Wolf said, “A very noble task, Katrina.”
Colter fumed in the rear seat. “I can’t believe you pulled this off, Wolfman. I had your six all that time and you were scheming on me. What the hell?”
“I won’t be out late, Dawg. I promise.”
“I oughta turn you in to our NASA chaperone.”
“Hey, I’ll spell you at our next stop.”
“Oh, great. I can just imagine the prospects where we’re going.”
Katrina misread her passengers’ give and take. “Have I caused some bad feelings, sirs? If so, I apologize.”
“It’s not you, darling,” said Colter. “It’s my horney homie.”
“What is this expression? I don’t understand.”
“If I had time,” cooed Colter, “I could explain over a romantic dinner.”
“I would like that, sir…but.”
“I know. You’re already booked with Mother.”
Chapter 9
“You know, Wolfman, if I didn’t know better I’d say the earth was flat.”
Trying in vain to get comfortable, Colter squared his shoulders against the worn back of seat 26F in the rear of the Aeroflot TU-134. Having bested Wolf in a coin toss for window rights, he viewed a vast featureless desert through smudged glass. Painted in monochromatic brown, Kazakhstan’s landscape bored him the moment they entered the former Soviet republic’s airspace.
“Flat earth, huh? You and Alexander the Great,” said Wolf. “Did you know this was about as far north as he got before turning back? Kind of anti-climactic to conquer a great outdoor nothingness after the Persian Empire. Bet the Mongols loved it, though. Imagine centuries later, hundreds of thousands of them sweeping across this land for days on end with nothing to stop them. Now that would have been something to see.”
“Speaking of something to see…”
“Spot something?” Wolf craned his neck toward the window.
“Nada.” Shifting again, Colter searched for signs of life on the desert below but failed. “Now I know what an ant on a sheet of plywood must feel like. I’m going to guess there’s not much night life where we’re going.”
“Probably not. Just rocket fuel cocktails, space junk, bad roads, and hookers who look like Bactrian camels. The launch should be fun though.”
Colter sulked. “Geez, you’re a laugh a minute. You get the girl and I get to order room service so I can study Al Caponeski’s diary. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Hey, you got the window seat, Dawg. Can’t beat that.”
Colter felt the small leather ledger book in the inner pocket of his corduroy jacket. “You wanna hear what I think we have?”
“Not with a lot of strange ears listening in. Loose lips sink ships.”
“Roger that. But we’d better have a serious talk when we get some down time. You got your hands on something really special, Wolfman.”
“You talking about Yana or the package?”
“Cute. Just had to rub it in, huh? Care to share your memories of the previous evening? It might go a long way to restore our relationship. In the meantime, I can’t wait to tell you about my romantic night with the diary.”
Wolf smiled. “You did the better thing.”
“Bullshit. I would have traded places with you in a heartbeat.”
“We’ll talk when we have a chance.”
“I’m holding you to it, Wolfman.”
The twin-engine jet was three-quarters full. In seats behind them a pair of German scientists dozed, their snores like buzz saws. Across the aisle, two pale, humorless French women, their hair tied in buns, bickered over some challenging word puzzle. Ahead of Wolf and Colter sat two of the NASA delegation, one of them reading a paperback, the other one staring zombie-like at Kazakhstan’s tabletop geography. Writers and photographers from Time and the Hearst newspaper syndicate spent the flight comparing photos on their smartphones or sharing travel tips. One of the four NASA photographers, Dana, a slim ponytailed brunette Colter had bought a drink for in an airport bar, slept, long legs curled under her. Aside from a group of eight placid Chinese space tourists and a dozen chattering Italians, dour Russians filled the remaining seats.
Circling lower, the TU-134 passed over the Syr Darya, a timeless, shallow serpentine river, sluggish and wide. Below, the city of Baikonur lay locked in a grid of north-south streets laid out in classic 1950s Soviet style—rigid and unimaginative. Home to the Russian space program, the remote metropolis had been shrouded in secrecy—one of the USSR’s best-kept secrets until discovered by an American U2 spy plane in 1957.
