A convoy composed of three M35 flatbed trucks led by two M151 jeeps raced across the overgrown farmlands of West Germany’s American sector and through enemy-occupied territory to conduct what was probably the riskiest prisoner exchange of the Cold War, so far. The man leading the diplomatic charge was one Major Milner, simultaneously angry and worried that his head was on the chopping block if the operation resulted in anything less than success. Despite his superior’s hesitations, Milner had arranged for a detachment of soldiers to accompany him to cover any potential hostile repercussions from ‘misplaced frustrations.’ He struggled to recall how he justified it – something about a Benjamin Franklin quote about how people in the middle of fights got bloody noses? Nothing important at the moment. He was now in command of a hush-hush operation, simultaneously trying to mediate the trade of two opposing spies and recover their own in good shape. This wasn’t one of the days with an easy swap on the Glienicke; a lack of press coverage made it that much worse because neither side had to make themselves look good or avoid embarrassment on an international scale.
Milner rode in the second jeep with a varied mix of personnel: the driver was a captain with the MPs, riding shotgun was the CIA liaison, and next to Milner in the back was the KGB agent. Not much was known about the KGB fellow besides his name, which was Anatoliy Orlov, and the fact he had at one point been working for the CIA before his exposure as a Soviet double agent. To tell the truth, Orlov wasn’t worth much to the Americans until after the Soviet government managed to work out a trade with the Red Chinese. The Chinese would receive their man, Meino Drescher, from the Soviets and they’d drop off CIA informant Chun Slick; all as long as the Russians got Orlov back. The other jeep was the head of the convoy, mostly filled with extra hands that would prove useful in different situations: an Army sniper, a diplomatic translator, and a civilian lawyer. They served as mental insurance, people that Milner thought would be useful after reading reports on the Powers-Abel-Pryor exchange that had taken place nearly nine years ago. If there was one thing the Army had taught him, it was that in matters of state security, overkill is better than underkill.
The first stop came at the order of the border guards, who placed them under ‘temporary’ arrest until the convoy could be thoroughly searched. The CIA liaison repeatedly demanded to talk to their commanding officer alone so he could explain the trespassing charge, but it took some convincing from the major, the translator, and the threat of a court martialing to calm the liaison down. An American yelling to Czechoslovak troops in English would only confound the guards more and wouldn’t help anything progress. Looks like he wasn’t the only one with his reputation riding on the line. Milner attempted to present his Soviet crossing papers several times to no real avail. Shortly after giving up, however, the border troops let the convoy through unceremoniously but fairly quickly, something Milner attributed to the guards probably being notified of the diplomatic nature of the convoy despite the three truckfuls of armed military personnel. The diplomatic translator thanked the CIA man for his nonsensical efforts; on the other hand, Milner noted to himself to ensure the liaison stayed inside the damn jeep during the actual exchange.
“Some of you look more calm than others, I have noticed.” spoke Orlov, breaking the self-imposed silence in the car. His English was generally passable for a Russian, but considering he worked with the CIA, that was to be expected. The liaison begrudgingly thanked him for his compliment and muttered something about the Communists. Milner didn’t want to take the steam out of the CIA man’s sails, but he was pretty sure that had not been a compliment. Orlov didn’t attempt to socialize any further and remained quiet.
They were now inside Soviet territory. Wondering what enemy lands were like and wanting a change of view from an olive green car seat, the major looked out the miniscule jeep window. The Czechoslovakian grass was pristine; a sharp disparity from the multitudes of rough fencing and wire haphazardly erected, a tangible iron curtain draped across the landscape. Feeling a bit down, he might have even enjoyed the view if it weren’t marred by the occasional pothole and assorted body parts in the fields. Telltale signs of landmines and vigilant border guards. It reminded him of the conflict in the Second Indochina war that he had been gratefully lucky to get out alive – he had known too many people that never made it back. Milner tried to dedicate himself to keep the eastern front as bloodless as possible, but he got stuck with presentations of the border fortifications every now and then to the top brass. It wasn’t fulfilling. In fact, he was sure he hated it. It was, although, the least he could to remedy a long-broken promise. He was going to bring back their man.
Some minutes later, a halting screech indicated that the convoy had come to a full stop. Taking a quick stretch as he exited the vehicle, Milner cautiously took in his surroundings as he consulted a local map gleaned from various sources of intel. They had stopped by a set of railroad tracks, right outside of the main bulk of Aš where the exchange would take place; it was a good spot for their sniper that gave him a full view of the area. Central Aš was located at the fringe of the border area, but most of the town’s outskirts were empty ever since the Soviets had established the ‘forbidden zone’: no civilians were allowed to live there, under penalty of death. Convenient enough. He was joined by the army sniper – Lieutenant Garrett, an old friend of Milner’s – sensing that the major would probably need him.
“Garrett, can you set up in one of those windows? It should give us plenty of coverage.” Milner queried, pointing at a long-abandoned railroad station. The lieutenant lined up the view in his head, scoping out an unknown target for the kill.
