Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  And that was not a position he found comfortable.

  Counting the time he’d spent as a West Point cadet, Thorn had been in the U.S. Army for twenty-two years. He’d commanded troops for most of those years — first an airborne infantry platoon, then a company, then elite Delta Force commandos, and finally a full Delta Force squadron.

  He’d viewed his various staff postings as necessary evils — as the hoops the Army made you jump through before you got to do the fun stuff like leading soldiers in the field.

  But now he was stuck riding a desk inside the O.S.I.A’s Dulles Airport headquarters. So stuck that he’d never get another chance to command an Army combat unit. Officially, he was there to add his counterterrorist expertise to the O.S.I.A staff. Terrorists with nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons were one of Washington’s biggest nightmares. Unofficially, he knew the powers that be viewed his assignment to the inspection agency as a way to keep him quiet until they could edge him out of the Army altogether.

  After all, Thorn thought grimly, you couldn’t tell the President of the United States to go to hell without paying the piper.

  Irritated with himself for dwelling unprofitably on the past, he pushed away his regrets. He’d known what he was doing, and he’d known the price he was likely to pay for disobeying a White House order. What mattered now was the job at hand.

  Even if Nielsen and the others couldn’t see what he was doing aboard this helicopter, Thorn was determined to make himself useful. If an accident had downed the An-32, he could at least help out with the grunt work-searching for wreckage, bodies, and personal effects. If they turned up evidence that sabotage had brought down the Russian plane, he would move hell and high water to help the FBI and the MVD find the bastards who were responsible. He owed John Avery and the others on the O.S.I.A inspection team that much.

  The Mi-26 banked suddenly, spiraling tightly to the right and losing altitude in the turn.

  Thorn looked down. They were orbiting a patch of forest that at first looked no different than any other for hundreds of miles around. Even this far from any industrial city, dead pine trees stood out among the survivors — stark brown, branching skeletons against a dark green backdrop.

  “There it is!” Nielsen said urgently.

  Thorn followed the other man’s nod and saw the An-32 crash site for the first time. When it slammed into the forest canopy, the turboprop had torn a long, jagged scar across the countryside — splintering trees, gouging the earth, and flattening the undergrowth for several hundred yards. Blackened scorch marks showed where aviation fuel spraying from the mangled wreckage had ignited.

  The Mi-26 continued its orbit, slowing further to hover over an area several hundred meters east of the crash site.

  Orange panels laid across the muddy ground in a ragged clearing marked a makeshift landing pad. A Russianmade Mi-8 helicopter sat off to one side of the clearing. Mechanics and other ground crewmen swarmed over the smaller bird, refueling it and attaching a cargo-carrying sling.

  Thorn mentally crossed his fingers. He hoped the Mi-26 pilot had perfect depth perception. With its rotor turning, the giant heavy-lift helicopter was more than a hundred and thirty feet long. From this high up, trying to set it down in the space available looked akin to threading a sewing needle with a garden hose. If they came down too far in one direction, they’d hit the trees. Too far in the other, and they’d slam into the parked Mi8 and half a dozen fuel drums. Neither alternative seemed particularly appealing.

  Almost without thinking, he fingered the thin, almost invisible scar running across his nose and down under his right eye.

  That scar and a couple of small metal pins in his right cheekbone were souvenirs of a helicopter crash he’d survived as a young captain.

  Walking away from one whirlybird crack-up was enough for a lifetime, he decided.

  Turbines howling, the Mi-26 slipped lower, slid right, then back left, and settled in to land with a heavy, jarring thump. Almost immediately, the engine noise changed pitch, sliding down the scale as the pilots throttled back. The helicopter’s massive rotors spun slower and slower and then stopped.

  They were down.

  Thorn breathed out softly, unbuckled his seat belt, snagged his travel kit from under the seat, and stood up — grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. To stay fit at forty, he relied on a rigorous daily exercise regime, and too much sitting left him stiff. Unfortunately, except for a five-minute stop at Arkhangelsk to board this helo, they had been in the air since leaving Andrews Air Force Base the day before. And the aisles aboard Air Force passenger jets were too narrow for running or vigorous calisthenics.

  He controlled his mounting impatience while Nielsen and the others carefully gathered their own gear and assembled at the forward left side door. For now, this was the NTSB’s show. They were entitled to set the pace. Air accident investigations always put a premium on slow, methodical, and absolutely painstaking work. No matter how tough it might be, he would have to rein in his own innate impulse to push for rapid, decisive action.

  At least he couldn’t fault their working clothes. All of the civilians wore plain jeans, long-sleeve shirts, waterproof jackets, and hiking boots. His woodland camouflage-pattern battle dress and combat boots were equally practical. Suits and neckties and dress uniforms had no place this far out in the wilderness.

  A Russian helicopter crewman emerged from the flight deck, pushed his way through the waiting Americans, and unlatched the side door. It fell open, becoming a set of steps down to the ground.

