by Al Ruksenas
“Another rider.” General Starr lifted his head and reined his mount a little in case the other rider did not see them. As he did so, he noticed a shiny black stallion racing towards them out of the bend. It had a bridle and saddle, with stirrups flaying wildly on its sides as it thundered full speed towards them.
“A runaway!” the General blurted as his mare suddenly bolted to a stop and almost threw him over her neck. The Appaloosa neighed in fright and began to sidestep with the General pulling sharply on her reins and spurring her to respond. By then the black stallion was almost upon them. Its eyes were wide and showing white with nostrils flaring and ears pinned back in rage. The stallion slid to a sudden halt, kicking up dirt and pebbles in front of it. Just as suddenly it reared on its hind legs and flayed with its forelegs. The General’s Appaloosa jumped sideways, lost its footing and stumbled in spite of General Starr’s expert, but futile reaction.
Before he could clear his foot from his right stirrup the Appaloosa rolled onto her back. She screamed in fright and flayed her legs in the air to regain her equilibrium with the black stallion rearing up menacingly above her. By the time the mare’s legs found firm footing she had rolled several times back and forth on her right side pinning and crushing General Starr beneath her full weight of 980 pounds.
As she rose in bleating panic, kicking the ground with her hind legs to regain her stance, she glanced her hoof on General Starr’s forehead knocking off his Stetson, but the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff lay still and unconcerned. He was dead from the crushing weight of his favorite mare.
The intruding black stallion reared up several more times with raucous neighing as the Appaloosa tore back in full gallop along the trail. The stallion stood its ground, turned a full circle to survey its surroundings, sniffed around the inert body of General Starr, snorted several times, then galloped headlong from where it had come.
The terrified Appaloosa raced unerringly to its stable and darted for safety into its stall. The horse would be noticed only late that afternoon when a search for General Benjamin Starr, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, would earnestly begin.
Chapter 12
A heavily laden C17ER Globemaster took off from Andrews Air Force Base late that evening bound for the American air base at Ramstein, Germany; headquarters of U.S. Air Forces in Europe. The giant cargo plane was carrying military supplies for the State of Israel in accordance with an ongoing treaty. This cargo held spare parts and electronic equipment for a fleet of F16 fighter jets that had been contracted several years earlier. Aboard, as the only passengers among a four‐man crew, were Colonel Christopher Caine and Colonel Garrison Jones, the two American commandos dispatched by General Bradley to track source Warlock’s lead on the terrorist abduction of Speaker McConnell’s daughter.
Caine and Jones were settling in for the overnight flight, stowing their gear and making themselves comfortable on the sidewall seats attached to the fuselage. It was then that Caine noticed a bulky knapsack his fellow‐officer was pushing under his feet.
“Something extra?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah!” Colonel Jones assured. “Something from the boys in the ‘hood. The brass wants us to blend in with the crowd. But where we’re goin’s an armed camp.”
“The brass wants no provocations,” Caine said blankly.
“They’ll get none from us,” his friend responded. “But now, you do agree that nothin’, but a satchel full of money, a small sidearm, and a happy smile are little comfort in no man’s land?”
Caine peered at Jones with a look of resigned assent. “What’ve you got?”
Colonel Jones smiled at his fellow Colonel, satisfied that he was comfortable with the additional, but unauthorized equipment. He got up from his seat, pulled the backpack in front of Caine’s feet, unzipped it and leaned back with satisfaction onto one of the cargo crates lined end to end in the middle of the vast fuselage. Jones looked on as Colonel Caine peered inside. He pulled out two compact Uzi submachine pistols, and an MP5K and MP7A1—both armor piercing submachine pistols manufactured by the German firm HK for war and law enforcement.
“Where did you get these pieces?” Caine asked in an admiring tone.
“Two Beers,” Jones replied.
“What? A cheap bet?”
“No, I got ‘em from Two Beers.”
“Someone’s street code? A dealer?”
“No, that’s his name. He’s an Indian. Nez Perce.”
“Okay, Arie,” said Caine. “You’re not going to leave me with that.”
“You should come down to the ‘hood more often.”
“You should invite me more often.”
“I got these from Two Beers. Not two or three blocks from Dupont Circle. “He’s a ‘go to’ guy, kind of a shaman, a…”
“A gun dealer.”
‘Well, not in that sense,” interjected Colonel Jones. “He buys guns from all kinds of sources, true, basically to get them off the streets. He’s got great street ‘cred.”
“He’s one of ours, I take it,” Caine concluded, presuming he was undercover.
