by Mike Jenne
“So if you need more cash, we’ll front you more cash,” explained Grau. “But be aware that your opportunity to make a profit vanishes as soon as your ledger goes into the red. And one more thing: unless you have a really good excuse, we only allow you to overdraw on two assignments, and then you leave Apex and go back to the Air Force.
“Okay. We’ll talk in greater detail about the accounting process at a later date. Now, I want to pass on some fundamental rules of conduct. You should engrain these in your head and adhere to them always. When you’re travelling, unless we instruct you otherwise, stay away from border areas. Stay away from kids. Avoid contact with young women, at all costs.”
“How young is young?” asked one man, smiling and winking. The man had a flamboyant Fu Manchu moustache, like Joe Namath’s, and an impish smirk like he considered himself a latter-day Don Juan.
“How young?” asked Grau. “If you enjoy being on this side of the grass, you should avoid any females between six and sixty. No matter how innocent your intentions may be, if you approach a female if only to ask directions, it’s a safe bet that at least one local guy already has an eye on her, so you’re setting yourself up for a very ugly confrontation.”
Obviously ignoring Grau’s guidance, the man grinned. He leaned toward the chubby bearded man and whispered a crude comment. The two shared a quiet laugh.
Grau cleared his throat. “As an old man who has seen my share of scrapes and close calls, let me offer some advice,” he said, sharply focusing his one-eyed attention on the mustachioed man. “If you want to be successful in this job, you need to be mindful of human nature. Moreover, you should always strive to treat people with dignity and respect. Let me reiterate: When we send you out in the world, you’ll be on your own with no safety net. If you go out there and insist on being stupid, then you’ll be lucky if you just end up in jail. If you do end up in jail, you’ll be cooling your heels until I come to yank you out, and I probably won’t be in a rush. Understood?”
The man nodded soberly.
“So it’s clear, the rules are entirely different out there. Some infractions will get you expelled from a country, some will land you in jail, but other gaffes will land you in a shallow grave. If you can’t focus on the job and keep your pants zipped, it will be the latter.”
16
PICNIC
Kapustin Yar Cosmodrome, Astrakhan Oblast, USSR
11:25 a.m., Monday, July 29, 1968
Puffing nervously on a cigarette, Gregor Mikhailovich Yohzin waited in his Moskvitch sedan as his driver—a very reliable sergeant from the Ukraine—spread a gray wool blanket in the grass. The sergeant knelt down, smoothed the blanket, and then anchored its corners with three large stones and a picnic basket. He then neatly arranged the basket’s contents—a half-loaf of dark bread, two pans, five bowls, a wedge of cheese and a vacuum bottle of hot tea—next to the blanket. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, Yohzin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He glanced to his left, where a sleeping dog nestled beside him in the narrow back seat. Magnus, the handsome black-and-tan canine, was his constant companion.
A major general in the RSVN—Soviet Strategic Rocket Forces—Yohzin oversaw initial testing of medium-range ballistic missile prototypes at the sprawling Kapustin Yar cosmodrome. While his posting was certainly a plum assignment by Soviet military standards, he perceived it as menial make-work. He didn’t participate in the actual design process, contributing his creativity and perspectives, but merely evaluated the works of others. He deplored his job; his facilities were abysmal, the working environment was blatantly hazardous, and he was constantly compelled to beg and plead for every single kopek of his modest budget.
Ironically, although he was one of the most accomplished aerospace engineers in the Soviet Union, he was relegated to mundane tasks simply because his extensive training and prowess were not formally recognized by any of the premier aerospace design bureaus. In a fair world, he should have been working shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Sergei Korolev or Vladimir Chelomei, envisioning the rockets and spacecraft that would send explorers to the distant reaches of the solar system and beyond, but his destiny was denied. Instead, he was trapped here on the desolate steppes of Purgatory, frittering away his precious time, laboring in obscurity as lesser men lined up to assume the role that rightfully belonged to him.
