Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The Air Force pilot climbed into clean long underwear and placed himself in the hands of the technicians. It took two of them to get him into his flight helmet and adjust the gasket that fitted tightly around his neck and shoulders. He felt awkward and uncomfortable, like a deep-sea diver out of water. The technicians eased him down into a cushioned leather reclining chair. Once he was settled, they attached hoses to the helmet and closed his visor. The pilot sat in the big chair and breathed pure oxygen while the technicians checked for leaks in the system. There were none and his visor did not fog up.

  He sat in his reclining chair, studying his flight plan and his notes on the weather, his flight path, his turning points, his call signs, his emergency and rescue procedures. He knew that the Russians had been placing surface-to-air missile batteries in Cuba, the same SA-2 missiles that had shot down a U-2 soaring above the Soviet Union just two years before. He knew also that a U-2 operating out of Formosa had been lost over China just the month before. But he tried not to let any of that bother him while he sat and breathed pure oxygen for two full hours.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz sat in John Beck’s easy chair with the dead priest’s loose-leaf notebook in his lap. Beck’s handwriting was clear and he had no trouble reading it. Understanding it was something else again.

  The binder was filled with doodles, phrases, references to New Testament stories, underlined words with exclamation points for emphasis and other abbreviated reminders of what ideas to stress.

  Beck, unfortunately, had felt no need to explain how to express those ideas. Nowhere in his notebook was there a script or a stage direction to follow. My God, he thought, what a fix I’m in! At least, Beck had arranged his notes for the month-long retreat chronologically.

  He rubbed his eyes and turned off the reading lamp. Maybe tomorrow he would be able to figure out what to do.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Still breathing pure oxygen, his head encased in his large airtight helmet, the U-2 pilot was allowed to use the toilet one last time. When finished, he slipped his penis into a piece of tubing that would allow him to urinate during his long flight. Back in the ready room, two enlisted men helped him squeeze into his pressurized flight suit. It was a tight fit, but he had learned how to relax and allow the technicians to tug firmly but carefully until his body was completely sheathed and zippered. Then, while they supported his weight, he slipped into his heavy insulated flight boots and waited while the technicians laced them up.

  He took a couple of steps, wiggled his toes and nodded. His feet felt just fine. The technicians attached hoses and electrical lines to his flight suit: conduits for compressed air, oxygen, heat and communications. If the pressure suit failed for any reason, their pilot would not survive high above the earth on the edge of space. Like squires armoring a knight before a battle, they kept peering at his face through the helmet’s visor, looking for any sign of discomfort.

  The pilot waited patiently until he got the thumbs-up hand signal. His pressure suit and his life-support systems were working perfectly.

  The technicians helped him into his coveralls, disconnected all the lines and hoses and hooked him up to a portable oxygen canister which he carried in his right hand. They escorted him to a vehicle that carried him through the night to the hangar. He stepped out onto the floodlit concrete apron where his black unmarked U-2 waited for him.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz dreamed about the German soldier that night. It had been a long time since he had last dreamed the dream. Bitter memories of the Great Patriotic War had faded over the years and the dream had come infrequently and without intensity as he advanced through middle age. But this night, the dream returned, so vividly and so powerfully that he awoke in terror.

  He stayed awake then, refusing to go back to sleep lest he be returned to that nightmare landscape. He tried to read. At two-thirty in the morning at Milford Novitiate, nothing stirred. The building was dark, the corridors silent. All the novices and juniors, priests and brothers were sleeping soundly. But not the man who played Father Samozvanyetz.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  At Edwards Air Force Base in California, it was thirty minutes before midnight. The pilot, sitting in the cockpit of his U-2, had just received clearance for take-off. He pushed the throttle forward. The ungainly aircraft wobbled along the runway awkwardly until it gathered speed and the swiftly flowing air began to support its long dark wings. The wheels at its wing tips fell away.

  The U-2 was now airborne just above the runway. The nose wheel retracted. and the pilot hit the throttle. The sudden burst of power forced his back into his seat. The plane shot straight up into the dark October sky and disappeared.

