“That’s him!” Oliver announced with no hesitation. “No doubt about it. He’s a little older, and his hair is cut short, but that’s him.”
“Are you certain?” Spencer prodded. “I think you’re right, but we have to be sure.”
Tray didn’t hesitate. “It’s him. Look at the eyes. It’s him. I’m perfectly sure. I can’t believe he’s back in the country. This is wild, Buddy! Incredible, really! Now, where were these pictures taken and when?”
Buddy looked at his watch. “About forty-five hours ago. In Dallas. I’ve got people standing by.”
“What else do we know? Where did he go from the airport? Did he take a connecting flight, or rent a car? Did somebody meet him? Did he have any unusual or oversized luggage? Did he enter the country alone?” Tray was talking so fast, Spencer had to concentrate just to follow what he said.
“Nothing,” Spencer answered. “We don’t know nothing. Or at least very little. And to a large degree, it is leaving our hands. The FBI has already been notified. Once Morozov stepped foot on U.S. soil, he became their man. Of course, we’ll continue to work with them, and other agencies have been notified as well, including the state and local police. However, we don’t think that he flew on from Dallas. At least no ticket was made under the alias he used to enter the country. And he wasn’t alone. He was traveling with this man.” Buddy Spencer tossed another photo across the desk. “We don’t know who he is. Got nothing on him at all.”
Oliver reached down and picked up the photo. The color immediately drained from his face. His eyes opened wide. His body visibly tensed and a look of pure astonishment and shock spread across his face. Spencer watched his friend in surprise.
“Oh my ... ,” Oliver muttered. He swallowed hard, then reached for the phone, ignoring Spencer’s attempts for some explanation.
Tray dialed as quickly as he could. “I’ve got him, Colonel Fullbright!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’ve got him! He’s here in the States!” He paused, listening.
“BADGER, sir!” he replied. “He’s here! He’s with Morozov!”
Another pause.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there!”
TWENTY
________________________
_______________________
KREMENCHUG-CHERKASSY, UKRAINE
THE UKRAINIAN PRIME MINISTER’S BLACK SEDAN CAME TO A BRIEF STOP under the canopy of swaying pine trees. Yevgeni Oskol Golubev stepped quickly from the car, not waiting for his driver to come around and open his door. A light smog still hung in the morning air, a mixture of frozen ice particles and smoke from the burning fires that raged in Poltava, a hundred kilometers to the west.
Golubev’s driver sped off as soon as he shut his door, leaving him alone to walk the asphalt path that wound its way up the side of the mountain. Most of the trail was covered by the natural canopy of pines and huge red oaks, but in the few spots where it wasn’t, a camouflage netting had been strung up to make the path invisible from the air.
Seventy meters up the side of the hill, the path suddenly ended in a very small clearing. There, several guards were waiting for Golubev to appear. They stood at attention as he approached and when he raised his eyes to meet theirs, they each offered a crisp salute. As Golubev closed in on the group of soldiers, the tallest guard turned and led him to a heavy metal fence which surrounded a large hole that had been cut into the side of the mountain. The two men passed through a small gate and walked back thirty feet into the man-made cave.
There they came to a huge metal blast door. It was six feet high and three feet thick. The guard picked up a yellow telephone that was attached to the front of the steel door and spoke in a hushed voice. As he spoke, both he and Golubev looked up into the two security cameras above them. After a few seconds, they could hear the tumblers inside the door roll over, then a gentle warning tone rang out as the door began to swing open on its huge hydraulic pistons. Yevgeni Golubev slipped through the opening and disappeared into the dimly lit hallway. The guard watched him for just a moment, then stood back as the door began to close once again.
Golubev walked briskly down the busy corridor. The hallway was wide enough to accommodate a large truck, but dimly lit, illuminated by only a few small, yellow light bulbs that hung from the cement ceiling. The floor sloped gently downward, sinking deeper into the side of the mountain. Guards with small machine guns and squawking radios paced slowly along the sides of the hallways, eyeing each man that they encountered with equal suspicion.
The Prime Minister turned down a red hallway and walked until he came to another large steel blast door. This was the entrance to the Tactical Command Center. Again, a guard was waiting to let him through. After Golubev passed through the door, he tromped across the “fly paper”, a five-foot mat of sticky tape that had been stretched across the floor. The thick, tacky paper pulled the dust and dirt from off of his boots, helping to keep the air free from contaminants that might gum up the hordes of sensitive computers that were jammed into the enormous command center.
As Golubev entered the Tactical Command Center, he looked around in admiration once again. He loved the glowing lights, the huge display boards, and the hustle of the officers that filled the room. He took a deep breath of the purified air while he listened to the sound of the humming computers.
The Tactical Command Center, or TCC, was shaped like a steep indoor theater. The room was dark, illuminated only by the back lighting from the huge display board and small table lights that sat at each of the control centers. Tiny aisle lights illuminated the steep walkways. Rows of control boards sat in a tight semicircle around the main tactical display board, a twenty-foot screen that was the focus of the room.
