BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 33)


By KATZMAREK ©


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and
interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are
entirely contestable.


This remains my property and may not be used for gain without
my express permission in writing.


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Benin caught the tram home from the University as usual. It had been 11 years since the war finished and in that time Novgorod had been rebuilt, brick by brick.


Sure, apartment blocks had gone up almost overnight to house the many thousands of homeless, and these were ugly and often shoddily built. But, at the same time, the historic buildings had been carefully reconstructed too. This was Russia's history, her visible legacy, and it was deemed important to her national morale to rebuild the domes and spires of her Orthodox churches and museums.


The USSR was well on the way to becoming a global superpower. The Red Army was the strongest conventional army in the World and now, with the advent of the Nuclear age, rivalled the West in atomic weapons. The Cold War, as enthusiastic journalists had dubbed it, served to sharpen the Ivan's axe.


Paranoia about an atomic exchange was at least as great in the USSR as it was in the US and Western Europe. Civil defence drills were part of daily life and were treated solemnly by the populace.


The austerity of the war years was followed by a virtual Spring of cultural expression. Even that great outpouring of youth rebellion, Rock and Roll, had made a tentative foray into the Soviet Union. But it was Russian-style Jazz music that really took off in the years after the war. Even the conservative City Council of Novgorod had to give in to the people's will and Jazz clubs sprang up like mushrooms.


But it was devastated Leningrad that siezed back the honour of being the Jazz capital of the USSR. It was a way of, perhaps, exerting its uniqueness, its pride at staring down the Nazi menace and prevailing. The City authorities even encouraged it because it gave more heart to the people than all the Socialist sloganeering ever could.


Sure, news of the outside World was filtered through the State Censorship Bureau. It told of a West that was controlled by huge Multi-National companies who paid their armies of workers a pittance. It said that Mothers had to sell their daughters into prostitution to buy bread. Workers everywhere, under the heel of Capitalist oppressors, were waiting for the chance to 'join the Soviet Union in brotherhood and cast out their war-mongering, Imperialist Governments.'


'Grain harvests were at a record high, thanks to collectivisation of agriculture and mechanisation,' the news read. 'The people of the, the Democratic Republic of Hungary and the Democratic Republic of Germany had successfully defended themselves, with the aid of the Soviet Red Army, against Capitalist 'agents provocateur' and unreformed Fascist fellow-roaders.' In Novgorod there was a festival to mark the 'victory' of the 'Socialist people,' over the 'counter-revolutionaries and their lackeys' in East Germany. In Korea, the Democratic Republic had 'beaten back the invasion of Generals Motors and Electric to build another Socialist utopia.'


But in reality the Soviet Union was less interested in vanquishing 'Capitalist' Governments than defending itself against a future war. Turning back to the old Tsarist strategy of building a ring of alliances around her borders, the USSR tried to ensure that the next war wouldn't be fought on the soil of the Motherland.


At Yalta and the Potsdam conferences Stalin had wrung from the British PM and the American President an agreement to divide up the post-war World into 'spheres of influence.' In the case of Eastern Europe, that situation was underlined by garrisons of Soviet troops permanently stationed on territory encompassing the 'Russian Zone,' and paid for by the states concerned. As well as being there for defence against NATO, they could, and were, used to reinforce Soviet control.


The Russian zone of East Germany had declared itself a Nation in response to a similar declaration of the West to create the West German Federal Republic. The border between the two Germanies defined the Cold War as nothing else. However, while the British and Americans ploughed aid and investment into West Germany, the Soviet Union strip-mined the East for ten solid years following the end of the war. That Soviet prosperity post war was built on the plunder obtained from its conquered territories is not too far from fact.


But the war had left a hole in Russia's population of around 20 million people. From the line of the river Volga West, the country was rubble. An estimated 1000 or more towns and villages had ceased to exist with nothing but a placename on the map to show where they once existed. If the Soviet Union felt justified in demanding some recompense from the aggressors then few Russian citizens were in any mood to object.


