Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  “Well Sergeant, I believe that you are right,” Morozov replied. “The problem has been that for the past few months I have been out of the country. You know how it is. Temporary duty always calls. But now that I’m back, I’ll get this thing updated. Thanks for the reminder. You are doing an excellent job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the guard replied. “Now you get that taken care of, will you? Then I won’t have to stop you in the morning.”

  “Roger,” was all Morozov replied.

  With that, the sergeant stepped back from the car and offered a quick salute while motioning for Morozov to pass through the gate. The guard needed to keep things moving along, for the morning rush of cars onto the base was already beginning to flow. Morozov returned the salute with a smile, then accelerated through the gate and onto the base.

  They began to drive down the main boulevard that would take them to the flight line. It wasn’t until then that Ammon let out a huge sigh of relief. He turned around and took a quick look at the guard house that was receding behind them.

  “I can see that your people do quality work,” Ammon sneered. “Yes sir, it is obvious that you guys have thought of everything. There is nothing to worry about now.”

  Morozov didn’t respond. Ammon was right. His people had nearly screwed it up. To a large degree the success of their mission would depend on strict attention to detai1. And someone in his organization had nearly blown it. He would have to find out who it was.

  They drove along in silence. As they got closer to the flight line, Ammon started to look for the aircraft. He was anxious to get his first glimpse of the Bone. But from where they were, the aircraft parking area was still hidden by a long row of enormous brown hangars.

  Morozov followed the road for almost a mile, past the row of hangars to where the road made a sharp turn to the west. As they came upon the last set, Ammon could start to see F-16s, KC-135 tankers, and even a couple of transports. But he couldn’t see any B-1s. He looked all the way down to the far end of the flight line.

  And then he saw them. Across the runway; black, lean, and menacing, like enormous fighters they stood. Their canted wings and sharp tails gave the impression of coiled tigers; hunched down and leaning forward, ready to spring through the air. Their sharp noses stretched toward the runway as if they were anxious to fly.

  What a beautiful sight, Ammon thought as he watched the B-1s comc into view. For a moment, he almost lost himself in the excitement. In a short time he would be at the controls of this beautiful aircraft. He was now reacting instinctively to the challenge. The challenge was just too much to resist.

  But before he and Morozov even got close to the B-1, they had one more obstacle to overcome. The security that surrounded the B-1 was always tight. It was significantly easier, and far less dangerous, to rob a bank in midtown Manhattan than it was for an unauthorized person to get close to a Bone.

  Everything from razor wire to laser detectors surrounded the Bones as they sat on alert. Armed guards were on a constant watch. It wasn’t possible for a bird or a rabbit to get within 200 feet of the B-1s without being detected. If any intruders tried to penetrate the area, they would quickly be surrounded by the cops.

  And then there was the “Zone,” the final line of defense that surrounded the B-1s.

  Painted on the cement, fifty feet out from the bombers was a thick red line. This designated the Zone. The Zone had its own very special set of rules, and every person who worked around the B-1, whether they were pilots or maintenance specialists, knew the rules of the Zone very well. The Zone offered no room for excuses. Inside the Zone there was no room for error.

  The rules were very simple. Any unauthorized persons caught within the Zone would be immediately shot. If they were alone or didn’t appear to be threatening the bombers, then they would probably be shot in the legs. The security police were all excellent marksman, and they were trained to fire at the knees. But if there were more than one intruder, or if they appeared to be armed, or if they acted in a hostile or threatening manner, then the use of deadly force was automatically authorized. The security police would shoot three times. One shell at the heart. Two at the head.

  No questions would be asked. No warning would be given. It was that simple. It was a harsh and unforgiving policy, but when it came to nuclear weapons, the security forces didn’t feel a need to be nice.

  With all the laser motion detectors, noise sensors, razor wire, men, dogs, and machine guns, it was easy to understand why tiny beads of sweat began to roll down Morozov’s back as he stared at the Bones.

  GULF OF MEXICO

  Twelve hundred miles to the south, a Ukrainian naval cruiser cut through the warm waters of the Mexican Gulf. The Chernova Ukraina was one of the largest surface vessels that was still operated by the Ukrainian Navy. Completed in 1988, she was a “Slava” class helicopter cruiser that was equipped with a variety of surface-to-air missiles, torpedo tubes, and attack helicopters. Although she was very capable of attacking surface vessels, her primary purpose was to hunt and kill enemy submarines. And given the chance, her skipper had no doubt that she would have been very good at her job.

  But so far, she had never been put to the test. Such was the irony of modern-day weapons. The more powerful and capable they were, the less likely they were to be used.

  So it was not surprising that, when the Chernova had been ordered from her port in Sevastopol, her commander was one happy man. A war was brewing in the north, and he was very anxious to play in the game.

  But when he got his orders, his excitement was quickly replaced by confusion and anger. The Chernova would be nothing but a messenger. Hardly more than an expensive errand boy. It was a humiliating task for a warship. Nothing to attack. Nothing to be gained. No medals or glory to be won.

