October's Ghost

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CAVALRY

The president of the Russian Federation has two offices. One is located in the Russian Federation Building, ironically called the White House because of its alabaster finish, which overlooks the Moscow River where Kalinin Prospect crosses that body of water. The second office, which had been the official seat of power since the demise of the Soviet Union, is the same working space used by the leaders of the former USSR. Situated near the northern corner of the roughly triangular Council of Ministers Building, the office affords a view of Red Square that is only mildly obstructed by the monolithic Lenin Mausoleum off to the right. Directly across the square is the GUM Department Store, which, even with the depressed and stagnant economy of Mother Russia, usually has throngs of Muscovites pouring in and out of its doors.

But the square was empty as President Gennadiy Timofeyevich Konovalenko stared out upon it. No shoppers meandered away from GUM. No tourists admired the neoclassical architecture surrounding them. Moscow was asleep, its residents, except for the hardiest drunkards prowling the frigid Metro stations, at peace. At peace. The president hoped they would wake to such a reality.

The motion of an approaching Zil limousine caught his attention. It sped past St. Nicholas’s Tower and disappeared through an unseen gate in the massive stone wall that surrounded the seventy-acre Kremlin grounds. The president turned back from the window, nodding to his foreign minister. “I believe we are about to receive visitors.”

Yakovlev nodded back and sat down, shifting his chair slightly to better face the door. The president went behind his desk and sat also, rolling his sleeves back into the neat cuffs that had loosened during the hours of waiting.

“Let us hope that this is just a delay for dramatics,” Yakovlev said. They could have done without such very easily.

The president brought his hands up to his chin. His eyes were locked on the twin wooden doors leading to his secretary’s adjoining office, which itself led into a wide hallway. Not a sound could be heard. The silence lasted for several minutes before the synchronized tapping of heels upon the wooden floor began. Two distinct sets. As expected, the good interior minister had brought company.

The doors opened without a knock. “Gennadiy Timofeyevich! Your lunacy has gone on too long!”

Konovalenko barely moved as his interior minister bellowed the proclamation. At his side was a man not unfamiliar, in full uniform, a pistol at his side. At least it isn’t in his hand, the president thought. “Georgiy Ivanovich. You brought a guest.”

“I bring General Pavel Suslov,” Bogdanov said. “And the six thousand men of his division.”

The president’s eyes mockingly scanned the room and the hallway through the open doors. “I see only two men, and I am not certain they can be classified so highly in the social order.”

Bogdanov steamed. Even though the pig knew he was finished, he continued to throw insults! “They are very near, Gennadiy Timofeyevich,” Bogdanov said, continuing his intentional nonuse of the man’s title. “And they will see to your removal, and to the removal of all those who have supported your abuse of the Motherland.”

The faintest sound reached the president’s ear. He had been waiting eagerly for it. A few more minutes.

“Georgiy Ivanovich, you will be shot for this,” Yakovlev stated.

“Only if I do so myself, Igor Yureivich.” The interior minister spoke his words with almost exaggerated smugness.

“So you are here to remove me from office.” Konovalenko stood slowly and walked around the desk to face his nemesis. He gave General Suslov a cursory, a disdainful glance but saved the weight of his attention for Bogdanov. “And you believe there will be no resistance?”

Bogdanov smiled, but he might not have had he seen Suslov’s eyes narrow as a familiar sound began to reach his ears. “General Suslov’s division is the only force of consequence near the city. The Kremlin guard would not even cause them pause.”

Konovalenko saw, from the corner of his eye, Suslov’s head turn toward the window. The sound, a far-off droning, was rising. “But others will, Comrade Interior Minister.”

“What others?” Bogdanov asked with little expectation of an answer that would cause him alarm…until he heard the sound.

The president stepped back and walked to the window, his head tilting upward toward the sky. The droning was almost overhead now. “Comrades, I think you may wish to see this.”

Bogdanov went to the window, his mind racing as it began to fear what might be happening. A step behind, Suslov had already realized his fate. Yakovlev caught the look of resignation as the general passed him. He held out his hand, palm up, and took the officer’s pistol as it was handed over.

“Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, Georgiy Ivanovich?”

