Scott A. Meehan's Blog, page 11

Everybody Wants To Rule The World: Part 2-Invisible Letters

Conducting “spy” business was straightforward. There was no other person in the apartment, relieving me of the apprehension I felt about an enticing female agent appearing at any moment leaving me in an awful predicament. I was warned about such measures in prior briefings with the Americans.

More than half way through my drink, I did not feel any sleepier, so I must not have been drugged. I heard about that also but couldn’t remember if that fact was from a novel. Alex was quite cordial and simply wanted me to understand the method of our future communication.

I was intrigued when he pulled out a peculiar looking pen, several pre-written letters in German, (international envelopes addressed from a German girl to another German girl in East Berlin), a book, and a set of instructions on a thin piece of microfilm. Sergi laid the materials down in front of me on a large coffee table. Then he explained what each item was and the proper procedure to use them. The whole idea was to send messages from the US on back of the pre-written letters between two college-aged girls in invisible ink! Are they serious, I wondered? I thought that this kind of stuff was only in novels and movies.

Alex and Sergi were quite serious. They had me practice writing with my hand resting on the hard cover book. In no way was I to touch any part of the paper. I jotted some words down, what they told me to, and Sergi then disappeared to another room for a few moments.

It was then that I nervously asked Alex if the three of us were alone and if I would be going back to West Berlin that evening. “Of course we are alone, and yes you will go back to your hotel, Alex answered. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. I did not know how to answer so I sheepishly asked, “These girls in the letters are not real, right?”

“No, we would not do anything like that to you!” Alex seemed hurt and puzzled by my question. Then I was further embarrassed when he added, “Trena is a good lady. You need to keep her.”

I quickly replied, “Yes! I am glad these girls are not real!”

Alex smiled and seemed satisfied with my reply. Before the conversation could go any further, Sergi returned and said something to Alex in Russian. Alex told me that I needed to write again but to press down harder with the pen. So I went through the process a second time and Sergi quickly disappeared to a back room where he had gone before.

Alex spoke first and laid out the plan for the next day in East Berlin. He talked excitedly about the museums we would visit and the restaurant he wanted to take me to afterwards for dinner. He wanted to, as he said, ”enjoy our moment together, just like “old times.”

I remembered all the vodka he ordered during our first meeting in 1986. He had a shot as an appetizer and then one with his salad, his dinner, his dessert, and after-dessert coffee. He also needed an extra one to put into his coffee. Of course, I was to join him with each. That made for an interesting afternoon trying to get back into the West side through Checkpoint Charley.

Fortunately, two plainclothes young men in long overcoats directed me through the MP guard to a parking lot. While one of them looked through the front of my car, the other, a 5 ft. 11 man with short cropped blond hair, had me open my trunk and while briefly looking inside, said, “How did everything go?”

The reason for this visit, more than a year later and after I got out of the Army (the first time), was to reestablish contact and to begin this new communication method. Alex also wanted to check on my progress of becoming an officer in the military intelligence field. At the time, I could only tell him that I was successful in getting into a ROTC program, which was an officer training corps at the university level. He understood.

Sergi emerged again, this time with a smile, thumbs up and a “Да!” Alex smiled also.

“Okay, you are ready my friend. Let’s get you back to the train so you can go back to the hotel. You must be tired.”

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

The three of us left the apartment, entered the Lada Samara, and then sped off into the snowy night, back to the train station. Alex walked with me up the platform steps past the fewer Russian guards and waited for the S-Bhan train until it clattered to a halt. After reminding me of our same meeting place on Friedrichstraße and set time for the next morning, I boarded the rear car and headed back to the west, trying not to look too conspicuous. Mentally, I sensed the staring eyes from the other passengers as if I had an American flag sewn on my jacket, which of course I did not for the obvious reasons.

As the train rambled down the tracks, the song by Tears for Fears, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” came to mind.

Welcome to your life

There’s no turning back

Even while we sleep

We will find you

Acting on your best behavior

Turn your back on mother nature

Everybody wants to rule the world

I stopped often on my way back to the hotel, acting like I was interested in my surroundings, like a tourist. Inside of me, I felt little paranoid so in reality, I was attempting to detect any particular individual who appeared to be watching or following me.

