Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 37

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.

Shortly afterward, two of Sokolov’s men had come to get him. Without a word of explanation — not that he could have understood anyway, having no Russian — they had hustled him downstairs and into a pale brown Mercedes, which was now driving at full speed along the Moskvoretskaya Embankment. He wondered where they were taking him, and why.

Ahead of them was the Pyatnitskaya Bridge, crossing from Bolshaya Ordynka Street to the foot of Red Square. As they passed under the bridge, Sparky could see a large military convoy moving north above them. The Mercedes continued along the Kremlevsakya Embankment, turning right on Bol’saja Poljanka, then right again on Maneznaja. They were now in front of the Troitskaya Tower gate of the Kremlin. The gate was guarded by numerous troops. However, rather than attempting to stop them, they waved cheerily as the Mercedes drove past and into the square.

They were met by two men from the presidential bodyguard, who escorted them to the office now occupied by Sokolov. The bald man from NTV was sitting there, still wondering what was going on, watched over by another member of the presidential bodyguard.

As Sparky entered, a tall, slim man in a well-tailored uniform, who had been explaining something to the bald man, broke off to greet him by name.

“You must be Sparky,” Sokolov said with a big smile. Sparky could sense the fear behind the smile. It was something he had picked up on the street. You become very sensitized to people’s feelings and expressions when that is all they have left in the world. “I’m Sokolov, a friend of Edward’s. I am very glad to see you.”

“So they have the array working?”

“Yes, it’s a long story, but they’re on the way here and we have a lot of work to do.”

“When you say ‘they,’ do you mean the convoy I just passed on the way here?”

“Wait,” Sokolov said, and he called in the Ukrainian officers. “They are almost here,” he said to them.

“We’re all with you,” said Major Ostinov. “All our men have volunteered.”

“I want you to know we really don’t stand much of a chance,” Sokolov said. “What we might gain is maybe a few minutes.”

“We are free people,” said the major. “Believe me, that is a good feeling, worth dying for. We choose to fight.”

They got as much information as Sparky had about what was heading their way, and the major left the office to get his men ready to take their stand. It was then that Peter’s tanks first opened fire.

Edward stared as if hypnotized by the digits that were counting down the minutes and seconds on the monitor. You did not have to be a rocket scientist, he thought grimly, to know what they signified. In thirty-four minutes and nine seconds, the missiles would be launched. And once that happened, there was not much anyone could do to halt the destruction of America. It was possible to retaliate but not to stop something that was already on its way. “Come on,” he said aloud, “what’s keeping you?”

Major Mirsk’s wound had been patched up, stopping the flow of blood. He now sat next to Edward at the computer console, watched over by Vanya, who seemed to enjoy pointing an assault rifle at a former member of the KGB. The gleam in his eye said he would enjoy it even more if the prisoner gave him the slightest excuse to open fire.

The telephone rang and Edward grabbed it.

“Sokolov?” he said. “Finally! All set?” Then he handed the phone to Vanya.

Vanya reeled off the names and locations of the Black Ghosts’ forces around Moscow. Then he handed back the phone.

“Is Sparky there?” said Edward. “Put him on.”

For several minutes there was furious activity in the control room, as Sparky asked questions and gave instructions. Edward answered and obeyed when he could, otherwise Sparky’s request would be translated by Vanya, for Mirsk to answer.

Finally, everything was set. This is it, thought Edward, it’s now or never. He looked again at the white digits of the countdown.

Around the Kremlin walls the battle raged. Plumes of smoke rose from the inner yards as bullets spattered off the thick walls the czars had built, which gradually gave way to the constant barrage of exploding shells fired at almost point-blank range by the sea of tanks moving from side to side like giant fire-spitting turtles. The Council of Ministers Building was ablaze. The earth shook as mortar shells exploded between the tanks. Every so often a soldier of the Ukrainian unit would come out from behind a smoldering vehicle and run under fire for a better position. Then he would fire a single antitank missile at the oncoming, seemingly endless waves of T-72s, blowing off one of the low turrets, turning the killer turtle into a burning, exploding heap of scrap iron. Another tank that followed would get the soldier in its sights and blow him and whatever he was hiding behind to smithereens. But gradually there were more and more of the smoldering heaps that used to be tanks, and the Ukrainians kept popping up. Rogov’s infantrymen were also running into trouble from the snipers who were picking them off from every direction. The Savior Tower was on fire, sending flames high into the air.

Around the corner, in the lee of the Tsar’s Tower, Peter sat in his truck, protected from the heat of the battle by heavy armor plating and the Kremlin walls. He was confident that within a matter of minutes his troops would have secured the Kremlin and he would be able to make a triumphant entry. He could feel the blood pounding in his veins. This was his great moment. The defenders of the Kremlin only made his victory taste better. There is nothing as sweet as a military victory against a brave foe, and whoever they were, they were brave. But in and around Moscow, Peter had as many brigades as he could want. He had tanks, armored troop carriers, and more tanks. Nothing could stop him.

