' 'Julian?'' It was a tender voice, imparting a sense of kindness and understanding. "Julian?"
The young Kapuscinski looked up to see a benevolent face. It seemed grandfatherly — almost cherubic. It was attached to a portly figure wrapped in a woolen overcoat. "Come with me, Julian," he said gently, but with a trace of insistence.
Numbly, Julian rose from the ground and allowed himself to be guided to a park bench.
The portly figure took a small bag of candies from his pocket and put one in his mouth. "You are a fine athlete," he said finally. "I had difficulty following you, even in my automobile."
Still numb, Julian mumbled, "Who… who are you?"
The grandfather figure took another candy. "In America I have had many names. The one I presently use is Philip Johnson. Very common, wouldn't you say? But my birth name is Pyotr… the same name as your mother's cousin who died in Byelorussia many years ago."
Julian, though in shock, showed his surprise.
"I knew your mother," whispered the grandfather, "and I have watched you grow from a small boy — but you never knew I was there, did you, Julian?"
Julian shook his head.
"Your mother. Such a remarkable woman. You saw what the
Americans did to your mother?" It was more than a question. Almost a challenge.
Julian nodded.
The grandfather sighed. "A country that would allow such hooligans to run loose and commit such an atrocity on your mother — well, it is evil, is it not?"
Slowly, Julian nodded again.
The old man took another candy. ' 'I know your secret, Julian. I was sent to look after you. You have done well to be admitted to the American's Air Force university." He chewed the candy slowly, savoring it as it dissolved. "The road ahead of you will be long and difficult, but if your resolve does not weaken you will be able to avenge your mother's death. You will be able to strike back at this evil country. Do you want to strike back, Julian?"
Firmly, Julian nodded.
"Will your resolve waver, Julian?",
"My resolve will not waver," he replied without hesitation.
"Good. I expected no less. Your mother's resolve never wavered. Such an extraordinary woman." The old man pocketed the bag of candies. "Come along. We have much to talk about." And he reached out and took Julian's arm.
But Julian recoiled from the old man's grasp and hissed with an undercurrent of rage, "My resolve will not waver, but never, ever, touch me again!"
But, in fact, there was a time when Julian's resolve did begin to waver. Although the cherubic grandfather figure named Philip Johnson kept a close watch on Julian as he progressed through the Air Force Academy, an imponderable factor entered the picture during his senior year. A girl named Felicia. Tall, lissome Felicia with the flowing red hair. Older than he, she stirred emotions in Julian that had long been dormant. But before a bond could crystallize between them, Julian graduated and was shipped off to flight training school — and then to Vietnam.
During his third week in Vietnam Julian received a letter from Felicia. She was engaged to an older man — the executive vice president of a defense contractor.
It was the final nail in the coffin, and Julian became a true psychotic. His burning rage at Felicia's betrayal was unleashed in his flying. He turned into a crazed Apache in the air, flying 223 combat sorties and shooting down six North Vietnamese MiGs. His fearlessness and cold-blooded manner earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross — and the call sign of Iceberg.
In a bizarre fashion, Vietnam further honed his resolve. For although he was in the middle of it and participated in the killing, he felt the use of such massive aerial bombing by a giant power on a primitive people was evil. An evil propagated by the ruling American elite — as personified by war profiteers like Felicia's husband. Iceberg turned a blind eye to atrocities committed by the North Vietnamese and decided that his mother had been right. Yes, as always, his mother had been right, and he would not betray her as Felicia had betrayed him.
Julian Kapuscinski — the Iceberg — awakened from the nightmare and looked out the windshield. At that moment the Intrepid was passing over the North American continent.
"No, Mother," he whispered to himself. "My resolve will not waver."
It was both tragic and ironic that Julian never learned the true identity of his mentor, Philip Johnson. In fact, Johnson was a clinical psychologist trained at the Subinskiy Institute of Psychiatry in Leningrad. He'd learned much while experimenting on American prisoners of war held in North Korea. And he used his horrifying skills to twist Julian's mind into a sickened psychotic mass.
It was Johnson who orchestrated the brutal murder of Victoria Kapuscinski.
And arranged for Julian to meet Felicia — one of Moscow Centre's more seductive agents.
The air turbulence made refueling a bitch. Three times the boom operator was compelled to yank out the aluminum tube from Ghost Leader's plane, then restart the process of realigning and reinserting the probe. On the fourth break-off, he'd had enough. "Say, Skipper, it's really the pits back here," he lamented from the boom pod, located in the arse of the KC-10 tanker. "Is there something a little smoother downstairs?"
"Maybe so. Stand by." The pilot of the tanker eavesdropped a little longeron the civilian air traffic frequencies before making his decision. The Ghostflight mission of four aircraft was south of the Azores on an easterly heading. Since it was daylight they had to remain far enough away from civilian air traffic routes to avoid visual detection, but they stayed close enough to monitor the radio chatter of commercial pilots as they discussed weather conditions.
"Okay, Boomer," said the pilot over the intercom. "We're gonna take it all the way down to two-three thousand. A KLM seven-four-seven says it's silk city down there."
"Great," replied the boom operator.
"Ghost Leader, this is Ghost Four. We're taking it down to two-three thousand to finish up."
"Roger, Ghost Four," replied the Leader. "Ghost Two and Three, you go ahead and vector to one-eight-zero at four hundred knots. We'll catch up after we're full."
"Roger, Ghost Leader."
"Okay, Ghost Four, let's do it."
"Roger," replied the tanker. The two aircraft started descending from their bumpy refueling altitude of 33,000 feet, while the C-141 Starlifter and the other coal-black batwing turned to a heading of due south.
Ghostflight had come a long way, and still had a long way to go. From their refueling point near the Azores, they would travel south over the Atlantic to about midpoint of the bulge of the West African coastline. When they were out of range of civilian air traffic radars, they would turn due east and fly over the desolate terrain of Mauritania, Mali, Niger, Chad, the Sudan, Ethiopia, and Somalia. No request had been filed for transit over the airspace of these countries, because this was an illegal flight. Radar detection of the batwings was not a real concern, but the tanker and cargo aircraft could be discovered; therefore, Ghost-flight had to follow a carefully plotted route through the African airspace that was "unpainted" by civilian or military radars.
When the four aircraft finally crossed the East African coastline over the Arabian Sea, they would follow the southern coast of the Saudi Arabian peninsula until they reached their destination along the Gulf of Oman. There they would land on friendly territory — before the sun came up again.
At 23,000 feet the tanker and its thirsty companion once again lined up for insertion of the fuel boom. This time, the air was smooth and both aircraft remained stationary throughout the fuel flow. Midair refueling was always problematic, particularly in turbulence. Yet there were times when Ghost Leader's plane could be more of a stable platform than the tanker. That was because Ghost Leader's aircraft did not possess those high-profile parts — like a fuselage or tail section — that could be whipped this way and that by crosswinds.