But by 1956 things were starting to look up for Benin and John. Benin had gained her Doctorate and held a Professorship at the restored Novgorod University. The Soviet Air Force had refurbished their facilities and renamed it 'The V-V.S Tactical School.' Newly promoted General Ioann Khrinhov, alias John Greenhaugh, was the natural choice as Director.


Their family had grown by three more children and, in consequence of the incentives provided to couples to repopulate, had earned them a large apartment. In addition, John had the use of a Limo and driver and had the privilege of being able to gain access to Western goods through the Military's Department Stores.


Benin was also a reserve Officer with the KGB carrying the rank of Captain. The intelligence services and the Political Police, the NKVD, had been amalgamated into a new service that became almost a mini-state within the Soviet Union. The KGB had its own Police, Navy, Air Force and Army. It ran several towns in Russia and had a permanent seat at the Politburo. After Stalin, virtually all Premiers and General Secretaries had been groomed by the KGB and, some say, the Director was the most powerful person in all of the USSR.


One exception was the USSR's present Secretary General, Nikita Khrushchev. He had succeeded Stalin who'd died in March 1953. An ill-educated 'peasant' from the Kursk Oblast, his boorish lack of tact had already cause friction, both inside the USSR and internationally. But his reputation as a buffoon disguised a shrewd and intelligent politician who would go on to transform the Soviet Union from an austere, dark Stalinist State to one whose economic growth exceeded that of most Western countries.


Khrushchev opened the door a fraction and allowed unheard of influences to flow into Soviet society, from the West, and domestically. Alexandr Solzhenitzen published his 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Deniznovich' under Khrushchev. He blew away many of the old Stalinist bureaus and promoted Liberal reformers throughout the Bureaucracy. 


The West was now regarded as a rival, rather than an evil force bent on the destruction and subjugation of the Soviet people. Khrushchev would later go on to play a dangerous game of checkers with the United States by ordering the setting up of missile sites in Cuba. 


But what really destroyed him politically, was his erratic agricultural policies. 1962 was a disasterous year for the Russian grain harvest, caused mainly by bad weather. Political rivals managed to pin the blame on the Premier.


But throughout the years 1953 to 1960 Khrushchev was at the peak of his game. In 1956 he unseated Georgy Malenkov to consolidate together the heads of the Party and of the State. Ironically, just the same as Stalin did.


But today Benin was excited because she and John were going to have a special visitor. John himself was hurriedly flying back from Rostov and she expected him to be home around 6.


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The previous day, however, Artem Mikoyan and his technical team had lead John out towards the hangar. Mikoyan was completely aware that, unlike back in 1939, he had far more power and influence than this 'igornorante.' That word was familiar to his technical staff, for they heard Mikoyan use it often in reference to John. It came from the Kuban dialect of Southern Russia. It was a scornful term for foreigner, or immigrant. Mikoyan, an Armenian, apparently didn't appreciate the irony.


He, Mikoyan, and the OKB.MiG were the pre-eminent designers of the Soviet Air Force's fighters. After the MiG-15, MiG-17 and the new MiG-19, all made in vast numbers and hugely successful, any negative word from John Greenhaugh about his newest project could be used to subvert the General's reputation at the Kremlin. Finally, John would be revealed as a bigotted amateur. Perhaps even under the influence of a foreign power? That thought had intrigued Mikoyan. Maybe John was really secretly working for the British?


The hangar doors were securely closed and an armed guard stood watchfully outside. Even the Director himself had to sign the registry and show the guard his ID. When all the formalities were completed, Mikoyan lead them inside.


All of a sudden the big relay switches let out a metalic clank and the floodlights came on. Revealed in the centre of the hanger was a sleek jet fighter finished in all over silver.


Mikoyan looked like a magician pulling a rabbit out of the hat. Some of his staff clapped, as if they'd never seen it before.


