Day Of Wrath (39 page)

No. She couldn’t do that, she realized suddenly. Even the thought of losing him sent a wave of anguish through her heart.

But what alternative was there? Could he leave the Army to stay by her side? Could she leave the
FBI
to follow him? She shook her head.

Neither option seemed acceptable. She wanted a lifetime of joy together. Not a life filled with hidden regrets and lingering doubts.

Helen spun on her heel again, nearly barking her shins on the cheap, government-issue desk that came with the room.

The light knock on the door came as an enormous relief.

It was Mike Stroud. He was alone.

Once in the room, the Special Forces officer dumped a pair of camouflage fatigue uniforms, two pairs of boots, and a couple of camouflage field caps out of the duffel bag he’d brought to hold their civilian clothes.

Peter looked down at them. “We’re on?”

“You’re on,” Stroud confirmed. He tossed a set of B.D.U’s to Helen.

“Hope these fit, Mrs. Carlson. I had to guess at sizes.”

She went into the bathroom to put them on. When she came out, Peter was already dressed. Although neither uniform carried any rank insignia or unit patches, they now looked like just two more of the thousands of American personnel stationed at Ramstein.

“How’d I do ?” Stroud asked.

“Not bad,” Helen admitted. Her fatigues were tight in a couple of places, but otherwise they felt fine. “You have a keen eye, Mike.”

The Green Beret colonel shrugged immodestly. “It’s a gift.”

Peter grinned-almost against his will. Helen felt her heart lift momentarily as the smile crinkled the tiny crow’s-feet around his serious green eyes.

Stroud hustled them out the
BOQ
door and into the waiting can-this time an official vehicle, a dark blue Air Force van. As he drove, he explained. “We’re going straight to the flight line.”

He checked his watch. “I’m deliberately cutting this right to the bone. That way nobody has time to take a long look at you or to ask any inconvenient questions.”

Helen heard the worry in his voice. “There’s more trouble, Mike?”

Stroud nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road. “The word came in from D.C. this afternoon. All U.S. military bases in Europe are being asked to keep an eye out for two wanted fugitives, to wit, one Thorn, Peter, Colonel, U.S. Army; and one Gray, Helen, Special Agent,
FBI
.”

“Shit,” Peter muttered under his breath. “This come down from the Germans ?”

“I wish,” Stroud said quietly. “The order’s signed by the Director of the
FBI
personally.”

Helen felt her insides knot up. Their worst nightmare had come true.

Their own people were under orders to arrest them.

She clenched her fists tight, forcing herself to think. “Then how do we board that plane ?” she asked.

“I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Stroud said. He took one hand off the wheel, reached into his tunic pocket, and handed Peter an envelope. “That contains a letter for the plane commander and another for the base operations officer at Dover—just in case you run into any problems. With a little luck, though, you won’t need to use them. Sam Farrell’s supposed to have somebody standing by to meet the plane.”

“Luck’s not exactly been on our side so far,” Helen commented.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, Mrs. Carlson,” Stroud said. He glanced at Peter. “Remember, Pete, you run into some officious bastard, you ask to see the ops officer. If he’s still on your case after reading the letter, tell him your trip involves
CORNICE
.

That should clear the way. And if anybody wants to know what you’re doing, just tell ‘em you ‘work for the government.”” This time she and Peter both grinned openly. That was the standard reply given by members of the
CIA
and other intelligence agencies when they were asked about their jobs.

They crossed the airfield perimeter, passed through the sentries, and drove out onto the hangar-lined tarmac.

Huge Air Force cargo jets—C-5s and C-17s painted a dark, dull gray—were parked along the flight line. People and vehicles moved among them, minnows next to whales. They passed several of the transport aircraft before Stroud found the right tail number.

“Wait here,” the Special Forces officer instructed as he killed the engine and hopped out of the van. He was back in less than a minute, this time accompanied by a senior Air Force enlisted man. He waved them out.

“Chris and Katy Carlson, this is Master Sergeant Blue. He’s the loadmaster for this aircraft—and your personal attendant for this flight,” Stroud said.

