Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3)

by Chester D. Campbell

  The boys were quickly back and the competition resumed. It provided a welcome relief from the wearisome chore of watching and waiting for something that seemed in no hurry to take place.

  When the phone rang just before 7:30, it was Lori. "Wanted to be sure you were okay,"she said. "We're finally here."

  "Where?" Burke asked.

  "West lawn of the Capitol. Chloe brought a phone along. One she borrowed from somebody. Hers isn't working. There's a real mob here. People are spread out with their blankets and picnic baskets."

  "Did you get a good spot?"

  "We're not too close, but we can see the stage fine. The kids are behaving great for the moment. I don't know how long that will last."

  "I'll keep my fingers crossed. It's quiet around here, except for a few firecrackers now and then. Some kids were racing go-carts this afternoon, but they're long gone. How's the weather?"

  "Humid. There's a nice breeze blowing from the south, but it looks like it's blowing some clouds in. I hope we don't get a shower."

  "When does the concert start?"

  "In about thirty minutes. I saw the cannons lined up. They're parked beyond the stage beside the Reflecting Pool. Sorry you're going to miss it. It'll be on radio, you know. Maybe you can listen."

  Yuri, who was on window watch, suddenly raised his voice. "Someone's driving into the yard."

  "Got to go," Burke said. "Looks like a little action across the way."

  They gathered at the window. It was the gray van Major Romashchuk had driven up from Texas. Yuri watched through the binoculars as the vehicle pulled around and parked near the door to the shop. "That's Romashchuk getting out," he said.

  "I can only see three men with him," Roddy said.

  Romashchuk appeared to punch a code into a number panel and the overhead door began to rise. The group entered the shop, disappearing from view.

  "Where are the other two?" Burke asked. "And where's the minivan?"

  Roddy cocked his head, his brows knitted in a look of concern. "You don't suppose they're getting ready...?" His voice faded away.

  "To use the weapons?" Burke completed the thought, though in reality it was almost unthinkable. "Whatever they're up to, we'd better get ready to give chase."

  A few moments later, the Major came out and began waving directions. The yellow dump truck slowly backed out of the shop. A green tarpaulin covered the hopper.

  "Damn," Burke said. "You may be right, Roddy. Looks like the Peruvians are taking the truck." He reached down to grab one of the small transceivers from the floor. "Take the other radio and stay in touch. If they break up, I'll stick with the truck and you two follow Romashchuk. Maybe you can corner him."

  Burke hit the stairs on the run. Yuri was right behind him. Roddy caught up after collecting the radio and the cellular phone, which Burke had overlooked.

  Dashing back to the alley in the Blazer, Burke circled into the driveway next door. He pulled up even with the front of the building, lights off, where he could see across into the Advanced Security Systems lot. The truck was already heading for the gate with an air compressor in tow. Romashchuk remained over by the open shop door.

  When he saw the truck turn away, Burke pulled out into the street, drove up to the intersection and began to follow it. Why the air compressor, he wondered? Then he remembered the Public Works Department markings and assumed it was part of the ruse.

  Checking his mirror, he saw nothing of the gray van. He indulged himself in a bit of a smile. He had worried that the Major might come along behind him and conclude rather quickly that he was following the yellow truck. Happily it was not working out that way. After a few turns, they headed for Virginia Avenue.

  Then disaster struck.

  The Blazer's engine suddenly coughed, sputtered and died. As the truck rolled on ahead, Burke frantically turned the ignition key and listened to the starter grind in vain. Then he glanced at the fuel gauge.

  Empty!

  He stared at it. It had showed a good half a tank this morning. He was certain of it. What could...slowly, dishearteningly, he began to understand. He recalled the two boys with their gas cans hurrying back through the driveway of the appliance repair shop. They were not gone long enough to have made it to the gas station Roddy had found several blocks away. He recalled noting the odor of gasoline near the Blazer when he jumped in. But he had been in too much of a rush to place any significance on it. Clearly they had siphoned out most of his fuel, probably spilled half of it. Now he sat there hopelessly stalled while the Shining Path guerrillas drove on God-knows-where with their mortars and nerve agent shells.

