The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3)

by Mosimann, James E.

  As the invitees and their guests arrived, they took their assigned seats quickly and quietly.

  The Secret Service had arranged that no invitee or guest could be approached by a spectator. Thus the spectators’ left-front entrance had access only to the three tiers of balconies that lined the left wall of the auditorium. No spectator could reach the floor seats, because a twenty-foot drop from the lowest balcony discouraged jumping. And even if a landing were successful, an eight-foot-high grid of glass and metal isolated the balcony side from the rest of the auditorium.

  No matter, the spectators were in a joyous mood, and they were heard by all. Shouts of recognition and applause as some “celebrity” guest took her or his seat resounded from the balconies, and these sounds easily overwhelmed the loud happy hum that arose from the favored seats on the floor.

  The celebration began as the band on the stage responded to the crowd’s enthusiasm with rock music that drowned out all conversation.

  At that, the spectators clapped and cheered in earnest.

  ***

  At five am this morning, Bill Hamm and Jeannine had driven to Dethorens, Virginia where they had learned that the Fire Chief was named “Jones” and that Dethorens Fire Department’s equipment was doubtless already at the pavilion.

  At that discovery, Bill and Jeannine had departed immediately.

  They were bumping along an unpaved road, a short cut to the pavilion, when Jeannine’s phone vibrated.

  It was Aileen.

  Jeannine was driving. Bill took the phone and narrated.

  “Aileen got a flight from Murtha Airport in Johnstown to Dulles. She met Peter Zeleny at the FBI’s Northern Virginia Resident Agency in Manassas. They’re on the way to the FBI lab at Quantico. They ran tests on Xolak for Peter. They confirm that it’s a possible antidote for nerve gas.”

  He continued.

  “Peter has a supply of Xolak from his clinic and others in the Chicago area. He says that if the terrorists attack, we’ll need all the Xolak we can find to treat the victims. They’ll bring the Xolak to Front Royal.”

  “Fine but tell them to come straight to the pavilion, and to hurry. We need the Xolak.”

  “They’re on the way, but we’ll get there first.”

  “Bill, you should wait for the Xolak.”

  “We’re out of time. I have to take my chances.”

  They continued their rush to Front Royal.

  ***

  After several calls, Bill Hamm was connected with a Mr. Roger Dixon, the head of the Secret Service’s presidential detail.

  “Mr. Hamm, thanks for your heads up last night. What do you have new?”

  “I’m on the way from Dethorens. The fire chief’s name is “Jones.” We are sure that he’s a terrorist. His truck and equipment weren’t in Dethorens. If they’re at the pavilion, then the terrorists are already inside your perimeter. They will have Hazmat suits, nerve gas and maybe automatic weapons. Where is the president?”

  “He’s already inside the pavilion. in a room behind the stage, waiting for his cue. In addition to my team and lots of local police, a squad of marines is here. Two fire teams are at the main gate, and the third, a weapons team, is guarding the president’s entrance.”

  Dixon continued.

  “I’ll have the marines check the fire truck, but are you sure this nerve gas isn’t just a gimmick. I mean the president is counting on this political show. And he does not give in to threats.”

  “Roger, the gas is deadly. You don’t have to breath it to die. If it just touches the skin you’re dead. I’m sure the terrorists have rigged the fire prevention system to spread it. It can be triggered remotely. Get the president out of there, and evacuate the damned building.”

  “Hamm, after you called last night, I checked with the fire prevention people. They have complete control from the Pavilion’s fire center. They can close all valves remotely. I told them to lock down all sprinklers and shut the other valves. Not to worry.”

  “But?

  “No, Hamm, say no more. You’ve been a big help, but we have enough manpower to stop some rag-tag religious fanatics. I’ll talk to the president and try to convince him to leave, but I know he won’t.”

  Dixon paused and added.

  “The marines will take care of the fire truck. Don’t worry. We can handle this.”