  But being a military man, as always, the captain did exactly as he was told.

  And that is how he found himself cruising through the Gulf of Mexico, one hundred and seven miles from the white sands and high-rise hotels that lined the beaches from Galveston to Corpus Christi.

  It wasn’t long after Morozov and Ammon had driven through the main gate at McConnell that the Chernova turned and began to cruise to the northeast, paralleling the Texas coast. The captain ordered one-half power, then gave his communications officer the nod to proceed.

  On the aft deck of the cruiser, just below the helicopter landing pad, was a huge drum filled with a long, thin, copper wire. As the Chernova cut through the four-foot waves, an electric motor on the drum began to turn, pushing the end of the wire from the drum casing. A two-foot canvas basket was attached to the wire and then dropped into the sea. The basket immediately filled with the warm salt water, pulling the wire taut against the side of the ship.

  Not until then did an electric brake on the drum release with a click and a thump. Immediately the drum began to rotate as the basket pulled the wire from the drum.

  As the Chernova cruised along at 19 knots, the wire fed out behind it, streaming from the cruiser like an enormous tail. It only took a couple of minutes for the basket to pull out the entire contents from the drum, stretching the huge antenna for two kilometers across the rough sea.

  When the captain had been advised that the antenna was deployed and in position, he looked at his watch and said, “Stand by to broadcast message. Broadcast will begin in twenty minutes. After broadcast, stand by to run.”

  Using the ship’s Ultra-Low Radio Transmitter (ULRT) and the long copper antenna, the Chernova would transmit a short message, a simple code of seemingly random numbers. The ultra low radio waves would hug the contour of the earth, traveling for almost 5,000 miles before they weakened and began to disperse. But it would take a little time to send the whole message, for the ULRT was only capable of transmitting a single character every few seconds. Several minutes would pass before the message transmission was complete.

  Once the message was sent, the Chernova would immediately cut the thin copper wire. Then she would turn to t
he east and push up her speed. By early morning she would be safely docked in Havana, Cuba.

  LOS ANGELES COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  Jesse looked out on the calm morning sea. The moon was low on the western horizon. The planet Venus was clearly in view, the brightest star in the early morning sky. A pale of light blue was just beginning to tint the eastern skyline, though sunrise was still at least fifty minutes away. A warm wind blew in from the ocean and pushed her hair back from her face.

  She looked down at the gauze pads, which had been wrapped around both of her wrists and felt a sudden shiver of pain. But it wasn’t real. Only a vivid memory, though the overall effect was the same. She reached down and gently pulled at the bandage, then glanced quickly back over her shoulder, to see if the agent was still there. He nodded as she looked for his presence.

  Turning away from the ocean, Jesse left the balcony and moved back into the safe house. They had told her today was the day. By tomorrow, the whole thing would be over. Then maybe they would tell her where Richard was and when he would be coming home. The worst part was not knowing. And not knowing what next to expect.

  For the past two days, they had tried to assure her. The agents had been gracious and friendly and kind. But the truth was, they had no knowledge of the real operation. They had no idea what was really going on. All they knew was it was something very big. Their instructions came right from the top. So they would shrug their shoulders and ask for her patience, and assure her it was going to be all right.

  But Jesse could feel the crisis arising, a bitter feeling she just couldn’t describe. It was there, brittle and cold, like a frozen pit in the center of her heart. A feeling of doom seemed to settle upon her, leaving her lonely and desperate for hope. And try as she might, she couldn’t push it aside.

  An ugly voice seemed to whisper from the corners of her mind, “Say good-bye, Jesse. He’s not coming home!”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ____________________

  ___________________

  McCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, KANSAS

  MOROZOV LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. TWELVE MINUTES TO GO. THEY WERE running late. He looked across to Richard Ammon who was still staring in wonder at the B-1s. He could tell from the look on his face that Ammon was excited at the prospect of flying the Bone. That was good. That was very important. Perhaps they had chosen the right man after all.

  Morozov was parked on the side of a road that ran around the north end of the runway. From here he had a good view of the entire alert area. He studied the ten-foot electric fence that surrounded the B-1 parking ramp. He could see the small disks of motion detectors that ran parallel to the fence. He looked up at the guard towers, then down at the armored security vehicles that circled the parked B-1s. There must have been at least a hundred security policemen, all of them armed with machine guns. He squinted and peered at the white cement. Yes, there they were. He could see them. The red lines that depicted the Zone.

  He looked at his watch once again, then slipped their car into gear. It was time to go.

  He turned around and headed for the alert facility. Four minutes later, he and Ammon pulled into the parking lot that was just outside the facility gate. From there, they did one final scope of the fence.

  “Everything looks good,” Morozov observed.

  “Yeah, looks good to me. You go first,” Ammon suggested.

  They climbed out of the car and started walking toward the high fence, Morozov leading the way, carrying a small black duffel bag under his arm. Ahead of them were two huge barbed wire fences, one inside the other. Ten feet separated the two fences. Each fence had only one gate, which was a steel revolving door. Two armed security policemen, each of them with a German shepherd, watched as the two men approached.

