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  SHATTERED BONE

  ________________________________

  _________________________________

  SHATTERED BONE

  _________________________________________

  __________________________________________

  Chris Stewart

  M Evans

  Lanham • New York • Boulder • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  M Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200

  Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © 1997 by Chris Stewart

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by

  NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stewart, Chris, 1960–

  Shattered bone / Chris Stewart.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59077-282-9

  I. Title.

  PS3569.T4593S48 1997

  813’.54—DC21 97-20580

  BOOK DLSICN AND TYPEFORMATTING BY BERNARD SCIILEIFER

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  DISCLAIMER

  In accordance with the Joint Ethics Regulation, Chapter 2, para. 2–207, the views presented in Shattered Bone are those of the author and do not represent the views of the Department of Defense, its Components, or the United States Air Force.

  To my wife, the best friend I have ever had, and my children, who remind me every day that life is good.

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  _________________________________

  SHATTERED BONE: the code word used to signify the theft, hijacking, or unauthorized flight of a B-1 B bomber loaded with nuclear weapons. Such activity would be considered a class “A” security violation. The incident aircraft will be destroyed using any and all means available. Its destruction is the highest priority.

  Follow notification procedures appendix three. Follow command and control procedures appendix ONE HELP JULES.

  Implement Emergency War Tasking Operations Plan “SPLINT.”

  Air Force code manual 13–12

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  _________________________________

  We are deceiving ourselves if we believe that we have a clear understanding of the developing political landscape in Russia. The hard truth is, the economic situation has become nearly intolerable for the large majority of its citizens ... who have lost all faith in reforms. To a large degree, Moscow has lost control of its army, and the former republics are crawling with strife. Despite our support, none of us can guarantee who we will be dealing with, nor even what type of government we will face, next week, next month, or next year.

  Internal State Department Memo

  CONTENTS

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  _____________________

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  BOOK TWO

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

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  _____________________

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  THE SUN WAS JUST SETTING AS THE PRESIDENTIAL MOTORCADE TURNED onto the Minskoje Road, its waning haze barely burning through Moscow’s sulfur-rich air. Gennadii Sakarovek, the President of Russia, was on his way to the British Embassy for another meaningless conference on trade where he would spend the next three hours begging for money from men who were less than his equal, while smiling at their jokes and enduring their wives. In exchange for the cash, he would make promises of further reform. It would be a long night. He was in a bad mood.

  Two cars behind Sakarovek in the motorcade, the Prime Minister of Russia, Vladimir Fedotov, sat in the back seat of his limousine alone, separated from his driver and bodyguard by a thick panel of reinforced, bulletproof glass. Gazing out the window, he watched the sun set over the city.

  A soft chime sounded from Fedotov’s breast pocket. Reaching under his overcoat, he pulled out a tiny cell phone, flipped it open and placed it to his ear. After listening only a moment, he grunted and glanced at his watch.

  “I thought you took care of his car,” he said sharply.

  A slight pause and then, “Yes. Okay. But keep this in mind. If he lives, if he makes it across the border, you know what I will do.” Without waiting for a reply, Fedotov flipped the phone closed. Shoving it back into his pocket, he took out a cigarette and lit up with a scowl, the orange glow illuminating his face in the darkness.

  The motorcade rounded a corner. Fedotov glanced ahead. They were approaching the threshold of the Borodinski Bridge. Built immediately after the revolution, the bridge spanned the Moscow River at its narrowest point, a massive structure of stone, sweat, and steel. With multi-pillared towers rising along the river’s steep bank, it stood as an impressive monument of human labor. Narrowing to only four lanes, the Minskoje Road ran 30 feet over the Moscow River’s icy waters as it crossed the Borodinski Bridge.

  Fedotov smashed the cigarette out, then flipped a switch positioned alongside his armrest. Instantly the window separating him from his driver and bodyguard went black, the result of a tiny electrical charge that passed through the ionized glass. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a small flashlight which was wrapped securely to a strong magnet by strands of black tape. Turning the flashlight on, he screwed a small red lens cover over the bulb, then rolled down his rear window and attached the flashlight to the roof of the car.

  After rolling up his window, the Prime Minister pulled on a pair of thick safety glasses, then lay down on the floor of the limo. Under his crisp white shirt, a bulletproof vest was cinched tightly across his chest, making it uncomfortable for him to breathe. He hated this part of the plan. He felt like a coward as he hid on the floor. But it was important that he survive, while at the same time giving a credible appearance of having been endangered himself.

  He glanced at his watch once again, then felt the limousine slow as the caravan approached the Borodinski Bridge.