“He’s on our side, if that’s what you mean. He started off as a social activist for Native American rights; still is, actually. But he’s spread into other areas. He grew up in Idaho, in typical Reservation squalor. He thought he’d do good there. He and some Indian Brothers applied for social service funds from the State, as a needy minority. The State re
fused. Said: ‘There aren’t enough of you to be a minority’.”
Colonel Caine nodded empathetically.
“Can you imagine that? ‘There aren’t enough of you to be a minority!’ What the hell, then, is a minority?”
Caine nodded again with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, instead of turning militant, like some of the earlier Indian activists, he moved to Washington. Closer to the seat of power, he said. He moved into the ‘hood and grew into a natural leader. Two Beers has something about him. Some natural draw, even spiritual. A lot of the folks who don’t find satisfaction in the law or the church pew find it through him.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Very good friend.”
“Well, then, I like this Two Beers already,” Caine said. “How does he pay for his ‘collection’?”
“We sort of help him out.”
“Omega’s got a hand in this?”
“Not exactly. Not officially,” Colonel Jones explained. “A lot of us from around the area are interested in getting firepower off the streets. Especially tracing where a lot of this military ordinance comes from. Sometimes it leads to terrorist sources or drug cartels. That we pass on to Omega. Regular hoodlums, we present to local police and the ATF.”
Caine nodded admiringly and looked again into the backpack. He felt around and quickly recognized a hand grenade.
“There’s four of them in there,” Jones volunteered. “Two for you and two for me. Just in case. And some C‐four. You can never have enough plastic explosive.”
“Do you know something I don’t know?” Colonel Caine said dryly. “This is an inquiry trip. Not an invasion.”
“As long as we’re entering incognito, instead of a commercial flight into Beirut International, I thought we might as well be prepared.”
“I remember now why I wouldn’t have anybody else as a team mate.”
Colonel Jones smiled and sat back down next to Caine in the contoured seat.
“What about this Dr. Laura Mitchell?”
“She’s a very interesting lady. A lovely lady.”
“Tell her, when you see her,” Jones prodded. “What I mean is the incident—the shoot‐‘em‐up outside the Smithsonian. Any other details from her?”
“Not really. I’m afraid our relationship got off on a traumatic start.”
“You said a couple of the dudes had Uzis. They were on perimeter. Three others accosted you. That doesn’t seem like a usual mugging.”
“I know.”
“I’ll check
with some contacts in town.”
“Your Indian friend might hear something.”
“He might.”
“Now that you bring it up, I do remember one of the scum muttering something when they were down,” Caine reflected.
“So natural for a bully,” Colonel Jones said dismissively.
“He blurted something like: ‘We’re doing what we’re supposed to…’”
“Supposed to?” Jones asked with renewed interest. “Like— instructions from somebody?”
“I don’t know. But they did seem organized, not random rovers. A van sped by and picked them up. I took a shot at it.”
“Frustration? You know you could hit a passerby.”
“I’d like to think I’m still a good shot.”
“What about the two with the Uzis?”
“They were dead. Definitely.”
“Well, like I said at the General’s office. Someone felt the need to clear the area. No clues. No further investigation. More reason to think it’s not a typical mugging.”
“You know, Laura did mention she heard a scream coming out of the museum building,” Caine offered.
“That would be extraordinary through those walls. Imagination, maybe? Especially after an adrenalin rush from a deadly ruckus.”
“Maybe,” Caine agreed. “It’s more than an eventful week in Washington.”
“Yeah, Jeannie McConnell, Secretary Stack…”
“Don’t say: ‘What next?’ Arie. It’s a cliché. Besides, something else could happen,” Colonel Caine said wryly.
Each officer retreated into his own thoughts; their vital mission was just beginning. They stretched out in their seats and let the hum of the four gigantic turbofan engines lull them into needed sleep.
Chapter 13
The morning after the attack outside the museum, Laura Mitchell awoke with a start. The gaiety of the reception at the Old Castle was a blurred memory in a fitful night of dreams invaded by the vicious attack on her and her new acquaintance. She breathlessly blurted the story to her uncle over a hasty breakfast.
He listened absorbedly, eyes fixed on Laura’s cereal bowl opposite him and nodding for emphasis, as if mentally piecing something together.
“I have to go to the museum.”
“What do you plan to find?” Jonas Mitchell asked in a concerned tone.
“I don’t know. Something. Anything,” she replied urgently.
“Nervous energy isn’t enough.”
“What do you mean?” She arose from the kitchen table.
