Shattered Bone

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Chris Stewart

M Evans

Lanham • New York • Boulder • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

M Evans

An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200

Lanham, Maryland 20706

www.rowman.com

10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP

United Kingdom

Copyright © 1997 by Chris Stewart

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Distributed by

N
ATIONAL
B
OOK
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ETWORK

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stewart, Chris, 1960–

Shattered bone / Chris Stewart.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-59077-282-9

I. Title.

PS3569.T4593S48    1997

813'.54—DC21            97-20580

B
OOK
D
LSICN AND
T
YPEFORMATTING BY
B
ERNARD
S
CIILEIFER

Manufactured in the United States of America

To my wife, the best friend I have ever had, and my children, who remind me every day that life is good.

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SHATTERED BONE:
the code word used to signify the theft, hijacking, or unauthorized flight of a B-1 B bomber loaded with nuclear weapons. Such activity would be considered a class “A” security violation. The incident aircraft will be destroyed using any and all means available. Its destruction is the highest priority.

Follow notification procedures appendix three. Follow command and control procedures appendix ONE HELP JULES.

Implement Emergency War Tasking Operations Plan “SPLINT.”

Air Force code manual 13–12

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We are deceiving ourselves if we believe that we have a clear understanding of the developing political landscape in Russia. The hard truth is, the economic situation has become nearly intolerable for the large majority of its citizens ... who have lost all faith in reforms. To a large degree, Moscow has lost control of its army, and the former republics are crawling with strife. Despite our support, none of us can guarantee who we will be dealing with, nor even what type of government we will face, next week, next month, or next year.

Internal State Department Memo

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PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

BOOK TWO

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

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MOSCOW, RUSSIA

T
HE SUN WAS JUST SETTING AS THE
P
RESIDENTIAL MOTORCADE TURNED
onto the Minskoje Road, its waning haze barely burning through Moscow's sulfur-rich air. Gennadii Sakarovek, the President of Russia, was on his way to the British Embassy for another meaningless conference on trade where he would spend the next three hours begging for money from men who were less than his equal, while smiling at their jokes and enduring their wives. In exchange for the cash, he would make promises of further reform. It would be a long night. He was in a bad mood.

Two cars behind Sakarovek in the motorcade, the Prime Minister of Russia, Vladimir Fedotov, sat in the back seat of his limousine alone, separated from his driver and bodyguard by a thick panel of reinforced, bulletproof glass. Gazing out the window, he watched the sun set over the city.

A soft chime sounded from Fedotov's breast pocket. Reaching under his overcoat, he pulled out a tiny cell phone, flipped it open and placed it to his ear. After listening only a moment, he grunted and glanced at his watch.

“I thought you took care of his car,” he said sharply.

A slight pause and then, “Yes. Okay. But keep this in mind. If he lives, if he makes it across the border, you know what I will do.” Without waiting for a reply, Fedotov flipped the phone closed. Shoving it back into his pocket, he took out a cigarette and lit up with a scowl, the orange glow illuminating his face in the darkness.

The motorcade rounded a corner. Fedotov glanced ahead. They were approaching the threshold of the Borodinski Bridge. Built immediately after the revolution, the bridge spanned the Moscow River at its narrowest point, a massive structure of stone, sweat, and steel. With multi-pillared towers rising along the river's steep bank, it stood as an impressive monument of human labor. Narrowing to only four lanes, the Minskoje Road ran 30 feet over the Moscow River's icy waters as it crossed the Borodinski Bridge.

Fedotov smashed the cigarette out, then flipped a switch positioned alongside his armrest. Instantly the window separating him from his driver and bodyguard went black, the result of a tiny electrical charge that passed through the ionized glass. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a small flashlight which was wrapped securely to a strong magnet by strands of black tape. Turning the flashlight on, he screwed a small red lens cover over the bulb, then rolled down his rear window and attached the flashlight to the roof of the car.

After rolling up his window, the Prime Minister pulled on a pair of thick safety glasses, then lay down on the floor of the limo. Under his crisp white shirt, a bulletproof vest was cinched tightly across his chest, making it uncomfortable for him to breathe. He hated this part of the plan. He felt like a coward as he hid on the floor. But it was important that he survive, while at the same time giving a credible appearance of having been endangered himself.

He glanced at his watch once again, then felt the limousine slow as the caravan approached the Borodinski Bridge.

Fedotov sensed his bodyguard shift his weight in the front seat. Both the driver and his bodyguard were long time members of his staff, and Fedotov had come to consider them allies and friends. He knew that they would give their lives to protect him, and so he considered it fitting that these friends would be allowed to give their lives for his cause.

