Tom Clancy's op-centre_ mirror image - Tom Clancy [140]
"I'm very sorry, sir," had been all he could think to say.
Well. hell. Squires had thought. The sonuvabitch Russian was only doing what we'd have done, and he did it right.
And now the train was a runaway, building speed as it cleared the curve and headed toward the trestle. There was no time to gather up Grey and the Russian and jump off before they reached the gorge. And they had just about two minutes before the locomotive ceased to exist.
Squires jumped back to the window and peered down the track. On the horizon, he saw what looked like a cloud of locusts in the green glow of the goggles. It was the extraction craft-- though it wasn't like any chopper he'd ever seen. From the smooth lines and color he knew at once that it was a low-observable. He was flattered. Even Muammar Gadhafi hadn't rated the debut of a Stealth aircraft, though they'd all been on alert, when Reagan and Weinberger crossed his "line of death" in the Gulf of Sidra and blackened the eyes of Tripoli back in 1986.
The helicopter was coming at them fast and low. The snow had stopped completely, visibility was good, and it probably wouldn't take long for the pilot to figure out that the train couldn't he stopped. The question was, was there enough time for them to be extracted some other way?
"Newmeyer," Squires said, "help Grey to the roof. We're getting out of here."
"Yes, sir," the crestfallen Striker replied.
Rising from the Russian, Newmeyer avoided his oddly detached gaze as he went over to Grey, bent beside him, and carefully hefted the Sergeant onto his shoulder. The barely conscious noncom did his best to hold on as Newmeyer rose. Then the Private watched, more alert now, as Squires twisted the Russian onto his chest.
"Go!" Squires said to Newmeyer, pointing to the door with his forehead. "I'll be okay."
Reluctantly, Newmeyer kicked the door open, pulled himself up onto the bottom of the window, and gently eased Grey to the flat roof of the cab.
Grabbing a fistful of the Russian's hair, Squires reached back, undid the rappelling belt that had kept him on the floor, tied it tightly around his wrists, and walked him toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Tuesday, 4:56 P.M., St. Petersburg
When she first saw the spy's surprising twist on the stairs, Valya thought that she intended to shoot her and her instinct was to duck. The Russian started to go down, but when she realized that the spy was falling, Valya checked herself and darted after her. It was always surprising what one could get from a wounded or dying individual. Often their guard was down or they were so dazed that they said things, sometimes important things.
Guests gasped but stood aside as the woman rode down the twenty or so steps on her shoulder, appearing not to hit her head, then reaching the landing with an awkward somersault over one shoulder onto her side. She lay moaning in a fetal position, her legs moving weakly, as visitors gathered around. One called to a guard for assistance, while two others knelt, one of them doffing his jacket and slipping it under her head.
"Don't touch her!" Valya yelled. "Get away!"
The Russian reached the bottom of the stairs and pulled a snub-nosed pistol from an ankle holster.
"This woman's a wanted criminal," she said. "Leave this matter in our hands."
The Russians backed away quickly. The foreigners saw the gun and did likewise.
Valya hopped over Peggy so that she was facing her.
Then she looked up at the stragglers.
"I said leave!" Valya shrilled, and swept outward with the back of her hand. "Go!"
The last of the gawkers did, and Valya looked back at Peggy. The spy's eyes were shut and her right arm was under her chest, her hand against but under her chin. Her left arm was limp at her side.
Valya didn't care what might be broken or damaged inside of her. Holding the gun under the woman's chin, Valya rolled her onto her back.
Peggy winced, her mouth formed a pained little oval, and then she relaxed again.
"That was an