Black Ghosts (41 page)

He had to get closer. The land here was smoother, providing little or no cover. On the other hand, he was well above eye level, so as long as the sentry didn't lift his sight above the top of the garage doors, Edward was safe.

Crawling on his stomach, Edward got to within a few yards of where the trapezium-shaped section cut into the surface of the hill. Keeping his head as low as possible, he positioned himself directly behind the moving video camera. He could just see its nose protruding from the bunker's mouth as it swept across the grounds below. He also could see the helmet of the sentry as he slowly made his way from one side to the other.

Edward took a wad of putty from his pocket and began to knead it between his thumb and fingers. It softened with the rhythmic movement of his hand, which calmed his nerves. He knew the timing for this operation had to be impeccable. He calculated that on the next sweep, the camera would be pointing to the right just as the sentry reached the leftmost end of his path. He positioned the crossbow, dislodging a pebble that fell to the ground in front of the garage. The sentry stopped and turned around. Edward cursed silently. The sentry, deciding that the sound of the pebble was nothing to worry about, continued marching. But now the sequence of his movements was different, and as he reached the end of his beat, the camera was following him.

Edward had to wait until they got out of phase again. At least now, though, the crossbow was in position. Edward was able to check his aim twice as the sentry turned. Beneath him, Edward saw the nose of the camera as it swung. This was going to be it. At precisely the right moment, Edward let fly with the crossbow.

 

 

 

The media were getting impatient. They had found out just in time that the president was to land here instead of at Sheremetyevo, and they had rushed over as fast as their cars and vans could carry them. Now they wanted to see some action, but the president's plane was apparently in a holding pattern above the airport and would not be landing for another ten minutes.

The presidential limousines were also waiting. The Secret Service men inside had to do some fairly fancy footwork to get here in time. They all had to get past the Russian troops guarding the airport, whose tanks were stationed at various points, surrounding the runway where the plane was due to land. And more of them were moving in from the surrounding hills.

“I would rather have them pointing in the other direction,” one of the Secret Service men said as a pair of T-72 tanks sped in the direction of the terminal, one on each side of the runway.

“What do you want?” said his friend, leaning on the limousine. “They need to show they're in charge. How would you feel if you were on the losing side of the war and then they let you keep some of your toys?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right, but I tell you, I'd still rather have them move a little further down. If they are here to protect us, they should do that.”

Somewhere to the north of Moscow, President Bradshawe was getting ready to brace himself for the landing. Right now, it was the only thing he could think about. He was told that the airport had been changed at the last minute for security reasons, and he was assured that the media were informed and in waiting below. It was just going to take a little longer, Fenton said. He was not going to approve the landing until he got confirmation from the ground that all was well, he told the president, and the president knew the security chief was working within his authority and guidelines. There was no point in arguing, so he might as well sit back and try to relax for a while.

At long last, the media people saw the big plane coming in. Cameras turned and microphones were switched on, recording the exact moment when the wheels touched the ground, leaving a puff of white smoke as the brakes locked and the engines crunched into reverse with a deafening roar.

“A historic moment,” “a perfect landing,” said the reporters, eager to extract maximum footage from the rather commonplace event of a plane touching down. As it got closer, the large “United States of America” inscribed on the side of the fuselage came into sight, as did the Stars and Stripes on the tail, which rose some eight floors off the ground. The presidential seal signified where the door was, and the light blue stripe gave the ungainly whale some style.

After reaching what seemed to be the end of the runway, the big gleaming bird came to a halt. Turning slowly, it started the long taxi back toward the terminal. The Secret Service men were in their cars, already heading for the point designated as the final stop, at the end of a long red carpet which stretched from the entrance to the terminal building to the side of the tarmac, where a battery of microphones were ready to take in whatever the president decided to say.

“Why are they doing that?” asked the Secret Service man as they approached the microphones. More of the tanks were converging in their direction.

“Fuck if I know. Something doesn't look right.” He grabbed the radio and called for his team leader, who was in the first black limo forty feet away.

“I can see them,” said the unit commander. “I don't know, I think they're trying to impress us. I'm going to talk to their boss. Stay put.”

The unit commander got out of the limousine and walked over to the military command car which stood several feet away, its officer busy giving orders to his troops over the radio.

“Get those tanks out of my face,” the Secret Service man said. The tanks were now moving in closer, some of them turning on to the runway behind Air Force One, which was now just about at its contact point by the red carpet.

The Russian officer ignored the Secret Service man, who started to speak in Russian. That got the officer's attention. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Who are you?” the Russian asked.

“I'm head of the president's Secret Service detachment in Moscow.”

By now the reporters were coming closer as they, too, began to realize something was not quite right.

“One minute, please,” the officer in the command car said. Then he got out of the car and fired a flare gun into the air. The tanks closed in on the presidential plane.

“Here,” the Russian officer said to the Secret Service commander, pointing a pistol to his head. “This is for you.” Before he could fire, he was hit by a bullet that came from the direction of the Secret Service car. The officer fell to the ground. Most of the reporters, except for a few cameramen who stayed in place as if they were not at all part of the scene, fled toward the terminal building, only to be cut off by an advancing line of Russian soldiers. The Secret Service men joined what seemed certain to be a losing battle, their backs to Air Force One, protecting their president with their own bodies.

