A South African criminal named Rook also witnessed one of the ICBMs re-entry up close and first hand. Hiding out on a small island off the coast of the old city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Rook had been awakened from a deep sleep by a monstrous crashing noise. Rousing himself from his log cabin hide-out, he ran to the beach and was amazed to see the smoky remains of the huge SS-19 missile sticking straight up in the sand just at the high tide level.
Rook, a former Circle Army mercenary who was also an airborne explosives specialist at one time, knew the object was a Soviet intercontinental ballistic missile and figured quite rightly that it contained a nuclear device inside.
Yet he also knew that whoever had fired the missile had done so incorrectly. The object sticking out of the sand was very nearly the entire missile—launch stages, warhead, everything. The missile had not separated in the upper reaches of the earth’s atmosphere as it was supposed to. It had landed, virtually intact, on the beach.
It was just a guess, but he theorized that if the missile’s fuel mixture had somehow been tainted—or not blended together properly in the first place—it would have prevented the ICBM from reaching its all-important “critical escape altitude,” the point at which the timing mechanisms for the breakaway stages and the warhead arming systems were activated via altimeter controls.
But Rook also knew that just because the missile had landed intact that didn’t necessarily mean it still wasn’t about to explode.
Quickly packing his things, he set out in his small unpowered boat and rowed toward shore, upset that he would have to find yet another place to hide.
No one saw the other three SS-19s crash to earth.
One landed in a lake in western Nova Scotia. Another did a belly landing on an abandoned seaside vacation area in northern Massachusetts called Plum Island.
The sixth and final ICBM had plowed itself into the side of a New Hampshire mountain used in pre-war days as a ski slope.
Inside these three SS-19s, as in the others, the warheads had survived their less-than-auspicious re-entry. And battered though they were, with the right amount of technology, all six of the 1.5-kiloton nuclear devices could one day be repaired.
Chapter 53
HUNTER KNEW AT LEAST three of his ribs were broken.
He tried to turn over on his side, but couldn’t—the pain was too intense. He reached up to his right shoulder and found that this too was hurt—most likely it was separated.
Carefully, he tried to wiggle his toes and was relieved to find them responding, though remotely so. He held first his right hand, then his left in front of his face. Both were badly scraped and cut, but apparently free of broken bones.
He felt his face next, checking to make sure his nose, ears and jaw were still attached. They were. A quick reach between his legs also brought a spark of relief—he was sore there, but still intact.
He reached below him and felt the remains of the rubber life raft that he had used to break his fall. It was in tatters, instantly deflated when it—and he—hit the cold, sharp rocky tundra going no less than 60 mph shortly before the B-1 set down on the Soviet airstrip.
Jumping from the moving airplane had actually turned out to be the easy part. The complications happened minutes before when he had to quickly program the B-1’s on-board computer to land the bomber, taxi it to a stop at a precise spot down the end of the runway, and shut down, only to have its engines fire up again exactly one minute later—the time it would take to arm and fuse the two glide bombs in its forward weapons bay—and smash into the radar station.
But he knew the plan had worked. Even through groggy and blood-misted eyes he had seen the Soviet complex explode in a mini-mushroom cloud.
“We got ’em, guys,” he had coughed in a brief moment of congratulations.
But he knew he was in real trouble.
He couldn’t move—not right away anyway. And if he had been able to, where would he go? If there were any Soviets left breathing at the base, he was sure they would kill him. And there was certainly no friendly face for at least a thousand miles around.
Or so he thought …
He closed his eyes, for what he thought had been just a minute.
But when he woke, it was almost daylight and the first thing he saw was the barrel of an AK-47 just an inch or two from his nose.
Next thing he knew, he was being put on a stretcher, while, at the same moment, someone was injecting something into his arm. He was suddenly overwhelmed with an extraordinarily pleasant, though highly narcotic feeling. He would later learn that he’d been injected with enough morphine to make a horse giddy for a week.
Over the next few days, he had only vague memories of fuzzy faces and bitter soup being forced into his mouth. He remembered being in a log cabin for at least two nights. Another night was spent in a tent, covered in thick blankets. He was constantly re-wrapped in bandages from head to toe, and was injected with the potent painkiller at least once a day.
It wasn’t until he heard the sound of waves crashing against a shore that he was able to rouse himself from the heavy drug-induced haze.
It was morning and he was in a camp of some kind, placed very close to a roaring fire. He was surprised to find another person clinging to him tightly—almost intimately.
Rolling to his side for the first time in days, he came face to face with a pretty young girl who was of obvious Mongolian extraction.
She smiled to reveal a perfect set of glistening white teeth. “Stay warm,” she said with some effort. “We hug. You stay warm.”
He was in no mood to argue. They hugged. They stayed warm.
The sun—bright and warm—was overhead when he woke again.
The girl was gone, but a soldier was sitting nearby. Hunter managed to raise himself up on his elbows, surprised that the pain in his shoulder and in his rib cage was now only a dull throb, and not the stinging stab he’d felt for days.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked, his voice husky and coarse from days of non-use. The question somewhat startled the soldier next to him. But a smile quickly came to the man’s face.