  He had never felt quite so helpless. Thousands of lives were at stake. There would be huge holiday crowds gathered at various locations around Washington tonight. A large throng would be clustered in the vicinity of the Washington Monument, awaiting the massive fireworks display that would come as the symphony concert concluded.

  The concert!

  He felt a cold chill, like an icy hand on his back. The west lawn of the Capitol would hold an equally enticing mass of people packed into a confined open space.

  He snatched up the radio and called for "Roadrunner." After the previous night's experience, they had decided on a little extra precaution, code names. Bird names.

  "Roger, Hawk, this is Roadrunner," Rodman replied.

  "Are you on the move?"

  "Just under way. I have no idea where we're going as yet. How about you?"

  "I hate to have to tell you," Burke said.

  But he did.

  "God, that's terrible. What are you going to do?"

  "Start walking. I'm looking for gas and a telephone."

  "I should have given you this cellular phone. I picked it up on the way out."

  "That's okay. I'll find a pay phone. But I'm afraid time has run out on us. Remember what Seagull said yesterday?" Shumakov had been dubbed "Seagull."

  "What's that?"

  "There must be someone we can tell, someone who'll do something. I'm going to call Dr. Wharton."

  "The President's National Security Adviser?"

  "Right. I worked with him on a highly classified operation a couple of years ago. He's a Roundtable member, but I can't believe he knows what's happening. I'll contact you after I've talked to him."

  70

  Pepe followed the route they had rehearsed earlier. Virginia Avenue to Seventh, then up to Maryland. Traffic was heavy around the freeway. After he finally made it on past the Department of Transportation Building, he turned onto Maryland Avenue and got a nasty shock. Cars were parked all along the street. He drove down to where the green paint marks should be. They were hidden beneath parked cars.

  He sat there for a moment, fuming. "¡Maldición!" he cursed aloud. The weapons were calibrated and the ammunition charges calculated based on this exact position. If they were fired from anywhere else, they would miss the mark. Then he saw blue lights suddenly flash in his rearview mirror.

  Police.

  "What's the problem?" a voice called out from the pavement below. Pepe looked down at a blue-uniformed motorcycle cop wearing a bulbous white helmet. He knew what he was supposed to say. He just didn't know whether it would do any good now. He would have to improvise. Romashchuk hadn't worried about his accent. He said half the workers around this town had some kind of accent.

  "These cars are the problem, officer. We were sent to repair a water leak, but we can't get to it. Unless we start working on it damned soon, all those senators and congressmen will have no water in the morning."

  The cop pulled off his helmet and wiped his forehead. "Shit. Wouldn't you know it would happen on a damned holiday? All I can do is call a wrecker to move them out of the way."

  Pepe glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. "How long would it take?"

  "Probably get him here within thirty minutes. Take ten or twenty minutes to move the cars."

  That would be cutting it close, Pepe thought. But did he have any choice? "Better call f
or the wrecker."

  The precisely articulated words of Actor E. G. Marshall, the symphony's perennial Independence Day host, boomed from the huge speakers that flanked the bandstand set up on the lawn beyond the Capitol's western entrance. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the nation's annual Fourth of July celebration in words and music. With the striking facade of our historic Capitol Building in the background, we are honored to have with us tonight the Majority Leader of the Senate, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and a large delegation of leading members of the Congress. And speaking of leaders, our guest conductor for the National Symphony Orchestra this evening is the highly-entertaining piano virtuoso and composer, that master of ragtime, Marvin Hamlisch."

  The smiling, casually-attired crowd of men, women and children, expected to number well over a quarter of a million, clapped and whistled and cheered as Hamlisch stepped to the podium. He lifted his baton and opened the program with a short medley of lighthearted, traditional American favorites that included For Me and My Gal, Turkey in the Straw and Home on the Range.

