by Tom Clancy
Volko looked into the tester of smoke hanging under the lights. He tried to tell himself that he would be acting patriotically, but he knew that wasn't the case. He was just afraid.
"Yes," Volko said sullenly. "I'll go to St. Petersburg" — he looked into Pogodin's eyes— "willingly."
Pogodin glanced at his wristwatch. "There's a cabin reserved for us. It won't even be necessary to hold the train." He looked at Volko and smiled now. "I'm going with you, of course. And though I don't carry a gun, I trust you'll still be willing to cooperate."
There was menace in his tone, and Volko was still too shaken to answer. He didn't want other people to die on his account, but he also knew that everyone who played in this field knew the risks himself included.
As his captor led him from the interrogation room back to the car, he told himself that he had two choices. One was to accept Pogodin's terms and earn himself a quick death. The other was to fight back and try to regain the honor he had somehow lost
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Monday, 10:05 P.M., Berlin
The fat, heavy Ilyushin Il-76T was a high-performance Russian transport just over 165 feet long with a wingspan of over 165 feet. First introduced in prototype in 1971, and first flown in service with the Soviet Air Force in 1974, it could take off from short, unpaved airstrips, making it ideal for environments like those found in Siberia. It was also modified as a flight-refueling tanker for Russian supersonic strategic bombers. Il-76Ts had been sold to Iraq, Czechoslovakia, and Poland. Powered by four mighty Soloviev D-30KP turbofans, the jet had a normal cruising speed of nearly five hundred miles an hour and a range of over four thousand miles. The Il-76T could transport forty tons of cargo. If it were flying nearly empty, and if relatively lightweight rubber fuel bladders were installed in the cargo bay with extra fuel, the range could be increased by over seventy percent.
After contacting the Pentagon and explaining that Striker needed a ride into Russia, Bob Herbert was put in touch with General David "Divebomb" Perel in Berlin, who had the husky jet hauled from secret storage. It had been kept at the U.S. air base there since 1976, when it had been bought by the Shah of Iran and then clandestinely sold to the U.S. After studying the aircraft, the Air Force had gutted it for use as a spy plane. To date, the Il-76T had been used in only a handful of missions, measuring exact distances between landmarks to help calibrate spy satellites and taking radar and heat readings of underground installations to get a picture of their layout. On all of these flights, it had managed to fool the Russians as to its legitimacy by filing a flight plan through a mole in the Air Force. The mole was informed, by radio, to do it again for this flight.
This was the first time the Il-76T was going to be used to carry American troops, and the first time it would spend this much time over Russian airspace— eight hours, as it flew from Helsinki to the drop-off point and then on to Japan. In the past, it was never in the air long enough to be spotted, discovered to be unregistered, and investigated.
Both Herbert and Perel were keenly aware of the danger the crew and the Striker team faced, and both of them expressed their deep reservations to Mike Rodgers in a conference call.
Rodgers shared their concerns and asked for alternative suggestions. Perel agreed with Herbert that while the operation was within Op-Center's jurisdiction, the political issue was a matter for the State Department and the White House to decide. Rodgers reminded Herbert and pointed out to the General that until they knew for a fact what was on that train, this was strictly a reconnaissance matter. Until that situation changed, he had no choice but to pursue this course of action— regardless of the danger. On-site intelligence gathering, he said, was never risk free and there were times, like now, when it was indispensable.
And so the Il-76T was prepped and loaded with paratroop and cold-weather gear and took off, headed to Helsinki with special clearance from Defense Minister Kalle Niskanen— though he was told that the flight was only to reconnoiter, not that troops would almost certainly be jumping into Russia. That was a problem Lowell Coffey would have to smooth over once the plane was airborne, though the fiercely anti-Russian Minister probably wouldn't have a problem with anything they wanted to do there. Meanwhile, Herbert contacted the Op-Center radio room and asked to be patched through to Lieutenant Colonel Squires.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11:27 P.M., south of Finland
"It isn't hypocritical," Squires told Sondra as the StarLifter began its final approach to Helsinki airport. The Strikers had changed into civilian clothes and looked like any other tourists. "Yes, coffee is a stimulant, and it might be bad for your stomach if consumed by the barrel. But wine is bad for your liver and your mind."
