Fury From Within

Chapter Twenty-One

Officer Mark Lipatree could still feel the sting of the slug that nearly penetrated his bullet-proof vest. Of course, paramedics showed up as a standard procedure for a police shooting, bulletproof vest or not. Also on site, his supervisor and battalion chief had each scrambled to the scene when word reached them of an “officer down” status.

Mark sat in his chief’s cruiser. Shirt still unbuttoned, empty gun holster beside him on the passenger side — he waited patiently for his chief to provide him with the latest information from headquarters.

Chief Sanders walked over to Mark, leaning in the passenger side window. “The FBI is sending a helicopter to pick you up and help identify the man who tried to plug you. They say he’s the prime suspect in a couple of high profile crimes including the killing of one of our brother officer’s just this morning. From what they told me, you’re lucky to be alive. This boy’s considered a cold-blooded killer.”

Mark broke out into a cold sweat, his heart racing upon realizing how fortunate he was to still be alive.

The Chief’s radio sprung to life. “Chief Sanders, come in please, this is Sky Bug One looking for a spot to place my baby,” Jimmy Hawkins said, hovering 2 miles out over Highway 50. As an ex-Army Special Forces pilot, Jimmy had years of experience landing in many a tight spot.

The Chief searched the sky for the helicopter, before seeing the blue and white Bell Jet Ranger directly ahead. “Rodger that Sky Bug One, we have a field to the north of the highway that is ready for a landing, no wires or obstructions are evident,” the Chief said, motioning for Mark to move over to the field for pick-up.

“Rodger that Chief, I have you in sight and am now moving into position for cargo extraction.” His helicopter dropped from 1,000 feet to ground level in less than 15 seconds. Richard Knox, his passenger, choked back his breakfast.

“Did you like that landing Rich?” Jimmy said. “What do you say we do it again? I think I screwed up when the tail swung around too far.”

“No, freaking way you clown,” Richard Knox shot back. “You’re a damn nutcase, you know that?” He jumped out of the helicopter, walking over to where Mark stood waiting in a field of tall weeds.

“Hi, I’m FBI Agent Richard Knox,” Richard shouted above the rotor noise, extending his hand, “You must be Officer Mark Lipatree.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said, shaking Richard’s hand, following him into the still running helicopter.

“This here is the one and only Jimmy Sanders, our illustrious pilot for the ride,” Richard said, motioning to Jimmy, him waving in recognition before pushing the stick forward and rapidly rising off the ground.

Richard could see the expression of fear on Marks face, realizing it was his first ride on a helicopter as his hands searched for the seat belt.

He smiled in response to Marks actions, realizing he wasn’t the only one who disliked helicopters.

Richard pointed to the pilots left indicating his next stop. “Mark, we have one more passenger pickup and then we land on the Washington Mall over by the Washington Monument.”

Mark provided him a thumbs up before turning to vomit on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Forsythe said curtly to the young rookie cop after he allowed a man on a bike to head back into town. “Are you handicapped? Did you understand your orders? Nobody is to enter this area, only exit. Do you hear me?”

The young officer cadet had been pulled from the Washington DC Police Academy training class to supplement the officers already on duty, assisting in the massive effort to evacuate the three-square block area of downtown.

“Yes sir,” he replied sheepishly, looking away from Forsythe before turning back once more. “But sir, the man had to go get his dog. He didn’t want to chance being away for several days due to the gas leak.”

Shaking his head, Forsythe put his hand on the cadet’s shoulder, physically turning him to view the departing traffic. “Do you see which way the traffic is going, cadet?”

“Yes sir,” he replied, wondering if this was going to affect his class grade in anyway, possibly hindering his graduation the following month.

“It’s heading out of town, not towards town,” Forsythe said, restraining his temper. “From this point on, nobody goes into town without an FBI agent’s specific order. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly sir,” he replied, eyeing first the traffic then Forsythe.

Turning back down Pennsylvania Avenue, Forsythe knew his men were already in position around the Red Cross building. Additional FBI agents would surround and provide back up in the immediate area with DC Police on call at the outer ring.

The terrorist would have to be a magician to enter or escape unscathed.

