Day of Wrath

CHAPTER TWELVE CONNECTIONS

Major General Sam Farrell, U.S. Army, retired, had finished writing for the day when the phone rang. He clicked the television off in mid-CNN interview. Who the hell would be calling him after midnight?

He pushed himself upright out of the recliner and reached for the phone on his desk. The desk, like his study, was almost impossibly neat — with everything in its place and spotlessly clean.

Farrell blamed his compulsive neatness on the thirty-plus years he’d spent in the Army. Louisa, his wife, said he just had too much free time.

He got to the phone on the third ring. “Farrell.”

“General, it’s Peter Thorn.”

Farrell’s irritation changed to pleasure. “Pete! It’s damned good to hear your voice.”

He’d known Thorn for most of the younger man’s military career.

The special warfare community was a small, tightly knit fraternity-one that built lasting friendships.

Since his retirement, he’d heard from Thorn once a month or so a postcard, e-mail, or phone call. And always a card on holidays.

Farrell wouldn’t call it a father-son relationship, but then he’d served with Thorn’s dad, too — long before Pete had been born. Nobody was going to replace big, tough John Thorn in his son’s affections.

Still, he suspected their friendship bridged some of the emptiness Thorn had felt after his dad passed away.

Somehow, though, Farrell doubted this call was a social one.

He knew Thorn too well. “Where are you, Pete?”

“Berlin, sir.”

“Berlin?” Farrell wrinkled his brow. “After that business in Pechenga, I’d have thought you’d be back home by now.”

“You heard about Pechenga?”

“Hell, Pete. Hear about it?” Farrell smiled wryly. “Anybody with a TV or radio heard about it. Louisa and I keep expecting to see you and Helen on Oprah on a show about Then and Women Who Date Under Fire.”” He’d never admit it to Thorn, but he’d also been greedily following any news about the O.S.I.A plane crash and the ensuing events in Russia. It was an interesting and intriguing story, but, more important, he’d known that Thorn was involved.

Farrell turned serious. “I’m real glad you both came through that mess unscratched. It sounded like a bad one.”

“It was, sir,” Thorn said.

This time Farrell caught the faint undercurrent of very real desperation in the younger man’s voice. He frowned. He’d never heard Peter Thorn desperate before. Angry, yes. Determined, always.

And sometimes as stubborn as a mule. But never desperate.

He gripped the phone tighter. “Okay, Pete. What the hell’s going on?”

There was a long pause — long enough to make him wonder whether he’d lost the connection to Berlin.

Finally, Thorn said, “Helen and I need your help, sir. But frankly I’m not sure you should give it to us.”

What? Farrell’s frown grew deeper. “Try me.”

“Okay, sir,” Thorn said. “Here’s the situation we’re in …”

Farrell listened intently as the younger man outlined what he and Helen Gray had done since escaping the carnage aboard that rusting freighter in Pechenga. He found himself shaking his head in growing astonishment at each successive scrape that the two had plunged themselves into.

He’d thought that Thorn’s ability to run himself into trouble doing the right thing had reached its peak during the Delta Force raid on Teheran. By rights, his refusal of a direct presidential order to abort that mission should have resulted in a courtmartial.

Even after Thorn and his troops returned home to a hero’s welcome it had taken every ounce of pull Farrell possessed to keep him on active duty. And since then the general had heard whispers around the Pentagon that his own retirement had been hastened by running interference for the younger man.

Farrell snorted silently, correcting that thought. He knew full well that holding his second star and command of the Joint Special Operations Command was as high as he could ever have gone.

No, he’d never really regretted backing Pete Thorn. But, Jesus, he thought, his former subordinate could sure find ways to make his own life difficult. Violation of movement orders. Unauthorized travel. Leaving the scene of a crime. Nobody at the Pentagon was going to be able to sweep that stuff under the rug this time.

Suddenly, Farrell stood bolt upright — still holding the phone to his ear. “You and Helen just mugged a couple of German policemen!”

“Not intentionally, sir,” Thorn said, sounding moderately contrite.

“Helen’s boss at the FBI must have sicced them onto our trail after she asked him for help getting out of the country. We thought they were more of the same people who’ve been gunning for us ever since Pechenga.”

