Shattered Bone (27 page)

Ammon shuddered, then looked away. Morozov kept the gun at his head. Ammon ignored it. Morozov pulled back on the hammer, locking it in the fire position.

“This is you, you stupid fool,” Morozov said coldly, his voice suddenly calm and even as glass. “So take a good look. This is your future! This is you if you don't go along.

“You know who this is, Ammon? This is the airman who planted the bomb in your jet. We thought we could trust her. But look at her now. Look what my boy did to her face. And all because she got a little sloppy. Came home on leave. Had to impress her old friends. Started flashing her money. Started talking too much. Couldn't control her loose lips.

“And if you think this looks ugly, keep this thought in mind, for I swear to you, for every throb of pain that I cause you, I will make things even worse for your girl!

“So walk softly, you snot-nose little fly-boy. Walk softly. And don't piss me off.”

Ammon glared up at Morozov. Morozov smiled. Ammon choked on his rage and frustration, then passed his hands over his eyes. Turning away, he stumbled into the darkness and made his way back to the car.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Buddy Spencer held the color photos up to his nose to get a close look. His hands shook.

“When did these come in?” he demanded.

“Yesterday, sir,” the aide replied. “We got the tape from Dallas in this morning. It took us until noon to digitize it so that we could manipulate the pictures for better observation. One of our interns made a match late last night. I think we got lucky. It looks like a good pick to me.”

Spencer held the photos close once again, then set them down on the top of his desk and picked up another picture, this one a glossy black and white. It was a clear shot of Ivan Morozov. He held the pictures side by side. He was a little unsure. He wasn't very good at such things. But it looked like a match. He punched the intercom switch to buzz his secretary.

“Get Oliver Tray,” he said abruptly.

Forty minutes later, Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Tray walked into the office, escorted by an Agency security guard. He wore a visitor's pass around his neck and carried a brown leather briefcase. As he walked into the office, Spencer nodded to his desk and Oliver immediately picked up the pictures and started sorting through them. There were eleven photos in all. Each of them had been enlarged and cropped to zoom in on Morozoy'S face. They showed him from several different angles as he had made his way through customs in Dallas.

“That's him!” Oliver announced with no hesitation. “No doubt about it. He's a little older, and his hair is cut short, but that's him.”

“Are you certain?” Spencer prodded. “I think you're right, but we have to be sure.”

Tray didn't hesitate. “It's him. Look at the eyes. It's him. I'm perfectly sure. I can't believe he's back in the country. This is wild, Buddy! Incredible, really! Now, where were these pictures taken and when?”

Buddy looked at his watch. “About forty-five hours ago. In Dallas. I've got people standing by.”

“What else do we know? Where did he go from the airport? Did he take a connecting flight, or rent a car? Did somebody meet him? Did he have any unusual or oversized luggage? Did he enter the country alone?” Tray was talking so fast, Spencer had to concentrate just to follow what he said.

“Nothing,” Spencer answered. “We don't know nothing. Or at least very little. And to a large degree, it is leaving our hands. The FBI has already been notified. Once Morozov stepped foot on U.S. soil, he became their man. Of course, we'll continue to work with them, and other agencies have been notified as well, including the state and local police. However, we don't think that he flew on from Dallas. At least no ticket was made under the alias he used to enter the country. And he wasn't alone. He was traveling with this man.” Buddy Spencer tossed another photo across the desk. “We don't know who he is. Got nothing on him at all.”

Oliver reached down and picked up the photo. The color immediately drained from his face. His eyes opened wide. His body visibly tensed and a look of pure astonishment and shock spread across his face. Spencer watched his friend in surprise.

“Oh my ... ,” Oliver muttered. He swallowed hard, then reached for the phone, ignoring Spencer's attempts for some explanation.

Tray dialed as quickly as he could. “I've got him, Colonel Fullbright!” he yelled into the receiver. “I've got him! He's here in the States!” He paused, listening.

“BADGER, sir!” he replied. “He's here! He's with Morozov!”

