Black Ghosts (44 page)

 

 

 

The news came through by phone. A jubilant Edward told Sparky that disaster had been averted: The missile countdown had been halted. Sparky gave the signal and Sokolov wound up his broadcast. Once he was off the air, the colonel took the phone out of Sparky's hands.

“We did it!” Edward could barely contain his joy.

“Not quite,” said Sokolov, and Edward could hear the explosions in the background. “We've still got a battle going on here.”

“What is the signal for stopping hostilities?”

“The general said that in the battle we would stop fighting only when the other side was dead or waved the white flag of surrender.”

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for? We'll blow up the array here, and you wave the bloody white flag.”

“Good idea.” Edward could hear Sokolov shouting orders in Russian. “They're putting a flag up now. Let's hope it works.”

“Get the Russian president on the air,” said Edward. “Have him tell the people that everything's under control.”

“We'll do it over the regular broadcasting system, the moment you disable the array.”

The battle for the Kremlin had lessened in fury but was not yet over. The Ukrainians had performed superbly, and despite heavy casualties, they had been able to contain the Black Ghosts' onslaught. But Peter's infantrymen were still active and several tanks were still operational.

Soon after the white flag went up, the fighting ceased. Sokolov, still wearing the general's coat he had used for the television broadcast, walked into the inner courtyard. He had the Ukrainian officers with him as he approached the commander of the armored column that they had been battling.

“We have won,” he said to the colonel who had stepped down from the rear of a T-72 tank to greet him. The colonel saluted smartly. “What now, general?”

“Assemble your men at the Askanskia Stadium. Clear the Kremlin, the fighting is over. Russia is in our hands.” Sokolov knew he had to be convincing. Now with the array about to go off-line, if the Black Ghosts' soldiers suspected anything it would be very easy for them to reassemble. He had to get them out of the way until he could be sure the general was taken care of. And he had no idea where Rogov might be.

Nor did anyone know where the Russian president was. All Sokolov knew was that he was under guard in an upstairs room of the Supreme Soviet Building. Accompanied by a half dozen men, Sokolov went looking for him.

Of all the Kremlin buildings, the Supreme Soviet had been the worst hit in the battle. The west wing was almost entirely destroyed, and smoke was rising from several of the broken windows of the east wing. Only the central block was fairly free of damage.

They made straight for the room where the president was last seen. The bodies of the two guards outside were not a good sign. The ornate doors were hanging open. Two of Sokolov's men went in first, guns ready. Sokolov followed. Inside, Gregorin lay dead, the victim of Peter's first bullet. Two other personnel of the presidential bodyguard were wounded, one seriously. Peter himself was sitting in a chair, his eyes wide open, the back of his head missing. President Konyigin was weeping softly.

 

 

 

“We have raised Domodedovo control tower,” the pilot said over the internal speakers in Air Force One. President Bradshawe breathed a sigh of relief, even though they were still in the air.

For the last three hours they had been in a holding pattern above Moscow, circling round and round, cut off from the ground by a complete failure of radio transmission, not knowing whether or when it would be safe for them to land. Fenton, wanting to cut away and leave the area, was locked in an ongoing argument with the president.

“I'm not turning tail,” Bradshawe said. “We stay until we start running out of fuel. And then—and only then—will we divert to another airport.”

“But sir, what's the point? For all we know, there might not be a Russia down there, and surely not the one we were coming to visit.”

“We will leave when we know, and that's that.”

Now, at last, radio communication had been reestablished and they had been given permission to land at Domodedovo Airport. Fenton managed to open a channel to his people on the ground, who gave him the full picture. They had already been contacted by the Russian president, who wanted to talk to President Bradshawe. They were going to set up the link, then they would decide what to do. An endless stream of calls were coming in from the White House, where the vice president was about to be sworn in.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Bradshawe. “They all think we were killed? What are they talking about?”

On the ground, the media crews were in a state of utter confusion. Having seen with their own eyes the destruction of Air Force One a few hours earlier, they had now been told the president's plane would be landing shortly.

To insure that no red tape would trip up the valiant soldiers of the Ukrainian army, Sokolov had informed President Konyigin that the authorization to protect him came directly from the Ukrainian president. When Konyigin called the Ukrainian president and informed him of the heroism of his men, he was surprised, to say the least. But having the big Russian brother in his debt was not something he was going to argue about. He would worry about what had really happened later; for now, he decided to make the most of this unexpected Russian goodwill.

“I would be honored if you and the American president would be our guests here in Kiev. We will also request authorization to sign the treaty and join in your heroic effort for world peace and democracy.” So it was settled.

Accordingly, an Mi-8 helicopter was sent to the Kremlin to pick up President Konyigin and his bodyguard and take them to Domodedovo Airport. Sokolov was among the party. Edward had set out by road from the bunker and was to meet them there. The Russian president would board Air Force One, which would then fly on to the Ukrainian capital.

Edward sat in the cab of the old army lorry, on the tarmac at Domodedovo. He was watching the sky. First to land was the Mi-8, which came down not far from where he was parked. He could see the presidential bodyguard escort Konyigin to the waiting car, which drove him to a secure area. Then he saw Sokolov, whom by now he regarded as an old friend, alight from the helicopter to wander around close by it, stretching his legs. Edward jumped down from the cab and went over to greet him. They shook hands and embraced warmly. Standing in the shade of the helicopter gunship, they turned their eyes once again toward the sky.

