Black Ghosts

by Victor Ostrovsky

  Sparky opened the briefcase and took out a small laptop computer. He attached a coaxial cable from the back of the laptop to the airline’s computer hard drive. Doug Findley was now standing by him, looking over his shoulder. “Are you uploading or downloading?”

  “I’m changing their configuration,” Sparky answered, his head halfway inside the computer casing. “Whenever they do something on their computer it will be redirected through our computer in our office.”

  “Won’t that make their computer work slower?”

  “Not really. Our processor is faster than theirs, so it will compensate. Actually, I’ll have to slow it even more.”

  “That’s neat. So they’ll really be working through our computer.”

  “Right.” Sparky took his head out and grinned at Doug. “I’m downloading all their information now. You can start with the cable. By the time you fish it through, I’ll have the thing wrapped up.”

  “Where are you going now?” Doug sounded worried as he watched Sparky walk away, leaving the open, gutted computer and his laptop which now displayed a series of flying toasters chasing slices of brown toast.

  “It’s going to take some time to download. It’s a monster memory. I’ll install the bug in that phone for the sergeant in the meantime. Don’t worry, if you don’t piss on it nothing will go wrong.”

  “Good thing you told me,” Doug said, and everybody laughed. Larry could still feel that pain in his chest when he laughed, but he figured there were times when it was worth it. Seeing Sparky the way he was now was one of those times.

  Doug opened a large cardboard box they had brought with them and took out a blazing red remote-controlled toy jeep. It had thick, corrugated tires and a tiny video camera mounted where a driver would be expected to sit. In the box there was a monitor connected via a thin wire to the camera in the jeep. Doug handed the car to Jean-Pierre, who tied a cord to the back bumper.

  “Who’s going to drive this thing?” Doug asked, holding up the remote control.

  “I will,” came Mario’s thick voice.

  Doug handed him the unit and a blueprint of the duct system. “You enter here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the sheet. “You try to come out here.”

  The sergeant headed for the duct opening. “No,” said Jean-Pierre, “you sit over there and watch the monitor. I’ll get the thing in place. I’ll tell you when it’s ready.” He picked up the toy jeep and placed it in the hole, facing in the direction it was supposed to go. “Can you see anything on the monitor?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” the sergeant replied, “fucking nada.”

  “Ah, merde,” Jean-Pierre exclaimed, “anyone got a flashlight?”

  “I have one back in the office,” Larry said, moving in the direction of the door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Doug. “If we wait for you we’ll be here all night.”

  “It’s on the shelf by the large receiver. Oh, and thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Anytime,” Doug said, already in the hall. It wasn’t long before the light was taped to the car’s hood and the toy returned to the cavity in the wall.

  “It’s all yours,” Jean-Pierre said, moving away from the wall to stand by the sergeant and watch the monitor. Doug stayed by the opening and was feeding the cables to make sure they didn’t snag. Staring at the blueprint while keeping his eye on the screen, the sergeant piloted the car along the duct.

  “There’s the third-world branch,” Jean-Pierre said as the car reached a junction in the duct. “Keep to the left.” The journey continued. The entire section of tubing had all but disappeared when the car came to a halt opposite another junction within the duct.

  “They can see the lights about nine feet away,” Jean-Pierre announced, keeping an open cell line with Joe Falco in the other suite.

  “Can’t they grab it?” asked the sergeant.

  “The duct is too narrow. You’ll have to bring it right up to them.”

  Several minutes later, the jeep made it through, to the cheers of all present. They put everything back into place, hoping that no one would decide to move the desk with the server computer away from the wall. Larry was backing up, collecting the Polaroids he had left and taking his time to verify that all was in place. They finished twenty minutes ahead of schedule and were back in their suite with ample time to spare before the office cleaners arrived. Tomorrow their efforts would be put to the test.

  Greenfield, Arizona

  March 22

  10:00 hours

  The telephone at the world’s largest airplane parking lot, in Greenfield, Arizona, rang twice before it was answered. Nothing was rushed at the former CIA airport since the agency had stopped supplying arms to the Nicaraguan Contras. Now it was more of a graveyard for mummified relics of a better age. It was hard to believe, looking at the hundreds of commercial airplanes lined in neat gleaming rows, some with their cockpits covered, some partially cannibalized, that not long ago they were all hauling passengers at full capacity. It was in places like this that the full extent of the recession that had hit the air transport industry could be realized.

  “Greenfield,” Nancy said finally, after having slowly moved the receiver from its cradle to her ear, making sure not to strain any muscles unnecessarily.

  “This is Icon Air. We’re going to pick up X34v231 the day after tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”

  “I’ll need your clearance code, items one to five on your release list, and a payment in full. Just a moment, please.” She typed on her screen the registration number the caller had given her. A small red symbol blinked next to the name Icon Air. “We will need the payment via certified checks and a prepayment for the fuel.”

  “Sure,” said the voice at the other end. “Can you please fax us the exact amounts so we could get it all in order for you?”

  “Sure.”

