Shattered Bone (2 page)

He could hear him out in the trees. The man had followed him through the deep forest. The soft rustle of dead winter leaves. The snap of a twig. Soggy branches being pushed out of the way.

Turning quickly, the Russian took a deep breath and gathered himself for the run.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Two hundred feet across the Borodinski bridge stood the Klanublsky Towers. Resting atop a small outcropping of granite and sand, they lined both sides of the bridge, standing as twin sentinels over the eastern side of the river. Four arched capstones rose more than 100 feet into the air, providing a perfect view of the road down below. High atop the northern tower, two unidentified men lay in a prone position, their blackened faces barely visible over the high granite wall. As the motorcade approached the bridge, they each dropped ANVIS Night-Vision goggles down in front of their eyes. With the goggles in place, the two men could easily make out the individual features of the men who sat in each of the cars, their faces ghostlike and surreal in the faint, green light of the goggles. As they counted the cars in the caravan, both men noted the small red light shining brightly from the roof of Fedotov's car.

The first man picked up a rifle-like object. It was small and light as an umbrella. The man looked through the telescopic lens and focused on the first car in the motorcade, then flipped a switch and pulled the trigger. An invisible beam of laser hit the car squarely on the windscreen, scattering billions of protons of energy in all directions. Meanwhile, the second man picked up a much larger weapon. He quickly loaded two huge shells, just as the motorcade was crossing the threshold of the bridge. Traffic had been stopped for the oncoming dignitaries and the sedans in the motorcade were now the only cars in sight.

“Ready?” the second man mumbled, his breath emitting just a hint of moist vapor into the cold air.

His companion took a deep breath and held it, then nodded his head in reply.

The first rocket was fired. Sensors inside the small warhead immediately picked up the scattering pool of energy that was washing around the window of the first sedan. It honed in like a missile, traveling the distance to the car in less than a second, then impacted the windscreen with a crash. The shell didn't detonate until it had passed through the glass and into the interior of the car, where it exploded with a fury, blasting seat fibers, glass, and jagged pieces of hot metal in all directions. Mingled among the exploding debris were charred pieces of clothing and broken fragments of bone, the remains of the four men who had once occupied the now-burning car.

The car rocked up on its front tires as it exploded. The second car in the motorcade crashed into the wreckage, creating a sufficient roadblock to stop the remaining cars from going any further across the bridge.

Within seconds another shell was on its way. This one honed in on the third car in the procession. Before the driver of the Presidential sedan had any time to react, it was over. The President of Russia was now dead.

A huge fireball rolled across the bridge, splitting the night air with a roar. Shadows burned and flickered across the empty road as the fireball rose in the air. The driver of the Prime Minister's sedan slammed on the brakes. He knew instantly what had happened, and realized that the only thing he could do to save his life was to get his car off the bridge. He shoved the heavy sedan into reverse before it had come to a stop, the transmission grinding and jerking from the strain. As he started to back up, he tried to look through his rearview mirror. But he couldn't see a thing. The interior glass panel that separated him from the back scat was nothing but a flat sheet of black glass. Turning to his sideview mirror, he accelerated backward, weaving like a madman through the maze of limousines that now lay strewn across the bridge.

It would only take a few seconds to get off the bridge. Then he would steer the car off the embankment and onto the safety of the low ground by the Moscow River. A few seconds was all he needed to save the Prime Minister, as well as himself.

The second assassin was reloading his weapon. Reaching beside him, he pulled a red-tipped shell from a black leather pouch and shoved it down the muzzle of his weapon. The shell was very short and not as round. Inside its hard steel casing was a mixture of gunpowder and sawdust, giving it only a fraction of the explosive power of the shell that had been fired at Sakarovek. Leveling the missile launcher against the side of the granite balcony, he pulled the trigger once again. His companion had already focused his laser on the faint red light on the roof of the fleeing limousine. The shell honed in on its target. Another explosion rocked the air, noticeably less forceful than the first. The blast blew out all of the windows and buckled the roof of the car. The two men in the front seat of the Prime Minister's sedan were instantly killed.

