Shattered Bone (36 page)

Ammon swallowed hard and fought to control the look on his face. Morozov was doing his best to play out his cards. But Ammon knew. And it made all the difference.

A tiny smile spread across Ammon's lips. He stood up from the table and turned and walked from the restaurant, leaving Morozov somewhat perplexed.

After a few minutes, Morozov got up and paid their bill. He went outside and saw Richard Ammon standing by the car, watching the morning sky.

For the past three days, it had been miserable. Overcast and cold, with a nearly constant freezing drizzle. But now it appeared to be clearing up. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow with the rising sun. They could see patches of deep blue and purple surrounded by a brightening pink. A south wind was beginning to blow, bringing the promise of warmer weather.

“Looks like a beautiful day,” Morozov said as he approached the car.

Ammon studied the sky for a moment longer, then slipped into the car without responding. Morozov climbed in and started the engine. Within a half hour, they were driving north on highway 15, which would take them to the front gate of the base.

As Morozov drove, Ammon retrieved one of the canvas duffel bags from the back seat and pulled out a small plastic container. He reached inside and pulled out their fake identification, two laminated plastic cards for each of them. One was a standard military identification card. It was embossed in light green, with their pictures prominently displayed in the center. But it was the other plastic card that was the most important. This was their flight line identification. It was this card that would allow them access to the flight line and the B-1s that were now sitting on alert, fully loaded and ready to fly.

Morozov took his identification cards and shoved them into a pocket of his flight suit. But Ammon hung on to his. He studied them for a moment, staring at his picture. Finally he pulled out his wallet and slipped the two cards inside.

It only took a few minutes before they were approaching the main gate to McConnell Air Force Base. Standing at the gate were two guards. One of them held a burly German shepherd at bay while the other stopped the oncoming cars to inspect their occupants and check them for proper identification.

When it was Morozov's tum, he pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. The guard bent down to look inside. Ammon didn't look in his direction but stared straight ahead, trying to appear as uninterested as he could. The guard was the first one to speak.

“Good morning, sir,” he said to Morozov. “May I see your ID, please?”

Morozov pulled out his military identification card and handed it to the guard. The sergeant inspected both sides of the card, then looked a little closer at Morozov; holding the small card up to the light that shone down from his guard house, pulling it close to his nose, absorbing every detail. Then he bent over and peered back into the car.

“Sir, there appears to be a problem with your identification,” he said.

Ammon's heart nearly stopped. What was going on? Surely Morozov's people hadn't screwed up such a simple thing as forging an ID card? Surely they hadn't come this far, just to be arrested by some nearsighted sergeant? After all the preparation, it couldn't come down to this. As Ammon turned to the guard, he tried to look bored and tired, but inside he wanted to scream.

Morozov didn't even flinch. He reached out and took the card from the security policeman, as he replied in an innocent voice, “What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?”

“Sir, your ID needs to be updated. It is printed on the old Air Force Form 215. We started converting to the new Form 311 last month. I'm surprised that no one has pointed this out to you. You really need to get a new ID card issued. Especially in light of the current situation. Security has got to be tight.”

“Well Sergeant, I believe that you are right,” Morozov replied. “The problem has been that for the past few months I have been out of the country. You know how it is. Temporary duty always calls. But now that I'm back, I'll get this thing updated. Thanks for the reminder. You are doing an excellent job.”

“Thank you, sir,” the guard replied. “Now you get that taken care of, will you? Then I won't have to stop you in the morning.”

“Roger,” was all Morozov replied.

With that, the sergeant stepped back from the car and offered a quick salute while motioning for Morozov to pass through the gate. The guard needed to keep things moving along, for the morning rush of cars onto the base was already beginning to flow. Morozov returned the salute with a smile, then accelerated through the gate and onto the base.

They began to drive down the main boulevard that would take them to the flight line. It wasn't until then that Ammon let out a huge sigh of relief. He turned around and took a quick look at the guard house that was receding behind them.

“I can see that your people do quality work,” Ammon sneered. “Yes sir, it is obvious that you guys have thought of everything. There is nothing to worry about now.”

Morozov didn't respond. Ammon was right. His people had nearly screwed it up. To a large degree the success of their mission would depend on strict attention to detai1. And someone in his organization had nearly blown it. He would have to find out who it was.

They drove along in silence. As they got closer to the flight line, Ammon started to look for the aircraft. He was anxious to get his first glimpse of the Bone. But from where they were, the aircraft parking area was still hidden by a long row of enormous brown hangars.

Morozov followed the road for almost a mile, past the row of hangars to where the road made a sharp turn to the west. As they came upon the last set, Ammon could start to see F-16s, KC-135 tankers, and even a couple of transports. But he couldn't see any B-1s. He looked all the way down to the far end of the flight line.

And then he saw them. Across the runway; black, lean, and menacing, like enormous fighters they stood. Their canted wings and sharp tails gave the impression of coiled tigers; hunched down and leaning forward, ready to spring through the air. Their sharp noses stretched toward the runway as if they were anxious to fly.

What a beautiful sight, Ammon thought as he watched the B-1s comc into view. For a moment, he almost lost himself in the excitement. In a short time he would be at the controls of this beautiful aircraft. He was now reacting instinctively to the challenge. The challenge was just too much to resist.

But before he and Morozov even got close to the B-1, they had one more obstacle to overcome. The security that surrounded the B-1 was always tight. It was significantly easier, and far less dangerous, to rob a bank in midtown Manhattan than it was for an unauthorized person to get close to a Bone.

Everything from razor wire to laser detectors surrounded the Bones as they sat on alert. Armed guards were on a constant watch. It wasn't possible for a bird or a rabbit to get within 200 feet of the B-1s without being detected. If any intruders tried to penetrate the area, they would quickly be surrounded by the cops.

