The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (33 page)

“The Secret Service is part of Homeland Security, but they listened. They’ve tripled the presidential detail at the Pavilion, and sent more advance teams out. And they found a squad of marines who were training nearby. They will man the perimeter and gates. They’ve recruited more local cops, and two National Guard units are on standby.”

He added.

“Also, the airspace around Front Royal is closed to unauthorized traffic. Secret Service advance teams already had searched nearby sites that could be used to launch a missile, and anti-missile units have been established in a ring from West Virginia, and Pennsylvania to North Carolina.”

Jeannine was far from satisfied.

“Bill, we have to go to Dethorens now, tonight.”

The Pavilion of National Unity stood complete and shining in the Virginia countryside. Outside, the landscaping was freshly finished; sod, shrubbery and trees were in place The parking lots and paths were of gravel as planned. The driveways were supposed to be concrete, but cold weather had postponed the pouring of the cement, and they too were of gravel, although temporarily.

Today the weather was mild. No hands were jammed into jacket pockets as the spectators lined the path to the right-front entrance of the pavilion. Tickets and photo ID’s were held in the open, ready for scrutiny.

The mood was festive, although the line was long and the wait substantial.

The line at the VIP entrance at the front right of the pavilion was short. This was not due to a paucity of people (the VIP’s had abundant invitees) but rather to the speed with which they were processed once inside. The prior background checks of the legislators, governors, judges, entertainers, wall street executives, and rich and famous guests had been easy. Thus, the screening at the entrance was limited to passage through metal detectors, an inconvenience which though minor, a number of prominent individuals pointedly tried to ignore. But such efforts were vain as the guards were on high alert.

In contrast, the spectators in the long line at the left front entrance were an incongruous lot. Many had won their seats through state lotteries, and their background checks had been tedious, expensive and often incomplete because of the time element. Consequently, before entering, all were screened intensely by metal detectors as well as by other means. Further, many individuals were selected at random (as forewarned on their tickets) for body searches. In spite of the inconvenient, and occasionally aggressive, inspections, once inside the pavilion, the mood of the spectators was one of boisterous anticipation.

Among the spectators, one particular couple was especially joyful. Masoud’s former close friends from high school, Barry Wilson and Monica Barrett (now Mrs. Wilson) had won their seats two weeks ago. Even the long wait to enter the pavilion had not discouraged them. Once seated, they joined the other spectators in scanning the seats on the main floor for favorite celebrities.

Inside the pavilion, the Secret Service had made special provisions for the seating at this grand political spectacle.

At the right side of the huge auditorium was a vertical wall that rose straight to the ceiling. Midway up the wall was a row of large glass windows that framed box seats reserved mostly for the press.

On the floor, extending from the right wall, were rows of seats that were accessible only by the right-front entrance. The seats closest to the presidential stage were for the VIP invitees, including congressional leaders, governors
etc.
Behind them, the Secret Service had erected a high thick glass barrier that separated the invitees’ guests (aides, friends, celebrities, entertainers and special constituents) from their sponsors.

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.

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.