MiG Pilot: the Final Escape of Lt. Belenko

He momentarily froze, then pointed at a rather pretty young blond girl holding hands with a young black man at the amusement park. «Is that allowed in this country?»

«It's their business,» Peter said. «Not ours, not the government's.»

There was something else. According to the Party, zoos, museums, and other public recreational facilities in the United States cost so much that ordinary people could not afford them. But as he verified for himself, admission to the zoo was free, and while the rides at the park cost money, the workers, including the blacks, obviously could afford them.

He doubted that the zoo and park were Potemkin creations of the Dark Forces, as he had thought the shopping center, mansion, apartment, and air base were. His Sunday observations did not convince him that the United States was a land of universal contentment, justice, and racial equality. But if what he saw was fairly representative, then social and economic conditions were vastly different from what the Party said. If this is true, they're bigger liars than I ever dreamed. If this is true, then something is right here.

It took Peter and Nick a while to locate «a real workers' bar, a cheap place,» where the lowly laborers might repair in the evening, but they found an approximation on a side street in Falls Church. There was a long bar with stools on one side and a row of wooden booths on the other. Men in working clothes were drinking beer, talking, and laughing or watching a savage game (Monday night football) on color television. The menu of the establishment was chalked on a blackboard, and although Belenko already had dined, he insisted on sampling the food, which he ordered at random. A black man served an extravagant portion of barbecued beef sandwiched in a large bun, together with french fried potatoes, coleslaw, and a beer. The little green check totaled $2.08.

That was real meat, delicious, and so cheap. And I think that black man made it himself and was proud of it. The men's room was clean. Nobody was drunk or vomiting or fighting. Come to think of it, I haven't seen drunks or fighting on the streets here. But there are bars everywhere here. You can buy vodka and beer and wine here a lot easier than in the Soviet Union. And it's so cheap, people could stay drunk all the time if they wanted. It's as if 1980 has already come!

When Belenko expressed some of these thoughts, Peter remarked, «I'm sorry to say that alcoholism is a serious problem in the United States. By our definition, between nine and ten million Americans are alcoholics.»

«What is your definition of an alcoholic?»

«Someone who is dependent on alcohol or whose consumption of alcohol harmfully interferes with his or her life.»

«Well, by that definition, three-fourths of all the men in the Soviet Union are alcoholics.»

Peter agreed that alcoholism was a more acute problem in the Soviet Union than in the United States but went on to explain the American problem with drug addiction.

Referring to purveyors of illicit drugs, Belenko exclaimed, «Why don't you arrest them? Shoot them! Or at least put them in jail!»

«We try to arrest them. But, Viktor, as you will learn, it is not so easy to put someone in jail in the United States.»

Both Peter and Anna emphasized to Belenko the necessity of learning to drive, a task he relished. Upon being told that prior to his lessons he would have to obtain a Virginia learner's permit, he was incensed.

«Why cant you just give me a license?»

«We don't have the power to do that.»

«That is ridiculous. In the Soviet Union you can buy a license on the black market for a hundred rubles. If you can't issue me a license, buy me one.»

«Take my word, Viktor, you're going to have to pass a test like everybody else. We can give you false identity papers, but not a license.»

Belenko learned to drive in less than an hour but tended to maneuver a car as if it were a fighter plane and habitually exceeded the speed limit. He was driving with Peter along a four-lane divided highway, when a siren sounded behind them.

«God dammit, Viktor, you're speeding. Now do as I tell you. Slow down, pull off the highway, and stop and roll down the window. The state trooper will come up and ask for your driver's license. Just give it to him, and say nothing. He will write a ticket. When he hands it to you, just nod and say, Thank you, Officer.'»

Belenko was unconcerned; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity to demonstrate to Peter his ability to cope with the unexpected. He knew what to do. Every 100 kilometers or so along Soviet roads, police maintain checkpoints and routinely stop all vehicles. The driver routinely gives the policeman two or three rubles; otherwise, he is accused and convicted on the spot of a traffic violation, and his license is punched and, with the third punch, revoked.

A tall state trooper wearing a broad-brimmed gray hat bent down by the window. «Son, do you realize you were going eighty-five miles an hour?»