by Mike Jenne
“But, Comrade Colonel …”
“Enough!” declared Federov. “Since you can’t seem to focus on matters at hand, Anatoly Nikolayevich, let’s discuss this case at this Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. I want to put this matter to bed. Permanently.”
“As you wish, Comrade Colonel. For the sake of chronology, I’ll start …”
Federov scowled and held up a hand sufficiently large to swat an airplane from the sky. “Be quiet, you insolent nitwit. I don’t need a damned chronology. I have reviewed your reports. My time is limited, so there is no need for you to regurgitate trivia and drivel. Anatoly Nikolayevich, the fact is that you severely bungled this case and squandered precious resources.”
“Bungled, sir?” replied Morozov, shuddering with the notion that he might have failed.
Federov sniffed. “Yost fed you a line of shit, moron. Good field operatives must be intuitive. You should have caught on much earlier before we spent so much time and money on this escapade. Just so you know, Anatoly Nikolayevich, there were never any alien corpses or flying saucers in that hangar of yours. We know exactly what the Americans were doing in there.”
“No flying saucers? Then how about the claims of reverse-engineering, where the Americans were studying our aircraft?”
Federov shook his head. He opened another folder and slid a photograph in front of Morozov. “Nyet. No flying saucers. No hijacked MIGs, either. Your man Yost wasn’t the only one taking pictures at that hangar. In January of last year, we caught wind that a space mission simulation system was being transferred from NASA to the Air Force. It was from NASA’s Gemini program, so NASA obviously considered it obsolete. Guess where it ended up?”
Perplexed, Morozov shook his head.
Federov took a sip from a small glass of hot tea, smacked his lips, and then continued. “Anatoly Nikolayevich, it was installed in your mysterious hangar in Ohio. We followed the shipment and positioned a man to surreptitiously photograph it. The Americans are stupid about their security, so it wasn’t difficult to piece this puzzle together. Our analysts were able to tell the complete story just on the basis of this single photograph.”
“They were?” asked Morozov sheepishly, examining the image. It showed computer cabinets and other large pieces of equipment being unloaded from a flatbed trailer.
“See this man there?” asked Federov, pointing at a figure standing near the entrance. The man had dark hair and wore a heavy parka. Even though the photograph was obviously taken through a telescopic lens, the man’s features were distinguishable. Pointing to a piece of equipment as if directing the workers, he appeared to be in charge of the operation. “Our analysts were able to identify that man as Lieutenant Colonel Edward Russo of the US Air Force.”
“Colonel, the analysts were able to determine the purpose of this facility by a single man?”
Obviously pleased with himself, Federov guffawed. “Da! You see, although it had not been officially announced, Russo was slated to be in the next group of military astronauts assigned to the Americans’ Manned Orbiting Laboratory program! So, once you fit all the pieces of this puzzle together, this hangar obviously housed a training facility for the MOL. Why else would the Air Force want a mock-up for an outmoded NASA spacecraft?”
“But the MOL program was cancelled last year,” stammered Morozov. “In June.”
“Correct,” said Federov, smashing his ham-sized fist on the table. “For once, donkeyhead, you’ve done your homework! And now the final two pieces of the puzzle, the things that confirm our suspicions about this place. We have an informant who has been able to drive by the hangar periodically, and she states that it is rarely used anymore. We suspect it’s just being used for storage.”
“You implied that there was another piece?” asked Morozov.
Federov nodded. “Da. The man I showed you earlier … Russo? After the MOL program was cancelled, he was placed on a liaison assignment with the US Navy. We know precisely where he is at this very moment, and his duties have absolutely nothing to do with space flight, flying saucers, or aliens.”
“Where is he, sir?”
“He is presently enrolled at the US Navy’s nuclear power school at Bainbridge, Maryland. After he completes their training course, he is going to a temporary assignment aboard one of the Americans’ nuclear submarines.”