They already knew the rose garden lay untouched.

Forsythe realized the suspect now had to approach him.

The trap lay set — time to await the mouse.

The embassy reception room where Igor sat waiting patiently for the FSB Station chief to show was an overwhelming site when first viewed. Dark Mahogany wall panels provided an elegant backdrop to the floor composed of imported Thai teak, resembling a wealthy persons reading room or library from the late 1800’s, only the stuffiness and odor of decaying paper were absent. With no windows to allow natural light into the room, brass floor lamps were positioned strategically about the room to enable one to fully enjoy the room’s interior.

“Old Bolshevik” memorabilia lay scattered about. Blood red flags adorned with gold embroidered hammer and cycles spaced every 5 meters or so, each intertwined with Russian flags, each 2 meter by 1 meter in size. The symbolism of both flags intertwined was not lost on Igor. He next observed several metal hammer and cycle sculptures on a shelf to his left and then just past them a total of ten, 3 meter by 3 meter red star banners previously used in the May Day celebrations the old USSR was famous for throwing. Igor felt stuck in a time capsule from the 70’s or 80’s, when the old USSR was at the pinnacle of its power curve.

As Sergy rose to view a glass case of Faberge eggs, Colonel Sergey Vasov, FSB Station chief, made his grand entrance into the room. Colonel Sergey Vasov would be hard to miss in a crowd, with him standing at 6 foot 6, 250 pounds, looking as though he could fill-in as a linebacker for the Redskins football team. Sergey and Igor were old acquaintances, both having graduated from the same class at the Frunze Military Academy. Igor was also Sergey’s best man at his wedding.

“Igor, how are you my friend,” Sergey said, embracing him in a bear-like hug.

Igor stood staring at his friend for several seconds admiring his friends rank badge, finally reaching over to comically brush it off.

“I see you’ve been promoted once again,” Igor said, impressed with his friend’s movement through the ranks, something he could never achieve due to his mischievous conduct, having already been reduced in rank several times. “Congratulations, I cannot think of a person who deserves it more,” smiling at his friend. “It has been too long since we fought the Afghan’s, I think it was 83.”

“It was May 1984,” Sergey replied with a serious tone about him. “I remember the month specifically, due to my war wound my having to seek treatment back in Moscow.”

Both laughed aloud at the mention of Sergey’s “war wound,” having been received in an impromptu soccer game when he tripped on one of the many rocks that littered their playing field.

Igor pointed to the wound badge on Sergey’s tunic. ”Is that what you received this for?” He shook his head in mock disgust.

After the laughter subsided, Sergey motioned for Igor to take a seat once more, looking to get down to the business at hand. Only two hours had passed since Sergey had been informed of Igor’s impending visit by General Poszk. He was also ordered to provide Igor with any assistance he required.

And I mean any assistance.

Sergey reached into his black leather briefcase, extracting a business sized, tan folder from its interior, placing its contents on Igor’s lap.

Igor glanced at Sergey and then back to the envelope. “I suppose you would like me to open this?” holding the folder up for him to see.

“It’s Christmas, Igor. Make a list, check it twice; that sort of thing,” Sergey replied with the standard joke at the embassy.

Inside the folder lay a single sheet of paper listing various munitions and weapons stored on-site at the Embassy, and available for his personnel use. Igor opened the folder to look at its neatly typed contents, seeing everything from an AK-47 to an anti-aircraft missile.

“As you can see, we keep available quite an arsenal for any potential problems we may encounter. It all comes into the country via the diplomatic pouch, or in this case the diplomatic crate,” smiling as he said it. We both play the game, the United States ships in the same products we do. You are familiar with the game better than anyone, Igor. The cold war never truly ended. It is similar to a miserable marriage or divorce, the mistrust still evident in their dealings with each other.

Igor nodded as he scanned the list. Settling on three fragmentation grenades, a foldable stock Uzi, and a Motorola handheld radio/scanner, before handing the list back to Sergey.

