“Do we know for certain?” asked President Suzlov.
Soviet head of KGB Vladimir Chernko was equivocal. “Not absolutely, Premier — I mean Mr. President.” Despite his support of President Gorbachev during the latter’s years of decline, Chernko had always found it difficult to address subsequent leaders as “president” rather than the old pre-Gorbachev “premier.” “Our agent, one of the best in Brussels, said the car was unmarked — a Mercedes en route to the airport. No fanfare, no motorcycle escorts. But a glimpse of Freeman stepping out. It’s Freeman’s style, President.”
“What?” challenged Suzlov. “To slip out in the middle of the night? Hardly, Comrade. I thought he was a prima donna. Likes to be seen.”
“Unquestionably, Comrade President,” said Chernko. “Publicly — and I suppose for that matter, privately, but he’s no fool. He is the most brilliant tactician the Americans have. Anywhere. A master of the unexpected. Everyone thought this would be a war of high mobility and technology. That the so-called technological imperative would dictate strategy. But this Freeman has obviously mastered more than technical manuals. His grasp of tactics and of tactical details is legendary among his troops. We know now that the Pentagon thought he was mad when he presented the plan for Pyongyang — an airborne assault. At night — precisely when the American and South Korean forces were in full retreat. Therefore it is logical in my opinion that they would shift him back to Korea now the Chinese have crossed the Yalu. He knows the country.”
Suzlov remained unconvinced. “Yes, Comrade Director, but another of your agents is reporting that Freeman is still in Europe — going between Brussels and the front. He may be a first-rate commander, Comrade, but he’s not a magician.”
Suzlov turned away in his swivel chair, banks of white phones behind him, and looked over at the picture of Lenin. “He can’t be in two places at once. And why would the Americans give him a new command when his offensive against us is going so well in Europe?”
“Their supply line from the French ports to our Polish/Russian front is now over seventeen hundred kilometers, Mr. President. It’s true they have aerial superiority and their armored divisions have moved within striking distance of Minsk, but we are having increasing success where it ultimately counts — with our submarines. In the Pacific and the Atlantic, they’re about to turn the tide.”
“Are you that confident, Comrade?” asked Suzlov while studying Lenin’s photograph as if he had never really seen it before.
“Yes,” came the reply from Director Chernko. “If our submarines continue to stop the supplies, we will win. The mathematical equation is simple — no supplies, no advance. Meanwhile we are also reinforcing our supplies along the Trans-Siberian to Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. And now China’s entry has diverted what would have been NATO supplies from America to Korea, this takes even more pressure off our western front. If the Americans are beaten in Korea, we’ll be free to move our Sino-Soviet divisions for a final push against the Aleutians. It’s no wonder Washington is sending this Freeman back to Korea.”
“Perhaps,” responded Suzlov, “but you can never be sure what the Chinese will do. They will make peace and war when it suits them. Our situation will not influence them either way. They are strictly allies of convenience. You know this. If we falter anywhere in the Eastern Theater — they will cross the Amur into our territory and gobble up what they can. Look at Khabarovsk. Sabotage is already taking place there and we can’t seem to stop it.”
“We will,” Chernko promised him. “But back to Freeman. It makes sense for the Americans to give Freeman the Korean command. The snow is deep in Western Europe, and neither side, apart from the air forces, will be making much of a move until the spring. It is an ideal opportunity for them to recall their senior commander for ‘consultation.’ We also do this when—”
Suzlov turned abruptly away from the table, and began pacing down past the long, baize-topped table where the STAVKA high command sat during the long day and night sessions in the enormous complex of the Council of Ministers building. Suzlov was considering the number of fighters the director was requesting, based on air force estimates of what Chernko’s plan would need. Most of them would probably be shot down by either American or Japanese fighters. The bulk of the Soviet fighters might evade radar on a low run in from the Russian airfields at Vladivostok, but the rotodomes of the American Hawkeye electronic surveillance planes from the U.S. carriers in the Sea of Japan would pick them up before they intercepted Freeman’s plane. If indeed it was Freeman who had left Brussels en route to Washington, D.C., and then possibly on to South Korea.
To make it more difficult for Suzlov, the distance, he discovered, between Vladivostok to Seoul was twelve hundred kilometers. MiG Flogger C interceptors with a combat radius of twelve hundred kilometers would need drop tanks, thus slowing their speed significantly, to say nothing of their maneuverability — at least on the way in. Still, the target, Suzlov had to admit, was irresistible. If they could get confirmation from their Japanese agents of Freeman’s arrival in Japan, and attack him en route to Korea, his death would be a stunning victory.
