Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  “Who’s calling Bandit?” asked one of the Russian Mainstay airborne controllers. “Calling Bandit, say your ID!”

  “Dark seven-zero-niner!” Peleznogorsk responded. “Two, have you got him? Low. Two o’clock. Five kilometers.”

  The slightest pause. “Two’s visual!” Peleznogorsk’s wingman replied.

  “Control, we’ve got a positive visual identification. Heading one-four-zero, thirty-six west of Dergachi. Looks like he’s on fire. I’m too close for missiles. I’m selecting guns. Seven-zero-nine flight is in for the kill!”

  With that the SU-27 pilot banked his aircraft hard to the right. His wingman fell in beside him. The bomber’s shadow wisped along the ground, illuminated by the fire that burned over the left wing. Major Peleznogorsk had the aircraft clearly in his target acquisition box, but it was still three miles away. He pushed his two throttles up to full after-burner and felt the Saturn/Lyulka turbofans push him back into his seat. He began to move in on the bomber. Once he got to within 1.5 miles, he would press the trigger on his cannon and blow the bomber away.

  REAPER’S SHADOW

  FIRE WARNING lights continued to blink insistently. Ammon reached up and jammed in his two fire suppression buttons. The fire lights remained on. He selected the reserve fire bottles. The fire lights didn’t even blink, but continued to blaze in his face.

  He was still on fire! He was sitting on almost fifty thousand pounds of fuel, and he was still on fire!

  The fire was completely out of control. He was amazed that the white hot flames had not already burned through the protective firewalls that surrounded his fuel cells. By now, they surely were about to explode.

  Morozov struggled to his feet. He thought for a minute about finding his gun. Then he shook his head. How could he be so stupid! Finding the gun was the last thing he needed to do.

  He was nothing but a walking dead man if he didn’t get back in his seat! That much was perfectly clear. He could see the flickering fire outside the left window. The aircraft bounccd and rolled through the air. It could only be seconds away from exploding. There was nothing more he could do. Let Ammon die trying to be a hero. He was getting out of the jet!

  Morozov began to struggle to the back of the cockpit. The aircraft shuddered under his feet, making it impossiblc to walk. Morozov dropped to his knees and began to crawl the four feet that separated him from his ejection seat. A thick piece of metal, part of an overhead hatch, fell down on top of his legs. He reached down and pushed the panel aside. Stretching his arms, he grasped a thick nylon hand-hold and used it to pull himself back toward his seat.

  DARK 709

  The SU-27 pilot was pulling inside of two miles. The bomber continued straight ahead. It made no effort to evade the fighter that was sneaking up on its tail. Apparently the B-1 crew didn’t yet know that they was being pursued by one of the world’s premier fighter pilots. The Russian pilot broke into a smile. It would be like shooting a bird m a cage.

  REAPER’S SHADOW

  The aircraft shuddered again. It was breaking apart, actually shaking itself into pieces. Ammon was thrown against the side of the cockpit. His head bounced around on his shoulders. He could barely see. He could barely think.

  Reaper’s Shadow bucked and rolled, then descended toward the earth. Ammon reached up for the ejection handles. The aircraft was less than forty feet above the ground and going down very quickly.

  Ammon jerked up on the handles. The explosive bolts that secured the overhead hatches fired, blowing them free from the aircraft and leaving gaping holes where the hatches uscd to be. Ammon felt an incredible rush of air as the cabin depressurized around him. The cockpit filled with flying debris; pencils, paper, checklist, dust, carpet, maintenance logs. Anything that was not securely strapped to the frame of the aircraft was immediately sucked out of the hole. Even the checklist that Ammon had strapped around his leg was torn from its bindings and sucked away. A thick vapor of fog burst inside the cockpit from the moisture mixing with the super-cold air.

  Ammon could actually feel the oxygen in his lungs expand in his chest.

  His ejection seat fired its rockct, shooting him upward through the open hole and one hundred feet into the air. A small drogue chute opened to slow him down before popping the primary chute from its housing. With a violent jolt, the main chute deployed. Ammon began to slowly drift to the earth.

