Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  Nothing stirred. Nothing except the wind off the Barents Sea whining through the Star of the White Sea’s cargo cranes and radio antennas.

  And the sound of water lapping around her hull. He frowned. They were trapped in a nightmare killing house scenario: fighting an unknown number of enemies on unfamiliar ground.

  Something scraped against the metal above and ahead of them.

  Thorn froze.

  Another footfall came a second later. He flattened himself against the bulkhead, listening as the cautious, careful footsteps approached a point directly over his position. There were two men moving on the walkway above. Evidently they still expected to find their prey on the second deck. Not smart, he thought.

  Thorn waited until the Russians were past his position and over Helen before moving. He swung around, tracking them by sound. If either of them leaned over the walkway railing, he’d have a good shot.

  But he couldn’t wait for that. Fighting defensively wasn’t going to get them out of this jam. His hunter’s instinct told him to take these men down now — while he could catch them by surprise.

  The only question was, how? Should-he make a deliberate noise to lure them into looking over the edge? He discarded that idea immediately.

  If only one of the Russians fell for it, the other would be alerted, above them, and in a position to pin them down.

  The need for speed pushed at him, too. There were at least two other gunmen hunting them. And what were they doing while he crouched here?

  Helen was watching him, waiting for a signal.

  Thorn spotted a fire hose coiled around a large metal bracket bolted to the bulkhead between them. The bracket looked strong enough to hold his weight. Perfect.

  He pointed at the bracket, then at his foot, and finally toward the men above.

  Helen nodded her understanding.

  Thorn set one foot on the bracket and slowly shifted more of his weight onto it. It held.

  He exhaled slowly, running through a mental countdown.

  Three. Two. One. Now!

  Thorn stood up on the bracket, grabbing for the edge of the seconddeck walkway with his left hand. He steadied the Makarov, aiming for where he guessed the two Russians should be.

  The bracket groaned under his full weight.

  Both men were already turning toward the source of the sound, weapons at the ready. They were only yards away.

  The closest Russian appeared over Thorn’s front sight. He squeezed the trigger. The man fell to the deck, clutching his stomach.

  The second gunman, a big man with thinning hair, fired back before he could shift targets. The round clipped the deck near Thorn’s face — spraying sharp-edged paint chips in a stinging arc across his left cheek.

  Moving fast, Thorn swung his pistol toward the second man and squeezed the trigger again. Sparks flew off the railing instead.

  Damn it, he’d missed! Suddenly, the coiled fire hose shifted beneath him. The Makarov wavered off target. Shit!

  Smiling now, the big Russian leaned out over the railing to get a clearer shot. The smile vanished. Helen’s bullet took him under the jaw and blew off the top of his skull. He staggered, then toppled over the railing and fell to the main deck below.

  Thorn stood poised on the bracket long enough to make sure the first man he’d shot was still down. Satisfied, he dropped to the deck.

  Blood trickled down his cheek. Impatiently he wiped it off.

  Two more of their enemies were down — dead or dying. But that left at least two more to go. And they couldn’t stay lucky forever. He glanced at Helen. “Straight on?”

  She nodded calmly. “Let’s press it.”

  Thorn took the lead again, moving quickly to the portside of the freighter’s superstructure. He peered around the corner.

  There was no one in sight — not even near the gangplank. Sure.

  Somehow he doubted the bad guys would leave the only exit unguarded.

  At least one of them had to be out there somewhere — sprawled in cover, waiting and watching.

  He ducked around the corner and dropped behind a large metal box, an equipment locker of some kind. They were going to have to flush out their enemies the hard way.

  Helen Gray followed Peter around the corner.

  A pistol shot cracked from somewhere ahead and above. The bullet slammed into the deck at her feet and whirred away — tumbling through the air. She went down on one knee, firing rapidly in the direction the shot had come from, trying to keep the shooter’s head down until she could spot him.

  Another round hit the bulkhead above her.

