The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (35 page)

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. This 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
...”

“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.

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 celebrities and guests in the rearmost seats had ignored the order to walk to the front. Instead, many were shoving their way to the rear exit, where they had entered.

Harry could only guess at their thoughts as they scrambled and massed at the doorway through which they had come.

“Get out of my way. I’m too important to die, I must live for the sake of my fans. I cannot disappoint them!”

“Move, damn it move, let me by. The government needs my expertise. Let me by!”

Whatever the personal rationalization, the crush at the doors grew worse, as bodies, smothered and trampled, piled up. Finally the doors gave way and individuals clambered and scrambled over the fallen mass to reach the lobby.

There they dashed to safety through the open entrance.

The first ones through the outside doors were horrified to find themselves on a corpse-littered battlefield.

Still, they pushed forward. They barely noticed the gray lotion-like substance that coated the bodies, bushes and pathways and adhered to their own ankles, hands and arms.

Not that there was time to notice.

The vanguard, the foremost of the panicked crowd, fell gasping and retching as the deadly agent took effect.

Moments later the second wave fell. The remainder of the crowd dropped in waves that swept backwards towards the entrance to the pavilion.

In only minutes, the congressional doors were blocked by the stricken throng.

In the hall, those congressional guests who had obeyed Harry Thomas’ directions to proceed towards the stage were faring well.

Prior to Harry’s emergency announcement, most of the invitees already had left through the open left-side doors to safety. There they waited under the protection of the newly-arrived National Guardsmen.

Thus, when at Harry Thomas’ command, the Secret Service opened the temporary glass barrier to the guests, the trip to the left-front exit and safety took only a short time.

As for the balconies, only the lowest one still had occupants, but even there, most seats had emptied.

Consequently, most of the spectators were safe outside at the front and left of the pavilion. They were guarded by the first of the National Guard units to arrive. No one was allowed to stray. Too many areas were contaminated.

As Harry Thomas watched the line remaining in the last balcony, fire alarms sounded and red lights flashed above and to his left. He looked up at the Press boxes. Their windows were obscured in a gray mist, the nerve agent. Fortunately those boxes had been evacuated.

But not all. A lone shadow pounded on the glass of the Press box before falling out of sight.

Harry turned to the right as now the alarms sounded from the balconies. He watched a gray mist descend from the respective ceilings. He stared helpless at the lowest balcony where dozens of stricken individuals fell out of sight behind the rail.

Now Harry looked above the stage. The ceiling was low and sprinklers were in clear view but still dry. He looked high up at the ceiling over the main floor. It was a long way down to the floor level.
Would there be sprinklers that far up?

Harry Thomas was no engineer.
Is the main hall next?

Fortunately, he did not have to answer that question. Three National Guardsmen, in Level-A protective gear with oxygen tanks came to his side.

“Sir, you should leave now. You aren’t protected. We’ll take over. Your men are outside. They need you.”

As a grateful Harry started to leave, one of the men tapped on his helmet. It was no guardsman. Bill Hamm shouted through the visor.

“Harry, Bill Hamm. These guys and I are going to the fire control room. Thank God you got most of the people out.”

“But not everyone. I wish that ...”

But Bill had moved on. He was headed to the north side of the building

A grateful Harry Thomas left through the south side exit.

Just in time. Red lights flashed above and the pressurized mixture of water and Novichok-H rained down upon the stage. In seconds, the shining floor was splotched a deadly motley gray.

The Press boxes on the right side of the pavilion were at a fourth-floor level. The two floors immediately below were occupied with offices. On the ground floor, a narrow elongate kitchen area served several large banquet halls.

The fire control room was located on the second floor, directly above the main kitchen.

One of the National Guardsmen, Ted, was a fireman in real life. He spoke to Bill through his communicator.

“The offices have low ceilings and water sprinklers. Water pressure is driving the flow of nerve agent to the sprinklers. What comes out is an emulsion of water and agent. By now, all of the offices are contaminated But the kitchen probably has local tanks set for low level suppression by carbon dioxide. There the pressure is from the tanks themselves and hopefully their valves aren’t open yet.”

Ted opened the kitchen door, and pointed.

“We’ll go through here and climb the stairs to the control room. It has no sprinklers or suppression tanks. The most danger will be from the sprinklers in the stairwell.”

Bill nodded.

They passed through the kitchen. There was no gray coating on the stoves or counters. The valves had not opened. They reached the stairwell in safety.

They were in luck. The sprinkler heads in the stairwell were not functioning yet.

They climbed the stairs to the fire system control room.

In the confusion of the guest’s fatal attempt to flee through the VIP exit, and subsequent mass of bodies there, Abdul-Malik had slipped unnoticed to the north side of the pavilion.

