by Howard Cohen
Miller had only three choices. Wait till they were closer and open fire. Kill a few; maybe the others might run away. Then make a run for it. The second choice, he could run for it now, or three he could surrender. Miller stood, unbuckled his belt with his sidearm and put his hands in the air.
For a few minutes, he was sure they were going to kill him. They knocked him to the ground, beat with sticks, fists and well-placed kicks.
His lips were bleeding, blood ran down his face from a scalp wound, and he was sure he had a least one broken rib. They shoved him back to their village. Everyone turned out to see him and hit with fist or stick. He was dragged to a small shed and thrown inside. It was dark, hot, humid and smelled of feces. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he found he was not alone. Someone was lying on the floor, propped up in the corner of the room. Miller went over and knelt. It was Krimm.
At first, he thought he was dead. Then Krimm groaned and his right eye opened. The left was swollen shut. His face was a mass of bruises. He had a deep wound in his shoulder that had cut through his collar bone. He had been hamstrung.
“Miller,” he whispered through torn lips and fractured teeth. “I took four of the bastards down. I Almost made it, “He gasped. Then he died. Miller closed Krimm’s eye and went through his pockets to see if they had missed anything when they searched him. Nothing. He sat on the other side of the room. It wouldn’t take long for the body to start to smell.
He took stock of himself. Cut lip, maybe a broken rib, bruises, nothing serious. Miller was tired and very thirsty. Time passed slowly. Glad I didn’t shoot anyone he thought, looking over at Krimm.
He heard voices of people approaching the shed. A farmer pulled open the door revealing several more farmers with sickles and knives. One man went to Krimm, pulled him up and dropped him.
He said something to the others. They grabbed Miller, dragging him to a cart pulled by a water buffalo. Gestures indicated he was to get in. He climbed up. Dirty foul, smelling hay lined the cart. Two men had wrapped Krimm’s body in an old blanket and threw it into the cart with Miller. One of the men handed Miller an old cola can with water in it and some rice wrapped in a thick green leaf. Miller thanked him. He ate part of the rice and saved the rest just in case there was no more to come—the water he gulped down. Miller handed the can back to the man who waved it off. From his gestures, Miller gathered he was to keep it to refill it when he could.
Over the next several days he went through a dozen villages. In each, they threw rotten vegetables, feces and stones at him. Krimm’s bloated body smelled so bad that the driver of the cart refused to proceed while it was in the back. Finally, after much argument, yelling and even some shoving the body was removed.
Two days later, they reached the main highway. A military vehicle was waiting. Before entering the truck, they covered his head with a hood. Although he did not resist, he was beaten, then chained to a bar on the floor of the truck. From their voices, he could tell that two guards sat facing him. Every so often, one would reach across and slap him across the face. Then they laughed. Miller did not respond. With the hood on his head, he could not see the slaps coming, which made it worse. After a long drive with many twists, turns and potholes, they stopped. He heard the driver say something, and then they drove for a short distance before stopping. The doors opened, hands grabbed him, unlocked his chains, dragged him down a flight of stairs, along a corridor, shoved him through a door that slammed shut, then bolted. He pulled off his hood. It was a cinder block room with no window. An iron cot without mattress or blanket was against one wall. There was a bucket in one corner he decided was his toilet. He ached all over, and every breath reminded him of his broken ribs.
Four days ago, he was in the officer’s club drinking a vodka tonic thinking about a good looking Thai girl who worked in the PX. He had heard stories of what went on in the Hanoi Hilton. Was he at the Hilton? Miller knew the worst was coming. He was afraid. Not so much of the torture but of how he would respond. Would he be able to hold out? How long could he last? Everybody eventually breaks.
The door opened, two soldiers rushed in and clubbed him to the floor. He was dazed, tried to stand and dropped to his knees. They grabbed him under the arms and dragged him
to a room at the end of the hall.
One soldier knocked, listened for the okay and opened the door. An officer sat stiffly behind a metal desk. A single metal chair faced the officer. The soldiers closed the door and took up positions behind the chair.
“Sit Lt.Miller.” The officer said in almost perfect English. “I am Captain Ho. I will be your interrogator during your stay here. If you cooperate, it will be easy for you. If you make it difficult for me to do my job, it will not be pleasant.”
“Lt. Robert Miller, 05234016, US Airforce,” Miller said, keeping eye contact with Ho.
“What was the aircraft you ejected from?” Ho asked pleasantly.
“Lt. Robert Miller,05234016, US Airforce.”
“Your aircraft was a B-52. I know that. Did you eject from the top or the bottom of the aircraft?” Ho asked. As Miller was about to repeat his mandated statement, Ho interrupted.
“Stop, stop. I know what you are required to say according to your military code. I have heard it all before. Eventually, all have given me the information I require.” He nodded.
A guard yanked Miller out of the chair. Another punched him in the stomach doubling him over, then punched him in the kidneys dropping him to his knees. Miller screamed, pleaded with them to stop then vomited. Nothing in life had prepared him for violence. It went on until he was unconscious. When he opened his eyes, he was on the floor of his cell. Pain radiated through his body. He did not try to get up. By the door was a jar and a metal plate with rice. Miller crawled over to the door. The jar contained water which he greedily drank. It was warm with rust flakes floating on the top. It made no difference to him. He ate the rice, then crawled to his cot and painfully lifted himself on. The light bulb flickered and went out.
