Target: Heartland

By Edward Doney

It is Sunday, August 28, 2016, two weeks before the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11. Events occurring during these two weeks will determine whether this anniversary day will usher in a world at peace or a world at war. Al Qaeda has a nuclear weapon and intends to detonate it in Oklahoma Citythe heartland of Americato prove that they can strike anywhere with impunity, thus making them the legitimate leaders of Islam having the right to enforce their version of Gods messages to Muhammad from the Archangel Gabriel, the radical kill all non-believers interpretation of the meaning of the Quran.

They are certain that striking the heartland in this manner will ensure that no one will ever dare to challenge their authority.

Is this belief reality or abject stupidity? If al Qaedas plan is successful, will it lead instead to vengeance in the form of a nuclear holocaust in the Middle East, the demise of Islam, and genocide for Muslims?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jan 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458207296

Edward Doney

A retired mining engineer, Mr. Doney has worked in the coal industry throughout his career. He is also a highly decorated Vietnam veteran with 182 B-52 combat missions over Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. Having written numerous technical publications, he now addresses his true love, fiction writing, with his novel, Target: Heartland.

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Copyright © 2013 Edward David Doney

First Copyright Effective date of registration: February 24, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or used in a fictitious manner.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0729-6 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 01/09/2013

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

October 3, 1993 –

Three hundred feet over South Central Russia

The world is about to change forever and I will be one of its new leaders. Alexi Sergev, the Pilot of the Russian Tu-95 Bear bomber, reveled in the thought as he took his eyes away from the moonlit sky outside the cockpit window.

Hundreds of thousands dead, maybe a million or more, and Yeltsin among them. It had to happen. It had to happen because his future and the future of his country and the world demanded that it happen. There was no other way, no other time. History would be the judge and history would prove him right. Less than an hour from now it would happen.

Such a shame. Not the death of Yeltsin. That was the reason for this mission. But the other Muscovites, so many innocents. The nuclear missiles on board did not discriminate. They would not feel any pain. Death would be instantaneous.

In reality it would be a blessing for them. They would not have to endure the rigors of growing old, the cancers, the sicknesses, the aches and pains. He was doing them a favor. He was being the good guy. The thought brought a smile to Alexi’s face, supplanting the usual scowl most knew him by, a scowl some thought permanently affixed by the devil.

Alexi glanced at the clock on the instrument panel in front of his pilot’s seat. Only two minutes had passed since he had last looked. It seemed like twenty. He was getting more nervous as the missile launch time approached, and he didn’t like it. He prided himself on his ability to remain stoic on combat missions. It was a practiced habit, developed over a period of more than two decades of piloting this airplane. He was good at remaining calm under pressure, acknowledged as one of the best, if not the best, in the Russian Air Force.

Time was not critical. At 425 knots the time to launch would come soon enough. Still, he wanted it to be over. He wanted to start his new life. A life as one who determined the fate of his country. One of its leaders. Not one of the hundreds of insignificant pilots in the Russian Air Force who did nothing but take orders and fly their planes and then get drunk and chase the whores who flocked around pilots. He was a leader. It was time for his country to discover that. He would be admired by millions. Followed by all. A force in world affairs. Yes. It was his time.

This mission would reaffirm the direction his country had taken two years ago under Yeltsin’s leadership, but it would also guarantee his future as head of the armed forces of the most powerful nation on earth. To hell with the Americans. They had the armament but not the will. Tonight he, Alexi, would return his homeland to its position of world dominance. He willed himself to stop being nervous and instead think of the greatness ahead. His greatness. The thought made him smile again

His smile turned to a frown as he glanced at the copilot on his right. The man was worthless. He was staring straight ahead, as if in a trance, unable to perform checklists or respond to commands. That was fine. If he stayed like that it wouldn’t matter. His presence was no longer relevant to the success of the mission.

Alexi could perform the cockpit duties by himself. He resolved to put a bullet in the copilot’s head when the mission was over and that would be in less than an hour. No, the copilot might wake up from his trance and get in the way. He would do it now. Alexi pulled the silenced 9mm Glock from the compartment between their two seats and positioned it against the copilot’s flight helmet and pulled the trigger. The hollow point entered the mans skull and expanded, instantly turning all brain matter into a blob and coating the inside of his helmet with a mush like substance that blew out of the mans eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

Alexi smiled again as the copilot slumped over in his seat. Three smiles in five minutes. No one in his home based Squadron would believe it. They believed three smiles a month was his record. Alexi didn’t care. His nerves were steady now. Amazing how that worked. He keyed the plane’s interphone. Any activity on the radar Navigator?