Sheer relief swept over me when I arrived back to the hotel without incident. The first time all night I could breathe normal. One more thing I needed to do before calling it a night. I prayed, thanking God, pulled out a brand new Bible that I brought over with me, and wrote some inspiring verses in the front blank portion. Then, I finally turned off the lights and fell right to sleep.

(To be continued)

Everybody wants To Rule The World: Part 1-Playing Dozor

Dozor (Russian: Дозор, Watch) is a Russian code breaking/geolocation game played at night in an urban environment.

One wintery night in West Berlin, my breath in front of me was like a puff of smoke as it hit the cold, icy air. It was in December, 1987. I was waiting to meet my contact, who I will call Alex, on Friedrichstraße, a shopping district in West Berlin. I was to wait in front of a previously designated spot in front of a cathedral. Alex, in his early forties, and I met at Checkpoint Bravo more than a year earlier.

In August of 1986, I was approached by Alex at Checkpoint Bravo while attempting to travel to the west. After numerous attempts to encourage a future meeting in East Berlin, I finally took down the information he gave me with the intention of reporting the encounter to the U.S. Intelligence community, which I did the following day.

After a long, drawn out session with American intelligence officers to provide all the facts, they offered me a proposal, asking if I would go ahead with the meeting in East Berlin then report back everything that the Russian had in mind. At first, I felt unsure about the idea but went along with their suggestion, feeling that if nothing else, it was my patriotic duty. I met with the Russian on the prearranged day and on several more occasions thereafter. These series of meeting lasted several months, until the time I left the Army for college in March of 1987.

Nine months later while attending college with the support of another U.S. agency, I was sent back to Berlin, alone, to continue these monitored meetings. The moment had arrived; I left my hotel, and walked through the blistering cold arriving at the designated entrance. I was standing alone while throngs of people milled about the sidewalks, stopping now and then at the wooden shacks along the Kurfürstendamm to purchase Christmas items or to sip the warm tingling Gluvine.

Glancing at my watch, I noticed being a bit early. I headed down the walkway looking for a stand selling Gluvine, finding one not far away. I purchased the hot liquid and after a few sips felt five degrees warmer. When finished, I headed back towards the church. On my way back, I spotted Alex in the street, standing behind one of the vendor stands. He stood 5ft 8 and was stocky, but not what I would consider obese. His hair, covered by a military style Ushanka hat, was thick and black, styled-cut nicely. His eyes were dark as he squinted, but his genial smile kept him from looking too sinister. Alex was looking in the direction where I was supposed to be standing and seemed to be a bit fidgety. I approached him slowly and without trying to startle him in any way; I touched him gently on his shoulder and said, “Hello my friend.”

Alex flinched nonetheless but in a composed manner simply stated, “Follow me and do not stop.” We walked briskly through the crowds to the Friedrichstraße station, a western transfer point between several S-Bahn lines located in East Berlin territory. Although western passengers could walk from one platform to another without ever leaving the station or needing to show papers, I was not permitted to be anywhere near there when I was assigned to the Berlin Brigade as an enlisted medic from 1984 through March of 1987. TAt this moment, I first realized that I would be going into “no-man’s land” on my own. Until then, I was under the impression that my meetings would be in the friendly territory of West Berlin. 

Alex did not speak to me until we were on the east side, then he gave me a friendly welcome, asking me how I’ve been and how my wife, Trena, was doing. They met briefly in October of 1986 during a pre-arranged dinner along with Alex’s wife. No business was discussed while on the train and when we came to one of the stops, he said, “This is where we get off, just stay close to me and don’t say anything.” Feeling a little anxious, I gladly obliged.

We walked onto an icy, snowy platform with many people still milling about and headed straight towards the station. I followed him quickly down the concrete steps and was confronted by several Russian guards. Perhaps sensing my nervousness, Alex quickly spoke to them in a commanding, yet pleasant voice; they said something back, sounding much like a greeting or acknowledgment. They were all smiling, a couple laughing nervously.

