Hood was awakened with word from the midget submarine, relayed via Helsinki, that Private George and Peggy James had been put ashore in St. Petersburg. Five minutes later, he was informed by Mike Rodgers-who hadn't slept much- that the 76T had crossed into Russian airspace and was speeding toward the drop point. It was expected to arrive in twenty minutes. Rodgers told him that the chaff the 76T dropped when it neared the coast disoriented the watching post at Nakhodka long enough for the plane to slip into the air lanes with the other transports. So far, no one had paid the plane any attention.
"Air Defense didn't react to the jamming?" Hood asked incredulously.
"We only did it to conceal where they were coming from," Rodgers said. "Once the 76T was in Russia, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Our crew is maintaining radio silence, and on the way out they'll inform Nakhodka that they're going to Hokkaido to pick up replacement parts for decoy transmitters."
"I still can't believe we slipped through so easily," Hood said.
"For the last couple of years," Rodgers said, "the Russians have been more huff than puff. The soldiers manning the radar have been working longer shifts than we have. If nothing stands out as strange, it's unlikely they're going to catch it."
"Are you so sure it's that," he asked, "or could this be one of those traps that let a mouse in and don't let it out again?"
"We considered that possibility when we were planning the operation," Rodgers said. "There would have been no reason for the Russians to risk letting a strike force get on the ground. The truth is, Paul, the Russia you were worried about is no longer the Russia of reality."
Hood said, "They're still Russia enough to have us snacking on fingernails."
"Touche," said Rodgers.
Hood rose, phoned Bugs Benet, told him to send the department heads to the Tank, then went into his private washroom to scrub the sleep from his eyes. As he dried off, he couldn't stop thinking about Russia. Was Mike right about Russia or were they all just delusional, caught up in a false euphoria about the fall of Russian Communism and the Soviet Union?
Had it really fallen at all? Was this just a dream, smoke and mirrors, an interstitial period like the lulls between the great Ice Ages? Had the dark forces merely withdrawn from the spotlight to regroup and return, stronger than before?
Russians were not used to initiative and freedom. They had been ruled by dictators since the days of Ivan the Terrible.
Since Ivan Grozny, he thought with alarm.
As he headed for the Tank, Hood did not believe that however the next day's events turned out, the Evil Empire was dead at all.
FOURTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 2:29 P.M., St. Petersburg
During his first space mission, General Orlov had not been able to speak with Masha, and when he returned he found her emotionally taut. She pointed out to him that that was the first time since they'd known each other that a day, let alone three, had gone by without them talking to one another.
He'd thought, at the time, that it was a silly woman's emotion he couldn't understand. But then when Nikita was born and she bled profusely and was unable to speak, he realized what a solace just hearing the voice of your loved one could be. If she could only have told him, "I love you," those long days of sitting by her bedside would have been easier.
He never again let a day pass without speaking to her, and was surprised to find how even the briefest talk anchored him as much it did her. Although Masha was not supposed to know what he did at the Hermitage, he had told her-though he did not tell her specifics or go into detail about personnel, other than Rossky: he had to have someone to complain to about him.
After calling Masha at 10:30 in the morning, and telling the disappointed woman that "business is so good" he wasn't sure when he'd be back, Orlov had gone to the command center. He'd wanted to be with his team to mark the passage of the first day's operational halfway point.
Rossky had come in at a few minutes past eleven, and both he and Orlov assumed what had quickly become their unofficial posts in the command center. Orlov walked slowly behind the bank of computer operators, each of whom was monitoring a section of the intelligence firmament. Rossky stood behind Corporal Ivashin monitoring the pipeline to Dogin and the other Ministers in the Kremlin. Rossky was even more intense and focused than usual, he followed military and political developments. Orlov didn't think the impending arrival of the two operatives from Finland would put him on such high personal alert like this, though he decided not to ask him about it. Questions to Colonel Rossky did not seem to elicit useful answers.
At 1:30 the Operations Center intercepted a report from the Air Defense station at Nakhodka to the intelligence office of the Marshal of the Air Force that their radar had gone haywire for nearly four minutes but that everything seemed to be all right now. While Air Defense checked the electronic beacons of all the aircraft in the region against their radar blips to make sure there were no intruders, Orlov knew that it was the 76T from Berlin that had caused the disruption. It was now in Russian airspace and headed west-less than an hour from intercepting the train, if that was its intention.
He had immediately phoned Titev's afternoon counterpart in the radio room, Gregori Stenin, to contact the Marshal's office so he could speak with him. He was told the Marshal was in a conference.
"This is urgent," Orlov said.
Rossky asked Ivashin for his headphones. "Let me talk to them," he said.
While Orlov continued to listen on the telephone, Rossky was put through to Marshal Petrov. Orlov saw the glint of satisfaction in the Colonel's eyes.
"Sir," Rossky said, "I have a call for you from General Sergei Orlov at the Operations Center in St. Petersburg."
