by Tom Clancy
Fresh tobacco had arrived the day before, and Orlov rolled a cigarette as the rim of the sun rose above the dark sea. He felt so much a part of this land, of each sunrise, that it seemed possible to touch the tobacco to the sun itself to light it. Instead, he used the lighter his father had given him when he entered the academy, the orange glow of the flame illuminating the inscription on the side: To Nikki, with love and pride— your father. Nikita drew on the cigarette and slipped the lighter back into the vest pocket of his crisply pressed shirt.
With love and pride. What would the inscription have read after he received his commission? he wondered. With shame and embarrassment? Or when Nikita requested this outpost upon graduation, away from his father and nearer a very real enemy of Moscow. With disappointment and confusion?
The telephone rang, a relay from the communications shed at the foot of the hill. Orlov's aide had not yet arrived, so he picked up the trim, black receiver himself.
"Sakhalin post one, Orlov speaking."
"Good morning," said the caller.
Nikita was silent for several seconds. "Father?"
"Yes, Nikki," said the General. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, though surprised," Nikita said, his expression suddenly alarmed. "Is it Mother—?"
"She's well," said the General. "We're both well."
"I'm glad," Nikita said flatly. "To hear from you after all these months— well, you can understand my concern."
There was another short silence. Nikita's eyes were no longer joyous as he watched the sun rise. They grew hard and bitter as he pulled a long drag from his cigarette, thought back to his increasingly tense conversations with his father, then further back to his arrest four years before. He remembered how ashamed and angry the General had been about what he had done to that church, how the famous cosmonaut who couldn't go anywhere without being recognized was embarrassed to go out. How finally, on the night Colonel Rossky— not his influential father— had smoothed the matter over with the academy and gotten Nikita reinstated with just a week of double turns on the extra-duty post, his father had come to the academy barracks and lectured him about the infamy of hate and how great nations and great citizens have been destroyed by it. The other cadets had been silent, and when the great man left, someone came up with the Nikita and Sergei game, which the soldiers-in-training played for days: "Sergei" had to guess where in Moscow his son was painting hate slogans, while "Nikita" gave him hot-cold clues.
Nikita could still hear their voices, their laughter.
"The U.S. Embassy?"
"Cold—"
"The Japan Air Lines terminal at Sheremet'yevo Airport?"
"Very cold—"
"The men's dressing room at the Kirov?"
"Warmer!"
"Nikki," said the elder Orlov, "I've wanted to call, but I only seem to make you angry. I'd hoped that time would rid you of some of your bitterness—"
"Has it rid you of your arrogance," Nikita asked, "this celestial idiocy that what we ants do down here on the hill is petty or dirty or wrong?"
"Going into space didn't teach me that a nation can be destroyed from within as well as from without," Orlov said. "Ambitious men taught me that."
"Still full of piety and naivete," said Nikita.
"And you're still brash and disrespectful," the General said evenly.
"So now you've called," Nikita said, "and we've discovered that nothing has changed."
"I didn't call to argue."
"No? What then?" Nikita asked. "Are you trying to see how far the transmitter at your new television station can reach?"
"Neither, Nikki. I'm calling because I need a good officer to lead his unit on a mission."
Nikita sat up straight.
"Are you interested?" the General asked.
"If it's for Russia and not for your conscience, I am."
"I called because you're the right officer for this job," the General said. "That's all."
"Then I'm interested," Nikita said.
"Your orders will come through Captain Leshev within the hour. You'll be seconded to me for three days. You and your unit are to be in Vladivostok by eleven hundred."
"We'll be there," he said, rising. "Does this mean that you're back on active duty?"
"You know everything that you need to know for now," the General replied.
"Very good," Nikita said, puffing quickly on his cigarette.
"And Nikki— take care of yourself. When this is over, perhaps you'll come to Moscow and we can try again."
"That's a thought," said Nikita. "And perhaps I can invite my former comrades from the academy. Seeing you just wouldn't be the same without them."