The navigator of the Bear Bomber was also nervous, but for a different reason. This mission was insanity at best and treason at worst. He believed it was treason and he knew that the rest of the crew, except for the pilot, agreed with him.

The plane was already within one thousand miles of Moscow and the range of the four Kh-55SM nuclear missiles in the bomb bay was far greater than that. They were supposed to launch the missiles at 12:01 a.m. October 4, 1993, the significance of the launch time and date unknown to all but the pilot and the insane general who ordered the mission. The crew knew the target was Moscow and more specifically Boris Yeltsin.

Moscow had for days been the center of the battle for control of Russia, both the country and the future way of life for its citizens. If Yeltsin remained in power, the people would remain free, at least in the sense of being able to make their own decisions as to what they wanted to do.

If those trying to kill him had their way, it would mean a return to the days of Khrushchev, Stalin, oppression, mass killings for disobedience, and every other atrocity known to man. The pilot, the General, and who knew how many others, would comprise the new regime of dictators that would rule. Yes, this was a mission to kill Yeltsin. But the missiles that would kill Yeltsin tonight could also kill a million Muscovites. The missiles they would launch were equipped with 30 megaton nuclear warheads, any of which would obliterate Moscow. It was insanity and treason, and it had been ordered by their Ukrainka Airbase commanding General less than five hours ago.

Navigator! the pilot yelled over the interphone, angry that there had been no response. Anything on the radar!

The Navigator did not get a chance to answer. A burst of static echoed over the external communication channel. A voice broke through.

Pilot of the Tu-95 aircraft. This is President Yeltsin. I order you to turn around and return to base. Abort your mission. Your commanding general has been taken into custody and relieved of his duties. I am your Commander-In-Chief. Return to your base immediately. You will not be punished for beginning this mission as you were obeying orders, but you now have new orders. Return to Ukrainka Airbase immediately or you will be shot down. We have your position and an intercept is under way.

The navigator breathed a sigh of relief and crossed himself, a long forgotten habit his parents had taught him as a child before the practice of Christianity had become a rarity in his homeland. They would return to base and this insanity would cease.

Navigator? the Pilot was screaming now.

I have nothing on radar, Pilot, the Navigator said. The twenty inch diameter radarscope on the console in front of him had a two hundred mile range. The heading back to base is zero eight five.

Pilot.

Yes EW. The pilot recognized the voice of their Electronics Warfare Officer.

I have no indication that we’re being tracked. The EW monitored a multitude of instruments that would electronically alert him if any type of aircraft or surface station were aware of their presence, other than by visual means.

Maybe we’re not, Alexi said. If they’ve got the General they know we’re in the air, but not necessarily where.

The heading back to base is zero eight five. The Navigator repeated, We’ve been ordered to abort the mission.

Navigator, we have our orders. Unless Yeltsin transmits the abort code we will continue. We don’t know what’s going on in Moscow. Yeltsin may not be in power. We will continue regardless, the Pilot vowed to himself. Yeltsin must be killed.

He said they captured the General.

Then he should have the abort code. You just do your job.

This is insane.

War is insane, Navigator, the Pilot replied, do your job.

Pilot, thousands of our fellow countrymen will die if we launch these missiles.

Everyone dies eventually, Navigator. What we do tonight will benefit the generations to come. Now, for the last time, DO YOUR JOB!

I will do my job, the Navigator thought, and it may be to kill you before we are forced to betray our country. His devotion was to the Motherland, not to the idiots who had ordered this mission.

The radio crackled again. Pilot, turn around. Four Mig 29’s have been launched from the Sokol facility in Nizhny Novgorod and have you in range. They will intercept you. You will be shot down. I order you again to return to Ukrainka. Do not proceed. This is your last warning!

Pilot, The left turret gunner was speaking. We can’t shoot down the Mig’s. They can jam my sighting radar and I’ll have to go visual. There’s no way we can use visual targeting and shoot down four Mig 29’s before they get us.

