Reed shrugged. “No use talking to the guys in engineering. All I get from them is ‘We’re working on it.’ I’ve told them until I am blue in the face this thing can do more. What do I know? I’m the guy who crashed a jet worth a million dollars.”
“It could be worse,” Daniels said.
“Maybe. I could have been assigned a desk job.”
“I’m talking about the Soviets.”
“What do you mean by that? What about the Soviets?”
Daniels glanced around and lowered his voice. “Just between you and me. Okay?”
Reed rolled his eyes. Daniels was about to go into one of his long and boring stories.
“I was in this bar. It must have been six or seven months ago. These two guys from propulsion were there, in the next booth, knocking down drink after drink, talking too loudly. One tells the other that the boys at the top discovered a mole in the Project 1794 program at Wright-Patterson. He’d been smuggling plans out of the country for some time. Which makes sense, now that we know the Soviets have their own saucer project. Anyway, someone in Chimera caught on, but instead of exposing the mole, they started feeding him the plans to the AGP system.”
“A propulsion system that doesn’t work,” Reed said.
“Exactly! Here’s the beauty of it all. They did it in such a way that the Soviets won’t make that discovery until the ship is almost operational. The Soviets have spent years developing an FD3 clone that isn’t going to fly. Pretty smart.”
Reed stubbed out his cigarette. “Very.”
“That gives you something to think about.”
Reed nodded thoughtfully.
“What I’d give to be there when the Russians find out,” Daniels said. “Oh, boy! Heads are going to roll.”
Thirty minutes later the FD3 took off for its routine run over the dark Utah terrain. The elliptical flight path would take the ship over the tip of eastern Arizona, western New Mexico, through Colorado, Nebraska, western South Dakota, and Wyoming before returning to Dugway. Each flight mission required Reed to land the saucer at a pre-determined location and wait fifteen minutes, at which point Daniels would take over as pilot. After returning to Dugway, the ship would be carefully gone over for signs of structural fatigue and mechanical issues. Both Reed and Daniels knew the ship was airworthy. A craft as sophisticated as the FD3 ought to be able to outperform the Air Force’s fastest jet. Given the chance, they’d show the boys in engineering what the FD3 could do.
The Olympus Project
Kapustin Yar, 1950
The giant hangar at Kapustin Yar bore no markings. There were no numbers and no letters to identify the imposing structure. It was known simply as The Hangar. It was one of many structures at the secret Soviet facility. Throughout the sprawling complex designers, machinists, and technicians worked at developing top-secret aircraft to meet the challenges of a post-war Soviet Union. For the members of the group known as The Team, Kapustin Yar was a magic box filled with unlimited possibilities. With no limits on budget and no restrictions on what could be designed, The Team had been given free rein to make their dreams come true. Inside The Hangar was the most ambitious project ever undertaken in Soviet aviation. Known by its codename TOP, the acronym stood for The Olympus Project.
Dmitri Sokolov pushed through the door within the giant pair of sliding doors that allowed a craft to move in and out of The Hangar. He switched on the lights. The hangar lit up as bright as day. In the center of the mammoth building stood a gleaming silver flying saucer.
From the beginning TOP had its critics. Jet propulsion was still in its infancy. Why was Sokolov developing something so radical and so advanced? Sokolov had a simple reply. “Because the Americans are. We are building a ship from their plans.”
For years technicians had been busily working from detailed plans smuggled from the United States to build a Soviet version of America’s Project 1794.
“As much as the Americans would like to believe they will be the undisputed aerospace leaders in the world, we shall be their equals,” Sokolov reminded his doubters of the success the Germans had had with the V-1 and V-2 rockets.
The doubters reminded Sokolov of what had befallen Germany. Untold millions had been spent on this folly. The new anti-gravity propulsion system was untested. Sokolov resisted. Development would continue.
