Mirror Image

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The inside of the C-141B StarLifter wasn't designed for comfort. It was custom-designed to weigh as little as possible to give the craft as much range as possible. The canvas-covered walls did nothing to buffer the mighty drone of the engines, and the bare ribs of the fuselage were dark under the bare bulbs. The troops sat on padded cushions on wooden benches. In turbulence, though the shoulder harnesses held the soldiers in place, it wasn't uncommon for the cushions to slide out from under them.

Though the benches could accommodate only ninety troops in relative comfort, the StarLifter was able to hold up to three hundred troops. With only eight people in the cabin and a pilot, copilot, and navigator on the flight deck, Lieutenant Colonel Squires felt as though he were flying first-class. His long legs were stretched in front of him, he had two of the thin cushions beneath him and one between his back and the hard metal, and best of all the cabin wasn't stuffy. On those occasions when the prime members of Striker traveled with backup troops from the other services, and the five German shepherds of the K-9 Corps, the cabin tended to fill quickly with the heat of the huddled, perspiring warriors.

After several hours in the air, Squires appreciated the comfort. He had spent the first hour with Sergeant Chick Grey and Private David George, taking inventory of the gear they might need for Helsinki, spent the next two hours with Private Sondra DeVonne reviewing maps of Helsinki and St. Petersburg on his laptop, and then he slept for four hours.

When Squires woke, George handed him a microwaved meal and a cup of black coffee. The rest of the team had eaten an hour before.

"I've got to talk to General Rodgers about getting us better food," Squires said as he flipped open the hinged Styrofoam lid of the tray and surveyed the turkey slices, mashed potatoes, string beans, and corn muffin. "We've got missiles that can fly around trees and over mountains and slip down someone's chimney, but they're serving us the kind of crap you get on commercial airplanes."

"It's still better than the rations my dad says they served in Vietnam, sir," George said.

"Yeah, maybe," said Squires. "But it wouldn't kill them to give us a decent coffeemaker. Hell, I'd pay for it myself. Doesn't take up any extra space, and they're idiotproof. Not even the Army could screw that up."

"You never tasted my coffee, sir," said Sondra, without looking up from her copy of Wuthering Heights. "When I'm home, my mom and dad keep the percolator under tight security."

Squires cut a piece of turkey. "What kind of coffee do you use?"

Sondra looked over. Her large brown eyes were perfectly framed by her round face, and her voice bore the lilting trace of a youth spent in her native Algeria. "Kind, sir? I don't know. Whatever's on sale."

"That's your problem," said Squires. "My wife buys whole beans. We keep them in the freezer, then grind them that morning. Usually something festive, like southern pecan or chocolate raspberry."

"Chocolate raspberry coffee?" said Sondra.

"That's right. We use a drip coffeemaker, not a pot that burns the coffee, and we take it off the heat and put it in a butler as soon as it's brewed. When we drink, we never use milk or sugar. Those are the great equalizers— they make all coffee taste the same."

"Sounds to me like a lot to do before roll call, sir," Sondra said.

Squires pointed his knife toward her book. "You're reading Bronzed. Why not something off the romance racks?"

"This is literature," she said. "The rest is paint-by-numbers."

"That's how I feel about coffee," Squires said as he speared more turkey with his plastic fork. "If it isn't the real thing, if it's touch football, why bother?"

Sondra said, "I can answer that in one word, sir: caffeine. When I'd read Thomas Mann or James Joyce till four in the morning, I'd need something to get me to class by nine."

Squires nodded, then said, "I've got a better way."

"What's that?"

"Push-ups," he said. "A hundred of 'em, right out of bed, wakes you faster than caffeine. Besides, if you can make yourself do that first thing in the morning, the rest of the day'll seem like a piece of cake."

As they spoke, radio operator Ishi Honda made his way from the rear of the fuselage. A veteran Striker and judo black belt born of a Hawaiian mother and Japanese father, the short, boyish Honda was handling communications during the recovery of Private Johnny Puckett, who was wounded in North Korea.

Honda saluted and handed Squires the receiver of the secure TAC-Sat communications radio he carried in his backpack. "Sir, General Rodgers is calling."

"Thank you," Squires said, swallowing the mouthful of turkey and taking the line. "Colonel Squires here, General."

"Lieutenant Colonel," said Rodgers, "it looks like your team will be going to the target, and not as tourists."

"Understood."

"You'll have the specifics before you land," Rodgers said, "regarding point of departure, transportation, landing, and timing— though we won't be able to tell you much about exactly what it is you're looking for. Everything we know will be in the report, including where the DI6 agent investigating the site was murdered. The Russians also got one of his informants, and another's on the run."

"Take no prisoners," Squires said.

"Right. Now, I've got mixed feelings about this, but you'll also have a new teammate— a British agent with a pair that clang."

"Do I know him?" Squires asked.

"It's a her," Rodgers said, "and no. But she's got the credentials. I'll have Bob Herbert send her file through along with the TAS data. In the meantime, get McCaskey an inventory of the wet gear you have on board. If there's anything else we think you'll need, he'll have it waiting in Helsinki. And Charlie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell everyone good luck and Godspeed."

"Roger," Squires said, then signed off.