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

by Chester D. Campbell

  Nikolai Romashchuk sat in the gray van and listened to the broadcast of the symphony concert. He was parked in the middle of Maryland Avenue, halfway between Sixth and Seventh Streets. In the distance he could see the batteries of floodlights that illuminated the stage. He had just placed a yellow and black striped sawhorse barrier at the Seventh Street intersection, with a sign that said: "Street Closed. Department of Public Works." Pepe had set up a similar barrier at Sixth. From this vantage point, Romashchuk could easily see the yellow truck parked near the end of the block. Metal bands around the sides formed ladder-like rungs for climbing in and out. He had just made a final radio check. Each man had acknowledged with an arm wave that his earphone receiver was functioning perfectly. Then he had given the word for the men to climb in and prepare to fire the mortars.

  The Major now had all the trappings of a typical tourist. A large camera bag sat on the seat beside him. There was no camera inside, of course. Instead, the bag's contents included the small, handheld transceiver with which he would give the command to fire, the Walther P38 loaded with a nine-shot clip, a gas mask and an injectable ampule of atropine. He had included the mask in case it became necessary to deal with the neurotoxin powder. The men who had just climbed into the dump truck did not have masks but carried the nerve agent antidote.

  He checked his watch as he listened to the radio broadcast. Though he was quite familiar with the Tchaikovsky score before he became involved in this operation, he had recently listened to a tape of it over and over, again and again. He had timed it to determine exactly when the cannons would first fire, and how much time elapsed before the final volley. He knew the first shots would be coming up shortly. The men could not hear anything because of the ear protectors, but at the sound of the first firing, he would instruct them to get ready to drop the impact-igniting shells into the barrels.

  He had heard a helicopter pass behind him moments before, and now he realized it was coming back this way. From the racket it was making, he knew it must be quite low. He had spotted a police chopper a few minutes earlier heading toward the Washington Monument. He had taken it as confirmation that the minivan had successfully completed its mission.

  As the aircraft came closer, the noise almost drowned out the sounds of the concert. Suddenly it appeared just ahead of him, a large, dark green chopper, obviously military, flying extremely low. Then he saw that its forward motion had stopped. It was hovering just behind the yellow dump truck.

  Though he could no longer hear the music, he knew it was time for the first cannon shots. He also knew he could not wait two minutes for the second volley. Something had gone wrong. He snatched the radio transceiver from the camera bag and pressed the transmit button.

  "¡Dispara!" he shouted. Fire!

  7 6

  From the wings of the stage, the National Symphony Orchestra's manager gazed out over the massive throng that literally covered the Capitol lawn, a broad smile animating his face. The official estimate was well over four hundred thousand people, one of the largest crowds ever. And they were devouring the music as eagerly as kids at an ice cream shop. Down front the congressional leadership and their spouses sat in dark suits and conservative ties, the women in fashionable dresses, standing out like formally attired diners at an outdoor barbeque. The vast audience was as varied as America itself, and those who had danced and cheered and sung and clapped and sweated for more than an hour now sat or stood spellbound, totally unaware of the drama unfolding a few blocks to the southwest. The program was almost over, and for those familiar with Tchaikovsky's score, it was a moment of high anticipation.

  A low, buzzing note on the bass violins was cut off with a fanfare-like phrase by the horns. Then violins and horns began to build a rising crescendo, accented by snare drums.

  On the street beside the reflecting pool, a sergeant standing in front of a TV monitor raised his arm. At his signal, the first artillery piece fired, belching a tongue of flame, followed by a cloud of smoke from the burning powder charge. The cannon's roar echoed across the throng beside the Capitol and down the long, open stretch of the Mall. The number two gun fired. Then three...four...five.

  Lori Hill hugged her daughter to her chest and felt her little heart thump like a butterfly flapping its wings as the booming of the cannons subsided and the strings began a repetitive, descending four-note phrase that kept moving down the scale, lower and slower. Then, with a sudden burst of sound, the entire orchestra and band joined in, along with the clanging, bell-like chimes, building toward the final, climactic moment.