Bogdanov didn’t even hear the question. His attention was fully absorbed by the sight before him. From out of the darkness dozens of dark green canopies descended into the white lights of Red Square. The nylon mushrooms collapsed as the men dangling beneath them landed and cut themselves free of the chutes. The first troops to land moved directly to the north and south ends of the square, and the second wave of paratroopers, arriving less than a minute later, went straight for the Kremlin gates.

“I don’t understand,” Bogdanov said honestly.

“The Ninety-first Guards Air Assault Division,” Foreign Minister Yakovlev informed him from behind. “The heavy equipment they could load on such short notice is landing at Shermatevo Two as we speak.”

Shermatevo Two, an airport north of Moscow normally restricted for government use, was but twenty-two kilometers away. Thirty minutes at the most. The 106th was still an hour outside the city.

“You see, there will be a fight,” Konovalenko said. “And General Shergin will be receiving a visit from the Ninety-first Guards, as well.” Those aircraft had already deposited their troops, if all was going as planned.

“But how?”

“You underestimate the power of Marshal Kurchatov, Comrade Interior Minister.” That title the president used only for the sake of convenience. It would soon be stripped from Georgiy Ivanovich Bogdanov. “Did you think he would remain silent once you cut him off?” Konovalenko laughed, still looking to the square as dozens upon dozens of loyal troops floated from the sky. “He is more a man than that. More a man than you can ever hope to be.”

“Comrade President,” Suslov began very formally. “I request permission to contact my division and have them cease their advance.”

“What? No!” Bogdanov spun around.

The foreign minister finally stood. “Your friend the general is wise, Georgiy Ivanovich. Russians fighting Russians in the streets of Moscow will produce no winners.”

“Tell them to return to base, General Suslov,” the president ordered without turning.

Bogdanov swung angrily around to face the president. “And the Americans! They assisted you with this, didn’t they?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Bogdanov’s eyes became slits as his head shook. “You are a bigger fool than I thought. You have let the Americans destroy you, Gennadiy Timofeyevich. Possibly us all.”

Konovalenko was aware of the time. “We will know that one way or the other in a short while.” In the distance he could see more paratroopers descending toward Lubyanka Square. All around the city they would be arriving, he knew. “And you will wait here, with myself and Igor Yureivich, and greet the morning.” He turned and faced Bogdanov as the drone of aircraft continued. “What happens then… We will see, but I have placed my trust in the Americans. Enemies of ours once, yes. But now their threat to the Motherland pales when compared to the likes of you.” He looked to the general. “Suslov, present yourself to the guard to be put under arrest. Your grasp of the situation will be considered in your trial.” Back to the interior minister. “You. Have a seat.”

Ojeda split his force into three groups as they approached Juragua, the last trace of daylight just a reddish-orange sliver on the horizon. One group of seventy moved east through the abandoned warehouses a mile from the objective. From there they would set up a hasty defense if any loyalists should approach from the north once the operation began. The second group, consisting of fifty men and the only heavy weapons — two mortars — the rebels had carried with them, approached along the beach, and positioned themselves to provide support for the main group. That force, 180 men under Colonel Ojeda’s personal command, arrayed themselves in the jungle a mile west of the objective. They were split into sixty-man groups as planned, each with their own specific task. Once all were in position, there was but one act remaining before the show would begin.

“Pilgrim, this is Toolbox,” Antonio said into the SATCOM radio’s handset. Ojeda was ten feet from him, scanning the approach to the plant through the NVGs.

“Toolbox, we copy,” Mike Healy responded from Langley, a single satellite “bounce” from the jungles of southern Cuba.

“Pilgrim, we are in position. Awaiting signal information.”

“Copy, Toolbox. Your signal will come from Raptor. He will be airborne CP and can provide assistance from above.” Healy knew that Paredes would be aware of just what Raptor was. “Gambler will be your visitors. Due in on a no-wait warning from Raptor. Sandman will be eye in the sky. All your communications should go through Raptor once the operation commences.”

“Pilgrim, I copy.” Antonio noted the information mentally and expected to switch to the alternate net that would put him in contact with Raptor.

“Toolbox, we have a change in plans to inform you of.”

“Go ahead, Pilgrim.”