  Several minutes later, a request for verification came through the computer modem in the office Larry had rented. The people in Icon Air’s real office never even knew it came, nor did they have any inkling of the fax that was sent to them but printed out in the office next door. They were about to be short one jumbo jet. They had no idea that their company’s mothballed 747-300L, one of only 46 that were ever produced, was about to make history.

  When Edward called around noon he was informed that everything had gone smoothly. The only problem was where to put the beast.

  “I can get it to Tucson,” said Larry. “I know someone who could let us hold it in a hangar for a few days. He’ll think he’s doing it for the agency. I worked with him before and he’ll keep his mouth shut. But what do we do with it after that?”

  “You just get it there and get it ready, like I told you. I’ll give you the rest of the information later.”

  There was little said after that. Larry didn’t have the news Edward wanted to hear about Natalie. Larry knew the agony Edward was going through. But he also knew he would do what had to be done, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 18

  Vinigrad office building, Moscow

  11:10 hours

  Sergei Pozharsky was one of the new cadre of Russian entrepreneurs. Seated in a soft leather armchair in his luxurious office less than a mile from the Kremlin walls, he pondered his empire. His company had been in existence for only a couple of years and already recorded an annual turnover in excess of two hundred million dollars, with profits to match. However, no mission statement hung on the walls, no employee-of-the-month prizes were ever distributed, and the company’s financial records were hard to obtain, if in fact they existed at all outside his head. Indeed, the exact nature of Sergei’s business was never quite defined, for the simple reason that his company would do almost anything requested of it, provided the profits outweighed the risks.

  The previous year, when electrical power shortages were endemic in parts of Africa, Sergei’s company had offered to supply the Ivory Coast with a nuclear submarine so they could use the reactor as a source of electricit
y for the entire country. The deal had been scratched at the last minute, when some environmentalist activists had found out about the plan and tried to put it under the media spotlight. The Russian submarine fleet did not enjoy a very good security record, so the whole plan was scuttled. A couple of newspaper articles had mentioned rumors of the plan, but it had died there, as nothing more than a rumor. It was like most of Sergei’s business ventures that did come to fruition: To his satisfaction, most of them remained nothing more than rumors to the world at large. But they were extremely lucrative and occasionally deadly.

  The two men who had planted the bomb outside McDonald’s and then vanished into the Moscow crowds were on Sergei’s payroll. He had realized a tidy profit for the series of terrorist attacks he had undertaken for an anonymous client. Unfortunately, the client had ordered an end to the campaign, saying the situation was becoming too risky. Sergei didn’t mind; there were plenty of other ways of making money. At present he was negotiating with the leader of a Japanese fringe religious sect for the sale of a Buran Space Shuttle now in storage at the crumbling Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. Strictly speaking, the spacecraft was not Sergei’s to sell, but he had never let that stop him in the past, and if the determined but unpredictable Japanese charismatic stuck to his guns, Sergei would make a killing.

  This morning, however, he had more mundane things on his mind. One of his lieutenants had called with a request for an Ilyushin transport plane. It was a routine matter; Sergei had been leasing the Russian army transport planes for some time, through a company based in New Zealand that was his legal cover.

  The man had explained that he was in negotiations with an American movie producer who, in addition to the plane, needed two hundred soldiers who would be used as extras in the movie he was making. His lieutenant wanted to know how much to charge for the plane; he said he had already closed a price of thirty dollars a day per head for the soldiers. Ten thousand American a day for the plane, Sergei said. The whole deal, Sergei knew, would hardly cover his caviar bill for the month, but he liked to keep his men busy, and not every deal could be worth millions. He knew his lieutenant was already making money above and beyond what Sergei would pay him, but if Sergei ever needed someone’s dirty job handled well or someone killed on short notice, he knew he could count on Igor and Alexi, and that was worth all the money in the world.

  Later, back at the house, Edward listened while Igor explained the details of the deal to him. He had twenty-four hours to come up with a large deposit, but then the plane and the soldiers could be delivered to the airport of his choice. A full flight crew was included in the deal.

  “One question,” said Edward. “How much is the plane going to cost me?”

  Alexi and Igor exchanged a few words in Russian, and then Igor said, “The standard rate is fifteen thousand U.S. dollars per day.”

  Very reasonable, Edward thought, especially since it wasn’t his money. Nevertheless, he would have given anything to have had Natalie there to tell him what these Russian gangsters were saying to each other in their native tongue. Had he known, a rough translation of what Alexi had said to Igor was: “Never give a sucker an even break.”

  Zagorsk, Russia

  March 23

  06:00 hours

  The order to mobilize was received early in the morning. The Third Mechanized Battalion of the Sixth Armored Brigade, consisting of T-82 tanks, artillery, troop transports, and support equipment, stirred into life like a slumbering monster of the deep. Orders were shouted in the darkness. A thick smell of diesel oil permeated the chilly air. Truck engines kicked in and revved with a sound like distant thunder.

  Their treads biting into the frozen ground, the tanks moved “on foot” toward the waiting trailer carriers. Like giant slugs, they crawled on the trailers, the metal of their tracks clanking ominously. It was still dark when the division began moving out of base. Their military police escort closed off traffic ahead of them on the main highway to Moscow, some seventy kilometers to the south.