  As the big chopper settled into a hover, Sergeant Jerry Nickens steadied the M16 on the minigun mount, aimed at the gaping, black pit that was the dump truck's hopper and squeezed the trigger. The grenade streaked downward with a flash. A white cloud suddenly rose from the truck and Dutch Schuler cheered. "Bullseye!"

  Burke Hill's urgent voice followed quickly over the intercom. "There's a gray van in the middle of the block that looks like Romashchuk's. Get us on the ground quick, as close by as you can. He may try to fire those weapons himself."

  Schuler determined there was sufficient open space next to the intersection. He swung the big chopper around, dipped its nose and dove toward the chosen spot, cutting power and pulling up to let the aircraft impact with a solid thump. Roddy Rodman came bounding out of his seat.

  "You and Nickens stay with the bird," he told Dutch. "Burke and I will take the rifles."

  Burke was already grabbing an M16 from the Sergeant. "Give him your radio, Roddy. I have mine."

  They leaped out of the Pave Low as the Shining Path guerrillas, coughing and swearing in Spanish, came groping their way blindly out of the back of the truck. The dark-skinned trio had received the Major's firing order, but it was about two minutes earlier than expected. As a result, they had not yet lifted the heavy shells into place above the mortar tubes. Before they had a chance to bend down and retrieve them, the tear gas grenade exploded a few feet away, first stunning, then blinding them.

  As Burke and Roddy aimed their rifles toward the truck, a pistol shot rang out, striking the pavement beside Burke's right foot. The wind had picked up a notch, blowing the tear gas northward, but leaving enough to sting their eyes. Blinking rapidly as he looked toward the top of the truck, where the shot had come from, Burke saw a figure in a gas mask just above the tailgate, about to climb inside.

  "It's Romashchuk!" Roddy yelled as he fired a short burst. Several metallic clangs sounded as rounds ricochetted off the truck. Nikolai Romashchuk had dropped out of sight inside the vehicle's hopper.

  Hearing the gunfire, Pepe and his companions drew their pistols and started shooting. Though they were hardly in shape to see who was firing, they aimed in the direction of the sound. One lucky shot, from the Peruvians' standpoint, caught Roddy on the left arm. He shouted a bitter curse as Burke squeezed the trigger of the automatic rifle.

  Unaccustomed to the weapon, he fired too many rounds with the first burst. It was more than enough to down the terrorist called Pepe. Swinging the barrel around, he managed shorter bursts this time, taking out both of the other guerillas, who were crouching and firing, ineffectively, in his general direction.

  Ignoring his wound, Roddy slung the M16 over his shoulder and ran toward the rear of the truck. He climbed quickly using the handholds. Just as he stuck his head above the side, a loud thump sounded over the roar of the chopper. A brief flash appeared at the muzzle of one of the mortar barrels.

  Roddy stared in horror. Major Romashchuk had fired one of the shells! He froze for an instant, then reacted with sudden, blind fury. The tear gas had dissipated, clearly showing the Major beside the mortar. Roddy swung the assault rifle off his shoulder. The Major spotted him at almost the same time and reached for the pistol at his waist. But drawing on the training he had received back in his special operations days, when he had practiced with every type of weapon in the inventory, Roddy squeezed the trigger before Romashchuk had time to aim. The M16 on automatic fi
re cut him down with a terrible clattering racket as bullets danced across the truck body.

  Roddy stared at the bloody remains for a moment, then threw the rifle in at the lifeless heap.

  As Burke rose from checking the downed Peruvians, he saw Roddy slowly climbing down from the truck. The boom of the cannon blasts at the Capitol still echoed through the muggy night air. "These three are dead," Burke said. Then he saw the look on Roddy's face. "What happened?"

  "I was too late." He shook his head, tears in his eyes. "The bastard fired one of the shells."

  With the boom of the cannon fire and the full fury of the music, only those in the immediate vicinity of the impact heard the mortar shell detonate. The downwash of the Pave Low's rotor blades had rocked the dump truck and the Shining Path terrorists had bumped against the mortar tube while scrambling out. As a result, the weapon's aim had been altered. The round landed on the north edge of the Capitol grounds. The wind, which had picked up in intensity over the past half an hour, caught the nerve gas and quickly swept it away from the crowd, but not quickly enough for those in the immediate vicinity.

