And it wasn’t like the test subjects gave a damn how they were identified. They were far more concerned with issues like holes being drilled into their skulls to manipulate their brain tissue than what was written on the tag pinned to their hospital gowns.
January 3 watched Vlad dully from his hospital bed, tracking every movement with his eyes while trying to hold his head as motionless as possible. The reluctance to move made sense, given that less than twenty-four hours earlier a sharp instrument had bored through his skull and into his brain.
Vlad moved to the bed and examined the dressing on the subject’s head. A small amount of blood had seeped into and through the gauze at the site of the incision, and Vlad made a mental note to change the bandage later. It was the sort of detail his assistant should handle, but Vlad wouldn’t consider delegating that chore to Yuri as long as January 3 remained a viable test subject.
If and when that viability changed, so too would the amount of responsibility entrusted to Yuri.
Vlad stepped to the side of the bed and smiled at the subject. He hoped the gesture looked more sincere to January 3 than it felt to him.
“How are you feeling today?” He always started out this portion of the process with the same question and was inevitably surprised when the subject didn’t respond, “Like a man with a hole in his head,” or something similar. But so far none of them had.
This particular test subject didn’t bother responding at all. He met Vlad’s gaze, but with the hollowed-out look of an alcoholic being tossed in jail for public intoxication.
Vlad worked to control his frustration. January 3 had exhibited a similar malaise during Phase One of the process, and Vlad suspected strongly that the lack of cooperation was unrelated to the testing program but rather a reflection of the man’s general ill health and long-term substance abuse.
Poor test subjects lead to poor test results.
Vlad shook his head and got to work.
***
In the corner of January 3’s room was a wheeled table. Atop the table sat a strange-looking machine, perhaps three meters high, featuring meters and dials and warning lights mounted above a large pair of stereo speakers.
Vlad closed the door to the subject’s room and then grasped the table by handles positioned on either side. He trundled it into position at the end of the subject’s bed and then reached up and grasped a nylon cord hanging from the ceiling. He pulled on the cord like a man lowering a window shade and a white screen extended into place next to the strange-looking machine at the end of the bed.
He lifted a small remote control device that featured an electrical cord running from one end to an outlet in the wall. When he pressed a button on the remote, a video projector built into the wall next to the subject’s bed flashed to life and the image of a rat appeared on the screen in front of January 3.
The man blinked in surprise, the first time he’d done anything but stare dully at Vlad since he walked into the room. Vlad supposed he should consider that a step in the right direction.
He smiled again at the man as he picked up a pair of electrical cables. The end of each cable disappeared into the back of the strange-looking machine, and each had been wound neatly and placed side by side on the table next to the remote. Vlad approached January 3’s bed, the cables unwinding smoothly behind him, the subject becoming noticeably more agitated as concern clouded his already muddy expression.
This reaction—or something similar—was not unusual at this point in the process.
“We’re going to do a little baseline testing,” Vlad said pleasantly.
January 3 glanced suspiciously between Vlad’s eyes and the cables and then back. He didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about doing baseline testing or anything else. It didn’t matter.
“Now,” Vlad continued as he reached for the two electrical wires he’d implanted in January 3’s brain yesterday. They dangled next to the subject’s left ear and Vlad doubted the man was even aware of their presence.
He deftly attached the copper connectors at the end of each cable to their corresponding electrical wires via the spring-loaded alligator clips and said, “Your job is going to be very simple, perhaps even enjoyable.”
He stepped once more to the movable table he’d placed at the foot of the bed. The image of the rat continued to be displayed on the projector screen, and even though Vlad had seen it dozens of times while testing dozens of subjects exactly like this one, it always made him feel slightly uneasy. It was as if the damned thing was tracking his progress with its beady black eyes. Each time it happened he vowed to leave the projector off until he was ready to begin, and then each time he started working with a new test subject he forgot and flashed that damned rat up there too soon.
He was being ridiculous. Concentrate on your work instead of your paranoia.
Vlad lifted the final item from the table. It was a small remote controller, similar in size and design to a controller used in those damned video games that had been developed in the West over the last fifteen or so years and that everyone seemed to enjoy playing.
This controller had been simplified. Instead of knobs, joysticks and a series of buttons, this plastic device offered just two options. A button on the left was labeled I AGREE, in large block Cyrillic script, and another on the right had been labeled I DISAGREE.
An electrical cord ran from the back of the device to the same outlet in the wall into which Vlad’s remote had been plugged. The cord was long, easily long enough to permit Vlad to hand it to the subject sitting up in bed, which he now did.
The man accepted it reluctantly, his look of suspicion turning quickly into one of concern and maybe even fear. Still, he had no real alternative but to take the device from Vlad, and so he did, holding it gingerly in two hands like perhaps it might be about to explode.
“A series of common animals, plants and other items will be projected onto the screen in front of you,” Vlad said, still speaking conversationally. “Your job, as I said before, will be quite simple, and perhaps even fun.”