"Nikki— you wouldn't have heard me out in private."
"And you couldn't have cleared the Orlov name unless it was public," Nikita said.
"I did that so others might avoid making a similar mistake," the General said.
"At my expense. Thank you, Father." Nikita ground out his cigarette. "You'll excuse me, but I must get ready if I'm to be on the mainland by eleven hundred. Please give my regards to Mother and to Colonel Rossky."
"I will," the General said. "Goodbye."
Nikita hung up the phone, then took a moment to look at the half-risen sun. It annoyed him that so many others understood what his father did not: that the greatness of Russia was in its unity, not its diversity; that, as Colonel Rossky had taught, the surgeon who cuts out diseased tissue does so to cure the body, not to hurt the patient. His father had been selected as a cosmonaut because, among other things, he was even-tempered, brave, charitable, and an ideal figure to present to schools and international journalists and young fliers who wanted to be heroes. But it remained for trench fighters such as himself to do the real work of the new Russia, the rebuilding, purging, and undoing the mistakes of the past decade.
After informing the duty officer where he was going, Nikita grabbed his hat and left the outpost, feeling sad for his father but curious what the General planned for his son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, 2:53 P.M., over the Atlantic, northwest of Madrid
The inside of the C-141B StarLifter wasn't designed for comfort. It was custom-designed to weigh as little as possible to give the craft as much range as possible. The canvas-covered walls did nothing to buffer the mighty drone of the engines, and the bare ribs of the fuselage were dark under the bare bulbs. The troops sat on padded cushions on wooden benches. In turbulence, though the shoulder harnesses held the soldiers in place, it wasn't uncommon for the cushions to slide out from under them.
Though the benches could accommodate only ninety troops in relative comfort, the StarLifter was able to hold up to three hundred troops. With only eight people in the cabin and a pilot, copilot, and navigator on the flight deck, Lieutenant Colonel Squires felt as though he were flying first-class. His long legs were stretched in front of him, he had two of the thin cushions beneath him and one between his back and the hard metal, and best of all the cabin wasn't stuffy. On those occasions when the prime members of Striker traveled with backup troops from the other services, and the five German shepherds of the K-9 Corps, the cabin tended to fill quickly with the heat of the huddled, perspiring warriors.
After several hours in the air, Squires appreciated the comfort. He had spent the first hour with Sergeant Chick Grey and Private David George, taking inventory of the gear they might need for Helsinki, spent the next two hours with Private Sondra DeVonne reviewing maps of Helsinki and St. Petersburg on his laptop, and then he slept for four hours.
When Squires woke, George handed him a microwaved meal and a cup of black coffee. The rest of the team had eaten an hour before.
"I've got to talk to General Rodgers about getting us better food," Squires said as he flipped open the hinged Styrofoam lid of the tray and surveyed the turkey slices, mashed potatoes, string beans, and corn muffin. "We've got missiles that can fly around trees and over mountains and slip down someone's chimney, but they're s
erving us the kind of crap you get on commercial airplanes."
"It's still better than the rations my dad says they served in Vietnam, sir," George said.
"Yeah, maybe," said Squires. "But it wouldn't kill them to give us a decent coffeemaker. Hell, I'd pay for it myself. Doesn't take up any extra space, and they're idiotproof. Not even the Army could screw that up."
"You never tasted my coffee, sir," said Sondra, without looking up from her copy of Wuthering Heights. "When I'm home, my mom and dad keep the percolator under tight security."
Squires cut a piece of turkey. "What kind of coffee do you use?"
Sondra looked over. Her large brown eyes were perfectly framed by her round face, and her voice bore the lilting trace of a youth spent in her native Algeria. "Kind, sir? I don't know. Whatever's on sale."
"That's your problem," said Squires. "My wife buys whole beans. We keep them in the freezer, then grind them that morning. Usually something festive, like southern pecan or chocolate raspberry."
