Day of Wrath

He went through the door into a room just off the building’s main entrance. Banks of small monitors covered one whole wall — showing the grainy, black-and-white images continuously transmitted by the video surveillance cameras posted around the perimeter fence. Several computers in another part of the room displayed the data gathered by the motion sensors scattered across the compound.

Ibrahim ran his eyes quickly over the camera views — seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He spun toward Hans Jurgen Schaaf, the former East German commando Reichardt had designated as second-in-command of the headquarters security detail.

“Well? You summoned me. What for?”

“Two minutes ago, the outer patrol reported a series of sharp reports — possibly gunshots — coming from the woods to the west.”

“Gunshots?” Ibrahim repeated. His lipstightened.

Schaaf shrugged. “Possibly gunshots.” He nodded toward the calendar.

“But it might also be schoolboys playing pranks with firecrackers.”

Ibrahim nodded. That was true. They were close to the American national holiday, the Fourth of July. And the newspapers were already full of stories about fires set by carelessly handled fireworks. For an instant, he wished again that he could have found some way to set the attack for July 4th — but too many of the military units, intelligence specialists, and political leaders he’d selected as his prime targets would have been gone for the holiday when his strike aircraft arrived.

“What do your sensors show?” he asked.

“Nothing. No movement,” Schaaf answered.

Ibrahim pondered that. “Very well. But let’s not take any chances.

Activate the fence.”

The German nodded and began entering the keyboard commands that would send lethal amounts of electricity sleeting through the perimeter fence.

Ibrahim turned to Talal. “Dispatch a four-man team to sweep the woods on that side. Equip them with nightvision gear and automatic weapons.

If they encounter unarmed civilians or uniformed police, they are to avoid contact and return here. If they come across either Colonel Thorn or that woman of his — they will shoot to kill. Clear?”

The former Saudi paratrooper nodded. “Yes, Highness.”

For another instant, Ibrahim pondered the wisdom of the orders he’d just issued. Taking into account the four security guards he’d brought from the Middleburg estate and counting themselves, Talal and Schaaf had fourteen men at their disposal but only half were normally awake at any one time. So he was deploying over half his ready-alert force to chase down what might be only a few drunken American teenagers out on a spree after an all-night party. Was that a foolish waste of his manpower?

Then he shook his head. It was better to act than to sit passively — especially with so little time remaining.

Outside the Caraco Complex Thorn finished securing the line around the oak tree’s massive trunk and then tugged on it again with all his might. It didn’t give an inch. The line stretched away into the darkness — a taut, almost invisible strand heading straight for the top of the headquarters building.

He nodded to himself. Almost as soon as the sound of the firecrackers Farrell had triggered died away, he’d slowly reeled in the grappling hook until it made firm contact with one of the antenna support structures.

Moving quickly but still carefully, he worked his way back down and dropped lightly onto the ground beside Helen.

“Success?” she asked quietly.

“We’re in business,” Thorn replied — taking back the Winchester shotgun and rucksack she offered him. He laid the Mossberg down in the tall grass and then levered himself back into the oak tree. Thirty seconds later, he was back at his perch.

Helen climbed up after him, stopping on a branch just a few feet below.

He shrugged off the rucksack, secured the unloaded shotgun to it, and then ran a length of the strong, lightweight nylon rope coiled at his waist through an eyelet on the rucksack. At a hand signal, Helen passed her pack up to him and he rapidly rigged it the same way. Then he tied both rucksacks to a nearby branch.

She would finish prepping them once he was on his way.

Which had to be soon.

Thorn made sure his gloves were snug, checked his web gear to make sure all the pockets and pouches were sealed, and then looked over his shoulder at the line leading off into the darkness.

Now all he had to do was shinny uphill along seventy plus meters of ultra-thin Spectra line — all without making too much noise or dropping anything.

Sure.

He took a deep breath and nodded to Helen.

Her terse report to Farrell sounded through his headset. “Delta Three, this is Two. We’re going in.”

Thorn took hold of the line with both hands, gripped it tightly, swung himself up, locked his legs around it, and set off — moving hand over hand up the long slope.

Helen Gray watched him go. The nylon rope he’d tied to their rucksacks dangled behind him as it payed out from the coil at his waist.

At last, Peter’s voice came through her own headset. “Delta Two, this is One. In position.”