Where the Cold Dark Waters Flow: A Milo Powell Novel

By T.W. Person

The term cold dark waters refers to the secret information passed on and exchanged among the extremely rich and powerful at the annual Bilderberger meetings in Europe and North America. As the Russians are mostly left out of these world strategy meetings, they attempt to ascertain what that information is and block its implementation. While trying to find out what the Russkijs are doing and how they are doing it, a retired private detective and former NSA analyst discover unexpected and dangerous pursuits undertaken by former Soviets in the Washington D.C. area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514431733

T.W. Person

T.W. Person is a retired private investigator and veteran of the Top Secret USAF Russian Voice Intercept program during the Cold War. His personal insights and experiences contribute to the content of his novels and serve as inspiration for his stories. He has received awards for his Cold War efforts as well as being presented with the Investigator of the Year award in 2013.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

After World War II, the alliance which had been formed between the U.S.S.R. and the West began to crumble. The Soviets and Joseph Stalin maintained and rekindled their goal of Communist world domination. Atomic secrets were leaked and the arms race began.

Fear and trepidation reigned in the United States. School children were taught to ‘duck and cover’ in the event of an atomic attack during classes. American citizens built bomb shelters in their basements and back yards. Bombers armed with nuclear weapons were in the air twenty-four hours a day.

In 1960 a Soviet surface-to-air missile downed an American U-2 spy plane piloted over Russia by Francis Gary Powers. Dictator Fidel Castro took control of the island of Cuba and linked up with the Soviets, putting a Communist country within missile range of the U.S. All trust between Soviet and Western leaders had disintegrated.

In October of 1962, the United States and President John F. Kennedy backed down Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev in his efforts to fortify the island of Cuba with nuclear missiles. The Soviet Navy was on its way back to the U.S.S.R. and a World War III near-miss was over; but the eighteen-year-old Cold War was in escalation mode and would last another thirty years.

Three months after the Cuban Missile Crisis and twelve hundred miles apart, two young Americans joined the U.S. Air Force and their lives began a four-year parallel course versus the Soviet Air Force as Russian Linguists. During that time, the two of them developed an unbreakable bond which continued for decades and outlasted the Soviet Union and its Communist government.

These military experiences and the friendship they found had a profound effect on their future and led them into careers many people only dream about.

PART ONE

THE BACKGROUND

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ONE

The Iowa weather in January was cold. Temperatures had sunk to sixteen below zero. Frankie Bristow stood near-naked in a line which circumvented the center of a large room on the second floor of Building A-24 at Fort Des Moines. Thirty-two young men who were being processed into various branches of the service felt the chill through the red brick exterior of the antiquated military structure.

Turn around and face the wall, came the command. Bend over and spread your cheeks.

The line obeyed as doctors checked each of the recruits for hemorrhoids. Bristow hoped this wasn’t a sign of things to come in the service. He was on his way to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio to begin a four-year hitch in the Air Force and wasn’t used to this way of doing things. I s’pose we all look pretty much the same from that angle, he thought to himself.

After the physical exams were over, he and the others got dressed and reported for their vision and hearing tests at another room in Building A-24. Another line. They were tested with the normal eye charts and for peripheral vision, then for color blindness. As far as he knew, things were going well with his processing and there would be no hang-ups. That is, until he got to his hearing test.

At the hearing test center, he had to sit down in a leather chair with a headset on and a push-button device in one hand. As a sound tone was introduced into the headsets and gradually got louder, he was to push the button the moment he heard it. He could hear it in one ear or the other and sometimes both. After a short series of button pushes, the technician came over to Bristow and pulled the headsets off his left ear.

You’re cheating, he said. Nobody’s got hearing that good. He flipped the headset back onto Bristow’s ear and walked back into his booth.

The test continued. Frankie Bristow kept pushing the button. The tech came over to him again and told him to take off his headset.

I don’t know what you’re doing, but somehow you’re beating this test, he said. Here, take this. He put a second button in Frankie’s other hand.

Put your headset back on and when you hear a noise in your left ear, push the button in your left hand. The same for your right, said the tech as he went again back into his booth.

Frankie pushed more buttons again and again, left and right, right and left. Finally, the tech came out of the booth and hollered Next! as he gave Frankie a dirty look but said nothing. It wasn’t evident at the time, but that exercise had demonstrated an exceptional attribute which Frankie Bristow possessed. With it, he would do well in his four-year career as an airman.

After all the tests were done, Frankie and seven others were sent to a small room downstairs. A soldier came in and handed a large yellow envelope to Frankie. The flap was sealed and Scotch-taped.

