Day Of Wrath (52 page)

Security Command Post With Talal close at his heels, Prince Ibrahim al Saud took the steps up from the basement two at a time. He hurried across the open area that filled most of the building’s first floor—ignoring the sleeping figures huddled on cots in the middle of the open space. Since they’d only arrived three days ago, the eight pilots he needed to remotely control his planes hadn’t required more elaborate living quarters.

They were being paid more than enough for their part in the Operation to justify temporary discomfort and a certain lack of privacy.

By rights he should have been asleep himself. But sleep had proved impossibly elusive. The growing excitement as he watched the carefully hidden dream of nearly a lifetime drawing ever closer to reality had kept him awake and pacing through both the planning cell and the aircraft control center.

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.”

That was her cue.

Helen pulled herself up onto the gnarled branch he’d set off from, reclaimed the rucksacks, fastened them together, and then clipped the whole assembly to the taut Spectra line. “Haul away,” she said quietly.

The rope attached to the rucksacks tightened, slowly at first, and then faster as Peter began pulling it in. They started moving upslope—trundling toward the distant rooftop of Ibrahim’s headquarters building.

Helen stood watching, knowing full well it would be her turn to make the arduous ascent next. She flexed the fingers of her own gloves and started working on her breathing.

“Two, this is One. Come ahead.”

Helen gripped the line and started climbing—using the same hand-over-hand technique as Peter.

The first few meters were relatively easy. That was an illusion.

Soon Helen could feel the Spectra line trying to slice through her gloves. Her shoulder, neck, arm, and wrist muscles all quivered under the constant strain needed to maintain her grip on the thin cable. It was like dangling from piano wire.

Ignore the pain, she told herself sternly, remembering the rigors of her training. Ignore it. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

She kept moving.

Helen was almost halfway across when Farrell’s frantic voice shattered her single-minded concentration. “Two, this is Three!

You’ve got an enemy patrol right below you! Two men just came out of the building and joined the rovers. Total is four men armed with
SMGS
and nightvision gear.”

God. If any of those bastards so much as looked up at the night sky, he couldn’t possibly miss seeing her dangling just thirty feet or so above them. Her back tensed as she imagined the agony of a quick burst of 9mm Parabellum submachine rounds slamming into her.

Worse yet, she couldn’t even look down to see the men who might kill her in the next few seconds. Hell, she couldn’t even stop moving. Not on a line like this. If she lost her momentum, she’d never be able to regain it.

Helen heard the sound of boots ringing on pavement. Her hands started to slip.

No, damn it!

With absolute determination, she shoved all her fear and doubt to the back of her mind. Everything in the universe narrowed to a single point—the short length of line always just a little ahead of her steadily moving hands. Slowly, painfully, she kept going-climbing hand over hand along the cable, drawing nearer and nearer to the roof and relative safety.

“Thank God,” she heard Farrell say softly. “They’re heading away—moving toward the main gate.”

Ibrahim is sending men out to check the noise made by our distraction device, Helen realized suddenly. He’s dispersing his troops.

Incredibly, despite the pain, despite her fatigue, and despite her fear, she could feel herself almost smiling.

“You made it, Helen,” Peter whispered, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She looked to the side with a start—aware only then that she’d cleared the edge of the roof. She unlocked her legs, let herself swing away from the line, and willed her weary, aching hands to let go.

They were at their first objective.

Peter already had the rucksacks open with the equipment they would need straight away laid out.

First came their body armor. Both quickly donned the heavy Kevlar vests. They would have been far too bulky and awkward to wear during their climb up to the roof, but now they were headed deep into enemy territory. As she struggled into hers, Helen wished for what felt like the millionth time that the manufacturers could get it through their heads to take some aspects of female anatomy into account.

Next came the two Winchester shotguns. Peter handed her one. “You’ve got triple-ought. Mine’s loaded with sabot.”