"Projekt Ye-5," he announced, "the new lightweight interceptor for the Air Force, pending official approval." John nodded and slowly walked around the aircraft.


It was small, with the fusilage shrink-wrapped around an internal turbojet. Its nose was long and featured a prominent radome nestled in the engine intake. The tail fin was large and swept radically back. But, to John, the most interesting thing was the wings. These were mid-mounted, semi-deltas and seemed pathetically small compared to the rest of the plane. 'Low aspect ratio,' to use aeronautical jargon.


John returned from his circumnavigation of the aircraft to where Mikoyan and his staff were standing.


"Power?" he asked, staring up at the clear-view cockpit canopy.


"Turmansky RD-11... 15,000 pounds of thrust. Dr Mikulin designed it before he..."


"Before he fell ill and turned his OKB over to S.I Turmansky? Yes, I heard the story." Everyone had heard the official version of the sudden retirement of Dr A.A Mikulin and the handing over of his famous bureau to his deputy. Few believed it, however, and rumours abounded.


"We are working on the pre-production aeroplane," continued Mikoyan, "if all goes well it will enter service in two years time as the MiG-21F."


"As I recall, Artem, the Ministry specifications called for an interceptor that could catch American high-level jet bombers. Is this your answer?"


"It is, General," he replied, coldly, "it will fly to 18,000 metres with a speed of mach 2."


"Mmm, mach 2?" John said, raising his eyebrows and barely concealing his excitement, "perhaps you'll let me take it up?"


"We haven't, at present, any plans for a UTI(Two seat trainer). We have only the single-seat version."


"You think I need a chauffeur?" John said with mock indignation, "you don't trust me to fly it myself?"


"Have you flown the MiG-19?"


"Of course," John lied.


"Well, I guess..." said Mikoyan, scratching his jaw, "you'll find the angle of attack more acute on take off than the MiG-19. The delta wings, you know, require a higher take-off speed. But, my test pilots tell me, it snap-rolls like nothing on the planet and will pull a 5g turn, no trouble. You think you can handle that?"


"5gs?" John grinned, "get me a flying suit."


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Garcia was away at the Air Force Academy. When he'd arrived at teenagehood he was already taller than Benin and worshipped his Father. Benin reconciled to having another pilot in the family.


Vasily was altogether different and displayed a thirst for knowledge and study early on. Benin was sure the boy would be a professor one day. The twin girls, Anika and Damia, were barely two and a delightful surprise long after they'd agreed not to have any more children.


Then, of course, there was the 'other,' Ivan Ioannovich Ivanova. He was 13 years old, now, and was another who was bound for either the Air Force, V.V-S, or the Navy's Air Arm, AV-VMF. John had acknowledged paternity and had his name inserted on the State Birth Records. There was little shame in this. The war had resulted in a confusion of ex-nuptial births and Fatherless children.


Ivan could have been sent to an orphanage to be raised in State care. John was adamant this wasn't going to happen and was supported by the boy's Mother, Jana Ivanova.


Jana herself, with Ivan in tow, arrived promptly at 5.30. At 44 she hadn't lost any of her beauty, nor had she ever married. No-one had quite fitted the bill. At any rate, no-one for whom she was willing to give up her independence.


She was a reserve officer in the V.V-S as well as a senior training pilot with the State airline, Aeroflot. As such, she had a rating for just about every civil aircraft flying in the USSR, as Aeroflot did everything from long haul international flights to crop dusting and servicing drilling rigs in Siberia. Last Summer she had her first flight in a helicopter, designed by OKB.Mil. Much interest in choppers had come from the Navy for their flotillas of Anti-Submarine Destroyers, or 'Bol'shoy Protivolodochny Korabl'.' OKB.Kamov was said to be working on designs for Helicopters that could be operated from the confines of the small deck of a ship.


Benin had been in a fluster all day. But when Jana said she would arrive at 5.30, she had no doubt she'd appear dead on time. The woman had an uncanny sense of timing.


