A Sound of Freedom Read online

  With calm and a show of indifference Jack demanded, “What requires my personal and immediate attention at this late hour, Comrade Lieutenant?”

  “I have no information, Comrade Captain. My instructions are to personally escort you to the hospital without delay. I have a car and driver downstairs. Shall we go?” It was not a request.

  The lieutenant opened the door of the sedan for Jack, and then closed it again after he settled into the back seat. The lieutenant climbed into the front with the driver. Jack sat quietly wrestling with his emotions during the short trip to Dzerzhinsky Square. When they arrived at Lubianka the lieutenant opened the door and waited for Jack to exit the sedan, then escorted him past the guards and through several doors with more guards and down several passageways before opening a door and stepping aside so Jack could enter. He then closed the door and remained outside. As Jack stepped into the room his years of training and experience automatically took control of his emotions and actions. In the time required to take three steps toward four men sitting at a table about twelve feet long, he had surveyed and mentally recorded the entire scene.

  Besides the chief of Illegal Operations, Colonel Chevshenko, he immediately recognized his own boss, Colonel Viktor Galuzin, chief of the Western Hemisphere Intelligence Section, along with the chief of Special Operations, Colonel Vasily Ivanovich. The fourth man, wearing a white hospital coat, he surmised was a doctor. Behind the table a nurse stood beside a gurney. There was little doubt that underneath the sheet draping the gurney was a body. Jack was in what appeared to be an operating room with an overhead gallery. Behind the glass, although no lights were on in the gallery, he could see half a dozen shadowy figures. At least one wore a general’s uniform.

  Colonel Chevshenko motioned for Jack to step closer and said, “Ah! Come in, Comrade Captain. I regret calling you out at this late hour but a matter of urgency has come to our attention and it must be resolved without delay.”

  Knowing microphones would carry his every word to a recorder as well as to the audience above, Jack replied nonchalantly, but with the sincerity of a dedicated Communist, “There is no need for an apology. I have not been inconvenienced. How can I be of service, Comrade Colonel?” He was feeling more at ease now—he was not here as a suspect. You did not assemble an audience of colonels and generals at his time of night to bring a mere captain up on charges. Something major was going down and he was becoming curious as to how he was to be involved.

  “Are you loyal to the Party?” inquired Colonel Chevshenko.

  There had been a time when the question would have chilled his blood, but not now. The CIA and KGB had trained him well. He was in his element and whatever his fears might be, his emotions would not betray him. He played this sort of game very well and was in complete control of his emotions.

  When your life depended upon how well you played the game, you played very well, indeed. His fourteen years as a player and the fact that he was still alive were a testament to his ability to play the game. He felt the familiar rush and, like the dope addict sticking a needle into his arm, felt the high coming on—center stage was his and the curtain was going up. His answer weighed and reweighed in the space of a nanosecond came across composed with the conviction of a patriot of communism. “I am dedicated to the Party, I desire only to serve.”

  Numerous questions raced through his mind, but he knew he had been summoned here to answer questions, not to ask them. It didn’t matter, all his questions would be answered in due time. All he had to do was be patient and wait for the scenario to unfold.

  “Do you have any desire to return to America?” Chevshenko asked.

  Could they possibly know that he was a double agent and that he had a burning desire to go home? If so, how? Perhaps he was wrong—this was beginning to take on the appearance of a full-blown investigation. Every agent in the field always worried that he would be exposed by a mole. It had long been rumored a mole was deep within the CIA. Maybe it was true. Maybe the interrogation was about to begin in earnest. But he didn’t think so. The setting just wasn’t right. He made a show of resenting the implications, but not enough to be disrespectful of the colonel. “I chose the Soviet Union over America eight years ago. I am proud to be a Communist. I have no desire to return to a capitalist world.”

  He wondered if he was laying it on a little too thick as he made sure the word capitalist was accented with disgust.

  “Would you be willing to return in the interest of the State?”

  “I’m happy here. However, if the party so desires, I will make the sacrifice,” Jack replied, his voice melancholy for the benefit of the gallery. He had a feeling they were about to expose their hand and the time had come to express some anxiety. He didn’t want to appear too much in control. “If I am required to leave my beloved homeland, will I be able to return soon?”

  The question was for effect. The colonel continued, as Jack knew he would, as if the question had not been asked. “We find ourselves with a problem. This problem, however, provides us with a unique opportunity, an opportunity to embarrass the United States and bring worldwide attention to the glory of communism.”

  Without taking his eyes off Jack the colonel commanded, “Remove the sheet.”

  It took all his concentration to maintain control of his emotions. His spirits were flying higher than he could have ever imagined. He could only guess at their plan. No doubt it was insane—an insane plan formulated by insane men—he didn’t care. They would lay it all out for him and he would make sure it succeeded. Well, part of it anyway; the part that served him, and serve him it surely would, of this he had no doubt whatsoever. One glimpse was all it took and he knew he was looking at his ticket to the West.