America would be devastated by the loss of her most able field commander, and at a time when she desperately needed him, if her troops in Korea were not to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the Chinese-NKA legions. And the psychological effect of Freeman’s death in Europe would be almost as dramatic, and help tilt the odds in favor of the Soviet Union.
“If we are to do it,” said Suzlov, “we must have the best. All volunteers.”
“That doesn’t necessarily bring us the best, Comrade President.”
“Oh?” said Suzlov, looking genuinely surprised. The president turned back to his desk and globe, contemplating the Korean Peninsula. It had been a constant thorn in the Soviet side. First it was Kim Il Sung using millions of rubles in foreign aid to build towering bronze statues of himself all over Pyongyang, and his son, Kim Il Jong, determined to keep the “dynasty,” as Gorbachev had once referred to it, going. And now there was talk that General Kim, hero of the North Korean invasion of the South, once in disgrace due to the success of Freeman’s Pyongyang raid, was now back in command of all North Korean forces along with Zhou Li, supreme commander of the PLA’s northern armies.
Kim was no more likable, in Suzlov’s opinion, than Kim Il Jong and Co., but at least he was convinced that for North Korea, allegiance to Moscow was as important as allegiance to Beijing — unlike Il Jong and Il Sung, who had been stunned by Gorbachev’s criticism of their self-glorification. Freeman’s death would also have the advantage of impressing Kim that allegiance to Moscow was not, as Beijing not so subtly charged, “less important” because of North Korea’s closer proximity to China. It would demonstrate that in matters of technology, the kind of technology it would take to kill Freeman, the Soviet Union was light years ahead of China.
“Very well,” said Suzlov. “Go ahead, but only if we get positive confirmation of Freeman arriving and leaving Japan.”
Chernko rose matter-of-factly, thanking Suzlov but careful not to be effusive, too ingratiating — it wouldn’t do for Suzlov to get too big for his boots. Besides, Suzlov had not impressed Chernko by his willingness to accept Chernko’s statement that volunteers are not always the best. They were, of course— provided basic military criteria were met — but Chernko’s comment that they weren’t always so had been calculated to give him leverage against another member of the STAVKA, Marchenko, another comrade who was getting too big for his boots. In return for Chernko not ordering the Far Eastern Air Force Command at Khabarovsk to assign Marchenko’s son, Sergei, to fly on the top secret and highly dangerous mission, the director knew that he would incur an implicit, yet clearly understood, IOU from Marchenko Senior.
Or so he believed.
In Khabarovsk, Gen. Kiril Marchenko strolled with his son Sergei outside the hardened shelters of the fighter squadrons. At six feet, the general was half a foot taller than his son, and in his general staff uniform, looked more impressive. He was conscious of the fact that throughout their relationship, his rank had intimidated Sergei, but he doubted that this still held true, now that his son had become one of the Soviet Union’s most decorated fighter pilots. The general would have preferred to be inside the base HQ in the warmth of the operations room than strolling outside, but he did not want to be overheard. This was as much a family matter as a military one. Pulling up the collar of his greatcoat, his breath steaming in the Arctic air that had swept down from Siberia, he gazed up for a moment at the stars, their brilliance in the clear air astonishing after the pollution of Moscow. “You should have had more sense,” he told Sergei.
“I’m a man,” replied Sergei unapologetically. “It isn’t exactly unnatural.”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Kiril. “Of course a man gets lonely. Needs the company of — I understand your feelings.” He hesitated, then added, “… Especially after your experience in the Aleutians. A close brush with death often does that to a man. Stirs up the blood. This is quite normal. But a Jew? You know how they are, no matter what they say. Even that fool Gorbachev understood that much. Why do you think he let so many of them go?”
“Then why are you so worried?” retorted Sergei. He felt good — a combination of his status as an ace, the tailored dress uniform under the greatcoat, the weight of the coat, made by one of the Jews from the autonomous regions, fitting perfectly, as did the boots that crunched the hardened snow beneath him. All of this gave him a consummate feeling of well-being, of power. He remembered reading in his father’s library, when his father had been chief censor and therefore the best-read man in the USSR, a book by the Englishman Orwell, in which the Englishman had written of similar feelings — about his mounted policeman’s uniform when he served the British Raj in Burma. Of how the uniform, the riding pants, the boots, spurs, and the riding crop had given him, too, a feeling of pleasure and power.
Following the surge of confidence he’d experienced after shooting down the American Tomcats in the Aleutians, Sergei had worn the uniform with special pride. And so now, next to his father, whom he had always held in awe, he felt a rush of equality.
