Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  “ID,” he said curtly.

  Morozov passed him the two pieces of identification. He looked back at Richard Ammon, who was still standing outside the first gate. He glanced at his watch, trying to make his preoccupation with time as unnoticeable as possible. Five minutes, twenty seconds.

  “Bring the other one in,” the second guard yelled. The first guard motioned for Richard Ammon to step forward. Ammon proceeded on up to the gate and quickly passed his identification through the slit to the guard.

  Within a minute he was standing next to Morozov, trapped between the two fences. He passed his ID to the second guard, who studied them as carefully as he had Morozov’s.

  When he appeared to be satisfied with the ID, he motioned for Morozov to step forward. On the side of the gate was a simple keyboard with a small computer screen. Morozov would have to type the code word into the computer before he could pass through the gate.

  “Sir, are you ready to type in the code word?” the second guard asked through the fence. Morozov nodded in reply.

  “Type in the code word then, sir. Time now is 1409 Zulu. The code will change again in fifty-one minutes.”

  Morozov reached out and began to type in the code.

  GULF OF MEXICO

  “Commence broadcasting,” said the Chernova’s Captain. His communications officer nodded, then turned back to his console. He punched a series of buttons on his keyboard and the ULFT began to transmit. The communications officer checked his watch and noted the time of transmission into the ship’s log.

  As the transmission began, long radio waves in the ultra low frequency began to spread out from the enormous antenna that trailed from the Ukrainian cruiser. The radio signals extended out in all directions. They spread across the ocean waves until they hit landfall, then continued to roll across the terrain. It was only a few seconds until they had reached the wheat fields of southern Kansas.

  McCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, KANSAS

  The former Soviet Union was never shy about their intention to take advantage of what they perceived as one of the United States’ key weaknesses; their unregulated environment in matters of defense. This enabled the USSR to commit various acts of sabotage and subversion, many times without the Americans even knowing what had been done.

  One example of this was the McConnell Air Force Base new fuel storage facility. Millions of gallons of JP-8 jet fuel were stored in eight huge tanks sitting on a small hill at the north end of the runway. The tanks were just three hundred yards from the B-1 alert parking area. Huge pressurized underground fuel lines carried the JP-8 to the fuel pits where hoses could be attached to the B-1s. This made refueling the thirsty aircraft very easy and efficient. It also made the transfer of the fuel much more secure.

  At least that was the theory. But there were a few things that the Air Force didn’t know. For example, they didn’t know that one of the civilian contractors who helped to build the storage facility was a paid Soviet informer, controlled by a Ukrainian officer from the KGB. One day, just as the construction project was being completed, the contractor walked by one of the tanks and dropped in what looked to be a large black lunch box. The box immediately sank to the bottom of the tank where its presence was never detected.

  Now, as the ultra-low-frequency radio transmissions rolled across the McConnell flight line, the black box suddenly came to life. A tiny computer inside the watertight box began to decode the message. When the complete message had been received, it would be verified against the black box’s computer files. If it confirmed to be valid, the black box would go into a countdown.Ten seconds later it would explode.

  Morozov finished typing in the code. He looked at the screen on the side of the fence. He studied the code word for just a moment to check his spelling. There was a policy of zero tolerance for spelling errors. It was the same thing as having the wrong code. When Morozov was satisfied, he reached up and pushed the “send” button.

  A small screen on the other side of the gate immediately illuminated the code word that Morozov had typed in. The guard read his screen then looked over at Morozov. Morozov was looking around, trying to appear bored by the whole affair, scratching at his head. The guard glanced at the screen once again and then said. “Sir, will you stand back while I rotate the fence?”

  That was it. Morozov was in. The code word was right.

  Morozov stepped back and the door began to slowly rotate. Again he timed it so that he could pass through the swinging arms of the gate. After passing through the gate, Morozov turned around to look at Richard. Ammon was watching Morozov with a slight smile on his face. So Morozov’s people had gotten the right code word. Ammon was alrnost surprised.

