No one ever tells you, though, that getting what you think you want will strip you of the one thing you truly desire, the reason you chose this odd, demanding career path in the first place. It's gradual at first, the way you find more and more of your time taken up with leadership, paperwork, and developing new subordinates. These duties etch into your flight schedule time, until you finally find yourself putting notes in the Snivel Log, asking the schedulers not to assign you to flights during particular times. The transition of turning into a desk jockey is a gradual slippery slope.
Batman was one of the few men I knew who managed to alternate tours in Washington, D. C., while still maintaining his cockpit proficiency. True, a number of his shore duty tours had been squadron, or attached to the naval test pilot facility in Maryland, but he managed to put in his fair share of time in the Pentagon. Now, in command of CBG14, he was back at sea.
So when the inevitable invitations to tour other Russian facilities in the area came, I was not surprised. Not even dismayed. I accepted as many as I could, feigning good grace and eagerness to see the latest in Russian technology. But in truth, I would rather have been flying every second, and considered those political necessities a complete waste of time.
Not that we would have been doing much flying anyway. A storm had blown in from the north with a vengeance, grounding all but the most determined or critically necessary flights. There was no justification, not in my mind or in the Russians', for allowing either my Tomcat or their aircraft into the air.
According to their meteorologists, the weather would linger for three days. My calendar quickly filled with a host of social and political obligations. Gator, Skeeter, and Sheila would probably spend the entire time drinking vodka and getting to know their counterparts. I just hoped they'd keep their mouths shut. I'd rather have kept them with me, kept their collective mouths under close control. Whatever was going on with the Russians tinkering with scheduled competition evolutions, we were best off keeping it to ourselves now.
I had a host of possible bases to visit, but one in particular caught my attention. There was a naval aviation training facility located far to the south--in Ukraine, actually. Kursk, a city located in the center of Ukraine, and one with a long military history.
Kursk had been a bloody, brutal battlefield during World War II. The Germans, plowing north in their tank battalions, had met a grim and determined Russian force there. It was winter--cold and brutally harsh.
And German troops, unprepared for the snow and ice and frozen mud, floundered and stalled. The small, determined Russian force met them.
Met them and killed them.
Tourists could still see the old gun emplacements, rings of stone now grown over in the fertile soil that had earned the Ukraine the name of "Breadbasket of Europe." But underneath the inches of lush red topsoil, the blood of Russians and Germans ran deep.
One in ten Russians had been killed during that war. It was a price Americans have never paid on their own soil, and the results of it they will never really understand. It makes a nation rabid over the prospect of enemy boots on home soil, scars the nation's psyche in a way that the Vietnam conflict just barely scratched ours. Their experiences in World War I and World War II did much to shape the Russian--or Soviet, if you will--mentality, and I think that in our years of foreign policy, in shaping our nation's conduct toward them back then, we never fully understood the impact. America, splendid in her geographic isolation, has never known enemy soldiers on her land, has never seen brother, son, and neighbor cut down by foreign troops, has never known the rumble of enemy tanks on Main Street, U. S.A.
Not that I am advocating it as a national experience. But we have been blessed, and I wonder sometimes how much of our population truly understands how great that blessing has been.
Like many senior military officers, I am an avid history buff. It is true that those who know history are doomed to repeat it. Technology simply puts a different face on old tactics and strategy. Kursk has always been of particular interest to me, and I welcomed the chance to get to see it up close and personal.
But there was another reason that Kursk fascinated me, one that I had not shared with my Russian hosts. I would not have been surprised to learn that they already knew about it, but I had no intention of confirming their intelligence. If their intelligence network was worth anything at all, then they knew most of what had occurred to me in the last year.
It had been an opportunity I could not pass up. I was between tours, awaiting an available officer billet, and even contemplating the possibility of retiring. My wife, Tomboy, had pointed it out to me first.
It was my father. As I grew older, and contemplated starting a family of my own, his loss became more and more of a void in my life.
Within the Pentagon, my increasing obsession with the fate of my father was a well-known secret. Only my uncle really understood what it meant to me and had understood my sense of outrage and betrayal.
Russia--in the last year, it had become an obscenity to me. I had nightmares about it and woke up yelling. That he could have been shot down I understood. That's the risk you take when you fly combat air. But Russia! Being here myself--making pleasantries with men who might have interrogated my father, finding that I had something in common with the aviators---was a difficult path to walk. I wanted to hate them all, to make them pay the price for what their predecessors had done. But I couldn't, not now. Finding out the truth meant playing the role I'd chosen, and I was determined to do it well.
Around two o'clock that afternoon, the weather broke for a few hours.
We boarded a transport plane and headed south. After about an hour, we broke through the weather completely, and the rest of the trip was as smooth as glass.