The man didn’t look any more convinced now than he had the first time.
Vlad continued. “As each item is displayed, I will announce to you the name or term by which that item is typically known. You will respond by pressing the button on the device you are holding that most closely corresponds with your feeling about the term I have used.”
The man continued to sit silently, but he’d held Vlad’s gaze the entire time and Vlad knew that along with suspicion and fear was comprehension. January 3 understood what was expected of him.
“For example,” he said. “If I announced ‘rat’ when the animal on your screen was displayed, you would press the ‘I AGREE’ button. Please do so now.”
The subject held Vlad’s eyes for a moment and then looked down at his remote control device. He looked back up at Vlad before pursing his lips and pressing the button on the left side of the remote.
Vlad nodded approvingly. “Very good. If, on the other hand, I had said the word ‘elephant’ when the animal was displayed, you would of course press the button labeled ‘I DISAGREE.’ Please press the ‘I DISAGREE’ button now.”
The man did as instructed and his entire body spasmed instantly as a low-grade electric shock was delivered to his system via one of the electrodes Vlad had implanted in his brain yesterday. His eyes blinked rapidly and his expression tightened and then slackened and he flashed an angry—and frightened—look at Vlad.
“As you can see,” Vlad said, “it is to your benefit to pay close attention and to be as accurate as you can in your responses.”
The subject’s eyes narrowed and he stared at Vlad, still without speaking.
Vlad cleared his throat officiously. “Before we begin, do you have any questions?”
No answer. The subject still hadn’t said a word since Vlad’s appearance in his room or, as far as Vlad was aware, at any other time since his delivery to the camp by the KGB.
“Alright then
. Let us begin.”
6
January 30, 1988
8:30 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
Tracie departed D.C. in the CIA Gulfstream almost immediately following her briefing with Director Stallings. The haste with which she was being sent into the field again after her last mission was a clear indication of how seriously the agency was taking the intel regarding the discovery of a previously unknown Soviet military installation hidden deep in the Ural Mountains.
At the end of their conversation in Aaron Stallings’ home office, the director had come as close as he ever would to offering her an apology. “I know your last assignment ended badly,” he’d said, “and I know you were caught off-guard by the assassination of David Goodell. But this mission should be much different.”
Tracie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Really? How so?”
“I’m not asking you to infiltrate this secret Soviet base, like I did with Operation Phoenix last fall in West Germany. I’m not asking you to eliminate anyone, or engage the Soviets in any way. All I want is for you to find a safe mountain perch from which to observe the facility for a few days. By doing so, I’m hoping you can begin to get a feel for what the USSR might be trying to accomplish in such secrecy. Any information you can extract from a distance will be better than what we have now. But it’s a low-profile mission, if there is such a thing in this business. You go, you take notes, you come home, you brief agency specialists.”
“That’s all?” Tracie said warily. Making life easy for her had never been high on Aaron Stallings’ list of priorities.
“That’s all. Nothing more. It should be a piece of cake for you.”
Stallings’ words of reassurance seemed at odds with his insistence that she leave immediately, but she’d received her assignment and would be expected to complete it. Everything else was extraneous. The discussion with her father had reenergized her, and while she continued to feel the black ache of horror and guilt over what she’d done in Moscow, she’d come to realize there was no going back. There was no changing her actions. Her only option was to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
So that was what she did. She returned to her apartment for her go-bag, and within fifteen minutes was picked up by an agency driver and shuttled to Washington National.
The G4 flight had been uneventful. Tracie was well familiar with transatlantic air travel, having made the trip to or from the U.S. and Europe/Asia many times over the course of her career, and in many different types of aircraft, including this same CIA jet just last November.
Being the only passenger in the big Gulfstream was unsettling, despite the fact Tracie in general disliked crowds and enjoyed solitude. The last time she’d ridden in the plane, she had spent most of the trip studying intel and cramming for her assignment, but this flight was different. Her mission was necessarily open-ended, and since it involved reconnaissance of a Soviet base that was a complete mystery to the intelligence community, there was little intel to study.
After attempting unsuccessfully to relax, Tracie stood and wandered up to the flight deck. The same crew of two that had flown her on the last trip was back behind the controls, and the younger of the two pilots—the man she’d briefly spoken to her first time aboard the plane—turned around and smiled as she approached.
“You’re not going to shoot me and toss me out of our airplane at thirty-five thousand feet, I hope,” he said with an impish grin.
Tracie laughed. Those were the exact words he’d used two months ago when she’d responded angrily after being interrupted while studying her notes. “Nope, no shooting on the flight deck,” she said. “I’ve been there, and the experience was a lot less enjoyable than you might imagine.”
The young man raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. As a CIA pilot, he’d undoubtedly seen a lot and flown plenty of sketchy characters in this very airplane, but he didn’t seem prepared for that response. To his credit, though, he kept his composure and maintained his professionalism.
