Blue Darker Than Black

by Mike Jenne

  “I have, but in the intelligence realm you learn that when something looks suspect, it’s because it is suspect.”

  “So, pard, you think the Russians are tryin’ to lure us into a trap?” asked Wolcott.

  “Perhaps,” answered Seibert, unwrapping a cough drop. “But to be honest, Virgil, I have to entertain other possibilities as well.”

  “Other possibilities? Such as?”

  “Virg, you know damned well how reluctant Mark Tew is about moving on to Phase Two. For years, he’s been absolutely fixated on this damned orbital bombardment system. Finally, everyone is coming to the realization that it was all a big pipe dream, and probably never existed in the first place. So just when Mark is ready to concede the fight and go home to retire, all of this Krepost stuff appears out of thin air.”

  “Just what exactly are you implyin’, Colonel?” demanded Wolcott.

  “I am implying that the timing is extremely suspect,” answered Seibert. “Previously, we haven’t gotten so much as a trickle about this thing, and suddenly we’re deluged with this torrent? A complete package with intricate diagrams? Like I said, Virg, it’s suspect.”

  “Then you’re implyin’ that it might not be the Soviets at all?” asked Wolcott.

  “I don’t know, Virgil,” answered Seibert. “I really just don’t know.”

  Department of Archives and Operational Research

  GRU Headquarters, Khodinka Airfield, Moscow, USSR

  3:45 p.m., Friday, April 14, 1972

  Over the course of the past year, Morozov had cultivated his Analysis Section into a highly disciplined team. They had garnered a brilliant reputation for their efficiency and generally were issued only the toughest questions to answer. Their diligence and hard work yielded dividends. Once they completed their tasks for the day, at least until other assignments were forthcoming, they were allowed to relax.

  Of course, if they weren’t actively pursuing an answer to an inquiry, they couldn’t leave the Encyclopedia, just in case another pressing question came up. And even though they could have a break, they were still effectively confined to their assigned table. Actually, in recent weeks the rules had been eased slightly; if more than one Analysis Section was inactive at any given moment, it was acceptable for the idled workers to visit each other’s tables and quietly socialize, but it was still forbidden for anyone to arbitrarily meander around in the stacks.

  So this afternoon, while the other Analysis Sections still toiled, Morozov and his expeditious workers basked in their leisure. As two retrievers knitted woolen shawls, Morozov played chess with the third retriever; a young man newly arrived from his home in the Ukraine.

  With his elbows on the table and his chin cupped in his hand, Morozov skimmed a summary of international headlines as he awaited his opponent’s next move. The Americans were preparing to launch yet another mission—Apollo 16—to the moon on Sunday. IRA terrorists had detonated thirty bombs in Northern Ireland in the past two days. The fighting in Vietnam had reached a new level of intensity as the North Vietnamese had stepped up their fighting throughout South Vietnam.

  Sighing as he read the last item, conscious that he would never set foot in Vietnam, he set the paper aside and reflected on how quiet it was. Although he was still a year away from being promoted to Second Class, he had at least earned his section an opportunity to move to a more tranquil table.

  He still overheard enough to remember what happened upstairs, but it was not nearly as terrifying as the sounds of a year ago. Now, instead of muffled screams, he just heard soft snoring; he looked to his right to see his filer—a portly woman in her mid-thirties—slumped over with her head down on the table, fast asleep.

  He smiled. His section had become like a close-knit little family, content in themselves and comfortable in his leadership and protection. If this were America, this charming scene could be a subject for a Saturday Evening Post cover, whimsically painted by Norman Rockwell.

  The cozy image vanished from his mind as he heard the sharp squeaks of boot soles on the hardwood floors. He looked up to witness heavily armed spetsnaz soldiers pouring out of the elevator and the stairwell. Clad in loose-fitting camouflage coveralls, the blank-faced soldiers brandished Kalashnikovs and were festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades.

