Day Of Wrath Read Online Free
trafficking, smuggling, and contract killing all on the rise, her workload kept piling up.
Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow—cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.
Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with hen-to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.
Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.
Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell—probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.
The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.
Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.
“Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”
“This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil would want this country for his own.” The younger man mopped his own forehead and then quickly wiped his hand off on the gray, rubber-coated fabric of his protective suit.
With so much wreckage still strewn through the woods and the swamp, Thorn realized that the suits were a necessary safeguard.
They were also hot, confining, and horribly uncomfortable.
Even in the cool weather of the northern Russian spring, wearing them while engaged in heavy labor meant risking dehydration and heat stroke.
The sound of splashing and weary, repeated commands drew his attention back to the work crews they were observing.
Barely visible through the trees, a line of Russian soldiers moved slowly through the tangled undergrowth. Their baggy protective suits made them look like gray, wrinkled ghosts in the gathering evening gloom. Hunched over to see more clearly, they poked and probed through every thicket and scumcoated pond—searching for debris from the crash.
Technical experts from the Federal Aviation Authority followed close behind the search line. They charted the precise position of smaller pieces of wreckage or human remains before crews came in to haul them away. Larger chunks of torn metal were tagged and left in place for later removal by winchequipped helicopters.
Koniev frowned. “The work proceeds at a glacial pace, I am afraid.”
He sounded embarrassed. “This plane came down four days ago. Four days ago! And only now does the recovery effort truly begin!”
Thorn shook his head. “From what I’ve seen so far, Major, your people have worked miracles just getting this much done so fast.”
He meant that. Seeing what the Russians were up against at first hand revealed the true magnitude of their task. Search planes had finally found the An-32 crash site two days after the aircraft disappeared off air traffic control radar. From then on, the search, rescue, and investigative teams had been in a race against time and miserable conditions. Considering the logistical strain involved in setting up and supplying a sizable base camp by air, their progress really was nothing short of remarkable.
Thorn spotted movement Off to one end of the search line.
Two Russian soldiers paced into view, moving carefully and scanning the woods all around them. Each carried an AK-74
Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow—cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.
Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with hen-to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.
Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.
Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell—probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.
The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.
Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.
“Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”
“This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil would want this country for his own.” The younger man mopped his own forehead and then quickly wiped his hand off on the gray, rubber-coated fabric of his protective suit.
With so much wreckage still strewn through the woods and the swamp, Thorn realized that the suits were a necessary safeguard.
They were also hot, confining, and horribly uncomfortable.
Even in the cool weather of the northern Russian spring, wearing them while engaged in heavy labor meant risking dehydration and heat stroke.
The sound of splashing and weary, repeated commands drew his attention back to the work crews they were observing.
Barely visible through the trees, a line of Russian soldiers moved slowly through the tangled undergrowth. Their baggy protective suits made them look like gray, wrinkled ghosts in the gathering evening gloom. Hunched over to see more clearly, they poked and probed through every thicket and scumcoated pond—searching for debris from the crash.
Technical experts from the Federal Aviation Authority followed close behind the search line. They charted the precise position of smaller pieces of wreckage or human remains before crews came in to haul them away. Larger chunks of torn metal were tagged and left in place for later removal by winchequipped helicopters.
Koniev frowned. “The work proceeds at a glacial pace, I am afraid.”
He sounded embarrassed. “This plane came down four days ago. Four days ago! And only now does the recovery effort truly begin!”
Thorn shook his head. “From what I’ve seen so far, Major, your people have worked miracles just getting this much done so fast.”
He meant that. Seeing what the Russians were up against at first hand revealed the true magnitude of their task. Search planes had finally found the An-32 crash site two days after the aircraft disappeared off air traffic control radar. From then on, the search, rescue, and investigative teams had been in a race against time and miserable conditions. Considering the logistical strain involved in setting up and supplying a sizable base camp by air, their progress really was nothing short of remarkable.
Thorn spotted movement Off to one end of the search line.
Two Russian soldiers paced into view, moving carefully and scanning the woods all around them. Each carried an AK-74
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