Overture to Disaster
Post Cold War Political Thrller Trilogy, Book 3
Chester D. Campbell
Published by Night Shadows Press
Copyright 2013 by Chester D. Campbell
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright owner and Night Shadows Press.
Also by Chester D. Campbell
Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy:
The Poksu Conspiracy (2)
Beware the Jabberwock (1)
Greg McKenzie Mysteries:
A Sporting Murder (5)
The Marathon Murders (4)
Deadly Illusions (3)
Designed to Kill (2)
Secret of the Scroll (1)
Sid Chance Mysteries:
The Good, The Bad and The Murderous (2)
The Surest Poison (1)
Cast of Characters in Overture to Disaster
Principal Characters
Col. Warren (Roddy) Rodman, special operations helicopter pilot
Yuri Shumakov, chief investigator for Minsk city prosecutor
Burke Hill, Worldwide Communications Consultants chief financial officer, clandestine group director
Former Soviet KGB Officers
Gen. Valeri Zakharov, #2 in the Second Chief Directorate
Maj. Nikolai Romashchuk, Zakharov's protege
U.S. Air Force
Gen. Philip Ross Patton, Chief of Staff
Maj. Juan Antonio Bolivar, Air Staff intelligence officer
Capt. Peter (Dutch) Schuler, Colonel Rodman's co-pilot
Tech Sgt. Barry Nickens, helicopter flight engineer
Sgt. Jerry Nicken, Barry's younger brother, also flight engineer
Sgt. Ian McGregor, member USAF Band, Lila Rodman's boyfriend
General Wackenhut, Retired, Captain Schuler's father-in-law
Chief Master Sgt. Clinton Black, Retired, former Air Staff intelligence NCO
U.S. Army
Maj. Mike Hardin, Delta Force leader
Gen. Fredrick Parker Strong, Retired, former Secretary of State
Republic of Belarus
Chairman Latishev, Belarus head of state
General Borovsky, head of Belarus KGB
General Nikolsky, army second in command
Sergei Perchik, Minsk city prosecutor
Capt. Anatoli Shumakov, Soviet Army 48th Division officer, Yuri's brother
Paul Kruszewski, KGB identification specialist
Omar Khan, Minsk militia detective
Selikh, crime lab forensic analyst
Vadim Trishin, former Soviet soldier, lives in Brest
Larisa Shumakov, nurse and wife of Yuri
Petr and Aleksei, sons
Kiev, Ukraine
Oleg Kovalenko, chief investigator for Kiev prosecutor
Col. Ivan Oskin, Ukrainian Defense Ministry
Guadalajara, Mexico
Pablo Alba, director of operations, Aeronautica Jalisco
Maria, Aeronautica Jalisco office worker
Señora Elena Castillo Quintero, wealthy businesswoman
Manuel, Quintero's butler
Rafael Madero, influential leftist politician
Julio Podesta, sidekick of Major Romashchuk
Bryan Janney, journalist investigating Foreign Affairs Roundtable
Mexico City
Sergio Muños, customs officer, Aeropuerta International Benito Juarez
Worldwide Communications Consultants
Nathaniel Highsmith, president
Brittany Pickerel, research assistant
Roberto Garcia, manager of Mexico City Office
Jerry Chan, manager of Seoul Office
Foreign Affairs Roundtable (FAR)
Bernard Whitehurst, chairman, international banker
Laurence Coyne, president
Adam Stern, a.k.a. Baker Thomas, ex-CIA, known as "facilitator" or "enforcer"
U.S. Government
Senator Thrailkill of Pennsylvania, chief opponent of the B-2 bomber
Dr. Geoffrey Wharton, National Security Adviser to the President
Bradford Pickens, Director of the FBI
Jack McNaughton, Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI
Fred Birnbaum, FBI agent, instructor at Quantico
Clifford Walters, FBI agent, son of Burke Hill
Others
Walker Holland, General Patton's personal lawyer
Leslie Hall Rodman, Colonel Rodman's wife
Renee and Lila, daughters
Lorelei Hill, Burke Hill's wife, head of Clipper Cruise & Travel
Liz and Cam, Hill twins
Brenda Beasley, Lori Hill's executive assistant
Drs. Chloe and Walter Brackin, close friends of Lori Hill
Murray Bender, a.k.a. Greg, ex-CIA, provider of diverse bits of intelligence
Weasel, document forger recommended by Bender
Haskell Feldhaus, runs Advanced Security Systems, bankrolled by Adam Stern
Sarge, ex-cop employed by Feldhaus
Max, hit man used by Adam Stern
Pepe, leader of Peruvian Shining Path team of terrorists
Ivan Strelbitsky, hardline Russian legislator
PART I
ONE SUCCESS, ONE FAILURE
***
Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Repub lic
September 20, 1991
1
Where endless rows of towering green cornstalks had recently swayed in the summer breezes, drab olive-colored canvas tents marched in orderly columns across the idle fields. The smell of rotting vegetation tinged the air. To the indignant manager of the besieged collective farm, tucked away in the Nikolayev Oblast a hundred kilometers north of the Black Sea, the tents were as out-of-place as mushrooms in a desert. A thick-necked bull of a man, he had snorted and stomped over the order to rush completion of the fall harvest to make way for the troops of a motorized rifle battalion. "Nearly empty food stores, people standing in endless lines. Nobody gives a damn," he said to a bored bureaucrat. "When the army comes blundering through the countryside, like some horde of Cossacks, my farmers get no better treatment than animals." Had he known the full extent of the planned maneuver, and its destructive conclusion, he would have been even more shocked and chagrined.