  Back in the midst of the sea of faces sat Lori Hill with Liz on her lap, flanked by Chloe and Walt Brackin. Walt clung with a vengeance to the highly mobile Cam. Lori brushed a hand against her dark hair as the southerly breeze tugged at her long tresses. When the crowd began to clap in time with the music at one point, the twins squealed gleefully and slapped their hands perfectly in unison.

  Some ninety feet closer to the stage sat Karen Rodman with Lila, Renee and her husband, Jim. Lila was straining to find Sergeant Ian McGregor among the performers around the stage.

  On the other side of the Potomac, about two and a half miles to the west, the remaining two Peruvians, Raul and Tomas, relaxed in the blue minivan at a parking spot in Lady Bird Johnson Park. It was near the entrance to Arlington Memorial Bridge. They watched as the setting sun stretched its long, golden fingers toward the striking monuments across the river, the classically-columned Lincoln and Jefferson memorials and the tall spire dedicated to the nation's first President.

  Raul, the English-speaking driver, glanced at his watch. It was early yet, but they would make their move with plenty of time to spare. He had been warned of the likely state of traffic across the bridge, moving at the pace of a three-legged turtle.

  "This has been an enlightening experience," said Raul, stretching his arms out and flexing his fingers. A short, muscular man with bulging arms and thighs, he took a fatalistic view of life, one that decreed your number would be called when your time came. Meanwhile, not to worry. He was a veteran of many bloody raids into the heart of Lima. "I'll be damned happy to get back home, though."

  Tomas, who was younger and more contemplative, looked around with a skeptical frown. "Do you really think we'll get out of here alive?"

  "Why not? Señor Gruber has our escape plan all worked out."

  "Ha! In the first place, we'll be lucky to finish this job without a bullet through our skulls. But if we do, I'll be damned surprised if we're able to locate our esteemed leader. I suspect his escape plan only covers one individual."

  Raul shook his head. "Have faith, Tomas. El Sendero Luminoso requires us to have faith."

  The gray van started out in the direction of downtown Washington. But after a few minutes, Nikolai Romashchuk made a series of turns and began to retrace his route back toward Advanced Security Systems. It left Roddy with a perplexed look on his face.

  "Do you think he's onto us?"

  "Perhaps not," said Yuri. "Those turns made me wonder. But now I think maybe he forgot something and is returning for it."

  "Might give us the opening we're looking for."

  "We shall see." Yuri had learned not to get his hopes up when it came to Major Nikolai Romashchuk. He followed along at a discreet distance.

  When Romashchuk arrived back at the security firm, he paused at the entrance gate, ran a coded plastic card past the card reader that activated the opening mechanism and drove through.

  "Too bad we don't have one of those cards," Roddy said, watching through the binoculars.

  "If we cannot get to him any other way, we may have to ram him like you did Adam Stern."

  As soon as Romashchuk's van began to move, Yuri gunned the engine and headed for the fenced enclosure. As the gate came into view, Roddy pointed excitedly.

  "It's still open."

  Yuri wheeled the Honda through the entrance and the gate immediately rumbled shut behind them.

  "It must have a delay mechanism to accommodate slow-moving vehicles, like big trucks," Roddy said.

  Yuri drove cautiously toward the rear of the building, stopping near the back wall. He switched off the ignition. "We had better move on foot from here. Have your gun ready."

  When they rounded the corner of the building, they saw the van parked beside the shop door, which remained open.

  "Quickly," Yuri said, heading for the opening on the run. Roddy was right behind him.

  Yuri sprang inside the shop, dropping into a crouch on the concrete floor, swinging the Rossi in front of him with both hands. Roddy came after him, the Beretta gripped tightly, eyes sweeping the empty maintenance area. Work benches, tool cabinets, a grinder, a drill press, various pieces of machinery lined the walls. Doors on either side at the back led into other parts of the building. Romashchuk was nowhere in sight.

  "I will take this door," Yuri whispered, pointing to the left. "You go through the other one. Be very careful."

