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.”