  Within minutes, it reached its cruising altitude of fourteen miles above the earth. The U-2 was now just a blip on the Edwards Air Force Base radar screens, a dot of light heading east. The pilot would stay on this course for five hours.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Was he half-awake or sleeping? Was he dreaming or remembering? The man who played Father Samozvanyetz was never able to tell. Dark clouds of battle blotted out the sun. Shards of metal fell from the sky along with the rain. The air reeked of gunpowder, burning debris, rotting flesh. Amid the gun-fire and explosions, the shouting:

  “Give them no let up, boys!” “Constant contact, contact, contact! Stay on their asses, lads!” “Stay in close!” “Pour it into them!”

  He was staggering, exhausted, into that shattered factory again, his grief as heavy as the pack on his back and his weapon and his ammunition belt. He was collapsing now, not caring where he landed, sprawling on his back on a bed of broken bricks. He was looking up at twisted girders snaking through the smoke. He was cursing whatever Fate had brought him to this place and sent his son’s regiment next to his own and brought them together on this killing ground.

  Was it just hours ago? Would he ever be able to forget Alexei’s face? Would he ever stop hearing Alexei’s screams as his life spurted away? It was not the way soldiers are supposed to die, not a man’s only son!

  Would he ever blot out the sight of Alexei’s entrails oozing out through the gushes of dark blood? Would he ever stop smelling the fear and pain and the stink of his son’s excrement? It was not fair!

  Beloved sons die instantly on distant battlefields, on some green field of valor. They fall to earth gracefully, neatly pierced by a single whispering bullet. Their remote deaths are neat and clean enough to be tucked into white envelopes along with a letter of comfort from a commanding officer. A son’s death in battle was supposed to be delivered by a postman murmuring patriotic words of condolence. That was how a son should die in battle! Far away and unseen! Not like this!

  Not in the arms of his father, who has come upon his son’s gutted body through the absurd accidents of battle! Not in his father’s arms, struggling against the pain, his blood soaking his father’s tunic! Not screaming: “Help me, Father! Help me! It hurts! Oh, my God, it hurts! Make it stop, Father! Help me! I’m afraid! Oh, Father, I’m afraid!”

  A helpless father’s tears are mixed with the bursts of dark red blood, surging so strongly that the boy can’t last much longer. The memory comes of the infant Alexei fighting off his nose drops.

  “They’ll do you good!” he tells the struggling baby before the rage comes upon him, the frustration and fear for the child. The stomach spasms, white and red! The stench as the bowels let go. The screaming!

  The sudden silence.

  Death.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  He is clutching his cheeks in his broken brick bed, not weeping as he was before, but grunting like an animal. Black bombardment clouds are billowing above the roofless factory, becoming red fire clouds with flashes of brilliant white light.

  The voice behind him: “Keep moving, Comrade! You can’t help the lad now!”

  Had Alexei even known he was there? His real father? Had he really kn
own?

  “Come on, come on! There are more of them up ahead!”

  How many of those Nazi bastards had he killed since they dragged him away from Alexei? He could not tell; he seldom saw them. He had just kept scrambling forward over the rubble, firing into those massive holes in the walls, firing through what used to be a window, firing into piles of debris, moving forward, firing his weapon, not seeing the bastards he might be killing and maiming, not hearing them screaming as Alexei had screamed.

  But this one he saw!

  He heard him, first, from where he sprawled in the rubble. He heard the German soldier stumbling, heard him rebuking himself in his native tongue.

  The guttural foreign words shot hunter’s venom through his veins. He tightened his muscles and moved. He was up on his knees now and there was the German soldier!

  The German was standing just a few yards away, vulnerable in his disheveled Wermacht uniform. His helmet was gone. He held no rifle. His arms were outstretched, hands open, as if he were saying: “What are you waiting for? Go ahead and fire!”

  He squeezed the trigger and the German soldier fell to the ground and did not move. He inched forward to make sure the fallen man was dead.

  Only now can he see the medical corps insignia. No matter.