  The thunderous applause following the Tchaikovsky work was just beginning to fade when the first victims began to fall at the edge of the throng. They suffered from blurred vision and nausea and a tightness in the chest, then died quickly, gasping for breath, their limbs twitching. Some people nearby rushed to their aid, while others pulled back in horror. Many of those who attempted to help wound up victims themselves.

  The orchestra launched into its traditional finale, Stars and Stripes Forever, which was normally accented by the brilliant bursts of fireworks from the area of the Washington Monument. But when the crowd looked to the sky, they saw only drops of rain, which began slowly, then quickly increased in tempo. This brought a major rush toward the nearby streets. Except for those on the northern fringe, the vast audience was unaware of what had happened.

  The shot that hit Roddy Rodman's arm went through cleanly with no damage to the bone. As soon as Burke had made a temporary bandage with a large handkerchief, Roddy took the radio and called Major Schuler. The Pave Low had begun to attract a small crowd of people who had stopped their cars to see what was going on.

  "We got them all, Dutch, but they fired one of the shells," Roddy advised in a saddened voice.

  "Oh, God...no!"

  "I'm afraid so. I picked up a chunk of lead in my arm, too. But no real damage there."

  "Sure you're okay, Colonel?" Schuler replied.

  "Roger. You guys had better get out of here before all hell breaks loose. You're already attracting an audience. Burke and I will stay and try to explain this to the cops. Then we'll head over toward the Capitol and see what's happening." And hope we can find our families alive, he thought.

  "I'm sure I'll catch unshirted hell when this gets out," said Schuler. "But that's life. Call me when you get settled down."

  The rotor blades began to spin faster as the turboshaft engines revved up and the helicopter lifted off the pavement, dipped its nose and began to rise.

  As Burke and Roddy watched, they heard a sudden rustling sound behind them. They turned to find eight camouflage-suited soldiers moving in with automatic weapons. The group wore no insignia of any kind. Their steel helmets were painted a dull black. Their faces were smudged with black greasepaint.

  "Lay your weapon on the street," ordered the one closest in a cold, businesslike voice. "Don't move and you won't get hurt." He turned toward the others. "Echo, keep your gun on them. Bravo, you drive the truck. The rest of you get moving."

  The others slung their weapons, Uzis, Burke noted, behind them and quickly and quietly went to work. Operating in pairs, they gathered the bodies of the Peruvians and tossed them into the dump truck with Romashchuk. The one called Bravo climbed into the cab and started the engine. Another shook a powdery substance from a can onto the bloody spots where the guerrillas had fallen. At a signal from the leader, two men hopped into the truck cab with the driver and the others quickly climbed into the gray van, which had suddenly appeared with lights on, engine running.

  As Burke and Roddy watched in stunned silence, the van pulled out in front, pausing to move aside the barrier at Sixth Street. It was followed closely by the yellow dump truck as raindrops began to pepper down in the street. In less than five minutes from the time they first appeared, they were gone. And so was all evidence of the terrorist team and the operation it had only partially carried out.

  Roddy Rodman was first to break the silence. "What the hell was that?"

  "A cleanup crew," Burke said.

  "Where'd they come from?"

  "Damned if I know. Probably weren't CIA, but I'll bet that's where they learned their trade."

  Burke and Roddy scurried to the side of the street as cars began to drive down the block again. "Look at this," Burke said, squatting down near where one of the terrorists had fallen. "They sprayed something on the bloody spots."

  "It's greenish."

  "Yeah, like somebody's radiator leaked antifreeze."

  Roddy felt numb. It was as though somebody had just peeled off a layer of his life, erasing all evidence of the past week. "The two people who could testify that I didn't kill Elena Castillo Quintero are now dead. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff has put out the word that I'm nutty as a fruitcake and dangerous. And the FBI is still hunting me down."

  Burke shook his head. "We're damned sure not going to accomplish anything here. Let's see if we can find out what happened to that shell Romashcuk fired."

