"Understood."
It was unspoken, but Charlie also understood that if there was a problem, the team would have to find a place to hide. Several sites had been marked on their maps, and the team would go to the closest one if the need arose.
"Good luck," Rodgers said before signing off.
Charlie handed the receiver back to Honda. While the radio operator packed up the TAC-Sat, Squires took a moment to look across the terrain. It didn't require the eerie green light of the night-vision goggles to look dead and desolate beneath the canopy of unnaturally bright stars. The track came toward them in a gentle curve from the plains to the east, passed through a natural path between the cliffs, and continued on across flat scrubland dotted with trees and patches of snow. To the south were mountains. The region was as quiet as anywhere he had ever been. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind in his helmet and the scuffling of the Strikers' boots against the dirt and loose rocks of the cliff.
Honda moved forward when he was finished. And with a final glance toward the eastern horizon from which their quarry would soon be coming, Squires moved to where the Strikers were just finishing with their preparations to descend from the ledge.
FIFTY
Tuesday, 9:32 P.M., Khabarovsk
Nikita had an uncanny sense about aircraft. Growing up at the Cosmodrome, he always heard the approach of helicopters before anyone else did. He could recognize jets by the sounds their engines made. His mother said that all those years his father had spent in cockpits had affected his genes, "filled them with aviation fuel," was how she'd put it. Nikita didn't believe that. He simply loved flying. But to have become a flier, to have been compared to the national hero Sergei Orlov, would have been impossible for him. And so he kept his love to himself, like a dream whose magic couldn't be communicated to another.
The train slowed as it came to a patch of track with thickly piled snow. Though the wind roared around the canvas flap over the open window, Nikita heard the distinctive drone of the MiG engines. Two of them, coming from the east toward a transport that was flying overhead. These weren't the first aircraft he'd heard, but there was something different about them.
He poked his head out the window and turned his left ear up. Though the failing snow made it impossible for him to see anything, the sound traveled clearly through it. He listened carefully. The MiGs weren't accompanying the 76T, they had caught up to it. And as he lis tened, he heard the 76T, and then the jets, head in the opposite direction, back toward the east.
That wasn't right. This might be the 76T his father had warned him about.
Nikita drew his head inside, oblivious to the snow caked on his hair and cheeks. "Get Colonel Rossky on the radio," he barked to Corporal Fodor, who was sitting at the table warming his hands above the lantern.
"At once," the Corporal replied as he hurried to the console.
While Fodor crouched beside the console, waiting to be patched through to the base on Sakhalin, Nikita's eyes ranged over the civilians they'd picked up as he considered other possible explanations for what he'd heard. A mechanical problem could have caused the transport to turn back, but it wouldn't have needed an escort. Was someone looking for the train, trying to pinpoint their location, attempting to help them? His father, perhaps? General Kosigan? Or could it be someone else?
"He isn't there," Fodor said.
"Ask for General Orlov," Nikita said impatiently.
Fodor made the request and then handed the phone to Nikita. "He's on, sir."
Nikita squatted. "General?"
"What is it, Nikki?"
"There's a transport overhead," said Nikita. "It was headed west until a pair of jets arrived, and then it turned."
"That's the 76T," Orlov said.
"What are my orders?" Nikita asked.
"I've asked the President for permission to send troops to meet you in Bira," he said. "I've not received an approval for my request. Until then, do whatever is necessary to protect your cargo."
"As war materiel or as evidence, sir?"
"That isn't your problem," Orlov snapped. "Your orders are to keep it safe."
"That I will do, sir," Nikita said.
Handing the receiver to Fodor, the young officer hurried to the rear of the car, making his way through the passengers. The five men and two. women were sitting on mats playing cards or reading or knitting by lantern light. Nikita pulled open the door and crossed the slippery coupling. Thickly packed snow fell on his shoulders as he pushed open the door.
Inside the car, the beefy Sergeant Versky was talking to one of his men as they kept watch at the window on the northern side. Another man was stationed at the window on the south. All of them snapped to attention as Lieutenant Orlov entered.
"Sergeant," Nikita said, saluting, "I want spotters on the tops of the train, two men on every car rotated in half-hour shifts."
"Yes, sir," said Versky.
"If there isn't time to request instructions," Nikita continued, "your men are to shoot anyone who approaches the train." Nikita looked at the civilians, four men and three women they'd placed in this car at the last station. One of the men was sitting against a crate, napping. "And don't leave the car unattended at any time, Sergeant. I won't have my cargo compromised."
"Of course not, sir."
Nikita left, wondering where Rossky had gone ... and whether, absent the Colonel's orders, he could allow the crates to be turned over to his father.
FIFTY-ONE
Tuesday, 6:45 A.M., Washington, D.C.
"Another message from NRO," Bugs Benet said as Hood and the rest of the Op-Center officers sat around the conference table in the Tank.
