Day of Wrath

“On the nose, Pete,” Farrell said. “All five are pint-size municipal or regional airports — but all of them are reasonably close to larger urban centers: Los Angeles, Charleston, Boise, Oklahoma City, and D.C.”

“My God,” Helen said. She turned toward them. “There were five Su-24 engines in that last shipment from Kandalaksha.”

Thorn saw it at almost the same moment. He felt cold despite the sticky heat rolling in through the car’s open windows. “Then Caraco has five nukes.”

“Five airfields. Five bombs. Five cities,” Farrell concluded grimly.

A bleak expression settled on his face, and, for the first time Thorn could remember, his former commander looked close to his real age.

“But why use aircraft?” Helen asked, clearly desperate to poke holes in their story. “Why not just put a bomb in a truck, drive it into the center of town, and hit the switch? That would be simpler and cheaper.”

Thorn thought he knew why Wolf and his employer, Ibrahim al Saud, would want their nuclear weapons aloft. “They must be going for airbursts,” he guessed — feeling even colder still. “Set a nuke off a few thousand feet up and you maximize its blast and heat. And casualties.”

The silence stretched for more than a minute.

At last Thorn shook his head, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.

Smaller aches exploded into sharp-edged, stabbing pain.

Ignore it, he told himself harshly, you haven’t got time for weakness.

The pain receded to a more manageable level.

He opened the Ciera’s right rear door. “Okay, let’s see if we’re right. I say we take a closer look at those hangars.”

First Farrell and then Helen nodded slowly. Like him, they preferred action to inaction-especially in the face of what might be coming.

The two closest hangars were large and modern. Red signs on the sides indicated they were owned by Raytheon. The next two hangars in line were olden-much older. Constructed of corrugated iron and covered with flaking paint, they hardly looked large enough to hold even a single-engine plane.

The third pair of hangars were as big as those belonging to Raytheon.

But they were so far away across the field that it was hard to see much detail. Neither of the silver-gray structures had a corporate logo boldly emblazoned to identify their owners.

Three sizable twin-engine aircraft, executive passenger planes, were parked on the tarmac in front of the hangars. Several men were visible — either working on the aircraft or lounging in the shade created by their wings. Despite the sweltering afternoon, the big sliding doors on both hangars were shut.

“That’s what we’re looking for,” Farrell said. “Has to be.” Thorn nodded. The other man’s snap assessment made sense.

The two distant hangars were completely surrounded by a fence, with a guard shack by the gate. None of the other facilities at Godfrey had any security around them at all.

But they weren’t going to be able to get any closer — at least not from here. The field was quiet, sleeping in the hazy June sunshine, and they were the only people in sight. There was no easy way to walk across the open space separating them from the hangars without being conspicuous.

Helen came to the same conclusion at the same moment. “No point in spooking them now.” She pointed to a gravelcovered cutoff that ran past the twin hangars. “Let’s see what’s visible from that road.”

The speed limit on the cutoff was forty-five miles per hour, but Farrell cruised by as slowly as he dared. A: driveway led to the gate and guard shack, and a small white sign on the fence next to the gate read “Caraco Washington Region Air Maintenance.

No Trespassing.”

“I bet,” Thorn muttered, after a quick glance at the guard shack and fence. The shack’s windows were dark — tinted heavily enough to hide anyone inside from prying eyes. But coiled razor wire topped the chainlink fence and there were video cameras sited to sweep the entire perimeter.

A turnoff just past the airport led them back to the parking lot. This time they stayed in the car while mulling over what they’d observed.

Helen broke the renewed silence first. “Are you sure those planes out there are big enough to carry a nuclear bomb?”

Thorn nodded, remembering the O.S.I.A briefing he’d received before flying out to take part in the crash investigation. Christ, that seemed like a lifetime ago. “Kandalaksha’s special weapons magazine stored TN1000s, and those things weigh in at about two thousand pounds.”

He looked toward the parked twin-engine turboprops shimmering in the heat. “Any of those aircraft could haul a TN1000 to altitude without even straining.”

“And we know Caraco has the pilots,” Farrell pointed out.

“There’re at least four coming from those sites in other states, plus at least one from this field.”

Thorn thought about that. “Jesus, Sam. You think they could find five competent pilots who’d be willing to commit suicide like that? Anybody can drive a truck bomb, but how many wackos can pilot a plane?”