by Howard Cohen
“You can get out now,” Sergei said.
Jax stood, placed his hands on the sides of the barrel and swung his legs over the edge. He stretched the stiffness away.
“I could not stop roadside and take a chance someone would see you get out of the barrel. A good place to piss.”
Jax agreed, walking over the nearest tree. The next three hours were among the worst he had ever spent. His muscles ached, the odor of stale brine combined with the jostling brought on nausea. When the truck slowed to a stop at the checkpoint, he was ready to be captured. No one opened the doors, and the vehicle proceeded for another twenty minutes. Jax heard a door opening felt the truck turning to back in, then stopping. Finally, Sergei freed him from his confinement. They were alone in the pickling company’s garage.
“From here you are on your own,” Sergei said.
“Where do you stay in Sarov Sergei?” Jax asked
“I have a girlfriend. Polish girl.”
“Good tonight I will stay with you and your girlfriend.”
“No, No. She would not like that. Not possible.”
Jax walked over to Sergei, putting his arm around his shoulder. “I’m staying with you. I will pay you well for the hospitality. So let’s not argue.” Sergei did not argue. His girlfriend was named Katarina. She was a petite blond in her late twenties. Cute, not pretty. Sergei introduced Jax as his friend Dimitri from work who needed a place to stay for the night. Katarina had no objections. It was a small one-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette, living room and bath. Jax had noticed a restaurant at the corner and offered to pay for dinner.
Katarina worked as a laboratory technician at a local hospital. She and Sergei had met six months ago at a bar in Sarov’s Polish area. “Lots of Polish people here. When Russia controlled Poland, many came here to work in the factories. Many stayed. My parents returned to Warsaw, I liked my job, so I stayed.”
They drank several vodkas before returning to the apartment. Katarina put a sheet and blanket on the couch. Jax lay on the sofa, listening to Sergei and Katarina argue. Finally, he fell asleep.
Katarina turned on the water to fill the coffee maker. Jax stood, stretched and headed for the bathroom. When he returned the smell of coffee filled the room. Katarina filled three cups. Sergei came out of the bedroom, walked to the door, looked back at Jax “I return from Moscow every three days. When you are ready to return come to the pickle factory at 10 AM. “Sergei left, slamming the door behind him.
“Sergei is unhappy. “Katarina said,” We fought. If you weren’t here, he would have slept on the couch. Our relationship is over.” She said, going back into the bedroom. Jax finished his coffee, poured a second cup then sat on the sofa considering his next move. Twenty minutes later, Katarina came out of the bedroom. She was dressed in her white laboratory technician uniform. Her hair combed, makeup in place and Jax reappraised his initial evaluation. When Katarina was at her best, she was lovely.
“I have to leave for work. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” She handed him a key. “So, you can get back in if I am not home from work.”
“Thank you. Do you have a telephone directory?”
Katarina opened a cabinet above the sink, removed an inch-thick volume and handed it to Jax.
“Thanks. Is there a men’s clothing store anywhere near here?”
She provided him directions and left for work. The research center had only one number listed. At nine o’clock, he called using a burner cell phone he had brought with him.
“Research Institute,” a woman said, “how may I direct your call.”
“Dr.Vitaly Sonkin please,” Jax said in halting Russian.
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Professor Olaf Nielsen, from Norway.” There was a short delay before a woman answered. She asked his name and the reason for his call. Jax explained that they had met at a meeting in Moscow a few months ago and he wanted to discuss a paper he was writing with Dr. Sonkin.
“I do not see your name on his appointment list for today. Dr. Sonkin takes no calls without an appointment. I suggest you write him a letter and ask for an appointment.”
“Please tell him Professor Olaf Nielsen from Oslo called.”
Jax hung up. Poured the now cold coffee into the sink, rinsed the cup and left the apartment. He fell in with the morning flow of pedestrians and found the men’s store a half-mile away. He needed clothes that did not smell of stale brine for his meeting with Sonkin.
Jax walked to the research institute. It was modern by Russian standards, surrounded by a fifteen-foot fence, guards at the entrance, surveillance camera everywhere and dog patrols. There was no way he was getting in or out of the building. By the time he returned to the apartment, it was getting dark. He stopped at the restaurant they had eaten at night before for takeout.
Katarina seemed delighted to see him when she returned from work. She threw off her shoes, sat on the couch, massaging her feet. “Pour me a vodka Dimitri.” she said adding “please.”
Jax handed her one, which she quickly drank. He poured another. “I brought some food we can reheat.
“They ate at the small kitchen table. Katarina gave him a summary of her day in the laboratory. Her boss was a lesbian who had hit on her more than once. She had stopped over the last month because she found a girlfriend. “I like men. But I have to admit sometimes I wonder what it would be like to make love with a woman. I mean I have seen it in a porn film, but that’s not the same as actually doing it. Have you ever thought of doing it with another man?”
“Never,” Jax said.
While she took care of the dishes, he put the sheets on the couch. Katarina dried her hands, walked over to Jax, took his hand and said, “Tonight you don’t sleep on the couch.” And led him to the bedroom.