"Not in moderation," Sondra said as she checked her gear again. "And wine tasters have as much right to fuss over vintage and flavor and body as someone does over coffee."
"I don't fuss over coffee," Squires said. "I don't swirl it around my Redskins mug and savor the aroma. I drink it, period. I also don't pretend that getting high sip by sip in an elegant setting is elegant." He chopped down with his hand. "End of debate."
Sondra scowled as she zipped up the nondescript backpack that contained a compass, nine-inch hunting knife, M9.45-caliber pistol, one thousand dollars in cash, and maps of the region that had been printed out by Squires's computer during the flight. It wasn't fair for him to pull rank like that, but she reminded herself that no one ever said the military was fair, that rank had its privileges, and all the other clichés her parents had thrown at her when she'd told them she wanted to join the military straight out of Columbia.
"If you want to travel, travel!" her father had said. "We can afford it, take a year."
But that wasn't it. Carl "Custard" DeVonne had been a self-starter who made a fortune in soft ice cream in New England, and he didn't understand why an only daughter who had everything would want to take her B.A. in literature and join the Navy. Not just the Navy, but fight her way into the SEALs. Maybe it was because she had had everything as a kid and wanted to test herself. Or maybe she needed to do something her over-achieving father hadn't. And the SEALs, and now Striker, were certainly a test.
While she wondered how a man as bright as Squires could be so stubborn, a call came in from Op-Center. He took it, listened— intently as always, mostly without speaking— and then handed the phone back to Ishi Honda.
"Okay, lady and gentlemen, gather 'round," he said, hunching toward his troops like a quarterback in a huddle. "Here's the latest. Private George, when we reach Helsinki, you'll be remaining behind. Darrell McCaskey has arranged for you to link up with a Major Aho of the Finnish Ministry of Defense. The Major will take you to your partner, DI6 operative Peggy James, and the two of you will take on the Hermitage by your lonesomes. Sorry, but the rest of us have business elsewhere. You'll hitch a midget sub ride from the Gulf of Finland into the Neva. The Finns've got a butt-kick Defense Minister who's been running surveillance trips right into the mouth of the river. The Russians don't monitor closely because manpower is stretched thin and Moscow doesn't worry a whole lot about being attacked by Finland."
"Sloppy," Sondra observed.
"You and James will raft into St. Petersburg in daylight," Squires continued. "General Rodgers would have preferred for you to wait for nightfall, but that's when they make the mini-sub trips, so in you go. Fortunately, the Russian Navy maintains a mini-sub base in Koporskiy Zaliv Bay not far from the city. You'll be given Russian naval uniforms when you reach Helsinki. If you're stopped for any reason, Ms. James speaks fluent Russian and you'll have the appropriate documents. The Finns are turning out Russian papers in the Security Ministry's forgery division. Major Aho will give you your cover story as well as visas and papers so you can get out of the country as Russian soldiers on leave. Once you reach the Hermitage, find out anything you can about the communications center they appear to have down there. If you can cripple it without terminating anyone, do so. Any questions?"
"Yes, sir. I assume Major Aho's in charge of the mission while we're in Finland. Who runs it in Russia?"
Squires's jaw shifted to the side. "I was getting to that. Op-Center's come up with a new one for us. James was going to be a subordinate as long as an officer was present. Since there isn't going to be one— me— she's along as an observer. In other words, she's not obliged to take orders from you."
"Sir?"
"I know it's an odd one, Private. All I can tell you is, do your job. If she has ideas, listen to them. If she doesn't like yours, negotiate. She's a sharp player, so it should be okay. Any other questions?"
George saluted. "No, sir," If he was concerned or excited, it didn't show in his rosy, youthful face.
"Okay." Squires looked around. "The rest of us will be taking a little trip. We'll be transferring to a Russian transport we've had in cold storage, and flying to parts unknown. The rest of our mission will be communicated en route."
"Any idea what it is, sir?" Sondra asked.