Jana was wearing a long fur coat and hat. Some of her blond hair had escaped  and a lock drifted over her face. The two women kissed and hugged while the children exploded in the excitement of greetings.


As usual, Jana had come with an armload of gifts from Moscow, including cigars for John. 


"I have a special gift for you," she told Benin, excitedly. It was a copy, in Ukrainian, of George Orwell's 'Letter from Catalonia.' Orwell, who'd fought in the Spanish Civil War with the POUM's Lenin Division, had recently had his works published in the USSR; but only in limited editions and only after Stalin had died. Benin imagined that the old dictator would be spinning in his grave. 'Animal Farm,' and '1984' were prefaced by the State Authorities as satires of Hitler's Germany, rather than an indictment of Stalin's totalitarianism.


But it all became a little clearer when Khrushchev gave his famous 'secret speech' to a shocked Party plenum in 1956 denouncing the Stalinist system. The years from 1956 to 1962; the liberalisations, the space program, Jazz and Rock and Roll, were good years to be a Soviet citizen.


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"It has a higher wing loading than the MiG-17," MiG's test pilot yelled over the whistle of the engine, "but much faster in climb and level flight. Standard cockpit layout... no surprises there, but watch your height over Rostov. The sonic boom could break a few windows!"


John had recently viewed the new Sukhoi Su-7 at the SOKOL plant at Nizhniy-Novgorod. Compared to the MiG-21, the Sukhoi was massive with a big brute of an after-burning turbojet, the AL-7, designed by Akhep Ly'uka. The AL-7, with a nine stage compressor and nearly 20,000 lbs of thrust, was the most powerful jet in the Soviet Union. But the Sukhoi was capable of no more than mach 1.6, and, in consequence of its thirsty engine, had a range of only 300 kilometres. 


This little MiG, on the other hand, could achieve mach 2 with the relatively modest power of the Turmansky; a testament, John had to admit, to its aerodynamic efficiency.


Both planes were due to be presented to the Soviet people at the Aviation Day display later in the year at Moscow-Tushino.


The steps were pulled away and chocks removed from the wheels. John opened the throttle and the turbojet increased in volume and pitch to an ear-shattering scream. With a jolt, the MiG began to roll towards the runway.


Later. John strode jauntily towards the group clustered by the hangar. Mikoyan stood with his arms folded in the middle. John bowled straight up to him and wrapped his long arms around his shoulders.


"Magnificent," he told the startled aircraft designer, "you're a genius. Come let's plunder the booze to celebrate. I've brought a bottle of good scotch."


"Scotch!" a stunned Mikoyan replied, "'real' scotch!"


"Johnny Walker 'Black Label'."


"Ah!"


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"It's been too long!" John said to the elegant blond woman. He extended his arms and she walked over and embraced him. Benin looked on amused as she watched John's big hand drift furtively down to cup Jana's bottom. 


'Typical,' she muttered, 'can't stop himself feeling the goods.'


"I've missed you," Jana whispered.


"How long you're staying?" he asked.


"A couple of days only."


"Perhaps next Summer we can all holiday down by the Black Sea?"


"It's possible... that would be wonderful, John."


"Yes," agreed Benin, "John built us a dacha near Ochamchire... with his own hands, too!"


"I heard!"


"He calls it a 'bach'," continued Benin, "apparently that's what they call it in New Zealand."


"Unless you're in the South Island," John corrected, "in which case you'd call it a 'crib'. And 'bach' is pronounced 'batch,' not as in the composer Johann Sebastian Bach."


"You miss New Zealand?" Jana asked him, suddenly serious.


"I miss that I can't go back and visit my home in Taranaki," he said, "it didn't seem important to me until it became impossible to return. Life was much simpler, the people open and friendly. Here, in Russia, there's always politics."


"You don't have politics in New Zealand?" Jana asked, surprised, "it must be a very strange country."


