Defection

[Jotun]

Hey, everybody.
I wrote a follow-up to the Backfire Sabotage mini-arc. It got so long that the Lord and Master of TLW suggested I post it as a standalone.

So, here goes.


D+29, 21 May 2005, 19.35 local time, Kazakh SSR

A beaten-up and dusty GAZ-3102 sped along an equally beaten-up and dusty road in the absolute sticks of the northwestern Kazakh SSR, somewhere in the vicinity of the unremarkable small town of Bangazy. Its driver wore a field uniform that showed him as a lieutenant colonel of the KGB.

He was no staff officer, never had wanted to be one, never would be. He was an IT specialist, a captain, in the same organization's Second Chief Directorate and had constructed an entire false identity, life and career over the course of several years whose uniform and ID he now wore. It existed for one single purpose, to leave the USSR during war time and reach a NATO-allied or at least NATO-friendly country in order to deliver the legacy of his adopted cousin.

The fake identity and equally false but verifiable travel orders had helped him traverse most of the western USSR in about a day, to this exact place at this exact time, far from prying eyes.

The damage his relative had done to Raduga was catastrophic, if the initial reports were to be believed. He had also, before putting the final touches on his plan delivered a wealth of technical data and intelligence about Soviet missiles, their design philosophy as well as information about clandestine channels into the West and China for illicit acquisition of electronics and more to his cousin.

The captain himself had decided to add information about Soviet asymmetric warfare, such as hacking, internet fraud, support of terrorist organizations, organized crime, disruptive political movements on both ends of the political spectrum and whatever he himself had taken part in, lots of it in situ in the West, and picked up on as a KGB IT specialist since the digital revolution had begun.

Considering the number of places on the Soviet borders where crossing was possible without running the risk of ending up in a pitched battle, pickings were slim, so he had selected just about the only stretch that was not adjacent to either an active war theatre, Afghanistan or the PRC. It was the one to Iran, which after the Green Revolution would virtually guarantee that the West got hands on the information.
Apart from the tense, but still nominally peaceful situation along the USSR-Iran border, the somewhat clichéd higher level of corruption and all manner of crime, as the southern SSRs increasingly began to chafe under the rule of Moscow, was something that had made his escape easier. To finalize the escape, he had called in a favor and had managed to secure a night-and-fog flight to Iran.

He gazed at the duffel bag on the passenger seat. It held several computer hard disks, USB sticks, a suppressed Spetsnaz-standard SMG for emergencies, and the physical fruit of several of his online side hustles conducted while on clandestine assignment in the West. Bundles of Euros, British Pounds and Dollars. There was also an extra pack of bank notes set aside for the pilot and crew of the plane that would get him out of the country.

He hoped that they’d let him keep it, after the period of debriefing and double and triple checking his information. In any case, he also had access to several well-filled bank accounts he had created. He was an enemy of the state and a defector, but that did not mean he was naïve, let alone a good Samaritan.

He looked at a paper map clamped into a holder on the dashboard and compared his SWAGged position with the position displayed on a GLONASS receiver that sat on the duffel bag, plugged into the car’s power outlet. Looking good. His butt was a mite numb. He had been on the road for more than half a day and had only stopped to fill up the gas tanks of his vehicle with the jerrycans he had in the trunk and of course to take tthe occasional leak.

Twenty more miles, twenty more minutes, and he would arrive at his destination, a stretch of empty fields that had been agreed upon as a rendezvous point. The pilot of the plane, an ethnic Azerbaijani, was another man who hated the rule of Moscow with a silent, cold intensity, and was planning to one day get his family out of the USSR.

The way this whole chain of events had gone down until now was one of the things which gave security personnel, law enforcement and counterintelligence peptic ulcers, the captain reflected. A very loosely connected chain of dissidents who communicated intermittently, rarely, almost randomly and by way of using loopholes in the very system they had been trained to uphold and defend. And otherwise, they waged their private little wars against the USSR utterly on their own, so there was next to no way of being entirely rolled up, except by chance, the captain reflected. Hopefully a few dozen heads would roll after this. No great loss.

There. He saw a small derelict building overlooking several square kilometers of dusty, wind-swept soil, agreeably flat and free of major holes or rocks.

