Shattered Bone (6 page)

In the attic above Jesse's bed was a small black electronic box about the size of a large pack of gum. It was attached to a crossbeam by four small screws and lay immediately on top of the ceiling drywall. It had been placed there by a man named Valori Antonov. For three weeks it had lain dormant.

Nine hours before Jesse came home from her morning walk, a tiny red light on the side of the box shone for the first time. Silently, a microphone the size of a pin was forced through the ceiling and into the room below. Only one eighth of an inch of metal was exposed on the bedroom ceiling, but that was enough to pick up even the quietest whisper, no matter where it was spoken in the apartment. The box had already picked up and broadcast in a digital format the message that Jesse received on her answering machine. While Jesse was busy packing, three voice recognition analysts were trying to determine who had made the call.

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YELLOW SEA

R
ICHARD
A
MMON WAS IN HIS LIFE RAFr LESS THAN AN HOUR BEFORE HE
heard the sound of an approaching boat. He peered into the darkness, but could see nothing but the faint outline of the horizon against the star-covered sky. The approaching sound was deep and throaty and seemed to come from all around him so that he couldn't determine in which direction to look. He thought for a moment about shooting off one of his flares but immediately decided against it. He knew the tanker was still somewhere overhead and he couldn't take a chance.

Out of the darkness emerged the shadow of a black speedboat. It appeared to be about thirty feet long, but its low profile made it difficult to see. It was heading directly for him, and for a moment he thought it would run him over. Just before reaching him it turned sharply and cut its engines. The wave and splash from its wake sent Ammon's small raft reeling and once again, he found himself in the water. As he sputtered to the surface, a rope was thrown over his head and a voice yelled to him in Russian.

“Ti ponimayesh yesheho rodnoi yazik, tovarisheh? Do you still understand your native tongue, my comrade?”

After a long pause Ammon responded in English. “Who are you? Can you help me? I need your help.”

He didn't recognize the voice, and the man had not given the proper code.

For a second the only sound Ammon heard was a gentle laugh. Then the voice responded, this time in English. “It's a cold night for such happenings.”

“Yes, especially for this time of year.” Ammon called back. As he pulled himself alongside the boat, a massive pair of hands reached down and pulled him from the water. Shivering and exhausted, Ammon found himself staring into a bearded face he had never seen before.

“Who are you?” Ammon asked, once again in English.

“I am Amril. But no time to talk now. Your American helicopter friends are only a few minutes away. They want so much to be heroes, so we must go. I will answer all of your questions soon. Very soon.”

Ammon didn't move. His eyes narrowed in the darkness. “Who arranged for this little accident?” he finally said dryly. “I could have been killed! You fools are lucky you're not pulling a waterlogged corpse from the sea.” Ammon paused, then, slipping into Russian, he continued, “It was a stupid idea,” he said flatly.

“No, no, it was not,” Amril shot back. “It was a stroke of near genius, little man, so be quiet and do as I say.”

The distant sound of the circling tanker pulled Amril's eyes toward the sky. Turning away from Ammon, he yelled as he ran to the front of the ship. “Quickly! Pull in your raft and take off your flight suit. Do it now! We don't have much time!”

Ammon hesitated just a moment. The night wind began to stir, cutting through his wet clothes and leaving him chilled to the bone. Overhead, the sound of the circling aircraft drifted across the open ocean. Four-foot waves slapped at the bow of the boat as it bobbed in the water. A high overcast was beginning to form, stealing the light from the moon. Ammon shivered once again, his jaw stammering from the cold, then moved to do as hc was told.

Bending over the railing, he reached over the side of the boat and pulled on the lanyard that was attached to his life raft. The raft was light and easy to pull from the water. He hauled it aboard and dropped it on the narrow deck of the boat. He then turned and, leaning against the brass railing for support and balance, he slipped off his parachute harness and wet flight suit, letting them drop to the deck beside the raft.