Sokolov went upstairs to the office that overlooked the giant hangar. He had engaged in this ritual every night for a week, poring over the plans for the anti-gravity propulsion system. Each night he came to the same inescapable conclusion.
Since first learning of the Roswell incident, the once steady stream of stolen Project 1794 plans had been reduced to a trickle. Despite Sokolov’s demand for more, the mole in Ohio could not risk discovery. The Olympus Project was advancing, but much too slowly. Meanwhile, intelligence had confirmed the Americans were routinely engaged in test flights with a saucer referred to as the FD3. So far it had only been capable of short distance low altitude flights. Sokolov knew it was only a matter of time before the Americans would have formidable capabilities. And then there was always the lingering question of Roswell. Yet those concerns paled in comparison to what he had recently discovered.
While attending an international air show in Europe, Sokolov had been approached by a French woman who claimed to have important information regarding The Olympus Project.
“What is The Olympus Project?” Sokolov asked. “I have never heard of it.”
The woman handed Sokolov a large envelope. “I am only a courier, Major.”
Without opening the envelope, Sokolov asked, “What does the sender want in return?”
“It is a sign of good faith. The sender may need your help one day in obtaining Soviet citizenship. Good day, Major.” The woman quickly disappeared into the crowd.
It wasn’t until he returned to his hotel room later that evening that Sokolov made his discovery. Upon his return home, Sokolov began his nightly vigil poring over the blueprints for TOP until he was convinced beyond a certainty that the information he had been given was one hundred percent accurate.
Sokolov invited Yuri Olenev to the giant hangar. It was a bitterly cold night. The team of workers had retired for the day, having returned to their dormitories to relax and socialize until they reported to work again the next morning. Sokolov’s crew was diligent, meticulously following the stolen American blueprints. Although the pace of construction had slowed, everyone working on the project was optimistic that the saucer was only months away from launch. As the project neared completion, the naysayers in the Kremlin began to change their tune. The Soviet Union was about to show the world what it was capable of, and the U.S. would be humiliated that the plans to their top-secret program had been stolen.
Sokolov shook his head and pushed his hands through his hair. “I have gone over these plans a thousand times, Yuri. It is inescapable. TOP will never fly.”
Tears welled up in the young officer’s eyes. “It is ninety percent complete. How could this have happened?”
“There can be only one explanation. The Americans discovered our mole. He was tricked into sending flawed blueprints. Who knows how long?”
“Why didn’t we see this? How could we have known?” Yuri asked.
“When the delivery of plans slowed to a trickle, that should have told us something. Not only did they manage to slow down our development by sending us fewer documents, it made seeing the whole picture more difficult. This was played beautifully, Yuri. Not only are we behind, we have a white elephant on our hands. We will be crucified, if not executed.”
“Major, I am at a loss. What do we do? How do we proceed?”
“For the foreseeable future, we will rely on that well-tested Soviet axiom, waste as much time as you can.”
During the weeks that followed, Yuri Olenev was a nervous wreck. His f
ellow officers asked if Yuri were well. Lately he looked tired, his features were drawn. Yuri assured his colleagues he was well. It was nothing more than a few nights of fitful sleep.
Sokolov also noticed how stressed his young assistant was. He offered reassurances. “We have to hold up, Yuri.”
“I am sorry Major. I feel as if the sword of Damocles is hanging above our heads. The thread is fraying. Any moment this may all come crashing down. I am completely beside myself. How do we make this go away?”
“We come up with a plan,” Sokolov said.
“A plan?” Yuri asked incredulously. “What kind of plan?”
“A plan that makes heroes of us. The Americans have made fools of us. We make fools of them.”
Yuri laughed nervously. “In all due respect Major, I can only think of one scenario, and that borders on insanity.”
Sokolov slapped Yuri on the back. “And that, Yuri, is the plan we shall prepare for. We shall call it Operation Dead Loop. It will be our plan of last resort. We will succeed brilliantly, or we shall fail spectacularly. We have no choice Yuri. If we have any hope of survival, we must begin moving the pieces on the chessboard.”