He parked the car in the shade of the building, grabbed the duffel and the rest of his stuff and exited the vehicle. He carefully set down the baggage, pulled the submachine gun out and proceeded to make sure nobody was waiting for him. He stood in front of the entrance door and looked at it inquisitively.

There. A rune was drawn on the lower third of the door with blue marker. He grinned. It was the Sindarin rune for “G”. The house had been prepared. The captain felt around the door frame next to the rune and found a key taped to the dry wood. He unlocked the door and cautiously entered.[1]

The house had three rooms and no second floor. A cabinet in the kitchen held an infrared strobe and a handheld VHF radio with the channel pre-selected. The officer looked at his wristwatch. Sunset was less than an hour away, time to eat and drink something…and to swallow a “little red pill” that would keep him awake and alert until the defection had been completed. He took his time and allowed himself to relax for a few minutes…

There were only a few things left to do. He placed the infrared beacon on the field as per the instructions that had helpfully been taped to the device, and precisely five minutes before the appointed time, he switched on the VHF transceiver, and waited for the plane to announce itself. It didn’t take long.

“Gandalf, this is Turbine, over.”
“Turbine, this is Gandalf, read you five by five, how copy, over.”
“This is Turbine, read you five by five. Query, are the beacons lit? Over.”
“This is Gandalf, Gondor calls for aid, over.”
“This is Turbine, very well, ETA two mikes, out.”

The beacon on the field blinked the Morse Code letter ‘G’ in an endless loop.
The KGB officer began looking for the plane to come into view. He heard it before he could see it. A short time later, a small, two-engine beaver-tailed freight plane in a disruptive pattern matte black and dark grey paint job appeared to the east, flying extremely low, as in Panavia Tornado IDS or Buccaneer low.

It was one of the new Su-80 multi-purpose transport planes. If the captain had his numbers right, it was one of only ten or eleven that had until now been introduced to the Soviet Air Force and – in an armed version – to the KGB border guards. This one belonged to the air force and seemed to be outfitted for special operations, judging by the protrusions and antennae on the fuselage, along with the external fuel tanks. The camouflage pattern also was a dead giveaway.

The Su-80 touched down smoothly and, in a cloud of dust and pieces of dried vegetation, began to reverse thrust. The now ex-Chekist began to jog towards the plane, taking care to approach from the rear quadrant. He winced at the dust being thrown up behind the place and pulled his uniform jacket over his mouth and nose.

The ramp lowered and a crewman in a flight suit appeared, holding an AKM assault carbine.
He gave the captain an inquisitive look and then motioned for him to follow him onboard.
The interior was lit in red, and the defector was surprised to see about twenty people who were obviously not military, in civilian clothing, ranging from toddler to septuagenarian. There was also a loading pallet in the rear quadrant of the freight/passenger compartment covered in a net that showed various non-military suitcases and sports bags. Obviously, the crew had decided to turn their backs on the “Workers’ Paradise” together with their families, taking the opportunitay that had presented itself.

Not that it complicated things, the SU-80 had room for more than thirty passengers, but it put a lot more lives on the line than the plan had initially allowed for.

It didn't matter, the captain shrugged to himself. The more the merrier. He nodded to those who looked at him, most of them distrustfully thanks to the hated green shoulder boards with the Cyrillic letters “CA” on them and made a point of ripping the damn things off. That did seem to mollify the majority.

Shouldering his bag, he looked for a lone seat and unceremoniously dropped into it, buckling in. He did the same for the duffel and waited for the plane to get off again and be on its way.

***

Twenty minutes later, with the plane airborne again, he decided to say hello to the pilot, a man he had met a few times before. The officer unbuckled his seat belt and walked forward. The plane was – judging by the view from the windows – flying over flat and dry terrain at a height of no more than ten meters. The flight was amazingly stable. This seemed to be a good plane, and a good pilot.

Hunching over, he walked to the cockpit and signaled the NCO sitting behind the pilot and co-pilot to give him a spare headset so he could talk without unduly distracting them.

“Evening, Mr. Jafarov,” he said into the internal voice circuit, consciously avoiding the word ‘comrade’ and thus making a point, “what’s the plan?”

The pilot’s eyes never left the instruments and the windshield. “The name’s Jafari from now on. I am done with anything Russian.” He harrumphed. “Ahem. Evening, Mr. Sapozhnikov. The plan is to go around the Caspian Sea to the west in a nap-of-the-earth profile at around 350 knots, avoiding troop concentrations, airfields and large settlements. I have based the route on the latest information I managed to obtain at my unit.