Meanwhile, Amril was pulling a black canvas bag from under the forward bow. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a small bundle of canvas and rubber. It was a rubber raft identical to the one Ammon had just pulled from the sea. He gave a quick tug on its activation cord and with a hiss and crackle, it began to inflate. But only on one side. The air chamber on the left side of the raft had a broken valve and would not hold any air. Later, when the investigation of the missing F-16 was complete, the accident investigation board would determine that the faulty valve on Ammon's raft was at least partially responsible for his death.

With a jerk, Amril took Ammon's raft and read the serial numbers that were painted under the lower rim. Working quickly, he took out stencils and a can of yellow spray paint and painted his raft with the identical numbers. He knew that the Air Force would easily confirm that this was the life raft from Ammon's jet, once the serial numbers had been traced. Then turning to Ammon, he said, “I need some blood. Lay down and lift up your arm.”

Ammon was startled by the request. After a short pause he asked, “Is it your feeding time already?”

His weak attempt at humor went unnoticed, and he felt silly standing there in his wet underwear, shivering. He noticed Amril staring at the wrapping around his leg, but Amril didn't mention his apparent injury.

“Quickly, lie down,” Amril said again. “I need blood from an arterial vein. And don't worry about the pain, I am very good at this.” Ammon didn't miss the sarcasm in his voice.

Ammon did as he was told as Amril approached him with an enormous needle. As he stepped to Ammon's side, Amril jerked his arm above his head and held it while he smoothly inserted the needle into the axillary artery that ran under his arm and directly to his heart. It took only a moment to fill the syringe with blood. He then walked over to the partially inflated raft and squirted the blood all over, smearing it with his hands. After tossing the raft overboard, Amril turned to face his shivering passenger. “Now, we must get underway.”

Amrilled the way forward to the small cabin and started the boat. Gunning the throttles he turned northeast. After throwing Ammon a huge towel and cotton bathrobe, he motioned to a vinyl chair. Ammon sat down, and Amril closed the hatch door behind them, cutting the sound of the engines to a muffled roar. Amril had turned off all of the boat's navigation lights, making the speeding watercraft impossible to see in the darkness.

After a moment of silence, Ammon asked, “Why did you have to stick me?”

Amril glanced at his passenger for a second before he replied. “For several reasons,” he said. “First, your death will have to be positively confirmed. By giving them a blood sample, they will have the DNA evidence to do that. But more importantly, by drawing from one of your arterial veins, we will help them identify a probable cause of death.

“You see, blood from a major vein, such as the axillary artery, is easily identified by the amount of oxygen it contains. When they analyze the samples taken from your raft they will conclude that you have suffered a major wound, probably a compound fracture of the arm or leg. It would be expected that you would lose a large amount of blood. Loss of consciousness would shortly follow, and since your raft was only partially inflated, the Americans will then theorize that you must have passed out and slipped peacefully into the cold, dark sea.”

Amril paused for a moment, then chuckled as he continued.

“I can see the accident report now:

“On 18 August, Richard Ammon, Captain, U.S. Air Force, was on a routine training mission over the Yellow Sea. For yet undetermined reasons, his F-16 exploded just prior to air refueling. The aircraft crashed at sea and was destroyed upon impact. Capt Ammon's body has not been recovered, and we suspect he was a midnight snack for a herd of migrating turtles. The investigation continues.”

Amril continued to chuckle as he poured two steaming cups of coffee into capped mugs with his free hand and passed one over to Ammon. Amril sipped at the bitter brew in silence, then finally concluded. “It is a simple deception, but it will work.”

Ammon said nothing. By now the overcast had thickened and had completely obscured the once bright moon. They traveled in complete darkness. He felt dizzy and had to hold the brass side rail to steady himself in his chair. He began to realize how tired he was. Instead of the coffee, what he really needed was some rest and some time to think.

He stared into the darkness. As the boat sped on, bouncing from wave to wave, Ammon's head began to slowly bob in rhythm. He listened to the drone of the engines. It was a pleasant sound, somehow comforting. It reminded him of when he was a small boy. Ammon could still picture himself as a child, huddled in the back seat, surrounded by thin wool blankets as his father drove the back streets of the Kasakstov and Prcshingtovalon districts. His father, more adept at drinking than holding down jobs, had finally found a job he could live with delivering newspapers between boroughs in eastern Kiev. The money wasn't great, but it was enough to buy vodka and food. And since his mother had passed away several years before, his father had insisted that he accompany him on his rounds, rather than be left back in their tiny apartment alone.

