Day of Wrath

CHAPTER SIX MANIFEST DESTINY

Colonel Peter Thorn pivoted slowly through a full circle, carefully checking their immediate surroundings. Broken windows stared back at him from the abandoned buildings visible in every direction. The rust-eaten Lada staff car that had brought them here was parked in front of a large, metal-roofed concrete building enclosed by a sagging chainlink fence. Railroad tracks ran parallel to the fence for a hundred meters before angling off toward the woods around the base perimeter.

Nothing was stirring. Nothing except the hairs on the back of his neck. They were nearly four kilometers from the busier portions of Kandalaksha, and this place was too quiet — too isolated.

He glanced at Koniev and shook his head meaningfully. “I don’t like this, Major. Not one goddamned bit.”

“Neither do I,” Koniev agreed. He jerked a thumb toward the sullenfaced Russian sergeant who had picked them up at the airfield’s main gate. “But this man insists that General Serov himself ordered him to bring us here.”

“Yeah,” Thorn said. “That’s what worries me.”

Nearly two full days had passed since they’d learned that someone had faked Grushtin’s suicide. First, the higher-ups in Russia’s Ministry of Defense had taken their own sweet time — nearly twenty-four hours — to authorize another probe of the officers and men of the 125th Air Division. Hours more had been lost covering the sheer distance between Moscow and Kandalaksha.

Thorn wished again that Russian law allowed foreigners to carry weapons. Whoever had killed Grushtin had been given plenty of warning that they were coming back to this base. And plenty of time to arrange a warm and deadly welcome if that was judged necessary.

He shook his head silently, knowing his concerns might seem ridiculous, maybe even paranoid, to some. But there were too many dead bodies floating around for him to ignore the danger they might be in.

Somebody connected with Kandalaksha was playing a game for very high stakes.

Thorn came to full alert as a big black Zil limousine with tinted windows turned onto the access road and roared toward them. Red command flags fluttered from its hood.

He stepped back — putting the bulk of the Lada between himself and the approaching car. Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed Helen taking the same precaution. If this was an ambush, the rusting staff car wouldn’t offer much protection but he lived by the credo that some cover was always better than none when bullets were flying. As a veteran of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, Helen had the same instincts and the same training.

The Zil pulled up and parked within a few feet. Thorn relaxed only slightly when the tall, trim figure of Colonel General Feodor Serov climbed out of the limousine’s back seat.

He hadn’t liked the Russian base commander much when they’d first met, and he liked him less now.

Although Serov had the usual fighter jock arrogance coming out of his ears, that wasn’t what really bugged him about the Russian. It was something else.

Thorn had used the Ministry of Defense-imposed delay to study the O.S.I.A dossier on Serov.

Nothing he’d read gave him a high opinion of Kandalaksha’s commander.

The Russian had a long track record of backing those he perceived as winners — no matter who they were or what they professed. When Yeltsin was on the way up, Serov supported him. When it seemed the communists might reclaim power in Russia’s first contested presidential election, the general had hurried to proclaim his renewed faith in Marxism. But then he’d turned his coat back to the side of the government just as quickly once the election results came in. Pure and simple, Feodor Mikhailovich Serov struck Thorn as a first-class opportunist— a careerist who always looked out for himself. And that made the Russian the antithesis of everything he thought a soldier should be.

“Major Koniev. Special Agent Gray. And Colonel Thorn.” Serov tried a smile. It flitted nervously across his face and disappeared. “I am grateful that you agreed to meet me here.”

“I was not aware we had a choice, General,” Koniev said flatly. He’d read the same files and evidently come to the same conclusions about Serov’s character.

“Perhaps you could explain why we’ve been brought to this godforsaken place. As you know, we have a number of people to question in connection with Captain Grushtin, his murder, and this secret engine project of yours.”

