by Mike Jenne
“I’m just not interested, sir. I’m sorry if that offends you.”
“Offends me? Offends me? No, but let me tell you that your reluctance would offend some folks,” declared Wolcott loudly. “Hell, I’ll give you a case in point, hoss. Do you recall meetin’ General Astor last week?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ourecky, nodding his head. “He commanded that SAC base in Idaho.”
“Correct. You may not want to believe this, Ourecky, but the fact that you’re ridin’ a rocket into orbit and you ain’t a pilot can be a very sore subject for some folks. You and I both know otherwise, but there are plenty of senior officers who believe those seats should be exclusively reserved for guys who wear wings. Pete Astor falls in that crowd, and he threw a danged conniption fit when he found out that we’ve fired a non-pilot into orbit not just once, but three times.”
Wolcott continued. “Needless to say, I didn’t particularly relish the ass-chewin’ that Astor administered me over the phone. Ordinarily that sort of thing would just slide off me like water off a duck’s butt, but it also just so happens that Pete’s zoomin’ along on a direct course to be the Chief of Staff of the Air Force. He’s a bomber guy and has exactly the right pedigree for the job. He might come off as kind of a country bumpkin, but he’s a shrewd player with a lot of political clout. There’s a very good chance that he’ll come in as the next Chief, right after “Three-Finger Jack” Ryan. That could be as early as mid-1972. Any idea why that’s significant, pard?”
“No, sir,” answered Ourecky, scratching his head. “No idea.”
“Because 1972 is roughly the time when we should receive approval to move into Phase Two. And with that sword hangin’ over our heads, the last damned thing I want is a Chief who has a bone to pick with this Project. Savvy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, on a positive note, Pete Astor’s secretary apparently took quite a shine to your compadre here,” said Wolcott, winking at Carson. “Any chance that you kept her number?”
A blank look passed over Carson’s sallow face, as if he were trying to recall a long-forgotten girlfriend from high school.
“Wednesday, last week,” interjected Ourecky, frowning. “That would have been Phyllis. Remember?”
“Oh. Phyllis?” said Carson. “Oh, sure. I have her number, sir.”
“Well, I would greatly appreciate it if you rang her up from time to time,” said Wolcott. “Every little bit helps. She followed Pete from his last assignment at PACAF at Hickam Field in Hawaii, so there’s a good chance that she’ll stick with him all the way to the top rung.”
“Will do, sir,” replied Carson.
“Back to you, son,” said Wolcott, swiveling around to fix a baleful gaze on Ourecky. “Your wings. It’ll be just a short TDY stint. You can breeze through the ground phase at your own pace, do your mandatory hops, and be done. Hell, I can’t make it any damned easier for you, hoss. Hell, we’re practically pinnin’ the wings on you for nothing.”
“I’m still going to have to pass, sir.”
Infuriated, Wolcott jumped out of his seat and slapped his bald crown. “Hell’s bells, son, I can’t believe that I’m reduced to beggin’. Please get your wings. How the hell can you be so damned ornery about this?”
“I can’t, sir,” explained Ourecky meekly. “I promised Bea that I wouldn’t, and it’s probably the only promise that I can actually keep, so please understand why I have to decline.”
“Bea!” shouted Wolcott. “Bea? You’re frettin’ over a promise to your wife? Bea doesn’t have to know! Hell, you’re on the road for weeks at a time already. Beyond that, we’ve blasted your ass into space three times and she ain’t aware of that, is she? Just get your damned wings. You don’t have to wear them around her. If she ever finds them accidently, you can just tell her they came in a Cracker Jack box. Hell, as simple as we’re trying to make this, they might as well have.”
“But sir, a promise is a promise,” replied Ourecky.
“Please, sir,” interjected Carson. “I think I see …”
As his facial muscles drew taut, Wolcott glared at Carson. “Major Ourecky, are you going to oblige me to ask General Tew to order you to earn your wings?”
The room fell silent, awkwardly so. Tew closed his eyes and felt his heart pounding in his chest. He suddenly remembered that Ourecky wasn’t the only one who made a promise to Bea.
