The darkish, blood-red cabin lights had been turned on and icy winds slammed mercilessly through the cabin. It was impossible to hear anything but the air rushing by, and as soon as they were over their target and got the “go” signal, the lime-green jump light, Squires went out the door, pivoting on the ball of his right foot so that he was dropping facedown in the “frog” position. From the comer of his eye, he saw the second team member jump, Sergeant Grey, then looked at the big, round altimeter strapped to his left wrist.
The numbers rolled over quickly-thirty-five thousand feet, thirty-four thousand, thirty-three. Squires felt the frigid air push against his flesh even through the cold-weather clothing, chilling and then stinging him with the combination of cold and fist-hard pressure. He assumed the glide position as he fell, and when his altimeter read thirty thousand feet he tugged the silver rip cord. There was a mild jolt and his legs swung underneath him.
As he drifted down through the dark and cloudless sky, the air warmed perceptibly though it was still below zero. As team members above him lined themselves up with the luminescent strip on the helmet of the Striker beneath them, Squires searched the ground for landmarks: the train track, the bridge, the mountain peaks. They were all there, and that afforded Squires a measure of relief. One of the most important psychological aspects at the start of any mission was being able to hit the target. Not only did that make the soldiers feel capable, but the maps had made them familiar with the terrain in the target area. It was just one less thing to worry about.
Though it was dark, the night-vision goggles allowed Squires to pick out the target cliff, mid he used the riser straps above him on either side to maneuver the shroud lines and guide himself as close to the edge as possible. He had told the Strikers that he would be landing in the forward position and that they were to come in behind him. The last thing he wanted was for one of his people to overshoot the cliff. If they were snagged on a projection, they’d have to be rescued, costing them time. If they landed on the ground, out in the open, they might be seen.
Gusts near the ground caught Squires by surprise. He landed just five yards from the edge of the cliff. Dropping to his side to reduce the surface he presented to the wind, the officer quickly released his parachute and bundled it in, standing as he watched Sergeant Grey land, then Private DeVonne and the others. He was proud of them as they landed with precision; within five minutes, the six Strikers had knotted their parachutes to a tree. Private DeVonne stayed behind to leave a small incendiary device beneath the bundle. It was set to go off at 12:18 A.M., after the Strikers had departed the area, destroying itself and the parachutes and leaving nothing for the Russians to present to the United Nations as “evidence” of a U.S. incursion.
As the Strikers huddled around Squires, they could hear distant engines that were more than just the 76T.
“Sounds like they’ve got company,” said Private Eddie Medina.
“They knew about it and it’s being handled,” Squires said. “Private Honda, set up the TAC-Sat. Everyone else, get ready to move out.”
While the five other Strikers moved out, using pitons and clamps to hook their heavy rappelling lines to the side of the cliff, Squires contacted Op-Center.
“Wake-up call,” he said as Mike Rodgers got on the line. “What’s the morning like there?”
“Sunny and mild,” said Rodgers. “Charlie, you know about the MiGs
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. We’re working on it. The 76T’s going to make a run for Hokkaido, but it won’t be coming back. We’re working on a variation of the original plan. Be at the extraction point at the scheduled time. We’ll have an aircraft there. ”
“Understood.”
It was unspoken, but Charlie also understood that if there was a problem, the team would have to find a place to hide. Several sites had been marked on their maps, and the team would go to the closest one if the need arose.
“Good luck,” Rodgers said before signing off.
Charlie handed the receiver back to Honda. While the radio operator packed up the TAC-Sat, Squires took a moment to look across the terrain. It didn’t require the eerie green light of the night-vision goggles to look dead and desolate beneath the canopy of unnaturally bright stars. The track came toward them in a gentle curve from the plains to the east, passed through a natural path between the cliffs, and continued on across flat scrubland dotted with trees and patches of snow. To the south were mountains. The region was as quiet as anywhere he had ever been. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind in his helmet and the scuffling of the Strikers’ boots against the dirt and loose rocks of the cliff.
Honda moved forward when he was finished. And with a final glance toward the eastern horizon from which their quarry would soon be coming, Squires moved to where the Strikers were just finishing with their preparations to descend from the ledge.
FIFTY
Tuesday, 9:32 P.M., Khabarovsk
Nikita had an uncanny sense about aircraft. Growing up at the Cosmodrome, he always heard the approach of helicopters before anyone else did. He could recognize jets by the sounds their engines made. His mother said that all those years his father had spent in cockpits had affected his genes, “filled them with aviation fuel,” was how she’d put it. Nikita didn’t believe that. He simply loved flying. But to have become a flier, to have been compared to the national hero Sergei Orlov, would have been impossible for him. And so he kept his love to himself, like a dream whose magic couldn’t be communicated to another.
The train slowed as it came to a patch of track with thickly piled snow. Though the wind roared around the canvas flap over the open window, Nikita heard the distinctive drone of the MiG engines. Two of them, coming from the east toward a transport that was flying overhead. These weren’t the first aircraft he’d heard, but there was something different about them.
He poked his head out the window and turned his left ear up. Though the failing snow made it impossible for him to see anything, the sound traveled clearly through it. He listened carefully. The MiGs weren’t accompanying the 76T, they had caught up to it. And as he lis tened, he heard the 76T, and then the jets, head in the opposite direction, back toward the east.
That wasn’t right. This might be the 76T his father had warned him about.
Nikita drew his head inside, oblivious to the snow caked on his hair and cheeks. “Get Colonel Rossky on the radio,” he barked to Corporal Fodor, who was sitting at the table warming his hands above the lantern.
“At once,” the Corporal replied as he hurried to the console.
While Fodor crouched beside the console, waiting to be patched through to the base on Sakhalin, Nikita’s eyes ranged over the civilians they’d picked up as he considered other possible explanations for what he’d heard. A mechanical problem could have caused the transport to turn back, but it wouldn’t have needed an escort. Was someone looking for the train, trying to pinpoint their location, attempting to help them? His father, perhaps? General Kosigan? Or could it be someone else?
“He isn’t there,” Fodor said.
“Ask for General Orlov,” Nikita said impatiently.
Fodor made the request and then handed the phone to Nikita. “He’s on, sir.”
Nikita squatted. “General?”
“What is it, Nikki?”
“There’s a transport overhead,” said Nikita. “It was headed west until a pair of jets arrived, and then it turned.”
“That’s the 76T,” Orlov said.
“What are my orders?” Nikita asked.
“I’ve asked the President for permission to send troops to meet you in Bira,” he said. “I’ve not received an approval for my request. Until then, do whatever is necessary to protect your cargo.”
“As war materiel or as evidence, sir?”
“That isn’t your problem,” Orlov snapped. “Your orders are to keep it safe.”
“That I will do, sir,” Nikita said.
Handing the receiver to Fodor, the young officer hurried to the rear of the car, making his way through the passengers. The five men and two. women were sitting on mats playing cards or reading or knitting by lantern light. Nikita pulled open the door and crossed the slippery coupling. Thickly packed snow fell on his shoulders as he pushed open the door.
Inside the car, the beefy Sergeant Versky was talking to one of his men as they kept watch at the window on the northern side. Another man was stationed at the window on the south. All of them snapped to attention as Lieutenant Orlov entered.