For the past several months, the command post had been a very busy place. The pace of operations had been constantly frantic, bordering on panic at times.
But not today. Since he had reported to work at seven in the morning, Rolles had seen very little message traffic that would demand any immediate attention. So, for the first time in months, he sat and drank a cup of coffee while browsing the morning edition of the Daily Press.
If the command post had any windows, TSgt Rolles could have passed the time by staring out onto the Virginia wire grass that dotted the Chesapeake Bay. He could have watched a small flock of osprey as they hunted for fish in the shallow-briny water. He could have watched a four-ship of Langley’s F-15s as they rolled along the taxiway before taking off for some combat training with Navy Norfolk fighters.
But the ACC command post, like most good military command posts, didn’t have any windows. It was dry and cold and perfectly sterile. It had purified water and purified air. The lighting was always dimmed, creating a feeling of constant twilight. The computers, paper shredders, status boards, and encryption machines perpetuated an artificial feeling of urgency that kept its occupants strained and on edge.
Along one wall were three huge walk-in safes. These were used to store the War Orders and Operation Plans that would be implemented in times of a national crisis. Opposite the safes were a bank of computers and telephones that were used to connect the command post with the rest of the world. A row of clocks hung overhead, displaying the time in such fascinating locations as Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean, and Incirlik AFB, Turkey.
A bank of printers sat in an orderly row beside Rolles’ desk. They were arranged in a descending order of message priority. Those that carried only highly classified and urgent material were placed on the right. Those that carried routine, unclassified junk mail were arranged on the left.
To the far right of the printers was a large, clear plastic box with red hash lines painted around each of its corners. Inside the clear plastic box was a rarely used machine. It was a printer that was reserved for messages coded FLASHDANCE, the highest priority of message there was. When the printer had first been connected to its communication’s bank, its black ribbon had been ripped out and replaced with a bright roll of red tape. Tiny electrodes monitored the paper feed of the printer, sounding a gentle alarm whenever the printer kicked on.
TSgt Barney G. Rolles was just beginning to doze through the classifieds when a soft buzz jolted him to attention. He immediately walked to the FLASHDANCE printer and anxiously watched the message as it was typed across the white paper in deep red ink. The words printed out very slowly, for it took time for the STU VI decoder to unscramble the incoming code.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ -------------------------------------------screen on------------------------------------------ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
TO: HEADQUARTERS, AIR COMBAT COMMAND/IMMEDIATE PRRITY/DMQ
RE: CODE FlASHDANCE SECURITY VIOlATION/US ASSET WHISKEY
FM: 27 WG/CC, MCCONNELL AFB, KS/MGRTS/1424Z/101596***
MESSAGE FOLLOWS:
AT APP 1417Z, A CODE NATIONAL ONE SECURITY VIOLATION TOOK PLACE. WE ARE IMPLEMENTING SHATTERED BONE REPEAT: SHATTERED BONE. PROCEDURES HAVE BEEN IMPLEMENTED.
REQUEST AUTHORIIT TO SEEK AND DESTROY. THE TARGET MUST BE CONSIDERED HOSTILE. INTENTIONS UNKNOWN. NUCLEAR ASSETS INVOLVED.
AWAIT CLEAR TEXT INSTRUCTIONS. STUIII 567-1111
TRANSACTION COMPLETE
RECORD UPDATED
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Rolles stared at the paper in puzzlement as the printer kicked it out. “Shattered Bone.” That was a new one. He quickly reached for the small leather code book that lay chained to the corner of his desk by a thin steel cord. Rolles flipped through the top-secret book, scanning the words that were listed in alphabetical order until he found what he was looking for:
SHATIERED BONE: the code word used to signify the theft, hijacking, or unauthorized flight of a B-1B bomber loaded with nuclear weapons. Such activity should be considered a class “A” security violation. The incident aircraft will be destroyed using any and all means available. Its destruction is the highest priority.
Follow notification procedures appendix three.
Follow command and control procedures appendix ONE HELP JULES.
Implement Emergency War Tasking Operations Plan “SPLINT.”
TSgt Rolles swallowed hard, then read the instructions once again. Class “A” violation! Emergency War Tasking “SPLINT!”
“Major!” he cried to senior controller. “Major, get over here now!” Dropping the code book, he reached for a yellow telephone that sat near his desk and picked it up with trembling hands.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Twelve minutes later, three Air Force generals were escorted into the office of Chad Wallet, the Secretary of Defense. For the next five minutes they stood in a humble stupor, shooting quiek glances among themselves as the Secretary carried on in a rage. They winced as the Secretary cursed and threatened the generals.
The Secretary slammed his fist on the table. “How on earth am I going to explain this? And what is going on? Three days ago, we shoot down a Russian Blackjack bomber! But you claim our pilots never fired off a single shot! Now one of our bombers—with nuclear weapons—has been stolen and was last seen heading south!” The secretary cursed and raged again.
Then, suddenly, Wallet stopped and passed his hands over his face as he tried to think. He needed to calm himself down. He could crucify these officers later. For now, he needed to attend to the matter at hand. He needed to get a firm handle on the situation. And there were some things he didn’t understand.