“This all has been very enlightening, sir,” said Morozov. “But I assure you that I was only following orders when I met with Yost. I know that we spent a considerable amount of time, money, and resources on the Ohio effort, but there’s no way that I could have known …”
Interrupting him, Federov smiled. “Of course. You know, Anatoly Nikolayevich, when I was first stationed here, my predecessor used to regale me with stories about your administrative expertise. He would rattle on and on about your affinity for paperwork and details.”
“That’s true,” stammered Morozov, dreading the notion that he might be relegated into an even less significant clerical role within the station. “But a good operative must not only know tradecraft, he must also be proficient with administration as well. The ability to write accurate reports is contingent on it, so a field operative …”
Interrupting him, Federov nodded and said, “Funny you should mention that, because he insisted that you just weren’t cut out to be a field operative. He was curious to see how this assignment in Ohio would play out, and now we know the outcome.”
“I’ve been studying Vietnamese,” offered Morozov in desperation. “In my free time, of course. I listen to the conversational tapes and do the exercises. It’s a difficult tongue, but I …”
Federov ignored him. “It would be a shame if the GRU didn’t adequately exploit your abilities, particularly at this late stage of your career.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” blurted Morozov. “I think that I could better serve the Soviet Union if I was stationed with our Socialist brothers in Hanoi!”
“So you wish to be reassigned?” asked Federov. “This is your desire?”
“I would, sir.” Do I wish to be reassigned? thought Morozov. Do I wish to be reassigned? Perhaps that’s why I have tendered so many transfer requests!
Federov opened an envelope and slid an Aeroflot ticket across his desk. “Then your wish is granted forthwith,” he decreed. “You will fly to Moscow on Monday. You will be delighted to know that I have discussed your situation with my superiors at the Aquarium, and we have decided on the perfect place to exploit your abilities. Your next assignment, and probably your last, will be at the Encyclopedia. It is an absolutely perfect posting for someone who thrives on minutiae.”
The Encyclopedia? As sultry visions of Hanoi evaporated from his thoughts, Morozov’s heart sank. Nothing could be worse. The Encyclopedia was the nickname for the GRU’s Department of Archives and Operational Research. Occupying the two lowest levels of the Aquarium’s basement and other facilities, it was the repository for the immense volumes of intelligence accumulated by the GRU’s vast espionage enterprises throughout the world.
Federov wasn’t being the least bit facetious when he said that the Encyclopedia would likely be Morozov’s last assignment within the GRU. Archivists and researchers at the Encyclopedia were routinely exposed to so much sensitive information that they could never be allowed to venture outside of the Soviet Union. In fact, Morozov had heard grim rumors that when Encyclopedia workers reached the end of their careers, they were moved into forced retirement at a remote location.
He had been there once, during his initial training, and that was enough to convince him that he didn’t ever want to return. Within the GRU, there were plenty of jokes about the wretched place, most cautionary in nature. As an example: Two long-time Encyclopedia archivists fell in love and married; their offspring looked like moles, although not quite as attractive. Perhaps the most telling joke was one that bore a certain degree of dire truth: The Encyclopedia wasn’t Hell, but you could certainly see Hell from there; all you need do is look up.
Scowling, Federov asked, “The Encyclopedia does not suit you? Should I remind you that the Aquarium’s basement has another floor? Perhaps you might be more comfortable there. After all, I’m sure that you’ve heard the old joke about the Encyclopedia. How does it go? The Encyclopedia isn’t Hell, but you can see it from there. All you have to do …”
“… is look up,” interjected Morozov quietly. He swallowed deeply and added. “No, I think that the Encyclopedia suits me just fine. I look forward to serving the Soviet Union there, sir.”
Federov waved his hand like he was shooing away an obnoxious child. “That is all, Anatoly Nikolayevich. Dismissed. Don’t miss your plane. And don’t stuff yourself with turkey and dressing today. Gluttony is a sin, or so I’ve heard.”
Morozov stood up, saluted, and pivoted about. He was almost out of the office when he heard Federov’s voice behind him. He turned around slowly to face the Resident’s desk.
“Nice shoes, Anatoly Nikolayevich. They look new. Florsheims?”