He swiveled his head to look at the blanket stretched out in the stubbly grass and compelled himself to focus on more immediate matters, rather than dwell on the countless indignities heaped upon him by his superiors. This picnic—a weekly rendezvous with a long-time friend—was one of his favorite diversions. In fact, it was one of the few distractions that Yohzin allowed himself. Unlike others who held elevated ranks in the Soviet military, he didn’t partake in the excesses and amenities that his contemporaries viewed as hard-won perquisites of the office. His lifestyle was modest, if not downright austere.
He wasn’t a bloated glutton who gorged on expensive foods and premium liquor. His palate leaned more toward common staples like buckwheat kasha, onion-stuffed pelimnin, and cabbage-filled pirozhki. Caviar and other extravagant delicacies rarely adorned his plate, unless he was served them at some official function, and even then he ate them grudgingly, strictly out of polite deference to his hosts.
He didn’t keep a jaded mistress, plucked from the enlisted ranks, ready to service his every physical desire. If the truth be known, he had been intimate with only two women—his first wife, who had died of breast cancer nineteen years prior, and his current spouse—in his entire life.
Yohzin, his wife, and their two sons made their home in a simple apartment. It was his sole abode; there was no dacha of rough-hewn logs in a nearby forest where he could seek refuge and solitude.
But despite his otherwise stoic existence, Yohzin did occasionally yield to one vice. He enjoyed the performing arts—particularly orchestras, opera, and the ballet—and so when he visited Moscow on official business, usually once a quarter, he made a point to take in a show or two. Additionally, whenever practical, he brought his family with him to Moscow and the theater, in hopes that his two sons might also eventually acquire his appreciation for the finer things in life.
The sergeant tapped lightly on the window before opening Yohzin’s door. “All ready, sir,” he announced quietly. “The usual, sir? Bring the car back around in an hour?”
Yohzin looked out, pivoted in his seat and nodded. He stepped out the car, stretched, and whistled over his shoulder. Magnus awoke, bounded out of the car behind him, obediently fell into position behind his left heel, and kept pace as he strolled toward the blanket.
An Alsatian, Magnus was descended from a pair presented to Yohzin over two decades ago. Yohzin smiled as he reminisced about the events that led up to that. In the early thirties, as a promising and dependable engineering undergraduate, he had been dispatched to study at the acclaimed Technische Hochschule in Berlin. He closed his eyes and sighed; those were heady days. In that distant era, he had met the esteemed Wernher von Braun, now the fair-haired hero of the American space program. He had even attended meetings of the fabled Verein für Raumschiffahrt—the Society for Space Travel—and had been present when von Braun assisted visionaries Willy Ley and Hermann Oberth as they launched their experimental liquid-fueled rockets from a nearby Army base. Shortly thereafter, von Braun was pressed into service with the German military, designing the Vergeltungswaffen rockets that would eventually wreak terror on London, and the next decade was dark history.
In the aftermath of the war, as the Allied conquerors scrambled to consolidate their plunder, von Braun and his colleagues were valuable commodities. Although he could never openly express such a thought, Yohzin was immensely thankful that von Braun and most of his brighter acolytes had escaped to the West after the inevitable fall of Hitler’s Third Reich. Scooped up by a clandestine OSS intelligence mission called Operation Paperclip, the best and brightest of the German rocket scientists were whisked to the
United States. Most of them went to work for the US Army, at least initially, and later matriculated to NASA where they developed the massive Saturn boosters that would soon propel men to the Moon.
As America reaped the best of the German rocket scientists, the Soviet Union gleaned what was left. Even as the war was grinding to a halt and German forces raced westward to avoid the wrath of the Soviet onslaught, Yohzin and hundreds of his contemporaries were ordered to the former German rocket test facilities in Lehesten, in what would eventually become the Deutsche Demokratische Republik—East Germany. There, they were set to work analyzing the A-4 rockets left intact at the end of hostilities.
Yohzin and other Soviet officers were assigned to test-fire and appraise the A-4s. Surprisingly, a substantial number of German engineers and scientists also participated in the tests. Some were essentially forced to toil for their former enemies, but many joined the effort voluntarily. The luring prospects of steady wages and better living conditions were powerful inducements in a country shattered by war. Yohzin had been selected to handpick and oversee a group of them, not only because he was he fluent in their language, but also because he actually studied with many of them before the War.
