A Cold Flight To Nowhereville

by Steve Fletcher

  She stepped into the warmth of the dark shop, brushing snow from her hair. She did not need a light to find her way to the front of the store and wedge her note into the drawer of the antique register so that Ilia would be sure to find it. He always parked the truck around the side of the shop, between the building and a few gnarled old trees, and as she pulled the back door closed and locked it she breathed a sigh of relief that Ilia never did the same for his truck. As the cold branches brushed against her coat she slid into the front seat of the dilapidated ZiS, hoping the wind would be loud enough to muffle the sound of the truck’s engine. Or perhaps the villagers would think it was the Army driving around, as they frequently did. But the wind had picked up, blowing snow through the dark, quiet street of the village, and as she stepped on the starter she reflected that she probably hadn’t needed to worry.

  Snow had begun to accumulate in tiny drifts that piled up against the walls of the north-facing huts as she steered the truck through the village, letting the engine idle. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening when she pulled out onto the main road and accelerated. It would be late when she reached Kyzylorda.

  Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan

  Pavel Ushakov mooched around the compound outside the Security building, smoking quietly as the sky grew darker and evening set in. The clouds were heavy and gray overhead, and the chill in the air suggested snow. The wind was whipping down from Siberia, bitter cold as it howled over the steppe and sighed around the MIK-2-1 Building on its way south. What a benighted place this was. He shoved his warm Military usanka down farther onto his head. He did not care for the desert or the temperatures associated with it. He more preferred the green forests and lush pasturelands that did not, as a rule, occur in this forgotten corner of the Soviet Union. All one had here were dust, sand, rocks and perekati polya. At least the Kazakh nomads weren’t in the habit of coming very close to the Facility. They were ignorant and troublesome, a subversive lot who liked to trade in black-market goods outside the controls of the State. He picked up a rock and tossed it away. The lights in the MIK-2-1 Building were on and he could see the scientists and construction engineers doing their work in various offices, or on the main assembly floor. He saw the curved metal body of one of the rocket sections, looming huge on the assembly floor. It was an impressive sight. He could see lights glowing in the window of the Director’s office in the Security building behind him but Kalyugin was not visible, having been called away to a staff meeting with the Comrade Chief Designer.

  He chafed at inactivity, but there was nothing else for him to do. The suspect Loginov had gone to ground, doing his work quietly and behaving like a model citizen. Perhaps he had thought better of baiting the KGB and more was the pity, for the hunt gave Ushakov a rush of excitement, a surge of mental stimulation too often lacking in his life. And as he considered his actions of the previous few days, he edged closer to the conclusion that he had committed a blunder by pushing Kalyugin for greater security. Kalyugin, as usual, had half-assed the matter and all that had accomplished was to make Loginov more careful. He smoked angrily, only half feeling the cold wind as it lashed his garments. You are blaming Kalyugin for your own screw-up. You should have kept quiet. You shouldn’t have jumped into action and gone to the idiot Kalyugin, you should have kept your stupid mouth shut. You should have allowed Loginov to become confident instead of wary. Idiot! He was angry with Kalyugin, and perhaps rightly, but realized that most of his anger was directed at himself for committing yet another immense blunder. He was truly an amateur at the detective business. He should have known Kalyugin would not have consented to arresting Loginov, and having one soldier shadow him was worse than useless. Loginov could ditch one soldier with pathetic ease, and his shadow wasn’t even nearby half the time. Kalyugin had considered that part necessary to avoid frightening the rest of the scientists and incurring the wrath of the Comrade Chief Designer. So Ushakov had accomplished nothing—but he had managed to alert Loginov rather nicely.

  But Kalyugin was right in one aspect: things had changed. The Americans built their system of justice around the concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ The Soviet Union had worked in exactly the reverse: everyone was guilty until proven innocent, and the latter hadn’t often happened. He was still of this mindset; he was not adjusting.