In an open area beyond the tent city, a group of soldiers, gas masks at their sides, had gathered for a briefing by the commander of a company of chemical troops. Unnoticed by the soldiers, a long, black, official-looking Chaika roared down a nearby dirt road, leaving a roiling cloud of brown dust in its wake. Following closely was a military-style truck, its rear shrouded by a canvas cover.
A cluster of weathered wood and metal storage buildings had been centrally located on the farm like an isolated barnyard. The largest structure, emptied of its time-worn tractors, now bore a sign over its doorway that warned "No Smoking! Munition Storage Facility." Razor-like barbs of concertina wire flanked the road a hundred meters below the ramshackle buildings.
In front of the makeshift armory, a tall, muscular young man watched uneasily as the limousine stopped at the guard post along the road. He saw the sentry salute, speak to someone in the rear seat, then wave the vehicle into the compound. Standing there in his combat uniform and dusty boots, pis
tol dangling from his belt, fists jammed against his hips, a deep frown scarring his round Slavic face, Captain Anatoli Shumakov shook his head. What now? He had already suffered through a visit earlier in the day by a colonel and a major from 48th Division Headquarters in Kharkov. It had involved only a useless lecture on security and fire safety, but ever since the distressing investigation that had dragged agonizingly over the past several months, any sudden appearance of high-ranking officers left him with a knot in his stomach.
Captain Shumakov was a good soldier and proud of it. The youngest captain in his division, he had worked hard to get where he was. The army was like a demanding bride, and he gladly gave her his best. That had made it even more difficult to accept the unfairness of the charges against him. Officially, he had been exonerated of complicity in the theft of automatic rifles under his control, but he knew there were some who harbored lingering doubts. Now he had been saddled with weapons considerably more sinister than anything he'd had to deal with before.
Shumakov was surprised at sight of the KGB uniforms in the Chaika. An elite team of KGB spetsnaz troops, experts in chemical and biological warfare, were due in, but not until tomorrow. They would provide hands-on training in methods of dispersing highly sophisticated toxic agents. As with nuclear armaments, the Committee for State Security controlled access to the C/B arsenal. The material entrusted to the Captain's care had been delivered only yesterday from a C/B warfare production center in the Kharkov area. He would be damned happy when they came to reclaim it. He didn't understand the rationale that would permit use of such weapons in the first place. Maybe warfare was inherently uncivil, he thought, but it didn't have to be barbaric. That was one area in which he took issue with the army brass. In Afghanistan, he had seen the results of the so-called "one-breath anesthesia." The rapid-acting incapacitant had done its work so quickly that people were frozen in position like mannequins in a store window.
He watched as a short, gray-hired general climbed out of the Chaika, followed by a major and the driver. Three lower ranking men approached from the truck. All carried holstered sidearms.
"Captain Shumakov," he said cautiously, popping a snappy salute. "May I inquire as to the purpose of this visit?"
"You may, Comrade Captain. I am General Valentin Malmudov from Moscow." The general pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and unfolded two sheets of paper, which he handed to Shumakov. "Somewhat belatedly, it seems, our leaders have become concerned about the security of chemical and biological weapons. I have been directed to take possession of all such weapons in Ukraine. I understand you have custody of those temporarily assigned to your battalion."
Shumakov stared at the papers. One was signed by President Mikhail Gorbachev, the other by Vadim Bakatin, the new reformist chief of the KGB. Impressive. And it was just what he had wanted. A chance to get rid of these demonic weapons. But why wasn't there something from the General Staff, or at least the 48th Division? Surely the military brass would have been consulted. What about the spetsnaz team due tomorrow? Something about all of this didn't quite add up. In any event, after all the problems he had faced lately, Shumakov was not about to make a decision of this consequence without assurance from his own headquarters. He glanced at the general, his face clouded with uncertainty.
"Sir, this is a bit irregular. I trust you won't object if I consult with my commander?" He might not have been so bold in the past without more troops to back him up, but Shumakov was aware that the KGB had had its wings clipped. He had heard from his brother, a criminal investigator on the staff of the Minsk prosecutor, that many of the worst tormentors had already been suspended pending investigation.
The General's eyes narrowed. "Are you questioning the authority of the president of the Soviet Union?"
"No, sir. I'm only questioning the procedure."
"What is your question, Captain?"
"This is a military matter. It should be handled by military commanders."
General Malmudov was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Very well, Captain. Call your commander. What is his name?"
"Colonel Kalin."
"Perhaps I should speak to Colonel Kalin myself." He glanced up at the sign on the building, then back at Shumakov. "Is this where the materials are stored?"
