Inside one of the cells, David Luger was strapped to a waveless waterbed, heated precisely to his skin temperature to help deaden his sense of feel and sever any sensory input. He was naked, covered with a thin cotton sheet to keep moisture from the cold, sweating walls from dripping on his skin and awakening him. An intravenous drip with a computerized metering device had been started in his left arm, which alternated a sedative, haloperidol, and phencyclidine hydrochloride — PCP, the powerful hallucinogen “angel dust”—in tune with an electroencephalograph. A tube had been inserted into Luger’s mouth both to deaden his taste buds, to keep his teeth apart (the sound of teeth grinding or clicking was carefully controlled), and to keep him from swallowing his tongue in case of an induced epileptic episode. His eyes were covered by a tight blindfold. On his head was strapped a pair of headphones, through which instructions, messages, propaganda, noise, news, information, and other aural stimulation were introduced — or, if desired, no sound at all was allowed.
In his third year of captivity in the Fisikous Institute, First Lieutenant David Luger, United States Air Force, had become one of the greatest KGB mind-alteration experiments in history.
By controlling Luger’s sensory inputs and altering his normal brain functions, Gabovich and his KGB associates were able to mold Luger’s consciousness in whatever way they felt necessary. They tried to completely empty his short-term memory and introduce their own personality, Dr. Ozerov, in its place.
Viktor Gabovich entered the cell a few minutes later, still aggravated from the episode upstairs. “What in hell happened up there?” he demanded of the senior doctor in charge of the Zulu area. “He completely went to pieces!”
The doctor put a finger to his lips and motioned outside. Once the door was closed and locked, the doctor replied, “His tape program and narcotic regimen have not been started yet, Comrade General. Silence is important …”
“Going haywire in front of those eggheads could have jeopardized this entire project! He is not holding together!”
“Comrade General, this sensory-deprivation process is not an exact science,” the doctor said. “The subject’s mind is strong and resilient. Drugs and hypnotherapy with the audio system can unlock only so many levels of the human subconscious-the other deeply seated levels are bound to surface sooner or later. They can counteract weeks, even months of work.”
“Ozerov has been hard at work on the Fisikous-170 project for over a year without so much as an English burp — now, three times in two weeks he’s begun to unravel!” Gabovich said. “We are at a critical point in the development. He’s got to stay together until we finish that aircraft.”
“I cannot guarantee success, Comrade General,” the doctor said. “We will continue with the treatments.”
“Accelerate the treatments,” Gabovich said. “Double the doses.”
“Not if you want a cohesive, functioning engineer. Let me take care of it, Comrade General. Ozerov will be back at work by tomorrow morning, fresh and ready to go.”
Gabovich narrowed his burning eyes: “He’d better be.” He then stormed out of the cell.
In the months since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the formation of the Commonwealth of Independent States, and the treaty defining the withdrawal of all foreign powers from Lithuanian soil, Viktor Gabovich of the KGB and General Lieutenant Anton Voshchanka of the Byelorussian Army had never met, although their paths had crossed often in southeastern Lithuania. Even though Gabovich, as a member of the Commonwealth of Independent States’ Council of Inter-Republican Security, and Voshchanka, as an officer of the Commonwealth’s central military command, ostensibly were part of the same organization, their minds still worked as separate entities: Gabovich was still KGB, and Voshchanka was still a Belarus general. The KGB had no business in Belarus’s affairs, and Belarus had no business mucking around in KGB operations.
It was because of this that their first meeting, called by Gabovich’s aide, Teresov, as a suggestion to his superior officer, started out very quiet and strained. He had picked a neutral location — the VIP lounge of the Vilnius International Airport. It turned out to be the perfect place. Since the airport adjoined the Fisikous Research Institute, Gabovich’s KGB officers and Black Beret soldiers patrolled the eastern side of the facility; and because the airport was one of the locations that Commonwealth forces were allowed to stage out of according to treaty, it was heavily fortified with Belarus soldiers, tanks, armored vehicles, and aircraft.
Both men felt safe and secure.
Except for initial greetings, the two had not yet said anything to each other. Teresov reintroduced himself to the Byelorussian general, then said in Russian, “Sir, we have asked you here today to discuss the status of security measures here in Lithuania. As you know, the treaty between the Commonwealth of Independent States and the Lithuanian Republic calls for the complete withdrawal of all foreigners and the removal of all foreign equipment excluding real property. Most of these treaty provisions take effect by the first of next year.
“As an officer in the Commonwealth Inter-Republican Council for Security and director of security for the Fisikous Research Institute, General Gabovich has expressed his concern that … the right interests are not being met by these arrangements.”
“What do you mean by ‘the right interests,’ Major?” Voshchanka asked, in heavily accented, sloppy Russian. “Are your interests not those of the Commonwealth?”
The old Byelorussian war horse had come right to the point, Gabovich thought. Good — maybe this would be a short meeting. Gabovich said, “Let’s save both of us some time here, General. We both know that the treaty will hurt both Belarus and my principals.”
“Your principals? Who are your principals, General Gabovich?” Voshchanka asked. “Do you not serve the Commonwealth?”
I owe no loyalty to the CIS, General,” Gabovich said irritably. Why Was Voshchanka challenging him? All indications from Gabovich’s sources in Minsk said that he was as dissatified with CIS policies and its future as Gabovich. Was Voshchanka saying all this to bait him, or was he truly that wedded to this damned Commonwealth? What if he had seriously misjudged Voshchanka? Well, it was too late now…
Gabovich continued. “When Fisikous closes, I will be out of work. I have a small pension, in worthless Russian currency. The same goes for the scientists, engineers, and administrators that work at the Institute. They will all be out of work. When the plant closes, their life’s work will undoubtedly be sold or destroyed or… handed over to the West.”
Voshchanka nodded. No matter how much one espoused the benefits of openness with the West, Voshchanka and those like him, including Gabovich, were vehemently distrustful of the reforms and especially of the West. He had spent his entire career serving the Soviet Union only to see the collapse of his life’s work, the USSR, and his own Belarus, dominated by countries like Russia and the Ukraine, even Lithuania and Latvia.