  Fedotov sensed his bodyguard shift his weight in the front seat. Both the driver and his bodyguard were long time members of his staff, and Fedotov had come to consider them allies and friends. He knew that they would give their lives to protect him, and so he considered it fitting that these friends would be allowed to give their lives for his cause.

  The limousine bumped as it crossed the steel threshold of the bridge. Fedotov covered his face with his arms.

  Inside the president’s limousine, Gennadii Sakar
ovek was enjoying a drink. His Foreign Advisor sat quietly beside him, scribbling notes on a small pad of paper.

  SOUTHERN RUSSIA

  The Russian crashed through the night, the whites of his eyes shining in the darkness as he frantically pushed through the trees. Dressed in a dark suit, leather shoes, and silk tie, he looked ridiculously out of place in the mud and slush of the forest. Being fifty pounds overweight, it wasn’t long before he was gasping for breath. Tiny beads of sweat matted his thin hair against his forehead and stung his eyes, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

  Half a mile behind him, his stalled car sat on the side of the road, its hood raised, the oil pan dripping, black smoke wafting from the still scorching engine. Everything he had left, every possession he had not already abandoned, was left sitting in the two trunks that filled the back seat.

  Fighting for breath, the Russian pushed on through the forest, cutting across a loop in the road toward the rendezvous site. He made no pretense of stealth. Those games were now over. Now it was only time to run.

  Coming to a narrow patch of open wood he sprinted as fast as he dared, running recklessly through the darkness. Reaching the thick brush on the other side, he slowed and held himself back, picking his way across the rocky terrain, fighting to stay in control.

  Though he knew he was followed, he never looked back.

  The light rain had stopped and the night air was heavy with cold mist. Overhead, the clouds began to break, allowing the half moon to cast occasional shadows. Huge drops of moisture dripped from leaf to leaf and branch to branch as they made their way to the soggy forest floor. Dripping birch leaves slapped at the Russian’s face and shoulders while the thick, wet underbrush pulled at his feet. He was soaked and chilled to the bone. He glanced at his watch only once, its luminescent face glowing green in the night. 21:17. He doubled his pace. There wasn’t much time.

  With the document in his possession, his fate was now sealed.

  Two hundred meters through the forest, and slightly to the west of the fleeing Russian, was “the Horse,” the man whose responsibility it was to get him out of the country. Like his charge, the Horse was of Slavic descent. He was hairy and squat, with stubbly black hair, huge biceps and thick thighs.

  This was a dirty job, and incredibly dangerous, and he was one of the few men willing to do it. To penetrate an enemy border. To go in alone and without any contingency for assistance. To go in without any cover. It was something any agent was loath to do. Perhaps once in a generation did an operation warrant taking such a risk.

  And tonight was one of those times.

  The Horse wore a dark cotton jumpsuit and black leather boots. Every exposed piece of flesh was smeared with gray cammy, including his eyelids, lips, and even his teeth, allowing him to blend nearly perfectly into the night. He crouched under the thick brush that lined the side of the rutted, gravel road. A tiny radio transmitter was strapped to his waist. With its pea-sized speaker stuffed tightly in his ear and the tiny microphone clipped to his collar, the man could communicate without using his hands.

  The Horse glanced at his watch. 21:26. Three minutes to go.

  “Trojans up,” he whispered to the darkness. His ear piece crackled just slightly as his transmitter scrambled and broadcast his voice over the VHF frequency.

  Twelve miles to his south, level with the tops of the trees, a tiny helicopter sped through the night, controlled by a single pilot. Despite years of training and a thousand hours of combat flying, the pilot was tight as piano wire.

  Pulling his chopper over the top of a ridge, he banked slightly to the right and pushed the noisy machine down a small valley. He navigated only by feel, never referring to a chart. Indeed, he didn’t even have one. He had rehearsed the mission so many times, he could have navigated the route in his sleep.

  The pilot reached down and keyed his mike. “Say status?”

  “No contact.”

  The pilot swore violently under his breath. “Say position?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Say time?”

  “Three minutes.”

  The pilot swore once again, cursing in fear.

  The Horse didn’t respond. Settling deeper under the brush, he scanned the road once again.

  The Russian pushed himself to his feet and brushed the mud from his eyes. Far, far in the distance a dull “whoop” rolled through the forest, barely perceptible to the human ear. The Russian turned and ran without notice. The darkness began to break, deep shadows giving way to dim light. Without warning, he burst through the trees and onto the road, his shoes crunching across the wet gravel.

  Lifting his face, he searched the night sky for the north star to show him the way, but the tree line blocked his view. In a panic, he ran to his left, then suddenly stopped and turned back to his right. Frozen in the middle of the road, he listened.

  He could hear him out in the trees. The man had followed him through the deep forest. The soft rustle of dead winter leaves. The snap of a twig. Soggy branches being pushed out of the way.