Here, at the end of the earth, Soviet scientists launched a basketball-sized satellite named Sputnik, inaugurating the space race that same year. Here, at the end of the earth, where Silk Road caravans once trod, multiple launch facilities suddenly rose, the builders utilizing the vast desert to take advantage of uninterrupted radio control of ever-larger rockets. Here, at the end of the earth, Krainey Airport, an aging Cold War airfield originally designed solely for Soviet military use, had now become the main entry point for multi-national tours.
Wolf and Colter exited the plane, both underwhelmed by their first glimpse of a bleak, flat tan terrain devoid of life. The two SEALs followed the NASA delegation down the stairs of an obsolete towed ramp parked next to the TU-134. The air was crisp and cold, but at least fifteen degrees warmer than Moscow.
“I feel like I’m entering the Twilight Zone,” said Colter.
Descending the stairs, Wolf turned to NASA’s Warren behind him. “This place could pass for some remote Texas hub. You sure we’re in Kazakhstan?” He laughed, earning a scowl from the engineer.
There was no gate, just a small terminal that had replaced older open hangars once used to process incoming passengers and rocket parts. After sorting their luggage and undergoing a cursory check by uniformed guards, the foreign nationals were herded to four white buses destined for their assigned hotels. Bound for the French-built Sputnik Hotel, the Italians, French, Germans, and Americans shared one vehicle. The buses passed a weathered Mig21 tethered to a pedestal at the airport’s entrance and continued four miles to Baikonur’s center. Warren pointed out their destination: a two-story, four-wing ochre inn resembling a medium-security prison planted in a lifeless setting.
“Baikonur’s newest hotel,” he said. “Among the city’s finest.”
“It looks like the kind of place where they take away your belts and shoelaces when you check in,” joked Wolf. Colter and the others in the American party chuckled. Ever serious, Warren was not amused. The Europeans missed Wolf’s meaning completely.
“I was told it has a pool, a restaurant, and a bar,” volunteered an Italian seated behind Wolf. “The staff is said to be very cordial, very welcoming.”
“A bar? Well, then,” said Wolf, “what’s not to like?” More chuckles rippled through the ranks.
The line of buses passed an old man astride a plodding pony, the rider’s heels brushing the ground. Next came a Kazakh teen standing roadside, bridled Bactrian camel in hand. The dusty wooly animal and dull-eyed youth stared at the passing buses filled with strangers. The first bus, carrying Wolf, Colter, and the others, left the main road for the Sputnik Hotel. The remaining buses continued on to the city center.
The Italian was right. The staff was welcoming. Wolf and Colter were assigned a room together. The media drones were spread throughout the same floor, as were NASA’s people per Warren’s request. The accommodations were plain: two single beds, two sturdy chairs, a small table, wall-mounted TV, and separate tiled bathroom with marble floor. They put away their luggage and immediately went downstairs to the restaurant and bar.
The hotel’s bar was an international watering hole. A dozen languages floated around the room. Wolf was in his element, Colter restless.
“You know what this reminds me of, Dawg?”
“Knowing you,” said Colter, “probably your summer camp days as a kid…complete with forbidden alcohol.”
Ignoring the dig, Wolf swept an arm around the room. “I was thinking of Star Wars. Remember that bar in the first movie? All those goofy aliens bellied up to the bar? Am I right or what?”
Colter grinned. “Yeah, you pegged it. Hey, check out those guys.”
Following his friend’s gaze, Wolf spotted two hulking Asians the size of refrigerators anchoring the end of the bar. One of the big men stared at both SEALs, lowering his eyes only when Wolf noticed the attention.
After good-natured banter over drinks with Italians and three Brazilian freelance photographers, Wolf and Colter were asked to dine with Warren and his small army of NASA engineers, photographers and guests. After dinner, the two SEALs heard a short recitation of the next day’s activities and then excused themselves for a private walk on the hotel’s grounds.
Colter pulled his coat tight against evening’s chill. “What’s Yana’s story?”
