Posted by
Bull 67 on Friday, July 25, 2008 11:20:06 AM
(The following is a work of fiction. The characters are not based on any real person, living or dead. Only the lessons are real)
Happening now somewhere deep in the Kremlin basement…
An old man, dressed in a dated brown suit, slowly walks down a dimly lit hallway. His footsteps, steady and heavy, echo hollowly against bare cement. Rows of faded ribbons and medals hang from his chest, proudly topped with a Soviet flag lapel pin. He carries a newspaper folded neatly under his arm. Every few paces he emerges into ruddy yellow light cast from bare light bulbs. The harsh light hardens his granite face and reflects off a balding head. Each light dimly illuminates photos of forgotten military men, stern heroes of a receding age. He comes to a vault-like metal door covered in chipped green paint. Wrinkled hands search empty pockets for a long-unused key. He scowls and softly mutters obscenities.
I’ve come all this way and forgot the damn key!
Desperate, he tries the door knob. The heavy chamber door cracks open, sending a ray of soft orange light into the hallway.
“It’s open,” comes a deep, ancient voice.
Surprised and curious, the old man pushes the door open all the way. The room is large, the air is stale. The faint odor conjures strong memories and they rush over him with unexpected power. He steadies himself against the door and slowly takes in the room. Other than a thick layer of dust, the room is unchanged, frozen in time.
The walls are lined with maps from a lost world. Each is blanketed with labels proclaiming the locations and strength long mothballed air armies and defenses. Chairs and tables were right where he last remembered them, as if waiting for their analysts to return. Only the paper was gone, but its dry, stale smell remained. Ancient computers lined one wall. Without magnetic tape reels they looked like eyeless robots.
They might as well have been blind, they couldn’t help us see our own doom, he thinks.
In the center of the room sits another old man. He is dressed in a black suit, but only a Soviet lapel pin rest upon his narrow chest. A well-worn cane rests against an outstretched leg. A broad smile and twinkling eyes lift his sagging face.
“Sergey! I…I…how long have you been here?” says the old man standing at the door, flabbergasted.
The man in black gently motions to a half-full bottle of vodka and two glasses on the bare table in front of him.
“It feels like 20 years. Come and sit with me, Leonid, I’ve been waiting. I’m sorry, but I broke the seal of the vodka. I’ve always been a little impatient,” He motions to his leg and cane self-consciously, “Please forgive me for not getting up to greet you properly, but it took everything out of me just getting down here.”
Leonid comes forward and clasps his old friend’s hand, “This is a pleasant, if not suspicious, surprise.” He raises a bushy eyebrow at the empty chair and vodka, “How did you know I would be here? No…stop. Don’t tell me. I should know better than ask an old spy about his craft.”
Sergey laughs deeply, which quickly turns to a fit of coughing. It takes a few minutes for him to catch his breath, “It warms my heart to see you, but don’t make me laugh too hard or it might stop! Anyway, it wasn’t hard to deduce you would be here today. You air force types are predictable.”
Leonid settles into the folding wooden chair across the table across from Sergey and tosses his paper onto the bare table. It’s the New York Times, folded over to expose a small, deeply buried, article.
“The US tanker program is delayed again. The Secretary of Defense has stripped control of the program from the service. It may be another year before a winner is selected, if ever.”
Sergey smiles and pours both generous shots of Vodka, they raise their glasses. They smile broadly at each other and tap glasses in a dull clink.
“Success,” says Sergey.
“Success,” responds Leonid.
They down their vodka in one gulp and sit in silence. Sergey contemplates his empty glass while Leonid’s eyes roam around the room. Over 20 years ago intelligence analysts and staff officers busily filled its spaces, assessing NATO and America’s ability to penetrate Soviet air defenses. Specifically, they were tasked to identify and exploit weaknesses in the American Air Force. Leonid was the senior air officer and overall director, Sergey was his KGB counterpart. Together, they covertly plotted the destruction of the mighty American Air Force.
Leonid breaks the silence, “I have not returned here since they shut us down. I thought I still had my key, but I must have misplaced it.”
Sergey doesn’t look up, “I come every year on the anniversary of the program. It may sound pathetic, but it was my finest hour. It’s all been downhill since. I asked Vladimir for a job, but he doesn’t return my calls. Ungrateful punk! I taught him everything he knows.”
“I am sorry old friend, you deserve better. If there is anything I can do…” Leonid shrugs.
Sergey waves his hand dismissively, “I have a pension and a few investments (and probably drink to much), but I’ll be fine.”
The mood lightens as Leonid recharges both their glasses, “A toast to Sasha!”