  He sighed, forcing his recriminating thoughts onto a different track. What about the old man and the babushka that had been on Facility grounds today? It wasn’t uncommon for Tyuratam villagers to be on the grounds; the 217th was even building housing down in that area. Everyone in the village made money in one form or another from the Facility. Ushakov had seen the old man many times before and knew that his name was Ilia, and that he was a former kolkhoznik who had managed to open a small shop in the village. He was half-crazy and harmless. Ushakov reflected that he hadn’t seen the babushka very often before; she only seemed to accompany the old man from time to time. But she had looked at him that afternoon, glancing at him quickly as she stepped out of the truck, then returning to her business. That meant nothing. He was in his uniform today, why shouldn’t she look? He was a handsome man. In Moscow he’d had no trouble getting women. Still…he really didn’t know anything about her and maybe he should.

  A column of soldiers were passing through the compound and in the light of the MIK-2-1 Building he spotted one he knew, Dmitri Osipov, the one he’d pressed into service before. He seemed like a good one but his companion, Yuri, had struck Ushakov as a bit of an idiot. “Private Osipov!” he called. The soldier stepped away from the column and drew hear, peering at him in the gathering darkness and then snapping a salute.

  “Privyet, comrade Colonel.”

  “Privyet, Dmitri. How’ve you been? Everything going all right?”

  The young man shrugged. “All right, I guess.”

  “Good. I’ve got another job for you. Interested?”

  Ushakov knew he would be. He was not ordinarily in the habit of pressing low-ranking construction-battalion soldiers into service on KGB business, and young Dmitri would recognize his request for the opportunity that it was. “Yes, comrade Colonel, I’m interested. What are we doing tonight?”

  “I want you to do a quiet little chore for me. There’s an old fart that drives his truck onto the Facility sometimes to deliver crap to the mess tent. You know the one?”

  “Yes,” Dmitri nodded. “I’ve seen that guy.”

  “Sometimes he has an old babushka with him. Not often, but sometimes. She’s probably a silly old trot but I think we should know a little more about her, don’t you? So I want you to go check out a truck from the motor pool on my authority and go into town, talk to the old man, find out who that babushka is. Talk to her as well. Tell them we want to commend them for their excellent service to the Party or some crap, make something up. You be as clever as you know how and find out everything you can. We’re interested in everything, even if it seems innocuous. Find out what you can and then report back to me.”

  Dmitri nodded. “I have a detail to perform and then I can leave. Should I skip the detail?”

  He shook his head. “No. Carry out your duties first.”

  “Should I draw a weapon, comrade Colonel?”

  Ushakov was on exceedingly tenuous footing by ordering the young soldier to go into town and gather intelligence. Kalyugin hadn’t actually ordered him not to ask the villagers any questions, but to do so certainly violated the spirit of his wishes. And Ushakov’s mishandling of the latest Loginov situation stung enough that he was willing to take a few more chances. “No. Do not take a weapon. That would make you look hostile, and we want to appear as good comrades. And Dmitri—you keep this quiet, you hear? You better give the gate my name and if they want to know more they can call me, but only do that if they give you trouble. That should keep their mouths shut. The comrade Director doesn’t learn of this, either. Only you and I.”

  The young soldier nodded slowly. “I understand, comrade Colonel. I’ll keep
things quiet. The gate will let me out without question. This concerns that scientist, doesn’t it?”

  Now how did he figure that out? He hadn’t known whose things Ushakov had been investigating, that day he stood guard. “What makes you say that, Dmitri?”

  “He has scary issues, that one. I can see it in his eyes. I figured he was the one you were after that day at the barracks.”

  “Hm,” he grunted noncommittally. “He might be. On your way, Dmitri.”

  Ushakov lit another cigarette and watched Dmitri head off down the road towards the motor pool. A clever lad, young Osipov. ‘Scary issues,’ yes, he might well characterize Loginov that way. The soldier had some useful skills and didn’t kowtow or quake in terror before the KGB as most others of his sort would. The young man was shaping up to be a good shill, and if this quagmire with Loginov worked out as the chekist hoped it would, Dmitri Osipov would find his fortunes much improved. A rising tide lifted all boats, after all.

