Day of the Cheetah

The Connecticut Academy, USSR

“Ken James” stamped his feet on the half-frozen dirt, rubbed his hands together quickly, then wrapped them around the shaft of a big Spaulding softball bat.

“Cmon, dammit,” he yelled to the tall, lanky kid on the pitcher’s mound.

“Wait,” yelled the pitcher, “Tony Scorcelli.” James made a few test swings, hitching up his jacket around his armpits. Scorcelli pounded the softball in his glove, then carefully, as if trying to toss a ring over a Coke bottle, threw the ball underhanded toward home plate.

The ball sailed clear over Ken’s head.

“What do you call that?” James stepped away from the plate, leaned on the bat, shaking his head at Scorcelli.

The catcher, “Tom Bell,” trotted back to retrieve the ball. When he picked it up from under a clump of quack grass along the backstop, he glanced over at the bench, noting the displeasure of the school’s headmaster, “Mr. Roberts,” who was making notes on a clipboard. The catcher knew that meant trouble.

All the Academy’s students were serious about these once a-week softball games. Here, even before perestroika, they learned competition was necessary, even desirable. Winning was all, losing was failure. Every opportunity to prove one’s superior leadership, physical and intellectual skills was monitored and evaluated.

“All right,” James said as the catcher, Bell, tossed the ball back to Scorcelli. “This time open your damn eyes when you pitch.”

Scorcelli’s second pitch wasn’t much better than the first, a high Gateway Arch that dropped almost straight down- on top of home plate, but James bit on it, swung the bat with all his strength and missed.

“Hey, hot shot, you’re supposed to hit the ball …”

James swung even harder at the next pitch, clipped it foul up and over the chain-link backstop.

” One more foul and you are out,” the first baseman “Kelly Rogers” sang out. “Intramural rules—”

“Shove your intramural rules up your ass, Rogers,” James yelled at him. The first baseman looked confused and said nothing. Roberts made another notation on his clipboard as Scorcelli got ready for the next pitch.

It was low. James wound up, gritted his teeth … then stopped his swing, clutched the other end of his bat with one hand. He held the bat horizontally, tracked the ball as it in and tapped it. It hit the hard ground in front of home plate, bounced once, then rolled out between home plate and the pitcher’s mound and died. James took off for first base. Bell stood up from his crouch, stared at the ball, then at James, back to the ball, then at Scorcelli-who was looking on in confusion. James had reached first base and was headed for second before someone finally yelled to throw the ball.

Bell and Scorcelli ran to the ball, nearly collided as they reached for it at the same time. Scorcelli picked it up, turned and threw toward the second baseman. But it was a lob, not overhand, and instead of an easy out at second, the softball hit the ragged mud-choked grass several feet in front of the second baseman, did not bounce and skipped off into shallow right field as Ken James headed for third. The right fielder charged the rolling ball, scooped it on the run, hesitated a second over whether he could make the throw all the way, then threw to “Johnston” at third base. Johnston corralled it with a careful two-handed catch. A perfect throw. James wasn’t even halfway to third.

Johnston stepped triumphantly on third base, tossed the ball “around the horn” to second base, held up two fingers. James, though, was still running. Johnston tapped James’ shoulder as he ran. “Makin’ it look good for Mr. Roberts, aren’t—?”

“You idiot,” Bell was yelling to Johnston. “You’re supposed to tag him out.”

The second baseman understood and threw the ball to Bell at home plate.

By now James was getting winded. The throw was right on target, and Bell caught the ball with James still fifteen feet from home plate. Bell extended his glove, crouched down, anticipating a slide into home. James liked to do that even if it wasn’t necessary — he once did it after hitting a home run.

But James wasn’t sliding. As Bell made the tag, James plowed into him running at full bore, arms held up in front of him, elbows extended. The ball, Bell’s mitt, his hat and most of his consciousness went flying.

Scorcelli threw his glove down on the mound, ran over to James, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him up against the chain-link backstop. “Are you crazy?” The others, including a dazed Tom Bell, began to cluster around them. Scorcelli spun James around, wrestled him to the dirt. “Vi balshoy sveynenah.”

The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed — even Scorcelli seemed to forget that he had his hands around James’ neck.

“Enough.” Mr. Roberts walked through the quickly parting crowd and stood over the two on the ground. Scorcelli got to his feet and stood straight, almost at attention, hands at his sides, chin up. James, his chest heaving, also stood up quickly.

Roberts was a short, squat man with dark brows obscuring darker, cavernous eyes. His rumbling voice commanded instant attention.

“James deliberately ran into Bell to make him drop the ball,” Scorcelli began.

“It’s in the rules, pea-brain—”

“He ran right into him,” Scorcelli went on. “He did not even try to slow down or get out of the way! James is a cheater—”

“No one calls me a cheater—”

“Enough, ” Roberts ordered.

But James ignored the order. “I fight my own battles. If you knew the rules, Scorcelli, you’d know I have the right to home plate as much as the catcher. If he stands in front of it, I can run him down. And if he drops the ball, even after making the tag, the runner is safe and the run scores.”

“What about when you tapped the ball like that?” Scorcelli fired back. “Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are supposed to swing the bat, not—”

“It’s called a bunt, you fool.” That revelation brought a number of blank stares.

Eyes turned toward Mr. Roberts, who stared at Ken James, then announced the period was over and ordered them to report to their next class.

The students Ken James and Anthony Scorcelli were standing before their headmaster’s desk. Jeffrey Baines Roberts was behind his desk. His secretary had put two file folders on his desk. She ignored Scorcelli; favored James with the hint of a smile before leaving.

“Mr. Scorcelli,” said the headmaster, “tell me about your brother Roger.”

Scorcelli stared at a point somewhere above Roberts’ head.

“I have four siblings, sir, two brothers and one sister. Their names—”

“I did not ask about your other siblings, Mr. Scorcelli. I asked about your brother Roger.”

“Yes, sir … Kevin and Roger.” He seemed to be talking to himself, then said aloud, “Roger is two years older than me, a freshman at Cornell University. He—”

“Where was your mother born?”

“My … mother … yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse, New York. She has two sisters and—”

“I did not ask you about her sisters.” Roberts ran an exasperated hand down his forehead. “Are you not familiar with the rules of baseball, Mr. Scorcelli?”

“I was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his friends and fellow players—”

“The proper term is a battery, Mr. Scorcelli. Assault is the threat of physical harm. Is it a battery if Mr. James’ actions are a legal part of the game?”

“It may not be a battery, sir, but I believe Mr. James took great pleasure in the opportunity to knock over Mr. Bell—”

“Bullshit,” James said.

“I also think, sir, that If Mr. James could legally find a way to hit me over the head with one of those bats from that stupid game, he would do it with the same enthusiasm and—”

“Right, asshole …”

“That’s enough,” Roberts said, his voice calm. Actually he had to strain to keep from smiling. Scorcelli would be right at home in a large corporation’s boardroom or in a court of law; James would be at home in an active situation. A dangerous one with courage and physical stamina. And an ability to adjust. James was not a team player. He either led or he would choose to operate on his own. He could also be ruthless …

“I will not have athletics in this institution become a private battleground between students,” Roberts said. “Mr. Scorcelli?”

Scorcelli hesitated, turned to face James and stuck out a hand.

“Apology accepted, Mr. Scorcelli,” James said with his winning smile — a smile that infuriated Scorcelli.

“I assume you have no intention of changing your playing habits,” Roberts said. “You will continue to take advantage of each opportunity to denigrate your compatriots, even in a baseball game?”

Ken James looked puzzled. Scorcelli may have believed he was wrestling with a moral dilemma. Roberts knew better, but was surprised when James replied: “Sir, I will take advantage of every rule and every legal opportunity to win.”

“No matter the consequences?”

“No matter, sir.”

Roberts expected and desired nothing less. “You are dismissed, Mr. Scorcelli. Mr. James will remain … so, Mr. Scorcelli?”

“Yes, sir?

“Vi balshoy sveynenah.”

Scorcelli did not look blank, as required. Only flustered.

“Get out,” Roberts said, and Scorcelli hustled away, closing the door behind him so gently he might have been closing a door made of fine china.

Ken James waited impassively. Roberts motioned him to a seat. Roberts watched him unbutton the top button of his sports coat and seat himself. “You even swear like one of them, Mr. James.”

No reply.

“Do you think you are ready for graduation?”

“I do.”

“Mr. James, whose side are you on? Sometimes it appears only your own.”

“Isn’t that the American way? Knowledge is power, in baseball or business. I want all the knowledge I can accumulate. I’ve worked hard to accumulate it, even the things others think inconsequential. It would be a waste not to use it—”

“Do not pretend you know everything about America or how to live in it. You have lived a sheltered life here in the Academy. The world is just waiting to swallow overconfident young people like you.” James made no reply but sat easily in the hard-backed upright wood chair. Roberts paused for a moment, then asked, “Tell me about your father, Kenneth.”

“Not again, sir. All right, my father was a drunk, sir, a drunk and a scum who murdered my younger brother but was found incompetent to stand trial and was committed to a mental institution. They said he was suffering from delayed shock syndrome from his three tours as a Green Beret company commander in Vietnam. When he was released several years later he abandoned his family and went off to who knows where’ Prison or,another mental institution. His name was Kenneth also, but I refuse to use ‘Junior’ in my surname and I’ve even thought of changing my whole name.”

Roberts looked surprised, which amused James. “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t. It’s not as glamorous a story as Scorcelli’s rich jet-setting parents, or Bell’s midwestern aunties. But it’s my story. I’ve learned, sir, to downplay it, push it out of my consciousness. I allow it to surface as a reminder of what I could become if I don’t work and study very hard.”

“I am not particularly interested in your opinion of your father,” Roberts said, “and you would be well advised to keep such opinions to yourself.”

James’ response was to smile back at him with that maddening half-grin. James, it seemed, had no intention of taking such advice.

A problem. The Connecticut Academy, in operation for only thirty years, had acquired a reputation for excellence in its graduates. Only the best left the Academy, and they left only for the best colleges and universities. The rest were sent back to wherever they came from, without any ties or records of their time at the Academy. The Academy had a reputation to uphold. How would this Kenneth Francis James fit in?

His grades were never in question — he had scored in the upper one percent of his Scholastic Aptitude Tests and had passed advanced placement exams in mathematics and biology, allowing him to take nine credits of college-level courses even before stepping onto a college campus. He had even taken several Law School Admissions Tests for practice and had scored high on all of them. He had requested only the best — Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, Oxford. It was his intention to study under such as Kissinger, Kirkpatrick, Brezezinski — and pursue a career in the Foreign Service or in politics.

Mostly autonomy was what James craved, autonomy and control, but his extremism could destroy him and hurt the Academy. In the Foreign Service, in government, one had to be a team player. Which left out Kenneth James.