"Chocolate raspberry coffee?" said Sondra.
"That's right. We use a drip coffeemaker, not a pot that burns the coffee, and we take it off the heat and put it in a butler as soon as it's brewed. When we drink, we never use milk or sugar. Those are the great equalizers— they make all coffee taste the same."
"Sounds to me like a lot to do before roll call, sir," Sondra said.
Squires pointed his knife toward her book. "You're reading Bronzed. Why not something off the romance racks?"
"This is literature," she said. "The rest is paint-by-numbers."
"That's how I feel about coffee," Squires said as he speared more turkey with his plastic fork. "If it isn't the real thing, if it's touch football, why bother?"
Sondra said, "I can answer that in one word, sir: caffeine. When I'd read Thomas Mann or James Joyce till four in the morning, I'd need something to get me to class by nine."
Squires nodded, then said, "I've got a better way."
"What's that?"
"Push-ups," he said. "A hundred of 'em, right out of bed, wakes you faster than caffeine. Besides, if you can make yourself do that first thing in the morning, the rest of the day'll seem like a piece of cake."
As they spoke, radio operator Ishi Honda made his way from the rear of the fuselage. A veteran Striker and judo black belt born of a Hawaiian mother and Japanese father, the short, boyish Honda was handling communications during the recovery of Private Johnny Puckett, who was wounded in North Korea.
Honda saluted and handed Squires the receiver of the secure TAC-Sat communications radio he carried in his backpack. "Sir, General Rodgers is calling."
"Thank you," Squires said, swallowing the mouthful of turkey and taking the line. "Colonel Squires here, General."
"Lieutenant Colonel," said Rodgers, "it looks like your team will be going to the target, and not as tourists."
"Understood."
"You'll have the specifics before you land," Rodgers said, "regarding point of departure, transportation, landing, and timing— though we won't be able to tell you much about exactly what it is you're looking for. Everything we know will be in the report, including where the DI6 agent investigating the site was murdered. The Russians also got one of his informants, and another's on the run."
"Take no prisoners," Squires said.
"Right. Now, I've got mixed feelings about this, but you'll also have a new teammate— a British agent with a pair that clang."
"Do I know him?" Squires asked.
"It's a her," Rodgers said, "and no. But she's got the credentials. I'll have Bob Herbert send her file through along with the TAS data. In the meantime, get McCaskey an inventory of the wet gear you have on board. If there's anything else we think you'll need, he'll have it waiting in Helsinki. And Charlie?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell everyone good luck and Godspeed."
"Roger," Squires said, then signed off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Monday, 11:00 P.M., St. Petersburg
"Three two one. We're on."
There were no cheers as Yuri Marev spoke, no smiles as General Orlov, pacing slowly behind the are of computers, acknowledged with a nod the functional status of the Russian Operations Center. The countdown had proceeded without a hitch, and while the long day was coming to an end for most of the workers, Orlov felt as though his day was just beginning. He had asked to see all the data that came in over the next hour, which he would review with the Directors of satellite surveillance and weather, cellular and radio communication, on-site operations, cryptography, and computer analysis, imaging, and interception. These included the four-to-midnight shift heads of each department— the prime team, which covered the heavy data flow when it was eight in the morning to four in the afternoon in Washington— as well as the Deputy Directors, who worked the midnight-to-eight and eight-to-four shifts. Rossky would also be present, not only as Orlov's second-in-command but as the liaison officer with the military. Rossky was not only in charge of analyzing shared military intelligence and feeding it to other branches of the armed forces and government, but of commanding the spetsnaz strike team that was at the Center's disposal for special missions.
Orlov looked over at Rossky, who was standing behind Corporal Ivashin. The Colonel's hands were clasped behind his back, clearly enjoying all the quiet activity. He reminded Orlov of Nikita the first time he took him to see the boosters and spacecraft at Star City: the boy was so excited, he didn't know where to look first. Orlov knew that would change very soon, though.
