Day of Wrath

Thorn followed the other man’s nod and saw the An-32 crash site for the first time. When it slammed into the forest canopy, the turboprop had torn a long, jagged scar across the countryside — splintering trees, gouging the earth, and flattening the undergrowth for several hundred yards. Blackened scorch marks showed where aviation fuel spraying from the mangled wreckage had ignited.

The Mi-26 continued its orbit, slowing further to hover over an area several hundred meters east of the crash site.

Orange panels laid across the muddy ground in a ragged clearing marked a makeshift landing pad. A Russianmade Mi-8 helicopter sat off to one side of the clearing. Mechanics and other ground crewmen swarmed over the smaller bird, refueling it and attaching a cargo-carrying sling.

Thorn mentally crossed his fingers. He hoped the Mi-26 pilot had perfect depth perception. With its rotor turning, the giant heavy-lift helicopter was more than a hundred and thirty feet long. From this high up, trying to set it down in the space available looked akin to threading a sewing needle with a garden hose. If they came down too far in one direction, they’d hit the trees. Too far in the other, and they’d slam into the parked Mi8 and half a dozen fuel drums. Neither alternative seemed particularly appealing.

Almost without thinking, he fingered the thin, almost invisible scar running across his nose and down under his right eye.

That scar and a couple of small metal pins in his right cheekbone were souvenirs of a helicopter crash he’d survived as a young captain.

Walking away from one whirlybird crack-up was enough for a lifetime, he decided.

Turbines howling, the Mi-26 slipped lower, slid right, then back left, and settled in to land with a heavy, jarring thump. Almost immediately, the engine noise changed pitch, sliding down the scale as the pilots throttled back. The helicopter’s massive rotors spun slower and slower and then stopped.

They were down.

Thorn breathed out softly, unbuckled his seat belt, snagged his travel kit from under the seat, and stood up — grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. To stay fit at forty, he relied on a rigorous daily exercise regime, and too much sitting left him stiff. Unfortunately, except for a five-minute stop at Arkhangelsk to board this helo, they had been in the air since leaving Andrews Air Force Base the day before. And the aisles aboard Air Force passenger jets were too narrow for running or vigorous calisthenics.

He controlled his mounting impatience while Nielsen and the others carefully gathered their own gear and assembled at the forward left side door. For now, this was the NTSB’s show. They were entitled to set the pace. Air accident investigations always put a premium on slow, methodical, and absolutely painstaking work. No matter how tough it might be, he would have to rein in his own innate impulse to push for rapid, decisive action.

At least he couldn’t fault their working clothes. All of the civilians wore plain jeans, long-sleeve shirts, waterproof jackets, and hiking boots. His woodland camouflage-pattern battle dress and combat boots were equally practical. Suits and neckties and dress uniforms had no place this far out in the wilderness.

A Russian helicopter crewman emerged from the flight deck, pushed his way through the waiting Americans, and unlatched the side door. It fell open, becoming a set of steps down to the ground.

Thorn followed Nielsen, his team, and their interpreter outside, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to scan the surrounding area.

Stumps and sheared-off branches poked through the mud in places, showing where engineers had blown down trees to make this crude landing pad. Several large drab canvas tents were clustered at the far end of the clearing. Urged on by shouting NCOS and junior officers, teams of young Russian conscripts in mudsmeared uniforms were busy erecting more tents along the treeline.

Other soldiers were hard at work stringing floodlights through the nearby woods. Chainsaws whined off in the distance.

The dull, pulsing roar of diesel-powered electrical generators throbbed in counterpoint.

Some of the Russian troops had stripped down to sweatstained Tshirts.

Spring came late this far north, but it was cool — not cold. He guessed the temperature was somewhere in the high fifties. Smells lingered in the still ain-an acrid, sickly-sweet mix of spilled aviation gas and raw sewage from hastily dug latrines.

Two men — one older and balding, the other younger and fair-haired, stood just beyond the arc of the Mi-26’s now motionless rotor blades.

A reception committee. His heartbeat quickened when he saw the familiar face of the tall, darkhaired woman waiting with them. Thorn lengthened his stride to catch up with Nielsen and the rest of the NTSB team.