I continued to follow Alex outside to an awaiting car, which appeared to be a new mid-engine, Lada Samara, which at the time was only sold in Russia or to agencies for use as a pursuit vehicle. Most likely, it was turbocharged with a 16-valve 300 hp engine. Bleak darkness was my first impression of this section of East Berlin outside the station. I had been traveling—without much sleep—for about thirty hours from Florida to London to Berlin.

A man sporting glasses and the same type of hat that Alex was wearing waited with the car engine running. He appeared to be a slight bit younger than Alex but was taller at 6ft 1. We quickly entered the car and sped off into the night. I had no idea where I was exactly. We turned onto streets that were narrow, surrounded on both sides by looming sentinel walls of brown and gray stone dilapidated buildings. The driver took the most obscure back roads possible to reach our destination…unknown. I did not see the familiar bustling, modern buildings surrounding Alexanderplatz anywhere. The portion of East Berlin that I was being rushed through was dark and dreary where cars and electricity seem like a pretense. The night seemed darker than before; the absence of light giving away to a massive black hole.

Far from the steel structures of Potsdamer Platz, I was in the tumultuous, distinct neighborhood consisting of abandoned buildings, derelict streets, piles of rubble and buildings reminiscent of World War II. None of the street corners contained the characteristic Ampelmannchen on the pedestrian traffic lights. There was a dark-toned clammy atmosphere to these chilly dark streets.

Combined with the drive in darkness, there was an increasing dense fog creeping in like a damp blanket. Intermittent street lamps cast dim lights between street crossings onto the wet streets. The tires rolled over cobblestones as we continued to pass narrow dank alleys and gothic stone buildings. The streets were eerily quiet. The sky was pitch black, releasing sleet mixed with snow, and I tried not to shiver, even while traveling in a comfortably heated car. The rhythmic beating of windshield wipers drummed in my ears.

Our ride had been totally void of human contact until the monotony was suddenly changed by the appearance of headlights shining closer and closer behind us. This new sign of life immediately captured the undivided attention of both the driver and Alex. Not appearing to be too rattled, the two men conversed in Russian and the driver took rapid and evasive driving techniques through the slippery, narrow streets. Startled, I asked if everything was okay. My friend assured me that it would be fine, very soon. I tried not to appear too alarmed.

He was right. After a few quick maneuvers, we lost sight of the vehicle, an expected outcome when matching a Lada Samara against an East German Trabant, built with Duroplast, a durable form of plastic containing resin strengthened by recycled wool or cotton. These cars were fueled by lifting the hood and filling a six gallon gas tank which then had to be mixed with two-stroke oil.

We finally arrived to our destination and emerged from the darkness back into civilization. A series of low-rise apartments surrounded us; it seemed that we were near the Karl Marx Allee area, but I was uncertain. A rusty iron fence surrounded the small park beside the apartment complex where the play area was deserted, broken, and covered partially with snow. The sky was still dark and overcast.

When I got out of the car, I immediately felt the cool, brisk, wintery winds pounding at my face. Snow flurries spun and danced around us as if led by a spirit. Before me stood a ten-story building, fronted with glass doors. Alex introduced me to Sergi, the driver. The three of us scurried up the steps to the glass-door entrance. As I battled my way towards the entrance, my cheeks and ears were slowly turning red and beginning to feel a little numb. Once inside, we took an old elevator to the ninth floor. The elevator bell rang as it stopped; the doors slowly opened.

We walked straight to a door which Sergi unlocked and opened with a creak. Darkness filled the room until Sergi flipped on the light switch, which revealed a modest décor that impressed, but did not surprise me. I glanced out the front window as we passed a small corridor towards the living room. Outside, the trees bent in submission to the howling wind.

The ceilings were plain and the rooms contained what I pictured to be a normal amount of windows and doors by American standards. The walls were not cracked but seemed freshly painted and clean. There were no broken light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, but instead the complex was brightly lit with modern lamps and lampshades. I wondered if there was anybody else hiding somewhere in the apartment.