  U.S.S Bennington, CV 20

  CTF 79, Indian Ocean

  Captain Holveck met Hardin, Smith, the two Lockheed techs and Chief Hansen on the flight deck. The moon was full tonight, and the flight deck lights were on. A few other airedales were present but were chatting together quietly near the island, studiously ignoring the strange jet now sitting chained to the waist catapult. Techs of some kind that needed to be there, no doubt. The Egyptian paint scheme had been sandblasted off and the jet was now plain burnished metal, with a red star painted on the tail and the numbers ‘05’ painted in red on the fuselage forward of the cockpit. A few other aircraft were visible aft, but no crewmembers hovered around them.

  “We’ve got a fifteen knot headwind coming off the coast, the weather’s clear and a million,” Holveck told him. “That’s the good news.”

  Hardin nodded. “What’s the bad?”

  “The bad news is that Navy pilots spend a long time learning how to do this. You’ve had exactly one catapult launch that you haven’t been the back-seater on, so this will be your second. And your first in a jet. And anyone’s first in this kind of jet! I consider this the most dangerous part of this whole deal, John. Any number of things can go wrong.”

  Hardin had received exhaustive lectures on the subject and mentally reviewed the data on catapult launches as Holveck ticked reasons off on his fingers. “The main risk is the cat misfiring. This is a new technology and it happens. We sometimes have cold shots, where you don’t get enough speed to generate lift. Then you get to do a CFIT—Controlled Flight Into Terrain. Or water in this case. The other one I’m most concerned about is the landing gear crumpling. A catapult launch will compress the nose gear about an inch. Our jets have reinforced gear to handle the cat, but occasionally gear crumples on launch and if that happens you’ll lose the jet over the side. This Russian jet I have no idea what to expect from.”

  Barry Frank shook his head. “I dunno, boss, the Russkies build a pretty good set of landing gear. It’s pretty damn solid.”

  “Have to hope it holds,” Holveck went on. “Your shooter is Chief Hansen, who launched you before. Remember to be easy on the stick, you don’t need it back in your lap to get airborne. Ten degrees on the nose should be all you need. But if you cold shot or the landing gear folds, you’re going to ditch off the port side. If that happens, you eject. Don’t try to ride it out. We’re making five knots into the wind to give you more lift and if the jet rolls or ditches too close we may hit it.”

  “Plus jets don’t float real well,” Chief Hansen grinned. “If you don’t eject you could find yourself a hundred feet down before you get out of the straps.”

  Hardin lit a final cigarette. “That’s comforting, thanks.”

  “Last,” Holveck said, “if we can’t get this bird up to at least a hundred thirty-five knots it will probably stall on you. If that happens you eject.”

  “Give the bloke a chance to breathe, you lot!” Smith exclaimed. They all laughed.

  Hardin stubbed his cigarette out in the butt kit, casting a last glance about the dark flight deck. “Well, guess I’d better quit stalling,” he muttered, putting on his flight helmet. Smith had produced a Soviet flight suit and white Zsh-3 helmet which, as he explained, were “a bit old” but a fairly good fit.

  “Damn,” Hansen breathed, sounding impressed as he surveyed Hardin. “You sure look the part, Major.”

  “So long, pilot. Good luck.” Holveck clasped his hand firmly then motioned for the Lockheed technicians to follow him and they vanished into a hatch on the island.

  Smith flipped Hardin a small object, which he realized was a sleek Italian switchblade, maybe seven inches long. “My lucky knife,” the Brit explained with a grin. “Carried it through the War. It might do you some good.”

  Hardin zipped the knife into a pocket and adjusted the Colt .45 in its shoulder holster. He had seven clips in another pocket. His kneeboard and package of clothing had already been secured in the cockpit of the MiG. Smith shook his hand. “Right then. Whatever happens, stay calm, don’t panic, and use your head.”

  “I’ll try to remember,” he muttered as he clambered up the wing of the MiG and slid into the cockpit, watching the British agent disappear through the hatch.

