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Subject: {ASSM} Butterfly and Falcon (Parts 35 and 36 Final) By Katzmarek (MF,MFF,Rom, Hist ,Slow)
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 Final two chapters

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<1st attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon35.txt" begin>

BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 35)

   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.

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

   John and Jana both listened as a Tu-4 droned overhead.  Its four massive
radial piston engines rumbled as it passed over.  The Tu-4 was due for
retirement from the DA-V.V-S (Dal'niya Aviatitsya-Voenno.Vozdushniye-Sily =
Long Range Aviation of the Soviet Air Force).  A faithful reproduction of
the American Boeing B-29, it had been the mainstay of the Soviet strategic
bomber force in the early 50s.

   The lovers both looked at each other and knew what the other was
thinking.  'Height, destination?' Aviation ran in their blood like red
corpuscles.

   "Night navigation training out of Tushino," John told her.

   "Cross country to Ilmen Ozero and back," she agreed, "I know *that* one
very well.  We ended up over Leningrad and had to repeat it the next
night."

   "Oh dear!" smiled John, shaking his head, "compass error?"

   "Calibrated 15 degrees off!"

   "They always pull that shit.  I'm surprised you fell for it."

   "It taught me to always double-check.  Even we instructors get caught
out."

   "Never mind, they would've turned you back before you reached Sweden."

   "Either that or the PVO-Strany would've shot us down over the Baltic."

   "That would be a first," laughed John, "the PVO actually intercepting
something!"

   "That sounds like inter-service rivalry to me," Jana remarked, "I'm sure
even your precious Frontal Aviation screw up from time to time."

   "Haven't you heard?  We in the FA-V.V-S are the elite!"

   "Boasting is not your strong point, John.  Are we going to waste this
opportunity?" she said, advancing towards him.

   They shared a long, passionate kiss.  John's hands reached down and
clutched her around the bottom, pulling her into him.  Jana squirmed
against his growing bulge in the front of his trousers.

   "Mmm," Jana hummed as they broke for air, "you're still one of the best
kissers I've come across."

   "I keep in practice," he told her, "and you?  Are you keeping in
practice?"

   "Like riding a bicycle," she said, "one never forgets." She moved in for
another kiss, mouth open and a sultry, lustful expression on her face.  She
was mildly affected by the booze they'd drunk, but it only served to
release a few more pheromones.  She slipped a hand down and gave him a
little rub.  John caught his breath and drew his fingers over her chest.

   "Have you taken anyone else?" he asked.  John couldn't believe that
someone as beautiful as Jana would be living the life of a nun.

   "Jealous, John?" she asked, rubbing him more urgently.  John's big hands
began to caress Jana's chest insistantly.

   "Curious."

   "There's little time for such things," she told him, "but I've had the
odd adventure."

   "Oh?  Tell me more?" he said, bunching up her long dress and sliding a
hand up her leg.

   "Pervert," she grinned, "voyeur!  In any case, there's not much to tell.
I went out a couple of times with a colleague, that's all.  We had a
drink...  a little grope in a doorway, maybe?  Nothing much!"

   "A grope?" Jana parted her legs a fraction as John found the front of
her panties.  John's cock twitched beneath Jana's hand.

   "A grope," she confirmed, "you know groping?  It's when a man and his
date have had a little to drink and they want to feel the goods."

   "Of course!  And a man's dick gets too big for his trousers," he
grinned.

   "Yes, big boy, so she pulls it free, like this...  doesn't she?  She
holds his big cock in her hand...  strokes it like this...  feels how hard
she has made him..."

   "Oh, yes Babe.  And the man pulls down her panties...  Shit!  I can't
get them down, they're stuck!  Fucking Russian elastic!" With that, they
both broke out in a fit of the giggles.

   Later, they were naked on the bed.  Jana sat on John's legs, he was on
his back and grinning up at her.  His skin shone from the oil Jana had been
spreading all over his skin.  It was a special formula Jana had obtained on
one of her overseas trips.  It was scented with Rose essence and Jasmin.

   John watched fascinated as Jana spread some of the oil over her big,
jiggling breasts.  Some oil ran down her flat stomach, leaving glistening
trails down her skin.  Her blond hair was unclasped and flowed in a cascade
over her shoulders.

   "You have such a beautiful body, General," she hissed, "I have always
thought so."

   "And you, Captain," he replied, "have grown more sexier with the years."

   "You flatter.  Have you not noticed how my breasts sag a little more?"

   "I have not stopped noticing your breasts, my love," he told her,
caressing her nipples, "and I'm sure your 'date' did too."

   "My 'date,' as you put it, never got the chance.  He is a gentleman,
unlike you." Jana took his cock in her oil-slippery hand and began to
stroke.