  With the lights of the city in view, they fanned out to the west. Their orders were to secure the plain north of Moscow, including the two Sheremetyevo airports, from unauthorized movements of any kind: cars, trucks, or women on bicycles. The rules of engagement for this operation were simple and harsh: Open fire at any intruders in their security zone. In a short speech their commander had made to them over the base speaker system, he explained that the future of Russia was in their hands. They were entrusted with the security of a strategic zone for the upcoming visit by the president of the United States, and security had to be absolute. The eyes of the world would be on them.

  The trailers unloaded the tanks in the lee of a ridge that swept east and west across the plain. Their positioning was such that no silhouette of their sinister bulk would be seen on the horizon to provide a target for an antitank missile attack.

  Morale was high among the troops who jumped out of the transport trucks to take their positions. They were glad to be doing something, glad to be showing their muscle, glad to get out of the base for a while. Tents, field kitchens, and a command post were quickly set up. By dawn, they could see the Ninety-eighth Mechanized Mountain Brigade positioned on their western flank and the Second Mechanized to their east. As Moscow and its suburbs got ready for another day, the entire plain was secured by a ring of steel.

  Inside the command post, Major Lermontov spoke to his radio operator.

  “What frequency are you on?”

  “Seventy-four point three eight.”

  “It has been changed,” said Lermontov. “You will now use frequency eighty-nine point seven one.”

  “Yes, sir.” As the operator adjusted the settings there was a crackle of static, then communication was established.

  “It’s done, sir.”

  Lermontov took the receiver in his hand and pressed the button as he spoke. “Lima Zulu Alpha, this is Tiger Five. Come in, over.”

  After a short pause and a static crackle the answer came. “This is Lima Zulu Alpha, go ahead Tiger Five. Over.”

  “We are at point Tango Five Nine Two, over.”

  “Tiger Five, this is Lima Zulu Alpha, reading you loud and clear. Vortex One sends his greetings. Over and out.”

  CG Command Bunker, outside Moscow

  06:20 hours

  Lermontov’s voice crackled over the radio speaker. As he reeled off the series of codes that verified he was in control of his section, officers and soldiers cheered. The atmosphere in the bunker was of joyful optimism. Everything was moving according to schedule. Every time a commander called in his position, it was clear to the people in the bunker that another stretch of strategic real estate had been occupied without a fight.

  A soldier at a console by the radio who had read the preceded message back to Lermontov was already receiving another incoming message. If there was any deviation from what he had expected in the incoming messages he was to contact the duty officer. Otherwise he was to give the standard answer and enter the positioning of the unit in question into the central computer. With each set of coordinates that was entered, new lights appeared on the illuminated map of Moscow on the wall in the CIC room. Around the northern end of the city, a ring of red lights indicated that the Black Ghosts’ hold on Sheremetyevo Airport and the main highways was virtually total.

  At a second workstation, similar information was being received and posted from another radio. These coordinates were fed into a map showing the entire region from the Baltic to the Urals, and from the Barents Sea to the Black Sea. Here, too, red lights began to spring up around all the major cities, indicating the range and depth of the Black Ghosts’ power.

  The third workstation was connected to the large map that spanned the entire continent. Anywhere that mattered, from Novosibirsk to Vladivostok, red dots were beginning to appear.

  Colonel Yakov walked down from the control room to General Rogov’s private office. He knocked at the door. After stepping in, he stood to attent
ion and saluted. He had been working with the general for several weeks on a daily basis, but still he couldn’t shake the sense of awe he felt in the man’s presence.

  “Well?” said Peter, waiting for the officer to speak.

  “You asked that I inform you once we had closed the ring around Moscow.”

  “And?”

  “Moscow is practically ours. We have secured the two northern airports, and all the main roads are also under our control.”

  “What about the other airports?”

  “Vnukovo and Bykovo are secure, sir.”

  “And Domodedovo?”

  “Domodedovo Airport is guarded by the Fourth Armored Brigade, sir, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Orlov. He’s not one of us. Orlov was a close friend of General Kozov’s, sir.”

  “As long as he stays at Domodedovo, it’s fine. The American president will land in Sheremetyevo. Are you sure we have control there?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s safely in our hands.”

  “Good, good. And how are the regions progressing?”

  “We have reports coming in from Leningrad, Gorky, and Saratov. All will be under our control by nightfall. Sverdlovsk and Chelyabinsk should be reporting soon.”

  “Any reaction from the Supreme Command?”

  “We should know by tonight. So far, our sources indicate that the military suspects nothing. Their exercises are blending perfectly with our operation.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “Apparently not.” Colonel Yakov permitted himself a cautious smile. “To the Supreme Command, it is only logical that the best, most strongly motivated units be deployed. And the best units are ours, sir.”

  “Of course, of course,” nodded Peter. “Now. What is the status of the communication array?”

  “Fully assembled, sir.”

  “Carry on, Colonel.” Peter dismissed him with a wave of his hand.