Shattered Bone (49 page)

The controller scanned through the rooms, then said, “Negative, sir. He's not there. Unless he's dead. There is no living source of heat. There is nothing alive in these rooms.”

“All right, then let's keep on looking. And let's pick it up. We haven't much time. And who knows where the target might be?”

The controller punched at his computer. Forty-five miles above the surface of the earth, the satellite's sensors were moved once again. This time, they honed in on Fedotov's private office, a small cubicle of stone which jutted out from the back of the Kremlin.

Moments later, the operations officer shouted in excitement, “That's him! It has to be him! You can see him at his desk. He is watching some kind of screen. With his military officers all around him. It has to be Fedotov.”

“Are you certain?” Weber Coy asked.

“Certain as we can be! It has to be him. Who else could it be?”

Coy rubbed the stubble on his chin, and then said, “Okay. Designate the target.”

With the stroke of a key, the EYE was commanded to slip out of its search program and into its target-designator mode. Instantly, a four million watt, pencil-thin beam of invisible light lazed down from the satellite and locked onto the office, scattering a pool of reflective energy around the wooden shingles at the crest of the roof line. The Sunbeam would use the laser beam to home in on its target.

DARK 709

Major Peleznogorsk leveled off at 4,000 feet and pushed up his throttles to keep up his speed. The sky had cleared for a moment through a thin break in the clouds, and looking down, he could barely make out the dim outline of the barren hills and narrow valleys that ran northward from the Khoper River toward the city of Borisoglebsk. The low mountains sat in mute silence in the moonlit night.

REAPER'S SHADOW

Twelve miles to the south, Richard Ammon watched the time-to-target display on his screen. One minute and thirty-two seconds to go. The flight profile data was already loaded into the Sunbeam. Its internal batteries were up and running. The starter motor was standing by.

All that was left was the final countdown sequence. Sixty seconds to align the missile's internal gyroscopes and navigation computers.

Ammon looked out in front of his bomber. In the glimmer of the clearing night, he could just make out the Khoper River as it began to come into view.

It was time to go.

With a jerk of his hand, Ammon threw the aircraft into a sudden and tight left-hand turn. He felt himself sink into his seat from the force of the Gs. The Khoper slid underneath the nose of the bomber as Reaper's Shadow shuddered against the strain of the high-G turn.

Morozov called out in a panic. “What are you doing? Where are you going? Ammon, come back to heading three-five-two. Come on, Ammon, do it now!”

Ammon did not reply. Instead he rolled the aircraft out on a westerly heading, then reached down and began to punch the launch code into his navigation computer.

“Carl, where are you going?” Morozov demanded.

Still Ammon did not reply.

“Carl Vadym Kostenko ... what are you programming into the computer?” Morozov shouted. Some numbers flashed up on his screen. “Ammon! I want you on a heading of three-five-two. That's three-five-two, Ammon! Turn it, Ammon! Turn it now!”

The aircraft continued to the west.

Morozov's voice filled Ammon's ears once again. “Ammon, think what you're doing to Jesse. What about her, you yellow-faced coward? Think of blood and pain and tears of sadness. You can't even imagine what my men will do!”

Ammon blinked his eyes and swallowed hard. His stomach rolled in hate and disgust.

With a start, he shook his head and finished entering the code into the system computer. He checked the numbers to ensure that he had not made a mistake. Then, reaching up, he paused over the “Enter” key on his computer's keyboard.

“Morozov, ol' buddy,” he said very simply, “I think you should listen to me now. It's time for your little surprise.”

Ammon jammed the computer's “Enter” button.

Immediately the coordinates of the missile launch line flashed up onto Morozov's navigation computer while a bright red light began to flash on his screen.

“SELECTED MISSILE IN FINAL COUNTDOWN”

The new time-to-target display showed Reaper's Shadow was only fifty-nine seconds from launching the missile.

Morozov wiped his hands over his face as he stared at his screen. For a long moment, he sat in quiet shock. What was this missile? Where did it come from?

And then it hit him. Whatever Ammon was doing, he wasn't working for him.

