Day of Wrath

“What about O’Bannon?” Thorn asked softly.

Dodson hesitated, then replied: “There’s no word, yet, I’m afraid.

We’re still trying to make radio contact.”

Thorn stiffened feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “I see.”

“Look, son, you did everything you could. Nobody could have done more,” Dodson said.

Thorn shook his head. “I wish I could believe that, General.”

He lowered his head, staring blankly.

Helen knelt beside him. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Peter …”

Thorn’s head snapped bolt upright. There were cheers coming through his headphones!

“Thorn, this is Dodson!” the general said suddenly. “Par River just called in. They’ve established contact with O’Bannon by signal lamp.

Her radio antennas were smashed, but she’s still afloat! Par River says she’s battered, she’s lost most of her topside gear, and she’s scorched as hell, but she’s steaming in under her own power!”

“What about casualties?” Thorn heard himself ask, still not daring to believe the destroyer had survived the blast.

“They have wounded-mostly impact trauma cases-but no fatalities,” Dodson answered. “Whoever was on watch put her stern to the blast point and ran like hell! She made it just far enough away to ride out the shock wave!”

Slowly, with shaking hands, Thorn pulled off the headset and turned toward Helen.

She looked up at him with shining eyes full of joy and wonder.

“You did it, Peter. You did it.”

“No,” he said, pulling her closer. “We did it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO END GAME

_{For more than five years.}

FBI Special Agent Paul Sandquist stopped in front of her, took in the scene silently for a minute, and then shook his head in amazement.

“Jesus Christ, Helen. How the hell do you manage to stick your neck out so far every single time? You know I have orders from the Director himself to arrest you and Colonel Thorn on sight?”

Helen nodded. “Yep.” She calmly let go of Peter, stood up, and held out her wrists. “Okay, Paul. You want to handcuff us and take us to your fearless leader?”

Sandquist smiled wryly. “Somehow I don’t think we’re going to need the handcuffs, Special Agent Gray.”

Helen felt Peter Thorn’s warm hand slip into hers and smiled back.

“No, somehow I didn’t think we would either. But let’s get going.

Colonel Thorn and I have a few things to discuss with Director Leiter.”

JUNE 21

Strike Control Center, Chantilly, Virginia Godfrey Field, Near Leesburg, Virginia Fifteen minutes after the fireball faded out of the night sky, Helen Gray still knelt at Peter’s side — holding him tight as his hand lovingly stroked her hair.

She turned her head as a tall, dapper man came into the control center, pushing through the several Fairfax County sheriff’s officers who were now studying the tightly packed array of computer hardware in stunned amazement. Ibrahim al Saud was gone — hauled away under arrest with the other wounded terrorists shortly after the police entered the bulletriddled headquarters building. So far, her FBI credentials had kept them from being arrested themselves.

Despite the early hour, the newcomer’s gray suit was perfectly pressed and his black loafers perfectly shined. She’d known him FBI Hostage Rescue Team section leader Felipe Degarza stepped outside the Caraco hangar and immediately took the full brunt of the late morning sun.

Sweat trickled out from under his assault helmet. Black coveralls, black boots, and heavy Kevlar body armor didn’t make the most comfortable outfit under the circumstances, he decided. But it was a hell of a lot safer when bullets went flying around. Better hot and sweaty than cold and dead.

Or so his old boss, Special Agent Helen Gray, had always said. For Degarza that made it gospel.

“Director Leiter is on the line, Felipe,” Special Agent Tim Brett said.

Degarza handed the H&K MP5 submachine gun he’d been cradling to his second-in-command and took the secure cell phone Brett offered him.

“This is Degarza. The airfield is secure.”

“Thank God,” Leiter said. “Any trouble?”

The HRT section leader shook his head, — watching a line of dazed prisoners streaming out of the hangar under the watchful eyes of his own troopers and the local SWAT team. “None, sir.

We caught them with their pants down. Apparently they weren’t slated to get their first plane off until well after sunrise. Their leaden-some German guy — was still trying to get through to Chantilly when we blew the door open.”

“And the bombs?” Leiter asked. “The bombs are still there?”

“Oh, yeah,” Degarza replied. He turned back toward the hangar.

“Besides one Caraco corporate jet, I’ve got four twin engine aircraft here — and all four of them are carrying devices that look a hell of a lot like the pictures of those TN1000s you faxed us.”

“Don’t touch those weapons,” Leiter ordered. “Leave that to the experts. There’s an Army EOD team on its way to your location now.

The commander’s name is Lieutenant-Colonel Greg Lyle. He’s their best man. You let him check them over first, clear?”