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.
Working smoothly, with practiced movements, the three of them began dismantling the engine’s outer shell — using wrenches for the easy parts, and hydraulic cutters and power saws for the rest. Preserving the engine intact was not part of their mission.
It took them roughly half an hour to remove the upper half of the outer shell, revealing what should have been a series of turbine wheels and combustion chambers. Instead a TN-1000 nuclear weapon lay inside — carefully braced by a series of welded steel supports. A thick layer of polyethylene covered the bomb.
The plastic had not only padded the TN-1000 during its long rail and sea voyage, it also absorbed stray radiation emitted by the bomb’s plutonium core.
Kentner stepped back again. “That’s it, comrades,” he murmured. “The last little beauty.”
He patted the TN-1000 affectionately. He’d served in the East German Air Force as an ordnance specialist. He’d seen these Soviet-made monsters before, and he knew how to care for them properly. The nuclear weapon was shaped like a conventional bomb, streamlined with a bluntly pointed nose. With a yield of 150 kilotons, it was roughly fifteen times more powerful than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
After stripping off the polyethylene covering, Kentner carefully inspected the weapon for signs of damage or mishandling.
Twenty years of military service had taught him that some Russians were too lazy even to wipe themselves properly. He saw no reason to assume the boys at Kandalaksha were competent.
Using a tech manual printed in Russian, the ordnance specialist checked the TN-1000’s safety devices, and then tested the internal circuits.
Everything came up green. Reassured, he gave the signal for the crane operator to lift the bomb clear of its concealment and went back to work — this time inspecting the underside.
His two assistants went back to tearing apart the Su-24 engine throwing various chunks into several different scrap bins.
The work went on for hour after hour — a furious maelstrom of cascading sparks and the ear-splitting screech of power saws.
The air was thick with smoke, and they were all half deaf by the time they finished.
Stage Two was quieter, but even more intricate.
Kentner slid the polyethylene sheath back over the TN1000, and then used the crane to swing it over to a prepared case. Inside, a metal base and cradle supported the weapon.
The ordnance man and his team anchored more supports over the bomb — locking it into place. A light aluminum cover, designed to look like a machinery housing, bolted easily onto the frame.
When complete, the entire assembly fitted onto a wooden pallet and then inside a crate.
Finally, Kentner guided the crated 150-kiloton nuclear bomb over to a section of the warehouse where four identical containers waited all in a row.
The five-man work crew exchanged quick grins and then moved rapidly to pack up their tools. They’d barely begun when the first deep klaxon sounded at the rear of Loading Bay One.
Schaaf and three of his men double-teamed into the warehouse — taking up concealed firing positions. When they were ready, the former commando gave Kentner the thumbs-up. “Our first garbage man has arrived,” he quipped.
The ordnance man nodded and moved to unlock the loading bay door.
Tommy Perkins was an independent trucker — a road gypsy who didn’t mind working late hours. Traffic was lighter after dark anyway.
He also didn’t mind hauling cargo for Caraco Transport. The big boys often contracted with independents, specially during a crunch when they needed extra rigs. Besides, these Caraco fellas might be foreigners, but they paid on time and in cash which was mighty convenient when tax time rolled around.
And he had to admit they worked damned hard. They’d loaded his rig with five bins of mixed scrap and processed his paperwork almost before he’d had time to take a leak in the port-ajohn they kept out back.
Perkins was on the road in forty-five minutes headed for a scrap yard outside New Orleans.
Three other trucks arrived right after he left. Two were independent haulers who took the rest of the scrap metal-this time destined for dumping grounds in Missouri and Georgia.
The driver and co-driver of the third eighteenwheeler waited inside while the others were being loaded. Both spoke passable English and carried valid U.S. driver’s licenses. Both were armed.
After the independents left, they backed their truck up to the loading dock and waited while Kentner and his men slid the five crated “compressors” into the back and secured them in place.
It was well past dark by the time the third semi turned out of the warehouse yard and roared onto a highway heading inland.
Schaaf’s security detail settled down into a normal nighttime routine.
Werner Kentner and his men fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next thing Kentner knew his shoulder was being roughly shaken. He heard a muffled voice speaking to him urgently. “Get upraus mit ihr!”
Groggy, his vision blurred, he rolled over and looked up at the men standing over him without comprehension. He managed to mutter “What?” just before cold water was thrown on his face.
Spluttering, Kentner struggled to his feet, angry now and ready to deck the swine who had his vision cleared and he saw Rolf Ulrich Reichardt holding an empty pitcher, a tight, controlled smile on his face.
“Are you awake now, Werner, or do you need another drink?” Reichardt asked with deceptive mildness. “If so, I’m sure Herr Schaaf can bring me a second container.”
Schaaf, the hard-as-nails soldier, stood meekly, one step back and to the side of the ex-Stasi operative.
“What’s going on?” Kentner knew better than to challenge Reichardt, but he was still confused — still trying to get his bearings.
The warehouse windows were dark. He glanced at his watch. My God … he’d only been asleep for an hour or so.
Elsewhere in the makeshift bunk room, men stirred — awakened by the sudden commotion. Reichardt took them all in at a glance and ordered, “Get up, all of you! You have more work to do! Now!”
His voice was equal parts anger and impatience.
Kentner wiped at the water still dripping off his chin. “I don’t understand, Herr Reichardt. We are on schedule. Why the rush?”
The ex-Stasi man spared him a terrible, chilling glance. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Schedules change, Werner.” His eyes grew even harder. “You will not question me. Not now. Or ever again. Do you understand?”
Dazed, Kentner hurriedly nodded.
“Good,” Reichardt said coldly. “Then I suggest you get moving. Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RELAYS
Colonel Peter Thorn stepped out of the shower and quickly slipped into the short-sleeved shirt and slacks he’d borrowed from their host.
Luckily, he and Andrew Griffin were much the same size. Then he left the bathroom, still toweling his wet hair — moving quietly out of long habit and hard training. He paused in the doorway to the living room.
The ex-S.A.S officer’s Charlottenburg flat occupied the entire top floor of an elegant house that had once belonged to a wealthy industrialist.
Large windows looked down onto a wide, treelined avenue — now a sea of leaves waving gently beneath a