  Turning quickly, the Russian took a deep breath and gathered himself for the run.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  Two hundred feet across the Borodinski bridge stood the Klanublsky Towers. Resting atop a small outcropping of granite and sand, they lined both sides of the bridge, standing as twin sentinels over the eastern side of the river. Four arched capstones rose more than 100 feet into the air, providing a perfect view of the road down below. High atop the northern tower, two unidentified men lay in a prone position, their blackened faces barely visible over the high granite wall. As the motorcade approached the bridge, they each dropped ANVIS Night-Vision goggles down in front of their eyes. With the goggles in place, the two men could easily make out the individual features of the men who sat in each of the cars, their faces ghostlike and surreal in the faint, green light of the goggles. As they counted the cars in the caravan, both men noted the small red light shining brightly from the roof of Fedotov’s car.

  The first man picked up a rifle-like object. It was small and light as an umbrella. The man looked through the telescopic lens and focused on the first car in the motorcade, then flipped a switch and pulled the trigger. An invisible beam of laser hit the car squarely on the windscreen, scattering billions of protons of energy in all directions. Meanwhile, the second man picked up a much larger weapon. He quickly loaded two huge shells, just as the motorcade was crossing the threshold of the bridge. Traffic had been stopped for the oncoming dignitaries and the sedans in the motorcade were now the only cars in sight.

  “Ready?” the second man mumbled, his breath emitting just a hint of moist vapor into the cold air.

  His companion took a deep breath and held it, then nodded his head in reply.

  The first rocket was fired. Sensors inside the small warhead immediately picked up the scattering pool of energy that was washing around the window of the first sedan. It honed in like a missile, traveling the distance to the car in less than a second, then impacted the windscreen with a crash. The shell didn’t detonate until it had passed through the glass and into the interior of the car, where it exploded with a fury, blasting seat fibers, glass, and jagged pieces of hot metal in all directions. Mingled among the exploding debris were charred pieces of clothing and broken fragments of bone, the remains of the four men who had once occupied the now-burning car.

  The car rocked up on its front tires as it exploded. The second car in the motorcade crashed into the wreckage, creating a sufficient roadblock to stop the remaining cars from going any further across the bridge.

  Within seconds another shell was on its way. This one honed in on the third car in the procession. Before the driver of the Presidential sedan had any time to react, it was over. The President of Russia was now dead.

  A huge fireball rolled across the bridge, splitting the night air with a roar. Shadows burned and flickered across the empty road as the fireball rose in the air. The driver of the Prime Minister’s sedan
slammed on the brakes. He knew instantly what had happened, and realized that the only thing he could do to save his life was to get his car off the bridge. He shoved the heavy sedan into reverse before it had come to a stop, the transmission grinding and jerking from the strain. As he started to back up, he tried to look through his rearview mirror. But he couldn’t see a thing. The interior glass panel that separated him from the back scat was nothing but a flat sheet of black glass. Turning to his sideview mirror, he accelerated backward, weaving like a madman through the maze of limousines that now lay strewn across the bridge.

  It would only take a few seconds to get off the bridge. Then he would steer the car off the embankment and onto the safety of the low ground by the Moscow River. A few seconds was all he needed to save the Prime Minister, as well as himself.

  The second assassin was reloading his weapon. Reaching beside him, he pulled a red-tipped shell from a black leather pouch and shoved it down the muzzle of his weapon. The shell was very short and not as round. Inside its hard steel casing was a mixture of gunpowder and sawdust, giving it only a fraction of the explosive power of the shell that had been fired at Sakarovek. Leveling the missile launcher against the side of the granite balcony, he pulled the trigger once again. His companion had already focused his laser on the faint red light on the roof of the fleeing limousine. The shell honed in on its target. Another explosion rocked the air, noticeably less forceful than the first. The blast blew out all of the windows and buckled the roof of the car. The two men in the front seat of the Prime Minister’s sedan were instantly killed.

  Broken glass and burning powder exploded into the rear compartment, tearing at Fedotov’s neck and arms and scorching his hair into tiny, white curls. His suit was tattered and his face was smeared with blood. However, the front seat and thick privacy glass had absorbed most of the shock, and for the most part, Vladimir Fedotov had been protected as he lay on the floor.

  After the shell exploded, his car continued to roll backward before it crashed against a high cement guardrail that lined the side of the bridge. As the limousine crunched to a stop, Fedotov rolled out the back door and crawled over to the side of the bridge. From where he crouched, it was only a twenty-foot fall to the water. He looked around quickly, then let himself over the side rail, just as the fourth and final shell hit another sedan. The explosion rocked the bridge and shattered the air, sending a burning tire to bounce over the guardrail and drop into the cold river down below.