“I can, Major, but the angle might not be the best with all these buildings in the way. There definitely are some good shots, sir, but I don’t think I can hit the Soviets or the Chinese from here.” Milner handed the Lieutenant a short-wave radio.
“That’s good enough. Report back if you see anything unusual. We want to keep the prisoner in the dark, so make sure to use the alternate frequency on this,” said Milner, pointing at their radios, “Else you’re going to broadcast to the convoy too. Meet us on the road after the trade’s over. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Alright, good luck then. See you in thirty.”
“Thank you, sir.” The major made his way back to the jeep as the Lieutenant scurried off to find the window with the best possible view. The convoy started up again before taking Karlova 19, the street that would eventually hit the roundabout where the trade would take place. There were less than 10 minutes before the Soviets and the Chinese were scheduled to arrive, giving the Americans just enough time to prepare.
It was the major’s original idea to use a discarded side street to park the convoy, but he soon learned that a slip-up in intelligence rendered the street too short and therefore unusable. He quickly transitioned to his backup plan: to use the roundabout to park the convoy facing away from the designated point so it would be a lot easier to get the hell out of there. No matter how the exchange went, he didn’t want to spend any extra time lollygagging around in occupied Czechoslovakia; that’s when the Soviets would spring you for trespassing, diplomatic mission or not. Since you were on their turf, you had essentially no defense against whatever charges they felt like hitting you with. Stepping out of the jeep, Major Milner brought the translator and the lawyer with him to the intersection of the roundabout and Karlova 19, instructing them to remain there as he prepared the rest. He proceeded to run through every flatbed truck, commanding the soldiers to fully load their M16A1 rifles, to take up preliminary defensive positions on the road, and to make it plain how many soldiers there were. One of the worst things that someone could do in an exchange is to make it look like an ambush was going to occur – especially when you arrived and set up first.
The Soviets got there next in the usual showy form of their military convoys, followed by the Chinese’s own smaller one not too long after; all three countries taking three different streets connecting to the roundabout in a sort of geographical Mexican standoff, and everyone had come to play ball. Mostly, Milner was surprised the Russians had even accepted to deal with the Chinese, considering the Sino-Soviet split and the miniature border skirmishes that happened over there. If anything, they were definitely on a short leash until the ordeal was completed. Something had upset the Soviets, however, since they arrived yelling and nearly about to blow the head off of the PLA spy, Drescher. Neither Major Milner nor the Chinese nor even some of the Soviets were really sure what had pissed off the Soviet Polkovnik (as explained by the translator to be the equivalent of a colonel) enough to come out already ready to throw diplomacy out the window, but it seemed like everyone that day woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Milner’s next plan of action was to send the translator and lawyer into the center of the roundabout – to initiate negotiations – with specific instructions: he wanted to know the names of his Soviet and Chinese counterparts and the condition of both of their spies. He figured that tactic would not only make him look invested in the negotiations going well but also get the Polkovnik to stop tossing around Drescher because the Americans, who had the Russian one, had a vested interest in Drescher’s well-being. Running back and forth to drop off snippets of conversations, the American delegates returned with most of the asked-for information after conversing with the other parties’; the big three on the block were Major Milner, Polkovnik Kuznetzov, and Colonel Cho. Drescher was doing alright. The Chinese refused to divulge the condition of the American, Slick, until the Soviets promised to untie Drescher, which in turn wasn’t going to happen until Milner let them see their KGB man, Orlov. Milner figured that the negotiations would be very roundabout (and how fitting, he thought), so he escorted Orlov to a position where both sides could see him, but not the major’s Colt M1911A1 pistol jammed in his back. A voice from behind him startled Milner to the point where he nearly shot the prisoner; he replaced the pistol back in the holster and turned around.
“Major Milner? The, uh, the Soviet corporal wants to speak. W-with you. He extended that request to the- the Chinese corporal as well.” The diplomatic translator. Of course.
“Does he want to do so personally or professionally? It’s highly unusual for a Polkovnik to attempt conducting the actual trade himself. I’d like to know what he’s planning for us.” Milner glanced at the KGB fellow, hoping to detect a semblance of an ulterior plan; but if there even was any, it slid off of Orlov’s cool-as-ice persona. Damn, the exchange was going to be even harder than he envisioned prior to getting there.
“I wasn’t exactly informed on why, Major, but I can go and ask him if you want?”
“No. I’ll acquiesce this round. Stay here and make sure Orlov doesn’t try any funny business.” Milner ordered the translator. “And you,” – Milner pointed at a lone officer – “come with me. I’m going to need a little backup.”
The roundabout’s island was an awfully well-kept mound of grass for a no-name traffic circle in a Soviet problem city. Why it was picked, the major would never know, but sometimes the most extraordinary things happened in the most mundane places. Milner and the soldier got to the island first. The Chinese and the Soviets shortly followed suit.
“I am Polkovnik Kuznetsov, as you probably have been informed.” He spoke English well, for a Soviet.