They raise their glasses and say together, “Sasha!”
“One day,” Sergey proclaims, “history will give him the credit he deserves. He was the greatest intelligence analyst ever: Soviet, American, British…it doesn’t matter. I only wish he had been an equally good operative.”
“Do not blame yourself, friend. You did your duty sending him into the field, he did his duty by going. Such is the price patriots must pay.”
Together, they drift back to another world, reliving old times and secret deeds few witnessed and even fewer live to remember.
Sergey begins the journey, “I remember when I first met you. I thought you were a cocky bomber pilot.”
Leonid laughs, “No offense, but I thought KGB types were slime. And I thought Sasha was a…I think the American word is ‘geek.”
Sergey gently chuckles, “No offense taken, old friend. I know KGB types are slime. Ahh, geek, yes, an appropriate word. He was a geek, a wonderful, brilliant geek. Slime, cocky and geek…we three misfits made a good team, eh?”
“No, Sergey, we made history! Sasha’s brainchild is alive and well, slowly and steadily eroding the once great American Air Force. I don’t need classified intelligence reports to see its effectiveness. I only have to read the western news and defense magazines.” He waves his craggy hand dismissively, “I like paper. I have no use for the internet. Click, click click, it’s so impersonal. I read stories like this one about the tanker and shake my head in disbelief. They haven’t started a single successful major weapons program since our plan went into effect. It’s taken them over twenty years to field the F-22. The old B-52 is still their mainstay bomber! We did it, Sergey,” he taps the paper for effect, “and we’re still doing it.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe it myself Leonid. Did you know the American Air Force cannot even buy an updated version of an old helicopter without years of delays? Is this the same air force which put hundreds of F-15s into the skies less than a decade after they saw our Mig-25 thunder over Moscow? I remember the look on your face when you talked about the F-15,” Sergey laughs, “You were terrified.”
“And rightly so! That thing would have made mincemeat of my bombers. We had nothing to challenge it. The Bekka Valley proved me right! I was as equally concerned when you brought me the intelligence on the F-117 and B-2. I knew our entire air defense system was instantly worthless. The American Army and Navy could be dealt with; only their air force could lay our Motherland bare!” Leonid pounds his fist on the table for emphasis, almost spilling the vodka.
“Careful, old bear! I only brought one bottle. You haven’t changed, passionate as usual. Sasha calmed you down, though.”
“Not at first he didn’t! He’d only been on the project for one week when I almost took his head off! I asked him for an analysis of how quickly our design bureaus could field an interceptor and detection system to counter their stealth technology. He comes back that day and says very calmly, ‘Comrade Colonel, we cannot counter their stealth technology. We cannot counter it now, in ten years, or in 50 years.’ I was furious!”
Sergey laughs and wags his finger accusingly, “I seem to remember your response…you almost shot him!”
Leonid crosses his arms and looks defensive, “No, I didn’t. I just wanted to emphasize my point.”
“It didn’t faze him, did it Leonid? He just kept talking. I remember the way your face slackened and then your eyes lit up with understanding at the words he spoke…”
Their conversation gives life to a long dead room, taking them back to that day 23 years ago. Around the old men ghosts of long gone Soviet air defense and long range aviation officers emerge, pouring over charts and intelligence reports. They go unnoticed by the old men talking of yesteryear. The shades study maps of revived NATO forces defending Western Europe. A modernized US Navy encircles the beleaguered Soviet Bloc. American bombers equipped with new cruise missiles roam the globe unchallenged, protected by far-flung fighter bases. Blue pins dot Europe denoting Pershing II missiles which the Soviets can’t counter. The Fulda Gap is now reinforced with freshly built F-16s and A-10s, ready to destroy what was once considered unstoppable Soviet armor. The analysts fret over reports of American made Stinger missiles ravaging Soviet airpower in Afghanistan. Men in civilian clothes read computer printouts showing the American economy exploding while the Soviet economy collapses. In the corner a young lieutenant, a recently assigned errand boy, listens to a bootleg cassette tape of “Thriller” on a clunky Sony Walkman. Eyes closed, he is oblivious to the drama everyone else in the room is witnessing.
Leonid (younger, thinner, and with more hair) has his service pistol aimed at the head of a young man in rumpled civilian clothes. The young man looks a little like John Lennon. He pushes up his glasses and confidently addresses Leonid.
