and I think that in our years of foreign policy, in shaping our nation's conduct toward them back then, we never fully understood the impact. America, splendid in her geographic isolation, has never known enemy soldiers on her land, has never seen brother, son, and neighbor cut down by foreign troops, has never known the rumble of enemy tanks on Main Street, U. S.A.
Not that I am advocating it as a national experience. But we have been blessed, and I wonder sometimes how much of our population truly understands how great that blessing has been.
Like many senior military officers, I am an avid history buff. It is true that those who know history are doomed to repeat it. Technology simply puts a different face on old tactics and strategy. Kursk has always been of particular interest to me, and I welcomed the chance to get to see it up close and personal.
But there was another reason that Kursk fascinated me, one that I had not shared with my Russian hosts. I would not have been surprised to learn that they already knew about it, but I had no intention of confirming their intelligence. If their intelligence network was worth anything at all, then they knew most of what had occurred to me in the last year.
It had been an opportunity I could not pass up. I was between tours, awaiting an available officer billet, and even contemplating the possibility of retiring. My wife, Tomboy, had pointed it out to me first.
It was my father. As I grew older, and contemplated starting a family of my own, his loss became more and more of a void in my life.
Within the Pentagon, my increasing obsession with the fate of my father was a well-known secret. Only my uncle really understood what it meant to me and had understood my sense of outrage and betrayal.
Russia ? in the last year, it had become an obscenity to me. I had nightmares about it and woke up yelling. That he could have been shot down I understood. That's the risk you take when you fly combat air. But Russia! Being here myself ? making pleasantries with men who might have interrogated my father, finding that I had something in common with the aviators ? — was a difficult path to walk. I wanted to hate them all, to make them pay the price for what their predecessors had done. But I couldn't, not now. Finding out the truth meant playing the role I'd chosen, and I was determined to do it well.
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.