“Colonel Cho.”
“I’m Major Milner, US Army intelligence. Nice to meet you.” A pause. What was the matter?
“I have a proposition. We move back to the edge of the roundabout,” Kuznetsov suggested, “and we send our people to the center. Once everyone is there, they may return to their original countries and we exchange goodbyes.”
“Sounds acceptable to me.”
“That is allowable.” Colonel Cho signaled to one of his soldiers, who curtly brought Chun Slick to the island. Easy enough, smooth like butter, Milner thought. He motioned to the CIA liaison, who was speaking to Orlov in the jeep. The liaison brought him out and to the edge of the roundabout. An army soldier tried to search Orlov, but the CIA liaison dismissed him, having checked the spy beforehand. He insinuated it was alright, even at the soldier’s insistence for protocol. Milner called off the soldier and let Orlov walk himself to the island. Kuznetsov and Orlov conversed quickly before the Chinese spy, Drescher, ran to the center of the island. All three commanders slowly made their way back to their convoys, ready for the trade to pan out. Things were going amazing. Nothing had gone wrong so far, and all three countries were playing nice.
The initial feeling of cooperation was shattered by two gunshots. Drescher fell first, violently, followed by Slick hitting the ground. Orlov stood over the deceased, a double derringer in his outstretched arm. Confusion ran through everyone’s veins until the hard shock of what had just transpired hit them with the force of a nuclear blast. The exchange had gone irrevocably bad. Major Milner was the first to the island again, paying little attention to the retreating Orlov. Slick had been hit in the chest, but Drescher was missing a sizable portion of his scalp, crimson blood and brain matter scattered on the street.
“Get me the goddamn medic! Now!” screamed Milner, cries filling the town with a hint of despair. Approximately eleven American soldiers sprinted forward, rifles pointed at any of the Russian and Chinese personnel that moved, covering the combat medic and another soldier as they dragged Slick’s corpse away. Milner pulled out his Colt and leveled it at the Soviet side.
“Goddammit, Kuznetsov! I’m not going to make this easy: give Orlov to us, or we go back and this entire fiasco goes on Nixon’s desk. And you’d believe me when I say this; Brezhnev won’t be fuckin’ pleased when it’s your name on the report.” Angry Chinese yelling to Milner’s right confirmed that they would be pursuing a similar avenue of vengeance. Half of the Soviets still had no clue what was going on, and the rest were shouting at each other. Polkovnik Kuznetzov was arguing with Anatoliy Orlov, fragments of their conversation barely understandable. Milner barely caught something about being issued orders or the like before Colonel Cho stood by him with his Norinco handgun, pointed directly at the Polkovnik. Cho issued his own ultimatum: he wanted Orlov as well. Probably for torture – or deservedly worse, Milner thought. Obviously, it was not long before Kuznetsov pulled out his own Makarov in response.
The third gunshot of the day was a period appended to the end of everything that had led up to it. Orlov crumpled on the pavement, blood slowly seeping out on the street. Kuznetzov had done the unthinkable and equalized the score; he summarily executed Anatoliy Orlov to preserve the peace.
“Is that good enough for you? Do not ask me for more, because I cannot give more. Take the bodies back with you. It is the least I can do. Goodbye, comrades.” replied Kuznetsov to the unanswered question hanging on everyone’s mouths. Diplomatically retreating, the Soviets left first, quietly, with only a hint of the showiness they arrived with. Orlov was left on the road. He almost felt sorry for him, discarded like a paper tissue. The Chinese were next, having picked up as much as they could of Drescher. Milner was sure he was going to an honorable burial. So much work done for their country, so much to go through before an unceremonious end. Last but not least, the Americans left fast – but not fast enough to attract any undue suspicion to themselves. After all, they had just pulled off the boldest operation of the entire Cold War.
“Are we clear yet, Major?” asked Chun Slick, opening his eyes to the congratulatory smiles of everyone in the jeep.
“We’re clear, alright. Good work, everyone.”
“I’m glad it worked alright, Milner. I thought you were a crazy sonuvabitch, ya know?” the CIA liaison added.
“Never expected us to arm a Soviet spy. Even with one live and one blank round. Damn risky, you know?” continued the liaison. Major Milner smiled a genuine puppy dog smile, beaming at how well it went, before realizing that two men had suffered from the American’s plans. They might have been enemy spies, but they deserved that fate no more than his men. Nonetheless, he counted that day as a victory for himself: he not only got their spy back, but they also destroyed any semblance of Sino-Soviet relations. Additionally, they had somewhat bolstered the reputation of their undercover man, Kuznetsov. He would be known as a loyal Soviet who would keep the peace above all. Milner was sure that the incident would eventually scale its way to the top. The Americans had been proved trustworthy to the Chinese; possibly Sino-American relations in the next year? No one in that convoy would know for sure.
Satisfied, the major reclined back in his chair and hummed the first few refrains of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” And he was proud, because he finally kept his long-broken promise: he brought Johnny home.