But the Academy tried not to discard its students who did not fit. Especially the highly intelligent ones. The problem now was to find James a niche for his particular talents and personality and at the same time channel usefully his considerable energy and intelligence.

Roberts began to stack the folders on his desk and buzzed his secretary. “You are dismissed, Mr. James.”

The sudden announcement took James by surprise, but he tried not to show it. He stood and headed for the door.

“Das svedanya, tovarishchniy Maraklov,” Roberts called out, glancing up at the retreating figure, waiting to catch his reaction.

There was none. James turned, hand casually on the doorknob. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

Roberts remained stone-faced but inwardly was pleased. Good, Mr. James, he said to himself. No sign of recognition — and more importantly, no sign of trying to hide any recognition. You have learned your lessons well. I think you may be ready for graduation …

“Dismissed, Mr. James.”

“My name is Janet.”

Ken James moved closer to the woman and stared into her bright green eyes. Janet Larson was thirty years old, five feet tall, with long, bouncy brown hair. She was wearing stone-washed jeans and a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons unbuttoned against the warming late spring weather. Sitting in her apartment, Ken let his eyes travel from her shining eyes to her white throat and down her open neckline to the deepening crest between her breasts. When his eyes moved back to her face he found her looking directly at him.

“Eye contact,” he said, moving closer. “When strangers meet, eye contact is frequently broken. We’ve been taught here to look everyone in the eye, that eye contact is important. Actually a woman’s direct look makes many men uneasy.”

She nodded, then slowly stepped even closer until her breasts pushed against his cotton Rugby shirt. He let the Academy’s administrative secretary linger there for a moment, then reached out, grasped her shoulders and pushed her away a few inches.

“Remember the social bubble, too,” he said with a smile. “Americans need their space. Encroachment on a person’s bubble, even by a beautiful woman, turns even the most desirable woman into an intruder.”

“Do you find me desirable, Kenneth?”

He pretended to be exasperated. “Try it again,” he prompted.

She nodded, looked up, smiled and said, “Hi, my name is Janet.”

“Pretty good. But try contracting ‘name’ and ‘is.’ Americans love contractions. They slur everything together. ‘Hi, my name’s Janet.’”

She nodded, took a deep breath. “Hi, my name’s Janet,” and punctuated it by invading his bubble again.

“Perfect,” he said, and let his eyes deliberately roam her body once again. She raised her lips, and their little lesson was abruptly postponed.

She was very well trained. She started slowly, agonizingly so. Undressing was part of the foreplay. She was controlling him, moving slowly when she felt him hurry, speeding up when she felt him grow impatient. She knew when and where to touch him, what to say or do to build their sexual energy in perfect synchronization.

Soon it became too much to control and they released their pent-up energy. She climaxed first, the way she had been taught, giving him one last volt to heighten his own climax. She used her muscles to draw every drop from him, then released him moments later — she had been taught that most American men would not remain inside a woman after sex, sometimes refusing even to lie beside them. But this student, however well trained, was not that American … He stayed inside her for several minutes, then let her lie on top of him so he could nuzzle her neck and breasts and feel her warmth all around him. She gently rolled beside him, propped up her head so she could look into his eyes as he traced his fingers around her body.

She too had once been a student at the Connecticut Academy, but her training was in a far different field than his. She had readily accepted her courtesan training and had been selected for “graduation,” but instead opted to stay at the Academy as an administrator. Seducing the young students was her chief source of excitement now, her satisfaction coming less from the erotic than from pleasure in displaying her exceptional skills.

She especially enjoyed displaying her skills with this young student — control name “Ken James,” born Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov of Leningrad, the son of a Party bureaucrat and a hospital administrator, the top student at the top-secret Connecticut Academy in the mountainside city of Novorossijsk on the Black Sea, where young Soviet men and women were trained to be KGB deep-cover agents.

The Connecticut Academy was a most unusual high school, and it attracted the USSR’s most unusual men and women. Most of the students were trained at a very early age for the intelligence field, learning foreign languages and customs of dozens of nations. Both male and female students, like “Janet Larson,” were trained as courtesans and used for sexual espionage activities. Others were trained in demolition or assassination or other forms of terrorism. And still others, like “Kenneth James,” born Maraklov, were part of a whole new area of espionage.

Selected individuals in various countries were targeted by the KGB because of their socio-economic status and opportunity for growth and importance. These individuals — sons and daughters of politicians, businessmen, corporate presidents — would be carefully studied at an early age, once identified as being groomed for a particular position or put into the pipeline for a given career or special responsibility. Their habits, social life and personality were examined. Were they responsible, stable individuals, or did they squander time and money on, say, drugs and partying? If they were especially promising individuals, apparently destined for greatness, phase two of the project was invoked.

A young Russian closely matching the target’s general physical and mental attributes would be trained in the same fields as the subject individual. Along with being taught the target’s native language, the student would also learn everything possible to help blend himself into the social fabric as well as the personality of the target. After years of study and training, the student would be a virtual clone of the target.

Next, at an opportune time, the clone would be inserted to replace the target. He would assume all of the target’s activities, history, future. Of course it was not possible precisely to duplicate the subject’s every mood or segment of his personality, so the clones were trained. to fit in, to adapt, to take control of their situations. If they did not perfectly match, they were to change the environment around themselves. The clone would, it was hoped, create the new norm and thereby achieve a more viable match-up.

After a suitable waiting period to allow the new mole to acclimate himself with his new surroundings, he would be directed by Moscow headquarters to begin collecting information, to maneuver closer to the seat of power in government or industry, to influence events in favor of the Soviet Union or its allies. In an emergency the mole could be used to assist other agents, collect or borrow funds, even carry out search-anddestroy missions or assassinations. Unlike informers, traitors, bribery victims or embassy employees, these “native citizens” were always to be immune to suspicion. They could pass the most exhaustive background investigation — fingerprints, if necessary, even surgically matched.

Perhaps only a handful of these super-moles could be turned loose in a year. The training was exhaustive and exhausting; many Soviet students, even though they learned English well and knew a good deal of “American,” could not sufficiently adapt themselves to the very strange American culture and be a reliable espionage agent as well. And even with the apparently perfect student, there was no way of knowing what would happen to the intended target. Targets were selected for their accessibility as well as their potential value, but over the years there was no way to guarantee a useful match. Goals changed, opportunities came and went, minds changed, paths crossed. An individual who was perceived as the next President of the United States could turn out to be a corrupt congressman; a candidate-target discarded from consideration could turn out to be a future Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

The target Ken James — the American Ken James — would never have been considered only a few short years earlier: He was the son of a psychotic Vietnam veteran; he grew up in a fragmented childhood punctuated by a devastating family disaster; the family was split apart. The boy himself was a loner, unpopular and remote, anti-social.

But things changed. The loner turned out to be a boy genius. The father disappeared from sight and was presumed dead. The mother married a wealthy multinational corporate president, and both the stepfather and mother were candidates for political office by election or appointment. The obscure boy was suddenly a prime candidate for “cloning.” Still a loner, virtually ignored by his jet-setting parents, he was nonetheless being educated and groomed for a public life in government-service. A perfect target.

And they found a boy in the Soviet Union equal to the challenge of a match-up … and ultimate substitution. Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov had a unique combination of writer’s imagination and a savant’s intelligence — the stuff to qualify him as Ken James’ intellectual and emotional twin …

Janet Larson smiled as she noted the faraway expression in his eyes and propped herself up again on one elbow so she could watch him. “Where are you now, Kenneth?”

He smiled at the question. It was a game they played when they were together. As an administrative assistant to the headmaster, Janet Larson knew all about Ken James — why he was there, what was expected of him after “graduation.” But some students, the special ones like Maraklov/James, gave the nuts and bolts of their alter egos a considerable amount of spice and feeling. It was forbidden for the students to talk of their “lives” with any other student, but not so with her, and especially not so with her and student Kenneth James …

“I’m on my way to Hawaii,” he said. “One last fling before college. My mom and stepdad are in Europe on business. They gave me a Hawaiian vacation as a graduation present. I graduated last week, remember?”

“How were your grades?”

“Straight A’s, but it was an easy semester. I planned it that way. I could have graduated and gone on to college after my junior year — doubled up on a few classes in the summer — but I was told by my stepdad that a guy shouldn’t miss out on his senior year in high school, that it has too many memories. That’s a crock. Anyway, I cruised through the year.”

“And what about your senior-year memories? Were they worth delaying college?”

“I guess so,” he said as he ran his hand up and down her back and she saw that smile slowly spread across his face. It was as if he was actually reliving those experiences …

“I was quite an athlete the whole year,” he went on. “Soccer in the fall, basketball, baseball in the spring — I already had all my credits for graduation) and I had two gym periods every day; so I could devote full time to all of them. It was fantastic.”

Janet had trouble following—”gym” and “soccer” were foreign words to her. Not, of course, baseball. The way he told his story was eerie, as if he was relating some sort of mystical’ out-of-body experience.

“That was all you did? Sports?”

“No, I had lots of dates. I went out every Friday and Saturday night. My mom and Frank — that’s my stepdad — were home only one week out of five, so I had the run of the place. Except for the maid, of course.”

“Tell me about your dates, Kenneth.”

Again, that smile. “I saw Cathy Sawyer the most. We’ve been going out almost all year. Nothing special … a movie, dinner once in a while. I helped her with her homework, she can’t seem to pick up calculus no matter how hard I try to explain it to her.”

Listening to him, watching him, it was like hearing someone not just talk about but actually live another life in front of you. They had done a complete job, it seemed, on Andrei Maraklov. Now he was Kenneth James. “Were you ever passionate with her, Kenneth?”

Suddenly his eyes grew dark. “Ken?”

“She doesn’t want me that way.” His voice had been deep, harsh. She touched his shoulder — his body seemed to have turned to ice.

“… She doesn’t want me,” he repeated in a dead-sounding voice. “No one does. My dad’s an alcoholic schizoid. People think some genetic germ is going to rub off from me onto them if I get too close. Everyone thinks I’ll whack out on them just like my dad whacked out on his family.”

Whack out? More mumbo-jumbo. “Ken …”

“All they want is my brains and my money.” His body was now as hard, as tense as his voice, his eyes were hot. “ ‘Help me with my homework, Ken’ … ‘Help us with the fundraiser, James’ … ‘Come out for the team, Ken’ … Ask, ask, ask. But when I want something, they all run away.”

“It’s only because you are better than they are, Kenneth—”

“Who cares about that?” It was like a cry. She gasped at the anger in his face. “When am I going to get what I want? When am I ever going to feel accepted by them …?” He took hold of her right hand and squeezed hard. “Huh? When?”

He tossed her hand aside and rolled up out of bed. She gathered a sheet around her and slid out on the other side.

