Night of the Hawk, page 11
part #4 of Patrick McLanahan Series
“Doctor Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov. He is under my supervision. He is not required to show you his identification,” Gabovich said testily. “Now, what is your reason for being in this wing of the facility, Major Iron Wolf?”
“I am on an inspection tour of—”
“There are no guard posts down this corridor, Major,” Gabovich pointed out. “I suggest you keep your nose out of business that does not concern you.”
“If you have a problem with my actions, Comrade Gabovich,” Kolginov said loudly, “you—”
But he never had a chance to finish. Gabovich, flushed with anger as his patience finally snapped, pulled out a huge Makarov pistol and aimed it at Kolginov, silencing him immediately. Teresov pulled a gun on Surkov before the NCO could reach into his holster.
“I am ordering you to close your mouth, move away from this area immediately, and keep your mouth closed about this incident, or I will shut you up permanently,” Gabovich said. “This is a private operation, underwritten by the Commonwealth of Independent States. Ozerov is a CIS scientist under my care, and you are in violation of internal-security regulations. If you have damaged this operation with your actions, I will see to it that General Voshchanka goes to your government and has you stripped of your rank. If you don’t believe we have the power to do that, just try it. Now go.”
Kolginov glanced at Surkov and shook his head. He knew that Surkov could probably disable Teresov in the wink of an eye, and he might even reach Gabovich, but eventually one or both of the CIS officers would gun them down. There was no use fighting it out here and now—better to wait. Kolginov and Surkov stepped backwards away from the two MSB agents, and Teresov made sure that they were retreating away from the conference level before rejoining Gabovich.
“Damn those Lithuanian busybodies,” Teresov cursed. “Do you think they heard what we were saying?”
“I do not know,” Gabovich snapped. “See to it that access by Lithuanian security forces is restricted or denied.”
“How do I do that?” Teresov asked. “The Commonwealth offers equal access to the Lithuanian Self-Defense Forces as it does to us. They let everyone in this place—Latvians, Byelorussian troops, Polish investors, everyone. We don’t have the strength or influence to get the CIS to keep the Lithuanians out.”
Gabovich was about to reprehend Teresov for asking such a question—it was his job to find ways to do things—but he fell silent. This was beginning to become a problem in all operations in Fisikous as the prospect of turning over the facility to the Lithuanians got closer and closer to reality. As part of the treaty between the Commonwealth of Independent States and Lithuania, the CIS was to turn over possession of all former Soviet land, bases, and facilities to Lithuania by the year 1995. The CIS could take all products and equipment made or brought into the country prior to the first of June 1991 out of those facilities and return them to the Commonwealth, subject to continuous scrutiny and verification by the CIS and Lithuania.
According to the treaty, the research and products made in the Fisikous Research Center, including the stealth bomber, belonged to the CIS. The problem was, the CIS did not know anything about it. The Fisikous-170 bomber was developed in near-total secrecy by a group of Soviet scientists, and its existence was kept off the books by the KGB and the Soviet Air Force for years. Viktor Gabovich, as senior KGB officer in Lithuania, became the driving force behind the project, tightening security at the facility, building a defense force around the facility of near-regiment strength, and recruiting the best and brightest scientists and engineers to work there—including his prisoner, David Luger.
When the Fisikous-170 program was canceled by the Soviet government in mid-1991, just after the August coup attempt, work continued on a part-time basis, with funds supplied by the Gabovich’s “special projects” account. As a “black” program, the Fi-170 enjoyed almost unlimited funding and support until 1992, when the newly formed Commonwealth of Independent States disbanded the KGB and the CIS-Lithuania treaty went into effect. Gabovich still enjoyed considerable power in Lithuania and throughout the region, mainly because of the strength of the “private” army and his former KGB intelligence network, which was still intact, but the gradually weakening Commonwealth and the rapidly strengthening Lithuanian influences in the area weakened that power.
When he lost Fisikous, he would lose all he cherished-power, wealth, and influence. He, along with most of the Soviet scientists in the Fisikous Research Center, had nothing to return to back in the Commonwealth. They would lose everything they had if Fisikous closed down.
Dr. Fursenko met up with Gabovich a few moments later, after the Lithuanians had departed. “Is Doctor Ozerov going to be all right?” he asked, worried.
“I think so, Doctor.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I should apologize for my colleague’s behavior—”
“Nonsense, General,” Fursenko interrupted. “Doctor Ozerov may be a little… eccentric but he is a welcome addition to the engineering team. You know he’s right, of course—our computer models do computer radar cross-section as a function of area and structural composition and not by lobal propagation. But, General… will Ivan… uh, Doctor Ozerov, be able to finish the modifications to the stealth computer-model applications as you said he would? He seemed very discombobulated this morning.”
