MiG Pilot: The Final Escape of Lt. Belenko

CHAPTER IV In a Japanese Prison

Barely maintaining airspeed, Belenko slid the MiG-25 downward through the seemingly interminable darkness of the clouds, each second of descent diminishing the chances of success and survival. He watched the altimeter…, 600 meters…. 500…. 400…. 300…….

I’ll pull up at one-fifty if I’m still in the clouds. Any lower would be suicide.

At 250 meters, the world lit up; he was under the clouds and could see… an airfield. It was not the base of Chitose he sought but the commercial airport at Hakodate, ninety miles to the southwest. The runway was shorter by a third than any on which he had ever landed a MiG-25, and he knew it would be impossible to stop on the field. But maybe he could keep the plane and himself largely intact.

He banked steeply to the right, turned about 260 degrees, and began his approach toward the south end of the runway. Then, within seconds, he had to make an excruciating choice. A Japanese airliner, a Boeing 727, was taking off, right into his flight path. The gauge showed empty, and he could not be sure that he had enough fuel to circle again for another approach. If the fuel ran out and he lost power during another turn, the aircraft would plummet straight down like a twenty-two-ton boulder and smash itself into mostly worthless pieces. If he continued his approach, he might collide with the airliner, and the range between it and the MiG-25 was closing so rapidly that neither the commercial pilot nor he would have any margin for a mistake.

No, I cannot do that. I was not born to kill those people. Whatever I think, I do not have that right. Better one life than many.

He jerked the MiG into the tightest turn of which it was capable, allowed the 727 to clear, dived at a dangerously sharp angle, and touched the runway at 220 knots. As he deployed the drag chute and repeatedly slammed down the brake pedal, the MiG bucked, bridled, and vibrated, as if it were going to come apart. Tires burning, it screeched and skidded down the runway, slowing but not stopping. It ran off the north end of the field, knocked down a pole, plowed over a second and finally stopped a few feet from a large antenna 800 feet off the runway. The front tire had blown, but that was all. The tanks contained enough fuel for about thirty more seconds of powered flight.

Belenko was conscious of no emotions: no sense of triumph, no relief at being alive. There was no tune for emotion, just as there had been no time in the air.

Get out! Protect the aircraft! Find the Americans! Act! Now!

He ripped off his oxygen mask, unharnessed the parachute, slid back the canopy, and climbed out on the whig. The plane had come to rest near a highway, cars were pulling over, and motorists hopping out with their cameras. Schooled for years in secrecy, drilled to understand that a MiG-25 represented one of the most important state secrets, Belenko impulsively reacted as if he still were in the Soviet Union.

You may not do that! This aircraft is absolutely secret! The taking of pictures is strictly forbidden! Stop!

Unable to communicate by words, he whipped out his pistol and fired into the air. In Japan the possession or discharge of firearms is a grave, almost unheard-of-crime, and had he detonated a small bomb, the effects on the onlookers would not have been more traumatic. They immediately lowered their cameras; some took out the film and tossed it on the ground before him.

A procession of three cars drove slowly down the runway and halted prudently out of pistol range. Two men got out and approached warily, holding high a white flag. They kept pointing and gesturing toward the pistol until he put it back in the holster. Only then did one of the Japanese come close enough to talk. Belenko jumped off the wing to meet him.

“Do you speak English?”

"Nyet."

The Japanese waved to his companion, a very elderly little man, who walked forward and addressed Belenko in pidgin Russian. “Pistoly, pleezy.” Belenko handed him the pistol. “And knify, too.” He surrendered the knife protrading from a flap pocket of his flight suit. “Follow us, pleezy. Do not wolly.”

Near pandemonium reigned in the airport terminal as crowds of people strained and shoved to see, to try to touch this exotic being who so suddenly and unexpectedly had landed in their midst from another world. When Belenko entered, a Japanese stood by the door, holding a handsome aircraft manual open to a page displaying a drawing of a MiG-25. Grinning and nodding his head rapidly, he held out the manual before Belenko, as if to ask, “Am I right?”

Yes, nodded Belenko. The man put down the manual, grinned more broadly, and clapped.