Over the next several weeks, vigorous questioning continued. There was no day or night. Time did not exist only pain. They bound his arms behind him and attached a rope to a pulley above. Then they pulled on the line until his shoulders almost dislocated. In his agony he began to dissociate, babble, foul himself, refuse food and would not walk even if beaten. They stopped the torture sessions.
For a while, he was left alone in solitary confinement. No beatings, no questions. Then as suddenly as it stopped, it started again—continual loud noise, flashing lights, and beatings. Miller’s mind wandered away. His frames of reference were gone. It went on endlessly. Finally, he relented, he had no resistance left; he was a broken man.
“Did you eject from the top or bottom of the aircraft?”
“The top, the top. ”Miller barely whispered.
“Are you the Electronic Warfare Officer?”
“Yes.”
“Are you also familiar with the radar systems?”
“Yes.” Miller sobbed. He hung his head.
The next day he received new clothes, better food, and a clean room with a bed and shower. Miller didn’t care. His mind was running a continual loop of fear and pain.
13
Secret Military Base, USSR
January 1973
A month later he was taken handcuffed from his cell, driven to an airfield and placed on a North Vietnamese military aircraft. Miller had one hand cuffed to the seat. A Vietnamese soldier handed him a sandwich and bottle of water.
During the long flight, no one spoke to him. When the plane landed, he was hooded and placed in a car. Traffic noises indicated a busy city. Miller estimated it took twenty minutes from the aircraft to their destination. It was tall building based on how long an elevator ride it took to get to their floor. Miller was led down a hallway to a room then handcuffed to the sides of the metal chair on which he was seated.
>
He heard the door open then close. Someone took his hood off. The man was six foot, dark black hair, hard brown eyes, with a scar at the corner of his left eye. He wore an expensive Dagray suit, white shirt, and red tie.
“How was your flight Lt.Miller?” The man spoke with a distinctive Russian accent. “I am Sergi Kislov. KGB.” He waited for a response from Miller. None was forthcoming.
“Let me explain why you are here. Our friends the Vietnamese have given you to us. We are interested in your B-52s: their capabilities, especially radar and defense. You will help us with this. I hope you will do this without us having to revert to abusive methods.
Robert Miller was a broken man. He could not resist. “Whatever you want.” He mumbled.
There was no point in resisting. Miller had broken once and would break again. During the Korean War, American POWs were rumored to have been sent to the Soviet Union. The North Vietnamese were doing the same. There were reports of sightings of Americans in Soviet prisons and gulags. He didn’t care. Whatever they wanted, they could have.
Miller was sent to a secret military base somewhere in the middle of the country. His quarters were in a small house: single bedroom, full bath, kitchen and den. The furniture was old, probably from the thirties: dense wood, lots of cushions, lamps with glass shades and a working fireplace. Firewood was stacked outside. A ten-foot fence surrounded the house. In the distance, he could see snowcapped mountains.
Bookshelves and file cabinets were full of material on the US and Soviet aircraft including up to date schematics, along with Journals with the latest articles on electronic warfare.
His new “handler” was Boris Popov. An older man, with gray hair and pattern baldness. Five-foot six, moderately overweight and with a jovial disposition. Boris was waiting for him at the house when he arrived. Unlike Sergei, he dressed in an old blue sport coat with well-worn leather patches on the elbows, white shirt without a tie, and suspenders holding up beige slacks.
“Welcome, Robert to base forty-two. I am Boris your handler, whatever that means.” His English was good with only a tinge of accent. “Let me show you around your new home. Old furniture confiscated a long time ago from some capitalist. It holds up well. Your den has all the material you will need to do your work.” Boris said and gestured for Miller to sit. “The Vietnamese send us the names of the airmen they capture. We investigate and decide who we want. Finding you was an unbelievable act of good fortune. Why they would put you in a B-52 in a dangerous situation was insanity.”
“They didn’t. I told the officer who was flying that night I was replacing him for that mission. I wanted to see in a real situation how my work functioned.” Miller said softly.
Boris said,” You were a prodigy, a mathematics genius. You graduated Bronx Science high school at twelve. Your parents felt you were not emotionally ready for college. Hired Professors to come to the house to homeschool you in advanced mathematics. Even chess masters. At age fifteen, you entered MIT. Spent five years earning a Masters, two PhDs as well as writing a book on the future of avionics. Then at twenty, you took over Boeing’s Research and development with particular emphasis on military applications. You could have avoided military service, but you did not. You were allowed to fly but never in combat situations.” Miller listened but did not reply. He wanted to cry. To grieve for who he had been.
“I believed I could better design aircraft, develop systems if I had practical experience. The combat flight was a rash decision which I had to do.”
Boris continued, “Much of the base is off-limits to you at this time. If you succeed, things will change. Now get some rest. Someone will deliver clothes, food and things we have found Americans enjoy. Choices will come later. Okay?”