"Sure we have politics, but not like here. If you piss off the wrong people in New Zealand you might have to leave your job. But here, you could end up cooling your heels in the Lyubyanka."


"They wouldn't put you in prison unless you broke some law," Jana said.


"'Displaying disloyalty to the Party, the people and the person of the President and Secretary-General'? No-one in New Zealand has been jailed for calling the Prime Minister an arsehole, at least not that I'm aware of. In any case, there wouldn't be enough prisons to house them all," he grinned.


"They let you insult your leaders? In public?" Jana said, in wonder.


"Not only *can* you, but it's expected!"


"Fascinating!" Jana replied, doubtfully.


"We Anarchists chose our leaders by popular acclamation," Benin said, "if they didn't do what we wanted, then no-one would follow them."


"That's chaos!" Jana commented.


"Yes... political chaos," Benin grinned, "and why not?"


"It wouldn't work in Russia. The country would fall apart!"


"Yes," said Benin, "and doesn't that tell you something?"


"What?"


"That maybe the Russian people have been so conditioned into doing what they're told they wouldn't cope with making their own decisions?"


John had drifted away from the conversation. He thought of the triangular white cone of the mountain when, on a clear day, it dominated the countryside for miles around. He thought of the Saturday game of Rugby Football and the special potency the match took on when Taranaki played its neighbouring Province, Wanganui. It was always a special day. The crowd would fortify themselves against the biting wind with thermoflasks primed with scotch. The country boys would all pile into the pub afterwards. The publican would then pull down the blinds at closing time, 6pm. Often, though, the local Policeman was playing pool with the patrons until well after midnight.


His reverie was interrupted when Benin brought out the dinner. 


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Just outside of Tuxpan, Mexico, a Jeep blundered it's way along the red track. On either side of the road the jungle threatened to spill over, verdant and thick. Presently, it opened up into a clearing, on which were gathered a number of tents. The Jeep squealed to a halt. It was an ex-American, World War Two version and looked like it had served in every theatre.


The two men got out and stretched. It'd been a harrowing journey along the coast. A bearded young man in green fatigues energed from one of the tents and approached the Jeep. Its occupants, a Spaniard similarly dressed in green, and a tall man, over 6ft in height, appraised the bearded man as he approached.


"Osviedo?" asked the 'beard' to the Spaniard, who nodded, "and you must be from Russia, yes?" he continued to the tall man.


"Call me Rhykov," the tall man said, "and you must be Castro, no?"


"Fidel Alexandro Castro Ruiz, sir," the 'beard' said smoothly. He extended his hand and Rhykov shook it vigourously, "welcome to the 26th Julio."


"This is it?" said Rhykov, sweeping his hand around the clearing, "how many men do you have?"


"80," Castro replied, "but many more will join us once we land in Cuba."


"I hope so," Rhykov said glancing at Osviedo, doubtfully, "when do you hope to depart?"


"September, November. We have a yacht, the 'Granma,' down at the village."


"Yes, I've seen it. Nice! Maybe they'll mistake you for Ernest Hemingway?" Castro roared with laughter before guiding them towards a group of his supporters.


"This is my brother Raul," Fidel said, "and here, our Argentinian comrade, Ernesto. We call him 'Che' because he always uses that word at the end of sentences, don't you Doctor?"


"An Argentinian habit, che!" 'Che' said.


"He fought with the Arbenz Government against the CIA in Guatemala," Castro continued, "we're glad to have him."


"I know," Rhykov replied, "for two weeks!" He'd been doing his homework and knew all about the leading Cuban revolutionaries. There was Nico Lopez, for instance, and like all of them, young and enthusiastic. But what they lacked was military knowledge and they would need that to defeat President Fulgencio Batista's CIA trained National Guard.


Osviedo had been a member of the PCE and a guerilla in the Spanish Civil War. If anyone could pass on a bit of knowledge, he could. But if they were going to succeed, much would depend on the political skill and charisma of Fidel Castro. A military victory with so few troops was out of the question. They needed to build the movement inside Cuba.