Helen nodded. She looked around the roof without being able to pick out much detail. They were above the level of the compound lights and it was much darker here. She flipped the nightvision gear down over her eyes and waited while they adjusted to the flat, green-tinted view.

Farrell reported in from his concealed position outside the compound.

“Delta Two, this is Three. Patrol has left the main gate and entered the west woods.”

“Understood, Three,” she said. “Moving toward entry now.”

She checked the magazine in her Beretta and looked up at Peter. He had his own light intensifiers on. “You find a door?”

“Yeah.” He gestured toward the southern edge of the roof.

“Over there by that big air-conditioning unit.”

Helen slung the Winchester over one shoulder and the rucksack over the other. “Let’s get this done, Peter.”

She followed him through the cluttered array of satellite dishes, radio antennas, and microwave relay towers. They’d called it a forest, and that was an accurate term, she decided—stepping over a massive power cable that lay snaked across the roof like a giant, exposed tree root.

The door down was metal and set into a raised section of the roof at a forty-five-degree angle. There was no exterior handle.

Helen looked it over carefully, noting the thick metal bolt holding the door in place. “You want speed or subtlety?”

Peter smiled. “Just for once, let’s change our MO. I vote for subtlety.”

“Agreed.” She went down on one knee and fished through her rucksack for a small plastic bottle. The cap went into one of her web gear’s pouches. She replaced it with an angled plastic tube that ended in a tapered nozzle. “Stand clear.”

Gingerly, Helen tilted the bottle over the bolt, laying down a thin line of nitric acid across the metal. She pulled back fast as a cloud of bitter, poisonous smoke sizzled off the bubbling metal.

When the smoke dispersed, she could see where the acid had eaten deeply into the bolt. A second application finished the job.

Peter knelt beside her holding a slender metal ruler he’d picked up at a drafting store and a powerful magnet from a hardware store. After swiftly rubbing the magnet over the ruler, he cautiously slid the now-magnetized ruler through the door frame.

Using it as a probe, he felt around the frame for pressure plates or other sensors that might trip an alarm.

He stopped halfway along the bottom sill. “Got one,” he said.

“There’s a raised spot where they’ve installed a pressure pad.”

Helen watched as he put the magnet back on one end of the ruler, and then squeezed out a dollop of Krazy Glue under the door frame. The glue would help hold the ruler in place against the pad—ensuring that the alarm wouldn’t trip when they opened the door.

A screwdriver sufficed to lever the door up and away from the melted bolt—revealing a darkened set of stairs leading down.

Peter started moving, but stopped when Helen stuck her arm out in front of him.

“Not so fast,” she said, showing him the second squeeze bottle she’d packed along in her rucksack. This one was filled with white chalk dust. “Subtlety, remember?”

He grinned sheepishly and hung his head in mock shame.

“Sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Helen squirted a cloud of chalk dust into the doorway.

A laser beam appeared right across the middle of the opening—glowing red through the swirling white fog.

Peter whistled softly under his breath. “Jesus Christ. A pressure plate and a laser sensor! These bastards aren’t screwing around!”

Helen nodded slowly. Now that they knew it was there, it wouldn’t be difficult for them to wriggle under the laser beam—even in body armor.

But who knew how many more alarms or booby traps the bad guys had rigged throughout the building they were about to enter?

She watched as Peter slid under the beam and then followed suit.

The stairs from the roof ended in a closed steel fire door.

Peter unholstered his 9mm SIG-Sauer and stood ready while she tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed down gently, unlatching the door, and pulled out her own pistol. The shotgun slung over her shoulder was a twohanded weapon and too unwieldy for what she had in mind.

The fingers on his left hand flashed out a count. One. Two.

Three. Go.

Crouching low while Peter covered her from above, Helen pulled the door open a crack. Dim light spilled into the darkened stairway. She flipped the eyepieces of her nightvision gear back up and poked her head through the opening—rapidly scanning the area beyond. She was facing north now.