Black Ghosts (16 page)

There was a mumble in the room. “Aren't we trying to bite off more than we can chew?” asked Dan, the well-tailored pilot.

“Probably.” Edward smiled at him. “But since when did that bother you?”

Everybody started laughing—a short, nervous laugh, but it broke the ice. They all knew they were in for the long haul, whatever it was Edward wanted them for. They also knew that once Edward had set his mind on something, no one could change it.

“I'm getting hungry,” said Tom, a huge man in a dark blue training suit. “How about we grab some chow?”

There was a rumble of agreement.

“Okay,” said Edward. “We'll take a break. Afterwards I'll fill you in on what the other side has planned and what I think we can do about it.”

The men got up and headed for the large, open kitchen. Edward stayed behind and sat down next to Sparky, who was still staring vacantly, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Edward was beginning to have some doubts about him now. He wasn't going to let Sparky slide back into the gutter where he had found him, but was it fair to the others to take him along? Edward was in command again, and the responsibility for the lives of others brought with it a whole new way of thinking. He hadn't thought he still had it in him and was surprised at how easily it all came back.

“Sparky,” he said, once the last man was out of the room. “Are you here?”

The sunken eyes slowly moved, but other than that, Sparky's face was lifeless for a long time. Then, in a very low voice, he said, “I am here, Skipper, but I'm not sure if this is all real. Is it?”

“It's real, all right.”

“How can I be sure? I had dreams where everything would be starting to go well, then I'd wake up back under the bridge.” He looked away. “It's cold under the bridge, you know. I like it better here. Tell me, please, is this real?”

Edward was not sure what to say. He had seen it before—they called it some syndrome or other. Too much pressure, and then something inside goes “click,” and it's all over. Joe Falco had warned him to expect this. He had said that sometimes people build this shield against reality, and if things stay right for some time they can climb back out. Edward was hoping it would work that way for Sparky. He could remember how the man was before—he would have trusted Sparky with his life without a second thought. Now he wasn't sure if he could leave him alone in the room. It was possible that this was only a temporary stage. But if it wasn't, he needed someone who could do the job. Edward decided he would have to call his gatekeeper and get a backup.

“I'll get you something to eat, buddy,” he said and headed for the kitchen.

“Yeah, get me something, man.” It was as if someone else was speaking and Sparky was just moving his lips.

Men who serve long tours in the field don't spend much time on eating. It's not that they don't eat a lot, Edward thought, it's just that it doesn't take them long to eat it. Soon all the men had finished their food and were back in the living room, each with a bottle or a tall glass of beer. Edward could sure use one now, but that was one wagon he wasn't falling off. The cigarettes were bad enough.

They were seated almost the same way as before. Edward lit another cigarette. “By the way,” he began, “if there's anything you people want while you're here—food or whatever—give me a list. We're not here for a diet.” His remark seemed to put everybody in a good mood.

“Okay. Let me just fill you in on what the other side is planning. As I said, we still don't have the full picture. What we know is that the Black Ghosts have already started to execute terrorist activities across Russia and are planning more. They are blaming the attacks on various anti-government underground, such as the Chechen resistance front and others. The reason for that is that they want to raise the level of alert in the Russian army. Eventually, this will cause the government to request the army to take positions and protect key installations and posts against further attacks. The Black Ghosts, who are well integrated into the army and in fact control elements of it, will put their own units in place under the cover of the emergency situation.”

“I still don't get it,” said Mario, a balding former sergeant in the Green Berets. “What do we care what happens over there? It's not like they're going to attack us or something.”

“If the military industry and sections of our own intelligence are backing this thing, it just can't be good for the rest of us. But it's not just that. The people behind this coup are crazy. They want to bring back the evil empire. They don't like us much. They stole the array from us, they murdered one of their generals on a bridge in New York . . .”

“I heard about that,” said Doug Findley, the British SAS man. “That was only, what, a week or so ago?”

“Right, and they killed a bunch of NYPD cops and Secret Service men. They really don't care much about who they kill. What they are really worried about—and this will tell you quite a bit about their intentions—is the upcoming disarmament summit. They want to strike before the nuclear arms are out of their control. At the same time, the Russian president is sure to keep his security beef-up as secret as he can. You see, he's very eager to get the treaty signed, because it will bring with it a large financial aid package to Russia, without which their fledgling democracy will not last.

“From what we know, the Black Ghosts will stage the coup when the president of the United States arrives for the summit. They will also block all radio and television communication as well as any other broadcast ability, using a device designed and created for the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which was stolen for the Russians by their American friends.”

“I'd like to get my hands on the bastard who stole it for them,” the sergeant said with an expression of disgust.

“Yeah, me too,” said Jeremy, one of the Green Berets who had served with Edward on loan to the military intelligence special unit. “I could spend some time with him, teach him a thing or two about skinning a cat.” His smile could send a shiver down anyone's spine.

“We might get that opportunity,” said Edward, “although I doubt it. Let's get this straight from the start: We might manage to stop what they are doing, but I'm very doubtful we'll actually nail them all. We are dealing here with the kind of people that never pay for their deeds.”

The room fell silent. Edward went on. “Activating the Barby will prevent the Russian people and the world at large from learning what is going on until their general has everything under his control. During the broadcast blackout, the mechanized and armored units of the Black Ghosts will take over the key installations across the country, the same installations they were supposed to protect. At this point, Russia will in effect have a new government. The U.S. president in Moscow will have to deal with Russia's military rulers on their own terms, which are not likely to be very favorable. Before the year is out we will have to stand back and let the new Russian empire devour whole sections of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. Or risk a global war to stop them.” Edward leaned back against the bar and put his cigarette out in the large crystal ashtray. He then turned back to face his people.

