Around two o'clock that afternoon, the weather broke for a few hours.
We boarded a transport plane and headed south. After about an hour, we broke through the weather completely, and the rest of the trip was as smooth as glass.
Like most pilots, I am a terrible passenger. I know too intimately what can go wrong with these fragile constructs of steel and fiberglass that we put in the air. Even the mighty Tomcat, forever my favorite aircraft, is a fragile thing compared to the forces of nature. A single, small bird sucked into the intake, an invisible hairline fracture in the bolts holding engines to wings, or any one of a number of small mechanical failures can spell disaster.
At least in the Tomcat, the passengers ― the pilot and the RIO ― always have the option of punching out, of taking their chances with the ejection system, hoping that they have enough altitude to survive departing the aircraft in flight. Not so with commercial jets.
This one was luxurious by military standards, even more so for Russian aircraft. I was offered vodka, caviar, and a host of other hors d'oeuvres.
I passed on all ― the violent buffeting we experienced penetrating the frontal boundary coupled with my paranoia when in Russia combined to kill my appetite.
Three hours and twenty minutes later, we touched down gently on the airstrip at Kursk. I stared out the thick plastic double-paned cabin window and saw the normal welcoming horde of dignitaries, officers, and troops. Injury to insult ― first a passenger, now more of the duties that I neither wanted nor enjoyed.
There's a sameness to military bases around the world. Flying combat aircraft generates certain necessities of function fuel, a place to store it, and vehicles for transporting it to the aircraft; a means of controlling the arrival and departure of those aircraft ― the control tower; maintenance facilities, gear for repairing and towing aircraft, access ladders, and accommodations for the soldiers or sailors who use the gear.
No matter where they are located, all airstrips look the same, whether eighteen hundred feet of concrete runway or a rutted dirt track in the middle of the jungle.
We got through the formalities with a minimum of fuss and bother. I was introduced to the commander of the air base, a host of officers, and the local civilian dignitaries. I managed it all with what I thought was a good grace, dredging up the details of some of their biographies and even managing to pat one young tyke, the son of the mayor of Kursk, on the head.
So this is what it came down to, this business of being an admiral ― shaking hands and kissing babies.
Finally, free of the formalities, I was escorted by a small honor motorcade to the visiting dignitaries quarters, safely ensconced in the back of the Zil limousine and flanked fore and aft by military vehicles and motorcycles.
There was another reception planned for that evening. Another one of those long affairs where I tried to remember everyone's name and anything of importance he or she said while the Russians tried to weasel tiny bits of operational information out of me. In the weeks afterward, I knew a team of Russian intelligence experts would be scrutinizing my every word, looking for nuances of American policy, operational capabilities, and just about anything that could conceivably give them an edge over my battle group.
Attending one of these functions is truly like walking into the lion's den.
Except maybe tonight.
I had two hours before the reception began. It would be followed by a formal dinner, complete with many courses and determinedly hospitable dinner companions. Somewhere, hidden in this throng, there might be one person I truly wanted to talk to. The one who had gotten word to me via the network of MIA/POW families, who for some strange reason, either national or individual guilt, was providing information to us.
I'd thought I'd known who it was. And I'd been wrong.
It was Brent, who'd been currying favor with Sheila as an excuse to hang around our group. Brent, ostensibly with the State Department.
Brent, who'd taken me aside for a quick whispered briefing and the promise of more information, and who'd identified himself finally as my in-country contact.
Brent, the spy.
The arrival of Anna on the scene had thrown both of us into a bit of a panic. According to Brent, she was far from the simple agricultural spy she held herself out to be. She was a top agent with internal security, one vetted for only high-level assignments. I supposed I should have been flattered that she was assigned to follow me around.
I would be meeting another man tonight, one that Brent had had many dealings with in the past. A man deeply involved in passing information on former POWs to American authorities. Whether or not he personally had seen the photographs of my father, he was responsible for getting them to me.
And I had it on good authority that he might be at the dinner tonight. It would merely be a matter of finding both the time and opportunity to talk to him.
How would he make contact? It would be difficult, but certainly not impossible. It is a given when one is in Russia that one's quarters are bugged, that one is followed continually, and every action and chance encounter is recorded on videotape. I had no illusions that we would be able to arrange a clandestine meeting, although it seems to be the norm for espionage movies.
No, the meeting would take place in public, cloaked by the presence of other guests. My contact would find some way to make it appear normal, to avoid arousing any attention. After all, he had lived in this environment for far longer than I had.
I unpacked, waving away the attentions of the Russians assigned to me.
I was introduced to my maid, an attractive young woman whose English was suspiciously good for a domestic worker. Based on her brief comments, I was left with the impression that her range of services could be as extensive as I wished, up to and including keeping my bed warm.
The transparent attempt amused me. Did they really think that I was likely to engage in sexual misconduct while deep in the heart of an old enemy? Even if I had not been married to Tomboy, and did not love her unconditionally, I would not have been tempted. Not here.
Finally, the last of the hangers-on left my quarters. I was left alone, with still an hour to spare before I had to be ready to leave. I eyed the dress uniform hanging in the wardrobe, contemplated the possibility of a hot shower, then decided what I really needed was a nap.
I shucked off my clothes down to my skivvies and slid into the luxurious king-size bed. I set my alarm, granting myself twenty minutes, and immediately dozed off.
It's a skill you learn at sea, the ability to catnap on demand, grabbing precious sleep whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself.
As always, the alarm startled me slightly. I came immediately awake, ready to deal with whatever situation was at hand. There had been too many times at sea when this was exactly how I first learned of the crisis, of the loss of aviators at sea, or some new, hostile move made by adversaries.
But this time, there were not the familiar background noises of the carrier. Only silence. Thick drapes muffled the sounds of the airstrip two miles away. It was deadly silent.
After a few minutes, I allowed myself the luxury of enjoying the warm sheets, letting my level of consciousness drift back down to a doze.
Only a few moments. I shoved the bedclothes away and rolled into a sitting position. My toes dug into the deep, plush carpet, felt thick padding under the soles of my feet. I wondered how many of the Russian people knew how their ruling class lived.
They came to escort me to the dinner precisely at 7 P.m. I was ready and waiting, outfitted in my dress whites. Broad swaths of gold gleamed on my shoulders, broken only by the three silver stars indicating my rank and the insignia indicating I was a line officer.