Miller nodded. ”Okay.”
Miller was severely depressed. For two weeks he was left alone. Miller spent most of the time in bed, only getting up to use the toilet. He was ashamed and had frequent crying jags. He had lived a protected life, free from pain and suffering. Never had a bloody nose or a scrape from sliding into third base. Women were an afterthought. A few girlfriends none serious. His entire life revolved around academics.
Boris visited him at the end of the second week. Miller was still in bed. Boris sat at the edge of the bed for a while without saying anything.
“You must get up. Moscow expects your cooperation. Someone will be here tomorrow morning at seven. Be ready to go with him. If you stay in bed, things will not go well. Do you remember how things were back in Vietnam? “Boris lectured. He left without further comment.
A young soldier arrived at exactly at 0700 AM. He escorted Miller to an empty gym, then proceeded to put him through a light workout. After a shower, he accompanied him back to the house.
After a week, Miller felt better physically. His depression worsened. by guilt about breaking under torture, then cooperating with the enemy. Worst was the knowledge that he was afraid of additional pain and would do anything to avoid it. He was a coward, a traitor, a disgrace. Miller slept poorly when he slept and ate sparingly. Every day Boris would visit. He asked Miller about his parents, what life was like growing up, what life was like in the United States. Most of the time, Miller would not answer. But Boris’s visits were vital to him. Contact with another human being who seemed sympathetic. Over several weeks he began to talk with Boris about his life. Boris shared stories of his growing up in Moscow. Between his workouts and Boris’s visits, he began to come out of his depression.
Boris slowly began to ask him about military matters. They wanted to know everything about the B-52. Frequencies, codes he knew had already been changed, how they planned bombing runs, munitions, defense systems. Most important to them was electronic warfare and defense systems.
Miller answered all of their questions. He had resisted once and failed. The thought of going through the torture again nauseated him. Only Boris’s visits kept him from a self-inflicted injury.
On Boris’s next visit he brought schematics and pictures of circuits from a new MiG they were designing.
“There’s a problem we can’t seem to solve in avionics of the new MiG. I‘d appreciate it if you would take a look at these. See what you think.
Boris took a chessboard from his briefcase. “Let’s play?” Miller nodded.
Boris set up the board. They played three games. Miller won each. “You play exceptionally well. I’ll leave the set.
“I’ll be back in a few days to see what you think about the MiG.”
With a project to work on, Miller was reinvigorated. He found the problem with ease. It was a mislabeled circuit in one of the redundant circuits. It was an error any graduate engineer would find with due diligence. They were testing him. Over the next few weeks, Boris brought more complicated problems to be solved. None were a challenge. At the end of the second month, Boris handed him a schematic from the F-14 Tomcat.
“Look these over. See if there is a way to jam the targeting radar.”
For Miller, this was the moment of truth. If he did what Boris asked, he was a traitor. Miller could rationalize assisting with Russian aircraft. Helping them defeat American systems was treason. There were only a few choices. If he refused, they would break him again. It would be easier the second time. Or they might just decide he was a liability and kill him. Miller would do their bidding. Somehow, he would find a way to serve two masters.
Miller picked up the Tomcat file and went to his office.
14
Moscow FSB Headquarters
Headquarters 1973
FSB headquarters, the Federal Security Bureau, is located on Lubyanka Square in central Moscow in the same building formerly occupied by their predecessors the KGB. It’s often referred to as the Lubyanka building.
Dimitri Ivanov, deputy commander of FSB, was a sixty-five, six feet four, shaved head, slightly overweight, and one of the most powerful men in the Russian Fe
deration. He was intelligent, politically astute, with a reputation for ruthlessness. He was good friends with Yuri Andropov head of the KGB. Ivanov sat behind a large ornate wooden desk that had belonged to czar Nicolas.
Boris Popov sat opposite him. Boris had been married to Ivanov’s sister Katrina for thirty-three years. Her death the year before had been devasting for both of them.
Ivanov poured two glasses of vodka and pushed one across the desk to Boris. They clicked glasses downing the vodka in a single gulp.
“How are you doing my friend?” Ivanov asked refilling their glasses.
“As well as can be expected. Life without Katrina has been difficult. They say it improves with time. I hope they are right,” he said as he reached for his drink.
“How is your American doing? “
“’We’ve tested him several times with different problems. He finds the correct solutions in no time at all. Last week we gave him his first American aircraft to evaluate, Tomcat F-14. He not only discovered a flaw in the targeting system but showed us how to exploit it. The schematics were old and, I’m sure the Americans have noted the problem. Miller crossed the line; he’s our man now.” Boris said, finishing his drink and holding out his empty glass for another refill.
“Good. Very good. Is Miller holding up psychologically? They did quite a job on him in Hanoi.”
“He was depressed, seriously depressed when he first came to us. Over time he came to realize what his choices were. When he received the Tomcat file, he made his choice. I will begin to make life better for him. Give him more freedom of movement, social opportunities, better work environment. According to his curriculum vitae, as well as our stateside sources, he is a genius. It was our good fortune that he was on the B-52 that went down.” Boris said standing. “I’ll see you for dinner at seven.”
