reminded him of when he was a small boy. Ammon could still picture himself as a child, huddled in the back seat, surrounded by thin wool blankets as his father drove the back streets of the Kasakstov and Prcshingtovalon districts. His father, more adept at drinking than holding down jobs, had finally found a job he could live with delivering newspapers between boroughs in eastern Kiev. The money wasnât great, but it was enough to buy vodka and food. And since his mother had passed away several years before, his father had insisted that he accompany him on his rounds, rather than be left back in their tiny apartment alone.
As a young boy, Carl Vadym Kostenko was identified as having the potential to complete one of the Kollektive Sicherheitâs most rigorous tracks. He was separated from his family at age nine, and for the next nine years was indoctrinated with the theories of Marx and Lenin. He learned pcrfect English (with a slight southern accent) and American history and culture. Like American boys his age, he grew up to the music of Tom Petty, U2, and the Boss. He hated country and western. He loved the Dallas Cowboys.
But Carl Kostenkoâs education didnât end there. He also learned how to manipulate friends, communicate secretly with his handler, and operate miniature photographic and communication equipment. He learned how to evaluate others for tendencies of sympathy to his cause. He learned to exploit and deceive and lie. Finally, he was taught how to kill. Efficiently. Quietly. Without a trace. Without leaving a mess. It was a skill he anticipated he would never use, but if it ever became necessary, so be it. It was simply something he would do.
At the age of eighteen, Carl Kostenko found himself planted in the United States, complete with papers, a solid background, and a new identity as Richard Ammon. He entered UCLA, and graduated in three years with a B.S. in mechanical engineering. He received a reserve commission in the United States Air Force. A year later, he completed pilot training and had been flying the F-16 ever since.
During his first years at college, he had literally no contact with his handler. He didnât even know if he had one. Many times he was left to wonder if he might be on his own. It wasnât until he was ready to graduate that he was contacted. He was told that they had decided that he should accept his commission in the Air Force. This was very good news for Ammon, for although he would have done whatever was expected of him, he very much wanted to fly.
But like everything about the Kollektive Sicherheit, there were strings attached. No rewards werc ever free. Richard Ammon was told that if he didnât do well enough in pilot training to get a combat aircraft upon graduation, then the agreement to allow him into the Air Force would be terminated. In addition, his superiors would be extremely disappointed in his performance and would have to question his ability to successfully complete future assignments. His whole situation would then he re-evaluated.
Few student pilots entered undergraduate pilot training with as much hidden baggage or secret motivation as did Richard Ammon.
But once he started to fly, Ammon began to relax. He discovered that he was a natural pilot. Flying just seemed to come easily to him.
He remembered clearly the day he knew he would make it. It was on his second sortie in advanced aerobatics in the T-38. The instructor pilot, who occupied the rear seat, was in a sour mood and nearly impossible to please. While completing a simple loop, he had suddenly grabbed the controls from Richard Ammon and snapped back hard on the stick.
âI said, pull more Gs!â he screamed, while pulling the little fighter around in a sharp bank. âYouâve got to G up this aircraft to get it around. Now do it again, and this time keep it coming. When I say pull, I mean pull! Donât nanny around with the stick!â
Ammon shook his head
As a young boy, Carl Vadym Kostenko was identified as having the potential to complete one of the Kollektive Sicherheitâs most rigorous tracks. He was separated from his family at age nine, and for the next nine years was indoctrinated with the theories of Marx and Lenin. He learned pcrfect English (with a slight southern accent) and American history and culture. Like American boys his age, he grew up to the music of Tom Petty, U2, and the Boss. He hated country and western. He loved the Dallas Cowboys.
But Carl Kostenkoâs education didnât end there. He also learned how to manipulate friends, communicate secretly with his handler, and operate miniature photographic and communication equipment. He learned how to evaluate others for tendencies of sympathy to his cause. He learned to exploit and deceive and lie. Finally, he was taught how to kill. Efficiently. Quietly. Without a trace. Without leaving a mess. It was a skill he anticipated he would never use, but if it ever became necessary, so be it. It was simply something he would do.
At the age of eighteen, Carl Kostenko found himself planted in the United States, complete with papers, a solid background, and a new identity as Richard Ammon. He entered UCLA, and graduated in three years with a B.S. in mechanical engineering. He received a reserve commission in the United States Air Force. A year later, he completed pilot training and had been flying the F-16 ever since.
During his first years at college, he had literally no contact with his handler. He didnât even know if he had one. Many times he was left to wonder if he might be on his own. It wasnât until he was ready to graduate that he was contacted. He was told that they had decided that he should accept his commission in the Air Force. This was very good news for Ammon, for although he would have done whatever was expected of him, he very much wanted to fly.
But like everything about the Kollektive Sicherheit, there were strings attached. No rewards werc ever free. Richard Ammon was told that if he didnât do well enough in pilot training to get a combat aircraft upon graduation, then the agreement to allow him into the Air Force would be terminated. In addition, his superiors would be extremely disappointed in his performance and would have to question his ability to successfully complete future assignments. His whole situation would then he re-evaluated.
Few student pilots entered undergraduate pilot training with as much hidden baggage or secret motivation as did Richard Ammon.
But once he started to fly, Ammon began to relax. He discovered that he was a natural pilot. Flying just seemed to come easily to him.
He remembered clearly the day he knew he would make it. It was on his second sortie in advanced aerobatics in the T-38. The instructor pilot, who occupied the rear seat, was in a sour mood and nearly impossible to please. While completing a simple loop, he had suddenly grabbed the controls from Richard Ammon and snapped back hard on the stick.
âI said, pull more Gs!â he screamed, while pulling the little fighter around in a sharp bank. âYouâve got to G up this aircraft to get it around. Now do it again, and this time keep it coming. When I say pull, I mean pull! Donât nanny around with the stick!â
Ammon shook his head
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