Shattered Bone (9 page)

This had the effect of forcing the U.s. to lean forward during an international crisis into a “use them or lose them” mentality.

For this reason, the SS-18 was one of the major sticking points between the U.s. and the Soviets during the START II negotiations. The Russians were unwilling to completely destroy one of their crowning technological achievements, while at the same time the U.S. was unwilling to accept their continued existence.

Finally, an acceptable compromise was reached. It was decided that the SS-18 missile silos would be breached and rendered unusable. Fifteen meters of concrete would be poured into the bottom of the silos, while a 2.9-meter restrictive ring would be placed around the top. This would make the silos' dimensions simply too small to hold the SS-18s, rendering the missiles utterly useless.

But the missiles themselves were never destroyed. The Russians had argued that it would have been prohibitively expensive to properly and safely dismantle the warheads. In addition, it would require money that they simply didn't have. And since the missiles were useless without their launch facilities, it seemed reasonable to give them more time. So the Russians removed the missiles into storage, until such time that they could be “properly destroyed.”

But this agreement didn't make everyone happy. Many of the American negotiators were concerned that it would be relatively easy for the Russians to refurbish the silos. But in the emerging era of trust and friendship, their anxieties were altogether ignored. Ignored by everyone, that was, except a very small group of Russian scientists and military leaders. These men didn't laugh at the doubts of the less trusting Americans, for it was their job to secretly ensure that the silos could be used once again.

The restrictive ring that was going to be placed at the top of the silos was never really a problem. A large adjustable crescent wrench and a small hoist were the only tools that were required to remove the ring. And it wouldn't take much time, either. Three men could have the ring out of the silo within just a couple of hours.

The problem that had the Soviet scientists puzzled was the cement that had to be poured into the bottom of the silos. The Russians knew that the Americans would send inspectors to observe when the silos were shut down, so they would have to fill the silos with concrete. But if they used regular cement, the walls of the silos would be destroyed if the time ever came when the Russians wanted to chip the concrete out. So, the question was, how could they save the silos, and yet still appear to comply with the terms of the agreement?

For years they stalled and delayed the SALT II negotiations while they looked for an answer to their problem. Then finally, they hit upon the solution. After years of experimentation a special mix of concrete was developed that initially set hard as rock. This allowed the Russians to pass the treaty verification process, which made both parties to the agreement very happy. But within just a few months of being poured, the special cement began to soften in the silos. Over time it continued to break down. Within a few years, the cement was no more firm than wet sand. This guaranteed that, should the occasion ever arise, the silos could be operational again within a very short period of time.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

President Fedotov walked out onto the back porch of his living quarters. It was early evening, and a bitter wind had turned the air cold. At the bottom of the steps, a small gray sedan was already waiting, but if Fedotov was in a hurry, he didn't show it. He descended the stairs one by one, then slowly crossed the driveway. When he finally made it to the car, he opened the door with a huff then plopped himself inside.

The car was being driven by General Hrihori Nahaylo, Fedotov's Minister for Defense. General Nahaylo slipped the car into gear, then slowly began to make his way down the long drive and through the security checkpoints until he merged with the light traffic that was circling Kremlin Square. As he drove, he checked his rearview mirror and saw the two black sedans behind him.

Since it was past the dinner hour, General Nahaylo had brought along a small bottle of Kentucky whiskey, a decadent import to be sure, but one Fedotov enjoyed just the same. He waited until Vladimir Fedotov had settled himself back in his seat, then reached out and offered him the bottle. Fedotov lifted it with a smile, then poured a long drink past his dry lips and down his throat. He sucked in his breath and held it as he waited for the warmth to hit his belly.

“Well general, what have we got? Any word from that devil Hussein?”

“I spoke with him only moments ago, sir,” General Nahaylo replied. “Taha Ubaisi will be here within two weeks to counter-offer, but at this point, we are only squabbling about the details. The deal is going to go through, of that I am sure. The Iraqis want it even more than we. Three reactors, twenty billion in oil. Another four billion cash for warhead delivery systems.”

