Shattered Bone (53 page)

Seventeen hundred miles to the southwest, a RC-135 command, control, and communication aircraft flew in a lazy orbit off the Newfoundland coast. Inside the aircraft, controllers sat at long rows of computers, radios, radars, and desks. They worked quietly as they concentrated on doing their job.

Under the belly of the aircraft was a round fiberglass pod. Trailed out behind the pod was a two-mile long strand of thick copper wire. Using an ultra-low frequency radio, the communication specialists that filled the interior of the RC-135 had been able to communicate with the U.S.S. Georgia as she sat under the ice.

Once Attack Option CONFINE had initiated, much of the responsibility for what followed was left up to the three-star general who commanded this aircraft. Hc would be the one who called all the shots.

Inside the aircraft was a small television monitor. The monitor was satellite data-linked to the radar site in Greenland and showed the flight of the incoming missile. Once Greenland began to lose its track on the missile, Headquarters Space Command, buried deep in the Cheyenne Mountains of Colorado, would accept responsibility for tracking. Space Command would track the warheads all the way to their targets.

Once the nuclear detonations were confirmed, the controllers aboard the RC-135 would broadcast a message, which would be relayed to units around the entire world. Within a very few minutes, all of the nuclear assets that were presently standing by would be commanded to launch their weapons.

As the RC-135 circled, it continued to receive messages and codes from various units, all of them associated in some way or another with Strategic Command. Most of the messages were meaningless garbage. Nothing but bogus message traffic whose only purpose was to assure that the command and communication systems were still in operation.

But as the controllers watched in terror as the missile on the radar screen descended through the air, they fully expected that to change. They anticipated that within the next ten minutes, damage reports would begin to flood in as the warheads detonated over their targets.

____________________ 

___________________       

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

“S
IR, WHAT DO WE DO
?” G
ENERAL
N
AHAYLO'S VOICE WAS DESPERATE
. He stood beside President Fedotov's chair, his back toward the Tactical Display Screen, his eyes intense with emotion as he stared down at him. “We still have time,” he continued. “We can destroy the missile. But we only have seconds. Once the missile opens up and the warheads have separated from their housing, it will be too late.”

The general paused, waiting for the president to answer. Fedotov did not reply.

“Two minutes, sir!” the sergeant sitting at the missile control desk announced. He moved his right hand and flipped up a protective cover, exposing the small, red, self-destruct button that was housed underneath.

“Mr. President, I need your permission to destroy the missile,” General Nahaylo insisted.

“Are you certain the bomber has been destroyed?” Fedotov asked once again.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! For the fifth time, sir, the bomber has been destroyed. It is gone! Our own fighters and the Mainstay have both confirmed the kill.”

“And all of the missiles?”

“Yes! You know they are gone, sir. You saw them yourself as they disappeared from our screen. The Americans destroyed them. Everything's gone! Including the bomber! Now we just can't sit here. You simply must act! Only you can order the SS-18 destroyed!”

Fedotov continued to stare at the Tactical Screen. His face had become an unreadable mask, his eyes pale and dry. The seconds ticked by. General Nahaylo wiped a handkerchief over his stricken face and glanced at the young sergeant who sat with his hand poised on the button.

“Sir,” the sergeant pleaded. “What do you want me to do?” He wasn't looking at Fedotov. He was staring at General Nahaylo. Sheer terror leapt from his eyes.

The command center was stone silent. Every head, every face, every eye, was turned toward Fedotov. No one spoke. No one breathed. No one moved.

Nahaylo grasped the back of President Fedotov's chair. “
Sir!
Thousands of people ... maybe millions of people ... are within seconds of losing their lives. No one will win. It is madness! You must do something. Now!”

Fedotov swung around in his chair and lifted a fist toward Nahaylo. “No! No, General Nahaylo! They started this fight. Not you. And not I. They arc the ones who attacked us! But now I'm calling—”

“Sixty seconds, sir!” the sergeant cried out.

“—their bluff. They are cowards, and I will not back down. So, General Nahaylo, don't tell me what I must or mustn't do. Unless you are in charge here. Don't tell
me
what to—”

“Forty-five seconds, sir!”