  “Sir, will you step up and type in the code?” The guard was now looking at Richard Ammon. Ammon walked over to the keyboard and began to type. Morozov looked down at his watch. Two minutes, ten seconds. They were back on time.

  Ammon finished typing. He, too, stepped back and looked up at the screen to check his spelling before he sent it to the guard. He reviewed the code word carefully. Everything was right. He reached up to hit the send button.

  With a sudden burst of heat and light, an enormous explosion rocked the air, knocking them all to the ground. Even from three hundred yards, the heat and shock wave blew them over, searing their skin and burning their eyes. Morozov looked up to see a huge rolling ball of fire climb into the sky. Long arms of darting flames seemed to reach up and push the fireball skyward. Black smoke billowed up from underneath the rolling inferno. A rush of air was sucked inward to feed the hungry flames.

  Three million pounds of fuel was gushing from a ruptured fuel tank. It streamed from the bent and crumpled metal like water from a high-pressure hose. Most of the fuel ignited immediately, sending waves of fire in every direction. But some of the fuel shot out from the base of the tank with such pressure and speed that it gushed underneath the flame, sending it spouting all over the hill before it had a chance to ignite.

  A burning river of fuel began to stream down the side of the hill toward the B-1 parking area.

  The fuel tank right next to the explosion began to molder from the heat and explosion. Flames reached out to melt its sparkling white paint. Its thick metal ribs began to expand and glow from the heat of the inferno. If it wasn’t watered down and cooled within the next ninety seconds, it, too, would explode, spewing another three million pounds of jet fuel out to feed the rolling fire.

  Next to the fence, Morozov and the others lay stunned on the ground, covering their faces with their arms. Morozov was the first to sit up.

  The area around the alert facility became a swarm of chaos and confusion. Warning horns sounded from all directions as the security forces stormed into the area. Armored jeeps and security vehicles squealed toward the B-1s, forming a protective parameter around them. Fire trucks raced in, sirens and horns blasting, lights flashing, men in fire gear clinging to the sides. Huge klaxons blared as the loudspeakers came to life.

  “All aircrews, report to aircraft! All aircrews, report to aircraft! Prepare for emergency taxi! Prepare for emergency taxi!”

  A river of fire, smoke, and heat was gushing down the side of the hill. Even from this distance, the heat was nearly unbearable. The Bones that were parked inside the alert gate were soon going to be engulfed in a pool of burning fuel. Teams of pilots and navigators began to swarm from the alert facility, racing against the stream of fire that was rushing toward the B-1s.

  Morozov watched the wild scene that surrounded him for only a second, then scrambled to his feet. Ammon was already standing.

  “Let me in!” Ammon screamed to the guard. “I am a pilot. My aircraft has got to be taxied. I’ve got to get it away from those flames!”

  For a moment the guard only stared in confusion. Then he looked to his computer screen to check the code word that Ammon had typed in.

  The screen was blank. No, it was black. The explosion had cut the electricity off.

  Ammon could tell b
y the look on the guard’s face that there was some kind of problem. He sensed what it was and immediately began to yell.

  “Stallion Red! Stallion Red! The code word is Stallion Red! It’s still a valid word, now let me in!”

  The guard stared in utter confusion. That was the proper code, but was it still okay to let this guy in? Whenever there had been an emergency within the alert facility, they had always shut down access through the gates. Always. When there was an emergency in progress, the gates were always closed and locked.

  But the captain did have the proper code. And he did nced to taxi his aircraft. So what should he do? Nothing in his training had prepared him for this.

  Meanwhile, nearly all of the aircrews had made it to their aircraft. The ramp was utter chaos. Fire trucks, ambulances, humvees, security cops in big four wheel drive pickups. They all were squealing across the ramp. Morozov heard the slow whine of the first B-1 as its four engines started to wind up. He and Ammon should have already been in an aircraft.

  This was supposed to have been Ammon and Morozov’s chance to get inside the B-1. They had about a twenty second window. And the window was beginning to close.

