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Kahrs looked toward the southeast, saw the churning smoke of the train.

"I only see four of the six," Kahrs said. "Get the low-down ASAP."

"Roger," said Iovino.

While Kahrs sped toward the target, Iovino watched the digital numbers of the countdown clock on his screen. At seven seconds to contact, he pressed the button that caused the aft hatchway to slide forward into its pocket. That took one second. At five seconds to contact, the Mosquito slowed and he touched a second button that caused a roller arm to swing over and a twenty-five-foot-long black ladder to unroll. It deployed in four seconds, and the Mosquito glided to a halt twenty-seven feet above the ground.

Ishi Honda was the first one on board. lovino turned toward him.

"Where are the others?" the copilot asked.

"On the train," Honda said as he snuggled into the tight space and helped pull Sondra aboard.

"What are they planning to do?"

"Get off and meet us," Honda said as he and Sondra both reached down to Pupshaw.

Iovino looked at Kahrs, who nodded to indicate that he'd heard.

"What do we gain by meeting them?" Kahrs asked Iovino.

Even before Pupshaw was inside, lovino was using the computer to calculate the extra fuel it would take to fly to the train as opposed to hovering here and waiting. The one incalculable was when the three Strikers would get off the train, but he had to assume that would be before they arrived.

"We're better off meeting them," lovino said as he pressed the buttons that caused the ladder to withdraw and the hatch to shut. Those were battery-controlled and didn't cost anything, fuel-wise; an extended ladder with the hatch opened added to the drag to the craft, which did eat into their fuel.

"Let's give 'em a lift," Kahrs said, keeping the Mosquito at twenty-seven feet as he pivoted to the southeast, smooth and delicate as a compass needle, and sped toward the oncoming train.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Tuesday, 8:49 A.M.,

Washington, D.C.

"What kind of Oil Can Harry operation are you guys running, Paul?"

Paul Hood looked at the puffy face of Larry Rachlin in his TV monitor. The thinning gray hair was plastered neatly to the side, and the light hazel eyes were angry behind the gold-framed glasses. An unlit cigar moved up and down as the CIA Director spoke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hood replied. He looked at the clock on the bottom of the screen. Just another few minutes until Striker was safe, and then two hours after that until the Mosquito was tucked away on a carrier, all evidence of the incursion gone.

Rachlin removed the cigar and pointed with it. "Y'know, that's why you got that job instead of Mike Rodgers," he said. "You got a poker face like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. 'Who, me, Larry? Running a covert operation?' Well, Paul, despite Stephen Viens's noble attempts to try and tell me a satellite was off-line, we've got some photos from a Chinese sky-spy showing commandos attacking a train. Beijing asked me about it and, unlike you, I really didn't know a damn thing about it. Now, unless some other country has gotten hold of an Il-76T-- which the Chinese put at the scene of the crime, and which I happen to know the Pentagon owns-- this makes it your operation. The CIC tells my guys they didn't authorize any kind of shooting war over there. They, too, would like to know exactly what you're doing over there. So I repeat: what's going on?"

Hood said casually, "I'm as mystified as you are, Larry. I was on vacation, you know."

"I know. And you came back fast."

"I forgot how much I loathe L.A.," Hood replied.

"Oh, sure. That was it. Everybody hates L.A., so why do they keep going?"

"The well-marked freeways," said Hood.

"Well, how about I ask the President what's going on?" Rachlin said, poking the cigar back into his mouth. "He'll have all the information right there on his desk, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Hood said. "Give me a few minutes to talk to Mike and Bob and I'll get back to you."

"Sure, Paul," Larry