As a young boy, Carl Vadym Kostenko was identified as having the potential to complete one of the Kollektive Sicherheit's most rigorous tracks. He was separated from his family at age nine, and for the next nine years was indoctrinated with the theories of Marx and Lenin. He learned pcrfect English (with a slight southern accent) and American history and culture. Like American boys his age, he grew up to the music of Tom Petty, U2, and the Boss. He hated country and western. He loved the Dallas Cowboys.

But Carl Kostenko's education didn't end there. He also learned how to manipulate friends, communicate secretly with his handler, and operate miniature photographic and communication equipment. He learned how to evaluate others for tendencies of sympathy to his cause. He learned to exploit and deceive and lie. Finally, he was taught how to kill. Efficiently. Quietly. Without a trace. Without leaving a mess. It was a skill he anticipated he would never use, but if it ever became necessary, so be it. It was simply something he would do.

At the age of eighteen, Carl Kostenko found himself planted in the United States, complete with papers, a solid background, and a new identity as Richard Ammon. He entered UCLA, and graduated in three years with a B.S. in mechanical engineering. He received a reserve commission in the United States Air Force. A year later, he completed pilot training and had been flying the F-16 ever since.

During his first years at college, he had literally no contact with his handler. He didn't even know if he had one. Many times he was left to wonder if he might be on his own. It wasn't until he was ready to graduate that he was contacted. He was told that they had decided that he should accept his commission in the Air Force. This was very good news for Ammon, for although he would have done whatever was expected of him, he very much wanted to fly.

But like everything about the Kollektive Sicherheit, there were strings attached. No rewards werc ever free. Richard Ammon was told that if he didn't do well enough in pilot training to get a combat aircraft upon graduation, then the agreement to allow him into the Air Force would be terminated. In addition, his superiors would be extremely disappointed in his performance and would have to question his ability to successfully complete future assignments. His whole situation would then he re-evaluated.

Few student pilots entered undergraduate pilot training with as much hidden baggage or secret motivation as did Richard Ammon.

But once he started to fly, Ammon began to relax. He discovered that he was a natural pilot. Flying just seemed to come easily to him.

He remembered clearly the day he knew he would make it. It was on his second sortie in advanced aerobatics in the T-38. The instructor pilot, who occupied the rear seat, was in a sour mood and nearly impossible to please. While completing a simple loop, he had suddenly grabbed the controls from Richard Ammon and snapped back hard on the stick.

“I said, pull more Gs!” he screamed, while pulling the little fighter around in a sharp bank. “You've got to G up this aircraft to get it around. Now do it again, and this time keep it coming. When I say pull, I mean pull! Don't nanny around with the stick!”

Ammon shook his head with disgust, both at his own mistake and at his instructor for being such a jerk. Taking the stick in his right hand, he set up for another loop. Pushing the T-38's nose toward the earth, he shoved both throttles into afterburner and accelerated quickly to 500 knots, then with a sudden snap, jammed the stick back into his lap. The Talon's nose arched gracefully skyward as the G meter pegged at seven Gs. Grunting against the strain, he kept the pull in through the top of the loop, then accelerated downward once again. As he reached the bottom of the loop, he should have eased off on the stick and leveled off. But he didn't. Instead, he kept the aircraft in full afterburner and jammed the stick back into his lap once again. Four times he pushed the aircraft through a graceful arch, constantly pulling seven Gs, forcing his instructor to groan and strain just to keep the blood in his head. At the bottom of the fourth loop, he heard his instructor mutter through the strain of his mask, “Okay, okay, I've had enough. You can let go of it now.” Ammon leveled off and headed back to base. His instructor didn't say a word. He slowly shook his head. The guy had a lot of nerve, pulling such a stunt on him. Cocky little jerk! Arrogant, snot-nose kid!