Another pause.

“Yes, sir. I'll be right there!”

________________________ 

_______________________       

KREMENCHUG-CHERKASSY, UKRAINE

T
HE
U
KRAINIAN PRIME MINISTER'S BLACK SEDAN CAME TO A BRIEF STOP
under the canopy of swaying pine trees. Yevgeni Oskol Golubev stepped quickly from the car, not waiting for his driver to come around and open his door. A light smog still hung in the morning air, a mixture of frozen ice particles and smoke from the burning fires that raged in Poltava, a hundred kilometers to the west.

Golubev's driver sped off as soon as he shut his door, leaving him alone to walk the asphalt path that wound its way up the side of the mountain. Most of the trail was covered by the natural canopy of pines and huge red oaks, but in the few spots where it wasn't, a camouflage netting had been strung up to make the path invisible from the air.

Seventy meters up the side of the hill, the path suddenly ended in a very small clearing. There, several guards were waiting for Golubev to appear. They stood at attention as he approached and when he raised his eyes to meet theirs, they each offered a crisp salute. As Golubev closed in on the group of soldiers, the tallest guard turned and led him to a heavy metal fence which surrounded a large hole that had been cut into the side of the mountain. The two men passed through a small gate and walked back thirty feet into the man-made cave.

There they came to a huge metal blast door. It was six feet high and three feet thick. The guard picked up a yellow telephone that was attached to the front of the steel door and spoke in a hushed voice. As he spoke, both he and Golubev looked up into the two security cameras above them. After a few seconds, they could hear the tumblers inside the door roll over, then a gentle warning tone rang out as the door began to swing open on its huge hydraulic pistons. Yevgeni Golubev slipped through the opening and disappeared into the dimly lit hallway. The guard watched him for just a moment, then stood back as the door began to close once again.

Golubev walked briskly down the busy corridor. The hallway was wide enough to accommodate a large truck, but dimly lit, illuminated by only a few small, yellow light bulbs that hung from the cement ceiling. The floor sloped gently downward, sinking deeper into the side of the mountain. Guards with small machine guns and squawking radios paced slowly along the sides of the hallways, eyeing each man that they encountered with equal suspicion.

The Prime Minister turned down a red hallway and walked until he came to another large steel blast door. This was the entrance to the Tactical Command Center. Again, a guard was waiting to let him through. After Golubev passed through the door, he tromped across the “fly paper”, a five-foot mat of sticky tape that had been stretched across the floor. The thick, tacky paper pulled the dust and dirt from off of his boots, helping to keep the air free from contaminants that might gum up the hordes of sensitive computers that were jammed into the enormous command center.

As Golubev entered the Tactical Command Center, he looked around in admiration once again. He loved the glowing lights, the huge display boards, and the hustle of the officers that filled the room. He took a deep breath of the purified air while he listened to the sound of the humming computers.

The Tactical Command Center, or TCC, was shaped like a steep indoor theater. The room was dark, illuminated only by the back lighting from the huge display board and small table lights that sat at each of the control centers. Tiny aisle lights illuminated the steep walkways. Rows of control boards sat in a tight semicircle around the main tactical display board, a twenty-foot screen that was the focus of the room.

As Golubev stared at the screen, he noticed a dog fight in action. Two blue triangles, signifying Ukrainian SU-27 Flankers were about to engage three Russian Mig-31 Foxhounds, represented by three bright red stars.

Every eye in the room turned to watch as the air battle began. The two Ukrainian Flankers sped along the ground at low level, coming up from behind and below the Russian fighters, who were orbiting in a wide circle at 20,000 feet. It appeared that the Foxhound's radar had not yet detected the low-flying Flankers.

As the two Flankers approached their targets, they pulled their aircraft into a steep climb and fired off two AA-11 air-to-air missiles at the lead Foxhound. From each blue triangle, two small white dots began to track toward the closest red star.

