Black Ghosts (2 page)

Hovering over the cylinders, the diver hesitated only briefly before he carefully connected explosive devices, which he had removed from his belt, to two of them, each one positioned several inches from the red valve. A series of small suction cups held the devices in place. The detonators were equipped with electronic timers, on which a diminishing row of LEDs reminded him that time was running out.

There was just enough C-4 explosive in each device to blow off the security valve, releasing the deadly toxins into the water. The other two men were placing a second set of explosives on the outside wall of the tank, intending to blow a hole in its base, allowing the contaminated water to spill out of the containment area.

The timers were synchronized to create a single blast rather than a series of explosions, which could suggest sabotage. Peter knew that if sabotage was even suspected in the early stages, he would have to contend with a total shutdown of all entry and exit points in the entire region. It had to look like an accident if he was going to get away.

Standing in the stall, Peter counted the seconds, tapping his finger on the grimy wall. They should be just about done, he thought. They're closing the hatch. Tap, tap, two ninety-nine, three hundred, three o one. Back on the truck, three o six, three o seven . . .

He closed his eyes. Three twenty-two. The truck should be at the gate of the nuclear complex—three twenty-four, three twenty-five—now! He stopped breathing, aching to hear the gate open. “Now,” he whispered, pleading through clenched teeth, “open the goddamned gate.” He felt stiff, the veins bulging in his forehead. Peter had no god to pray to, no one to whom he could promise repentance if things went well. He was all alone in that miserable latrine, knowing every moment of silence drew him that much further away from freedom. He was as focused as a man could be on an object so far out of reach, pushing at the gate with his tortured mind, trying to pry it open.

Finally, like the sound of water to a thirsty man, he heard the gate open, then the truck moving. He slapped one hand against the wall, sending his other fist skyward. Then he stepped on the toilet seat and reached to the overhead ceramic water tank. Pushing the cover to one side, he pulled out a wet plastic bag. Anxiously he ripped it open and unfolded a guard's uniform. Now that he knew the team was out of the complex, he could put on his disguise.

He covered the filthy floor with his threadbare gray coat, placing the brown uniform in one corner and hurriedly tearing off his prison garb.

The sensation of the clean, ironed cotton against his skin was something he had long forgotten. He felt the coolness of the starched collar on his grimy neck. The fullness and warmth of the overcoat felt good. He looked at the prison uniform bundled on the floor, thinking he would rather die than wear it again.

The wind had subsided to an icy hiss. Peter could hear the Zeel changing gears as it approached the prison gates. The well-oiled electric gate slid open just enough for the truck to pass. Peter knew the guards would not bother to check the vehicle as it entered, but they would pick it clean on the way out.

Peter's heart pounded hard against his chest, sweat broke out on his forehead, and he felt a numbness in his knees. There was nothing for him to do but wait, a passenger on the brittle wings of fate. His gas mask was in his hand, ready.

The sudden blast cut through the cold air like the crack of a whip, shaking the entire camp. All eyes turned in fear toward the complex down the road.

Peter pulled the black gas mask over his face, waiting for the alarm. Time seemed to have stopped. Then, with a monstrous shriek, the siren began to howl. Peter stepped out into the blinding white cold. What he saw reminded him of Bruegel's vision of hell. Armed guards in green coats and black gas masks, like warriors from another world, were herding rows of thin, pale men in tattered gray uniforms onto dark green trucks. In the distance, an ominous gray pillar of smoke capped by a black, swirling toxic cloud slowly leaned away, toggled by the wind, like a giant contorted mushroom.

The prison colony's proximity to the nuclear complex was no coincidence. The inmates were regarded as disposable labor, to be used on cleanup details in the event of an accident. No great loss, as far as the designers of the facility were concerned.

In fact, the prisoners had been drilled for such an occasion as this. Now they were being rounded up to be trucked to the facility that was spewing clouds of deadly black smoke. The guards' assignment was to deliver as many prisoners in the shortest time possible into the hands of the security cleanup team at the nuclear complex.

