Shattered Bone (47 page)

The communications included all sources and spectrums, was always encoded to at least a level-three security, and was accompanied by continuous counter-counter measures.

At 1615 Zulu, U.S. Strategic Command increased its state of alert. All of the Command's B-1 and B-52 bombers were placed on a two-minute response time. All Peacekeeper missile sites were ordered to DEFCON BRAVO.

At 2020 Zulu, our European Comm Center began to monitor radio transmissions between an American KC-10 air-refueling tanker and their command post in Torrejon, Spain, concerning an apparent security breach of some type within the United States military. Code name “Shattered Bone,” the crisis has the attention of the highest levels within the United States government.

The sudden and marked increase in secure communications must certainly be related in some way to this unknown breach in security, but as of this time, we have yet to determine any further details.

Reconnaissance, observation, and intelligence operations continue.

END OF REPORT

President Fedotov tossed the paper back on his desk and looked at his watch. The heavy granite walls muffled every sound and the room was deadly quiet. General Smikofchen listened to Fedotov's measured breathing. Finally, the President sat forward in his chair.

“Okay, Smikofchen, explain to me, what's going on?”

For the slightest moment, General Smikofchen sucked on his check and didn't respond.

“Sir, it is too early to draw any conclusions,” he finally answered. “Perhaps there is something there. Perhaps there is not. The simple and most likely explanation is this: the Americans have determined that our threat to use nuclear weapons is both real and imminent, and so, have ordered their forces to a higher state of alert to reflect the sudden escalation in hostilities. That would be standard procedure, sir.”

Fedotov snorted. “And what about the sudden spike in secure communications?”

Smikofchen blinked his eyes several times and then slowly shook his head. “Sir, I wish we had some explanation. But the truth is, we really don't know. We feel that perhaps it is a result of the Americans warning their neighbors and consulting with their NATO allies over the impending crisis.”

Again Fedotov snorted. “Stupid fool,” he said in disgust. “It is far more than that. Can't you see? Can't you read?” He threw the report at the standing general and slammed his fist on the desk. “What about the intercepted conversations with the KC-1O!? What about this thing, 'Shattered Bone?'”

Smikofchen opened his mouth and began to explain. “Sir, we feel—”

Fedotov quickly cut him off.

“No,” he cried. “Don't feed me your crap. Don't lie to me, General Smikofchen. Don't pretend to me that you have any idea, when, in fact, you are clueless as to what is going on. The Americans aren't going crazy, beaming coded messages all over the world, just because they have seen what we do with our missiles. They have known of our intentions for days now. Their satellites see everything that we do. This isn't something which they just discovered and has suddenly sent them off In a panic.

“No ... this is something very different. There is, within the United States, a developing situation which has nothing to do with our missiles. I can feel it. Something has happened over there which we do not understand. And uncertainty is never good news.

“Now, General Smikofchen, it is your job to find out what they are doing. It is your responsibility to find out what is going on. Now go. You have means. You have methods. You have options and hardware. So get out there and get the job done!”

KREMENCHUD-CHERCASSY, UKRAINE

The Ukrainian prime minister stole a quick glance toward his Director of State Security and his Minister of Defense. Andrei Liski and General Victor Lomov didn't take their eyes off of the tactical display screen.

Prime Minister Golubev watched General Lomov's eyes. They darted across the screen, never resting in their effort to take in and process all the information that was displayed on the screen. He watched as the general's mouth began to form a silent cheer.

“Yes, yes, yes,” General Lomov began to silently chant. “Go, my sweethearts, go.”

Prime Minister Golubev turned back to the tactical display screen. There he watched as hordes of Ukrainian fighters began to take to the air. They came from so many bases. Chernigov, Kiev, Varva, and Dneprodzerzhinsky. One by one, the fighters began to fill the airspace around the northwestern border of the Ukraine. They assembled into flights of four and squadrons of twelve and began to form a defensive line that led from Kiev toward the Russian border.

The fighters were stacked at intervals of three thousand feet in an effort to completely saturate the airspace they were sent to protect. By the time they were finally assembled, there would be almost eighty-five fighters in all.