Thorn watched Serov flush an angry red at the MVD officer’s dismissive tone. He hid a grin. Given a whip hand over the Air Force general by Moscow’s orders, Koniev had evidently decided to push him hard. Atta boy, Alexei, he thought coldly. Keep the arrogant SOB off balance and on the run.

With a visible effort, the base commander regained control over his features. He forced another thin, humorless smile. “I understand your mission, Major. And, as I promised Defense Minister Ulanov, I will cooperate fully with this investigation.” Then he shrugged. “I merely thought starting here would save you precious time and effort.”

“How so?”

Serov motioned toward the weather-stained concrete building beyond the chainlink fence. A nearby gate stood ajar. “It would be quicker to show you, Major.”

“Very well,” Koniev said wryly. He waved the base commander toward the gate. “After you, General.”

Frowning, Serov led them through the gate and then an unlocked metal door into the cavernous building. Enough sunlight filtered in through dirt-encrusted windows to reveal dozens of massive metal cylinders lying in rows across the floor. Some were covered by canvas tarps. Others were left exposed to the drafts wafting in through the ill-fitting doors and windows. Turbine wheels, thrust nozzles, and mazes of piping and wiring around the outside identified the cylinders as jet engines.

The Russian general stopped by one of the enormous engines.

He patted it. “This is a Saturn AL-2! turbojet. Two of them power each of my Su-24 fighter-bombers. And each engine produces nearly twenty-five thousand pounds of thrust.

“But these …” Serov patted the vast cylinder again, less affectionately this time. “These Saturns produce nothing — not an ounce of thrust. They are worn out and inoperable. Useless. All of them.”

“And they’re just sitting here — gathering dust?” Thorn asked, eyeing the rows of silent engines in front of him dubiously. No U.S. Air Force commander he’d ever met would have allowed so many defective power plants to pile up. “Can’t they be repaired?”

The Russian general nodded. “Certainly, they could be repaired, Colonel Thorn.” Then he shrugged. “If my government supplied the trained manpower or the money to run an adequate maintenance operation. Unfortunately Moscow provides me with neither. So here they wait and here they rust — just so much useless scrap metal.”

He turned his gaze on them. “Do you understand the situation here at Kandalaksha? Do you know the difficulties we face every day? The fuel shortages? The budget cuts? The pay shortfalls?”

Serov scowled. “My pilots are lucky if they get four hours’ flying time a month — barely enough to learn how to take off and land safely.

Fewer than half my planes are flight-ready—”

Koniev stepped closer, interrupting him. “Spare me the litany of your woes, General. There are many other commanders with similar problems.”

The MVD officer sharpened his tone. “But your real problems go far beyond slow pay and budget restrictions, General! At the moment, one of your officers is dead — apparently murdered by others involved in a heroin smuggling ring operating out of your duty station. The very same officer we believe sabotaged a plane carrying the American arms inspection team and their Russian counterparts. If you wish to avoid a courtmartial for incompetence or worse, I suggest you start discussing this secret project of yours — now!”

Serov hid a scowl. The arrogant, insubordinate young pup! He fought the temptation to cut this interrogation short by pulling rank on the MVD officer. But Reichardt’s telephoned instructions had been explicit.

“Give Koniev and the Americans some of the truth, Feodor Mikhailovich,” the German had ordered. “Not all of it. Just enough to convince them they’re on the right trail. I will handle the rest.”

The Russian general grimaced. Even the partial truths he was about to tell revealed too much of his own wrongdoing for his taste. But Reichardt had made it clear that he had no choice — none at all. He was caught in a vise between the German on the one hand and these meddling investigators on the other.

“You have thirty seconds,” Koniev warned.

“Very well,” Serov said bitterly, surrendering to foul necessity.

He would obey Reichardt’s instructions. He nodded toward the rows of unrepaired engines. “You are looking at the raw materials for a venture, Major … a private business venture. One that involved several of my ranking officers and myself including Captain Grushtin.”

Koniev cocked his head. “A business venture? Using state property? Perhaps you had better explain yourself more fully, General.”