“Your original guests will no longer be able to make the party due to circumstances beyond our control.”

Unable? “Pilgrim, that is…that can be a problem.” Ojeda was expecting to turn power over to a civilian government headed by the CFS exiles. What the hell would he do now that they weren’t coming? And why weren’t they coming? “This was all arranged to avoid a power struggle.”

“Toolbox,” a different voice came on. It was Secretary of State James Coventry. “We are trying to arrange for alternate leadership, but it might take time.”

“Time,” Antonio said a bit too loud. He turned his body away as eyes locked on him. “If there is a power vacuum after this is over, we could end up with a fight for leadership that could leave Cuba with something as bad as it just got rid of. There are still opportunists in the military, even among the rebels. Not all of them are as honest as Ojeda.”

There was no reply immediately. The silence made Antonio realize what he’d just suggested without intending to do so. His head turned back to the colonel. Could he do it? “Pilgrim, I have an idea.”

“We thought so, Toolbox.”

The unmarked white van pulled up to the gate and was met by a stern-looking Air Force guard. The Cape was an Air Force installation, albeit one with more public access than most, but the two weeks before an entirely military shuttle mission always saw increased security.

“Your purpose, gentlemen?”

Chris Testra produced his FBI shield, as did Freddy Sanz. The guard examined them and their faces with a shine of his flashlight. He had been told to expect them and further told not to question them about what they were there to do.

“Very good. I have you on my list. You can follow the signs to Flight Control Road. Turn left there.”

“Thanks,” Testra said, reaching to drop the van into gear.

“Hold it, Chris.” Sanz pointed through the windshield to the fence — more specifically to a sign on the fence. “You know, it might be kinda fun.”

Testra turned to the guard. “Hey. Mind if we borrow that for a while?”

No questions, the guard remembered. That also implied no arguments. “Be my guest.”

The Agency Learjet landed at the Cape just after a vaguely similar aircraft bearing the markings of the United States Navy. Both taxied to a seldom-used tarmac south of the single runway and stopped a hundred feet apart. A white van with two men standing in front of it was waiting in the same area. In less than a minute the passengers of both jets and the men at the van were standing together.

“I’m Greg Drummond, Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Sanz nudged his partner.

“Yes, the CIA,” Drummond confirmed, noticing the gesture. “You must be agents Testra and Sanz.”

The two Miami agents shook the DDI’s hand and those of the other two people.

“Art Jefferson, L.A. office. This is Frankie Aguirre.”

“Hi,” Frankie said, nodding to the Miami representatives of the Bureau.

“Well, we have some bad guys to nail,” Drummond said. “We need the same thing from both of them. You two”—the DDI pointed at Testra and Sanz—“will take the real bad boys into custody once we have the evidence we need. Jefferson and Aguirre here will get what I need from the second target But I will handle him. None of you are to be involved with that. Clear?”

They all nodded.

“Jefferson, you have the tape?”

“Right here,” Art said. “And something to play it on.”

“Good.” He looked to the Miami agents. “And I trust you have the equipment we need?”

“Right here,” Sanz said, touching the hard case on the ground with his foot.

Greg Drummond smiled, feeling an anticipation he hadn’t felt for a very long time. “Good. This is what we’re going to do.”

The Pave Hawk backed out of its final tanking twenty-five miles off the coast and turned north, heading for the beach southeast of Cienfuegos.

“Major, Raptor on the radio.”

“Switch me over,” Sean said. He left his black titanium helmet on his lap, next to the MP5SD4, and pushed the boom mic against his lips. “Raptor, this is Gambler. Go ahead.”

“Gambler, we have a thumbs-up from Toolbox.” It was Colonel Cadler, twenty miles west in the AC-130U. The drawl was unmistakable, even after traveling more than forty thousand miles through space. He would be acting as the central coordinator of air and land actions for the operation about to begin.

“Roger, Raptor. We’ll be feet dry in fifteen.”

“Sandman shows a clear air plot. You and me are the only things flying.”

“Roger that, Raptor. Glad to hear it.”

“Fingers crossed, Gambler.”

“Fingers crossed, sir.” Sean heard the radio switch back to intercom. “Cho, she’s all yours. I’m going on my body mic.”