“… I was glad when they asked me to be valedictorian because then I could turn them down. What’s the difference? My mom was going to be in New Zealand or some other place, something too important to cancel even for her only surviving son’s high school graduation — and my dad’s dead or in a gutter somewhere … Nobody that I cared about was going to hear my speech, so I arranged to have my Regents diploma mailed to me. When I told my mom, instead of being angry, she sent me first-class plane tickets to Oahu and five thousand bucks. I got the hell out of that school as fast as I could.”

Janet sat on the edge of the bed, carefully watching this Ken James as he told his story. There was something frightening in him. It was so weird listening to him tell that story, not his and yet entirely his, and the way he slid into the first-person present tense … All of the students at the Connecticut Academy studied their alter egos, but in her memory Andrei was the only one in the Academy who actually seemed to live his alter ego, experiencing everything he did, every hurt, every triumph, every sadness. And Maraklov’s eyes, they were scary but held Janet — born Katrina Litkovka, the daughter of a Red Army colonel — so that she didn’t want him to stop.

“What about college?” she asked.

“I’ve been accepted at a dozen schools,” he replied in perfect mid-Atlantic American English. “I haven’t made up my mind. I was even considering skipping a semester, getting away from it all. I’ve even thought about enlisting in the Marine Corps. I told that to my stepdad once. He said it might look good on a résumé if I want to run for a congressional seat someday. I’ve never forgotten that.”

Janet still had a bit of trouble keeping up with his fluent English — years earlier she had been schooled in English as much as he but had lost much of her skill out of disuse. Still, she understood enough to be amazed — the clarity, the realism, the precise detail of his story’ … The Academy rarely if ever managed to teach their students to his degree of authenticity.

He stood, his back toward her. She eyed his tall, youthful, athletic frame — broad shoulders, thin waist, tight buttocks.

It seemed Andrei Maraklov had so totally immersed himself in the life of Kenneth Francis James that he had assumed his emotional identity as well as his documented public one. How else could Andrei reel off intimate, secretive aspects of hisJames’—life so naturally? Of one thing she had no doubt: this man could easily beat the best interrogators, polygraphs, hypnosis or even drugs.

Andrei Maraklov is Kenneth James …

“But now I’m on my way to Hawaii,” James/Maraklov continued. “I’m going to take it easy, maybe raise some hell, maybe do some painting; I don’t know …”

He turned toward the bed once again, but she was too caught up in his eerie transformation to think about having sex with him again. Actually, he frightened her … he was a stranger. Uncharacteristically, she clutched the sheet tight to her breasts.

“Cathy Sawyer gets wet every time she sees me,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “I know it. But when we’re alone she won’t touch me.” He moved toward her, and she flinched.

The smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed. “All right, damn you you’re like everyone else.”

She had pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around herself. He seemed to be frozen in place, his powerful chest rising and falling. As she tried to step around him, he quickly reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Kenneth—”

“No, I’m not leaving and neither are you. Not yet.” He grasped her forearms with two powerful hands. The sheet fell away from her breasts. He pulled her forearms up and toward him, drawing her toward him so that she was barely touching the floor. “I’m going to show you what I did to that bitch Cathy Sawyer the night before I left. She never showed up for graduation; did I tell you that? They thought we ran off together, but we didn’t. Poor Cathy … I wonder what happened to her…”

He is going to kill me, Janet thought. He’s crazy, he’s going to…

Abruptly the terrifying grin was replaced by a broad, pleasant smile. His body relaxed and he let her drop back onto her feet, then planted a playful kiss on her nose.

“Gotcha.”

“What?” Her voice high, edged with fear. “What do you think you are doing?” She said it in Russian.

“Uh oh, remember, lover, English only is spoken at this academy …”

“I thought … I thought you …”

“… were crazy,” he said. His smile was making her even angrier. “I know what you’re thinking. Every time we’re together you want to hear my little stories about the American. So I tell you what I think he’s like, what he’s going through, what kind of life he lives.”

“You scared me to death. Why?”

“Because you wanted it. I was only doing what you—”

“You are crazy,” she said, grabbed up her clothes and put on her blouse and pants. “Get out of here.”

“Janet, wait …”

“I don’t want to see you again.” She yanked open the front door to her bedroom. “Now get dressed and get out.”

The smile stayed, but he obediently put on his jeans and sweatshirt, gathering his underwear and shoes in his arms. But just before he left her apartment he turned to her.

“You’ll miss me,” he said. “The sex you can get from any of the others. But you need the excitement of living with a real American. It’s your high. It’s the worst transgression for a female KGB operative. You love it.”

“Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov—”

“My name is Kenneth James.”

“You will not be allowed to leave the Academy. You will never see America except in your own mind. That I promise-”

His smile disappeared, but she couldn’t stop.

“I will make recommendations to Mr. Roberts that you never be allowed to graduate. You could compromise the whole operation.”

It pleased her to see the panic in his face that had now replaced his smug expression. “What are you going to tell them, Janet? That while we’ve been screwing each other I somehow scared you and you think I’m crazy? You’ve no credibility. A thirty-year-old ex-whore having sex with a seventeen-year-old high school student. You’ll make a very reliable witness.” He stepped toward her, his expression softening. “You’ll drag yourself down as well as me. Don’t do it. I promise I won’t scare you again. Janet …”

She pushed him away. “I don’t need credibility. I can destroy you without anyone ever knowing it was me. A notation here and there, a rumor, a changed grade or a negative entry on your progress charts. You will be on your way to a border lost before you know it. Now once more, get out.”

“Don’t do it,” he was still saying as the door slammed in his face. “You’ll be sorry if you do …”

His morning regimen had been the same for the past five years. Wakeup at five A.M., calisthenics and a morning three-mile jog, breakfast by six-thirty. The Academy even taught students o enjoy the typical American breakfast dishes while at the game time giving them healthier, more substantial foods.

Classes began at eight. Usually there was a bit of time before he morning class — today’s was on the stock market and Amer-can economics — so James spent his time reviewing the latest intelligence on his “target”—the real Ken James.

How could anyone with so much going for him act the way James had? Maraklov asked himself. The report said James vas going to ace every course he was enrolled in in his final semester of high school, including several advance-placement college-level courses. At the same time a police blotter report noted that James had been caught with a bag of marijuana. He vas not charged with a crime, only reprimanded — his stepfather carried a good deal of influence in the small town where he lived. But James had risked his whole career on a one-ounce bag of dried grass. Stupid.

No pictures were included in the latest intelligence, but previous photographs showed a tall, handsome youth shopping in fancy stores, driving expensive cars, going to parties, every weekend. He had seemed like a normal well-adjusted teenager. Maraklov knew, of course, about James’ unfortunate past, but that was ancient history. Surely that ugly episode was long forgotten? Maraklov sat back now and thought about what it was like to be Ken James …

I have everything I ever wanted. Brains, money, things. What am I missing? What else do I want? Why did I need to smoke marijuana and get in trouble with the cops? I have a good family, minus a brother — my natural father killed him in a drunken rage. I don’t have a father, a real father — he’s either dead or in a mental institution. I haven’t seen my mom in months — the only grown-ups around are the housekeeper, the gardener once a week, and the occasional relatives of my stepfather who show up and say it’s okay for them to borrow the Jag or bring their mistresses in for a nooner. “Nooner” … Janet would have trouble with that Americanism …

The big house is lonely at night. My “friends” stop by once in a while, but they study pretty hard, and I’m not exactly popular … There are alarms all over the place — I have to be careful to shut them off even when I just want to get some fresh air or take a dip in the pool. Cathy Sawyer doesn’t come by much anymore. I wonder where she is—?

A call on the room’s intercom interrupted: “Mr. James, report to the headmaster’s office immediately.”

As he headed toward Roberts’ office he thought of Janet Larson. Damn her. She had really done it, had blown the whistle on him. She would pay for this, he told himself as he straightened his tie. She would pay …

But Janet Larson was just as surprised, and just as fearful to see him, as she walked into Roberts’ outer office. They exchanged no words, only anxious glances as he knocked on the headmaster’s door. He was ushered in by Roberts himself and left standing in the middle of the office.

“The question about whether or not you will ever graduate has been made for us, it seems,” Roberts began. He motioned to a message form. “A report from our agents in place in Washington. It seems your Mr. Kenneth Francis James has decided on a college.”

Maraklov smiled. Washington, D.C. That must mean Georgetown. Ken James has decided on—

“He surprised everyone,” Roberts went on. “We did not even know he had applied for the Air Force Academy.”

Maraklov was stunned. “The Air Force Academy?”

“He received a senatorial sponsorship last winter, obviously from his stepfather’s connections,” Roberts went on. “We were fortunate — we learned he had cut his scheduled vacation in Hawaii short by two months, and one of our operatives did some checking to find out why. He is supposed to begin summer orientation training in six weeks.”

Maraklov’s mind was beginning to catch up. “My father,” he mumbled, then looked at Roberts. “I mean his father is … was … a highly decorated veteran of the Vietnam war. Even without political connections. he could have received sponsorship as the son of a combat veteran. There could be a sympathy factor too. I should have known. The possibility of a military academy placement was always there …”

“Whatever, this changes our plans for your graduation, Kenneth James.” He was testing as he said it.

“Sir?”

“Your counterpart-target is about to enter the Air Force Academy. We cannot risk putting an agent into the Air Force Academy. He has a pilot-training appointment. He will be in the United States Air Force for four years—”

“Eight years, sir,” Maraklov corrected him, eyes bright with anticipation. “Pilot candidates must serve eight years after UPT graduation …”

“You have learned well, but that is not the point, Mr. James. We have never placed a deep agent in the American air force’s cadre. He would have little chance of surviving the security screening. It is very intense, especially for a pilot candidate. They check every move from present day to birth, check his parents, his relatives, his neighbors—”

“And Kenneth James will pass with flying colors,” Maraklov said excitedly.

“But the applicant for a security clearance initiates the process with a detailed report on his background, relatives, addresses,” Roberts said nervously. “You would have to supply every detail of James’ life from memory — you could not risk being caught with a dossier on yourself. And the process is repeated every five years while in the service. Could you do that?”

“Of course, sir.”

Roberts hesitated, but only for a moment. If any other student had made that confident a reply he would have dismissed it as bravado. But not Maraklov. The boy knew his counterpart so well … it was almost frightening. Beyond any of the other student-target linkages.

“You will need plastic surgery,” Roberts said. “And if the scars and bruising from surgery do not heal in time, you will be discovered.”

“I assume James will be in Hawaii until July,” Maraklov said. “The summer orientation course starts in mid-July, as 1 recall. That gives us five weeks before we need to intercept James. Five weeks is time enough for my scars to heal. And the surgery would not need to be extensive, sir. My … his parents won’t be visiting very often. And plebes are not allowed visitors until Thanksgiving. By then his appearance will have changed enough to explain any minor differences—” his voice dropped, sounding depressed—”if my parents notice at all.”

