But then again, he wasn’t the man flying the mission. He wasn’t the man launching the missile. And it wasn’t he who was putting his life on the line. So he didn’t respond. He had nothing to say. Nothing that hadn’t already been said. Except for maybe one thing.
“You know, Richard, if you can pull this thing off, if you are successful, though forever untold and forever anonymous, you will be one of the few men who have ever lived who actually changed the course of human events.”
The B-1 was silently towed back into the hangar and the enormous doors rolled shut again. After chocking the wheels and grounding the aircraft with static-dissipation lines, the weapons specialists went to work. Opening the mid-bay internal weapons door, they downloaded a B-93 nuclear bomb. Then, very carefully, another weapon was loaded up in its place, a large, black, dart-like cruise missile. Five hours before, the missile had been sitting in a test hangar out at Edwards Air Force base. Now here it sat, in the belly of the Bone, awaiting its first operational mission.
The space shuttle Endeavor’s launch date had already been moved up by more than two weeks, at a cost of more than eight million dollars and an additional twenty thousand man-hours of labor. And now, by order of the President himself, the launch time had been moved up again.
Inside the Endeavor’s cargo compartment was an enormous satellite, one of the largest and heaviest payloads the shuttle had ever lifted into space. It was thick and white. And extremely expensive. Even more so than the shuttle itself. It was also one of the most highly classified satellites that the Department of Defense had ever developed. Its true capabilities were astounding, and if it lived up to its expectations, it was sure to become one of the most significant pieces of equipment ever launched into space.
Colonel Fullbright listened as the phone patch was put through to the White House. The line clicked and then buzzed as the voice encryption system kicked into gear. A small, red light on his mobile transmitter turned green, signifying the line was now secure. Three seconds later, Milton Blake picked up the phone.
“They’re back in position,” Fullbright said.
“Okay. Good. I’m seeing the President in about ten minutes. I’ll tell him everything is ready and in place. Now, what else can we do?”
“Nothing. We’ve done all we can.”
For a moment, Blake didn’t respond. The secure phone line buzzed in the background. Then he finally said, “Okay, then. Now I want your final appraisal. What do you think are his chances of success?”
Fullbright didn’t hesitate. “Seventy-five to eighty percent, sir. And that’s a consensus from all of the planners. The Russians will never even see the B-1 coming. All they’II see is a sudden explosion. A hidden bomb, I’m sure they’II suspect. And by the time the confusion is over, the Bone will be safely back in our midst. Our appraisal of the mission has not changed. Ammon’s chances are still very good.”
On the other end of the line, Blake smiled and nodded as he wrote the figure down. Seventy-five to eighty percent. That was what he would brief President Allen. The mission was looking very good.
TWENTY-SIX
Richard Ammon pushed against Morozoy’s bare shoulder, and Morozov finally rolled over to stare at the clock. Five A.M. It was still dark outside. The motel was deathly quiet. It had seemed like a very short night. Morozov stretched and pushed himself up. His brain came slowly to life. He felt groggy and tired.
Ammon stared at him for a moment. “You feel okay?” he asked.
Morozov coughed and shook his head to clear it. “Let’s go,” was all he said.
The two men began to dress in the semi-darkness, the room illuminated by one small bedside light. Neither of them spoke. They pulled on black leather flight boots and Air Force flight suits, complete with name tags, rank, and B-1 squadron patches. Over the flight suits they wore brown leather jackets. They packed what little they had into two small duffel bags, and then they were ready to go.
Before leaving, they parked their car in front of the motel and walked through the tiny lobby to the smoky diner. They sat down in a corner booth and ordered breakfast, then ate in silence.
After a few minutes, Morozov leaned across the table. “Do you have any final questions?” he asked.
“No. I know the plan.”
“Any concerns about our route of flight, or the threats we expect to encounter? What about the fighters out of Florida, any problem with them? Or our routing through the Ukraine?”
“No, no, no. We’ve been through it all a thousand times. I know the plan better than you do. It isn’t perfect, but nothing is. Given the time constraints and the limited amount of intel that we have had to work with, I’d say we have a reasonable plan.”
“So you think we are ready?”
Ammon considered the question. “I think it doesn’t matter. We both know we are going to go.”
Morozov studied Ammon for a moment, shook his head in a barely perceptible nod of agreement and then said, “I hope this goes well for us, Ammon. For Jesse’s sake.”
Ammon swallowed hard and fought to control the look on his face. Morozov was doing his best to play out his cards. But Ammon knew. And it made all the difference.
A tiny smile spread across Ammon’s lips. He stood up from the table and turned and walked from the restaurant, leaving Morozov somewhat perplexed.
After a few minutes, Morozov got up and paid their bill. He went outside and saw Richard Ammon standing by the car, watching the morning sky.
For the past three days, it had been miserable. Overcast and cold, with a nearly constant freezing drizzle. But now it appeared to be clearing up. The eastern sky was just beginning to glow with the rising sun. They could see patches of deep blue and purple surrounded by a brightening pink. A south wind was beginning to blow, bringing the promise of warmer weather.
“Looks like a beautiful day,” Morozov said as he approached the car.
Ammon studied the sky for a moment longer, then slipped into the car without responding. Morozov climbed in and started the engine. Within a half hour, they were driving north on highway 15, which would take them to the front gate of the base.
As Morozov drove, Ammon retrieved one of the canvas duffel bags from the back seat and pulled out a small plastic container. He reached inside and pulled out their fake identification, two laminated plastic cards for each of them. One was a standard military identification card. It was embossed in light green, with their pictures prominently displayed in the center. But it was the other plastic card that was the most important. This was their flight line identification. It was this card that would allow them access to the flight line and the B-1s that were now sitting on alert, fully loaded and ready to fly.
Morozov took his identification cards and shoved them into a pocket of his flight suit. But Ammon hung on to his. He studied them for a moment, staring at his picture. Finally he pulled out his wallet and slipped the two cards inside.
It only took a few minutes before they were approaching the main gate to McConnell Air Force Base. Standing at the gate were two guards. One of them held a burly German shepherd at bay while the other stopped the oncoming cars to inspect their occupants and check them for proper identification.
When it was Morozov’s tum, he pulled up to the gate and rolled down his window. The guard bent down to look inside. Ammon didn’t look in his direction but stared straight ahead, trying to appear as uninterested as he could. The guard was the first one to speak.