“Christ on a crutch, Pete!” Farrell rubbed a hand through his graying hair in distraction. “What the hell are you both doing? I don’t care how many kilos of heroin those bastards are smuggling in, you’ve gone way overboard here! For God’s sake, you’re in the U.S. Army, remember — not the DEA!”

“We’re not chasing heroin, sir,” Thorn said firmly. “We’re chasing what we think is one loose Russian nuke. And it’s already on its way to the States.”

Farrell felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Ever since the Soviet Union came crashing down, every Western government’s nightmare scenario had revolved around the uncertain safety and security of the old U.S.S.R’s massive nuclear arsenal. And now Peter Thorn was telling him that the nightmare might be turning into a reality.

He took a deep breath. “Do you and Special Agent Gray have any hard evidence to back that assertion up, Colonel?”

This time Farrell waited until Thorn finished detailing their entire chain of evidence and reasoning. Then he let out a low whistle.

“That’s mighty thin, Pete. Mighty thin. A lot of people, good, smart people, too — would say that’s just a lot of halfassed speculation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Farrell checked a smile. Damn it. Peter Thorn was just as stubborn, and as painfully honest, as ever. So was his conviction the product of sound reasoning? Or just an act of faith? “Have you run this by anybody official yet?”

“Everybody seems to have bought the drug smuggling story hook, line, and sinker,” Thorn said. “Helen bounced it off her boss — and he tried frog-marching us into a German jail cell.”

Farrell shook his head. “It sounds like you’re out of friends, Pete.”

“I hope not, sir.”

Farrell knew that Thorn would never outright beg or plead, but there was a note in his voice that he didn’t hear often. “What do you want me to do, Pete?”

“Two things, sir. The most important is to get somebody official to take a hard look at the Caraco Savannah and her cargo. If we’re right, there’s one hell of a nasty surprise hidden inside one of those jet engines.”

Farrell pondered that. Could he risk his hard-earned reputation as a straight-shooter by asking people in authority to take a flyer on one of the wildest theories he’d ever heard a junior officer espouse? The smart move would be to wish Thorn well, advise him to find a good lawyer, and hang up now.

The trouble was, he instinctively believed what Thorn had told him. It explained a lot of otherwise unconnected events the O.S.I.A inspection team plane crash, the murders of General Serov and Captain Grushtin, and the ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven.

The heroin smuggling ring story fit the same facts, of course, but it did seem too convenient — a little too precisely tailored to satisfy American and Russian bureaucrats who wouldn’t want to believe that the unthinkable had happened on their watch.

And damn it, he wouldn’t forget this was Peter Thorn, he thought almost angrily. Whatever else the younger man had done, he was a topnotch officer — one of the best Farrell had ever commanded.

So act on your belief, he told himself... He sighed. “All right, Pete. I’ll see who I can prod into gear. Now what’s the second thing I can do for you?”

Thorn hesitated for another long moment before answering.

“To chase these bastards down, Helen and I need to get out of Germany and back to the States. Preferably without seeing the inside of a Polizei cell.”

Even though he was half expecting it, the request still surprised Farrell. He whistled softly again. “That’s a tall order for an old soldier, Pete.”

“I know, sir,” Thorn said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll understand if there’s nothing you can do. You’ve already risked a lot on my behalf-more than I can ever repay you for—”

Farrell cut him off.

“You’re a damned fine officer, Pete. And a hell of a good man. You don’t owe me anything.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, Louisa would kill me if I let anything happen to you and Helen. She’s been planning your wedding reception for two years now.”

“She might have to change the venue to the nearest federal prison,” Thorn said soberly.

“Tree.” Farrell shook his head. “Look, Pete, I’ll dig where I can. It’s a long shot, though. And being right about this is probably the only way you’re gonna save your hide this time.”

“Frankly, sir, I’d rather be wrong,” Thorn said. “If Helen and I are right, that nuke could already be on U.S. soil. And if that’s true, we may never find it — not until the damned thing goes off.”

Farrell shook off the horrific image of a fireball incinerating an American city, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Right now let’s worry about getting you two home safe and sound. Where are you exactly?”