Roberts scarcely noticed James’ changing moods, his juxtaposing of himself and the real Kenneth James, the angry distant look. But he was too busy marveling at Maraklov’s extensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of information.

“This will have to be approved by Moscow,” Roberts said, sounding as excited as Maraklov had earlier. “But we have a chance to do it … And if we do, it will be the espionage coup of the century—”

“Yes, sir,” James agreed, though he was not thinking about espionage coups, or success or failure.

He was thinking, I will be … complete. Yes, that was the word. For the first time in my life, I will have a chance to become a complete person. Thanks to Ken James …

It was late that evening. As usual Katrina Litkovka, known as Janet Larson, was finishing a stack of paperwork, clearing her desk and preparing the Academy administrator’s morning business. She heard the outer office door open. Before she could look up from her desk, Maraklov was in her office and had slammed the door behind him.

Katrina knew it was Maraklov, but it still took a moment for the shock to wear off — after all, it had only been a few weeks since Andrei Maraklov had had his new face. This new one was thinner, with a higher forehead and a stronger, squarer jaw. The quality of the plastic surgery was excellent — the scars were nearly invisible and the bruising had all but subsided. This Ken James could be considered very handsome — except right now what she felt was a stab of fear. Maraklov, if recognizable, was also much more a stranger now, unpredictable as any other intruder.

She forced down the anxiety she felt and managed an authoritative edge in her voice … “You are not to be here after hours, Mr. James.”

Maraklov did not say a word but quickly scanned Litkovka’s desk. His attention settled on a memo paper still in her typewriter. Before she could react he had yanked the paper out of the platen and read it, his face darkening with every word. “So,” he said in a low voice, “you are going to try to block my mission to the United States.”

“It is a report from the Academy psychologist,” she said. “It has nothing to do with me—”

“He’s another one you sleep with.”

“You should know about that.” Litkovka stood up and snatched the paper out of his fingers. “He, not I, says he is uncertain about your emotional stability. He thinks you may not be prepared to enter the Air Force Academy. It is my duty to make sure that Mr. Roberts knows about the doctor’s opinion—”

“Don’t do this to me,” Maraklov said. “I’m the perfect candidate for this operation. I am prepared. I’ve prepared for years. I know exactly what I’m doing—”

“Spoken like a schizophrenic bordering on psychotic,” she said with a smile. “If you ‘graduate’ and compromise us, all our careers are in jeopardy. I must not allow that to happen—”

Maraklov slapped his hands on the desktop, then visibly fought to relax, put on a hint of a smile, and reached inside his jacket. Her eyes widened with fear, but what he pulled out was a small half-liter bottle of amber liquid.

“This is for you, Janet,” Maraklov said. “I know it’s your favorite.” He set the bottle down and she read the label.

“Scotch whiskey?” she said in a surprised voice. “Where did you get Scotch whiskey?”

“Never mind, Janet. It’s yours. Please take it.”

“But that is contraband, Andrei—”

“My name is Ken James …”

He really did seem beyond the edge, although that identification with his subject-target was what he had been trained to achieve. Still, wasn’t his extreme, so much so he might lose control and endanger his mission? Her personal anger over his treatment of her helped the rationalization, if that’s what it was.

“Having that in your possession is a serious offense. I suggest you get out of my office and get rid of it immediately, or I will be obliged to call the headmaster—”

“No, don’t do that. Please—” his tone was abruptly subdued—”I’m going …”

He picked up the bottle, stuck it back into his coat pocket and left without another word.

True, Litkovka had used her well-honed talents to get the school psychologist to write a perhaps more damaging psychological report on Maraklov than otherwise. But it was only a matter of degree, she assured herself. Without question, Maraklov would do anything to go to the United States — his motives were personal as well as patriotic. Why this was so she didn’t know. She did know that Andrei Maraklov could be a dangerous man. Well, he had accepted the situation, finally. At least it seemed so …

She stayed until ten o’clock that evening — curfew for all students was ten P.M. and bed-check was shortly thereafter, so she would be safe from Maraklov just in case he tried to do something crazy when she left the office. She gathered up the papers on Maraklov and locked them in her briefcase — if Maraklov got his hands on a bottle of Scotch whiskey, he could easily get his hands on this report if she left it in the office — and headed for her car in the parking lot.

She found herself checking around outside her car, checking the back seat and trunk until a passing security patrol saw her. She had to smile. “You are acting very strange, Katrina. Go home and get some rest and put Maraklov out of your mind.”

Minutes later she was outside the front gate of the Academy heading down the two-lane chickenseed road toward the main highway. After turning onto the wide, two-lane asphalt highway, she switched her headlights to high-beam and roared eastbound to her apartment complex a few kilometers from the Academy. The road was curvy in place but it was wide and fast and she kept the speed up to a hundred kilometers an hour.

She was rounding a gentle right-hand curve when suddenly a figure appeared in the glare of her headlights, right in front of her car. Litkovka jerked the wheel to the left and tromped on the brakes. Her Zil automobile skidded in a half-circle across the road and into the ditch on the other side. Litkovka was wearing a seatbelt but no shoulder harness, and her head hit hard against the steering wheel, then against the closed driver’s side window as the car sank several inches into the muddy ditch.

She was still semiconscious, dazed by the impact, when the passenger-side door opened. She raised her head and squinted against the sudden glare of the interior light and saw a man dressed in a heavy coat and gloves. The interior light went out.

“Help me, please. Pamaghetye …”

Her head was yanked backward by her hair. Before she could take a breath a strong liquid was poured down her throat. She coughed, tried to spit it out. The liquid burned her throat, lungs, nose. Then a powerful gloved hand covered her mouth and nose, trapping the liquid inside her throat. She had no strength to resist. Only to squirm for only a moment or so, then was still.

The shadowy figure checked the body for any sign of life, then dumped out the contents of Litkovka’s briefcase on the car floor. Using a small penlight, he checked each paper until he found the one he was searching for. He stuffed it into his pocket, dropped the bottle of whiskey on the seat beside Litkovka and hurried off.

Honolulu, Hawaii

Ken James was adjusting the collar on his Hawaiian flowered shirt when he heard the knock on the door.

“Housekeeping,” a young woman’s voice announced. “May I turn your bed down, sir?”

The hotel had some delicious-looking maids working there, Ken had recalled, young Polynesians working their way through college. This one sounded more promising than the matrons that had been coming by lately. He was on his way out but thought he might at least have a look. Who knew, once she was off duty she might make his last night in Oahu very special.

“Come in,” he said over his shoulder as he admired himself in the mirror. He heard the door swing open—

A hand clamped tight over his mouth and nose. When he reached up and tried to pry his hands away from his face he felt a sharp sting on his left shoulder. He swung hard as he could, heard a muffled grunt, and then his head was snapped down and sideways. A hand was around his throat and face. The more he struggled to free himself, the weaker he became — his muscles now refusing to work. The hands left his face, but he had no more resistance. Feeling incredibly weak, he stumbled forward against the bureau, tried to balance himself and fought the urge to collapse. Slowly he turned around …

… Or did he turn? When he was able to focus his eyes, he found himself looking at … himself?

And at the same time, Andrei Maraklov stared at the object, the target of all his training for so many months — the real Kenneth Francis James.

Close as the resemblance was, as Maraklov studied James he noted that James’ hair was thinner than his — James would be bald in five years or less while he would have his full head of hair. He was an inch taller than James and somewhat more muscular. No doubt James’ dissipation, his drinking and drug taking accounted for the subtle differences that even the KGB could fail to keep up with. Still, the overall impression was of near look-alikes.

Meanwhile, Ken James studied the face that was peering at him. It could have been a twin but that was impossible. Some sort of hallucination. God, he’d better lighten up on the booze and grass. “Are you for real?” James asked, blinking through the growing haze that seemed to be fogging his senses.

“Yes, real …”

James’ eyes widened, and he reached out to the apparition. Hallucination? No … a dream come true … “Matthew … Matthew?” James was reaching to touch the face. “Matthew—”

“No.” Maraklov said. “Our brother is dead, remember? Our father killed him.”

James blinked in surprise. So did the two KGB enforcers that had come with Maraklov into James’ hotel room. Maraklov’s voice had a pleasant, intimate tone. And the reference to “our” father momentarily startled them, though they had been briefed on this unusual young agent.

James stared at Maraklov. “Then … who are you?”

“I am you, Kenneth. I am Kenneth James. I’ve come to help you.

Through his rapidly dulling senses James clutched tighter to Maraklov to keep from falling. Maraklov held him steady.

“Give him here, tovarisch,” one of the strong-arms muttered. “We-don’t have all night—”

“Shut up,” Maraklov said. “And no Russian. These hotel walls are paper thin.”

“Sorry,” the other said. He had wheeled a large white canvas laundry cart into the room. “Drop him in here and—”

“I said be quiet. I’ll turn him over when I’m ready.”

James had been taking in the exchange among the three Russians. When Maraklov turned back toward him he asked what was going on, what were they going to do with him …

Maraklov opened his mouth to invent an easy lie for the half-dead alter ego standing before him but could not. This American, whom he had only known for a few minutes, was also someone it seemed he had known all his life … and the closest any human being had been to him since he left his home for the Connecticut Academy eight years earlier. He forced his voice to sound firm, reassuring. “Don’t worry; everything’s going to be okay. You don’t have to worry about dad, or mom, or Matthew, or about Cathy or about school … I’m going to take care of everything, Ken. Everything will be fine. I’m strong and smart, I’ll take care of our problems. Don’t worry. You just go with these guys and forget about everything.”

James seemed to nod, even smile a bit. Andrei eased him over and handed him to the first man.

“Hey … hey … Who are you?”

Andrei smiled benevolently, brotherly. “I am you, Ken. I told you that. I’m you and I can take care of everything. You just go on now …”

James was slipping away fast but still had residual instinct to resist. He turned to Maraklov. “Ken …”

Maraklov was nearly mesmerized by the sound of that name, hearing for the first time an American — the American — call him by the name the KGB had assigned him three years ago.

“Yes … what?”

“You love father, don’t you?”

The two enforcers were puzzled by this exchange, but Maraklov ignored them. They no longer existed. It was just the two … brothers. They wouldn’t understand.

What could he say to ease things for this man …? Kenneth James, Sr., was, he had learned, a stressed-out war veteran who had taken out his frustrations and failures in civilian life on his family. He had killed Matthew, the younger son, on one of his drunken sprees. How could a son forgive the man? But apparently Ken James, Jr., could. Or wanted to.

“Sure, Ken,” Maraklov said quietly. “Sure I do. He was our father, a war hero, he wasn’t … responsible.”

But Maraklov’s words seemed to make things worse. Something in James’ face, misery and terror in his eyes … “He wasn’t responsible—” Maraklov repeated, and James’ body actually began to tremble and he shook his head. “No … I did it … I—”

Maraklov stared at James, finally understanding what the American was saying.