But his was not the only team of Germans. Most of his fellow officers triumphantly lorded over their own German subordinates as if they were barely more than indentured servants. In contrast, Yohzin treated his charges with dignity and respect. In return, his Germans consistently rewarded him with productivity and—more importantly—reliability. While the rockets of his counterparts frequently fizzled or obliterated themselves on their launching pads, Yohzin’s rockets—granted extra attention by their Teutonic engineers—flew straight and true. In time, the burgeoning research effort was shifted from East Germany to Kapustin Yar, then a newly established rocket testing range near the Volga River, approximately a hundred kilometers west of Stalingrad. Later, as the program gained momentum and the Soviet engineers developed new rockets that were superior to those of their predecessors, the German scientists—no longer trusted to work on the new designs—were allowed to return home.
As they departed the Soviet Union in 1950, Yohzin’s Germans, greatly appreciative of his kindness, presented him with the breeding pair of Alsatians. Like von Braun and his cohorts, Yohzin vehemently believed that rocketry’s true value was for mankind’s peaceful exploration of outer space. In the years that followed, he progressively rose up the ranks within the fledgling RSVN, but despite his successes, he also found himself ostracized for his previous relationships with the Germans. Now, snubbed by most of his contemporaries, disillusioned and bitter, he was just a few years away from the meager promises of military retirement.
Yohzin sat down on the blanket and loosened his stiff collar. The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly. The grass and clover were ruffled by a gentle breeze. He nibbled on bread smeared with yogurt as he awaited the arrival of his lunch companion, Lieutenant General Rustam Abdirov, also of the RSVN. The two had been close friends since their first meeting in Lehesten at the conclusion of the war; a former artillery officer, Abdirov had been Yohzin’s boss during the years of testing the German A-4 rockets, and much of his early career had been built upon the string of Yohzin’s successes with his German team.
Now that Abdirov had returned to Kapustin Yar, the two men had resumed their close acquaintance. While all of the work at the cosmodrome was secret, Abdirov’s endeavors were considerably more secret than most. Although he could only hint of his labors to Yohzin, Abdirov was now apparently at the forefront of the Soviet military’s efforts to exploit space. Literally fenced off from outsiders, an isolated section—the old Burya launch site—of the cosmodrome had been allocated for his efforts. The elaborate Burya facility had been built to test a ramjet-powered intercontinental cruise missile, but closed in 1961 when the project was cancelled.
A large blue sedan pulled up. Two aides disembarked, assisted Abdirov from the vehicle, climbed back in, and the car puttered away in the distance. The general was tall and terribly thin; from a distance, he might easily be mistaken for a scarecrow or an emaciated concentration camp survivor. Leaning on a cane, he shuffled with a stiff-legged gait, but made good headway nonetheless.
As Abdirov drew near, Yohzin resisted the urge to gasp; even though he now saw his friend on at least a weekly basis, he could never become entirely accustomed to his ghastly appearance.
Four years older than Yohzin, Abdirov was something of a mentor. He was one of a handful of senior officers who appreciated Yohzin’s training and abilities. Over the years, he had repeatedly approached their superiors within the RSVN, making pleas on behalf of his protégé, striving to land Yohzin a posting with his organization or one of the premier aerospace design bureaus. Unfortunately, his petitions fell on deaf ears, and Yohzin remained stuck on the same rung of the ladder.
They embraced like brothers, and Abdirov loudly kissed Yohzin on both cheeks, in the custom of his nomadic forebears. Never fond of Magnus—and vocally so—the elder man cast a baleful gaze at the canine. Magnus, obviously unsettled by the general’s gruesome appearance, tucked his thick tail between his legs and scampered in retreat. He eventually plopped down in the grass several meters from the blanket and kept a wary eye on Abdirov.