  As the soldiers scattered throughout the stacks and amongst the tables, a spetsnaz officer tried to speak through a handheld loudspeaker. Morozov covered his ears and winced as the loudspeaker emitted squealing feedback. The officer cursed, made some adjustments, and announced, “Everyone! Remain seated with your hands in view. Do not touch any of the reference materials on your tables. Wait at your tables until soldiers come to escort you.”

  Expressing no outward sign of emotion, even though his heart pounded furiously in his chest, Morozov watched as the soldiers went from table to table. The Encyclopedia workers were ordered to collect their personal belongings, and then they were abruptly ushered—as integral sections—to the stairwell. Some of the women wept openly as they were led away.

  Morozov could not imagine what had precipitated this wholesale action; it reminded him of the Stalinist purges when entire villages were rumored to have been marched away into bleak oblivion. While he could not fathom how so many could be simultaneously guilty of an infraction, he was gravely concerned for them. But the pragmatic man that he was, he could not picture how the cells upstairs could possibly accommodate all of them. Soon, there were only ten tables still occupied, but the soldiers still continued with their chores.

  And then suddenly it dawned on him, a painful revelation that rattled through his mind like the aftermath of a thunderclap. It was something so blatantly obvious that he could not believe that he had not previously grasped its significance.

  Shuddering with dread, he realized that since all of the dismissed workers were allowed to collect their coats and belongings as they left, they were most likely headed for home, not the grisly cells upstairs. Whatever this witch hunt entailed, the other Analysis Sections—now being hastily herded towards the stairs—were not the targets.

  “I have chocolate,” whispered one of his retrievers excitedly, furtively showing Morozov a miniature Hershey’s Kiss candy concealed in her palm. “It’s an American candy you gave me several weeks ago. I was saving it.” The chocolate treat was hardly recognizable; she had hoarded it so long that it was a misshapen lump wrapped in dull silver foil.

  “Eat it,” replied Morozov quietly.

  “But they might see me unwrap it,” she replied. Despondent, she was on the verge of tears.

  “Eat it with the wrapper,” he hissed. “Now. Stuff it in your face and gobble it down before you buy Makarov bullets for all of us.”

  Fifteen minutes after the spetsnaz soldiers had appeared, only five Analysis Sections—twenty-five workers in all—remained at their stations. Standing next to Morozov’s table, a First Class Analyst addressed them. “Leave your work and gather over here.” As the other Analysis Sections made their way to the table, the First Class leaned towards Morozov and said, “Sorry to interrupt your chess match. Looks like you were making very good headway.”

  Politely thanking him, Morozov smiled nervously.

  The First Class spoke to the assembled Encyclopedia workers. “I apologize for disrupting your afternoon, but we have an extremely awkward situation brewing in America. A well-placed source close to a high-ranking American general has been compromised. She is presently in the custody of the Office of Special Investigations of the US Air Force, so we must assume that she is undergoing extensive interrogation.”

  Morozov silently breathed a sigh of relief and then mouthed the word “Sorry” to the whimpering retriever struggling to swallow the foil-wrapped candy.

  The First Class continued. “It is a foregone conclusion that the general will be forced into retirement if he is fortunate enough not to land in prison. This source—his personal secretary—has been a veritable fount of valuable intelligence.” Grinning
broadly, he added, “Of course, in her defense, she believed that she was helping the Israelis. Such is the power of suggestion …”

  “With all that said, I’m sure that you are speculating why you are here and why your comrades have been directed to leave the premises,” said the First Class. “We have been directed to undertake an immediate high priority effort to mitigate any potential damages. Your sections have proven yourselves to be trustworthy and efficient, so you will participate in this effort. We will not leave here until it is concluded. Because we must operate under an abbreviated timeframe, we will suspend many of our normal operating and security practices for the duration of this project.”

  11:25 p.m.

