Just eighty miles. That’s all he would need. Eighty miles beyond the Russian border. A quick run through the night. It would only take eight minutes. Eight minutes of luck was all he would need.
In a dash, he would cross the Russian border, hiding between the low hills, winding his way up the narrow valleys to stay hidden from the Russian radar. Then, once he was within range, it would only take sixty seconds to put the missile through its final countdown and send it out on its way. And then he was gone, escaping back toward the Ukrainian border by a slightly different route.
It would take the Sunbeam thirty-one minutes to reach its target in Moscow. By that time, Ammon would be more than seven hundred miles away.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sgt Sergei Motyl shivered as he lay in the snow. The air was brittle and cold. He sucked in the night air and tried to remain perfectly still. Through the winter haze he could see a tiny cluster of lights, shining in the distance. That would be the Ukrainian city of Khar’kov. Motyl had just crossed the border. He was now on the Ukrainian side.
He settled back, rested his head against his pack and stared up into the night sky. The small warheads that were crammed inside the canvas pack jutted against the back of his neck. It wasn’t very comfortable, but Motyl didn’t mind. He was hungry and tired and cold, but none of that mattered. In just a few hours, his mission would be over. In just a few hours, he would meet up with the man.
Vladimir Fedotov, the president of the newly formed Union of Soviet Republics, sat on a worn leather chair behind a huge, ornate oak-top desk. For a long moment he studied his visitor in contemptuous silence, then glancing at a small wooden chair, he indicated for him to sit down. General Smikofchen shook his head to decline, preferring to remain at attention while in the presence of his commander in chief. The president grunted as he reached into his breast pocket to produce a new package of cigarettes. While he fumbled to unwrap the tight plastic wrapper, the general took a quick look around.
Fedotov’s office occupied one of the original structures that lay within the Kremlin walls. It sat at ground level and extended from the rear of the Armory, beneath the shadow of the Arsenal Tower. The structure was made from rough granite walls and ancient pine floors and was cold and damp and smelled of wet stone. Young Czarist officers had used this space to prepare themselves and their horses for battle. Even Catherine the Great had once used the room as a rendezvous spot with her lover.
Vladimir Fedotov could sense the ghosts of these ancient warriors as he sat within the thick granite walls. At times, he could almost feel their presence. And he spoke to their spirits, silently calling their names.
After lighting his cigarette, Fedotov considered the general that stood before him. He glared at the slender man with a look of disgust and contempt, then asked him to repeat himself once again.
General Smikofchen cleared his throat and spoke in a calm and even tone.
“Sir, we don’t really know what the Ukrainians are up to. It seems to be some kind of scramble, but none of the fighters nor tactical bombers have yet made any attempt to cross the forward line of their own defensive positions. Though they make an occasional jab at our borders, by and large, they seem to be hanging back. It doesn’t seem to make any sense. Their intentions are very unclear.”
General Smikofchen paused for a moment before he continued, all the while staring at some invisible spot that hovered just above the president’s head.
“But, sir, it is our guess that it is unrelated to the situation in the United States. We just don’t see any connection at all.”
Fedotov suddenly pushed back his chair. He hunched his shoulders and pulled in his neck as he settled against the leather backrest. Reaching out, he picked up a red-trimmed folder from his desk. It was a one-page summary of events that had occurred over the past eight hours. Fedotov flipped the cover page open and scanned the report once again.
While Fedotov read, General Smikofchen remained at attention, staring at the wall, watching the president with his peripheral vision. He knew that Fedotov hated the bearer of bad news. And to bring him this report was not an assignment that General Smikofehen would have volunteered for. But as the Head of Counter-Reconnaissance Operations, he had the responsibility to tell the old man.
The general shifted his weight from one foot to the other as Fedotov scanned through the report.
RE: UNIDENT
TO: CYRUS/intolol/intrepid/inturn
AN: WH/Zu/2035/BASE
MESSAGE FOLLOWS
Beginning about 1419 Zulu, Russian WEST-HEM SINCCOMCOM began to note a marked increase in classified message traffic among the United States military. Initially the traffic was limited to organizations within the United States Air Force, but within an hour expanded to include Naval STRATCOM and CINCLAINT as well. By 1603 Zulu, a significant increase was also noted in satellite traffic. During the next hour, message volume was at such a level that U.S. communications systems were completely overloaded and a standby HF satellite was reactivated to handle the spike in coded-message traffic.
The communications included all sources and spectrums, was always encoded to at least a level-three security, and was accompanied by continuous counter-counter measures.
At 1615 Zulu, U.S. Strategic Command increased its state of alert. All of the Command’s B-1 and B-52 bombers were placed on a two-minute response time. All Peacekeeper missile sites were ordered to DEFCON BRAVO.
At 2020 Zulu, our European Comm Center began to monitor radio transmissions between an American KC-10 air-refueling tanker and their command post in Torrejon, Spain, concerning an apparent security breach of some type within the United States military. Code name “Shattered Bone,” the crisis has the attention of the highest levels within the United States government.
The sudden and marked increase in secure communications must certainly be related in some way to this unknown breach in security, but as of this time, we have yet to determine any further details.
Reconnaissance, observation, and intelligence operations continue.
END OF REPORT
President Fedotov tossed the paper back on his desk and looked at his watch. The heavy granite walls muffled every sound and the room was deadly quiet. General Smikofchen listened to Fedotov’s measured breathing. Finally, the President sat forward in his chair.
“Okay, Smikofchen, explain to me, what’s going on?”
For the slightest moment, General Smikofchen sucked on his check and didn’t respond.
“Sir, it is too early to draw any conclusions,” he finally answered. “Perhaps there is something there. Perhaps there is not. The simple and most likely explanation is this: the Americans have determined that our threat to use nuclear weapons is both real and imminent, and so, have ordered their forces to a higher state of alert to reflect the sudden escalation in hostilities. That would be standard procedure, sir.”
Fedotov snorted. “And what about the sudden spike in secure communications?”
Smikofchen blinked his eyes several times and then slowly shook his head. “Sir, I wish we had some explanation. But the truth is, we really don’t know. We feel that perhaps it is a result of the Americans warning their neighbors and consulting with their NATO allies over the impending crisis.”
Again Fedotov snorted. “Stupid fool,” he said in disgust. “It is far more than that. Can’t you see? Can’t you read?” He threw the report at the standing general and slammed his fist on the desk. “What about the intercepted conversations with the KC-10!? What about this thing, ’Shattered Bone?’”