“I didn’t mean to do it.” James was crying now. Maraklov motioned to one of the men with him to lay the boy down on the bed. “I didn’t hate him, I didn’t really hate him. But damn it, Matthew was making father spend all his time with him. Not like it used to be when we were together so much. I felt all alone and it was Matthew’s fault …”

Left alone … Maraklov knew something about that. “You shot Matthew …?”

“An accident, I was just going to scare him. I got father’s gun and went and told Matthew to stop it and … the gun went off …”

“Go on, Ken.”

“Father saw me and he saw Matthew, and he told me not to worry, just like you now” … his eyelids were beginning to close … “he called the police and an ambulance and they took him away. I saw him just once when he got out of the hospital. He made me promise never to tell, it would be our secret … I hated mother for marrying Frank, I hate her, and Frank, hate myself too. But don’t hate father. You understand …?”

Maraklov tried to put it together, to readjust. Ken had killed his brother. To protect his son, his father had taken the blame for the shooting. There was no drunken rampage like Ken’s mother had said. His father had endured years in a mental institution to save his son. No wonder he went crazy.

And now another thought forced itself on him. He bent down to James. “Kenneth?”

The American opened his eyes.

“Cathy. Cathy Sawyer. Where is she?”

“Gone.”

Footsteps could be heard outside the hotel door. One of the KGB agents grabbed Maraklov’s shoulder. “Stop this, let’s get out of here.”

Maraklov shrugged off the hand and bent closer to James. “Answer me. Where? Where is she?”

“She never loved me, said she never wanted to see me again. Even laughed at me when I said I loved her …” He stopped, reached up as though to touch Maraklov’s face, the face so like his own, just a fraction of an inch from the freshly healed plastic-surgery scars. “Thank you …” The hand dropped, the haunted eyes closed for the last time.

“Took longer than it should have,” mumbled one of the agents, then nudged Maraklov out of the way and began to strip off James’ jewelry and clothes.

“He killed his brother … and his girlfriend,” Maraklov said half-aloud, trying to absorb it, and understood the personal impact of it. He rubbed his eyes, his temples.

“Get undressed, Maraklov …”

“James,” Maraklov said as if by rote. “The name is Ken James.”

“Whatever your damned name is, sir, get undressed and put these clothes on.” In less than a minute they had tossed James’ clothes to him and were busy putting his clothes on the corpse.

Maraklov looked at James’ clothes, shook his head. “I can’t wear these—” Maraklov gasped.

“We don’t have time for—”

“I said, I can’t.” Not yet, anyway. Not until he had exorcised, or taken as his own the images that assaulted him … Matthew, from the only photograph acquired by the KGB weeks before his death — happy and laughing … Kenneth hefting the big Colt .45 caliber pistol — he could almost feel the weight of it, with a grip almost too big for his fingers to wrap around, a hammer almost but not quite too tight to cock, could feel the recoil, feel the weapon hot and alive, hear the blast drowning out his younger brother Matthew’s cry of pain … then his father’s face, the sorrow, the compassion in it — and he could see himself begging for forgiveness, for understanding. And his father had given it all to him. He had sacrificed his life for him.

Maraklov struggled for control. Only a few weeks ago it had been, he thought, a game he played with Janet Larson, something that always seemed to excite her. Make up stories about Kenneth James. The juicier, the better. She wanted to know if James had a lot of women, if he masturbated, if he liked older women. Maraklov always had a new story for her. Including the one about his target Ken James killing his girlfriend Cathy Sawyer. He thought he had just made it up, embroidered what the KGB reports told him. But now … he had thought he had an overwhelming reason to kill Janet Larson, and he had been right. Only it was not just the logical one — to do away with a threat to his mission in America. Somehow he had been duplicating what Ken James had done to Cathy Sawyer. Andrei Maraklov had become more complete with his target than he could have imagined. Cathy Sawyer had died twice — once in America, and once at the Academy in the Soviet Union …

He tried to clear his head, looked for the two agents who had come with him.

They were gone. So was the body of Kenneth James. He went to the door, opened it, looked outside. Nothing:

And then he heard: “What a great hotel.” A female voice. “Free peep shows.” He turned and saw three college-age women clustered around the elevator. Only then did he realize he was standing in the hallway wearing only a pair of briefs.

“Prastiti … uh, sorry …”

“Don’t be, sugar,” one of them said, straining for a better look as Maraklov ducked back into his room. “It looks to me like you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

He must get hold of himself. After all the training, the conditioning, the first word he uttered as Kenneth Francis James to the first Americans he saw was a Russian word. He could only hope they hadn’t noticed. Probably not, but it was a warning to him …

He collapsed onto the bed. On the bedspread were some pieces of gold jewelry, a large, heavy Rolex watch, a wallet, some bills in a silver money clip, the hotel key and assorted papers and receipts. The two agents had taken James’ clothing, but an open suitcase sitting on a clothes valet in a corner had plenty more.

A drink. He needed one. The room’s tiny refrigerator was empty except for an icetray with half a dozen cubes. He thought about calling for room service but didn’t want anyone inside the room until he had triple-checked it for any evidence of a struggle. The drink wouldn’t wait.

He selected a pair of slacks and a red polyester pullover shirt from the suitcase, slipped on a pair of Nikes — they fit perfectly — slipped on the Rolex and gold chains, pocketed the room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied himself in the mirror. The shirt was a bit tight across his chest, and his thighs strained some against the pants legs. He could detect the faintest evidence of plastic surgery scars. Never mind. He had to get out of this room where Ken James had died … and been reborn?

He made his way downstairs to the hotel’s Polynesian bar and seated himself in an area where he could watch all the exits and windows, just as he had been taught at the Connecticut Academy.

“Good evening, Mr. James.”

Maraklov willed himself not to show what he felt. A waitress in a tight sarong slit up each side nearly to her waist had come up behind him and put down a cocktail napkin. “Hi, there, Mr. James. Your usual?”

Maraklov nodded.

“I need to see your I.D. again. Sorry.”

Identification! Slowly he withdrew the wallet, opened it and held it up for the waitress.

“Not that one, silly.” She reached in behind the driver’s license in the front and pulled out an identical-looking laminated card. “Thank you, Mr. James. Back in a flash.”

After she left Maraklov took a close look at the hidden card. The birthdate had been cleverly changed. A fake I.D. Apparently the hotel staff knew the routine — even better than the “new” Ken James. A few moments later the waitress returned, placing a huge frosted champagne glass on the napkin.

Maraklov looked at her. “This is my usual?” Immediately he regretted the words. A giveaway …

“Not tonight, lover,” the waitress said. She nodded over toward the bar. “Champagne cocktails, compliments of those ladies over there.” He turned and saw the three women that had seen him in the hallway at the elevator. They raised their glasses toward him, smiling.

“Well, Romeo,” the waitress said. “What are you waiting for?”

Slowly, carefully, Maraklov rose to his feet. To his surprise, he found his legs and knees quite strong. Without thinking, he reached into his wallet, extracted the first bill he touched and handed it to the waitress as he picked up his cocktail. It was a twenty dollar bill.

“Thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “A real gentleman, as always.” She lowered her voice, moved toward him. “If those waihilis don’t do it all for you, Mr. James, why, you just leave a message for me at the front desks Mariana knows what you want.”

Still feeling shaky inside, he made his way toward the bar, smiling. Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov was about to experience his first night as an American named Kenneth James. Now he was the real Ken James. The only one.

McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas

“Required SATCOM reports are as follows,” Air Force Captain Ken James said. He motioned to a hand-lettered, expertly rendered chart beside him but kept his eyes on his “audience” and did not refer to it. “As soon as possible after launch we transmit a sortie airborne report. If we launched on an execution message we transmit a strike-message confirmation report.” He pointed to a large map on another easel. That depicted the strike routing of his B-1B Excalibur bomber as it proceeded on its nuclear-attack mission.

“After each air refueling we transmit an offload report, advising SAC of our aircraft status and capability to fulfill the mission. On receipt of a valid execution message, if we weren’t launched with one, we would acknowledge that message as well as any messages that terminated our sortie. After each weapons release, if possible we transmit a strike report that gives SAC our best estimate of our success in destroying each assigned target. The message also updates SAC on our progress and advises them of any difficulties in proceeding with the mission. Of course, staying on time, on course and alert has priority over all SATCOM or HF message traffic. All strike messages can wait until we climb out of the low-level portion of the route and are on the way to our post-strike base. These messages can also be delivered to other SAC personnel heading stateside, to U.S. foreign offices, or to overseas military bases capable of secure transmissions to SAC headquarters.”

He pointed further along the route. “Other messages will include launch reports from the post-strike and each recovery base: NUDET — nuclear detonation — position reports, GLASS EYE combat damage reports, severe weather reports, continental-defense-zone entry reports and sortie recovery and regeneration reports.”

James lowered his pointer and stepped away from the charts. “SIOP communications are extremely important, and the SAC aircraft involved with the execution of our Single Integrated Operations Plan are a front-line asset in keeping the Strategic Air Command, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Command Authority advised of the progress worldwide of any conflict. We feel we have the world’s most up-to-date and survivable communications networks, but of course it’s no good unless each aircrewman uses it effectively.” He looked around the empty briefing room. “That concludes my annual Mission Certification briefing, Colonel Adams. Any questions, sir?”

“Not bad, not bad — for a pilot,” came a voice from the back of the room. Kenneth frowned at the man who came in now and began to pack up the briefing charts and diagrams.

“Kiss my ass, Murphy,” Ken said. “It was a perfect briefing — even for a navigator.”

Captain Brian Murphy, James’ offensive-systems officer on his B-1 crew, had to admit it. “Yeah, it was, Ken. No doubt about it. But why are you spending so much time on that stuff? On an Emergency War Order certification, briefing is done by the radar nay or the defensive-systems operator. Not by the pilots.”

“I heard Adams likes to hit his mission-ready crews with little surprises,” Ken said. “His favorite is mixing up the usual briefing routines to make sure each guy on the crew is familiar with the other guy’s responsibilities. He likes to hit nays with pilot questions, too — how well do you know your abort-decision matrices?”

Murphy shrugged. “I’ll bone up on that stuff before the briefing tomorrow. These briefings are bull anyway … Coming to the Club with us for lunch?”

“In a while; it’s only eleven-thirty. I’ll meet you there at noon.”

“Man, you are so dedicated.”

“Knock it off.”

“No, really, I mean it,” James’ crew navigator said. “You’re always studying. You know your stuff backwards and forwards, and you know everyone else’s too. If it’s not EWO communications procedure it’s security or avionics or computers or target study. You got your hands in everything.”

“That’s my job, Murph.”