Alex asked me kindly to have a seat in one of the comfortable sofas and offered me some refreshments. I asked for something to drink and he had Sergi bring me a coke. We continued small talk until Sergi brought my drink and then sat down. We began discussing the nature of our business. With a closer look of Sergi, I noticed that he had light brown, thin wispy hair. It was clear who would be leading the discussions. My friend, Alex, no doubt was in charge of the mission.

I secretly wondered if I had fallen into a trap and was completely cut off from my world; isolated. The setting was awkward for me but I tried my best to remain cool, attentive, and interested. Alex was jovial and light-hearted from the time we met at the Ku’damm, just as I remembered him to be. I did not feel threatened, fearful or uneasy but I did feel a bit apprehensive, cautious, and watchful.

(To be continued)

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Mark the place

“The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftmanship (Psalm 19:1).”

After several minutes of trudging along the soft damp forest ground layered with twigs, pine nedles and fallen autumn colored leaves, I released the straps of my 50-pound ruck sack, and let it fall at my feet. Then, I plopped myself down against the trunk of a large tree, nearly pitch black in the dark of the night. The surrounding trees on this hilltop still whispered against the evening’s cool wind. The dew began to settle beneath the night sky.

Despite the low-50 degree, and dropping, temperature, I wiped the sweat from my brow after tilting my patrol soft-cap slightly upwards from my eyes. Sitting there was soothing and calm. I reached for my canteen and took a swig of iodine-laced water as droplets ran down my chin. I did not feel alone but I was, physically anyway. The silhouetted stick figures were just that, tree branches and limbs protruding from the ground, some of which were swaying back and forth. It was a rare tranquil moment for me.

Earlier in the day, I found the appropriate landmarks within the allotted time that was necessary to successfully complete the Special Forces Land Navigation course. I needed to find four points during the daylight hours, at a distance stretching several kilometers over woodland terrain. Not long after arriving back to the base camp, the golden rays of sunlight that arrayed its light through the cerulean blue sky to the verdant hues in variegated shades on the Carolinian floor, faded quickly to the graying dusk. The next task was to find two distinct landmarks at night, one of which led me to my current serenity.

The coal-colored sky provided a backdrop of light; light that sparkled like diamonds against clear endless space. The constellation struck me as pure, intangible, and idyllic. I felt like a part of the created cosmos, a small speck in the mass, twinkling, and infinite universe. The intake was calm and mysterious, something to take in depth and slowly; a moment to ponder.

I had a task on hand, however, and based on my calculations, time was slipping away. I was confident about being at the right location, a lone hill top surrounded by flatland, slopes, and draws. The trouble was that I circled this high point for too long without spotting the sharp metallic white-painted post that would give me the correct code number and the 8-digit grid coordinates to my next location. Without this information, I was a fish out of water and would not pass the Land Navigation course.

I quietly prayed, referring to the third chapter of Proverbs concerning trusting completely in God. The verses also said to acknowledge the creator in everything. This seemed like as good a time as any. After finishing with my prayer, I noticed something that I hadn’t seen before. Amongst the curved and twisted protruding silhouetted branches and small trees, there in the midst was a small rigid limb without any bends, standing straight up towards the heavens. With my eyes fixated on this peculiar object, I slowly crawled over to find with much delight, the metal post with the key data I was looking for.

Once I obtained all the information I needed, I hefted the ruck sack over my back and adjusted the straps tightly. When I stood to look at the post, I could not see it because it blended into the black ground. It was only when I viewed my situation from an entirely different perspective (ground up) looking out into the starry sky, could I have seen the marker. I glanced one more time at the serene sky. Thank you, Lord! Then I scurried down the hill top towards my next destination.

“Mark the place where God has spoken (Genesis 35:14).”

~SaM~

Clarity

When my first Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF) tour was complete in May of 2004, I went through all the robotic motions necessary to process out of Iraq followed by the same hum drum procedures leaving Kuwait days later. Leaving Kuwait was more annoying because we had to put up with a few screaming MP’s who thought that they were still at boot camp or took personal the fact that we were actually leaving a war zone while they were coming unglued in Kuwait.