Within ten minutes after Belenko landed, the Japanese had summoned an official who spoke Russian superbly. Although he introduced himself as a representative of the Japanese Foreign Office, Belenko suspected that he was an intelligence officer. In the office of the airport manager Belenko gave him the note he so laboriously had attempted to write in English precisely for an occasion such as this.

“Who wrote this?” the Japanese official asked.

“I did.”

“Good! Now, tell me how it happened. Did you lose your way?”

“No, I did not. I flew here on purpose. I am asking political asylum in the United States. Conceal the aircraft, and place guards around it at once. Call the Americans immediately.”

As soon as the official translated, the other Japanese started cheering, and some danced about the office. “All right! All right!” the official shouted.

“Would you mind writing down in your own words again just what you have told me?”

“I will do that gladly.”

“Follow us,” they said, and Belenko did so, pulling his jacket over his head to avoid being photographed by the newsmen who had flocked to the scene. Through a narrow corridor they hurried outside to a waiting car, which sped them along back streets to the rear entrance of a hotel.

An interpreter and two security men stayed with Belenko inside the hotel room while two sentries stood guard outside the door. They presented him with new underwear, a kimono, and shoes, packed away all the clothes he wore, and suggested he take a shower.

They must think I smell bad. That’s right, everything smells so clean here.

A dinner of eight different dishes — meat, fish, poultry, vegetables, and rice — was served in the room. All the tastes were new to Belenko, and all delicious. “I heard you have very good beer in Japan,” he said hopefully.

“Thank you, but in the present circumstances, we cannot allow you any alcohol.” Although the Japanese did not tell him, the Russians were already accusing them of drugging a lost Soviet pilot, and they were fearful of lending the remotest substance to the allegations.

Another representative of the Japanese Foreign Office, a poised, confident, and well-dressed man in his thirties, visited the room about 9:00 P.M. In fluent Russian he asked Belenko to repeat the details and purpose of his flight. Having done so, Belenko instructed, “Take my parachute and clothes, and drop them in the sea to make them think there was a crash.”

“I am sorry; that is quite impossible. The news is everywhere, all over the world. Now the Russians are demanding that we return you and your plane. But we will not return you. You do not have to worry. You will be very safe, and we will do all you have asked. It will take a while became of red tape. Have you heard this phrase ‘red tape’? There are bureaucrats everywhere.”

“Yes, I know about bureaucrats.”

“Tomorrow you will go to Tokyo. For your security we will use a military plane.”

“I am ready.”

The Japanese shook hands and rose to leave. “You cannot realize how great an incident you have created for Japan, the Soviet Union, and the United States. We are under the greatest pressure from the Russians. But we will not deliver you to them because that would be contrary to our law and our democracy. Do not worry.”

He is sincere. That is what they mean now. But what if they cannot stand the Soviet pressure? No, I believe him. I must believe him.

He slept poorly and noticed that the security men sitting on the other bed were replaced about 2:00 A.M. Early in the morning they brought him a suit; the jacket fitted, but the pants were too small. They sent out for another; the pants fitted, but were too long, and the jacket was far too large. There being no more time for fittings, the Japanese fetched some scissors and shortened the pants by six inches. Attired in pants that now extended barely to his socks, a drooping coat, a funny hat that was too big, and dark glasses, he looked very much like a clown.

They exited through the hotel kitchen into an alley, but swarms of reporters and photographers had anticipated them. The security men bulled through the journalists, hustled him into a car, and raced away with the press in pursuit. Approaching a large intersection, the official Japanese cars maneuvered until they were five abreast, then at the intersection dashed away in different directions, confusing the press as to which should be followed. By a circuitous route, Belenko arrived at a garbage dump outside town, and a helicopter swooped down. In thirty seconds he was flying away.

The helicopter set down at the Chitose base next to a military transport whose engines were running, and as soon as Belenko and his escorts boarded, it took off. Because of noise in the plane, designed to carry freight rather than people, conversation was difficult, and during most of the flight Belenko gazed in solitude and marveled at the Japanese landscape. Every inch of arable land, even precipitous slopes, appeared to be meticulously cultivated. Towns and villages looked neat and orderly. Nowhere was waste or spoliation visible. The whole countryside looked to him like a beautiful and lovingly tended garden.

