The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Katrina nodded solemnly.

  “This is why we must not fail,” he said. Daniel folded the drawing and tucked it in a pocket.

  She made quick sketches of the armory area and a few circuit diagrams, then gave Daniel and the others instructions for preparing the site for equipment installation. She departed without goodbyes, eager to scout a location for the second antenna at the zoological park.

  The walk to the zoo was rather pleasant. The night was cooling off. Some animals slept. Big cats paced nervously in their cages. Great apes drew near the bars at the sound of her approach.

  She located a potential site for the antenna, figured the cabling and equipment needed to set it up and the angle of the relay shot.

  She was about to leave when the animals panicked.

  Distant engines rumbled in unison. A swarm of headlights flitted low and fast along the walkways. As the rumble drew nearer, animals reacted with distress calls.

  Motorcycles materialized from behind the ape cages. There was a roar, a squeal of tires and racing engines. Headlights formed a sinuous file that swooped toward her, swept around her and encircled her. She could see the long hair and staring eyes of the riders. They wererockeri —a motorcycle gang.

  She backed against a cage and opened her briefcase.

  A tiger bellowed from behind, roaring like another unmufflered engine.

  One of the youths revved his bike and pulled close.

  She displayed a knife and coolly alternated her attention between the youth and the other riders.

  The metal glinted in the artificial light, giving pause.

  The rider flicked back a mange of dirty, unkempt hair with a snap of his head.

  The engine idled.

  He pulled off a pair of round glasses, polished them with his dirty shirt and returned them to a position low on his nose. He slowly eyed her body, beginning with her legs, then breasts, then face. He pushed the glasses upward to the bridge of his nose.

  “Are you Fontanova?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly.

  He curled a lip into a half-smile. “Come with me. Pavel Voschchanov needs to see you. Now!” He snapped his fingers and motioned to the bike.

  She tucked the knife into a pocket and gripped it tightly, then climbed up behind him. He smelled of engine oil and ripened sweat.

  The biker gunned the engine with a wrist, then launched into the street on the sound of tortured rubber.

  They zipped down Konyushkovskaya, weaving around occasional tanks and APCs, detouring through alleys and narrow streets, past drunks and streetwalkers, slicing through Moscow night life.

  As they approached the government building, Katrina saw thousands of people constructing a protective wall—a barricade—out of tree trunks, bathtubs and vehicles.

  The bike slowed as it approached the human ring.

  One group dragged concrete blocks from the nearby U.S. Embassy, to fashion a tank-resistant barrier.

  Therockeri slalomed past people and debris, found a ramp and drove the bike into the Parliament Building.

  They rolled to a stop inside the lobby, before the figure of Sergey Giglavyi.

  The biker throttled to a low idle.

  “So, little girl,” Giglavyi said, grinning through a cigarette, “you have taken up with bikers!”

  She climbed off the motorcycle and looked at him, not amused. “So, Giglavyi, now the government of Russia makes deals with street thugs. Will this save us?”

  He laughed and stamped a foot. “God, I hope so.” He blew a cloud of smoke. “You needn’t be concerned. Therockeri know the streets. They help us track the movement of troops and APCs.” He looked at the biker and waved his hand theatrically. “Am I right?”

  The biker winked, tossed his long hair with a snap of the head, wheeled the bike around inside the lobby and accelerated out the door with aVROOM ,VROOM .

  Giglavyi shrugged. “It’s hard to get good help these days. Come with me.”

  16. JUST KIDDING

  August 1991

  Leavenworth, Kansas

  Louis Weddell picked up the phone and talked to the man on the other side of the window. “You Yuri Sverdlov?”

  “Yeah.”

  Weddell pressed pudgy fingers against the glass, as if freedom were palpable. “When you brought me down, I thought I was finished.”

  “You were. You are. At least until your time’s up.”

  “No, I mean really finished. I was suicidal.”

  “I read the records. You bungled it. They stopped you.”