7
Sarov
March 2019
When Sonkin returned from the airfield, he was happy. The new MiG 35 Stealth aircraft had passed its first flight test with only one moment of concern. At forty-thousand feet, the pilot reported that for a few seconds all instruments had ceased to function. Telemetry from the test indicated there was a total system failure that lasted four seconds. Testing continued without recurrence. When the plane landed, the post-flight engineering team could find no reason for the problem. The MiGs refueled then went up again for a repeat of the test. Two more flights had also been perfect. It was considered an anomaly.
Perfect. That is, the virus and backdoor control worked flawlessly. Sonkin thought to himself. When he reached his office, there was a note that a professor Olaf Nielson had called. Sonkin was immediately worried. He had spoken with Nielsen at the Moscow meeting a month ago without any follow-up. FSB monitored all calls made at the Institute. It was standard procedure for anyone with a secret clearance. If Nielsen said anything about what they had spoken, they would arrest him immediately. Yet he had to find out what Nielsen wanted.
8
Research and Design Institute Sarov, Russsia
March 2019
Oleg Dostoevsky looked at the readout for the MiG 35 test runs. Something bothered him about the results. A single anomalous incident that had it persisted would have destroyed the aircraft should have grounded the MiG for an extensive review of every component of every system. Yet, Sonkin had authorized an almost immediate second test with just a cursory examination. Then repeated the test flight several times before finally declaring it an anomaly and authorizing a total system review.
He knew that Sonkin was a genius, but this was way outside his usual procedure. All systems had passed extensive scrutiny. Oleg looked at the readout for the four seconds when the aircraft systems went offline. Nothing in any of the readouts indicated which system failed. No single defect could shut down all systems including the redundancies Sonkin had always insisted were necessary for just such situations.
Oleg
Dostoevsky had graduated at the top of his class from Cal Tech. He lived in the US for six years before returning to take the assistant director job at the Institute. Oleg was to be Sonkin’s successor when he retired in a few years. He had great respect for Sonkin, especially admiring his intuitive thinking about artificial intelligence in combat systems.
Although Sonkin always spoke Russian Oleg knew he also spoke English. Once during a group meeting, one of the scientists said something and Oleg said in English “That’s a load of crap.” The two others in the room did not speak English and looked at him, but he could see by Sonkin’s reaction that he understood. After the meeting, he approached Sonkin, “Do you speak English? Oleg asked in English. Sonkin said “I don’t understand you. Speak Russian.” Oleg dropped the subject although he felt that Sonkin understood, yet for some reason choose not to admit it.
How would I shut down all these systems at the same time, return them to function and leave no trace? Oleg thought. Only two scenarios fit Occam’s Razor. It could be an anomalous occurrence, or someone had implanted a self-destructing worm in the programs of each system.
The MiG was scheduled for further tests this week. If it did not happen again, it would go into full production. If it was a worm, there were only two people capable of producing such a program, perhaps only one, Sonkin. Why would he do such a thing? Maybe he was developing a method of combating such a worm. That’s why it lasted only four seconds, he initiated it and then countered it.
He would wait for an appropriate time to ask Sonkin about it.
9
Sarov, Russia
March 2019
Jax made a pot of coffee, read the local newspaper while waiting for the phone to ring. At three o’clock the phone rang twice before he answered it.
“Dr. Sonkin?”
“Yes, Olaf?”
“No. My name is Dieter Stossel. I’m here to talk with you about what you discussed with Olaf. This is a secure line. You can speak freely.”
“I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dr. Sonkin, we only have a few minutes. You asked Olaf Nielsen, at a meeting in Moscow, to tell the American embassy in Oslo that you want to defect. I’m here to talk about that.”
After a short delay, Sonkin said, “If this is not a secure line you have signed my death warrant.”
“It’s secure. Where can we meet.”
“Beneath the old Monastery is a large tunnel system. Tours are offered twice daily. Take the late tour, at 2 PM. The tour guide is Father Fedor. After the tour ends, people will go up a flight of stairs to the Monastery. Remain behind with Father Fedor.”
“I’ll be there.”
In Oslo Olaf Neilsen hung up the phone, placed on the ground, smashed it with his foot, broke it into individual pieces and deposited them in several different trash cans.
10
Research and Design Institute Sarov,Russia
March 2019
Oleg was still bothered by not being able to explain the four-second freeze. The MiG 35s were flying without any problems. He was taking one more look at the graphs when Pavel Krupin, a senior analyst, came in with copies of recent tests on a guidance system.
“These are the reports you asked for. I have checked to make sure all the data is accurate.” Pavel said, placing the file on the desk. He looked at the screen Oleg was studying. “I see you are looking at the anomaly in the second MiG 35 test—strange occurrence. We never found a reason. Sonkin himself checked everything.”
“Yes, very odd. And there have been no problems of any kind with the thirty-five after hundreds of hours. Still, it bothers me that we have no explanation.” Oleg said, pushing back from his desk.
“Not so odd. I remember that when we tested the Sukhoi Su-27, the pilot reported that for a split second he thought all systems had quit. It was so fast he couldn’t be sure. We pulled every system and found nothing. The graphs all looked good with no blips at the time the incident was supposed to have occurred. Sonkin himself double checked everything.”
