At 1:30 the Operations Center intercepted a report from the Air Defense station at Nakhodka to the intelligence office of the Marshal of the Air Force that their radar had gone haywire for nearly four minutes but that everything seemed to be all right now. While Air Defense checked the electronic beacons of all the aircraft in the region against their radar blips to make sure there were no intruders, Orlov knew that it was the 76T from Berlin that had caused the disruption. It was now in Russian airspace and headed west-less than an hour from intercepting the train, if that was its intention.
He had immediately phoned Titev’s afternoon counterpart in the radio room, Gregori Stenin, to contact the Marshal’s office so he could speak with him. He was told the Marshal was in a conference.
“This is urgent,” Orlov said.
Rossky asked Ivashin for his headphones. “Let me talk to them,” he said.
While Orlov continued to listen on the telephone, Rossky was put through to Marshal Petrov. Orlov saw the glint of satisfaction in the Colonel’s eyes.
“Sir,” Rossky said, “I have a call for you from General Sergei Orlov at the Operations Center in St. Petersburg.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Petrov said.
It was a moment before Orlov could speak. For the head of an intelligence operation, he was suddenly feeling very ignorant … and very vulnerable.
Orlov told the Marshal about the 76T, and Petrov said that he had already scrambled a pair of MiGs to escort it to a landing or shoot it down. Orlov hung up and, his eyes still locked on Rossky’s, he strode over.
“Thank you,” the General said.
Rossky drew his shoulders back. “You’re welcome, sir. ”
“I know the Marshal socially, Colonel.”
“You are fortunate, sir.”
“Do you know him?” Orlov asked.
“No, sir,” Rossky said.
“Then explain.” Though Orlov’s voice was soft, he was commanding, not asking.
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Orlov knew now, for certain, that the conversation with Petrov and now with him was a game. But he wasn’t about to get into a public power struggle in the command center, one he might well lose.
“I see,” Orlov said. “Go about your duties, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Rossky said.
Orlov returned to his post, beginning to suspect that even his appointment here had been part of a larger game. As he saw Delev, Spansky, and others snatch quick glances at him, the only question he had was who was loyal to him here, who might have been in on it from the beginning, and who-like Petrov-may have been brought in over the last few hours. The scope of the deception surprised him, but it didn’t hurt as much as the thought that friends would desert him to preserve or advance their careers.
Orlov returned to his position behind the computer bank, though it was not the same position as when he had left it. The power base had shifted palpably to Rossky. Orlov knew he had to regain it. He’d never walked away from anything in his life. and be didn’t intend to leave here defeated. But he knew he would have to undermine the Colonel quickly, and without being underhanded. He couldn’t compete with Rossky on that level.
Orlov realized there was only one tack he could take just as Ivashin informed the Colonel that the local militia intelligence officer, Ronash, had called the St. Petersburg station house.
Rossky took the headphones, pressed one to his ear, and listened in silence as Sergeant Lizichev of the local militia told him what Ronash had seen.
The Colonel moved the attached microphone closer to his mouth. “Sergeant,” he said, “tell Ronash to follow those two. They’re the ones we want. They’ll probably get on the Metro. If they do, tell him to go with them, and have plainclothesmen watching for them at the transfer point at the Technological Institute, and also at the Gostinyy Dvor and Nevsky Prospekt stops. They’ll probably get off at Nevsky, and I’ll meet your men there.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Red-and-yellowstriped scarves-yes, I’ll watch for them.”
Rossky handed the earphones back to Ivashin, then walked over to Orlov. He stepped in close and spoke softly.
“You’ve been loyal to the Center and to Russia’
Rossky said, “and have done nothing we would hold against you. For the sake of your pension and your son’s career, you will continue to do so.”
Orlov said in a strong voice, “Impertinence noted, Colonel. A rebuke will appear on your record. Was there anything else?”
Rossky glared at him.
