Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  Richard turned back to the manual and thumbed through the pages as he considered the question. The book was almost three inches thick, and full of charts, graphs, and very small print. It was the manufacturer’s flight manual for the Rockwell B-1 bomber. It told the pilot everything he needed to know in order to safely fly the B-1 and use all of its systems. There were more than two thousand pages in the manual, and everything in it was critical. Ammon flipped the book closed with a heavy thump, then turned back to face his unwelcome visitor.

  “I think you have given me what I need,” he said. “But I’ll tell you right now, it’s apparent you guys haven’t done your homework on this one. I have found a problem that was obviously overlooked, and it isn’t some insignificant detail. It could cause a real kink in our plans.”

  Andrei Liski continued to stare at Ammon, his eyes unblinking, his face revealing nothing as he thought.

  “What do you feel is the problem?” Liski asked.

  “Very simply, we won’t have enough fuel,” Ammon replied. “I’ve been going over the fuel charts and it just doesn’t add up. Even if we assume that we get a B-1 that is fully loaded with fuel, including an auxiliary tank in the forward weapons bay, that still isn’t enough gas to make it to Russia. Now if you consider the high fuel burn rates that we will use in combat, lighting our afterburners and maneuvering down low, I figure we will flame out just about a thousand miles short of the Strait of Gibraltar. That’s a long way from our targets in Russia. It would appear that your planners have screwed this one up.”

  For the first time Liski smiled.

  “Mr. Ammon,” he said, pushing back a strand of hair before rubbing his hands on his pants, “do you really think we could have made such a critical mistake? I think you should give us a bit more credit than that.” His voice was sarcastic and hard.

  Ammon realized that Liski had taken his remarks as a personal insult. He also realized that it wouldn’t help him to anger this man.

  “Will you tell me then how we will get enough fuel for the mission?”

  Liski’s response was immediate. “Yes, Mr. Ammon, I will tell you. But not now. Just be assured, we do have a plan and we know what we’re doing. We have been in this business a very long time.

  “And keep this in mind as well, Mr. Ammon, because it is important for you to understand. I personally couldn’t care less whether you live to see the light of day. Your personal safety is of no concern to me. Still, I will be praying for you to succeed. You see, we have to have the aircraft. We absolutely have to have it. If you die, we all have failed. The whole thing is over for us, too. So peace to your mind, Mr. Ammon, we haven’t screwed up the plan.”

  After a short pause, Liski continued. “When will you and Morozov be ready?” he asked intently.

  Richard turned back to his desk. Once again he thumbed through the two thousand pages of his flight manual. He considered the lack of success that he and Morozov had been having so far in the simulator. He thought of his old buddies flying F-16s, and how easily they could blast a B-1 from the sky unless it were flown by a highly trained and experienced crew. He thought of the Migs and the other Russian fighters, some of the best in the world. He thought for a very long moment before he answered Liski’s question.

  “Three months,” Ammon said matter-of-factly. “If you want us to have a better than fifty-fifty chance, you’ve got to give us at least three months. Anything less, and you’ll never see your B-1 over Russia. We’ll never even make it out of United States’ airspace. All you’ll have is wreckage scattered across the west Texas prairie, because that is as far as we’ll get without time to prepare.”

  Andrei Liski pushed back his hair once again.

  “It has started in Russia,” he said calmly. “You only have a few days left to prepare.”

  Ammon’s jaw dropped.

  “We won’t be ready,” he said matter-of-factly while looking Liski straight in the eye.

  “Be ready,” Liski said. His face was as expressionless as before.

  Ammon rose up in his chair. “No!” he said. “No! We will not be ready. Do you think that just by saying the words, suddenly everything changes? Do you think this situation is that much under your control? Look at what you are saying! Look at what you want us to do!” Ammon reached beside him to pick up a set of flying charts and threw them toward Liski, dropping them square in his lap. “Look at these charts!” he commanded. “You are sending us into the very heart of Russia! Novomoskovsk, Razayevka, Buturkinoovka! We must penetrate thousands of kilometers behind enemy lines! It would be like the Russians attacking St. Louis. And good as the B-1 is, it isn’t invisible. Nothing is. They will know we are there. They will be chasing us down. After all, that is the thrust of your plan. For us to be seen. For the Russians to know they are under attack so they will be forced to respond.

