Black Ghosts (38 page)

“Sarge,” Edward said finally, “park the truck with the explosives over there.” He pointed to a large boulder on the side of the road near the pine grove. “Get the other trucks down that path.” He pointed to a small dirt side road that forked off the main road about seventy feet away.

“Are we ambushing someone?”

“You bet we are.”

“Done,” the sergeant said and began to shout orders, getting things moving the way Edward wanted.

“What are you up to?” Sokolov asked, climbing out of the jeep.

“We have to spend the night somewhere, might as well get something done.” Edward looked in the direction of the truck that was loaded with explosives. Jean-Pierre and Jeremy were standing by it, waiting for instructions. “Tell them,” Edward said, pointing at the two men, “how to get to the bunker. I need them in an observation position. Meanwhile, I'll get the others into position here.”

Sokolov responded immediately, marching off briskly toward the two men. Edward and the sergeant placed the rest of the men at fifteen-foot intervals on the wooded side of the road. Each man had his designated kill area. Now all they needed was a target.

Sokolov returned to Edward with the two men. “I believe they could get there with no problem.”

“You guys take the jeep, and this.” Edward handed Jeremy a small radio transceiver, one of the units Larry had sent them on the plane. “We should be getting in range in a couple of hours, as soon as we finish the work we have here.”

“Okey-doke,” Jeremy said, and Jean-Pierre nodded.

As the jeep moved down the road and out of sight, Edward and Sokolov went into the thick grove, heading toward the sergeant, who was the farthest man from the truck.

“Where is Valdez?” Edward asked.

“Still in the truck. He said he wasn't through yet, and if he was late to start without him.” The sergeant chuckled.

“He better get out of there fast. We don't have that much time left. If my calculations are correct, they should be here any minute—if they're coming at all.”

“There,” the sergeant said, pointing to the back of the truck. Valdez had just leaped down and was running toward them.

“Colonel Sokolov,” said Edward, “if we manage to knock them off, can you try and use their radio, if there still is one, and give them some disinformation?”

“I can try. The question is if they have a direct link or not.”

The sound of vehicles changing gears came suddenly from down the road. Even though they were all in place and expecting something to happen, it was still somewhat of a surprise. Valdez handed Edward the walkie-talkie. “You do the honors, sir,” he whispered.

Led by a command car, four trucks rumbled along the road. Edward could see the soldiers seated in the back of the trucks: Some were asleep, others were talking and laughing as soldiers do. At that moment the leader, seated in the command car, had noticed the parked truck as he rounded a bend in the road. The car came to a halt. Perfect, Edward thought.

An officer got out of the command car and, accompanied by a soldier, walked over to the truck. He stopped a few feet from the cabin and shouted something. When there was no reply he drew his gun and spoke to the soldier standing next to him, who ran back to the first truck, which had already come to a stop. Soon there were some fifteen soldiers standing by the officer.

Edward pressed the switch on the walkie-talkie. The blast tore into the first of the trees, leaving a clearing thirty feet wide. The command car rolled down the hill, turning over and smashing against the rocks it encountered on the way. The first of the trucks seemed to jump slightly to one side and began to burn. There was no sign of any of the men who had been standing by what was now a large smoldering crater. Before anyone could get off the other two trucks, RPGs hit the vehicles in several places. The burning soldiers who jumped off the back of the trucks were put out of their misery by the men waiting in the darkness of the woods. It was over almost as soon as it had started. No one was heading for the airfield now, Edward thought. Not for the moment anyhow.

“Vern,” the sergeant shouted, “go get the radio out of that fucking command car. See if it's working.”

The slim man moved quickly down the hill. He stopped for a moment, leveled his submachine gun and fired into a bush. There was a thud of someone falling, and he went on. “I need a hand,” he shouted from the bottom of the hill. “It's a big mother. Unless you plan to come down here to use it, I'll need someone to help me get it out.”

Before Edward or the sergeant could say anything, Chico Valdez was already on his way.

“If it's working,” Sokolov commented, “we should wait until they contact us. That way we'll at least know our own call name.”

“Good thinking,” Edward replied.

His men were walking among the wreckage, searching for tools they might be able to use—or for someone who might need help in dying.

 

“Are you sure this thing is working?” Edward asked the sergeant, pointing a finger at the half-smashed radio they had recovered from the command car. It was sitting on the hood of the truck, hot-wired to the truck's battery.

“We tried it on other frequencies and we heard them right. So I have to say it's working.”

“I wish Sparky was here,” said Edward.

A squawk came from the radio box. Then, amid the static, came a woman's voice. Edward could feel the jolt inside him, like an electric shock. It was her. She was talking Russian and there was a strength to her voice, a strength that he now realized she had worked hard to suppress when they were together. It was that which made her voice seem so strange.

Sokolov grabbed the mike. He now knew the call name. He was hoping that Rogov was not standing anywhere near wherever she was talking from, because he might recognize the voice. This, however, was a chance they had to take.

“Intruder One, this is Intruder Two, over.”

“Did you reach the target?” came the question, without any formal communications procedure. She was clearly in a hurry and not willing to spend time on what she thought to be rubbish.

“Yes, Intruder One, have reached the target and met little resistance. We're still mopping up.”

“What about the American?”

“I can't be sure. Most of the locals are dead. I will interrogate the survivors.”

“Is there a plane there?”

“There was a plane, American made, very big. It is now burning very nicely, Intruder One.”

“If you find the American or any of his friends, you will notify me.”

“Yes, will do.”

Edward put his hand over the microphone. “Ask her where she is.”

Sokolov nodded silently. Then he put the microphone close to his mouth again. “If we find him, where do we bring him?”

