On the aft deck of the cruiser, just below the helicopter landing pad, was a huge drum filled with a long, thin, copper wire. As the Chernova cut through the four-foot waves, an electric motor on the drum began to turn, pushing the end of the wire from the drum casing. A two-foot canvas basket was attached to the wire and then dropped into the sea. The basket immediately filled with the warm salt water, pulling the wire taut against the side of the ship.
Not until then did an electric brake on the drum release with a click and a thump. Immediately the drum began to rotate as the basket pulled the wire from the drum.
As the Chernova cruised along at 19 knots, the wire fed out behind it, streaming from the cruiser like an enormous tail. It only took a couple of minutes for the basket to pull out the entire contents from the drum, stretching the huge antenna for two kilometers across the rough sea.
When the captain had been advised that the antenna was deployed and in position, he looked at his watch and said, “Stand by to broadcast message. Broadcast will begin in twenty minutes. After broadcast, stand by to run.”
Using the ship’s Ultra-Low Radio Transmitter (ULRT) and the long copper antenna, the Chernova would transmit a short message, a simple code of seemingly random numbers. The ultra low radio waves would hug the contour of the earth, traveling for almost 5,000 miles before they weakened and began to disperse. But it would take a little time to send the whole message, for the ULRT was only capable of transmitting a single character every few seconds. Several minutes would pass before the message transmission was complete.
Once the message was sent, the Chernova would immediately cut the thin copper wire. Then she would turn to the east and push up her speed. By early morning she would be safely docked in Havana, Cuba.
Jesse looked out on the calm morning sea. The moon was low on the western horizon. The planet Venus was clearly in view, the brightest star in the early morning sky. A pale of light blue was just beginning to tint the eastern skyline, though sunrise was still at least fifty minutes away. A warm wind blew in from the ocean and pushed her hair back from her face.
She looked down at the gauze pads, which had been wrapped around both of her wrists and felt a sudden shiver of pain. But it wasn’t real. Only a vivid memory, though the overall effect was the same. She reached down and gently pulled at the bandage, then glanced quickly back over her shoulder, to see if the agent was still there. He nodded as she looked for his presence.
Turning away from the ocean, Jesse left the balcony and moved back into the safe house. They had told her today was the day. By tomorrow, the whole thing would be over. Then maybe they would tell her where Richard was and when he would be coming home. The worst part was not knowing. And not knowing what next to expect.
For the past two days, they had tried to assure her. The agents had been gracious and friendly and kind. But the truth was, they had no knowledge of the real operation. They had no idea what was really going on. All they knew was it was something very big. Their instructions came right from the top. So they would shrug their shoulders and ask for her patience, and assure her it was going to be all right.
But Jesse could feel the crisis arising, a bitter feeling she just couldn’t describe. It was there, brittle and cold, like a frozen pit in the center of her heart. A feeling of doom seemed to settle upon her, leaving her lonely and desperate for hope. And try as she might, she couldn’t push it aside.
An ugly voice seemed to whisper from the corners of her mind, “Say good-bye, Jesse. He’s not coming home!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Morozov looked at his watch. Twelve minutes to go. They were running late. He looked across to Richard Ammon who was still staring in wonder at the B-1s. He could tell from the look on his face that Ammon was excited at the prospect of flying the Bone. That was good. That was very important. Perhaps they had chosen the right man after all.
Morozov was parked on the side of a road that ran around the north end of the runway. From here he had a good view of the entire alert area. He studied the ten-foot electric fence that surrounded the B-1 parking ramp. He could see the small disks of motion detectors that ran parallel to the fence. He looked up at the guard towers, then down at the armored security vehicles that circled the parked B-1s. There must have been at least a hundred security policemen, all of them armed with machine guns. He squinted and peered at the white cement. Yes, there they were. He could see them. The red lines that depicted the Zone.
He looked at his watch once again, then slipped their car into gear. It was time to go.
He turned around and headed for the alert facility. Four minutes later, he and Ammon pulled into the parking lot that was just outside the facility gate. From there, they did one final scope of the fence.
“Everything looks good,” Morozov observed.
“Yeah, looks good to me. You go first,” Ammon suggested.
They climbed out of the car and started walking toward the high fence, Morozov leading the way, carrying a small black duffel bag under his arm. Ahead of them were two huge barbed wire fences, one inside the other. Ten feet separated the two fences. Each fence had only one gate, which was a steel revolving door. Two armed security policemen, each of them with a German shepherd, watched as the two men approached.
The two fences were designed as a trap. Both Ammon and Morozov would have to show their identification before they would be allowed through the first gate. There they would be confined between the two fences. In no-man’s-land.
Once inside no-man’s-land, they would be challenged once again. But this time not only would they have to show their ID, but they would also have to give the proper code word. The code words were classified TOP SECRET and they could change as frequently as every few hours. If either Ammon or Morozov didn’t give the proper code, they would be thrown to the ground and arrested.
It was the code procedures that had Morozov the most worried.
The problem was in the master code books. New code books were issued in a completely random manner. A code book might be used for several weeks or several hours, so Morozov could never be completely sure that he had the most recent edition. Morozov’s code book was only fifty-six hours old, but it could very well be that a new edition had already been issued. Maybe even two. Maybe even three. There was no way to know. But he soon would find out.
As they walked toward the gate, Morozov checked his watch once again. Eight minutes to go. They would have to hurry, for they couldn’t be even a second late. He gave Ammon a gentle nod and then picked up his pace just a little. When they were still twenty feet from the fence, one of the guards held out his hand and yelled, “Halt!”
The Chernova Ukraina continued to cruise effortlessly through the four-foot troughs. Inside her Command Center, the captain was staring at the radar screen. An unidentified aircraft was approaching. It looked to be a U.S. Navy P-3 Orion. The turboprop aircraft was approaching from the east at 320 knots and heading directly for the Chernova. No doubt, the P-3 had been sent to check them out. As the Orion flew toward her target, she would have on all of her “ears,” or radio signal detectors, so that she could hear what the Chernova was up to.
That was very bad. If the Chernova tried to transmit her encoded message on the ULFT, the Orion would certainly detect it. Then the Americans would know that it was the Chernova that had sent out the message.