Shattered Bone (46 page)

Ammon didn't need to remind himself that the Americans knew he was coming. And they had fighters based all over Europe, as well as carriers in the Mediterranean Sea.

As he pushed the aircraft down toward the sea, Morozov spoke up from the rear cockpit.

“Looks like we got a little weather up ahead,” he announced. “My radar is showing a huge squall line. I've got all sorts of radar returns. Looks like there are huge thunderstorms all across the Mediterranean Sea.

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U.S.S.
AMERICA

T
HE
A
MERICA HEAVED IN THE FIFTEEN-FOOT SEAS, THE DARKENED FLIGHT
deck pitching into the night sky as the carrier crashed through the waves. The carrier's superstructure was shrouded in a thick fog of mist and saltwater spray. A freezing rain mixed with the crashing waves and soaked the carrier's grated steel deck with a sheet of diluted salt water. Strobes of lightning flashed through the sky while thunder crackled and rolled overhead.

The Mediterranean weather had turned sour, a result of a low pressure system that had been slow in making its way across the plains of central Europe. The system built up heat and energy as it crossed the sun-baked land, then became unstable as it mixed with the moisture laden troposphere that hung over the Mediterranean Sea. The result was an enormous line of storms that now stretched from southern Italy to the western coast of Turkey, rolling the entire Mediterranean with high winds and bitter cold rain. Brutal lightning continually flashed from the bowels of the mushroom-shaped clouds, arcing its way to the sea.

On the best of nights, the flight deck of a carrier was a horribly dangerous place to be. On nights like this, it was worse. All of nature's elements—the wind and the sea, the rain and the thunder—combined with man's howling catapults and screaming jet engines to form a Niagara of noise, lights, vibration, and confusion.

Three hundred men worked in the darkness to launch and recover the carrier's aircraft. Many of them were nearing exhaustion. Yet the night was young. It was only 22:15 local and the America was only halfway through it's second night launch. Aircraft were already waiting to be recovered. Hornets and Tomcats circled overhead, occasionally tapping into refuelers for gas as they waited for clearance to land. As soon as the second round of aircraft had been catapulted out over the water, the waiting aircraft would line up to make their approach to the carrier's deck.

An F-18 Hornet taxied up to the catapult and was quickly surrounded by sailors wearing different colored vests. One man communicated with the pilot through an elaborate dance of gestures and flashing hand signals, while two other sailors connected the fighter's nose wheel to the catapult bar. The pilot signaled his gross weight to the catapult controller, who set the catapult's steam engines at an appropriate setting that would blow the thirty-six-thousand-pound fighter across the deck. The pilot completed his final checks, ran his two engines up to full afterburner and pushed himself back in his seat. The catapult hissed, pulling her steel cables taut against the carrier deck. The cat director bent his knees and slowly lowered his hands to the grated deck. When his fingers touched the water-soaked metal, the catapult fired. Two seconds later, the fighter was airborne. It immediately turned away from the carrier as it climbed up through the rain.

By the time the pilot had passed through three thousand feet, he already had tuned up his radar and was sweeping the sky up ahead. He quickly took his appointed place in the armada of U.S. and NATO aircraft that were searching for the stolen bomber over the dark skies of the Med.

REAPER'S SHADOW

The B-1 continued through the night. She was more than halfway across the Med on her way to the Aegean Sea, the ancient vineyards of Sicily having passed just off to her left. She sped along two hundred feet above the dark ocean waves. Richard Ammon peered out through the darkness, squinting his eyes to protect his night vision from the flashing lightning that constantly filled the sky. The pointed nose of his bomber had picked up a faint and eerie green glow. The entire cockpit constantly crackled with sparkling flashes of faint blue light. Tiny fluorescent spider webs of electricity crawled up his windscreen, like a thousand outstretched fingers. Saint Elmo's Fire. It was beautiful and fascinating to watch, but very dangerous, for it indicated the presence of massive amounts of electricity. Of course, the possibility of a lightning strike was only one of the risks that a pilot took when he chose to fly directly through such powerful storms.

