Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 10

Edward looked shabby in his old coat, worn sneakers, and wrinkled T-shirt. The fact that he had not shaved for three days, or washed for that matter, added considerably to the strength of his cover. Before going on the streets, he had burnt a cigarette hole in the sleeve of his coat and rubbed ash into the T-shirt to give it that lived-in look. But after the second day, he not only looked the part, he also smelled it. He knew that when people are cast or fall into the gutter of life and are regarded as non-persons by the rest of society, they have to adapt in order to survive. It’s a caveman existence on the rim of civilization. All the rules change, and there are no milestones to mark the path. Once he started to look for ways to clean up rather than look bad, he knew they would accept him.

The only way to get information from people who had nowhere to go was to listen. If you asked questions beyond the immediate needs of survival you had to pay for the answers, and what you got for your money was usually not worth much.

Edward thought he might find what he was looking for here. He left his car where he had parked it, on 34th Street, and headed down on foot to 32nd. Underneath the bridge, invisible to all but their own kind, were a few faded figures, blending into the heaps of garbage and discarded appliances. They were gathered around a black oil barrel from which the open end spewed black smoke and a few orange flames. He moved toward them. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he could feel the small transistor radio he had bought from a pawnbroker on 37th Street the previous morning.

Already it seemed a long time since Edward had left the so-called civilized world, although in fact he was only forty hours into the grime.

“What can you tell me about street people?” he had asked Robert, his buddy from the NYPD, before starting his descent into the underworld.

Robert made a face. “What do you want to know? They’re everywhere — can’t get away from them. Most of them smell bad. What else can I tell you?”

“If I was looking for one guy in particular…”

“Good luck. There’s a thousand of the suckers in New York City alone. Where you gonna start?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

Robert looked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Okay, let me think.” Robert chewed his toast for a minute, took a drink of coffee, and looked to the ceiling, his brow wrinkled. “Okay. Who is this guy? Who was he before he became a street person?”

“He was a radio operator in the Navy.”

“Name?”

“Montgomery Houston.”

“Ever use a nickname?”

“Monty, I guess. Why?”

“A lot of them are only known to other street people by a nickname. Okay, what else? Joined the Navy. Likes the sea. You could try the waterfront, for a place to start. Be careful, though. They are very protective of themselves. They know we don’t give a shit about them, so they can get tough.”

There was something about Montgomery Houston that Edward just couldn’t turn away from. He had no doubt that whomever else the gatekeeper had found for him would do just fine, but he wanted Houston. It was very possible, as Joe Falco had said, that even if they found him he might not be in the kind of shape they could use. But Edward knew that he was looking for part of himself out there. He needed to try to bring the man back, to let him know that even if he was no longer useful they still owed him. They owed them all, but Edward was going to try to pay one back, even if the debt wasn’t his.

Edward approached the ragged group of people around the fire. One was a tough man in a brown trench coat. His hair showed random bald spots, as though someone had given him a haircut with a machete. He had a mad, vicious look in his eyes. Next to him was an old-timer with a dirty gray beard. He looked as if he was waiting to pass away where he stood in peace. Between them stood a black woman who mumbled, chanted, and sang like a person in the throes of religious ecstasy and spoke in tongues. The two men ignored her.

Edward moved closer, stretching his arms to take some of the fire’s heat as he took his place in the circle. He said nothing and just stood there for a while.

“How ya doin’?” the old-timer said morosely, as if he had just emerged from a deep sleep and noticed a guest in his house. Edward nodded noncommittally.

“Fuck off,” said the tough man. “Fuck off or I’ll kill ya.” He remained in place, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, as if waiting for the old man to send him to rip Edward apart.

“No you won’t,” said Edward.

The tough man stared insanely into Edward’s eyes. Then, seeing something there that frightened him, he looked back at the fire, his head lowered.

Edward took the radio from his pocket. “See this? It’s broke. Know anyone can fix it?” The black woman stopped her singsong mumbling and looked at the device. So did the old-timer. The tough man kept his eyes fixed on the fire. Edward spun the dial. “See? I’m looking for someone who can make it work.”

The black woman looked at Edward. “Sparky knows,” she said. It took a moment for the coin to drop. “Where can I find Sparky?”

She turned her head toward the foot of the bridge, where it touched the gray river.

Edward couldn’t see a thing at first, but as he came closer he saw the wet cardboard box and the figure huddled inside, staring blankly at the water, the faint ghost of a person Edward had once known.