How paradoxical the world is. The Japanese have little land, few resources. But look what they have done with them. I can see for myself.

At the airport outside Tokyo another horde of aggressive photographers and reporters blocked their way, and camera flashes momentarily blinded Belenko. Again, security men shoved through the mob, and they sped away in a convoy of cars, pursued by the journalists on motorcycles. The chase astounded Belenko. The security officers and police were communicating with radios smaller than their hands, activated, he guessed, by the same kinds of transistors the Russians had to steal from the Japanese to equip MiGs. The reporters also had the little radios and were tracking the motorcade by monitoring the police frequencies.

How can this be? Why, if this happened in the Soviet Union, the KGB would catch those journalists and send them to the camps for espionage.

The official cars swerved to the curb, and a Japanese jumped out and ran to a telephone booth to make a secure call by landline. After he returned and they drove off, the interpreter explained. “We are so sorry, but it has been decided that we must take you to a prison. We have no other place where we can guarantee your security. At the moment the prison will be the safest place for you in Tokyo.”

By means similar to those employed in Hakodate, they eluded the pursuit at a traffic circle, the cars peeling off down different streets, and about ten minutes later they entered a naval compound. “There is an American here who wishes to speak with you.”

The Dark Forces. I’m going to meet the Dark Forces. What will they be like? What will they do with me?

The American, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, a white shirt with a button-down collar, a striped tie, and black shoes, stood up and offered his hand when Belenko entered the office of the base commandant. He was slender, had sandy hair and a fair complexion, and wore glasses. “My name is Jim, and I represent the United States government,” he said in flawless Russian. “It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to inform you that the President of the United States has granted your request for political asylum. You have nothing to worry about. As soon as the necessary bureaucratic procedures are completed, you will fly to the States. It won’t be long.

“Do you have any questions or requests? Is there anything you would like to say?”

“No. I understand everything.”

“All right. Take good care of yourself. I will see you soon, and we will be able to talk more freely later.”

Somehow Belenko had expected more, something dramatic, even epic, and he was vaguely disappointed that his first encounter with an American had been so simple, almost casual.

The Dark Forces, they seem very peaceful. Maybe they are just being clever in a way I don’t know.

Repeatedly apologizing for the character of his lodging, the Japanese exerted themselves to make Belenko feel comfortable and welcome. They laid mattresses on the floor of his cell, brought pillows, sheets, and blankets, wheeled in a color television set, gave him a chess board, invited him to work out in the gym or use the steam bath. They emphasized over and over that the guards, who would stand by him every minute of the day and night and even accompany him to the bathroom, were his protectors, not his captors. And that evening they served him a multicourse dinner that was the best he ever had eaten.

Thinking that a banquet had been especially prepared for him, he asked who the chef was. The Japanese said they simply had ordered the food from a common cafe across the street from the compound.

“Really!” Belenko blurted. “I heard you were all starving over here.”

After dinner he luxuriated in the steam bath and, for the first time since strapping himself into the cockpit at Chuguyevka, he relaxed. His two guards were beaming when he emerged, clad in a silk kimono and sandals. Exhausted as he was, he craved exercise and started toward the gym, but they tugged at his sleeve and pointed him back toward the cell. Someone had procured for him a half-liter bottle of cold Japanese beer. It was even better than its reputation. He slept profoundly even though the guards kept the cell and corridor fully illuminated throughout the night.

The second morning in Tokyo the Japanese dumbfounded him with an announcement that he would have to stand trial for breaking their laws. He could not quite believe what was happening as they led him into an office of the prison, where a robed judge greeted him with a formal statement, translated by an aged interpreter.

“You are accused of breaking the laws of Japan on four counts. You illegally intruded on our airspace. You entered our country without a visa. You carried a pistol. You fired a pistol. How do you plead to these charges?”

“Well, I did all that.”

“Why did you disturb our airspace?”

“I did not have a donkey to ride here. The aircraft was the only means of transportation available to me. This means of transportation will not permanently damage your airspace. The aircraft moves through the air without harming the air.” The interpreter giggled during its translation.

