The Lazarus Moment
A Delta Force Unleashed Thriller
by
J. Robert Kennedy
From the Back Cover
FROM USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR J. ROBERT KENNEDY
AIR FORCE ONE IS DOWN
BUT THEIR FIGHT TO SURVIVE HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN!
USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy delivers another action-packed thriller in The Lazarus Moment.
When Air Force One crashes in the jungles of Africa, it is up to America’s elite Delta Force to save the survivors not only from rebels hell-bent on capturing the President, but Mother Nature herself.
From South Africa to Moscow, from Washington to Dubai, J. Robert Kennedy delivers an action-packed adventure torn from today’s headlines, leading readers on a roller coaster ride of adrenaline, certain to leave you breathless. A deftly-crafted novel, in true Kennedy style, The Lazarus Moment is an exciting, stunning tale with laughter, romance, heartbreak and hope, along with breakneck action, as only he can deliver.
About J. Robert Kennedy
USA Today bestselling author J. Robert Kennedy has been ranked by Amazon as the #1 Bestselling Action Adventure novelist based upon combined sales. He is the author of over twenty-five international bestsellers including the smash hit James Acton Thrillers series of which the first installment, The Protocol, has been on the bestseller lists since its release, including occupying the number one spot for three months. He lives with his wife and daughter and writes full-time.
"If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy."
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Books by J. Robert Kennedy
The James Acton Thrillers
The Protocol
Brass Monkey
Broken Dove
The Templar's Relic
Flags of Sin
The Arab Fall
The Circle of Eight
The Venice Code
Pompeii's Ghosts
Amazon Burning
The Riddle
Blood Relics
Sins of the Titanic
Saint Peter's Soldiers
The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers
Rogue Operator
Containment Failure
Cold Warriors
Death to America
Black Widow
The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers
Payback
Infidels
The Lazarus Moment
The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries
Depraved Difference
Tick Tock
The Redeemer
Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series
The Turned
Table of Contents
The Novel
Acknowledgements
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About the Author
Also by the Author
For a true hero, Xiang Liujua, one of the many parents who have sacrificed themselves to save their children.
“Our concern with hacking into our planes, our concern with terrorism, dates back to the early development days of the 380. Ever since then we've taken particular precautions to make our aircraft as safe as possible. If you ask me today, I'm fairly confident that our aircraft are secure from hacking.”
Airbus Group CEO Tom Enders
June 2015
Preface
Air Force One is arguably the most important aircraft in the world, certainly one of the most famous. Air Force One is actually a designation for whatever plane happens to be carrying the President of the United States. There are two Boeing 747-200s in the fleet that carry the President, built in 1986 for Ronald Reagan.
They are overdue for replacement.
Security is tight on this plane for obvious reasons, and the electronics on board are cutting edge, even if the plane itself isn’t. Though that can’t be said for the replacement aircraft ordered that might be in service before the end of the next President’s term should they be reelected.
That plane will have all the state of the art equipment we’ve come to expect.
And we’ve come to be concerned about.
With constant reports of devices being hacked and software errors causing planes to crash or nearly crash, should we be concerned that the most powerful man in the world will soon be flying on an aircraft that could be vulnerable?
Should we be concerned that the existing aircraft has been continually upgraded, perhaps introducing some of these potential risks?
We are constantly assured by those who apparently know better than us that these systems are safe because they are isolated. Someone on their laptop using the airplane’s Wi-Fi service can’t crash the plane.
Yet as with any security system, it is only as good as the people behind it.
And perhaps America should ask itself what would happen when the very person meant to protect the President from those who would do him harm is no longer on his side.
For if Air Force One is hacked, not only are those on board at risk, but so is the entire world.
When justice is demanded.
Over Mozambique
“Pull up! For the love of God, pull up!”
Lt. Commander Joseph “Texas” Cartwright flipped his F/A-18E Super Hornet on its side, giving him a clear view of the horror unfolding below. He was less than a thousand feet off the deck, the jungles of Mozambique whipping past below, though none of the natural, unspoiled beauty registered.
Instead, his eyes focused on the white and blue 747 still losing altitude below him. Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. What, nobody except those on board knew. Hand signals from the pilot and co-pilot indicated full power failure and they had been gliding her toward the ground as they fought for control.
They knew they were going to crash.
They knew they were going to die.
For there was no place to land—no runway, no road, no clear area to bring the behemoth to the ground.
Just dense, unforgiving jungle.
The fuel spilling out the back suddenly stopped, the dump in preparation for the crash obviously complete.
