by Tom Clancy
George grinned. "I'm married. I can relate to that too." The grin broadened. "Strikers among strikers," he whispered. "I like the irony."
Peggy didn't return his smile as they went around the fringes of the crowd in the Palace Square. George wondered if she'd even heard him as she looked at the orderly mob, at the sculptural grouping over the General Staff Arch, at her feet— anywhere but the Hermitage itself and the river beyond, on whose banks Keith Fields-Hutton had died. He thought he saw dampness in the corners of her eyes and a heaviness in her step that he had not seen before.
And he finally, happily, felt close to the person he had been sitting beside, hip-to-hip, for them better part of a day.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Tuesday, 10:51 P.M., Khabarovsk
Spetsnaz soldiers were trained to do many things with their chief weapon, the spade. They were left in a locked room with just the spade and a mad dog. They were ordered to chop down trees with them. On occasion, they had to dig ditches in frozen ground with them, ditches deep enough to lie in. At a specified time, tanks were rolled over the field. Soldiers who hadn't dug deep enough were crushed.
With the help of Liz Gordon, Lieutenant Colonel Squires had made a special study of spetsnaz techniques, searching for those that best accounted for the remarkable endurance and versatility of their soldiers. He couldn't adapt them all. Regular beatings to toughen the soldiers would never have been approved by the Pentagon, although he knew commanding officers who would have sanctioned them gladly. But he adapted many spetsnaz methods, including his favorites— their ability to create camouflage in a very short time and to hide in the unlikeliest places.
When he had learned about the soldiers posted on top of the train, he realized they'd be watching the treetops, cliffs, boulders, and snowbanks along the route. He knew that someone in the engine would be watching the tracks for explosives or debris. But he also knew that he had to get under the train unseen, and that the best place to hide would be on the tracks themselves.
The glow of an engine-mounted headlight would be diffused and dull, and the soldiers would be paying careful attention to the rails. So he felt safe using a small hatchet to hack through two of the dry, old crossties, chop a shallow ditch in the railbed, lie on his back, and have Grey cover him and his sack of C-4 with snow— leaving an arm-thick tunnel on the side so he could breathe. After interring Newmeyer nearby, Grey hid behind a boulder, far from the train; when Squires and Newmeyer tackled the two cars and the fireworks started, Grey would move on his target, the engine.
Squires had heard, then felt, the drumming approach of the train. He hadn't been nervous. He was below the surface of the rails where even the cowcatcher, if there was one, wouldn't touch the snow piled on top of him. His only concern was that the engineer see the tree too soon or not see it at all and collide with it. In the latter case, not only would the train be damaged but the wheels would kick the tree back and over him, in which case he would be, as he'd joked to Grey, "ground Chuck."
Neither of those had happened. But when the train did stop and Squires was able to burrow a little hole in front of his eyes, he saw that he was under the coal tender. That was one car ahead of where he had hoped he'd be.
At least the camouflage worked, he'd thought as he discreetly began to push the snow from himself. There was something very gratifying and historically fight about Russian troops falling for a Russian scheme— like Rasputin being killed by Czarists and the Czar being killed by Revolutionaries.
As he'd finished brushing away the snow, Squires had heard shouting. Despite the fact that virtually every inch of skin was covered with Nomex garments, he was cold— a chill that seemed deeper, for some reason, because of the flat darkness surrounding him.
No sooner was he free than he heard boots crunch hard in the wet drifts. This was followed by the lighting of flares, which spread rosy circles of light in the snow and caused the dark underbelly of the train to glow devilishly.
Carefully placing his backpack on his belly, Squires began wriggling backward, out of the ditch and along the railbed toward the first car. Soldiers were moving to the right of him, and he stopped for a moment to unbutton the safety strap of the holster he wore low on his right hip. Though Squires didn't want to cause an international incident, he would rather read newspaper accounts of his crimes and misdeeds than have others read about his death on a frozen plain in Siberia.