“Edward.” The British SAS man stood up. “May I call you Ed?”

“Sure.”

“Is there anything in our favor here? I mean aside from the surprise element, which is obviously crucial when an ant is attacking a mad elephant.” A low rumble of laughter crossed the room. “Anything—just for the morale?”

“Actually there is something.” Edward grinned back. “We have in our possession a component of the array that has in fact rendered it useless. They don't know their system is not operative. We hope that when they find out it will be too late.”

“I suppose that changes the picture,” the Englishman replied. “I suppose now the whole world will be able to watch us getting slaughtered on the telly.” He looked around, as if expecting a round of applause from the chuckling men as he sat down.

“You don't have to come along,” Edward responded quickly. “I said from the start that this was not going to be a tea party.” The chuckles turned into a roar of laughter.

Now Edward was sure they all knew what they were getting into and that he could count on them. It wouldn't be the first time in their lives they were stepping across the threshold into an abyss of uncertainty. He also knew they all wanted redemption for past actions they had taken beyond the call of duty—things for which medals may have been pinned to their chests but which destroyed a large chunk of their humanity.

“Good. So we can proceed. I've outlined the Black Ghosts' plan. Now let's look at ours . . .”

 

The dark green flatbed truck bearing a large steel container stopped at the gates, coughing out clouds of brown diesel gunk into the crisp morning air. The guard in the black, well-ironed uniform checked the documents closely, making Corporal Litov, the truck driver, somewhat nervous. The sight of military order and correctness was not what he was used to lately. Ever since Russia's giant step into the new age of democracy, sloppy disobedience was the rule of the day. And even though the sharply dressed guard, the well-painted walls, and the large iron gate with no rust visible seemed out of place and somehow ominous, they also promised a chance of a good meal, like in the good old days. Corporal Litov longed for the old regime, when soldiers belonged and were well taken care of and everybody knew that. It was a time when even he, a nobody driver, was a somebody because people had respect for the uniform of the great Red Army.

“You're late,” the guard said, looking at the clipboard in his hand.

“What?” Litov asked in disbelief. Not only had they known he was coming, which was unusual enough these days, but they also knew he was late. Even he didn't know he was late. He'd been sent on his way with little more than a wave and an order to keep quiet. This, however, was neither the time nor the place to tell that story. This was the army, the real army, the way he knew it was meant to be. “I got lost,” he said apologetically. “I'm not from this area and this was my first assignment.”

The sentry finally handed back the papers, checking something on his clipboard. He signaled toward the steel door at the side of the bunker's mouth, where a second guard, looking through an observation slit in the door, opened the gate.

“Move it,” the sentry said with a stern expression on his face, the kind that gate sentries in every army in the world use to project authority.

Litov, a backup driver with the Ninth Armored Division that had been moved to the outskirts of Moscow for exercises only days before, had received his orders that morning to pick up a container from Sheremetyevo-2 Airport north of Moscow and deliver it to this location. He was more than an hour late in picking it up, as he had taken the wrong exit off the Moscow Ring Road. Due to a lack of signs and the fact that his destination was not marked on his map, things had gotten a little hairy for him. But now he was no longer in a rush. His commander back at division had told him to gather his personal belongings for this trip as he was reassigned to his new destination.

The container had arrived by plane from London that morning, bearing the tags and bordereau of a diplomatic delivery. The bordereau had been signed by an assistant to the military attaché, an FSK man, at the Russian Embassy in London. He believed he was signing for a consignment of office furniture and filing cabinets.

Twenty minutes after Donoven's thoughts had been interrupted by Yazarinsky's bullets, the police had arrived at the pub. It had taken them another ten minutes to identify the body. A couple of detectives were sent to the deceased's flat, only to find it empty: There was not a stick of furniture, not a light bulb anywhere to be found. Where hours earlier there had been a man's life, there was nothing—not even, as the detectives soon found to their amazement, a single fingerprint. A neighbor had seen the movers arrive that morning but found nothing unusual in what they were doing. It wasn't the first time people had moved in or out of the building without telling him, he said.

Litov drove his truck through the newly painted gateway and parked inside the large garage space.

“The truck has arrived.” Yazarinsky's voice crackled over the intercom on Peter's desk.

“Very good. Tell Colonel Sokolov to examine the containers.” Peter sat back. This would be the ideal job for the plodding, methodical Sokolov, he thought. He was starting to dislike the man, who seemed to question him on every occasion. It was as if he didn't get the bigger picture; he expected the military takeover Peter had planned for so long to be temporary—until they could get things working again in Russia, Sokolov had said. What a fool, Peter thought. If we get Russia working again, what is the point of handing it back to the miserable people? What have the people ever done for Russia? Stalin, as the czars before him, knew the people needed a leader to fear. They still feared and revered Stalin, and he'd been dead for half a century. Peter wanted them to tremble when they heard his name too. And so they shall, he thought.

A few minutes later, Yazarinsky and Sokolov walked toward Litov's truck, now parked in the underground garage. Yazarinsky explained the situation.

“We have recently acquired the personal effects of one of our operatives in London. We have reason to believe this man has been in touch with American intelligence, in a way that may be detrimental to our mission. He himself is no longer a problem.” Yazarinsky permitted himself a rasping, excited giggle before continuing. “We have to find out who his contacts were, and what information he passed to them. General Rogov requested that you personally examine these materials and see what secrets they reveal. We brought you everything except the wallpaper.”