Nahaylo grabbed Fedotov by the shoulders and pulled him around, staring him straight in the eyes. “President Fedotov, you
must
kill the missile!” he cried. “We must stop while we can! This isn't some kind of game here! This is life! This is death! This is war!” Fedotov pushed him away. Nahaylo held on. Fedotov pushed him back once again, then glanced at his guards in a panic.

One of Fedotov's body guards drew his weapon and held it at the ready position.

“Thirty seconds, sir!” the sergeant cried out. Sir! What do you want me to do?”

“Captain Blenko!” Fedotov called to his guard. “Arrest this man! Get this coward out of my sight!”

As the Captain began to move forward, he shot a quick look at Nahaylo. It was clear he didn't know what to do.

General Nahaylo glanced up at the approaching guard. He stared at his gun. He stared into his face. He glanced down at Fedotov, who was smiling.

Grabbing Fedotov by the ears and hair, he shook him like a rag doll, his eyes wild with frustration and fear.

“Vladimir! Vladimir! You must kill the missile!”

“You are a fool!” Fedotov choked.

“Fifteen seconds, sir!” the sergeant cried out. There were tears of fear in his eyes.

Nahaylo swung around to the controller. “Kill it! Kill it!”

“No!” Fedotov shouted. Nahaylo ignored him and lunged for the console. Fedotov grabbed at him. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” he cried.

At that instant, General Nahaylo's world came to a standstill. Every thought and emotion faded away as the cognitive process shut down. For half a second, his mind went completely blank. Then he saw them. His countrymen as they labored through life. What sin had they committed? How many would die? His wife and his children. Where were they? How could they survive? And finally he saw her, a tiny and blond-headed girl. She ran to him as she squealed out “Papa” and quickly climbed up on his lap. She was weightless and perfect and constantly smiling as she rested her head on his chest.

He only had one grandchild. But he wanted more.

“Ten seconds, sir!!” the sergeant cried out. “Nine ... eight!”

General Nahaylo pulled out his pistol and shot Fedotov square in the chest, blowing him back in his chair.

“Kill the missile!” he cried again, while lurching for the self-destruct button.

The sergeant got to it first. He jammed it down with his finger so hard that he split the top of his nail. Half a second later, Nahaylo's hand slapped down on the back of the sergeant's pale wrist.

From a satellite high above the earth, a self-destruct command was sent to the SS-18 missile that was descending over the Virginia coast.

The missile immediately blew into a thousand tiny pieces. The warheads crumpled and burned and vaporized into powdery dust as searing-hot pieces of copper and steel began to fall to earth.

Inside the bunker, every man stood frozen in a horrified stupor. A heavy stillness hung in the air. The sergeant dropped his head on the console and buried it between shaking arms. General Nahaylo swallowed hard and lowered his head. The soft hum of computers seemed to fill the dead air. Crying, Nahaylo turned his back on Fedotov, tiny specks of blood dotting his face. He didn't try to wipe them away.

NORTHERN UKRAINE

Richard Ammon watched the fireball fade and disappear, a yellow explosion in the clear night sky. Only seconds before had he pulled up on his ejection seat handles. Just as his chute had deployed, he felt the jolt of overpressure as Reaper's Shadow had exploded in the air. Tiny pieces of burning debris and small chunks of metal shot outward, carried forward on a rolling wave of shock and heat. Pea-size fragments of wreckage pelted against his body and tore tiny holes in his nylon parachute.

He was safely out of the plane. But he was not uninjured. Both of his arms dangled uselessly to his side. A searing pain originated at his elbows and made its way up his shoulders, then down his spine. He had no feeling at all in either of his hands. As he dangled in his chute in the darkness, he tried in vain to raise either one of his arms. No good. They were both gone. Identical breaks, just above the elbow.

As he descended through the bitter darkness, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Shock was beginning to set in. His body heaved and shook as the muscles rubbed themselves together in a vain effort to generate some life-giving heat. The veins in his calves and thighs constricted to force the warm blood back up to the internal organs that lay protected in his chest.