“Yes, sir, Major. Fingers crossed.”

“You, too.” Sean removed the headset and inserted his radio earpiece before pulling his helmet on. The attached NVGs, flipped upward to allow for unobstructed vision, made his head want to tilt forward. “Mikey. Chuck. Check the SPIE rigs again.”

Antonelli and Makowski had the no-snag duffels containing the SPIE rigs setting between their legs. A steel oval ring, which would attach to the twin connection points under the Pave Hawk, stuck through the cinched opening of each bag. The two troopers tested the spring-loaded safety bar on each oval, letting it snap back after depression several times. A thumbs-up told the major everything was a go.

Joe Anderson, sitting in the middle of the forward-facing bench seat, watched the preparations with mild interest. The nine troopers were readying themselves, checking weapons, cinching straps, testing equipment. They had those things to do. He had just his thoughts to occupy him. Thoughts of another job. Thoughts of his home, his wife. Thoughts of his life. What he had done, what he would miss. He could have let sadness and bitterness envelop him, had it not been for the reality that his sacrifice had saved a lot of lives. He wasn’t a hero for doing it, just as these men didn’t think themselves deserving of accolades, but he, and they, could all take satisfaction in doing a job and doing it well. It might seem simplistic, even insincere, to those who could not understand the motivation to do something, even if dangerous, because it needed to be done, but it was what counted. Success meant the good guys won. To Joe, and to those he proudly joined on this mission, winning was a very private victory.

“You ready, Mr. Anderson?” Sean yelled across the two feet that separated them.

Joe lifted his equipment case and nodded. “Always, Major.”

The noise picked up as the door gunners, one on each side of the Pave Hawk just behind the cockpit, slid their respective windows open and swiveled the pintle-mounted miniguns into the open. The weapons locked into position, and the gunners tested the built-in stops that prevented the guns from rotating too high, lest they inadvertently put a stream of 7.62mm shells into the 230-gallon fuel tanks that hung from the high mounted wings on each side. A low whine emanated from each mount. They were now powered up, ready to fire if need be, just the pressure of their gunner’s finger required.

“Test your LAMs,” Sean ordered. He lowered his NVGs and activated the LAM mounted underneath his MP5SD4’s integral suppressor with a touch to the grip-mounted pressure switch. A beam of infrared light sprayed from the unit, a focused red laser dot in its center. Sean moved it around in the darkened cabin, placing death spots on three of his comrades before he was satisfied that all was working properly. He flipped the NVGs up again and checked his watch. “Five minutes to first stop! Lock and load!”

The nine troopers pulled the loading levers back on their weapons and slid them easily forward, chambering the first round.

“Safety on until we’re swinging, then set on controlled burst!” Sean checked the left side of his weapon, making sure the selector switch was to its top position: safe. He looked left to Buxton. “Move fast, Bux.”

“Like lightning.”

“And keep your head down,” he added, not knowing quite why.

“Then I won’t be able to see all the fun.”

Sean nodded and motioned for the team to switch on their radios. “Test check.” He got eight nods in response. In sequence the other troopers transmitted over the short-range system. “Cho, you got us?”

“Five by five, Major. Two minutes to tippee-toes.”

Sean held up two fingers for Anderson, who did not wear a radio.

Joe saw the victory sign and gave a thumbs-up to the confident gesture. It was nice being among the best of the good guys.

The Communications Vessel Vertikal, a former whaler that had taken its share of leviathans from the deep during its previous life, plowed through the mild Atlantic swells at seventeen knots, churning a bright white wake that luminesced in the low moonlight. There was barely any spray over the high bow, even running at her top speed, and the captain of the ship stood confidently just outside the wheelhouse, the thought of wearing a slicker blasphemous on such a warm night.

“Debris in the water, dead ahead,” the lookout reported.

“Where?” the captain asked skeptically. They weren’t supposed to be near the reported site for another hour. Flotsam could not have drifted this direction, nor this distance since the American Coast Guard contacted them.

“There, Captain.”

He scanned the swells, and there it was. The unmistakable blob of orange floating and bobbing on the water. And more. The captain counted ten separate pieces of debris. But of what? And how did it get here? An aircraft going down would not have spread its remnants over twenty nautical miles. Nor would a ship going down. There would be a greater concentration of debris in either case. It was as if it had been spread across the ocean from high above. Or far below.

