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Verkhnaya Zaimka Air Base
Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic of Buryatia
USSR
July 1977

​      Ilya Dubrovsky shot to his feet when the Polkovnik entered the sparse conference room.
Although Dubrovsky was a Podpolkovnik himself and thus was just one rank below the colonel who
was now staring at him with a file in his hand, there was no feeling of comradeship here, not in this
room, not on the entire base, as far as Dubrovsky could tell. It was all business, and he had a feeling
he was about to find out it was serious business indeed. Why else would he be here?

     “Colonel Lytkin!” Dubrovsky barked the name as he saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel Dubrovsky,
reporting as ordered, sir!”

     Lytkin returned the salute with an irritable wave that would have bordered on insolence, had it
been directed at a senior officer. “Welcome to Verkhnaya Zaimka, Dubrovnik.”
     “Thank you, sir. And, uh, it’s Dubrovsky.”
     The colonel shook his head. The younger man could see gray bags under the colonel’s eyes,
indicating a recent lack of sleep. Perhaps due to this very project, whatever it might be. “Sorry,” he said.
The colonel sat at the head of the table and indicated the first chair to his left. “Please, sit.”
     Dubrovsky had to order himself to relax. He slid into the chair and placed his service cap on the table in front of him. He’d already looked around the room, but now he did so again as the colonel fussed with the file. The wooden walls were decorated with stock photos of Soviet Air Force planes. His own skill as a pilot was negligible, but he knew he was here because of his expertise in aerodynamics, not as a pilot. Still, he recognized most of them. There was the MiG-25, one that he had actually flown during training. Another was the Tu-95 turboprop bomber. But there were some he didn’t know. For a moment, he feared there would be a quiz. A cold ball of panic welled up inside him. He knew NATO aircraft backwards and forwards, but his own country’s inventory was largely—
     “Let us begin, Dubrovsky,” the colonel said. “My time is valuable here, and I’m sure yours is, too, back at Gromov.”
     The younger man had been posted at Gromov Flight Research Institute near Moscow for three years, ever since his superiors had taken note of his exceptional grasp of aerodynamics. “It is, sir,” he said, “but I serve the Soviet Union, wherever the Rodina sends me. How may I be of service here?”
     Lytkin pushed the file across the table. “I am told you are familiar with these first two aircraft,” he said.
     Dubrovsky opened the file and immediately recognized the airplane in the first photo. What had been an airplane at one time, anyway. “This is an American U-2 spy plane,” he said, noting the remains of the long, narrow fuselage and the even longer wing. Wait, could this be…? He held up the photo to take a closer look. “This is the one we shot down in ’61, isn’t it?”
     “It was 1960, to be precise,” Lytkin said, “but yes, it is the one piloted by the American spy, Powers.”
     “A credit to our air defenses at the time, to bring down the plane the Americans considered invulnerable.”
     Lytkin smiled. “Yes, our defenses were able to shoot him down, but we knew Powers was coming, almost from the moment he took off from Pakistan. Our radar network saw him over Uzbekistan, but he flew another two thousand kilometers before the SAMs took him down near Sverdlovsk. Two thousand kilometers, Dubrovsky. If it had been a bomber, Moscow itself might have been obliterated without us firing a shot. I’m sure you studied the case at Voronezh.”
