World in Flames

“Look,” said Richards, “I don’t know how you’ll react to this, but that number nine. We’ve run into him before. He’s taken out three of our guys already. Our computer intelligence, enemy base/pilot profile, has him down as an ace.”

“Where’d he get his kills?” asked Shirer. “Western Europe? Or Eastern Theater?”

“Both. Why?”

“Because I’ve seen that slogan once before. In the Aleutians. I splashed him.”

“Well,” said Richards, “I wouldn’t put too much on that. I mean, the Aleutians comes under Eastern Theater, all right, but I’d guess ‘Yankee Killer’s ‘bout as common as ‘Commie Killer’ on our birds. What was your guy flying? The guy you took out in the Aleutians. A Fulcrum?”

“No.”

“Did he eject?” asked Richards.

“Don’t know. Didn’t see.”

“Could be the same guy,” conceded Richards. “He sure as hell would’ve needed a new plane — right?”

“What’s his name?” asked Shirer. “From the printout?”

“Number nine!” Richards called out to the sergeant in charge of the debriefing records. “Fulcrum out of Vladivostok. Got a handle for us?”

“Hang on a jiff,” replied the sergeant. “Yeah… Mar—”

“… chenko,” said Richards. “Yeah, that’s right. Marchenko.” He turned to Shirer. “Ring a bell?”

Shirer shook his head. “We didn’t have time to swap autographs.”

Richards laughed. “Well, ole buddy, you see him again, make sure you do. Tattoo the fucker.”

“I will.”

Richards added a cautionary note. “Be careful, though, Major. Whoever he is, he’s no slouch.”

“I know that — if he’s the same guy who gave me a bath.”

“Then you’re one-all,” said Richards.

“No,” answered Shirer. “He damn near got me tonight.” Shirer made a face. “What’s that damn smell?”

“Kimchi,” said Richards. “Sour cabbage. Koreans love it. You’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t plan on being here that long,” said Shirer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

As Sergei Marchenko’s bullet-splattered Fulcrum came in, its braking chute deploying less than a hundred feet from the runway, puffs of steam could be seen, caused by the friction of its front and two side wheels coming in at over a hundred miles an hour onto the icy runway.

The ground crew were already calling Marchenko “Kot”— “Cat.” Nine lives. Not only had he and his aircraft once again escaped injury, this time from the burst of American gunfire from the Tomcats escorting the big 747, but his fuel gauge was registering empty when the ground crew rolled it into the hangar. His ground captain was already on the phone, telling Khabarovsk’s KGB chief Nefski that Marchenko had survived but that he was lucky — the ground captain estimating the Fulcrum probably had no more than twenty liters of fuel left. He was mistaken — there were only ten gallons remaining. And so it was that as he stepped out, exhausted and disappointed that he had not ne ulovil—”bagged”—the American general, Marchenko’s legend, with one more F-14 to his credit, grew even more.

Nefski wasn’t pleased about the new accolades for the “Cat.” It might make it more difficult for the KGB ace to convince the fighter ace that he should assist them in suborning his girlfriend, Alexsandra. Moscow had called Nefski yet again, within an hour of Comrade Marchenko’s departure, pressing him for more information about the sabotage ring Nefski was sure that Alexsandra’s brothers and she were involved in at the Khabarovsk munitions factory. But Nefski, like Marchenko, was not a man to panic under pressure. In any case, he was encouraged by Marchenko’s honoring his agreement to dine with him at the Bear Inn.

One look at the menu and Sergei Marchenko wished he hadn’t come. It was all stodgy, fatty-sounding fare, what Marchenko called “Eastern Siberian”—by which he disparagingly meant anything east of Lake Baikal. The big favorite apparently was pigs’ trotters done with a variety of Buryat sauces with exotic names, most of which sounded to Marchenko as if they might be prepared solely to cover the lack of meat.

“If you wish,” Nefski said, “you may order the vyrezka svininy—pork tenderloin.”

Marchenko scanned the menu. “There isn’t any.”

“Ah!” Nefski said knowingly, and snapped his fingers. A waiter scurried over, his drooping walrus mustache so prolific that in the dim candlelight, he appeared to have no mouth.

“Andre,” began Nefski — and Marchenko burst out laughing, not bothering to hide his contempt for the provincial snobbery that would pretend to have a genuine French waiter in Khabarovsk, the fighter pilot’s laughter puncturing the respect shown the KGB chief. Nefski’s smile was a forced grin. “You don’t like pork tenderloin?”

“I love it.”

“Well then, be glad you’re not a Jew like that little whore of yours.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Not at all. I’ve released her from prison — for the time being. Give her a taste of how it can be for her if she cooperates.”

Marchenko was unimpressed. What Nefski no doubt meant was he’d released Alexsandra hoping she’d lead him to whatever he thought she was involved with. Obviously she hadn’t led him to anything.

Nefski poured the vodka and raised his glass, its oily liquid turning to amber in the candlelight. “To Mother Russia!”

“To Mother Russia!” said Marchenko. It was as natural a toast as “Next year in Jerusalem” would be to Alexsandra.

“Tell your little Jew girl that if she doesn’t tell us who’s involved with the sabotage ring, we will put it about how her family changed its Jewish name to ingratiate themselves with the Soviets. And how now that Mother Russia is at war, they have turned on her — how they seek to stab her in the back— and that—”

“You’ve already put that about,” said Marchenko contemptuously. “That won’t budge her.”

“I’m not finished,” said Nefski, “but it’s interesting you say it won’t budge her. Your tone suggests she should be budged.”

“I don’t approve of sabotage, no, but—”

“If you don’t approve, it’s your duty to help. Tell her if she doesn’t cooperate, I will have her entire family — grandparents, everyone — all sixteen of them — shot.”

Marchenko laughed. “You invite me so you can have your pigs’ trotters and ask me to pass on your threats. Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

“Because, Colonel, we have another message for her. If she doesn’t cooperate, we’ll arrest her again and put her in the tranzitnaya kamera—holding cell. Not one of her own, you understand.” He poured another vodka. “The holding cell is a mixed mag — common criminals, rapists — all three sexes. I’m sure you can inject more concern about that than we ever could.” Nefski raised his glass again. “Mother Russia!”

Marchenko pushed his glass away, his tone low, angry. “Leave her alone.”

“When she tells us what we want to know.”

“Perhaps she knows nothing.”

“Don’t be stupid, Marchenko. She’s a dirty little Jew. All the Jews know something. They cling together like maggots in our belly. We have to shit them out.” He smiled. “Except the ones we want to keep for our amusement, of course.” Nefski paused. “Honestly now, Colonel — would you marry one?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Ah ha—”

The waiter returned, the tenderloin surrounded by small baked potatoes and fresh sauteed greens, the bread so fresh, it was still warm from the oven — a long French loaf. Marchenko was astonished.

Nefski was already attacking the pigs’ trotters, slicing off the crisp bubbling fat, consuming it quickly, washing