“Yes. I suppose I must.” Serov sighed. “Very well. You should know that I have never been a rich man — not on the pittance the State pays me. And even that meager amount will shrink further once I retire.”

He spread his hands in a mute appeal. “My wife and I have two daughters in school, Major. Their fees had drained every ruble of my savings, and we were growing increasingly desperate with every passing month. I knew our finances would only get worse once I could no longer rely on government housing and rations. I even considered resigning my commission early to try and earn a proper living in some other way. Perhaps even as a menial laborer for one of the new private companies.”

He looked down at his feet. “Then several months ago I was approached by a man named Peterhof. He was the representative of a major arms export company — a company called Arrus Export, Incorporated.”

Arrus? Colonel Peter Thorn glanced at Helen., “I’ve heard of it,” she whispered. “It’s a big player in the Russian arms market. Moves tanks, artillery, spare parts, and other military gear all over the globe.”

“This man wanted to buy working Su-24 engines for export out of Russia,” Serov continued. He shifted uneasily. “Naturally, I refused.”

“Naturally,” Koniev said cynically.

Serov flushed again. “Call me what you wish, Major, but I am no traitor. I need every engine in working order just to keep some of my aircraft flying!”

“But then you thought of the engines stored here?” Helen prompted.

“Exactly!” Serov nodded vigorously. “Since Moscow will not provide the resources to repair them, they are all destined for the scrap heap sooner or later. So I decided to make some profitable use of them.”

“How?” Koniev demanded. “Surely this arms merchant, Peterhof, did not pay you for useless jet engines?”

“No.” Serov shook his head. “That is where Captain Grushtin and the others came in. Especially Grushtin.”

“You cannibalized some of the engines to provide the parts to repair some of the others,” Thorn realized suddenly.

“Yes,” the Russian general confirmed. “Captain Grushtin led the work crews we used to rebuild working Saturns from the wreckage of others.”

“And just where did these rebuilt engines go, General?” Koniev asked.

“I don’t know,” Serov said slowly. “It was never discussed. And I never asked. It was made clear that such a question would be unwelcome.”

Thorn frowned, running over the most recent defense bulletins he’d read in his mind. Which countries flew the Su24? Iran? Iraq? Libya?

Didn’t China have its own homebuilt copy of the Su-24, the Hong-7? Any of them would welcome the chance to obtain spare engines for their expensive, advanced attack jets.

And none of them were exactly members of the friends of America hit parade.

There was another possibility, he realized. One that was even more disturbing. Since the collapse of the U.S.S.R. both the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency had been engaged in projects to acquire top-grade Soviet weaponry for evaluation and training. Did the U.S. Air Force Red Eagles Squadron based at Nevada’s Dreamland have Su-24s in its inventory now? Jesus.

What if this was some kind of CIA-sponsored covert purchase gone wildly wrong? Langley would go ape if it had been sucked into a drug smuggling operation by accident.

Thorn spoke up with a question of his own. “Exactly how many engines did you sell, General?”

“Twenty,” Serov answered. “We transferred four separate shipments of five engines each.”

“When?”

The Russian general frowned. “I have the exact dates in my office, but the first shipment was made sometime in April. The last left by train late last month — around the twenty-sixth, I believe.”’ Thorn suppressed a whistle. The engine shipments roughly coincided with the wire transfers they’d found in Grushtin’s financial records. He stared hard at Serov. “And how much were you paid for these rebuilt engines?”

The Russian general glanced uneasily at Koniev.

“How much?” the MVD major ground out.

Serov capitulated. “Two hundred thousand American dollars per engine,” he admitted softly.

“And precisely how much of that did you pocket for yourself, General? In your impoverished circumstances, I mean?” Koniev asked in disgust.

“Half,” Serov whispered.

Helen took up the hunt. She turned toward the base commander.

“Then how much did the other officers earn? Captain Grushtin, for example?”