“Why did you not have a visa?”

“If I had requested a visa, I would have been shot.”

“Why did you bring with you a pistol?”

“The pistol was a required part of my equipment; without it, I would not have been allowed to fly.”

“Why did you fire the pistol?”

“To keep away people who I feared might damage something of great value to the rest of the world.”

“Are you prepared to sign a confession admitting your guilt to these crimes?”

“If that is what you want.”

“It is my judgment that this is a special case and no punishment is warranted. Do not fear. This will not interfere with your plans.”

Having satisfied the requirements of the legal bureaucracy, the judge smiled, shook hands with Belenko, and asked the interpreter to wish him well.

During the judicial proceedings, a package and note had been delivered to his cell: “It was nice talking with you. I will be pleased if these books help you pass the time. With best regards, Jim.”

The package contained two books: a collection of the works of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and The Great Terror by Robert Conquest, both in Russian. Anyone caught reading either in the Soviet Union could expect a minimum prison sentence of three years. Drawn by the lure of the forbidden, Belenko read curiously at first, then passionately, then as a man driven and possessed. He read through the day and into the night, and he trembled often as he read.

The words of Solzhenitsyn reeked and shouted of the truth, the truth he long had seen but the fundamental meaning of which he never had fully comprehended. He had seen the village Solzhenitsyn recreates in Matryona’s House, the mean, hungry, desolate, cockroached-infested, manure-ridden, hopeless village. Although Solzhenitsyn was describing a village of the 1950s, Belenko had seen the same village in 1976; he had seen it at Chuguyevka; he had seen it at the village beyond the fence of the training center where he studied the MiG-25. He had seen the zek in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. He had seen him just last spring on the road from the freight terminal to Chuguyevka. In fact, the dying Ukrainian exile he had picked up had looked just like Ivan Denisovich.

The Great Terror unveiled for Belenko the full dimensions in all their horror of the Stalin purges, wherein at least 15 million people — children, women, men, Party faithful and heroes, loyal generals and intelligence officers, workers, peasants — were starved, shot, or tortured to death. Never had he read a book which so meticulously documented every stated fact by references to published sources, mostly Soviet sources, brilliantly collated to convey a message of overwhelming authenticity. All of Khrushchev’s calumnies about Stalin were true, just as the millions or billions of deifying words previously uttered and printed about him were lies. But Khrushchev, Belenko now realized, had let loose only a little of the truth.

Caring for neither food nor drink, he read and reread well into the early morning of his third day until he was sure, sure that one quest of his life had ended in fulfillment.

All his intellectual life he had detected symptoms of a sickness in Soviet society, signs that something was fundamentally wrong. They proliferated, overpowered, and ultimately drove him away with the conclusion that the illness was incurable. Yet he never understood the underlying cause; he never discerned any logic or pattern in all the failures, stupidities, cruelties, and injustices he observed. Now Solzhenitsyn, a Russian studying Soviet society from within, and Conquest, an Englishman, analyzing it from without, independently and in separate ways gave him the understanding for which he always had quested.

The perennial shortages of virtually everything the people wanted and needed, the enduring backwardness and chronic failures of agriculture, the inefficiencies of the factories were not really the fault of individuals or local bureaucrats or Khrushchev or Stalin, as the official explanations variously claimed. Neither was the maintenance of a rigidly stratified society under the name of a classless society, tyranny under the banner of freedom, concentration camps under the label of justice. Even the ghastly pogroms ordered by Stalin and the ridiculous, ruinous economic policies of Khrushchev were only superficially their fault.

The cause of all lay within the Soviet system itself. Dependent for survival on tyranny, it inevitably spawned tyrants, gave them sway, and could tolerate within the body politic no antidote to their excesses or errors. During his twenty-nine years under the system, life always had been essentially the same because the system was the same. And whatever cosmetics might be applied to alter its appearance before the world, however repression might ebb and rise in intensity, the system always would yield essentially the same results.

If everything they said about communism, about themselves was a lie, then maybe what they said about the rest of the world also was a lie. Maybe there is hope. Anyway, I am free of it forever.

