Shattered Bone (32 page)

The agent had fired through the trees from just over two hundred yards. But clearly, it was a near perfect shot.

___________________ 

__________________       

WICHITA, KANSAS

I
VAN
M
OROZOV WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH THE PARKING LOT
. T
HE HOOD
of his coat was pulled down tight around his face as he sought protection from thc bitter cold and freezing rain. He jumped over small puddles of brown water that covered the rutted asphalt, then walked into the Wichita Mall and shook off the sleet from his coat. He stood before the mall directory for only a moment while he searched for his destination, then turned and walked toward a small coffee shop that was located in a deep corner of the food emporium.

He looked around quickly as he entered the restaurant. It was not very crowded. At least not yet. Ten-thirty was too early for the lunch traffic to begin. He ignored the sign that asked him to wait to be seated and walked deliberately back to a corner booth. The man was already waiting.

He didn't look up as Morozov pushed into the booth, but continued to run dry pieces of toast through the dripping egg yolks, stuffing them into his mouth. Morozov made himself comfortable, then reached over and picked up the newspaper which lay rolled up next to the man's plate of eggs. As he flipped it open, he was surprised to see that it was two days old.

“You're a little behind in your reading,” he muttered.

The man stuffed another piece of dripping toast in his mouth. “Been busy,” was all he replied.

Morozov scanned the headline, which was two inches high, bold and black. Headlines like this sold a lot of papers.

RUSSIAN BOMBER SHOT DOWN U.S. BLAMED FOR AIRCRAFT'S LOSS

The United States Government denied any involvement in yesterday's apparent downing of a Russian Blackjack bomber, despite Russia's claim that one of two U.S. Air Force fighters shot down the Tu-160 aircraft twenty miles from the coast of Maine.

The Russian aircraft was flying in international airspace when the incident occurred. Russian president Vladimir Fedotov denounced the downing of his bomber, calling it a “calculated, cowardly, and deliberate act of war.”

Although the U.S. military continues to deny any involvement, the incident has heightened the current crisis to an explosive level. Right wing members of the Russian parliament have demanded an immediate and unconditional apology from the United States. President Fedotov has threatened a retaliatory strike against U.S. military aircraft that are currently operating in the Mediterranean Sea as a part of NATO war game exercises.

“We cannot let such aggression go unpunished,” Fedotov said in a hastily called news conference. “We had an unarmed Russian aircraft, operating in a perfectly legal manner, with no hostile intentions, suddenly shot from the air. It was a completely unprovoked attack. But I will say this. We know now who is an agent for peace, and who is an agent for war. We now have a clearer idea of who is an enemy to the new Russian state. And knowing that, we will respond. Beyond that, I will say no more.”

Morozov scanned the story, then folded the paper and smiled. It was a pleasure to see a plan corne together.

Fedotov's friend looked up from his eggs. He was a large man, middle-aged and serious-looking. His skin was lily white. His eyes were a pale brown, like dry winter leaves, and just as lifeless. They spoke of painful days and long winter nights and were a perfect complement to the cold smirk that marked his face.

Ivan Morozov studied him for a moment, then spoke in a harsh whisper as he looked around the near-empty restaurant.

“What's the official count on the Nertrav incident?”

The man answered with an expressionless face. “The Ukrainian press is calling it twenty thousand, give or take. Officially, the U.S. Defense Department refuses to say. Liski thinks it is not quite that high, maybe fourteen thousand by the time the Nertrav has run its full course. But really, what does it matter? Ten ... fourteen ... twenty ... what's the difference? Either way, it had the desired effect.”

Morozov smiled once again. “Hear about Korea?” he asked. The man shook his head.

“CNN is reporting that North Korean troops are beginning to mobilize along the South Korean border. They have promised their support to Fedotov, should he be the victim of any NATO air attacks.

