Shattered Bone (41 page)

Glancing around, Motyl found his pack were he had left it, leaning against a small tree. He hoisted the pack onto his back, then turned and walked away from his camp, leaving his fellow soldiers behind him.

Inside Motyl's pack were eight warheads for the SA-18, the Russian's newest hand-held, shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile. The SA-18 was an exceptional piece of equipment, capable of bringing down virtually any aircraft that was unfortunate enough to get in its sight. It contained technologies that were years ahead of anything developed by the West. So it came as no surprise that certain parties were very anxious to get their hands on a launcher. To tear one down and look it over. To study it and see what it really could do.

IF Motyl could deliver an SA-18 launcher to the right people, it was worth an enormous amount of money. 270,000 rubles to be exact, seven years' worth of army pay. Then, for an extra 200,000 rubles, Motyl had agreed to bring eight warheads for the launcher as well. One launcher, eight missile warheads for 470,000 rubles.

From where his squad was camped, it was only 17 kilometers to the Ukrainian border. If he left right now, when there were no guards posted, he wouldn't be missed until morning. By then he would be across the border. Motyl planned to hike almost due south, cutting over the tops of the tree-covered hills where he knew it would be easy to evade the thin line of Ukrainian troops, then on toward the Ukrainian city of Khar'kov. There his friends would be waiting.

In eighteen hours, Sergei Motyl, formerly of the Russian Fourth Army, would be a very wealthy man.

He hiked silently down the trail for thirty meters before stopping by a low growth of dead brush and leaves. Bending over, he rummaged through the debris and pulled an SA-18 launcher from its hiding place under the dry thistles and dead leaves. With a huff, he hoisted the five-foot launcher onto his back. Motyl then turned and put the moon to his back as he left the trail and set off through the trees.

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TYNDALL AIR FORCE BASE, FLORIDA

L
T
D
ALE
P
ETERSON COAXED THE CONTESTANT ON
. I
T WAS A PHRASE
. Three words. The second word was “the.”

“Buy a vowel. Come on, don't be stupid. Buy a vowel,” he yelled at the television. The contestant reached down to spin the wheel once again. Lt Peterson watched the numbers spin, clicking as they went. He already had the puzzle figured out. If the dimwitted woman would just buy another vowel. He sat back in his chair and took a sip from his Coke while he watched the wheel clatter around, winding slowly to a stop.

“I'll take a W.”

“Sorry, no W,” the host replied. A groan went up from the crowd.

“Idiot!” Peterson mumbled in frustration, as he lifted his right leg and placed it up on the small formica table.

Suddenly the alert facility dining room was splintered by a deafening bell.

Lt Peterson jumped way from the table, spilling his Coke as he ran. He sprinted down the brightly lit hallway and out into a cavernous hangar. The hangar's huge steel doors were already beginning to roll open on their steel wheels. Peterson ran to the side of his aircraft where his crew chief was waiting. The chief helped Peterson climb up the tiny ladder that was attached to the side of the F-16. Peterson dropped into the narrow cockpit. The crew chief began to strap the pilot to his ejection seat while Peterson ran his engine-start checklist.

Three minutes later he was in the air, following his flight lead through the overcast layer of clouds that hung over the Florida panhandle. Lt Peterson concentrated on staying in tight formation as they passed through the low clouds. His leader's wing tips cut through the moisture-laden air. At three thousand feet, they broke out above the cloud deck and Peterson backed off to a loose trail formation, twenty feet out from his leader.

Above the clouds, the sun was shining brightly, forcing Peterson to pull his dark visor down over his eyes. He also dropped his oxygen mask, letting it hang to the side of his face. All the while, he never took his eyes off of his leader. As he stared through the orange-tinted Plexiglas, a white sheet of compressed air formed over his leader's wing tips and washed back over his tail.

It was so beautiful. These practice scrambles could be so much fun.

“Tyndall Departure, Blade six-four, a flight of two F-16s is with you climbing to two-one thousand,” the pilot in the lead F-16 broadcast over the radio.