As soon as the terrain gets more mountainous, it gets both easier, and harder for us. It is easier to avoid radars, but flying in mountains is no picnic. In any case, it is 1,600 kilometers, give or take a few, to our destination, Tabriz in Iran. What we’ll do exactly when we are in Iranian airspace is something we should decide there and then, as the situation presents itself.”

“Why not Tehran, as we had initially planned?”

“The USSR still has its embassy there, and it wouldn’t do to simply drop in on Tehran International Airport in front of thousands of eyes and cameras. You wanted to keep this quiet. Aside from that, Tabriz is the center of Iranian Azerbaijan, and my family and I are going to fit right in.”

“Right. I’ll stop bothering you…oh, and the name is Schumacher[2]. I have German ancestry.”

“You don’t say. See ya.”


***

Schumacher cursed himself for swallowing that stay-alert pill. While the flight was still remarkably smooth, crossing into mountainous terrain meant that the pilots were flying between mountains down or up valleys and occasionally popped up quite sharply to clear ridges. The repetitive lateral and vertical movements did not seem to agree with the effects of the “upper”, and he was annoyingly and latently airsick.
For some reason, he seemed to be the only one feeling ill and sweating profusely. All he could see on the other passengers was an occasional yawn, the lowest rung on the ladder to motion sickness. At least, he did not have to worry about being shot and tossed out of the plane, the flight crew had their hands full and he did not believe their family members to be armed.

The flight technician popped his head out of the cockpit and waved him over.

Holding on to the seats and an overhead steel cable, he made his unsteady way to the front of the cabin. The headset was thrust unceremoniously into his hands.
He put it on and pressed the talk button twice to make his presence on the inner voice circuit known.
“Five minutes to the Soviet-Iranian border. How are we going to go about it?” the pilot’s voice spoke into his ears.
“I think it would be best to make it ten or twenty or so kilometers beyond the border and then use the VHF international distress frequency to call the Iranian Air Force, asking for asylum and a fighter escort. We should be safe from any Soviet Air Force patrols by then.”

“About what I would have done, too. Better to be proactive and not risk being shot at by a nervous pilot.”

“Alright. I’ll be in the back, holding onto my hat. And guts. You sure do know how to fly, sir.”


***

Major Kamran Shayesteh was the flight leader of an Iranian Air Force F-14 Tomcat CAP patrolling the northwestern border to the Soviet Union. The situation along the border was tense, but not yet quite hostile.
His headphones squawked. “Purple Flight, this is Crystal Cloud, over.” It was one of the two operational A-50 AWACS birds that had fled Iraq to Iran in 1991. The Iranians had kept them, and both had been upgraded significantly after the Green Revolution by a group of absolutely-not-American-hurr-hurr technicians.

“This is Purple Flight Leader, over.”
“This is Crystal Cloud, be advised, we have a contact flying low, bearing your 340, distance twenty-five miles, heading 197 at three-zero-zero knots. Not squawking IFF. Investigate, over.”
“This is Purple Flight Leader, roger. Investigating. Out.”

Both F-14s went on an interception course. You never knew what shenanigans the damn Russians would come up with.
Shayesteh’s RIO fiddled with the controls of the TCS, using the radar picture provided by the AWACS as guide, and quickly found what he was looking for. “There, low-flying twin-prop transport type. Looks to be going nap-of-Earth.”

The major was about to try and hail the unknown plane on VHF, when he heard an accented voice speak in English, “Any Iranian Air Force Station, any Iranian Air Force station, this is Soviet plane approximately ten miles west of Sungun, over.”
AWACS decided to answer. “Soviet plane, this is Iranian Air Force overwatch. Please state your intentions, over.”
“This is Soviet plane, we are defecting from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and request asylum in the Republic of Iran.”
Shayesteh’s eyebrow’s hiked up. That guy had guts. Using a plane to escape from a country at war with that formidable an air defence system was remarkable.

“This is Iranian Air Force. Roger. Please climb to 2,500 feet AGL, and be advised, we are vectoring in an escort, you will be led to Tabriz tactical air base, over.”
“This is Defector flight, roger, thank you, out.”
“Welcome to Iran, out.”