Broken glass and burning powder exploded into the rear compartment, tearing at Fedotov's neck and arms and scorching his hair into tiny, white curls. His suit was tattered and his face was smeared with blood. However, the front seat and thick privacy glass had absorbed most of the shock, and for the most part, Vladimir Fedotov had been protected as he lay on the floor.

After the shell exploded, his car continued to roll backward before it crashed against a high cement guardrail that lined the side of the bridge. As the limousine crunched to a stop, Fedotov rolled out the back door and crawled over to the side of the bridge. From where he crouched, it was only a twenty-foot fall to the water. He looked around quickly, then let himself over the side rail, just as the fourth and final shell hit another sedan. The explosion rocked the bridge and shattered the air, sending a burning tire to bounce over the guardrail and drop into the cold river down below.

Then it became very quiet. Only the crackle of the burning cars filled the air. Off in the distance, sirens began to wail in the night.

No one saw the two assassins scramble down the side tower and speed off in the small rubber raft that had been secured to the footings of the bridge.

A few minutes later, the new president of Russia, Vladimir Fedotov, emerged from the icy waters of the Moscow River and fell into the waiting arms of one of the few surviving security agents. He was shivering with cold and shock, his shirt torn into tatters around him.

Thirty feet below the surface of the Moscow River, jammed between two moss covered rocks, lay a discarded bulletproof vest.

SOUTHERN RUSSIA

Without warning, the Horse slipped from the shadows and grabbed the Russian by the shoulders with astonishing force. Lifting him by his jacket and shirt, he pulled him off the road and dragged him back into the forest.

The Horse dropped silently to the wet ground, pushing the Russian beneath him. He covered the target with his body, positioning himself between the man and the road. He knew the Russian would be followed. He knew their lives were in great danger.

The Horse held his gloved hand over the Russian's mouth. The Russian didn't move. His eyes were closed. Even through his gloves, the Horse could feel the man's pulse pounding in his neck. The Russian held perfectly still.

The Horse watched the forest for at least 60 seconds before leaning forward and speaking into his mike. “Trojans in,” he said in the tiniest voice, his breath hot against the Russian's face.

The agent turned to the Russian and planted his mouth next to his ear. “Do you have it?” he whispered.

“He's going to kill me!” the Russian sobbed. “Please, he's gone crazy. He's already ... my wife ... two of my children ... please.” The Horse covered the Russian's mouth and pressed down once again. “Mr. Secretary, I will protect you. A helicopter is on its way. It is only minutes out. But I have to know! Do you have the document!?”

“He will kill me,” the man sobbed. “He will kill us all. A million people are going to die! The Duma is gone. I saw the soldiers myself. They were everywhere. The constitutional court. The parliament. Everything. All of it gone.”

“Quiet! Yes, we know!” the Horse hissed. “We know. I will help you. Now, Mr. Secretary, I will ask you for the last time. Do you have the document? Is it in your possession?”

The Secretary shuddered and nodded his head. Freeing his arm, he reached into the crotch of his pants and pulled out a single piece of paper.

Handing the paper to the agent, the Secretary lay back in exhaustion and dropped his head to the ground. He stared blankly into the darkness, eyes unfocused, his lips tightly drawn.

“He's already killed Komisarenko,” he whispered, more to himself than the Horse. “Komisarenko was my friend. And General Azov. Both of them dead.” He paused to swallow, forcing the bile down his throat. “Now you've got to get me out. Please, I've done my part!”

The sound of approaching rotors beat through the air, steadily growing. The Ukrainian grabbed the paper and held it up to his face, looking for the signature at the bottom of the page. The dull
whoop
of the blades cut ever closer. In seconds, the helicopter would be overhead. After studying the paper, the Ukrainian broke into a quick smile. Then without hesitation, he lifted his gun and shot the Russian square in the head.

