Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  Large windows looked down onto a wide, treelined avenue — now a sea of leaves waving gently beneath a wide, cloudless blue sky. The ornate facades of the houses across the avenue rose above the bright green leaves like wind-sculpted cliffs rising from the ocean. Summer was close at hand.

  Helen Gray stood gazing out the window, silhouetted by the mid-morning sun. The light cast a dazzling halo around her dark hair and brought the perfect profile of her face into sharp relief.

  Thorn watched her in silence for a moment longer, committing the breathtaking image to his memory forever. He was always aware that she was a beautiful woman — but there were still times when the sheer power of her beauty rocked him back on his heels. This was one of them.

  “I’ve got a penny …” he said, at last daring to break the spell she’d cast over him.

  Without looking around, Helen shook her head. “My thoughts aren’t worth the price, Peter.”

  “That’s my call, I think,” Thorn said.

  She moved away from the window, ran her right hand lightly over the polished wood of a baby grand piano, and then turned to face him with a small, sad smile playing across her lips. “All right. I was thinking about the future.”

  Thorn let the damp towel fall around his neck. “Oh? Any future in particular?”

  “My future. Your future.” Her voice dropped low. “Our future.”

  So that was it. Thorn joined her by the piano. “Sounds like a sensible subject.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “So why the long face?”

  Almost against her will, Helen’s smile grew a little more genuine.

  Her eyes regained some of their old sparkle. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Just because we’re being hunted by the German police, tracked by trained killers, and stand to lose our jobs on top of everything else …”

  “Just that?” Thorn shook his head. He forced a lopsided grin.

  “And here you had me worried.”

  “Oh?” she said dryly. “You don’t think my catalogue of woes is all that bad?”

  Thorn shrugged. “Well, the way I see it we’re facing three possibilities. One: We get killed. Now, I’m not planning on that.

  Two: There’s always the second alternative — we go to jail.”

  “And you see problems with that option, too, I suppose,” Helen prompted.

  “Yep. Too embarrassing. And the food’s usually lousy.”

  “So your third alternative is …”

  Thorn shrugged. “We survive. We prove our case. And then we live happily ever after.”

  Helen sighed. “Sounds nice, Peter. It really does. It’s too bad I’m feeling a little too old to believe in real-life fairy tales.” She looked away.

  “Helen …” He turned her toward him and held her. “We’ll get out of this. I promise you that.”

  “Damn it. Cut the pep talk,” she said, pulling away slightly from his encircling arms. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said more seriously. He gently tugged her closer and stared straight into her bright blue eyes. “You’re the woman I love.”

  Helen briefly blushed a faint red, then shook her head. “And I love you, too. But as wonderful as that is, it doesn’t change the fundamental equation.”

  “I think it does.” Thorn took her by the hand, aware suddenly that his heart was pounding faster than if he’d just finished a five-mile run.

  Helen stared back at him. “Peter, this isn’t—” The sound of a key turning in a lock stopped her in mid-sentence. She swung toward the front door. “Oh, damn.” Thorn hurriedly released her.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered. He could feel his ears burning bright red. First Alexei Koniev, then Mcdowell, and now Andrew Griffin.

  Griffin came into the living room seconds later. The ex-S.A.S officer set his briefcase down on the floor and eyed them carefully.

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important?”

  “No, not at all,” Thorn said abruptly.

  “I see,” Griffin said, clearly not believing him. Quiet amusement danced in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry for barging back so soon in the day, but I received a call from General Farrell at my office.”

  “He’s up awfully early,” Thorn commented. Christ, it couldn’t be much past 5:00 A.M. Washington time.

  Griffin nodded. “I gather he’s flying down to North Carolina later today, and he was rather eager to reach me as soon as possible.”’ “With good news, I hope?” Helen asked.

  The Englishman nodded again. “Very good news. He’s found a way to slip you out of Germany without alerting our rather overzealous hosts.”

