“I think you have given me what I need,” he said. “But I’ll tell you right now, it’s apparent you guys haven’t done your homework on this one. I have found a problem that was obviously overlooked, and it isn’t some insignificant detail. It could cause a real kink in our plans.”
Andrei Liski continued to stare at Ammon, his eyes unblinking, his face revealing nothing as he thought.
“What do you feel is the problem?” Liski asked.
“Very simply, we won’t have enough fuel,” Ammon replied. “I’ve been going over the fuel charts and it just doesn’t add up. Even if we assume that we get a B-1 that is fully loaded with fuel, including an auxiliary tank in the forward weapons bay, that still isn’t enough gas to make it to Russia. Now if you consider the high fuel burn rates that we will use in combat, lighting our afterburners and maneuvering down low, I figure we will flame out just about a thousand miles short of the Strait of Gibraltar. That’s a long way from our targets in Russia. It would appear that your planners have screwed this one up.”
For the first time Liski smiled.
“Mr. Ammon,” he said, pushing back a strand of hair before rubbing his hands on his pants, “do you really think we could have made such a critical mistake? I think you should give us a bit more credit than that.” His voice was sarcastic and hard.
Ammon realized that Liski had taken his remarks as a personal insult. He also realized that it wouldn’t help him to anger this man.
“Will you tell me then how we will get enough fuel for the mission?”
Liski’s response was immediate. “Yes, Mr. Ammon, I will tell you. But not now. Just be assured, we do have a plan and we know what we’re doing. We have been in this business a very long time.
“And keep this in mind as well, Mr. Ammon, because it is important for you to understand. I personally couldn’t care less whether you live to see the light of day. Your personal safety is of no concern to me. Still, I will be praying for you to succeed. You see, we have to have the aircraft. We absolutely have to have it. If you die, we all have failed. The whole thing is over for us, too. So peace to your mind, Mr. Ammon, we haven’t screwed up the plan.”
After a short pause, Liski continued. “When will you and Morozov be ready?” he asked intently.
Richard turned back to his desk. Once again he thumbed through the two thousand pages of his flight manual. He considered the lack of success that he and Morozov had been having so far in the simulator. He thought of his old buddies flying F-16s, and how easily they could blast a B-1 from the sky unless it were flown by a highly trained and experienced crew. He thought of the MiGs and the other Russian fighters, some of the best in the world. He thought for a very long moment before he answered Liski’s question.
“Three months,” Ammon said matter-of-factly. “If you want us to have a better than fifty-fifty chance, you’ve got to give us at least three months. Anything less, and you’ll never see your B-1 over Russia. We’ll never even make it out of United States’ airspace. All you’ll have is wreckage scattered across the west Texas prairie, because that is as far as we’ll get without time to prepare.”
Andrei Liski pushed back his hair once again.
“It has started in Russia,” he said calmly. “You only have a few days left to prepare.”
Ammon’s jaw dropped.
“We won’t be ready,” he said matter-of-factly while looking Liski straight in the eye.
“Be ready,” Liski said. His face was as expressionless as before.
Ammon rose up in his chair. “No!” he said. “No! We will not be ready. Do you think that just by saying the words, suddenly everything changes? Do you think this situation is that much under your control? Look at what you are saying! Look at what you want us to do!” Ammon reached beside him to pick up a set of flying charts and threw them toward Liski, dropping them square in his lap. “Look at these charts!” he commanded. “You are sending us into the very heart of Russia! Novomoskovsk, Razayevka, Buturkinoovka! We must penetrate thousands of kilometers behind enemy lines! It would be like the Russians attacking St. Louis. And good as the B-1 is, it isn’t invisible. Nothing is. They will know we are there. They will be chasing us down. After all, that is the thrust of your plan. For us to be seen. For the Russians to know they are under attack so they will be forced to respond.
“So don’t sit there and pretend that by just saying ‘Go,’ suddenly things will just drop into place. We need time. We need more training, or simply put, this mission is screwed.”
Liski watched Ammon settle back into his chair. “Sometimes, Mr. Ammon, we do what we’re told, even though it may not be what we like. And, yes, I think that I do have control, for when I say go, you will go. I thought that was something which you understood?”
Ammon didn’t reply. He sat speechless, his mouth dry, his throat too tight to swallow. Liski stretched against his chair, arching backward, then stood up as if to leave. He walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway, then paused and poked his head back into the room.
“I have a message for you,” he said. Richard slowly looked up from his chair. “It’s from a mutual friend of ours,” he continued. “Someone who seems to care about you very deeply.” Liski paused. Ammon’s heart began to pulse wildly. He knew immediately he was talking about Jesse.
“You know, Mr. Ammon, I don’t believe you ever mentioned the fact that you were married. I’ve got to say, if my wife looked anything like Jesse, I surely wouldn’t keep it a secret.” Liski watched Ammon’s face grow pale, his chest tremble, his eyes narrow with anger and fear. Liski smiled again. It was things like this that made his job fun.
Liski paused for a moment, then stepped back into the room.
“In fact, Mr. Ammon, I’ve got something I’ve been wanting to show you. I’ve been waiting for just the right time, and I guess that time has come.” Liski reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small envelope and tossed it onto Ammon’s bed. Ammon stared at the envelope for a long time, swallowing the bile in his throat. Liski did not move. With great effort, Ammon pushed himself back from the desk and slid over to the bed where he dropped himself onto the soft mattress. His hands trembled with fear as he picked up the envelope and tore it open, spilling a collection of color pictures onto the bed.
The pictures were very poor quality from a color fax. Ammon began to sort through them. With each photo his heart thumped more violently inside his constricted chest.
Every photo was of Jesse. There were pictures of her standing outside their Santa Monica apartment, her brown hair blown back by the wind, a small duffel bag strapped over her left shoulder. She was glancing to her side, her eyes unknowingly staring past the unseen photographer. Another photo was of her driving her Mazda. There were pictures of her in a dark and empty parking lot, talking to a man in an old gray compact car. Ammon slowly sorted through the small stack of photos, his arms turning into great weights, his stomach a block of ice.
Then he got to the last picture. Tears of frustration and rage swelled his eyes. Liski, still standing by the open door, watched him very closely, his body tense and ready, his hand ready to go for his gun. Ammon glanced at the picture for only a second before crumpling it up in his hands.
It showed his wife very clearly, laying on a wide bed, her hands tied together above her head, loops of rope stringing her tightly to a thick headboard. Her bare feet were also tied together and strapped to the foot of the bed, her legs drawn against the thick rope. She was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. She had a black rag stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes were open wide in terror and fear, her hair pushed to one side to ensure a clear picture of her face. Seated next to the bed where Jesse lay bound was the man from the gray car. He was staring directly into the camera, smiling, holding a glowing cigarette just inches above Jesse’s head, having flicked gray ashes onto her face.