Neither of those had happened. But when the train did stop and Squires was able to burrow a little hole in front of his eyes, he saw that he was under the coal tender. That was one car ahead of where he had hoped he’d be.
At least the camouflage worked, he’d thought as he discreetly began to push the snow from himself. There was something very gratifying and historically fight about Russian troops falling for a Russian scheme-like Rasputin being killed by Czarists and the Czar being killed by Revolutionaries.
As he’d finished brushing away the snow, Squires had heard shouting. Despite the fact that virtually every inch of skin was covered with Nomex garments, he was cold-a chill that seemed deeper, for some reason, because of the flat darkness surrounding him.
No sooner was he free than he heard boots crunch hard in the wet drifts. This was followed by the lighting of flares, which spread rosy circles of light in the snow and caused the dark underbelly of the train to glow devilishly.
Carefully placing his backpack on his belly, Squires began wriggling backward, out of the ditch and along the railbed toward the first car. Soldiers were moving to the right of him, and he stopped for a moment to unbutton the safety strap of the holster he wore low on his right hip. Though Squires didn’t want to cause an international incident, he would rather read newspaper accounts of his crimes and misdeeds than have others read about his death on a frozen plain in Siberia.
Squires’s backward crawl went quickly, and he was underneath the coupling between the coal tender and the first car just as the Russian soldiers reached the fallen tree. This, despite the fact that he was pushing up mounds of snow with his shoulders and had to limbo over them backward. Opening the ruck flap, the Striker removed the C-4 and gingerly pressed it against the metal as flakes of damp, rusted iron fell like snow. When the explosives were secure, he took out the three-inch-diameter timer and, with an insistent push from the heel of his hand, slipped the positive and negative ends into the plastique. There were two buttons above a numeric keypad, and he pressed the button on the left. That turned the unit on, and he used the numeric keypad to enter the countdown. He would give himself one hour. After punching in 60:00:00, he hit the button on the top right to lock it in. Then he hit the left-button, rightbutton sequence one more time to start the countdown.
Squires pushed his feet against the ruddy snow and wriggled to the middle of the first car. He heard thumping overhead, toward the upper right. The sudden stop must have dislodged the cargo and it was being restacked. Kicking backward another few feet, he stopped directly beneath the noise and put the C-4. there. He plugged in a timer and repeated the process that would cause this larger batch of plastique to explode. Moving under the second car, Squires rigged it to go off with a third slap of C-4 and a timer.
When he was finished, Squires allowed himself to enjoy a long, deep breath. He gazed across his chest toward the front of the train and saw that the men were nearly finished removing the tree. He didn’t have much time.
Sliding out from under the ruck, Squires set it gingerly to his right as he sidled to the left. When he was out from under the train, he turned over on his belly and lay in the long, flare-cast shadow of the train. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch and was pleased at how quickly the operation had gone. He knew it was one of those things that, had he had time to rehearse it back at Andrews, would have taken ten or twenty percent longer to accomplish in the field. Why it worked that way, he had no idea. But it did.
He looked back toward the first car and, walking on his elbows, made his way to a drift near the coal tender. He began pushing the snow aside; that was Newmeyer’s signal to start digging himself out. The Private was trembling and had bitten down on the mouth covering of his balaclava to keep his teeth from chattering. Squires gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as Newmeyer rolled onto his belly. He had been buried with his 9mm Beretta on his chest, and he holstered it now.
Newmeyer knew what to do, so Squires crawled back to the second car to get in position.
This was one action he wished he had been able to rehearse. But though a spetsnaz soldier might be able to function without sleep for seventy-two hours, and Israeli Sayeret Tzanhanim paratroop recon commandos could land on top of a running camel, and he had seen an Omani Royal Guard officer kill a man with a hatpin to the throat, Squires knew that no soldier in the world could improvise like a Striker. That was the beauty of the team, why they fit perfectly with Op-Center’s mandate to bronco-bust unfolding crises.
Squires hooked the detonator to his belt, slipped on his compact respirator, then drew a Hash/bang grenade from his left hip pouch. He slid the pull ring of the grenade over his right thumb, still holding the safety spoon. Then he pulled an M54 lachrymatory gas canister from its pouch and held it in his left hand, his thumb through the ring. When Newmeyer had done likewise, the two men rose slowly, in the shadows, and stood just to the right of the windows of the first and second cars.
SIXTY
Tuesday, 7:53 A.M., Washington, D.C.
“So where is he?”
Hood was thinking those exact words just as Herbert said them.
For several minutes now, everyone in his office had been silent and he’d been replaying the conversation with Orlov in his mind, trying to reassure himself that he hadn’t given the Russian anything that could be used against the Strikers. Orlov already knew about both groups, and knew where they were. Hood was convinced, still, that the talk had been about how to defuse the crisis. Orlov could have used his status in Russia long before this to aggrandize himself, if that was what he wanted. He wanted to believe that the cosmonaut was a humanist as well as a patriot.
But his son is commanding the train, Hood reminded himself, and that outweighs saintly intentions.
Everyone jumped when flood’s phone beeped. He punched the speaker button and answered.
“Relay from Striker Honda,” said Bugs Benet.
“Let’s have it,” Hood said, “and please bring up the mission map on the computer. Cut in if General Orlov gets back to us.”
As he spoke, the Director slid the phone to the edge of the desk, toward Mike Rodgers. The General seemed to appreciate the gesture.
Honda’s voice came through on the secure line, strong and surprisingly clear. “This is Private Honda reporting as ordered. ”
“This is General Rodgers. Go ahead, Private.”
“Sir, the target bridge is in sight and the snows are starting to let up. Three Strikers are present at coordinates 9518-828 to secure the route for retreat, three Strikers are at train, coordinates 6987-572. The Lieutenant Colonel plans to rig the train with C-4, get all the passengers off with flash/bang and tear gas, take the train, and let it blow up farther down the track. He was afraid shrapnel from the boiler might hurt someone. He’ll join us at the extraction point when the target has been neutralized.”
Hood looked at the grid on the computer screen. The distances involved were tight but manageable.
“Private,” said Rodgers, “did the Russians show any sign of standing down?”
“Sir, we didn’t see them. The Lieutenant Colonel blew a tree across the track. We heard that. Then we heard the train coming, we heard the brakes, and we heard it stop. But we can’t see it from here.”
“Any shooting?”
“No, sir,” said Honda.
“If it’s necessary to get an order to the beta team, can it be done?” Rodgers asked.
“Not without one of us going back,” said Honda. “They won’t be answering the radio. Sir, I’ve got to join the others but I’ll try and report any new developments.”
Rodgers thanked him and wished him well as Hood beeped Benet on the second line. He asked for up-to the-minute surveillance photos of the site to be sent to his printer as soon as they were received by the NRO. Both Rodgers and Herbert went to the printer behind Hood’s desk to wait for the hard copy to arrive.
A moment later, Orlov came back on the computer monitor. He looked more worried than before, and Hood clandestinely motioned for Liz to come over. She stood to the side, out of range of the fiber-optic camera on top, but was able to see Orlov’s face.