by Tom Clancy
"Out!" Grey barked at the soldier.
The peach-faced young Russian was fighting to get his legs under him but gave up, settling on his knees.
The Striker gestured roughly toward the window. "Dah— dosvedahnya!" he said, using the only Russian he knew. "Yes— so long!"
The Russian hesitated, then made a sudden grab for the Beretta in Grey's left hip holster. The Striker cocked his left elbow back hard, into the Russian's temple. The soldier hit the comer of the cab like a fighter caught by a ghost uppercut.
"You dog!" the Sergeant snarled. Pushing the throttle higher, Grey scooped the Russian onto his shoulder as if he were a sack of flour, hoisted him to the window, and dumped him back-first into a passing snowbank. He took a moment to look back and saw Russian soldiers running to try and catch the train. But gunfire from the two cars drove them back, and soon the Striker express was running into the night at three-quarters throttle.
* * *
When the train started up, Nikita was just coming around the cowcatcher. Jumping back off the track, he grabbed the handrail of the ladder behind and above the cowcatcher and walked up the three steps to the platform. Crouching there, his back against the boiler plate, he held his AKR submachine gun tight against his side and watched, with rising anger, as Private Maximich was hurled from the window and the other Americans fired to send his men, the rightful owners of the train, rushing behind trees and rocks for cover.
These are the men my father courted! he seethed as the last of the tear gas curled from the windows and the locomotive picked up speed.
Still crouching, Nikita switched the short-barreled gun to his left hand and stepped two feet up from the platform onto the ledge above the air reservoir. The narrow walkway ran above the injector pipe midway up the boiler, and as he held onto the narrow handrail that ran along the top of the engine, the Junior Lieutenant held the short-barreled submachine gun toward the cab.
And as Nikita passed under the steam dome, just eight feet from the cab, the unsuspecting American soldier looked out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Tuesday, 4:02 P.M., Moscow
Interior Minister Dogin was feeling good. Very good.
Sitting alone in his office for the first time that day, he savored his impending triumph. General Kosigan's troops were moving into Ukraine without incident. There were even reports of expatriate Russians and Ukrainians alike greeting them with Soviet flags.
Polish troops were being moved to the border with Ukraine. NATO and the United States shifted troops from England to Germany and in Germany toward Poland, and there was a blustery show of strength as NATO warplanes flew over Warsaw. But not a single non-Polish troop entered the country on the ground. Nor would they. Not with Russian operatives ready to raise hell in tinderboxes around the world. The United States would watch Russia recover its historic sphere of influence before allowing American soldiers to be spread out in rebellions and invasions from Latin America to the Middle East. Right now, Dogin's emissary in Washington, Deputy Chief of Mission Savitski, was discussing Russian objectives in a closed-door meeting at the State Department. Zhanin's new Ambassador had already had his meeting with Secretary of State Lincoln. By taking the second meeting, the U.S. had unofficially acknowledged that there was a second viable government in Russia, one that needed to be reckoned with. And Grozny didn't even have to bomb a city to get that acknowledgment.
Dogin's new political friends had agreed to wait for their money, and President Zhanin was finding roadblocks in the information and command conduits. He could not respond quickly or accurately, and Dogin took pride in how much more effective this was than the failed coup against Mikhail Gorbachev. It wasn't necessary to isolate the leader with guns and soldiers. All one had to do was hamstring his ability to see and hear and he was helpless.
Dogin chuckled contentedly. What could the idiot do, go on the air and tell the electorate that he didn't know what was going on in the government— could someone please tell him?
The Minister's one fear, that Shovich would get restless with the unexpected delay, failed to materialize. No doubt he had already used one of his fake passports to leave the country, staying on the move like Patton during World War II to confuse his enemies and rivals. Not that it mattered to Dogin where Shovich was. He would be content if the worm remained beneath a rock somewhere.
Thus far, he thought, the only disappointment has been Sergei Orlov. The Minister and his allies were trying to make their sick country well, which required circumventing the laws. He had expected an orderly, traditional-minded man like the General to be unhappy with their unorthodoxy, but he hadn't expected him to challenge them by pulling rank on Colonel Rossky. Doing so, Dogin reflected confidently, Orlov had effectively ended his career. He'd quit the Russian line and joined the British 27th Lancers for their ride into the Valley of Death.
Dogin felt bad for him. But Orlov had done his job, helped get reluctant politicians to go along with Operations Center funding because he was a man of integrity and honor. And he would have been allowed to stay if only he'd joined the team.
The Minister looked at the antique maps on his walls, and felt a thrill as he contemplated adding a new-old one, the reborn Soviet Union.
He glanced at his watch, noted that the storm should have passed by now and the money train should be reaching Khabarovsk. He picked up the telephone and asked his assistant to get General Orlov on the line. Once the train's arrival had been confirmed, he would have an airplane sent to meet them in Birobidzhan, the capital of the Jewish region on the Bira River. The Dalselmash harvester factory had a landing strip that would accommodate a medium-sized military aircraft.
The man who got on the line was not the wary but composed officer he'd spoken to earlier. He was surprisingly aggressive.