“Well, at least you’re getting some reward for it. Making commander of a B-1 Excalibur in less than two years was moon-talk until you came along. They’re saying you might make flight commander in a few weeks. You’re really burning up the program.”

James slapped his pencil down on the table, smiled. “You’re buttering me up, man. Okay, okay, I’ll buy lunch. Just let me finish.”

“Hey, hotshot, can’t you take a compliment? I know attaboys are rare around here, but I think you can still recognize one.”

James raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Thanks, Murph, but I’m not doing anything special here. I do this stuff because it’s my job and because it really interests me, and because my ass will be grass if I don’t learn this communications stuff by tomorrow morning.”

“Message received. I’m outta here.” Murphy stood and headed for the door, then stopped.-”You’re an Academy grad, aren’t you?”

“Right.”

“Top of your class, from what I heard.”

James looked at Murphy. “Get to the point, Murph.”

“I thought so, I just want to know why you chose B-1s. You could have had your pick of any hot jet in the inventory, but you picked B-1s.”

“I liked them. I always did. They’re big and sexy — just like your wife …”

“Asshole.”

“… and I still have a stick and afterburners and Mach-one speed like a fighter. I hated it when Carter canceled them. I think they should build another hundred of them. At least. Answer your question?”

Murphy nodded. “But you seem a little, I don’t know, out of place.”

“Out of place?” His stomach tightened as he looked closely at his radar nay.

“Yeah. Like B-ls are just a jumping-off place for you. I mean, you’re not advertising it or anything, but somehow, old buddy, I get the feeling you’re on your way somewhere. Care to tell?”

Ken James forced himself to smile. This big Irishman was hitting too close. “Just between you and me and the fence-post?”

“Sure, man.”

“I did get an assignment, I think. When I filled out my last dream sheet I was sort of … well, daydreaming. Appropriate, huh? Anyway, I put down that I was interested in the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center—”

“HAWC! You got an assignment to Dreamland? I don’t believe it! Do they actually give assignments there?”

“I didn’t think they did, either. Like I said, it was a long shot. And I don’t have any assignment yet. But I did get a letter back from the deputy commander, a Brigadier General Ormack. He sounded interested. It was sort of a don’t-call-meI’ll-call-you letter, but at least I got an answer back.”

“I don’t believe it,” Murphy said. “Dreamland. You realize that all of the world’s hottest jets and weapons in the past thirty years went through there? Those guys fly planes and test weapons out there that are years ahead of anything that exists in the real world. And you’re going to be assigned there—”

“I said I don’t have an assignment, Murph. So keep this under your hat, okay? Besides, how do you know so much about Dreamland?”

“I don’t know much of anything, except that anybody who even accidentally overflies Dreamland gets sent to our version of the old Gulag Archipelago. Every now and then you hear about an ex-Los Angeles Center air-traffic controller telling stories about Mach-six fighters or planes that fly vertically to fifty thousand feet over Dreamland. It’s got to be the assignment of a lifetime.”

“Well, like I said, keep all this under your hat,” James said. “Now take off. I want to polish my briefing before we do our dry runs this afternoon.”

After Murphy left, James got up from his seat, went to the door, locked it, put a chair in front of it. He returned to the small pile of red-covered books and manuals on the desk in the front of the conference room and selected one marked: “COMBAT CREW EMERGENCY WAR ORDER COMMUNICATIONS PROCEDURES-TOP SECRET/NOFORN/SIOP/WIVNS.” It was the master document used by all the American strategic combat forces all over the world — aircraft, submarines, intercontinental missile sites, and command posts — outlining every one of their communication sources and methods, procedures, frequencies, timing and locations of the nation’s domestic and overseas communications facilities. The hieroglyphics after the title warned that the document was top secret, not releasable to foreign nationals, part of the Single Integrated Operations Plan — the master plan on how the United States and its allies would conduct “the next world war.” This particular volume was dated 1 October 1994, some two months from now, because it belonged to the new SIOP revision scheduled to take place at that time. The procedures in that manual would be used by all strategic forces for the next twelve months afterward.

It made it convenient for him and the KGB, Ken thought, to have to do these once-a-year briefings for the wing commander. The annual Mission Certification briefings were required by law. The wing commander of each SAC base with nuclear missions had to certify to the Commander-in-Chief of SAC, and he in turn to the President of the United States, that each crewman knew precisely what his duties were in case the SIOP was “implemented”—a euphemism for the so-called unthinkable, the declaration of World War Three. Normally the certification briefings were given once, when a crewman became mission-ready. But the SIOP was revised each year, reflecting new rules, new tactics, and so every year each crewman had to dig out the changed books, study them, then brief the wing commander on the revised mission. The top-secret books were trotted out for the certification, studied for a week, then locked away, usually never to be seen again except for base-wide exercises or inspections. The opportunities were rare to have such free access to these manuals, and Ken had to work fast.

He opened the manual to section four, “ELF, LF, HF and SATCOM SIOP Frequencies and Broadcast Schedules,” and propped the pages open with a couple of books. This section detailed all of the frequencies used by aircraft and submarines to broadcast and receive coded messages from SAC and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with what time of the day these broadcasts would be made. Anyone knowing these frequencies and times could jam or disrupt them, specific broadcasts could be intercepted and decoded. The crew charts had stickers that had only one frequency, but this book had all the frequencies for the nuclear strike force of the United States.

James unzipped a leg pocket of his flight suit and took out what looked like a thick-barreled marking pen. Moving his chair so his body would cast no shadows across the pages, he twisted and pulled the cap, held the device a couple of feet over the pages, and pressed the pocket clip to activate the shutter.

Murphy was close, James thought as he worked. He would have liked to get assigned to F-15s or F-16s, or the new F-117 Stealth fighter unit, but he went where Moscow told him to go, and that was where he could learn as much as possible about the new B-1’s nuclear-strike mission. Dreamland was the most secret base in the country. B-1 Excalibur bombers were fine, but he would give anything to get his hands on the United States’ newest fighters.

Two minutes later Kenneth James had finished photographing the entire chapter and its accompanying appendices with the tiny microdisk camera. He wrapped the device in a handkerchief to help protect it, then zipped it safely away in his leg pocket, out of sight so no one would be tempted to ask to borrow his “pen.”

Satisfied, he packed up his charts and books and turned them back to the vault custodian. He would put the camera in his car outside the alert facility to prevent discovery during one of the commander’s frequent no-notice locker searches on the alert pad, then deliver it to the prearranged drop point for his KGB contact from St. Louis after he got off seven-day alert.

Dreamland, Nevada

Ken James was strapped securely into a stiff, uncomfortable steel chair, wrists, ankles and chest bound by heavy leather straps. His head was immobilized by a strong steel beam. The room where he lay on the rack was dimly lit, buzzing with the sound of power transformers and smelling of the ozone created by electronic relays and microcircuits. Two men in Air Force blue fatigues rechecked his bonds, making sure they were extra tight; one of them adjusted a tiny spotlight directly onto James’ right eyeball, smiling as James tried to squint against the glare. The sergeant knew there was nothing James could do to him.

James had been sweating in the steel chair for nearly an hour, the two technicians hovering over him, before another man entered the room. Tall and lanky, he looked considerably older than his mid-thirties, thanks to a bald head and a few stray shocks of gray hair that seemed to be haphazardly stuck onto his skull. He spoke briefly with the techs, then walked over to the rack and inspected the fitting and bonds. He stuck his face close to James, smiled and said, “Now, Captain James, I’ll ask you once more — where were you on the afternoon of August eleventh?”

In fact, Ken James was photographing top-secret documents in a vault at McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Very funny, Dr. Carmichael. Now can we get on with this?”

“Couldn’t help it, Ken,” Alan Carmichael, the white-coated researcher, said. “Seeing you trussed up gives this place the look of some futuristic interrogation chamber.”

Which was precisely what Maraklov was thinking himself. He was wearing a heavy suit made of thick metallic fabric. The suit had several thick cables and conduits sewed into it that ran all through his arms, legs, feet, hands and neck. A raised metal spine ran along his backbone from head to tail, so thick that a channel had been cut into the chair to accommodate it. There was a bit of cool circulating air flowing through tubules in the suit, but it did little to relieve the oppressive heat and stuffiness.

“Have you been practicing your deep breathing exercises?” Carmichael asked.

“Don’t have a choice. I either breathe deep in this getup or I suffocate. Are you ever going to tell me exactly what I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Try to relax and I’ll tell.” Carmichael adjusted the volume of a small speaker next to a nearby oscilloscope-like device; the speaker began to chirp in a seemingly random pattern. Carmichael motioned to one of twenty-five lines on the oscilloscope. “Your twenty-five cps beta readouts are still firing. Relax, Ken. Don’t try to force it or it won’t come.”

“What won’t come?” Carmichael said nothing. Ken began to take deeper breaths, trying to ignore the sweat trickling down his back and the cramp in his right calf. After a few moments, the chirping subsided. Progress?

“Very good,” Carmichael said. “Beta is down … your Hertz waves are increasing. Good. Occipital alpha is increasing. Good. Keep it up.” He turned and with the help of one of the techs lifted a huge device off a carrying cart that he had brought in with him.

“What the hell is that?” James asked as the huge object was lifted overhead. It was hexagonal, and two wide visors in the front and cables leading to various parts of the suit and to controls and boxes nearby.

“Your new flight helmet,” Carmichael said. “The final component of the suit you’re wearing. The project is progressing so well, we’ve decided to proceed with a full-scale test.”

“Test of what …?”

“Wait.” Carmichael slid the heavy helmet over Ken’s head. “Watch the ears, damn it.”

“Watch your beta — you’re pinging again.” The helmet was set into place and fastened to a heavy clavicle locking ring on the metallic suit. The braces holding Ken’s head in place took some of the helmet’s weight, but his shoulders were aching after only a few moments.

A microphone clicked on, and through a set of headphones in the helmet came: “How do you hear me, Ken?”

“I think you broke my left ear off.”

“You’ll live. Try to relax and I’ll explain.” Carmichael’s voice dropped into the familiar deep, even monotone that he had used weeks earlier during several days of screening: in fact, Carmichael was hypnotizing him, not with a shiny watch on a chain, but with his voice only. James’ susceptibility to hypnotic suggestion had made him an especially good candidate for this secret project.

“As you know, we’ve been working here at Dreamland with several projects. We call them all together ‘supercockpit’ designing an aircraft workspace that allows the pilot to perform better in a high-speed, high-density combat environment. You and several other pilots were working with Cheetah, the F-15 advanced technology fighter demonstrator; that’s the state of the art, and her systems will be incorporated in the Air Force’s new fighter in the next few years. Cheetah makes extensive use of multi-function computer screens, voice-recognition and artificial intelligence, as well as high-maneuverability technology … Wall, we’ve been working on the next generation of fighters after Cheetah, things like forward-swept wing technology, hyper-start engines, super-conducting radar. But the most fascinating aspect of the new generation of fighters will be ANTARES — that’s an acronym for Advanced Neural Transfer and Response.”