Like most pilots, I am a terrible passenger. I know too intimately what can go wrong with these fragile constructs of steel and fiberglass that we put in the air. Even the mighty Tomcat, forever my favorite aircraft, is a fragile thing compared to the forces of nature. A single, small bird sucked into the intake, an invisible hairline fracture in the bolts holding engines to wings, or any one of a number of small mechanical failures can spell disaster.
At least in the Tomcat, the passengers--the pilot and the RIO--always have the option of punching out, of taking their chances with the ejection system, hoping that they have enough altitude to survive departing the aircraft in flight. Not so with commercial jets.
This one was luxurious by military standards, even more so for Russian aircraft. I was offered vodka, caviar, and a host of other hors d'oeuvres.
I passed on all--the violent buffeting we experienced penetrating the frontal boundary coupled with my paranoia when in Russia combined to kill my appetite.
Three hours and twenty minutes later, we touched down gently on the airstrip at Kursk. I stared out the thick plastic double-paned cabin window and saw the normal welcoming horde of dignitaries, officers, and troops. Injury to insult--first a passenger, now more of the duties that I neither wanted nor enjoyed.
There's a sameness to military bases around the world. Flying combat aircraft generates certain necessities of function fuel, a place to store it, and vehicles for transporting it to the aircraft; a means of controlling the arrival and departure of those aircraft--the control tower; maintenance facilities, gear for repairing and towing aircraft, access ladders, and accommodations for the soldiers or sailors who use the gear.
No matter where they are located, all airstrips look the same, whether eighteen hundred feet of concrete runway or a rutted dirt track in the middle of the jungle.
We got through the formalities with a minimum of fuss and bother. I was introduced to the commander of the air base, a host of officers, and the local civilian dignitaries. I managed it all with what I thought was a good grace, dredging up the details of some of their biographies and even managing to pat one young tyke, the son of the mayor of Kursk, on the head.
So this is what it came down to, this business of being an
admiral--shaking hands and kissing babies.
Finally, free of the formalities, I was escorted by a small honor motorcade to the visiting dignitaries quarters, safely ensconced in the back of the Zil limousine and flanked fore and aft by military vehicles and motorcycles.
There was another reception planned for that evening. Another one of those long affairs where I tried to remember everyone's name and anything of importance he or she said while the Russians tried to weasel tiny bits of operational information out of me. In the weeks afterward, I knew a team of Russian intelligence experts would be scrutinizing my every word, looking for nuances of American policy, operational capabilities, and just about anything that could conceivably give them an edge over my battle group.
Attending one of these functions is truly like walking into the lion's den.
Except maybe tonight.
I had two hours before the reception began. It would be followed by a formal dinner, complete with many courses and determinedly hospitable dinner companions. Somewhere, hidden in this throng, there might be one person I truly wanted to talk to. The one who had gotten word to me via the network of MIA/POW families, who for some strange reason, either national or individual guilt, was providing information to us.
I'd thought I'd known who it was. And I'd been wrong.
It was Brent, who'd been currying favor with Sheila as an excuse to hang around our group. Brent, ostensibly with the State Department.
Brent, who'd taken me aside for a quick whispered briefing and the promise of more information, and who'd identified himself finally as my in-country contact.
Brent, the spy.
The arrival of Anna on the scene had thrown both of us into a bit of a panic. According to Brent, she was far from the simple agricultural spy she held herself out to be. She was a top agent with internal security, one vetted for only high-level assignments. I supposed I should have been flattered that she was assigned to follow me around.
I would be meeting another man tonight, one that Brent had had many dealings with in the past. A man deeply involved in passing information on former POWs to American authorities. Whether or not he personally had seen the photographs of my father, he was responsible for getting them to me.
And I had it on good authority that he might be at the dinner tonight. It would merely be a matter of finding both the time and opportunity to talk to him.
How would he make contact? It would be difficult, but certainly not impossible. It is a given when one is in Russia that one's quarters are bugged, that one is followed continually, and every action and chance encounter is recorded on videotape. I had no illusions that we would be able to arrange a clandestine meeting, although it seems to be the norm for espionage movies.
No, the meeting would take place in public, cloaked by the presence of other guests. My contact would find some way to make it appear normal, to avoid arousing any attention. After all, he had lived in this environment for far longer than I had.
I unpacked, waving away the attentions of the Russians assigned to me.
I was introduced to my maid, an attractive young woman whose English was suspiciously good for a domestic worker. Based on her brief comments, I was left with the impression that her range of services could be as extensive as I wished, up to and including keeping my bed warm.
The transparent attempt amused me. Did they really think that I was likely to engage in sexual misconduct while deep in the heart of an old enemy? Even if I had not been married to Tomboy, and did not love her unconditionally, I would not have been tempted. Not here.
Finally, the last of the hangers-on left my quarters. I was left alone, with still an hour to spare before I had to be ready to leave. I eyed the dress uniform hanging in the wardrobe, contemplated the possibility of a hot shower, then decided what I really needed was a nap.