And then there was the “Zone,” the final line of defense that surrounded the B-1s.

Painted on the cement, fifty feet out from the bombers was a thick red line. This designated the Zone. The Zone had its own very special set of rules, and every person who worked around the B-1, whether they were pilots or maintenance specialists, knew the rules of the Zone very well. The Zone offered no room for excuses. Inside the Zone there was no room for error.

The rules were very simple. Any unauthorized persons caught within the Zone would be immediately shot. If they were alone or didn't appear to be threatening the bombers, then they would probably be shot in the legs. The security police were all excellent marksman, and they were trained to fire at the knees. But if there were more than one intruder, or if they appeared to be armed, or if they acted in a hostile or threatening manner, then the use of deadly force was automatically authorized. The security police would shoot three times. One shell at the heart. Two at the head.

No questions would be asked. No warning would be given. It was that simple. It was a harsh and unforgiving policy, but when it came to nuclear weapons, the security forces didn't feel a need to be nice.

With all the laser motion detectors, noise sensors, razor wire, men, dogs, and machine guns, it was easy to understand why tiny beads of sweat began to roll down Morozov's back as he stared at the Bones.

GULF OF MEXICO

Twelve hundred miles to the south, a Ukrainian naval cruiser cut through the warm waters of the Mexican Gulf. The Chernova Ukraina was one of the largest surface vessels that was still operated by the Ukrainian Navy. Completed in 1988, she was a “Slava” class helicopter cruiser that was equipped with a variety of surface-to-air missiles, torpedo tubes, and attack helicopters. Although she was very capable of attacking surface vessels, her primary purpose was to hunt and kill enemy submarines. And given the chance, her skipper had no doubt that she would have been very good at her job.

But so far, she had never been put to the test. Such was the irony of modern-day weapons. The more powerful and capable they were, the less likely they were to be used.

So it was not surprising that, when the Chernova had been ordered from her port in Sevastopol, her commander was one happy man. A war was brewing in the north, and he was very anxious to play in the game.

But when he got his orders, his excitement was quickly replaced by confusion and anger. The Chernova would be nothing but a messenger. Hardly more than an expensive errand boy. It was a humiliating task for a warship. Nothing to attack. Nothing to be gained. No medals or glory to be won.

But being a military man, as always, the captain did exactly as he was told.

And that is how he found himself cruising through the Gulf of Mexico, one hundred and seven miles from the white sands and high-rise hotels that lined the beaches from Galveston to Corpus Christi.

It wasn't long after Morozov and Ammon had driven through the main gate at McConnell that the Chernova turned and began to cruise to the northeast, paralleling the Texas coast. The captain ordered one-half power, then gave his communications officer the nod to proceed.

On the aft deck of the cruiser, just below the helicopter landing pad, was a huge drum filled with a long, thin, copper wire. As the Chernova cut through the four-foot waves, an electric motor on the drum began to turn, pushing the end of the wire from the drum casing. A two-foot canvas basket was attached to the wire and then dropped into the sea. The basket immediately filled with the warm salt water, pulling the wire taut against the side of the ship.

Not until then did an electric brake on the drum release with a click and a thump. Immediately the drum began to rotate as the basket pulled the wire from the drum.

As the Chernova cruised along at 19 knots, the wire fed out behind it, streaming from the cruiser like an enormous tail. It only took a couple of minutes for the basket to pull out the entire contents from the drum, stretching the huge antenna for two kilometers across the rough sea.

When the captain had been advised that the antenna was deployed and in position, he looked at his watch and said, “Stand by to broadcast message. Broadcast will begin in twenty minutes. After broadcast, stand by to run.”

Using the ship's Ultra-Low Radio Transmitter (ULRT) and the long copper antenna, the Chernova would transmit a short message, a simple code of seemingly random numbers. The ultra low radio waves would hug the contour of the earth, traveling for almost 5,000 miles before they weakened and began to disperse. But it would take a little time to send the whole message, for the ULRT was only capable of transmitting a single character every few seconds. Several minutes would pass before the message transmission was complete.

Once the message was sent, the Chernova would immediately cut the thin copper wire. Then she would turn to the east and push up her speed. By early morning she would be safely docked in Havana, Cuba.

LOS ANGELES COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

Jesse looked out on the calm morning sea. The moon was low on the western horizon. The planet Venus was clearly in view, the brightest star in the early morning sky. A pale of light blue was just beginning to tint the eastern skyline, though sunrise was still at least fifty minutes away. A warm wind blew in from the ocean and pushed her hair back from her face.

She looked down at the gauze pads, which had been wrapped around both of her wrists and felt a sudden shiver of pain. But it wasn't real. Only a vivid memory, though the overall effect was the same. She reached down and gently pulled at the bandage, then glanced quickly back over her shoulder, to see if the agent was still there. He nodded as she looked for his presence.

Turning away from the ocean, Jesse left the balcony and moved back into the safe house. They had told her today was the day. By tomorrow, the whole thing would be over. Then maybe they would tell her where Richard was and when he would be coming home. The worst part was not knowing. And not knowing what next to expect.

For the past two days, they had tried to assure her. The agents had been gracious and friendly and kind. But the truth was, they had no knowledge of the real operation. They had no idea what was really going on. All they knew was it was something very big. Their instructions came right from the top. So they would shrug their shoulders and ask for her patience, and assure her it was going to be all right.

But Jesse could feel the crisis arising, a bitter feeling she just couldn't describe. It was there, brittle and cold, like a frozen pit in the center of her heart. A feeling of doom seemed to settle upon her, leaving her lonely and desperate for hope. And try as she might, she couldn't push it aside.

An ugly voice seemed to whisper from the corners of her mind, “Say good-bye, Jesse. He's not coming home!”

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