“Ammon, I swear I will kill you!” he shouted. “I swear, I swear, I will kill you! I'll rip out your heart and shove it down your throat! I'll—”

Richard Ammon reached down and disconnected his communication cord from the intercom box. There was no longer any reason to listen to Ivan Morozov. He pushed up all four of his throttles and once again was pushed back in his seat. The Bone began to accelerate, leaving a vapor trail of super-heated air in its wake.

All the while, the missile continued in its countdown. At ten seconds, Morozov felt the bomb bay doors swing open, dropping with a rush into the oncoming wind. At seven seconds, he heard a faint hiss and rumble as the missile starter-motors kicked in. At three seconds, he felt a quick rattle against the aircraft's frame, as two hydraulic pistons slammed against the missile, sending it downward with a sudden
thaat!

The missile lurched as it dropped into the slipstream. Its internal ram engines ignited with a lightning-bright flash. And then it was gone.

___________________ 

__________________       

DARK 709

“I'
VE GOT MISSILE LAUNCH
! I'
VE GOT MISSILE LAUNCH
!”
THE
R
USSIAN
pilot screamed into his mask.

“Where?” his wingman cried.

“Ten o'clock! Low! Keep with me! I'm going down to take a look.”

Peleznogorsk rolled the SU-27 into a hard, descending left-hand turn and armed up two of his missiles, at the same time keeping his eyes on his own radar to watch the rough terrain that was rising to meet him. He leveled off at 1,500 feet. The brilliant flash had sparkled not more than four or five miles off in the distance. But now it was gone. He rolled his radar's antenna to a look-down position so that he could search the ground beneath and before him as he chased to the area that had just flashed with light. Throughout the maneuver, he kept his eyes constantly moving, darting, and peering through the sky.

“Papa! Papa!” he screamed into his mask. “We've got Bandits launching Babies. I say again. We've got Bandits launching Babies!”

“Papa” was his ground control1er. “Babies” was the code for an unidentified enemy missile.

The controller was quick to respond. “Aircraft calling Babies, say your call sign and location?”

“That's Dark seven-oh-nine. Dark seven-oh-nine. Confirmed Baby at three-five kilometers north of Belgorod.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Dark, confirm, three-five kilometers north of Belgorod?”

Peleznorgorsk jammed his mike once again. “Affirm! Affirm! North of Belgorod.” A sudden pause. And then, “Wait! Wait!” Peleznogorsk stared at his radar screen. He had seen it. A quick flash. Yes, there it was again. The aircraft was low. Incredibly low. It was in a turn. It's wings and back were rolled up in a tight bank, bouncing back enough of Peleznogorsk's radar energy to reveal the bomber's location.

“I've got the Bandit,” the Russian cried. “He's low. Turning south.”

The Bandit rolled level, and then disappeared from his screen.

“Papa, I can't get a good track. And negative on the ID.”

Peleznogorsk pulled his radar display down to a five mile scope, the tightest beam he could have, in an attempt to focus the energy of his radar on the fleeing target. He threw both of his massive engines into full afterburner as the target pulled away. He strained his neck over the nose of his fighter, peering into the blackness of the night, looking for the enemy aircraft. The Bandit flickered once or twice, then disappeared from his screen as it dropped behind a low mound of hills. Peleznogorsk sucked in his breath and pushed up his throttles once again. Five seconds later, the target re-emerged on his screen.

“Papa!” Major Peleznogorsk called out. “I've got good trace, but I can't get a lock. Target is now three-one kilometers north of Belgorod and heading south.”

“Have you got a good ID?” the controller cried. His voice was brittle and sharp. He was nearly in a panic. As the ground-radar controller, it was primarily his responsibility to find and track the incoming threats, and missing the Bandit meant that, at a minimum, he had just lost his job. He would spend the next two years of his enlistment cleaning floors. But it could be worse. And it would be far worse, if he allowed the bomber to get away.

The controller tightened up in his seat, his body rigid in fear and concentration, as the SU-27 pilot replied, “Negative ID, Papa. Negative ID on the Bandit.”

“How many targets?” the controller shot back.