  The ex-S.A.S officer turned toward Thorn.

  “Do you know a Colonel Stroud? One of your Special Forces chaps?”

  “Mike Stroud?” Thorn said. “Yeah, I know him. He’s with the Tenth Special Forces Group. Stationed at Panzen Kasem in Stuttgart.”

  “Ordinarily, yes,” Griffin answered. “But right now he’s on a rotation through the joint staff at Ramstein.”

  Thorn whistled softly. That was a piece of luck. Ramstein was the largest U.S. Air Force base in Europe. It was also the hub for military passenger flights to and from the States. “And Mike’s agreed to take us in?”

  “He has,” the ex-S.A.S officer confirmed. “Apparently General Farrell has a long reach — and many good friends.”

  “When do we leave?” Helen asked quietly.

  “I’ll drive you there tomorrow morning,” Griffin said. “I gather Colonel Stroud will need some time to arrange the necessary papers.

  Still, I should think you’ll be home in America in short order.”

  Home, Thorn thought.

  He listened to Helen thank their host for the good news and then watched her turn away — moving back to stare out the window again. They were going home. But home to what?

  Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Sam Farrell entered the outer office and nodded to the pleasantfaced, middleaged woman manning the desk. “Morning, Libby.”

  “Good morning to you, General!” Her reaction was a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “We weren’t expecting you down here.”

  Then she grinned mischievously. “Or did I miss something on my calendar.

  Farrell grinned back. Libby Bauer had been his administrative assistant before he retired — and she’d worked for his predecessor as well. That made her something of an institution around J.S.O.C headquarters. “Not a thing, Libby. Is the boss in?”

  “You’re in luck, sir. He’s in the building, so I can track him down for you.” She picked up a phone. “This’ll only take a minute. Why don’t you go ahead and wait inside?”

  “Appreciate it, Libby.” Farrell nodded. He went through the open door behind her.

  Although the room beyond was familiar, the details jarred. It still had the same wood paneling, the same ratty carpet. The big oak desk was also the same, and so were the flags on either side and the J.S.O.C crest on the wall behind it. But there were different mementos on the desk, and the plaques clustered on one wall belonged to his relief, Major General George Mayer.

  Mayer appeared before he’d even had time to take it all in.

  “Sam! This is a pleasant surprise! Jesus, it sure looks like retirement agrees with you.”

  Farrell shook his outstretched hand. “Hell, George, you look too happy yourself! You must not be working hard enough.”

  Both men were of a type: sturdy and in excellent physical condition.

  Neither wore glasses — though Farrell needed them now to read. Mayer was just a smidge taller, and his narrow, angular face contrasted sharply with Farrell’s broader, friendlier features.

  They shared a common background and common experiences. Mayer had served under Farrell at several points in his career, times both looked back on fondly. While he wasn’t as close to Mayer as he was to Peter Thorn, Farrell liked him — the way you like a good so
n-in-law. In fact, he’d strongly recommended Mayer as his own replacement as head of the Joint Special Operations Command — the headquarters controlling all U.S. military counterterrorist units, including the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six.

  Mayer called out to Libby Bauer for coffee and motioned his predecessor toward a chair. In short order, she appeared with two steaming mugs, then disappeared closing the door behind her.

  “So how’s the book going, Sam?” the current J.S.O.C commander asked.

  Rumor said that Farrell was working on a novel, supposedly a thinly veiled autobiography.

  “Pretty good. I sit at my desk and tell lies all day. Not a bad way to earn a living,” Farrell replied.

  “But you didn’t come all the way down here to discuss literature, did you?”

  “No, George. I didn’t.”

  Farrell set his coffee aside This was the moment of truth. He’d promised Peter Thorn he’d try to kick the U.S. government into gear on the wild-assed story the younger man had told him. Now it was time to honor his promise. He just hoped Thorn wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. “There’s a container ship headed for Galveston — maybe already there. I believe someone’s trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into the United States aboard that ship.”