  “So don’t sit there and pretend that by just saying ‘Go,’ suddenly things will just drop into place. We need time. We need more training, or simply put, this mission is screwed.”

  Liski watched Ammon settle back into his chair. “Sometimes, Mr. Ammon, we do what we’re told, even though it may not be what we like. And, yes, I think that I do have control, for when I say go, you will go. I thought that was something which you understood?”

  Ammon didn’t reply. He sat speechless, his mouth dry, his throat too tight to swallow. Liski stretched against his chair, arching backward, then stood up as if to leave. He walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway, then paused and poked his head back into the room.

  “I have a message for you,” he said. Richard slowly looked up from his chair. “It’s from a mutual friend of ours,” he continued. “Someone who seems to care about you very deeply.” Liski paused. Ammon’s heart began to pulse wildly. He knew immediately he was talking about Jesse.

  “You know, Mr. Ammon, I don’t believe you ever mentioned the fact that you were married. I’ve got to say, if my wife looked anything like Jesse, I surely wouldn’t keep it a secret.” Liski watched Ammon’s face grow pale, his chest tremble, his eyes narrow with anger and fear. Liski smiled again. It was things like this that made his job fun.

  Liski paused for a moment, then stepped back into the room.

  “In fact, Mr. Ammon, I’ve got something I’ve been wanting to show you. I’ve been waiting for just the right time, and I guess that time has come.” Liski reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small envelope and tossed it onto Ammon’s bed. Ammon stared at the envelope for a long time, swallowing the bile in his throat. Liski did not move. With great effort, Ammon pushed himself back from the desk and slid over to the bed where he dropped himself onto the soft mattress. His hands trembled with fear as he picked up the envelope and tore it open, spilling a collection of color pictures onto the bed.

  The pictures were very poor quality from a color fax. Ammon began to sort through them. With each photo his heart thumped more violently inside his constricted chest.

  Every photo was of Jesse. There were pictures of her standing outside their Santa Monica apartment, her brown hair blown back by the wind, a small duffel bag strapped over her left shoulder. She was glancing to her side, her eyes unknowingly staring past the unseen photographer. Another photo was of her driving her Mazda. There were pictures of her in a dark and empty parking lot, talking to a man in an old gray compact car. Ammon slowly sorted through the small stack of photos, his arms turning into great weights, his stomach a block of ice.

  Then he got to the last picture. Tears of frustration and rage swelled his eyes. Liski, still standing by the open door, watched him very closely, his body tense and ready, his hand ready to go for his gun. Ammon glanced at the picture for only a second before crumpling it up in his hands.

  It showed his wife very clearly, laying on a wide bed, her hands tied together above her head, loops of rope stringing her tightly to a thick headboard. Her bare feet were also tied together and strapped to the foot of the bed, her legs drawn against the thick rope. She w
as dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. She had a black rag stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes were open wide in terror and fear, her hair pushed to one side to ensure a clear picture of her face. Seated next to the bed where Jesse lay bound was the man from the gray car. He was staring directly into the camera, smiling, holding a glowing cigarette just inches above Jesse’s head, having flicked gray ashes onto her face.

  Ammon crushed the picture in his white knuckles. Darkness smothered him. His mind went completely blank. Instinct and rage took control. He let out a low, animal groan and hurled himself toward Liski, his feet sliding on the slick linoleum floor, arms ready, fist tucked to his side.