“Doctor Ozerov is under a great deal of stress right now, Doctor,” Gabovich replied, “but he will be back in the lab to finish that program tomorrow.”
Fursenko looked so relieved that Gabovich expected him to kiss his hand, and he all but skipped back to the conference room.
“And, Doctor…” Gabovich said.
Fursenko turned back to Gabovich, his big grin still on his face. “Please remember, Doctor, that Doctor Ozerov’s presence here at Fisikous is still very classified. His name is not to be mentioned or published outside these walls. I will know about it if there is a leak.”
Fursenko nodded his understanding and departed.
Gabovich let out a sigh of relief. The program was humming along nicely thanks to Luger. Never in his wildest dreams did Gabovich expect the American to be able to contribute to it on the level that he had. The knowledge Luger had gained at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada was proving priceless. And he, Viktor Gabovich, was the reason why—he had turned a man others would have regarded simply as a prisoner to be shot into a collaborator. Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, né David Luger, was a natural-born worker, as intelligent or more so than the scientists at Fisikous, but as easily controlled as a dog that could be tied up, kicked, and trained.
The one infuriating fly in the ointment was the programming. Gabovich tried to put it out of his mind, but there wasn’t any denying that Luger was having… problems. The behavior modification and assumption of Dr. Ozerov’s identity weren’t holding as well or as long as Gabovich had hoped.
The “booster” had better take care of that.
Or he would.
They called it the Zulu area, but the fancy name referred only to a dark, smelly, damp section of the second subfloor of the Fisikous Aircraft Design Center Security Facility. The security facility—whose ex-KGB personnel were separate from the Commonwealth security forces for the main Fisikous installation-had four upper floors and two lower floors. Luger’s apartment was on the top floor, along with surveillance and support rooms, and this was closed off to all personnel. Classified-document storage facilities were on the third floor; a complete arsenal for the four-hundred-man OMON Black Beret security force was on the second teams were on the ground floor; and more offices and storage areas were on the first subfloor. The Zulu area was a series of concrete-block cells and security systems amidst the mechanical equipment, boilers, and incinerators of the second subfloor.
The original idea behind Luger’s interrogation and brainwashing in the Zulu area when he had been brought to Fisikous was implementation of the traditional Shtrafnoi Izolyator, or punishment-isolation cell system, which usually guaranteed that a prisoner would break within ten to fourteen days. The usual technique was isolation and sleep deprivation, sometimes for days, followed by alternating “good” and “bad” interrogators. He was given about 800 to 1700 calories of food and no more than a half-liter of water per day, most times laced with neuroleptic drugs such as haloperidol or triftazin, and stimulants such as methylphenidate. Physical torture was rarely used, especially with military or government-trained personnel, since most prisoners with resistance training could shut off the pain and could even use their pain against their torturers.
But David Luger was different.
Extracting information was not enough—Gabovich had wanted Luger to be able to use his education and experience to contribute hands-on to the growing Fisikous- 170 stealth-bomber project. A beaten, battered, psychologically devastated Luger would not produce a workable collaborator. Since Fisikous had some of the finest electrical-engineering minds in the world working there, Gabovich had them design a machine to his specifications to try to “turn” David Luger without creating any psychological damage. His finely tuned intellect had to be left intact, even as his consciousness and short-term memory were being trashed and replaced with an alternate identity, that of Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov.
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.
VILNIUS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LITHUANIA
6 DECEMBER, 1437 VILNIUS (0837 ET)
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.
“Many things have changed,” Voshchanka said. “In many ways this Commonwealth is worse than the old Soviet Union. It seems the government has no control. Why have a government if it will not assume control?” He looked at Gabovich warily. He had to remember that this man was … KGB. Even if he was no longer working for a Soviet government, the old KGB ways were undoubtedly still in him. “So, the scientists in Fisikous are your principals?”
“They offer a solution to the problems we face,” Gabovich said. “An opportunity for us to break out of the stagnant cesspool we find ourselves being dragged into.”
“Indeed? And what sort of things are your… ‘principals’ working on in Fisikous?” Voshchanka asked.
“The future,” Gabovich said. “The state of the art in Soviet aerospace weapons. Antimissile and aircraft systems unlike anything in the Commonwealth’s inventory. Cruise missiles that rival anything in the West, let alone the Commonwealth.” He paused to make sure that the old fart Voshchanka was following him.
“But the best thing of all,” Gabovich continued, “is that we have an operating breeder reactor—a facsimile of an efficient German model, not a Soviet one—capable of producing small amounts of weapons-grade plutonium. Once we return to full production, we can produce three hundred thermonuclear warheads per year, all with a yield of over one hundred kilotons.”
