“A boating store.” Farrell released the catches on the front and opened the case. A Mossberg 590 shotgun nestled inside, securely seated against dark gray foam. The stainless steel barrel had a Day-Glo orange plastic cylinder attached. The case also contained two boxes of special ammunition, three bright orange packages marked “Spectra line, 360-pound test,” two large, line carrying plastic heads designed to float on water, and two arrowshaped heads intended to carry a line longer distances.
“Say hello to the Mossberg line launcher conversion kit,” he said. “I paid extra to have them throw in the shotgun.”
Peter stared down at the Day-Glo orange cylinder. “Black electrical tape,” he said. “We’ve got to wrap that thing in tape.”
Farrell nodded. He plucked a grappling hook out of another bag. “I also picked this up at a sporting goods store.”
“Perfect.”
“There’s just one problem, Pete. Somehow you’ve got to fit this,” Farrell said as he tapped the grappling hook, “onto this.”
He held up one of the narrow, arrowshaped distance heads.
Peter’s boyish grin crept back onto his face. “Not a problem, Sam.”
He rummaged around in the pile of equipment he’d bought. He turned around. “Welcome to Thorn Construction, Incorporated.”
Helen and Farrell both stared at the small welding torch and goggles in his hand.
“Jesus, Pete,” Farrell said finally. “Louisa’s going to be so glad I gave you all our savings. That’ll sure come in handy around the kitchen.”
Helen hid a smile.
“French toast in one point five seconds,” Peter said matter-of-factly.
He put the welding torch down. “Any luck on the nightvision gear?”
“Yeah,” Farrell said, still shaking his head. He pulled two large boxes out of another bag. “I found these in the first sporting goods store I went in. And every store after that. Apparently almost everyone has this model in stock.”
Helen flipped open one of the boxes and lifted out a clumsy-looking assembly that seemed like something out of a Rube Goldberg nightmare.
Two eyepieces were connected to a rectangular case and then fed into a single long lens. There were two straps to hold the whole assembly in place. One strap went around the wearer’s head while the other ran across the wearer’s chin. A heavy battery case in the back offered some counterbalance. Wires connected every component. It would have been comical if she hadn’t known how useful something like this could be. She looked up. “Russian-made?”
Farrell nodded. “They’re second-generation light intensifiers, but they’re not surplus. They’re brand new, with a one-year warranty.”
“How much?” she asked.
“Seven hundred each.” Farrell shrugged. “One of the places had some Western-made imagers. They were nicer, lighter, and clearer, but they were also twenty-five hundred bucks a pop. My Visa card has overdraft protection, but that kind of tag would have given it vapor lock.”
Helen nodded her understanding. Counting the credit card bills that would eventually come due, they’d already spent more than ten thousand dollars of Farrell’s money. Obtaining additional funds would require cashing in some of his investments — and that would take time they didn’t have.
“You want to check them out now?” Peter asked.
“Let’s do it.” She adjusted the straps, slipped the Russian-made nightvision gear over her head, and clicked the battery switch.
Farrell killed the lights.
Helen fumbled for the focus knob, adjusting the intensifiers for a wide field of view. The familiar pale green image was grainier than that produced by the more sophisticated gear she’d trained with, but it was serviceable.
The intensifiers amplified every bit of reflected light in the hotel room — showing detail that would have been shadowed even in normal illumination. She swung toward the window and the gain-control feature cut in. The sunlight showing through a crack in the drapes would have been blinding if it hadn’t been automatically stepped down by the device.
Helen turned her head rapidly first one way and then the other. The Russian-made intensifiers were heavier than the American-designed, third-generation AN PVS-7Bs she’d trained with. She adjusted the field of view, narrowing the angle and providing greater magnification.
At last, satisfied, she slipped them off.
Farrell flipped the lights back on.
Helen stared at the gear piled high on both beds. Their equipment wasn’t as compact or as modern as that supplied to the HRT or the Delta Force — but it should work.
Their real problem wasn’t an equipment shortage — it was the lack of information.
She frowned. Good intelligence was the key to victory. That was how both the HRT and Delta trained. Comprehensive research could eliminate uncertainties. Meticulous planning could compensate for inferior numbers. And exhaustive rehearsal could let a team hit its objective and escape without a scratch.
But what did she and Peter have?
Nothing. No building blueprints. No accurate assessment of the enemy’s strength or security arrangements. Not even any sure way to stop Ibrahim’s plan from unfolding.
Christ, Helen thought, we’re trusting almost entirely to luck.
She fought down the first strands of despair. She had Peter. And Peter had her. And that would have to be good enough.
Dieter Krauss took one last look at the clear, star-studded sky and went back inside the hangar. He mopped at his forehead and neck with a handkerchief. Even this close to midnight, the Southern heat and humidity were almost unbearable.
“Everything is in order?” his senior technician asked.
Krauss nodded abruptly. The warning from Chantilly hadn’t caught him completely off guard. He’d posted half his security detail in concealed positions overlooking the fence around their three hangars.
He would be ready if the American agents who had his employer in such a panic tried to infiltrate the field.
He ran his eyes over the two twin-engine turboprops parked wingtip to wingtip inside this hangar. “The weapons are loaded?”
The senior technician nodded. “They are, sir.”
“And the evacuation plane?”
“Standing by, Herr Krauss. We can be airborne five minutes after the last strike aircraft reaches altitude.”
Krauss nodded. The plan called for them to fly straight out into the Atlantic. Once the bombs went off, their aircraft would make an “emergency divert” landing in the Bahamas, refuel, and continue south.
Once they arrived in Mexico, he and his team would receive their final payments and disperse. The units stationed at other fields would be flying to other destinations in either Mexico or Canada. All were confident that no one would track them — not in the almost unimaginable chaos that would follow the simultaneous detonation of twenty nuclear weapons.
“Herr Krauss!”
The German looked toward the door to his office — a small room in the corner of the hangar. One of his subordinates stood in the door frame, waving him over.
“What is it?” he shouted.
“A signal from Chantilly, sir.”
Krauss crossed the hangar in seconds and tore the fax out of his machine.
