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 BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 33)

   By KATZMAREK (C)

   --------------------------------

   Author's note.

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

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

   ----------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Have you flown the MiG-19?"

   "Of course," John lied.

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

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

   ------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Johnny Walker 'Black Label'."

   "Ah!"

   ---------------------------------------------

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

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

   "I've missed you," Jana whispered.

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

   "A couple of days only."

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

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

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

   "I heard!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "Fascinating!" Jana replied, doubtfully.

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

   "That's chaos!" Jana commented.

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

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

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

   "What?"

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

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

   His reverie was interrupted when Benin brought out the dinner.

   ---------------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "100 rifles, no more."

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

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

   "What are you saying?" Castro demanded.

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

   "You supplied Arbenz?"

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

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

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

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

   "When?" smiled Rhykov.

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

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

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

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

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

   ---------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ------------------------------------
   KATZMAREK (C)