by Chuck Holton
Mary handed two paper bags out the window. “That would be humorous, but we don’t have time. Tell them to get dressed. And hurry.”
18
Washington DC
THE CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO Canal was lightly traveled in the fading heat of the afternoon. Samael Berg was perspiring as he pedaled a recently purchased mountain bike northwest along the age-old path. A bronze placard he passed announced this trail was once trod by teams of donkeys towing barges between Washington DC and Great Falls, Maryland.
So far, checking off the items on his list had gone very smoothly, and the great United States was in a tailspin to absolute chaos. Who would have believed that America was so vulnerable? That without even causing much irreparable damage, the media coverage elevated the perceived threat until the entire country was ablaze in conjecture. Hitting the billionaire’s office had created a dramatic effect in the press, almost as frenetic as if he’d hit the White House itself. And now the president and Congress were almost apoplectic in their hysterical calls for action.
Yes, the objectives had been well planned. It showed the strength of this country to be little more than a facade.
This last objective would directly affect those same politicians, many of whom lived in the immediate area. Samael smiled, reassured by the weight of the last four bottles in his backpack, well cushioned by his fleece jacket.
He pedaled on, giving a friendly nod to two Lycra-clad women who were jogging the other direction. He hoped that the helmet and sunglasses he wore would make him harder to identify in case anyone he passed might actually remember seeing him. That wasn’t likely, since he looked like every other outdoor enthusiast out for an afternoon ride along the canal.
Here and there he caught glimpses of homes perched along the forested rim overlooking the Potomac River. Actually, castles was more like it. America was so profanely wealthy. He was glad to be making them pay for their smug materialism. The radio news he had listened to while driving had told of the chaos his actions were sowing across the country. The Americans were being shown just how fragile their economy was, how easily its vaunted Homeland Security Administration could be sent scurrying around like chickens when a fox comes calling.
He rounded a bend in the trail and saw the American Legion Bridge up ahead.
The fox is about to strike again.
Samael took one look at the massive concrete span that vaulted the border between Maryland and Virginia, and wondered if four bottles would be enough. The structure was huge. But at least it was far enough out of Washington DC so as to not be under constant scrutiny. The eight-lane viaduct carried hundreds of thousands of the Capital’s most important commuters every day. And there was no easy alternative for them. Without the bridge, rush-hour traffic around the capital beltway would go from hectic to a real-life nightmare.
He decided that four bottles would be enough after all. The bridge didn’t have to actually come down for the plan to be effective. Simply striking the gargantuan highway—wounding it—would have the über-safety-conscious denizens of diplomacy begging for committees of safety engineers to measure the damage, as they were now doing at the Hoover Dam. That process could see the bridge closed for weeks, at a cost of untold millions, even if it was found to be structurally sound.
It was the perfect picture of how Samael was using this corrupt nation’s greatness against itself. The advantage was his. He had only to be clever, careful, and thorough to succeed. But to prevent him, they had to be omnipresent. If they weren’t, he was sure to win.
The trail was deserted in both directions when he pedaled into the shade of the overpass. The noise of thousands of cars racing by overhead was almost deafening. He parked his bike against one of the support columns and shrugged the daypack off his shoulders. He pretended to stretch while carefully inspecting all around to make sure no jogger, bird-watcher, or homeless vagrant was in the area, anyone who might see what he was about to do. Then, satisfied that he was alone, he climbed the concrete embankment to the base of the bridge.
Scattered clothing and debris, along with the smell of urine, told him that people used the low space between the bridge supports as a bathroom and possibly a place to sleep, though he couldn’t imagine the latter because of the incredible traffic noise that echoed through the cramped space.
He grimaced at the smell but hunkered down and crawled into the darkest corner of the recess, dragging the daypack behind him. Here, the roadway was only three feet above the concrete surface under him, and the vibrations of the vehicles overhead felt like a constant barrage of artillery.
Samael yanked open the pack and produced the four one-liter bottles. He looked at the liquid explosive in one of the bottles. The news was calling it “neo-napalm.” The glass was cool to his touch and even now made him thirsty.
He arranged the bottles in front of him and then produced four pairs of nine-volt batteries he’d purchased at a gas station that morning. Opening the battery packages was difficult with the gloves he wore, but he didn’t want to risk getting his fingerprints on anything, just in case something went wrong and everything around him wasn’t incinerated.
He connected two of the batteries together, a short circuit that he’d determined earlier would allow him at least fifteen minutes before the batteries got hot enough to set off the explosive. He set the first bottle on the girder and placed the connected batteries next to it. Then he went to emplace the others.
Two minutes later, with his knees scuffed and muddy, he crawled out into the open and hurried back to his bicycle. A quick look up and down the path showed a silver-haired man in a tank top and running shorts advancing toward him at a slow trot. But the man’s head was down, watching the trail, and he didn’t appear to have seen Samael.
After hopping on the bike, he rode back the way he had come, exhaling the foul smell of the overpass from his lungs and replacing it with the fine Maryland springtime air. The ride back to his car left him winded, but he made it in under ten minutes.
