Day of Wrath

Helen sighed. The past year or so away from Peter had been hard enough. She wasn’t sure she could stand another period of enforced loneliness. It might be better to make a clean break and say goodbye forever rather than go through that again.

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?”