  Thorn followed Nielsen, his team, and their interpreter outside, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to scan the surrounding area.

  Stumps and sheared-off branches poked through the mud in places, showing where engineers had blown down trees to make this crude landing pad. Several large drab canvas tents were clustered at the far end of the clearing. Urged on by shouting NCOS and junior officers, teams of young Russian conscripts in mudsmeared uniforms were busy erecting more tents along the treeline.

  Other soldiers were hard at work stringing floodlights through the nearby woods. Chainsaws whined off in the distance.

  The dull, pulsing roar of diesel-powered electrical generators throbbed in counterpoint.

  Some of the Russian troops had stripped down to sweatstained Tshirts.

  Spring came late this far north, but it was cool — not cold. He guessed the temperature was somewhere in the high fifties. Smells lingered in the still ain-an acrid, sickly-sweet mix of spilled aviation gas and raw sewage from hastily dug latrines.

  Two men — one older and balding, the other younger and fair-haired, stood just beyond the arc of the Mi-26’s now motionless rotor blades.

  A reception committee. His heartbeat quickened when he saw the familiar face of the tall, darkhaired woman waiting with them. Thorn lengthened his stride to catch up with Nielsen and the rest of the NTSB team.

  The older man stepped forward to meet them. He growled something in terse, guttural Russian to their interpreter, folded his arms, and stood waiting — silent and apparently utterly uninterested in any response.

  “This is First Deputy Director Leonid Mamontov of the Federal Aviation Authority,” the interpreter said hurriedly. He hesitated and then went on. “The Deputy Director welcomes you to Russia and looks forward to close cooperation in this important investigation. He has prepared a preliminary briefing in the headquarters tent.”

  While Nielsen made his own introductions, Thorn carefully eyed the short, stocky, unsmiling man in front of them, sure that the interpreter had massively shaded his translation. Mamontov looked more likely to welcome close-quarters combat with his American counterparts than cooperation.

  The Russian official raised a single bushy eyebrow when Nielsen introduced him. Then he simply grunted, shook his head in disgust, and swung away, stomping toward the largest tent across the clearing.

  Nielsen shrugged apologetically to Thorn and hurried after the Russian — foll
owed closely by the interpreter and the rest of his team.

  Terrific, Thorn thought grimly. This mission was off to a bangup start. If others at the accident scene shared this bureaucrat’s evident disdain, they were all in for a very rough ride.

  A polite cough broke his bleak train of thought. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, he quickly turned back to face the man and woman who had accompanied Mamontov to meet the helicopter.

  They were still standing close by, waiting to be noticed.

  “I apologize for Director Mamontov’s behavior, Colonel,” the man said quietly in almost flawless English. Then he grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “But I assure you it is nothing personal. The minister does not like soldiers or policemen of any sort. Whether they are American or Russian is immaterial.”

  Still smiling, the younger Russian held out his hand. “I am Major Alexei Koniev of the Ministry of the Interior, by the way. So I, too, am one of Mamontov’s untouchables.”

  Careful to hide his surprise, Thorn shook hands with the slender, fair-haired man. “Glad to meet you, Major.”

  He wouldn’t have suspected Koniev was a plainclothes policeman — especially not one with such a high rank. He looked too young and his clothes seemed wrong somehow. The Russian’s jacket, shirt, and jeans, though clearly rugged and durable, were also immaculately tailored and expensivelooking.

  Faint warning bells rang in Thorn’s mind. MVD officers were charged with protecting Russia against everything from outright rebellion to organized crime — a sort of National Guard and FBI all rolled up into one. But they were also notoriously poorly paid.

  So how could this Koniev character afford the latest Western outdoor wear?

  He knew one of the possible answers to that question. The need to pad their skinflint salaries led a lot of MVD officers down the road to corruption. Russia’s powerful criminal syndicates were only too willing to distribute generous bribes to bury their hooks deep inside the government and its law enforcement agencies.

  He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Koniev. His first impressions of the MVD officer were favorable. But first impressions could get you killed. And even old friends could betray you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Iran two years before.

  “Permit me to introduce you to my American colleague, Special Agent Helen Gray of your FBI,” Koniev continued.

  Thorn turned to the slim, pretty, darkhaired woman at the Russian major’s side, noting the faint smile she was trying unsuccessfully to conceal. Her eyes seemed even bluer than he remembered.

  “Thank you, Major,” he said gravely. “But Special Agent Gray and I already know each other fairly well.”

  She nodded calmly. “I thought you might try to poke your nose under this tent, Colonel Thorn. But I didn’t see your name on the flight manifest. How exactly did you manage to swing an invitation from the NTSB?”

  “Held my breath. Refused to eat my lunch. Threatened to wire their office coffeepots with C-4. All the usual stuff,” Thorn said flatly.