  The conversation ended. Bill Hamm felt sick. He turned to Jeannine.

  “Damn it, Dixon is too confident. Speed up. We have to get to the Pavilion, now.”

  He pounded the dash.

  “If only we had found about Dethorens earlier.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. This Jones character hid his tracks well. At least you have his photo from the Fire Department. We know what he looks like.”

  “We’ll need it. I’m sure Mr. terrorist ‘Jones’ can override any “locked” valves with the Czech’s remote activator. I have to stop him before he releases the gas.”

  “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Maybe so, but drive faster!”

  ***

  Parked next to the Pavilion of National Unity, the Dethorens Fire Truck shone bright and resplendent in the noon sun.

  William Masoud Jones sat in the cab of the engine. He had pushed the seat to the rear to accommodate the tanks strapped on his back.

  Earlier this morning, the Secret Service had sealed the entrance on the left side of the pavilion for reasons of security. This left only three usable entrances, the left-front (for spectators only,) the right-front (for VIP’s and their guests,) and the right-side (exclusively for the president and his party.) The security inside the pavilion was of little concern to Masoud. His main weapon, the fire prevention system, was already in place. Still, he was grateful for the closing of the left-side entrance. That gave him one less exit to block.

  Masoud watched the last of the line of spectators disappear into the pavilion. As soon as their screening was finished, the left-front doors would be closed.

  Some fifteen minutes earlier, the last of the VIP invitees and their guests had entered the right front doors. These were now shut. Latecomers, as forewarned, would be refused admittance.

  Masoud held his breath. The time for action was near. All inside the pavilion would die.

  ***

  From his seat in the Fire engine, Masoud watched as a group of U. S. Marines arrived at the main gate. There were eight of them, two “fire teams” in combat gear. And if, as Masoud guessed, a full squad had arrived at the pavilion, then a third team, maybe a “weapons team” had been deployed at the right-side gate to protect the president.

  Masoud was disturbed.

  Even with only three entrances to block, he knew he was woefully undermanned. And he had not planned for combat-ready marines!

  Next to Masoud, on the passenger seat, sat Hassan Ibn Ali.

  Hassan’s team had two important functions. The first was to neutralize the men from the other fire departments, so that only Masoud’s group would be equipped with Hazmat suits. That initial thrust was to be with the AK-47’s and RPG’s in the compartments on the side of the truck facing away from the main gate.

  After the firemen with Hazmat suits were cut down, any others would be gassed with nerve agent. Then Hassan was to block the right-front entrance of the pavilion to seal in any VIP’s who attempted to flee.

  In concert with Hassan’s attack, Masoud’s men were to lead the assault against the gatehouse and guards, first with conventional weapons, and then with nerve gas to eliminate the survivors. After that, his men were to “float” to support others wherever needed.

  Simultaneously, Quanit Ibn Husayn was to attack and seal the right-side entrance to prevent the president from escaping.

  During all these actions, Masoud would wait for the proper moment to trigger the remote. At the touch of that button, Novichok-H would fill the pavilion and Allah would triumph over the ‘Great Satan.’

  True, Masoud and his men would surely die.

&
nbsp; But Allah, the Merciful, would welcome them to their reward!

  However, none of Masoud’s plans had allowed for the marines.

  He was scared of them. He knew of their training and skills. At the university, his political science professor had scornfully dubbed the marines as “killers.” Exactly correct. That’s why they scare me!

  For the first time in months, Masoud felt the doubt that generates fear.

  ***

  Of course Masoud, like the good commander he was, kept his apprehensions from Hassan. Together they sat in the cab and waited.

  The Dethorens Fire Truck continued to shine bright and red under the sun. The reflections from its polished chrome glanced off the shiny new steel of the pavilion. Both front entrances were closed now. The last spectator had handed his ticket to the guard and been searched minutes before.