But it could not be that. Or could it?

“Launch the boats. Bring back everything you find. Fast!”

First Lieutenant Duc made his altitude fifty feet as the Pave Hawk skimmed the choppy waters toward the deserted beach near Playa Rancho Luna on the eastern shore of the Bay of Cienfuegos.

“Nothing ahead,” Second Lieutenant Sanders reported. His eyes were focused on the LLTV and the FLIR sensors, both of which stole the darkness from the expanse of white sand that was to be their first stop. The copilot flipped his NVGs, which were specially designed for use by flyers, down and scanned their flight path. Duc had them on a straight run in. Reconnaissance had showed no troops in this immediate area, and any civilian stupid or lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them would have little time to sound a warning. The objective was just minutes from here.

“Here we go, Maj.”

Sean did a quick look around the cabin, his eyes falling upon Anderson last. “See you in a few!”

Joe barely heard the shout. “Don’t mess up my missile!”

The major smiled and gave the signal to open the doors. The chill of an eighty-knot breeze instantly filled the cabin of the Pave Hawk.

“Feet dry,” Duc announced.

Antonelli and Makowski gripped their duffels tighter as the sound of the rotors changed. It became a deep, throaty pulse before the Pave Hawk’s nose flared, slowing the helicopter and reducing altitude.

“Go!” Sean yelled into the radio as they settled at five feet above the sand.

The troopers piled out through both doors, Antonelli and Makowski turning as they hit and going beneath the floating helicopter. They attached the hooks to the fore and aft SPIE connectors respectively and pulled the duffels out from below, Antonelli going to the left with the short rig, and Makowski to the right with the aft rig, which was longer by ten feet.

“Good hooks, troops. Double check.” Sean lined up in a prearranged row with the rest of the entry team: Antonelli, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Quimpo. They attached the paired connectors, one to each shoulder, and made themselves a semi-rigid unit with carefully placed handholds on each others’ web gear. One hand was dedicated to that. The other held their weapons. “Bux?”

“Ready.”

“Safeties off.” Nine selector switches moved down one notch to the controlled burst setting. “Let’s make ‘em pay. Ready, Cho. GO!”

Lieutenant Duc needed no time to ease into the maneuver, which he had practiced countless times and used for real in several tight spots before. He brought his collective up with the helicopter in a hover, lifting Sean’s group first, then, a second later, Buxton’s group clear of the ground. When the latter was thirty feet above the sand, he added more power and nosed the Pave Hawk down, gaining speed and maintaining his altitude. The two groups of Delta troopers, nearly invisible in their coal-black working suits, swayed backward, away from the direction of travel, their HKs held forward in preparation and anticipation.

“Raptor, this is Gambler,” Duc said over the net. “Two minutes out.”

Twenty miles southwest and three thousand feet above his men, Colonel Bill Cadler sat in the soundproof battle management center just behind and below the flight deck of the AC-130U. The middle finger of his right hand slid over the index finger as he counted off the seconds. The required wait dissipated quickly. “Take us in,” he instructed the pilot over the intercom, switching back to the radio net immediately. “Toolbox, this is Raptor. Move on my mark.”

“The fueling is complete,” the beaming officer announced.

General Juan Asunción let out the breath he had been holding for days and leaned on the command center’s console, staring down at the few switches and buttons he would manipulate in but a few hours. Then the vengeance would be wrought. A fitting target the presidente had selected, Asunción believed.

“Remove the trucks from…” His head swiveled toward the overhead vent shaft, through which the sound was entering the small structure. “What is Guevarra doing up?” he asked the air. Then the kind of sound caught his attention. Guevarra’s craft did not sound like…

“General?” the young officer said, seeing the elder man’s face go pale.

“Damn them!”

The Pave Hawk crossed the perimeter of the plant at ninety knots, Duc maintaining his altitude with only minor adjustments in course to avoid buildings. Ahead, through the NVGs, he saw the cooling towers to the right, and straight to the front the target. “Gambler to Raptor, on target.”

Cadler keyed the mic. “Raptor to Toolbox. Execute.”