Day of Wrath

“We’ll play this your way — for now. Your actions regarding Agent Gray are, reluctantly, approved.” He scrawled a signature across the bottom of the report in front of him.

“Thank you, sir.” Mcdowell paused briefly to savor his win before continuing. “I do have two other suggestions.”

The Director’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“I think it’s time we revoked Agent Gray’s law enforcement powers and issued our own arrest warrants for her and for Colonel Thorn. The odds are the Germans will pick them up sooner rather than later-but it would look better if we were moving off the dime on this end.”

Leiter sat stone-faced for a moment, and then nodded abruptly. “Very well, Assistant Director Mcdowell. Get it done.”

Mcdowell left the Director’s office with a heady sense of relief and triumph. He’d survived Heinrich Wolf’s little ploy — survived and come out on top. And now, with Thorn and Gray almost out of his hair forever, he could concentrate on finding some way to free himself from that blackmailing bastard’s clutches.

Leiter’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Mcdowell.”

He turned. “Yes, sir?”

The Director glared back at him. “From now on you keep me fully informed. I don’t want any more ugly surprises like this. Is that clear?”

Mcdowell smiled blandly. “Of course, sir. You can count on it.”

Caraco Transport Division, Galveston, Texas (D MINUS 8)

The two-story concrete-block building leased by Caraco Transport — one of Caraco’s several subsidiaries — was close to Galveston’s waterfront.

It had a three-bay loading dock at the rear, a single steel door in front, and glass-block windows high on three of the walls.

Like all the other buildings in the area, Caraco Transport’s warehouse was surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire. Security lights and cameras covered every approach. None of the neighboring businesses found that at all unusual. Port ware.

houses were a magnet for thieves.

The extraordinary security measures were kept inside — well out of public view.

The building’s front office had been taken over by a highly trained eight-man security force. A gun rack on one wall held half a dozen H&K G-3 automatic rifles. Other weapons lockers held grenades, Russianmade RPG rocket launchers, and handguns for a dozen men.

The security troops were all Germans — veterans of East Germany’s now-disbanded People’s Army or the Border Command denied further gainful employment after the Wall fell. Their commander, a taciturn ex-commando named Schaaf, was a specialist in urban combat tactics — especially SWAT assault methods and other raiding team techniques.

His expertise was reflected in the facility’s defenses. Although already considered burglarproof, the warehouse doors had been strengthened with welded metal plates and steel bars. They would resist any battering ram attack indefinitely. Demolition charges and directional mines were deployed to cover the major avenues of attack.

His men were equally well protected. Masks were provided for use against tear gas. Helmets with built-in hearing protection offered a defense against the flash-bang grenades favored by Western counterterrorist forces.

Four of the eight were always on duty. One continuously monitored a battery of police scanners, intrusion alarms, and TV surveillance cameras. Another patrolled the building — looking for signs of intrusion, whether physical or electronic. The rest were stationed to watch the work on the warehouses’s vast, open main floor.

All of them ate, slept, and lived in the building. And, according to Schaaf, if they failed to protect its secrets, they’d be buried in it as well.

Werner Kentner took a quick break from his work, flipped the goggles off his face, and glanced up at the catwalk above the main floor. One of Schaaf’s men was in view there — prowling back and forth with an assault rifle cradled casually in his arms.

Kentner mopped his sweating face with a rag and turned back to the job at hand.

One of his men, a young Palestinian from the Gaza Strip, gave the ready signal and scrambled out of the large metal shipping container.

Kentner nodded. “Hoist away.”

A third man, this one a fellow German, spun the controls of the overhead crane poised above the open container. Chains tightened as the slack came off hauling a jet engine into view.

Almost as soon as it was clear, the fourth member of Kentner’s team, an Egyptian by birth, moved in with a cutting torch.

Sparks flew as he attacked the shipping container, slicing it into irregular shapes of random size — all of which would be too small to give any clue to the container’s original identity. As the pieces dropped free, the fifth man, an older Palestinian, checked them, and then tossed them into a man-high bin to one side. A dozen similar bins were already full.

Kentner turned back to watch the crane operator expertly lower the engine into a specially prepared cradle. Once it was in place, he moved forward — followed by the young Palestinian.

The other German shut the crane off and joined them.