Alright crew, listen! The pilot was furious. We have been given proper launch orders for this mission. We are to launch four Kh-55SM missiles on Moscow at 12:01 a.m.

But Pilot….

Shut up, Navigator. We have received no abort code. We have been told the General has been taken into custody. If that were the case they would have the abort code. We have been told four Mig 29’s have been launched to shoot us down. The Navigator has nothing on radar and the EW says we are not being tracked ….

They could be tracking us by satellite Pilot. My instruments wouldn’t receive any indication that we were being tracked if that’s the case. The EW clarified his earlier statement.

It doesn’t matter! The Pilot shouted into the interphone. We don’t know if any of what they’re telling us is true. Even if it is, we must continue our mission until we receive orders to do otherwise, and that means orders accompanied by the proper abort code.

But Pilot.

Silence! We don’t know the situation in Moscow. All we know is that we have been given orders. We are all officers and airmen in the Russian Air Force. When we are given orders, we carry them out. We shall carry out our orders. Enough!

Pilot?

Navigator, I said silence!

Pilot, I have four blips on the radar approaching at a Mach 1.7 intercept speed. Pilot, did you copy. Pilot … Pilot … I said ….

I copied Navigator. I need the following information. What is the exact range of the Mig 29’s? What is the time to intercept if we maintain our current heading, and can they intercept us before missile launch? Take all the time you need in your calculations. They must be exact. The Pilot looked at his clock again.

Roger, Pilot.

The Navigator adjusted his radarscope and noted the time as he took an exact fix on the approaching Migs. They were 190 miles to the northwest. It was 11:46 GMT.

Yeltsin said the Migs took off from the Sokol facility in Nizhny Novgorod, which was 280 miles southeast of Moscow. Their own position was 180 miles southeast of Astrakhan near the mouth of the Volga River on the Caspian Sea.

Navigator?

Stand by Pilot.

The navigator went back to his calculations. Their wellbeing depended on him now, not that arrogant s.o.b. they had for a Pilot. He wasn’t one of the regular crew members. Their crew’s pilot was on leave and the General, for some reason, sent this clown on the mission to attack Moscow. It was insane, no matter what anyone said.

Navigator.

Stand by Pilot! He couldn’t think with the constant interruptions by the Pilot. The constant bouncing of the aircraft didn’t help either. They had used wartime procedures since takeoff. That meant making the entire flight at 300 feet altitude in hopes of avoiding radar detection. The heat radiating from the ground had created air turbulence that turned the flight into a roller coaster ride. To magnify the stupidity of what they were doing, the procedures were a holdover from World War II, before satellites were invented. He had no doubt their flight path had been tracked since takeoff. That’s why the Mig’s were about to put an end to their mission.

He measured the distances off the maps on his desk console. They were 980 miles almost due south of Moscow. Their airspeed was 425 knots. Moscow was well within their range now and with each passing minute they would get eight miles closer and the accuracy of the missiles would be that much enhanced. He measured the distances again to verify what he had just calculated.

Come on navigator, the pilot broke his concentration again. We have a job to do. How long to intercept? I need to know now!

The navigator looked at his watch. It was 11:51. The calculations had taken five minutes. What was wrong with him. Normally he would have taken less than two minutes to make the same calculations. He glanced at the radar scope again. The Mig’s were at a distance of 64 miles.

They had ten minutes until 12:01 a.m. Their missiles had nuclear warheads. They would destroy Moscow, not just the White House where Yeltsin was in control. He believed the Yeltsin radio transmission. Their General was either insane or power hungry.

Was that their Pilot’s motivation…power? That didn’t matter though. Unless the abort code was given they were supposed to launch and hope the missiles reached their target and they had to either launch now, ten minutes before the designated launch time, turn back, or get shot down.

Pilot.

Yes Navigator.

Another burst of static came over the radio before he could reply. Falcon group this is Falcon lead. Radio check. Do you copy? The Mig 29 pilot decided to break the radio silence they had been flying under. He knew they were within radar range of the Bear and the instruments on the cockpit console in front of him indicated that the Bear was also tracking them. It was essential they communicate with each other now.

