“We’ll be there, sir.”
Rodgers said, “I’ve got some serious reservations about this one, Charlie, but there doesn’t seem to be any alternative. If it were up to me, I’d’ve hit the train from the air-but for some reason, Congress frowns on killing enemy soldiers. It’s better to risk our own.”
“It’s the job we signed up for, sir,” Squires said. “And you know me, General. It’s the kind of job I like.”
“I know,” Rodgers said. “But the officer in charge of the train, a junior lieutenant named Nikita Orlov, isn’t one of those kids who joined the Army for a regular meal. According to what little we have on file about him, he’s a fighter. The son of a hero cosmonaut who has something to prove.”
“Good,” Squires said. “I’d hate coming all this way just to walk through a mission, sir.”
“Colonel, it’s me,” Rodgers said sternly. “Save the bravura for the troops. More than wanting the train stopped, I want my Strikers back. Do you understand?”
“I understand, sir,” Squires said.
After wishing him good luck, Rodgers hung up and Squires handed the phone back to Ishi Honda. The Radio Officer returned to his seat and Squires looked at his watch, which he hadn’t bothered to reset as they zipped through the time zones.
Another eight hours, he thought. Folding his hands on his belt, he extended his legs and shut his eyes. Before joining Striker just seven months before, he’d spent time at the Army’s Natick Research and Development Center outside of Boston. There, he’d taken part in experiments designed to produce a uniform that instantly mimicked its surroundings like a chameleon. He’d worn uniforms with light-sensitive sensors that adjusted the light output of the cloth. He’d sat around while chemists toyed with the silk gene to create a synthetic fiber that changed color automatically. He’d tried to move in a comparatively bulky but remarkable EPS-electrophoresis suitthat had liquid dye poured between layers of plastic fabric, electrically charged particles coloring one or the other fabrics depending upon where and how strongly an electric field was applied. He remembered thinking at the time that before the century was out, camouflage suits, invisible Stealth tanks, and robot probes could make it possible for the United States to wage virtually bloodless wars. How the scientists would become the heroes, and not the soldiers.
He was surprised to find that that thought had saddened him, for while no soldier wanted to die, part of what drove all the fighters he ever knew was the desire to test themselves, to be willing to risk their lives for their country or their comrades. Without that danger, that price, that hard-fought victory, he wondered if anyone would cherish their freedoms as much.
With that thought on his mind, and Rodgers’s voice still resonant in his ears, Squires drifted asleep thinking that at least there would always be chicken fights in the base pool, his son on his shoulders, and Private George falling backward, a look of surprise on his face ….
FOURTY-SIX
Tuesday, 2:06 P.M., St. Petersburg
Several hours before reaching the coast of Russia, Peggy James and David George got twenty-seven minutes to taste the clean morning air of the Gulf of Finland. Then they reentered the mini-sub and undertook the second half of their journey. It was less than Peggy had wanted, but enough to keep her going.
An hour before reaching the coast of Russia, Captain Rydman lowered himself from his perch in the con and squatted in the narrow space between the hull and his passengers. Both Peggy and George had already checked their gear in the waterproof rucksacks and were struggling into their Russian uniforms. George looked away as Peggy wriggled into her blue skirt. Rydman did not.
After she finished, Rydman flipped open a twelve-by-fourteen-by-six-inch black metal box on the hull to the left of his head, then whispered, “When we surface, I’ll give you sixty seconds to release the raft. You do that by tugging this pin.” He hooked his finger through a ring attached to a nylon string, then pointed to the paddles on the top and bottom of the compressed raft.
“These unfold in the middle. The raft has Russian markings that coincide with your documents,” he said, “indicating that you’re with the Argus-class submarine group operating out of Koporskiy Zaliv. I believe you’ve been briefed about this.”
“Briefly,” said George.
“How do you say that in Russian?” Peggy asked.
George squinted as he thought. “Myedlyenna, ” he said, triumphantly.
“That means slowly,” she said, “but it’s close enough. Captain,” she looked at Rydman, “why just sixty seconds? Don’t you have to replenish your air and batteries?”
“We can run another hour on them … enough time to get us out of Russian waters. Now then, I suggest you give your maps another look. Memorize the area nearest your drop-off point.”
Peggy said, “Petergofskoye Shosse runs past the park. We follow it east to Prospekt Stachek, head north to the river, and the Hermitage is to the east.”
“Very good,” said Rydman. “And you know about the workers, of course.”
She looked at him. “No. What workers?”
“It was in the newspapers, for God’s sake. Several thousand workers are scheduled to assemble in Palace Square tonight to mark the beginning of a twenty-four-hour nationwide strike. It was announced yesterday, called by the Russian Federation of Free Trade Unions to obtain back wages and salary and pension increases for its workers. They’re holding it at night so as not to frighten away tourists.”
“No,” she said. “We didn’t know about it. Our myopic organizations can tell you what President Zhanin read in the loo, but they don’t follow the news.”
“Unless that’s what he was reading,” George pointed
“Thank you, Captain,” Peggy said. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us.”
Rydman nodded once, then shimmied back into the con to guide the midget submarine through the last leg of its journey.
Peggy and George were silent again as the submarine hummed through the deep. The English agent tried to decide whether having thousands of civilians and police gathered at the target site would help or hinder the process of getting inside. Help, she decided. The police would be too busy keeping irate Russian workers in line to bother with a pair of Russian sailors.
The departure from the submarine was accomplished quickly. After using the periscope to ascertain that there were no boats nearby, the submarine broke the surface. Rydman quietly unscrewed the hatch, and Peggy climbed through. They were about a half mile from shore, and the air was thick with a dirty layer of smog. She doubted that anyone could see them, even if they’d been watching, as George handed her the surprisingly heavy rubber package. Still standing in the con, she hooked her finger through the ring and tossed the raft overboard. It was fully inflated when it hit the water. Her arms braced stiffly on the sides of the con, Peggy tucked her knees to her chest, brought her legs out, stood poised for a moment on the sloping side of the minisub, then stepped into the raft. George followed a moment later with the paddles. He passed them down to Peggy, then handed her their rucksacks and joined her in the raft.
“Good luck,” Rydman said, poking his head from the con for a moment before shutting the hatch.
The midget submarine was gone less than two minutes
after breaking the surface, leaving Peggy and George alone on the gentle waters.
They didn’t speak as they paddled ashore, Peggy watching for the distinctive stiletto-like peninsula that marked the northern boundary of the large cove that bordered the park.
The current was with them and they paddled rapidly in order to stay warm. The icy winds slashed right through the jackets of their uniforms, with their plunging V-necks and thin, blue-and-white-striped T-shirts beneath them. Even the tight blue headbands of their white caps were barely strong enough to hold them on their heads.
The duo made it to shore in slightly over forty-five minutes. They arrived in a park that was relatively deserted where it met the chilly shore. Private George used the towline to secure the raft to one of several piles. While hitching on her backpack, Peggy complained loudly, in Russian, about having to check naval buoys when it was so chilly. As she did, she looked around. The nearest person was some two hundred yards away, an artist sitting in a collapsible lawn chair, beneath a tree, drawing a charcoal portrait of a blond-haired tourist while her boyfriend looked on approvingly. The woman was looking in their direction. But if she saw them she didn’t react. A militiaman walked along a shaded footpath a few yards beyond them, while a bearded man napped on a bench, a Walkman on his chest and a St. Bernard resting on the grass beside him. A jogger ran past the artist. Peggy had never thought of runners or anyone else having leisure time in Russia. It seemed an odd sight.