  When they met the crowd swarming down Maryland Avenue from the Capitol lawn, some with umbrellas, most without, it was obvious from the laughter and weather jokes that these people were totally unaware of any terrorism at the concert.

  "Maybe the shell missed," Roddy said. "Maybe it didn't detonate."

  "I know where Walt Brackin parks," Burke said. "It isn't far from here. Maybe we can find them."

  By the time they reached Walt's parking spot, a new chorus of sirens had begun to echo through the soggy night air. Burke felt a wave of relief when he saw his family approaching at a trot. Walt carried Cam, Chloe held Liz and Lori toted a large diaper bag and a folded stroller. Burke clutched his daughter as Chloe turned to look at Rodman's bloody arm.

  "What happened?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

  "I caught a stray bullet." Roddy was more worried about Karen and the girls than his own wound. "Did you see an explosion about the time of the last cannon shots?"

  "Explosion? No."

  He knew Lila would have made them arrive early to get as close as possible to the stage. If the Brackins hadn't seen the shell detonate, hopefully they were safe.

  Chloe had her doctor's bag in the trunk. As she began a temporary patch job on Roddy's arm, Burke explained quickly what had happened. Walt switched on the radio and got a half-hysterical reporter who had been no more than two hundred feet from where the shell impacted. He wasn't aware that it had been a mortar round, however. A state of mass confusion existed. A few military personnel at the concert had recognized the nerve gas symptoms and tried to warn people away. No one had any idea where the gas had come from, though police assumed it was connected with the as-yet-unidentified chemical that had created havoc around the Washington Monument. Fragmentary reports indicated casualties numbered around fifty. Police had blocked off streets north of the Capitol, where people on the sidewalks had been overcome by the gas. Several drivers of vehicles with open windows had suffered seizures and crashed into lamp posts or building fronts. The rain had become a steady shower, adding to the havoc in the streets but providentially washing what remained of the nerve agent droplets into the sewer system.

  When Chloe had finished with his arm, immobilizing it with a sling, Roddy looked across at Burke. "Do you want to go with me to the Presidential Plaza?"

  Burke had been thinking about the same thing. "Absolutely," he said. "Walt, think you could get us over to the Plaza?" It was only a few blocks
away, and the bulk of the traffic appeared headed in the opposite direction.

  "I think so. What's over there?"

  Lori's eyes flashed. "Burke Hill! You aren't going looking for Adam Stern?"

  "The bastard's got to answer for this," Burke said, his jaw taut.

  "Watch your language around the kids," she scolded, though both of them were asleep beside her in the back seat of the Brackin's Lincoln. "You aren't his judge or his jury or his executioner."

  "The way he set this up, with the evidence all neatly erased, we're probably the only court he'll ever face. I don't intend to let him get away with it."

  Lori shook her head. "Don't do something stupid, Burke. Don't ruin the lives of these two children."

  He understood what she meant. During the Jabberwock affair and Operation Hangover, he had killed men in self-defense. But to give Stern the punishment he deserved, it would be murder. There was one point, however, that Lori didn't understand.

  "Do you want to give up your business, change your name, take the kids, run and hide in some obscure, far-off spot?" he asked. "Adam Stern knows that Roddy and I are the only people left with first-hand knowledge of who is really responsible for what happened tonight. He killed the writer in Guadalajara. His henchman, Romashchuk, killed the woman Roddy knew and blew up the truck with the Mexican who had helped him. He killed Yuri and I'm sure he was responsible for destroying the minivan with the Peruvians. I'm equally sure Stern sent in that cleanup crew that carted off everything but the pavement from Maryland Avenue. He won't feel safe as long as we're alive."

  If there was one thing Lori Hill could not countenance, in either her business or personal life, it was intimidation. When some larger travel firms had attempted to thwart her expansion plans with threats of cut-throat tactics, she had met them head-on. But this was different. If Burke was right, it could impact the children as well. Even so, she was not prepared to knuckle under to intimidation from Adam Stern or his Foreign Affairs Roundtable masters.