Shattered Bone (11 page)

“Oh, it is authentic,” Liski responded dryly. “Do you think we would be here ... would we have brought you here ... only to stare at forgeries or counterfeit documents? I really think not.

“It is real. We know that. The original document was smuggled to us early last summer by a most reliable source. A source at the highest level within the Russian government. “However, I will have to admit, originally our reaction was identical to yours. We didn't believe ... we couldn't believe ... it was actually real. But now we know. It has been confirmed.”

Yevgeni Osk61 Golubev, the Prime Minister of the Ukraine, put his elbows on the table and leaned forward in his chair. He appeared to be the oldest in the group. He was silver-haired and overweight, with dry, brown skin and an enormous, bloodhound face. He turned to Nicolai and muttered something in Russian, then settled again in his chair.

General Lomov, Commander, Ukrainian Forces, reached into a small canvas bag that lay beside his chair and pulled out a series of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos.

“Take a look at these,” he muttered as he placed the pictures down in front of Richard Ammon.

Ammon quickly examined the photos. They were sharply focused, showing what looked to be Russian SS-25 short range nuclear missiles being loaded and fueled on the back of their mobile launchers. He examined the photos more closely, looking for signs of forgery or any other indication the photos might not be real. He studied the launchers along with their protective radar sites. He studied the tending dollies, fuel trucks, and missile loading platforms that accompanied the missile launchers. Everything was there. Everything looked perfectly legit. And the pictures were so clear. He brought one of the photos up to his face to study it in the darkening room. The photos were so good, he could make out the rank of the officers that stood watch over the loading procedures. He could see which men were smoking cigarettes.

He studied the pictures for a full five minutes. As far as he could tell, the photos were real.

“Where did you get these?” he finally asked, tossing them back on the table. He knew the reconnaissance pictures were not taken by a Ukrainian satellite or spy plane. Nothing the Ukrainians had could even come close to this. They were at least two technological generations away from being able to produce this kind of covert pictures.

“The Brits gave them to us. They felt it was something we ought to see.” It was Liski who answered.

Ammon looked again at the pictures. Superimposed in the right hand comer of every picture was the date and time that the photo was taken. He checked the date. A little more than two weeks ago.

“But you and the Russians are allies,” Ammon muttered.

“No! Russia has no friends,” Liski replied. “It has no allies and never has! It only has client states. Do you think that Chechnya considers Russia its friend? Or the Baltics? Or Azerbaijan? Did we volunteer to join the Soviet Union? Do you think we considered Stalin a friend!? Do you know how many million Ukrainians have been killed by Russian solders since the beginning of World War II?

Ammon met Liski's eyes. Liski did not look away.

“I just find it hard to believe ...,” Ammon stammered.

Liski cut him off at the knees. “Then you're an ignorant fool!” he hissed, waving a bony finger in Ammon's direction. He had now known Ammon for less than an hour, but in that time he had developed a deep dislike and distrust for the man. “Do you think Fedotov considers nuclear war as completely unthinkable? Even the self-righteous Americans have considered going nuclear at times in the past. Don't you remember the threats to Hussein during the Gulf War? I'd say Bush made his case pretty clear. Or what about the Cuban missile crisis? Or Hiroshima? Now, if the U.S. has been willing to use them, don't you think Fedotov would use them as well?

“The man has no moral compass. No internal sense of right or wrong. Already he is an international pariah. By his own choosing. He has isolated himself from the West for this very purpose. He does what suits his own interest. And his interest is perfectly clear.

“He seeks to rebuild the Union. He has been laying this plan for the last several years. And he knows he must move quickly, for only by consolidating his power and rebuilding the union can he create the consensus that will keep him in power. And we, the Ukraine, are going to be his first target.”

