Tom Clancy's op-centre_ mirror image - Tom Clancy [87]
Zhanin looked through the tinted, bulletproof window as the dark spires of the Kremlin came into view against the night sky and deep gray clouds.
"As a young man," he said, breathing deeply to calm himself, "I managed to get a copy of Svetlana Stalin's book about her father. Do you remember it?"
"Yes," said Larisa. "It was banned for years."
"That's right. Even though she was critical of a man who had fallen from grace, a so-called nonperson. One thing she wrote about Stalin struck me. She said that toward the end of the 1930s, she felt he had reached the stage of what she called 'persecution mania.' Enemies were everywhere. He had fifty thousand of his own officers purged. He murdered more Russian officers at or above the rank of colonel than the Germans killed in the entire war." He filled his chest and exhaled slowly. "It frightens me, Larisa, to think that he may not have been as mad or paranoid as everyone thought."
The woman squeezed his hand reassuringly as the black BMW turned off Kalinina Prospekt and headed toward the northwest side of the Kremlin, Trinity Gate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 3:05 A.M., over the Barents Sea
The Il-76T landed in Helsinki shortly before midnight, and the Striker crew, their cold-weather gear, and their arsenal were aboard ten minutes later. Their arsenal consisted of four trunks, each five by four by three feet, loaded with guns and explosives, ropes and pitons, gas masks and medical supplies. A half hour after they were aboard, the plane was refueled and airborne.
The initial phase of the flight had carried the craft northeast over Finland, then east across the Barents Sea and another time zone, flying just below the Arctic Ocean as it skirted the northern coast of Russia.
Lieutenant Colonel Squires's eyes were shut, but he wasn't sleeping. Nasty habit, he knew: he couldn't sleep unless he knew where he was going and why. He knew that further instructions from Op-Center would be forthcoming, since they were rapidly approaching the end of their flight plan, which carried them to where the Barents met the Pechora Sea. Still, it was frustrating not to be able to focus on an objective and stay zeroed in. Crossing the Atlantic, he'd been able to concentrate on St. Petersburg and the mission there. Now that was in Private George's hands, and Squires had nothing. When he had nothing, the officer always played a little game to keep his mind from wandering to his wife and son and what they'd do if he didn't come back.
It was the What Am I Doing Here? game, in which he picked an appropriate word or two, reached deep into his guts, and tried to understand why he loved being a Striker so damn much.
The first time he'd played it, en route to Cape Canaveral to try and find out who put a bomb on board a space shuttle, he'd decided that he was here to defend America, not just because it was the best place to be but because our nation's energy and ideals were what motivated the whole world. If we were to go away, Squires was convinced that the planet would become a battleground for dictators who wanted to rule, not autonomous states that were competitive and vital.
In the second game, he'd asked himself how much he enjoyed leading this life because it made every inch of him feel vital and challenged. A lot, he had to admit. Much more than when he played soccer, because the stakes for himself and for his nation were so high. But there was no sensation like pitting his confidence, skills, and ability to self-start against circumstances that would cause most people to freeze or retreat or at the very least think twice about going ahead.
Today while he wondered where the hell the call from Mike Rodgers or Bob Hernert was, he was thinking about something Op-Center's psychologist, Liz Gordon, had asked him when she first interviewd him for the command post.
"What are your thoughts on shared fear?" she had asked.
He'd answered that fear and strength were qualities the crested and troughed in any