Squires's steely eyes were on her. "If I did," said the Lieutenant Colonel, "I'd've told you. The minute I know anything, you'll know it."
Sondra managed to hold his gaze with her own, though her exuberance dissolved like the sugar she dared to use in her coffee. Their conversations earlier, and now this rebuke, had shown her a side of Squires she hadn't seen during her month with Striker: not the driving, blistering, "try-harder, move-your-ass, can't-you-hit-a-damn-bull'seye?" side, but the imperious commander. The change from taskmaster to leader was subtle, but demanding. It was also, she had to admit, impressive.
As Squires dismissed the troops and Sondra sat back down, she shut her eyes and did what they'd taught her in SEAL training, worked on whipping up her enthusiasm again, reminding herself that she wasn't here for Squires but for herself and for her country.
"Private."
Sondra opened her eyes. The Lieutenant Colonel was leaning close so he could be heard over the drone of the engines, his expression less forbidding than it had been moments before.
"Yes, sir?"
"A bit of advice," he said. "Back at the base, you had one of the greatest go-get-'em attitudes I've ever seen. I don't know who you were mad at, or who you were trying to impress up here—" He touched his temple. "You sure impressed me, though. You also have skill and smarts or you wouldn't be here. But what the rest of my team knows, Private DeVonne, is that on a mission, the cardinal virtues are the cardinal virtues: prudence, temperance, fortitude, and justice. You understand?"
"I think so, sir."
"I'll put it another way," Squires said as he sat up and buckled up for the landing. "Keep everything open except your mouth and you'll do just fine."
Sondra slipped on her own shoulder harness and leaned back. She was still a little deflated and somewhat annoyed that the Lieutenant Colonel had chosen this time and this way to share his philosophy, but feeling more confident than ever that here was a man she could follow into battle
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Monday, 4:30 P.M., Washington, D.C.
While Rodgers sat in his office, reviewing the latest Striker plans from TAS, Stephen Viens E-mailed the AIM-Satellite report on the crates:
CONTENTS OF EACH CRATE APPEARS TO BE A SOLID MASS.
PROBABLY NOT MACHINERY.
EASY FOR TWO MEN TO LIFT.
SENT PHOTO RECON TO MATT STOLL FOR ANALYSIS.
Rodgers muttered to himself, "Bricks of cocaine or packets of heroin would fill the bill. And I'd love to make the bastards eat each and every one of them."
There was a knock on the door. Rodgers buzzed Lowell Coffey in.
"You wanted to see me?" Coffey asked.
Rodgers waved him to a chair. Coffey removed his black trench coat and planted himself in the leather armchair. The attorney had bags under his eyes, and his hair wasn't as carefully combed as usual. This had been a long, tough day for him.
"How did it go with the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee?" Rodgers asked.
Coffey tugged his LC cuff links out from under the sleeve of his jacket. "I went over our revised outline with Senators Fox and Karlin, and was told we're crazy. Senator Fox said it twice. The answer was no change in the original Striker mandate. I think they have a problem with the prospect of engaging the Russian Army, Mike."
"I can't worry about the problems they have," Rodgers said. "I need my team in there. Go back and tell them we're not talking about an engagement, Lowell. We're just reconnoitering."
"Just reconnoitering," Coffey said dubiously. "They'll never buy that. I don't buy it. I mean, reconnoitering to find out what?"
"Where the soldiers are headed and exactly what they're guarding."
"You'll have to get on the train for that," Coffey said. "That's some pretty close reconnoitering. And if Striker is found out? What do I tell the Senators? Do we surrender or fight?"
Rodgers said bluntly, "Striker doesn't surrender."
"Then forget my even going back," he said.
"All right," Rodgers said. "Tell them we won't fight. Tell them we won't use anything stronger than flash/bang grenades and tear gas. We'll put everyone to sleep, no one gets hurt."
"I still can't do it," Coffey said. "I can't take that to the committee."
"Then screw 'em," Rodgers said. "Hell, we're still breaking international law even if we get their approval."
