Accordingly, an Mi-8 helicopter was sent to the Kremlin to pick up President Konyigin and his bodyguard and take them to Domodedovo Airport. Sokolov was among the party. Edward had set out by road from the bunker and was to meet them there. The Russian president would board Air Force One, which would then fly on to the Ukrainian capital.
Edward sat in the cab of the old army lorry, on the tarmac at Domodedovo. He was watching the sky. First to land was the Mi-8, which came down not far from where he was parked. He could see the presidential bodyguard escort Konyigin to the waiting car, which drove him to a secure area. Then he saw Sokolov, whom by now he regarded as an old friend, alight from the helicopter to wander around close by it, stretching his legs. Edward jumped down from the cab and went over to greet him. They shook hands and embraced warmly. Standing in the shade of the helicopter gunship, they turned their eyes once again toward the sky.
Edward’s men were slowly coming off the truck, tired and jaded with the events of the last twenty-four hours. They had taken some casualties: one dead and several injured, mainly with flesh wounds. They had learned the fate of their specially painted 747 when they arrived at Domodedovo, adding two more dead to their list—the pilots who had flown the false Air Force One into the airport. Still, they realized they had come out fairly well from what had basically been a suicide mission.
President Bradshawe had already heard about their feat from Fenton, who filled him in on what Larry had said and on other information regarding Edward and his men.
The president felt a lurch in his stomach as Air Force One lost altitude. This was it: Now they were definitely going down. He closed his eyes and grabbed hard on the armrests, as he always did.
Air Force One was now visible from the ground as it made a wide sweep around the airport before banking into its final turn. As Edward and Sokolov watched the growing spot on the horizon line up with the runway, they heard the rhythmic sound of a chopper taking flight. The sound got louder, and then, like a bad dream, it rose over the treeline across the tarmac. Not four hundred feet from them, the black helicopter gunship came into view, a cluster of rockets under each wing. Edward and Sokolov looked at each other. There was no doubt what the thumping wasp had in mind: It was hovering slowly toward the end of the runway, pointing itself at the incoming jet.
Inside the hovering gunship, Yazarinsky’s eyes fixed unblinkingly on the distant incoming plane. He had heard the broadcast by the supposed leader of the Black Ghosts and had dismissed it as a futile gesture. It was true that no one apart from the core personnel at the bunker knew what Rogov looked like, but Yazarinsky refused to believe they would be swayed by such an obvious trick. And even if they were, was not Rogov himself still at large, eager to continue the battle?
Yazarinsky did not know. What he did know was that he had been ordered to destroy Air Force One, and he had apparently failed in that task. Now he was being given a second chance. Let it never be said, thought the little man, that he had failed in his duty. He readied the gunship’s rocket launcher. The black dot got bigger, gradually taking on the shape of Air Force One.
“Do you know who that is?” Edward asked.
“I don’t have any choppers,” Sokolov answered. “I believe this one is a CG. It’s going to go for the plane.”
It felt as if time had stopped. Everyone was staring at the chopper and then at the incoming plane. Everybody realized what was about to happen, but no one did anything. As he ran back toward the truck, Edward shouted: “Mario, shoot the bastard down!”
Mario heard him and turned to grab the first weapon he could lay his hands on, which was an RPG antitank missile. The distance was at the limit of the weapon’s range, and the target was moving faster than a tank, but it was the best he could do. He aimed ahead of the chopper and fired.
The roar of the approaching jumbo jet mingled with the pounding of the helicopter’s blades. Yazarinsky was in the position he wanted. He put his finger on the rockets’ firing button.
Before Yazarinsky could press the button, the RPG—almost at the end of its run but still as potent as ever—contacted the nose of the chopper. The gunship exploded.
Air Force One touched the ground, bounced up, touched down again, and taxied to a halt. The media people began to clap and cheer. The president and several of his entourage disembarked and were escorted to a private lounge in the terminal building.
Once all the explanations had been given and President Bradshawe at last got the full picture, realizing just what he had been through—and what he had missed—over the last few hours, he asked to meet Edward in person.
“It seems I have a lot to thank you for,” said Bradshawe. “You saved my life—twice—and you also saved that of the Russian president. Quite an achievement.”
“I had a lot of help from a lot of good people,” Edward said.
“I’m sure you did,” said the president. “That trick with the phony Air Force One plane—that must have taken quite a bit of planning and cooperation.”
“It sure did,” Edward assured him. Not to mention, he thought, lying, fraud, and theft.
“I can promise you,” said the president, “that what you and your men have done will not be forgotten.”
“I’m sorry to say I have a problem believing that, Mr. President,” Edward said.
The president looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Because, sir, we did it before, and you people up there on the Hill forgot all about us. Why not again?”
“Because of what you and your men have done. Why don’t you join me, and make sure? I can always use a good man around the White House.”
“It’s not for me, sir,” Edward replied. “But if you really mean it, I know someone we all trust.” He was thinking of Joe Falco. The man could use a break, and this would be a big one.
“You got yourself a deal, my man. Now get your people aboard the plane and let’s get you home.”
The president turned to the other members of his party who had also disembarked—his friend Richard Townes and the corporate financier Hubert Austin—and gestured that they should all get back on board the plane. At that moment, several of the Secret Service men came through the lounge, escorting a handcuffed Bud Hays into a waiting car.
“What makes a man do that?” the president asked, his face saddened.
As they headed to the lounge’s exit door, a voice rang out over the terminal speakers. It was not the customary airport announcer. It was a woman’s voice, and it spoke in English. “Mr. Singleton, I know who you are. You owe me.” Edward felt a shiver go through his body. There was no mistaking it: It was Natalie’s voice.
“What was that about?” the president asked. The members of his entourage all shrugged. But Edward could have sworn he saw a nervous twitch pass across the face of Hubert Austin.
What did she mean? he wondered. He would probably never know.
Black Ghosts Page 34