“Her full name is Yana Alexandra Konev,” said Wolf. “She has long legs and incredible blue eyes, is a real blonde, and has a job in a small textile firm. She owns an apartment and a car. Your friend Kozuch is her father’s brother.”
“Was her father’s brother,” Colter corrected him.
“Affirmative. WAS her father’s brother.”
“Father’s dead, mother’s seriously ill. Sounds like congestive heart failure from her description. Yana and Katrina share the apartment and trade off taking care of their mother.”
“Yeah, don’t I know,” Colter said, frowning. “You lucked out getting the week Katrina had the duty.”
Wolf laughed. “Sorry, Dawg, that was a last-minute switch Yana made with her sister so she and I could have some time together.”
“What? You sonofabitch. You don’t play fair. You know that?”
Wolf sounded apologetic. “Hey, it was Yana’s idea, not mine.”
“Sure it was. Dirty pool, Wolfman. So give it up. What else should we know? What are we getting into?”
“You’re the man to answer that. Whatever’s in that book you have is the key. She’s desperate to get it out of Russia.”
Tapping his chest, Colter said, “She has a right to be worried. This book is toxic, Wolfman. Just a cursory read tells me her little black book is full of incriminating stuff. My Russian is passable. But I can tell you this looks like a list of people high in the food chain who have some kind of ties to Ukrainian banks, utilities, provincial officials, you name it.”
“You figured out all that? Your Russian is better than you let on.”
“That’s my gut instinct speaking. Some of it is plain enough but early on the writer lost me for a while. The numbers are real enough but the key is figuring out the pairing between the figures and the names.”
“What do you suggest we do with it?”
They stopped at the hotel’s fenced limit and retraced their steps. Colter said, “Yana’s right to be worried. We should take it to someone whose Russian is flawless. A skilled linguist would take one-third of the time I would need to decipher this.”
“That’s a tall order. Why not our own government people?”
“I’d give them second crack at it.”
“Why?”
Colter stopped, chin in hand. “First, given enough time, we might be able to figure what the contents mean. We could check the authenticity of what she’s given us. If it’s good as gold, we copy it to someone who guarantees publication, an exposé. Trouble with the feds is they might bury it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Wolfman, I’d bet there are probably connections in here above our pay grade. I mean, even with my so-so understanding of the language I think it’s obvious from these notes that there are links to Russian movers and shakers. I don’t know how serious the government would be about pursuing them.”
“You don’t think the FBI would be interested in what we have?”
Colter shrugged. “Sure. We could go that route if you want. All I’m saying is that we should figure this out before we make a decision. If we’re risking our lives for this, we ought to know what’s going down. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I do. What do you think about turning it over to the FBI liaison at the embassy when we return to Moscow? You know, let them take it from there.”
Colter smiled. “So young, so naive. Wolfman, my friend, you’re too trusting. Why don’t I just give you this book? You could do with it what you want.”
“No, no. If your gut instinct is to hold on to it and get our own translation, I accept that. We could stop in San Diego on our way back and talk to my friend Sam McFadden. He’s got the kinds of resources you’re talking about.”
“McFadden, the partner with you in that dive boat business in the Philippines?”
“Yeah. He’s good people. He might know some academic in a language department who’d be willing to help.”
Colter waved away the suggestion. “Nah, they’d talk. I think we need security. If McFadden has the right connections, set it up.”
“Will do. Have to wait until we get back to Moscow. No secure lines here at the hotel.”
Colter looked worried. “Question. Do you think Yana’s in any kind of danger in our absence?”
“I told her to contact our embassy if she feels threatened. I’ve got a friend there. Chris Franklin, Marine colonel. Military liaison.”
“Maybe he could get her a quickie visa, Wolfman.”
“Now that would be a great assignment. Showing the beautiful Russian girl America.”
“You’d love that,” said Colter. “I’m always getting emails about ‘Russian Singles,’ you know.”
“She’s not like that, Dawg. She wasn’t working that club if that’s what you’re thinking. She was only there to meet us. Nah, Yana’s special.”