As Golubev stared at the screen, he noticed a dog fight in action. Two blue triangles, signifying Ukrainian SU-27 Flankers were about to engage three Russian Mig-31 Foxhounds, represented by three bright red stars.
Every eye in the room turned to watch as the air battle began. The two Ukrainian Flankers sped along the ground at low level, coming up from behind and below the Russian fighters, who were orbiting in a wide circle at 20,000 feet. It appeared that the Foxhound’s radar had not yet detected the low-flying Flankers.
As the two Flankers approached their targets, they pulled their aircraft into a steep climb and fired off two AA-11 air-to-air missiles at the lead Foxhound. From each blue triangle, two small white dots began to track toward the closest red star.
It wasn’t until then that the three Russian aircraft began to maneuver. The lead aircraft immediately banked over into a steep dive. Although the display board didn’t show it, Golubev knew the pilot would also be spitting out white-hot flares, interspersed with small bundles of radar-reflecting chaff. Golubev’s stomach muscles tightened as he watched the two missiles track in on their target. It was going to be very close. He silently coaxed the missiles onward, cheering for them to pursue.
The two small dots converged on the fighter and merged into one. The room exploded into cheers as the Russian aircraft disappeared from the screen. The two Ukrainian fighters turned and ran to the south. The Russian fighters did not pursue.
Golubev watched his cheering men, then turned his attention to the latest update of his combat losses. He scanned down both sides of the display board, hoping to find some good news. But nothing had changed. His army was still mired along the Ukrainian border and taking heavy losses. It was going poorly, and getting worse. He started to count the number of army units that now had a red line slashed through their name. There were so many. The board was bleeding red.
But the losses were not entirely one-sided. The Ukrainians were beginning to inflict heavy casualties upon the invading Russian forces. His intelligence estimated the Russians had lost at least three of their army divisions and a hundred and forty aircraft, including three Mainstay airborne radar observers and thirty-seven IL-76 transport loaded with combat troops. The Russians were winning, but the battle was bloody. Which was the only reason that Go
lubev was here.
The prime minister turned and walked into a small conference room at the back of the TCC. The front wall of the room was nothing but a huge pane of glass; a one-way window which allowed its occupants to look out onto the floor of the command center without being observed. From here, Golubev had a clear view of the entire TCC. He could easily read the control board and watch the bustle of activity on the floor.
Three minutes later, General Victor Lomov walked into the room. He was wearing a formal dress uniform. Combat ribbons and silver pilot wings hung from his chest. His pants were starched into a tight crease and his shoes glistened with a mirror-like shine. But his face was unshaven and his hair lay matted down to one side. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. He entered the room cursing Golubev for the interruption.
Golubev waited for the general to settle down, then walked to a small icebox and poured them both a strong drink. He knew that General Lomov had been working around the clock in the constant twilight of the TCC, sleeping when he could and eating only when one of his aides put a plate down before him.
So despite the early hour, he poured out the liquor. They raised their glasses to one another. “To our success,” said Yevgeni Golubev.
“To our brothers,” Lomov replied.
The two men drank in silence as they watched the TCC floor. They watched as the latest movements of their army units were updated on the board. They watched as another combat regiment was declared combat ineffective, its name slashed through in red.
Golubev got straight to the point.
“He’s getting ready to use them. I’m sure that you’ve seen the reports.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the pictures. I’ve read the reports.”
“He’s already fueled his missiles. He’s pulling back his forward battalions to offer them a little protection. Last night we had two mock air attacks against the chemical weapons storage facility at Kirghiziahn. They were testing our air defenses, all in preparation for the real thing. I don’t think that we have but a few days. It might already be too late.”
Lomov nodded and rocked on the balls of his feet but didn’t respond.
“It’s time we did it,” Golubev demanded. “You know that we don’t have a choice. Let’s just do it. It makes no sense to delay.”
Victor Lomov glanced up at the display board once again. He had spent so many hours staring at this board over the past seven days. He leaned his forehead against the one-way glass for a second. His head seemed so heavy. He felt so tired, he closed his eyes.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and turned to face the prime minister.
“Let’s do it then, Yevgeni,” was all he said as he turned and walked from the room.
Three hours later, Golubev had a message sent to a Ukrainian agent in Northern Russia. By early the next morning he had already completed his job.
PSKOV AIR BASE, RUSSIA
One thousand miles to the north of Golubev’s command center lay Pskov, home of the Tu-160 Blackjack bomber, the newest and most sophisticated long-range bomber that the Russians had ever developed. Roughly equivalent to the American B-1 in both size and shape, the Blackjack was a highly capable and very threatening aircraft.
Each of Pskov’s twenty Blackjack bombers lay hidden in a cement bunker. Inside the bunkers, an armed guard stood watch over each aircraft. Security was very tight.
Sergeant Boris Kozyrav was one of the security policemen whose responsibility it was to guard the Tu-160. For eight hours a day he would stand idly by the huge bomber, endlessly trying to find new ways to keep his mind occupied. Boredom and fatigue were a constant battle, especially since he had been transferred onto the night schedule. From ten at night until six in the morning, Sgt. Kozyrav was alone in the bunker. By two in the morning, he was usually sleeping in a corner of the maintenance bin, his pack stuffed under his head as a pillow, his hat pulled down over his eyes.