   "So what...  did he grope, then?" Jana shuffled up and pressed his cock
against her pussy.  She undulated, caressing his dick with her pussy and
hand.

   "*He* didn't, I did.  I gave him a little 'relief' with my hand.  Poor
man was quite stiff and uncomfortable.  But," she added, breathing hard,
"he had nothing like this!" With that, Jana rose and fitted the bulb of his
cock into her vagina.  She sighed as she sat back down on him.

   They'd paced themselves well, having had long experience at pleasing
each other.  John had not long pounded Jana to her second orgasm, on top
with her long legs clasped tightly over his back, when Benin appeared.

   She stood for a while watching as the two of them lay on their backs,
legs spread and glistening with the oil and their lovemaking.  Slowly Benin
took off her clothes stitch by stitch till she was as naked as the two
lovers.  She had a long kiss for each of them before they made room in the
middle for her.

   Jana imediately took her into a long clinch, while John spread some of
the oil onto her back.  Soon Benin was squirming and sighing with arousal
by John and Jana's ministrations.

   John watched as Benin rolled onto her back and spread her legs.  Her
brown thatch was now matted with moisture as Jana molested it with her
fingers.  Jana sucked at her breasts as she rubbed the little bud of her
clitoris.  Benin's hips rose from the mattress and thrust against Jana's
fingers, mouth open and whimpering.

   Later on that night, Jana woke as the bed rocked furiously.  John,
having recovered from the earlier activities, was furiously fucking his
wife.

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

   Some days later John and Benin had a visitor.  Rhykov was dressed in the
uniform of a Colonel in Spetznaz (Special Forces} and came with a bottle of
the very best vodka.  It was 'Absolut,' distilled in Sweden and normally
unseen in the USSR.

   His hair was greying and his wasteline a little wider but otherwise he
was still the powerfully built spy they remembered.

   Rhykov worked for the KGB's First Chief Directorate, responsible for
overseas operations.  There were 16 Chief Directorates in the KGB at this
time covering the roles performed by the US's CIA, FBI, Government and
Presidential Security Services, Special Forces and a Hell of a lot more. 
The GULAG, although supposed to be a separate organisation, was, in reality
controlled by a Directorate of the KGB.

   Benin and John had not seen him in years.  His strong arms crushed Benin
in an embrace and thumped John so severely it nearly sent him flying.

   "So good to see you," he gushed, "been too long!"

   "What's this?" John said, stumbling back, "another purge?"

   "Of course not," he laughed, "besides, that's another department.  You
stay out of politics and you'll be all right."

   "Like you?" Benin asked.

   "Of course.  I just do my duty and don't meddle in things that don't
concern me.  Come, we drink, yes?"

   Some time later Rhykov came finally to business, as both Benin and John
were sure he would.  Visits from Rhykov always had a purpose in their long
experience with the man.  "John," he said, "why do you think the
Australians are trying to get in touch with you?"

   John was flabbergasted by the question, and a little worried.  He knew
how things were in the Soviet Union; paranoia about espionage, dissidence
and disloyalty.  Each new major political promotion seemed to signal a
wholesale clearing out of the previous encumbent's supporters from every
branch of Government.  "I have no idea," John replied, "what's this all
about?"

   "I hear things.  One of their intelligence people want to see you about
something.  We don't normally allow this, you understand?"

   "Of course," John agreed.

   "But on this occasion the First Directorate has agreed to a meeting
under certain conditions."

   "What are those?" asked Benin.

   "Well," he replied, "our people will be monitoring the meeting."

   "Naturally!" Benin commenting, her voice cynical.

   "Naturally," Rhykov smiled wryly, "and I think it would be a good idea
if I sit in with you.  The meeting will take place in one of the Second
Directorate's apartments."

   "Which will have microphones?" Benin asked.

   "My dear, it will be wired so thoroughly it will deflect a magnetic
compass.  Should this surprise you?" There was a slight tone of
exasperation in his voice.

   "No."

   "Well then!  You think the West doesn't do the same?"

   "Probably," agreed Benin, "but it's all bullshit, just the same."

   "Yes, but bullshit that could get someone killed.  I don't want that to
happen, Benin, and I don't want the silly fuckers in the Second Directorate
getting the wrong idea.  If they thought you were planning to defect to the
West they'll be all over you like flies to shit, understand?  And Benin?"
he added hastily, "the Western intelligence people would do precisely the
same thing if one of their's was considering a shift of allegances. 
Besides, John, do you realise the Government of New Zealand considers you a
traitor?"

   "What?  Me?" John said, aghast.  He added, after a moment's
consideration, "well I suppose that figures.  It's strange, though, I never
meant..."