  There! Helen saw the gunman. He was on the second deck catwalk, lying prone behind a stanchion. She frowned. With only part of one hand and his head exposed, the Russian was a difficult target. She fired again, mentally counting off her shots.

  Two more were left in the magazine.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Peter lifting his head above the equipment locker, trying to spot the man who had her pinned down.

  Five meters from the gangplank, Mischa Chabenenko lay flat behind a metal fitting on the rusty steel deck. He saw the American man rise slightly, looking up toward the superstructure towering above — toward Yuri’s firing position.

  Chabenenko felt his heart pounding. Sweat trickled down his forehead and puddled under his arms. This was supposed to have been an easy job — a piece of cake. Instead it had all gone wrong.

  Kleiner, the German bastard who’d masqueraded as Captain Tumarev, was dead. And so were most of his comrades — all of them killed by these two Americans. Except for that gutless worm, Rozinkin, already on his way back to Moscow, Yuri and he were the only ones left.

  All he’d been told was that the two Americans and an MVD major were poking their noses into places they should not be.

  And that the vor, Larionov, wanted them stopped — permanently.

  Chabenenko muttered an oath under his breath. Someone should have checked into just who they were trying to stop.

  What should he do? It would be easy to let the Americans escape, he knew. All he had to do was just stay in hiding here, let them get clear, and then flee down the gangplank himself. He might have a slim chance of making it safely back to Moscow before the militia picked up his trail.

  But then he’d have to answer to the vor.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his nose and dripped onto the deck. Felix Larionov did not tolerate failure. Or cowardice.

  Chabenenko shook his head. He’d rather take a bullet here than die screaming under the Lariat’s knife. Besides, if he could just take these two, he and Yuri would share the pay once meant for eight.

  Driven by fear and greed, he took careful aim, centering his pistol sights on the American man’s head. He pulled the trigger.

  Superheated air tore at Peter Thorn’s face as a slug screamed past, only an inch away — way too close. He dropped back behind the locker.

  Shit! There was a second shooter out there, near the gangplank — one he couldn’t see.

  The gunman above them fired again.

  Helen screamed — a terrible, rising wail that tore at his soul.

  He whirled around, expecting to see her writhing in agony on the deck.

  So did the Russian who’d been shooting at her. He poked his head further out from behind the stanchion — trying to see whether the woman he’d hit needed a second bullet to finish her off.

  Instead, Helen still knelt there, perfectly poised and aiming for the upper deck. She fired twice, coolly paused, and then snapped a fresh magazine into her weapon.

  She glanced at Thorn and nodded contemptuously toward the upper deck.

  He followed her nod and saw the gunman’s shattered head lying cocked at an odd angle over the edge of the catwalk.

  Thorn swallowed hard, forcing his breathing back to a normal pace.

  She’d scared the hell out of him with that stunt. Another bullet tore across the top of the metal locker he was using for cover,
reminding him that at least one of their enemies was still alive and fighting.

  Helen rolled in beside him. “Spotted the guy. He’s close to the gangplank — about four or five meters back, behind some kind of rusted-out fitting.”

  Thorn ran through the memory of what he’d seen before the latest round of shooting started and nodded. He knew the spot she was talking about. Remembering the round that had nearly taken his head off, he frowned. They didn’t dare move forward.

  This Russian was too good a shot to risk rushing him.

  But they couldn’t wait here indefinitely. If there were any more bad guys left alive aboard the Star of the White Sea, huddling behind this metal locker was a good way to wind up getting shot in the back.

  The gunman fired again.

  Why? Thorn wondered. Neither he nor Helen had offered him a target.

  So why was he still shooting? Was he trying to keep them pinned here long enough for his friends to close the net?

  Another steeljacketed round punched into the equipment locker.

  Thorn suddenly realized the Russian was firing at fairly steady intervals — once every several seconds, almost in a pattern. Acting instantly, he rose above the locker with his pistol braced in both hands, aiming just above the metal fitting — right where the shooter would be … now!