Edward's men were slowly coming off the truck, tired and jaded with the events of the last twenty-four hours. They had taken some casualties: one dead and several injured, mainly with flesh wounds. They had learned the fate of their specially painted 747 when they arrived at Domodedovo, adding two more dead to their list—the pilots who had flown the false Air Force One into the airport. Still, they realized they had come out fairly well from what had basically been a suicide mission.

President Bradshawe had already heard about their feat from Fenton, who filled him in on what Larry had said and on other information regarding Edward and his men.

The president felt a lurch in his stomach as Air Force One lost altitude. This was it: Now they were definitely going down. He closed his eyes and grabbed hard on the armrests, as he always did.

Air Force One was now visible from the ground as it made a wide sweep around the airport before banking into its final turn. As Edward and Sokolov watched the growing spot on the horizon line up with the runway, they heard the rhythmic sound of a chopper taking flight. The sound got louder, and then, like a bad dream, it rose over the treeline across the tarmac. Not four hundred feet from them, the black helicopter gunship came into view, a cluster of rockets under each wing. Edward and Sokolov looked at each other. There was no doubt what the thumping wasp had in mind: It was hovering slowly toward the end of the runway, pointing itself at the incoming jet.

Inside the hovering gunship, Yazarinsky's eyes fixed unblinkingly on the distant incoming plane. He had heard the broadcast by the supposed leader of the Black Ghosts and had dismissed it as a futile gesture. It was true that no one apart from the core personnel at the bunker knew what Rogov looked like, but Yazarinsky refused to believe they would be swayed by such an obvious trick. And even if they were, was not Rogov himself still at large, eager to continue the battle?

Yazarinsky did not know. What he did know was that he had been ordered to destroy Air Force One, and he had apparently failed in that task. Now he was being given a second chance. Let it never be said, thought the little man, that he had failed in his duty. He readied the gunship's rocket launcher. The black dot got bigger, gradually taking on the shape of Air Force One.

“Do you know who that is?” Edward asked.

“I don't have any choppers,” Sokolov answered. “I believe this one is a CG. It's going to go for the plane.”

It felt as if time had stopped. Everyone was staring at the chopper and then at the incoming plane. Everybody realized what was about to happen, but no one did anything. As he ran back toward the truck, Edward shouted: “Mario, shoot the bastard down!”

Mario heard him and turned to grab the first weapon he could lay his hands on, which was an RPG antitank missile. The distance was at the limit of the weapon's range, and the target was moving faster than a tank, but it was the best he could do. He aimed ahead of the chopper and fired.

The roar of the approaching jumbo jet mingled with the pounding of the helicopter's blades. Yazarinsky was in the position he wanted. He put his finger on the rockets' firing button.

Before Yazarinsky could press the button, the RPG—almost at the end of its run but still as potent as ever—contacted the nose of the chopper. The gunship exploded.

Air Force One touched the ground, bounced up, touched down again, and taxied to a halt. The media people began to clap and cheer. The president and several of his entourage disembarked and were escorted to a private lounge in the terminal building.

Once all the explanations had been given and President Bradshawe at last got the full picture, realizing just what he had been through—and what he had missed—over the last few hours, he asked to meet Edward in person.

“It seems I have a lot to thank you for,” said Bradshawe. “You saved my life—twice—and you also saved that of the Russian president. Quite an achievement.”

“I had a lot of help from a lot of good people,” Edward said.

“I'm sure you did,” said the president. “That trick with the phony Air Force One plane—that must have taken quite a bit of planning and cooperation.”

“It sure did,” Edward assured him. Not to mention, he thought, lying, fraud, and theft.

“I can promise you,” said the president, “that what you and your men have done will not be forgotten.”

“I'm sorry to say I have a problem believing that, Mr. President,” Edward said.

The president looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”

“Because, sir, we did it before, and you people up there on the Hill forgot all about us. Why not again?”

“Because of what you and your men have done. Why don't you join me, and make sure? I can always use a good man around the White House.”

“It's not for me, sir,” Edward replied. “But if you really mean it, I know someone we all trust.” He was thinking of Joe Falco. The man could use a break, and this would be a big one.

“You got yourself a deal, my man. Now get your people aboard the plane and let's get you home.”

The president turned to the other members of his party who had also disembarked—his friend Richard Townes and the corporate financier Hubert Austin—and gestured that they should all get back on board the plane. At that moment, several of the Secret Service men came through the lounge, escorting a handcuffed Bud Hays into a waiting car.

“What makes a man do that?” the president asked, his face saddened.

As they headed to the lounge's exit door, a voice rang out over the terminal speakers. It was not the customary airport announcer. It was a woman's voice, and it spoke in English. “Mr. Singleton, I know who you are. You owe me.” Edward felt a shiver go through his body. There was no mistaking it: It was Natalie's voice.

“What was that about?” the president asked. The members of his entourage all shrugged. But Edward could have sworn he saw a nervous twitch pass across the face of Hubert Austin.

What did she mean? he wondered. He would probably never know.