by Tom Clancy
"Yes, sir," the Private had replied.
Leaving the wounded Sergeant Grey in the corner, Newmeyer had bent over the Russian. He'd reached into the officer's jacket and withdrawn a worn leather packet of tobacco with a thick rubber band holding it closed. A steel lighter with Cyrillic initials and an engraved portrait of Stalin was tucked under the rubber band.
"Must be an heirloom," Newmeyer had said, glancing at the engraving in the ruddy light of the cab.
Newmeyer had then opened the pouch, found several rolled cigarettes inside, and removed one. Nikita had extended his tongue and Newmeyer placed it on the end. The Russian pulled the smoke between his lips and accepted a light.
Newmeyer had closed the top of the lighter and put everything back together with the rubber band.
Nikita blew twin clouds of smoke from his nostrils.
Newmeyer bent close to replace the tobacco pouch. As the Striker had leaned over their prisoner, Nikita suddenly bent forward at the waist, butting his forehead into Newmeyer's head.
With a moan, Newmeyer fell back and dropped the pouch. Sitting up and grabbing it, the Russian used the heel of his hand to cram the pouch and lighter into the gears of the throttle. Then, as Newmeyer made a belated lunge for him, Nikita quickly pushed the iron lever away from him.
The train had sped up as the gears chewed down on the pouch and on the lighter his father had given him. Strips of leather and chucks of steel infused the gears, bending the teeth, locking them in a disfigured embrace.
"Shit!" Squires had said as Newmeyer fell back, holding his hand.
The officer had gone to the throttle and tried to push it in the opposite direction, but it refused to yield.
"Shit!" he'd repeated.
Squires had glanced, then, from the Russian's untriumphant expression with eyes that seemed distant, out of focus, to Newmeyer. The Private wasn't even rubbing his head, which showed the beginnings of a nasty bruise. He was crouched with a knee on the Russian's chest and a look of self loathing.
"I'm very sorry, sir," had been all he could think to say.
Well. hell. Squires had thought. The sonuvabitch Russian was only doing what we'd have done, and he did it right.
And now the train was a runaway, building speed as it cleared the curve and headed toward the trestle. There was no time to gather up Grey and the Russian and jump off before they reached the gorge. And they had just about two minutes before the locomotive ceased to exist.
Squires jumped back to the window and peered down the track. On the horizon, he saw what looked like a cloud of locusts in the green glow of the goggles. It was the extraction craft— though it wasn't like any chopper he'd ever seen. From the smooth lines and color he knew at once that it was a low-observable. He was flattered. Even Muammar Gadhafi hadn't rated the debut of a Stealth aircraft, though they'd all been on alert, when Reagan and Weinberger crossed his "line of death" in the Gulf of Sidra and blackened the eyes of Tripoli back in 1986.
The helicopter was coming at them fast and low. The snow had stopped completely, visibility was good, and it probably wouldn't take long for the pilot to figure out that the train couldn't he stopped. The question was, was there enough time for them to be extracted some other way?
"Newmeyer," Squires said, "help Grey to the roof. We're getting out of here."
"Yes, sir," the crestfallen Striker replied.
Rising from the Russian, Newmeyer avoided his oddly detached gaze as he went over to Grey, bent beside him, and carefully hefted the Sergeant onto his shoulder. The barely conscious noncom did his best to hold on as Newmeyer rose. Then the Private watched, more alert now, as Squires twisted the Russian onto his chest.
"Go!" Squires said to Newmeyer, pointing to the door with his forehead. "I'll be okay."
Reluctantly, Newmeyer kicked the door open, pulled himself up onto the bottom of the window, and gently eased Grey to the flat roof of the cab.
Grabbing a fistful of the Russian's hair, Squires reached back, undid the rappelling belt that had kept him on the floor, tied it tightly around his wrists, and walked him toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Tuesday, 4:56 P.M., St. Petersburg
When she first saw the spy's surprising twist on the stairs, Valya thought that she intended to shoot her and her instinct was to duck. The Russian started to go down, but when she realized that the spy was falling, Valya checked herself and darted after her. It was always surprising what one could get from a wounded or dying individual. Often their guard was down or they were so dazed that they said things, sometimes important things.
