave her alone and see that she gets help?” he asked.

  Kutz laid a hand gently on Bodonov’s shoulder. “Of course, we will. It is a promise.” Kutz straightened up and turned his head to where Trushenko sat in the darkness. He was victorious.

  Trushenko noticed that Kutz had an erection. It was obvious and unconcealable. He despised Kutz and his sick little brain, but he was useful. He had given him what he needed to settle an old score.

  “Now tell us about the small children?” Kutz began.

  March was going out like a lion. It was dumping tons of snow on Moscow with a merciless vengeance. A solitary figure stood in the raging snow, looking up at the old gray building before him. He examined the structure, then checked the vacant, snow-pelted streets. There was no one.

  He checked his watch. It was almost two in the morning. It didn’t seem that late. The snow made everything look lighter, made it somehow feel earlier than it was. He walked up the short flight of stairs and entered the building.

  He went to the fourth floor and quietly walked down the hallway to the room indicated in his instructions. He rapped a short code on the door. A single knock was returned. He answered with two rapid taps. The door opened.

  He walked in and turned to face the man behind the door. Alexi Kuradin was surprised to see Leonid Travkin standing there. Travkin almost never made direct contacts himself. This must be very important. Travkin closed the door behind him.

  “Good evening, Alexi,” Travkin said to his old friend. “It is good to see you again after so long.”

  They embraced warmly.

  “It is good to see you, too, Leonid. Tell me, what is so urgent that an old dog like me must be pulled from the comforts of his retirement?” He looked into the eyes of his friend.

  “We have an emergency,” he answered.

  That’s what it had been termed at the meeting with the Central
Committee. They had been ready for him. He had gone in there thinking he would have a difficult time convincing them of the seriousness of the matter. Instead, he just listened as they told him how important it was.

  Some of Russia’s most prominent computer scientists were in attendance. They gave him a dazzling and very confusing short course on cybernetics—the science which concerns itself with the mechanical extension of the capabilities and capacities of the brain.

  His mind, not being technically oriented to such a depth, was quickly lost in the maze of technical terms and definitions. What he did get out of it was that the Soviet Union was in the midst of an all-out program to become the first cybernetic society in history. A sociological-technological society aided—not controlled—by cybernetic systems in education, agriculture, industry, commerce, and all essential areas of society.

  He knew that the Soviet Union possessed more pure mathematicians than any country in the world, and that they sorted out their “super brain prodigies” at very early ages and put them into environments rich for proper nurturing in their fields of specialization. Nowhere in the world was there such a concerted effort to attain this goal, and nowhere was there the abundance of the raw talent needed to make it possible. But it was not yet even close to realization. They needed the breakthrough into biocybernetics that the Americans had seemingly made.

  The Soviet scientists conceded that the SENTINEL computer could, in fact, exist and be capable of such power, and if such a computer could be built inside of Russia, the Soviet Union could rapidly surpass the SENTINEL potential. Bridges was again correct, but his reasons were wrong.

  Kuradin was attentive and silent through the entire dissertation by Travkin, who related the entire story, from Bridges’s first contact with Ross to his own meeting with the Central Committee. When he had finished, he handed Kuradin two thick bundles of files. This was all the information on the subject.

  “Well, Alexi,” Travkin said, “what do you think?”