by Tom Clancy
Rossky took the headphones, pressed one to his ear, and listened in silence as Sergeant Lizichev of the local militia told him what 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-yellow-striped 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
CHAPTER FORTY-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 airstrip— or, 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 corner 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, and 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."
"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.
CHAPTER 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 listened, 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 matériel 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.
CHAPTER 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 of 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."