A Sound of Freedom Read online

  A SOUND

  OF

  FREDOM

  WALTER GRANT

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected].

  www.pubficationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-038-4

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-228-9

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2005909307

  Copyright 2005 by Walter Grant

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical

  or electronic means including photocopying or

  recording, or by any information storage or

  retrieval system, in whole or in part in any

  form, and in any case not without the

  written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedicated to Charlene

  Thanks to Tom and David.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BACKGROUND

  NO TURNING BACK

  NO RIBBONS

  GOING HOME

  NO PLACE TO GO

  SEVEN-MINUTE WATER

  LIES, LIES, AND MORE LIES

  ONE MORE BAG OF SCUM

  A REAL UGLY GUY

  IN OVER HIS HEAD

  WILDFLOWERS

  HAVE A NICE DAY

  BACKGROUND

  Walter’s flight crew shown in front of their P5M seaplane, LM9.

  Walter joined the navy in 1956 and was schooled by the navy for almost two years before he was assigned to VP-44 at Breezy Point and became the junior crew member on a P5M seaplane, LM-9—his job code required a secret clearance. Back then aircrews were families; each crew maintained, flew, and operated the mission equipment on their own aircraft.

  Walter’s career in avionics took him from vacuum tubes to microchips, from subsonic propeller driven aircraft to supersonic jets, from a sleepy farming town to real-life scenes straight out of National Geographic.

  He entered the navy unaware of the free world’s dependency on America’s prestige and military might; the term cold war had little meaning—his fall from innocence was at hand.

  Soviet threats were reshaping world opinion, fear of nuclear attack was affecting the daily routine of many Americans, DOD was pushing for newer and more sophisticated weaponry, and the military was redefining the rules of engagement—this was the real-life world Walter was thrust into when he entered the navy.

  After the soviet’s moved nuclear missiles into Cuba, a mere ninety miles from America’s shores, Walter realized the communist threat was real. It was then he began collecting and reading books on the cold war, which introduced him to the shadowy world of espionage.

  NO TURNING BACK

  The solarium on the big Alaska state ferry, open to the rear with glass overhead and on both sides, offered an unobstructed view. Whereas a person traveling the Inside Passage for the first time might stand in awe, Maxwell Kayne, settling into his lounge chair, was aware of the majesty surrounding him, for a moment only, as he reminded himself he was not here to enjoy the beauty of this vast land—he was here to kill.

  The Matanuska slipped her mooring, eased out into Gastineau Channel and slowly moved off into the semidarkness. Alpenglow, playing along 6,000-foot peaks above Juneau, signaled an end to this late October day. In the Lower Forty-eight the sun was still high in the western sky, but Alaska’s Panhandle days were growing shorter; winter was fast approaching. Already nights were below freezing along Lynn Canal and snow, now down to 1,000 feet, gave off an eerie glow as evening faded, giving way to the night.

  Radiant heaters overhead, glowing red, kept the chill out of the solarium and with a stretch of the imagination one might even consider it warm, except when the wind, carrying an icy hint of the impending winter, whipped in across the stern. Passengers here, however, preferred fresh air to the smoke-filled observation deck or sleeping lounge, and dressed accordingly. Max Kayne was not unprepared.

  He pulled the drawstring on his mummy-style sleeping bag until only his face was left uncovered, and closed his eyes. In the fleeting seconds before sleep came, he thought about the past, about the events that had brought him to this space and time.

  As sleep took control of his body, subconsciousness took control of his thoughts, and he drifted back into the past, back to an early June dawn.

  A yellow school bus sat on the parking lot in front of a large white stone building. In two-foot-high letters above the archway leading to heavy double doors was the name, Shelby County High School. On the school bus a banner read, “Senior Class Trip, Washington, D.C. or Bust.”

  A half dozen kids were outside near the bus; twenty-five or so were already inside. “Hey J.J., hurry up, we’re gonna leave without you,” someone yelled.

  A tall, skinny kid carrying a cardboard suitcase in one hand and a Brownie Hawkeye camera in the other walked slowly toward the bus. The suggestion of being left behind did nothing to increase his stride. He was always late, and everyone always waited. As he approached, the kids hanging around outside hurried onto the bus. He followed them inside, tossed his suitcase in back with the rest of the luggage, and looked around for a place to sit. Peggy Jean watched him, the seat beside her vacant, as he knew it would be. But today he did not want to talk about James Dean, or Elvis, or what everyone had done on Saturday night. He saw an empty seat and quickly sat down. Several minutes passed before he glanced in the direction of Peggy Jean. She had been joined by her best friend and they were both glaring at him.

  As the bus rolled along the empty main street of the small farming town, Jack Johnson had no way of knowing he was seeing it for the last time. By the time they made the turn onto the state highway the strains of “Hail, Hail, The Gang’s All Here” were dying away and most of the kids, tired from the previous night’s graduation party and last-minute preparations, were trying to sleep. But not Jack. Only twice had he been further than fifty miles from home and never out of the state. This wasn’t just a trip; this was a milestone.

