Mirror Image

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"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 appear to have down there. If you can cripple it without terminating anyone, do so. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir. I assume Major Aho's in charge of the mission while we're in Finland. Who runs it in Russia?"

Squires's jaw shifted to the side. "I was getting to that. Op-Center's come up with a new one for us. James was going to be a subordinate as long as an officer was present. Since there isn't going to be one— me— she's along as an observer. In other words, she's not obliged to take orders from you."

"Sir?"

"I know it's an odd one, Private. All I can tell you is, do your job. If she has ideas, listen to them. If she doesn't like yours, negotiate. She's a sharp player, so it should be okay. Any other questions?"

George saluted. "No, sir," If he was concerned or excited, it didn't show in his rosy, youthful face.

"Okay." Squires looked around. "The rest of us will be taking a little trip. We'll be transferring to a Russian transport we've had in cold storage, and flying to parts unknown. The rest of our mission will be communicated en route."

"Any idea what it is, sir?" Sondra asked.

Squires's steely eyes were on her. "If I did," said the Lieutenant Colonel, "I'd've told you. The minute I know anything, you'll know it."

Sondra managed to hold his gaze with her own, though her exuberance dissolved like the sugar she dared to use in her coffee. Their conversations earlier, and now this rebuke, had shown her a side of Squires she hadn't seen during her month with Striker: not the driving, blistering, "try-harder, move-your-ass, can't-you-hit-a-damn-bull'seye?" side, but the imperious commander. The change from taskmaster to leader was subtle, but demanding. It was also, she had to admit, impressive.

As Squires dismissed the troops and Sondra sat back down, she shut her eyes and did what they'd taught her in SEAL training, worked on whipping up her enthusiasm again, reminding herself that she wasn't here for Squires but for herself and for her country.

"Private."

Sondra opened her eyes. The Lieutenant Colonel was leaning close so he could be heard over the drone of the engines, his expression less forbidding than it had been moments before.

"Yes, sir?"

"A bit of advice," he said. "Back at the base, you had one of the greatest go-get-'em attitudes I've ever seen. I don't know who you were mad at, or who you were trying to impress up here—" He touched his temple. "You sure impressed me, though. You also have skill and smarts or you wouldn't be here. But what the rest of my team knows, Private DeVonne, is that on a mission, the cardinal virtues are the cardinal virtues: prudence, temperance, fortitude, and justice. You understand?"

"I think so, sir."

"I'll put it another way," Squires said as he sat up and buckled up for the landing. "Keep everything open except your mouth and you'll do just fine."

Sondra slipped on her own shoulder harness and leaned back. She was still a little deflated and somewhat annoyed that the Lieutenant Colonel had chosen this time and this way to share his philosophy, but feeling more confident than ever that here was a man she could follow into battle