   "Of course not," Rhykov said, "no-one could've predicted how things were
going to turn out.  But you're in it now, for better or for worse.  You
chose to remain in the Soviet Union..."

   "How could we have got out?" Benin interrupted, "especially now with our
children at your mercy.  We cannot leave, ever, or it'll be our family
who'll suffer."

   "Probably," Rhykov agreed, "but, be honest, what would you do there? 
You two would be nothing but show ponies for their propaganda people.  A
Soviet General defects?  Imagine the headlines in the 'New York Times'? 
They will never leave you alone and I doubt they'll ever let you near any
of their military aircraft.  Like it or not, your lives are far more
comfortable here than they ever would be in the West."

   "Besides which," Benin added, "John would have to be protected day and
night or he'd 'disappear.' 'Snatched' back maybe?  Or perhaps quietly
dropped off the Brooklyn bridge with lead weights around his ankles?"

   Rhykov shrugged.  "I don't know.  It depends on the security risk he'd
pose.  1st Directorate would do an assessment...  then , who knows?  John
would have a lot of Military information...  it's conceivable they could
order a hit.  But, this is theoretical because John is not going to the
West, are you John?" John shook his head.  "because, my friends, it would
be genuinely painful for me to have to deal with that situation."

   "Your head may roll?" suggested Benin.

   "Maybe," he sighed, "I'd be in deep trouble, that's for sure."

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

   Ralph Furness was ACIO Officer at Canberra's Moscow Embassy.  He'd had
to overcome a lot of official unwillingness to set up this meeting with
General Khrinov.  His New Zealand opposite number had insisted on
attending, as had an officer from the British MI-6.

   The three men were collected by a black sedan of the KGB's 2nd
Directorate outside the Australian Embassy.  Passersby were used to such
goings on and paid no attention.

   They took the three men to an apartment not far from KGB Headquarters in
the old Lyubyanka palace.  Two Spetznaz Guards in plain clothes stood
outside the door with stolid, blank expressions and bulges at their hips.
No doubt their Czech CZ-52 pistols would make short work of the meeting if
things turned ugly.

   The room was brightly lit, probably for the benefit of the cine camera
concealed behind the two-way mirror.  John stood blinking and fidgeting
nervously alongside Rhykov at one end of the room.  Rhykov, himself, was in
a similar state of agitation, surprising for one so used to be in harm's
way.

   But this was different from liaising with a group of Cuban
revolutionaries or even sniping at Fascists in Spain and Byelorussia.  On
those occasions the walls weren't packed with Second Directorate operatives
and all their spying apparatus.  Rhykov was conscious that everything the
two of them said or did would be analysed and cross-analysed at the
Lyubyanka afterwards.

   There was a round of introductions at which Rhykov called himself
'Maxim.' John was convinced he was the only one in the room to use his real
name.  The three strangers described themselves as 'coming from the
Embassy.' They, too, were no doubt conscious of the camera and microphones.

   "General," the first man spoke in English with a distinctive Australian
accent, "so good of you to meet with us."

   "No problem," John replied.

   "I bet it's a long time since you saw anyone from the old country?"
another man asked, in English with a New Zealand twang.

   "A while," John told the man, guardedly.  There was an uncomfortable
pause while all five men fished for something to say.

   "Ok," the Australian spoke at last, "to business, eh?  General, do you
recall an Aussie pilot by the name of 'Oz' Callaghan?"

   "'Oz'?  Sure!" John replied brightly, "where is the old bastard?  Is he
in trouble?"

   "Well, we're not too sure," the Australian told him, "apparently he's
not been heard from since being taken prisoner in Korea.  There is a
suspician from our side," he continued, glancing at the mirror, "that he's
in the hands of Soviet Union."

   "That right?" John asked Rhykov in Russian, mindless of the camera.

   "I don't know, General," Rhykov replied, "that is a question for GULAG.
I'm unaware of any Korean War prisoners in Russia."

   "Could you find out?"

   "Maybe!  But I think you might try asking Major-General Lobov.  He was
in command there and might know something."

   "This Lobov was in command?" asked the Australian in English, "are you
telling me there were Russian units in Korea?"

   "Of course not," Rhykov replied, hastily, and conscious of making a
gaffe.  "General Lobov commanded an Air Force Unit in Mongolia.  He may be
more aware of the Korean situation than I."

   "I see?" the Australian said, "perhaps, General, in that case could you
make some enquiries?  He has family, a wife, that would be relieved to know
his fate."

   "Of course," John told him, unthinking, spontaneously.

   The three Western agents left shortly after.  Rhykov took John down the
hall where they could talk in private.