  “Yeah. They stopped me. Any wonder I tried? I mean, I betrayed my country.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Can you understand that?”

  “No.”

  “At first, I abandoned all hope. Felt I was right down there in the bottom-most pit of hell. You know?”

  “And now, you’re repentant? You want to confess to more crimes?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why did you ask me to come here?”

  “A man gets to thinking. About crime and punishment. You know? What I did was a crime. I tried to give away very advanced technology. To the Russians. To anyone—who would pay. That was wrong.”

  “I see.”

  “But there were other people who also betrayed their country.”

  “So itwas a conspiracy?”

  “Yes. Itis a conspiracy.”

  “And you worked with them?”

  “No. I stole from them.”

  “Who arethey ?”

  “Government people.”

  “They’re trying to sell secrets, too?”

  “No. They’re trying to keep secrets—from the American people. From taxpayers. From voters.”

  “I see. And what secrets are they keeping?”

  “Horrible secrets. They killed and kidnapped Americans. They experimented on living people.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “None.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Louis Weddell broke out laughing. It was a deep belly laugh that seemed to go on forever. The laugh squeezed out his fat eyes, ran out his bulbous nose and peed out his pants. “Why am I here? Oh, ha, ha, ha!”

  The laugh infected Yuri. His lip twitched upward, spread into a broad grin, then teeth pulled apart in a laugh.

  Weddell wiped his eyes. “Why am I here? Hee, hee, hoo, ha, ha! Hoo, ha, ha! I thought that wasmy question. Oh, ha, ha, ha!”

  “Ahem,” Yuri said. “As amusing as this all is, I’m going to have to—”

  “Wait! Hoo, ha, ha! Wait. Ahhhh. Wait, I want to give you something.”

  “What?”

  “Majority.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A code name. For the government program that kills people.”

  “I’m with the government. How do you know—”

  “You didn’t kill me. You could have, but you didn’t.”

  “But I killed two Russians.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why? Why is it different?”

  “Because they were trying to steal secrets.”

  Now Yuri’s face broke into another grin. “Youwere trying to steal secrets.”

  “Oh, ah, ha, ha! I was, wasn’t I? Oh, ah, ha, ha!”

  Yuri got up to leave.

  “Wait! There’s more. Hee, hee, hoo, hoo.”

  “What?” Yuri asked, suppressing a laugh.”

  “It deals with UFOs. Oh, ah, hee, hee!”

  Yuri shook his head, then put down the phone. On the other side of the glass, Weddell stumbled away, his huge girth still doubled over with laughter, crotch wet with pee.

  Yuri retrieved Weddell’s envelope from the guard at the security pass-through. The note inside said:

  Operation Majority is a Majic program which

  uses Pounce to get TTDs from EBEs.

  More likeDDTs , he thought, reflecting on the inability of engineers to spell. As he walked out the door, he tore up the note
.

  17. ORDERS

  August 1991

  Moscow

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Pavel Voschchanov nodded, excused himself from a meeting with five other people, then walked Katrina to a corner of the room. “We are all making plans to spend the night in the Parliament Building. You need to be here, too.”

  “What about installing the link to the armory at the Russian-American University?”

  “It can wait. We think they’re planning an attack on this place. We caught Soviet KGB agents in the building about an hour ago. They were in plainclothes, trying to hide as part of the barricade crowd. One of our own KGB people recognized them. Also, therockeri have reported unusual movements of APCs near Vosstaniya Plaza, just down the road. They could be massing Alpha Unit. We thought we needed all hands—just in case.”

  He fumbled in a drawer and retrieved a gun. “Take this for protection.”

  “No. I’ll use my head. It’s better. Safer.”

  “And knowing you, it’s probably more lethal.” He smiled a grandfatherly smile. “Let’s go to the third floor—our crisis center. Yeltsin wants some very specific things done on communications. He didn’t have time to explain them to me. We’ll go together.”

  * * *

  “She’s with me,” Pavel Voschchanov said to the burly Russian KGB guard. The guard clicked his heels, snapped his rifle to attention and let them pass.