You’re in charge, Bristow, he said. Hang on to this. It’s important. It’s got all eight of you people’s records in it. Give it to them at Lackland.

After a stopover in Kansas City, the four-engine DC-7 landed at San Antonio airport. Bristow looked out from his window seat as the plane taxied toward the terminal and stopped. He watched the two propellers on the right wing slow, then abruptly come to a stop in puffs of black smoke. He could see a large dark blue bus waiting on the tarmac. Looking down at the envelope in his lap, Frankie wondered what might lie in store for him.

TWO

Frankie Bristow had been made squad leader and things were going well in Basic Training. As a squad leader he was exempted from K.P. duty which meant while the other fifty-nine guys in his flight were washing dishes and peeling potatoes he was back guarding the barracks for Airman First Class Klinkhammer.

A1C Klinkhammer was a slender, straight-laced Training Instructor whose fatigue uniform looked like it had been around a long time and was held together by starch. Klinkhammer wore a Ridgeway fatigue cap from the fifties named after General Matthew Ridgeway. It was flat on top and resembled a kitchen pan turned upside down. Airman Klinkhammer was a GI’s GI. If you hadn’t shaved properly or the front of your uniform shirt didn’t line up exactly with the zipper flap on your trousers, he promised to ‘do a dick-dance on your chest’ if you didn’t straighten up.

Early one morning, Airman Klinkhammer came to Bristow and told him he needed to report across the base at the testing building by 9 o’clock. Bristow was allowed to skip out of drill that morning and walk over to the test center alone. That was the first time in weeks he had done anything by himself. Even when you went to the john in Basic, it was a team effort. No stalls in the toilets, just commodes lined up on the wall next to each other. Everybody went to bed at the same time, got up at the same time, ate at the same time and showered at the same time. You marched together everywhere you went. And with your GI haircut, everybody looked pretty much the same. You were all part of the team.

At the testing center Bristow was led into a large room with desks that looked like those he remembered from high school. He had attended Grand View Junior College for one year on an academic scholarship, but dropped out and took a job working construction. When he was thinking about joining up, his recruiter told him he would most likely be able to come back home and return to college after basic training as part of a special program. That didn’t sound so bad. Surprisingly, it turned out to be partially true.

Bristow was in this testing room because he had scored in the 97th percentile on his enlistment aptitude tests. Although he didn’t know it at the time, he was here for the Air Force to determine whether he was capable of learning a foreign language.

The test involved a man-made language in which certain sounds or words corresponded to certain things in English. You had to read and listen and try to understand what was said. The tests took over three hours after which he was told to return to his barracks. That was it.

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Phase II of Basic meant you were moved to a different part of the base and put together with a new group of Airman Basics. The atmosphere eased some and there were no longer guys crying in their bunks at night. They still had what seemed like impossible inspections, and the PE training had progressed past what Bristow would have been able to accomplish in the earlier weeks. Three full meals every day along with running five miles in brogans and going to bed at nine o’clock had produced an additional fifteen pounds, yet left his waist the same thirty-four inches it was when he enlisted.

Among many other things, the GI inspections included daily checks of footlockers and three-piece razors. The razors came apart for cleaning, but washing and rinsing all three parts every night before bed became extremely tedious – and everybody shaved every night whether they needed it or not. Bristow and two of his buddies purchased an extra razor at the Base Exchange and each of them kept one piece in his back pocket during the day. They assembled it in the evening for S.S.S. time Shave, Shower, Shine, and took turns using one razor blade from each of their kits. Their razors all stayed like new in their footlockers. They also bought a deck of playing cards (which were forbidden and there was no place to store them). Each one of them kept a third of the cards in his fatigue shirt pocket. The eighteen cards were flat so they were virtually undetectable by the T.I.’s.

Airmen were required to keep their shirt pockets buttoned at all times. It really seemed silly to have pockets and maintain them but not be allowed to put anything in them. Bristow finally cut off the button on the left shirt pocket of his fatigues and used his sewing kit to sew the button on the outside of the flap which covered the pocket so it was accessible but looked buttoned all the time.

Basic Training continued until the eight weeks were nearly up. By this time, most of the recruits were squared away enough to be put out into the Air Force community to either work or go to some sort of tech school. At a meeting of all sixty Airmen Basics in the flight, it was announced who would be going where. When it came to Frankie Bristow, the T.I. said, Bristow, you’ll be staying here on casual status.

As far as career field assignments go, the needs of the Air Force came first. That meant no matter what qualifications you may have had, if they happened to be needing cooks, you became a cook. If they needed clerks, you would become a clerk. Bristow did not know what the Air Force needs might be as far as he was concerned, but knew he was spending time on casual status until a class of some sort opened up for him in April.