"True," Coffey said, "but if we get caught then, it's Congress in the hot seat and we don't get crucified. Do you have any idea how many national and international laws and treaties you can conceivably break with this one action you're proposing? The good news is, you'll never go to jail. You'll spend forty years in court fighting each of the charges."
Rodgers thought for a moment. "What if you tell the committee that it isn't the Russian government we'll be going up against?"
"In Russia? Who else would we be fighting?"
"We believe a rogue official, very high up, is in bed with drug lords," Rodgers said.
"Then why haven't we told the Russian leaders?" Coffey asked. "If he were to invite us in—"
"He can't," said Rodgers. "The election didn't leave President Zhanin strong enough to deal with the rebel faction."
Coffey considered the new information. "Rogue officials. Elected ones?"
Rodgers shook his head. "Appointed by the last President and sure to be gone when Zhanin finds the broom."
Coffey chewed the inside of his cheek. "That plus the drug angle could work. Congress likes tackling bad guys the constituents can hate. What about the President? Is he behind us on this, or are we on our own?"
"Paul told him what we're proposing to do," Rodgers said. "He doesn't like the downside, but he's itching to hit someone for what happened in New York."
"And Paul's behind you, I assume?"
"He is," said Rodgers, "as long as you can get me CIC approval."
Coffey crossed his leg. He shook a foot nervously on his knee. "I assume you're going to use something other than the StarLifter to get Striker in?"
"We've taken an Il-76T from mothballs in Berlin and sent it to Helsinki—"
"Wait a minute," Coffey said. "Ambassador Filminor got the government to okay a Russian incursion?"
"No," Rodgers said. "Bob went to the Minister of Defense."
"Niskanen?" Coffey shouted. "I told you this moming he's crazy! That's why the Finns keep him in office. He actually scares Moscow. But he can't give the final okay for something like this. You need approvals from President Jarva and Prime Minister Lumirae."
Rodgers said, "All I needed from Niskanen was permission to get the plane in. Once my team is airborne, he or you or the Ambassador can deal with the President and Prime Minister."
Coffey shook his head. "Mike, you're all over the map on this one, and every inch of it's an earthquake zone."
There was a knock on the door and Darrell McCaskey entered. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Yes," said Coffey, "but that's okay."
Rodgers sai
d, "I heard about the agent in Tokyo. Sorry."
The short FBI liaison and crisis management expert scratched his prematurely gray hair and handed papers to Rodgers. "He died with his boots on," McCaskey said. "I guess that's something."
Coffey shut his eyes as Rodgers turned his attention to the papers.
"These were faxed from Interpol," McCaskey said. "Maps drawn up just after the fall of Poland showing the basement of the Hermitage. The Russians knew they'd be going to war, so they gutted the cellars, reinforced them to bunker strength, and drew up plans to move the local government and military command down there in the event of an attack. You've got eighteen-inch-thick cinder-block walls and ceilings, plumbing, vents— very little would have to have been done to turn it into a secure area for intelligence work."
Rodgers looked over the architectural plans. "That's what I would've done with it. I wonder why they waited so long."
"Interpol says the basement was, in fact, used on and off over the years for radio surveillance around the world," McCaskey said. "But you know the Russians. Wherever possible, they prefer on site intelligence over electronic surveillance."
"The peasant mentality," Rodgers said. "A potato in the hand is worth a dozen in some rosy five year plan."
"Basically, yes," said McCaskey. "But with moles being sniffed out and the collapse of the KGB, that may be changing now."
"Thanks," Rodgers said. "Get this over to Squires so he can review them with the man going into St. Petersburg." He looked at Coffey. "For people operating on fault lines, we appear to be doing some pretty good spy work. How about working on getting those clearances we'll need as soon as Striker is airborne again, which will be— he looked at his computer clock— "in about an hour."
Coffey looked numb. He nodded as he rose, then tugged his cuff links again and looked at Rodgers. "One more thing, Mike. As an attorney and a friend, I should point out to you that according to our charter, section seven, 'Accountability of Military Personnel to Civilian Commanders,' subsection b, paragraph two, Striker reports to the ranking military officer. That's you. The Director can't countermand an order you've given."