Almost lost in the gunfire was the ominous beat of the three Mi-8 helicopters that appeared as if out of nowhere. The beached whale around which the battle raged was trapped in a ring of armor and steel. The Mi-8s, with their twin circular jet intake openings above the cockpit and their extended angular tails, looked like some exotic breed of insect. But no insect could unleash the destructive power of an Mi-8. On each side, under the small wing-like protuberance that carried the fuel tanks, was a cluster of missiles.

Yazarinsky, in the middle chopper of the three, had his eyes fixed on the words he loathed, “United States of America,” marked along the side of the aircraft. It was there that he had instructed his men to aim.

Something came in over the radio and the Secret Service unit commander called his men to retreat.

“Back up, back up,” he shouted, directing them into their armored limousines. He was pushing as many reporters into the cars as he could, while bullets flew all around them. Some of his men were wounded and two were already dead. The media people were screaming in fear. A cameraman stood on the tarmac, taking pictures of the oncoming troops as if he were in the middle of a movie shoot. He was tossed to the ground by a fast-moving T-72 that went on to grind the man and his camera into a pulp.

“No way, I'm not leaving my post,” one of the Secret Service men shouted back at the unit commander.

“We need to regroup. We're good for nothing if we're dead. Get over here, you jerk.” They finally retreated into their armored limousines and started moving away from the plane, leaving it at the mercy of the tanks and helicopters. The unit commander could only hope none of the tanks decided to take him out. There was nothing he could do against them. About then, Yazarinsky gave the signal.

From each of the three helicopters, there was a burst of white-hot fire as the missiles were released. Leaving a trail of smoke behind them, the missiles zeroed in on their target: the exposed flank of the 747. The plane exploded in a mass of fire and smoke.

More explosions followed as the fuel tanks ignited. The destruction of the plane was complete.

The scene around the small podium was utter chaos. The red carpet was burning, the battery of microphones now half-melted, and the people who had not escaped into the limousines lay dead on the tarmac.

Inside the limousines, the media people were at first too stunned to speak. Then they began a confused babble of shock and outrage, trying to put into words the incomprehensible event they had just witnessed.

“The president is dead!”

“The president has been assassinated. Air Force One has been destroyed!”

But to no avail. The viewers in America who were watching the live CNN broadcast had been disappointed when, just as the plane was about to touch down, there was a break in transmission and a card appeared on the screen, preprogrammed to fill the space in case of an emergency, with the words “Temporary Fault” in yellow lettering across the top. A few moments later a confused anchorman came on the screen, saying that satellite communication with Moscow had been temporarily interrupted but they would be returning to coverage of the president's Russian visit as soon as possible. Meanwhile, in other news . . .

The communication array had seen its first use.

 

Without waiting to see if his arrow had found its mark, Edward leaped down on the concrete in front of the garage doors. He had six seconds to do what he had to do before the camera picked him up and someone raised the alarm. The pin was out of the grenade even before Edward was on his feet. Keeping low to remain out of sight from the stationary camera, which was pointed horizontally, Edward ran to the personnel door and, pressing the grenade to the wad of putty, stuck it near the handle on the metal door. Then he took cover around the side of the bunker.

The sentry lay on the ground. The arrow had sliced through his neck, piercing the jugular, and he was not long for this world. The last thing he was conscious of was the explosion as the grenade blew the lock off the bunker door.

As soon as he heard the detonation, Edward fired two bursts from his Kalashnikov, one at each camera, rendering them junk. By the time he had kicked the door open, his men were with him. Jean-Pierre tossed in a stun grenade. Containing a large charge of magnesium, it produced not a violent blast but a loud noise and a blinding flash of white light. Within, any personnel in the vicinity of the bunker's doors would now be temporarily but effectively blinded.

Edward's men charged through the open personnel door. They found themselves inside a large area like an underground parking lot, the oil-stained floor of which testified to the fact that until recently the area had housed a large number of heavy motor vehicles. Against the far side, two parked jeeps were all that was left behind after Rogov's convoy had left.

Dazzled and confused by the magnesium grenades, the soldiers in the parking lot fell quickly under the platoon's assault rifles. The gunfire, amplified by the echo from the concrete walls, gave the impression of a much larger contingent than was actually there. Led by Edward and Tom Murphy, the platoon rushed toward the doorways at the far end. One doorway gave into two spiral staircases, one going up and one going down.

“Which way?” Tom asked.

“Down,” Edward said, and he threw a flash grenade down the stairwell. They both backed up, backs to the wall, until the flash died down. Even though they had released the genie of surprise out of the proverbial bottle, they all knew there were still armed men in the facility who were not aware of what was going on. They ran down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as they could with all their gear and extra weaponry. When they came across a live target they fired a short burst to change his status, then moved on. Edward knew speed was everything. At the third level they reached a hallway, from which someone was firing indiscriminately into the stairwell.

Realizing whoever it was had not actually identified a target, Edward stopped his men and waited a moment. He put out his hand, and someone behind him handed him a grenade, pin already removed. He held on to the lever. The firing ceased while the shooter changed magazine clips. Edward released the lever, waited for a full two seconds, and tossed it through the opening on the landing. He leaned away, leaving the grenade to do its work.

There was silence. They slowly walked down toward the landing. Stepping over the torn body, they cautiously looked down the corridor. At the end of the hall there was a large metal door with an inscription in red Cyrillic letters.

“Vanya,” Edward shouted. “Is Vanya still alive?”

“Da, da. I'm fine, why you suddenly care about me?” The Russian came forward, stepping over the body and into the long hall. Edward pointed at the door. “Can you read that?”