The turbulence alone was enough to rip the wings off of most aircraft. But the Bone bobbed along, slicing through the wind sheer and downdrafts with considerable ease. Two small winglets underneath her nose flickered in the wind, acting to stabilize the aircraft as it flew through the stormy night. The massive engines never even coughed, though with every passing minute they sucked in tons of rain-soaked air. Her radar continued to peer through weather, beaming through the turbulent wind and the rain to guide the aircraft over the white-capped waves.

This was perfect, Ammon thought. He couldn't have asked for anything better. The storm would almost assuredly hide the B-1 from any American fighter's radar. And even if they were to find him, it would take a very brave pilot to try and chase him through such a storm.

Ammon knew that he would be safe until he passed to the east of the storms. By then he would be over the Black Sea, and only a few minutes ride from the Ukrainian border. There the chase would end, for even if the Americans were able to find him, it would no longer matter, for the small fighters didn't have the range to pursue him past the Aegean Sea.

Richard Ammon scanned his instruments once again as the aircraft bounced along. Everything was functioning perfectly. The terrain-following system was flying the aircraft. There was really nothing for him to do.

He reached down and picked up his chart. He studied the black pencil line that depicted their desired flight path. It was a hook-shaped line that passed south of Sicily before turning northeast toward Greece and the Aegean Sea. Morozov had planned their intended flight path to avoid passing over any NATO airspace.

Ammon continued to study the map. He traced his finger along the line, following its crooked path until it passed just north of the island of Crete. There he let his finger linger. He glanced up into the darkness. The island nation was not far ahead.

Returning his eyes to the cockpit, Ammon stared at his weapons display and considered once again the horrible weapons that were stored inside the belly of his aircraft. For the thousandth time, he swallowed and shook his head in awe. He couldn't help himself. The magnitude of destructive power was enough to baffle the mind.

In his mind, he counted the weapons. Ten M-95 high-velocity bunker-killing missiles. The specialty weapon. Designed to kill military and civilian leadership as they cowered in their subterranean bunkers. Eight B-69 nuclear gravity bombs. General purpose destruction. Twenty-four megatons of fiery blast and smoking debris. Guaranteed to radiate for a hundred years, producing massive stretches of hot soil, glowing milk, mutant fish, and enough thyroid and bone cancers to fill every hospital bed within the whole of northern Russia.

Then there was the last weapon stuffed inside his bomb bay. The guided cruise missile. “The Sunbeam,” Colonel Fullbright had called it. It was a weapon Ammon knew very little about. He didn't understand how it worked. He didn't know how it was guided. He didn't know its capabilities, lethality, payload, or speed.

All he knew was its range. About three hundred miles. Because that was how close he had to get to his target before he could spit the missile out of the belly of the Bone and send it on its low-altitude flight toward Moscow.

Which meant he had to fly at least eighty miles on the other side of the Russian border. Eighty miles north of their lines of defense.

Ammon drew in a weary breath, then turned his attention back to his chart. He followed the pencil line across the Black Sea to where it crossed the Ukrainian border. He followed it north, past the city of Kiev toward the Russian front.

There he expected to encounter the first of the Russian fighters. The whole of Russia's Southern Command—SU-27s and 29s, Mig 35s and 31s. They were all there, jammed along the Ukrainian border. Each of the fighters would carry a full combat load. About half of the aircraft would be dedicated to defensive-counter air, set up in a wide swath as a combat air patrol, watching and waiting for an attack such as this, prepared at a moment's notice to track any incoming Bandits and blow them out of the sky.

Ammon stared forward into the inky-black distance. They were out there. Waiting. He looked at his watch. It wouldn't be long. At the speed he was flying, he would soon be within range of the fighter's early-warning radar.

Just eighty miles. That's all he would need. Eighty miles beyond the Russian border. A quick run through the night. It would only take eight minutes. Eight minutes of luck was all he would need.

In a dash, he would cross the Russian border, hiding between the low hills, winding his way up the narrow valleys to stay hidden from the Russian radar. Then, once he was within range, it would only take sixty seconds to put the missile through its final countdown and send it out on its way. And then he was gone, escaping back toward the Ukrainian border by a slightly different route.

