listening to the gentle puff of the engine.
Zhanin looked through the tinted, bulletproof window as the dark spires of the Kremlin came into view against the night sky and deep gray clouds.
'As a young man,' he said, breathing deeply to calm himself, 'I managed to get a copy of Svetlana Stalin's book about her father. Do you remember it?'
'Yes,' said Larisa. 'It was banned for years.'
'That's right. Even though she was critical of a man who had fallen from grace, a so-called nonperson. One thing she wrote about Stalin struck me. She said that toward the end of the 1930s, she felt he had reached the stage of what she called 'persecution mania.' Enemies were everywhere. He had fifty thousand of his own officers purged. He murdered more Russian officers at or above the rank of colonel than the Germans killed in the entire war.' He filled his chest and exhaled slowly. 'It frightens me, Larisa, to think that he may not have been as mad or paranoid as everyone thought.'
The woman squeezed his hand reassuringly as the black BMW turned off Kalinina Prospekt and headed toward the northwest side of the Kremlin, Trinity Gate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Il-76T landed in Helsinki shortly before midnight, and the Striker crew, their cold-weather gear, and their arsenal were aboard ten minutes later. Their arsenal consisted of four trunks, each five by four by three feet, loaded with guns and explosives, ropes and pitons, gas masks and medical supplies. A half hour after they were aboard, the plane was refueled and airborne.
The initial phase of the flight had carried the craft northeast over Finland, then east across the Barents Sea and another time zone, flying just below the Arctic Ocean as it skirted the northern coast of Russia.
Lieutenant Colonel Squires's eyes were shut, but he wasn't sleeping. Nasty habit, he knew: he couldn't sleep unless he knew where he was going and why. He knew that further instructions from Op-Center would be forthcoming, since they were rapidly approaching the end of their flight plan, which carried them to where the Barents met the Pechora Sea. Still, it was frustrating not to be able to focus on an objective and stay zeroed in. Crossing the Atlantic, he'd been able to concentrate on St. Petersburg and the mission there. Now that was in Private George's hands, and Squires had nothing. When he had nothing, the officer always played a little game to keep his mind from wandering to his wife and son and what they'd do if he didn't come back.
It was the What Am I Doing Here? game, in which he picked an appropriate word or two, reached deep into his guts, and tried to understand why he loved being a Striker so damn much.
The first time he'd played it, en route to Cape Canaveral to try and find out who put a bomb on board a space shuttle, he'd decided that he was here to defend America, not just because it was the best place to be but because our nation's energy and ideals were what motivated the whole world. If we were to go away, Squires was convinced that the planet would become a battleground for dictators who wanted to rule, not autonomous states that were competitive and vital.
In the second game, he'd asked himself how much he enjoyed leading this life because it made every inch of him feel vital and challenged. A lot, he had to admit. Much more than when he played soccer, because the stakes for himself and for his nation were so high. But there was no sensation like pitting his confidence, skills, and ability to self-start against circumstances that would cause most people to freeze or retreat or at the very least think twice about going ahead.
Today while he wondered where the hell the call from Mike Rodgers or Bob Hernert was, he was thinking about something Op-Center's psychologist, Liz Gordon, had asked him when she first interviewd him for the command post.
'What are your thoughts on shared fear?' she had asked.
He'd answered that fear and strength were qualities the crested and troughed in any individual, and that a good team— and especially a good commander— had to be able to bring each member's levels to their peak.
'That's fear, ' Liz had said. 'I asked about shared fear. Think about it. Take your time.'
He had, and then he'd said, 'I guess we share fear because it's caused by something that threatens us all, as opposed to courage, which comes from the individual.'
He'd been naive and Liz had let it go. Now, after three missions, Squires had come to understand that shared fear wasn't something to overcome. It was a mutual support system that turned people of disparate backgrounds and intellects and interests into a single, bonded organism. It was what made the crew of a World War II bomber or a police squad car or an elite commando force closer than a husband and wife could ever be. It was what made a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
As much as patriotism and valor, shared fear was the glue that held Striker together.
Squires was about to tackle Seeing the World as a motivation when Mike Rodgers called on the secure TAC- Sat. Squires was instantly out of his reverie and, as his old soccer coach used to put it, 'There with the goods.
'Charlie,' Rodgers said, 'sorry it's taken so long to get to you. We've been going over your game plan and we're really going to need World Cup performance on this one. In just over eleven hours, having stayed out of Russian airspace until the last possible moment, your team will parachute to a point in Russia just west of Khabarovsk. Bob is giving your pilot the flight plan and coordinates— and we hope that the Il-76T buys him enough time to get in and out before Russian air defenses realize it's not one of their own aircraft. Your target is a four- car-plus-engine train of the Trans-Siberian express. If the cargo is narcotics, currency, gold, or weapons, you're to eliminate them. If the weapons are nuclear, get us proof and disable them if you can. Sergeant Grey has the training for that. Any questions so far?'
'Yes, sir,' Squires said. 'If the Hermitage is involved, they could be shipping art. Do you want us blowing up Renoirs and Van Goghs?'
The line was silent for a moment. 'No. Photograph and disengage.'
'Yes, sir.'
Rodgers continued, 'Your target area is a one hundred-eleven-foot-tall cliff overlooking the track. The appropriate topographic maps will be sent to your computer. You'll rappel down and wait for the train. We chose that area because there are trees or rocks from the cliff face that you can use to block the track. We'd prefer that to using explosives that may cause casualties. If the train is running on time, you'll only have about an hour before it arrives. If it's running late, you'll have to wait. This one can't get away, though you're to make every effort not to hurt any Russian soldiers.'
Squires wasn't surprised by the warning: ambassadors hated having to explain illegal incursions, let alone what the CIA called 'maximal demotions.' Though Squires was well trained to kill with everything from a shoelace to an Uzi, he had never had to do it— and he hoped he never did.
'The Il-76T will have gone to Hokkaido for refueling and then return,' Rodgers said, 'though it will not be your extraction vehicle. When you've completed your mission, you'll signal the Il-76T and go to the rendezvous point, the southern side of a bridge one-point-three miles west of the target.'
Now, that was intriguing, Squires thought. The only reason Rodgers wouldn't tell him about the extraction craft was in case they were captured. He didn't want the Russians to know. As if the mission itself weren't stimulating enough, the mystery sent another part of Squires's motivation into overdrive. The part that, like almost every male he had ever known, loved flashy, secretive, state-of the-art hardware.
'Charlie, this one isn't like North Korea,' Rodgers said. There was more friend than general in his voice. Now that he'd had Squires's undivided attention while he laid out the specifics, he was ready to give him the overview. 'We've reason to believe that elements in Russia are looking to rebuild the Soviet empire in a hurry. Though St. Petersburg is probably involved, you're the key to stopping them.'
'I understand, sir,' Squires said.
'The plan's as complete as we can make it given the little we know,' Rodgers said, 'though I expect we'll have updates as H-Hour nears. I'm sorry we can't do more for you.'
'That's okay, sir,' Squires said. 'It isn't Tacitus or any of those guys you quote, but I told Private George when we left him in Helsinki that the cartoon character Super Chicken had a perfect observation for tough situations like