   "John," Rhykov told him, "you know, this Callaghan may be dead.  I know
the GULAG held some people for awhile but I thought they'd all gone home.
It could be that the North Koreans shot him, we don't know."

   "But you could find out?"

   "I'm not sure of that either.  After 1953, and Beria's demise after
Stalin's death, the GULAG was reorganised.  Many of their top people were
cleared out...  records destroyed.  It may be hard finding anybody that'll
know or admit to anything."

   "Perhaps," thought John, "if we found out to what camp they were
sent..."

   "There were hundreds, perhaps thousands.  All over Eastern Siberia,
Sakhalin, the Arctic shore...  He probably froze to death up there."

   "Rhykov...  you understand about looking out for your mates, your
friends?  You call us friends, but do you understand what it means?  It
means looking out for them when they're in trouble..."

   "Ok, ok, don't go on!" Rhykov said, irritated, "I'll make some
enquiries. You, maybe, ask Lobov?  Maybe we can track him from there?"

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

   It was September 1956 and the first chill wind began to blow from the
North.  The bleak hills of the Khrebet featured a light crowning of snow on
the tops.  'Oz' didn't want to spend yet another Winter in this place.

   He woke early, as usual, to the banging and crashing of the ore trains
as they headed down from the Tin mines at Chuman.  He raked out last
night's fire and set the kindling.  A sack of good coking coal lay in the
corner, obtained from the Railway depot.  Slowly, he began to prepare the
oat and barley porridge for breakfast.

   He shared a hut with an American called Slovowitz.  Like he, he'd been a
fighter pilot in the Korean War.  The man had once gone on about the
VMF-98, a Marine Squadron, but rarely spoke anymore.  Slovowitz was
painfully thin, haggard, and wore a long, unkempt beard.  'Oz' had been
concerned for him for a long time.  He doubted he'd see out another Winter
and suspected he suffered from undiagnosed pneumonia.

   'Oz' checked in on him and found him alive, but asleep.  His breathing
rattled.

   The camp, now, was nothing but a coaling station for the mining railway.
About a half dozen Railway staff lived around the depot about a kilometre
away.  There was talk it was shortly going to be electrified and the depot
closed.  If so, there would be no more purpose for the tiny community.

   There was now only one guard remaining at the camp.  He took on the job
as postmaster for both the camp and the Railway depot.  Of the former
inmates, there were only the two of them left.  The rest had either died or
gone home when the camp officially closed.

   'Oz' had often gone down to the line and chatted to the locomotive crews
as they watered and coaled the engine.  It was the only way he could get
any news of the outside world.  Sometimes a crewman would pass on a book or
a newspaper, but they were always long out of date by the time he got them.
With the impending electrification, even that avenue for social connection
would be lost.  John had repeated asked the postman/guard, Ivan, whether he
knew what was to become of them, but he had no idea.

   "Moscow," he told him, "doesn't care about us."

   'Oz' kind of felt sorry for Ivan as well.  He was an amiable character
and not like any stereotype of a prison guard.  It did seem that the
authorities at GULAG had forgotten them.

   The 6am train screeched to a halt at the depot as usual in a flurry of
exhaust steam.  'Oz' was waiting for it, he knew the driver would be his
old mate, a Siberian called Yung, and he had some English language
newspapers for him.  However, a stranger trudged up from the rear of the
train with the guard.  His name was Captain Boris Yevtushenko, he said, and
he was from the Militia detachment at Skovorodino.  He'd been ordered to
take all the remaining camp prisoners and staff to Irkutsk.

   "We going home?" 'Oz' asked the man, dully.  He didn't know anything and
'Oz' didn't really expect him to.

   It was nearly 1000 kilometres to Irkutsk, a journey that took them 36
hours by train.  'Oz' was still in a daze when they arrived and was met by
an armed squad and medical personnel.  Slovowitz was stretchered off to an
ambulance while he was taken by car to a medical clinic for a check up.

   'Oz' spent a couple of days being probed and jabbed with needles.  New
food was slowly introduced to his system after so long living on wild game
and meagre prison rations.  After a week he began to feel better and his
morale slowly improved.  'Oz' found the Russian Medical and Official staff
couldn't do enough for him.  Even old Slovowitz began to improve and his
colour was better.

   A week later a Government official came to see him.  He explained that
everything had been a dreadful mistake and the culprits responsible for his
incarceration had been punished.  He told him that arrangements were being
made for his repatriation and that of the American.  His wife and family
had been contacted and given the good news, he said.  'Oz' thought that a
very large bomb must have exploded under several arses at the Kremlin and a
lot of minor officials were shitting themselves.