"Thank you, Colonel," Petrov said.
It was a moment before Orlov could speak. For the head of an intelligence operation, he was suddenly feeling very ignorant ... and very vulnerable.
Orlov told the Marshal about the 76T, and Petrov said that he had already scrambled a pair of MiGs to escort it to a landing or shoot it down. Orlov hung up and, his eyes still locked on Rossky's, he strode over.
"Thank you," the General said.
Rossky drew his shoulders back. "You're welcome, sir. "
"I know the Marshal socially, Colonel."
"You are fortunate, sir."
"Do you know him?" Orlov asked.
"No, sir," Rossky said.
"Then explain." Though Orlov's voice was soft, he was commanding, not asking.
"I don't understand, sir."
Orlov knew now, for certain, that the conversation with Petrov and now with him was a game. But he wasn't about to get into a public power struggle in the command center, one he might well lose.
"I see," Orlov said. "Go about your duties, Colonel."
"Yes, sir," Rossky said.
Orlov returned to his post, beginning to suspect that even his appointment here had been part of a larger game. As he saw Delev, Spansky, and others snatch quick glances at him, the only question he had was who was loyal to him here, who might have been in on it from the beginning, and who-like Petrov-may have been brought in over the last few hours. The scope of the deception surprised him, but it didn't hurt as much as the thought that friends would desert him to preserve or advance their careers.
Orlov returned to his position behind the computer bank, though it was not the same position as when he had left it. The power base had shifted palpably to Rossky. Orlov knew he had to regain it. He'd never walked away from anything in his life. and be didn't intend to leave here defeated. But he knew he would have to undermine the Colonel quickly, and without being underhanded. He couldn't compete with Rossky on that level.
Orlov realized there was only one tack he could take just as Ivashin informed the Colonel that the local militia intelligence officer, Ronash, had called the St. Petersburg station house.
Rossky took the headphones, pressed one to his ear, and listened in silence as Sergeant Lizichev of the local militia told him wh
at Ronash had seen.
The Colonel moved the attached microphone closer to his mouth. "Sergeant," he said, "tell Ronash to follow those two. They're the ones we want. They'll probably get on the Metro. If they do, tell him to go with them, and have plainclothesmen watching for them at the transfer point at the Technological Institute, and also at the Gostinyy Dvor and Nevsky Prospekt stops. They'll probably get off at Nevsky, and I'll meet your men there." He listened for a moment, then said, "Red-and-yellowstriped scarves-yes, I'll watch for them."
Rossky handed the earphones back to Ivashin, then walked over to Orlov. He stepped in close and spoke softly.
"You've been loyal to the Center and to Russia'
Rossky said, "and have done nothing we would hold against you. For the sake of your pension and your son's career, you will continue to do so."
Orlov said in a strong voice, "Impertinence noted, Colonel. A rebuke will appear on your record. Was there anything else?"
Rossky glared at him.
"Good," said Orlov. He dipped his forehead toward the door. "Now come back prepared to follow orders-my orders-or report back to Minister Dogin in Moscow."
He knew that Rossky had to leave to catch the agents, although it would appear to the others as if he were obeying Orlov's command.
Rossky turned without saluting and hurried from the command center. Orlov knew that the Colonel wouldn't surrender the Operations Center during a coup. That's what it was, he realized now. And though he remained in the command center, his mind was on Rossky and what the Colonel's next step might be ....
FOURTY-NINE
Tuesday, 9:30 P.M., Khabarovsk
"Rearview mirror says we've got company," pilot Matt Mazer told Squires.
The Striker had come to the cockpit three minutes before the jump to thank the Captain for his help. The radar screen clearly showed two MiG-like blips closing in at approximately seven hundred miles an hour.
"Be prepared to pop a gasket," Mazer said to copilot John Barylick.
"Yes, sir," said the rookie, who was cool but was working his chewing gum overtime.
The Air Force had cleverly equipped the 76T with an enlarged oil tank that was divided into two compartments: one that fed the plane, the other that could leak with the press of a button. The leaking oil was designed to give the plane a reason to turn around if they were spotted. They could go down at once, if necessary, to avoid being shot down or forced to a Russian airstripor, this close to the coast, they could break away from the pursuit craft and make a run for home.
In either case, Squires knew that the 76T would be unlikely to be ferrying them back.
"What do you want to do, sir?" the Captain asked Squires.
"We'll jump," he said. "I'll let Op-Center know what's happened and let them figure a way out for us."
The Captain took another look at the radar screen. "In about ninety seconds, the MiGs will be close enough to see you. "
"Then we'll jump fast, " said Squires.
"I like your style, sir," the Captain said, saluting.
Jumpmaster Squires hurried back to the cabin. He decided not to tell Striker what had happened. Not yet. He needed his team to be focused on the job. Though he would be happy to storm hell itself with any of these soldiers at his side, a stray concern at the wrong time by any one of them could cost lives.