Peter made his way to the last truck in the convoy that was about to leave for the accident site. He climbed into the cabin and sat next to the driver. In back, his blockmates were shackled with leg irons to the truck floor, guarded by four men in guards' uniforms and gas masks. The last guard to board the truck signaled Peter with a thumbs-up. It would be hours before anyone would find the four real guards who had been on kitchen duty, their throats slashed, stacked in the corner of the walk-in freezer like so many slabs of beef.

Soon he would be free. Suddenly his blood froze in his veins as an officer tapped on his window, signaling him to roll it down. What had gone wrong? Options were rushing through his head. He looked at the truck's rearview mirror and could see one of his rescue team cocking a gun. His men had their orders: “If something goes wrong, open fire and we'll try to fight our way out.” It would be a futile attempt, but Peter was getting out of this place, one way or the other.

The officer looked directly into Peter's eyes. Peter recognized the man and was sure the recognition was mutual.

“Here,” the officer said finally, reaching through the window and handing Peter a key on a short chain. Peter nodded and palmed the key. The officer turned and walked away from the edge of his grave, never realizing how close to it he had been. Peter had forgotten that although his face was known, no one would be likely to recognize him behind his gas mask.

It was the key to the prisoners' shackles. The role of the truck guard was to hand the key over to the security man at the complex. Now Peter had the key, and some of the inmates in the back knew this was their final trip out of this damned place. The driver, who'd been paid handsomely by Peter's colleagues for his cooperation, turned the ignition and followed the convoy on its way out.

The camp's commandant stood by the guard's booth, pressing his stopwatch as he waved the last truck on its way. He was pleased at the record time in which he had managed to mobilize the work crews. Grinning, he walked back toward one of his lieutenants and held the stopwatch above his head.

The concrete bridge halfway between the camp and the nuclear complex came into sight. “Slow down,” Peter ordered, pointing at the truck ahead. “Put more distance between us.” By the time they reached the bridge, the truck in front of them was out of sight.

“Stop,” said Peter, and the driver slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded closer to the edge of the bridge. They could hear thuds from the back as some of the inmates were tossed to the floor. The driver sat silently, a worried look on his face, like a thief on his first job. His eyes scanned the end of the road.

Getting out of the prison camp was only half of Peter's problem. Tomsk-7 was a vast, well-guarded territory, a fenced-in county. Peter estimated that the other trucks would have reached the smoldering nuclear facility by now and would be unloading their prisoners before heading back for a second batch.

“You wait here,” Peter ordered the driver. “I'll be right back.” He got out of the truck and walked to the rear. His four-man rescue team jumped off the truck. Three of them ran toward a fork in the road and down a narrow trail leading away from the bend. The fourth, a giant of a man, nodded to Peter and moved around the side of the truck toward the cab on the driver's side.

The prisoners sat motionless, staring at Peter through the opening. Some of them, Peter's close friends, were smiling. They had served him faithfully over the last six years and were about to collect their reward. Peter raised his hand to them, dangling the key that could unlock their leg irons.

“A few more minutes,” he said, “you'll be free.”

They nodded anxiously. Peter headed back to the cab. He opened the passenger door with one hand, heaving himself onto the wide running board.

“Okay,” he said to the driver, “let's move her over there.” He pointed to the center of the bridge. The driver put the truck in gear; seconds later, he came to a stop at the exact spot Peter had designated. He took it out of gear and pulled the hand brake. The driver turned to face Peter, smiling uncertainly. Without warning, his door violently swung open. The giant moved swiftly. He grabbed the driver, placing one hand on the man's chin, the other on the back of his head. With a single sharp tug, he turned the head around, snapping the neck with a loud popping sound like the breaking of a dry twig. The driver's head was now facing in the wrong direction, still wearing the same uncertain smile.