  Their visit to the nation’s capital had been well planned and in just three short days Jack learned more about his country’s history than in all the time he’d spent in school. As he began to understand the true cost of freedom and what America was all about, the unfamiliar emotions of pride and patriotism crept, slowly at first, then flooded through every fiber of his being. As he visited museums and monuments and listened to the words of tour guides, his thinking seemed to merge with that of the men who had framed his country’s constitution and he began to share their hopes and dreams. Through dedication and sacrifice they had forged a nation out of wilderness and shaped those dreams into reality. Jack wondered if the leaders of tomorrow would have the wisdom and dedication of those past. Not only would America’s future be determined in this very city but the fate of the world as well. Jack Johnson, for a brief moment, glimpsed the future and although he did not know what role he would play, he knew he would be part of that determining force.

  An hour before they were to board the bus and begin their long trip home, Jack confided his plans to his best friend and gave him three letters he had written the night before, one for Peggy Jean, one for his parents, and one for the class chaperone.

  Anxious to get going, the bus driver had been counting heads and complained, “Everybody’s here except J.J.; you might know he’d be late.”

  At that moment a kid with sandy-colored hair and a sunburned face stepped forward, handed a letter to the chaperone, and with a flippant smile announced, “J.J. ain’t late, he ain’t comin.”

  Three months ago, as J.J. watched the school bu
s carrying his friends and classmates merge into traffic and disappear, two hundred eighty dollars had seemed like a lot of money, everything he’d earned working weekends and the two previous summers. He didn’t know why he had brought his savings with him in the first place, and hadn’t thought about what he would do when the money ran out or even that it would. It didn’t matter now, his plan had been to see and learn as much about the nation’s capital as he possibly could while his money lasted, and he had done just that.

  Concerning him now was an empty stomach and the prospect of another night with no place to sleep. There was nothing left to do but follow through on his decision, a decision he had made after spending a day in the National Cemetery at Arlington. He sat on a bench savoring his last moments of freedom, the carefree type of freedom only a youth can experience, but fun and games were all behind him now. There was no turning back. His next act would be that of an adult.

  After considerable time Jack Johnson stood up, walked across the street, up the steps and through the door, never looking back. As he approached a desk a few feet inside the office, a Marine captain, looking all spit and polish in his dress uniform with rows of medals on his chest, looked up from paperwork on his desk and asked, “Well?”

  “I guess we’ve got a deal, sir.” Jack Johnson replied. The officer pushed back his chair and stood up and said, “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.”

  Jack raised his right hand as instructed and the officer continued, “I, Jackson Jefferson Johnson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.” After Jack had repeated the oath the officer extended his hand and said,

  “Welcome to the Corps, Private Johnson.”

  NO RIBBONS

  The six-foot, 185-pound, rock-hard Marine sprawled on the couch wearing nothing but gym shorts bore little resemblance to the skinny kid of four years before who’d stood in the recruiter’s office with his right hand held high, proudly taking an oath to give his life if necessary in the defense of his country. Jack lay with his head propped up on pillows watching a man at the bar scrutinizing photocopies of a classified military document.

  Behind the bar a tall, slender brunette wearing a tank top stretched tightly across her ample breasts, leaving little to the imagination, was mixing martinis. Aware that Jack had shifted his attention to her, she continued shaking the martinis a full twenty seconds longer than necessary, her breasts straining at the confines of the tank top with her every movement. She filled two glasses, dropped an olive in each drink, picked them up and moved slowly away from the bar. Carrying both drinks in one hand she picked up a pillow and tossed it on the floor in front of the couch, placed one of the drinks in Jack’s hand, took a sip from the other, and sat down on the pillow.

  Satisfied, the man at the bar stood up, placed the photocopies inside a magazine, removed an envelope from his pocket and held it up for Jack to see. “I believe you will find this satisfactory.”

  He dropped the envelope on the bar as he spoke. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Aware of the implications, Jack did not respond. Without further hesitation the man said, “I can show myself out.”

  The man walked quickly across the room. A few seconds later they heard the door open and close.

  “Do you want to count it?”

  Again, Jack did not reply.

  “Oh, come on, it can’t be all that bad.”

  “It’s bad enough.” Jack’s words were barely audible.

  “Next time will be easier, you’ll see.”

  Shifting to a kneeling position she took another sip of her martini and then set it aside. “Just think of all the fun we can have spending that money.”

  Her lips, warm and moist, were slowly tracing circular patterns across his bare torso while her hands gently tugged at the waist band of his gym shorts.

  “So this is how you recruit a traitor,” he hypothesized. “Seven thousand dollars and the favors of a beautiful woman.” He wondered how many others had sold out their country for the same price. It was an age-old game and it worked very well. How could anyone say no to Jeanne?