"Your plan has gone sour," the General said bluntly.
The Minister was suspicious. "Which plan? Has something happened to the train?"
"You could say that," Orlov replied. "As we speak, American commandos are attacking it."
Dogin sat up very straight. "The, train was your responsibility— your son's!"
"I'm sure Nikita is doing his best to hold them off", Orlov said. "And the Americans are at a disadvantage. They don't want to hurt our people."
"They would be insane to," Dogin replied. "Where is Rossky?"
"Chasing spies," Orlov said. "But they eluded him. They caught the man who was tailing them and used his radio to put me in touch with an operations center in Washington. That's how I know about their plan. We tried to work things out."
"I don't want to hear about your failures," Dogin said. "I want Rossky found, and when he is you're relieved of your command."
"You forget," Orlov said. "Only the President can replace me."
"You will resign, General Orlov, or I'll have you removed from the Center."
"How will Rossky and his brownshirts get in?" Orlov asked. "As of now, the Center will be sealed off."
Dogin warned, "They will take it back!"
"Perhaps," Orlov said. "But not in time to help you save your train or your cause."
"General!" Dogin yelled. "Think about what you're doing. Think about your son, your wife."
"I love them," Orlov said, "but I'm thinking about Russia now. I only wish I weren't alone. Goodbye, Minister."
Orlov hung up, and for nearly a minute Dogin sat squeezing the phone. It was impossible to imagine that he had come so far only to be undermined by Orlov's betrayal.
His brow flushed, hands shaking with rage, he set down the receiver and had his assistant call Air Force General Dhaka. The Americans had to have come in by air and no doubt were planning to get out the same way, fast and dirty. He would make that impossible, and if anything happened to his cargo the Americans would have to replace the money— or their soldiers would be returned to them through Shovich, a piece at a time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 11:10 P.M., Khabarovsk
Squires pe
ered through the last, thin puffs of tear gas out as they floated to the ceiling and then wound out the window and door. His eyes and mouth protected by gear that already seemed a part of him, his ears alert for danger, he ran to the cases stacked or strewn haphazardly in the rear of the car. He used his lapel knife to pry up the edge of one of the wooden crates.
It was money. Lots of it, the profits of suffering earmarked to cause more suffering.
Instead, he thought, looking at his watch, in thirty-two minutes it will be confetti. He and his mini-team would ride the rails another twenty minutes to where the Russians wouldn't be able to reach the train. Then they would hike toward the bridge as behind them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cars of this rotten bank would blow cloud-high. He experienced the flush of righteousness that Americans from Thomas Jefferson to Rosa Parks must have felt, the satisfaction and pride of saying no to something wrong, to someone corrupt.
Squires started toward the rear door of the train. As he was about to enter the second car to check on Newmeyer, his head was wrenched around by the sound of gunfire.
From the engine? he thought. How can that be? Grey wouldn't be shooting at anyone now that they were under way.
Calling for Newmeyer, Squires ran toward the front of the car, stepped into the black clouds that fierce winds were pounding down from the smokestack, and felt his way cautiously around the coal tender.
* * *
There had only been time for a brief burst, but Nikita knew he'd tagged the American. He'd seen the way his shoulder had jerked back, saw the dark splash of blood on the camouflage whites.
Nikita moved rapidly along the side of the locomotive. It seemed cut off from the rest of the train, which was hidden behind clouds of coal smoke and glittering particles of windblown snow. Upon reaching the cab, he lowered his gun and edged along the injector pipe toward the window.
He looked in.
The cab was empty. His eyes darted from corner to corner, which were ht by the dull orange coal fire- He looked up as a dark forehead and then the barrel of a Beretta poked down from the roof of the cab. Nikita dove through the window, catching a bullet in the back of his right thigh as the American sprayed the side of the train with gunfire.
Grimacing, Nikita squeezed his leg with his left hand as blood dampened the back of his trousers. The wound ached as though his thigh were in a tight vise, but what bothered Nikita more was that he hadn't anticipated the American going out the window and over the top of the cab.
The question was. what would he do now?
Nikita got off his back, putting his weight on his left leg, and hobbled toward the throttle. The important thing was to stop the train and buy his troops time to catch them.
His eyes shifted from window to window as he crossed the cab, the barrel of his gun raised, his finger crooked around the trigger. The American would have to come back in to start the train up again, and the only way to enter was by one of the two windows.
And then there was another sickeningly familiar thud and the cab erupted with burning white light.
"No!" Nikita bellowed as he shut his eyes and backed against the rear wall of the cab. The roar of the flash/bang grenades was amplifed by the close quarters and metal walls of the cabin. He pressed his hands to his ears to protect them, cursing his helplessness. He couldn't even fire blindly about the cab for fear of being struck by his own ricocheting bullet.
But it mustn't end this way, he told himself. Staggering toward the front of the cab, Nikita tried to use the side of his left leg to nudge the throttle back. But he was unable to stand on his right leg and, dropping to his knees, he put his left hand on the throttle. Screaming from the pain of the earsplitting blasts, he pulled the throttle toward him only to be pushed away by a hard boot heel. Nikita made a futile attempt to grab whoever was there, but clutched only air and light. He swung the gun to the left and right, hoping to strike flesh, to find his target.
