Black Ghosts (42 page)

“Central Information Center, or something like that.”

“Good, now get back. Valdez?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you please open that door for me?”

Chico Valdez drew a small package from his pouch. “Everybody back into the staircase,” he said, heading for the metal door. Edward stayed behind to cover him in case some creep showed up from somewhere unexpected and tried to hit his man.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Valdez shouted, running back toward Edward. As they cleared the hall, the blast shook the entire bunker. “What did you put in there?” Edward asked as a cloud of smoke and dust filled the hall and stairwell.

“Just your everyday plastic.”

“Let's go! Let's go!” Edward shouted. And they all ran down the hall. The room that opened through the smoke before them was huge. There were screens on all the walls. The chatter of calling radios went unanswered. Then came a burst of gunfire from behind one of the consoles. Tom silently fell to the ground. Edward knelt by him. He couldn't feel a pulse. Valdez helped him pull the big man out of the room and lean him against the wall. They checked his pulse again but he was dead.

They heard the thud of an attack grenade in the control room. There were several short bursts of fire. Then there was silence.

“It's clear,” came the French-accented voice of the Canadian. They walked back inside. Jean-Pierre and Doug Findley had killed three of the five men who were in the control center, and two more were wounded and under guard. Edward sent five of his men to survey the entire bunker and ensure that there were no remaining pockets of resistance.

Colonel Mirsk had been wounded in the fray, whereupon he had surrendered immediately. He now sat on the floor with his back against the wall, the front of his uniform soaked in blood, a couple of Kalashnikovs aimed in his direction. Around him, the illuminated maps and computer monitors continued to wink and glow. Edward bent quickly and examined the prisoner's wounds.

“Get Vanya in here, quick,” he said. Someone went off to look for him.

Vanya was in the parking lot, smoking and assessing the damage to the bunker. He was just thinking what a useful resource a place like this could be to Yuri's organization, when someone called him into the control room.

“Tell this man that unless he receives medical attention quickly, he will probably die,” said Edward, pointing at Colonel Mirsk. “He will obtain that medical attention as soon as he answers all my questions truthfully.” Vanya looked a little blank, but when Edward repeated the order he nodded in understanding. He spoke in Russian to the prisoner.

All the fight had gone out of Colonel Mirsk. He was suddenly very clear about two things: one was that the Black Ghosts had been defeated; the other was that he didn't want to die. In answer, he gave a tight nod.

“Ask him to tell us what these mean,” said Edward, pointing at the illuminated maps on the wall.

The wounded man replied slowly, painstakingly, beads of sweat on his forehead. In halting English, Vanya began to translate.

“Red, Rogov's troops, yesterday. Now go to Moscow.”

“How many troops?”

“Many thousands. Tanks too.”

Edward had Vanya write on a notepad the disposition and movements of the troops in the Moscow area as Mirsk described them. It seemed that Rogov was intending to throw the full weight of his considerable forces at the Russian capital.

“Hey, have a look at this, boss,” said Doug Findley, pointing at one of the computer monitors. “Looks like a countdown. D'you reckon the place is going to blow up?”

Edward looked at the screen with the white digits dancing in the corner. The dotted white lines that fanned out from Russia to North America looked awfully like missile trajectories.

“Tell him to explain this,” Edward said to Vanya. While the question and answer were being translated, Edward sat at the computer console and experimentally pressed a couple of keys. The image on the screen changed: Now it showed the interior of a rocket silo. The foreground of the picture was filled with the rounded nose cone of an intercontinental ballistic missile. In the background, the curved dome of the silo was beginning to open.

Vanya was now ready with Mirsk's reply. “Nobody can stop. Only Rogov.”

“What do you mean?” asked Edward.

“Personal order. From him only. Or else no stop.”

The full situation now became clear to Edward. Rogov was going to unleash—had unleashed—a nuclear inferno that would destroy one-half of the Earth. Unless something could be done to halt that countdown, North America was about to become twelve million square miles of scorched wasteland.

“Where is Rogov now?”

“To Vnukovo.”

“To Vnukovo? Why there?”

“Many soldiers there. Then to Kremlin.”

To the Kremlin . . . Edward stood there for a moment, speechless with anger. After all they had done, the bastard still had the upper hand. Was this it? Was there nothing more they could do?

“Find me a phone that works,” he snarled.

 

 

 

Seated at the desk that had until recently been occupied by Denisov, the telephone to his ear, Colonel Sokolov listened attentively to what Edward had to say. By the time the American had finished, Sokolov was shaking his head.

“There is a problem. I cannot order troops into action that are not under my command. These people think they are making a movie, for God's sake.” He paused. “Yes, I know they are real soldiers, but they are not my soldiers. We need them to be activated and the only one who can do that is the Ukrainian president.” He paused again. “I can't go to the president because I don't know how many people around that ape are loyal to Rogov. If we show our cards now, we're lost.”

Sokolov listened again. “No,” he said, “very few people in the organization know what he looks like.”

He listened for a few more minutes. “Very well,” he said, and hung up. He went out of the office to where the commanding officer of the Ukrainians was waiting.

“I want every officer you have in here immediately,” he said.

Within ten minutes, the captains and lieutenants of the Ukrainian units were assembled in the office.

“Thank you for being here, for collaborating in this project,” began Sokolov. “You are fine soldiers, and a fine soldier always does what is expected of him to the best of his ability, whatever the circumstances. You were brought here on the understanding that you were extras in a film production. Unfortunately, the situation has suddenly become much more complicated than that. We have just received word that a military coup is being attempted. A large military force is on its way to the Kremlin at this moment. Moscow is surrounded by rebel forces. The whole of Russia is in danger of falling into the hands of a military dictatorship.”

Sokolov paused to let this information sink in. The officers were looking at one another with astonishment. This was not at all what they had expected.