Liski paused. Picking up the smuggled Russian document, he tossed it in Ammon's direction. “Look at this!” he sneered. “Read the man's own words! Recommend the use of tactical nuclear weapons. I concur. Vladimir Fedotov! It's right there before you. Then consider what the man has already done. Within twenty-four hours of taking power, he declared martial law, eliminated his primary rivals, disbanded the parliament, and shut down the press. Within two months, he established his own security forces, re-nationalized private industry, expelled half a million foreigners, and initiated a hundred billion rubles worth of nuclear arms sales to Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, and North Korea, all to feed his military machine.

“Now he talks of rebuilding the union. And his people cry out in support.”

The room was turning glum as evening came on and the shadows grew. Ammon trembled and ran his fingers through his short hair.

Liski pressed home his final point. “And let's not miss this most important fact. The document you just read makes it clear that Fedotov also has his eye on the former Warsaw Pact nations. Yet his army is weakened and in disarray, which defaults him to the nuclear option. It is the only way he can expand his borders without depleting his troops and reducing his strength. It allows him to control his combat casualties in order to remain strong enough to venture west.

“And west he will go. He will cut through the heart of eastern Europe, in some cases without any resistance. Albania, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania, each of them right on the edge. Desperate as they are, they are ready, perhaps even eager, to fall under his fold.

“So he will push to the edge ... right up to the borders of Germany, Austria, and Italy. He will roll his armies westward, striking early, and with such blinding speed that there won't be time to prepare. He will push right up to the point where the United States and NATO will have to respond.

“Then he will pull back and muster his forces while he works to consolidate his power. And when it is over, when Fedotov is finally satisfied, I have to believe that his new Union, whatever he chooses to call it, will be the most dangerous nation on earth.

“Even as we speak, his army is moving into position, supplying and preparing for war. It is now only a matter of time.”

The sun had set and the room was growing dark. The cold seeped in. Amril lit a few slender, gray, wax candles and placed them on the table. The men peered at each other in the flickering light.

Watching Amril light the homemade candles, Ammon shivered as he quietly asked, “But what about NATO? What about the U.S.?”

General Lomov leaned across the table and stared into Ammon's face. “Let me ask you something, boy,” he said in a low and powerful voice. “Do you really think the Americans will come to our aid? Do you really think they will commit even one soldier to help us protect our homeland, especially if the conflict escalates to tactical nuclear war?

“Of course they won't!” The general slapped the table. “They'll have their quivering tails tucked so far up under their legs you'd have to roll them on their backs to even find it. They'll sniffle and wring their hands. They'll protest and embargo and whine. But they won't lift a finger to help us. Not a finger! They simply won't help us! Not in any real or meaningful way! They will not bloody our soil with the life of even a single American soldier.

“There will be no u.s. intervention. Of that, I am absolutely sure. You know that, we know that, and the Russians know that, too.”

The general stopped talking and glared at Ivan Morozov while settling back in his seat. Morozov picked up on the signal and cleared his throat. “This is where you come in, Carl,” he said.

Reaching into the canvas bag, Morozov pulled out a set of aeronautical charts and began to spread them out on the table, brushing his hands across the multicolored maps to flatten out the wrinkles. He rearranged the candles on the table to make room for the charts, then produced a small flashlight. The four other men at the table instinctively sat forward in their chairs to get a good look at the charts. Ammon quickly realized he was looking at a map of southwestern Russia. He studied the map for a moment before he saw the eight red triangles. It took him only a second to realize what they were. The Russians' nuclear missiles.

“Oh, no,” Ammon said, shaking his head. “It simply can't be done! You're talking about some of the most heavily defended targets in the world.”

“No, you're wrong, Carl,” Morozov replied. “It can be done. We've studied it out. It won't be easy, we recognize that. But we are convinced, in fact, we are certain, that given the right tools, the mission can be accomplished.”