Guests gasped but stood aside as the woman rode down the twenty or so steps on her shoulder, appearing not to hit her head, then reaching the landing with an awkward somersault over one shoulder onto her side. She lay moaning in a fetal position, her legs moving weakly, as visitors gathered around. One called to a guard for assistance, while two others knelt, one of them doffing his jacket and slipping it under her head.
"Don't touch her!" Valya yelled. "Get away!"
The Russian reached the bottom of the stairs and pulled a snub-nosed pistol from an ankle holster.
"This woman's a wanted criminal," she said. "Leave this matter in our hands."
The Russians backed away quickly. The foreigners saw the gun and did likewise.
Valya hopped over Peggy so that she was facing her.
Then she looked up at the stragglers.
"I said leave!" Valya shrilled, and swept outward with the back of her hand. "Go!"
The last of the gawkers did, and Valya looked back at Peggy. The spy's eyes were shut and her right arm was under her chest, her hand against but under her chin. Her left arm was limp at her side.
Valya didn't care what might be broken or damaged inside of her. Holding the gun under the woman's chin, Valya rolled her onto her back.
Peggy winced, her mouth formed a pained little oval, and then she relaxed again.
"That was an unpleasant fall," Valya said in English. "Can you understand me?"
With apparent effort, Peggy nodded a little.
"You British are dropping like autumn leaves," Valya said. "First I terminated the comic book publisher and his team, now you." Valya pushed the mouth of the gun into the soft flesh under Peggy's throat. "I'll see that you get to a hospital," she said, "after we talk."
Peggy's lips moved. "Be before—"
"No, no," said Valya with a wicked grin. "After. I want to know some things about your operation first. For instance, in Helsinki, what was the name of—"
Peggy moved so quickly that Valya didn't have time to react. She raised the closed fist that had been resting on her chin, the fist in which she held her lapel knife. The blade was pointing down, and Peggy jammed it into the depression above Valya's clavicle and tore inward, toward the larynx. At the same time, she used the elbow of her left hand to push Valya's other arm to the floor, in case the gun discharged.
It didn't. The Russian woman released the gun and grabbed desperately at Peggy's fist with both of her hands, scratching vainly to dislodge the knife.
"What I was going to say," Peggy sneered, "was, 'Before you worry about taking me to a hospital, make sure the fall was an accident!' " She pushed the knife harder and Valya gurgled and slumped to her side. "That agent you killed was my autumn leaf," she added, "and this is for him."
"Don't move!" a voice shouted in Russian from the top of the staircase.
Peggy looked up at a slender, ascetic-looking man in the uniform of a spetsnaz colonel. At the end of his outstretched, very steady arm was a P-6 silent pistol. Behind him, still gasping and rubbing his throat, was the man Volko had attacked.
"I'm going to get out from under your friend," Peggy replied in Russian. She turned to her side to throw Valya off. The woman's eyes were shut and her face was white as her life poured haphazardly onto the marble floor.
The Colonel was walking down the steps behind his firearm. Peggy dumped Valya onto her back and rose, her
own back to the steps.
"Arms up," the officer said to her. If he felt any remorse about Peggy's victim, she didn't hear it in his voice.
"I know the drill," Peggy said, turning wearily as she started to raise her hands.
When they were chest-high she turned suddenly, holding the snub-nosed pistol she'd picked up when she threw Valya over. There were no tourists in the way as she fired at Colonel Rossky, who stopped where he was, seven steps up, and took her salvo as if he were in a duel. He met it with fire of his own.
Peggy didn't stay where she was. Immediately after firing her short burst, she threw herself to the left, onto the ground, and rolled until she hit the banister.
After several seconds, the echoing gunfire stopped and only a pungent, rising, rapidly thinning tester of smoke remained of the exchange— that, and the crawling red stains on the front of Colonel Rossky's uniform.