“Sparky?” said Edward, keeping his voice down, not wanting to startle the man. The face was pale and expressionless. When he turned to look at Edward, his eyes were vacant. “I need to talk to you,” Edward said as he drew level.

“Why?” said the man, turning back and staring at the water.

“Do you know who I am?”

Sparky blinked his eyes. “What if I do?”

“I need your help.”

The pale man in the cardboard box looked at Edward. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Me? You want me to help you? Do what?”

“Why don’t we go get something to eat and we’ll talk?”

The bundle of rags reached his filthy hand into his pocket and took out a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in newspaper. “Here, we can share this.”

Edward suddenly remembered that to Sparky he must seem just as miserable as Sparky himself. “Come on,” he said, reaching out to the man.

Sparky shrank deeper into his box.

“Have you heard from Hannah?” Edward asked.

Suddenly there was anger in the eyes that, seconds before, had been dead. Sparky sat up. “What do you want from me?”

“I need your help, man. What is so hard to understand about that?”

“What can you tell me about Hannah?” said Sparky, his voice quiet.

Edward breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it would be all right now.

“Let’s get out of this place, buddy,” he said. “When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

Sparky scratched at the stubble on his angular jaw. “Let’s go,” he said.

At first glance, it would be difficult for any outside observer to find anything that might link the dozen men seated around the spacious living room, except maybe for the fact that they were congregated, listening intently to Edward.

At a more thorough glance, one might notice a certain look, a somewhat weary expression on all of their faces. Edward knew that look well: He saw it every time he shaved. All of them together had seen enough anguish to last a generation. The two pilots looked like clean-cut Americans — until you noticed the tattoos on one and the scars on the other. Apart from Sparky, who sat in a corner looking lost, the rest were combat grunts. Seven were from the Green Berets — America’s finest except, perhaps, for the two SEALs who sat next to them. There was one man from the British Special Air Services, known simply as the SAS, who’d been brought along by his friends, two Canadian veterans of the famous Airborne Regiment of Petawawa.

Already Edward could feel their particular energy starting to build. There was enough experience in this room to topple a government or save a nation. If only he could harness all that energy and experience, there was a good chance that even his hair-raising plan might succeed. They had the advantage of surprise on their side. Even if the odds were stacked heavily against them in every other aspect, surprise had a price of its own.

“So who are the bad guys in this thing?” asked a man named Tom, lighting a cigarette and automatically handing the pack to the person next to him.

“The Black Ghosts are the enemy.” Edward paused. “Well, they are the visible enemy. As far as we know, there are also people on our side that are helping them achieve their goal.”

“You mean Americans?” said Jeremy, a bearded man in a leather biker jacket with a large snake and dagger tattooed on his thick arm.

“Yep, they are Americans, all right. You know the kind: They sent us all to hell and didn’t want us to come back and tell the rest of the people what jerks they were. They work behind the scenes, turning a profit from every drop of blood we have ever shed.”

“Who are we working with?” asked one of the Canadians, a tall, blond man with a hint of a French accent.

“We’re on our own. We trust no one and work with no one but ourselves.”

“Who the fuck are we doing this for?” asked one of the SEALs, a thin man in a black turtleneck.

“And why?” asked the other SEAL, a man named Vern. “So they can kick our butts again? Who gives a shit anymore?”

“Okay, okay.” Edward could feel the reins slipping out of his hands. “We all have our reasons for being bitter, but this is bigger than that. If we don’t do this, everything we stood for doesn’t mean shit. Everybody that died gave his life for nothing, everybody. We all need to take one last shot at trying to get it right.” He stared back at Vern. “Why? Because I asked you to, because I believe it’s important we do this, because there is no one else that is willing or able to do it.”

Edward picked up the cigarette pack from the coffee table and drew one. The thin man in the black turtleneck tossed him a Bic lighter. After he’d lit up, Edward tossed the pack back on the table. His voice was now low, calmer. “The reason we ended up in ‘Nam was the Cold War. We couldn’t fight the Soviets, and the same went for the Chinese, so we got stuck in that bloody mess. We couldn’t win, they wouldn’t let us, and now it’s the same people who want to bring that same shit back. They want to make a profit from another generation they can put through the meat grinder of war.”

He turned to face the men on the sofa, raising his hand in irony. “Limited war, of course, so they can control the expenses and make it worthwhile. They’re just aching to start pumping out those damn body bags again, and the only thing standing between them and their goal is us.”

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…”