Morozov swallowed. “Da. They are Florsheims, sir. You have a good eye. But they’re not new. I bought them second-hand in Ohio. I just take very good care of them.”
“If you say so, Anatoly Nikolayevich, but I caution you to remember that there is so much more to the Aquarium’s basement than just the Encyclopedia. If you insist on standing out too much from your comrades, you may find yourself visiting another floor.”
23
ENCYCLOPEDIA
Pacific Departure Facility, Johnston Island
3:12 a.m., Friday, January 15, 1971
Almost two years after the tragic accident that killed Howard and Riddle, and after they had been into orbit three times themselves, Carson and Ourecky were poised to go yet again. They listened to the groans, clicks, and other noises of the Titan II, knowing that the booster’s turbo pumps would soon spin to life, initiating the massive exothermic chemical reaction that would blast them clear of the confines of Earth. At this point there was little to do but wait.
“You awake over there?” asked Carson.
“Barely,” replied Ourecky. “I guess I should be a tad more excited. If there was room I would do some jumping jacks to raise my pulse a few notches, just so the docs don’t think my heart has stopped.”
Just a few minutes later, they were beyond the point of no return. “Launch vehicle is transferring to internal power,” stated the CAPCOM. “Stand by for engine gimballing.”
“On internal,” replied Carson. “Waiting for gimbals.”
“T minus one minute and counting,” stated the CAPCOM.
“One minute and counting,” answered Carson. “Thanks, guys. Have a safe flight home. Don’t stuff yourself on the luau pig in Honolulu.”
“Thanks. Have a safe trip yourselves,” said the CAPCOM. “Stage Two Fuel valves opening in five seconds.”
“Minus thirty seconds,” stated the CAPCOM.
“Once more into the breach?” asked Carson, placing his right hand on the center console.
“Once more, dear friend,” replied Ourecky, tapping Carson’s hand.
“Minus twenty seconds,” stated the CAPCOM. “See you later, alligator. And ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, Ignition, three, two, one, Zero. Hold-down bolts are fired. Lift off!”
“Lift off and the clock is started!” called Carson. “Scepter Seven departing.”
Headquarters of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye (GRU)
Khodinka Airfield, Moscow, USSR
4:18 p.m., Friday, January 29, 1971
Momentarily looking up from his notes, which were dimly illuminated by a forty-watt bulb suspended over his worktable, Morozov removed his reading glasses and rubbed his irritated eyes. He had labored in the dismal bowels of the Aquarium for the past two months. Although the Encyclopedia was certainly not an assignment that he relished, and one from which he would likely never emerge, he diligently applied himself to his tasks. His industriousness paid off; he had already been promoted, graduating from entry-level archivist to Third-Class Analyst in record time. In that capacity, he now supervised a Third-Class Analysis Section consisting of himself and four archivists—three “retrievers” and one “filer”—who assisted him in his research.
The Aquarium’s basement contained three massive subfloors; the Encyclopedia occupied the lowest two. Apart from the worktables for the Analysis Sections, most of the space was filled by row after row of index card files, much like those found in any library. The Encyclopedia existed solely to placate the GRU’s voracious appetite for information. More specifically, since the GRU already possessed the information in raw format, Encyclopedia workers toiled day and night to satisfy the GRU’s incessant craving for collated and pre-digested information.
Although poorly lit, the Encyclopedia was at least comfortably warm. Besides being well below ground, where the temperature remained fairly constant throughout the year, banks of humming dehumidifiers—installed to safeguard the paper holdings from dampness and mold—provided warmth as well. The windowless walls were painted an earthy shade of taupe, perhaps to remind the workers of their subterranean setting.
As he reported to work every morning, a Second-Class Analyst issued Morozov a stack of cards, each of which contained one or more questions. Some of the questions were mundane, requiring scarcely any effort on his part: “Who is this man? Who does he interact with?”
