The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (34 page)

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.

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 episode 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?

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.