“Goodbye, comrade,” Peter muttered, returning to the back of the truck. He glanced into the dark interior. Slowly, hesitantly, his comrades got up. Grinning, they held forth their leg irons for him to unlock. Peter did not move. Then they heard the truck's ignition fire again.

“Come on, hurry up,” said one.

“Quick, unlock the bloody chains,” shouted another.

Peter stood there, a hint of a smile on his face. When the truck started moving, the prisoners turned to one another, baffled. Some tumbled to the floor, pushing others with them. Lev, near the door, pulled furiously on his chain, cursing at Peter. The truck gathered speed as it rolled toward the rotting wooden railing.

Peter could not make out what Lev was yelling, his voice drowned out by the screams of the others. The railing gave way and the truck plunged twenty feet, crashing through the frozen crust. It slowly began to sink in the icy river, its rear wheels still turning.

Peter moved closer to the edge to see the men he had sacrificed for his freedom. They were still screaming, fighting their chains as the truck slowly slid under. He turned to the giant who stood next to him, hypnotized by the sight. “Let's go.”

“Yes, sir,” the big man said.

They followed the trail from the fork in the road to where a military ambulance was waiting. Peter lay on a gurney, and his face was bandaged so he would not be recognized. They settled down to wait.

A few minutes later, a string of military ambulances passed them on the way to the accident, sirens wailing. As the last one cleared the turn, they drove onto the road. Its siren blaring, the ambulance sped in the opposite direction, heading for the main entrance to Tomsk-7. No one even thought to stop them.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the airfield, a lonely stretch of frozen asphalt barely visible under the blowing snow. It extended from an igloo-shaped hangar across a field. A large green snowplow was racing from the end of the runway to where a white twin-engine executive jet was waiting for them, engines humming.

“We need to take off as soon as the strip is clear,” said one of the general's men as they got out of the ambulance. “If we wait, the snow will cover the runway and we'll be trapped until they can clear it again.”

“How long does it take to clear it?” the general asked, unwinding the bandages from his face.

“Couple of hours.” The big man pointed at the snowplow. “He's been working since before we left.”

The general nodded toward the gleaming jet, then turned to the big man standing beside him. “Where did this come from?”

The big man shrugged. “Colonel Yazarinsky asked me to inform you that this was a gift from your American friend. He said the man was keeping his promise.”

The general's face twitched slightly. “Remarkable,” he said, “a Westerner who keeps his promise.”

“Sir?”

“A Westerner's promise,” the general said in a lecturing manner, “could be written in the wind or running water, my boy.” The men headed to the plane. “Our American friend is not keeping his promise, he's placing a bet. I wonder how much he has placed on the other side?”

 

 

 

If the unthinkable were to happen, and there were to be an invasion and occupation of Soviet soil, it would be expedient to have a resistance already in place, a KGB general once thought at the height of the Cold War. It would be an armed faction within occupied territory that could help reclaim it for the Soviet Union. With Stalin's approval, the general established a network of like-minded allies within the Soviet army and KGB, and before long he had created a shadow secret army known as the
Chornia Gostia
. “Black Ghosts.”

Once activated, the Black Ghosts would be a force to be reckoned with. They consisted of some twenty tank and mechanized battalions, several nuclear sites, and thousands of dedicated men, most but not all of whom were drawn from the ranks of the KGB. There were also several Russian army officers at various ranks, who could be counted on to shift their allegiance to the Black Ghosts if the current leadership of Russia, which the Ghosts regarded as weak, unprincipled, and unpatriotic, were to veer too far in the direction of appeasement of the West.

General Vladimir Kozov, according to his special designation in times of emergency, was the new official commander of the Black Ghosts. He was bent on being their last commander and the one who would disband them for good. Although he understood the fears that had brought about their creation, he believed them to be outdated. Given the fact that the Russian president was on the path of peace, Kozov assumed, as did the rest of the Russian high command, that the Black Ghosts' three underground command posts located in Vladivostok, Novosibirsk, and Moscow were a sealed relic of a bygone era, to be dealt with at a later date.