“Help an old invalid?” asked Abdirov. Owing to his extensive injuries, Abdirov’s knees had only a few degrees range of motion, so sitting down and getting up were enormous chores for him. Obliging, Yohzin clasped his mentor’s wrists and gently lowered him to the blanket. Abdirov winced as his desiccated skin literally crackled like old cellophane; Yohzin could only imagine the pain he endured on a daily basis. Making himself as comfortable as he could, Abdirov reclined on his left flank like a shepherd, propping himself up on his left elbow. Yohzin opened the vacuum bottle, poured a cup half-full of steaming tea heavily laced with sugar, and handed it to his friend.
“Some lapsha, Rustam?” said Yohzin, holding out a ceramic bowl of noodles. “Or perhaps some mutton? Luba made it especially for you.”
Abdirov grinned. Only the left corner of his damaged lips turned up when he smiled; the right side was permanently frozen in a drooping smirk. “Then I must eat it, for Luba’s sake!” he declared. Because of the damage to his mouth, his words came out in somewhat of an effeminate lisp. He reached into a bowl, popped a chunk of boiled mutton—besbarmack—between his teeth, and chewed with gusto. “Delicious! Just like my dear Ana used to make. Your Luba is really some cook. I am so smitten! If she wasn’t yours, Gregor Mikhailovich, I swear that I would pull her up on my horse and whisk her away.”
As they shared the lunch that Yohzin’s wife had lovingly prepared, the two men exchanged gossip and speculation about their contemporaries. They conversed about advances in rocketry and space exploration, but some subjects were taboo, even between friends. Yohzin was intensely curious about Abdirov’s activities, for various reasons, but he had learned not to be overly inquisitive. He had long ago learned that Abdirov answered probing questions with silence and was quick to curtail a conversation if Yohzin seemed too eager to tread on forbidden ground.
When they had finished lunch, Yohzin packed the remnants in the wicker picnic basket. Only a small scrap of dark brown bread was left, which he tossed toward Magnus. The dog snapped the morsel out of the air and quickly devoured it, even as Yohzin realized that he had offended his friend. “Prastite,” he mumbled, apologizing for his insensitive gaffe. “Sorry.”
Wagging one of his few fingers, Abdirov scowled as he chastised him. “I’ve warned you, brother. I know that you’re fond of that cur, but you should leave it at home. As I’ve told you repeatedly, your past affiliations are holding you back.”
“I’m sure that you’re correct, Rustam,” admitted Yohzin, nodding glumly.
“You’re damned right I am! If you’re serious about improving your station, trotting that damned dog around doesn’t help matters much. It’s as if you insist on rubbing it in their faces. If you would accept my
counsel and amend your ways, maybe I can convince the powers that be to allow you to come to work for me.”
“I would like that, Rustam,” replied Yohzin.
“Then listen to me, Gregor Mikhailovich,” declared Abdirov, proffering an aluminum flask. “Trust me, bratanik, I am working on phenomenal things, and I could really use someone with your abilities.”
Yohzin drank deeply from the flask and handed it back. In moments, his belly was warmed by the Stolichnaya. Grasping the flask with the three fingers of his right hand, Abdirov drew a long swig. The two men were silent for a few minutes, passing the flask back and forth until the vodka was depleted.
“So tell me, Gregor Mikhailovich, are you are still staying current with technology developments in the West?” asked Abdirov, shielding his eye from the sun’s glare.
“I am,” answered Yohzin. In one of the few instances where he was recognized for his true abilities, Yohzin was widely considered as an authority on the American space program. Six years ago, because of his intimate knowledge of many of the German rocket scientists now working for the Americans, he had been seconded from the RSVN to the GRU—Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye—foreign military intelligence directorate of the Soviet military. He had worked at the GRU’s headquarters—nicknamed the Aquarium—at Khodinka Airfield near Moscow. In this capacity, granted unprecedented access to intelligence materials concerning American rocket development, he became familiar with NASA and its manned spaceflight programs. Periodically, he was called back to Moscow on follow-up assignments.
“Then let me ask you a hypothetical question,” said Abdirov. “Let’s say—theoretically, of course—that I had a requirement to return a vehicle from orbit to a specified landing point, with a high degree of precision.”
“How precise?”
“Within two or three kilometers of the desired landing point,” answered Abdirov, swishing away a fly.