“You can shoot me if you like, Comrade Colonel, but it will not change the fact, even if we could keep up with the West’s technological advancements (and we can’t) we unequivocally cannot convert our technology to military power at anywhere near their breakneck pace. They have perfected what Eisenhower called the ‘military, industrial complex.’ We have a conversion problem, sir. If we counter stealth, they’ll produce a countermeasure faster than we recognize we’ve been outflanked. They can draw on the emerging global technology market. We can’t because we’re isolated. We fall further behind every day. However, it doesn’t mean we don’t have options. If you put your gun away, Colonel, I can explain those options.”
“You have 3 minutes,” Leonid warned, angry at this kid’s arrogance. He put his pistol back in its holster. Everyone in the room resumed breathing and went about their work.
“I only need one minute. We cannot match the Americans head-to-head. More importantly, we shouldn’t even try. If we do, we’ll play into their hands and they’ll spend us into our grave. I ask you, sir, to consider a radically different and much cheaper approach. You are a pilot, Comrade Colonel, so I’ll put it in words you can understand.
American fighter pilots talk about getting inside your opponents decision making cycle, they call it the OODA loop, which means ‘Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act’. The United States has a very tight research, development and acquisition cycle, fueled by vast quantities of free-market cash. Remember, they went from a speech about going to the moon to actually arriving there in less than 8 years. What if, however, we throw a wrench in their OODA loop?”
Leonid was intrigued. Unobserved in a dim corner a younger and darker Sergey listened. He brought Sasha into the project after reading his dossier. He’d let this conversation play out, confident of its outcome.
Sasha moved over to the table in the center of the room. He rolled out several pieces of paper and leaned over them, drawing Leonid’s attention to key documents.
“The Americans are reorganizing their military in something called ‘The Goldwater-Nichols Act.” Operationally, it’s brilliant. Logistically, it’s severely flawed. American newspapers and television make a great deal over Pentagon waste. They love to talk about $500 dollar toilet seats and $100 hammers. Of course their military acquisitions system is inefficient, what government process isn’t? They hope this reorganization will solve this. I contend it will have the opposite effect. It has the potential to bring the American acquisition system to its knees…with just a little help from us, of course.”
Leonid wanted to hear more, but hid his growing enthusiasm. There was something about where this young man was going which made sense.
“Go on.”
“Right now, each of their military branches can define their own requirements and, if congress approves, go out and buy their own equipment. Yes, it’s somewhat inefficient as of creates unnecessary duplication and hinders joint operations. Hereafter, weapon systems, like fighters and bombers, will have to meet rigid joint requirements and approvals. They’ve just added additional layers of bureaucracy, time, paperwork, and the most critical element of all …expense! It greatly expands their OODA loop and slows their ability to adapt.” Sasha leaned forward, smiled, and quietly whispered to Leonid, “Sir, it makes them more like us!”
Sergey emerged from the shadows, hands in the pockets of his black leather coat “Leonid, there’s more. He’s only scratched the surface.”
“You knew about this?” Leonid said, dismayed.
“Of course,” Sergey said irately, “Would you expect anything less?!”
Sasha continued, speaking quickly and passionately, “If we act quickly we can place operatives in sensitive posts in the Pentagon and Capitol Hill. They will plant a few more…uh…‘details’ into the legislation. This bill is poison, we only need to make it a more effective poison. I think we can stretch their major weapon system acquisition time out to 10, maybe 15 years from its current 5 to 8. If the Americans are slowed down it gives us time to catch up.”
Sasha shuffled the papers and came up with some charts, “ I call this plan Operation CHOLESTEROL. It aggravates the inherent flaws in Goldwater-Nichols by clogging the healthy pace of American military acquisitions with bureaucratic fat. We will make their military heart beat harder and harder for the same amount of work.”
Sergey chimed in again, “This will aggravate a looming situation of the American’s own doing, one which we believe they will ignore until it’s too late. Sasha, tell him the part you told me last night, about the money.”
Leonid looked back and forth, obviously unhappy he wasn’t in on any of this.
“And what situation will that be?” Leonid queried.
Sasha threw some more charts across the table, “Look at the US population projection between now and 2010. As you can see, the post war ‘Baby Boom’ generation, now in their late and early 40s, will start retiring about then.”
“So? What does this mean to me? That’s twenty five years from now. Why should I care?” Leonid wasn’t following.
“Think about it. They have massive debt obligations and Reagan has so far been unsuccessful in controlling entitlement spending. He’s borrowing money for his military buildup and I assess the American congress will remain unwilling to cut entitlement spending for the foreseeable future. This will be their true undoing. Look at this chart, in about 20 years almost one third of their population will dependent on government pensions and medical care. That’s almost 80 million people, Comrade Colonel,” Sasha gave a nervous little laugh, “They are good capitalists, but poor socialists! Sir, in only a few years they won’t be able to afford military modernization. Bombers will be their last concern as this will lead to a complete paralysis of their government and economy. ”
Leonid looked solemnly at the printouts on the table and thought about the Soviet Union’s current dire straights, “I fear we are poor socialists, too, my little friend. Please, go on.”
