A small screen on the other side of the gate immediately illuminated the code word that Morozov had typed in. The guard read his screen then looked over at Morozov. Morozov was looking around, trying to appear bored by the whole affair, scratching at his head. The guard glanced at the screen once again and then said. “Sir, will you stand back while I rotate the fence?”
That was it. Morozov was in. The code word was right.
Morozov stepped back and the door began to slowly rotate. Again he timed it so that he could pass through the swinging arms of the gate. After passing through the gate, Morozov turned around to look at Richard. Ammon was watching Morozov with a slight smile on his face. So Morozov’s people had gotten the right code word. Ammon was almost surprised.
“Sir, will you step up and type in the code?” The guard was now looking at Richard Ammon. Ammon walked over to the keyboard and began to type. Morozov looked down at his watch. Two minutes, ten seconds. They were back on time.
Ammon finished typing. He, too, stepped back and looked up at the screen to check his spelling before he sent it to the guard. He reviewed the code word carefully. Everything was right. He reached up to hit the send button.
With a sudden burst of heat and light, an enormous explosion rocked the air, knocking them all to the ground. Even from three hundred yards, the heat and shock wave blew them over, searing their skin and burning their eyes. Morozov looked up to see a huge rolling ball of fire climb into the sky. Long arms of darting flames seemed to reach up and push the fireball skyward. Black smoke billowed up from underneath the rolling inferno. A rush of air was sucked inward to feed the hungry flames.
Three million pounds of fuel was gushing from a ruptured fuel tank. It streamed from the bent and crumpled metal like water from a high-pressure hose. Most of the fuel ignited immediately, sending waves of fire in every direction. But some of the fuel shot out from the base of the tank with such pressure and speed that it gushed underneath the flame, sending it spouting all over the hill before it had a chance to ignite.
A burning river of fuel began to stream down the side of the hill toward the B-1 parking area.
The fuel tank right next to the explosion began to molder from the heat and explosion. Flames reached out to melt its sparkling white paint. Its thick metal ribs began to expand and glow from the heat of the inferno. If it wasn’t watered down and cooled within the next ninety seconds, it, too, would explode, spewing another three million pounds of jet fuel out to feed the rolling fire.
Next to the fence, Morozov and the others lay stunned on the ground, covering their faces with their arms. Morozov was the first to sit up.
The area around the alert facility became a swarm of chaos and confusion. Warning horns sounded from all directions as the security forces stormed into the area. Armored jeeps and security vehicles squealed toward the B-1s, forming a protective parameter around them. Fire trucks raced in, sirens and horns blasting, lights flashing, men in fire gear clinging to the sides. Huge klaxons blared as the loudspeakers came to life.
“All aircrews, report to aircraft! All aircrews, report to aircraft! Prepare for emergency taxi! Prepare for emergency taxi!”
A river of fire, smoke, and heat was gushing down the side of the hill. Even from this distance, the heat was nearly unbearable. The Bones that were parked inside the alert gate were soon going to be engulfed in a pool of burning fuel. Teams of pilots and navigators began to swarm from the alert facility, racing against the stream of fire that was rushing toward the B-1s.
Morozov watched the wild scene that surrounded him for only a second, then scrambled to his feet. Ammon was already standing.
“Let me in!” Ammon screamed to the guard. “I am a pilot. My aircraft has got to be taxied. I’ve got to get it away from those flames!”
For a moment the guard only stared in confusion. Then he looked to his computer screen to check the code word that Ammon had typed in.
The screen was blank. No, it was black. The explosion had cut the electricity off.
Ammon could tell by the look on the guard’s face that there was some kind of problem. He sensed what it was and immediately began to yell.
“Stallion Red! Stallion Red! The code word is Stallion Red! It’s still a valid word, now let me in!”
The guard stared in utter confusion. That was the proper code, but was it still okay to let this guy in? Whenever there had been an emergency within the alert facility, they had always shut down access through the gates. Always. When there was an emergency in progress, the gates were always closed and locked.
But the captain did have the proper code. And he did nced to taxi his aircraft. So what should he do? Nothing in his training had prepared him for this.
Meanwhile, nearly all of the aircrews had made it to their aircraft. The ramp was utter chaos. Fire trucks, ambulances, humvees, security cops in big four wheel drive pickups. They all were squealing across the ramp. Morozov heard the slow whine of the first B-1 as its four engines started to wind up. He and Ammon should have already been in an aircraft.
This was supposed to have been Ammon and Morozov’s chance to get inside the B-1. They had about a twenty second window. And the window was beginning to close.
Morozov took two steps toward the guard, then squinted his pale green eyes.
“Let the captain in!” he said cooly. His voice was very determined. “Our time is running out, Sergeant. Let the captain in.”
The guard continued to stare in utter confusion. He made no effort to open the gate.
Then Morozov made a decision. He would give the guard just three seconds to act before he shot the man in the head.
Streams of fire were now starting to pool across the cement taxi-way, approaching the B-1s at an unbelievable speed. The first fire truck had arrived at the top of the hill, its lime-green paint a stark visual contrast to the blackness that seemed to surround it. The firefighters were spraying their high pressure hoses on the fuel tank that sat next to the fire.
The first B-1 was starting to taxi. Morozov glanced over to see it roll down the taxiway, building up speed as it went.
“Let the man in!” Morozov said one more time. Then he reached for the weapon that was strapped to his chest.
Ammon’s heart nearly stopped when he saw Morozov slip his hand under the open fold of his jacket. His face froze with a cold look of terror. He knew immediately what Morozov was going to do.
Both guards had their weapons drawn and were ready to fire. If Morozov pulled out a gun, he might get off one shot. But that would be all. He would never be able to kill both of the guards before the other one mowed them both down with a long burst from his M-16.
Richard Ammon was about to die, cut in half by a stream of flying lead. Muscle and tissue and bone and sinew would be splattered across the cement. His blood would spill and then pool as it ran onto the flight line. He would take his last breath as he fell against the razor-embedded fence. A great darkness would envelop him. And then he would die as he whispered her name, staring skyward with glazed-over eyes.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Morozov reached inside his flying jacket. He slipped his fingers around the cold metal of his gun, pushing the beveled handle into the palm of his hand. Taking another step toward the guard, he estimated the distance between them. Ten feet of cracked concrete separated the two men. Killing this guard would be easy. Morozov could send him to the ground in less than an instant.