“CNN is reporting that North Korean troops are beginning to mobilize along the South Korean border. They have promised their support to Fedotov, should he be the victim of any NATO air attacks.
“I’m sure they are praying the United States enters the war,” Morozov continued. “What with all the condemnation they have come under over the past year for their nuclear build-up, the diversion of attention and resources away from the Korean Peninsula would be just what they need. In addition, Libya and Iraq have promised concessions to the Russians on their oil. And with yesterday’s announcement that both Moldavia and Kazakhstan have agreed to join the new Russian Union, it would seem that Fedotov’s allies, few and brash as they are, seem to be falling in line.”
The man grunted. “Yeah, that’s great. But now let’s get down to business.” Morozov’s eyes narrowed as he leaned slightly forward.
“Okay, Volodymyr. What have you got?”
“The air refueling tanker has been set up. Our people got onto the network early this morning. It was just about like you said. We got a receipt message from Torrejon, and it has all been confirmed.”
“Yes… okay… that is good,” Morozov said. But he knew there was more. He could tell by the look in Volodymyr’s eyes.
“And…? Is that all?”
“No,” Volodymyr said. “We are having a little problem with the girl.”
Morozov glared and waited while stuffing a Marlboro between his dry lips.
“It goes like this. One morning last week, everything is cool. Clyde and Nadine have her safe and sound in the cabin. I went there myself. Everything looks good. I check things over. Have a little talk with them. Everything was under control.
“Two days later, they call and say she is sick or something. Won’t eat. Sweats a lot. Throws up stuff in her sleep. Refuses to get up and walk around. You know. Typical sick hostage crap.”
Just then a young waitress came up to their booth and pulled out a pencil and ticket pad. Morozov pushed his coffee mug over so that she could pour him a cup, then shook his head when she offered a menu. She left quickly. The two men waited until she was out of earshot before they continued their conversation.
“Yeah, yeah, so what’s the story?” Morozov asked in an irritated voice as he took a small sip from his coffee. “You didn’t call me out here to tell me she’s got the twenty-four hour flu. So what’s going on?”
“Don’t really know. Which is the main problem.”
Morozov put his coffee aside and looked up.
“I called out there this morning,” the man continued. “Got no answer. Called every fifteen minutes for the past three hours. No one is home.”
Morozov swore under his breath. “You idiot! You stupid fool! You better not have screwed this thing up, my friend, or I’ll cut off your hands and feed them to my dogs!
“What do you mean that no one is there!? Didn’t they have their instructions? They were supposed to keep her at the cabin! You’d better find out what’s going on! And you better not bring me bad news.”
The man didn’t blink as he stared at Morozov.
“May 1 remind you, Comrade Morozov,” he sneered, “the man and his wife were your idea. Not mine. So you crap all over the place, then send me in to clean up the mess. I don’t think so. So don’t be telling me how to do my job.
“Now, I’ve sent some people out there to take a look. They’ll be in position in another hour or so. I’m certain the girl is still there. I’m sure that there is some explanation. The phones are down. They had a bad storm. Whatever, she’s got to be there. Unless you think she took out both of your people. Chopped them to pieces with a butter knife or something. Possible, but not very likely.
“So let’s not overreact just for the thrill of a good panic. It seems like we’ve done that before.”
Morozov stared silently at the man and grunted. The man stood up. “I’ll be talking to you,” he said as he threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and left. Morozov took another sip at his coffee, then picked up the money and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He pulled out two fives from his own wallet and left them on the table. Then he followed the man out the front door.
Outside the coffee shop, Morozov watched the back of the man’s head as he made his way through the maze of plastic tables and morning shoppers that were beginning to crowd into the food court. The man soon disappeared in the throng. Morozov then turned in the opposite direction and walked back toward the same doorway in which he had entered the mall. He put on his overcoat as he walked quickly back out to his car.
It was cold. The freezing rain had turned to a light snow, and the temperature had dropped into the twenties. Ivan Morozov studied the sky for a moment as he stood by the side of his car. It wasn’t flying weather. Low clouds and fog hung over the trees, and the visibility looked to be less than a mile. He had noticed that there weren’t many B-1s that had taken off from the base this morning. He understood why. It was a lousy day to be in the air.
Morozov shivered from the cold, then ducked into his car and started it up. Pulling out of the mall parking lot, he headed back to the hotel. As he drove, he kept the heater turned off. The interior of the car began to fog over. From time to time, he would reach up and clear a round spot on his windshield with the back of his hand, wiping away just enough condensation so that he could see to drive. By the time he pulled into the empty parking lot that surrounded his hotel, his windows were completely fogged over. He parked in the far corner, thirty yards away from the next closest car. He rolled to a stop, but kept his engine running.
Reaching under his seat, he pulled out a tiny laptop computer. As he opened the lid, the pale gray screen came to life. “PASSWORD” was flashing in bold letters.
Morozov typed very carefully, very slowly, using only one finger to enter the twelve digit password. He knew that a single error would instantly trigger the computer’s self-destruct program. And all it would take was one simple mistake. So he punched the keys very deliberately.
After typing in the twelve numbers, Morozov reviewed them in his mind, then hit “Enter.” The screen immediately went blank. His heart skipped a beat. For just an instant he thought he might have blown it. Then a white cursor appeared and began to flash on the left side of the screen. Morozov breathed a quick sigh of relief.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the twenty dollar bill that had been left at the table. Turning it over in his hands, he found the serial number that was printed on one side. He reached down and typed in the first digit.
The screen began to roll and tumble with a random mixture of letters and numbers. After several seconds of this, the letter “T” appeared at the top of the screen. Then the cursor returned once again.
Morozov typed in the second digit of the serial number from the twenty dollar bill. Again the screen rolled with a maze of numbers and letters. Again, after several seconds, another letter appeared on the top of the screen, next to the original letter “T”.
And so it went. After a few minutes, Morozov had a complete message. It was very simple.
TUESDAY 23,1415 Z — PLAN CHB- GO
It was the final approval for their mission. On Tuesday morning, at 1415 Zulu time, they would be taking off.
Morozov studied the message, then deleted it from the screen. He looked at his watch and did some mental calculations. In less than twenty-four hours, he and Richard Ammon would be in the air on a one-way flight to Russia in a B-1 bomber, the most sophisticated aircraft on earth.
Now there was only one thing left to do.
Reaching down, he plugged the computer’s AC adapter into the cigarette lighter, which connected him to a maze of secret electrical equipment in the trunk of his car. Typing quickly, he wrote his response.