"Fight me!" he screamed. "Coward!"
Then the brightness died and the explosions stopped and the only sound was the loud buzz in Nikita's ears and the banging of his heart.
Peering into the dark, the Lieutenant saw a figure slumped in a corner. The blood had crystallized from the cold, but he recognized the wound, saw that he had blasted several holes in the jacket but only one shell caught what appeared to be the outside edge of a bulletproof vest.
He raised his gun and aimed it at the man's forehead, just above the goggles.
"Don't!" a voice to Nikita's left said in English.
The Russian officer turned and saw a Beretta pointing at him from outside the window. Behind it was a tall, powerful figure dressed the same as the wounded man.
He would be damned if a lawless raider was going to dictate terms. Nikita swung his gun aroundquickly, intending to shoot whether the other man fired or not. But the man lying in the corner suddenly came to life, locking his legs around Nikita's torso, flopping him onto his back, and holding him there as the other man entered and disarmed him. Nikita grappled with the men, but the pain in his leg kept him from standing or putting up much of a fight. The newcomer knelt on Nikita's chest, pinning him, and used the bottom of his boot to kick the throttle forward, driving the speed of the train back up again. Still camped on Nikita's chest, he pulled off what looked like a rappelling belt and lashed the ankle of Nikita's good leg to a handle just below the window. The Russian could neither reach it nor escape, and for the second time that night he felt ashamed.
The two of them planned this together on the roof of the cab, he thought bitterly. And I stumbled into it like a sports club novice.
"Our apologies, Lieutenant," the man said in English as he stood and raised his goggles.
A third man reached the cabin and, after shouting in, was told to enter. He swung in through the window.
The new arrival tended to his companion's wound by the light of the coals, while the other man— obviously the group's leader— bent to look at Nikita's wound. While he did so, Nikita reached out with his left arm to try and push the throttle. The leader grabbed his wrist and the Russian tried to kick at him with his free foot, but the pain was too great.
"They don't give medals for suffering," the man said to Nikita.
As Nikita lay there panting, the leader pulled an empty rope bag from around his shin, used a small knife to cut off the strap, and slipped the band around the blood-soaked leg, just above the wound. He gave it a firm pull. He used another length of strap to bind his hands and tie them to an iron hook on the floor of the train.
"We'll be leaving the train in a few minutes," the man said. "We'll take you off and see that you get medical attention."
Nikita had no idea what he was saying, nor did he care. These men were the enemy, and one way or another he was going to stop them from doing whatever they planned.
His hands behind him, he used his thumbnail to dig the glass stone from his regimental ring. It had been designed to come free like that. It had also been designed so that a halfinch blade would pop up from beneath the stone when it came out. And with no one watching his hands. he began to saw against the leather strap.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 4:27 P.M., St. Petersburg
After making their way through the strikers, Peggy and George had gone to the rest rooms at the Hermitage and changed into the clothes they carried, the Western-style jeans, button-down shirts, and Nikes favored by Russian youth. They folded their uniforms into their backpacks, then walked hand in hand up the large State Staircase to the first floor of the Large Hermitage, the home of the museum's extensive collection of Western European art.
One of the gems of the collection, Raphael's Conestabile Madonna, painted in 1502, is named for the city in central Italy that had been its home for centuries. The round painting is seven inches tall by seven inches wide, nestled in an ornate gold frame as wide on each side as the art, and shows the Madonna, in a blue robe, sitting in front of rolling hills cradling the infant Jesus in her arms.<
br />
Peggy and George had arrived shortly before Volko was due. Peggy acted as though she was looking at art when she was actually keeping an eye on the Raphael. George, who had never even seen a photograph of the operative, was holding her hand lightly as his eyes ranged from painting to painting. Because it wasn't his wife's hand, he felt guilty enjoying Peggy's touch, the warmth of her fingers against his palm, the feathery lightness of her fingertips against the side of his hand. Thinking about how deadly that hand could be made her touch that much more electric.
At exactly 4:29 Peggy's hand tensed though she didn't break her stride. George glanced toward the Raphael. A man about six-two was walking slowly around the side of the room, toward the painting. He was dressed in loose white chinos, brown shoes, and a blue windbreaker that bulged around a spreading waist. As he neared the Raphael, Peggy squeezed George's hand harder. The Russian cut across the room and was headed toward the right side of the painting, not the left.
Peggy gently tugged George around, then led him slowly toward the door. She hugged his arm now with both of hers, letting him support her. All the while her eyes searched the room, moving slowly instead of darting so as not to attract attention. Everyone else in the room was moving or looking at paintings, all except for a short man in starched brown trousers. His round face seemed out of place here, a dark cloud amid the many sunny, adoring expressions- Peggy stopped by Raphael's Holy Family. She pointed from the beardless Joseph to the Virgin as though discussing them.
"There's a man in brown pants who seems to be watching Volko," she whispered.
"I only saw a woman," George said.
"Where?"
"She's standing in the adjoining room," he said, "the one with the Michelangelo. She's reading her guidebook, facing this room."