  He searches the German soldier’s pockets. Sometimes the Nazi bastards carry messages or documents. All he finds are some pamphlets. He knows enough German to see that they are religious tracts. He knows something about the sect that published them.

  He has killed one of those believers who will not fight.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The U-2 pilot had been flying east in darkness through the upper reaches of Earth’s atmosphere for several hours toward the sunrise. The earth curved before him under a clear blue cloudless sky. Above was the blackness of space, but he could no longer see the stars. Up ahead was Cuba. It was time to start work. As predicted, Sunday morning was perfect for photography.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Awake at last, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz stood shuddering by the window. He tried not to think about Alexei or Anya or the German soldier or John Beck or Nikita Khrushchev’s missile bases in Cuba. Another day was beginning. How many more would he survive?

  He used the morning meditation period to study Beck’s notes to get through the first few days of the Long Retreat without giving himself away.

  C H A P T E R • 15

  That morning while Charley and his classmates were at Mass in the Milford novitiate, the U-2 pilot was approaching Cuba from the South. He switched on the aircraft’s camera systems and heard the whine of the camera motor. At exactly 7:31 EST, he passed over Cape Frances on the Isle of Pines on a northerly course about thirteen miles above Cuba, on track and on time. He could hear the slight thumps each time the lens of the U-2’s camera locked into another one of its several positions.

  What was down there that was so important? He had no idea. Whatever it was, the U-2’s camera would find it. Instead of speculating, the pilot kept his eyes focused on his instruments to make sure that there were no Cuban fighter planes in the air and no sign of any radar tracking. He completed his first pass over Cuba undetected in exactly twelve minutes.

  Far out over the ocean, he eased the U-2 into a wide turn and made another run. Once again, there were no fighter planes, no anti-aircraft fire, no SAM missiles. Half an hour later, the U-2 pilot landed safely at McCoy Air Force Base near Orlando, Florida.

  By the time the U-2 pilot was decompressed, debriefed, showered and dressed, the two large rolls of film had been removed from the U-2, sealed in special containers and stowed aboard another aircraft. The films were flown to the Naval Photographic Center at Suitland, Maryland, to be developed and processed. The technicians would work through the night to prepare the pictures for analysis early the next morning.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  At Milford Novitiate, it was almost eight fifteen that night and Charley was relishing his new position as primi anni Dux. He walked along the third floor corridor swinging a large brass hand bell, summoning the novices to the Novice Chapel to begin the Long Retreat.

  Then he took his place at the door to the chapel. He could see his Master of Novices standing motionless in the sacristy, the small room behind the altar, gazing out the narrow window he had raised to let in the breeze.

  Charley switched on the overhead lamps and the chapel was bathed with soft amber light, enough illumination for reading and taking notes, but not enough to destroy the comfortable mood. The Novice Chapel was never dark or gloomy, not even in the dead of night when the only light came from the candle behind the red glass panels of the brass sanctuary lamp suspended from the wall to the right of the altar, a reminder to the visitor that the Blessed Sacrament reposed inside the Tabernacle. In the Novice Chapel, everything was understated, quiet and calm.

  The stained glass windows along the outside wall were patterned panes of gold, orange and red. The floor was a dark mosaic tile; the walls and ceiling were paneled with dark wood. The large crucifix above the altar, the two statues that flanked the altar, the Stations of the Cross on the walls, all were carved from wood of a lighter color, almost blond. The carvings of Christ and the saints were simple impressions, more subtle than the traditional statues in the main chapel downstairs.

  There was no altar rail in the Novice Chapel, no communion barrier and no pews. For most of the year, when the Novice Chapel was a place for private Masses and prayers, there were only a dozen wooden chairs and narrow desk-like kneeling benches spaced out on the chapel floor. But for the Long Retreat, additional sets had been brought out of storage to accommodate this year’s class of novices which now numbered thirty-two.

  Charley did not need to take a roll call. When he saw that all chairs were filled, he stepped farther into the darkened sacristy.