It would take the Sunbeam thirty-one minutes to reach its target in Moscow. By that time, Ammon would be more than seven hundred miles away.

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KHAR'KOV, UKRAINE

S
GT
S
ERGEI
M
OTYL SHIVERED AS HE LAY IN THE SNOW. THE AIR WAS
brittle and cold. He sucked in the night air and tried to remain perfectly still. Through the winter haze he could see a tiny cluster of lights, shining in the distance. That would be the Ukrainian city of Khar'kov. Motyl had just crossed the border. He was now on the Ukrainian side.

He settled back, rested his head against his pack and stared up into the night sky. The small warheads that were crammed inside the canvas pack jutted against the back of his neck. It wasn't very comfortable, but Motyl didn't mind. He was hungry and tired and cold, but none of that mattered. In just a few hours, his mission would be over. In just a few hours, he would meet up with the man.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Vladimir Fedotov, the president of the newly formed Union of Soviet Republics, sat on a worn leather chair behind a huge, ornate oak-top desk. For a long moment he studied his visitor in contemptuous silence, then glancing at a small wooden chair, he indicated for him to sit down. General Smikofchen shook his head to decline, preferring to remain at attention while in the presence of his commander in chief. The president grunted as he reached into his breast pocket to produce a new package of cigarettes. While he fumbled to unwrap the tight plastic wrapper, the general took a quick look around.

Fedotov's office occupied one of the original structures that lay within the Kremlin walls. It sat at ground level and extended from the rear of the Armory, beneath the shadow of the Arsenal Tower. The structure was made from rough granite walls and ancient pine floors and was cold and damp and smelled of wet stone. Young Czarist officers had used this space to prepare themselves and their horses for battle. Even Catherine the Great had once used the room as a rendezvous spot with her lover.

Vladimir Fedotov could sense the ghosts of these ancient warriors as he sat within the thick granite walls. At times, he could almost feel their presence. And he spoke to their spirits, silently calling their names.

After lighting his cigarette, Fedotov considered the general that stood before him. He glared at the slender man with a look of disgust and contempt, then asked him to repeat himself once again.

General Smikofchen cleared his throat and spoke in a calm and even tone.

“Sir, we don't really know what the Ukrainians are up to. It seems to be some kind of scramble, but none of the fighters nor tactical bombers have yet made any attempt to cross the forward line of their own defensive positions. Though they make an occasional jab at our borders, by and large, they seem to be hanging back. It doesn't seem to make any sense. Their intentions are very unclear.”

General Smikofchen paused for a moment before he continued, all the while staring at some invisible spot that hovered just above the president's head.

“But, sir, it is our guess that it is unrelated to the situation in the United States. We just don't see any connection at all.”

Fedotov suddenly pushed back his chair. He hunched his shoulders and pulled in his neck as he settled against the leather backrest. Reaching out, he picked up a red-trimmed folder from his desk. It was a one-page summary of events that had occurred over the past eight hours. Fedotov flipped the cover page open and scanned the report once again.

While Fedotov read, General Smikofchen remained at attention, staring at the wall, watching the president with his peripheral vision. He knew that Fedotov hated the bearer of bad news. And to bring him this report was not an assignment that General Smikofehen would have volunteered for. But as the Head of Counter-Reconnaissance Operations, he had the responsibility to tell the old man.

The general shifted his weight from one foot to the other as Fedotov scanned through the report.

RE: UNIDENT

TO: CYRUS/intolol/intrepid/inturn

AN: WH/Zu/2035/BASE

MESSAGE FOLLOWS

Beginning about 1419 Zulu, Russian WEST-HEM SINCCOMCOM began to note a marked increase in classified message traffic among the United States military. Initially the traffic was limited to organizations within the United States Air Force, but within an hour expanded to include Naval STRATCOM and CINCLAINT as well. By 1603 Zulu, a significant increase was also noted in satellite traffic. During the next hour, message volume was at such a level that U.S. communications systems were completely overloaded and a standby HF satellite was reactivated to handle the spike in coded-message traffic.