He had watched that
kufar
(Bill Hamm) dispatch both Hassan and Masoud. Malik wanted away from that killer.

And he wanted nothing more to do with this damned pavilion.

He picked his way carefully to the president’s gate. Once outside, he shed his Hazmat suit. No longer of use, it now served only to identify him as the enemy. But he clung to his AK-47, he was not yet in the clear.

He pushed through the thickets and brush of a dense woodland. At every sound of scraping branches or rustling leaves, he turned, shaking, and pointed his weapon towards the disturbance, only to see nothing. After a short time traversing the woods, he was about to despair when through the trees he spotted a means of salvation.

Ahead in a clearing was a lone car.

At first, Jeannine Ryan had waited patiently for Bill Hamm. But at the booming shotgun blasts and the more distant rattle of small arms fire, she had left the car to walk towards the action.

Approaching the president’s gate, she heeded Bill’s warning and stayed well back to evaluate the scene from a distance.

She surmised, correctly, that the gray material coating the motorcade vehicles was the dreaded nerve agent. She recoiled at the bodies of the stricken marines, twisted in death, and noted with satisfaction that at least four jihadists, identified by bloodied and riddled protective suits were dead.

But most important, there was no sign of Bill, or his body!

My God Bill, are you all right? And the president?

Her thoughts were in turmoil, but she steadied herself. She must go no further. Backing well away from the perimeter fence, she retreated into the trees as the roaring whir of a National Guard helicopter passed over her position and out of sight.

You’re right Bill. Friendly fire, I’ll go back.

All sounds of gunfire ceased and she started through the woods towards the car.

She spotted a movement to her left. It was the shadowy form of a man, creeping through the brush, but it was the weapon at the man’s side that most disturbed her.

The silhouetted magazine was long with a markedly forward curvature. The gun was an AK-47. The weapons by the dead Marines at the gate were M16’s with short lower-capacity clips.

Jeannine had grown up in West Virginia where her father had been an avid hunter. She was used to shotguns, and there was one on the back seat of the car. Unlike Bill’s Benelli police defense weapon, it was an older Marlin 12 gauge, but it had a pump action. And on the back seat, too, were cartridges loaded with buckshot.

But the shadowy skulker was between her and the car!

Bill Hamm and the two guardsmen entered the control room. Immediately, Ted, the fireman, dashed for the main control unit. He flipped the main switch.

Nothing. Needles still registered flow in all systems. The nerve agent continued to flow unimpeded.

But Ted was not only a fireman, he once had been an engineer with NoFlame Devices, the company that had installed the Unity Pavilion’s system, before Erik Holub had tampered with it.

Ted beckoned Bill Hamm to follow him as he raced down the stairs to the ground floor and entered a small room off the kitchen. There, a large red wheel protruded from an exterior wall.

It took both men to twist the wheel clockwise. Ted called through his communicator to the guardsman upstairs.

“What’s the pressure?”

The message came back.

“The sprinklers have stopped. The water pressure is falling fast.”

Ted turned to Bill.

“If you know any prayers say them now. We’re not done. We have to shut down the carbon dioxide suppression tanks in the kitchen. When we passed them, I saw they were not ours. The terrorists must have replaced them with their own tanks. They’re pressurized. They don’t connect to the water pipes. I have to shut them down before they get us.”

Ted ran. Bill followed.

Ted moved quickly down a long narrow storage area that was lined with red fire-suppression tanks that vented through a partition to the kitchen proper.

“Damn it, Bill. I don’t recognize this new valve contraption. Let’s get out of here before the gas is released. Run!”

But Bill did not move.

“No! I saw these tanks at the W&C plant at Warrenton. There’s an override switch just left of where the remote switch assembly is welded to the tank.”

“I see it. The red handle is vertical.”

“It’s open. Shove it to horizontal. That closes it and overrides the remote. I’ll get the next one.”

Together they raced down the row, shutting down alternate tanks in turn.

Only two tanks remained when Bill heard the ominous whirring sound.

“Quick, Ted. That’s the magnetic stirrer, the inner valves have opened. The precursors are mixing.”

He moved forward, but Ted was faster. He literally leapt over the last tank pushing the handle down as he slid to the floor.

Bill collapsed next to him. Gasps of relief and teary laughter sounded through the communicators of their helmets.

The threat was over.

North of the pavilion, Abdul-Malik licked his lips. The car would be his salvation.

He approached, but the door was locked and there were no keys in the ignition.

He looked back to see a woman next to a tree at the edge of the clearing.

So this is her car and she has the keys
.

Malik reacted. He pointed and fired.

“Br, Br, Br, Brup.”

But the woman disappeared into a cluster of scrubby pines. He ran to the spot, but she was gone.

Malik was not mechanically-oriented, and had no idea how to hot-wire a car. He needed those keys.