He wiped down the bicycle and hid it in the bushes near the overlook where his rental car was parked. Checking his watch brought a smile to his face. Almost the height of rush hour. Striking the nation’s capital would be the perfect way to finish the tapestry of chaos he’d woven across the United States.
So long as that fat Panamanian had done his job correctly.
Samael got in the car and set his rented Garmin Nüvi GPS to take him via back roads to Washington’s Dulles airport. There, he would turn in his rental car and purchase his ticket out of the country. He could then wait for word that the Panamanian had finished his part of the job.
When he started the car, the radio blared to life as well. He started to turn it down but stopped with his hand on the dial.
“…as many as a hundred people feared dead in Nevada after a bomb went off in a crowded Las Vegas casino only an hour ago. Details are still sketchy, but it appears to have been the work of the same group of terrorists who have been setting off firebombs across the country. Only this time …”
Samael stared at the radio in shock. Something had gone wrong. Nowhere on the list he’d given Edgar Lerida had there been any mention of a casino. And his instructions had been very specific—any mishaps would cost him dearly.
He scrambled for his cell phone and punched in Edgar’s number. As he was doing so, however, another call came in. The caller ID showed simply, “International.” When he answered the call, the angry voice on the other end made his blood run cold.
North of Seligman, Arizona
The stars hung like Christmas lights, winking on one by one as the desert sky above Blue Mountain, Arizona, began to darken.
Edgar Lerida filled the first of twenty-four balloons, one each for his last twenty-four bottles of ITEB. It looked like his final assignment would be his easiest—and that suited him fine. He’d already taken far more risk than he was accustomed to.
The three-foot balloons he’d purchased at a party store held just enough h
elium to lift one bottle apiece. After he’d filled all twenty-four from a helium tank purchased at the same store, and once it got completely dark, he would attach a bottle to each one and send them skyward from this remote desert location.
He couldn’t be sure, but Edgar imagined that whoever had planned this objective had analyzed the wind currents and knew that the balloons would rise to an altitude where either the pressure or the cold would cause them to burst, which meant that some area along the West Coast would soon see a rain of fire. The winds aloft were heading west, which meant Las Vegas or perhaps L.A. Even if they missed the populated areas, the combined effect of twenty-four bottles of the most highly flammable liquid he’d ever encountered would surely start a forest fire that would decimate much of the Southwest.
He had always been fascinated by fire, though, and so the mental image of bottles of liquid flame falling from the sky actually brought a smile to his lips. He was still smiling when his phone rang. He knew who the caller would be before he answered it.
“I am just about to complete the final objective,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries.
The voice on the other end was like a blowtorch erupting from the phone. “Forget it, you idiot. Have you heard the news?”
“Dígame.”
“You seem to have a problem following directions.”
Edgar’s eyes widened. “What makes you say—”
“Where are you?”
“Arizona. Why?”
“A casino in Las Vegas was just bombed. Scores dead.”
Edgar closed his eyes and fought to keep from cursing aloud. “I can explain—”
The man’s deep voice was flat, emotionless. “I’m not interested in explanations. There was nothing in your instructions that mentioned bringing in a third party. You were to accomplish these objectives yourself, in order, as given. Hiring a gang of Latin criminals was not part of the bargain. Neither was murdering scores of innocent people.”
Edgar’s adrenaline surged as if he were in a car sliding out of control. How does the gringo know I hired MS-13? “Wait, it was an accident! I…I simply thought—”
“You did not think!” The gringo’s voice grew harsher, separating each word with cleaver-like precision. “If you had been thinking, you would have maintained control of the product. If you still hope to collect the rest of your payment, you will ensure that the remaining merchandise is disposed of. All of it.”
Relief flooded through his body. He might still have a chance to redeem himself and get paid. “You have my word. But what about the remaining target?”
“Forget about it.”
“Yes sir. How will you contact me once I have destroyed the remaining ITEB?”
“Idiot!” The line abruptly went dead.
Two minutes later, a server installed at the offices of Enterprise Satellite Systems in San Marcos, California, sent a highly encoded message to another server deep in the bowels of the National Security Agency’s headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. The message was forwarded to an analyst and included a transcript of Edgar’s phone call. On the transcript, a single word was highlighted in yellow.
Slavuta, Ukraine
A throaty air-horn blast signaled the train’s approach long before it was visible. The blanket of thick fog had rolled in over the small town a half hour before.
Olenka’s blue SUV was one of only three cars parked in the gravel lot next to a bare concrete platform on the edge of the town. A single streetlight bathed the platform in pale yellow, and the drivers from the other two vehicles stood under it, smoking and beating their sides to ward off the midnight chill.
Task Force Valor sat in uneasy silence, crammed into Olenka’s car, which was parked just outside the lamp’s wan circle of light.
The train engine came into view, a single powerful headlamp pushing a white cone of light through the fog. As it got closer, Sweeney decided the locomotive looked like the box that the train had come in. It was almost perfectly rectangular and had smooth metal sides painted a rusty shade of red. The aging monstrosity huffed smoke onto the grimy tracks as it pulled even with the platform. Its three high-set windows in the front emitted a pale reddish glow, which only made the train look more menacing.