Squires's backward crawl went quickly, and he was underneath the coupling between the coal tender and the first car just as the Russian soldiers reached the fallen tree. This, despite the fact that he was pushing up mounds of snow with his shoulders and had to limbo over them backward. Opening the ruck flap, the Striker removed the C-4 and gingerly pressed it against the metal as flakes of damp, rusted iron fell like snow. When the explosives were secure, he took out the three-inch diameter timer and, with an insistent push from the heel of his hand, slipped the positive and negative ends into the plastique. There were two buttons above a numeric keypad, and he pressed the button on the left. That turned the unit on, and he used the numeric keypad to enter the countdown. He would give himself one hour. After punching in 60:00:00, he hit the button on the top right to lock it in. Then he hit the left-button, right-button sequence one more time to start the countdown.
Squires pushed his feet against the ruddy snow and wriggled to the middle of the first car. He heard thumping overhead, toward the upper right. The sudden stop must have dislodged the cargo and it was being restacked. Kicking backward another few feet, he stopped directly beneath the noise and put the C-4 there. He plugged in a timer and repeated the process that would cause this larger batch of plastique to explode. Moving under the second car, Squires rigged it to go off with a third slap of C-4 and a timer.
When he was finished, Squires allowed himself to enjoy a long, deep breath. He gazed across his chest toward the front of the train and saw that the men were nearly finished removing the tree. He didn't have much time.
Sliding out from under the ruck, Squires set it gingerly to his right as he sidled to the left. When he was out from under the train, he turned over on his belly and lay in the long, flare-cast shadow of the train. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch and was pleased at how quickly the operation had gone. He knew it was one of those things that, had he had time to rehearse it back at Andrews, would have taken ten or twenty percent longer to accomplish in the field. Why it worked that way, he had no idea. But it did.
He looked back toward the first car and, walking on his elbows, made his way to a drift near the coal tender. He began pushing the snow aside; that was Newmeyer's signal to start digging himself out. The Private was trembling and had bitten down on the mouth covering of his balaclava to keep his teeth from chattering. Squires gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as Newmeyer rolled onto his belly. He had been buried with his 9mm Beretta on his chest, and he holstered it now.
Newmeyer knew what to do, so Squires crawled back to the second car to get in position.
This was one action he wished he had been able to rehearse. But though a spetsnaz soldier might be able to function without sleep for seventy-two hours, and Israeli Sayeret Tzanhanim paratroop recon commandos could land on top of a running camel, and he had seen an Omani Royal Guard officer kill a man with a hatpin to the throat, Squires knew that no soldier in the world could improvise like a Striker. That was the beauty of the team, why they fit perfectly with Op-Center's mandate to bronco-bust unfolding crises.
Squires hooked the detonator to his belt, slipped on his compact respirator, then drew a flash/bang grenade from his left hip pouch. He slid the pull ring of the grenade over his right thumb, still holding the safety spoon. Then he pulled an M54 lachrymatory gas canister from its pouch and held it in his left hand, his thumb through the ring. When Newmeyer had done likewise, the two men rose slowly, in the shadows, and stood just to the right of the windows of the first and second cars.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Tues
day, 7:53 A.M., Washington, D.C.
"So where is he?"
Hood was thinking those exact words just as Herbert said them.
For several minutes now, everyone in his office had been silent and he'd been replaying the conversation with Orlov in his mind, trying to reassure himself that he hadn't given the Russian anything that could be used against the Strikers. Orlov already knew about both groups, and knew where they were. Hood was convinced, still, that the talk had been about how to defuse the crisis. Orlov could have used his status in Russia long before this to aggrandize himself, if that was what he wanted. He wanted to believe that the cosmonaut was a humanist as well as a patriot.
But his son is commanding the train, Hood reminded himself, and that outweighs saintly intentions.
Everyone jumped when Hood's phone beeped. He punched the speaker button and answered.
