Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  The airmen nodded.

  “Anything else, Sergeant Glades?” asked Lewis.

  “No, Captain. I think that just about covers most of my observations.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Sergeant,” said Lewis. “Gentlemen, head back into the woods and fall in on your gear. I’ll be there in a minute, and then we’ll go through the whole drill from the top.”

  The airmen quickly got to their feet, gathered up their kit, and walked back into the woods.

  Twisting his M-10’s suppressor to ensure that it was sufficiently tightened, Lewis waited until the men were out of earshot before he defiantly asked, “Is there any particular reason that you need to be so critical of my actions in front of my men?”

  Glades took a sip of water from his canteen, screwed the lid back on, and replaced it in the canvas carrier at his hip. “Yes, Captain, there’s a reason. In combat, things happen quickly and situations tend to deteriorate rapidly. People die. When and if you execute an actual mission, any one of those men, including that young airman, has to be ready to immediately step into your shoes. Now is your opportunity to pound the basics into them, to train them to develop simple and effective plans, and then to execute those plans with audacity. So that’s why I’m critical. And with all due respect, Captain, General Fels told me to pull no punches. So I’m not.”

  “General Fels?”

  Glades nodded.

  “Fair enough. I’m sorry for being thin-skinned, Sergeant Glades. I earned this Ranger tab, which is a fairly big accomplishment of an Air Force officer,” said Lewis, pointing at the black and gold emblem on his right shoulder. “But there’s still much to learn.”

  Glades nodded. “But it’s all fundamentals, sir. Everyone wants to think that Rangers are some kind of super-soldiers, but in fact they’re just well-disciplined troops who execute basic soldier skills exceptionally well. That simple, Captain. Once you have a good grasp on the basics, and you consistently use good judgment and common sense, your troops will follow you anywhere. You don’t want to be the leader whose men follow you out of sheer curiosity.”

  Taking in Glades’s words, Lewis was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “Mind if I ask you a question? Totally off the subject.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I heard you’ll be headed back to Nam soon, back to MACV-SOG. I guess you know that General Fels encourages us to go over for combat time. Is there any chance that …”

  Glades shook his head. “No, Captain. And please don’t ever ask again.”

  Rehabilitation Hospital #6

  Novomoskovsky Administrative Okrug, Moscow, USSR

  4:15 p.m., Friday, January 16, 1970

  Finishing his reports early, General Yohzin unexpectedly found himself with the luxury of an hour of free time and decided to honor a favor. One his colonels had asked him to check in on his son. The eighteen-year-old had recently incurred extensive head injuries and was staying indefinitely—perhaps permanently—at a Moscow infirmary.

  Although he conscientiously kept at his duties at Kapustin Yar, the colonel was inconsolable. He and his wife had doted on the boy, and they were beside themselves with grief. To make matters even worse, the despondent colonel was convinced that he had created the circumstances that led to his son’s hospitalization.

  While exceptionally intelligent and studious, the boy wasn’t a good test-taker; while still in high school, he had bungled the crucial standard examinations that determined his potential opportunities for post-secondary education. As such, he wasn’t even considered for a college or university that would have actually challenged his considerable intellect.

  Just as the boy was on the verge of being drafted into military service, the colonel had struck a deal that landed him at a “commissioning school” on the outskirts of Moscow. The school, one of roughly a hundred such institutions in the Soviet Union, offered a four-year curriculum that culminated with an engineering officer’s commission in the Soviet Army. It certainly wasn’t on par with some of the more premier commissioning schools, like the renowned M.V. Frunze Higher Naval School in Leningrad, but it provided an adequate college education and a solid path to the future as a military officer.

  Slightly less than a week after he walked onto the school’s grounds, he departed—unconscious and barely alive—in the back of an ambulance. As was often the case, there was an official account of the incident, and then there was the truth; in this situation, the circumstances of the boy’s injuries were not just tragic, but bordered on the criminal. Although the official report stated that he tripped down a flight of stairs, the truth was that he had suffered his devastating injuries at the hands of his classmates.

  Even upon arrival, the boy was immediately targeted by upperclassmen, particularly because he was perceived as a physically weak bookworm. Moreover, since there were usually at least three applicants for every vacancy at the school, and since the colonel’s son had not been present at any of the screening examinations, it was obvious that he had been granted a precious spot because of political influence.

  Late one night, he was subjected to ritual hazing that had quickly escalated to a severe beating that had left him with a cerebral hemorrhage. Not appreciating the true extent of his injuries, hoping that he might sleep it off and quickly recover, the school’s administrators delayed bringing the young man to medical care. By the time a doctor saw him and diagnosed his injuries, too much valuable time was lost. The physician administered powerful drugs to alleviate the swelling, but it was too late and the damage was irreparable; the edema had squeezed out years of knowledge and snuffed out his spark of curiosity.

  Sorely tempted to hold his nose, Yohzin followed an orderly who escorted him to the small ward that held the colonel’s son. Poorly lit and dirty, the dreary sanatorium more resembled a warehouse than a medical facility.