The small chopper appeared over the trees, already stabilized in a twenty-foot hover. A harness and rope dropped from the left side of the chopper. The Horse broke from the bush in a run. Grabbing the harness, he slipped it over his shoulders and cinched it around his chest even as the helicopter climbed into the air.

KIEV, UKRAINE

Yevgeni Oskol Golubev, the Ukrainian Prime Minister, sat back in his chair and pushed his fingers through his thick, bristled hair. Andrei Liski, the Director of Ukrainian Border Security, dropped the analysis on the desk and stared the Prime Minister straight in the eye. A bony man with limp shoulders, thin neck, and delicate fingers, it was hard to imagine the cold and cunning heart that beat in his chest.

Leaning toward the hapless Golubev, Liski lowered his voice and got right to the point.

“Mr. Prime Minister, it is just as I said. He has already made great preparations. Last night's document only proves what I have already told you. Now, clearly we have to do something. If we sit on this information and pretend the threat doesn't exist, then, when the time comes and we are caught unprepared, we both will then deserve to die.”

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The central question is no longer how to avoid a nuclear exchange, but rather, how to predict one. It is our opinion that a deliberate nuclear detonation is now unavoidable and is likely to occur within the next 10–15 years.

CIA Report to the President

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OSAN AIR FORCE BASE, SOUTH KOREA

O
SAN
A
IR
F
ORCE
B
ASE IS SITUATED APPROXIMATELY FORTY-FIVE
kilometers south of Seoul, Korea. It sits low in the Son Mihn Valley, surrounded by gentle hills, cypress trees, and musky, slow-water creeks. A steady stream of C-141 and C-5 cargo aircraft make their way across the Pacific to Osan in an effort to keep the enormous military machine on the Korean peninsula adequately supplied. Twice a day, huge KC-10 transports bring in a fresh supply of reluctant troops. However, common as these transports and cargo planes are, most of the flying activity is generated by Osan's resident fighter wing—the Fighting Fifty-First Aces of the south. Their motto—“Death from Above.”

The 51st Fighter Wing is a front-line wing, consisting of three squadrons of F-16s. Because of the tense political climate in which they operate, air operations continue twenty-four hours a day, and the whine of jet engines constantly fills the air.

The flight line is a nest of activity, vibration, and noise, with maintenance troops and technical specialists scrambling among the jets and aircraft equipment. Fuel and fire trucks lumber carefully among the fighters while bomb and missile trolleys are carefully positioned under the F-16's wings to load them with weapons for upcoming sorties.

After spending six hours to prepare an F-16 for take off, the crew chiefs breathe a weary sigh of relief when their jets finally begin to taxi, rolling from their parking spots in groups of two and four. However, their respite will be brief, perhaps as short as an hour, for that's all the time it takes for the little fighters to burn their 7,000 pounds of jet fuel and fire off all their missiles. Upon their return to Osan, the pilots over-fly the runway at 1,000 feet before breaking into a hard turn to line themselves up for final landing.

Then the whole process will begin once again. Within minutes after touchdown, even before the jet engines are shut down, the aircraft are surrounded by their maintenance crews and fuel trucks, all rushing to prepare the aircraft for another sortie.

Scattered among the parking ramps are aircraft suffering through various stages of repair, surrounded by tool boxes, cooling hoses, fire extinguishers, maintenance stands, and teams of hustling mechanics. The technicians hunker around the broken aircraft, sweating in the early morning sun as they study their maintenance handbooks that lay spread across the baking cement.

This was Senior Airman Stacy Derby's world. This is where she belonged. Working on the fighters was all she had ever wanted to do, and once she was given the opportunity, she considered herself very lucky. As a crew chief on the Fighting Falcon, she loved her work on the flight line. She loved it all; the smeIl of burning jet fuel, the overhead floodlights that iIluminated the ramp at night, the pressure of pushing to have her jet ready for takeoff, then watching with satisfaction as it taxied on out to the runway, the ground vibrating under her feet. She found so much satisfaction in what she did. So why was she taking such an enormous risk? Was she rcaIly willing to give it all away?