  But the Ukrainian was ready. Stepping catlike to one side, he grabbed Ammon by the shoulders and pushed him down, pitching him against the cinder-block wall. Ammon’s head hit the cement with a sickening thump, and he slumped to the floor. Reaching quickly under his jacket, Liski pulled a blunt handgun from a leather holster. As Ammon pushed himself up to his knees, Liski threw back his arm and struck him over the head, sending a splatter of blood against the wall. The rough, beveled grip of Liski’s pistol caught the soft flesh behind Ammon’s right ear and tore away a small piece of the scalp. The cold steel jammed into his skull. Ammon fell to the floor once again, moaned once, then rolled onto his back. His eyes glazed over with pain, his hands began to twitch at his side. His breathing became suddenly shallow. He didn’t move, and as Liski stared down at the body, watching the skin turn grayish-white, he began to regret that he hit him so hard.

  Ammon started to stir. Liski knelt down beside him and forced his knee into his chest. He pushed his pistol into Ammon’s ear and shoved his face so close that Ammon could feel the heat from his breath.

  “We’ve got your girl, Ammon!” he sneered. “She is mine! I hold her life in my hands! Now, I think you know what will happen to her if you fail us or attempt to get in our way.” Liski lowered his voice and pushed himself even closer to Ammon’s face. Richard stared up at him with unfocused eyes. A knot of bruised bone and tissue was already beginning to bulge from the side of his head.

  “Just do what we say,” Liski commanded. “Do what we say, and she lives. Do as you have been trained to do. Follow orders. Your little girl is going to be just fine, if you do what we tell you to do.

  “But, my fly-boy friend, screw up just one little thing, cause me even one hint of concern, and we turn our boy loose on your wife. It won’t be pretty for her, Ammon. And you’ll never know what he did with the body. You’ll never even find a grave to say good-bye. Now that’s no way for this all to end.”

  Ammon lay there motionless, the short barrel of the gun crushing into the tender flesh of his ear. Liski twisted the barrel and pushed a little harder.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” he muttered, twisting the barrel once again. “Or do you want me to show you more pictures? I could order something special, just for you.”

  Ammon moaned, but didn’t say anything. Liski pushed his knee deeper into his chest. “Say it, Ammon!” he sneered. “I know you can hear me. Now tell me that you won’t let us down!”

  “I understand. I know what you want.” Ammon finally muttered, his voice heavy with pain.

  Liski smiled. It was enough.

  He pulled the gun from Ammon’s ear, stood up, holstered his weapon and straightened out his clothes. Without another word he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  As he began to walk down the hallway, he looked up and saw Ivan Morozov leaning against the wall, waiting. Liski gave him a nod, but didn’t say anything as he passed by.

  Inside his room, Richard Ammon lay on the floor, his head propped against the cement wall. The room swirled and spun all around him. His stomach twisted into churning knots. His head pounded in pain as blood seeped from the wound behind his ear and rolled down his neck. He closed his eyes and covered his head.

  Never had he felt so ashamed. Never had he felt so afraid. His stomach turned and he started to gag, heaving wads of spit and crimson bile onto the floor.

  For a long time he lay in a heap. The room grew very dark. Richard rolled over and rested his head against his right arm. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t focus. All he knew was the pain in his head.

  Three hours later, he finally pulled himself up and staggered into his bed, still holding the crumpled photo of Jesse in his fist.

  NINETEEN

  _______________________

  ______________________

  AMERICAN FLIGHT 2306 OVER THE EASTERN COAST OF MAINE

  RICHARD AMMON STARED OUT THE SMALL OVAL WINDOW AND WATCHED as the eastern coast of the United States slipped into view, thirty miles off in the distance. The sun was just coming up, chasing the airliner as it flew to the west and casting long shadows across the dark, open ocean as it climbed its way upward on the horizon. The North Atlantic air was cold and crystal clear, and Ammon estimated the visibility to be at least seventy miles. He could make out the tiny lakes, rocky shores, and green rolling hills of northern Maine as the Boeing 767 entered United States’ airspace. He stared out on the horizon, looking south toward Boston and the Massachusetts Bay. From thirty-eight thousand feet, he could just make out the slight curvature in the earth.

  Turning away from the window, he sighed and leaned back in his scat, then glanced over at Morozov, who sat two seats over, sleeping. A steward passed by and asked him once again if he needed a pillow. Shaking his head, he abruptly sent him away.