But by midmorning Belenko had cause to wonder whether he really was free of it. The bright young Foreign Office official who accompanied him from Hakodate came to the prison, and the concern manifested by his face and words caused Belenko concern.

“The Soviet Union is exerting enormous pressure on us. They do not believe that you are acting voluntarily. They are accusing us of keeping you by use of force and narcotics, and we have been put in a very difficult situation. They are trying desperately to take you back.

“Now you do not have to do this. It is entirely your choice. But it would be a great service to Japan if you would meet with a Soviet representative and disprove their accusations, prove that you are acting out of your own desires.”

“What will happen if I refuse?”

“We will advise the Russians that you have refused and continue to protect you until you leave for the States.”

“All right. I do not want to do it, but I will do it.”

“Thank you very much for your courage. I know how hard this will be for you. It also will be dangerous for you, and I want to make you aware of the dangers.

“They will try immediately to establish ultimate psychological contact with you, to make you feel that you are lost and they have come to rescue you and take you home, where you belong. They will exploit your relatives and probably bring appealing letters and messages from them. They will try to dominate and control the conversation and confuse you.

“But you have the right to interrupt and say whatever you want. The meeting will be brief, as brief as you desire. You may leave whenever you wish. The main point is to prove that you are acting voluntarily. Just tell the truth.

“If you weaken and say you want to go back, we cannot help you. But if you adhere to your desires, we will stand by you. So will the Americans.”

The Japanese that afternoon further revealed the gravity with which they anticipated the confrontation by taking Belenko into a conference room for a detailed rehearsal. They pointed to a table behind which the Soviet emissary would sit and another fifteen yards away where Belenko would sit. Three security guards would protect him, and one would stand on either side of the Russian. If he drew any kind of weapon or attempted to move toward Belenko, he would be struck down instantly. Again they stressed that he could depart at any tune and pointed to the door through which he should leave whenever he wanted.

A big redheaded American, with a commanding presence, deep baritone voice, and a strong handshake, visited Belenko the next day, a couple of hours before the confrontation. Although he said nothing about the imminent meeting, his purpose probably was to reassure Belenko, and he succeeded.

“Tonight you fly to America. We have your tickets; all arrangements are made. You, of course, will not fly alone. Someone will be waiting for you at the plane. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you have any questions?”

“No questions. I am ready.”

The waning afternoon sun cast a dim light and shadows from the trees rustling in the wind outside danced in the conference as Belenko entered. A KGB officer, who posed as a first secretary of the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo, behaved just as the Japanese predicted, jumping up and starting his spiel before Belenko sat down.

“I am an official of the Soviet Embassy, and I want to tell you how much all your comrades sympathize with you. The Soviet government as well as everyone else knows that what happened was not your fault. We know that you did not voluntarily land your plane in Japan, that you lost your way and were forced down. We know that you are being held in a Japanese prison against your will and that the Japanese have drugged you with narcotics. But even if there were a mistake on your part, and we know there was not, but even if there were, I can assure you on the highest authority that it is forgiven; it is as nothing. I have come to help you home, back to your own people, to your loving wife and son, to your relatives. They have been able to do little but weep since your misfortune, and your adoring wife, Ludmilla, is inconsolable. Even your beautiful little son, Dmitri, young as he is, cries at life without his father.

“All your relatives, your wife, your father who served our Mother Country so heroically, your mother, your aunt, who was so kind to you as a child, have joined in sending a collective letter to you.”

How could they get them together so quickly, from the Donbas, Siberia, the Far East? It’s preposterous. And I don’t care anyway.

As the KGB officer started to read the letter aloud, Belenko stood and looked him in the eyes with unflinching contempt. “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “I flew to Japan voluntarily and on purpose. I am here voluntarily and because of my own desires. Nobody has used force on me or given me any kind of drugs. I on my own initiative have requested political asylum in the United States. Excuse me. Our conversation is ended. I must leave.”

“Traitor!” shouted the KGB officer. “You know what happens to traitors! One way or another we will get you back! We will get you back.”

The Japanese official presiding over the meeting switched off the tape recorder and told the Russian, “You may leave.”