Sasha continued, “The implications are staggering! If we can slow down their technological-to-military conversion cycle, even a little, they soon won’t be able to buy new weapon systems. We help choke off their own heart, they dry up the life blood of cash themselves. This will buy time for the Soviet Union to solve its own problems and allow us to resume the global revolution.”
For the next few hours the pilot, the spy and the geek hashed out the details and set Operation CHOLESTEROL into motion.
“So its agreed,” Leonid proclaimed, “It is in my authority to initiate low scale operations, and this project fits neatly into my mandate. Sasha, as the grand architect I want project details on my desk in the morning. Sergey, you will be responsible for all field operations, of course.
“Of course,” Sergey responded. He and Sasha exchanged knowing glances.
“Comrades, this is classified at the highest level. Details will not leave this room. Nor do I need to tell you how dire our situation is. Soviet Man must take the long view, and this plan does that. This will be our advantage over the capitalists. I just hope we have the time to see it bear fruit. Good luck gentlemen.”
With that Leonid turned to leave. Sergey and Sasha returned their attention the papers on the table and began planning Operation CHOLESTEROL in earnest. Colonel Leonid walked by the lieutenant sitting in the corner listening to the Walkman. The young man was softly singing along in English with Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean,” which was clearly and loudly leaking around the foam earphones. He was oblivious to the imposing presence of a Colonel of SovietLongRange Aviation looming above him. Irritated, Leonid snatched the contraption from his ears. Surprised and terrified, the lieutenant snapped to attention.
“Is this yours?” Leonid asked calmly, examining the cassette player.
“Yes, Comrade Colonel!” the shaking young officer shouted.
“Do you like western music? What is it called…the ‘disco boogie’? Do you like to disco boogie?”
“Uhh…yes…kind of, Comrade Colonel,” He said nervously, afraid he would answer incorrectly.
Leonid gazed down at the Walkman dangling in his hand. Somewhere deep inside he feared the little contraption. It was an alien, an unwelcome invader - light, compact and flashy. It intruded upon his gloomy, gray metal sanctuary. The Russian instinctively knew the mix of Japanese technology and American culture was the future. He briefly considered stomping it under his heel.
“This boogie music, it’s not all its cracked up to be, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“What is your purpose here?”
“I’m an air defense pilot recently reassigned to your staff, sir!”
“A fighter pilot,” Leonid grunted, “That figures, I should shoot you instead. Keep this damn thing out of my vault. Carry on,” he handed it back, shook his head and left.
The ghosts fade and the years pass. Once again, two old men sit and drink vodka at the same table where Operation CHOLESTEROL was hatched years ago.
Sergey nods, “I read where the outgoing American air force secretary pondered if the acquisitions process was ‘too complicated’. What an understatement!”
Leonid nods, “A very similar statement was made by their outgoing air force chief of staff months ago. When asked about the floundering rescue helicopter program he indicated the selection was ‘out of his hands’, the purview of some committee. Imagine, the most powerful man in the American Air Force unable to influence the selection of a critical weapon system. These are not the same Americans who defeated us.”
“The old world passed away and yet Operation CHOLESTEROL still wreaks havoc upon our old adversary. I did the math the other day, over 80% of all their current manned systems were bought prior to CHOLESTEROL. We did pretty good, eh?” Sergey’s sagging face carries a wry, knowing grin.
Leonid downs another shot of Vodka. The bottle is almost gone, “Bah! We were too late, Sergey. Perestroika, Glasnost, the fall of Berlin. We were the doomed ones, not the Americans. It was all for nothing. Any damage Operation CHOLESTEROL continues to inflict is meaningless spite. And Sasha, what was his sacrifice for? I sent him to America to jumpstart the operation only to have the CIA kill him. For what?”
Sergey is still grinning over the table at Leonid. Leonid lifts a bushy eyebrow suspiciously.
“What aren’t you telling me, you slimy old fox?”