Fedotov smiled. “Fine, fine. Let's get it done. Let's move along. I want consummation of the deal before the month is through.”

“Yes, sir. That can be done, although it would help if you would agree to entertain the Rias here in Moscow. It is important to him, sir. It puts him on equal ground.”

The smile quickly disappeared. “Nyet, Nyet!” Fedotov shot back from other side of the car. “I don't have time, I don't have the desire. We're not dealing with the camel-eaters just to agitate emotions in the West. His Sashis can be coddled and soothed sometime later. Let him thumb his nose if he must, but for now at least, I have far more important things to do. Tell him to start pumping the oil and depositing the cash. We'll meet and kiss cheeks later on.”

Nahaylo grunted in reply.

“Now tell me, General, what of the nuclear breakout? That is our primary consideration right now. How much longer until it is complete?”

“The initial breakout is complete, sir,” Nahaylo announced with some satisfaction. “We finished just minutes ago.”

“How many silos have been refitted with their warheads?”

“As of this moment we have sixteen SS-18 missiles ready for service,” Nahaylo answered. “That's a total of one hundred sixty nuclear warheads. Another twenty missiles will be placed in their silos within the next five days. It will take about a week to have them fueled and their navigation computers booted and realigned.”

“And the Americans have yet to detect any of our activity in the missile fields?”

“Nothing at all, sir. We have no indication that they are even looking.” Nahaylo chuckled. Fedotov laughed in response and passed him the bottle of whiskey, which Nahaylo pressed to his lips.

“Stupid Americans,” Fedotov sneered. “Trusting a treaty. How could they be so naive?”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Thomas Allen, the President of the United States, sat stiffly on the edge of the dark sofa, a white bathrobe around his shoulders, and a mug of hot, black coffee in his hand. It was four o'clock in the morning. The President was very awake. He jabbed his finger at Ted Wilson, his Russian specialist, and vented his fury once again. “I want you to tell me,” he snapped at his advisor, “with all that has been going on in Russia the past months, as closely as we have been watching those idiots screw things up over there, how could we not have seen this thing coming?”

Ted Wilson's mouth hung open as if he would speak, but no sound emerged. General Gapp, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Chad Wallet, the Secretary of Defense, exchanged painful glares. The President stared at them, waiting for an answer. The Branson grandfather clock began to chime lightly, then let out four short strikes of its bell.

The four men sat in the President's library, a warm and private little room tucked in a corner of the White House. The library was small and lined with old leather books. A white-framed fireplace adorned the west wall. The wallpaper was soft gray with rose highlights. A gilded wood chandelier hung from the ceiling. The furniture was early American, all original antiques.

Thomas Allen, a relatively young man with deep, brown eyes and broad shoulders, had only been President for twenty-two months. So far, it had been easy sailing. But now he was scared. He had never dealt with anything like this before.

“Gentlemen!” he glared around the room, “I want you to tell me. How was Fedotov able to openly violate the most significant strategic treaty of our time? And right underneath our noses? Those silos were supposed to be utterly useless, yet suddenly he has them on line. How? How did he do it!?”

Everyone started to speak at once. Everyone had an opinion. Nobody had any answers. The telephones started to ring. Voices became even more frazzled. Confusion and speculation soon filled the air.

But through it all, at least one thing remained perfectly clear.

The psychology and politics of nuclear weapons were well established political facts. For more than fifty years, nations had used their weapons of mass destruction to communicate to each other in the clearest of terms. And now, once again, the Russians were using their weapons to send a very powerful message to the West.

“Things are going to change,” Fedotov had told them. “And you may not like what you see. But it is none of your business. So stay out of it. Don't interfere. Stay away or risk nuclear war.”