     Dubrovsky nodded but couldn’t prevent a nervous swallow. He was well aware of the capabilities of the American B-52 strategic bombers, but unlike the U-2, the bombers could not fly above the range of Soviet interceptors. Thankfully, the S-75 Dvina missiles had done their job to bring down Powers. Dubrovsky had indeed become familiar with the U-2 incident at Voronezh Military Aviation Technical School, the Soviet equivalent of the U.S. Air Force Academy, without the pretty mountains in the distance.
     In any event, in the years since Powers, the USSR and its main adversary had grown to rely on intercontinental ballistic missiles for their primary means of retaliation, in case the other side decided to shoot first. Dubrovsky liked to think his country’s leadership had never seriously considered such a thing. As for the Americans, well, they hadn’t fired a shot yet, had they?
     The U-2 was certainly interesting, but he still had no idea why he had been brought here, to this remote area near Lake Baikal in the south-central region of his vast country. He suspected it didn’t have anything to do with a seventeen-year-old aircraft that was now obsolete, besides being in pieces somewhere in a Soviet military hangar. Perhaps the second photo would provide some enlightenment. He set the U-2 picture aside and considered the next one. It was a color photo of something that looked right out of Star Wars, the new American science fiction film. Dubrovsky had seen a bootlegged copy just two weeks ago. He studied the photo, and then the realization hit him. “Sir, is this the new American stealth fighter?”
     “It is,” Lytkin said, “and I caution you that it is not to be spoken of outside this room, and only during this meeting. Our friends at KGB will not be pleased if they find out you told anyone about this photo.”
     “Of course, sir,” Dubrovsky said, fighting to tamp down his excitement. He looked at the picture. Even standing still on the floor of a hangar, the swept-winged beauty looked ready to leap into the sky. “Are there any other photos?” he asked. “We have been working on a similar design, but this appears to be much further along than our research has taken us.”
     “There are no other pictures, unfortunately. I am told this is an experimental airframe that will fly within six months. It was built by their Lockheed company. The code name is HAVE BLUE.”
     Dubrovsky was thunderstruck. Soviet engineers were at least seven, probably eight years away from producing a stealth-capable airframe that could do anything other than look good in drawings. “They are that far ahead of us?”
     “Unfortunately, yes,” Lytkin said. “I know you have been working on our own stealth project, in particular an airframe that would allow for high-altitude reconnaissance to a degree Powers and his CIA superiors could only dream of.” He reached forward and took the file, closing it as he brought it closer to his chair. Dubrovsky almost protested, catching himself at the last moment. There were more photos in the file. What might they show? More secret American planes? Perhaps their latest space vehicle? Now, that would be truly exciting. Like every Russian boy, Dubrovsky had at one time dreamed of being a cosmonaut, but his skill as a pilot was not nearly enough to qualify him to go into space. Truly a pity.
     “As you could see, there are more photos in here,” Lytkin said, “but I think you should come with me. Seeing, as they say, is believing, and what I am about to show you, Dubrovsky, is, I would say, best experienced in person.”
     “I am…well, ‘intrigued’ is not quite adequate enough of a word, Colonel.” In truth, the young engineer was also feeling something a bit more pressing: a growing urge to relieve himself.
     Lytkin smiled. “I thought you might be.” He stood, followed quickly by the younger officer. “Follow me.”
     “Yes, sir. And, if I may ask, where is the nearest latrine?” 