Other queries—the ones that Morozov particularly enjoyed—were considerably more esoteric, and required more extensive research and sleuthing. “What is manufactured at this facility? How are these two sites related?” Morozov prioritized the questions, developed a research plan, and then deployed his retrievers to fetch the raw information required to answer the questions. In a sense, his task was like weaving a rope out of tiny bits of fiber, carefully splicing threads together. In his short time here, he had determined that an analyst’s most important skill was intuitively knowing which threads to chase and which ones to ignore.
Although a single question might entail that his retrievers amass a collection of hundreds or even thousands of cards, only a minute fraction of the Encyclopedia’s vast information holdings were to be found in the index card files. The rest was stored in adjunct facilities—massive warehouses that contained photographs, movie film, books, tape recordings, source documents, and such—in the vicinity of the Aquarium.
The retrievers retrieved and the analysts analyzed, but probably the most thankless job fell to the filers, who were responsible for ensuring that the cards found their way back to their appropriate slots in the cabinets. By far, the filers worked the longest hours, often staying until midnight or later, long after the others had left for the day.
In a practical sense, the Encyclopedia could be likened to a gigantic brain. An army of intake archivists processed the raw data as it arrived, collating it and annotating it to the index cards. They were like the five senses, gathering the information and storing it into memories. If the intake archivists were the senses, then the Analysis Sections were the neurons; when a question required an answer, they were energized to winnow through accumulated memories, sparking through their unique collection of axons and synapses. And like the neurons of a biologic brain, the Analysis Sections were layered by hierarchy, with the First Class sections responsible for higher level processing and conceptual thought, down to the dreary Third-Class sections—like Morozov’s—that performed little more than limbic functions.
The Encyclopedia was a clunky and inelegant solution to an abundantly complex problem. But like so many other clunky and inelegant Soviet solutions, it worked. The venerable Automat Kalashnikov assault rifle wasn’t chic or attractive, but it was robust and inherently functional. When its trigger was pulled—no matter whether its stamped metal receiver was immaculately clean, jammed with the grittiest desert sand or packed with frigid Arctic ice—it fired. Morozov was sure that the American CIA probably collated its intelligence gatherings in massive computers, as the KGB
likely did as well, and that the GRU would eventually do likewise. Until such time, the Encyclopedia would have to suffice. It worked, and he was an integral part of it.
Since the Encyclopedia would soon outgrow its current environs, there was talk of a new facility. The whimsical architectural sketches showed a modernistic building as spacious as a tsar’s summer palace, warmly lit and climate-controlled. If it was ever realized, it would be equipped with a semiautomatic retrieval system, and an expansive network of pneumatic tubes to swiftly convey index cards and documents.
Examining a color-coded card, Morozov looked forward to leaving in a few hours. He jotted some notes on a slip of paper and then handed the note to one of his retrievers, a dainty and kind-faced woman in her early forties. They shared something; she had been in Stalingrad during the Siege. They often chatted about their experiences over tea at lunch, but Morozov had come to suspect that she—as a teenage girl—had survived the ordeal by consorting with Nazi soldiers.
As he placed the card in a careful array on the table, the solitude was broken by the muted sounds of a man pleading for his life. Morozov and the retriever anxiously gazed up towards the whitewashed ceiling. The floor directly above them was a massive labyrinth of cells, a veritable factory of misery, where hapless GRU prisoners were held, questioned and often executed.
Unlike the KGB, which could arbitrarily snatch ordinary citizens off the street and detain them indefinitely, the GRU’s charter almost exclusively limited its arrest powers to members of the Soviet military forces. At any given moment, every branch of the military forces was represented in the GRU’s prisoner rolls, including generals, admirals, and a substantial number of GRU personnel suspected of treason or espionage.
Hearing the man yelp again, Morozov held his breath and cringed. There were at least forty-five centimeters—roughly eighteen inches by the English system—of reinforced concrete overhead, so he was certain that most of noises were muffled, so that he was only hearing the cries and screams of the tormented when they were at their absolute peak of agony. If the bloodcurdling noises weren’t enough, the ceiling was marked with ominous stains and blotches, where blood and gore had seeped through minute crevices and seams in the concrete.