“Think first, Laura.”
“I am. I’m calling Al Carruthers and having him meet me at the museum.”
“And?”
“And. He’s a curator. He knows his way around. I want him to show me what’s in the east side of the building.”
“Where you said you heard the scream?”
“Where I did hear the scream! Maybe Al knows something about the men the Colonel shot.”
“Laura, please. This should be a police matter. At least wait until your new friend calls you or something.”
“Don’t worry, Uncle,” she soothed coming up to him and kissing him on the cheek. “It’s daytime. There’s hundreds of tourists around. I’m just going to ask Alvin for a tour. I have to find out what I heard.”
“You might even bump into your Colonel Caine?” he asked slyly.
“Uncle Jonas!” she said with her usual exasperation. “Besides, aren’t you the one who wanted me to”—she mimicked for emphasis—“’see who takes more than a casual interest in the devil exhibit?’”
“That’s something different,” he said dismissively.
“Maybe it’s not.”
He hesitated. Her uncle knew he could not dissuade her. “Just call me, all right? I’ll be at the Library.”
“I will.”
“Are you staying tonight?”
“Maybe. I’ll see. I’ll call you.”
As soon as she left, Jonas cleared the table, gathered up his briefcase and deep in thought drove to the Library of Congress.
***
Alvin Carruthers stood at the grandiose colonnaded entrance of the neoclassic National Museum of Natural History. Large banners between the columns advertised exhibits and coming events. He spotted Laura hurrying up the terrace of wide stairs among gathering visitors waiting for the museum to open.
“That midnight blue outfit does wonders for you!” he exclaimed when she reached him breathing excitedly. “Lovely. But why the worried look on your face?”
“We were attacked here last night! A group of men!”
“Oh, my!” He raised his fingers to his lips, accentuating his reaction.
“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously.
“Why no, I haven’t heard a thing.”
“It was right there around the corner.” She pointed towards the side of the building. “Chris shot a couple of men.”
“Oh?” he replied, still absorbing her words. “Well, I think he’s done that before,” he intoned slowly, regaining his composure. “But in a situation like this, he’s the kind of man you want around.”
“So I noticed.”
“There’s a lot of crime in Washington. But here? Outside the museum? This comes as a shock.”
“Weren’t the police here? Didn’t they ask you anything? What did they say about the bodies?”
“I don’t know, Laura. I’m sorry. I wish I knew more.”
“You’re a curator, aren’t you? Aren’t you supposed to know what’s going on?”
“This is a vast organization, my dear. You know that,” he said solicitously. “My office is way across the Mall in the Old Castle. If this happened last night, the news hasn’t reached me yet. You know more than I do.”
“I’m sorry, Al. I don’t mean to press you,” she replied, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m just sure after Chris fought off the muggers, I heard a woman shrieking inside the building.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Through one of the windows on that side of the building.” She pointed again towards the east wing.
“There are stray cats around. The first ones probably escaped from some haggard tourist families,” he reasoned. “They rummage for leftovers from the cafeteria. And they yowl like heck in season.”
“I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “I heard that version last night.”
“The main thing, Laura. Is that you’re all right. I’ll check with the police. Several jurisdictions overlap here, you know.”
She hesitated, then asked offhandedly, “Did the Colonel call you this morning?”
“Why no, he didn’t. I take it he didn’t call you either.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“Don’t worry, dear. I know Chris. After such a dreadful night, I know he would have called. His work is very secretive, that much I know. I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you as soon as he can.”
Carruthers saw her face soften.
“Can you show me inside?”
“Sure. I can show you the exhibits. That’s all there is, really.”
They entered towards a large African bull elephant that was a signature display of the Rotunda. “Haven’t you been here before?” he said as they walked.
“I have. But that’s just it. I only saw exhibits,” she explained. “Maybe you can show me what’s behind them.”
“If I can. Where do you want to start?” Carruthers swept his hand in a circle gesturing at exhibit halls radiating from the cavernous Rotunda, which was beginning to fill with visitors.
“How about that way?” she said, pointing at the second floor atrium.
“The east wing. Minerology.”
“Good,” Laura replied, satisfied with her sense of orientation.
They rode an elevator to the second floor and walked towards the Gem Hall along an atrium with an open view of the Rotunda.
“This is one of eighteen exhibit halls in the museum,” Carruther
s explained as they entered a long hallway lined on both sides with glass cases. Subdued recessed lights shone on a vast array of gems and semi‐precious stones. Visitors were entering behind them.