“Well, pard?” demanded Wolcott.
“Drop it, Virgil,” said Tew quietly. “Just drop it. We’ve asked a lot of this young man, and he’s consistently delivered, and we won’t compel him to break a promise to his wife.”
22
PAPER DOLLS
Dayton, Ohio
6:30 p.m., Monday, November 9, 1970
Bea used a paring knife to peel and slice carrots for salad. A pan of spaghetti sauce simmered on one eye of the range, while on another red-glowing eye a pot of water gradually bubbled to a rolling boil. As she prepared dinner, Ourecky fed Andy in the living room.
Watching him through the breakfast nook, she scooped the carrots into a bowl, and adjusted her apron. As cool as it was, he wasn’t wearing a shirt; his now pudgy abdomen was crisscrossed with pink scars. She had been concerned about him for the past few weeks.
For a man who used to be so fanatical about his health, he had gained a substantial amount of weight and was woefully out of shape. He just seemed miserable most of the time, even though he had healed up from his injuries as well as the surgeries that followed.
“Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes,” she announced. “Hopefully you’ll have Andy put down by then. Can I bring you a beer? I picked up a six-pack of Schlitz today. Your favorite.”
Grimacing, he shook his head as he cradled the baby in his forearm to burp him. “No thanks. And just a light plate for me, baby. Lots of salad, light on the pasta. No meatballs.”
“No meatballs?” she replied, raising her eyebrows. No beer? No meatballs? Was the world coming to an end? Why hadn’t she received the memo? “Scott, you’re not sick are you? Are you losing your appetite? I thought you loved my meatballs.”
“I do, but I just need to start watching what I eat. I need to shed this gut. By the way, I’m getting up early tomorrow. Drew and I are going to start back into our gym routine every day.”
“That’s great,” she replied, sampling the spaghetti sauce with a wooden spoon. Wrinkling her nose, she added a smidge more dried basil. “But can you keep up with that on the road? You said it was nearly impossible to coax Drew out of bed in the mornings, let alone nudge him towards a gym.” She watched him as he stretched out on the couch and laid the baby on his chest, cupping his head so that the baby heard his heartbeat. Bea was always amazed with how quickly he could lull the baby to sleep that way.
“We’re off the road, at least for a while. Virgil cancelled the rest of the PR trips.”
“The trips where you were going base to base to tell them about new equipment?”
Gently patting the baby’s back, he nodded.
“Well, babe, that’s great,” she said. “You hated those trips …”
“There’s more,” he said. “And it’s not good news.”
“Not good news? Oh, that’s a surprise,” she muttered. “And I thought they were finally going to release you from this insane job and let you go back to school like they promised.”
“We have to start flight testing again,” he replied. “So my schedule will get even crazier.”
“When? Are they at least going to wait until after the holidays?”
He slowly got to his feet, padded to the nursery, and gingerly placed the baby in his crib. Returning to the living room, he answered her. “When? The flight testing won’t start until January, but we have to start our prep work immediately. I won’t be travelling nearly as much, but I won’t have very much time off, either.”
“Your parents are expecting us at Christmas.” She eased the noodles into the boiling water. “They haven’t
even seen little Andy yet. It would break their hearts if we didn’t make it.”
“Maybe you can go,” he replied. He walked into the kitchen to rinse out the baby bottle. “I really want to go, but it’s just not going to happen, Bea.”
“So how long is this going to go on this time?” she asked. “Until you crash again? Until you’re dead? Don’t they have anyone else? Why must it always be you and Drew?”
“It’s my job. Drew and I catch most of it because we work well together.”
“Okay,” she replied, stirring the linguine noodles. “So long as we’re going to spoil our dinner with an argument, then I have something to fold into the mix. I want to go back to work.”
“Back at the airport? At the gate?”
“No. I want to start flying again. I miss it. The scheduler can adjust my flights so I’ll do only regional hops. It will mean going in early and coming home a little later, but no more layovers.”
“But why, Bea? We don’t need the money. There’s no need for you to start flying again.”