Abruptly the monitor in the truck lit up, and a hiss of static came over the audio system. Peter stared incomprehensibly at the screen. “What the hell is this?” he shouted at the technician seated by the console. Then a bald, plump-faced man appeared on the screen. He seemed nervous, looking to the side as if he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Peter leaned closer to the screen. He wanted to hear what the man who couldn’t be was saying.

“We are expecting an announcement,” the red face said. He paused and someone handed him a note. He read from the note. “There will shortly be an address to the people of Russia by General Peter Rogov, the leader of the CG.”

“How can this be?” Peter roared. This unscheduled broadcast was going out over the array! That fool Mirsk. Somehow, the man had allowed himself to be tricked.

Peter leaned out the window and shouted an order at the soldier whose head stuck out the top hatch of an armored car. The car ground into motion, heading for the breach in the wall, followed by Peter’s truck. He had to get to a phone line and stop this madness.

Inside the wall, a narrow track ran from the breach by the Savior Tower along the back wall of the Supreme Soviet Building. At the far corner of the building stood one of Peter’s tanks, its cannon pointing across the square. There was a crunch of thunder as the cannon fired.

The armored car edged along the track, with the truck close behind. A burst of machine-gun fire from the trees opposite strafed the vehicles. An armor-piercing bullet managed to make it in. Some of the equipment in the back of the truck was damaged, but no one was injured. About halfway along, Peter called a halt. In the wall of the Supreme Soviet Building there was a back door, now level with and protected by the dark green bulk of the armored car.

“Open the door,” yelled Peter. There was more fire from the trees, quickly silenced by a return volley from the armored car escorting the truck. The first soldier out of the truck had been hit and fell painfully to his knees. The tank fired again, there was more fire from the armored car, and a second soldier began to disembark.

Across the square, two Ukrainian soldiers were preparing to launch an RPG. The rockets had so far proved highly effective: Scores of tanks were destroyed. The disadvantage of the RPG is that the user needs to expose himself to his target for a short time. But that disadvantage was undermined by the bravery of the Ukrainian soldiers, who kept popping up like poison mushrooms after the rain. Nevertheless, numerous tanks remained, including one positioned at the corner of the Supreme Soviet Building.

A soldier held the launcher on his shoulder, setting the tank’s center in his sights. The tank commander saw him and frantically tried to turn the turret so he could blow the man away. In the meantime, he opened the top hatch and started to fire the Gurianov machine gun, raising clouds of dust around the soldier, who didn’t move. The bullets hit the wall behind him. Finally the cannon was on target. Each fired at the same time and neither was around to witness the destruction of the other.

The loss of the tank was the least of Peter’s worries. In the back of the truck the one television screen that was still functional lit up again. Peter was enraged to see the face of Sokolov appearing and his voice saying, “To all divisions of the Black Ghosts, this is your commander, General Peter Rogov, speaking.”

“Impostor!” yelled Peter, beside himself with fury. Then he stuck his head out the armored truck window. “Move! Get that bloody door open, now, now!”

The second soldier reached the door and, attaching a small explosive pack near the lock, blew it off its hinges. Peter jumped out of the truck and, huddled between the technician and two more soldiers from the armored car, rushed inside the building.

They were met with a burst of fire from a group of soldiers at the far end of the corridor. While his men returned the fire, Peter opened a door at random. There was a staircase. Without hesitating, Peter ran up the stairs and into the first floor corridor. There was no one in sight here, but there were also no other doors. Peter ran to the end of the corridor and peeped around the corner, where he saw two soldiers standing guard outside an ornate double door.

Peter recognized the place. He knew they were guarding President Konyigin.

The president, seated on a large sofa, wished he had a drink. Everything had been going so well — the Elite Guard in position, the Americans’ plane just coming in to land. Then the television screen had unaccountably gone blank. Worse still, Gregorin’s mobile phone had stopped working, cutting them off from all but a handful of the Presidential Guard. There had been shouted orders and hurried movements of soldiers in the square below. In Red Square, visible across the Kremlin walls from the upper floors of the Supreme Soviet Building, heavily armed troops had appeared. Then the shooting had started. Something was obviously very wrong.

Konyigin seethed with impotent anger. He felt like an innocent bystander, watching but not directly involved in the battle going on all around him. But he knew that whatever happened, it would involve him soon enough.

He drew some comfort from the presence of Gregorin, his security chief. Solid, reliable Gregorin — he would not let anything happen to his president, would he?

Outside in the corridor, Peter again peeped around the corner at the two soldiers standing guard. He was alone again. Deep inside, he had always known he would have to do things himself. The men guarding the president should have been his men, and the president should have been dead by now. Peter couldn’t trust anyone. He would have to finish the job himself. He drew his pistol. Then, walking tall, he stepped into the corridor. The two soldiers stared at the general in his glorious uniform, with stripes and ribbons and rows of medals. They froze, just long enough for him to fire twice from the hip.

That was all it took. The two guards crumpled in a heap. Peter was at the door in a second. Pistol in hand, he opened it and walked inside.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said.