  He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t even close his eyes without an image of Jesse’s tortured face filling his head. He wanted to strike! He wanted revenge! He wanted to kill the man who had done this to him!

  He opened his eyes and looked over at Morozov once again. As he stared at the sleeping man, he realized he had vastly underestimated Morozov’s resolve. How could he have not seen it coming? How could he have let her down so? At the time he first had met Jesse, he didn’t think that the secret Russian intelligence organization was even still in existence. And even if they were, what was he to them? It had been years since he had heard from them in any fashion. And so much had changed. The whole world had changed. Surely they must have forgotten.

  But he had been wrong. At least partly wrong.

  The Sicherheit may have forgotten. But Ivan Morozov had not.

  Ammon shook his head once again, trying to shake off the despair. He wiped his hands across his eyes and tried to concentrate.

  His options were really quite simple.

  Number One. He could refuse to help them. And Jesse would die. Even the thought made him icy and weak.

  Number Two. He could go along with their plan. And die in the process. Or worse yet, start the next world war!

  Ammon ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. He felt so ... compressed. It was a horrible feeling. Like a thousand tons of sand had been poured on his shoulders. It was pushing him down. It was crushing his chest.

  He felt hopeless and alone and utterly trapped.

  The sun broke through a low line of morning clouds and began to shine through his oval window. He reached up and pulled down the shade, settled back in his seat, and tried once again to get some sleep.

  But as he lay there, one thought, one desperate glimmer of hope, kept rolling round in his mind.

  “Don’t you guys let me down!” he silently pleaded. “We had an agreement. Now please, don’t let me down!”

  The aircraft continued southwest for another three hours until it finally began it’s descent into the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. As the pilot throttled back his engines, Ivan Morozov stirred. Stretching to rouse himself, he reached his husky arms skyward, then looked across the empty seat that separated him from Richard Ammon. Ammon was finally sleeping. With a grunt, Morozov reached over and pushed against Ammon’s shoulder. Ammon immediately bolted awake.

  “We’re almost there, my boy. Back to your home. Must be good to be back in the States.”

  A
mmon turned his head and looked out the tiny window at the dry prairie that was passing below him, but didn’t respond. Morozov leaned forward to check the duffel bag which was stuffed under his seat. He pulled the bag out and rooted briefly through its contents, then, satisfied that all was in order, carefully shoved the bag back.

  The aircraft continued descending and, twenty minutes later, was taxiing off the runway toward its arrival gate. The passengers began their usual stir. It had been a long flight, almost eleven hours, and everyone seemed very grateful to be on the ground. Ammon and Morozov had been seated toward the rear of the aircraft and it took some time before they could exit the plane. As he walked up the ramp and began to mix with the crowd, Ammon stifled a quick urge to run.

  He and Morozov departed the gate and walked to the line that had formed to clear customs. Neither of them had anything to declare. Their carry-on luggage was inspected and their passports closely scrutinized—more so than in the past Morozov observed—then they were waved on through.

  After passing through customs and collecting their bags, they walked the considerable distance to the long-term parking area, where Morozov found the car. It was a mid-size, black sedan. The doors were unlocked.

  “Throw the bags on the back seat,” Morozov instructed.

  “Don’t you want them in the trunk?”

  “No, the back seat,” Morozov replied.

  Ammon did as he was instructed while Morozov searched under the dash for the key, which he found stuffed up under the glove box, right where he told them to leave it. Five minutes later, they left the noise of the airport behind them as they headed out on their way.

  DALLAS–FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEXAS

  Chuck Robertson, watch supervisor, DFW Airport Security, walked into the dim room without turning on the light. The two security cameras were mounted on the far wall, their lenses pointing through a one-way glass and out onto the immigration and customs floor. Both of the low-speed, high-resolution cameras were recording the passengers as they made their way through the whole process. Usually, Airport Security was required to use only one camera at a time. But Robertson’s instructions had been very specific, and for the past several days he had kept both of the cameras running. He couldn’t afford to have something go wrong.