It all was a part of the plan. And though, to the Russians, the line of fighters seemed to be nothing more than a poorly planned frontal attack, the Ukrainian pilots understood their real purpose.

Distract the Russian fighters. Keep the surface missile sites very busy tracking multiple targets. Keep the Russian forces so preoccupied with fake attacks from the west of Kiev that they would never even look to the east. Force them to muster their assets out west while Ammon slipped undetected across the lower belly of their borders, from a direction they would never expect.

So, the Ukrainian fighters would saturate the skies with fighters and missiles and fake attacks. Striking north, then turning back south, coming in high and coming in low, firing missiles when barely in range, they would harass the enemy forces with a muster of aircraft, machine guns, missiles, and men.

Turning his eyes to the bottom of the tactical display screen, Golubev looked to the northeastern part of his country, to the frozen and brown rolling hills that wrapped themselves around the eastern half of his nation. Although the Ukrainian radar couldn't pick up the low-flying bomber, he knew it was there. Based upon their pre-mission planning, at any given minute, he knew within fifty miles or so of where the bomber would be. He glanced at his watch, then looked back to the screen. The bomber would be just passing east of Khar'kov, a little over 200 miles away.

General Lomov turned to the prime minister. “Yevgeni, it is almost more than we could have hoped for.” His eyes were bright with hope and anticipation. “Our battle with Russia is certainly over. It is now only a matter of minutes, my friend, before the Russians have a far greater concern than their dirty little war with our Ukraine.”

REAPER'S SHADOW

Richard Ammon felt his stomach knot into a ball. He swallowed once again. His mouth was as dry as sand. He arched his back against the firmness of his ejection seat in hopes of relieving the fatigue and the soreness.

Ammon glanced to his right, through the canopy window. He could see the dim outline of Khar'kov as the city passed off in the distance, not more than forty miles away. Like a black hole in a starry night sky, the city's darkness stood out against the glittering layers of snow that reflected the dim light of the setting moon.

Turning his head, Ammon stared down at his CRT, the main computer screen that was mounted on the panel before him. The CRT depicted the terrain which spread out in front of the bomber, including the gentle hills, lakes, and occasional tower or strand of high-tension power lines. It also depicted a small dotted line that ran across the screen from left to right—the bomber's preprogrammed flight path.

The Bone sped along at almost seven hundred miles an hour and less than a hundred fifty feet above the ground. Because it was dark and he was flying so low, Ammon was not flying the aircraft, but instead, was allowing the onboard computers and radar systems to do their job of keeping the aircraft from hitting the ground. However, at this speed and altitude, if anything went wrong with the aircraft's terrain following system, it would only take a fraction of a second before the aircraft was nothing but a smoking hole in the snow. So Ammon monitored the flight very closely, splitting his attention between Reaper's Shadow's performance and looking ahead for enemy fighters.

“Any sign of activity?” Ammon asked tersely to the man who sat in back.

“Nothing yet,” Morozov replied. The airborne sensor on his ALQ-161 defensive system was still up and down, working erratically at best, so Morozov didn't expect to see anything on his screen. But he knew the fighters were there. As well as the surface-to-air missiles.

“One-forty miles now to the border,” Morozov announced. “Even with the scramble out west, the Russians will not leave their eastern flank completely unprotected. The fighters are out there. We could start seeing them at any time. So keep her low, my boy. Keep her down in the trees, and they'll never even know we are here.”

Ammon didn't reply. Looking down, he studied his chart. He scanned his eyes along the Ukrainian border until he found what he was looking for, then took out a pencil and began to write down some numbers on the checklist that was strapped to his leg.

Ammon looked at his navigation computer and did some quick calculations. It wasn't far now. Fourteen minutes to the border. Another eight minutes aftcr that. Twenty-two minutes in all.

____________________ 

___________________       

REAPER'S SHADOW

“I'
VE GOT TWO
B
ANDITS
!” M
OROZOV CALLED
. “O
NE O'CLOCK
. M
EDIUM
altitude. Tactical circle!”