***

The shift chief of the air traffic control tower at Tabriz International Airport, a rostambashi (major) of the Iranian Air Force reserves was bored out of his skull. The Third World War had led to a marked decrease in civilian air traffic, especially at nighttime. Suddenly, he heard an annoying, one of a kind buzzing/ringing sound that told him something unplanned was happening. He pushed his headset up on his head and picked up the receiver of the direct line to the military part of Tabriz International.

“Control tower, shift chief Homayoun speaking.”
“Hi, Kiyan,” he recognized the voice of an air force academy classmate, sargard (lieutenant colonel) Darius Mazidi. "Something’s coming up. Listen carefully: In a few minutes, two of our Tomcats are going to escort in a twin turboprop aircraft. You will log this as an Iranian Air Force shuttle flight.”
“Got it Darius.” He looked around. Nobody was in immediate earshot. “What’s the story, Darius? Gimme at least a hint.”
He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “They come from up north. As in, northern Azerbaijan north. You get my drift, comrade rostambashi?”
“’Nough said, sir. It will be done. Coffee tomorrow afternoon, as usual?”
“You got it.” A click. The connection had ended.

As announced, a few minutes later, a camouflage-dappled plane flew in, landed on the runway and immediately taxied towards the military part of the airport. The two Tomcats also landed in order to refuel and continue their CAP flight along the northern border. The whole procedure raised no eyebrows in the tower crew. It was apparently just another flight.

++

In one of the military hangars, the Su-80 taxied to a halt, its turboprops powering down. Inside, ex-KGB captain Schumacher decided to field strip the SR-3 Vikhr and put its parts on the seat next to him. It wouldn’t do to provoke an aggressive response by the security troops that were certain to be present. He made to get up from his seat, then reconsidered. He quickly rummaged through his duffel, unfolded a lightweight bag and put in the various storage mediums he had brought along.
The defector then grabbed the handles of the duffel, went forward to the cockpit where pilot and co-pilot were still engrossed in the shutting-down procedure. He grabbed the pilot who turned his head towards him, slightly annoyed. Then he proffered the bag with the words, “Thank you for a job well done. Use the contents of the duffel for your family to get a good start in Iran.” Maybe he was a hopelessly naive good Samaritan, after all...
The pilot, puzzled, accepted the bag and glanced into it. He saw bundles upon bundles of Western currency bank notes. Looking up, surprised, he saw that Schumacher had turned around and was already opening one of the side hatches. Ah well. If he ever got the chance, he’d thank him.

+++

Schumacher had opened the hatch and saw that a line of young men in camouflage uniforms and full battle rattle had surrounded the plane. Silently, he commended the air force troops for their circumspect action. He slung the bag over his shoulder, pulled up his fatigue shirt to show he had no weapon underneath it, and showed his open hands while hopping the short distance to the tarmac.

In English, he spoke loudly, “I am KGB captain Alexander Sapozhnikov. I request asylum in the Republic of Iran, and I really need to talk to Intelligence. I come bearing gifts that may be urgently needed in the US and Europe! And here, come to think of it.” He carefully motioned to the bag hung over his shoulder.
“There are twenty-seven more people in the plane who also request asylum in Iran.”

A discernible motion of unrest went through the officers – it had to be officers - standing behind the security troops. A clean-shaven, middle aged man in pressed camouflage dress with a staff officer’s insignia, but unarmed, stepped between two of the troopers. He spoke, also in English, “Welcome to Iran, Captain, what is it you have with you?”
“TECHINT, sir, construction plans and telemetry data of Soviet missiles, data about hybrid warfare and Spetsnaz troops all over the West, basically everything and the kitchen sink.”

The intelligence type – it had to be one – was visibly surprised. "Ich hör die Botschaft wohl, allein es fehlt der Glaube…” he murmured, not quite inaudibly, in German.[3]

The captain grinned, delighted. “Goethe? I had not expected that. Das Wunder ist des Glaubens liebstes Kind.[4] Listen, sir, I will submit to a security search, but I urge you, call the Americans, the Brits, the WEST Germans…the sooner they are read in, the better for their war effort. And yours, potentially.”

[1] LOTR apparently was a thing in the USSR https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khraniteli
It is also safe to assume that the captain had watched the movies either pirated from the internet or while on assignment in the West. I assume, in turn, that Jackson’s trilogy was made in TLW, maybe with a few darker elements thanks to the world situation.