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

   'Oz's' meeting with his old friend John Greenhaugh had been brief. 
After arriving in Moscow, 'Oz' was installed in a hotel with a KGB minder
for company.  The man spoke English fluently and reminded John repeatedly
how well he'd been treated after his discovery.  'Oz' shut him up by asking
how come he'd spent 4 years in prison without anyone, apparently, being
aware of it.

   An Air Force Captain came to see him on the second day in Moscow.  With
little explanation he was escorted to a car and driven to an Air Base. 
'Oz' figured it was Kubinka, although the car had blinds drawn down
preventing him from seeing out.

   He was whisked from the car and into a large waiting area in the
administration building.  After a few minutes John strode in accompanied by
a couple of uniformed officers.  He extended his hand and greeted 'Oz'
warmly.

   'Oz' noted that he now spoke English with a distinct Russian accent. 
Sometimes he'd forget an English word and paused while he recalled.  The
other officers hovered and 'Oz' thought he was being careful about what he
said.  All in all, 'Oz' felt little warmth coming from John even though he
was doing his best.  This 'Cold War' he thought, had a lot to answer for.

   "Were you in Korea?" he asked John.

   "No," he shook his head, "I have never been to the East." 'Oz' wondered
whether John knew there'd been a war there because he answered as if he was
talking about his holidays.

   "How is Benin?" Here he was on firmer ground and John was only too
willing to share news of his wife.

   "Catalina?  You've heard from her?" he asked.  'Oz' had received a
letter from his wife the day before and told John about it.  He seemed
pleased, said that he'd try and get together with him before he left and
disappeared back into the bowels of the building.  With that, he was
whisked back to the car and off.

   "Say," he asked his driver, "I couldn't get a look at one of those new
MiGs could I?"

   "Sorry, not understand English," the driver replied, shaking his head.

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

   Outside Berlin, Ludwigsfelde featuring a huge Soviet Air Base.  'Oz'
flew in on one of the first schedualled services of the new Tupolev Tu-104
jet airliner.  Most of his fellow passengers were Soviet Military on
posting to East Germany.

   As the airliner ground to a halt, a car pulled up.  It resembled an
American Buick or Lincoln, and had blacked out windows.  'Oz's' minder
passed him on to his opposite number then climbed back onto the Tupolev.

   Inside the car were two men seated on a bench-type seat opposite 'Oz'.
It was dark and he didn't recognise them until one turned on a light.  To
his astonishment it was John and one other who introduced himself as
'Rhykov.' Rhykov slid back the window behind him and indicated to the
driver who promptly put his foot down on the gas so hard it sent each of
them sprawling.

   The car sped down back streets of Berlin so unbelievably narrow 'Oz'
thought the Russian driver must mow down the line of telephone poles. 
Presently the car jolted to a halt and Rhykov wound down the window a
fraction.

   "Here we are," he announced.

   "Where are we?" 'Oz' asked.

   "They call them 'transit houses'," Rhykov told him, "it's where we do
transfers of people going to the West.  The Russian zone has similar, for
those wanting to go East."

   "I bet they'd be crowded," 'Oz' said, ruefully.

   "Why don't you just take him to a checkpoint?" John suggested, "push him
through the gate and say 'bye bye'?"

   "It's not that simple, John.  Their intelligence people and ours have to
vet each one...  it's procedure.  Otherwise, we might send each other
imposters, spies!"

   "I bet that doesn't happen!" grumbled 'Oz.' This time, Rhykov smiled at
his sarcasm.

   "So what happens in these 'transit houses'?" John asked.

   "They will have a couple of MI-6 agents who will ask him questions..."

   "Poms?" 'Oz' asked.

   "'fraid so, 'Oz'" John said.

   "Can I stay?"

   "What about the missus?"

   "Yeah, well..." Presently two men in plain clothes came to the door of
the car and opened it.  'Oz' got out, shook John and Rhykov by the hand and
left with them.  "Drop me a line?" he said to John before turning back.

   John and Rhykov watched him as he went up the steps and in the door. 
Rhykov then turned to John, "you know," he said, "you could go with him, if
you want?"

   "Wouldn't you have to shoot me?" John asked.

   "Of course," he replied, "but I'm a very poor shot."

   "Is this some test of loyalty?"

   "Not at all!  It's a very hard thing," he continued, "to be separated
from your home.  I know this, because I, too, have not been home for a very
long time."

   "And where *is* your home?"

   "Norway."

   "Oh bullshit!" John said, laughing.

   "Maybe it is, maybe I lie.  But *your* home, John, is a very long way
away.  You maybe think often of this 'Taranaki'?  You maybe long for that
mountain, yes?  What is the name?"

   "Egmont."