It wasn't until then that the three Russian aircraft began to maneuver. The lead aircraft immediately banked over into a steep dive. Although the display board didn't show it, Golubev knew the pilot would also be spitting out white-hot flares, interspersed with small bundles of radar-reflecting chaff. Golubev's stomach muscles tightened as he watched the two missiles track in on their target. It was going to be very close. He silently coaxed the missiles onward, cheering for them to pursue.

The two small dots converged on the fighter and merged into one. The room exploded into cheers as the Russian aircraft disappeared from the screen. The two Ukrainian fighters turned and ran to the south. The Russian fighters did not pursue.

Golubev watched his cheering men, then turned his attention to the latest update of his combat losses. He scanned down both sides of the display board, hoping to find some good news. But nothing had changed. His army was still mired along the Ukrainian border and taking heavy losses. It was going poorly, and getting worse. He started to count the number of army units that now had a red line slashed through their name. There were so many. The board was bleeding red.

But the losses were not entirely one-sided. The Ukrainians were beginning to inflict heavy casualties upon the invading Russian forces. His intelligence estimated the Russians had lost at least three of their army divisions and a hundred and forty aircraft, including three Mainstay airborne radar observers and thirty-seven IL-76 transport loaded with combat troops. The Russians were winning, but the battle was bloody. Which was the only reason that Golubev was here.

The prime minister turned and walked into a small conference room at the back of the TCC. The front wall of the room was nothing but a huge pane of glass; a one-way window which allowed its occupants to look out onto the floor of the command center without being observed. From here, Golubev had a clear view of the entire TCC. He could easily read the control board and watch the bustle of activity on the floor.

Three minutes later, General Victor Lomov walked into the room. He was wearing a formal dress uniform. Combat ribbons and silver pilot wings hung from his chest. His pants were starched into a tight crease and his shoes glistened with a mirror-like shine. But his face was unshaven and his hair lay matted down to one side. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. He entered the room cursing Golubev for the interruption.

Golubev waited for the general to settle down, then walked to a small icebox and poured them both a strong drink. He knew that General Lomov had been working around the clock in the constant twilight of the TCC, sleeping when he could and eating only when one of his aides put a plate down before him.

So despite the early hour, he poured out the liquor. They raised their glasses to one another. “To our success,” said Yevgeni Golubev.

“To our brothers,” Lomov replied.

The two men drank in silence as they watched the TCC floor. They watched as the latest movements of their army units were updated on the board. They watched as another combat regiment was declared combat ineffective, its name slashed through in red.

Golubev got straight to the point.

“He's getting ready to use them. I'm sure that you've seen the reports.”

“Yes, I've seen the pictures. I've read the reports.”

“He's already fueled his missiles. He's pulling back his forward battalions to offer them a little protection. Last night we had two mock air attacks against the chemical weapons storage facility at Kirghiziahn. They were testing our air defenses, all in preparation for the real thing. I don't think that we have but a few days. It might already be too late.”

Lomov nodded and rocked on the balls of his feet but didn't respond.

“It's time we did it,” Golubev demanded. “You know that we don't have a choice. Let's just do it. It makes no sense to delay.”

Victor Lomov glanced up at the display board once again. He had spent so many hours staring at this board over the past seven days. He leaned his forehead against the one-way glass for a second. His head seemed so heavy. He felt so tired, he closed his eyes.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and turned to face the prime minister.

“Let's do it then, Yevgeni,” was all he said as he turned and walked from the room.

Three hours later, Golubev had a message sent to a Ukrainian agent in Northern Russia. By early the next morning he had already completed his job.

PSKOV AIR BASE, RUSSIA

One thousand miles to the north of Golubev's command center lay Pskov, home of the Tu-160 Blackjack bomber, the newest and most sophisticated long-range bomber that the Russians had ever developed. Roughly equivalent to the American B-1 in both size and shape, the Blackjack was a highly capable and very threatening aircraft.

Each of Pskov's twenty Blackjack bombers lay hidden in a cement bunker. Inside the bunkers, an armed guard stood watch over each aircraft. Security was very tight.