“An all-night Turkish coffeehouse in the Prenzlauer Berg district. I’m using a pay phone in the back …”

Farrell jotted down the location and phone number on a scrap of paper.

“Can you stay there for another couple of hours or so?”

“Yeah,” Thorn replied. “From the looks of some of the other customers, Helen and I could probably live here for a while — as long as we kept paying for coffee, that is.”

“Okay, Pete. You hang tight and stay low. I’ve still got a friend or two in Europe who might be able to pull you out of this jam.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorn sounded relieved and grateful. “I really appreciate it.”

“Then do me a favor,” Farrell said.

“Anything.”

Farrell grinned into the phone. “You’re not in uniform now, Pete. And neither am I. So drop the ‘sir’ and call me Sam.

Okay?”

“Yes, sin-” Thorn caught himself. “I mean, okay, Sam.”

“Better,” Farrell said. “Now watch your back, Pete. Meantime, I’ll try to round up the cavalry.”

He waited until Thorn hung up and then replaced the receiver.

Farrell stood thoughtfully by his desk for a moment. The full implications of Peter Thorn’s claim were just beginning to emerge.

Where should he go to kick somebody into a serious investigation?

Not the Russians. That much was certain. Moscow wasn’t going to rock the boat — especially now that any smuggled weapons were off its own soil. And from what Thorn said, the FBI, the O.S.I.A, the CIA, and the State Department were also nonstarters. So who did that leave?

He shook his head. Time enough for that later in the morning.

For now, he had two friends who were in serious trouble. The first step was getting them out of Berlin before the German police rounded them up. Slipping them back to the States would be an even bigger job.

He started flipping through his Rolodex.

Who did he know in Berlin? And who could he trust to shelter a couple of fugitives?

Colonel Peter Thorn cautiously poked his head around the corner of the back booth — checking the front of the dingy coffeehouse for the tenth time. It was full light outside.

“Anything?” Helen Gray asked.

He turned back to face her. “Nope. Still looks clear.”

She nodded, took another sip from the small, steaming cup in front of her, and made a face. “I swear to God, Pete’, this stuff is getting stronger. I think it’s more grounds than coffee now.” Thorn smiled.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

He drained the remnants of his own cup in one gulp and ran his eyes over the other patrons seated nearby. Most of them had the shaggy, unkempt look of an artsy crowd who tended to gravitate toward coffeehouses after a busy night partying at trendy nightclubs and alternative music houses. They seemed to be relying on coffee, cigarettes, and conversation just to stay conscious.

Certainly none of them were paying any attention to the two tired-looking American tourists who’d parked themselves in the far corner booth.

Nobody except the proprietor, that was. But Thorn doubted the swarthy-faced Turk behind the counter went much out of his way to help the Berlin police. There wasn’t much love lost between Germany’s native-born population and the immigrants who’d flocked there seeking work over the past couple of decades.

He fought down the urge to check his watch again. If Sam Farrell said to sit tight, he’d sit tight. Anyway, their odds of staying undetected by the authorities were better in here than out on the street. By now, their pictures could be plastered across the front page of Berlin’s daily newspapers and the screens of the morning’ TV shows.

“Peter … I think we’ve got company.”

Helen’s soft warning brought his head around. A man wearing a perfectly tailored business suit had come through the coffee house’s front door and stood near the entrance — clearly surveying the tables. Thorn had the quick impression of a tough, wiry build, alert blue eyes, and neatly trimmed gray hair.

Without much trouble, the newcomer spotted them and made his way over to their table. He stopped a few feet away, taking evident care to keep his empty hands in plain view.

“Peter Thorn? Helen Gray?” His accent was British — and impeccably upper-class. “My name is Griffin. Andrew Griffin. General Farrell asked me to give you a lift.”

Thorn felt himself relax slightly. The name Griffin rang a bell somewhere. He searched his memory for an instant and then looked up at the Englishman. “Colonel Griffin? Of the S.A.S?”

He remembered seeing the name Griffin while reading classified reports on some of the British 22 Special Air Service Regiment’s covert operations. Delta Force and the S.A.S cooperated closely — often sharing training, intelligence, and tactical tips.