Sergey reaches into his coat and produces an envelope. He tosses it on the table in front of Leonid, who slowly picks it up never taking his eyes off the spy. It is simply addressed “Director, Operation CHOLESTEROL.” He opened it. It contains a photo and three neatly folded papers. He examines each one at a time. The first piece of paper has only a series of numbers printed on it. He looks up at Sergey, but says nothing. He opens the next folded paper. It’s a hand written letter. He reads in growing disbelief…
Comrade Colonel,
If you’re reading this then, once again, Sergey was correct. You returned to the vault on an anniversary of the day you pulled the gun on me (for which I’m still waiting for an apology). I will apologize first, however, for deceiving you. As you must now realize I was never assassinated by the CIA. I’ve been living anonymously in America for the last 19 years. This was necessary, as it was necessary to deceive you. The KGB had moles within our cell. Your ignorance was your shield.
Operation CHOLESTEROL was a sham. My analysis was correct, but the Americans didn’t need our help pushing them into the abyss. They did it quite well on their own. I knew this back then, though I didn’t really believe they would let this go on for so long. No, our national suicide was a more immediate problem, and voicing such concerns back then could get one shot. Sergey and I knew the Soviet Union was rapidly collapsing. Operation CHOLESTEROL was the means to assure our security in a post-Soviet world.
Sergey talked you into allowing me to go to the US to help him set up the operation. Once I was in country he arranged my ‘assassination’. In reality, I siphoned the KGB seed money and went underground. Sergey provided me with a false identity and I began my new life as a very successful business man and investor. Sergey maintained my cover until the Soviet Union collapsed. Our plan was to come out of hiding once democracy took root and bring you in. Unfortunately, the ghosts of the KGB exist to this day. Their reach is far and lethal, friend. Far and lethal. Sergey stayed back, providing cover while I safely made our fortune in America.
In the envelope you’ll find a number for a Swiss bank account. Comrade Colonel, you are now filthy rich. I’ve done well with the paltry sum you gave us to sabotage the Americans all those years ago. Sergey has his cut, too. If you’re curious, you’ll find the latest product of one of my capitalist investments in the envelope. Funny thing, I got the idea on the same day we pitched Operation CHOLESTEROL.
Now that you know the secret we’ve kept from you all these years, your shield of ignorance is gone. It would be best if you leave Russia before your new found wealth becomes public knowledge. Sergey has information which you might find helpful.
You were right when you said we were poor socialists. It was obvious where we were heading back then, but politics blinded us. It is obvious where the Americans are heading, too. I hope they wake up and realize they make poor socialists. We’re invested in their future now.
For both of our sakes, we will never meet again. I wish you good fortune, Comrade Colonel.
Sasha
Leonid puts down the letter and pulls out the photo. It shows Sasha, almost unchanged except for a slight tinge of gray in his long hair. He is shirtless and tanned, bathed in dazzling midday sunlight. He sits cross legged on the deck of an expensive boat. Smiling with pearly white teeth, he’s holding up a bottle of beer, surrounded by beautiful young women in bikini bottoms and wet t-shirts sporting the words “Girls Gone Wild 2005”. Behind him was an emerald sea dotted with white sailboats.
“Geek,” Disgusted, Leonid sighs and tosses the photo to the table.
Pale, he looks up at Sergey, now standing. Leaning against his cane the old spy hands him a sealed plain manila document folder.
“Inside you will find a new identity, passport, and airline tickets. What you do with them is your choice as they cannot be traced back to me or Sasha. This is where we say goodbye, old friend.” Sergey looks around and grimaces at the room, “This place is a tomb. Do not linger here long, it’s not healthy.”
With that Sergey limps to the door.
“Where will you go? What will you do?” Leonid calls after him.
The old Cold Warrior turns and smiles, “I don’t know. Maybe I will move to Montana and raise rabbits. Goodbye, Leonid.” Sergey turns and walks through the open door down the long hallway.
Leonid is in shock, reeling at new world thrust upon him. He reaches into the envelope and removes the last folded paper. A small, silver device, no bigger than a credit card, slides out and clatters onto the table. Connected to the device is a thin white wire terminating in tiny earphones. He has heard of these, though he didn’t know how they worked.
“YOU OWN PART OF THIS COMPANY. PRESS THE BUTTON WITH THE SINGLE ARROW AT THE BOTTOM AND PUT THE EAR BUDS IN YOUR EARS” is written on the paper it was wrapped in. Leonid fumbles with the ear buds and finds the play button. An I-POD logo flashes on the tiny screen followed by a crisp, clear image of a young Michael Jackson walking down a sidewalk which lights up wherever he steps. The familiar refrain of “Billy Jean” begins. The video from another era plays in crisp, digital quality. Leonid pulls off the ear buds and looks up at Sergey’s retreating figure as it vanishes and reappears as under each bare light bulb, shadows following his footsteps. He finally disappears forever into the darkness beyond.