"Relay from Striker Honda," said Bugs Benet.
"Let's have it," Hood said, "and please bring up the mission map on the computer. Cut in if General Orlov gets back to us."
As he spoke, the Director slid the phone to the edge of the desk, toward Mike Rodgers. The General seemed to appreciate the gesture.
Honda's voice came through on the secure line, strong and surprisingly clear. "This is Private Honda reporting as ordered."
"This is General Rodgers. Go ahead, Private."
"Sir, the target bridge is in sight and the snows are starting to let up. Three Strikers are present at coordinates 9518-828 to secure the route for retreat, three Strikers are at train, coordinates 6987-572. The Lieutenant Colonel plans to rig the train with C-4, get all the passengers off with flash/bang and tear gas, take the train, and let it blow up farther down the track. He was afraid shrapnel from the boiler might hurt someone. He'll join us at the extraction point when the target has been neutralized."
Hood looked at the grid on the computer screen. The distances involved were tight but manageable.
"Private," said Rodgers, "did the Russians show any sign of standing down?"
"Sir, we didn't see them. The Lieutenant Colonel blew a tree across the track. We heard that. Then we heard the train coming, we heard the brakes, and we heard it stop. But we can't see it from here."
"Any shooting?"
"No, sir," said Honda.
"If it's necessary to get an order to the beta team, can it be done?" Rodgers asked.
"Not without one of us going back," said Honda. "They won't be answering the radio. Sir, I've got to join the others but I'll try and report any new developments."
Rodgers thanked him and wished him well as Hood beeped Benet on the second line. He asked for up-to-the-minute surveillance photos of the site to be sent to his printer as soon as they were received by the NRO. Both Rodgers and Herbert went to the printer behind Hood's desk to wait for the hard copy to arrive.
A moment later, Orlov came back on the computer monitor. He looked more worried than before, and Hood clandestinely motioned for Liz to come over. She stood to the side, out of range of the fiber-optic camera on top, but was able to see Orlov's face.
"Forgive the delay," Orlov said. "I told the Radio Officer to have the train stopped and to get my son on the line, but then the link went dead. I honestly don't know what has happened."
"I've learned that my team put a tree across the track," said Hood, "but I don't believe there was a collision."
"Then perhaps my order was relayed in time," said Orlov.
Hood saw the General look down.
"Nikita is calling," said the General. "Gentlemen, I will be back."
The image winked off and Hood turned to Liz. "What's your impression?"
"Eyes steady, voice a little low, shoulders rounded," she said. "Looks like a man telling the truth and not happy with the weight of it."
"That's how I read him." Hood smiled. "Thanks, Liz."
She smiled back. "You're very welcome."
And then the printer began to hum and suddenly both Rodgers and Herbert looked to Hood much as Orlov had as they watched the first photograph roll from the slot of the digital imager.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Tuesday, 10:54 P.M., Khabarovsk
Repair of the uplink cable was hampered by the fact that the tips of Corporal Fodor's fingers were numb from the cold. Squatting beside the dish, he'd had to cut away an inch of casing with a pocketknife in order to expose enough wire to twist and poke into the contact. The fact that two of the civilians were watching him, discussing better ways of stripping wire, didn't help.
When Fodor finally finished, he handed the receiver to the Lieutenant, who was standing directly behind him. Fodor's movements were not triumphant, but quick and economical.
"Nikita," General Orlov said. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, General. We're clearing away a tree—"
"I want you to stop."
"Sir?" Nikita asked.
"I want you to call in your command. You're not to engage the American soldiers, do you understand?"
Icy air blew through the window, against his back. But that wasn't what made Nikita cold. "General, don't ask me to surrender—"
"You won't have to," said Orlov. "But you will obey my orders. Is that clear?"
Nikita hesitated. "Completely," he replied.