Griffin shook his head. “Ex-S.A.S. I retired a year ago.”

“You ran the FORAY exercise at Cheltenham, didn’t you?” Thorn asked.

“Yes. But the code name was FORTITUDE,” the Englishman said steadily.

His eyes twinkled. “As I’m sure you knew, Colonel.

I hope that you’re now satisfied I am who I say I am.”

Helen smiled. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Griffin? The coffee’s … “ — she tilted her cup to show the dark sediment liberally coating the sides — “available.”

The Englishman smiled back. “No, thank you, Agent Gray.”

He nodded toward the door. “My car is just outside. and I understand you two are rather eager to get out of the limelight.”

“You could say that, sir.” Thorn rose from his seat, caught the owner’s eye, and counted out a wad of deutsche marks onto the table.

“It’s been a very long night.”

Together he and Helen followed Griffin through the front door and out onto the street, where a gray Mercedes sedan with tinted windows sat waiting. The ex-S.A.S officer unlocked the car, ushered Helen into the back seat, offered the front passenger seat to Thorn, and then slid behind the steering wheel himself.

Griffin pulled smoothly out into traffic, heading west. He glanced at Thorn. “I’ve a sizable flat in Charlottenburg, Colonel. Our mutual friend has asked me to put you and Miss Gray up until he can make other arrangements.”

“I’m grateful, sir,” Thorn said. “I know you’re taking a big risk.”

The Englishman shook his head. “It’s no trouble.” He smiled thinly. “I’ll admit that you and Special Agent Gray are rather... infamous at the moment, but I think the risk involved is minimal. Or at least controllable.”

Helen leaned forward to join the conversation. “How do you figure that, Mr. Griffin?”

Griffin lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “I run a security consulting firm here in Berlin, Miss Gray. We specialize in advising British and American corporations on how to cope with terrorist threats — and with the East European and Russian organized crime syndicates. So, you see, I maintain rather good ties to the local German law enforcement authorities. They consider me a very solid businessman and a friend of the police. Given that, I hardly think they’ll spend much time considering the possibility that I would offer sanctuary to two such notorious villains.”

Thorn winced. “It’s that bad, then?”

Griffin nodded. “You put two Berlin police detectives in the hospital, Colonel. Although not permanently, I’m happy to say.

And the authorities here do tend to frown on outsiders waylaying their policemen in dark alleys.” He glanced at Thorn again.

“I assume it was necessary?”

Thorn shook his head grimly. “Not as it turned out.” He frowned. “We were suckered in.”

The ex-S.A.S officer nodded. “So General Farrell indicated.”

He shrugged. “At any rate, as the poet said, these things ‘gang aft a-gley.” Who knows, you may even have done those policemen a bit of a favor. Their broken heads will mend. And perhaps the next time they won’t traipse so blithely into an ambush.”

Helen forced a pained-sounding laugh. “Seems like a tough way to learn a lesson, Mr. Griffin.”

For just an instant, the ex-S.A.S officer let the mask of the civilized businessman fall away — revealing the hardened warrior beneath.

“Bruises are often the only way to teach such lessons, Miss Gray. And action — even hasty action — is always preferable to vacillation and delay. But I suspect you and Colonel Thorn already understand that. Which is why you are still alive — and so many of your enemies are not.”

Thorn sat in silence for the rest of the short trip to Griffin’s flat — mulling that over. The retired British soldier was right about the need for rapid, decisive action. But until Sam Farrell could find a way to get them out of Europe, he and Helen would be forced to play a waiting game.

Lawrence Mcdowell sat in a chair facing FBI Director David Leiter’s desk, watching his superior discreetly as the other man skimmed through his hastily prepared report on last night’s fiasco in Berlin. You’re in a strong position, he told himself nervously, just stick to your story. Thorn and Gray aren’t here to contradict you — so stay cool.

After an agonizingly long minute, Leiter raised his eyes from the report. He scowled. “Damn it. This situation is completely out of control, Mcdowell. What the hell were you thinking about?”

Mcdowell decided to play dumb. “Sir? I’m not sure I understand you completely.”