  He shrugged. “They finally caved in.”

  Helen laughed softly. “I see you’re still as smooth and charming as ever, Peter.”

  Koniev had been swinging his head from one to the other in growing puzzlement. Now he snapped his fingers. “Ah! Now I understand. You are old friends, yes?”

  Without taking his eyes off Helen Gray, Thorn answered quietly, “Yes, Major, that’s right. We’re old friends. Very old friends.”

  An-32 Crash Site, Near the Ileksa River, Northern Russia

  Colonel Peter Thorn wearily pushed back the hood of the rubberized chemical protection suit he’d been given. He wiped the sweat and dirt off his brow. After spending two hours tramping across the crash site with Major Koniev, he needed a breather.

  He and the MVD officer were alone on this trek. True to form, Helen Gray had surveyed the debris field on her own as soon as she’d arrived on the scene. Right now she was busy setting up the joint FBI/MVD investigative team’s communications and coordinating their plans with Mamontov and Nielsen.

  His thoughts strayed to Helen. The female FBI agent was the only woman who had ever really gotten under his skin.

  Thorn shook his head ruefully. Why use the past tense? His heart still skipped a beat whenever he saw her. Or talked to her.

  Or even thought about her.

  Certainly, when he’d argued his way onto this mission, he’d hoped their paths might cross. After all, even this long after the end of the Cold War, the official American community in Moscow was still a small, close-knit world. And they hadn’t seen each other for six long months — not since the FBI had sent her to Moscow as a legal attache.

  A couple of eagerly anticipated visits had been shortcircuited by work emergencies — both on her end. As a legal attache, Helen was the FBI’s eyes and ears inside Russian law enforcement.

  With drug trafficking, smuggling, and contract killing all on the rise, her workload kept piling up.

  Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow — cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.

  Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with her — to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.

  Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.

  Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell — probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.

  The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.

  Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.

  “Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”

  “This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil would want this country for his own.” The younger man mopped his own forehead and then quickly wiped his hand off on the gray, rubber-coated fabric of his protective suit.

  With so much wreckage still strewn through the woods and the swamp, Thorn realized that the suits were a necessary safeguard.

  They were also hot, confining, and horribly uncomfortable.

  Even in the cool weather of the northern Russian spring, wearing them while engaged in heavy labor meant risking dehydration and heat stroke.

  The sound of splashing and weary, repeated commands drew his attention back to the work crews they were observing.

  Barely visible through the trees, a line of Russian soldiers moved slowly through the tangled undergrowth. Their baggy protective suits made them look like gray, wrinkled ghosts in the gathering evening gloom. Hunched over to see more clearly, they poked and probed through every thicket and scumcoated pond — searching for debris from the crash.

  Technical experts from the Federal Aviation Authority followed close behind the search line. They charted the precise position of smaller pieces of wreckage or human remains before crews came in to haul them away. Larger chunks of torn metal were tagged and left in place for later removal by winchequipped helicopters.

  Koniev frowned. “The work proceeds at a glacial pace, I am afraid.”

  He sounded embarrassed. “This plane came down four days ago. Four days ago! And only now does the recovery effort truly begin!”

  T
horn shook his head. “From what I’ve seen so far, Major, your people have worked miracles just getting this much done so fast.”

  He meant that. Seeing what the Russians were up against at first hand revealed the true magnitude of their task. Search planes had finally found the An-32 crash site two days after the aircraft disappeared off air traffic control radar. From then on, the search, rescue, and investigative teams had been in a race against time and miserable conditions. Considering the logistical strain involved in setting up and supplying a sizable base camp by air, their progress really was nothing short of remarkable.

  Thorn spotted movement off to one end of the search line.

  Two Russian soldiers paced into view, moving carefully and scanning the woods all around them. Each carried an AK-74 assault rifle at the ready.

  He nodded toward the sentries. “You expecting trouble, Major?”

  “Perhaps.” The MVD officer hesitated and then went on.

  “There are many predators in these woods, Colonel. Bears. Foxes. Even wolves.”

  True enough, Thorn thought. But not all wolves ran on four legs. He noticed that the armed guards spent at least as much time watching the search team as they did the surrounding forest.

  He suspected the Russians were trying to make sure their poorly paid rescue workers didn’t loot any of the crash victims’ personal effects.

  He and Koniev stepped aside, clearing the narrow path for two panting conscripts carrying a large black plastic bag back toward the camp.

  Part of the bag snagged a low-hanging branch and ripped open, revealing a blackened lump of flesh that was barely identifiable as a human torso. One of the soldiers muttered a tired apology and hastily shifted his grip to close the gash in the body bag.

  Thorn’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen death in almost every form on the battlefield or in the aftermath of terrorist atrocities. But no one could ever be fully prepared for the havoc a highspeed impact could wreak on the human body.

  He heard Koniev gag and then quickly take a deep, shuddering breath.