Roger turned into a wider corridor that led directly to the exit. Ahead of him in the dimly lit tunnel, a rectangle of light marked the exit itself. He exhaled. That light meant that the exit was open wide. The steel doors that had been shut after the president’s entrance now were ajar. Any assassin had free entry.
And there was no sign of the marines. And if there were assassins about, why weren’t they inside?
He crept forward.
***
Quanit had just finished spraying the president’s exit with jets of the Novichok agent when he heard a sound behind him.
It was a man in a Hazmat suit. Quanit did not remember his name, but he recognized him as a member of Masoud’s team.
The man spoke. Inside his helmet, Quanit heard only static. He signaled the man that his receiver was broken. Then Quanit pointed to the door and held up two fingers in triumph.
The message was clear. The president’s exit was sealed.
Masoud could press the remote and release the gas!
***
From just inside the president’s entrance, Roger Dixon spotted the two strangers in Hazmat suits. Next to them, near the doorway, was a fallen marine.
Roger did not hesitate.
He stood erect, pressed the FN P90 against his shoulder and fired. Bursts of the 5.7 mm rounds tore through the visors of the helmeted men. Quanit and his companion fell backward, dead, with no time to mouth a prayer.
Roger stepped over the bodies and surveyed the outside. The bodies of marines and “firemen” were strewed about.
But there was no sign of live hostiles. It should be safe to evacuate the president. Roger turned back to the entrance.
But his hand brushed the wall. It felt greasy. He wiped his fingers.
That was his last voluntary act.
His voice failed. Fluid seeped from his eyes, and he could not breathe. Phlegm oozed from his mouth as he fell. He was already dead when his leg twitched one last time.
***
Inside the Unity pavilion, the crowd awaited the president’s arrival. They were unaware of the desperate and deadly battles that had taken place in the last several minutes.
The rock band with its massive sound system continued to crank out mega-decibels. No sound wave from the exterior could possibly penetrate the sound waves emanating from the amped-up speakers.
At this time all the prominent invitees were seated. From the boxes above, TV cameras scanned the auditorium. But, teased by the band’s brief premature rendition of “Hail to the Chief,” the crowd grew restless when, after some minutes, the president had not appeared.
The first to express their discontent were the boisterous spectators in the balcony. Someone started a chant that was soon picked up by the others.
“Where is the president? We want the president!”
“Where is the president? We want the president!”
The rockers on stage joined in with chords for the chanted refrain. The resultant din was excruciatingly painful to sensitive ears.
Legislators and business men alike held their ears and stared cryptically at each other. Many studied their watches. They wanted to hear the president. But the president was nowhere to be seen.
A new chant started.
“Mr. President, where are you?”
Monica and Barry Wilson joined in gleefully.
“Mr. President, where are you?”
***
All the while, amid the hubbub, the crowds, whether in the floor seats or the balcony were unaware that the doors of the auditorium were locked tight. In the foyer, at the first explosions of Hassan’s RPG’s, the Secret Service and the local police had converted the lobby into a defensive bulwark.
Both the left-and right-front doors had been closed and barricaded, and the interior doors to the auditorium shut.
No attacker would be allowed to penetrate their perimeter. Anyone attempting to breach either entrance would receive devastating fire
VIP’s and spectators alike, though unaware of the tumult, were safe.
And communications revealed that the president, too, was safe inside a barricaded room, and that although the left pavilion entrance was open, no one could make it down that entrance corridor without receiving intense fire.
All that was needed now was to await the arrival of the National Guard helicopters, and to hope that the rock music inside would keep the waiting crowds from panic.
***
From his post in the fire truck, Masoud smiled. The plan was working. No one was attempting to leave the front of the building. Clearly, the Secret Service, as predicted, was content to wait for reinforcements.
The only uncertainty was at the presidential entrance. Why, Quanit, did you not call me? And what happened to my messenger. Is the president still inside?
Ever cautious and thorough, Masoud signaled Hassan. Two of Hassan’s men left their post to go check the president’s entrance.
With no activity at the main front entrances, Masoud waited for their report.
He held the remote ready.
***
Not far away, Jeannine drove while Bill Hamm sat in silence. Ahead of them to the west, a mountain ridge ran north for several miles. Its top was capped by a “field” of sharp unweathered rocks among which were dispersed scrubby Virginia Pines. To minimize the climb over this natural barrier, the road turned sharply north along the side of the ridge. There it turned west to follow a “cut” up the mountainside.
As Jeannine topped the ridge, the Pavilion of National Unity came into view in the valley below. Jeannine pressed the accelerator, but Bill touched her arm.
“Wait. Stop the car. It’s started.”
He pointed downwards to a cloud of smoke and dust that hung over the entrance to the pavilion’s grounds. He lifted his binoculars and studied the scene.
“There’s no more gate house. It’s gone, blown up. That’s why the smoke. There’s the Dethorens Fire Truck. Looks like someone’s in the cab. I can’t tell from this distance. But there’s a group of firemen in Hazmat suits surrounding the door to the pavilion. They must be Jones’ men.”