I shucked off my clothes down to my skivvies and slid into the luxurious king-size bed. I set my alarm, granting myself twenty minutes, and immediately dozed off.
It's a skill you learn at sea, the ability to catnap on demand, grabbing precious sleep whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself.
As always, the alarm startled me slightly. I came immediately awake, ready to deal with whatever situation was at hand. There had been too many times at sea when this was exactly how I first learned of the crisis, of the loss of aviators at sea, or some new, hostile move made by adversaries.
But this time, there were not the familiar background noises of the carrier. Only silence. Thick drapes muffled the sounds of the airstrip two miles away. It was deadly silent.
After a few minutes, I allowed myself the luxury of enjoying the warm sheets, letting my level of consciousness drift back down to a doze.
Only a few moments. I shoved the bedclothes away and rolled into a sitting position. My toes dug into the deep, plush carpet, felt thick padding under the soles of my feet. I wondered how many of the Russian people knew how their ruling class lived.
They came to escort me to the dinner precisely at 7 P.m. I was ready and waiting, outfitted in my dress whites. Broad swaths of gold gleamed on my shoulders, broken only by the three silver stars indicating my rank and the insignia indicating I was a line officer.
The short dash between my quarters and the limousine was brutal. The winds had picked up as a front moved south, and I could feel the blood congealing in my cheeks and other exposed skin, even under my heavy winter coat. Warm air billowed out of the open limousine door, condensing immediately into fog. I slipped gratefully into the backseat.
Admiral Ilanovich was already waiting for me. "Everything is satisfactory?" he said, once we'd exchanged greetings.
"Quite. Please express my appreciation to the commander of the base."
"I will, of course. You can tell him yourself this evening if you wish." The admiral shot me a sly, sidewise glance. "And his superiors, as well. At this stage in his career, it could only help." "I thought that's what I was doing."
The admiral laughed, true amusement in his voice. "No, Captain First Rank Chelnov does not report to me. He has other, more demanding masters."
I mulled that over for a few moments before replying. When dealing with the Russians, one must assume that everything is said for a purpose.
They make the same assumption in dealing with us, which is a mistake on their part. American naval officers are not so well schooled in the intricate games of political intrigue.
What did the admiral mean by that? A few possibilities came to mind.
Perhaps it was a warning, one aviator to another. Possible, but not probable. There was undoubtedly some more subtle agenda at work. Finally, I asked, "What masters?"
That was a reasonable reaction for an American officer, one that the admiral probably expected. It would place the ball back in his court, giving him the opportunity to explain or further confuse me.
The admiral was silent for a moment. Although his eyes reflected nothing but good cheer, I knew that he was spinning this turn in the conversation around in his mind.
"Russia has always been a strange place for Americans," he said finally. "You have never understood our interlocking directories, the functional structure of our chains of command. You assume we are like you are, with command related to specific task force or functional area of platforms."
"Not me. I know better than to make those assumptions, I think." I tried to make my voice and tone match his. We were having a conversation on several levels, or at least I thought so. Either way, I was intrigued by his evasions. Why had he brought up the chain of command? I had to assume it was for a reason.
But maybe that in itself was a mistake. The complicated game of guessing and double-guessing the meaning of each other's remarks generated the labyrinth of meaning. Perhaps he was counting on speaking with a guileless American officer, not one of his own. His comment on the chain of command was then nothing more than a simple professional statement, one intended to educate a foreign officer not familiar with Russia.
/> Or to prepare me for something that would happen later that evening?
On the other hand, it could be that he knew how well I thought I understood Russian psychology. He might be playing to that, counting on my ability to discern his hidden agenda without stating it openly. A far more flattering interpretation, and he might be counting on that as well, that I would interpret to my own favor.
Chain of command--this complicated multileveled discussion had all been generated by my simple remark about my quarters. If this were any indication of what I would face tonight, I would have to be particularly careful with my conversation.
The reception hall was a series of connecting rooms immediately to the right of the officers club. This time, the limousine had stopped just a few feet away from the entrance, which was an enclosed walkway. It was cold, but the bitter wind blowing out of the north was cut off. faces familiar from at the air base. I greeted those whose names I could remember, silently bemoaning the fact that I had not brought an American aide with me. He or she would've been at my side, slightly behind me, coaching me on names, easing the crowd along.
I managed as best I could, committing some social errors no doubt, but surviving. A glass of vodka was thrust into my hands. I held it by my fingertips, feeling the cold reach out to me through the thick glass.
Russian liquor is like its weather--it's made me wonder why the English still drink warm beer.
"You would care for champagne instead?" the admiral asked, obviously noting the fact that I had not immediately bolted down the vodka. "Or perhaps American liquor?"
Carrier 13 - Brink of War Page 14