  The “War Room” was frantic with activity. There were maps taped to walls and tables. Lists of telephone numbers, troop strengths and supply conditions hung from clipboards on the walls. A model of the Parliament Building had been removed from the glass case in the lobby and set up on a War Room table to plan defensive positions. People talked on telephones, studied maps or lists and engaged in vigorous debate.

  Near the center of this organized chaos, Yeltsin held a telephone to each ear, carrying on two conversations at once.

  In one phone, he said: “Is Raisa okay? And the family?” In the second phone, he said: “They’re okay. They try to take a lot of walks outside, to show people they’re still alive... What?” To the first phone: “What about the nuclear codes?” After a moment, to the second phone: “He says they took the codes from him. Yazov and Moiseyev each have a set of codes. Gorbachev’s set went to Boris Pugo, the Interior Minister... Yes, I agree. Most urgent. What? You want to talk? Let me see what I can do. I’m getting off now.”

  Yeltsin twisted the telephones around and held them together. He looked at Pavel and Katrina. “Gorbachev and John Major’s interpreter. I’m the switch,” he laughed. “After the revolution, we’ll have to get a better phone company.” Then, his face turned grim. “We have a serious problem, Pavel.”

  “What could be more serious than a pending attack?”

  “The nuclear codes. All three sets are in the hands of coup leaders. Each is in the form of an electronic suitcase. They call it the ‘football.’ Yazov and Moiseyev are probably heavily protected. But Pugo... we might be able to get to him.”

  Pavel nodded. “I’ll organize something.”

  Yeltsin spoke to Pavel, but looked at Katrina. “Send someone who knows encryption systems and codes. How we deal with this issue will determine the level of support we get from the West.” Yeltsin dismissed them.

  “As you can see,” Pavel said as they departed the War Room, “plans and priorities change by the minute.”

  They walked back to Pavel’s office. When they opened the door, Daniel was sitting next to the desk.

  “You didn’t return to the armory. I thought I’d better find out what happened.”

  “It’s okay. We now have a higher priority task,” Pavel said, patting Daniel on the shoulder. “It’s good you’re here. I need someone who can shoot straight. Find the whereabouts of Boris Pugo. Get Gorbachev’s nuclear codes from him. I know him. He’s a terrible coward. He may even be hiding in his apartment.” He shuffled through papers on his desk, located a telephone list and circled Pugo’s name. “Here are his numbers—office and apartment. You can try these to get a fix on his position. Use therockeri . They can get you there quickly.”

  Daniel followed Katrina down the hall to another small office. Katrina unlocked the door and entered.

  “This is a room they gave me. I mostly use it for storage, but there’s a telephone here.”

  She searched through a trunk filled with equipment and retrieved a small device. She cut the cord leading to the telephone and spliced the device in-line.

  “What are you doing?” Daniel asked.

  Katrina grinned. “We don’t want them knowing what we’re up to, do we?”

  She screwed the brass contact terminals tightly around the spliced wire. “This device mimics the KGB A-level protocols embedded in the telephone system. They won’t be able to monitor the calls.”

  “And I thought the KGB was good!” Daniel laughed.

  They called Pugo’s office number—no answer. After five rings, Katrina hung up. “Let’s see if he’s home.” She dialed the apartment number.

  “Hello?” a voice answered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m with the telephone service. We need to do some maintenance work on your telephone. I’m calling to arrange an appointment. We need to make some adjustments inside your apartment.”

  “I just had a new phone installed.”

  “Well, yes, that may be part of the problem.”

  “It works fine,” he said. “Don’t bother me.” He hung up.

  Katrina returned the handset to its cradle. “He’s there. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  A motorbike roared up the ramp into the lobby. It circled Sergey Giglavyi, then rolled to a stop. A man with an instrument case and a small duffel bag climbed off the back of the bike.

  Giglavyi stared in astonishment. “What have we here? A concert? Music to end the world by?”

