“My name is not Richard Ammon,” he muttered as he turned away from the teacher. “My name is Carl.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Ammon knew that he had made a colossal error. He immediately froze in his tracks, praying that she had not overheard. But the look on the faces of the two young boys in the front row told him the horrible truth.
He heard the teacher’s desk drawer open once again.
“Richard Ammon, turn around.”
Ammon turned to face his teacher, his face ashen and white. “Mr. Ammon, why did you say that?” she asked.
Ammon bowed his head in shame. His mind raced for any explanation. But there was none. He just didn’t know what to say.
The room remained very quiet. Not a student moved in his seat. Ammon could hear the clock as it ticked on the wall. He could hear a push mower being used to cut the spring grass outside the classroom window. He waited for his punishment, wishing that he could cry.
“Richard Ammon, hold out your hand.”
By the time his punishment was over, Ammon’s right hand was a broken and bloody mass of meat. It took more than three months for the nerves and tendons to heal. Even now, he had an unusual lump on his first digit, where the bone had mended in a crooked line. To this day, Richard Ammon remembered the beating.
But he learned his lesson. His name was Richard Ammon. Carl Vadym Kostenko no longer existed. He had died long ago on a cold winter morning when a man named Ivan Morozov had come to take him away.
Yes, the Sicherheit had a way of keeping him focused. After years of experience in training young boys, they knew what it took to keep doubts from their minds. And even after he was planted in the United States and began to enjoy all of its pleasures, it never once even occurred to him to defect. He was a soldier. He had been trained to carry out orders. He was intent on serving his state.
Then Richard Ammon experienced two very significant life-changing events.
First, he lost his country.
Beginning with the fall of the Berlin Wall, nation after communist nation seemed to be utterly swept away. The socialist states that had dominated Eastern Europe for more than fifty years all fell by the wayside, a mere historical footnote in the big scheme of things. Then came the collapse of the Soviet Union, a shattering climax to what had already been an amazing few years. And as he watched his nation crumble, as he watched it split into ever smaller, more independent, and ever less friendly states, as he watched a new atmosphere of trust and cooperation develop between the U.S. and Russia, Ammon realized that it was over. He no longer had a foreign master, for his organization in Moscow would surely have been disassembled. He considered it an entirely new ball game. And from that time forward, he believed that he was on his own. His commitment was served. It was finished. He was alone.
And then an even more important event occurred in Ammon’s life. He met the most beautiful girl he had ever imagined. She was tall and slender, with shoulder-length, silky brown hair. Her dark eyes could make his legs tremble, her smile could light up the room. She had a perfect voice. Calm and measured, it was the most pleasant thing he had ever heard. It was the kind of voice one imagined cooing to a newborn baby or singing softly in the darkness of a quiet night. She was tall — almost as tall as Richard. And poised. And confident. And smart as anyone Richard Ammon had ever known.
Her name was Jesse Morrel. They met at a military reception for a retiring general, a close friend of Jesse’s father. Richard was dressed in his military mess, a dark blue tuxedo with pilot wings and three tiny medals pinned to his chest. As Richard approached his table, he saw her. She sat at her assigned seat beside him, dressed in a shimmering evening gown, her hair brushed back over her shoulders, her dark arms resting shyly in her lap. She was a picture of beauty, a subtle mixture of sophistication and innocence that proved to be completely irresistible. Ammon gulped as he approached the table, suddenly completely unsure of himself. He grinned shyly as he pulled back his chair and sat down beside her. Jesse looked up and smiled as she said hello.
And that was it. From that moment, he was hopelessly in love. Never again would Richard Ammon understand a man’s fear of commitment. Never again would he nod in sympathy when close friends talked of their doubts about love. From that moment on, he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jesse Morrel.
Ammon sat down beside the dark-eyed girl, rejoicing in his good fortune. For one awkward moment, they both stared quietly at their empty plates. And then it happened. His mind went completely blank. Utterly, hopelessly blank. A perfect white sheet of nothingness. His mouth felt like the Sahara. His heart pattered like a toy gun. He searched desperately for something to say. Anything. Anything that wouldn’t sound stupid. He stole a quick glance at Jesse. She smiled again in return. His mind took another vacation. What an idiot! What could he say?
Then he felt a light touch on his arm. He looked up once again.
“My name is Jesse,” she said in a quiet tone. “My father is ex-army. They always wear green, but I have to tell you, blue has always been my favorite color.”
Beautiful! That was it! Blue! He would talk about the color blue! He knew all about blue. Blue was easy. What a relief. He had something to say.
“Yes, I’ve always liked blue, too,” he said in his most intelligent tone. “In fact, that’s why I joined the Air Force. My mom always told me, ‘Son, you look best in blue.’”
They both laughed. The awkward silence passed. Ammon’s brain returned from Miami. He could actually think of words with more than two syllables. What a relief. It was nice to have it back.
He and Jesse began to talk. About this, about that. They took to each other almost immediately. They talked through the entire meal, leaving cold steaks and melted Jell-O running all over their plates. They ignored the conversation around them, concentrating on only each other. The dessert was served and the retirement presentations were made without either one of them hearing a word. Two and a half hours later, the dinner party was drawing to a close.
“So, when are you flying back to Nellis?” Jesse wondered as they picked at plates of fresh strawberry shortcake.
“I was planning on leaving this evening,” Ammon responded slowly, his voice clearly demonstrating his reluctance to go.
Jesse folded her arms across her lap and said nothing. Ammon sat quietly in his chair and watched the steward take their small dessert plates. Jesse and Richard were alone, the other guests having already excused themselves to mingle among the noisy crowd.
“The water in the Santa Monica bay is just warming up,” Jesse said softly.
“I’ve never swum in the Pacific before,” Ammon replied.
“Why don’t you stay for a few days?” Jesse said as she stared at the table. “We could spend a few hours…”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ammon immediately replied.
That was Friday night. Sunday afternoon, Richard Ammon called his squadron commander to request two weeks’ leave.
“You’ll miss our deployment to England,” his commander reminded him.
“Yes, sir, I know I will.
“We’ll be short a tactics officer and instructor if you don’t come.”
“Yes, sir. That is true.”
“Do you think we have enough time to find a replacement?” Ammon didn’t miss the irritation in his commander’s voice, though the colonel made an honest effort to hide it.
“Probably not at this late hour, sir.”
“Richard, it sounds like I need you here,” his commander responded.
“I know you do, sir. But I’m telling you, I need two weeks of leave.”