[2] sapozhnik literally means shoemaker/cobbler
[3] "I hear the message well, but lack Faith's constant trust."
[4] "The miracle is Faith's most beloved child."
Both quotes from Goethe's "Faust".

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Excellent...
Excellent...
Excellent...

[jemhouston]

Great job

[Johnnie Lyle]

Definitely. Quite a bit of anticipation, waiting for the shoe to drop or the captain to be caught.

[Jotun]

Definitely. Quite a bit of anticipation, waiting for the shoe to drop or the captain to be caught.

Thank you. I wanted to give credit to two (fictional) professionals, ex-Captain Schumacher and the pilot of the Su-80. Both were exploiting the system they were not quite insignificant parts of, and since the inner security organs have a lot of their attention elsewhere (Ukraine, the Baltic SSRs, Chehchnya etc) I simply let them have it succeed without a hitch.

[Bernard Woolley]

LOTR made it to the USSR; not often I feel sorry for the Soviets!

[Johnnie Lyle]

Definitely. Quite a bit of anticipation, waiting for the shoe to drop or the captain to be caught.

Thank you. I wanted to give credit to two (fictional) professionals, ex-Captain Schumacher and the pilot of the Su-80. Both were exploiting the system they were not quite insignificant parts of, and since the inner security organs have a lot of their attention elsewhere (Ukraine, the Baltic SSRs, Chehchnya etc) I simply let them have it succeed without a hitch.

Aye. But you also did a good job of keeping up the suspense, which gives their success an emotional payoff.

Especially when the plane turned up. I fully expected the good captain to be royally screwed.

[Matt Wiser]

So the A-50s are covering for the E-2Cs this night..

The material provided the Iranians will be on the desk of the SIS Station Chief before too long, and then on its way to London (and thus with twenty-four hours of that, to Langley, Bonn and the BND, DGSE, MOSSAD, etc.. ). Anything with immediate military significance will get to CENTCOM before that.

[Jotun]

So the A-50s are covering for the E-2Cs this night..

The material provided the Iranians will be on the desk of the SIS Station Chief before too long, and then on its way to London (and thus with twenty-four hours of that, to Langley, Bonn and the BND, DGSE, MOSSAD, etc.. ). Anything with immediate military significance will get to CENTCOM before that.

I completely forgot about the Iranian E-2Cs

I guess somebody will be flash-copying those gigabytes of data onto other physical storage devices very, very soon. How long would it take to corroborate the good Captain‘s story, come to think of it? As lkng as it takes him to tell the background story of the Backfire/Raduga affair?

[Johnnie Lyle]

So the A-50s are covering for the E-2Cs this night..

The material provided the Iranians will be on the desk of the SIS Station Chief before too long, and then on its way to London (and thus with twenty-four hours of that, to Langley, Bonn and the BND, DGSE, MOSSAD, etc.. ). Anything with immediate military significance will get to CENTCOM before that.

I completely forgot about the Iranian E-2Cs

I guess somebody will be flash-copying those gigabytes of data onto other physical storage devices very, very soon. How long would it take to corroborate the good Captain‘s story, come to think of it? As lkng as it takes him to tell the background story of the Backfire/Raduga affair?

He’s almost too good, so there will be some delay as they decide if he’s legit or playing them.

[Jotun]

So the A-50s are covering for the E-2Cs this night..

The material provided the Iranians will be on the desk of the SIS Station Chief before too long, and then on its way to London (and thus with twenty-four hours of that, to Langley, Bonn and the BND, DGSE, MOSSAD, etc.. ). Anything with immediate military significance will get to CENTCOM before that.

I completely forgot about the Iranian E-2Cs

I guess somebody will be flash-copying those gigabytes of data onto other physical storage devices very, very soon. How long would it take to corroborate the good Captain‘s story, come to think of it? As lkng as it takes him to tell the background story of the Backfire/Raduga affair?

He’s almost too good, so there will be some delay as they decide if he’s legit or playing them.

Mmmmaybe. He turned up in Iran within two or three or so days of the Backfire/Raduga explosions, with a treasure trove of fitting intelligence. The KGB does not work THAT fast setting up a disinformation op. The delay could be quite short.