  The man adjusted his cap, propped the cello case upright and extended his hand in a very formal gesture. “I am Mstislav Rostropovich,” he said with a trace of an American accent. “I’m a musician. I emigrated to America a few years ago. When I heard of the coup, I decided to come back—to defend Russia. I am—at your service.”

  Giglavyi circled the man, noting his expensive clothes and fashionable shoes. He drew a long puff from his cigarette and arched an eyebrow in a look of studied cynicism. “I need to see inside the case—for security.” He unlatched the top, then admired the beautiful wooden instrument. “It’ll make a hell of a weapon,” Giglavyi said. “Peter!” He snapped his fingers. A blond-haired youth came running. “Show Mister Rostropovich the barricade.” Giglavyi grinned. “Peter will also introduce you to our Russian capitalists outside. You’re just in time for dinner. They’re bringing in hundreds of meals from Pizza Hut and McDonald’s—like New York.”

  “Well then,” Rostropovich beamed, “I’ll feel right at home! Do you have the native drink, too?”

  Giglavyi pressed fingers to his lips. “Only the best vodka! One of the many benefits of working the barricade.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Rostropovich said, with a tilt of the head. He clicked his heels with formality, then walked outside with Peter.

  Giglavyi looked at the biker. “Where do we get such people?”

  “Excuse me!” a woman’s voice said, from behind. “We need to borrow your runner.”

  Katrina and Daniel paced toward him.

  “I’m busy, little girl,” Giglavyi said, a cigarette dangling from his lip. We’ve got problems.”

  “So do we. Ours can’t wait.”

  “We need intelligence on troop positions. What could be higher priority?”

  “Orders from Yeltsin.”

  “Oh.” He paused for a moment. “Where are you going?”

  “Near Moscow State University.”

  “Shit!” Giglavyi threw his cigarette to the floor and stamped it with a foot. He took a deep breath, then changed his tone of voice. “I’m putting on my most humble demeanor, Ms.
Fontanova. I’d be forever grateful if you would swing by Vosstaniya Plaza and see if Alpha Unit is massing for an attack. I’m strapped for resources, you see. This could be life or death for us. I’m asking as politely as I can. Hmmm?”

  Daniel nodded in agreement. “If they attack, nothing else will matter.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll do it. If it looks like they’re going to attack, we’ll turn around and come back.”

  Giglavyi ceremoniously kissed her hand. “Thank you, Fontanova.”

  The biker wheeled around. “Climb on,” he said. “With three people, this’ll be pretty tight. Hold on to the waist in front of you.” Katrina got on, then Daniel. “What a way to get girls, eh?” the biker said to Giglavyi, winking. He gunned the engine and accelerated slowly out of the lobby.

  Beyond the door, thousands of people moved around the barricades. It was a party atmosphere. People sang songs and chanted slogans. Liquor was plentiful. A handful of Soviet soldiers stood outside the barrier with automatic weapons. Young women teased them with promises of sexual favors if they would just go home.

  The biker weaved through the human throng. As he piloted his motorcycle into the night, they heard strains of cello music.

  18. GOOD AND EVIL

  August 1991

  Annapolis

  Yuri opened the kitchen blinds of his father’s Annapolis, Maryland house, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of Chesapeake Bay. Early morning sunlight filtered through slats, painting his face with a grid of alternating light and dark lines. Across a short loop of shoreline partially shrouded in mist, he could see the Academy, where midshipmen marched in unison, “hup-hup-hupping” their way toward a naval career. His hand unconsciously rubbed the surface of a gold medallion, feeling the contours of the eagle, pressing the ridges of the inscription, remembering the words:And the truth shall make you free . For a moment, his brain blocked the view of lapping water, and he saw, instead, his father’s determined face.

  Alexander Sverdlov had his faults,Yuri thought.We all do. And we all make trade-offs. But he knew what was important. He knew there were some things worth fighting for, worth risking your life for .Worth killing for.