“Okay,” he said. “So, why didn’t you send another B-1 after the renegade? They were right there! Why didn’t they go bring him down?”
The Air Force Chief of Staff quickly rolled his eyes in his head. He sometimes forgot that the SecDef had spent thirty years in the academic profession and zero time in a uniform of any kind. Besides, he was still new to his job. And he had a huge amount still to learn, as was evident by this stupid question.
“Sir,” the general said, trying his best to be patient. “The B-1s are not fighters. They carry no missiles or guns. They are bombers, sir. They drop bombs. They kill things on the ground. They don’t go after other airplanes. There was nothing the other B-1s could do.”
“Okay. Okay. I understand that.” Wallet said “okay” a lot when he was under stress. “The other B-1s are out. So, what do we have to bring him down with? What fighters do we have in the area? This should be no big deal, right? We have the entire Air Force. Let’s just go find the traitor and shoot him down!”
“Sir.” It was the Chief of Staff once again. “We will do that. I’m certain we will. But I don’t want to pretend to you that it will be easy. The fact is, since the end of the Cold War, the United States has maintained only a handful of fighters to protect our entire East and West coasts. So, it’s not like we have a hundred fighters out there on alert and waiting to intercept the stolen bomber. In numbers, I would say there are only eight aircraft available and standing by that could fly this mission. Four on each coast. So you see, we are spread very, very thin.
“And the bomber will not be easy to find. The B-1 is one of the stealthiest aircraft cver built, so I won’t pretend to you that we won’t have trouble bringing her down.”
“But isn’t there some type of beacon?” Wallet wondered. “Some kind of tracking device on the bomber that we can use to find out where it is?”
The general shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, this was never supposed to have happened. We never thought ... We never dreamed ... a violation could ever get so far. The security measures around the B-1s are the best in the world. Better than any security on the earth. So, no. We don’t have any internal tracking mechanism. We never thought such a device would ever be required.”
Walking from behi
nd his desk, the SecDef positioned himself directly in front of his generals, looking them square in the eye. He swallowed hard and produced a fresh handkerchief to wipe the sweat from around his lips. He stared at the men for a long moment, then gave them his final instructions.
“Gentlemen, we don’t know what this pilot’s intentions are. Perhaps he wants the bomber for money. Ransom it for what he can get. Maybe he intends to sock it to the Russians. Finish the war by himself. Or far worse, perhaps he’s some kind of insane traitor and he plans to use the weapons against one of his own!
“But either way, whatever his motives, I don’t care. We will deal with this problem all the same.
“Down the bomber. Blow it out of the sky. Find it. Kill it. Gut it. Smash it. Wherever it is going, track it and scatter its wreckage for a million miles across the earth. Do whatever it takes, take any measure or step, but do not allow the aircraft to escape.”
The Secretary paused to swallow.
“Gentlemen, I want you to end this Shattered Bone,” were his final words. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
Every man in the room had a very clear understanding of what the SecDef wanted them to do.
The Secretary nodded his head toward the door, dismissing the men with a nod. They turned and began to make their exit, anxious to get out of the office and down to the business at hand. The last man to leave the room was the Air Force Chief of Staff. He paused at the doorway, then turned back to face the SecDef and said, “Mr. Secretary, do you want me to alert the President?” His voice was strained, but calm.
“Let me worry about the President. You go find your stolen bomber. I want him dead within the next hour. Now get going. You know what to do.”
The general turned and slipped from the room.
For a long moment, the SecDef stared at the door as it swung closed on its massive hinges, then, reaching down, he picked up the secure telephone and punched in the number to Milton Blake’s office over at the NSA.
“Blake, its me, Chad Wallet. Yeah, listen, I need to see the President. And you better meet with us, too. No, it can’t wait. I need to see him now. We got ourselves a little problem over here.”
Inside his office, Milton Blake checked his watch. 0942. Exactly on time.
“Okay, Chad,” he replied in a calm and knowing tone. “I’ll set it up. Meet us in the basement as soon as you can.”
THIRTY
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_____________________
SOUTH OF BELGOROD, RUSSIA
SGT SERGEI MOTYL SMILED, HIS CROOKED TEETH AND SPOILED GUMS poking through his chapped lips. He tasted the bile at the back of his throat and suppressed a deep urge to cough. The Russian soldier concentrated, listening to the wind, smelling the air, feeling the night breeze as it blew against his neck. The moon had drawn itself behind a thick bank of dark winter clouds. Soon it would be snowing. That was good. The snow would help cover his trail.
Glancing around, Motyl found his pack were he had left it, leaning against a small tree. He hoisted the pack onto his back, then turned and walked away from his camp, leaving his fellow soldiers behind him.
Inside Motyl’s pack were eight warheads for the SA-18, the Russian’s newest hand-held, shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile. The SA-18 was an exceptional piece of equipment, capable of bringing down virtually any aircraft that was unfortunate enough to get in its sight. It contained technologies that were years ahead of anything developed by the West. So it came as no surprise that certain parties were very anxious to get their hands on a launcher. To tear one down and look it over. To study it and see what it really could do.