For Sgt. Kozyrav, the night that Golubev and General Lomov had decided to initiate their plan was just like any other. He made his rounds, read for a while, then promptly fell asleep.
He didn’t hear the soft footsteps as they approached the aircraft from the rear of the bunker. He didn’t stir when a small black box was attached to the underside of the main landing gear. The box was placed under the main brake lines, where it would never be seen, even when the ground crews did their normal preflight inspection.
The aircraft that Sgt. Kozyrav was guarding was scheduled to fly the next day. When the aircraft lifted off from the runway and the main gear were retracted into the belly of the aircraft, the black box would only be three feet from the 27,000 pounds of jet fuel that was stored inside the Blackjack’s main fuel tank.
TWENTY-ONE
___________________
___________________
DAGGER 34 OVER THE NORTHEASTERN COAST OF MAINE
TWENTY HOURS LATER, TWO TU-160 BLACKJACK BOMBERS WERE FLYING down the eastern coast of Canada. Although they would stay in international airspace, they intended to press the edge of the twelve-mile Air Defense Zone that surrounded the United States. After flying south along the coast of Maine, they would turn slightly eastward to clip the edge of Cape Cod. Not until then would they turn around and head back north, flying the same route back to their home in Pskov.
The purpose of their mission was twofold. First, they would once again test the United States air defense response and capabilities. They knew that Vermont Air National Guard F-16s would scramble from their alert shelters to intercept the Blackjacks just after they passed south of the coast of Maine.
But there was another purpose for this mission. Their presence was intended to be a political show of will. It had been several years since the Russians had regularly run their bombers down the eastern coast of the United States, and President Fedotov thought this might be a good time to remind his American friends of his long-range bombing capability.
The Blackjacks didn’t show up unannounced. American early warning radar had been tracking them since they passed over the southern tip of Iceland. As the American radar operators tracked the bombers on their southern route, they kept expecting them to turn around. They were more than a little surprised when the Blackjacks continued south along the Canadian coast.
When the Russian bombers were fifteen minutes from the United States border, two F-16s were scrambled to intercept and escort them along the coast. As the F-16 pilots flew out to intercept the bombers, they talked over their have-quick secure voice radio, reviewing the rules of engagement that they would follow against the Russian Blackjacks.
The rules were fairly simple. Don’t act in any hostile, aggressive, or threatening manner. Don’t intimidate the bombers in any way. As long as the Russians remained in international airspace, the fighters could only observe them from a safe distance.
But the fighters would definitely make their presence known. They would fly to the side of the bombers, occasionally flashing on their acquisition radar as a little reminder to the Russians that they weren’t alone up there in the sky.
Inside the lead F-16 was Captain Les Harris. Les spent most of his days running his father’s computer service store. Most weekends were spent inside the cockpit of an F-16. Les had been flying the F-16 Falcon for more than nine years, and it had been a long time since he had felt uncomfortable with a mission. But this one had him just a little bit rattled. Any time the Americans ran an intercept on a Russian aircraft, there was the potential for small things to be blown into international incidents.
As Captain Harris and his wingman flew north, they were receiving vectors toward the two Russian bombers from Darkhorse, the ground radar controllers. Captain Harris’s call sign was Dagger three-four. The Blackjacks were referred to as Unknown Cowboys.
Harris listened on his radio as the female controller was giving him directions. “Dagger three-four, turn left heading zero-four-zero. Your bogey is now one-two-zero miles, twelve o’clock and closing. Call when you have him on radar.”
/> “Roger, heading zero-four-zero for the Daggers,” Harris replied.
The Darkhorse controller’s voice was very calm and even. Husky and low. Confident and cool. It was a voice that made Harris wonder what the controller looked like. He could picture her as she sat at the console, legs crossed, arms on the table as she leaned forward and stared into her radar screen. He imagined her to be a very smooth and self-assured girl.
But the truth was, Darkhorse was also a little bit nervous. Running intercepts like this could be tricky. It was her responsibility to vector the pilots until they were within range of the F-16s’ radar. If she didn’t give the pilots a good intercept heading, they might not ever find the two Russian bombers. So she was concentrating as much as the pilots as she guided them northward to the oncoming Blackjacks.
After responding to the controller, Harris looked back at his wingman to make sure he was still in position, then glanced down to check his safety switches one more time. He had to be certain that his weapons were not armed, but instead were in the “safe” position. Harris was carrying two AMRAAM missiles, as well as a case full of 20mm shells for his cannon. It would be a very difficult thing to have to explain if he were to accidentally shoot down a Russian bomber.
So he checked his switches one more time. “Safe” and “Locked” appeared on his head-up-display.
Then Harris checked his airspeed indicator and did some simple math in his head. He figured the four aircraft were now closing at nearly 1,000 miles an hour. In a few seconds he should have the Unknown Cowboys on his AN/APG-66 radar. Then he would challenge them over the radio.
Shattered Bone Page 21