Once aboard the chartered aircraft that would take me home, I exchanged greetings with the smiling flight attendant. Moving down the aisle, I scanned the seats for an empty one, away from the crowd. The jet’s AC unit must have been running on high because there was a chill in the air that had the whole interior cold. I spotted the seat I wanted and proceeded to throw my gear into the overhead compartment. Others were sure to join me soon enough. Everybody wanted to go home. Why not? We did our time. Assuming we were all thinking on the same wavelength, none of us ever wanted to return to that Godforsaken place again.

John Mayer’s, “Clarity” was playing over the intercom. How fitting indeed.

…I worry, I throw my fear around

But this morning, there’s a calm I can’t explain

The rock candy’s melted, only diamonds now remain…

More weary soldiers continued to pile into the aircraft lugging their carry-on ruck-sacks. I reached for the headphones and placed them over my head.

…By the time I recognize this moment, this moment will be gone

But I will bend the light pretending, that it somehow lingered on

And I will wait to find if this will last forever

And I will wait to find, that it won’t and it won’t because it can’t

It just can’t, (It’s not supposed to)…

When I finally get to the other side, hours later, my wife of 21 years will be waiting for me! My son and daughter will be there also! I smiled at the thought. I can’t wait to see them again. It was a long year. Too long.

…Was there a second of time I looked around?

Did I sail through or just drop my anchor down?

Was anything enough to kiss the ground?

And say I’m here now…

Once the soldiers settled in, one of the flight attendants gave the safety instructions over the intercom while the plane moved slowly into position for takeoff. After a few idling minutes, we lurched forward and quickly gathered the speed needed for liftoff until we were airborne. Jethro Bodine once made the statement on Beverly Hillbillies, “Uncle Jed, if this thing gets going any faster we will be flying off the ground.” This revelation was during his first flight in a plane when he thought he was on a fast bus.

Airborne; yes, I remember it well. I earned those silver wings after completing five jumps at Fort Benning, Georgia during the record-setting temperatures and miserable hot summer of 1980.

One of those jumps was a night jump. That is when, for a brief second or two, I thought life here on earth was finished for me. The night was darker than I thought it would be once I exited the aircraft. I was mesmerized by the night lights over the horizon. Suddenly, I noticed a canopy (parachute) looming large out of the corner of my left eye. I tucked myself into a tight body position and tugged hard at my right main risers to pull away from the approaching jumper, praying hard to avoid a mid-air collision.

Too late! I felt solid impact racing across my left side from lower leg to upper shoulder. I was now facing skyward with my feet in front of my nose. I’m rolling over his chute in mid-air! Just when I expected to see a new paradise, I noticed that my arms were joyfully jumping up and down on the ground, where I found myself lying safely on the ground.

I had just completed a dynamic Point of landing fall (PLF) and did not realize it at the time. In the excitement of avoiding a collision (so I thought), I did not even feel my feet hit the ground.

…How ’bout you? And I will wait to find

If this will last forever. And I will pay no mind

When it won’t and it won’t because it won’t…</

I closed my eyes. I just want to get home again! By the time I recognize this moment, this moment will be gone

~SaM~

Stone in a Sling: A Soldier’s Journey

The author, Major (Ret.) Scott Meehan served in three combat tours (Desert Storm and twice during OIF) as a Military Intelligence and Acquisition officer. His military career spanned 25 years (1980-2005) that included seven years as an enlisted Combat Medic. A Bronze Star recipient for actions in Iraq, Scott retired with honors in 2005. He is currently completing his doctoral dissertation in Organizational Management.

Stone in a Sling: A Soldier’s Journey

“This is a great story about one of our nation’s best. This book gives an inside look of a soldier’s military life and family life. It dives deep into Scott’s family, personal and spiritual struggles that he went through during his life. A gripping true story that will have you coming back for more.”

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Stone in a Sling: A Soldier’s Journey

“A gaping hole across the front of the building opened to the gathering crowd standing in the glass-shattered streets of Bogota. Among the Colombians, a young American girl, about 14, stood in terror, her wide blue eyes dazed at the carnage before her.”    (CHP. 1~Stone in A Sling: A Soldier’s Journey~)