  He had the fleeting impression of a pale white face, an open mouth, a dark gun.

  Thorn fired three times in rapid succession, holding the Makarov down and on target as it bucked upward.

  Hit at least twice, the gunman slumped over the fitting. His pistol clattered to the deck. Blood pooled beneath the dead man, blending with the rust, grease, and dirt coating the steel surface.

  Silence fell over the corpse-strewn freighter. Nothing moved.

  Nothing at all.

  Thorn breathed out and looked at Helen. She smiled wanly back. Her hands were shaking now as reaction set in and the adrenaline wore off.

  He looked down. So were his.

  He set his jaw and rose to his feet. It was time to get off this damned ship. Time to start finding out why they’d been ambushed.

  To find out why Alexei Koniev had been murdered.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach the gangplank and dash across.

  Nobody fired at them. They stepped onto land just as they heard the sirens screaming — drawing ever closer to the docks. Pechenga’s militia force had apparently woken up.

  Peter Thorn and Helen Gray waited until they saw the patrol cars skid around the corner of the harbormaster’s office, then very carefully laid their weapons down on the ground. With their hands out and empty, they went to meet the approaching militia.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TERMINATIONS

  JUNE 6

  Commanding Officer’s Quarters, Kandalaksha Phut.

  The muffled pop brought Colonel General Feodor Mikhailovich Serov fully awake. What the devil was that?

  He opened his eyes and started to reach for the bedside lamp.

  He froze — suddenly aware of the cold metal cylinder pressed hard against his mouth.

  “Very good, General,” a dry voice commented. “You show sense.”

  A gloved hand reached past him and flicked the lamp on — flooding the bedroom with light.

  Serov blinked rapidly, staring down the enormous muzzle of a silenced 9mm Makarov pistol. Sergeant Kurgin — his orderly and Reichardt’s watchdog — looked back at him, stony indifference written across his narrow face. He was dimly aware of another man, blondhaired and broken-nosed, standing close by the side of the bed.

  “Do not move, General,” Kurgin ordered calmly. “This won’t take long.”

  Dazed by the sudden reversal of his fortunes, Serov obeyed, lying rigid while Kurgin’s companion quickly and efficiently strapped his wrists and ankles together with tape. Leaving him trussed like a hog readied for slaughter, the broken-nosed man stepped back.

  Kurgin pulled the pistol away and stood waiting, still staring down at him.

  Something wet and warm trickled off the headboard and dripped onto Serov’s forehead — something that smelled oddly like heated copper.

  He flinched, remembering the muffled sound that had first wrenched him into this waking nightmare. Elena!

  He turned his head sideways and moaned aloud.

  His wife lay dead in bed beside him. Her eyes seemed closed in peaceful sleep, but the neat, puckered hole in her forehead told him they would never open again. Powder burns etched her fair skin black around the wound. The exit wound was messier. Bright red blood and gray brain matter had sprayed across her pillow and onto the headboard.

  He retched suddenly, desperately turning his own head away as his stomach heaved.

  When the shivering fit passed, Serov looked up at Kurgin. His mouth felt as though it were filled with sand and ashes. “Why?” he croaked.

  “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand. Reichardt promised me I would be safe once Koniev and the two Americans were dead.”

  Kurgin shrugged his shoulders. “It seems someone else made a small mistake this time. The Americans are still alive.” His lips twitched into the ghastly parody of a smile. “And so Herr Reichardt must sacrifice another pawn to fend them off for a while longer.”

  Serov swallowed hard, staring death and utter disaster squarely in the face. Kurgin’s bad news spelled out his own death sentence.

  Reichardt had used him to bait the hook for Koniev and the Americans.

  But by pointing them toward the trap waiting for them in Pechenga, he had left himself vulnerable to further interrogation if they lived. So now that Reichardt’s ambush had failed, he was of no further use and of considerable potential danger to the German and his mysterious employer.

  “And my wife? Why kill her? She knew nothing of all this,” he said bitterly.