"Thanks," Hood said to the video image of his assistant. "Put it through." ,
Viens's voice came on, but his picture did not. Instead, a black-and-white image was constructed on the screen at fifty lines a second.
"Paul," said Viens, "we picked this up just three minutes ago. "
Hood swung the screen partly toward Rodgers, then watched as the white, hazy, moonlike terrain appeared, followed by the train, which occupied roughly one-third of the center of the image. The image was extremely hazy because of the falling snow, but what should have been an unbroken expanse of white on top of the cars was not. There were shadows.
"Sorry for the quality," said Viens. "It's snowing a hell of a lot. But we're certain those shapes on top are soldiers. They're in camouflage whites, so you can't see them per se-though you can make out the shadows."
"Those are soldiers, all right," Rodgers said tensely as he pointed a finger to the screen. "You can tell by the way they're arrayed. Last one facing forward toward the left, next one facing back to the right, next one forward right, and so on. These shapes here--he traced a small line near one of the smudges- "appear to be a rifle. "
Viens said, "That's how we figured it, Mike."
"Thank you, Stephen," Hood said, then switched the NRO chief off. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the electronic grid surrounding it. "Can they know that Striker is on the ground?"
"Very possible," Bob Herbert said as the phone on the desk beeped.
"For you," Rodgers said as he glanced at the code number.
Because of the electronic field, Herbert couldn't be reached on the cellular phone attached to his wheelchair. He picked up the phone built into the side of the conference table, punched in his code number, and listened. When he hung up, his face looked waxen.
"The 76T is being escorted home by a pair of MiGs," Herbert said. "They'll start leaking oil and head for Hokkaido, but it won't be going back into Russia."
Rodgers looked at his watch, then reached for the phone near him. "I'm going to have the Mosquito go in from Hokkaido."
Herbert slapped the desktop. "No good, Mike. That's a round-trip of one thousand miles. The Mosquito's range is seven hundred
"I know what her range is," Rodgers shot back. "Seven hundred and ten-point-two miles. But we can get a cruiser up from the Sea o
f Japan. She can land on the deck-"
"We didn't get committee permission for the Mosquito to fly in solo," Martha Mackall said.
"We also didn't get approval for them to exchange fire with Russian soldiers," Lowell Coffey added. "This action was supposed to be reconnoitering only."
"I care about my soldiers," Rodgers replied, "not about those blowhards."
"Let's see how we can try to please everyone," Hood said, "and disappoint them all. Mike
"Yes, sir?" he said, breathing deeply.
"What do we do with Striker if we abort now?"
Rodgers took a long, deep breath. "The Mosquito goes in anyway," he said. "The nearest Agent-in-Place who could possibly sneak them out of Asia is in Hegang, Heilongjiang, about two hundred miles away, and I won't have them make that trip."
"In China?" Coffey said. "No one in Russia?"
"Our people in Vladivostok became repatriated when the Iron Curtain came down," Rodgers said. "We haven't had the resources to recruit others."
"What about lying low until things quiet down," Phil Katzen asked. "The terrain is survivable-"
"The Russians know Striker's there, dammit!" Rodgers said. "They've got satellites too, and they'll find them!" He looked at Hood. "Paul, the best way out of this is straight ahead, as planned."
"Straight ahead," said Martha, "to a showdown with Russian soldiers at a time when the country's a tinderbox waiting for a match."
"The only way you'd keep that quiet," Coffeywarned, "is to kill everyone on the train."
"Is it better to let a war happen," Rodgers countered, "one that would suck in Europe and probably the Chinese? Why do I feel like I'm back in 1945, listening to all the arguments about why we shouldn't use the Abomb to save American lives?"
Hood said, "Mike, the issue here is American lives. Striker lives-"
"Don't lecture me about Striker lives, Paul," Rodgers said through his teeth. "Please."
Hood sat quietly for a moment. "Fair enough.
Rodgers's hands were folded on the table. His thumbs were red and pressing down hard.
"You all right, Mike?" Liz asked.
He nodded and looked at Hood. "Sorry, Paul. I was out of line."
"Forget it," Hood said. "You and I could both use a movie and popcorn."
"Whew!" said Coffey. "Who's the family man here?"
Hood and Rodgers both smiled.
"All right," said Hood. "An R-rated movie."
"Hey, the guy's out of control," Coffey said. "Someone call the excitement police!"
Everyone but Ann was chuckling, and Hood tapped a finger on the table to bring them back. "What I was about to say a moment ago," he continued, "is that the diplomats haven't given up on solving this, and no one knows what President Zhanin will do. Do we jeopardize that by going ahead with the mission?"
"Whatever they do," Rodgers said evenly, "the crates on that train represent a lot of power for corrupt people. Even if it doesn't start a war, the cargo places influence in the hands of gangsters. Don't we have a responsibility to try and take that away?"