A shiver went down Sweeney’s spine. That was partially due to the fact that he was still cold from his dip in the pond. But at least he had gotten rid of whatever radioactive debris had been plastered to his body in the dead zone. The shiver returned, and Sweeney wondered if he’d ever have children.
“Put this on, Bobby.” John Cooper shoved a newsboy hat at him. He’d pulled it out of the paper bag that Olenka had brought. It was full of her grandfather’s clothes.
“Shoot, this hat’s a total chick magnet.” As if the dungarees and suspenders don’t make me look like enough of an idiot.
“Hey, don’t complain,” John said. “Grandpa’s pants are too big on Rip and too short on me. You’re like the little bear whose bed was juuust right.”
Sweeney snatched the hat. “Just because you and Rip already have girlfriends doesn’t mean nobody else wants to impress the ladies.”
“Oh, good grief,” Mary said. “Look at me! Anybody else want to try an ankle-length peasant dress and work boots?”
Sweeney flopped the hat onto his head and pulled the brim down, masking his grin. Getting her riled up was kind of fun.
John nodded. “Olenka, the train is a few minutes late. Does that change anything?”
As far as Sweeney was concerned, Olenka had already earned hero status and was well on her way to sainthood.
Olenka shook her head. “No. As I said before, normally you must already have a ticket to board the train. But in these small villages, people often get around this by paying the provodnistas a little bribe. If there are empty berths on the train, they will usually let you on.” She produced a stack of Ukrainian hryvni from her purse and held them up. “I’m going to take this and go get you on the train. It will take you to the city of Kovel, near the Polish border. There, one of our agents will be waiting with a van. He will drive you to the border.”
“What about Customs?” Mary asked.
“You cannot pass through at the entry control point. There will certainly be security forces there. But I will coordinate with the driver to take you to a point where you can easily get across the Bug River in an unpopulated area.”
“The what river?” Rip said.
Olenka didn’t flinch. “Bug. You must swim. I will coordinate with your Major Williams to have your people waiting for you on the other side as soon as you cross into Poland. If everything goes well, you should be on your way home within a few hours.”
“I don’t like this,” Sweeney muttered.
John gave him a hard look. “You got any better ideas?”
Sweeney winked at him. “No, I meant the hat. I don’t like the hat.”
Most of the team groaned, and John’s look changed to a wry grin. “Quit your whining, Bobby.”
Sweeney didn’t like the plan, either, but since the CIA seemed to have a thing for leaving them stranded in hostile countries, there was no use complaining about it.
“The train is stopping now,” Olenka said. “I will go arrange your passage with the provodnista—there’s one in charge of each train car. I’ll wave at you when it’s okay. Stay here until you see my signal.”
The team watched as Olenka got out and hurried to the platform. A uniformed train employee appeared at the door of each car and stepped to the platform as soon as the train stopped moving. Olenka approached a squat woman in a garrison cap and spoke briefly. Sixty seconds later she turned and beckoned at the team with an urgent wave.
“Let’s go,” John said.
“I got the food, bro!” Rip replied, scooping up the paper sack off the floor. “Here, help me with these jars.”
Olenka met them at the foot of the stairs leading to the platform. “You must hurry. The provodnista only has four berths left, and unfortunately they’re
not in the same cabin.” The blonde handed them each a small packet of currency. “The provodnista will have bedding for you, but you will have to pay for it. It’s not much.”
John nodded, looking around the huddle. “It would be best if nobody hears you speaking English. Mary can use her Russian if you need anything. But if you need to communicate, whisper.”
“What time does the train get into Lviv?” Mary said.
“About seven in the morning,” Olenka said. “Your driver’s name is Slev. I will text you with details on how to contact him. Now you must go.”
Mary took Olenka’s hands in her own. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate all you are doing. You’ve done a fantastic job, Olenka, and I’ll make sure the right people know about it.”
Olenka’s eyes sparkled as she turned to leave. “Thank you. I hope to see you again someday. Do pobachennya.”
The team hurried up the stairs and nodded at the short but thick car mistress standing next to the door. John mounted the stairs into the train car, and Rip followed behind. But before Mary could mount the first step, the provodnista put a hand across the door and barked a command at them.
Sweeney tensed as he stared at the woman, trying to decipher what the problem was. Then she pointed to the next car and repeated the command. Recognition dawned in his head. “Ah!” Sweeney gave his best impression of a meek smile. “Tak!” It was the only Ukrainian word he’d learned. He pulled Mary’s arm toward the trailing car and whispered in her ear. “I think we’re back here.”
“Wow, train Nazi,” Mary whispered back.
“You got that right.” Sweeney pushed Mary gently up the stairs and followed behind, giving the train Nazi a friendly wave.
The inside of the train car consisted of a long paneled hallway with windows looking out onto the platform. On the other side was a row of flimsy doorways, all of which were closed. A moment later the provodnista reappeared and directed them to the first doorway, which she pulled open with a bang, apparently not caring that doing so might awaken half the train.