  All the years as a double agent and the torturous training preceding those years had not prepared him for this moment. He was afraid to move or speak. What if his voice broke, or showed even the slightest tremor? He felt flushed, then chilled, his skin suddenly clammy. Beads of perspiration were dangerously close to forming on his brow and worst of all, his eyes were becoming moist. Would a tear, of all things, betray his emotions? He was on his way home if only he could survive the next few seconds.

  The naked corpse on the gurney could have been his twin brother. Five years older, maybe, slightly heavier, and possibly an inch or two shorter, yet except for hairstyle and a mustache the dead man was his double. His fear that emotion might somehow give him away was unfounded. Years of training provided his subconscious the ability to react as would be expected of a true patriot of communism.

  As quickly as panic had raced through his being he regained control of his emotions as well as his confidence. There was nothing to fear. His dedication to the State had never been in question—after all, none of the other officers summoned here tonight wore the Order of the Red Banner or the coveted title “Hero of the Soviet Union” on their uniforms. His only concern now was to convince them he could successfully carry out their foolhardy plan, and this he most certainly would do.

  Chevshenko softened his tone as though sympathetic to Jack’s reluctance to return to America and said, “There are some minor details to be worked out. Doctor Chekhov will simulate superficial wounds to your head and face. This will warrant shaving your head and mustache, and some attention must be given to the throat as well. This will excuse any difference in speech. We have some audio-and videotapes of Mr. Harte taken during his visit to Moscow. You will study them while Doctor Chekhov is preparing his staff.”

  The colonel spoke directly to Jack as though he had been asked and had agreed to cooperate. Jack had no say in this whatsoever and he knew it. The decision was made long before the lieutenant was sent to his apartment, and to refuse or even question the wisdom of his superiors was unthinkable. There was no reason to ask. It was understood, everyone always agreed.

  No one in the Soviet Union had ever been more in agreement with any decision by the KGB than Jack at this moment and he didn’t even know the details.

>   The colonel concluded, saying, “We are gathering as much information as we can about Mr. Harte. It will be passed on to you as quickly as possible. We have very little time to prepare. You must be ready tomorrow.”

  The media had the story correct in every detail, with one exception. The United Nations delegation, after a six-day tour in the Soviet Union, was en route to Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow when a pedestrian suddenly stepped into the path of one of the cars in the motorcade. The driver, a member of the security police, was killed as he swerved into an oncoming truck. The passengers had been seriously injured, but all would survive without long-term disabilities.

  Doctor Chekhov, the hospital chief of staff, allowed the reporters to visit and question the U.N. delegates, restricting them to just five minutes with the most prominent of the delegation, David Harte.

  And that one incorrect detail? David Aaron Harte had not survived. Unknown, except to a select few within the hierarchy of the KGB, Captain Jack Johnson was now masquerading as United States ambassador to the United Nations.

  The KGB had an ingenious plan: David Harte would return to America glowing with admiration for the Soviet Union and spend several months expounding the virtues of communism and the great socialist successes—which, of course, did not exist since there had been few successes in the Soviet Union—at the same time condemning capitalism and criticizing the democratic system at every opportunity to anyone of the media willing to listen. The media, having socialist leanings themselves, were always willing to listen to left-wing fanatics.

  The Kremlin considered the American media among their best propaganda tools, if not allies. Via the media, Communist fronts spread disinformation and were able to influence the thinking of many Americans, who, in turn, pressured their legislators—some of whom were already sympathetic to socialism and communism—to vote for or against certain bills pending in Congress.

  Ambassador Harte’s lectures and news conferences, however, would only set the stage for the big event. When the KGB bosses decided the time was right Ambassador David Harte would, in front of prearranged television coverage from around the world, address the United Nations General Assembly, denounce the United States as an imperialistic aggressor and ask the Soviet delegation for political asylum. This would embarrass and humiliate the conservative administration that had appointed Harte to the U.N. and would most certainly be the headline of the decade.

  In this election year, the impact would be doubly devastating to the United States, and the advantage for the Soviet Union would be immense. The Democrats were running an ultraliberal candidate and this would almost certainly assure his election to the Oval Office. During the four years to follow, the Kremlin would be able to further undermine the economies of the free world, expand its boundaries, advance its military position, and usurp American prestige throughout the world. Under the guise of détente, the Soviets would be able to win favorable arms limitation treaties, purchase high-tech equipment, install puppet governments in many third-world nations, and step up infiltration of sensitive positions in our own government. It was indeed an admirable plan. No doubt, congratulations were being passed around as everyone involved was vying for credit.

  The new David Harte had gone without sleep for the better part of three days. Briefings had continued around the clock, interrupted only by the media and U.S. officials. Benzedrine had kept him awake and alert for those three days, but now he was coming down fast. Even so, he would force himself to stay awake until his “Freedom Bird” was airborne. He surmised men would always lie on stretchers wherever the struggle for freedom existed. He remembered lying on a stretcher some fifteen years ago at Tan Son Nhut waiting for another Freedom Bird. It wasn’t his doing and he had no say in it, but he felt he was deserting the people in Southeast Asia and vowed to continue the fight against oppression. That vow had deprived him of his own freedom for the last eight years. During those eight years he had sent thousands of coded messages and documents to the Central Intelligence Agency, risking his life every day of those eight years. Now he felt no remorse or guilt in his desire to go home.