“I’m glad you’re still here to tell about it,” he said, and then stuck out his hand. “I’m Jesse Belleau, and the man behind the controls, pretending to fly while we’re actually on autopilot, is Captain Ed Byron.”
Tracie shook Belleau’s hand. When Ed Byron turned away from the controls and offered his hand, she shook that as well. “I’m sure you understand if I don’t tell you my name,” she said with a wink, and both men chuckled.
“What can we do for you?” Belleau asked. “Would you like a snack or something to drink? Pillow and a blanket?”
“No, nothing like that,” Tracie answered. “I got bored sitting back there in that beautifully appointed cabin all by myself. I just decided to come and say hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you or interfering in any way.”
“Of course not,” the second-in-command answered. “You’re welcome to stay up here as long as you’d like, although with a flight time of nearly nine hours, I’m afraid you’ll get tired of our conversational skills almost as quickly as you got bored back in the cabin.”
He leaned back and flipped down a small seat located just behind his own. “This torture device is our jump seat,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, if such a thing is even possible. This isn’t leather-covered and padded like the seats you were just using.”
She eased into the jump seat and buckled in. “You said we’re looking at about nine hours flight time?”
“Actually a little more than that,” Ed Byron said. “This beauty is sleek and fast, but doesn’t quite have enough range to take us direct to southern Turkey from D.C. We’ll have to make a quick pit stop in Italy for fuel, so that will add a little time.”
“How much time?” Tracie asked. She’d flown through Rome before and recalled sitting through extensive departure delays at Fiumicino Airport. Stallings had made quite clear the urgency of her assignment, and the notion of sitting for hours on a tarmac was not ideal.
Belleau grinned as if he’d read her mind. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll only be on the ground long enough to high-speed-taxi to the ramp, suck down some fuel, and then turn around and high-speed-taxi back to the runway for takeoff. We’ll be on the ground no more than twenty minutes, I promise.”
“How can you be so sure? What if there’s a lot of traffic?”
“They’ll make room for us.”
“I don’t follow.”
“We’re not going to land at a civilian airport. We’ll be refueling at Aviano Air Base in northern Italy. They’re pretty familiar with this particular airplane. We fly through there several times a year, and the controllers and ramp personnel are aware of our priority status. Trust me, we’ll barely be stopped long enough for you to unbuckle your seat belt.”
“It’s nice to be the big fish,” Tracie said with a smile. “I could get used to that.”
“I don’t know if we qualify as a big fish, exactly, but flying through military airfields with advance coordination sure makes for an easier—and faster—aviation experience,” Byron said, giving her a thumbs-up.
“So,” Tracie said, doing some math in her head. “Ten hours of flight time, give or take, and Incirlik Air Base is, I don’t know, maybe five thousand miles from D.C?”
“It would actually be about fifty-six hundred fifty miles,” Belleau said, “if you could go direct, Point A to Point B. We can’t quite go direct, and we have to fly just slightly out of our way to stop at Aviano, but this Gulfstream will cruise at more than six hundred fifty miles per hour without breaking a sweat. We’re actually doing better than that because we were advised this mission is of a critical nature.”
Tracie gazed out the windscreen at the vast Atlantic Ocean, sparkling greenish-blue far below, stretching off in every direction as far as the eye could see. She thought about Stallings’ reassurance that the assignment would be relatively easy. “Piece of cake,” he’d said.
She measured that reassurance against her boss’s history of duplicity and against the y
oung pilot’s assertion that he’d been told the mission was of a critical nature. Something wasn’t adding up.
7
January 31, 1988
3:15 a.m. local time
Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
The C-130 cargo plane rattled like an eggbeater as it taxied for departure at Incirlik Air Base in southern Turkey. After the silky smoothness and easy power of the Gulfstream, the C-130 felt like it was fighting for every inch of altitude, its four turboprop engines biting aggressively into the air. The big cargo plane banked north almost immediately after leaving the runway and leveled off far below the altitude the CIA G4 had used.
Time on the ground at Incirlik had been minimal, barely more than the fifteen minutes it had taken to refuel the Gulfstream at Aviano. Tracie climbed down from the comfortable business jet after thanking both members of the agency flight crew, walked across a concrete tarmac, and climbed into the C-130, known in military jargon as a “Hercules.”
This time she didn’t even bother trying to relax in the back of the airplane. For one thing there was no comfortable cabin in which to relax, and for another, she wanted information on this final leg of the flight that only the C-130 crew could provide.
The easy banter of the Gulfstream crew was replaced with a tense professionalism inside the Hercules. The crew was friendly enough, but all business, with a high level of military discipline mixed in.
Flying a precise route once the Hercules crossed the midpoint of the Black Sea would be critical to ensuring the Soviets not see them coming and shoot them out of the sky, so the pilot-in-command and navigator were understandably busy. Both men introduced themselves to Tracie politely but quickly and then returned their attention to their duties.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 125