  The two fences were designed as a trap. Both Ammon and Morozov would have to show their identification before they would be allowed through the first gate. There they would be confined between the two fences. In no-man’s-land.

  Once inside no-man’s-land, they would be challenged once again. But this time not only would they have to show their ID, but they would also have to give the proper code word. The code words were classified TOP SECRET and they could change as frequently as every few hours. If either Ammon or Morozov didn’t give the proper code, they would be thrown to the ground and arrested.

  It was the code procedures that had Morozov the most worried.

  The problem was in the master code books. New code books were issued in a completely random manner. A code book might be used for several weeks or several hours, so Morozov could never be completely sure that he had the most recent edition. Morozov’s code book was only fifty-six hours old, but it could very well be that a new edition had already been issued. Maybe even two. Maybe even three. There was no way to know. But he soon would find out.

  As they walked toward the gate, Morozov checked his watch once again. Eight minutes to go. They would have to hurry, for they couldn’t be even a second late. He gave Ammon a gentle nod and then picked up his pace just a little. When they were still twenty feet from the fence, one of the guards held out his hand and yelled, “Halt!”

  GULF OF MEXICO

  The Chernova Ukraina continued to cruise effortlessly through the four-foot troughs. Inside her Command Center, the captain was staring at the radar screen. An unidentified aircraft was approaching. It looked to be a U.S. Navy P-3 Orion. The turboprop aircraft was approaching from the east at 320 knots and heading directly for the Chernova. No doubt, the P-3 had been sent to check them out. As the Orion flew toward her target, she would have on all of her “ears,” or radio signal detectors, so that she could hear what the Chernova was up to.

  That was very bad. If the Chernova tried to transmit her encoded message on the ULFT, the Orion would certainly detect it. Then the Americans would know that it was the Chernova that had sent out the message.

  And the captain of the Chernova Ukraina had been given very specific orders. Take any means necessary to avoid being detected as the source of the ULFT transmission.

  But the Orion couldn’t home in on their transmissions until she got to within two hundred miles of the Chernova.

  The captain looked at his watch once again. Six minutes, thirty seconds to go.

  “Is the message ready to send?” he asked his communications officer sharply.

  “Yes, sir. We are awaiting your word,” he replied.

  “How long will it take to broadcast the entire message?”

  “Three minutes and eighteen seconds, sir. The ULFT is very slow. It can only transmit one character every seven seconds and—”

  “I know the limitations of the ULFT,” the Captain snapped. He turned and looked at the radar screen once again. The Orion had picked up her speed just slightly and was now approaching at 340 knots. She was charting a course that would bring her to within seven miles of the Chernova’s starboard bow.

  “At this speed, how long until she is within homing range?” the captain asked.

  The radar operator pushed two buttons next to his screen. The radar’s computers did the calculations within a fraction of a second.

  “Six minutes, twenty-two seconds, sir.”

  The Captain scowled as he did the math in his head. Six minutes until he was suppose to send the message. A little over three minutes to send it. That was nine minutes. The P-3 would now be within range in six minutes and twenty seconds.

  It wasn’t going to work. That would leave the Orion with almost three minutes to home in on their transmitter. That was about sixty seconds too long.

  The Captain considered his options for only a moment before he made up his mind.

  “Stand by to broadcast message. Commence broadcast in ... ,” he paused to look at his watch, “three minutes. That will ensure the message broadcast is complete before the Americans get into homing range.”

  The Chern ova’ s communications officer glanced at the Captain for just a moment. He was one of the few men on board that had been authori
zed to read the orders that had sent them here to the Gulf of Mexico. He understood the importance of not being identified as the senders of the ULFT transmission.

  But he also understood something else. Their mission was very urgent. And the timing was critical. Absolutely critical. They were to begin their transmission at a very specific time. Not a second early. Not a second late.

  The communications officer considered arguing this point to the captain. Then he changed his mind. The captain knew what he was doing. He would trust him to do the right thing.

  McCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, KANSAS

  Ammon and Morozov stopped in their tracks. The guard closest to them swung his M-16 down from his shoulder.

  “Approach the gate one at a time.”

  Morozov looked at Ammon, then turned and walked up to the gate. He stood just outside the revolving steel door. The guard spoke to him through tiny slots in the steel.

  “May I see your identification please, sir?”

  Morozov reached into the breast pocket of his flight suit and extracted his military ID and his line badge and slipped them through a slit in the door.

  The guard reached through and picked up the cards. He began to study them as Morozov looked at his watch. Six minutes.

  “Sir, will you step back as we rotate the gate?” the guard asked. Morozov stepped back two paces and the gate began to revolve. He judged the timing so that he could walk through the swinging arms. As he passed through the gate, the first guard returned him his ID.

  “Sir, please proceed to the next gate.” Morozov stepped by the first guard, whose German shepherd sniffed and strained at his harness as Morozov passed by.

  Morozov walked up to the second gate. Again the guard spoke to him from a slit in the door.