  Masoud watched the small TV in the cab of the fire truck. The VIP invitees and guests were in place, and most of the spectators had been seated. In moments, Masoud would launch the attack.

  Masoud’s eyes were focused on the TV screen, when he felt a nudge at his elbow.

  It was Hassan who pointed to a commotion at the main gate.

  The marines at the gatehouse were moving. Their leader, a sergeant, pointed at the fire truck.

  Immediately a team of four marines broke away, and headed towards the Dethorens truck and Masoud.

  Their boots crunched on the temporary gravel path as they ran. Each held an M16 at the ready.

  ***

  Masoud fastened his headgear and signaled Hassan Ibn Ali to descend from the cab.

  Hassan dropped to the side of the truck, his movements concealed from the marines. Four men followed him. They fastened the helmets of their Hazmat suits and took up their AK-47’s and RPG’s.

  Masoud needed to gain time for Hassan and his men. He stepped down from the cab and exposed himself, waving to the marines as if in greeting.

  The foremost two marines hesitated. The third looked back to his sergeant as if expecting new orders. A fourth leveled his M16 at Masoud.

  Masoud pressed the lever of his tank and a jet spray of dark oily material flew twenty feet towards the oncoming marines, enveloping them in a gray mist.

  The battle of the Unity Pavilion was engaged.

  ***

  Masoud peered through the shield of his helmet. The scene before him was unreal.

  The first three marines were down. They presented a grizzly sight, legs extended, stretching and quivering in final tetanus awaiting death.

  But the fourth marine, bubbling blood, had struggled to his knees.

  Somehow, he lifted his M16 towards Masoud and squeezed off a series of rounds.

  “Br, Br, Br, Brup, ..., Brup, ..., Br, Br, Brup, ..., Br, Br, Brup.”

  Time slowed. Masoud watched in terror as the 5.56 mm slugs scattered stones from the gravel path in a line that approached his feet. He voiced a final prayer.

  “Allahu ... ”

  But the stricken marine collapsed and the M16 slumped downward. Just in time, the last flying stone bounced short of Masoud’s toes.

  He was untouched.

  ***

  Then Hassan and his men rounded the corner of the fire truck.

  Two rocket propelled grenades smoked a path towards the clapboard gatehouse where the remaining marines were clustered. The rattle of automatic weapons fire filled the air.

  Masoud ducked to the ground.

  When he looked up, the gate house was gone, its foundation smoldering and clouded with thick dust. More importantly, the marines and guards were on the ground, dead or dying.

  Masoud watched Hassan’s men launch two more RPG’s at the other fire trucks. Two explosions were followed by thick black smoke rolling skywards. Near the burning vehicles, firemen lay sprawled, dead or incapacitated. There had been no time to don protective Hazmat suits. The assault had been too sudden.

  As Hassan and his men took up positions to block the VIP entrance, several policemen, guns drawn, rounded the right end of the burning vehicles. Immediately they disappeared in a gray mist of sprayed gas. Moments later, they lay motionless, twisted and contorted on the gravel path before the large doors.

  Hassan turned and waved to Masoud. His mission was accomplished, the right front entrance was blocked.

  At that moment music blared over the pavilion’s speaker system. Distracted, Masoud looked up. The tune was “Hail to the Chief.” The president’s cue. He was in the pavilion. It was time to seal him inside.

  Masoud waved Quanit into action. Quanit and his men disappeared around the corner of the pavilion headed for the president’s entrance. They would “lock” the president inside. The pavilion would be his tomb.

  After the president’s exit was blocked, Masoud could trigger the release of the gas.

  Masoud felt for the remote. No! In his haste to buy time for Hassan when the marines had approached the fire engine, he had left the remote in the cab.

  He dashed back to the truck.

  ***

  The actions of the marines at the front gate had forced Masoud to initiate the assault prematurely The battle had started before he was ready.

