Squires had glanced, then, from the Russian's untriumphant expression with eyes that seemed distant, out of focus, to Newmeyer. The Private wasn't even rubbing his head, which showed the beginnings of a nasty bruise. He was crouched with a knee on the Russian's chest and a look of self loathing.

"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