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 assault rifle at the ready.
He nodded toward the sentries. “You expecting trouble, Major?”
“Perhaps.” The MVD officer hesitated and then went on.
“There are many predators in these woods, Colonel. Bears. Foxes. Even wolves.”
True enough, Thorn thought. But not all wolves ran on four legs. He noticed that the armed guards spent at least as much time watching the search team as they did the surrounding forest.
He suspected the Russians were trying to make sure their poorly paid rescue workers didn’t loot any of the crash victims’ personal effects.
He and Koniev stepped aside, clearing the narrow path for two panting conscripts carrying a large black plastic bag back toward the camp.
Part of the bag snagged a low-hanging branch and ripped open, revealing a blackened lump of flesh that was barely identifiable as a human torso. One of the soldiers muttered a tired apology and hastily shifted his grip to close the gash in the body bag.
Thorn’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen death in almost every form on the battlefield or in the aftermath of terrorist atrocities. But no one could ever be fully prepared for the havoc a highspeed impact could wreak on the human body.
He heard Koniev gag and then quickly take a deep, shuddering breath.
He turned to look at the young MVD officer. “Are you all right, Major?”
“Yes.” The other man looked pale, but otherwise in control.
He straightened his shoulders. “Have you seen enough, Colonel? It will be dark soon.”
Thorn nodded sharply, pushing the image of that blistered corpse out of his mind. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough. For now. But I’ll be back here at first light.”
Colonel Peter Thorn stopped near a small tent set up beneath a tall pine tree and buttoned his uniform jacket. His breath steamed in the chilly night air. The temperature had dropped rapidly after darkdipping close to the freezing mark.
He stood still for a moment longer, gathering his thoughts while making sure he wasn’t being observed. Private quarters were the sole concession Helen Gray had accepted as lone woman on the investigative team. She had worked damned hard to be accepted on her merits in the male-dominated precincts of the FBI. And, for all their Soviet-era propaganda boasts about building a truly equal society, the Russians remained an even more intensely conservative lot. Getting caught visiting her tent alone after sundown could easily put her professional reputation at risk. He was determined to avoid that if possible.
Floodlights lit the compound and surrounding forest with a cold, harsh, sharp-edged glare that made the blackness outside the light absolute.
The smell of cheap tobacco and cooked beets wafted from the crowded tents used to house Russian enlisted men. But there were no signs of movement among the trees.
After a long, hard, backbreaking day at the crash site, the search effort had shut down for the night. Moscow would have to ferry in more men, equipment, and supplies before they could accelerate the recovery operation onto a twenty-four-hour cycle.
Thorn turned back toward Helen’s tent and then stopped dead in his tracks. Maybe he should wait and see her the next morning.
Maybe he was pushing too fast.
He shook his head, angry at himself for wavering. He’d been awarded medals for bravery under fire. Right now, though, none of them meant a damned thing. What the hell was his problem?
If she still loved him, everything would be fine. And if she didn’t love him anymore? Well, better to find that out now — to force a clean, crisp break before their screwed-up emotions started interfering with their work. This investigation had to come first. It was time to start acting like a man and a soldier instead of a scared teenager.
He took a quick, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tapped softly on the canvas tent flap. “Helen? Can I come in?”
“Peter?” The tent flap opened, spilling a warmer light onto the dark and muddy ground. Helen stood in the opening, framed against the glow from a lantern. She eyed him calmly for a second and then motioned him inside, closing the flap behind him.
Her tent contained little beyond a cot made up with rough wool Russian Army blankets, a couple of battered wooden folding chairs, her travel bag and laptop PC, and an empty supply crate that apparently served as a desk. And, of course, Helen herself.
Thorn tried to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears. Even in travel-worn jeans and a heavy green fisherman’s sweater, she was lovely. Her wavy black hair silhouetted a heart-shaped face and stunning blue eyes.
He wanted to kiss her, but he held back. They’d been apart for too long. He couldn’t read her mood with any certainty. It seemed best to play it safe.
“How have you been, Helen?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been fine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thorn obeyed gladly, relieved to hear the bantering tone in her voice. That was a lot more like the Helen Gray he’d come to know and love over the past two years.
She sat down gracefully on the cot facing him and said more, seriously, “I really was surprised to see you pop out of that helicopter, you know.”
“I know,” he answered simply. “I almost didn’t.”
“Oh?”
Thorn shrugged. “I wasn’t exaggerating much when I said I had to hold my breath and throw a tantrum to win a spot on the team. Even then my boss practically told me that he’d yank me back to D.C. the second he heard any complaints from the NTSB … or from the Russians, for that matter. I’m the inspection agency’s liaison here on