Yuri left his superior’s office convinced the Major was mentally unhinged.
Double exposure
Moscow, 1951
Morning in Moscow was unusually sunny and warm. Tatiana Andreyev was glad. She took advantage of the fresh, warm air, drinking in as much as possible on her walk to work before pushing through the large iron gates of the Lubyanka Building, where she worked as a photographic analyst. Once inside there would be no hint of the beautiful day beyond the walls. There were no windows where she worked. Her department was below ground, where there was nothing but rows of desks, flickering fluorescent lights, and piles of American newspapers to pore through. Such was the work of a low-level analyst. Her job was classified, which meant she could never tell her girlfriends what she did. Her friends believed her to be an insurance underwriter. They could never understand why she couldn’t underwrite insurance policies for them. Her excuse was never mix business and friends.
Tatiana’s job was part of the Soviet Union’s vast intelligence network. She and the five other young women who shared the same cubicle were tasked with studying photographs in American newspapers. On its surface the job seemed better suited for a simpleton. It was anything but that. The job required a photographic memory, which was always the standard joke among her fellow analysts. One needed a photographic memory to analyze photographs. What precisely were these analysts looking for? They were looking for anything and everything. Who was in the news? Why? Did a current photograph relate to a past photograph? Were there images in the backgrounds that warranted a closer look? As Tatiana’s supervisor reminded her and her clutch of analysts more than once, there is more than meets the eye than meets the eye. In other words, at first glance a photograph does not reveal its secrets. Tatiana did not believe photographs held secrets, only that they revealed more information the closer you looked. By the time lunch rolled around, Tatiana had scanned more than one hundred newspapers. The morning had produced nothing of note. Although Tatiana was diligent in her duties, she often found herself dreaming about the lives of those she saw in the photographs and thought how nice it would be to live in America. During the noon break, she and her friends took their lunch outside. Fresh air cleared the mind and the eyes. Since talk about the job was forbidden, lunchtime conversation always turned to gossip or relationships. Thirty minutes was never enough time to get everything in, but one knew never to complain, especially if one wished to advance. The whistle blew. Lunch was over.
“Back to the salt mines,” someone said. This was another joke enjoyed by all. Lunchtime never passed without someone speaking those words.
An hour into her afternoon shift, Tatiana was turning through the pages of the Wright-Patterson daily newspaper. It was the official newspaper of an American air base located in Dayton, Ohio. Tatiana took delight in comparing the fashions of American women to those of Soviet women. The women in America were far more stylish, she thought. It was in crowd photos such as the one she was looking at that she got most of her own fashion ideas. The photograph that had drawn her attention was that of a Fourth of July celebration. She presumed the crowd of onlookers in the photograph was watching a parade. As she scanned the photograph, one image gave her pause. It was of an attractive fair-haired young woman cupping her hands over her eyes to shield herself from the glare of the sun. The face seemed familiar. Tatiana’s photographic memory began its search of files. As she sorted her memory file, an image of a young woman with her arms folded in front of her began to form. When and where had she seen that image? The current photo was taken near an air base. What about the previous photo? Could it also have something to do with an air base? No. Was it something about aviation? Perhaps. As she dug deeper into her memory banks, the word Roswell came to mind. She went to the bank of filing cabinets arranged alphabetically and opened a drawer in the R section. After several minutes she came across a copy of the Roswell Daily Record. A few days after the UFO crash in 1947, a photograph of a missing teenage couple appeared. Tatiana pulled the newspaper from the file and compared the picture of the missing girl with the picture of the girl in the crowd. The photographs were taken at least four years apart. Clearly there were obvious differences. But more features were alike than different. Whatever doubt Tatiana Andreyev may have entertained was put to rest with the ring that was clearly visible in both photographs. To be certain, Tatiana invited her cubicle companions to view the two photographs. Immediately the other girls focused on the photograph of the missing boy and started giggling. After a gentle admonishment, the girls arrived at a unanimous verdict. There was no doubt both photographs were of the same young woman. Encouraged by the certainty of her fellow analysts, Tatiana presented both photographs to her supervisor.
