The officer’s expression didn’t change. His breed had been trained to suffer pain in silence. But after a moment the extended arm wavered, the P-6 fell to the floor, and then Rossky followed it, doing a delicate turn as he dropped to his back. His arms splayed, head facing down, the spetsnaz warrior slid to the landing, where he came to a stop beside Valya.
Peggy trained her pistol on Pogodin, who had been crouching at the top of the staircase, behind the ornate newel. She bad seen him kill Volko and he deserved to die.But he seemed to read her thoughts, or perhaps saw the promise of death in her eyes, and broke suddenly from the staircase, running back toward the gallery. Peggy heard the distant clatter of running feet; whether it was security, panicked tourists, or even strikers itching for a fight, she had no idea. But as much as she wanted Volko’s killer dead, there wasn’t time to chase him.
Turning, Peggy tucked the gun inside her shirt and ran down the stairs screaming in Russian, “Help! The killer is up here! He’s a madman!”
As security forces pushed past her, she hurried, still shrieking, through the main entrance. There, Peggy quieted as she lost herself among the strikers who had crowded inside, hoping that it wasn’t one of their ownor a government plant pretending to be one of their own-who had gone berserk ….
SEVENTY-ONE
Tuesday, 8:5 7 A.M.,Washington, D.C.
“They’re climbing to the roof of the engine!” Honda said, his lazing-in-the-sun calmness gone, replaced by what sounded d to Rodgers like fear or horror. “The thing’s going like a torpedo-a runaway, it looks like.”
“Can’t they get off?” Rodgers asked.
“Negative, Sir. The trains’ just starting over the bridge now, and there’s nowhere to exit except straight down a couple hundred feet. I can see Grey-shit! Sorry, sir. Newmeyer just laid him on the top of the cab and followed him up. The sergeant is moving but he seems to be hurt. ”
“How hurt?” Rodgers asked urgently.
“I can’t tell, sir. We’re too low and he’s lying down. Now I see-I don’t know who it is. A Russian soldier, it looks like. He’s definitely hurt. There’s a great deal of blood on his leg.”
“What’s the Russian doing?” Rodgers asked.
“Not much. Lieutenant Colonel Squires is handing him out to Newmeyer, holding him by the hair. Newmeyer is trying to get his hands under the Russian’s arms. Looks like he’s struggling. Hold on, sir.”
There was talk in the helicopter, and Private Honda was quiet for several seconds. Rodgers couldn’t make any of the conversation out. Then, near the radio, Rodgers heard Sondra say, “Then we’ll jettison our clothes or weapons. We’ll make up the weight.”
Obviously, Squires was planning to bring the Russian onboard and the pilot was justifiably concerned. Rodgers’s undershirt began to dampen along his spine.
Honda came back on. “The pilot’s concerned about two hundred added pounds and about how long it’s going to take us to get them aboard. If he doesn’t try to get them, he’s going to have a revolt on his hands.”
“Private,” said Rodgers, “this is the pilot’s mission now and he’s got a crew to worry about too. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
They were the toughest words Rodgers had ever had to utter, and Hood gave the General a reassuring squeeze on the forearm.
“The Russian’s torso is out of the train,” Honda continued, “but he looks like dead weight.”
“But he’s not dead?”
“No, sir. His hands and head are moving.”
The line was silent again. Rodgers and Hood looked at one another, aborted vacations and who-answered-to-who forgotten as they suffered this wait together.
“I can see the Lieutenant Colonel now,” said Honda. “He’s leaning out the window and his hand’s holding up the front of the Russian’s coat. He’s motioning-pointing into the cab, moving his finger across his throat.”
“The controls are dead,” Rodgers said. “Is that it?
“We think that’s what he’s saying,” said Honda.
“Hold on, sir. We’re about to make a pass over the train. And then I think … yes, sir.”
“What, Private””
With rising excitement Ishi Honda said, “Sir, the pilot told us to lower the ladder. We’ve got eighty seconds to reel our boys in.”
Rodgers was finally able to breathe. And as he took each breath, he watched the numbers of the computer clock flick by inexorably.
SEVENTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11:57 P.M., Khabarovsk
The Mosquito had slashed overhead like a time-lapse thundercloud, dark, powerful, and silent. Squires followed the helicopter with his eyes as it passed the engine and coal tender, then stopped, pivoted 180 degrees, and began inching back toward them.