“I'm sure they are praying the United States enters the war,” Morozov continued. “What with all the condemnation they have come under over the past year for their nuclear build-up, the diversion of attention and resources away from the Korean Peninsula would be just what they need. In addition, Libya and Iraq have promised concessions to the Russians on their oil. And with yesterday's announcement that both Moldavia and Kazakhstan have agreed to join the new Russian Union, it would seem that Fedotov's allies, few and brash as they are, seem to be falling in line.”

The man grunted. “Yeah, that's great. But now let's get down to business.” Morozov's eyes narrowed as he leaned slightly forward.

“Okay, Volodymyr. What have you got?”

“The air refueling tanker has been set up. Our people got onto the network early this morning. It was just about like you said. We got a receipt message from Torrejon, and it has all been confirmed.”

“Yes ... okay ... that is good,” Morozov said. But he knew there was more. He could tell by the look in Volodymyr's eyes.

“And ... ? Is that all?”

“No,” Volodymyr said. “We are having a little problem with the girl.”

Morozov glared and waited while stuffing a Marlboro between his dry lips.

“It goes like this. One morning last week, everything is cool. Clyde and Nadine have her safe and sound in the cabin. I went there myself. Everything looks good. I check things over. Have a little talk with them. Everything was under control.

“Two days later, they call and say she is sick or something. Won't eat. Sweats a lot. Throws up stuff in her sleep. Refuses to get up and walk around. You know. Typical sick hostage crap.”

Just then a young waitress came up to their booth and pulled out a pencil and ticket pad. Morozov pushed his coffee mug over so that she could pour him a cup, then shook his head when she offered a menu. She left quickly. The two men waited until she was out of earshot before they continued their conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, so what's the story?” Morozov asked in an irritated voice as he took a small sip from his coffee. “You didn't call me out here to tell me she's got the twenty-four hour flu. So what's going on?”

“Don't really know. Which is the main problem.”

Morozov put his coffee aside and looked up.

“I called out there this morning,” the man continued. “Got no answer. Called every fifteen minutes for the past three hours. No one is home.”

Morozov swore under his breath. “You idiot! You stupid fool! You better not have screwed this thing up, my friend, or I'll cut off your hands and feed them to my dogs!

“What do you mean that no one is there!? Didn't they have their instructions? They were supposed to keep her at the cabin! You'd better find out what's going on! And you better not bring me bad news.”

The man didn't blink as he stared at Morozov.

“May 1 remind you, Comrade Morozov,” he sneered, “the man and his wife were your idea. Not mine. So you crap all over the place, then send me in to clean up the mess. I don't think so. So don't be telling me how to do my job.

“Now, I've sent some people out there to take a look. They'll be in position in another hour or so. I'm certain the girl is still there. I'm sure that there is some explanation. The phones are down. They had a bad storm. Whatever, she's got to be there. Unless you think she took out both of your people. Chopped them to pieces with a butter knife or something. Possible, but not very likely.

“So let's not overreact just for the thrill of a good panic. It seems like we've done that before.”

Morozov stared silently at the man and grunted. The man stood up. “I'll be talking to you,” he said as he threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and left. Morozov took another sip at his coffee, then picked up the money and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He pulled out two fives from his own wallet and left them on the table. Then he followed the man out the front door.

Outside the coffee shop, Morozov watched the back of the man's head as he made his way through the maze of plastic tables and morning shoppers that werc beginning to crowd into the food court. The man soon disappeared in the throng. Morozov then turned in the opposite direction and walked back toward the same doorway in which he had entered the mall. He put on his overcoat as he walked quickly back out to his car.

It was cold. The freezing rain had turned to a light snow, and the temperature had dropped into the twenties. Ivan Morozov studied the sky for a moment as he stood by the side of his car. It wasn't flying weather. Low clouds and fog hung over the trees, and the visibility looked to be less than a mile. He had noticed that there weren't many B-1s that had taken off from the base this morning. He understood why. It was a lousy day to be in the air.