  Hardin reached up and slid the canopy shut, sealing him into the MiG. He was fairly large but the cockpit was roomy enough, and his shoulders were at the level of the fuselage where the bubble canopy gave him an excellent view. His package of Russian goods was secured against the fuselage behind his left elbow, his kneeboard forward of the package. He looked out and saw the shooter giving him a hand signal, and he initiated the startup procedure. It was a little tricky and getting the hang of the sequence of events took practice. With one hand he flipped the starter enable switch, and with the other he operated the starter. Once he heard the Klimov ignite, he slowly opened the high-pressure fuel cock, monitoring the temperature gauge for any signs of overheating. For reasons not yet fully apparent to the West, Klimovs demonstrated a sometime tendency to overheat on startup, in which case he would have to abort the procedure and try again. Once the fuel cock was fully open and the temperature gauge read normal, he advanced the throttle to idle. He was gratified to hear the familiar spooling whine as his left hand closed around the throttle and slid it forward to the idle notch.

  He began his post-start check. The panel in front of him bristled with switches and gauges, and while the lettering was in Cyrillic he had committed their functions to memory so he didn’t have to translate on the fly. The instrument layout was similar to the MiG-15’s, Mikoyan-Gurevich thankfully holding to the design philosophy that if something worked it didn’t need to be changed. The designers apparently hadn’t figured cockpit ergonomics out yet, as the MiG’s instruments were placed in seemingly random order. Airbrake control, trim switches and the oxygen regulator were located along the left cockpit wall, where a pilot accustomed to U.S. jets would not intuitively think to look for them. Nor were they placed in a natural position for the pilot’s hand to reach. The transmit switch was on the throttle, trigger and airbrake switches on the stick. The instruments were marked in meters or kilometers per hour and could be fairly puzzling if a pilot had no experience in mentally making the conversion to feet and knots. Gear and flaps were hydraulically controlled, but in an emergency situation could be activated by pulling a set of handles, then working another black handle on the right wall of the cockpit. He scanned the radio altimeter, airspeed indicator, chronometer, nose attitude indicator, artificial horizon bubble and compass; at the base of the panel between his legs sat the MiG’s radio equipment. At the top of the panel, placed directly between his eyes and the outer canopy glass, was the standard MiG reflector gunsight. The stick on the MiG was higher than the stick on American fighters; those tended to be low enough that the pilot could rest his arm on his right leg. The MiG’s stick was at chest height and flying one for any significant length of time resulted in a bad case of ‘gorilla arm.’ The MiG was hot and he switched the cabin temp
erature switch to ‘cold.’ Pressurization air was bled from the Klimov’s number six compressor stage and fed through a series of check valves and heat exchangers, but pressurization wouldn’t occur until the throttle was at sixty percent. He gave Chief Hansen the thumbs-up signal.

  Hardin was perspiring but it wasn’t because of the heat inside the cockpit. He was used to having a good mile of runway in front of him, not a few hundred feet of steel deck plating. Anxiety was a strange feeling, one he wasn’t used to, and having the skipper spend a good ten minutes warning him of potential disasters hadn’t helped. But he seemed to be feeling that odd nervous sensation more frequently, and he spent an abortive moment or two wondering about that. All too quickly Hansen was giving him the thumbs-up in return.

  With his left hand he slid the throttle smoothly forward, watching the temperature gauge, and the MiG shook in its restraints as the Klimov’s idle whine rose to a stark howl. He snapped a salute with his right hand, then wrapped it around the stick. He saw the shooter throw his arms forward and then a giant kicked him in the back and his vision tunneled.

  Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan

  A few hours later Ushakov heard a truck rattle onto the gravel compound. He put his coat on and jammed his usanka on his head, heading out of the cold SecurityBuilding where he’d been idly reviewing some unimportant paperwork. Kalyugin still hadn’t returned from his meeting; the director’s office stood empty, the lights off. The young soldier had parked the truck beside the MIK-2-1 Building and Ushakov felt gratified, for he’d demonstrated foresight enough not to park in front of the SecurityBuilding. That would have started talk. He’d take a walk over there instead.