Ammon turned to the charts once again. With his finger, he traced a line from target to target, noting the hundreds of surface-to-air (SA) missile and anti-aircraft artillery (AAA) sites that dotted the way. They were everywhere. SA-6s, SA-8s, and SA-16s sat on nearly every mountain peak. Russian triple A, some of the best in the world, lay hidden in every valley, ready to fill the air with a wall of molten lead and steel. And he hadn't even considered the hundreds of thousands of ground troops that would also be waiting, many of them armed with deadly shoulder-fired missiles.

A long moment of silence. Ammon finally lifted his eyes.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The look on his face said it all.

“It's a suicide mission,” he said flatly. “The targets are too heavily defended and too far away. Look at this,” he jabbed his finger at the chart. “Even the closest target is more than eight hundred miles deep in Russian territory. You just don't have the range. Not with your fighters. The targets are too far away. It's a one way-trip, with no chance of success!

“No, gentlemen, I have to tell you, and I'm just giving you an honest assessment, if this is your only hope, then start packing your bags, because it is not going to work. The simple fact is, you don't have an aircraft. Not for this mission. You will run out of fuel before you hit the first target. And that is to say nothing of the Russian defenses. Thousands of radar-guided missiles and artillery, waiting to blow you out of the sky. And even if your fighters could make it, you don't have the right kind of bombs to find and destroy mobile or hardened nuclear targets.

“No, it would take an incredibly sophisticated, radar-evading plane—one with incredible range and a huge payload—to complete this mission. And that's something that you just don't have.”

Richard Ammon looked up, his eyes bright. He straightened his back and squared his broad shoulders. That was it. He wasn't lying. He had simply told them the truth.

Morozov fell silent, his eyes unblinking as he evaluated Richard Ammon. The ancient wooden chairs creaked in the silence. Outside, a night wind suddenly blew, shaking the tattered roof of the old cabin and rattling the dusty windows in their frames. No one spoke. Amril shifted his weight against the wall. Ammon studied each man in the room.

“You're right, of course.” Morozov finally said as he pushed the aeronautical charts out of the way. “We know we don't have the right aircraft. But ... the Americans do.

“You see, my friend, you're going back to the States. You and I. We're going to steal an American B-1 bomber, the most powerful warplane on earth. Then, we're going to use it to take out Fedotov's missile sites. And a few other targets as well. Maybe we'll even head for Moscow! Take out the old man himself! With such a powerful aircraft at our disposal we might as well put it to use!”

Ammon swallowed hard.

“No!” he muttered, his voice softened by fear. “They will know! The Russians will know! They will find the American bomber. And they would have to respond! It would lead to....”

And then he stopped. He finally understood. The blood quickly drained from his face.

Liski smiled and sat back in his chair. Lomov stared down at his hands resting upon the table. Morozov grinned in reply. “Yes, Carl. You now understand. And stealing the B-1 is just the beginning. So believe me when I tell you, once our plan is fully implemented, the United States will be deeply involved in our war.”

___________________________ 

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KIEV, UKRAINE

A
FTER THEY FINISHED PLANNING
, A
MMON WAS ESCORTED TO HIS BED
room and instructed to get some sleep. Morozov and the other Ukrainians walked outside into the darkness. Amril remained behind in the cabin to keep an eye on Ammon.

It was cold enough outside that the men could see their breath as they talked. In the distance they could hear a wolf, its lone and mournful howl drifting through the dense trees of the forest. The four men spoke in whispered tones, watching each other carefully in the moonlight.

“What do you think?” Morozov asked General Lomov.

“I think you had better watch him,” the general replied quietly. “He's been away so long. After all these years, who knows where he really stands?”

“I don't agree,” Prime Minister Yevgeni Golubev jumped in. “He's had his world pulled out from under him. I think it would be asking too much to expect him to climb aboard without some reservations. But I think, given some time, he will come round.”

“That may be,” Lomov answered. “But still we need to watch him. For one thing, like he said, we are not asking him to work for his country. The country he left no longer even exists. And though he's Ukrainian, I don't feel that he has a great sense of loyalty or sympathy toward us or our cause.