But Rhykov had seen guerilla movements rise and fall with men such as these. Military skill was something that could be learned, but revolutionary discipline, and the determination to carry it forward to victory, was something that had to come from the heart, in Rhykov's opinion. This Castro had altogether too much to say for himself and big talk often led to little action.


Castro led him to a tent which acted as headquarters. Once inside, he pressed Rhykov immediately.


"Well?" he said, "what can Moscow offer us?"


"100 rifles, no more."


"That is useless. We need machineguns, mortars..."


"You forget we are playing in America's backyard. We have to be careful what we do here. You can only poke Uncle Sam with a stick so far..."


"What are you saying?" Castro demanded.


"I'm saying that Moscow doesn't have sufficient faith in your Revolution to get involved. The Kremlin's view is that for us to openly provoke Washington there must be some tangible benefit for the USSR that makes it worthwhile. If you can land, build a movement, and get Batista on the run, then maybe the Soviet Union might be more generous."


"You supplied Arbenz?"


"That was different. In Guatamala a legitmate Socialist Government was facing a Right Wing insurrection lead by the CIA. They called for military aid and we asked the Czechs to supply a few thousand tons from Skodawerk. In this case you're asking the USSR to fund a revolution of 80 people against a 20,000 strong, CIA led, National Guard. The odds, Mr Castro, are far too long."


"What would it cost you?" Castro asked, comtemptuous.


"In Roubles? Nothing. But on a World scale? We run the risk of provoking atomic warfare. Its a very fine line we run, Mr Castro, between furthering the interests of World Socialism and bringing on a war nobody wants. The rules were decided on long ago, I'm sorry."


Castro, obviously angry, gathered himself together. "As you know, we have not yet declared what our program will be when we defeat Batista."


"When?" smiled Rhykov.


"When," emphasised Castro. "The 26th Julio intends to follow a middle road between Capitalism and Socialism. We welcome anybody that will help us in building a just society for Cuba. Americans, they are as welcome as anyone else, so long as they come as supporters, not exploiters, and acknowledge that they no-longer control Cuba..."


"Mr Castro," Rhykov interrupted, "I have no patience for political speeches, save it for your people. You have a great deal of fire in your belly, I admire that. Osviedo, he will show you how to survive and build a movement. In maybe a year or so we will talk, yes? In Cuba? And then, perhaps, we will see what we can supply you. Meanwhile, you can try your American supporters if you like. But I doubt, no, I know, you will get nothing out of Washington. They have too much invested in Batista."


Castro rose to his full height. He pointed a finger at Rhykov's face as if it was a pistol and he was going to shoot him in the head. Rhykov, not easily intimidated, nevertheless, went on his guard. "With or without Soviet help we will drive Batista and the National Guard into the sea. I will see you, Mr KGB man, in a year's time in Havana and it will be *you* who will be begging."


"In that case," said Rhykov, standing, "I will be pleased to go on my knees. Good luck!" He held out his hand and Castro took it. "Keep in touch!"


"We will meet again!" said Castro, his voice loaded with menace.


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The children had gone off to bed. Jana, Benin and John sat on the long sofa together drinking and talking. It had been a good evening, filled with conviviality and the joy of old friends who went back a long way.


Benin leaned across John, a little the worse for drink.


"Y'know, Jana, once upon a time I would've killed you."


"I'm glad you didn't," she replied, "what a silly reason to kill, over a man!"


"True!" agreed Benin, "I'm glad I changed my mind." John looked from one to the other. He had an arm draped over each of their shoulders. Jana's hand rested on his thigh. "You want to borrow him for half an hour?" Benin asked.


"That's nice of you!" Jana replied.


"Go ahead, I'll be in later!"


"C'mon, sugar." Jana squeezed John's thigh and stood.


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KATZMAREK ©