Casual status meant you were sort of on your own, but had to report each morning for detail duty. Sometimes you had to pick up cigarette butts, sometimes you raked the grass or helped with some boring administrative duty. To get out of these details, Airman Third Class Frankie Bristow took more tests. He found out if you took certain tests, it could exempt you from detail duty for at least part of that day.

Some of the tests were maybe beneficial, but most didn’t have much effect on Bristow’s life or career in any way. There was one called the Kuder Preference Test which was supposed to indicate what your likes and abilities were as they pertained to employment or work. But, Bristow’s Kuder Preference Test came back inconclusive. So he took some more tests to determine why.

Finally, Bristow got orders to report on April 1, 1963, to take part in the East European Language Program at a place called Skytop in Syracuse, New York. He was allowed ten days to get there and could travel civilian status to do it. That meant he could go home for a few days on the way. Most of his eighty-five-dollar-a-month salary had been sent home to his parents, so he would have money when he got there. The Air Force also gave him travel pay for his trip to Syracuse.

Skytop was an adjunct of Syracuse University. It was located away from the main campus and was for U.S. Air Force personnel only. The airmen were to study Russian language and culture there six hours a day for ten months. The instructors were native-speaking Russians and the title on the textbook read ‘Intensive Russian’. Another incident would take place there that played a large role in Frankie Bristow’s future life.

THREE

In 1963, the legal drinking age in the state of New York was nineteen. Bristow had had several underage beer drinking experiences at home, but was rarely able to get any hard liquor since the drinking age in Iowa was twenty-one. At Skytop, there wasn’t much time to do anything during the week except study….but on the weekends, it was a different story.

After several months went by, one Friday night twenty-year-old Airman Third Class Frankie Bristow drank seven Manhattan cocktails downtown in just over an hour. He was temporarily on top of his game, but ran out of money so had to return to the dorm early. As it is known to do, alcohol had given Frankie courage. He wanted to fight somebody – anybody. When he got back to his dorm, he went from floor to floor of the three-story building knocking on doors trying to find somebody who would fight. No takers. He went back to his room bragging how tough he was and nobody wanted to fight him.

Then, from across the hall, Airman Third Class Ronald Charles Parker came though the open door to Frankie’s room I’ll fight you. I’m tired of listening to you, he said.

Even though they were neighbors in the dorm, Bristow and Parker didn’t really know each other. They were only in one class together during the day and Bristow thought Parker was a smart ass so they never really got along. And being from Philadelphia, Parker hitchhiked home nearly every weekend.

After Frankie loaned Parker a pair of blue jeans to wear, the two of them went outside to fight. They rolled around on the ground in the snow and ice for several minutes wrestling and punching at one another until they were nearly exhausted. They got up to square off again, but for some reason as they stood there panting and out of breath, they just stopped. Chuckling, the two of them turned and headed back to the dorm - each with an arm around the other’s shoulders. That was the strange beginning to a lifelong friendship.

Parker and Bristow had followed similar paths to Skytop. Both had passed all the tests and accomplished everything asked of them thus far in the Air Force. Language school was tough and demanding. In this class alone there were several drop-outs and two attempted suicides. Most of those who couldn’t make the grade in Russian class were pretty much given their choice of assignments in another career field.

After language school, Bristow and Parker were sent to Texas once more. This time, it was Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo where they would learn to operate radio receivers, typewriters and tape recorders. They were training to be what the Air Force called Voice Intercept Processing Specialists. Once they were checked out by the FBI and given Top Secret Security Clearances, they would be sent overseas on Cold War missions against the Soviet Union. They were to monitor and record Soviet Air Force radio traffic.

For the next two and a half years Frankie Bristow and Ron Parker did just that. Along with a few other linguists, they learned the ropes of how the Soviet code and communication systems functioned. They worked in windowless buildings surrounded by antennas and enclosed by chain link fence and barbed wire. The two of them roomed together nearly the entire time. They were assigned first to a base in Germany then transferred to Samsun, Turkey on the Black Sea.

Both of them were outstanding operators and did good work. They had each earned the unofficial title of ‘Golden Ear’. However, at times there was a problem with military discipline and bearing. It did not always lend itself to these guys or this type of work. Lucky for them, their area of the service had one of the lowest ratios of officers to enlisted men in the Air Force, and the officers were not trained in this operations field. Officers and enlisted men tolerated each other in order to get the mission accomplished. Bristow and Parker had become fast friends.