The officer's expression didn't change. His breed had been trained to suffer pain in silence. But after a moment the extended arm wavered, the P-6 fell to the floor, and then Rossky followed it, doing a delicate turn as he dropped to his back. His arms splayed, head facing down, the spetsnaz warrior slid to the landing, where he came to a stop beside Valya.
Peggy trained her pistol on Pogodin, who had been crouching at the top of the staircase, behind the ornate newel. She had seen him kill Volko and he deserved to die. But he seemed to read her thoughts, or perhaps saw the promise of death in her eyes, and broke suddenly from the staircase, running back toward the gallery. Peggy heard the distant clatter of running feet; whether it was security, panicked tourists, or even strikers itching for a fight, she had no idea. But as much as she wanted Volko's killer dead, there wasn't time to chase him.
Turning, Peggy tucked the gun inside her shirt and ran down the stairs screaming in Russian, "Help! The killer is up here! He's a madman!"
As security forces pushed past her, she hurried, still shrieking, through the main entrance. There, Peggy quieted as she lost herself among the strikers who had crowded inside, hoping that it wasn't one of their own— or a government plant pretending to be one of their own— who had gone berserk
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Tuesday, 8:57 A.M., Washington, D.C.
"They're climbing to the roof of the engine!" Honda said, his lazing-in-the-sun calmness gone, replaced by what sounded to Rodgers like fear or horror. "The thing's going like a torpedo— a runaway, it looks like."
"Can't they get off?" Rodgers asked.
"Negative, Sir. The trains' just starting over the bridge now, and there's nowhere to exit except straight down a couple hundred feet. I can see Grey— shit! Sorry, sir. Newmeyer just laid him on the top of the cab and followed him up. The sergeant is moving but he seems to be hurt. "
"How hurt?" Rodgers asked urgently.
"I can't tell, sir. We're too low and he's lying down. Now I see— I don't know who it is. A Russian soldier, it looks like. He's definitely hurt. There's a great deal of blood on his leg."
"What's the Russian doing?" Rodgers asked.
"Not much. Lieutenant Colonel Squires is handing him out to Newmeyer, holding him by the hair. Newmeyer is trying to get his hands under the Russian's arms. Looks like he's struggling. Hold on, sir."
There was talk in the helicopter, and Private Honda was quiet for several seconds. Rodgers couldn't make any of the conversation out. Then, near the radio, Rodgers heard Sondra say, "Then we'll jettison our clothes or weapons. We'll make up the weight."
Obviously, Squires was planning to bring the Russian onboard and the pilot was justifiably concerned. Rodgers's undershirt began to dampen along his spine.
Honda came back on. "The pilot's concerned about two hundred added pounds and about how long it's going to take us to get them aboard. If he doesn't try to get them, he's going to have a revolt on his hands."
"Private," said Rodgers, "this is the pilot's mission now and he's got a crew to worry about too. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
They were the toughest words Rodgers had ever had to utter, and Hood gave the General a reassuring squeeze on the forearm.
"The Russian's torso is out of the train," Honda continued, "but he looks like dead weight."
"But he's not dead?"
"No, sir. His hands and head are moving."
The line was silent again. Rodgers and Hood looked at one another, aborted vacations and who answered-to-who forgotten as they suffered this wait together.
"I can see the Lieutenant Colonel now," said Honda. "He's leaning out the window and his hand's holding up the front of the Russian's coat. He's motioning— pointing into the cab, moving his finger across his throat."
"The controls are dead," Rodgers said. "Is that it?
"We think that's what he's saying," said Honda.
"Hold on, sir. We're about to make a pass over the train. And then I think yes, sir."
"What, Private?"
With rising excitement Ishi Honda said, "Sir, the pilot told us to lower the ladder. We've got eighty seconds to reel our boys in."
Rodgers was finally able to breathe. And as he took each breath, he watched the numbers of the computer clock flick by inexorably
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11:57 P.M., Khabarovsk
The Mosquito had slashed overhead like a time-lapse thundercloud, dark, powerful, and silent. Squires followed the helicopter with his eyes as it passed the engine and coal tender, then stopped, pivoted 180 degrees, and began inching back toward them.
The ladder dropped fast and straight and Sondra came down several rungs. Holding tightly to one, she leaned back, her arm stretched down, ready to help.