  His onetime orderly shook his head and smiled in mock amusement. “Now how could we be sure of that, General?” He stroked the silenced pistol in his hand gently. “In any event, you should be grateful that Herr Reichardt ordered me to kill her quickly. He is not ordinarily so gracious and forgiving.”

  Serov winced. He tried to moisten his dry lips and failed. “And what of my daughters?”

  “Them?” Kurgin shrugged again. “I have no orders concerning them.”

  For the first time since opening his eyes, Serov felt a small measure of hope — though none for himself. Perhaps Reichardt would leave his children unmolested at their schools in France and Germany. They might be left penniless and alone, but at least they would be alive.

  He nerved himself one last time to stare up at Kurgin, fighting hard not to show the panic bubbling up inside. As a younger man, he had flown high-performance Migs to the edge of the envelope and beyond — cheating Death to win praise and promotion.

  Now Death had come in a different guise. He had lost his final gamble.

  Well, so be it, he thought wearily. At least a bullet in the brain would be quick. Perhaps it would even be painless.

  Serov hawked, turned his head, and spat toward the floor in one last, futile gesture of defiance. “All right then, damn you!

  Get on with it!” He nodded toward the silenced pistol in Kurgin’s hand. “You have your weapon. Use it.”

  “This?” Reichardt’s agent glanced down at the pistol in surprise.

  He laughed softly. “No, no, General! This is not for you.

  After all, we do have appearances to maintain.”

  Before Serov could move, Kurgin’s companion gripped his right arm in a vise grip and tore the pajama sleeve up above his elbow.

  Gasping now, Serov rolled his eyes toward Kurgin.

  The sergeant had set his pistol aside. Moving with deadly precision, he reached into his tunic and took out a hypodermic needle and a length of surgical tubing. He held the needle up to the light, tapped it gently, and then smiled cruelly. “No bullet for you, Colonel General.

  Nothing so easy, no. I’m afraid you will be taking a long and
painful trip to hell.”

  Serov started screaming even before the needle touched his skin.

  King Khalid International Airport, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Grateful for the air conditioning that kept the blast furnace heat of the Saudi summer at bay, Anson P. Carleton, the U.S. Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs, strode forward to a podium inside the King Khalid Airport’s official reception area. His aides, U.S. Secret Service agents, and Saudi security personnel trailed after him and then filed off to either side.

  Outside, the honor guard and band that had greeted him on his arrival began dispersing. Heat waves distorted their figures as they marched away under a merciless sun that baked the tarmac like pottery in a kiln.

  Carleton noted the brandnew mural decorating the wall behind the podium — a stylistic rendition of a map of Saudi Arabia, its flag, and a verse from the Koran. It hadn’t been there on his last visit to Riyadh. The Saudis must be sprucing up their airport — yet again. He shrugged mentally. His hosts always seemed to have the money for bold and lavish interior decorating. Now it was his job to persuade them to move boldly in other, more important areas — to continue the process of making a full peace with Israel.

  He looked down at the notes of his prepared arrival remarks.

  His words would be carefully chosen and indirect, as was usual when dealing with sensitive political issues in Arab countries.

  But they would leave his real audience, the ruling Saudi elite, in no doubt that the United States was committed to yet another serious and sustained effort to reconcile Jerusalem and its Arab neighbors.

  Carleton cleared his throat, looked straight up into the unwinking lenses of the dozen or so television cameras assembled to record his statement, and opened his mouth — The mural behind him erupted in flame.

  The fiery blast enveloped Carleton a millisecond before the fragments thrown by the explosion tore him to pieces and then sleeted outward-killing or maiming dozens of the aides, security guards, and reporters clumped near the podium.

  Two rooms away, Yassir Iyad, an airport maintenance worker, felt and heard the short, sharp concussive thump that told him the explosive charge planted inside the new mural by the Radical Islamic Front had detonated. He smiled broadly and then wiped the smile off his face.