   "Yes, Mount Egmont.  It's a perfect cone, I remember.  And the beach
with the shellfish..."

   "Pipis!"

   "Pipis, yes, see, I remember all you tell me?"

   "What about Benin and the children?"

   "I'll see that they're all right, trust me."

   "Jana?"

   "Nothing will happen to them, I assure you."

   "But they won't be allowed to follow me, will they?"

   "Ah, well," Rhykov sighed, "that would be a problem."

   "Then, if you don't mind, I want to go home...  that way," he pointed
back the way they'd come.

   "If you're sure." John nodded and the KGB man tapped the window.  They
rocked in their seats as the driver set off in a hurry.

   Secretly, Rhykov fingered his Tokarev pistol under his coat and eased on
the safety catch.

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

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<1st attachment end>


<2nd attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon36.txt" begin>

BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 36)

   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.

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

   Briyan Briyanovich Khrinhov stood on the fantail of the RFS Poltava as
it slid smoothly through the heads outside Wellington Harbour.  It had been
a year since the RNZN's Te Kaha had paid a similar courtesy visit to
Vladivostok.  Now it was Russia's turn to establish a first.  Not since the
First World War had a Russian Naval Vessel called at a New Zealand Port.

   This was the second port of call for the Poltava.  Previously, she'd
tied up at Devonport in Auckland, the RNZN's main naval base.  After
Wellington, she was to call at Lyttelton, near Christchurch, in the South
Island.

   The Poltava sailed through into the harbour, a wide parabola considered
one of the most beautiful natural harbours in the World.  The South Pacific
sun shone bright, bathing the seaside suburbs and the many beaches.

   All the Russian crew were excited about visiting a place very few had
ever seen before.  For Briyan, however, it had a special significance.  It
was from this port that his Grandfather, John Greenhaugh, had sailed for
Spain to join the Republican cause back in 1935.

   Beside Briyan stood a New Zealand Naval Officer, Lieutenant Rashbrooke,
who'd been seconded to the Poltava in Sidney, Australia.  A specialist in
Navigation, he was to advise the Russian command staff about navigating the
sometimes treacherous waters around New Zealand's coast.  Rashbrooke
needn't have worried, though, the Poltava had a full suite of the most
modern electronic navigation equipment.  But it was a nice diplomatic touch
all the same.

   The Poltava tied up at the Overseas Passenger Terminal, once it was
confirmed that the cruiser's overhang would not knock off the top floor of
the terminal building.  The bows of the ship flared widely, but there was
sufficient clearance.

   Rashbrooke had managed to organise a trip for Briyan to visit his
Grandfather's birthplace.  John himself, and his wife, Benin, were now well
into their eighties and were no-longer capable of making the journey.  They
still lived in the city of Novgorod together with their friend, Jana
Ivanova.  Jana had moved in with the couple some 12 years ago after her
Military pension had been wiped out by currency inflation.

   John, now known by his Russian name, Ioann, had fared a little better as
a retired General of Aviation.  Their co-habitation had as much to do with
economic circumstances as their long 'menage et trois' relationship.

   In fact, they'd called themselves 'the Troika,' as long as Briyan could
remember.  Once upon a time they'd scandalised their neighbours, but now,
they were just a trio of old friends sharing an apartment together.

   The next day a Ministry of Defence car came for Briyan.  A woman Army
Lieutenant from the MOD's Public Relations Office called Silvia accompanied
Briyan on the trip.  Unmarried and hitherto unattached, he quite looked
forward to the three and a half hour journey.

   Briyan inherited his Grandfather's height and some of his good looks. 
His skin was darker, though, like his Grandmother's and he had black hair
like a Spaniard.

   They drove down State Highway 1 along a coast dotted with small seaside
communities.  Green farmland stretched on the landward side towards the
distant mountains of the Central Tararua Ranges.

   "Where is Mount Egmont?" he asked Silvia.

   "Can't see it yet," she explained, "it's stuck out in the East.  The
Maoris say that once upon a time four mountains had an argument and Egmont
was banished.  The Maori call it Mount Taranaki."

   "The mountain moved?" Briyan said in astonishment.  He had a good grasp
of English but found Silvia's accent hard to understand at times.  He
thought he must have missheard her.

   "Legend...  like a fairy tale?"

   "Ah!"

   Eventually, beyond the city of Wanganui, the mountain emerged like a
ghost out of the humid air.  It *was* a cone, just as John described, and
it was capped with a mantle of white snow.

   "Hawera's up ahead," Silvia explained, "as far as we're able to tell,
your Grandfather lived on a farm a little inland from here...  up that road
there.  Want to see?" Briyan nodded and Silvia turned the car onto the
unsealed road.