“You violated my orders, damn it!” the FBI Director growled.

“I told you specifically that I didn’t want Special Agent Gray or Colonel Thorn arrested!”

“You told me not to have our people arrest them,” Mcdowell fudged. He licked his lips. “The German police took matters into their own hands.”

“Cut the crap!” the other man snapped. “You set this whole thing in motion.”

Mcdowell spread his hands. “To be honest, sir, I really don’t see that I had any other choice — not after Agent Gray briefed me on their illegal actions in Wilhelmshaven. The German authorities already had good descriptions of them.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted me to condone possible manslaughter and flight to avoid prosecution.”

Leiter pursed his lips. “That’s how it’s stacking up?”

“The situation is … ambiguous,” Mcdowell suggested artfully.

“Certainly, Thorn and Gray’s overreaction last night suggests either guilt — or complete paranoia. Both the German policemen they attacked are in the hospital suffering concussion. And one of them has a broken jaw.”

The FBI Director frowned. “You should still have cleared this with me, Mcdowell. Damn it, you’ve completely overstepped your authority here.”

“Under the circumstances, sir, I thought it best to handle this matter at a lower echelon,” Mcdowell replied. “Given the current climate in Congress, it seemed unwise to give your critics any more ammunition. This way whatever happens to Special Agent Gray is my responsibility — and not yours.”

That should hit a nerve, he thought.

Fed up with a succession of FBI blunders, overreaching, and unproven allegations of corruption in some of the Bureau’s administrative sections, several congressional committees were conducting in-depth probes of the organization. In fact, the Director had spent most of the previous day testifying under oath — and in front of television cameras — about several of those incidents. Having a senior field agent on the run from German law enforcement agencies would be the icing on the cake for the Bureau’s hungry congressional watchdogs.

For a terrifying second, though, he was afraid he’d pushed the wrong buttons. Leiter’s face reddened dangerously.

Mcdowell decided to play his last card. “If you wish, sir, I’ll be happy to submit my resignation over this whole affair …” He let his voice trail off, leaving the rest of his intentions plain, but unspoken: If you don’t back me up, I’ll go running to those same congressional committees — and I’ll tell them the Director of the FBI was willing to turn a blind eye to potential felonies committed by one of his agents while overseas. Given all the toadying he’d done to ingratiate himself with the ranking members in both political parties over the years, Mcdowell was confident they’d listen to him.

He watched the Director’s anger fade into resignation and breathed an inward sigh of relief. The other man must have made the same calculations and come to the same conclusion.

“All right, Assistant Director Mcdowell,” Leiter said slowly. “We’ll play this your way — for now. Your actions regarding Agent Gray are, reluctantly, approved.” He scrawled a signature across the bottom of the report in front of him.

“Thank you, sir.” Mcdowell paused briefly to savor his win before continuing. “I do have two other suggestions.”

The Director’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“I think it’s time we revoked Agent Gray’s law enforcement powers and issued our own arrest warrants for her and for Colonel Thorn. The odds are the Germans will pick them up sooner rather than later — but it would look better if we were moving off the dime on this end.”

Leiter sat stone-faced for a moment, and then nodded abruptly. “Very well, Assistant Director Mcdowell. Get it done.”

Mcdowell left the Director’s office with a heady sense of relief and triumph. He’d survived Heinrich Wolf’s little ploy — survived and come out on top. And now, with Thorn and Gray almost out of his hair forever, he could concentrate on finding some way to free himself from that blackmailing bastard’s clutches.

Leiter’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Mcdowell.”

He turned. “Yes, sir?”

The Director glared back at him. “From now on you keep me fully informed. I don’t want any more ugly surprises like this. Is that clear?”

Mcdowell smiled blandly. “Of course, sir. You can count on it.”

The two-story concrete-block building leased by Caraco Transport — one of Caraco’s several subsidiaries — was close to Galveston’s waterfront.

It had a three-bay loading dock at the rear, a single steel door in front, and glass-block windows high on three of the walls.

Like all the other buildings in the area, Caraco Transport’s warehouse was surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire. Security lights and cameras covered every approach. None of the neighboring businesses found that at all unusual. Port warehouses were a magnet for thieves.