“I told her nothing of military operations here,” he told the general. “I’m not that stupid.”
“It’s not what you told her,” retorted the general, “but playing in the muck puts you in a vulnerable position.”
“You mean it puts the family in a vulnerable position.”
“If you wish to put it that way. Yes. Besides, she could have slipped you poison — anything.”
Sergei laughed and, seeing how it infuriated his father, rather enjoyed it. “Poison?”
“Or some filthy disease,” snarled the general.
“I use precautions,” said Sergei. “I’m not a moron. Besides, poison’s only for the Politburo.” Sergei sensed his father stiffen beside him, but the general kept walking, the snow crunched harder. “You miss the point entirely, Sergei. You know she’s been arrested as a saboteur. Her brothers also.”
“That’s not my affair. Am I supposed to run a security check on every peasant I—”
“You’re supposed to use your judgment. You might be a fighter ace, but you’ve obviously a few things to learn about women. About living with your two feet on the ground. She’s using you, no doubt, and her arrest could place you in a precarious position.” The general stopped for a moment, began to speak, then walking on again, announced abruptly, “It would be unwise of you to see her again or have anything to do with her family. Keep away from Jews.”
Sergei said nothing.
“Well?” pressed the general.
“What?” Sergei challenged him. “Do you want me to sign an affidavit?”
“I want you to assure me, here, now, that you’ll not see her again.”
Sergei turned to head back toward the fighter hangars, his father following.
“The question’s academic, isn’t it? I doubt the Committee for Public Safety will release her.” There was a sarcastic edge in his use of the KGB’s official title. “I assume you’ve made sure of that.”
“Don’t be insulting!” said Kiril Marchenko, looking at his son angrily. There was a long silence as they continued walking, the only sound that of their boots, now out of step, in the snow. “Colonel Nefski,” began the general, “is in a difficult position. If these saboteurs aren’t caught and they cut the Trans-Siberian, our garrisons out here would be seriously—”
“I know that,” said Sergei impatiently.
“Your own squadron will feel the effect, too,” the general continued. “Not only from the railway delays but the munitions being made out here.”
“We’ve already had problems,” said Sergei.
“Oh—” The general slowed. “Nefski never told me that.”
“Some of the Aphids,” said Sergei.
“What are they?”
“Air-to-air. They appear not to have exploded on the target range — though it’s possible they could have gone into the ocean. It’s difficult sometimes to—”
“You see,” said the general, seizing the opportunity. “This is precisely what I mean, Sergei. This mission against the American general, Freeman. Imagine if, after all that trouble, a rocket didn’t—” He stopped. “You haven’t volunteered, have you?”
“Of course.”
Kiril Marchenko had said it before his professional obligation had had a chance to override his feelings as a father. “Then—” he said, “I’m proud of you.”
Sergei said nothing. They were approaching the control tower, a dark obelisk in the sporadic moonlight that was shining through wisps of stratus, the air redolent with pine, and in the distance somewhere a convoy, the faint slits of its air raid headlights approaching the base like some strange, segmented yellow snake weaving through the forest. The saboteurs, Sergei remembered, had also cut the Khabarovsk and Volochayevka roadway.
“Would be nice,” said Kiril Marchenko, changing the subject, “if you wrote your mother more often.”
“Yes,” said Sergei, “I mean to but—”
Kiril held his gloved hand up. “I know. I was the same. But I told her I’d order you.”
Sergei couldn’t see his father’s face clearly but sensed the attempt at good humor.
“Is she all right?” asked Sergei.
“Thriving. She’s soon to be promoted — head of chemical defense for all of Moscow. The first woman. It’s quite an honor.”
“You think it will come to that?”
“No,” said the general. “The Americans don’t have the stomach for it. Not after they’ve seen what we’ve done with our sleepers in their own country — their water supplies and the like. It’s the one great advantage we have over them, Sergei. One must admit that for all his childish idealism, Gorbachev did at least make it easier for Chernko to flood the United States with our agents. Happily, it’s never been the other way around.” The general paused for a moment, looking about to see whether any of the air traffic control sentries were nearby, lowering his voice. “But if we’re attacked with it, we’ll use it. Suzlov won’t hesitate.”
“Neither will the STAVKA,” put in Sergei. He said it without rancor but as a matter of fact.
Kiril saw a guard at the door, silhouetted against a faint glow from the officers’ mess. He called out to the man, reminding him it was an air raid precaution violation and to have the shutters drawn securely.