Falcon 1, this is Falcon 2. I copy.

Falcon 3 here. I copy.

Falcon 4 copies.

The Mig 29 Pilot acknowledged the three affirmatives. His mind still boggled at what was happening. For some yet to be determined reason the general over the Siberian region air forces had ordered a strike on Moscow. The general had been a lifelong friend of Yeltsin’s too, and now that Yeltsin’s victory was virtually assured, he was attempting to sabotage it all. Why? What was there to gain? Moscow would be obliterated and the country would be in more chaos than anyone could imagine.

No one would believe they had done it to themselves. America would be blamed and a nuclear war would likely result. Why? Was the general trying to become the new leader at the expense of the lives of millions of Russians? They had to stop this madness.

I have the target. Confirm.

He didn’t know why the Bear had not already launched its missiles. If it had been him, he would have launched as soon as he spotted the Migs. It had been ten minutes now. Maybe they didn’t know the Migs had the R-77 air-to-air missiles. If the Bear had launched before his Squadron had gotten this close Moscow would have been destroyed. Now they just might save Moscow. They would get the bomber. He had no doubt about that. Once they launched their missiles, the Bear would be down within a minute. Each Mig carried two R-77 air to air missiles. He would fire his two at the Bear. The missiles traveled at Mach 4 so they would impact the Bear approximately forty-five seconds after launch. The other Migs would fire at any missiles the Bear launched and hope they hit the target. It was a good bet they would because they were faster and had more precise tracking capability.

Falcon 2 confirms.

Falcon 3 confirms.

Falcon 4 confirms.

Stand by. The Pilot came out of his reverie. He would have to bail out over the Caspian Sea, as would his compatriots. There had not been time to top off their fuel tanks before they were scrambled for the mission. Normally the range of his Mig 29 was about a thousand miles but he was almost on empty now. The others probably were too.

Good thing the weather was calm. The life rafts in their seats and the radios they carried would ensure that they would be picked up, probably by one of the ships that were floating caviar factory’s proliferating around the mouth of the Volga in this area of the Caspian. They would be taken to Astrakhan after being rescued. There were worse places.

Falcon 4 has lock-on.

Falcon 3 confirms.

Falcon 2 also.

The Pilot looked at his radarscope. The lock light on his instrument console lit up. He looked at the range to the target. Sixty miles.

Launching missiles. He felt his Mig 29 shudder as the two R-77 missiles separated from the plane and began their short journey to the Bear bomber. He followed the burning brightness of their engines as they contrasted with the starlit darkness of the night sky.

MISSILE LAUNCH, MISSILE LAUNCH, the Bear’s Electronics Warfare officer screamed into the interphone. The Migs had launched their missiles as soon as they locked on and he hadn’t had time to even try to jam their signal.

NAVIGATOR, the Bear’s Pilot screamed!

Its only 11:57 Pilot, the Navigator replied, smiling, though knowing he would be dead in thirty seconds.

LAUNCH, YOU IDIOT, LAUNCH!

We are all officers and airmen in the Russian Air Force Pilot. When we are given orders, we carry them out. We launch at 12:01 a.m.

The navigator’s last words brought cheers from the rest of the crew even though their deaths were now certain too.

This is Falcon 4. Radar contact lost

Roger, copy Falcon 4. I lost it too. Did he launch anything?

No. The missiles hit and brought him down before anything was launched. Oh, here we go. Flameout, flameout. I’m out of fuel. See you in Astrakhan. Falcon 4 over and out.

Copy Falcon 4. We’ll meet up with you there. Good job. Be safe. The Pilot looked at his fuel gage as he turned west toward Astrakhan. The needle pegged on empty. He felt the aircraft slow as it came out of its turn. The silence of his engines hastened his actions. Falcon 1 ejecting. Engine flameout.

The Falcon 1 Pilot separated from his ejection seat and the life raft built in to the seat dropped away and inflated, dangling twenty feet below from the lanyard attached to his left ankle. He heard the other two Migs to his west, and then he heard one, and then nothing as he visualized the other pilots bailing out as they ran out of fuel.