After a cursory inspection, the supervisor said, “Well done, Comrade. Your good work will be noted and rewarded.”
Tatiana should have been pleased by her supervisor’s praise, but nothing had ever come of past praise and promises of reward. “One more to add to the list,” Tatiana said to herself. She watched as her supervisor took the stairs to the floor above.
Tatiana’s supervisor presented herself and her diligent hard work to her own supervisor; she never bothered to mention Tatiana Andreyev had done the work.
Ever since word of the Roswell case in America had reached the Soviet Union, all intelligence agencies had been put on notice that anything concerning Roswell was to be immediately forwarded to Major Sokolov. By the end of the day both photographs were sealed in an envelope, marked eyes only, and sent by courier to Kapustin Yar.
The Photograph
Kapustin Yar
Dmitri Sokolov carefully studied the two photographs Director Shubin’s office had forwarded to him from Moscow. There were differences indeed between the two images of the young woman, but as had been pointed out by others, a young woman will change over a period of years. It was the ring, however, that left no doubt. Its design was unique. And now this girl who reportedly died or disappeared the night of the Roswell crash site suddenly appears in a crowd near Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Hardly a coincidence, Sokolov thought. It was common knowledge within Soviet Intelligence that Wright-Patterson housed a secret facility on base referred to as Hangar 18. It was there the Americans had developed Project 1794. As he and Yuri had speculated in the days after the Roswell incident was reported, the Americans had something to hide. Unconfirmed reports also suggested whatever had been found at the Roswell crash site had been transferred to Hangar 18. Four years later this missing girl turns up near a base known for the development of advanced aviation technology. Coincidence? Perhaps. From the start, the Roswell incident left too many questions unanswered. There were too many unknowns. Now what to make of a photograph, and in a military publication for that ma
tter? Were the Americans really that careless? Surely, they were smarter than that. “We shall see,” Sokolov said to himself. The truth may be elusive, but he would find it. Four years after the Roswell incident, Cherepanov had provided nothing useful beyond that which appeared in newspapers. In addition to feeding the Soviets worthless plans, the Americans had done a masterful job of keeping a lid on Roswell.
The climate in the Kremlin had changed. The optimism expressed when it was believed The Olympus Project was only months away from completion had now evaporated. Concerns from the Kremlin were growing ever louder. The Cold War with the West was consuming unprecedented resources and money. Officials were becoming impatient with Sokolov. They had tired of his reminders that advanced technologies required time. That it could be another year yet was out of the question. The threat of a visit any day didn’t particularly concern Sokolov. Kapustin Yar was too remote, and officials who might visit would have about as much technological knowledge as a worm.
One of Sokolov’s tactics for delay involved having his crew of technicians disassemble parts of the ship under the guise of quality control concerns. Such orders made no difference to his technicians. To them a job was a job. They were inside and warm. For Sokolov and Yuri Olenev, the thread holding that sword of above their heads could unravel at any moment.
Yuri Olenev was all too aware of the increasing unrest in Moscow. More and more he was feeling as if he were a caged animal. Something had to give. As a good Soviet he could simply betray Sokolov and pretend ignorance, but everyone knew he and Sokolov were joined at the hip. Whatever fate might befall Major Sokolov would also befall him.
“Has the time come to implement Operation Dead Loop?” Yuri asked.
Sokolov studied the photograph of the young girl. “We are not yet standing on the edge of the abyss. This girl could be of value to us. If she really is the one who disappeared shortly after the Roswell crash, she may have information that might earn us the goodwill of those clowns in Moscow. I think we must plan an operation to find out what she knows.”
Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident Page 5