“Interesting. Do you happen to remember in which test it appeared?”
“No. But I think it was in the first few tests.”
“Thank you, Micha.” They both walked out of the office together. Micha to his laboratory, Oleg to the archive room in the basement. The vast amount of data produced over the years at the old Institute and the new were stored on separate servers in the archive room.
He took a seat at a terminal, logged in, and began to search for the data on the Sukhoi Su 27. A vast amount of data existed on every aspect of the aircraft. He narrowed his search to flight tests then began with test number one.
11
St. Seraphim Monastery Sarov, Russia
March 2019
Jax paid two euros for the tour then joined a group of five. Father Fedor was in his late-forties, five-foot-six, long beard with a few streaks of gray with sharp piercing blue eyes that gave him a stern look. He gave a short history of the Monastery then lead the group down a steep flight of stairs into the tunnel system. The tunnel was cold, moist, illuminated by lights spaced every twenty feet. Some walls were brick and plaster, others cut stone, with embedded icons in some areas.
Father Fedor explained that worshippers dug the tunnels to hide in during times of persecution. In 1927 the Bolsheviks did away with churches and monasteries. Many were executed or sent to Siberia. The tunnels hid many of the monks from communists. Eventually, they were all rounded up. It was not until 1992 that the monasteries reverted to the church. In 2006 monastery life was reestablished here.
Jax remained in the tunnel as Father Fedor lead the tour back up the stairs. Ten minutes later, Sonkin and Father Fedor returned.
“Follow me,” Fedor said. They walked through a series of twisting tunnels stopping before a side passage. “After the communists took over the abbot at the time realized what the future would hold for religious people and ordered a room created in the tunnel for the monks to hide. They chiseled the entrance to this side passage to make it appear that it had been started but not completed. At the end of the passage is a false wall on a metal track. The door can only be opened by sliding your hand in the slot to the side and pressing a latch release.
Fedor bent over at the waist and entered. They walked bent at the waist for twenty feet before being able to stand again. The tunnel angled right ending at a brick wall. Fedor reached into a crevice, pulled to his left and the wall slid to the side revealing a room. Sonkin entered, turned on a light, beckoned Jax in and closed the door. It was a brick-lined room fifteen by twenty feet. They had drilled through the rock to bring electricity from the church.
“At one time in 1928, there were thirty monks here. They left when the food ran out, and most were captured and executed.”
The room contained a table, five chairs, a metal cot, overhead light, bookcase, propane stove small refrigerator, and chemical portable toilet.
“Father Fedor and I come here to talk. Every place in Sarov is bugged, including the churches. Father found a bug in one of the confessionals. We have similar political beliefs. When it comes to disliking Putin’s Russia, we are kindred spirits. Father is my confessor, so he knows who I am as well as what I intend to do.” Sonkin said, sitting. Jax took a seat opposite him.
“I am here to find out if you want to defect and why.”
“Who are you? Are you CIA?”
“No. I’m Dieter. I have been contracted by them to help you get out of Russia. First, do you still want to defect?”
“Yes. Is Dieter your real name? Not that it matters. If you were able to get into Sarov you must be very resourceful. This the most guarded city in Russia”.
Jax smiled. “’Tell me your story. Take your time, and no detail is too small.”
“First, my name is not Vitaly Sonkin. It’s Robert Miller.” He said in
English. “I was a Lt. in the air force in 1972. I was an electronic warfare expert, a graduate of MIT; some said a mathematics genius. I should never have been in a B-52 flying over Hanoi.
Part 2
1972 – 2020
Hanoi to Sarov
12
Vietnam
October 1972
A line of B52s made their runs over Hanoi in operation Linebacker II. SAMs, resembling flying telephone poles, were coming up in large numbers. Each aircraft took evasive action then returned to line up on the target. Robert Miller followed the missiles on his radar screen and fed the information to the cockpit. The plane jinked right, then left.
As they neared the target area, they had to hold the line to hit the target. The bombardier released the load, and they pulled a right turn. It was then that the plane shuttered violently.
“We’ve been hit. The left-wing is almost gone. Bailout! Bailout!” The pilot shouted.
Miller looked over at Jeff Krimm, the gunner who sat next to him. “Good luck,” he said, pulling the ejection handle. Krimm was a second behind him. The men catapulted out of the top of the aircraft. Air currents separated them as their parachutes glided to the ground from fifteen thousand feet.
Miller watched the ground come closer. He saw a few farmhouses, numerous rice paddies as well as Hanoi off in the distance. Farmers were moving towards the parachutes. Miller landed in a rice paddy. He quickly released his chute, made no attempt to hide it, looked around, then ran toward a cluster of trees at the edge of the paddy. Miller could hear shouts coming his way. There were few places to hide in the contiguous paddies. This group of trees was the only cover for one hundred yards in any direction. He checked his sidearm to make sure a round was chambered then lay flat between two trees. Eight farmers appeared walking on the dykes separating the rice fields. They converged on his abandoned chute and argued over who would get which part. Once that was decided, they looked over at the trees, pointed to his location and approached.