  Morozov was just pulling himself to his feet when Ammon’s ejection seat fired. The blast from the seat’s rocket filled the cabin with heat and smoke and a dazzling white light.

  Reaper’s Shadow was traveling faster than 600 mph. The outside air flowed over the nose of the aircraft and across the smooth, polished skin with a forcc greater than the strongest tornado, creating an enormous vacuum of low pressure over the entire front of the aircraft. The pressure sucked at the inside of the cockpit with incredible force, pulling everything through the open hole. Instantly, four thousand pounds of over-pressure lifted Morozov off the floor and pulled him toward the open hatch, his arms and legs flailing around him. The pressure sucked him through the small opening, folding him over like a rag doll, breaking both of his shoulders and most of his ribs as he was yanked through the hatch-jettison hole.

  Ivan Morozov was still alive as his body was blown up and over the tail of the bomber. He knew exactly what was going on. His mind was alert, for he hadn’t the time yet to panic. But for the first time in his life, he felt honest fear. Honest, gut-wrenching fear. The horror was complete and mind-boggling as he realized that he was going to die.

  Morozov felt the oxygen get sucked from his chest. He felt burning pain from his broken shoulders and ribs. He gasped, but couldn’t breath. He arced over the tip of the B-1’s twenty-foot tail. The burning aircraft shined in the night.

  He felt the sudden rush of a bitter cold wind as he began to fall back to the earth. He had a clear sensation of falling. His body tumbled and rolled in the slipstream. He saw the trees coming at him at an incredible speed. He closed his eyes and started to scream.

  DARK 709

  For a few moments the SU-27 pilot lost sight of the bomber. He pulled his nimble fighter into a steep climb, pushing himself away from the ground so he could search the dark sky for any sign of the burning aircraft. He jerked his head around in the cockpit, looking left and looking right.

  He leveled off at 9,000 feet and frantically searched all around him. The air was clear. Not a cloud in the sky. He circled once, eyes darting from side to side.

  Then he saw it. A flash of light. A rolling ball of fire. Directly in front of him, a huge explosion rocked through the night sky, filling his cockpit with a bursting yellow light. He squinted his eyes to protect his night vision. But even through his half-closed eyelids, the pilot could clearly see the debris start to scatter through the air as the fireball rolled skyward and then disappeared.

  The pilot watched for long moment, then pressed his microphone switch. “Control, this is Dark Flight. Scratch the enemy bomber. Seven-zero-nine has a confirmed kill. I say again, seven-zero-nine has a confirmed kill.”

  FORTY

  ____________________

  ___________________

  OVER THE ARCTIC OCEAN

  THE SS-18 BUILT UP SPEED AS IT BEGAN ITS DESCENT BACK TO EARTH. Enormous heat was generated as the missile began to pass through the hydrogen-rich upper atmosphere. The skin of the missile began to expand and glow against the heat and the pressure.

  The missile was one hundred and ten miles above the surface of the earth and moving downward at a near vertical angle. It was within a few meters of its intended flight path. The ten individual warheads had all accepted their targets. Twcnty-nine times every second, the missile’s guidance and targeting computers did a complete self-check of their systems. Everything was in perfect order.

  The SS-18 continued its descent, building up speed until it reached its terminal velocity of eight thousand feet per second.

  In a matter of minutes, the SS-18’s nose woul
d peel back and spit out the ten warheads, each to home in on its target.

  The missile was approaching the coast of Sweden before it was finally detected by the American early warning over-the-horizon radar at Reykjavík, Iceland. The radar center immediately began to analyze the size and speed of the sub-orbit missile in an attempt to determine what kind of weapon it was.

  A huge mainframe computer began to track the missile’s flight path. After tracking the missile for thirty seconds, the computer began to predict what the missile’s targets would be. It soon determined the missile was heading for somewhere along the east coast, probably the mid-Atlantic, more specifically Washington, D.C. However, because the missile was an SS-18, with ten separate nuclear warheads, the tracking computer could only guess what each individual target would be.

  Within seconds after identifying the target as an SS-18, the President of the Unites States was notified of the incoming missile. Seconds after that, the United States Strategic Command was ordered to Attack Option CONFINE.