The extraordinary security measures were kept inside — well out of public view.

The building’s front office had been taken over by a highly trained eight-man security force. A gun rack on one wall held half a dozen H&K G-3 automatic rifles. Other weapons lockers held grenades, Russian-made RPG rocket launchers, and handguns for a dozen men.

The security troops were all Germans — veterans of East Germany’s now-disbanded People’s Army or the Border Command denied further gainful employment after the Wall fell. Their commander, a taciturn ex-commando named Schaaf, was a specialist in urban combat tactics — especially SWAT assault methods and other raiding team techniques.

His expertise was reflected in the facility’s defenses. Although already considered burglarproof, the warehouse doors had been strengthened with welded metal plates and steel bars. They would resist any battering ram attack indefinitely. Demolition charges and directional mines were deployed to cover the major avenues of attack.

His men were equally well protected. Masks were provided for use against tear gas. Helmets with built-in hearing protection offered a defense against the flash-bang grenades favored by Western counterterrorist forces.

Four of the eight were always on duty. One continuously monitored a battery of police scanners, intrusion alarms, and TV surveillance cameras. Another patrolled the building — looking for signs of intrusion, whether physical or electronic. The rest were stationed to watch the work on the warehouses’s vast, open main floor.

All of them ate, slept, and lived in the building. And, according to Schaaf, if they failed to protect its secrets, they’d be buried in it as well.

Werner Kentner took a quick break from his work, flipped the goggles off his face, and glanced up at the catwalk above the main floor. One of Schaaf’s men was in view there — prowling back and forth with an assault rifle cradled casually in his arms.

Kentner mopped his sweating face with a rag and turned back to the job at hand.

One of his men, a young Palestinian from the Gaza Strip, gave the ready signal and scrambled out of the large metal shipping container.

Kentner nodded. “Hoist away.”

A third man, this one a fellow German, spun the controls of the overhead crane poised above the open container. Chains tightened as the slack came off hauling a jet engine into view.

Almost as soon as it was clear, the fourth member of Kentner’s team, an Egyptian by birth, moved in with a cutting torch.

Sparks flew as he attacked the shipping container, slicing it into irregular shapes of random size — all of which would be too small to give any clue to the container’s original identity. As the pieces dropped free, the fifth man, an older Palestinian, checked them, and then tossed them into a man-high bin to one side. A dozen similar bins were already full.

Kentner turned back to watch the crane operator expertly lower the engine into a specially prepared cradle. Once it was in place, he moved forward — followed by the young Palestinian.

The other German shut the crane off and joined them.

Working smoothly, with practiced movements, the three of them began dismantling the engine’s outer shell — using wrenches for the easy parts, and hydraulic cutters and power saws for the rest. Preserving the engine intact was not part of their mission.

It took them roughly half an hour to remove the upper half of the outer shell, revealing what should have been a series of turbine wheels and combustion chambers. Instead a TN-1000 nuclear weapon lay inside — carefully braced by a series of welded steel supports. A thick layer of polyethylene covered the bomb.

The plastic had not only padded the TN-1000 during its long rail and sea voyage, it also absorbed stray radiation emitted by the bomb’s plutonium core.

Kentner stepped back again. “That’s it, comrades,” he murmured. “The last little beauty.”

He patted the TN-1000 affectionately. He’d served in the East German Air Force as an ordnance specialist. He’d seen these Soviet-made monsters before, and he knew how to care for them properly. The nuclear weapon was shaped like a conventional bomb, streamlined with a bluntly pointed nose. With a yield of 150 kilotons, it was roughly fifteen times more powerful than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

After stripping off the polyethylene covering, Kentner carefully inspected the weapon for signs of damage or mishandling.

Twenty years of military service had taught him that some Russians were too lazy even to wipe themselves properly. He saw no reason to assume the boys at Kandalaksha were competent.

Using a tech manual printed in Russian, the ordnance specialist checked the TN-1000’s safety devices, and then tested the internal circuits.

Everything came up green. Reassured, he gave the signal for the crane operator to lift the bomb clear of its concealment and went back to work — this time inspecting the underside.