“Good,” said Orlov. He dipped his forehead toward the door. “Now come back prepared to follow orders-my orders-or report back to Minister Dogin in Moscow.”
He knew that Rossky had to leave to catch the agents, although it would appear to the others as if he were obeying Orlov’s command.
Rossky turned without saluting and hurried from the command center. Orlov knew that the Colonel wouldn’t surrender the Operations Center during a coup. That’s what it was, he realized now. And though he remained in the command center, his mind was on Rossky and what the Colonel’s next step might be ….
FOURTY-NINE
Tuesday, 9:30 P.M., Khabarovsk
“Rearview mirror says we’ve got company,” pilot Matt Mazer told Squires.
The Striker had come to the cockpit three minutes before the jump to thank the Captain for his help. The radar screen clearly showed two MiG-like blips closing in at approximately seven hundred miles an hour.
“Be prepared to pop a gasket,” Mazer said to copilot John Barylick.
“Yes, sir,” said the rookie, who was cool but was working his chewing gum overtime.
The Air Force had cleverly equipped the 76T with an enlarged oil tank that was divided into two compartments: one that fed the plane, the other that could leak with the press of a button. The leaking oil was designed to give the plane a reason to turn around if they were spotted. They could go down at once, if necessary, to avoid being shot down or forced to a Russian airstripor, this close to the coast, they could break away from the pursuit craft and make a run for home.
In either case, Squires knew that the 76T would be unlikely to be ferrying them back.
“What do you want to do, sir?” the Captain asked Squires.
“We’ll jump,” he said. “I’ll let Op-Center know what’s happened and let them figure a way out for us.”
The Captain took another look at the radar screen. “In about ninety seconds, the MiGs will be close enough to see you. ”
“Then we’ll jump fast, ” said Squires.
“I like your style, sir,” the Captain said, saluting.
Jumpmaster Squires hurried back to the cabin. He decided not to tell Striker what had happened. Not yet. He needed his team to be focused on the job. Though he would be happy to storm hell itself with any of these soldiers at his side, a stray concern at the wrong time by any one of them could cost lives.
At the FBI Academy in Quantico, the Striker team had practiced many kinds of aerial assault, from night jumps to Stabo assaults with the team hanging from helicopter lines and landing simultaneously on church steeples, cliffsides, and even the tops of moving buses. Each member had the poise, stamina, and smarts necessary for the job. But those in-depth examinations by the doctors, the “chancre mechanics,” were easy: soldiers were either fit to serve or they weren’t. Despite the best efforts of Liz Gordon and her team of psychologists, the real question mark was always how they would hold up under the stress of an actual mission-when there wasn’t a fence made of two-by-fours to catch them in case they slid off the rooftop. When they knew that the rugged terrain wasn’t the survival-training site at Camp Dawson, West Virginia, but the mountains of North Korea or the tundra of Siberia.
It wasn’t for lack of respect or concern that Squires kept the information from them. It was to remove, as much as possible, another distraction from the successful execution of the mission.
The Strikers were lined up by the hatch, as they’d been for a half hour. Every five minutes, the navigator had provided Squires with their precise coordinates in case it had been necessary for them to jump early. While they stood there, the team prepared for “infil.” Each member checked another’s weapons and rucksacks, making certain they were tight against the chest, back, and sides, and that the ruck in back was firm against the bottom of the parachute where it wouldn’t interfere with deployment. The rappelling equipment was stowed in rucks; that three of the Strikers carried at the end of fifteen-foot tethers that would dangle beneath the soldiers as they fell. The teammates checked their padded-leather jump helmets, oxygen masks, and night-vision goggles. These were bug-eyed glasses so heavy that counterweights had to be attached to the backs of the helmet. After a few months of training with these goggles, most Strikers found that their neck sizes had gone up two sizes from the building of their neck muscles. At the last moment before the jump hatch was opened, they switched from the oxygen consoles to which they’d been hooked to the bailout bottles strapped to their sides.