“Neural transfer? Sounds like Buck Rogers thought-control stuff.” Comic books were SOP at Connecticut Academy.

A slight pause, then Carmichael said: “It is.”

Inwardly Maraklov was tingling with excitement — Carmichael’s electroencephalograph must be pinging off the dials, he thought. They were actually working on thought-controlled aircraft …?

“Relax, relax,” Carmichael said. “It might sound like science fiction but we demonstrated the rudimentary ANTARES technology ‘as early as the late nineteen eighties.”

“But is it possible …?”

“Well, we don’t know that yet… I’m hoping, I’m betting, we’ll find out pretty soon …”

“But how can you control by thought?”

“The idea is simple; the mechanism is complex.” He waited a few moments while the subject hurriedly fought to control his racing heartbeat.

“That’s better,” he said in his most soothing, uninflected voice. “Here we go. Remember back to your physiology. The human nervous system is composed of nerve cells, neurons. The neurons carry information back and forth from receptor nerves in the peripheral nervous system — nerves in the body in general — to the central nervous system, brain and spinal cord. The information carried through the nervous system is a series of chemical and electrical discharges between neurons. If one neuron is stimulated enough so that its ionic balance is changed, it releases a chemical into the synapse, the gap between neurons, and that chemical stimulates another neuron.”

“Like electricity flowing through a wire?”

“Well, some discharges are purely electrical, like when neurons physically touch, but mostly the connection is chemical. Anyway, this electrochemical and ionic activity can be detected and read by electroencephalographs, which you’ve become very familiar with the past weeks.” He would have nodded if he could. “EEGs in the past could only measure electrical activity — they couldn’t analyze, decode that activity. It was like the Plains Indians putting their ears up to a telegraph pole, which they used to call the spirit trees, by the way. They could hear the telegraph clicks and tell that something was happening, but they couldn’t decipher the clicks or tell which direction the clicks were coming from, and of course, they didn’t know how it was being done, just as we are ignorant about so many things in the nervous system. Sure, lots of clicks usually meant the army was coming, but that was about all. Ditto for us twentieth-century wizards.”

Carmichael paused to adjust his oscilloscope. “Well, a few years ago we built an EEG that could read the spirit tree. You could lift a finger or hand and this EEG could tell a researcher that you lifted a finger. And the opposite was true, too — when you generated a thought command to lift your hand, that impulse could be detected and read — in effect, we could read your mind.

“Of course, the military got their mitts on the system right away. The new-style EEG, nicknamed Spirit Tree — hey, I’m famous — was the ultimate lie detector. But there was much more potential in Spirit Tree than use as a glorified polygraph. We already knew the general path of nerves and which areas of the brain corresponded to certain thoughts or activities — that all came about during Nazi Germany’s infamous lab experiments on human guinea pigs, when they would surgically remove parts of a prisoner’s brain and see what the victim could no longer do. The new idea was, if we could now read the information flowing through the system, was there a way we could interject outside or foreign stimuli into the nervous system? Instead of receptors in, say, the fingers generating the initial sensory impulse, could we send information from a computer into the system and read how the brain reacted to it? And could the opposite be true — could we think about, say, moving a finger, and have a computer read that nervous instruction and execute the command electronically?”

The more James heard, the more excited he became, though now it was an intellectual response and his signs stayed relaxed. A computer issuing instructions to a human via his own nervous system … a computer reading the human nervous system … For a while he thought his time might better be spent making drawings or photographs of the F-15 Advanced Tactical Fighter named Cheetah. But now … well, the Academy hadn’t imagined anything like this when they sent him to America. Of course nobody could have …

“Got all that?” Carmichael asked.

“I think so … You’re going to try to read my mind with this … whatever it is …”

“In a sense, yes.”

“But how strong are those electrochemical discharges across the synapse? Don’t you have to clip some electrodes onto my skull?”

“In the past that’s how EEGs were done. Every human body has a basic electrical potential, an electrical aura, so to speak, and that potential is affected by the central nervous system. Simple electrodes could read the tiny impulses generated by the brain and nervous system. But those electrodes couldn’t measure anything except the change in electrical potential …”

“Like the telegraph clicks …”

“Exactly. But now we have two new technologies that have improved our ability to read those electrical impulses — very high-speed integrated circuits and NRTS, near-room-temperature superconductors.

“Your helmet and that large device on your spine are huge superconducting antennae. They’re so powerful they not only can measure your nervous activity; they can read it, analyze it and map its direction as the impulses move around your peripheral nervous system. And as they do, the computer issues instructions to the other large device you’re wearing — that metallic flight suit. Actually, the suit is an integrated circuit that records the route each and every nervous impulse takes and studies it. After repetitions of the route the artificial-intelligence computer actually learns the route and proper timing and intervals between a certain set of impulses from certain areas of the central nervous system.”

This project did sound remarkable, but it also appeared to involve a long period of passive training. Maraklov preferred action. Could he sustain the process …? “You’re going to map out every muscle twitch, every movement, every breath I take …?”

“To the contrary,” Carmichael said. “We’d be overloaded if we tried to record every muscle twitch, just as your question implies — so the idea is, we don ‘t want you to twitch any muscles. We don’t want mere muscular activity to show up. We don’t need it — once we map out your peripheral nervous activity, we’ll know what impulses are necessary to move things like muscles.

“So we need you totally relaxed, limp, deeper than relaxed — we need you as detached as you can be from your physical body. We practiced biofeedback techniques before to get you to what we call, for lack of a better term, alpha state — it simply means the propagation of alpha brain waves and the suppression of beta waves, the latter activity indicating conscious brain activity. But alpha state has many levels — nine known ones, to be exact. You’ve reached perhaps the second or third level, where you can totally relax both smooth and ridged muscle and even exert control over certain autonomous functions such as heart rate, respiration and blood pressure. That’s fine — but we need more.”

Carmichael’s voice became even deeper, even more steady. There was no hint of tension, no emotional cues, no inflection. Somehow he had even managed to cut out most of the background noise in the laboratory — or was that part of the hypnotic state the subject knew he was slipping into?

“There’s a level of activity called theta-alpha,” the voice continued, so melodic and penetrating that it seemed to bypass his eardrums and enter directly into his brain … “Theta-alpha. It’s a stage where the central nervous system in effect cuts out the peripheral nervous system. In higher life forms it’s a defense mechanism, a way to protect the central nervous system from sensory overload.

“Without any peripheral functions to control, the brain expands its powers. Areas of the brain that normally go unused are suddenly put into service to control autonomous functions. The average person uses only thirty percent of his available brain capacity, but under theta-alpha the other seventy percent is suddenly put on line. That new seventy percent has the memory and computational power of all the computers in this building, packed into a ten-pound package that needs no power, no cooling air, no bench or field maintenance. And, like a computer built by humans, it’s programmable and erasable, with its own built-in operating system.”

James was finding it progressively harder to concentrate. When he tried to speak he couldn’t make his jaw work. It felt as if he was asleep, but in that weird half-in, half-out state of sleep where you could hear and feel everything around you but were still deeply resting. His body felt very warm, but not sweaty or cocooned any more. The oxygen being fed into the face mask was cool and soothing as it streamed into his lungs. It was as if his body were somewhere else, as if he was detached …

Suddenly, he felt his whole body burst into flame. Every pore, every cell, every molecule of his body spit red-hot lava. He jerked out of his semi-sleep state and screamed.

“Easy, Ken, easy,” Carmichael said. Pure oxygen flooded his face mask. The visors on his helmet opened, and Carmichael and a medical technician peered inside to check his bulging eyes.

“What … what was that?”

“It worked,” Carmichael said. He nodded to the med tech, and they both disappeared out of-view. Ken tried to move his head but found it still securely fastened in place.

“Get me out of here—”

“No, Ken, relax,” Carmichael was saying. The room noise seemed louder than — ever. Ken rolled his eyes, trying to blot out the hammering in his head. “Everything’s fine. Relax, relax…”

“I felt like … like I was—”

“Shocked. Electrocuted,” Carmichael finished for him. “You did it, Ken.”

“Did what, dammit?”

“You entered theta-alpha. The final stage of alpha state. You were so relaxed, relaxed in such a deep neurological sense, that your mind opened up to its maximum capacity.”

“So what was that shock — electrocution, you said …?”

“ANTARES. The system detects when you enter theta-alpha and begins the process of integration. The shock you felt was the activation of the ANTARES system — it was the first time, Ken, the very first time, so far as we know, that a computer and the human mind have been linked, even if it was only for a split second. You’ve made some history, my friend. December third, in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-four, at seven-thirty-eight A.M., a human mind and a computer were linked — not merely in contact, but linked — for the first time.”

“Forget history, Carmichael. I asked you what that shock was.”

“Yes, well to facilitate the tracing of your neural impulses, we created a slight electrical field of our own through your suit. We charged the suit with a tiny electrical—”

“Tiny? You call that tiny? I felt like I was frying!”

“Milliamperes, I assure you,” Carmichael replied jovially. “About the same as a nine-volt toy battery. It does no permanent damage that we can detect—”

“That’s real reassuring, Doc.”

“You’re experiencing the same irritation that anyone feels when violently awakened from REM sleep,” Carmichael said. “Try to relax. We’d like to try for another interface.”

“So you can shock me like some chimpanzee?” There was a limit.

“Ken, we’re on the threshold.” Carmichael had turned on the microphone again and had closed the visors. “We’ve proven that our system works, that our equipment can respond to a specific and up to now unexplored neurological state. If we can complete the interface we may actually be able to establish communications between a machine and the human mind. I don’t mean to sound overly melodramatic, but this is at least comparable as a scientific breakthrough to the discovery of the semiconductor. It is important that we try again. But this time you must try to ignore the electrical charge when it happens.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“There’s no training manual for this … you must maintain theta-alpha through the interface process. I’m really not sure how to tell you to do that. Think of something else, try to shut out the pain. After a while the system will help you, but you must be able to endure the first wave of it until the system can learn how to help.”

“What about drugs?”

“Drugs would interfere with the neurological impulses in your system. Besides, this program is based on creating an aircraft that responds to thought commands. We can’t very well go around drugging all our pilots before sending them into combat.”

The full realization of what was happening finally hit him. “You really intend to put this system on an aircraft. You say you can control an aircraft just by thinking?”

“Exactly. We already use sophisticated computers to fly our jets. But with ANTARES, we’ve developed the most powerful computer of all — the human brain. It’s a thousand times more powerful, a hundred times faster, and a million times more reliable than any computer ever conceived or conceivable.

