John Barron - MiG Pilot

He stayed in another downtown motel owned by immigrants from India. His room was dean, cheap, and had a big color television. At his request a taxi driver dropped him off in the “worst area” of downtown San Francisco. It was a cesspool of garish nightclubs, pornographic shops, prostitutes, homosexuals, transvestites, junkies, pimps, filthy, unhealthy-looking dropouts, and rebels against society. He ate in a hole in the wall and felt as if he were in a human zoo, yet the fried fish, fried potatoes, and coleslaw, for which he paid $1.50, were good.

Two prostitutes, one black, one white, tried to lure him into a brothel, “For thirty dollars, we’ll give you a real good tune.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know. For thirty dollars you can have both of us.”

Here the Party was right. The dregs accumulated here were to him as disgusting as anything the Party ever claimed, and such human waste, insofar as it was visible, would be flushed out of Soviet society.

As it was early when he went back to his room, he switched on the television and turned the knob from channel to channel until he saw something very familiar. How wonderful! In progress on the screen was a superb public television performance of Anna Karenina.

There were so many choices. Before, the discovery and contemplation of them had invigorated and stimulated, as did the contemplation of a daring and original move in chess. Now he didn’t care. All visions of what could be were clouded, dulled, marred by yearning for what might have been with her.

At a roadside cafe near Odessa, Texas, a Latin girl served him. She was not so pretty as Maria, but she smiled and carried herself like Maria. He bolted his meal and raced the breadth of Texas in fewer than twenty-four hours and sped foolishly, suicidally toward the institute.

Everywhere they had been together he revisited. He drove to the hacienda and en route back pulled off the road and stopped about where she had spoken to him. And now a delirium of irrationality afflicted him. It was illogical, senseless, but in its effects on him, it was as real as a typhoid delirium. He wanted to flee from himself, from her, from America, the extravagant successes of which made it seem now like an alien planet where he never could be a normal inhabitant.

Primordial impulses seized and held and pushed him, and he could not resist them. He wanted to feel the mud of the streets, smell the stink in which he had grown up, be among the desolate, cold huts, hear Russian, be in the land of his birth, his people, his ancestors. He was hearing and being drawn by not only the call of the Mother Country, but the Call of the Wild.

Did they not say all I have to do is telephone and in twenty-four hours I will be in Moscow? Did not Brezhnev himself promise they would not punish me? Can I not fight for my people better by being among them? Is not my duty to be with my people as Maria is with hers? I will do it. I will go home.

He left his flight jacket, his flight suit, and everything else in the apartment and started north toward Washington — and the Soviet Embassy.

Great stakes rode with him. His voluntary return would prove to millions upon millions within and without the Soviet Union that the Party was right, that Soviet society was superior to American society, that it was the beacon lighting the way to the future of man. A New Communist Man who had seen and judged, who had been captured and escaped would attest dramatically and convincingly to these truths before all the world.

Crossing the North Carolina border into Virginia, he still was pointed toward the Embassy. But as in all other crises, he tried to be Spartacus, to summon forth the best within himself, to think logically. Why did you leave? Has anything that made you leave changed? Are there purposes in life higher than yourself? Where could you hurt that system most? What could you do back there even if they didn’t punish you? Do you really think they would just say, “Welcome home, Comrade!” Who has lied to you? The Americans or the Party? Would Spartacus surrender?

About 2:00 A.M. north of Richmond, the fever broke, and Belenko first knew it when his hands began to shake on the steering wheel. He was so physically weak that he had to rest, and he pulled in at a truck stop.

An elderly waitress with faded blond hair and a face worn by many years gave him coffee and studied him. “Honey, you been smoking?”

“What?”

“If you’re on pot, you ought to let it wear off before you drive anymore. How about some breakfast?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“No, honey, I’m going to get you some breakfast. You need something to eat. It’s on the house.”

Around 4:00 A.M. he leaned on the doorbell at Peter’s house, ringing it continuously until Peter, in pajamas, opened the door. Trained to be most poised in the presence of danger, Peter was calm. “I see you’re in trouble. Come in.”

Slowly, with shame, Belenko told him, taking almost two hours.

“Viktor, I wish you had called me. But I can’t criticize you. This is not uncommon. I should have recognized the signs when you were here last month. Now it’s over; you are immunized. It would have been a great tragedy, most of all for you. Someday you will see that because you are the way you are and because there is freedom here, the United States is more your homeland than the Soviet Union ever could be.”

“I must go tell Gregg.”

“Don’t worry about that. Get some sleep. We’ll let him know.”

“No. I must do it myself.”

Harassed by early calls from his Pentagon office, behind schedule, and half-dressed, Gregg was irritated by the unexpected appearance of Belenko.

“I have to talk to you.”

“Make it quick; I’m late.”

After Belenko had spoken for a couple of minutes or so, Gregg picked up the phone and dialed his office. “I won’t be in this morning. Call me here if you need me.” He listened without comment or interruption until Belenko concluded his recitation of the crisis he had just survived.

“Viktor, I think you’re finally free. Let’s take the day off and go fly.”

As Belenko climbed up over the Potomac estuary and soared above the Chesapeake Bay, he felt, he knew Gregg was right.

Agriculture, in USSR, 26-27

harvest, 51-52,72, 87-88

Khrushchev’s plan, 37-38

Air Force, U.S.: fighter base, 156

Aircraft carrier: U.S. Navy, 161-164

Alcohol consumption, 12, 35-36, 95

aircraft alcohol, 82-83,98

United States, 159

workers, 46, 54

Alekseyevna, Nadezhda, 48, 49, 50, 51, 53, 59

Armament production:

Omsk, USSR, 44, 53

Armavir, USSR, 61-63, 65-66,72

B-1 (aircraft), 74

B-70 (aircraft), plans for, 177, 179

Baltimore Sun: editorial quoted, 138

Bandera, Stepan, 99n

Belenko, Viktor Ivanovich:

DOSAAF training:

flight, 49-50

pre-flight, 47-48

father, 23, 25, 26-27, 29, 30, 64

flight-instructor duty, 81-85

Japan, stay in, 109-122

lifestyle, 22

alcohol use, 36, 217

Belenko, Viktor Ivanovich: (continued)

medical-school career, 51,52

mother: press-conference appearance, 137

physical appearance, 8-9

recovery by Russians, importance of, 124—125

Soviet Army cadet training, 62-63, 65-75

stepmother, 29-30, 33,64

United States, 142-213

wife, 8

(See also Petrovna, Ludmilla)

worker, 44-47, 53-57, 58

youth, 23-44

boxing mastery, 33,35

pranks, 32-33

reading habits, 31, 32, 33, 41

schooling, 27, 28, 30-31, 40-41, 42-44

Brezhnev, Leonid I., 40, 88

Brown, Frederick, 128

Galley, William, 69n