"He recovered from his drinking problem, Dr. Wharton," Burke said. "That murder charge is a mixup. The real murderer—"
"Listen, Hill, I have been warned about Colonel Rodman's delusions. I suggest you take heed as well. The man is practically a basket case. If you know where he is, you'd better contact the FBI. You may be leaving yourself open to prosecution for harboring a fugitive."
Burke heard the line go dead. He felt his hopes dying with it. Bernard Whitehurst and his confederates had done their job well. Those who dared oppose them were painted as unreliable at best and criminally insane at worst. They had effectively shut him off at all of the obvious places he might turn for help. The FBI, the CIA, the White House were all out of reach. He suspected the Metropolitan Police had been warned of the presence of alarmist kooks who saw terrorists hiding under every rock. No one would believe him, and that left Lori and the twins and the Brackins sitting defenselessly in the middle of a doomed crowd. They had a telephone with them, but he had no idea of the number.
He grabbed the gas can and ran out of the store, fighting against a rising sense of panic.
72
When he left the security firm, Roddy Rodman's first thought was to link up with Burke Hill and start searching the Capitol area for the yellow dump truck. He knew they were up against a ticking time bomb. The truck was probably already in place. Its lethal barrage could be fired at any moment. And it would not be easy to locate. Traffic tonight was likely bumper-to-bumper around the Capitol, the Mall and the Washington Monument. With mortars, the terrorists could be located anywhere within a couple of miles, though he reasoned they would not want to stretch the range too far and risk missing their target.
As he headed for downtown Washington, he keyed the mike on the small radio and called for "Hawk." No answer. He tried twice more with the same result. As he laid the transceiver on the seat beside him, he became aware of a vaguely familiar sound in the distance. He switched off the air conditioner and lowered the window.
It was a helicopter, flying low. He knew immediately why it had caught his attention. The sound was unmistakably that of an MH-53J. He pulled to the curb and stopped, then stuck his head out the window and looked up. There it was, a big, dark green bird cruising southeast a few hundred feet above the treetops. It was headed in the direction of Andrews Air Force Base, located in Maryland a few miles from the District border.
The sight and sound of the chopper triggered an idea that sent Roddy scrambling for the cellular phone. He called information for Base Operations at Andrews, then quickly dialed the number.
"Base Ops, Sergeant Yokley," a deep voice answered.
"This is Colonel Rodman, Sergeant. I'm not far northwest of you. Would that have been Major Schuler in the MH-53J that just went over, headed your way?"
"Yes, sir. He should be on the ramp about now."
"I need to talk to him right away. The moment he comes in, tell him to call Colonel Rodman." He gave the number of Burke's cellular telephone.
A few minutes later, it rang.
"Colonel?"
"Dutch, thanks for calling. I don't have time for a long explanation, but I need you and that Pave Low. Unless we do something in a hurry, literally thousands of people are going to get slaughtered on the Capitol lawn."
"Slaughtered? What are you talking about?"
"There's a team of terrorists about to launch a mortar attack on the symphony concert. They've got nerve agent shells."
"You're kidding?"
"I wish I was. My family, Karen and the girls, are in the middle of that crowd. You've got to help me. These guys are in a yellow dump truck. We'd never find it in time except from the air. It's our only chance. Is your crew still around?"
"I don't have a whole crew. I just gave a couple of congressmen and a general a little familiarization ride. My co-pilot had to leave, but the flight engineer's still in the bird. You'd never guess who he is, Sergeant Jerry Nickens. Barry's younger brother."
Roddy felt a sudden pang of conscience as he thought of Barry Nickens being blown apart in that crash in Iran. But it was quickly replaced by a sense of bitterness toward the man responsible, General Wing Patton.
"I'll tell you what I learned about that Easy Street ambush when I see you. But I need to know if I can count on you now. I'm just a few minutes away from Andrews."
"Well, sure, Colonel. Come on over and I'll see what I can do. The chopper is parked on the ramp near Base Ops."
"I'll meet you there as fast as I can make it. Thanks, Dutch."
Thank God for friends like that, he thought. You didn't have to cite chapter and verse to get their cooperation. Dutch had been there before when he was needed, and now he would come through at the most crucial time of all.
Yuri Shumakov was unconscious for a brief moment but regained his senses in time to hear Romashchuk's parting comment about the 1812 Overture. The Major's second shot had caused no greater damage, but it didn't matter. He knew he was dying. He had seen more than his share of gunshot wounds and bloody corpses. He had gagged at the stench of the morgue while a dispassionate pathologist calmly explained the inevitability of death from a severed major artery. There was no way to stem the red tide that flowed freely from his chest. Pressing a wad of cloth to stop it would not help. It would only divert the blood into his chest cavity and block the action of his remaining good lung.
He had to warn Roddy about the mortar firing. The Major's meaning was obvious. They would be fired to coincide with the cannon barrage in Tchaikovsky's overture.
He strained to move his free hand toward the telephone. He raised the handset and pulled it toward his face. With a major effort, he lifted his head to get a view of the keypad. His glasses had fallen off, but the phone was close enough to see without them.
Yuri had committed the cellular number to memory. Slowly, agonizingly, he pressed the buttons. As he reached the last one, his hand slipped. He wasn't sure if he had pressed the right number. He heard the ringing, lowered his head to the desk and pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Hello," said a high-pitched female voice. Then, after a moment of silence, "Who is this? Harry, is that you, Harry?"
Yuri reached a shaky hand to press the disconnect button. He closed his eyes in agony. Then he remembered another scene from his childhood, his mother on her knees lighting a candle before an icon of the Madonna and Child. He murmured in a halting whisper, "If you are up there, God, please help me now."
Was some unseen force at work? He wasn't sure. He only knew there was a feeling inside that he was no longer in this alone. It buoyed his spirits and gave him a new surge of strength, meager though it was. He lifted his head and punched the numbers again. He heard a distant ringing sound.
"Hello, Dutch?" It was Roddy's voice.
Confused at first, he finally muttered, "This is Yuri."
"Hey, I can barely hear. Where are you?"
"Romashchuk is gone. The mortars… they will fire—"
"Can you speak up, Yuri? What's wrong?"
"Shot… he shot me… " The words choked off in his throat and he coughed, making a weak, gurgling sound.
"You've been shot?"
"Yes… no time… cannon fire… 1812 Overture."
"Hang on, Yuri," Roddy urged. "I'll get an ambulance."
There was no reply. Yuri Shumakov was dead.
73
Darkness slowly obscured the neighborhood like a troublesome shadow. The rows of modest houses Burke hurried past were gradually fading into indistinct lines of random shapes. His attempts to look into the immediate future brought views just as cloudy and uncertain. He had taxed his brain to the limit, but nothing he considered seemed to hold any promise. He was simply out of options.