Day of Wrath

Even the compound’s chainlink fence, perimeter floodlights, and twenty-four-hour guards were not out of the ordinary. Many of the area’s hightech electronics firms had tens of millions of dollars in manufacturing equipment and industrial secrets to protect.

But the fence, lighting, and guards were only the visible signs of a much more complete, almost sentient security system. A network of computer-controlled video cameras and motion sensors had been woven around the border of the compound to detect any unauthorized human or machine intrusion. All incoming phone, fax, and data lines were constantly monitored for signs of electronic eavesdropping, and all the external windows were double-paned and vacuum-sealed to thwart laser bugging.

Two of Caraco’s three buildings contained offices meeting rooms, computer centers, and file storage areas — all the run-of-the-mill trappings of any building owned by a large multinational corporation.

But the third building was different — very different.

Guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns were stationed just inside the main door. Special identification badges were required to gain entrance — something none of Caraco’s American-born employees carried.

Inside, the warehousesized building was divided into several areas by movable partitions. All the activity was in one area, just off the main entrance. Racks of electronic equipment lined one wall, while the others were covered with wiring diagrams and enlarged photos of a twin-turboprop aircraft.

The floor was crowded with benches, each covered with tools and electronic equipment. Half a dozen technicians sat at the benches — peering at oscilloscope screens, or methodically assembling electronic components.

They conversed easily in low tones, their German mixing with country-western music playing from a boom box on a table next to a coffee machine.

The room had a hard, industrial feel, with nothing personal, no prints or photos, no newspaper clippings anywhere in sight.

The only item not related to the workplace was the radio, now belting out a Clint Black tune.

One of the technicians finished wiring a piece of gear, nodded to himself, and called across the room, “Klaus? Unit Number Three is ready.”

A man in his fifties, at least twenty years older than the rest of the technicians, balding with gray, close-cut hair on the sides, walked over from another workbench. “You remembered the interlocks this time, I hope?” he asked, half joking and half serious.

“Yes, Klaus. I checked them twice before calling you,” the young German technician answered respectfully.

They knew and used only first names in the project, and his was Franz, at least as long as this job lasted. He was in his early twenties with a smooth-shaven head, and he knew the older man still couldn’t get used to the small gold loop piercing his left eyebrow.

His training was good, however — the best available from one of Germany’s top technical schools. He knew electronics.

Caraco had recruited him straight out of school, promising only foreign work and high pay. Very high. Franz had hesitated only momentarily before agreeing to what he suspected was some sort of illegal activity.

After all, he had come to the United States on a tourist visa — not on one that permitted him paid employment.

The working conditions inside the Caraco compound were hard, almost Spartan. Security was tight. And his new employers had made it clear that questions, of any kind, were unwelcome — perhaps even dangerous.

None of that mattered much to the young technician. Germany’s “miracle” economy had stagnated over the past decade.

Most of his peers and friends were still unemployed — reduced to living on the public dole or squatting in abandoned buildings.

Well, not him. For this two months’ work, he would make enough to live decently while finding a more permanent position.

If Caraco wanted to bend a few petty American laws as part of the bargain, so be it.

To demonstrate his success, Franz, humming along with the radio, touched a test probe to several connections inside the device.

The older man watched carefully and then nodded, pleased.

“Very good. All right, let’s do a navigation check.”

Franz disconnected the unit from the bench’s power supply and picked it up by two built-in handles. Holding it with respect, he followed Klaus over to a long workbench in the far corner of the room.

Together, they fitted the new device, which had a curved underside, to the top of a similarly curved metal plate Connectors in the device mated with sockets in the plate.

Referring to a checklist tacked up next to the workbench, Franz pressed a square green button on the front panel. Several small green LEDS lit up, and a display on the front came to life.

It was blank for only a moment, then showed the number 1. Another pause and it increased — flickering from 2, to 3, and then on up to 7 in rapid succession. After a few seconds more, an 8 appeared.