   New Zealand Government researchers had tracked down a relative of
John's. Greenhaughs had not lived in the area for a good many years but the
researchers had discovered that a descendent of John's Aunty had inherited
the farm.  The man was pleased to meet a distant cousin.  He had local
Maori blood and valued family ties highly.

   The locals had prepared a reception for their visiting Russian relation
and Briyan left well-lubricated by their hostpitality later that afternoon.
He was adopted into the local 'iwi', a sub tribe of the mighty Ngati Toa,
and wore the gift of a traditional whalebone pendant around his neck.

   Back at the ship, Briyan couldn't wait to cable home telling his
Grandfather all about his experiences.

   He explained to Silvia on the way back how his Grandfather had not been
able to set foot on the soil of his birthplace because of the Cold War. 
Now that things were different, John was too old.  It seemed a pity, he
thought, because he was sure John would've been welcomed back into the
community like a long lost son.

   "Yeah," Silvia agreed, "New Zealand's kind of like that.  We forgive and
forget pretty quickly."

   "It wasn't his fault, you know," Briyan told her, "he got caught up,
like a rat in a trap.  Y'know, once, a KGB man took him to West Berlin
before they built the wall.  It was easy, then, to go from East to West,
West to East.  Grandfather said he could've made a run for it then.  Do you
know why he didn't?" Silvia shook her head.  "Family!  Just like those
Maori people.  It was family.  He couldn't go and leave his family behind.
See?  Underneath it all, he is still a 'Kiwi,' yes?"

   "Yes," Silvia agreed.

   THE END

   ----------------------------------------- NOTES

   Spain

   Some years ago I saw a Spanish movie set during the Civil War.  It
concerned a group of Mujeres Libres, the Free Anarchist women.  In it a
group of Women Anarchist fighters share their lives and loves all with that
terrible conflict in the background.  I found it deeply moving and provided
the initial inspiration for this story.

   I began researching about a year ago and found a profound contradiction
between conflicting sources.  Some wanted to picture them as early
feminists, sterling fighters for the cause of women's liberation.  Some
depicted them as teachers and doctors to the poor and underpriviledged
working class women of Spain.  Did they fight in the front line or were
they relegated by the male chauvinist CNT/FAI to nursing and filling shell
casings?  There appeared to be some dispute.

   One source claimed that the CNT/FAI fighters, horrified at the loose
morals of some ex-prostitute ML, had them sent away!  If true, it would be
an unusual bout of ethical behaviour for irregular front line soldiers, I
would've thought!

   So, I found a truth muddied by political bias and retelling.  Franco's
Spain didn't help.  Virtually nothing concerning the war, except
Nationalist propaganda, was written there during his reign.  Communist
sources, too, had nothing good to say about the CNT/FAI and nothing at all
about the ML.  The lot of them were branded 'Syndicalists and Trotskyites'
which, for those in the know, are terms of abuse.

   The ML were but a tiny fraction of the 4 million strong Anarchist
movement.  They nearly all hailed from Barcelona and tended to be from the
middle class.  (The only class where women had any hope of a broad
education in Catholic Spain) It seems some working class women joined,
particularly those educated in Anarchist schools in Catalonia from 1931. 
Some may have been prostitutes, the red light industry in Spain at that
time was huge, but then that may've been Nationalist propaganda.  It's
difficult to judge with this passage of time.

   The POUM's case is a little better documented with copius quantities of
information available from various Fourth Internationalist sources.  George
Orwell paints a very clear portrait from his perspective also.  Since the
demise of the Soviet Union the 4th International had a brief resurgence,
saying that they could now reclaim the Communist label stolen by the
'Stalinists.' It did them little good, in hindsight, as 'Communism' had now
been relegated to the very fringe of radical politics.

   The war itself is difficult to write about with any real authority.  The
bare statistics are horrific enough but it became a sort of sideshow to the
main European conflict.  The course and conclusion of the slugfest of the
Ebro is largely imaginary.  It was just too long and bitter for the context
of the story and would've become the central theme if I'd plumbed it in any
depth.  Some bits I used, such as the charge of the George Washingtons
against the Blackshirts.  But the tank battles I put together using
topographical maps and some sketchy contemporary data and is largely
conjecture.

   Apparently no Soviet Naval units were present during the blockade.  The
'Tchervoniya Ukrainiya' was serving in the Black Sea at the time.

   Gorshin, Rhykov and Retvizan are fictional characters.  Generals Miaja
and Modesto were real.  Prieto, I made into a Fascist thug to exemplify a
certain type of soldier who was part of the Nationalist cause.

