Nine o'clock meant straight out from where he stood at the minigun position, Burke realized. His eyes quickly swept the line of cars. Then he saw it. A dump truck with an air compressor behind it. A space of about a car length had been left vacant in front and back of the vehicle. Major Schuler was dropping lower as he tightened his turn to head for the intersection of Maryland Avenue and Sixth Street.
"The tarp is off," Roddy said. "They're climbing into the back of the truck."
Burke gave a quick glance at his watch. Coming up on eight-fifty. "They're getting ready to fire."
"If the Major will put us to one side of the truck," Sergeant Nickens suggested, "we can hose down the back of it with these automatic rifles."
Roddy's reply was quick and sharp. "Negative, Nickens. You could set off those chemical rounds. The surface winds would carry it right over to the Mall."
"Did you say you had tear gas grenades and a launcher?" Burke asked.
"Yes, sir. Got them right here."
"Think you could put a grenade in the hopper of that truck?"
"Sure thing, sir," he said. "Our whole crew has been trained in firing the M16 and the grenade launcher."
"Sounds like our best bet," Roddy added. "Put him in position, Dutch."
Schuler brought the chopper around in a tight turn so that the right side of the aircraft, where Sergeant Nickens stood at the minigun mount, would face the yellow truck on the street below. He closed in so the distance would be no more than 500 feet, well within the grenade launcher's effective range.
Nikolai Romashchuk sat in the gray van and listened to the broadcast of the symphony concert. He was parked in the middle of Maryland Avenue, halfway between Sixth and Seventh Streets. In the distance he could see the batteries of floodlights that illuminated the stage. He had just placed a yellow and black striped sawhorse barrier at the Seventh Street intersection, with a sign that said: "Street Closed. Department of Public Works." Pepe had set up a similar barrier at Sixth. From this vantage point, Romashchuk could easily see the yellow truck parked near the end of the block. Metal bands around the sides formed ladder-like rungs for climbing in and out. He had just made a final radio check. Each man had acknowledged with an arm wave that his earphone receiver was functioning perfectly. Then he had given the word for the men to climb in and prepare to fire the mortars.
The Major now had all the trappings of a typical tourist. A large camera bag sat on the seat beside him. There was no camera inside, of course. Instead, the bag's contents included the small, handheld transceiver with which he would give the command to fire, the Walther P38 loaded with a nine-shot clip, a gas mask and an injectable ampule of atropine. He had included the mask in case it became necessary to deal with the neurotoxin powder. The men who had just climbed into the dump truck did not have masks but carried the nerve agent antidote.
He checked his watch as he listened to the radio broadcast. Though he was quite familiar with the Tchaikovsky score before he became involved in this operation, he had recently listened to a tape of it over and over, again and again. He had timed it to determine exactly when the cannons would first fire, and how much time elapsed before the final volley. He knew the first shots would be coming up shortly. The men could not hear anything because of the ear protectors, but at the sound of the first firing, he would instruct them to get ready to drop the impact-igniting shells into the barrels.
He had heard a helicopter pass behind him moments before, and now he realized it was coming back this way. From the racket it was making, he knew it must be quite low. He had spotted a police chopper a few minutes earlier heading toward the Washington Monument. He had taken it as confirmation that the minivan had successfully completed its mission.
As the aircraft came closer, the noise almost drowned out the sounds of the concert. Suddenly it appeared just ahead of him, a large, dark green chopper, obviously military, flying extremely low. Then he saw that its forward motion had stopped. It was hovering just behind the yellow dump truck.
Though he could no longer hear the music, he knew it was time for the first cannon shots. He also knew he could not wait two minutes for the second volley. Something had gone wrong. He snatched the radio transceiver from the camera bag and pressed the transmit button.
"¡Dispara!" he shouted. Fire!
76
From the wings of the stage, the National Symphony Orchestra's manager gazed out over the massive throng that literally covered the Capitol lawn, a broad smile animating his face. The official estimate was well over four hundred thousand people, one of the largest crowds ever. And they were devouring the music as eagerly as kids at an ice cream shop. Down front the congressional leadership and their spouses sat in dark suits and conservative ties, the women in fashionable dresses, standing out like formally attired diners at an outdoor barbeque. The vast audience was as varied as America itself, and those who had danced and cheered and sung and clapped and sweated for more than an hour now sat or stood spellbound, totally unaware of the drama unfolding a few blocks to the southwest. The program was almost over, and for those familiar with Tchaikovsky's score, it was a moment of high anticipation.
A low, buzzing note on the bass violins was cut off with a fanfare-like phrase by the horns. Then violins and horns began to build a rising crescendo, accented by snare drums.
On the street beside the reflecting pool, a sergeant standing in front of a TV monitor raised his arm. At his signal, the first artillery piece fired, belching a tongue of flame, followed by a cloud of smoke from the burning powder charge. The cannon's roar echoed across the throng beside the Capitol and down the long, open stretch of the Mall. The number two gun fired. Then three… four… five.
Lori Hill hugged her daughter to her chest and felt her little heart thump like a butterfly flapping its wings as the booming of the cannons subsided and the strings began a repetitive, descending four-note phrase that kept moving down the scale, lower and slower. Then, with a sudden burst of sound, the entire orchestra and band joined in, along with the clanging, bell-like chimes, building toward the final, climactic moment.
As the big chopper settled into a hover, Sergeant Jerry Nickens steadied the M16 on the minigun mount, aimed at the gaping, black pit that was the dump truck's hopper and squeezed the trigger. The grenade streaked downward with a flash. A white cloud suddenly rose from the truck and Dutch Schuler cheered. "Bullseye!"
Burke Hill's urgent voice followed quickly over the intercom. "There's a gray van in the middle of the block that looks like Romashchuk's. Get us on the ground quick, as close by as you can. He may try to fire those weapons himself."
Schuler determined there was sufficient open space next to the intersection. He swung the big chopper around, dipped its nose and dove toward the chosen spot, cutting power and pulling up to let the aircraft impact with a solid thump. Roddy Rodman came bounding out of his seat.
"You and Nickens stay with the bird," he told Dutch. "Burke and I will take the rifles."
Burke was already grabbing an M16 from the Sergeant. "Give him your radio, Roddy. I have mine."
They leaped out of the Pave Low as the Shining Path guerrillas, coughing and swearing in Spanish, came groping their way blindly out of the back of the truck. The dark-skinned trio had received the Major's firing order, but it was about two minutes earlier than expected. As a result, they had not yet lifted the heavy shells into place above the mortar tubes. Before they had a chance to bend down and retrieve them, the tear gas grenade exploded a few feet away, first stunning, then blinding them.