Peleznogorsk paused to consider. “Only one, as far as I know. I'm only picking up one on my radar. But who knows? Maybe there's more.”

“Okay. Okay.” the controller called back, relieved that at least it wasn't a major attack. “I've got Blade Flight coming down from the Despansky Cap. ETA ... four point five minutes. They will be sweeping in from the west.”

“Copy.” Peleznogorsk replied.

“Now, what about the Baby?”

“Negative on the Baby. I can confirm the launch, but the missile simply disappeared.” Peleznogorsk turned back over his shoulder to glance at his wingman.

“Two, do you see it?” he asked.

“Negative,” his wingman replied.

“That's okay, Dark,” the contro11er shot back. “Forget the Baby. We'll look for it later. How much damage can a single missile do? For now, let's go get the Bandit. ID him if you can. But don't wait for an ID to engage!”

Peleznogorsk glanced down at his radar. The image continued to flicker and bounce on his screen. It was sti11 there, somewhere to the south. But it was starting to fade. It was pulling away. He only got a look at it about once every ten or fifteen seconds now. And it was far too vague a radar return to get a good lock for his missiles.

Five seconds after launch, the Sunbeam had accelerated to 740 miles per hour and dropped to only twenty feet above the frozen terrain. Its guidance systems kicked in and sent the missile on its preprogrammed flight path toward the city of Moscow. Using infrared sensors and radar, the missile mapped the ground up ahead, then compared the terrain with the data bank in its on-board computers to determine its exact location. It sped along the ground, not bouncing back, but instead absorbing the SU-27's radar signal, while lifting itself over scattered farm houses and rows of tall trees.

It screamed along at a breathtaking pace. Like a ghost, it sped toward the city. For all intents and purposes, it was invisible. There was absolutely no hope of shooting it down.

REAPER'S SHADOW

The cockpit was very quiet. Ammon hated the silence.

The Bone's defensive systems had fa11en completely silent. Morozov must have shut them down. If there was anything out there, Ammon would never know it.

Ammon plugged back into his interplane communications cord.

“Morozov, we need the defensive systems up,” he started to plead. “You've got to tell me what is going on. I've got to know where the fighters and SAM sites are, or we'll never get out of this thing alive.”

Ivan Morozov didn't respond.

Ammon dished the Bone over a narrow lake and through a small cut in the hills. He pushed the aircraft as fast as he could as he made his way to the south. The aircraft vibrated quietly against the speed. He was pushing his ponies at a dead run, but without any information about possible threats, there wasn't much else he could do.

DARK 709

Jamming his fighter into tight, sudden turns, Peleznogorsk followed the aircraft as best as he could. Yanking left, he watched as the signal flickered on his radar screen. The Bandit had pulled away to almost twenty-eight kilometers now. His finger strained against the fire trigger on his stick, ready to fire the missiles. But the target-tone remained at an irritating shrill. It pierced his ears with its gyrating tone, but never settled into the familiar and constant low-toned growl which would indicate his missiles were locked onto the target.

The aircraft was flying so fast! Too fast. It couldn't have been a Ukrainian bomber. Nothing they had could keep up with this.

This wasn't making any sense!

Peleznogorsk then realized the fleeing aircraft had to be using some kind of terrain-avoidance radar to keep from smashing into the ground. And his target acquisition computer should be able to identify the type of radar it used. He quickly punched a few keys on his computer, commanding it to do an analysis of the fleeing aircraft's terrain-following radar signal.

Three seconds later, Peleznogorsk had his answer. And as he stared at the read-out on his screen, he couldn't believe his own eyes.

“Papa!” he screamed. “I've got a good identification. Target is an American bomber. I say again. Target is an American B-1 bomber. We are under a U.S. attack!”

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Vladimir Fedotov breathed a sudden and angry groan, then turned around to face General Nahaylo. “Are you telling me it is an American aircraft? An American missile?”

The minister of defense wiped his nose. “Sir, there is absolutely no doubt. It is an American B-1 bomber. It launched some kind of cruise missile. And then turned away.”

Fedotov raised an eyebrow. “Only one missile?”

“Yes,” Nahaylo replied. This curious fact was not lost on either man.