“What are they?” Ammon called back. “How far out? Do they see us?”

“I ... I don't know. I can only get our air-threat search system to work intermittently. It keeps dropping into test mode, and then shutting itself down. I can reset it, but it only stays on-line for a few minutes. But I saw them. Had a pretty good look. They are high, but I don't know their distance.”

“No!” Ammon pleaded to himself. “No! No! Where did they come from? How could this be?”

Out of the whole eastern front, there couldn't have been more than a dozen Russian fighters that hadn't been pulled out to the west to guard against the massive Ukrainian aerial offensive. Maybe twelve Russian aircraft, flying six at a time, had been left to guard the whole eastern front, an area that stretched from Khar'kov to the Sea of Azov! More than five hundred miles of long, barren landscape and open, empty airspace.

And now two of them were up there, circling over his cowering head!

How could he have been so unlucky?

Ammon slammed his fist on the console and peered out into the black night. Sweeping his eyes across the horizon, he searched for any moving stars, indicating a light from the fighters. He searched for the faint glow of an afterburner engine, a wisp of a shadow, or any hint of the fighters that were there.

But he couldn't see a thing. He couldn't see the ground. He couldn't see the moon. He couldn't even see any stars, for a light overcast had just obscured the faint celestial light.

Glancing at his radar screen, Ammon rolled the aircraft into a slight left-hand turn to fall behind a small mountain that lined up to the north. Leveling the aircraft just below the mountain's crest, they crossed over the Russian border.

Sweeping low, jamming Reaper's Shadow through another tight cut in the rolling hills, they sped to the northwest. Below them and to their left was Russia's Fifth Brigade. The two thousand Russian soldiers of the Fifth Brigade were making their way along the highway, speeding to the west to act as reinforcements to the main battle front. To Ammon's right, sitting among an outcropping of huge boulders, were three surface-to-air (SAM) missile sites. Every twelve seconds—every time the SA-6 radar swung around in its circle to beam on the low-flying bomber—Amman's headset chirped, warning him that the radar was looking, beaming in circles for targets in the sky. Ahead of the flyers, less than twelve miles, was a triple A, anti-aircraft site. Ammon looked at his chart to where the anti-aircraft gun would be, then gently turned his bomber to the right.

“Coming right, heading three-three-eight,” he said into his mask. “Triple A site up ahead. This heading should keep us clear by at least seven miles.”

Morozov quickly checked his threat screen. He had missed the presence of the upcoming triple A.

“Good catch. This heading looks good.”

Ammon grunted, but did not reply.

DRISKMENKYOVOK HIGHWAY, NORTH OF KHAR'KOV

Sgt Keloslysky shot his eyes up to the sky with a start. What was that sound? It was horribly loud. Like a huge, sucking, high-pitched whine. And incredibly fast. It grew from a whisper to a deafening pitch in only a few seconds. Suddenly, with a blast, the whine shifted in intensity and turned into a ear-splitting roar as a shadow flew directly over his head. He could actually feel the air compress around him, pushing on his eardrums as the aircraft shot by, seemingly inches above the snow-covered trees. Instinctively, he covered his ears. The roar faded off into the distance, even more quickly than it had come.

Sitting on the round turret of his T-80 tank, Keloslysky turned to his gunner, who was still staring up into the darkness.

“Did you see what kind of aircraft it was?” he asked tensely.

“Negative, sir. It came at us so fast! It nearly blew me out of my seat. But whatever it was, it was huge. And very low. I've never heard anything like that before.”

Keloslysky listened as the roar of the aircraft echoed through the trees and bounced off the bare canyon walls.

“Think we need to report it, sir?” the gunner asked nervously.

Keloslysky shook his head. “Report what, Blosko? That we heard a big roar? That we saw a quick flash in the night? What good is that going to do? We're in the middle of a battle zone. There are probably a hundred aircraft overhead. Besides, it had to be one of our friendlies. And if it weren't, the air-defense guys know what they're doing.