“I miss it, Scott. It has nothing to do with the money.”
“Okay, but what about Andy? If I’m working all hours and can’t ever know when I’ll be home or even if I’m going to be in town, then who will take care of him?”
“Jill finished that medical transcription course at the junior college. She works at home. They bring her tapes from the doctor’s offices, and she types up the records. It’s good money, and she can stay home with her little girl. She said she would be happy to keep Andy as well.”
He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a sugar-free Tab, opened it, and took a sip. “Sounds like you’ve already planned this out.”
“Can you at least think about it?” she asked, putting a plastic colander in the sink. “You sure expect me to accept a lot for your job. Can you not do this for me?”
“I guess I can, Bea,” he replied. “And I suppose that I can eat one of those meatballs, too, if you twist my arm.”
Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Washington, DC
10:25 a.m., Friday, November 13, 1970
In the basement of the Embassy, Morozov shared a cramped workspace and manual typewriter with two other GRU officers. The dingy space was so tiny that all three men had to stand up whenever one came or went. Of course, it was to be expected; once the KGB and custodial staff had picked over the more prime real estate not occupied by Embassy personnel, the GRU staff were jammed into whatever undesirable nooks and crannies that were left over.
As the bureau’s designated archivist, Morozov spent much of his time clipping and compiling articles from American newspapers sent from GRU stations across America. While his office mates actually worked sources and conducted surveillance, he was stuck here, with his scissors and a rubber-tipped bottle of mucilage, like a schoolgirl making paper dolls.
Determined to make good at the lackluster task given him, he diligently read each newspaper in detail. For any given paper, much of the printed pages were taken up by national news regurgitated from the AP and UPI wire services. In today’s news, a combined force of South Vietnamese and Cambodians had called off a planned five-day offensive after Communist forces had apparently learned of their plans. Jurors had been selected for the trial of alleged war criminal Lieutenant William Calley at Fort Benning, Georgia. The president-elect of Mexico, Luis Echeverria Alvarez, was currently visiting President Nixon in the White House.
Once he had a solid grasp on major current events for the day, he focused on local and regional issues, particularly as they impacted GRU operations. As he skimmed the metro section of a Las Vegas newspaper, a small and seemingly insignificant article caught his eye. It described the arrest of a retired Air Force sergeant for the attempted murder of a Veteran’s Administration employee last week. Morozov gulped as he read the offender’s name: Eric Yost.
An enlarged police mug shot photo accompanied the article. The forlorn subject was a balding, unkempt Caucasian male; his right eye was swollen shut and fresh bruises adorned his face. A placard underneath the image read: Yost, Eric B., 11-5-70, T312580, Clark County Sheriff’s Department. Sure enough, it was the same Yost he had known from Ohio. But how could this be? he thought. Yost is dead … or is he?
Cutting out the article, he was still absolutely convinced that Wright-Patterson’s Hangar Three was a repository for captured UFOs and that Yost’s “death” had been part of an elaborate cover-up to safeguard its secrets. If he was just granted some more time and resources, he would eventually penetrate the hangar’s veil of secrecy. Maybe then, with one significant coup on his otherwise blank espionage resume, he would be free of snipping out paper dolls, making tea, and scrubbing the samovar.
As his heart pounded in his chest, Morozov loosened his collar and jotted down notes. He would contact the Las Vegas GRU station to determine if they could acquire a copy of the official police report from the incident, as well as any other information that might be relevant. Then, he would compile his facts and produce a comprehensive report. He looked up at a stack of cassette tapes. The small library of tapes contained recorded lessons on conversational Vietnamese. He had intended to spend the weekend immersed in his language studies, but this new wrinkle would require his undivided attention.
10:25 a.m., Thursday, November 26, 1970
Almost two weeks had elapsed since Morozov had submitted his report on Yost’s arrest in Las Vegas, but he had heard nothing in response. Surely, his bosses had to comprehend why this information was so relevant. He pushed Yost and Hangar Three from his thoughts as he winnowed through the stack of newspapers that had arrived this morning.