Blue, a short, cheerful-looking man with a round face and a crooked nose, looked them over, then said, “Okay, Colonel, I guess you’re right. These two don’t look much like illegal aliens, after all.” He shook hands, first with Peter and then with Helen.

“Who you folks with?”

Helen smiled. “We work for the government, Master Sergeant.”

“Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Blue said, grinning back. He turned to Stroud and shrugged. “No harm in asking, right?”

The Air Force noncom waved them toward the C-17’s open rear cargo ramp as he headed across the tarmac. “C’mon, folks, let’s shake a leg!

Engine starts in five minutes.”

Helen looked at Stroud. “Colonel, I …” She faltered, unsure of exactly how to express her appreciation.

“You don’t need to thank me,” the Special Forces officer said.

He turned toward Peter. “You take care of yourself. and Mrs. Carlson here, too.”

Peter nodded somberly. “You can count on it, Mike.”

“I will. Now get your ass aboard that plane, Colonel,” Stroud said gruffly. He shook hands with Peter, hugged Helen, and then headed to the van without looking back.

By the time they caught up with the C-17’s loadmaster, the short Air Force noncom was already halfway up the ramp. “This is a cargo-only flight,” he explained. “There’re no spare seats in the plane, but I know a spot where you can both bed down. It’s comfortable and out of the way. Right now, only the pilot and I know you’re riding with us today, and I’d kinda like to keep it that way.”

“Understood, Master Sergeant,” Peter said. “We’ll stay low.”

“Don’t sweat it too much, Mr. Carlson.” Blue grinned again.

“Hell, I’ve got room to hide a Brownie troop on board this flying milk wagon.”

The C-17’s cavernous fuselage held row upon row of cases and crates strapped to cargo pallets. The cargo pallets themselves were strapped to the deck. Moving carefully, the three of them picked their way along an aisle on one side, until the loadmaster paused. He plugged in the headset he was wearing, took one last look aft, and reported, “Ramp is clear.”

With a low whine, the rear door lifted off the tarmac and sealed—shutting off their view of the floodlit airfield and the rapidly brightening sky. Almost immediately, the jet’s four engines spooled up, the sound deepening to a full-throated roar that rattled through the cargo compartment.

Blue showed them to a corner of the deck where some mats had been piled and then left, urging them to get some sleep. “By the time you wake up, we’ll be landing at Dover,” he predicted cheerfully, shouting to make himself heard over the engine noise.

Helen settled herself on one of the mats, oddly grateful for the deafening roar of the C-17”S jet engines.

Although the din might make sleep hard to come by, it would also make it difficult to talk. That was a plus. She still couldn’t believe that the Bureau itself had a warrant out for their arrest.

Dover Air Force Base, Delaware Colonel Peter Thorn woke up fast, immediately aware of a change in the pitch of the C-17’s jet engines and the aircraft’s altitude. They were descending. He looked across the pile of cargo mats they’d used as a makeshift camp bed. Helen was already awake. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and tried a tentative smile.

Master Sergeant Blue appeared from the front of the plane. “Glad you folks got some sack time.

We’re almost there. We should be on the ground in maybe fifteen minutes or so.”

“What’s the drill once we touch down?” Thorn asked.

“Well, you can’t take the crew bus, so you just wait for a clear spot and then get off this crate,” Blue said.

“Don’t wait too long, though: The crews usually start unloading within fifteen to thirty minutes.”

“Will do, Sergeant.” Thorn nodded. He held out his hand again.

“Listen, I really appreciate this. I just hope it won’t get you in any trouble.”

Blue shrugged. “Colonel Stroud’s an okay guy—for a grunt. If he says what you’re doing is important, that’s good enough for me.” Then the Air Force noncom grinned. “Besides, I got my twenty in already.

What’re they gonna do? Retire me so I can loaf around the house or go to work for United Airlines—and pull down twice the money?”

After wishing them good luck, Blue headed forward to strap in for the landing.

Thorn summoned up what he knew about Dover. He’d flown into and out of the base several times. It was a major transshipment point for military cargo going to Europe or being sent back from there. It contained the hangars, workshops, warehouse space, cargo-handling equipment, and personnel housing needed to maintain more than seventy transport aircraft. Over seven thousand people worked on the base full-time, and even in the age of a downsized U.S. military, Dover Air Force Base was huge.