  Morozov took two steps toward the guard, then squinted his pale green eyes.

  “Let the captain in!” he said cooly. His voice was very determined. “Our time is running out, Sergeant. Let the captain in.”

  The guard continued to stare in utter confusion. He made no effort to open the gate.

  Then Morozov made a decision. He would give the guard just three seconds to act before he shot the man in the head.

  Streams of fire were now starting to pool across the cement taxi-way, approaching the B-1s at an unbelievable speed. The first fire truck had arrived at the top of the hill, its lime-green paint a stark visual contrast to the blackness that seemed to surround it. The firefighters were spraying their high pressure hoses on the fuel tank that sat next to the fire.

  The first B-1 was starting to taxi. Morozov glanced over to see it roll down the taxiway, building up speed as it went.

  “Let the man in!” Morozov said one more time. Then he reached for the weapon that was strapped to his chest.

  Ammon’s heart nearly stopped when he saw Morozov slip his hand under the open fold of his jacket. His face froze with a cold look of terror. He knew immediately what Morozov was going to do.

  Both guards had their weapons drawn and were ready to fire. If Morozov pulled out a gun, he might get off one shot. But that would be all. He would never be able to kill both of the guards before the other one mowed them both down with a long burst from his M-16.

  Richard Ammon was about to die, cut in half by a stream of flying lead. Muscle and tissue and bone and sinew would be splattered across the cement. His blood would spill and then pool as it ran onto the flight line. He would take his last breath as he fell against the razor-embedded fence. A great darkness would envelop him. And then he would die as he whispered her name, staring skyward with glazed-over eyes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ____________________

  ___________________

  McCONNELL AIR FORCE BASE, KANSAS

  MOROZOV REACHED INSIDE HIS FLYING JACKET. HE SLIPPED HIS FINGERS around the cold metal of his gun, pushing the beveled handle into the palm of his hand. Taking another step toward the guard, he estimated the distance between them. Ten feet of cracked concrete separated the two men. Killing this guard would be easy. Morozov could send him to the ground in less than an instant.

  He stole a quick glance back through the fence. The other guard already had his machine gun trained on the two men in the flight suits. He alternately pointed the end of his muzzle between Morozov and Ammon, jerking the weapon back and forth in sudden and erratic motions. His finger was pressed against the trigger, just a hair’s width from firing the gun. He looked scared and confused and was ready to shoot. The blazing fires illuminated the fear in his eyes.

  The guard knew that the situation was growing dangerous. Something wasn’t right. These men were far too anxious to enter the compound. There was too much noise. Too much confusion; the heat, the flames, the scrambling pilots, and screaming klaxons. He had to get the situation under control. Something had to give.

  And then it did. And just in time. The guard was just drawing his breath, ready to command Ammon and Morozov to hit the dirt, when the second guard reached up and slammed a handle on the side of the fence. The door immediately rolled back on a huge set of well-greased hinges, its emergency retraction mechanism pushing it out of the way.

  “It’s open,” the guard screamed over the noise and confusion. “Come on in, man! Come on, let’s go!”

  Ammon ran through the gate to the inside of the fence.

  By then Ivan Morozov had withdrawn his hand from his jacket and was already sprinting toward the waiting Bones. Richard ran after him.

  There was only one B-1 that wasn’t already surrounded by a hurried crew. Aircraft number 68-347. Reaper’s Shadow was her name. She was the last aircraft in the row of bombers, the closest aircraft to the gate, only 175 yards from where Ammon and Morozov had started running. It was also the only aircraft that had been loaded with the new top secret cruise missile. The fact that it was parked closest to the gate had been no accident. It had been placed there by design.

  As Ammon ran, he looked over his shoulder to the alert facility door. There he saw the last crew emerge from the building, the pilot half dressed, his hair frothing with a cap of shampoo. His navigator pushed him along the tarmac as they sprinted to the B-1.

