Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 35

Everything was ready. A convoy of trucks, armored cars, and tanks was arranged in formation in the parking area of the bunker. Among them was a van specially fitted with sound and video equipment, from which the new ruler of Russia would show his face for the first time. General Rogov’s men were waiting for the order to close the iron fist that already held all of Russia in its grasp.

The telephone call came through right on schedule. The only problem was, it came from the wrong place. General Rogov had been expecting to hear that his elite commando corps was securely in position in and around the Kremlin. Now here was their commanding officer, phoning in from Vnukovo Airport. After apologizing for not landing in Gorky because of technical difficulties, he declared that he was awaiting further instructions.

The general personally got on the line. “Who instructed you to divert course?”

“I received instructions from Blaze Delta Fox, sir,” said the puzzled officer on the other end. “He said I should keep radio silence, sir, I know. But since we couldn’t land in Gorky, I thought I should call in.”

“Well done,” the general said. As it turned out, he thought, destiny was on his side. No one could stop him now. It wasn’t only Moscow that was at his feet; soon it would be the entire world. And without the arrogant Americans to disturb it, it would be a better world indeed.

“So it’s Sokolov,” the general whispered as he looked at his code list. “He’s the culprit.” Had he not the proof that Sokolov’s code name was used to divert the Ilyushins, he could scarcely have credited the earnest, methodical colonel with the initiative or guts to be a traitor — or could it be that he had misjudged him? Too late to worry about that now. Peter had only one option.

“Wait there,” he told the officer on the other end. “I will join you at Vnukovo and together we will take the Kremlin by force if we have to. They will not defeat us with a little trick like this.”

Peter went down to the control room. “Get me the ICBM site at Svirt,” he commanded.

“Svirt on the line, sir,” said the radio operator.

Peter picked up the microphone. “Nine nine four gamma nine. Begin the countdown now. Alpha, alpha two five five nine Peter.”

“Initiation confirmed,” came the voice over the speakers. “Targeting one o nine.” A red circle lit up next to the city of New York on the world map, then another number was called and a circle lit up next to Washington, D.C. Then it was Los Angeles, then Chicago. Within five minutes the entire United States was covered with tiny, ominous circles. Then came the voice again. “Countdown initiated, Svirt, over.”

On the map, white lines splayed out westward from a point north of Moscow. Somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, each dotted line split into several more, which spread out and finally linked with the little red circles. In the corner of the screen, white digits began to turn. One showed tenths of a second, moving too fast for the eye to see clearly. The other digits showed seconds, minutes, and hours. At this point the digits showed three hours, fifty-nine minutes and forty-five, four, three, two seconds.

Satisfied that all was now in order, Peter made his final preparations to depart. Everyone in the bunker knew their orders. He gave Colonel Mirsk, who was in charge of the array, a final briefing, and bid farewell to Major Androva, who was disappointed that she would not accompany the general on his triumphal journey to the Kremlin.

“When all is done, my dear,” he promised her, “you shall be the tsarina of all Russia.” Rogov got into his mobile media van and the convoy moved out of the bunker compound.

A half a mile away, on the other side of the valley, Edward watched the convoy leave. As soon as the last truck was out of sight, he sent his men on foot down through the woods in the trough of the valley. Their task was to get as close as possible to the bunker without being seen. Edward threw the crossbow into the back of the Jeep Cherokee and got behind the wheel. According to what Sokolov had told him, there was a road a couple of miles away that passed within a few hundred yards of the bunker’s mouth. More important, it passed a point uphill from the bunker itself, which meant that he should be able to approach unobserved. He was to look for a bend in the road by a large craggy boulder. Forty yards uphill from there was a flat area beside the road where he could park the jeep. He would then be separated from the bunker by about five hundred yards of inhospitable rocks and wilderness.

It took him about twenty minutes to drive around to the point Sokolov had described, by which time he hoped that his men would be in position. He left the jeep and struck out across a jumble of rocky terrain to the right. He made slow progress through the rocky scrub, feeling somewhat encumbered by his assault rifle and grenades, as well as the heavy crossbow.

He had moved perhaps three hundred yards when he felt the ground begin to slope more sharply downward. Rounding a rocky outcrop, he caught a flicker of movement below. He froze and watched, counting the seconds as they passed. Nothing happened until, seconds later, the same flicker caught his eye. He realized it was the helmet of the sentry as he passed on his rounds below.

Moving as stealthily as he knew how across the rugged terrain, Edward got within twenty yards of the sentry. He knew, from previous observation and the information Sokolov had given him, that behind the personnel door at the side of the bunker’s mouth, a second armed sentry would have his eye to the narrow horizontal observation slit. In addition, the front of the bunker was surveyed by two video cameras, one stationary and one moving. Positioned above the rolling garage doors, they provided between them a panoramic view of the entire frontal approach. Through binoculars from the other side of the valley, Edward had painstakingly observed the movement of the camera and the sentry. Marching back and forth from one side of the bunker’s mouth to the other, the sentry was in view of the cameras at all times, except for a few seconds when, every third or fourth time he reached the left-hand side, the moving camera was pointing away to the right. The video monitors were deep inside the bunker, in the control room. If anything untoward were to appear on them, the alarm would be raised, and the surprise factor, on which the success of Edward’s plan depended, would be lost.

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.