“Very good plot,” said Major Ostinov. “I like it.” The others, thinking as he did, started nodding and smiling again.

“No.” Sokolov stood up. “This is not a movie, this is bloody real. I need hardly say what a Russian coup would mean to you, loyal citizens of Ukraine. An expansionist, militaristic regime in the Kremlin would give you two options: slavery or war. And it would not be a war that you would find easy to win.” Again he paused, looking around the room at the expressions of shock and perplexity on the men's faces.

“We must cut this attempted coup off at the root, before it can gain strength and grow. We are presently engaged in communications with your president. We are requesting the authorization to put you on active service immediately. When that authorization comes through, I expect you all to be ready for battle. Are there any questions?”

“How will we receive the authorization?” asked Major Ostinov.

“I'm afraid that is one of our other problems,” said Sokolov. “The enemy has managed to suppress all radio communication. Here, within the Kremlin, we must rely on telephone communications or word of mouth.”

“When are the rebel forces expected to arrive here?”

Sokolov looked at his watch. “In one hour at the most.”

“I will have to give my people the option of fighting or walking away,” the Ukrainian officer said.

“What are you talking about?”

“We are free people, we no longer have the heavy boot of the Kremlin on our throats. I agree that if there were to be a military coup in Russia, we would be next in line. And as we can see in Bosnia and other places, the world will not necessarily do very much to help us. I am willing to help you, but because this is not the Ukraine, I will have to ask my men to volunteer.”

Sokolov was not happy with what he heard, but he had no other options. He had thought of trying to reach the real Kremlin Guard in its barracks but then discounted that notion, remembering how many of them had passed on information to the CG over the last few months.

There were some more questions, and then Sokolov sent the officers to their posts to explain the situation to their men, await the presidential authorization, and prepare for battle.

Sokolov strode outside into the bright sunlight. He could not believe the calmness of the place. He was aware of the cloud on the horizon, but no one else could possibly know about it. The feeling of walking on a battlefield before the battle was fought was very eerie.

He climbed into the jeep and drove to where the media vehicles were parked in the corner of the square. He stopped by the van that bore the Cyrillic symbols for NTV, Russia's largest independent commercial TV channel.

“Who is your senior staff member?”

A bald, plump-faced man came forth. “I am,” he said. He didn't like soldiers, never had, and this one looked as angry and domineering as any he had ever seen.

“You will come with me,” said Sokolov. The bald man and his crew exchanged nervous glances. Was he being arrested?

“On what grounds . . . ?” began the man, but Sokolov cut him off with an angry wave of his hand.

“I'm not arresting you. I need your help—urgently.”

“Help? What for?” The man was still doubtful.

“For Russia, for democracy!” shouted Sokolov. “Now get in here.”

The bald man got in the jeep with Sokolov and nearly fell over backward as the vehicle accelerated away.

 

The convoy moved in a majestic procession along the Bolshaya Ordynka, the tank chains chewing up the cobblestones with a loud grind. General Peter Rogov sat in the passenger seat of his armor-plated media truck. Behind him were monitor screens, video cameras, microphones, and other radio and television equipment. The screens were on but presently blank. Two of them monitored the truck's video cameras, which for the time being were idle. The third was hooked up to the array in the bunker. It monitored whatever was being transmitted by the array, which was also idle at this point. Originally the general had wanted to have marches of the Red Orchestra played over the dead airwaves, but he decided against it, as it might tip off the enemy to the fact that there was a military coup in process. The array was now merely suppressing all other broadcasting without transmitting anything in its place. Peter was not ready to make his broadcast; the Kremlin was not yet his, and besides, he needed the phone link between Major Denisov's office and the bunker to transmit his broadcast to the array and from there to the world.

Rogov wished the convoy would move a little faster. Every second that passed meant that the forces occupying the Kremlin—whoever they were—would have time to prepare their defense. He had decided not to attempt an entry via the Troitskaya Tower, which would likely be heavily guarded. Instead, he would approach from Red Square and use cannons, rockets, and grenades to puncture two holes in the Kremlin walls, one on either side of Lenin's Mausoleum. He would then invade the grounds in a two-pronged attack. Infantry and armored personnel carriers would enter near the Nikolskaya Tower, between the former Arsenal Building and the building of the Council of Ministers, while he would enter behind the tanks, which would burst in near the Savior Tower. The name of the tower was so appropriate, he thought, and since he was making history, all the details had to be properly planned.

The convoy moved across the Pyatnitskaya Bridge. Nothing stood between him and the Kremlin: Whatever Sokolov had been able to muster he would undoubtedly handle in a wink. He, General Rogov, had armies at his command. He had no doubt that there was a scramble in Washington and most of the world's capitals to try to understand what had taken place on the tarmac at Domodedovo Airport. The vice president of the United States was probably being sworn in at that very moment somewhere in Washington—most likely in a bunker. By the time the swearing-in ceremony was complete, he would not have a country to be president of. Now there was only this hemisphere, only one great power, and Peter was about to become its ruler.

Among the cars moving along the Moskvoretskaya Embankment below, to the right of the military convoy, was a pale brown Mercedes, also heading for the onion-shaped spires of the Cathedral of the Intercession in Red Square.

 

 

 

Sparky Houston was worried. He had spent the morning at the television station, in communication via radio with Air Force One. He had also been watching on the television monitor the scene at Domodedovo Airport, as the 747 had approached touchdown. Then all communication had been cut—the radio link and the television picture had failed at precisely the same moment, as if a blanket had been thrown over them. Sparky knew about the array and could only assume that it had caused this blackout. But he didn't like it. He felt as though he were in the dark—not a feeling he enjoyed. It reminded him too strongly of the months of darkness he had spent living on the streets of New York City.