  The president’s entrance at the right side of the pavilion was guarded by a “weapons” team of four marines. They had set up their bipod “SAW,” an M249 Light Machine Gun with a 200-round belt. Moments before, as explosions and gun fire echoed from the front of the pavilion, they had lost communication with their comrades. They guessed, correctly, that they were on their own.

  These men were not to be surprised. At the sight of firemen in Hazmat suits rushing towards them they did not hesitate. The belt of cartridges rattled rapidly as the gun fired.

  “Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, ..., Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, ..., Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum.”

  The rain of 5.56 mm slugs cut through the first three members of Quanit’s squad in a bloody swath. The fourth “fireman” fell more discretely, likely a victim of a well-placed shot from an M16.

  “Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, ..., Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum, Pum.”

  The last two of Quanit’s men were cut to pieces by this burst. They disintegrated in a red-stained bloody cloud.

  Quanit was alone. The charge had been futile.

  He was not to conquer by brute force alone.

  Quanit threw his hands high in surrender.

  ***

  But Quanit’s confidence in Allah was not shaken.

  He lowered his arms slightly and stood motionless as two marines rushed towards him, their M16’s ready. The others kept the M249 machine gun pointed at Quanit.

  He lowered his hands more, as if tired.

  For a split second the two oncoming marines crossed the line of fire of the M249.

  Allahu akbar. Quanit had dared to hope for that event.

  He dropped his right hand and squeezed the lever of his tank. An oily aerosol engulfed the onrushing marines. Stricken, they dropped to the ground gagging and retching, their limbs shaking.

  The writhing marines lay between Quanit and the machine gun. For a fatal instant, the gunners failed to fire for fear of hitting their buddies.

  Quanit did not hesitate.

  He squeezed his lever again, launching a spray twenty yards that surrounded the gunners with a gray mist. They collapsed.

  Quanit rushed to the exit. He would coat the passage with the deadly nerve agent. No one, least of all the president, would pass safely.

  Success was in his grasp.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 49

  Wednesday, December 8

  Masoud climbed back into the fire truck and grabbed the precious remote. He would not press it until Quanit signaled that the president’s exit was blocked. He was sure that the Secret Service would not risk the president in flight. He would be barricaded in an interior room. The president would be inside.

  Unknown to Masoud, luck had intervened on his behalf. After the brief epi
sode of “Hail to the Chief,” the heavy rock music had resumed. No sound of the explosions outside the pavilion had penetrated the extreme decibels emanating from the stage. The celebration inside the pavilion continued, undisturbed and unabated.

  Masoud was worried. The “Pum, Pum, Pum,” of the machine gun had ceased. Either the marines, or Quanit’s men, were dead.

  Hassan’s men were needed at the VIP exit, while several of Masoud’s team had to guard the main gate.

  Masoud had only one man, available. He sent him for news of Quanit. Was the president’s exit sealed?

  A nervous Masoud fingered the remote and waited.

  ***

  Roger Dixon, the head of the presidential detail, was a “meat and potatoes” kind of guy. Practical and realistic, he liked things he could see and touch. The unknown unsettled him, and Bill Hamm had done just that. Roger had no experience with “nerve agents,” or “nerve gases,” or whatever this “Novichok” thing might be. He had read about Sarin at the time of the Tokyo Subway attack, nothing more.

  When Quanit had charged the president’s entrance, The president had not yet entered the auditorium with its deafening music. At the sounds of the marine’s machine gun resounding through the corridor, Roger had directed the president back to his waiting room. There, he and the agents surrounding the president had barricaded themselves in.

  Roger was true Secret Service. No president was going to be lost on his watch, he would sooner die. With the president secure, he slipped out the room and crept down the corridor towards the pavilion entrance. Roger carried an odd-looking machine gun, an FN P90 with a 50 round magazine. Looks or not, he liked this gun. It packed a punch.

  Roger’s optimism waned. These battle-ready marines were good. They should have prevailed, but their machine gun was silent, and he had not heard from them. Where the hell were they?