“I'll be at Domodedovo Airport in the morning. Bring him to the command center at the north end of the airport. Over and out.”

Sokolov translated all that was said. Edward was satisfied. It looked as though their luck was coming in one piece at a time, but then, he thought, it is said that good things come in small packages.

 

 

 

Lieutenant-Colonel Orlov had a problem. Someone he knew vaguely, a certain Colonel Sokolov from the Twenty-ninth Armored Division, had called him with a strange story about a potential takeover of the airport he was guarding. As if that weren't enough, a general from Supreme Command had announced his intention of inspecting Orlov's troops at 07:00 hours that morning. Orlov had never heard of General Lubinsky, but a call to Supreme Command confirmed that such a general did exist. Lubinsky's aide, who had set up the inspection, had also given the correct codes, so Orlov had no reason to doubt his credentials, other than the mysterious call from this Sokolov.

The general was to arrive shortly by helicopter. Was this to be the takeover Sokolov had warned him about? On balance, Orlov doubted it.

At 6:45, he heard the percussive drone of the helicopters. He could see them approaching from where he sat in the command center, three of them, flying in formation. They landed on the tarmac, not fifty yards from where he was, raising a terrible cloud of dust and frigid morning air. Orlov watched as the hatches opened and armed men, which he took to be the general's security entourage, poured out. There was a pause while the guards' NCO called them to attention. Then the general emerged.

Yes, this was him. Looking through his binoculars, Orlov could see the stars and braids. The general and his men moved toward the command post.

But as he approached, Orlov observed that the man didn't quite look like a general. He didn't have that certain something. He was too small somehow, his neck too stiff, his eyes too red and unblinking, like a rat's. Orlov dismissed the thought, attributing the man's general lack of luster to the fact that he was probably a well-climbed bureaucrat who had never tasted war except via a phone line or a nasty letter.

Leaving all but two of his men outside, the general entered the command post. “Lieutenant-Colonel Orlov?” he said in an extremely decisive way. Not waiting for a response, he went on. “I am temporarily relieving you of your command while I inspect this unit.”

Orlov saluted. “Very good, sir.” The telephone rang. A junior officer informed Orlov that the call was for him.

“With your permission, sir.” Orlov took the call. It was from the office of General Lubinsky, in Supreme Command. Wanting to verify the information, Orlov had also placed a second call through army command, asking to speak to the general. By doing that he was circumventing Supreme Command and dealing directly with the general, who for some reason was stationed in Vladivostok. The duty officer in the general's headquarters wanted to inform him that the general was in conference at the moment and was not to be disturbed. He would, however, be willing to deal with whatever it was Orlov wanted later on that day.

“Yes, thank you,” said Orlov, replacing the phone carefully. Turning to the small man in the general's uniform who stood looking out the window, quietly waiting for him to finish his telephone conversation, he said, “One thing.”

“Yes?” The man turned his whole body to look Orlov in the face.

“You are under arrest,” Orlov said, his voice as calm as if he were offering the man a cup of tea, “on a charge of impersonating an officer of the Russian army.”

Yazarinsky's expression did not change. “I'm sorry, you are mistaken.”

“I have just received confirmation that General Lubinsky is still in Vladivostok,” said Orlov.

“But I did not say I was General Lubinsky. I am under his command, that is all.”

Orlov hesitated. The whole thing was very suspicious, especially in view of Sokolov's mysterious warning. “Arrest this man!” he said to his men.

But his hesitation cost him dearly. Yazarinsky's men in the hall had seen Orlov's guards reach for their weapons. They were not the kind to hesitate. Yazarinsky's answer to Orlov, which made no sense and was not meant to, had given his team the time they needed to get through the open door.

A single shot was fired by one of Yazarinsky's men. A young officer had managed to raise his gun and was about to shoot when a 762 metal jacket scrambled his thoughts, sending a sizable portion of the back of his head crashing against the wall: Yazarinsky's men had their guns pointed at anything that might move.

Not that anything did, except Yazarinsky's lips. “Lieutenant-Colonel Orlov,” he hissed, “I arrest you on charges of insubordination and treason.”

Orlov and his junior officers were marched under heavy guard to the airport terminal building, where they were locked into an airport security holding cell. Yazarinsky was now in charge.

 

 

 

Edward was awakened by a gentle tap on his shoulder. Colonel Sokolov, immaculately groomed and dressed in full uniform, was bending over him. Edward sat up. It was cold and every bone in his body hurt. It had been some time since he had slept outside on hard, cold, uneven ground in a thin, smelly sleeping bag. This sort of thing was not meant for human beings beyond a certain age, or even before that. Unless you have company, a sleeping bag is not really meant for sleeping, he thought. “I'll have a coffee, two eggs over easy,” he said to the surprised Sokolov.

Ignoring him completely, Sokolov said, “I will be leaving in a few minutes.”

Edward got up and rubbed his face. Then he bent down by the creek that passed several feet below where he had slept and washed his face. The icy water shocked him into full awakening. Sokolov, who had followed him, smiled at Edward's gasps and spluttering and handed him a towel to dry his face.

“I wonder if General Rogov's face will look like that when he arrives at the Kremlin and finds that his elite troops are elsewhere?”

“Don't bet on it,” Edward said grimly. “He'll be heavily armed. He won't give up without a fight.”

“Good luck,” said Sokolov. “Don't forget you're not fighting against the Russians, you're fighting for them.” They shook hands and said goodbye.

Pulling on his jacket, Edward started getting the men up. Mario, the sergeant, was looking after them like a mother hen. He had already started the coffee. Its aroma cruelly reminded Edward of home. After Natalie, his little place over the bistro seemed awfully lonely.