"I'm in contact with the American commander," Orlov said. "Keep the line open and I'll give you further—"
Nikita didn't hear the rest. There was a dull clunk on the wooden floor of the train. He turned away from the phone and saw the grenade roll toward him slowly; an instant later it erupted in a flurry of intensely bright flashes and loud pops. The people in the car began to shout and he heard another thud, followed by the hiss of escaping gas.
Even as he drew his pistol and made his way to the door at the front of the car, Nikita couldn't help but think about how clever this was: a flash grenade to make them shut their eyes, followed by tear gas to make sure they kept them shut— but without the optic damage that might have resulted from taking the gas in open eyes in such a tight space.
No permanent disfigurement to take to the United Nations, the Lieutenant thought angrily.
Nikita guessed that the Americans were attempting to smoke his soldiers out and capture them in order to make off with the money. No doubt the attackers had already scattered, to positions in the surrounding countryside, and it wouldn't pay to send troops after them into the dark. But the commandos wouldn't get him, and they wouldn't get his cargo. As he felt his way through the dark with his left hand, he cursed his father for believing the Americans could be trusted that they, and not General Kosigan, had Russia's best interests at heart.
As he neared the door, Nikita shouted, "Sergeant Versky, cover us!"
"Yes, sir!" Versky yelled back.
When he reached the front of the car and emerged from the rolling clouds of tear gas, Nikita opened his eyes. He saw Versky's men splayed belly-down in the snow, ready to shoot at any sign of enemy fire. Behind him, Corporal Fodor and another soldier were helping the disoriented civilians from the train.
Nikita backed away from the car. He called to a soldier on top who was facing the other side of the train.
"Private Chiza, do you see anything?"
"No, sir."
"How can that be?" Nikita yelled. "The grenades came from that side!"
"No one approached, sir!"
This was impossible, Nikita thought. Those hand grenades were lobbed in, not fired from a rocket launcher. Someone had to have been close to the train, and then it occurred to him that if someone was, there would be footprints in the snow.
His frozen breath trailing behind him, Nikita trudged through the deep snow toward the engine to look on the other side.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Tuesday, 10:56 P.M., Khabarovsk
Crouched behind a boulder the size of his dad's vintage T-Bird, Sergeant Chick Grey didn't actually see Squires or Newmeyer toss their grenades through the windows of the train. But when the pride of Long Island, Valley S
tream's South High School track and field team saw the snow turn from charcoal to magnesium-white, it was as if a starting gun had gone off. He'd already snatched a look at the engine, and now he spun around the boulder, legs churning, body bent low as he raced toward it through the snow. He saw Squires and Newmeyer pull themselves up through the respective windows of their boxcars. He listened for the distinctive sound of the Berettas, didn't hear it, then saw smoke pour from the back door of the second car, then caught a glimpse of Newmeyer bent over the coupling between it and the caboose. A moment later, the red car came free, leaving a soldier firing helplessly from the cupola.
Grey felt a rush of pride for what Squires had orchestrated: if no one was hurt, this would be an operation for the special forces time capsule.
Jerk-hole! he thought, and veered to the left, then to the right as he ran. He realized he'd courted doom by anticipating success, and atoned in crude but accepted Striker fashion.
When he was still several yards from the train, Grey saw a flare-cast shadow moving toward the front of the engine on the other side. Someone was coming around and, not wanting to stop, Grey leapt toward the injector pipe that ran perpendicular to the cab, just above the trailing truck. He grabbed it, swung his legs sideways into the window, let go of the pipe, and landed inside, squatting.
The engineer turned in surprise. Grey curled the fingers of his left hand tightly, hardening the outside of his hand, and drove it up under the soldier's nose. He followed that with a hatchet kick, driving the side of his left foot into the man's knee and dropping him to the floor.
The Sergeant didn't want the man unconscious, just cooperative, in case he couldn't figure out how to start the train. But the throttle and floor brake were easy enough to operate, and after kicking the latter so it was in the upward, off position, he pulled the vertical throttle toward him from the left. The train lurched forward.