“Sergei, I wouldn’t be surprised if Comrade Nefski gives you a call — to warn you off this woman. Try not to be rude. It won’t do you any good. Just accept you’ve made an error.” The general hurried on. “You can find another outlet for your passions — you understand, eh?” He slapped Sergei on the back. “Find a good Russian girl or one of the brown-skinned ones, eh?” He paused at the entrance to the mess.
“My plane leaves in half an hour.” Sergei still said nothing. It was Sergei’s worst failing, in his father’s view. On the battlefield his son had distinguished himself more than once, but he had retained a childish propensity to sulk. Or was it only with his father that he behaved so? “Look,” said Kiril. “A man must be sensible about these things. If you need more money in order to—”
“Huh — so I can buy a woman?”
“If necessary, yes,” said Kiril Marchenko. “If you go to a clean place, at least you know what you’re getting. You’re not the first soldier to—”
“I don’t need money,” said Sergei. “I have enough.” His father hadn’t even used her name. Again there was a long, awkward silence between them. Finally Sergei murmured, “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
“Good,” said the general. They hugged.
“Write to your mother.”
“Yes.”
In the officers’ mess, Sergei was flipping through a finger-worn copy of a German pornographic magazine, lingering over a blonde, tarted up in a top hat and tails, no shirt — her long, red-nailed fingers clasping the silver top of a long walking stick. Sergei and his wing man, Boris, were trying to discover whether the blonde’s attributes were natural or silicone-assisted. Such procedures were rare in the Soviet Union but apparently quite common in Germany.
“Our women have bigger breasts than that,” said Boris.
“And bigger bottoms,” countered Sergei.
“So what’s wrong with that?” parried Boris. “I like something you can grab on to.”
“All I want to grab,” put in the ground crew captain, “are enormous, great, pendulous—”
“Major—Major — Marchenko!”
“Da?”
“Telefon.”
When Sergei heard Nefski’s voice, he was immediately on guard, at once struck by his father’s warning that his association with the Jewess was bound to incur a warning from the KGB to stay away from the Yevreysk autonomous region.
“Major. We believe you know the girl Alexsandra Malof?”
“Yes,” Marchenko said, then, as he was wont to do in a dogfight, seizing offense as the best defense, added, “She’s a Jew.”
“Ah — now, there you are. You see—” The KGB colonel seemed to be talking to someone else at the other end, then came back on the line. “—I was just telling my assistant, Major, that you are just like your father. A man who gets straight to the heart of things.”
No, thought Sergei, I am not like my father. I won’t do a dance around it. The Jewess was the best lay he’d had during the entire war. Besides, what could Nefski do to an air ace? It would make the local KGB boss very unpopular, not only with the STAVKA HQ in Moscow but with all the propaganda cadres throughout the sixteen military districts and the four air armies.
“I would like to talk to you,” said Nefski, his tone upbeat, casual.
“Yes?” said Sergei guardedly, waiting.
“No, no,” said the colonel. “Not on the phone. Let us have a meal — dinner — at the Bear Inn?”
Marchenko knew the place in Khabarovsk. It specialized in Yakut food.
“What is there to talk about, Comrade Colonel?”
“Let’s talk.”
“I can’t tonight.”
“I realize that,” said Nefski, Marchenko surprised that the colonel apparently knew about “Operatsiya otmorozhennaya”—”Operation Frostbite”—the planned intercept of the plane that reportedly would be flying the legendary American General Freeman across the Sea of Japan to Korea. But then, Sergei told himself, he should have guessed that Nefski would have spies everywhere — probably knew what the base commander had for breakfast.
“Tomorrow night then,” said Nefski congenially, “when you return.”
Marchenko knew that what Nefski meant was “Ifyou return.” Or had he merely guessed that Sergei had volunteered to go on the mission? No, Sergei concluded, the colonel would know not only that he had volunteered but was also leading the mission.
“Major? Would sixteen hundred hours be satisfactory?”
“Yes,” agreed Marchenko.
“Good,” said Nefski. “I hope you understand we have no objections to our men in uniform going out with the Jewish faith. Such prejudice is against Soviet law.”
“I know,” said Sergei pointedly. It wasn’t that he loved Alexsandra. He didn’t. She was merely an attractive brunette, her figure enough to satisfy even his ground captain’s more outrageous fantasies. It would be easy for him to ditch her— there was a lot more pussy around Khabarovsk. Besides, being an ace meant having the highest pay scale of any field combatants — he could buy what his uniform and medals couldn’t attract. No, what he objected to was the politicos like Nefski telling him whom he could screw and whom he couldn’t. The odd thing, however, was that Nefski’s tone, despite his parroting official policy of nondiscrimination against minorities, made it sound as if the colonel didn’t really hate Jews. Which was unusual.