  The rules of engagement under CONFINE were simple. Under this plan, if any nuclear weapons were detonated on United States soil, a limited retaliatory strike was automatically authorized. There was no choice. It had to be. The military was instructed not to wait for authorization from the President. Instead, they were instructed to immediately launch a crippling retaliatory strike.

  Attack Option CONFINE was a necessary holdover from the Cold War. It was an integral part of the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. CONFINE was a way of ensuring that the United States could respond to a nuclear attack, even if all of its civilian leadership was already dead.

  What CONFINE lacked in flexibility, it made up for in its power to deter, for it promised any potential aggressor that he could not win at a nuclear war. Even if he were successful in eliminating all of the nation’s senior leadership, he would not go unpunished. He would not be left unharmed to claim victory. Indeed, he would probably be counted among the dead.

  MINUTEMAN III ICBM LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER F.E. WARREN AIR FORCE BASE, WYOMING

  Lt Jason Pond turned to look at the senior launch-control officer. Capt Tracy Leaven’s face was drained of all color. She appeared ghostlike under the milky lights of the launch center. Pond couldn’t help but notice the trembling of her hands as she reached above her head to open the red box.

  The alert message bells continued to ring through the chamber. They echoed off the cement walls and bounced from ceiling to floor. Red warning lights added their crimson glow to the dimly lit room. Printers clattered and rolled, drowning out the constant hum of the air purifiers and the equipment cooling systems.

  Lt Pond turned back to his console. He stared at the key which he held in his hand. It pressed against his flesh, heavy and warm.

  With great effort, he reached up to the red cabinet that hung over his missile launch console and inserted the key into his box. The key slipped smoothly into the lock. The door sprung open. Lt Pond reached in and pulled out a thick red binder. It was sealed in tight clear plastic and was clearly marked “TOP SECRET” on every side. Lt Pond used his fingernail to break the seal, then flipped open the binder to the tab marked “OPTION CONFINE.”

  “I’ve got a confirmed checklist,” Capt Leaven called across the launch center floor.

  “Roger that,” Pond replied. “Standing by, ready to copy.”

  For almost thirty seconds no one spoke. Both officers sat motionless, strapped to their impact-resistent chairs by tight belts that ran around their waists.

  Suddenly the alert message bells fell silent. Lt Pond and Capt Leaven sat up in their chairs. They each held thick grease pencils in their hands. They hunched over their binders like schoolchildren, anxious to copy every word.

  Ten seconds after the bells stopped ringing, three huge ceiling-mounted speakers began to boom.

  “For bunker. For bunker. For bunker. Message follows.” Lt Pond licked his dry lips as he stared at the plastic-covered pages of his binder.

  “Echo Lima Delta Two Charlie Two Charlie Seven Foxtrot Sierra Two Five Mike Mike Seven Niner Mike Hotel Whiskey Alpha Oscar Four Four.

  “I say again. Echo Lima Delta Two Charlie Two Charlie Seven Foxtrot Sierra Two Five Mike Mike Seven Niner Mike Hotel Whiskey Alpha Oscar Four Four. Time now, twenty-three fifteen. Message complete.”

  Lt Pond stared at the thick, black grease pencil marks he had scribbled onto the plastic pages of his binder. He then began to compare them with the codes that had been previously typed in the code book. He went through the letters very carefully, reading them out loud as he went.

  It was a perfect match.

  “I’ve got a SPOTLIGHT!” Pond called out as he finished. He raised his head and looked across the room at his boss. She was still decoding her message. He waited for her to respond.

  “Confirm item twelve,” she yelled over to Lt Pond. Pond looked down at his binder to block number twelve. “Five,” he called back.

  Capt Leaven scribbled the number in her binder. She read through the coded message once again, reading every word, comparing every letter. Lt Pond glanced up at the clock. It had been almost three minutes since they had received the message. They didn’t have very much time.

  Finally Capt Leaven replied, “I confirm SPOTLIGHT.” A long moment’s hesitation. The room fell silent. The air stirred around them as the air conditioner kicked itself on. Capt Leaven didn’t move.

