Day Of Wrath Read Free Page A

couldn’t fault their working clothes. All of the civilians wore plain jeans, long-sleeve shirts, waterproof jackets, and hiking boots. His woodland camouflage-pattern battle dress and combat boots were equally practical. Suits and neckties and dress uniforms had no place this far out in the wilderness.
    A Russian helicopter crewman emerged from the flight deck, pushed his way through the waiting Americans, and unlatched the side door. It fell open, becoming a set of steps down to the ground.
    Thorn followed Nielsen, his team, and their interpreter outside, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs to scan the surrounding area.
    Stumps and sheared-off branches poked through the mud in places, showing where engineers had blown down trees to make this crude landing pad. Several large drab canvas tents were clustered at the far end of the clearing. Urged on by shouting NCOS and junior officers, teams of young Russian conscripts in mudsmeared uniforms were busy erecting more tents along the treeline.
    Other soldiers were hard at work stringing floodlights through the nearby woods. Chainsaws whined off in the distance.
    The dull, pulsing roar of diesel-powered electrical generators throbbed in counterpoint.
    Some of the Russian troops had stripped down to sweatstained Tshirts.
    Spring came late this far north, but it was cool—not cold. He guessed the temperature was somewhere in the high fifties. Smells lingered in the still ain-an acrid, sickly-sweet mix of spilled aviation gas and raw sewage from hastily dug latrines.
    Two men-one older and balding, the other younger and fair-haired, stood just beyond the arc of the Mi-26’s now motionless rotor blades.
    A reception committee. His heartbeat quickened when he saw the familiar face of the tall, darkhaired woman waiting with them. Thorn lengthened his stride to catch up with Nielsen and the rest of the NTSB team.
    The older man stepped forward to meet them. He growled something in terse, guttural Russian to their interpreter, folded his arms, and stood waiting—silent and apparently utterly uninterested in any response.
    “This is First Deputy Director Leonid Mamontov of the Federal Aviation Authority,” the interpreter said hurriedly. He hesitated and then went on. “The Deputy Director welcomes you to Russia and looks forward to close cooperation in this important investigation. He has’ prepared a preliminary briefing in the headquarters tent.”
    While Nielsen made his own introductions, Thorn carefully eyed the short, stocky, unsmiling man in front of them, sure that the interpreter had massively shaded his translation. Mamontov looked more likely to welcome close-quarters combat with his American counterparts than cooperation.
    The Russian official raised a single bushy eyebrow when Nielsen introduced him. Then he simply grunted, shook his head in disgust, and swung away, stomping toward the largest tent across the clearing.
    Nielsen shrugged apologetically to Thorn and hurried after the Russian—followed closely by the interpreter and the rest of his team.
    Terrific, Thorn thought grimly. This mission was off to a bangup start. If others at the accident scene shared this bureaucrat’s evident disdain, they were all in for a very rough ride.
    A polite cough broke his bleak train of thought. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, he quickly turned back to face the man and woman who had accompanied Mamontov to meet the helicopter.
    They were still standing close by, waiting to be noticed.
    “I apologize for Director Mamontov’s behavior, Colonel,” the man said quietly in almost flawless English. Then he grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “But I assure you it is nothing personal.
    The minister does not like soldiers or policemen of any sort. Whether they are American or Russian is immaterial.”
    Still smiling, the younger Russian held out his hand. “I am Major Alexei Koniev of the Ministry of the Interior, by the way.
    So I, too, am one of Mamontov’s