After a short pause the controller's voice came back. “Blade six-four, you are radar contact. Climb and maintain flight level three-two-zero. Turn right heading two-six-zero. New Orleans center request you contact them now on 122.4.”

“Blade flight is continuing up to three-two-zero, right turn heading two-six-zero,” the lead pilot replied.

He sounds so smooth, Peterson thought. Confident and cool. Like he really knows what's going on.

Fresh out of pilot training, twenty-three-year-old Dale Peterson knew that a good radio voice was one of those intangible assets that all pilots prided themselves on. Because so much happened on the radio, it became a very important, though subtle, source of information. Every voice was evaluated for stress, anxiety, or fatigue. Every radio transmission said a lot more than mere words.

Some new pilots would sit and practice their radio voice, much like a broadcast announcer or a television star. They would force their voices lower as they practiced their radio lingo. All of this emphasis on radio technique came from an old pilot saying. “It's better that you sound good, than look good, because at twenty thousand feet, no one can see you looking good.”

Lt Peterson was still young and inexperienced. And green. Green as an Irish golf course. But there was nothing that a few thousand hours in the F-16 couldn't teach him.

Peterson followed his leader as they made a gentle turn out to the west. When they were rolled out on the appropriate heading, he heard his leader say, “Blade flight, push 122.4.”

“Two,” was all Peterson said in reply, then reached down to set in the new frequency on his radio.

This was kind of weird. Departure had turned them in the wrong direction. This heading would take them straight to Texas. They always did their practice intercepts out over the coast. Always. But then again, this was only Lt Peterson's second intercept. Maybe he didn't know quite as much as he thought.

But there was something else rather unusual. Why were they being sent over to talk to New Orleans Center? New Orleans was completely out of their sector.

Yeah, something was definitely up. And with everything that had been going on, with Russia going at the Ukraine, and now, sending Blackjacks and Bears down the coast of Maine, who knows what it could be? But they were being sent west? Toward New Orleans? Didn't make much sense. Peterson listened intently while his leader checked in with New Orleans Air Traffic Control Center.

“New Orleans Center, Blade six-four is with you passing nine thousand for three-two-zero.”

“Blade six-four flight, Night Hawk is active. I say again, Night Hawk is active. Dragonfly is going to control you. Contact them on 251.6. They want you to report up on magic.” The controller sounded hesitant, almost unsure of himself. Even Peterson recognized the uncertainty in his voice.

There was a long hesitation before Peterson's flight leader responded to the controller's instructions.

“Center, confirm Night Hawk is active?”

“That's affirmative, Blade. Night Hawk was initiated approximately seventeen minutes ago. Suggest you contact Dragonfly without further delay.”

Again a long pause. Lt Peterson carefully watched Major Perry, his flight leader in the other F-16. The Major looked over in his direction. He was close enough that Lt Peterson could see the worried expression on his face. For a long time Major Perry did not respond to the controller's instructions. Finally, he turned back to face the empty space that lay before him and replied, “Roger N'Orleans, Blades are pushing to Dragonfly. We'll talk to you guys on our way back home.”

The controller did not reply.

Peterson could feel a small bead of sweat begin to roll down his side from under his arm, tickling his ribs as it went.

Something was wrong. Perhaps terribly wrong. This was no longer a routine exercise in air defense. It was obviously much more than that. By using a few special phrases and carefully selected code words, the controller had made that quite clear.

For one thing, the southern sector of the United States had been declared a “safe passage” area. That was accomplished when “Night Hawk” procedures had been initiated. This meant that every aircraft in the southeastern United States would now be considered hostile unless they were able to correctly implement their safe passage procedures. This was not a problem for the hundreds of civilian airliners that now dotted the sky. They all were squawking the appropriate computer generated codes that had been given them before they took off. But if any aircraft did not squawk appropriately when they were interrogated by Air Traffic Control's computers, they would immediately be considered a Bogey, or unidentified aircraft. If they then did not immediately and exactly comply with the controller's demands, they would be considered a Bandit.

And it was Lt Peterson's job to shoot Bandits from the sky.