As soon as the Center was declared operational, Orlov walked over to Rossky. The Colonel took a moment before turning and saluting slowly.
"Colonel Rossky," Orlov said, "I would like you to tell me exactly where my son is. Everything in code, no need to log the order."
Rossky hesitated a moment, apparently having tried and failed to ascertain Orlov's motive. "Yes, sir," he said.
Rossky told Ivashin to have the radio room contact the base at Sakhalin Island and ask Sergeant Nogovin for the information. All communications were in Pencil Code Two/Five/Three: letters had to be erased before it could be decoded. In this case, every second letter of every word in the code was false, as was every fifth word— save for the third letter of each false word, which was the first letter of the word that followed.
Ivashin had his answer in less than two minutes, and his computer quickly decoded it for him.
His hands still locked behind his back, Rossky leaned over the screen and read, "Junior Lieutenant Orlov and his unit of nine spetsnaz soldiers have arrived in Vladivostok and are awaiting further instructions." Rossky fired Orlov a look. "General," he said tensely, "is this a maneuver of some kind?"
"No, Colonel, it isn't."
Rossky's jaw tightened and unclenched several times. Orlov waited several long seconds to make sure that Rossky was smart enough not to be insubordinate, not to complain that he had been excluded from a military maneuver. Rossky had to feel humiliated in front of the staff, but he remained silent.
"Come to my office, Colonel," Orlov said, turning, "and I'll brief you on the disposition of the Sakhalin spetsnaz unit."
The General heard Rossky's heels click smartly behind him. Once the door was closed behind them, Orlov sat at his desk and looked at Rossky, who stood before it.
"You're aware of Minister Dogin's shipment on board a private aircraft?" Orlov asked.
"Yes, sir."
"There's a problem," Orlov said. "Engine trouble. It can't go on. Because of the severe weather and the shortage of aircraft, I've ordered the shipment to be transferred to a train which Rear Admiral Pasenko has informed me is at our disposal."
"A train from Vladivostok will take four or five days to reach Moscow," Rossky said.
"But that's not where it's going," Orlov said. "My plan is simply to get the shipment out of Vladivostok to a place where an aircraft will be able to rendezvous with it. I was thinking that we might be able to get a helicopter out of the Bada A
erodrome to meet the train in Bira. That's only six hundred miles from Vladivostok, and appears to be far enough to the west to remain clear of the path of the storm."
"You've done a great deal of work on this already, sir," said Rossky. "Is there anything I can do?"
"As a matter of fact, there is," said Orlov. "But first, Colonel, I'd like to know how you first heard about the shipment."
Rossky said matter-of-factly, "From the Minister."
"He communicated with you directly?"
"Yes, sir," said Rossky. "I believe you were at home at the time, having dinner."
The General swiveled over to his keyboard and opened the log file. "I see. But you logged a report for me to look at later."
"No, sir," said Rossky.
"Why not, Colonel? Were you too busy?"
"Sir," said Rossky, "the Minister did not want the matter to become part of Center records."
"The Minister did not want it," Orlov snapped. "Is it not a standing order that every duty assigned by a superior be logged?"
"Yes, sir."
"And are you accustomed to taking civilian commands over military ones?"
"I am not, sir," Rossky replied.
"I can speak for the Center," Orlov said. "We're an autonomous base serving all branches of government and the military. But what about you, Colonel? Do you have a special loyalty to the Ministry of the Interior?"
Rossky took a moment longer to answer. "No, sir. I do not."
"Good," said Orlov, "because if there's another incident like this, I'll have you reassigned. Is that understood?"
Rossky's rock-rigid chin moved up and down slowly. "It is. Sir."
Orlov inhaled deeply and began scanning the day's log. He never thought that Rossky would rebel openly, and his restraint was to be expected. But he'd pushed the Colonel into a corner and he was about to push a little more. Rossky would have to do something.