He could see the sun beginning to come up over the horizon to the east. It was still dark below and navigation lights of four ships on the water were visible at various distances from his position. His group had been flying at 28,000 feet so it would still be several minutes before he hit the water. He felt good. Their mission had been a success. He knew the ships on the Caspian had been listening to the drama being played out in the sky above.

They had been tracking them on their own radars if they had that capability. He knew they could track fish under the water but he wasn’t sure about their ability to track objects at altitude. He would find out when he was picked up.

The caviar factory ships were the only ones on the Caspian at this time of year. He could almost taste the finest of the Beluga Black Caviars and the sweet wetness of the vodka he would be washing it down with. It would be party time on the boat to Astrakhan and oh, the tales he would tell.

He wondered what happened on the Bear. It was well within missile range of Moscow when the intercept had been made. They could have launched at least a half hour before his Squadron made the intercept. They could have launched after radar contact.

Did the crew finally come to its senses? Why didn’t they turn around and go back to Ukrainka when they had the chance? He supposed no one would ever know.

The splash of his life raft occurred an instant before his feet touched the water. He detached his chute and pulled the raft to him and climbed in. He verified that his location beeper was blinking and activated, and then sat back in the raft to await his rescue and the hero’s banquet that would soon be forthcoming.

Only later did he give a passing thought to the remaining six R-77 missiles on the other Migs that had run out of fuel and the Bear’s four Kh-55 missiles with nuclear warheads, all of which were now orphaned somewhere beneath the surface in the waters of the Caspian Sea.

Neither he nor anyone else would have ever dreamed that one of the missiles would be used to try and bring about the end of civilized society more than two decades later.

Chapter 1

Sunday Evening, August 28, 2016 –

Interstate 29 North of Grand Forks, North Dakota

I can’t die!

Stanton Wells, barely conscious, heard the scream.

I can’t die!

There it was again. What was happening? Who was screaming? Was someone really screaming or was it a dream? Everything was out of focus. He couldn’t think. He was in a daze and just wanted all of it to go away.

Suddenly his head jerked and smashed into the driver’s side window of his rental car. The agony of the blow was excruciating. Whatever it was it certainly was not a dream. The hurt elsewhere in his body carried him further back into reality. He began to remember what was happening, not at the lightning speed at which his brain usually functioned, but hesitantly, grudgingly, as if he wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.

His head hit the window again. He was being violently tossed around, his car tumbling. Then the staggering realization. He was the one screaming. He was the one in the middle of this horror scene.

The other car had come out of nowhere, racing upon him from behind, starting to pass and then smashing into him, forcing him off the road, over the embankment and into the field beyond.

He remembered hearing the screeching of brakes and the gnashing of metal on metal, feeling his own weightlessness as his car flew through the air, becoming aware of the excruciating pain in his knees and legs when they hit the bottom of the dash as the car bounced off the tree and tore through the boundary fence, rolling over and over down the sloping terrain into the adjacent pasture.

The car was still rolling, still tumbling. His body was jerked again by the violent movements. This time the pain permeated every nerve of his being. Then there was no movement. The car had stopped, but something was still wrong. What? He had to come out of it. Think Stanton, think. Of course. His 6’6" frame was hanging upside down, held in place only by the seatbelt. This was crazy. What was going on? Where was he? Why was this happening?

He thought again of his screams. He remembered saying I can’t die. The words had been precise. They were his. They were also fact. Dying today was not an option. The fate of his country would not allow it. The fate of millions throughout the world would not allow it.

He knew what had happened. They somehow learned that he had been listening and now they were trying to kill him. That had to be it. There could be no other reason.

Getting out of this car was his first priority. Getting away from them was next. They were out there. He knew it. He had to get away. He had to get away. He had to…get…away….

Stanton lapsed into unconsciousness.

The other car traveled nearly the length of a football field before it could skid to a stop after running the stranger’s car off the road. The two men in the car jumped out and ran down the embankment. Both became entangled in the barbed wire fence that bounded the 80 acre field.

Damn it! cursed the Russian. He struggled to free himself, becoming only more tangled. Ahmed, get me loose! he called to his Middle Eastern companion. Ahmed had freed himself and was already running into the pasture.

No time, he said.

Ahmed fired his weapon as he ran, strafing the stranger’s car. Still 100 yards away he watched the car finally stop rolling. Only a matter of seconds now. He would make sure the