Even if they get their engines back, it’s no use.
The plane continued to drop, the pilot suddenly banking slightly to the left, as if trying to adjust where they would hit.
Does he see something?
Texas scanned ahead yet could see nothing but jungle.
Then the tops of the trees hitting the wings just before the fuselage disappeared below the treetops.
A massive fireball suddenly erupted, a black and orange ball of hate bursting above the trees, reaching out at the sky in a hellish fury as almost one hundred souls met their end in what he could only imagine being the most terrifying experience anyone could go through—knowing you were going to die for almost half an hour.
He straightened his plane and activated his comm, his chest tight with the knowledge his nation had just suffered a tragic loss, and he was the bearer of that horrible news.
“Castlekeep, this is Eagle One, Air Force One is down, I repeat, Air Force One is down!”
Outside Donetsk, Ukraine
Russian separatist controlled sector
Six months earlier
Igor Khomenko peered through his binoculars across the Donets River. The government positions known, his men pound them with everything they had, but something new was at play. Their opponent’s targeting was too good.
Way too good.
And he was pretty sure why. He had just returned from a briefing in Kursk, just across the border in Russia, their allies providing his forces with valuable, continuous intel that gave his side a distinct edge. Mother Russia had been preparing for this conflict for years, and when the plan had been activated, everything had been in place from the get go, which had allowed his forces to quickly seize much of Eastern Ukraine.
Russian troops—volunteers on holidays of course—had been instrumental in gaining control, thousands sent across, fully equipped, in uniforms with no insignia, prepared months before the assault. Weapons and supplies had been smuggled into position in the weeks before, leaving the government forces completely unprepared.
It had been almost too easy.
As expected, the government forces had retreated then formed up their lines, launching half-hearted counterattacks that his forces had been able to repel on most occasions, and when things looked dire, Russia would provide more heavy equipment, munitions and men.
They would never lose this fight.
Not with the Russian Bear to urge them on.
It had only been a matter of time before the West woke up to the threat. Defensive weapons were already arriving along with trainers and observers, though none of that would help the Ukrainians. It was unfortunate some idiot had shot down the Malaysian airliner. It had resulted in the Russians pulling back much of their sophisticated weaponry. He wasn’t concerned; it just meant the war would last a little longer.
But eventually the Donetsk People’s Republic would be established, recognized by Moscow, and regardless of what the impotent UN or Western European nations said, it would be permanent.
Moscow would never allow the territory to be retaken.
Especially after they absorbed it into the Russian Federation.
He had met the Russian President on several occasions. He was a great man, a strong man, a man who knew what needed to be done, a man who feared no one, least of all the United States. They both knew the Americans had no stomach for war, not after Afghanistan and Iraq, and not over something as insignificant as the Ukraine. There was no oil here, no resource wealth, no minorities to protect.
Ukraine had nothing but a troubled history.
A shell slammed into a position nearby, the ground shaking, plaster cracking overhead, covering him and the men in his headquarters in a fine dust.
“Christ, General, that was close!”
Khomenko turned to his second-in-command, Alexander Orlov, as he slowly rose. “It’s nothing.”
It’s nothing.
That’s what he kept telling his men.
But something more was going on. The briefing from Moscow had indicated some advanced artillery had been smuggled into the Ukraine in recent days, stolen from Iraq several years ago. The black market was teeming with weaponry, advanced weaponry.
You just needed to know who to call.
And a bankroll.
Moscow was their financier, and now the West was funding the Ukraine’s efforts, including a lot of private financing, Ukrainian diaspora sending money to Kiev in an effort to save their former homeland. And it was being put to good use, Kiev buying the weapons the West refused to give them.
Including artillery that could actually hit the broadside of a barn.
Several of their positions had been hit today with near pinpoint accuracy.
But this was war.
This was the front line.
People died.
Friends died.
Family died.
His parents had been killed in the first weeks of the conflict, they refusing to leave the family home of more than sixty years. It had been shelled, the two found dead in their bed, holding each other tight. The horror of their final moments sometimes caused him to lose himself, but they were old and they died together.
As Russians in a new Russia.
His father had been fiercely pro-Russian, hating every minute he lived in the Ukraine after it had split from the Soviet Union. His grandfather had settled here almost seventy years ago, farmed the land since, handing it to his son, and eventually to his grandson.
But Igor Khomenko was no farmer.
He had always known he was destined for greater things, and had instead turned to politics.
Union politics.
The filthy capitalist ways of the West were taking over his country, and labor was paying the price. He had made it his life’s work to fight back, to force the foreign interests to respect the local workforce, demanding better deals for his brothers and sisters in the union.