  In a small but plush room hidden away inside the Russian embassy in Brussels, three men were congratulating themselves and toasting each other with vodka. They now had eyes and ears deep within NATO headquarters. The Marine sergeant had not been bought easily and might be difficult to control, but like any fish, once bait is taken and the hook is set, you can reel it in any time you please. They were confident he would serve them well and long.

  Meanwhile, not far across town in the office of NATO commander Brigadier General Thomas P. Boaden, three men were toasting with brandy. “Son, you have placed yourself in a very dangerous position. A position, you understand, where one mistake could cost you your life?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the quick reply.

  “The information you passed on to the Communists today was outdated, and we have reason to believe was already compromised. However, it was correct in every detail. It is important to continue giving them authentic material until we feel they are convinced you are, indeed, a traitor, at which time we can begin to alter, omit, and add false information. In this way we not only confuse and disorient their intelligence-gathering systems, we also cause them to put money, time, and energy into areas we already know are counterproductive. Mr. Tosi,” the general nodded toward a man wearing gray slacks and a blue pullover, “is with the Central Intelligence Agency. Mr. Tosi will work out whatever is necessary to keep you in the good graces of the KGB. Mr. Tosi will be your only contact. You and I are not likely to meet again. Any questions, Sergeant Johnson?”

  “No sir.”

  General Boaden stood and extended his hand. “I wish there was a medal for this occasion. Unfortunately, Sergeant Johnson, there will be no ribbons for your uniform. Like Cyrano de Bergerac, you must wear your adornments on your soul.”

  The door had barely closed behind the general when Henri Tosi set his brandy snifter down, picked up a heavy briefcase and said, “Shall we get started?”

  GOING HOME

  In Moscow spring is a time that lifts the spirits. Ice has broken up on the Moskva, trees are budding in Sokiniki Park, crocus and freesias are starting to bloom in Ostankino Gardens and it feels good just to be alive, to have survived another winter without freezing or starving to death.

  For Jack Johnson it might just as well have been the dead of winter. In his eight years behind the Iron Curtain since his defection to the Soviet Union—orchestrated by the CIA—he had acquired the same fear shared by all Russian citizens, the fear that today was the day the cheka would call.

  Everyone had a file and a number. Jack suspected his file was quite thick and monitored very carefully, with new entries daily and close attention given to every detail. As a captain—a rank of privilege, rather than authority, a reward for spying against his country—in the Foreign Intelligence Directorate, he was aware of the Counter Intelligence Directorate that focused its energies on citizens inside the Soviet Union. No one was exempt.

  Foremost on Jack’s mind, however, was the life he had left behind. Starting slowly and building until it was his first thought upon awakening in the morning and the last thing on his mind when he closed his eyes at night.

  He wanted to go home. Twice within the last six months he had sent the coded request with no response. Each day he felt the bonechilling cold of communism intensify and he wanted desperately to return to the warmth of America.

  He lived well in Russia. As a junior officer in the KGB he was paid four times more than a college professor, with services and privileges not only nonexistent for the average Soviet citizen, but unheard of and unsuspected as well. These perk
s ranged from chauffeurs to vacations, from laundry service to call girls, all freely provided by the State.

  Had Jack been born and raised in Russia, he might have felt fortunate for his position. But he remembered the luxury of having a friend he could trust, the warmth of smiles and laughter, and of not being concerned with whom he talked, where he walked, what magazine or newspaper he read, and he had reached the point where he was willing to make a deal with the devil himself for just one hour of freedom.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door of his small, austere apartment in the KGB living quarters overlooking Mozhayskoye Chaussee. Startled, he sprang to his feet, his mind racing. He had become more paranoid with each passing day and every event, and now with a knock at the door a dozen questions raced through his mind. Who was calling? Why at this hour? Did they know? Did he talk in his sleep? Was his room bugged? Could they read his very thoughts? He was already moving across the floor when the knock came again. Before he could reach the door the knock came a third time with a sound of urgency. Jack grabbed the knob, snatched open the door and found himself looking at a young lieutenant he recognized as an aide to Colonel Vladimir Chevshenko, section chief of illegal operations. The KGB operated a spy network using ambassadors, trade representatives, and other diplomats who entered and exited countries with legal passports; however, members of the illegal section worked strictly undercover and involved foreign nationals, citizens working against their own countries, double agents, and agents from their own section.

  “Comrade Captain,” the lieutenant saluted smartly, a courtesy Jack’s rank demanded of the young officer. “I am here to escort you to the hospital at Dzerzhinsky square.”

  Jack knew his years of training would never allow the sudden rush of adrenalin to reflect in his face. The most feared of institutions in all of the Soviet Union stood at number 2 Dzerzhinsky Square—the infamous Lubianka prison. What the lieutenant referred to as a hospital was nothing more than an infirmary where, through the use of drugs and torture, men were known to confess to crimes they never committed and implicate others who had no previous knowledge of the crime or even knew that a crime had been committed. People interrogated at Lubianka always confessed in the end, so said the KGB.