"Yes, sir. We would have preferred a better facility, but this is all that was available. Come with me. We can call Colonel Kalin from inside." Captain Shumakov turned toward the doorway and the KGB delegation followed. All except the General's driver, who remained outside with the guard at the entrance.
In the month that had followed the abortive coup by the communist hardliners, the Soviet Union's derelict economy had continued to unravel at a startling pace. The commercial and industrial base floundered in uncertainty while the main organs of government struggled in disarray. Despite this, many of the bureaucracies curiously muddled right along as though nothing had happened.
This was the case with the military garrison in the southern Ukraine. Army commanders had become concerned during the Persian Gulf War about their troops' proficiency in countering a chemical or biological attack. Regardless of treaties or diplomatic niceties, if the Soviet army was provoked, it would be prepared to retaliate in kind. For training purposes, non-lethal tear gas would be used to simulate conditions under an attack. The chemical troops would demonstrate their ability to decontaminate an area, and the spetsnaz detachment would demonstrate handling of highly toxic weapons.
Apparently all that had suddenly changed, Captain Shumakov reflected as he stepped inside the building. Still, he wanted confirmation from somewhere along his own chain of command.
The front section of the structure was outfitted as a small office, normally used for the collective farm's records. A stocky sergeant seated at the desk jumped to his feet at sight of the General. Beyond him, a wooden counter had been hastily built across the width of the building. Two soldiers with AK-47s slung over their shoulders stood behind the counter. Everyone carried gas masks. The place was neat, orderly, organized, the mark of an exacting commander.
Cases of ammunition were stacked along the walls, including assault rifle magazines, machinegun drums and belts, 82mm rounds for mortars and recoilless guns, and grenades. A separate heavy wire mesh fenced enclosure stood along one wall with a padlocked gate.
"Get Battalion Headquarters on the phone," Shumakov told the Sergeant.
"Sorry, Captain, the phone line is dead again. Some idiot must have run over the wire. I'll use the radio."
The radio had a telephone-style handset. He spoke into it, then listened. His forehead rumpled with a puzzled expression.
"What's the problem?" Shumakov asked.
"I can't hear a damned thing but static. I talked to one of the companies a short while ago and it worked fine. I don't understand."
The Captain reached out and took the handset. He shook his head as he listened to the noise. He tried calling Battalion Headquarters but heard only the hapless crackle of static.
The General frowned impatiently. "I suggest we take a look at your storage area. You can try calling Colonel Kalin again in a few minutes."
The Captain shrugged his broad shoulders, took a key ring from his pocket and led the way back to the fenced enclosure. He failed to notice that one of the lower ranking KGB men remained near the Sergeant and the other two positioned themselves adjacent to the soldiers behind the counter.
Shumakov unlocked the wire mesh gate and stepped inside. He looked down at the cases stenciled boldly: "Warning! Chemical Agents! Handle With Extreme Caution!"
"Four mortar shells," he noted. "Five canisters." He understood the canisters contained neurotoxins. What that meant, he wasn't sure, but it had a grim sound to it. The mortar rounds were loaded with deadly nerve agents. Those he knew only too well. A minute amount would kill a man within minutes.
To Anatoli Schumakov, anything that required the intervention of the KGB had no business in the military. The Committee for State Security meant pol
itics at its ugliest. He no longer had any desire to be involved in anything political, including the mandatory sessions led by the unit's political officer. It had not always been that way. When they were growing up, Anatoli and his older brother, Yuri, had been guided through the tortuous landscape of Soviet society by their father, a garrulous ironworker from Minsk who eventually died in a building collapse, a victim of faulty Soviet engineering. He had pushed his sons to take an active role in the Pioneers, then the Komsomol, and finally the Party. The elder Shumakov was determined that they should become something more than simple blue collar workers. At that, he had succeeded.
Yuri chose a legal career. His interest in law enforcement had steered him into the position of investigator for the Minsk city prosecutor, the prokuratura. Party membership was a prerequisite for such a job, but as the years passed, obvious mismanagement and deplorable incompetence had gradually eroded his faith in the Party and, consequently, in the integrity of the whole Soviet system. But that did not affect his commitment to the concept of law and order. He had doggedly followed his own instincts, pursuing diligently the belief that what he did was vital to the welfare of the ordinary citizen.
Anatoli's experience had been similar. He used his connections to help get an army commission. He found, however, that he'd had his fill of politics much sooner than his brother. He saw quickly that the military and the political made a distasteful mixture, like fine cognac diluted with inferior brandy. Military decisions influenced by politics inevitably brought difficulty, if not downright disaster. He chose to make his way on what he knew, not who. He studied hard and trained hard and fought hard. After surviving the quagmire of Afghanistan, he figured he should be able to contend with whatever rigors the army chose to throw his way. And with the exception of the weapons theft inquiry, he had managed well, especially when spared the necessity of dealing with needless interference from above. Situations such as he was now confronted with by this curious KGB contingent. While Captain Shumakov stood staring down at the crates of weapons, the General quietly took a step toward the gate, gave a nod to the men near the counter and suddenly barked, "Now!"
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 1