“You … near Vladivostok,” the man said in very rough English. “You … are feel better?”
Hunter nodded, for the first time realizing the man was wearing a standard Red Army infantry uniform.
“Am I your prisoner?”
The man smiled. His teeth too were near perfect. “No …” he said shaking his head. “You are guest …”
“Guest?” Hunter was puzzled. “Who are you?” he asked.
The man looked at him and thought a moment. Then, through a great smile he said: “I am Soviet soldier. My comrades and I save you. From Red Star …”
Now Hunter was just plain confused. By all rights, this guy should consider him his enemy.
Their small conversation was interrupted with the arrival of about a dozen more men and several women. All were wearing standard Red Army combat outfits and all were armed with AK-47s. Nearby, Hunter spotted several T-80 tanks, a few BMPs and a mobile SAM launcher.
A hurried conversation in Russian commenced between the troops, complete with numerous hand gestures, some directed back at Hunter and others out toward the sea.
Then one of them came over to Hunter and carefully lifted him to a sitting position. He pointed off shore, directing Hunter’s eyes to a vessel about a half mile away.
Hunter forced his eyes to focus until he could make out the distinct shape of a submarine. He felt a great leap of excitement when, upon closer inspection, he was able to make out the red maple leaf symbol of Free Canada painted on the conning tower.
Time passed and finally a boat was launched from the sub carrying a squad of Free Canadian sailors to shore. Brief greetings were exchanged, and in the span of ten minutes, Hunter was strapped into a large stretcher and carried aboard the small launch.
Although he barraged the Canadian sailors with questions—where he was, where they came from and so on—they said very little. Appar
ently, they weren’t quite sure who he was and where he had come from.
Finally, when it was apparent that he was to be carried to the sub, he yanked on the sleeve of one of the Canadians and said as forcefully as possible: “These guys—and girls—saved my life. I’ve got to at least thank them …”
The Canadian nodded and called the leader of the rescuers over to the boat. Hunter reached up with a bandaged hand and gripped the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said, tears almost filling his eyes. “Thank you for my life …”
The Soviet soldier grinned and nodded. Hunter had no way of knowing whether the man understood or not, but it appeared that he was getting the general idea.
Hunter just couldn’t go before he asked one last question. Leaning up to see that the beach was now filled with Soviet soldiers, he looked up at the man and said: “Who are you?”
The man thought a moment and smiled broadly. “Me … a ‘good Russian’ …”
With that, the boat was launched and Hunter was carried off to the Free Canadian sub.
Chapter 54
Three weeks later
THE SMALL COURTHOUSE JUST outside of Washington DC was packed.
Hunter, his ribcage, shoulder, face and hands still heavily bandaged, did a quick head count. By his calculations, there were 105 people crammed into a room built for 35 at the most, and that didn’t include the dozen or so video cameras taking up space right next to the judge’s bench.
The second trial of the ex-VP was finally at its end. All of the testimony had been presented, witnesses questioned, rebuttals and final summations delivered. To no one’s surprise, the traitor had been found guilty on all counts—including the new charge of attempted mass murder resulting from the nuclear explosion over Syracuse.
This day, the last day of the proceedings, was reserved for the sentencing.
The Chief Justice entered and quickly gaveled the room silent. Then he turned and looked at the defendant standing in the dock, looking small and frail.
“Sir …” the judge intoned gravely. “You stand before this court, and before this nation, accused of the highest treason. Your act of betrayal has caused the death of millions and quite nearly destroyed this country. You have shown not the slightest remorse for your actions: indeed, with your obscene attempt at disrupting these proceedings by having your confederates detonate a nuclear device over the city of Syracuse, you have expressed an outrageous contempt for this trial as well as for the ideals of this country that we hold so dear.
“It is within the power of this court to pass upon you a sentence of death for these crimes, as many here have suggested. But although it is certainly richly deserved in light of your actions, this court has been persuaded that more fitting punishment can be meted out.
“Therefore, you will serve as a lasting example for all Americans of the consequences of war and peace, of freedom and slavery, of justice and tyranny, of crime and punishment, and of life and death.
“Sir, this court finds you guilty of high treason and other crimes against the United States of America, and pronounces the following sentence:
“You will henceforth and without reservation be imprisoned in solitary confinement for the rest of your natural life.
“These proceedings are closed.”
The cheering, both inside the courtroom and out, finally died down after thirty minutes or so.
The prisoner, his face an ashen white as if he were for the first time realizing the magnitude of his actions, was manacled hand and foot and brought to a security van which had parked in back of the courthouse.
As this van drove away, it was pelted with eggs, rocks, small packets of paint and saliva—all of it aimed at the traitor who would now be flown to a specially built military prison located in the bleak Arctic outreaches near Point Barrow, Alaska.
Hunter was riding close behind in another security van, along with Ben and JT. The two pilots would fly escort for the big C-141 that would carry the prisoner on his twelve-hour flight to prison. Hunter, unable to fly for at least a month, was along for the ride to the airport.