  “It’s time, Father,” he said quietly. “Everyone’s here.”

  “Thank you, Carissime.” The priest did not turn to face him. “Go take your place. I’ll be there presently.”

  Charley slipped out of the sacristy. With eyes downcast, he walked to his post, the chair against the inner wall in the first row facing the altar. He genuflected and sat down. He heard the rustling as the novices who had been kneeling behind him took his cue and sat down.

  Charley smiled to himself. He had always enjoyed calling the signals. Was that a fault, he wondered? Pride, maybe? He waited, eyes fixed on the sacristy doorway. When Father Samozvanyetz entered the chapel, Charley stood up and the other novices followed his lead.

  The Master of Novices walked to the front of the altar and, genuflected. Charley and, therefore, the other novices knelt as the priest knelt on the red-carpeted altar steps.

  “Let us pray,” he said in English, and read from the small book he carried:

  “Rouse up, O Lord, and foster the spirit of the Exercises which Blessed Ignatius labored to spread abroad, that we, too, may be filled with it and be zealous to love what he loved and do what he taught. Through Christ Our Lord.”

  The novices responded: “Amen.”

  Father Samozvanyetz stood up and turned to face the kneeling novices. With his left hand, he held the small green book against his chest. “Please, take your seats,” he said.

  He waited, eyes fixed on some distant point, until the novices had settled in their chairs and the chapel was completely still.

  “My dear brothers in Christ,” he began in a quiet, friendly manner. “I am here, as one who obeys, to guide you through a month of exercises. Not physical exercises that athletes do to prepare for their games, but the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius Loyola, who founded our religious order.

  “To get you ready to compete, an athletic coach would lead you through a regimen of specific exercises: so many sit ups, so many push-ups, so many deep knee bends, and so forth. Those of you who have trained to be athletes know that the first days are the most painful and difficult. The coach, of course, merely gives directions. It is the athlete
who does the hard work. But, if the athlete perseveres, he will find himself in good shape to play his game successfully. Perhaps even with distinction. And that is the way it is in those areas of life which are not physical.

  “Think about your present level of fluency in Latin.”

  Charley and the other novices laughed.

  “Don’t protest! You speak Latin better than most Americans. How much drilling did you have to do? Laudo, laudas, laudat: how many times? Exercise after exercise! Exercise of the memory. Exercise of the mind! Intellectual exercise. That’s more like what we’ll be concerned with here this coming month. But, not exactly.

  “Now, I know you all have your own ideas about the spirit, about the spiritual life, perhaps even about spiritual exercise, as well. We will discuss all that tomorrow.

  “Tonight, let us settle for preparing to begin. That is what Saint Ignatius suggests.

  “Ignatius Loyola was a practical sort of fellow, not a dazzling intellectual. He was a strong-minded man who built something grand out of a few simple, solid, fundamental ideas. Quite simply, Ignatius Loyola gave his first companions something to think about, some ideas to contemplate, the very same ideas he will present to you this month.

  “Ignatius suggests that we should agree on something, you and I, before we even begin his exercises. He calls it a ‘Presupposition’. Cut through this paragraph, which you may read at your leisure, and you will find that Ignatius is asking that you trust him, ‘as one Christian trusts another.’ And that you keep an open mind.”

  Father Samozvanyetz paused and opened his book.

  “Keep an open mind! That is what Ignatius is asking you to do for the next thirty days or so. Be willing to consider new propositions and ideas. Be willing to listen, to contemplate and to meditate on what you will hear in this chapel. No harm will come to you, my dear brothers in Christ. So, fear not. Many others have taken this path before you. It is a well-marked trail.

  “You will not be encountering a series of puzzles or riddles which must be solved. There will be no examination at the end of the month. This will not be a course in Theology, by any means. The ideas presented for your contemplation will be quite simple. Nothing extraordinary. Thought provoking, of course; but not complicated. That is to say: you don’t need to ‘study up’ for any of this. But you will need humility: the humility to listen and to keep an open mind. And willingness: the willingness to participate, to work hard at these spiritual exercises.