  Yuri paused beside the doorway, listening. Then he stepped quickly inside, brandishing the revolver. He found himself in a hallway illuminated primarily by a light at the far end. Several doors opened off the corridor. The first one he came to was partially open, but for all he could see, it might have been the entrance to a cave. Obviously windowless, the room was a black hole. Then he heard a sound ahead and to the right, where he saw a glass wall. He thought it was a voice, though he wasn't sure. He moved ahead cautiously, getting a glimpse of TV screens beyond the glass.

  He froze as something cold and metallic suddenly pressed against the back of his neck. He knew instantly that it was the barrel of a gun.

  "Very slowly, Mr. Investigator," said a harsh, threatening voice in Russian, "place the weapon on the floor."

  Yuri complied.

  "Lean your hands against the wall," Romashchuk said and patted him down. He retrieved the Rossi from the floor. "Where is your friend?"

  "What friend?"

  He felt the gun press against his neck again.

  "Don't get cute, Shumakov. Your friend Colonel Rodman."

  Yuri decided to try bluffing his way through. Hopefully Roddy would hear them talking as he worked his way around to this area. "He's on the trail of your guerrilla band in the dump truck."

  "Then I shall take care of him as soon as I dispose of you. Open the door on the right and step into that room. We'll take a look to be sure."

  As he reached the door, Yuri noted the glassed-in enclosure was some sort of control center, holding an angular desk surrounded by TV monitors. When he stepped inside, he found they showed views from cameras placed around the perimeter of the building. The voice he had heard came from a radio, a police band scanner with the volume turned down. The brown Honda appeared on one TV screen, parked at the side where they had left it. Apparently the Major had seen the parked car and then hid in the darkened room.

  Romashchuk glanced around at the monitors, which showed no evidence of Colonel Rodman. He motioned toward a chair with the barrel of a Walther P38. "Sit."

  "I also have another friend who is prepared to thwart your scheme, Major." Yuri attempted to sound confident.

  "Hill? You can count him out. A fellow named Adam Stern has already taken care of him."

  "Not so. The killer Mr. Stern sent was shot last night behind a building across the street."

  Romashchuk frowned. "You're bluffing, Shumakov. Too bad you won't be around to see what happens when those mortar shells land."

  "
Land where?"

  "At the edge of a huge crowd at the Capitol Building. The wind will spread the mist over the entire area. It will be more spectacular than the massacre at Katyn."

  Yuri had difficulty digesting that horrible prospect. "The concert?" He had heard Roddy and Burke talk of it. There would be hundreds of thousands of people there. The nerve agent would claim entire families among its victims. His hatred for the former KGB officer deepened as he reflected that the Rodman and Hill families would be among them.

  Where was Roddy, he wondered? He had to keep Romashchuk talking. Keep his attention focused in here. The Major stood just inside the door from the hallway. "You people killed my brother to get those nerve agents," he said, a scowl on his face. "Now this. What kind of madmen are you and General Zakharov?"

  "Madmen? You do us a disservice, Shumakov. We are patriots. This is merely a new form of warfare. I have nothing against these people, as I had nothing against your brother when I shot him. They are merely pawns in the grand strategy."

  The confession that he was the one who had killed Anatoli struck a nerve, but Yuri fought to contain his rage. "What strategy?"

  Romashchuk grinned. "This operation is merely a ruse. Since the terrorists come from Peru, it won't reflect on us. But the panic and confusion will be dramatic, particularly with the deaths of all those congressional leaders. After tonight, the American President will not have the stomach to interfere in our actions back home. Ironic, isn't it, that leaders of the American Foreign Affairs Roundtable are helping to finance our movement? You and your General Borovsky never figured it out."

  "We had a good idea of what was going on. We just didn't know the full dimensions of it."

  "He will know soon enough." Romashchuk glanced up at the clock above the desk. It showed 8:12. "In a few hours it will be daylight in Minsk. General Nikolsky will station his troops outside the commonwealth meeting site as a 'precautionary measure.' The Commonwealth Coordinating Committee representatives will be attending as observers. Leaders of two of the smaller republics have already joined forces with us. They will inform their colleagues that the troops have moved in to place them under arrest."