  Lt Pond waited. His right hand unconsciously dropped to the 9mm handgun that was strapped to his side.

  Suddenly the captain straightened up in her chair. Her voice was firm as she gave her command.

  “Break the sealed switches. Select blue on my command.”

  Lt Pond immediately broke open the red safety covers that protected a long row of switches that were set in the center of his console. He flipped each of the ten switches to “ARM,” then reached up and inserted his key into a multicolored lock.

  “Two is ready. Selecting blue,” Pond announced in a raspy voice.

  “Ready on my command,” Leavcn replied. “Ready, ready, now!” Both officers turned their key to the first position. Immediately, all ten of the Minuteman III missiles which they commanded were activated and put onto hold.

  CAPS, TEXAS

  Duane Marshall looked up from the fractured radiator that was now plaguing his tractor. It had frozen the night before, an early frost for central Texas, and the old tractor’s radiator had frozen through.

  Duane’s farm was located just three miles from Dyess Air Force Base, home of the 7th Wing. His best piece of property, sixty acres of fertile red soil, was located directly underneath the departure end of the base’s runway.

  As Duane stood back from his wounded tractor, he heard the familiar sound once again. Three miles to the north, a B-1 was just taking off. It would be overhead in a matter of seconds. Duane brushed off the tips of his fingers and prepared to insert them into his ears.

  The B-1 approached the empty field, accelerating from the northern horizon. Much as he hated the noise, Duane couldn’t resist watching the aircraft as they flew overhead.

  Even before Duane turned to look for the oncoming bomber, he knew the approaching sound was not the same. It sounded much lower and much more powerful.

  He turned away from his tractor and looked to the north, squinting his eyes against the dry winter dust.

  Then he saw them. Like geese raising from a corn field, they rose from the base. Taking off in six-second intervals, the bombers came, trailing one behind the other in a long, unbroken line.

  The first bomber was nearly upon him. Duane stared in awe as it flew overhead. Even as he watched, three other B-1s chased after their leader and formed up on his wing. This formation was followed by six more. Screaming overhead they flew, sending thin contrails to blow in the wind. The bombers pierced the thick Texas air, pulling their dart-like noses skyward as they turned back to the north.

  Duane Marshall watched until they had all disappeared. He had
counted twenty-eight bombers in all. For twelve years Duane had been farming here in Caps, yet never had he seen so many aircraft take off all at once. And never so close together.

  Duane wasn’t much for reading the papers, but even he had some idea what might be going on. “Must be that darn Russian thing,” Duane muttered to himself as he turned back to his tractor.

  ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE MILES EAST OF JAN MAYEN ISLAND, NORWEGIAN SEA

  The U.S.S. Georgia broke through the ceiling of ice very easily, her back hunched against the pressure of the four-foot flow. The submarine’s thick steel hull crackled and popped as she emerged from the bitter cold waters of the Norwegian Sea. After breaking through the ice, the nuclear-powered submarine resubmerged to thirty fathoms. She had already pressurized her missile tubes with nitrogen to protect the missiles against the sea water when they were launched. Now all she had to do was wait.

  Seventeen hundred miles to the southwest, a RC-135 command, control, and communication aircraft flew in a lazy orbit off the Newfoundland coast. Inside the aircraft, controllers sat at long rows of computers, radios, radars, and desks. They worked quietly as they concentrated on doing their job.

  Under the belly of the aircraft was a round fiberglass pod. Trailed out behind the pod was a two-mile long strand of thick copper wire. Using an ultra-low frequency radio, the communication specialists that filled the interior of the RC-135 had been able to communicate with the U.S.S. Georgia as she sat under the ice.

  Once Attack Option CONFINE had initiated, much of the responsibility for what followed was left up to the three-star general who commanded this aircraft. Hc would be the one who called all the shots.

  Inside the aircraft was a small television monitor. The monitor was satellite data-linked to the radar site in Greenland and showed the flight of the incoming missile. Once Greenland began to lose its track on the missile, Headquarters Space Command, buried deep in the Cheyenne Mountains of Colorado, would accept responsibility for tracking. Space Command would track the warheads all the way to their targets.