The limousine bumped as it crossed the steel threshold of the bridge. Fedotov covered his face with his arms.

Inside the president's limousine, Gennadii Sakarovek was enjoying a drink. His Foreign Advisor sat quietly beside him, scribbling notes on a small pad of paper.

SOUTHERN RUSSIA

The Russian crashed through the night, the whites of his eyes shining in the darkness as he frantically pushed through the trees. Dressed in a dark suit, leather shoes, and silk tie, he looked ridiculously out of place in the mud and slush of the forest. Being fifty pounds overweight, it wasn't long before he was gasping for breath. Tiny beads of sweat matted his thin hair against his forehead and stung his eyes, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

Half a mile behind him, his stalled car sat on the side of the road, its hood raised, the oil pan dripping, black smoke wafting from the still scorching engine. Everything he had left, every possession he had not already abandoned, was left sitting in the two trunks that filled the back seat.

Fighting for breath, the Russian pushed on through the forest, cutting across a loop in the road toward the rendezvous site. He made no pretense of stealth. Those games were now over. Now it was only time to run.

Coming to a narrow patch of open wood he sprinted as fast as he dared, running recklessly through the darkness. Reaching the thick brush on the other side, he slowed and held himself back, picking his way across the rocky terrain, fighting to stay in control.

Though he knew he was followed, he never looked back.

The light rain had stopped and the night air was heavy with cold mist. Overhead, the clouds began to break, allowing the half moon to cast occasional shadows. Huge drops of moisture dripped from leaf to leaf and branch to branch as they made their way to the soggy forest floor. Dripping birch leaves slapped at the Russian's face and shoulders while the thick, wet underbrush pulled at his feet. He was soaked and chilled to the bone. He glanced at his watch only once, its luminescent face glowing green in the night. 21:17. He doubled his pace. There wasn't much time.

With the document in his possession, his fate was now sealed.

Two hundred meters through the forest, and slightly to the west of the fleeing Russian, was “the Horse,” the man whose responsibility it was to get him out of the country. Like his charge, the Horse was of Slavic descent. He was hairy and squat, with stubbly black hair, huge biceps and thick thighs.

This was a dirty job, and incredibly dangerous, and he was one of the few men willing to do it. To penetrate an enemy border. To go in alone and without any contingency for assistance. To go in without any cover. It was something any agent was loath to do. Perhaps once in a generation did an operation warrant taking such a risk.

And tonight was one of those times.

The Horse wore a dark cotton jumpsuit and black leather boots. Every exposed piece of flesh was smeared with gray cammy, including his eyelids, lips, and even his teeth, allowing him to blend nearly perfectly into the night. He crouched under the thick brush that lined the side of the rutted, gravel road. A tiny radio transmitter was strapped to his waist. With its pea-sized speaker stuffed tightly in his ear and the tiny microphone clipped to his collar, the man could communicate without using his hands.

The Horse glanced at his watch. 21:26. Three minutes to go.

“Trojans up,” he whispered to the darkness. His ear piece crackled just slightly as his transmitter scrambled and broadcast his voice over the VHF frequency.

Twelve miles to his south, level with the tops of the trees, a tiny helicopter sped through the night, controlled by a single pilot. Despite years of training and a thousand hours of combat flying, the pilot was tight as piano wire.

Pulling his chopper over the top of a ridge, he banked slightly to the right and pushed the noisy machine down a small valley. He navigated only by feel, never referring to a chart. Indeed, he didn't even have one. He had rehearsed the mission so many times, he could have navigated the route in his sleep.

The pilot reached down and keyed his mike. “Say status?”

“No contact.”

The pilot swore violently under his breath. “Say position?”

“Charlie.”

“Say time?”

“Three minutes.”

The pilot swore once again, cursing in fear.

The Horse didn't respond. Settling deeper under the brush, he scanned the road once again.

The Russian pushed himself to his feet and brushed the mud from his eyes. Far, far in the distance a dull “whoop” rolled through the forest, barely perceptible to the human ear. The Russian turned and ran without notice. The darkness began to break, deep shadows giving way to dim light. Without warning, he burst through the trees and onto the road, his shoes crunching across the wet gravel.

Lifting his face, he searched the night sky for the north star to show him the way, but the tree line blocked his view. In a panic, he ran to his left, then suddenly stopped and turned back to his right. Frozen in the middle of the road, he listened.