  Bleary-eyed and groggy, Morozov strained to remain conscious as he slowly winnowed through the burgeoning pile of index cards before him. At the opposite end of the table, his retrievers dozed as he jotted notes regarding the next group of cards to be collected. After he issued them their new guidance, he resolved himself to put his own head down for a quick catnap.

  He marveled at the sheer volume of information that the American woman had provided to the GRU. Clearly, her boss was a man of profound importance, since his fingers were poked in so many different pies. And the extensive breadth of information made Morozov’s task that much more difficult.

  His job—as well as that of the other four sections that remained at work in the Encyclopedia—was containment. While he pitied the wayward American secretary, her fate was effectively sealed, and there was little that could be done to lessen her misery, even if the GRU felt compelled to do so. She was probably still convinced that she had collected information on behalf of the Jews, and it might be weeks or months before she could be persuaded otherwise.

  Since the secretary had been written off, the overall objective of the containment process was to safeguard other sources and agents. It was extremely rare for the GRU to lend absolute trust in intelligence data from any given source; consequently, another source or agent was typically tasked to gain access to the information from another perspective.

  Thus, for every piece of information provided by the secretary, Morozov and his counterparts had to methodically ferret through the stacks for similar information that might have been provided by another source. It didn’t matter whether the source had been tasked to furnish the information or whether they just happened upon it, because it was a certainty that as the American counterintelligence agents worked through their own protocols of damage control, once they identified that a piece of information had been compromised, they would eventually determine who else might have had access to the same information. Right now they just had the secretary within their grasp, but literally scores of other sources and agents could eventually be compromised as a result.

  Consequently, the containment process was not unlike the watertight compartments on a ship. If a breach was discovered in one compartment, its watertight doors were sealed, ideally after the people in the compartment were evacuated or otherwise protected. Of course, as Morozov well knew, plenty of the same watertight doors would be hastily slammed in the faces of sources that they could not evacuate or otherwise protect, but that was just the brutal nature of the business.

  Arriving at the last card in the present stack, he nudged the closest retriever and directed her to wake the others so they could be ready to go to the stacks again. He sipped from a glass of water as he read the remaining card. His heart literally skipped a beat when he recognized a name of a test pilot associated with the Aerospace Support Project at Wright-Patterson. Staring at the card, he dipped his fingers in the glass, splashed water in his face, and then rubbed his tired eyes.

  He was not mistaken. The name—Drew Carson—was there, in neatly typewritten letters, on the index card. The cross-reference card indicated that the secretary—Phyllis—had submitted two photographs, on the same day, that were either of Carson or in some way related to him. Morozov’s temples throbbed as his pulse quickened.

  He placed the card face down and then issued his new instructions to the three retrievers. As they parceled the tasks amongst themselves, he flipped over the card with Carson’s name.

  Feigning disinterest, he said, “Oh. Dig through the stacks to see if there’s a dossier on this fellow, Drew Carson. And ring the Number Two Archives to request these two photographs. Probably nothing we should squander much time on, but we do need to be thorough.”

  3:24 a.m., Saturday, April 15, 1972

  Morozov was cautious not to look at the two photographs until he had dispatched his retrievers on yet another foray of gathering cards and documents. As they prowled in the stacks, he studied the images.

  The first—apparently taken by Phyllis herself—showed two US Air Force officers—both majors—standing beside the general—Astor—who had been the secretary’s boss. The two men looked quite ordinary. Although their faces were plastered with seemingly forced smiles, they appeared to be extremely uncomfortable in the general’s presence. Unlike the general, neither man wore any of the distinctive ribbons that denoted heroism or wartime service. Morozov could clearly read the nameplates on their right breast pockets; the one on the left—Carson—wore pilot’s wings while the other—Ourecky—did not. The image looked like a quickly posed snapshot, apparently taken in the general’s office.

