Then it became very quiet. Only the crackle of the burning cars filled the air. Off in the distance, sirens began to wail in the night.
No one saw the two assassins scramble down the side tower and speed off in the small rubber raft that had been secured to the footings of the bridge.
A few minutes later, the new president of Russia, Vladimir Fedotov, emerged from the icy waters of the Moscow River and fell into the waiting arms of one of the few surviving security agents. He was shivering with cold and shock, his shirt torn into tatters around him.
Thirty feet below the surface of the Moscow River, jammed between two moss covered rocks, lay a discarded bulletproof vest.
Without warning, the Horse slipped from the shadows and grabbed the Russian by the shoulders with astonishing force. Lifting him by his jacket and shirt, he pulled him off the road and dragged him back into the forest.
The Horse dropped silently to the wet ground, pushing the Russian beneath him. He covered the target with his body, positioning himself between the man and the road. He knew the Russian would be followed. He knew their lives were in great danger.
The Horse held his gloved hand over the Russian’s mouth. The Russian didn’t move. His eyes were closed. Even through his gloves, the Horse could feel the man’s pulse pounding in his neck. The Russian held perfectly still.
The Horse watched the forest for at least 60 seconds before leaning forward and speaking into his mike. “Trojans in,” he said in the tiniest voice, his breath hot against the Russian’s face.
The agent turned to the Russian and planted his mouth next to his ear. “Do you have it?” he whispered.
“He’s going to kill me!” the Russian sobbed. “Please, he’s gone crazy. He’s already… my wife… two of my children… please.” The Horse covered the Russian’s mouth and pressed down once again. “Mr. Secretary, I will protect you. A helicopter is on its way. It is only minutes out. But I have to know! Do you have the document!?”
“He will kill me,” the man sobbed. “He will kill us all. A million people are going to die! The Duma is gone. I saw the soldiers myself. They were everywhere. The constitutional court. The parliament. Everything. All of it gone.”
“Quiet! Yes, we know!” the Horse hissed. “We know. I will help you. Now, Mr. Secretary, I will ask you for the last time. Do you have the document? Is it in your possession?”
The Secretary shuddered and nodded his head. Freeing his arm, he reached into the crotch of his pants and pulled out a single piece of paper.
Handing the paper to the agent, the Secretary lay back in exhaustion and dropped his head to the ground. He stared blankly into the darkness, eyes unfocused, his lips tightly drawn.
“He’s already killed Komisarenko,” he whispered, more to himself than the Horse. “Komisarenko was my friend. And General Azov. Both of them dead.” He paused to swallow, forcing the bile down his throat. “Now you’ve got to get me out. Please, I’ve done my part!”
The sound of approaching rotors beat through the air, steadily growing. The Ukrainian grabbed the paper and held it up to his face, looking for the signature at the bottom of the page. The dull whoop of the blades cut ever closer. In seconds, the helicopter would be overhead. After studying the paper, the Ukrainian broke into a quick smile. Then without hesitation, he lifted his gun and shot the Russian square in the head.
The small chopper appeared over the trees, already stabilized in a twenty-foot hover. A harness and rope dropped from the left side of the chopper. The Horse broke from the bush in a run. Grabbing the harness, he slipped it over his shoulders and cinched it around his chest even as the helicopter climbed into the air.
Yevgeni Oskol Golubev, the Ukrainian Prime Minister, sat back in his chair and pushed his fingers through his thick, bristled hair. Andrei Liski, the Director of Ukrainian Border Security, dropped the analysis on the desk and stared the Prime Minister straight in the eye. A bony man with limp shoulders, thin neck, and delicate fingers, it was hard to imagine the cold and cunning heart that beat in his chest.
Leaning toward the hapless Golubev, Liski lowered his voice and got right to the point.
“Mr. Prime Minister, it is just as I said. He has already made great preparations. Last night’s document only proves what I have already told you. Now, clearly we have to do something. If we sit on this information and pretend the threat doesn’t exist, then, when the time comes and we are caught unprepared, we both will then deserve to die.”
BOOK ONE
The central question is no longer how to avoid a nuclear exchange, but rather, how to predict one. It is our opinion that a deliberate nuclear detonation is now unavoidable and is likely to occur within the next 10–15 years.
ONE
Osan air force base is situated approximately forty-five kilometers south of Seoul, Korea. It sits low in the Son Mihn Valley, surrounded by gentle hills, cypress trees, and musky, slow-water creeks. A steady stream of C-141 and C-5 cargo aircraft make their way across the Pacific to Osan in an effort to keep the enormous military machine on the Korean peninsula adequately supplied. Twice a day, huge KC-10 transports bring in a fresh supply of reluctant troops. However, common as these transports and cargo planes are, most of the flying activity is generated by Osan’s resident fighter wing — the Fighting Fifty-First Aces of the south. Their motto—“Death from Above.”
The 51st Fighter Wing is a front-line wing, consisting of three squadrons of F-16s. Because of the tense political climate in which they operate, air operations continue twenty-four hours a day, and the whine of jet engines constantly fills the air.
The flight line is a nest of activity, vibration, and noise, with maintenance troops and technical specialists scrambling among the jets and aircraft equipment. Fuel and fire trucks lumber carefully among the fighters while bomb and missile trolleys are carefully positioned under the F-16’s wings to load them with weapons for upcoming sorties.
After spending six hours to prepare an F-16 for take off, the crew chiefs breathe a weary sigh of relief when their jets finally begin to taxi, rolling from their parking spots in groups of two and four. However, their respite will be brief, perhaps as short as an hour, for that’s all the time it takes for the little fighters to burn their 7,000 pounds of jet fuel and fire off all their missiles. Upon their return to Osan, the pilots over-fly the runway at 1,000 feet before breaking into a hard turn to line themselves up for final landing.
Then the whole process will begin once again. Within minutes after touchdown, even before the jet engines are shut down, the aircraft are surrounded by their maintenance crews and fuel trucks, all rushing to prepare the aircraft for another sortie.
Scattered among the parking ramps are aircraft suffering through various stages of repair, surrounded by tool boxes, cooling hoses, fire extinguishers, maintenance stands, and teams of hustling mechanics. The technicians hunker around the broken aircraft, sweating in the early morning sun as they study their maintenance handbooks that lay spread across the baking cement.