IF Motyl could deliver an SA-18 launcher to the right people, it was worth an enormous amount of money. 270,000 rubles to be exact, seven years’ worth of army pay. Then, for an extra 200,000 rubles, Motyl had agreed to bring eight warheads for the launcher as well. One launcher, eight missile warheads for 470,000 rubles.
From where his squad was camped, it was only 17 kilometers to the Ukrainian border. If he left right now, when there were no guards posted, he wouldn’t be missed until morning. By then he would be across the border. Motyl planned to hike almost due south, cutting over the tops of the tree-covered hills where he knew it would be easy to evade the thin line of Ukrainian troops, then on toward the Ukrainian city of Khar’kov. There his friends would be waiting.
In eighteen hours, Sergei Motyl, formerly of the Russian Fourth Army, would be a very wealthy man.
He hiked silently down the trail for thirty meters before stopping by a low growth of dead brush and leaves. Bending over, he rummaged through the debris and pulled an SA-18 launcher from its hiding place under the dry thistles and dead leaves. With a huff, he hoisted the five-foot launcher onto his back. Motyl then turned and put the moon to his back as he left the trail and set off through the trees.
THIRTY-ONE
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___________________
TYNDALL AIR FORCE BASE, FLORIDA
LT DALE PETERSON COAXED THE CONTESTANT ON. IT WAS A PHRASE. Three words. The second word was “the.”
“Buy a vowel. Come on, don’t be stupid. Buy a vowel,” he yelled at the television. The contestant reached down to spin the wheel once again. Lt Peterson watched the numbers spin, clicking as they went. He already had the puzzle figured out. If the dimwitted woman would just buy another vowel. He sat back in his chair and took a sip from his Coke while he watched the wheel clatter around, winding slowly to a stop.
“I’ll take a W.”
“Sorry, no W,” the host replied. A groan went up from the crowd.
“Idiot!” Peterson mumbled in frustration, as he lifted his right leg and placed it up on the small formica table.
Suddenly the alert facility dining room was splintered by a deafening bell.
Lt Peterson jumped way from the table, spilling his Coke as he ran. He sprinted down the brightly lit hallway and out into a cavernous hangar. The hangar’s huge steel doors were already beginning to roll open on their steel wheels. Peterson ran to the side of his aircraft where his crew chief was waiting. The chief helped Peterson climb up the tiny ladder that was attached to the side of the F-16. Peterson dropped into the narrow cockpit. The crew chief began to strap the pilot to his ejection seat while Peterson ran his engine-start checklist.
Three minutes later he was in the air, following his flight lead through the overcast layer of clouds that hung over the Florida panhandle. Lt Peterson concentrated on staying in tight formation as they passed through the low clouds. His leader’s wing tips cut through the moisture-laden air. At three thousand feet, they broke out above the cloud deck and Peterson backed off to a loose trail formation, twenty feet out from his leader.
Above the clouds, the sun was shining brightly, forcing Peterson to pull his dark visor down over his eyes. He also dropped his oxygen mask, letting it hang to the side of his face. All the while, he never took his eyes off of his leader. As he stared through the orange-tinted Plexiglas, a white sheet of compressed air formed over his leader’s wing tips and washed back over his tail.
It was so beautiful. These practice scrambles could be so much fun.
“Tyndall Departure, Blade six-four, a flight of two F-16s is with you climbing to two-one thousand,” the pilot in the lead F-16 broadcast over the radio.
After a short pause the controller’s voice came back. “Blade six-four, you are radar contact. Climb and maintain flight level three-two-zero. Turn right heading two-six-zero. New Orleans center request you contact them now on 122.4.”
“Blade flight is continuing up to three-two-zero, right turn heading two-six-zero,” the lead pilot replied.
He sounds so smooth, Peterson thought. Confident and cool. Like he really knows what’s going on.
Fresh out of pilot training, twenty-three-year-old Dale Peterson knew that a good radio voice was one of those intangible assets that all pilots prided themselves on. Because so much happened on the radio, it became a
very important, though subtle, source of information. Every voice was evaluated for stress, anxiety, or fatigue. Every radio transmission said a lot more than mere words.
Some new pilots would sit and practice their radio voice, much like a broadcast announcer or a television star. They would force their voices lower as they practiced their radio lingo. All of this emphasis on radio technique came from an old pilot saying. “It’s better that you sound good, than look good, because at twenty thousand feet, no one can see you looking good.”
Lt Peterson was still young and inexperienced. And green. Green as an Irish golf course. But there was nothing that a few thousand hours in the F-16 couldn’t teach him.
Peterson followed his leader as they made a gentle turn out to the west. When they were rolled out on the appropriate heading, he heard his leader say, “Blade flight, push 122.4.”
“Two,” was all Peterson said in reply, then reached down to set in the new frequency on his radio.
This was kind of weird. Departure had turned them in the wrong direction. This heading would take them straight to Texas. They always did their practice intercepts out over the coast. Always. But then again, this was only Lt Peterson’s second intercept. Maybe he didn’t know quite as much as he thought.
Shattered Bone Page 31