"Come on!" she cried.
"Newmeyer!" Squires yelled over the roar of the engine.
"Sir?"
"Let go of the Russian and get Grey out of here. You too."
Newmeyer obeyed without hesitation. Like any special forces team, the Strikers had been trained to take orders implicitly and immediately in a crisis situation, however those orders went against their instincts or emotions. Later, when he thought about it over and over, Newmeyer would Monday-morning-quarterback the entire evacuation process, whether he was in bed, drilling, or talking to psychologist Liz Gordon. Now, though, he did what Lieutenant Colonel Squires had ordered.
Releasing the Russian, Newmeyer put his shoulder back under Grey. The helicopter arrived directly overhead as he stood, the pilot coming down a foot to bring the bottom of the ladder level with Newmeyer's knees.
The Private put his foot on the second rung and began to climb. As soon as he was within range, both Sondra and Private Pupshaw reached down to haul Grey in.
Even as she allowed Pupshaw to finish bringing the Sergeant inside, and extended her hand to Newmeyer, Sondra's eyes were on Lieutenant Colonel Squires.
"Thirty seconds!" copilot lovino called back at them.
"Sir!" she shouted as he tried to get himself under Nikita. "Half-minute warning!"
"Twenty-five!" lovino shouted.
Squires let go of the Russian's hair, hoisted him onto his shoulder, then sat on the edge of the window. As he struggled to get to his feet, Nikita pushed at him, trying to get back in the cab.
"Twenty!"
"Damn you!" Squires hissed, grabbing the back of the Russian's coat as Nikita slumped back into the cab.
Nikita hooked his arm around the handle beside the window and held on tight.
"Fifteen!"
Sondra's face and voice were beginning to show the strain. "Lieutenant Colonel— fifteen seconds!"
Still standing in the window, Squires motioned for the chopper to come over to the side.
The Mosquito edged east and the pilot descended slightly so the ladder was level with Squires. Squires gestured for him to come a little lower.
"Ten seconds!"
Releasing Nikita's coat, the Lieutenant Colonel held onto the top of the train with his left hand, while with his right he unholstered his Beretta, pointed i
t at the top of Nikita's arm, and fired. The Russian howled, lost his hold on the handle, and fell back into the cab.
Squires jumped in after him.
"No!" Sondra shouted, and scampered down the ladder. Newmeyer ran down after her.
"Five seconds!" Iovino yelled.
"Wait!" Sondra screamed up at him.
The ladder was hanging directly beside the window of the cab. Grunting and swearing, Squires pushed the limp Nikita out the window. Sondra and Newmeyer both got a hand on his coat and yanked him out.
The pilot waited as Pupshaw reached out and helped Newmeyer as the Russian was passed up the ladder.
The Lieutenant Colonel clambered back into the window. The instant her hands were free, Sondra reached toward him. His hand came out- The first cargo car exploded, followed a heartbeat later by the second. The blasts caused the engine to hop violently, the back end rising higher than the nose, separating from the coal tender, which bucked up, coal flying, and pinwheeled to the west, snapping free of the engine. When it slammed down, the engine was slightly off the track.
"Lieutenant Colonel!" Sondra cried as Squires fell back into the cab and the pilot pushed the helicopter up and ahead to stay clear of the blast. "Captain, don't leave yet!"
The pilot raced north and climbed to keep clear of shrapnel.
"Get back in!" Newmeyer cried to her, his voice cracking.
Sondra's eyes reflected the raging red fireballs as she watched the engine skid forward on the tracks, racing ahead of the blast at an angle, the wheels kicking up sparks and smoke.
"He's still in there!" she said through her teeth. "We have to go back!"
And then the blast-weakened trestle folded under the engine and the stalled, helpless caboose. The collapse seemed surreal, occurring in slow motion and speeding up only when the fires of the explosion caused the boiler to explode. The blast sent pieces of the locomotive flying up, down, and sideways, dark shards riding the red and black fireball. And then all of it, the tracks and iron supports, the shattered train and trailing scarves of flame, tumbled into the gorge.