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P'YONGYANG PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

I
T TOOK
A
MRIL AND
R
ICHARD
A
MMON ALMOST THREE DAYS TO GET OUT
of North Korea. Amril had been setting up the operation for more than half a year, but still, there were bribes to be made, supplies to be bought, and passports to purchase; all in cash. In addition, he was one of the few Caucasians in the country, making it impossible to move about without being noticed. He had to work very carefully. He had to be very patient.

For three days, Ammon waited in a small thatched farm hut on a rocky knoll. It consisted of one small room with a blackened brick fireplace and a straw mattress on which to sleep. From its only window Ammon could watch the thin traffic that moved along the highway to P'yongyang. He watched peasant farmers working the soil with sixty-year-old tractors and teams of white oxen. He watched thunderstorms build every afternoon, only to blowout to sea before they could drop their much needed moisture on the dry farmland below. He ate whatever Amril brought him; bowls of thin soup, hot noodles, and spiced cabbage. Some of the meals were unrecognizable mixtures of roots and yellow bamboo, but Ammon never complained. He paced the floor, exercised, watched the highway, and worried about Jesse.

Amril was usually gone, but sent him messages through the peasant who worked the rocky soil around the thatched hut. “Stay tight,” he was told. “Stay inside. Be patient. Things are going well. We will be out of the country very soon.”

Early one morning, Amril shook him awake and led him outside to a waiting truck which had been loaded with small cardboard cartons packed with eggs. Since the eggs were fresh and unrefrigerated, the driver had a permit that would allow him unhindered travel all the way to the Chinese border city of Ch'osan.

Ammon and Amril climbed between the towering cartons. The driver covered them over with boxes of eggs, fired up the ancient truck, and started down the road.

And so began a journey which would take nearly a week. Traveling by truck, airplane, and rail, they made their way across the continent, working their way toward Kiev.

On the fifth day of their journey, Ammon found himself sitting on a train heading west through southern Ukraine, listening to the hypnotic rhythm of the train and watching the dirty towns as they passed by. With every mile that he drew closer to Kiev, Ammon's heart beat a little bit faster. He became moody and sullen. The memories flooded his mind. This was the home of his boyhood. This was his land. His people. His life.

He pushed himself back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He remembered his mother's funeral. He was only four. It had rained and rained, from the day she died, until two days after her body had been laid to rest. It was windy. It was cold. Mud and slime were everywhere as he and his father tracked their way to the graveyard, leading the tiny funeral procession up the barren road to the graveyard hill. Clutched in his tiny hands was a small bunch of white daisies. A gift for his mother. The only way he could think of to say good-bye.

He remembered one night with his father, who, as usual, was very drunk. Ammon was trying to make them both some dinner. He was hungry. Pulling out a huge blackened pot, he began to boil some water. “Father, do we have any rubles for cabbage? If you'll go buy some, I'll make us some stew.” His father swore and grunted, then heaved himself out of his chair. Pulling on a coat, he slipped out into the night. Ammon didn't see him again for three days.

Ammon heard his name and opened his eyes. “You seem kind of quiet.” Amril interrupted his thoughts.

“I'm the quiet type,” Ammon said dryly.

“You should be happy to be going home.”

Ammon shrugged and turned back to the window. The train rattled on. The miles slipped by. Ammon slipped further into despair.

It was dark and raining when they finally stepped off the train at a tiny and dilapidated rail station on the outskirts of Kiev. The two crumpled men climbed stiffly down from the train and stood for a moment in silence, waiting under a leaking covered porch as the wind and rain howled around them. The cold drizzle blew through the tall willows that lined both sides of the track and made Ammon shiver.

This was it. He was back. He had indeed come home.

Though he always knew it was possible, he never thought it would actually happen. He never thought he would be back in Kiev. He looked around the tiny station, studying each face in the crowd. Everything seemed vaguely familiar. The weathered clothes. The blushing jowls. The sullen eyes that rarely smiled.