feel the cold radiating in through the thin, single-paned window. The shower curtains in the head looked slightly mildewed, and the toilet bowl was rimmed with rust stains inside.
I changed, sponged off the sweat as best I could, and got ready for the evening meal. The admiral had said it would be a formal affair, and I wasn't looking forward to it.
At the prearranged time, an escort picked us up to go to the banquet in the Russian officers club. Sheila, I was surprised to see, was tricked out in her skirt and heels. I was in my dress blues, the two stripes on my dress blue sleeves outnumbered by her two and a half.
We slipped into the overcrowded, stuffy room like we owned it. It was packed with Russians, all in what I figured were probably their best dress uniforms. There were aguillettes, medals dangling, and more brass than I'd ever seen in one place before. After the debacle of earlier that day, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Not only was I the most junior of just about anybody around, I was the one who'd screwed the pooch.
Or at least I was supposed to think I was. For now, Sheila and I were going to let them think that they had us fooled.
'I know something,' I heard a female voice slightly behind me say. I turned to find a woman, a civilian by her dress, standing just behind me looking up at me. She was noticeably shorter than I was, her head barely reaching my shoulder level. Long auburn hair flamed in a crown on her head, spilling down her back in luxurious curls. Her eyes were brown, large and doe-like, and she stared at me with a look that was somewhere between lust and amusement. 'About the flight today, I mean.' She spoke English well, with only a slight trace of an accent.
I smiled at her. 'A lot of people know a lot about today,' I said.
'We haven't had the pleasure. Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon.' I extended my hand.
'Anna Doysta,' she answered, slipping her small, cool hand into mine.
Despite her slight size, she gripped my hand with surprising strength. 'Of course, I know who you are. We all do. I was hoping for an opportunity to meet with you tonight.' Her smile broadened, as though to leave no doubt about what she meant.
I laughed despite myself. 'My pleasure, Anna,' I said agreeably. 'I suspect you'll be the high point of my evening, as well.' I waved my hand at the assembled gaggle of officers and civilians. 'And just where do you fit in to this operation?'
I was already sure I knew. She was charming, and certainly beautiful, and within the space of a few seconds had managed to stroke my ego in a way that few American women did. Certainly not Sheila Kennedy, my all too capable RIO and running mate.
But how foolish did the Russians think I was? I knew who Anna worked for, even if she would never admit it. This was the very sort of thing we'd been cautioned against by Lab Rat, an approach by an attractive member of the opposite sex while we were in Russia.
'But you must know what I do,' she said, her tone of voice playful and amused, as though letting me in on a big secret. 'They've talked to you, yes? I am a spy, of course.' She gave a gentle, lilting laugh, as though to belie the seriousness of her answer. 'At least, I am employed as one.
Although there are very little opportunities for spying these days, at least in the last five years. I had hoped for a more glamorous career, but unfortunately my area of expertise is primarily agricultural. You know, finding out deep, dark secrets about Ukrainian wheat production, the Turkish soybean crop.' She waved her hand in a small, dismissing motion.
'Not what I expected when I joined the KGB.'
'You're very up front about it,' I stammered, trying to get my balance. I knew it, she knew it ? — but to admit it just like that?
Glasnost and peristroika had gone a whole hell of a lot further than I ever imagined.
'Tonight, I am off duty,' she said, her voice firm. 'No spying ? and I do not know enough about aircraft or airplanes to do a very good job of it, anyway. So shall we enjoy the evening? How are you finding your time in Russia?'
'Not what I had planned so far,' I admitted. There was something completely and entirely disarming about her, a spy who admitted she was one. Especially a spy that looked like she did. 'I didn't do so hot today.'
She nodded. 'I heard.' She took a step closer and laid one hand on the crook of my arm. 'You must be very, very careful,' she said, speaking quietly. 'I'm a very good spy ? at least, in my area. I hear the others talk. When you go back to your aircraft, please check carefully this equipment called an altimeter.' She stumbled slightly over the word, as though she'd never used it in conversation before. 'You went too low, but I do not think it was entirely your fault.' She glanced over at an assembled gaggle of Russian pilots. I could tell they were pilots from this distance, watching the arm movements as they reenacted the day's engagement for each other. 'They do not like to lose ? not for any reason.
It was not your fault you were outside of the envelope.' Again, her words sounded slightly awkward, as though she were unused to talking aviation or using the terminology of the trade. That, more than her self- proclaimed declaration that she was an agricultural spy, reassured me.
'What makes you say that?' I asked. I glanced over to see where Sheila was, wondering if I ought to get her in on this. But she was preoccupied with an American attache officer. The diplomatic corps had turned out en masse for this function. They'll do anything for free booze.
I tried to get some more details out of Anna, but she turned my questions away deftly but pleasantly. She'd said all she was going to.
Maybe if I'd had a chance to talk it over with Sheila, I might have figured out a way to get her to open up.
Anna's presence livened up the otherwise deadly dull proceedings of a formal dinner. She claimed the seat next to mine at one of the tables, and Sheila sat across the table from us with her tame attache in tow. I caught her shooting hostile glances at Anna several times, but ignored it. RIOs, particularly female ones, tend to have a rather proprietary attitude about their pilots.
But there was nothing going on, nothing at all between Anna and me.
There couldn't be. First off, I knew she was a spy, and getting involved personally with her to any degree would have resulted in a lot more paperwork than I even wanted to think about. Second, Admiral Magruder had already taken a look at us, shot me a warning glance that would have scorched the skin off a turtle, and was still keeping us under observation.
We talked about everything in the world except flying, ate, and I even allowed myself one shot glass of vodka. One, no more, not if I had to fly the next day.
At one point, after the dinner broke up and we were on the way out, I had a chance to introduce her to Admiral Magruder. Anna seemed quite taken with him, even stepped up close to whisper in his ear. Whatever she said to him made him go pale, but he merely nodded politely to her. Altimeters, maybe? Or something else?
Finally, the evening ended. I was tired by then, drained from the culture shock and disappointment of the day's flying, but determined that tomorrow would be different.
The BOQ was quiet and cold when I got back. I stopped in the head long enough to contemplate the probability of hot water, then gave it up as a lost cause after I'd let it run for about thirty minutes with no appreciable change in the temperature. I cleaned up the best I could and hit the rack.
Tomorrow would be another day ? and one the Russians might not like nearly as much as I liked Anna.
4
The transition from life at sea to life ashore is always a bit awkward for me. It's odd to realize that more than half of my adult life has been spent living on aircraft carriers, in accommodations ranging from the cramped rabbit warrens of junior officer berthing to the more luxurious accommodations afforded a flag officer. Ashore, before my marriage to Tomboy, I'd lived in a series of increasingly comfortable and spacious apartments and town homes,