He hit the ground with a solid thump, jarring his broken arms and sending piercing jolts of pain down his spine. He fell in a heap onto the shallow snowbank. His parachute descended around him. For a moment he lay there and shivered. He didn't move. He couldn't move. It simply was too painful. He willed himself to roll over and stand up. But the exhaustion was too great. He needed some time. Some time to rest. Then he would pull himself together.

He looked down at his arms, which hung at his sides. He tried once again to move his hands, staring at his fingers, willing them to bend, willing them even to twitch. But whether from the cold, or the fractures, or a painful combination of both, he couldn't move his hands. He knew that frostbite was now a serious possibility, and would lead to amputated fingers.

He lay on top of a shallow bank of snow and listened to the night. In his mind he said a little prayer. He felt so tired. So hopeless and alone.

Above his head, he could hear more fast-moving fighters. They appeared to be circling, at about 5,000 feet, maybe four miles to the west. He listened to the sound of their engines until they faded away in the wind. Then he listened to the breeze in the forest.

And wondered what he could do.

He had two broken arms. It was almost eight hundred miles to the Turkish border. He had little food. He had no warm clothes. He didn't have a map. The only items of any value were stuffed in the survival pack attached to his parachute. And with his broken arms, he had serious doubts that he could even get the survival pack open.

With enormous effort, he forced himself to roll over and propped himself into a sitting position. He felt dizzy and extremely lightheaded, but surprisingly, the pain in his arms was beginning to fade, although it was replaced by a tight and burning sensation. But even that seemed so far way, almost as if his arms were detached from his body.

Ammon puzzled on that for a moment. It seemed kind of odd. The lack of pain. Was that good? Was that okay? What did the lack of pain mean?

He continued to shiver uncontrollably. His muscles jerked. His teeth jammed together. He could feel his heart race in his chest. He knew that he had to get warm. He had to find some kind of shelter. He needed protection from the cold. And food. And a long drink of water. Yes, water was extremely important. A critical step in the treatment for shock.

Everything that he needed was inside his survival pack—the sleeping bag, plastic containers of water, fire kits, food bars, chocolate, and a warm set of clothes. Yet he was feeling so tired. So very tired. His eyelids were heavy as thick, velvet curtains. His legs were already asleep. All he wanted was to close his eyes and let the world drift away.

He shook his head and tried to think. He had to do something. Reaching deep inside himself, he forced himself to his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs. His arms flopped at his side. He fumbled in the night, searching through the darkness for his survival pack. He found it laying under a small evergreen tree, and fell down in the snow beside it.

For a long moment he stared at the pack. It was vacuum-sealed and extremely tight. It only had one tiny zipper. Ammon pushed at the pack with his right shoulder. A scream of pain shot down his arm and he fell back, suddenly faint, his head swimming. The pain seared to the marrow of his bones. He lay still, waiting for it to pass. Slowly it faded, receding to the back of his mind, where it seemed to throb with the beat of his heart. Ammon rolled gently to his knees. His arms flopped in the snow beside him. He turned the pack over, pushing it around with his chin until he found the tiny copper zipper. He tugged on it with his teeth. It didn't move. He jerked a little bit harder. It still didn't give.

And then he remembered. The zipper was soldered shut, a final protective measure to ensure the pack didn't open and spill its contents when the pilot ejected from his plane. It took twenty pounds of pressure to break the solder molds. Much more pressure than Ammon could exert with his teeth.

Ammon's heart sank. Leaving the survival pack, he stumbled to the base of an enormous white pine and fell down beside it. There, the forest floor was soft and dry. On the downhill side of the tree was an old fallen log. He burrowed himself into the bed of pine needles and pushed himself under the log. Using his teeth and feet, he wrestled the parachute together, bundling it and spreading it over his body. He buried his face in his jacket.

He wasn't so cold any more. He felt kind of fuzzy and warm, light-headed and free, as if his body were slowly sinking into a tub of warm water. It was where he wanted to be.

And he felt so tired. It was quiet and peaceful. The trees swayed over his head. The late-night stars were shining, sharing their innocent light. Maybe he would just close his eyes. Just for a moment. Rest. He needed to rest. Then he would get back to work. He would gather up his equipment and make some sort of plan. But for now he needed to rest.