  The second image was far more perplexing. It depicted a metal data plate with Cyrillic characters that described a space vehicle’s physical attributes and manufacturing information. Even more puzzling was that the image had apparently been autographed by the two men—Carson and Ourecky—seen with the general in the first photograph. Morozov immediately surmised that the two majors were somehow responsible for the second photograph, although that made little sense to him.

  Carson’s dossier revealed very little as well. Ironically, the information had been gleaned from personnel records at Morozov’s request months ago, but it was the first time he had seen most of it. According to his file, Carson was an exceptional pilot who had graduated with top honors from the various flying courses that he had attended, including the prestigious test pilot school at Edwards Air Force Base in California.

  Carson had been assigned to the Aerospace Support Project for nearly four years. Morozov could not envision why a pilot of Carson’s caliber had not been granted an opportunity to prove his mettle in the ongoing war in Southeast Asia. He was obviously involved in something quite secret, but what could it be?

  Morozov looked across the room at an obese, slovenly man sitting alone at a nearby table. He was Dmitry Anatolyevich Popov, recently assigned to the Encyclopedia after working three years in the GRU’s Directorate of Cosmic Intelligence.

  “Cosmic Intelligence” sounded rather ethereal, like a group of analysts who conducted séances, fussed over astronomical charts, or perhaps investigated UFO sightings. In actuality, the Directorate of Cosmic Intelligence concerned itself with tracking the thousands of man-made objects in the heavens, as well as collecting intelligence on the space-related activities like launching facilities and related technology. Their function was not unlike that of the American’s satellite tracking facility operated by NORAD—North American Aerospace Defense Command—at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado.

  Popov was brilliant but eccentric, with extensive academic training in astrophysics and mathematics. Like so many others, he had landed in the Encyclopedia after apparently committing some grievous error. Morozov had heard a rumor that Popov had miscalculated the orbital path of an American spy satellite, which led to the compromise of several sensitive facilities before his blunder had been detected. But if anyone had an answer about the mysterious photograph of the data plate, then surely Popov would know.

  Pausing to fill a glass at a silver samovar, Morozov strolled towards Popov’s table. He placed a folder before him and held out the steaming glass. “Dmitry Anatolyevich,” he asked, “could you help me with this puzzle? With your background, surely you can help me unravel this. This is a photograph provi
ded by the American secretary. I’m certainly not an authority, but to the best of my analysis, this appears to be an artifact from one of our space vehicles.”

  Popov opened the folder and peered at the photograph through thick spectacles. “Oh, sure,” he said, accepting the tea offered by Morozov. “I recognize this. It’s from a Type Four reconnaissance satellite. This is the data plate, with all of the Type Four’s specifications.”

  “So it is one of ours?”

  “Da. But where the hell did this come from?” asked Popov nervously. He removed his smudged spectacles, wiped them on his shirt, replaced them, and stared at the photograph. “How could it possibly be related to this American woman?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” replied Morozov, shaking his head solemnly “But since she gave it to us, it obviously means something.”

  “If you insist, Anatoly Nikolayevich, but I cannot comprehend how she could have gotten her hands on this. This particular satellite was designed and built under the highest secrecy. The security on that plant was airtight. It would have been impossible for an assembly worker to take the picture and spirit it out, and I cannot conceive of any way in which the Americans could have infiltrated the plant.”

  “So this picture must have been taken inside the assembly plant?” asked Morozov.

  “Of course!” averred Popov. “There could have been no other way.”

  “But could it not have been taken at the launch site?”

  “Nyet!” sniffed Popov. “Immediately after this satellite was assembled, an aerodynamic shroud was installed even before it left the plant. It was mated to its booster after it arrived at the launching site. The only possible place this picture could have been taken was at the plant.”

  “So what happened to this Type Four satellite?” asked Morozov. “Was it ever launched?”

  “Da. It was fired into orbit, in April of 1969. I remember it well. It functioned perfectly for about six weeks, and then it started behaving erratically. The controllers claimed that the design was fundamentally defective, and the designers argued that the controllers were sending the satellite erroneous instructions.”