A few months prior to their 15-month tour in Turkey coming to an end, both were being recruited once more – this time to reenlist. By then each held the rank of Staff Sergeant. And, even though they loved the job, the military discipline and time spent outside the United States were wearing on them. Neither chose to re-up.

Unless you have served in some capacity in the military, it is perhaps difficult to appreciate the camaraderie experienced among those who spend nearly all their waking hours together for years, far from home and completely dependant on the U.S. forces for their keep and perhaps even their survival. These two had each other’s back from the streets of Germany in Oktoberfest to the G.I. bars of Istanbul. Certain bonds become strong, indeed.

After discharge at McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, Frankie Bristow and Ron Parker physically parted ways, but they remained best of friends and stood up at each other’s wedding. Frankie went back into construction and Parker returned to college in Pennsylvania.

Having graduated with a degree in Political Science, Ronald Charles Parker applied to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland where he was accepted and remained until he retired over forty years later. Frankie Bristow eventually became a licensed private investigator and served in that capacity for twenty-two years until he finally retired. They saw each other once a year on fishing trips to Minnesota.

Thirty-four days into his retirement, Parker phoned Frankie Bristow with a request for his friend to meet him privately for a couple days at a location far away from both their homes. Without question or hesitation, Bristow agreed.

That meeting would put the two of them together once again – this time on a self-directed mission in search of what lay within the cold dark waters that veiled elite politicians, international bankers and billionaire businessmen.

FOUR

Ron Parker had wanted no record of air or train travel for either of them to their meeting, so each drove a personal vehicle to the four-star Christopher Inn and Suites in Chillicothe, Ohio. The location was near the intersection of federal highways 50 and 35 but away from the interstate system. A corporate suite had been reserved under the name Pogoda, LLC a Delaware corporation set up by Parker especially for this operation.

I like your corporation name, Bristow said as they met for the first time in nearly a year.

Parker’s white hair and athletic frame garnered a distinguished look, and he carried himself like the marathon runner of an earlier time.

Yeah, the Russian word for weather, said Parker. The two shook hands and embraced briefly. Good to see you.

You, too. I remember transcribing those Soviet weather forecasts in Germany, said Bristow.

Uh huh. You transcribed the plain text and I copied the numbers, said Parker. We were a great combination.

Still are, said Bristow smiling as the two of them headed toward the lounge area.

They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes and made arrangements to go out for dinner that evening. Parker’s explanation would begin tomorrow.

After breakfast the next morning, the two got into Bristow’s Silverado pickup and headed southwest toward Bainbridge, making sure no one was following during the twenty-mile trip to Pike Lake State Park. When they arrived, Parker paid eighteen dollars for two hours’ canoe rental and the pair set out for a private trip around the lake.

Parker was sitting in front, and after they had paddled out some distance from shore, he turned back over his shoulder, Frankie, you ever hear of the Bilderbergers? He laid his paddle across the bow of the canoe. The boat continued silently through the water, a small wake vee-ing out from the front.

Bristow said, Some. What about it?

Parker reached down toward the bottom of the canoe into his blue backpack and extracted a thin file folder. He took out an eight-by-ten photograph and turned to his left to hand it back to Bristow.

Frankie laid his paddle beside him in the canoe. He looked down at the black and white image and said, Looks like a government building or fancy retreat somewhere. So what is it? And why all this secrecy?

It’s the Westfields Marriott in Chantilly, Virignia, said Parker. Close to Dulles Airport and about thirty miles from D.C. It has been the site of Bilderberger meetings three times in the last ten years. The director of NSA attended the super-secret Bilderberger meetings there in 2008 and 2012 and is listed as being at their 2009 and 2011 meetings in Europe also. He announced his resignation from NSA in 2013. It’s rumored sensitive information may have been discussed.

Why else would he be there? asked Bristow. What else could he talk about that would interest those people except NSA stuff? Or was he maybe just there to listen? Aren’t they all political bigwigs and rich-bitch types?

Parker said, There are usually some military and heads-of-state types, too. Even United Nations presidents have been there. Many of the attendees are members of the Council on Foreign Relations. Every U.S. president since Eisenhower has sent at least one representative to the meetings. No Soviets were ever invited, and as far as I can tell, and only a few post-Soviet ‘Russkijs’ have ever attended – mostly anti-Putin people.

He went on, The Director is a career Army Intelligence Officer. As head of NSA I’m wondering why he would want to talk to those people and what he could hope to accomplish by it - or gain from it? And what motive would their steering committee have for inviting him to the meetings again and again in the first place? That’s part of what I want to know.

Bristow handed the photograph back to Parker. Wow, he said. That’s heavy.

Let’s head over that way, Parker said nodding to his right. "We’ll