“Good morning, sir,” he said to Morozov. “May I see your ID, please?”
Morozov pulled out his military identification card and handed it to the guard. The sergeant inspected both sides of the card, then looked a little closer at Morozov; holding the small card up to the light that shone down from his guard house, pulling it close to his nose, absorbing every detail. Then he bent over and peered back into the car.
“Sir, there appears to be a problem with your identification,” he said.
Ammon’s heart nearly stopped. What was going on? Surely Morozov’s people hadn’t screwed up such a simple thing as forging an ID card? Surely they hadn’t come this far, just to be arrested by some nearsighted sergeant? After all the preparation, it couldn’t come down to this. As Ammon turned to the guard, he tried to look bored and tired, but inside he wanted to scream.
Morozov didn’t even flinch. He reached out and took the card from the security policeman, as he replied in an innocent voice, “What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?”
“Sir, your ID needs to be updated. It is printed on the old Air Force Form 215. We started converting to the new Form 311 last month. I’m surprised that no one has pointed this out to you. You really need to get a new ID card issued. Especially in light of the current situation. Security has got to be tight.”
“Well Sergeant, I believe that you are right,” Morozov replied. “The problem has been that for the past few months I have been out of the country. You know how it is. Temporary duty always calls. But now that I’m back, I’ll get this thing updated. Thanks for the reminder. You are doing an excellent job.”
“Thank you, sir,” the guard replied. “Now you get that taken care of, will you? Then I won’t have to stop you in the morning.”
“Roger,” was all Morozov replied.
With that, the sergeant stepped back from the car and offered a quick salute while motioning for Morozov to pass through the gate. The guard needed to keep things moving along, for the morning rush of cars onto the base was already beginning to flow. Morozov returned the salute with a smile, then accelerated through the gate and onto the base.
They began to drive down the main boulevard that would take them to the flight line. It wasn’t until then that Ammon let out a huge sigh of relief. He turned around and took a quick look at the guard house that was receding behind them.
“I can see that your people do quality work,” Ammon sneered. “Yes sir, it is obvious that you guys have thought of everything. There is nothing to worry about now.”
Morozov didn’t respond. Ammon was right. His people had nearly screwed it up. To a large degree the success of their mission would depend on strict attention to detail. And someone in his organization had nearly blown it. He would have to find out who it was.
They drove along in silence. As they got closer to the flight line, Ammon started to look for the aircraft. He was anxious to get his first glimpse of the Bone. But from where they were, the aircraft parking area was still hidden by a long row of enormous brown hangars.
Morozov followed the road for almost a mile, past the row of hangars to where the road made a sharp turn to the west. As they came upon the last set, Ammon could start to see F-16s, KC-135 tankers, and even a couple of transports. But he couldn’t see any B-1s. He looked all the way down to the far end of the flight line.
And then he saw them. Across the runway; black, lean, and menacing, like enormous fighters they stood. Their canted wings and sharp tails gave the impression of coiled tigers; hunched down and leaning forward, ready to spring through the air. Their sharp noses stretched toward the runway as if they were anxious to fly.
What a beautiful sight, Ammon thought as he watched the B-1s come into view. For a moment, he almost lost himself in the excitement. In a short time he would be at the controls of this beautiful aircraft. He was now reacting instinctively to the challenge. The challenge was just too much to resist.
But before he and Morozov even got close to the B-1, they had one more obstacle to overcome. The security that surrounded the B-1 was always tight. It was significantly easier, and far less dangerous, to rob a bank in midtown Manhattan than it was for an unauthorized person to get close to a Bone.
Everything from razor wire to laser detectors surrounded the Bones as they sat on alert. Armed guards were on a constant watch. It wasn’t possible for a bird or a rabbit to get within 200 feet of the B-1s without being detected. If any intruders tried to penetrate the area, they would quickly be surrounded by the cops.
And then there was the “Zone,” the final line of defense that surrounded the B-1s.
Painted on the cement, fifty feet out from the bombers was a thick red line. This designated the Zone. The Zone had its own very special set of rules, and every person who worked around the B-1, whether they were pilots or maintenance specialists, knew the rules of the Zone very well. The Zone offered no room for excuses. Inside the Zone there was no room for error.
The rules were very simple. Any unauthorized persons caught within the Zone would be immediately shot. If they were alone or didn’t appear to be threatening the bombers, then they would probably be shot in the legs. The security police were all excellent marksman, and they were trained to fire at the knees. But if there were more than one intruder, or if they appeared to be armed, or if they acted in a hostile or threatening manner, then the use of deadly force was automatically authorized. The security police would shoot three times. One shell at the heart. Two at the head.
No questions would be asked. No warning would be given. It was that simple. It was a harsh and unforgiving policy, but when it came to nuclear weapons, the security forces didn’t feel a need to be nice.
With all the laser motion detectors, noise sensors, razor wire, men, dogs, and machine guns, it was easy to understand why tiny beads of sweat began to roll down Morozov’s back as he stared at the Bones.
Twelve hundred miles to the south, a Ukrainian naval cruiser cut through the warm waters of the Mexican Gulf. The Chernova Ukraina was one of the largest surface vessels that was still operated by the Ukrainian Navy. Completed in 1988, she was a “Slava” class helicopter cruiser that was equipped with a variety of surface-to-air missiles, torpedo tubes, and attack helicopters. Although she was very capable of attacking surface vessels, her primary purpose was to hunt and kill enemy submarines. And given the chance, her skipper had no doubt that she would have been very good at her job.
But so far, she had never been put to the test. Such was the irony of modern-day weapons. The more powerful and capable they were, the less likely they were to be used.
So it was not surprising that, when the Chernova had been ordered from her port in Sevastopol, her commander was one happy man. A war was brewing in the north, and he was very anxious to play in the game.
But when he got his orders, his excitement was quickly replaced by confusion and anger. The Chernova would be nothing but a messenger. Hardly more than an expensive errand boy. It was a humiliating task for a warship. Nothing to attack. Nothing to be gained. No medals or glory to be won.
But being a military man, as always, the captain did exactly as he was told.
And that is how he found himself cruising through the Gulf of Mexico, one hundred and seven miles from the white sands and high-rise hotels that lined the beaches from Galveston to Corpus Christi.
It wasn’t long after Morozov and Ammon had driven through the main gate at McConnell that the Chernova turned and began to cruise to the northeast, paralleling the Texas coast. The captain ordered one-half power, then gave his communications officer the nod to proceed.