  Mayer grinned. “Look, Sam, you can’t run drills like that anymore, you’re out of the—” He stopped, studying Farrell’s expression more closely. His grin faltered and then vanished. “Jesus, you’re really not kidding, are you?”

  “No,” Farrell said. “And this is no drill, George.”

  He ran quickly through all the information Thorn had given him.

  “Christ.” Mayer stood up and started pacing — as though he could work off the horrible implications of what he’d just been told by walking.

  “You really think this Caraco Savannah has a nuke on board?”

  “Yes,” Farrell said simply. He was committed now.

  Mayer spun on his heel. “Who else knows about this, Sam? Have you taken this to the FBI or anybody else?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Not yet. You’re the first.”

  “Jesus.”

  Farrell understood his successor’s confusion. The military, the FBI, the CIA, the State Department, the Department of Energy, and almost every other arm of the U.S. government had given a lot of long, hard thought to the potential threat posed by a nuclear weapon smuggled onto American soil. Procedures had been established, organizations created, and yet here he was bypassing the whole establishment in the blink of an eye.

  “Just what the hell’s going on here, Sam?” Mayer asked. “What’s your source for this data?”

  “HUMINT,” Farrell said, using the acronym for human intelligence — a fancy term that meant an agent, someone who’d acquired the information the hard way.

  “What kind of HUMINT?”

  “Someone reliable,” Farrell said.

  “Meaning you can’t tell me? Or won’t?” Mayer asked.

  “Unfortunately, maybe a bit of both, George.” From what Thorn had told Farrell, Thorn’s name was probably mud around all of official Washington. So there wasn’t any point in attributing the data directly to the younger man. The armed forces and the political establishment had missed the boat before — all because they’d viewed an intelligence source with suspicion.

  “But you’re convinced that this isn’t just some cock-and-bull story spun by somebody who’s had one too many drinks?” Mayer asked again.

  “I think this is gospel, George,” Farrell said, hoping like hell that his faith in Peter Thorn wasn’t misplaced. “And if I thought I could get action through the normal channels, believe me, I’d be filling out all the proper forms faster than Libby Bauer can make coffee.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mayer grumbled.

  Farrell knew what his successor was thinking. Farrell hadn’t exactly been known as a stickler for Army regulations during his time as head of the J.S.O.C. But then nobody in the special warfare community was especially proficient at genuflecting before all the established bureaucratic icons. And Mayer was no exception.

  “Okay, Sam.” The other man sighed. “If you’re so damned sure about this, I’ll send up a flare and we’ll see what scurries for cover.”

  Farrell nodded silently. That was more than he had any real right to ask. He just hoped it would be enough.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina EMPTY QUIVER ALERT — FLASH PRIORITY From: Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters.

  To: Director, FBI N: Reliable HUMINT indicates possible nuclear weapon contained in cargo aboard container ship CARACO SAVANNAH. Vessel departed Wilhelmshaven, GERMANY, on JUNE 5. Destination — GALVESTON, TEXAS. Weapon believed concealed inside smuggled Russian-make jet engines shipped as auxiliary generators. Urgently suggest immediate investigation.

  JUNE 14

  On Interstate 135, Near Salina, Kansas (D MINUS 7)

  Ninety miles north of Wichita, the driver of the big eighteenwheeler yawned and opened his window a crack. Cold early morning air whipped through the cab, rustling the papers and maps scattered across the dashboard. Feeling slightly more awake, he took his eyes off the road for just a moment and glanced back toward the cot rigged up in the space behind the two front seats.

  The driver spoke up. “We’re almost to the junction.”

  His partner rolled over and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his own eyes. “Good.” He climbed forward into the passenger seat and peered out through the dirty windshield. “More of nothing?” he asked.

  The driver nodded, looking out at the same flat landscape of fields and isolated farmhouses he’d been watching go by ever since the sun came up.