Belenko stepped into the anteroom and unrestrained jubilation. The dozen or so Japanese gathered there cheered him, hugged him, slapped his back, and bumped into each other in eagerness to shake his hand. “You were magnificent; we are proud of you,” said the Foreign Office official who had asked him to meet the Russian. “You will have a wonderful life in America. It is a great country made up of people from all over the world.” Handing Belenko a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, he said, “We would like you to take this with you to America as a present from your Japanese friends.”

When I first saw them, I thought they were funny. Their talk sounded like the chirping of birds. In a way they are like Chechens. If you understand them, you see they are a remarkable people, very strong people. They have been so sincere and kind to me.

“No, I want to drink it now with my Japanese friends.”

Paper cups were brought, and the Japanese manfully downed the vodka to which they were unaccustomed. Its intoxicating effects soon changed their grimaces to laughter, and they bade farewell to Belenko in high spirits “Remember, you are always welcome back in Japan. And next time we will show you Tokyo.”

They left the prison in darkness and drove to the airport in another heavily escorted motorcade; police swung open a gate, and the car sped across the runway to a Northwest Orient Airlines Boeing 747. Inside, Jim, the Embassy officer, led Belenko into the coach section, and nobody paid any particular attention to them. As they took off, Jim patted him on the shoulder. “You’re on your way.”

As Belenko had never seen a wide-bodied jet, its quietness and size amazed him, and he felt as if he were in an opulent theater. The number of flight attendants and their attentiveness to the passengers also surprised him.

After the 747 leveled off at 39,000 feet, Jim said, “Okay, let’s go to our room.” The first-class lounge on the upper deck was reserved exclusively for them and a huge, fierce-looking man whom the U.S. embassy officer introduced as a U.S. marine. The captain admitted Belenko to the flight deck and for nearly an hour, with Jim interpreting, answered his questions about the 747, its equipment and life as a commercial pilot. Belenko simply did not believe that only three men could manage an enormous plane, though they carefully showed and explained how they could.

The rest of the crew is hidden somewhere. But if it’s their job to fool me and impress me, I’ll let them think they’ve succeeded.

Neither did he believe that the dinner — caviar, smoked salmon, smoked trout, soup, salad, filet mignon, potato balls, asparagus, fruit and cheese, strawberries and ice cream, white wine, red wine, champagne — was normal first-class fare on an international flight.

They are just putting on a show for me, no matter what Jim says.

However, he did believe and was moved by the stewardesses who after dinner came singly or in pairs to speak briefly to him.

“We are proud to have you aboard Northwest and in our country.”

“I want to congratulate you. You have done a great thing.”

“You are very brave. I am proud to meet you.”

One stewardess, a pretty, freckle-faced pixie, had no words. She only took off her stewardess’ wings, pinned them on him, and kissed him on the cheek.

Belenko kept wondering when the Dark Forces in the person of Jim would begin his interrogation, until Jim made clear there would be none. “You must be utterly exhausted, so just relax and sleep as much as you can. You have nothing to worry about. Your first problem will be to learn English. But you’ll master it quickly, and you’ll have an accent which all the girls will think is cute. You have a great future ahead of you. You’ll see.”

After the lounge lights dimmed and Jim, though not the marine, dozed off, Belenko thought not of the future but of the past. Had he done right in fleeing? Had he done right in refusing to go back? Would his relatives be better off if he returned? Who would suffer? He tried, as was his wont, to analyze and answer logically.

Even if they did not punish me, and they would punish me, but even if they did not, what could I do back there to change things? I could do nothing. Can I do anything in the West? I don’t know. Maybe. Could I help my relatives? If I could not help them, if I could not have good relations with them before, why now? Will they be hurt? Not my father, my mother, my aunt. The KGB will find I have not seen them for years. Ludmilla and Dmitri? No; her parents have enough influence to protect them. Who then? The Monster and his superiors; the political officers; the KGB. Well, they deserve it. No. No matter what happens I have done right. I do not want to live anymore unless I am free.

Despite the certitude of his conclusion, an amorphous malaise troubled him.

All right, what’s your trouble now?

Reviewing and ordering his recollections, he isolated and identified the cause. It was the echo of harshly shouted words: “One way or another we will get you back.”