On the way, he recounted for his two friends, news he had just received from the Free Canadian Defense Ministry, confirming what the skipper of his rescue sub had told him during his trip across the Pacific.
When the Soviet soldier told Hunter that he was a “good Russian,” it was no idle boast. Unknown to the United Americans or the Free Canadians, there were two factions now vying for power within the Soviet Union. One, the Red Star, was the entity responsible for starting World War III in the first place. They had also engineered the New Order, and with it the many wars that had swept the American continent ever since. Finally, it was they who detonated the bomb over Syracuse, although it now seemed like the timing of that act had less to do with the ex-VP’s capture as the traitor had led them all to believe.
The “good Russians” were anti-Red Star. Original backers of glasnost, what they lacked in technological means they made up for in determination and courage. A raiding party of Good Russians was about to hit the Krasnoyarsk facility when they saw the B-1 roar in and do the job for them. It was they who found Hunter, treated his injuries, carried him hundreds of miles to the sea, where a friendly ship captain contacted the Free Canadian sub which was in the area on a routine recon patrol.
Hunter was the first to admit that the concept of an army of “Good Russians” was a hard one for him to grasp at first. Yet he embraced it rather quickly. Having one’s life saved tended to speed up the acceptance process.
Just what lay ahead between the United Americans and the Good Russian Army was anybody’s guess. Obviously they shared some of the same goals, but he couldn’t imagine seeing eye-to-eye on everything. Also, while the destruction of Krasnoyarsk had eliminated Red Star’s nuclear weapons’ launch capability, it hardly put an end to the secret movement. These “bad” Russians were too highly advanced, too firmly entrenched for that.
However, it heartened Hunter’s psyche in knowing that the UA and its precious few allies were no longer completely alone in the-fight against the forces of human slavery.
Maybe there was some hope yet….
The ride to the former National Airport took about forty minutes and when they reached the terminal building, they were all surprised to see the place was mobbed with citizens hoping to get one last shot at berating the ex-VP.
In order to avoid most of the unruly crowd, the two security vans drove right out onto the tarmac, stopping about a hundred feet from the already warmed-up C-141.
Hunter bade a quick farewell to JT and Ben, promising to meet them two days later at their favorite Washington watering hole for an unadultered day of boozing and skirt-chasing.
Then Hunter slowly climbed out of the van, wanting to get a better look at this last historic event—the ex-VP’s departure. About three hundred citizens had spilled out onto the field and were now surrounding the prisoner’s van. The security personnel at the airport, made up almost entirely of Football City Special Forces, quickly sized up the situation and, as courteously as possible, created a path through the crowd by linking arms and lining up in two rows that stretched right up to the C-141.
The prisoner was at last taken out of the van and immediately a roar of derision and obscenities arose from the crowd. More eggs and packets of paint were thrown, spattering on the prisoner and his guards alike. Moving slowly due to his manacles, the ex-VP looked dazed at it all, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare to find out it was all true.
Hunter found himself leaning against the prisoner’s van for support—his ribs hurt the most after standing for long periods of time—watching the scene with a mixture of fascination and historical perspective. The traitor was finally getting his due.
But suddenly he felt a very familiar feeling wash over him.
Something was wrong. Very wrong …
The prisoner was about halfway to the C-141 when Hunter started moving into the crowd, scanning the
sea of angry faces. Every one of his senses was buzzing at this point, anticipating something still unknown.
The catcalls and screams grew louder as the crowd pushed in farther toward the prisoner. Some were literally trying to grab the ex-VP around the neck. The Football City Special Rangers were now having trouble being so respectful toward the crowd. Individual pushing matches between the soldiers and the citizens instantly escalated into near mini-riots.
Yet in the middle of it all, Hunter’s extraordinary senses were now aflame—telling him, warning him, that something very wrong was about to happen.
Moving as fast as his bandages and the surging crowd would let him, he tried to catch up with the small phalanx of soldiers now surrounding the ex-VP. All the while he was looking intently into every face in the crowd.
Could it be that …
Suddenly, he saw a familiar face—a very familiar face.
It was Elizabeth.
She was standing about ten feet from the prisoner’s position, wearing a long dark coat and hood. Yet she had looked up momentarily—just enough for Hunter to see her unmistakable features. That’s when he saw the glint of metal in her hand.
He was about to cry out—but it was too late.
As if in slow motion, he saw Elizabeth leap through the cordon of soldiers, raise a pistol and, without hesitation, pump five shots into the ex-VP’s stomach and chest.
There was an instant of stunned silence, then absolute pandemonium broke out. At once, half the soldiers picked up the prisoner and literally dragged him to the C-141, while the other half pounced on Elizabeth.
Almost as stunned as everyone else, Hunter moved forward, screaming: “Don’t shoot her! Don’t shoot …”
He was relieved when he heard no further gunshots—but the sound he did hear was almost as startling.
Above the screams of the crowd, above the shouts of the soldiers as they subdued Elizabeth, and even above the ear-piercing whine of the C-141’s engines, he heard her distinctly frightening laugh …
Final Storm Page 35