At the FBI Academy in Quantico, the Striker team had practiced many kinds of aerial assault, from night jumps to Stabo assaults with the team hanging from helicopter lines and landing simultaneously on church steeples, cliffsides, and even the tops of moving buses. Each member had the poise, stamina, and smarts necessary for the job. But those in-depth examinations by the doctors, the "chancre mechanics," were easy: soldiers were either fit to serve or they weren't. Despite the best efforts of Liz Gordon and her team of psychologists, the real question mark was always how they would hold up under the stress of an actual mission-when there wasn't a fence made of two-by-fours to catch them in case they slid off the rooftop. When they knew that the rugged terrain wasn't the survival-training site at Camp Dawson, West Virginia, but the mountains of North Korea or the tundra of Siberia.
It wasn't for lack of respect or concern that Squires kept the information from them. It was to remove, as much as possible, another distraction from the successful execution of the mission.
The Strikers were lined up by the hatch, as they'd been for a half hour. Every five minutes, the navigator had provided Squires with their precise coordinates in case it had been necessary for them to jump early. While they stood there, the team prepared for "infil." Each member checked another's weapons and rucksacks, making certain they were tight against the chest, back, and sides, and that the ruck in back was firm against the bottom of the parachute where it wouldn't interfere with deployment. The rappelling equipment was stowed in rucks; that three of the Strikers carried at the end of fifteen-foot tethers that would dangle beneath the soldiers as they fell. The teammates checked their padded-leather jump helmets, oxygen masks, and night-vision goggles. These were bug-eyed glasses so heavy that counterweights had to be attached to the backs of the helmet. After a few months of training with these goggles, most Strikers found that their neck sizes had gone up two sizes from the building of their neck muscles. At the last moment before the jump hatch was opened, they switched from the oxygen consoles to which they'd been hooked to the bailout bottles strapped to their sides.
The darkish, blood-red cabin lights had been turned on and icy winds slammed mercilessly through the cabin. It was impossible to hear anything but the air rushing by, and as soon as they were over their target and got the "go" signal, the lime-green jump light, Squires went out the door, pivoting on the ball of his right foot so that he was dropping facedown in the "frog" position. From the comer of his eye, he saw the second team member jump, Sergeant Grey, then looked at the big, round altimeter strapped to his left wrist.
The numbers rolled over quickly-thirty-five thousand feet, thirty-four thousand, thirty-three. Squires felt the frigid air push against his flesh even through the cold-weather clothing, chilling and then stinging him with the combination of cold and fist-hard pressure. He assumed the glide position as he fell, and when his altimeter read thirty thousand feet he tugged the silver rip cord. There was a mild jolt and his legs swung underneath him.
As he drifted down through the dark and cloudless sky, the air warmed perceptibly though it was still below zero. As team members above him lined themselves up with the luminescent strip on the helmet of the Striker beneath them, Squires searched the ground for landmarks: the train track, the bridge, the mountain peaks. They were all there, and that afforded Squires a measure of relief. One of the most important psychological aspects at the start of any mission was being able to hit the target. Not only did that make the soldiers feel capable, but the maps had made them familiar with the terrain in the target area. It was just one less thing to worry about.
Though it was dark, the night-vision goggles allowed Squires to pick out the target cliff, mid he used the riser straps above him on either side to maneuver the shroud lines and guide himself as close to the edge as possible. He had told the Strikers that he would be landing in the forward position and that they were to come in behind him. The last thing he wanted was for one of his people to overshoot the cliff. If they were snagged on a projection, they'd have to be rescued, costing them time. If they landed on the ground, out in the open, they might be seen.
Gusts near the ground caught Squires by surprise. He landed just five yards from the edge of the cliff. Dropping to his side to reduce the surface he presented to the wind, the officer quickly released his parachute and bundled it in, standing as he watched Sergeant Grey land, then Private DeVonne and the others. He was proud of them as they landed with precision; within five minutes, the six Strikers had knotted their parachutes to a tree. Private DeVonne stayed behind to leave a small incendiary device beneath the bundle. It was set to go off at 12:18 A.M., after the Strikers had departed
the area, destroying itself and the parachutes and leaving nothing for the Russians to present to the United Nations as "evidence" of a U.S. incursion.
As the Strikers huddled around Squires, they could hear distant engines that were more than just the 76T.
"Sounds like they've got company," said Private Eddie Medina.
"They knew about it and it's being handled," Squires said. "Private Honda, set up the TAC-Sat. Everyone else, get ready to move out."
While the five other Strikers moved out, using pitons and clamps to hook their heavy rappelling lines to the side of the cliff, Squires contacted Op-Center.
"Wake-up call," he said as Mike Rodgers got on the line. "What's the morning like there?"
"Sunny and mild," said Rodgers. "Charlie, you know about the MiGs
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. We're working on it. The 76T's going to make a run for Hokkaido, but it won't be coming back. We're working on a variation of the original plan. Be at the extraction point at the scheduled time. We'll have an aircraft there. "
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