  The two men had been driving almost continuously since leaving Galveston late the previous day — taking four-hour shifts behind the wheel, and stopping only for quick meals at the diners and fast food restaurants liberally sprinkled up and down American highways.

  Whenever they stopped, one man always stayed behind to guard the truck and its precious cargo the five crates loaded at the Caraco warehouse.

  A big green road sign loomed up on the shoulder of the highway — announcing that they were approaching the junction with Interstate 70. I-70 ran east and west across the central portion of the United States. Turning east would take them through St. Louis, Indianapolis, Columbus, and eventually all the way to Baltimore. Going west would set them on a road toward the Colorado Rockies, Denver, and the whole network of highways crisscrossing the Western United States.

  The big rig turned west and accelerated.

  JUNE 15

  Caraco Transport Division, Galveston, Texas

  The loading door lock turned slowly — so slowly that the noise it made was almost impossible to hear just a few feet away. The second the latch cleared the frame, two men slammed the loading door up and whirled aside: Half a dozen black-clad figures instantly poured inside through the opening and fanned out across the warehouse. Each man carried an MP5 submachine gun at shoulder level, ready to fire.

  Shouts of “FBI!” filled the building — echoing and then gradually trailing off as the assault force realized the warehouse was unoccupied.

  And not only unoccupied. The whole building was completely empty — stripped down to the bare, freshly painted walls.

  FBI Special Agent Steve Sanchez heard the “allclear” over his tactical radio and entered the warehouse. He tugged off his gas mask and cradled it under his arm. His nose wrinkled at the overpowering smell of new paint permeating the building. The assault force leader saw him coming and joined him near the entrance to the building’s small front office.

  “Nothing?” Sanchez asked.

  “Nada,” the other agent replied. He nodded toward the vast empty open space around them. “You sure this is the right address, Steve?”

  “Yeah.” Sanchez slowly scuffed at the concrete floor with the toe of his boot, adjusting to the new situation he and his team faced. It was a frustrating end to a very long night. The EMPTY QUIVE
R alert passed to the Houston field office from D.C. had caught him at his son’s soccer game.

  Rounding up the other agents assigned to the field office had taken time. Rousting enough port officials to confirm that the Caraco Savannah had offloaded cargo in Galveston had consumed several more hours. By the time his people had tracked the generators, or jet engines, or whatever they were, to this address on Meridian Street, it was well past midnight. Organizing this raid and securing the necessary warrants had pushed the clock forward to near dawn. To now.

  And for what? Whatever had been stored in this warehouse was long gone.

  Frowning, Sanchez turned to one of his subordinates. “Get the Caraco operations manager in here — right now!”

  Frank Wilson, Caraco’s Galveston port operations manager, was a big man — nearly a head taller than Sanchez. He was fighting both hair loss and a growing potbelly. Right now he was also fighting sleep. FBI agents had come hammering at his door at four in the morning.

  Sanchez swung toward the disheveled Caraco executive.

  “Well, Mr. Wilson? Would you care to explain what was going on in here?”

  Wilson blinked, staring at the empty warehouse around him.

  He turned innocent eyes on the FBI agent. “Explain what, Agent Sanchez?”

  He shrugged. “As I tried telling your people earlier this morning, I’ve never set foot in this building in my life.”

  “Now how is that possible?” Sanchez asked sarcastically. “You are the top dog for your company in Galveston, right?”

  Wilson nodded. “That’s right. But Caraco’s a big corporation, Agent Sanchez. Very big. We’ve got more than half a dozen subsidiaries here in the States alone — and more overseas. I run the port operations for the company. We mostly handle shipments of refinery and pipeline equipment for our energy division.”

  He shrugged and continued. “But this warehouse was leased by Caraco Transport. That’s a separate outfit entirely.”

  “How separate?”

  “Different personnel. Different chain of command. Different procedures. Hell, different pay scales, for all I know!” Wilson said.