“I’ll bet she is. Watch out, Wolfman. It’s a slippery slope. Next thing you know you’ll be taking her home to meet Mom.”
“Mom wouldn’t approve. Besides, I don’t see Yana leaving Moscow as long as her mother and sister need her.”
Colter said, “If the people who killed for this book figure out she got it to us, she’ll be in the line of fire. Kozuch probably talked before he was killed. You thought of that?”
“It’s crossed my mind more than once. When we’re done with the launch thing I’ll stop on our way out of Moscow. I know where to find her.”
“If you know how to find her, so do the boys in the Kremlin.”
“I’ll just have to get there first, won’t I? Okay, can we be done with our strategy session? I’d like to stop in the bar for a nightcap.”
Colter patted his jacket. “Don’t let me out of sight, Wolfman.”
Chapter 10
The next morning, after a hurried breakfast of tea, bread, and fruit, Wolf and Colter joined the Italians, French, Germans, and Warren’s top-heavy NASA group aboard a tour bus bound for the Cosmodome. A stubborn fog gave the ride an unearthly, disconnected feel. They slowed past a dusty city park dominated by a bulky Soyuz7 aimed at a far horizon dotted with aerials, radio towers, and scrub brush. Discarded plastic bags danced across the road like gossamer tumbleweeds. In the center of town a weedy strip lined with skeletal trees poking from the dirt masqueraded as a parkway.
“Where are the babushkas with their little brooms when you need them?” said Wolf.
He and Colter stared at rows of depressing Soviet-style apartment buildings with end walls covered in mosaics of past space glories, the only color for blocks. Dodging potholes, the bus slowed outside a police headquarters draped with an enormous bygone banner showing a square-jawed soldier with AK47 at the ready. Inside the gates stood a bulky statue of Lenin with outstretched arm. Bored uniformed men with little to do watched the bus pass.
“Looks like you-know-who didn’t get the memo,” said Colter.
Wolf laughed. “Bless the KGB, they’re such suckers for nostalgia.”
Their unsmiling Russian guide, a taciturn colonel, long in tooth with twenty years at Baikonur, ran his
crowd of charges through the usual show-and-tell. Making the first of the obligatory stops, the colonel led the way into the city’s space museum, a shrine to Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, and Sergei Korolev, father of the Soviet rocket program. The busload filled the museum. Wolf and Colter wandered through the exhibits of priceless space memorabilia. Wolf mixed with the Italians.
“They’re more fun,” he said, ignoring the humorless Warren.
Surrounded by her visitors, the museum’s reigning docent explained the artifacts, patiently waiting as her words were translated into English. Back on board the bus, the visitors gawked at crumbling cottages once inhabited by demigods Gagarin and Korolev. They drove past huge scorched pieces of past failures that had cost lives in the race with America. Adding to the forlorn sight of an orphaned, weather-beaten Buran shuttle, discarded rocket litter was a sobering reminder of the risks involved. Everywhere Wolf looked, scraps of twisted metal, abandoned concrete launch pads, and tangled spaghetti-like piping spoke volumes about botched missions.
After a quick series of stops at more heavy-handed propaganda monuments, their bus parked alongside others for a photo op at the Soyuz processing building. Poised on a massive railroad flatcar, the gigantic rocket with its five engine nozzles—seemingly out of scale, too large and heavy to be moved—was bathed in cellphone and camera flashes from an awed crowd. In twos and threes, visitors wandered about the machinery and railcar, taking pictures of themselves or friends, the reclining Soyuz in the background.
Without announcement, the diesel engine started and, under the strain of its burden, its wheels slowly started turning. Picking up speed, the cradled Soyuz inched along tracks leading to the R7 launch site three miles distant. On cue, the fog thinned, revealing cloudless blue skies.
“Feels like we’re extras in a movie,” said Colter, snapping photos.
Marveling at the massive rocket, Wolf and others were shooed from the empty tracks by soldiers. He said, “Yeah, any moment Bruce Willis is going to roar up in a jeep, fire an RPG at the rocket, and start World War Three.”
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