Trying to stay abreast of developments in Vietnam, Morozov perused an article concerning an American POW rescue attempt at Son Tay earlier in the week. The POWs had previously been moved from the camp, so the raid was notionally a failure, but the operation had created quite an uproar with their North Vietnamese allies. They feared that more such raids were imminent, leading to extensive discussions on how to effectively manage the hundreds of POWs they currently held. The GRU recommended consolidating the POWs into larger camps, protected by air defense sites to preclude the arrival of more American helicopters. Isn’t that obvious? thought Morozov, lighting a Winston cigarette. He inhaled deeply, savoring the taste of fine tobacco that only the Americans seemed able to grow. He heard a phone jangle nearby.
“Anatoly Nikolayevich!” barked a cipher clerk. “Upstairs! The Resident wants to see you.”
“Perhaps the Crippler wants to install you as a Hero of the Soviet Union,” sneered one of his office mates. “Maybe the Kremlin is so impressed by your proficiency at clipping out paper dolls that they have finally mailed your Gold Star.”
Listening to the other GRU officers snicker, Morozov stubbed out the cigarette and replaced it in the half-empty pack. He shuffled around chairs to clear a path and then quickly made his way up the back stairs to the Resident’s office.
Colonel Federov’s office wasn’t large, but it was comfortable and well-furnished by GRU standards, with real wood paneling and furniture. Studying reports, the red-haired officer looked up as Morozov furtively tapped on the doorframe.
“Come in,” said Federov brusquely, closing a folder. “Have a seat.”
The double-breasted coat of Federov’s American-styled business suit was draped across a valet stand in the corner. The coat, as well as his oxford cloth shirts, had to be custom-tailored to accommodate his massive shoulders. Without a doubt, he was the most physically intimidating man that Morozov had ever encountered. If his enormous size and physical prowess weren’t enough, he was reputed to be a voracious reader and genius as well.
Morozov stepped forward and began to sit down in a sturdy mahogany chair magnificently upholstered in plush red velvet.
“Not that one, idiot.” Federov gestured towards a straight-backed wooden chair. “That one.”
Morozov sat down in the wobbly chair, nervously clea
red his throat, and said, “Happy Thanksgiving, sir.”
Scratching his square chin, Federov glowered at Morozov as if deciding to kill him now or whether the loathsome chore could wait until after lunch. “What?” he blurted.
“It’s Thanksgiving, sir,” muttered Morozov, immediately conscious that he had committed a grievous error. “It’s a traditional holiday in America, from when the Pilgrims …”
“I know what Thanksgiving is, Anatoly Nikolayevich. I’m an intelligence officer, you buffoon, so I know my enemy’s holidays. That doesn’t mean that I celebrate them.”
Morozov noticed a spetsnaz hatchet mounted in a frame behind Federov’s desk. He surmised that it wasn’t a ceremonial weapon, since the blade’s edge bore deep nicks and was marked by ominous dark stains. “Sir, did you want to hear about the Americans’ failed POW raid?” he asked, hoping to calm the formidable Resident. “I just reviewed the report, and—”
“Hush!” barked Federov, opening another folder. “I was just looking at your report concerning this retired American sergeant in custody in Nevada.”
“Da,” blurted Morozov anxiously. “Sir, I would gladly apprise you of any—”
“Do you not think I have enough to do?” growled Federov. “Otherwise, why would you waste my time with such mundane matters as an American pensioner trying to bludgeon some sense into a government bureaucrat? Am I not burdened enough?”
“But the circumstances of the subject—Eric Yost—are directly related to what I had reported about the Americans’ UFO studies at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base!” declared Morozov emphatically.
“Da. As I recall, just a few months ago, you claimed that Yost had been murdered to cover up what the Americans were doing, and now you’re suddenly changing your tune? And after you insisted that your mysterious hangar was used to store captured UFOs, did you not later report that it was merely a workshop where Soviet aircraft were studied? And now this fellow Yost has been reincarnated in Nevada? Can you not find some consistent story and stick to it?”