       
* * * * * * *

     Lytkin led him outside, where a UAZ-469 vehicle awaited, engine running, a sergeant standing at the ready. He opened the left rear door as the officers approached and Dubrovsky squeezed himself into the back seat, followed by Lytkin. “Hangar 10,” the colonel ordered when the sergeant was behind the wheel, and no time was wasted as the driver threw the machine into gear and jammed on the accelerator.
     It only took a minute to reach a small hangar, which had a feature Dubrovsky hadn’t seen anywhere else on the base: armed guards. The UAZ pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance and the sergeant got out to open the door for Lytkin. Dubrovsky took it upon himself to exit the vehicle on the passenger side, where he encountered a stern-looking pair of guards wearing the insignia of the Devyatka, from KGB’s Ninth Chief Directorate. He’d seen them before, and knew they were deployed around the nation to guard the country’s most sensitive military installations, including nuclear weapons storage facilities. Could that be what was inside this hangar? He doubted it. Why would Lytkin want to show him a hydrogen bomb? Still, he felt goose bumps on his forearms, in spite of the warm weather.
     The colonel was in command of this base but still had to issue a password for the guards to let him through, and they demanded to see Dubrovsky’s identification. He dutifully produced his propiska, the internal passport every Soviet citizen over sixteen was required to carry at all times. They also examined his Soviet Air Force identification card. Satisfied, they nodded to the colonel and Lytkin led the way into the hangar.
     At an internal doorway there was another check of documents, and this time Lytkin had to produce his as well. They proceeded into a small room and the outer door closed behind them with an audible sucking sound. Dubrovsky turned around in surprise. “A climate-control system,” Lytkin said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.” There was yet another door in front of them, looking like something Dubrovsky might have seen on a submarine. Next to it was a small panel with what appeared to be a radio and a touchpad similar to one of the newer telephones being introduced in the West. Dubrovsky had seen them on a West German TV show a few months ago, when he was on leave in Vienna.
     Lytkin paused as he reached out for the pad. “Dubrovsky, I trust you understand that what I am about to show you is classified ‘Most Secret’?”
     “Of course, sir.”
     The colonel gave him a stern look. “If you were to speak of this to anyone outside of this base, in fact to anyone other than to me personally, our Devyatka friends outside, or some equally determined comrades of theirs, would take you away to someplace that I assure you would be most uncomfortable. And then they would come for me.”
     “I understand, sir. I do have a very high security clearance, as you know.”
     “Yes, but for this, I still had to get confirmation from my superiors at 1st Red Banner Air Army, and they had to get it from Moscow, from the very top. That should give you an indication of the importance of what I am about to show you.” The colonel paused, for what might have been dramatic effect, but the younger man sensed something else: a tinge of fear. The colonel’s eyes flitted to the inside door, and then back to Dubrovsky. The fear was gone now. Dubrovsky recalled that the general had been a decorated aviator in the Great Patriotic War. There’d been a photo in the conference room of a dashing young pilot in the cockpit of his Yak-3 fighter, with six German crosses on the hull below him. A man who had stared down death in the skies, and yet was still fearful of something in this hangar? Dubrovsky had to make an effort to keep his hands from shaking.
     Back in full command now, the colonel said, “You are to have a new assignment. You will be working for me, here, on a project that is considered extremely vital to the interests of the Soviet Air Force and the Rodina herself. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
     “Yes, sir.” Dubrovsky felt his knees beginning to weaken. What could possibly be more important than what he had recently begun working on, which was the aerodynamics of the first Soviet spaceplane?
     It was as if the colonel was reading his mind. “Your work on Project BURAN has been duly noted. We are in need here of a talented aerodynamics engineer. You are said to be one of the best in the Soviet Union.”
     “Thank you, sir. May I ask what it is that I will be working on?”
     Lytkin paused, took a deep breath, and stared at the inner door. He appeared to contemplate something, then turned back to Dubrovsky. “You are aware that we are close to Lake Baikal.”
     “Yes, sir. I flew over it on the approach to the base. Very beautiful.”
     “Yes, and very deep, as well. The deepest lake in the world, in fact. And very large, with more water than all of the Great Lakes of North America combined. Its maximum depth is over sixteen hundred meters.”
     “That is…very deep indeed, sir.”
     “Yes. Consider, Dubrovsky, that the nuclear submarines of our Red Banner fleets typically cruise at five hundred meters.”
     “I see, sir.” In fact, Dubrovsky was now becoming confused. What did his work as an aerospace engineer have to do with submersibles? Feeling at least a little more self-assured now that Lytkin had decided to take him into this supreme confidence, he said, “I must confess, sir, that I am at a loss to understand how I may be of service for a project that involves deep diving in a lake.”
     “Oh, that part is over with,” Lytkin said with a smile. “Our Navy comrades were most helpful in the first phase of our project. You see, Dubrovsky, it was something that we found in the lake that brought you here.”
     “’Found,’ sir?”
     “Yes. Fortunately, it was not in the lake’s deepest part. It rested on the bottom at about a thousand meters, well within the capabilities of our brave sailors to recover.” He chuckled. “You know, I have been in the cockpit of our best high-altitude interceptors, at over ten thousand meters of altitude. That MiG-25 you saw in the photo, in the conference room? That was mine. Ten thousand meters up, though, is a lot different than a thousand meters underwater, in my opinion. Even at ten thousand meters, I could bail out from my aircraft and survive. Theoretically, anyway. Powers ejected at nineteen thousand meters, and he made it. But try escaping from a submersible at a thousand meters, and…”
     “We would be crushed, instantly,” Dubrovsky said.
     “Exactly. So, you can understand that the commander of the naval detachment that performed this very dangerous mission received not just one, but two bottles of very expensive vodka from me when he brought his catch to my base.”
     “I…”
     “Well, enough of this chatting. It is time for me to show you what you will be working on for me, my young friend.”
     Lytkin punched a code into the number pad. Dubrovsky heard gears turning from somewhere in the wall, and then the door released with a hiss and swung outward. The colonel gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”
     Lieutenant Colonel Ilya Dubrovsky stepped through the door and encountered the future.

 

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The Silver Falcon - Chapter One