  The scream of jet engines interrupted his thoughts. Turning his head he could see a big C141 without identification markings and painted in standard air force camouflage, taxi to a stop just fifty feet away. In an unprecedented decision the Kremlin had granted the president’s request and allowed the air force to medivac Ambassador Harte directly from Moscow. The pilot did not cut power and the big engines continued to whine. The rear cargo ramp was lowered and had barely touched the pavement before an air force doctor followed by a nurse and two medics hurried down and walked directly to where the ambassador lay. Talking briefly with his Russian counterpart as he examined his new VIP patient, the air force doctor appeared relieved to find no major injuries. A few parting comments, a handshake, and they were on their way up the cargo ramp.

  The litter smelled clean and fresh as did the nurse, her perfume reminding him of many things past and of dreams yet to be fulfilled. The nurse noticed Jack watching her as she leaned across to tighten the safety harness. “I just want to make sure you don’t fall out of bed. We’ve come a long way to get you and we want to make sure nothing happens to you on the way home.”

  Fighting now to stay awake, he was determined not to give in to the much-needed sleep until they were airborne. He heard the ramp come up, the hatch close, the whine of the jets increase, and felt the plane begin to move. They taxied for only a couple of minutes before stopping momentarily at the end of the runway. To Jack it seemed an eternity, but now, at last, the engines went to full power and with afterburners thundering the big aircraft gathered speed quickly and sprang into the air. As the Starlifter turned its nose skyward he heard the gear retract, the wheel well doors slam shut, and felt the acceleration as the safety harness strained to hold him in position on the litter; his Freedom Bird was on the wing.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Ambassador, I’m Doctor William Edwards. We’ll try to make your flight as comfortable as possible. Our orders are to proceed to Andrews, where you will be transferred to the Naval Hospital at Bethesda. We’ll touch down briefly at either Keflavik or Goose Bay for refueling; otherwise you have an express all the way to Washington.” Jack had heard only two words before falling asleep, “Welcome aboard.”

  “Any personal requests, sir?” There was no reply as Jack was already dreaming. Dr. Edwards wondered why the ambassador was smiling. Nurse Brooks thought he was smiling at her.

  More than five thousand miles and seven time zones had slipped beneath their wings in the last twelve and a half hours. Flying east to west they would gain eight hours. Takeoff from Moscow was at ten thirty and even though flight time would be approximately fourteen hours, they would land at Andrews Air Force Base at about four thirty the same afternoon.

  Intending to awaken the ambassador with a gentle nudge, Dr. Edwards had barely touched the sleeping man’s arm when his eyes popped open, and his attempt to bolt upright was stopped short by the safety harness. Giving the startled man a few seconds to collect himself, the doctor asked, “How do you feel, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Hungry,” came the quick and pleasant reply.

  “I’m not surprised, you’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours.” The doctor continued speaking as Nurse Brooks leaned over and loosened the restraining strap across Jack’s chest. “Well, I think we shall be able to ease your hunger pangs. We’re preparing a nice lunch for you. In the meantime would you like something to drink?”

  “Please!”

  Handing the ambassador a large paper cup filled with a slightly yellowish liquid the doctor explained, “This little concoction is full of minerals, proteins, electrolytes, and lots of other goodies. The stuff may not look very appetizing but it doesn’t taste too bad and your body will thank you for drinking it. It’s kind of like Gatorade.”

  “Like what?”

  “Gatorade, you know, the stuff all the athletes drink.”

  “Oh y
eah, sure.” He raised the drink to his lips and took a sip, then without stopping, drank until the cup was empty.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere off the New England coast. We passed over Cape Sable, Nova Scotia, about an hour ago; we should be touching down in another hour and a half.” The nurse had placed a couple of pillows behind the ambassador’s back, making it comfortable for him to sit upright. Another pillow on his lap made it easy to balance the lunch tray. Doctor Edwards was entering David’s vital signs in his chart as he spoke. “I’ve recommended a few days’ bed rest and observation along with various blood tests. I’m sure the navy will have their own ideas about your care; however, I see no reason for concern. I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch and to collect your thoughts. I’m sure you want some time to prepare for the press. No doubt you’ll be the lead story on national television tonight. If you need anything, just let Nurse Brooks know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Prepare! Hell, he didn’t need to prepare. He knew exactly what he was going to say. “Surprise, surprise! I’m not David Harte. The ambassador is back in Moscow, dead as a mackerel. I’m Sergeant Jack Johnson, United States Marine Corps. If you don’t believe me, check my fingerprints.” Oh yeah, it would be the headline of the decade all right, but not the one the KGB had in mind. He just wished he could see their faces when they learned of their mistake. All that toasting, congratulating, and backslapping would quickly turn to fear, denial, and finger pointing. A lot of new faces would be showing up in Siberia in the next couple of weeks.