Tom Clancy's op-centre_ mirror image - Tom Clancy [73]
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11:27 P.M., south of Finland
"It isn't hypocritical," Squires told Sondra as the StarLifter began its final approach to Helsinki airport. The Strikers had changed into civilian clothes and looked like any other tourists. "Yes, coffee is a stimulant, and it might be bad for your stomach if consumed by the barrel. But wine is bad for your liver and your mind."
"Not in moderation," Sondra said as she checked her gear again. "And wine tasters have as much right to fuss over vintage and flavor and body as someone does over coffee."
"I don't fuss over coffee," Squires said. "I don't swirl it around my Redskins mug and savor the aroma. I drink it, period. I also don't pretend that getting high sip by sip in an elegant setting is elegant." He chopped down with his hand. "End of debate."
Sondra scowled as she zipped up the nondescript backpack that contained a compass, nine-inch hunting knife, M9.45-caliber pistol, one thousand dollars in cash, and maps of the region that had been printed out by Squires's computer during the flight. It wasn't fair for him to pull rank like that, but she reminded herself that no one ever said the military was fair, that rank had its privileges, and all the other clichés her parents had thrown at her when she'd told them she wanted to join the military straight out of Columbia.
"If you want to travel, travel!" her father had said. "We can afford it, take a year."
But that wasn't it. Carl "Custard" DeVonne had been a self-starter who made a fortune in soft ice cream in New England, and he didn't understand why an only daughter who had everything would want to take her B.A. in literature and join the Navy. Not just the Navy, but fight her way into the SEALs. Maybe it was because she had had everything as a kid and wanted to test herself. Or maybe she needed to do something her over-achieving father hadn't. And the SEALs, and now Striker, were certainly a test.
While she wondered how a man as bright as Squires could be so stubborn, a call came in from Op-Center. He took it, listened-- intently as always, mostly without speaking-- and then handed the phone back to Ishi Honda.
"Okay, lady and gentlemen, gather 'round," he said, hunching toward his troops like a quarterback in a huddle. "Here's the latest. Private George, when we reach Helsinki, you'll be remaining behind. Darrell McCaskey has arranged for you to link up with a Major Aho of the Finnish Ministry of Defense. The Major will take you to your partner, DI6 operative Peggy James, and the two of you will take on the Hermitage by your lonesomes. Sorry, but the rest of us have business elsewhere. You'll hitch a midget sub ride from the Gulf of Finland into the Neva. The Finns've got a butt-kick Defense Minister who's been running surveillance trips right into the mouth of the river. The Russians don't monitor closely because manpower is stretched thin and Moscow doesn't worry a whole lot about being attacked by Finland."
"Sloppy," Sondra observed.
"You and James will raft into St. Petersburg in daylight," Squires continued. "General Rodgers would have preferred for you to wait for nightfall, but that's when they make the mini-sub trips, so in you go. Fortunately, the Russian Navy maintains a mini-sub base in Koporskiy Zaliv Bay not far from the city. You'll be given Russian naval uniforms when you reach Helsinki. If you're stopped for any reason, Ms. James speaks fluent Russian and you'll have the appropriate documents. The Finns are turning out Russian papers in the Security Ministry's forgery division. Major Aho will give you your cover story as well as visas and papers so you can get out of the country as Russian soldiers on leave. Once you reach the Hermitage, find out anything you can about the communications center they