His two assistants went back to tearing apart the Su-24 engine throwing various chunks into several different scrap bins.

The work went on for hour after hour — a furious maelstrom of cascading sparks and the ear-splitting screech of power saws.

The air was thick with smoke, and they were all half deaf by the time they finished.

Stage Two was quieter, but even more intricate.

Kentner slid the polyethylene sheath back over the TN1000, and then used the crane to swing it over to a prepared case. Inside, a metal base and cradle supported the weapon.

The ordnance man and his team anchored more supports over the bomb — locking it into place. A light aluminum cover, designed to look like a machinery housing, bolted easily onto the frame.

When complete, the entire assembly fitted onto a wooden pallet and then inside a crate.

Finally, Kentner guided the crated 150-kiloton nuclear bomb over to a section of the warehouse where four identical containers waited all in a row.

The five-man work crew exchanged quick grins and then moved rapidly to pack up their tools. They’d barely begun when the first deep klaxon sounded at the rear of Loading Bay One.

Schaaf and three of his men double-teamed into the warehouse — taking up concealed firing positions. When they were ready, the former commando gave Kentner the thumbs-up. “Our first garbage man has arrived,” he quipped.

The ordnance man nodded and moved to unlock the loading bay door.

Tommy Perkins was an independent trucker — a road gypsy who didn’t mind working late hours. Traffic was lighter after dark anyway.

He also didn’t mind hauling cargo for Caraco Transport. The big boys often contracted with independents, specially during a crunch when they needed extra rigs. Besides, these Caraco fellas might be foreigners, but they paid on time and in cash which was mighty convenient when tax time rolled around.

And he had to admit they worked damned hard. They’d loaded his rig with five bins of mixed scrap and processed his paperwork almost before he’d had time to take a leak in the port-ajohn they kept out back.

Perkins was on the road in forty-five minutes headed for a scrap yard outside New Orleans.

Three other trucks arrived right after he left. Two were independent haulers who took the rest of the scrap metal-this time destined for dumping grounds in Missouri and Georgia.

The driver and co-driver of the third eighteenwheeler waited inside while the others were being loaded. Both spoke passable English and carried valid U.S. driver’s licenses. Both were armed.

After the independents left, they backed their truck up to the loading dock and waited while Kentner and his men slid the five crated “compressors” into the back and secured them in place.

It was well past dark by the time the third semi turned out of the warehouse yard and roared onto a highway heading inland.

Schaaf’s security detail settled down into a normal nighttime routine.

Werner Kentner and his men fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next thing Kentner knew his shoulder was being roughly shaken. He heard a muffled voice speaking to him urgently. “Get upraus mit ihr!”

Groggy, his vision blurred, he rolled over and looked up at the men standing over him without comprehension. He managed to mutter “What?” just before cold water was thrown on his face.

Spluttering, Kentner struggled to his feet, angry now and ready to deck the swine who had his vision cleared and he saw Rolf Ulrich Reichardt holding an empty pitcher, a tight, controlled smile on his face.

“Are you awake now, Werner, or do you need another drink?” Reichardt asked with deceptive mildness. “If so, I’m sure Herr Schaaf can bring me a second container.”

Schaaf, the hard-as-nails soldier, stood meekly, one step back and to the side of the ex-Stasi operative.

“What’s going on?” Kentner knew better than to challenge Reichardt, but he was still confused — still trying to get his bearings.

The warehouse windows were dark. He glanced at his watch. My God … he’d only been asleep for an hour or so.

Elsewhere in the makeshift bunk room, men stirred — awakened by the sudden commotion. Reichardt took them all in at a glance and ordered, “Get up, all of you! You have more work to do! Now!”

His voice was equal parts anger and impatience.

Kentner wiped at the water still dripping off his chin. “I don’t understand, Herr Reichardt. We are on schedule. Why the rush?”

The ex-Stasi man spared him a terrible, chilling glance. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Schedules change, Werner.” His eyes grew even harder. “You will not question me. Not now. Or ever again. Do you understand?”

Dazed, Kentner hurriedly nodded.

“Good,” Reichardt said coldly. “Then I suggest you get moving. Now.”