  Pausing at the door, he removed his overcoat as he took in the tableau. He handed the bulky garment to the orderly, who hung it on a shoddy wooden coatrack in the hallway. Yohzin was aghast at the squalid conditions. Ten other beds—also occupied by invalids—were jammed into the same room, which probably should have accommodated four patients at most.

  The orderly gestured at a bed, but Yohzin had to almost strain his eyes to recognize the occupant. The boy’s scalp was shaven as clean as an egg. A transparent tube, protruding through a small gauze-packed opening in his skull, drained away yellow-tinged clear fluid. His head lolled to the side, and a string of drool trickled from the corner of his chapped lips. Clearly oblivious to his circumstances and surroundings, he wore a blank expression. While a few of the other patients occasionally groaned and emitted incoherent mumbles, the colonel’s son was entirely silent.

  A young student nurse sat at his bedside, patiently spooning some sort of weak gruel into the boy’s mouth.

  “May I speak with him?” asked Yohzin.

  “You can talk to him, Comrade General, but don’t expect him to reply. He doesn’t talk,” replied the white-clad nurse. “He’s entirely unresponsive.”

  “Will he know who I am?”

  “Nyet, Comrade General. But mercifully, I don’t think he knows who he is, either.”

  Yohzin seethed with anger. The boy wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t entirely alive. He had once demonstrated immense potential, but all that energy was now dashed, like a charging locomotive derailed, once spewing steam and fury, but now inert and useless. His mind wasn’t merely addled; it was gone. Instead of merely pounding him senseless with their fists, his young assailants might as well have decapitated their classmate with an ax.

  Yohzin sat in a chair offered by the orderly and stared at the colonel’s son lying motionless in the steel-framed bed. His ire was soon dispelled by an overwhelming sense of dread. Fear gnawed at his guts as he realized that one of his own sons could readily suffer a similar sordid fate. Such institutionalized brutality was a normal aspect of Soviet life and was absolutely rife in the military, where the strong routinely preyed upon the weak. The
long-established systematic abuse of conscript soldiers was known as Dedovshchina. It was nearly as prevalent in academic institutions like the commissioning school, but the consequences were usually not as dire.

  Yohzin himself had escaped such ritual abuse because he had attended the Technische Hochschule in Berlin, under a student exchange program in the thirties, long before Germany and the Soviet Union became sworn enemies. There, he had been granted the gift of focusing his youthful energies on his studies rather than perpetually scrambling for survival.

  He was obsessed over providing similar security for his sons but knew that there was no failsafe mechanism to shield them. While he hoped that his sons would matriculate into one of the more prestigious engineering universities, they could literally land anywhere, even drafted into the military. Certainly, he felt confident that he could wangle an appointment at a good school, given his rank and position, but there were no guarantees. Moreover, the cloak of his fatherly protection would fall away abruptly at the schoolhouse door; once inside the institution, they were subject to the same sort of hazing that befell the colonel’s son.

  While Yohzin was sure that his older son, a self-assured and sturdy youngster, could hold his own in a scuffle, he wasn’t nearly as confident about his younger son’s prospects. Although not frail, the fourteen-year-old was a small boy who constantly had to fend off bullies.

  He would sacrifice literally anything to protect his sons. He agonized over the potential alternatives, and as much as he deplored the notion, he knew that some desired outcomes often called for desperate measures. As he contemplated one particularly repugnant option, he was almost consumed by guilt. But the truth was that he would do anything to safeguard his children, and if that entailed wallowing in guilt for the rest of his life, then so be it.

  Filyovsky Park, Western Administrative Okrug, Moscow, USSR

  10:01 a.m., Sunday, January 18, 1970

  With Magnus trotting alongside, Yohzin strolled down the path that ran by the Moscow River, looking for Smith. Keeping a brisk pace, he jammed his hands in his pockets for warmth as he walked and contemplated the choices that had brought him back to this place. Certainly, he was looking out for his family’s welfare. He wanted his sons to be able to go to college anywhere they wanted and not have to constantly fear for their safety instead of being able to focus their energies on their studies. He also wanted them to be free to aspire to be whatever they desired after college, without fear of being jammed into an uncomfortable niche by unknowing bureaucrats.

  Of course, he felt shame for betraying his Motherland, but he also felt an intense desire for vengeance, to settle his longstanding grudge with the senior officers and asinine Party officials who had mismanaged his career. He felt that the military had grossly squandered his talents and stymied his true ambitions; he should have been released from his duties to join his contemporaries in the exploration of outer space. It wasn’t that his wishes were unknown; for years, he had voiced them incessantly, to anyone who seemed even virtually receptive to listening.

  Snow crunched under his feet as he spotted Smith in the designated meeting place. The American greeted him warmly, as if they were long-lost friends. “So, General, I assume that you have changed your mind about working with us?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Yohzin answered in a tone that was as frigid as the air. He gestured for Magnus to sit.