  Ammon judged the distance between them. It was going to be very tight. The other crew was slightly closer, but not as fast, scrambling to get dressed as they ran. He and Morozov would be the first ones to the aircraft. They might beat the other crew by only five or six seconds. But that would be enough.

  Ammon was thirty yards from the bomber when suddenly an armed security guard appeared from behind the main wheel gear. He had his M-16 drawn to his side and his radio pressed to his ear. He was trying to follow the panicked conversations on the radio as he watched Ammon and Morozov approaching the aircraft.

  He put out his hands and started to yell. “StoP! Halt! I need to see your ID!”

  Ammon and Morozov completely ignored him. They didn’t even hesitate as they ran into the Zone. Let the guard shoot them if he would. The real crew was now only fifty yards behind them. Ammon and Morozov had to get inside the aircraft and shut the hatch before they could be stopped.

  They ran right past the guard. Morozov yelled at him as he passed by. “Pull the intake covers! And hurry!”

  The guard hesitated for a second, glanced at the oncoming river of fire, then ran toward the four big engines and began to pull the red square plastic covers that protected the engine inlets.

  Morozov and Ammon ran up the ladder that led into the cockpit. Ammon slammed a switch beside him as he climbed inside. He heard the electric motors start to retract the ladder, just as the other crew ran underneath the aircraft’s belly.

  Ammon climbed past Morozov and slipped into the forward cockpit and started flipping switches to start the engines. In less than ten seconds he could feel the aircraft gently vibrate as the four GE-101 turbofan engines began to wind up. He reached up and put on the helmet that was already pre-positioned by the side of his ejection seat, pulling it down over his ears and dropping its dark eye shield to cover his face.

  He looked around the cockpit. In front of him was his main computer screen. Several smaller displays were set off to the side. He was surrounded by hundreds of switches, gauges, and knobs. It was an intimidating sight. He was immediately grateful that he and Morozov had spent so much time in the simulator. Without that training, he wouldn’t even know where to begin. But as it was, everything seemed very familiar.

  The only thing that caught him by surprise was the sound. The simulator had been very quiet, but inside the actual aircraft there was a constant muffled roar, a reminder that they were sitting on on
e hundred and forty thousand pounds of thrust and power. And the air from the air-conditioning and pressurization systems hissed through the cooling vents, blowing like a tiny storm.

  The first thing Ammon did was strap a thick plastic book of checklists around his left leg and secure it with a stretch of velcro-covered elastic. Then he began to strap himself into his ejection seat. It required nine different connections; five chest harnesses, two waist straps, and finally two leg restraints. By the time he was all strapped in, Ammon almost felt claustrophobic. The thick harnesses and restraints made it very difficult to move around in the seat. But that’s the way it had to be. Otherwise his arms and legs would be shattered if he ever had to eject from the Bone.

  After strapping in, Ammon set about to bring up the aircraft’s systems, while Morozov went to work in the back. Ammon worked through his checklist very quickly, setting the various switches to their proper positions, taking time to complete only the most critical items that would be necessary for immediate flight. Once they were in the air, he would go back and check the aircraft’s secondary systems, but he didn’t have time for that now.

  Ammon was ready in less than sixty seconds. He checked his watch, then pressed his intercom switch and talked into the microphone in his mask.

  “How long?” he asked abruptly.

  “Two minutes, thirty-five seconds,” Morozov answered. That was how long it would take before Reaper’s Shadow’s computers would be up and running. And the Reaper wasn’t going to take off until its computers were ready to go.

  Everything on the Bone was controlled by one of the eleven central computers. The official name of the computer system was Main Avionics Central Computer System, but everyone just called it the MACCS. Without the MACCS, Ammon wouldn’t be able to raise his gear, sweep the wings, transfer fuel, or control his radar. Without the computers, he couldn’t move any of his flight controls. Everything, from dropping his bombs to flushing the toilet was commanded, controlled, and monitored through the MACCS. So they were at the mercy of their computers. They couldn’t take off until the MACCS was ready to go.