Coffey said, "Our first responsibility is to Striker and the laws we're all supposed to live by."
"Laws passed by your friends on the Hill," Rodgers said, "not moral law. You did what was necessary up there, but like Benjamin Franklin said, 'Necessity never made a good bargain.' " Rodgers looked at Hood. "You know me, Paul. Striker is dearer than my own life, but doing what's right is more important than both. And stopping that train is right."
Hood listened carefully. Rodgers and Coffey were coming at the problem from two directions, and neither of them was wrong. But the call was his, and he hated the fact that he was sitting here in comfort and security deciding the fate of seven people on a frozen cliff on the opposite side of the world.
He input Bugs's code on the computer, and his assistant's face appeared on the monitor.
"Yes, Paul?"
"Signal Striker on the TAC-Sat, see if Lieutenant Colonel Squires is free to come on. If not, when it's convenient."
"Will do," Bugs said, and his image winked off.
Rodgers didn't look happy. "What are you going to do, Paul?"
"Charlie's the commander in the field," Hood said. "I want his input."
"He's a professional soldier," Rodgers said. "What do you think he's going to say?"
"If he can take the call, let's find out."
"You don't do that to a soldier," Rodgers said. "That's not leadership, it's management. The only question we should be asking is, are we behind Striker or aren't we? Can we make this commitment and stick to it?"
"We can," Hood replied coolly. "But after your Korean mission, I went back and read the white papers you wrote as part of the ad hoc joint task force planning the rescue of our hostages from Khomeini's Revolutionary Guards. You were right about our forces being ready on paper and not in practice. And you were also right to be very concerned about extracting the advance party of Special Forces soldiers that would infiltrate Teheran a few days before the Eagle Claw mission. Without your prompting, the agents wouldn't have had a plan to get them out of the Mehrabad International Airport on Swiss Air if things went wrong. Why did you come up with that?"
"Because sneaking them out, one at a time, from the safe house would have given the Iranians more time to find them," Rodgers said. "It made more sense to buy commercial airline tickets and get them the hell out together."
"Who did you work that out with?" Hood asked.'
"Ari Moreaux, who set up the safe house for us."
"Your man on the site," Hood said as Bugs's image reappeared. "Yes, Bugs?"
"I beeped Honda's helmet phones. We'll just have to wait."
"Thanks," said Hood. He looked at Rodgers again. "This isn't Vietnam, Mike. We're not withdrawing moral or tactical support from our personnel in the field. If Squires wants to go ahead, I'll back him and take the butt-whipping from Congress later."
"It's not your call," Rodgers quietly reminded him.
"Striker is yours to command," Hood agreed, "but going outside the parameters established by the Intelligence Committee is my call."
Bugs came back on. "Lieutenant Colonel Squires is minding the headphones, Paul. I have him on the line."
Hood punched up the volume on the phone link. "Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Yes, sir!" said Squires, his voice clear despite the crackling caused by the snowfall.
"What's your disposition?" Hood asked.
"Five Strikers are nearly down the cliff. Private Newmeyer and I are about to descend."
"Lieutenant Colonel," Rodgers said, "there are Russian soldiers on top of the train. We make out ten or eleven, the all-NEWS network."
Facing north, east, west, and south, Hood knew. "We're concerned about letting you go ahead with the mission," Hood said. "What does it look like to you?"
"Well, sir," Squires said, "I've been standing here looking at the landscape-"
"The landscape?" Hood said.
"Yes, sir. This looks doable, and I'd like permission to proceed."
Hood caught the glint in Rodgers's eye. It was a flash of pride, not triumph.
"You understand the mission parameters," Hood said.
"We don't break any Russians," Squires said. "I think we can manage that. If not, we'll abort and head for the extraction point."
"Sounds like a plan," Hood said. "We'll keep an eye on the train and update you if necessary."
"Thank you, sir ... General Rodgers. As they say in the foothills, 'Dosvedanya.' See you later."
FIFTY-TWO
Tuesday, 2:32 P.M., St. Petersburg
Peggy stopped at the coin-operated telephone just above the Griboyedora Canal. After looking around, she pushed two kopeks into the coin slot. She answered George's mystified look by saying, "Volko. Cellular phone. "
Right, he thought. The spy. With everything else that was going on, George had forgotten about him. One of the things Striker operatives had been trained to do was take in their surroundi
ngs in a seemingly casual glance, remembering details that most people would have missed. The ordinary person looked at the sky or the sea or a skylinebig, impressive sights. But that wasn't where "information" tended to be. It was in a glen under the sky or a cove beside the sea or a street running past a building. Those were the places Strikers looked. And at people, always people. A tree or mailbox wasn't a threat to a mission, but someone behind them could be.
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