He was counting on that. Once they were off the flight line, security should be much looser. Like all good plans, the essence of his was simplicity. Get away from the plane fast, get off the base faster, and then get back into civilian clothes. And if Sam Farrell’s contact was there to meet them, leaving Dover should be a piece of cake.

The C-17 touched down, bumping heavily on the runway as it slowed and then swung off onto one of the taxiways to the apron. Thorn turned as Helen touched his shoulder.

“Suppose they don’t open the ramp right away?” she asked.

“I can open it if I have to,” he assured her. “Or we slip forward to the cockpit and get out from there.”

Thorn knew the layout of all U.S. military cargo aircraft intimately.

Not only had he ridden them hundreds of times, but, as a Delta Force commander, he’d intensively studied their systems and blueprints—just in case he and his troops had needed to recapture a plane held by terrorists. Of course, he thought wryly, he’d never counted on using that knowledge to smuggle himself back into the United States as a fugitive.

The C-17 shuddered to a complete stop. Its engines spooled down—the sound fading from a dull roar to a high-pitched whine to silence.

Almost immediately, the rear ramp began opening—flooding the cargo compartment with sunlight, fresh air, and a lot of outside noise.

After so many hours spent in the plane’s dimly lit interior, the sunshine was almost blinding.

With his eyes narrowed against the glare, Thorn led Helen further back—away from the open ramp. He could hear diesel engines outside, and voices. If the Dover ground crews were moving faster than scheduled to unload this plane, he and Helen were likely to find themselves in real hot water real fast. They pressed back between two cargo crates.

After five long minutes counted out on his watch, the voices died away.

Helen nodded toward the opening. “We go?”

“We go,” Thorn agreed.

He led the way back toward the ramp, staying close to the fuselage and in the shadows. The vast stretch of concrete apron behind the transport was empty.

Helen frowned. “No sign of Sam Farrell’s contact?”

Thorn shook his head, still scanning the opening. He could see fuel trucks and other vehicles moving across the taxiway, but they were still hundreds of meters off. If he and Helen were going, this was as good a chance as they were going to get. He shouldered the duffel bag Mike Stroud had given them at Ramstein.

Helen touched his sleeve. “Shouldn’t we wait ?”

“Too dicey,” he said. “Maybe Sam couldn’t get through to anybody.

Maybe whoever he did find got cold feet after seeing that “Wanted’ order with our names plastered all over it.”

Thorn led the way down the ramp and out onto the apron, trying to act as though stepping off a cargo-only C-1 ? were the most normal thing in all the world. Act natural, he thought. Most people zeroed in on strangers who seemed shifty or uneasy. But if you strolled right on by as though you had every right to be there, many people, including security guards, mistook that confidence for a legitimate purpose.

He moved around the side of the massive aircraft, squinted into the morning sun, and then nodded toward a long row of hangars already shimmering in the June heat. “There’s a gate just beyond them. It’s not the normal exit for arrivals, but we should be able to go through—”

“Morning, folks. You mind telling me where you’re headed?” a voice asked from behind them.

Damn it. Thorn turned slowly.

A man in a light blue uniform shirt, darker blue pants, and a matching beret had come around the other side of the C-17. His black boots were polished to the nines, mirrored sunglasses reflected the sun, and he wore a holstered pistol at his side. His name tag read “Thomas” and he wore sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

Thorn nodded toward the distant line of hangars. “We’re headed for the base, Sergeant.”

“Well, sir, I’m sure you know that everyone’s supposed to go through arrivals processing,” the Air Force security policeman said flatly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction. “Which is that way.”

He looked them up and down, and Thorn suddenly felt naked without any rank insignia or unit badge on his uniform.

It was second nature for anyone in the military to scan a uniform for the rank of the wearer, and Sergeant Thomas was coming up dry.

“May I see some identification, please?” The noncom’s tone was pleasant enough, but he wasn’t smiling.

Thorn handed over his forged identification card, mentally crossing his fingers. White-faced, Helen did the same.

Sergeant Thomas studied them for a moment, then looked up.