He had quickly risen through the leadership ranks to eventually head one of the largest labor unions in the Eastern Ukraine.
And when civil war had broken out, it was him the people turned to.
It was a cause he had been born for.
Now, over a year later, he was a general in the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya, fighting for his homeland, a homeland he was willing to die for should it be necessary.
Another shell slammed into a building nearby.
“Do you think they know where we are?”
Khomenko looked at Orlov and shook his head. “They’re guessing. We’ve only been here since yesterday; they have no idea where we are.”
“But they’ve hit three of our forward positions already this morning.”
“Exactly. Our forward positions. They can see them across the river, just like we can see theirs. They’ve just been lucky with their targeting.” He lifted his thermos, pouring himself a coffee, the brew prepared by his wife before he had headed to the front just hours ago.
He took a sip, offering the thermos to Orlov.
Orlov shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got my own.” He tapped a flask tucked away in his breast pocket. Khomenko chuckled, Orlov’s penchant for vodka making him truly Russian.
Khomenko held out his plastic cup. “Warm it up for me, will you?”
Orlov grinned, pulling out the flask and unscrewing the top. A couple of ounces glugged into Khomenko’s cup before the man took a swig and returned the flask to safekeeping. Khomenko swirled the cup, mixing the two liquids together then took a belt.
“Now that’s what I call coffee.”
Several of his men chuckled, the tenseness of the moment forgotten briefly. He looked at them. Some had been soldiers in the Armed Forces of the Ukraine, some laborers like him. None had ever expected to go to war, especially against their fellow countrymen. He didn’t hate his enemy. On the contrary, many had once been his friends.
And that was the problem with a civil war. It pitted neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother.
Husband against wife.
His wife hated his involvement. She didn’t care who won, as long as it was over soon.
“Look at all we’ve lost! All this fighting, all this death, and what do you have to show for it? Nothing!”
He peered through his binoculars across the river, the memory of his wife’s familiar argument fresh, repeated again just last night. She was right. From all reasonable measures, they were worse off than they had been two years ago. They were hungrier, dirtier, poorer. They had lost family and friends. The factory he had worked at was shuttered, his wife’s cleaning jobs a thing of the past—no one could afford her services anymore.
They scraped by because of who he was.
They could live better, of that there was no doubt, yet he refused to take more than was offered his men. They never went truly hungry, they always had a roof over their head, and he kept them warm and clothed.
They had the basics.
But nothing more.
A jet screamed overhead, the sound of small arms fire opening up outside causing him to shake his head.
“Cease fire, you’ll give away our position!”
The Ukrainian Air Force wasn’t much of a threat, though occasionally they sent a sortie out on a bombing or strafing run, though usually it was just recon. An explosion rum
bled in the distance behind them.
“Kiev is bold today.”
Khomenko nodded. “It’s too bad we don’t have those SAMs anymore. They wouldn’t dare put anything in the air.”
“True, but I haven’t seen them hit a target yet on the first try.” Orlov turned to the men, a smile on his face. “They’d be better off just dropping the damned planes on us!”
Laughter filled the cramped space, Khomenko smiling slightly. The bravado from Orlov was common in war, insulting the enemy’s abilities a way of military life. It built comradery and confidence.
And it was quite often true.
But the problem with their enemy’s bad aim was it far too often meant innocents died.
He frowned, wondering who was hit today.
A shell slammed into the courtyard in front of the building. He ducked, as did the others, debris blasting through the open windows, the glass broken long ago.
“Everyone okay?” he asked, a round of acknowledgements responding. He waved to one of the men. “Check on the men outside.”
“Yes, sir!”
He turned to the room. “Start packing everything up, they’ve obviously located our position.”
A flurry of activity was triggered, maps and reports quickly rolled up and stuffed into boxes, communications equipment and weapons broken down and packed away.
Another shell slammed into the courtyard, this one a little closer, a chunk of the wall cracking badly, the morning sun forcing its way through.
“Time to evacuate!” He spun his hand in a circle then pointed at the rear exit. “Let’s go!”
The men grabbed everything they could carry, surging toward the narrow door as a young man squeezed past them, looking about the room, his eyes settling on Khomenko.
He snapped to attention, a shaky salute offered.
Khomenko returned the salute as he ushered his men toward the exit. “What is it, Corporal?”
“Sir, I regret to inform you—” The man went pale, swaying slightly, fear plastered on his face. Khomenko reached out and grabbed the young man’s shoulder, a knot forming in his stomach.
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