“Are there any police or guards left?”
“I see bodies along the fence, but the doors to the pavilion are shut. Our guys must be inside waiting for reinforcements.”
“But they’re trapped. If the terrorists release the gas through the fire prevention sprinklers, they’ll all die.”
“Our guys don’t know that. Over to the right there’s a road that leads to the right side of the pavilion. It avoids the main gate. Go that way.”
They descended the ridge. At the base, a rutted road wound through the trees.
“ATV’s must use that. It goes to the north side. Go there.”
Branches scraped the car on both sides as they approached the pavilion. Bill reached for a pump action shotgun on the rear seat.
“Stop here. Look through the trees. That’s the north entrance gate. It’s open, I’m going in.”
“But the nerve gas”
“Can’t be helped. You wait here. I’ve got this poncho. It’ll stop skin contact at least.”
“This is crazy.”
But Bill was gone, disappeared into the woods.
***
******
Chapter 50
Wednesday, December 8
At first Hakim and Abdul Malik, the two men sent by Hassan to check the presidential entrance, crept together along the right side of the pavilion. Then an impatient Hakim left his older partner and raced ahead.
Arrived at the entrance, Hakim saw the greasy film on the walls and noted the distorted limbs of the fallen marines. Beyond them he counted two Hazmat-clad bodies.
The closer one was Quanit Ibn Husayn, his face mangled and barely recognizable. Roger Dixon’s weapon had delivered three rounds through the Hazmat helmet of that warrior. Hakim said a quick prayer.
The helmet of the man in the second Hazmat suit also had been shredded by Dixon’s fire. Thi
s man Hakim did not know by name. He mouthed another prayer.
Hakim turned. Three black limousines stood alone and unoccupied. Alongside one of them was the body of a man, limbs stretched in death, his face twisted in agony. A gray film coated the doors and hoods of all three vehicles.
Quanit had succeeded. The president had not escaped.
Hakim looked back.
Abdul Malik, had stopped not far from the front of the pavilion.
Hakim signaled him to tell Masoud that the entrance was sealed and the president was inside.
Abdul Malik disappeared around the corner of the pavilion.
Hakim raised both arms above his head in triumph and shouted.
“Allahu akbar!”
Those were his last words.
“Brroom, Brroom, ... Brroom.”
From the woods, Bill Hamm worked his Benelli pump action shotgun with deadly efficiency. The first two slugs cut into Hakim’s thin waist while the third smashed into his falling upper torso. He dropped, Hazmat suit and body torn and twisted together.
From the front of the pavilion, Abdul-Malik heard the triple reports of the shotgun.
He ran to Masoud as fast as the clumsy Hazmat gear allowed.
***
Like Hakim before him, but with greater urgency, Bill Hamm surveyed the scene of death at the president’s entrance. The abandoned cars of the motorcade, with their deadly gray coating, the prostrate marines, the two collapsed bodies in Hazmat gear, these images passed before him quickly. Then he spotted the body of a man who was clearly a victim of the Novichok gas. The man wore a suit and tie, an ear piece dangled from his neck.
Instantly Bill dialed the number that Roger had given him earlier. A voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“This is Bill Hamm, CIA. Roger Dixon gave me this number. There’s a dead man here, nerve gas. Was Roger wearing a gray suit, maroon tie?
“Yes. Who did you say you are?”
“Roger is dead. I’m CIA, but there’s no time. The terrorists are going to release nerve gas into the fire suppression devices and sprinklers. You and everyone in the building are in a death trap. You have to evacuate the president, now. Roger said you had sealed the south side entrance. Open it and get the president out.”
“What about the entrance we came in?
“I’m there now, but I can’t chance getting close. It’s bad. You can’t come this way. The entrance tunnel is contaminated with nerve agent, and your cars are covered with it. Roger’s body is just in the tunnel.”
“Then how come you’re alive?”
“I’m using binoculars. The nerve agent must be heavy. It’s not very volatile It’s projected in a jet as an aerosol. The agent is heavier than air and settles quickly. You can tell it’s there. It’s gray with a bubbly oil or greasy look.”
The man broke off. Bill heard him directing others to open the south side entrance and check for hostiles and to prepare to move the president. He spoke to Bill once more.
“All right, Bill, my name is ‘Harry Thomas.’ We’re scouting the south side. What’s the situation on the north? How many hostiles?”
“Three dead, all with Hazmat gear. There’s more behind me, but all dead. No live hostiles in sight. Earlier I counted over a dozen, all in Hazmat gear at the right-front entrance. It looks like that is the only one they’re guarding.”
“That figures, that’s where the big wigs are.”
“Look Harry, these terrorists know they can’t whip you guys as long as you stay out of range of their jet sprays. They’re all waiting to die for Allah. They’re ready to release the gas. Get the “big wigs” out of there.”
