Shattered Bone Read Free Page A

is our opinion that a deliberate nuclear detonation is now unavoidable and is likely to occur within the next 10–15 years.
    CIA Report to the President

ONE
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    OSAN AIR FORCE BASE, SOUTH KOREA
    O SAN A IR F ORCE B ASE 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.
    This was Senior Airman Stacy Derby’s world. This is where she belonged. Working on the fighters was all she had ever wanted to do, and once she was given the opportunity, she considered herself very lucky. As a crew chief on the Fighting Falcon, she loved her work on the flight line. She loved it all; the smeIl of burning jet fuel, the overhead floodlights that iIluminated the ramp at night, the pressure of pushing to have her jet ready for takeoff, then watching with satisfaction as it taxied on out to the runway, the ground vibrating under her feet. She found so much satisfaction in what she did. So why was she taking such an enormous risk? Was she rcaIly willing to give it all away?
    Greed is an evil thing, she thought, as she made her way across thc ramp toward her aircraft. Sometimes people do stupid things for money.
    But maybe things wouldn’t have to change. In fact, if she were careful, everything would turn out just fine. She would hear the terrible news when she reported to work in the morning. Then she would mourn with the others. Tears of pity and grief would stain her cheeks, but that was as far as it would go. There would never be any suspicion. No evidence. Nothing to trace back to her.