  “Well, I’m glad that you’ve overcome your reluctance,” said Smith, tugging back his woolen mitten to glance at his wristwatch. “Now, we should talk some specifics. As I indicated before, the last time we met, we’re willing to compensate you handsomely for any information you’re willing to provide, commensurate with the information’s value. Because of what you described the last time that we met, the money will accumulate in a special account, gathering interest, and will be made available to you once we extract you and your …”

  “Listen to me, Mephistopheles,” snarled Yohzin, abruptly cutting him off. “Don’t bother dangling the usual array of incentives. If I’m compelled to sell my soul to you, the least I can ask is to set the terms. Are you ready to hear my conditions?”

  Exhaling a pall of steam, Smith nodded.

  “My youngest son is fourteen years old. If we arrive at an agreement, I will collect information for you until he is ready for college, and then I want my family to go to the United States. If it can be arranged, my wife and I will be content with a modest retirement in a quiet place, ideally somewhere in the American Southwest. We don’t need a lot of extravagant amenities, just the basic necessities, but I do want both my sons to have the benefit of a good education.”

  “Wait,” interjected Smith. “If your son is fourteen years old now, and you want to be out in time for him to go to college, then we’re only talking about roughly four years.”

  “That’s correct. And I want my entire family to come out, including my older son.”

  And then the bargaining process began. “So you’re only willing to remain in place at Kapustin Yar for four years?” asked Smith. He shook his head and quietly added, “Honestly, Comrade General, I seriously doubt that I could convince my superiors of the value in such an arrangement. After all, you’re asking for a retirement in the United States, as well as college for your sons, in exchange for a mere four years’ worth of gathering information. That’s an awful lot to accommodate.”

  “We’re wasting time, Smith,” growled Yohzin. “Don’t try to manipulate me. I know the steps of this dance. Usually, you might struggle for months or even years to recruit some underling clerk. You’ll cultivate him for decades, winnowing your way through the marginal drivel that he delivers, hoping against hope that he will ascend to become a powerful bureaucrat where he might have access to information that is actually of value.”

  Yohzin continued. “But I’m at the pinnacle of my career now and have routine access to volumes of priceless information. I can provide you with technical specifications, test schedules, launch schedules, communications frequencies … everything. Face it: you could exploit thousands of sources for thousands of years, but you will never acquire the same quality and quantity of information that I could provide in a single day.”

  Striving to stay warm, Smith lightly stamped his feet in the snow. “You present a strong case, General. I’ll bring your terms back to my superiors. If my bosses determine that the information that you provide is of the magnitude that you claim, then we’ll compensate you accordingly. But in the meantime, as we await their decision, I’ll make you an offer that it is within the scope of my authority to grant.”

  “And what could you grant, Smith?”

  “This. We will still bring you out after four years, as you wish. You and your family will be granted asylum and given new identities, but you will not immediately retire. Instead, you continue to work for us, in some capacity, in the United States. As for your sons’ education, for the next four years, the sums you are paid will accrue in a special account. Granted, it might not necessarily be sufficient for them to attend Harvard or MIT but should be at least enough for a very respectable state university.”

  The two men were silent for well over a minute, as Yohzin considered the arrangement. Finally, Smith spoke. “Are my terms acceptable, General, at least as an interim arrangement?”

  “Da,” replied Yohzin, in a small voice that was almost like a croak. “Yes. Your terms are acceptable.” In the distance, an unseen hawk emitted a bloodcurdling screech.

  “Good,” answered Smith. He removed his black-framed spectacles and wiped condensation from the lenses.

  “Now that the die is struck, what’s next?” asked Yohzin quietly.

  “You always stay at the same hotel when you visit, correct?”

  “I do,” replied Yohzin.

  “The next time you visit, call us to let us know you’re in Moscow. The next day, at a time that the operator gives you, call the hotel’s front desk and report that you smell a faint gas leak. A gas fitter will come to fix it.
He works for us. He’ll give you a camera and some other items, and show you how to use them. He’ll also show you the procedures that you use for placing materials at a site where we will retrieve them.”

  “A dead drop?” asked Yohzin, summoning one of the few cloak-and-dagger terms that he knew.

  “Correct,” answered Smith. “It’s imperative that you follow the instructions to the letter. From this point on, that’s the only means by which we will communicate, unless your circumstances change, or unless there’s an emergency. If that’s the case, you call the number and we will set up a meeting. Just be aware that it normally takes at least twenty-four hours to make all the necessary arrangements.”

  “And you will be able to spirit my family out of the Soviet Union, to the United States, when the time comes?”

  “We will,” affirmed Smith. “Assuming that you will be at Kapustin Yar for another four years, there is more than enough time for us to make those plans. Additionally, we will develop contingency plans to extract you swiftly if you suspect that your activities have been compromised or that you’re otherwise in danger.”

  Nodding, Yohzin was silent. He suddenly arrived at the brutal realization that there was no deviation from the course he had chosen. Even if he was suddenly overcome by a change of conscience, it was far too late to change his mind. There was no opting out; his life could never revert back to what it had been before.

  “Do you have any other questions?” asked Smith, interrupting his thoughts.

  A stiff wind gusted down the path, blowing loose snow off of tree branches. Yohzin shivered, almost uncontrollably, and shook his head.