Bill continued.
“Your men could lead a counter attack front-left through the spectators’ door now. It’s unguarded. Tell them to stay at least 200 feet from the Hazmat guys and their spray. Cut them down if they charge. And tell them that the guy in the camouflage poncho is a ‘friendly,’ that’s me. One of these crazies must be the trigger man. He’ll have a remote. I’ll see if I can stop him.”
“Roger that. Good luck, Bill.”
Bill turned and started towards the front of the pavilion.
***
William Masoud Jones sat in the fire truck. Next to him outside the passenger door was Abdul Malik breathing hard. He stammered.
“They’re coming. Hakim is dead, shot, I barely escaped.”
Masoud looked at him in disgust.
“What did Hakim say. Is the president inside?”
Malik nodded.
“He is.”
At that moment gunfire echoed from the left front entrance as men in plain clothes and police in uniform dashed outside. They rained fire on Hassan’s men from a distance.
The stutter and rattle of bursts from AK-47’s answered back, but not before four of Hassan’s men had fallen.
Hassan raced back to the fire truck. He beckoned Malik to take his place at the VIP entrance while he climbed into the seat next to Masoud.
“Is the president inside?”
Masoud nodded affirmatively.
Hassan spoke again.
“Then kill them all. Push the button!”
Masoud lifted the remote. On it an LED shone green, but it was the button that held his attention. He tried to push it, but the Hazmat glove was too clumsy.
He put down the remote and fumbled to remove the glove.
***
Bill Hamm rounded the corner of the building just as the Chinook helicopter came into view. He waved and pointed the pilot to the south of the building. Hopefully, the president and his entourage were already there.
The low flying Chinook drew fire from the remainder of Hassan’s men, but with no effect.
It disappeared around the building just as a second Chinook appeared above the trees.
Bill ran towards the Dethorens fire truck. Two men sat in the cab. He recognized the man in the driver’s seat from his photograph, William M. Jones!
Masoud saw the raised shotgun. At the sight of that ominous barrel, he ducked.
Hassan misinterpreted that movement and held out his hand.
“Masoud, why do you hesitate? Give me the remote “You cannot push the button. You are weak. You are not a true follower of Allah. Abdul Rahman warned me about you, ...
Those were Hassan’s last words.
“Brroom.”
The blast from Bill’s Benelli shotgun shattered the passenger window. The slug tore through Hassan’s face and skull and blew the helmet from his shoulders.
The once-human remains fell against Masoud, knocking the remote from his hands.
Desperate, Masoud pushed the body away and fumbled for the remote, but the barrel of a shotgun appeared in the cab, only inches away from him. Bill Hamm spoke.
“It’s over, Jones or whatever you call yourself. Put your hands on the wheel and keep them there.”
Masoud complied. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
***
Bill Hamm looked up.
A contingent of National Guardsmen had rounded the southern corner of the pavilion, but they were not needed. The Secret Service and local police had decimated the terrorists. Only one Hazmat-clad individual remained standing, his hands held high not in praise, but surrender.
Still no one approached the fallen terrorists. All were aware that at the squeeze of a lever, a dying jihadist could release a deadly spray and take others with him.
The battle of Unity Pavilion was over.
***
Masoud studied the scene in front of him. His men, whom he had trained and with whom he had prayed daily, were dead or dying except for that coward Abdul-Malik.
Masoud was no coward. The remote was on the floor, next to his left foot, and the man with the shotgun had shifted his gaze to the scene of surrender.
Deftly, Masoud scooped up the remote with his left hand and pressed the button. He cried out.
“Allahu akb ...”
&nbs
p; “Brroom!”
Masoud, face gone, was no longer recognizable. But Bill Hamm was not looking at the twisted remains. The LED on the remote was no longer green, but pulsing red.
Bill gasped. The valves on the tanks were open.
Novichok-H flowed through the pavilion’s pipes.
***
******
Chapter 51
Wednesday, December 8
The President already was outside the pavilion and boarding a marine helicopter when Bill called Harry Thomas.
“Get everybody out. Now! The nerve gas release is triggered. Don’t go under any sprinklers wherever they are.”
Harry wasted no time. He jumped onto the auditorium’s stage. His voice resonated through the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. We must evacuate the building immediately. Listen carefully. If you are in the balconies, exit by rows and walk to the entrance through which you came. Once outside you will be directed to a safe location.
He took a brief breath.
“Those of you still seated in the floor area, must proceed towards the stage, towards me, and then turn left. Follow the line that has already formed to leave by the south exit.”
He raised the volume.
“Those of you on the floor level, do not attempt to leave by the exit behind you, the way you came in. Instead, walk towards the stage, towards me. Do not rush. Do not push. Walk, do not run.”
Harry looked up to the balconies. The highest balcony had half emptied. The hitherto boisterous spectators were filing in orderly lines down the rows.
For a brief moment, Harry was relieved, but then he looked down to the floor.
The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) Page 34