Which brought them to the Dragonfly. Dragonfly was the common call sign for an AWACS airborne radar controller. AWACS was an aircraft that was used to communicate with airborne strike packages during a time of war. The E-3 AWACS was a highly modified Boeing 707. On the back of the aircraft sat an enormous rotating radar disk. The huge onboard radar could see for hundreds of miles. Using its radar, the AWACS could do it all, from directing an attack, to finding enemy aircraft, to leading a thirsty bomber into its tanker for gas. And there was one other thing that they were very good at—vectoring fighters to intercept and attack incoming targets.

Never before had Peterson heard of a practice intercept that was run by an AWACS controller. Usually the AWACS were reserved for special training exercises, and, of course, times of war.

Finally, there was the fact that the controller had directed the F-16s to come up “magic.” This meant that he wanted them to contact the AWACS on their have-quick secure voice radio. All of their conversations would then be scrambled and free from unwanted listening ears.

This intercept was not for practice, Lt Peterson realized. This one was beginning to look very real.

Peterson carefully eyed his leader as they flew to the west and continued to climb through the sky. They were now passing through 18,000 feet. Peterson reached down to reset his altimeter and did a quick scan of his instruments and weapon systems. He tuned in Dragonfly's frequency on his have-quick radio just in time to hear his leader check in.

“Dragonfly, Blade six-four is with you.” Lead's radio sounded slightly garbled from being scrambled and encoded for broadcast.

“Blade flight, say number and status,” the AWACS controller replied.

“Blade six-four, flight of two F-16s. Sixty-nine hundred on the gas. Two Heaters, four Rams.” The controller made a quick note in his log. Two F-16s, each armed with two heat-seeking and four radar-guided missiles.

“Roger, Blade six-four. Turn right heading three-three-five. These are vectors to your Bandit. He is two-hundred-ten miles at your one o'clock. Altitude three hundred feet. You are cleared to engage.”

A very, very long pause. Peterson watched and listened intently. Sweat now poured down his back. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. He felt for the small water bottle that he kept in the calf pocket of his G-suit and gulped down a quick drink of water before he heard Major Perry respond.

“Dragonfly, did you say Bandit?! What the—” he cut himself short. Peterson could see his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, then continued. “Dragonfly, what's going on?” Major Perry demanded. “Who is the target? What do you mean we are clear to engage? Are you telling me we have a Bandit over the middle of the United States? Now, what's going on?!”

The controller responded very quickly. His voice was hard. “Blade six-four flight, your instructions are as follows: you are being vectored to your target. Your target is an American B-1 bomber. I say again, your target is an American Bravo-One bomber. The target is considered extremely hostile. The aircraft has been stolen. Its crew is of an unknown origin, as are their intentions. It is loaded with Category Alpha weapons. That's category Alpha, Blade flight.

“The renegade bomber is presently flying in a southeastern direction, six hundred knots at three hundred feet. You will engage and destroy by any means available. Do not attempt to make contact with the target. Do not attempt to force the target to divert. Do not try to force it to land. Your mission is simple. To seek and destroy. I say again, to seek and destroy.”

Inside the AWACS, the controller paused and looked up once again at the two-star general who sat in the observation chair overlooking his controller display. The general nodded his head, giving his approval once again. The controller waited for the Blade leader to reply. After fifteen seconds of silence, he queried the pilot.

“Blade six-four, did you copy your instructions?” His voice sounded stern and directive. Again he waited. Ten seconds later, Major Perry shot back.

“Dragonfly, authenticate Bravo, Zulu.”

A young sergeant at the next console quickly flipped through the code book for the correct reply. She hurriedly pointed to the proper response. The controller glanced at the code book and then said, “Dragonfly authenticates Whiskey, Delta. I say again, Whiskey, Delta. ... Now Blade, do you copy your instructions?”

This time there was no hesitation. “Blade flight copies all,” the fighter pilot quickly replied.

“Now listen, Blade,” the controller continued. “We've only got one shot at this, so we've got to make it good. The only other air-intercept aircraft are your friends up in Vermont, and I don't think they're going to make it to this party. So, it's all up to you.