“Grushtin?” Serov’s lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps ten thousand dollars an engine. Something like that. Not more.”

Thorn arched an eyebrow. If the Russian general was telling the truth, Grushtin’s four $250,000 wire transfers were wildly over the amount the murdered maintenance captain could have earned from refurbishing the Su-24 engines. Five times as much, to be exact. So what else had he been paid for?

He looked more closely at the massive Su-24 engines laid out across the bare floor in front of them. You could hide one hell of a lot of heroin in any one of those babies. Was that what Grushtin’s game had been?

“You say the last shipment left by train on May 26?” Koniev said.

Serov nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you know where that train was headed?” the MVD major asked.

“Pechenga,” the Russian general said eagerly. “I remember that Peterhof wanted those engines due in Pechenga no later than the morning of May 28.”

After he’d ordered Serov back to his headquarters to assemble both his records and the other officers involved in his scheme, Koniev turned back to Helen and Thorn. “Well,” he asked wearily, “what do you think? Did that corrupt swine tell us the truth?”

Thorn thought about that for a moment, running Serov’s answers over in his mind. “Yeah. Some of it, anyway. A lot of what he said rang true.”

Helen nodded. “He may be holding something back. But the basic story seems to fit what we already know.”

“Then we talk to the rest of his officers now?” the MVD officer said.

“Yes.” Helen narrowed her eyes. “Before they have any more time to coordinate their stories. And if they confirm what Serov says … “We head for Pechenga,” Thorn said flatly.

“Uh-huh,” Helen agreed. “And we hope the trail hasn’t grown too cold in the meantime.”

Satisfied, Thorn turned to Koniev. “Just one more question, Major. What’s likely to happen to Colonel General Serov? When you report this to Moscow, I mean?”

Koniev’s mouth turned down. “Probably nothing.”

“Nothing?”

The MVD officer shrugged ruefully. “Perhaps a slap on the wrist, if he’s unlucky.” He grimaced. “Compared to the recent activities of other senior officers in my country’s armed forces, I suspect his crimes will seem unimportant to my superiors.”

Thorn nodded. In one case he’d read about, the commander of Russia’s entire Far Eastern Strategic Air Force had been arrested for using his long-range bombers as an air freight service.

“In any event,” Koniev continued sadly, “Serov is no fool. I would be very surprised if a portion of his newfound fortune hasn’t already made its way up the ladder in Moscow.”

Christ, Thorn thought grimly, contemplating the prospect that high-ranking officials could so easily be bribed — and worse, that a ranking police officer like Koniev could so easily imagine such a thing. He had the sudden, uneasy feeling they were walking into quicksand here — and that nobody would be standing by with a rope to pull them out if they started sinking.

Just thirty miles east of the Netherlands and eighty-odd miles southwest of Denmark, Wilhehnshaven was one of several ports along Germany’s low, waterlogged North Sea coast. The city and its harbor lay just inside the mouth of a large, sheltered bay, the Jadebusen.

Once home to warships of the Kaiser’s High Seas Fleet and Hitler’s Kriegsmarine, Wilhelmshaven had been eclipsed as a port in recent years by Bremerhaven, but supertankers still arrived regularly to off load oil destined for the heavy industries of the Ruhr.

The city, often cold and wet with North Sea weather, wasn’t a big tourist draw. That suited Baltic Venturer’s owners perfectly.

Shortly after she arrived from Bergen, harbor workers shifted the five steel cases to another Caraco-owned ship, the Caraco Savannah.

This time, facilitated by a liberal exchange of deutsche marks, the cargo manifests were again magically altered. Instead of titanium scrap metal bound for a German metals recycling company, the crates now contained “gas turbines,” the sort used in factories and oil refineries to produce auxiliary power.

Caraco Savannah was larger than Venturer. She was a thirtyknot container ship, modern in equipment and gleaming in a coat of white-and-red paint.

Her destination was Galveston.