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

   Russia

   In 1938 Russia was still in a state of shock as a result of the Purges
of the Party and Military.  Beria's, and the NKVD's star was dimming a
little as a result of the wholesale brutality and illegality of what went
on.  Even Stalin was coming to the realisation that things had spiralled
out of control and Beria was responsible.  The Purges savaged the military,
depriving the Red Forces of some of their most capable, and professional,
senior officers.  There is speculation that had not the War intervened,
Beria might well have ended up executed himself.

   But Beria's supporters claim that he wasn't responsible, and that he
only held responsibility for the NKVD at the end.  Regardless, Beria was a
shrewd politician whose luck eventually ran out when he made a bid for
power in 1953.

   The air war on the Eastern front, in my opinion, has been deliberately
downplayed here in the West.  Soviet aces amassed a considerable number of
victories over Luftwaffe aircraft, at least as good as those in the Western
Front and North Africa.  True, they were slow to get going, and initially
flew aircraft far inferior to German types.  But the RAF, too, had a
learning curve in 1940.  Remember the Fairy Battle, the Bolton-Paul
Defiant? I recall that in 1940 five 'Battles' were shot down from a
formation of 7 by Messerschmitts.

   Similarly, the JNAF had it all over the USN in the early days, both in
quality of aircraft and pilot training.  But the Americans learnt the
important lessons and came back stronger than ever.

   So, too, with the Red Air Force.  The Lavochkin and Yakovlev fighters,
the Ilyushin 'shturmavik' and Tupolev bombers wrenched back air superiority
in late 1943 and maintained it to the end of the war.

   I may have over emphasised the degree Western technology kick-started
the Soviet post war aircraft program.  To balance the ledger, British and
American aircraft industries benefited hugely from German research, also.
The Bell X-1 was an development of the Messerschmitt Me-263.  Some claim
Wolfgang Spate flying a Me-163 broke the sound barrier in 1944 over
Rechlin, but that is unlikely to be ever proven.  The Handley-Page Victor
carried a wing planform designed by Heinkel in 1944.  The axial flow
turbojet itself was a German creation and its features were rigourously
copied by British, American and Russian engine makers.

   So Russian designer Klimov got his hands on a Rolls Royce Nene and
reverse engineered it to produce the VK-1?  British makers were generous to
the Americans, too, who, also, got their hands on a Nene.  That time,
however, Westinghouse obtained manufacturing rights.

   Western sources cite the Boeing B-29 as introducing modern aircraft
technology to the Russians.  Four B-29s landed in Eastern Siberia during
the war, one crashed, and these were taken apart and copied to produce the
Tu-4.  But Tupolev's had been designing giant aircraft since the thirties.
Petlyakov produced the Pe-8, with little Western assistance.  It was a very
successful 4 engine bomber that followed the fate of Mikulin's AM-35 Vee 12
engine.  The cancellation of that engine also buried the MiG-3's
development.

   While trying not to labour the point, a considerable amount of cross
fertilisation of expertise has always gone on between the various
countries' aircraft industries.

   Much has been written about the 'cult of personality' that revolved
around Josef Stalin.  It's my view, however, that the Great Patriotic War
saved his regime from an almost certain coup by the Military.

   By the end of 1938 the Red Forces and the Party were in state of trauma,
having seen some of the old guard, as well as the youngest and brightest,
admit to a host of crimes and wind up shot.  Make no mistake, Stalin faced
a 'real' political crisis in the thirties.  His disregard for the Law,
manipulation of Party systems and organs, his promotion of supporters to
the various committees within Party and Government (pretty much one in the
same under his rule) had alienated a great many influential people.  Guys
like Buddenny, Zhukov, Timoshenko and even Viroshilov weren't particularly
happy with his administration.  The Left Opposition, too, were far stronger
in the thirties than has been acknowledged by the West.  Stalin was feeling
the heat and so unleashed the Purge.

   But he'd gone much further than cleaning house of a few malcontents. 
The Party and Military had been traumatised, but I don't think they
would've remained so for long.  I believe his enemies would've got him in
the end had not the war intervened.

   To prove a point, when Beria launched his bid for power following
Stalin's death he found the Politburo united against him.  Beria was one of
Stalin's most loyal supporters.  Bearing in mind the Politburo had long
been stacked with Stalin's men, is there a lesson in that or what?

   Through the scrum in 1953 came a young Khrushchev.  Here was a man the
Politburo thought they could control, a man from Kursk who was outside of
the Party elite.  A peasant, perhaps, but one who came to be associated
with a reformist vision.  He may not have thought up all the ideas himself,
but he permitted the liberal aparatchniks to shake up the system.  He gave
the Soviet people a little room to breathe and, with the Space program,
something to be proud of.

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

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