“You’ve flown Colonel McLanahan’s F-15 ATF — imagine putting all this on a plane like Cheetah. Or a plane more sophisticated than Cheetah — you’ve seen the plans for the new fighter they’re developing, the X-34. Imagine the speed and power of your mind going into the X-34. It would be all but invincible, more powerful than a squadron of F-15s. It would rewrite most everything we know about fighter combat.”

Carmichael paused. “And you would be the first pilot.”

Maraklov was stunned. This was miles beyond anything he’d hoped or bargained for. Carmichael was serious. They actually were going to move ahead. with’ plans to put all this on an airplane.

“But how can all this gear go into an aircraft?”

“Ken, this is a laboratory. We do everything on huge scales because we have the room to spread out. But in the real world we’d miniaturize all this. With new ‘microchips and superconducting technology, most of the computers in this lab can be miniaturized to the size of a steamer trunk. In three years that trunk-sized computer could be the size of a toaster. By the turn of the century it could be down to the size of a walnut.”

He relaxed and smiled for the first time since entering what he had once thought of as Carmichael’s chamber of honors. It sounded far-fetched, but they could really be on the verge of a massive technological breakthrough. If they were, then Ken James, alias Andrei Maraklov, a newly promoted major of infantry in the KGB, was to be the principal, the key actor in a remarkable scientific discovery.

“All right,” he said. “Fire it up again.”

Carmichael signaled to his technicians.

“But make sure you spell the name right in the history books. It’s—”

“I know,” Carmichael said. “J-A-M-E-S.”

No, he said to himself, beginning his deep breathing exercises, starting from his toes and consciously ordering every muscle to relax. Spell it M-A-R-A-K-L-O-V.

The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR

“In summary, then, General Secretary,” General Boris Cherkov, Chief of Staff of the military forces of the Soviet Union concluded, “we still command a substantial lead in both conventional and nuclear forces in Europe and Asia, and we should be able to maintain that superiority through the rest of this century. I am ready to take questions.”

No one in the Kollegiya raised any; few ever did during these briefings. The men and women who made up the leadership of the Soviet military, intelligence and state bureaucracy sat mute, nodding to Cherkov as if congratulating him on his presentation — the same one he had given during the past three years, and very similar to the one that the General Secretary had heard since assuming the office. Now he turned to Vladimir Kalinin, chief of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the KGB. “Do you have a comment?”

“Just this. How is it possible that we are so superior? With respect, sir, I question the conclusions made here this afternoon. Since the late eighties and in this year of 1994 as well, the Americans have begun a steady increase in levels of conventional forces all over the world, including western Europe. We know they have a space-based strategic defense system in place that is more sophisticated than our ground-based one. Intermediate-range nuclear forces have been eliminated, our strategic nuclear forces have just been cut in half, and biological weapons have been eliminated. We have been forced to draw down the size of all our forces to help relieve our budget problems and promote perestroika. How can we be maintaining such a large advantage over the United States and the NATO forces—?”

“Because of our continuing five-to-one numerical advantage and our increasing technological achievements,” Chief-of-Staff Cherkov broke in. “For the first time we have an aircraft carrier force that rivals the Americans’—”

“We have three carriers. The Americans have seventeen. Even the British have more than we do.”

“We have an unrivaled worldwide cargo-transport capability. In each and every area we—”

“If we commandeer every civilian-passenger jet in Aeroflot,” KGB chief Kalinin interrupted, “not counting civil transports, the Americans still have more airlift capacity. We can juggle numbers, but the fact is that we have lost the advantage. The Americans have fielded two new types of fighters in Europe in the past ten years; we have fielded one. The Americans have launched two new aircraft carriers in the past ten years and equipped each one with new F-31 fighters. We still have one carrier of equivalent size in sea-trials, with fifteen-year-old fighters on board. In every area except armor and total manpower we have either lost our advantage or suffer a real lessening of whatever advantage we retain.”

“Times have changed,” Minister of Defense Andrei Tovorin said. “Our security is rio longer based exclusively on military strength. We have treaties and agreements with many nations. We have mutual verifiable cuts in strategic and tactical nuclear weapons, beginning with the INF treaty …”

“But we do not agree to roll over and accept domination by the West,” Kalinin said. “Sir, you will be on American television in one hour, smiling at their cameras, saying how delighted you are at the progress that has been made since you signed the INF Treaty seven years ago. But, sir, the peace and security of our nation still depend on the strong arms and backs of our people, rather than on pieces of paper. Those treaties will be the first things to be set on fire in a major conflict—”

“Are you saying that this nation is in danger because we have agreed to reduce the number of nuclear weapons pointed at us?” the General Secretary asked. “Are you saying that we are in greater danger of destruction as a nation now than ten years ago?”

“I believe we were more secure ten years ago, yes,” Kalinin said. “Then I knew that we had the military capability and the national resolve to defend ourselves against any attack. Now, I am not so sure. For the first time in my career I wonder whether we could resist an invasion of western Europe or hold off a NATO invasion of western Russia. I question the security of our cities and military bases. And yet I see American stores and American hotels being built in Moscow. Where is all this taking us?”

“Into the future,” General Cherkov said. “The truth is we are a richer, more secure nation than ever. We also are a member of the world community, no longer the ugly Russian bear.”

Kalinin said nothing. The General Secretary, probably the most popular Soviet leader in history, was a formidable enough opponent in the government. But along with Cherkov, the military veteran and hero of Afghanistan and Africa, the opposition was all but overwhelming.

“This meeting is adjourned,” the General Secretary said, and accepted the handshakes and good luck wishes from the Kollegiya members. Kalinin stayed behind after the rest of the members, except Cherkov, had left.

“I apologize for spoiling the mood of the meeting, sir, but I feel I have a duty to express my opinion—”

“You are correct,” the General Secretary said. “I encourage such discussions; you know that.”

“Yes, sir.” The General Secretary was getting ready to leave for the new Kremlin press office for his interview. “Sir … I need your authorization for additional manpower on an ongoing project. I need ten more men for five years overseas.”

The General Secretary straightened papers in his briefcase. “Overseas?”

“The United States. Deep cover operation on an American military-research base.”

The General Secretary paused, glanced at Cherkov, then shook his head. “It sounds like a major escalation. Ten people on one base?”

Kalinin tried to control his irritation. The General Secretary, it seemed, had already decided in the negative but wanted to pump his KGB chief for information before saying no. “In one city, actually,” Kalinin pushed on. “Perhaps two or three on the base itself, one or two on a separate research center nearby.”

“This perhaps refers to Dreamland?” General Cherkov asked. “More activity there?”

“It is Dreamland,” Kalinin admitted. The old man was well-informed. The crafty Chief-of-Staff’s small but highly efficient cadre of internal investigators were still very much hard at work spying on the KGB for the General Secretary. “We have received information on a new American project that I believe should be of great interest to us.”

“Obviously,” the General Secretary deadpanned. “Ten new operatives in one area at one time is a lot. Is there a danger of discovery?”

“There is always that chance, sir. But this project is so important I feel the additional manpower is absolutely vital.”

“Wasn’t your young pilot assigned to Dreamland?” Cherkov asked. “The deep-cover agent that you managed to help transfer from their Strategic Air Command?”

“Major Andrei Maraklov, yes, and he is the one who has reported on a new American project that I must track very closely.”

“And this project?”

Kalinin hesitated — he didn’t expect to be grilled like this. As reported to him so far, the new project was so unusual that he didn’t fully understand it; it was going to be very difficult explaining it to the General Secretary. This was another change from practices of ten years ago — back then, the government was so large and, more to the point, so bureaucratically compartmentalized that sending ten or even fifty new agents to the United States was relatively easy. Now all personnel movement, even covert or so-called diplomatic transfers, were approved in advance.

“I’m talking about a project begun by the same research center we obtained the short takeoff and landing data from,” Kalinin said. “Maraklov has been assigned to a project studying … thought-controlled fighter aircraft—”

“Thought-controlled aircraft?” The General Secretary quickly looked down at the small stack of papers on his desk — apparently stifling his skepticism.

“Maraklov reports they’ve had significant success with this project,” Kalinin said, stiffening. “I feel it is very important …”

The General Secretary shook his head. “I am sorry, but ten men for such a project is too much. I can authorize two in the Los Angeles consulate, and this must be coordinated with the foreign minister.”

“But, sir, I was going to use two men as handlers for Maraklov. The handlers are very important. Maraklov’s movements are carefully monitored and more than one contact is essential. If I only have two new men and use them as handlers I will not have any for inside duties at the research center. I—”

“I have another meeting, Kalinin,” the General Secretary said, snapping shut his briefcase. “I am scheduled to be in Los Angeles in one month. It will not look well if a large-scale deep-cover ring is discovered. I can’t risk that. Two men only, Kalinin. If more information on this project comes in, I may reconsider. Now I must go.”

As the General Secretary moved around his desk to leave, Kalinin quickly stepped toward him, not blocking his way but obviously wanting to hold his attention a moment longer. “Sir, I assure you, this is most urgent.”

The General Secretary looked directly at his KGB chief. He was shorter than Kalinin by several centimeters and at least twenty years older; Kalinin had a full head of dark brown hair, the General Secretary was bald except for graying temples. The older man was solidly built and only recently giving way to fat; Kalinin was lean, as athletic as a career bureaucrat from Leningrad could manage.

Yet as they stood face-to-face, the General Secretary exuded a power that was considerably more than physical. He had a presence, an aura, an intensity that had all but mesmerized heads of government around the world. His eyes were especially effective in seizing and transfixing.

“Vladimir, the KGB has been well supported by this government. I have given you my support. I did so even when the Politburo believed I had made a wrong decision in appointing you to head the KGB. I believed the KGB needed a strong young leader for the future, and I chose you. I know that you look to something greater than merely the head of the world’s largest intelligence organization — perhaps minister of defense or even General Secretary. Your ambitions are your own affair. But do not accuse me, Vladimir. I do what is in the best interest of our country and this government, including the KGB.”

Kalinin saw the understated power in those blue eyes. After eight years in power, he was still considered by many to be the most influential man on the world scene. With glasnost now an important part of Soviet life, the General Secretary was much more visible in the eyes of the world. Kalinin realized confrontations at this time were pointless and even dangerous.

But the man was getting older. Older and more cautious. Nearly every decision involved weighing how it would look in the eyes of the world. Kalinin didn’t much care about the eyes of the world — he cared about Russia, her security, based on her strength. The Soviet Union was not just another member of the world community — she was, or should be, its leader.

The General Secretary studied the younger man’s eyes for a moment before moving toward the door. Cherkov, once the General Secretary’s mentor and now his submissive guard-dog, followed him out.

The General Secretary might be, as some said, a visionary, Kalinin thought, but right now he was being dangerously shortsighted. Forget him this time, Kalinin told himself. This was a KGB project — it would remain a KGB project.

And if there was any way for this strange new American technology to advance his own position in the government, then let it happen.