The ladder dropped fast and straight and Sondra came down several rungs. Holding tightly to one, she leaned back, her arm stretched down, ready to help.
“Come on!” she cried.
“Newmeyer!” Squires yelled over the roar of the engine.
“Sir?”
“Let go of the Russian and get Grey out of here. You too.”
Newmeyer obeyed without hesitation. Like any special forces team, the Strikers had been trained to take orders implicitly and immediately in a crisis situation, however those orders went against their instincts or emotions. Later, when he thought about it over and over, Newmeyer would Monday-morning-quarterback the entire evacuation process, whether he was in bed, drilling, or talking to psychologist Liz Gordon. Now, though, he did what Lieutenant Colonel Squires had ordered.
Releasing the Russian, Newmeyer put his shoulder back under Grey. The helicopter arrived directly overhead as he stood, the pilot coming down a foot to bring the bottom of the ladder level with Newmeyer’s knees.
The Private put his foot on the second rung and began to climb. As soon as he was within range, both Sondra and Private Pupshaw reached down to haul Grey in.
Even as she allowed Pupshaw to finish bringing the Sergeant inside, and extended her hand to Newmeyer, Sondra’s eyes were on Lieutenant Colonel Squires.
“Thirty seconds!” copilot lovino called back at them.
“Sir!” she shouted as he tried to get himself under Nikita. “Half-minute warning!”
“Twenty-five!” lovino shouted.
Squires let go of the Russian’s hair, hoisted him onto his shoulder, then sat on the edge of the window. As he struggled to get to his feet, Nikita pushed at him, trying to get back in the cab.
“Twenty!”
“Damn you!” Squires hissed, grabbing the back of the Russian’s coat as Nikita slumped back into the cab.
Nikita hooked his arm around the handle beside the window and held on tight.
“Fifteen!”
Sondra’s face and voice were beginning to show the strain. “Lieutenant Colonel-fifteen seconds!”
Still standing in the window, Squires motioned for the chopper to come over to the side.
The Mosquito edged east and the pilot descended slightly so the ladder was level with Squires. Squires gestured for him to come a little lower.
“Ten seconds! ”
Releasing Nikita’s coat, the Lieutenant Colonel held onto the top of the train with his left hand, while with his right he unholstered his Beretta, pointed it at the top of Nikita’s arm, and fired. The Russian howled, lost his hold on the handle, and fell back into the cab.
Squires jumped in after him.
“No!” Sondra shouted, and scampered down the ladder. Newmeyer ran down after her.
“Five seconds!” Iovino yelled.
“Wait!” Sondra screamed up at him.
The ladder was hanging directly beside the window of the cab. Grunting and swearing, Squires pushed the limp Nikita out the window. Sondra and Newmeyer both got a hand on his coat and yanked him out.
The pilot waited as Pupshaw reached out and helped Newmeyer as the Russian was passed up the ladder.
The Lieutenant Colonel clambered back into the window. The instant her hands were free, Sondra reached toward him. His hand came out
The first cargo car exploded, followed a heartbeat later by the second. The blasts caused the engine to hop violently, the back end rising higher than the nose, separating from the coal tender, which bucked up, coal flying, and pinwheeled to the west, snapping free of the engine. When it slammed down, the engine was slightly off the track.
‘ ‘Lieutenant Colonel!” Sondra cried as Squires fell back into the cab and the pilot pushed the helicopter up and ahead to stay clear of the blast. “Captain, don’t leave yet! ”
The pilot raced north and climbed to keep clear of shrapnel.
“Get back in!” Newmeyer cried to her, his voice cracking.
Sondra’s eyes reflected the raging red fireballs as she watched the engine skid forward on the tracks, racing ahead of the blast at an angle, the wheels kicking up sparks and smoke.
“He’s still in there!” she said through her teeth. “We have to go back!”
And then the blast-weakened trestle folded under the engine and the stalled, helpless caboose. The collapse seemed surreal, occurring in slow motion and speeding up only when the fires of the explosion caused the boiler to explode. The blast sent pieces of the locomotive flying up, down, and sideways, dark shards riding the red and black fireball. And then all of it, the tracks and iron supports, the shattered train and trailing scarves of flame, tumbled into the gorge.