Morozov shivered from the cold, then ducked into his car and started it up. Pulling out of the mall parking lot, he headed back to the hotel. As he drove, he kept the heater turned off. The interior of the car began to fog over. From time to time, he would reach up and clear a round spot on his windshield with the back of his hand, wiping away just enough condensation so that he could see to drive. By the time he pulled into the empty parking lot that surrounded his hotel, his windows were completely fogged over. He parked in the far corner, thirty yards away from the next closest car. He rolled to a stop, but kept his engine running.

Reaching under his seat, he pulled out a tiny laptop computer. As he opened the lid, the pale gray screen came to life. “PASSWORD” was flashing in bold letters.

Morozov typed very carefully, very slowly, using only one finger to enter the twelve digit password. He knew that a single error would instantly trigger the computer's self-destruct program. And all it would take was one simple mistake. So he punched the keys very deliberately.

After typing in the twelve numbers, Morozov reviewed them in his mind, then hit “Enter.” The screen immediately went blank. His heart skipped a beat. For just an instant he thought he might have blown it. Then a white cursor appeared and began to flash on the left side of the screen. Morozov breathed a quick sigh of relief.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the twenty dollar bill that had been left at the table. Turning it over in his hands, he found the serial number that was printed on one side. He reached down and typed in the first digit.

The screen began to roll and tumble with a random mixture of letters and numbers. After several seconds of this, the letter “
T
” appeared at the top of the screen. Then the cursor returned once again.

Morozov typed in the second digit of the serial number from the twenty dollar bill. Again the screen rolled with a maze of numbers and letters. Again, after several seconds, another letter appeared on the top of the screen, next to the original letter “T”.

And so it went. After a few minutes, Morozov had a complete message. It was very simple.

TUESDAY 23,1415 Z -PlAN CHB- GO

It was the final approval for their mission. On Tuesday morning, at 1415 Zulu time, they would be taking off.

Morozov studied the message, then deleted it from the screen. He looked at his watch and did some mental calculations. In less than twenty-four hours, he and Richard Ammon would be in the air on a one-way flight to Russia in a B-1 bomber, the most sophisticated aircraft on earth.

Now there was only one thing left to do.

Reaching down, he plugged the computer's AC adapter into the cigarette lighter, which connected him to a maze of secret electrical equipment in the trunk of his car. Typing quickly, he wrote his response.

“In receipt of message. Plan Change B. 23/1415. We are ready and now in position. The timing will work. Proceed as per plan.”

He quickly reviewed his acknowledgment of the message, then hit the “F6” key.

The computer screen went momentarily blank before “SENDING MESSAGE” appeared on his screen.

He held very still and listened very closely. He could barely hear the tiny electrical motors in the trunk of his car as they moved the eighteen-inch satellite dish around on its thin steel mounts. The laptop computer interfaced with the Global Positioning System, which was also hidden in the car trunk, to determine his exact location, then used that information to move the miniature dish around to align it with the Ukrainian satellite that spun 21,000 miles overhead. Once the dish was in sync with the satellite, it sent a one second data burst to test the connection. After receiving the test data, the Ukrainian satellite responded back to Morozov's system with a one second burst of its own. Not until then did Morozov's computer send up his message, which was then bounced off another satellite before being beamed down to a station in Kiev.

Morozov shut the lid on the computer and turned off his car. Walking to his motel room, he glanced once again at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Not much else to do now, but wait. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

He entered his room and nodded to the diner man, who frowned, then immediately left. Morozov fell down on his bed. Ten minutes later, he was fast asleep.

Ninety seconds after Morozov sent up his signal, the Cray super-computer onboard the K-23 satellite had finished its final computations and downloaded the information to the National Reconnaissance Organization center in western Virginia. It had a good fix on the source of the data transmission. The target area that the computer came up with was much less than twenty feet square. Twenty minutes after that, a military C-21 transport took off from Andrews Air Force Base, just outside of Washington, D.G, enroute to Wichita, Kansas.