“I need that within the next 15 minutes, is that doable?” He knew his friend to be extremely resourceful when it came to the art of scrounging. Igor remembered one particular holiday they had spent in Afghanistan. Being in the field, the traditional food served by the military cooks was something of the canned surprise variety and usually cold by the time you ate it. After a month of this same, boring routine, Sergey traded a broken, unusable jeep to a local chief for 3 goats and 10 pounds of cheese. They lived like kings for the next few weeks, the envy of everyone else in the unit. Yes, if anyone could acquire what he needed, it would be Sergey.

“I can have it waiting in the lobby by the time you get downstairs. Quick enough?

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

I will take that as a compliment Igor,” both rising from their chairs. “We will both meet when your mission is over and have that drink you owe me,” he said as his military aide entered into the room, walking directly over to where they both stood.

The enlisted man stopped five meters short of the Colonel, holding up a red folder with “Top Secret” emblazoned across its top.

“Colonel Sergey Vasov,” the enlisted man said, snapping to attention. “You have received an urgent message from Moscow. It’s to be read immediately.”

“Bring that folder over here, Sergeant,” the Colonel ordered, looking at Igor as if to apologize for his man’s actions. “This man beside me is an Army Captain who probably possess’ a higher security clearance then myself.”

The enlisted man walked over to Igor and executed a perfect 45-degree angle salute as if on a parade ground. “My apologies sir, I was not informed of your presence in our embassy.”

“None required, Sergeant. You were only performing your duty,” Igor said, impressed with the soldiers sincerity, returning his salute with a more casual one.

He turned to hand the Colonel his folder, the Sergeant once again executing a perfect salute before turning to withdraw back to his post in the message center.

“He’s a good man, Igor. He keeps his mouth shut and does what he is told,” Sergey said, anticipating a smart remark from Igor. “Allow me to open this first and then we can continue,” holding up the folder.

After several minutes, he looked up at Igor, handing the message for him to read. “It is from General Poszk, he informs me that you are aware of one of our many little secrets. On this side of the ocean, I tend to call them our Peace Enforcers instead of suitcase weapons. Suitcase makes it sound as though we are traveling to some overnight destination. Peace Enforcers are a more accurate portrayal of their intended use.”

As FSB Station Chief, Sergey knew each location for the Peace Enforcers dispersed throughout the United States. Up until he received the message from General Poszk, Igor’s true intentions were not revealed to him, only that he support him any way he could. Now, the general chose to include Sergey in the inner circle with the disclosure of the problem with the Washington DC weapon. Something was amiss.

Igor read the message in the folder and in-turn informed that the American FBI knew of the problem with the DC weapon. It was to be considered compromised according to communications intercepted by the FSB.

The FBI were using the weapon as bait and attempting to trap their rebel.

Peter pondered the repercussions that could be expected for something of this magnitude. Maybe it could actually work to their advantage? This would be a small price to pay considering the end result. It would also put an end to the plan Sir Robert and the General envisioned, but at least the rebels would not control it. That would seem to be the most important aspect of the situation, at least to Igor.

“I see our FSB boys are still the best at intercepting communications,” Igor said, re-reading the message.

Sergey looked uneasy. “I find myself in the position of having to apologize to you my friend,” he said. “It seems as though we might have a problem. A little over an hour ago, the DC police closed a 3 square block area of the city; something to do with a gas leak. I was monitoring the situation due to one of our weapons being smack dab in the middle of the leak area. With the general’s timely message and yourself being here, it looks as if something else is brewing.

“Hold on Sergey,” Igor said, realizing that with the gas leak story and the area cordoned off, the rebel might smell a trap and pass. He now wondered if the rebel had an alternate weapons location. The damned FBI, why couldn’t they just let him walk in unobstructed and then nab him? It could be over in a matter of minutes instead of drawing additional attention to the area.

“Sergey, the FBI is basing all of this on our rebel only having one location, one suitcase. This man is going to have a backup plan — he’d be a fool not to.”

Igor assumed he did and would have to leap ahead ASAP to try and spring his own ambush at the next location. He would allow the FBI to guard and then retrieve the DC weapon. The new scenario would work to Igor’s advantage, sweeter than the original planning.

“I need you to tell me the location of the two closest weapons in proximity to Washington DC. If I am correct, I feel our rebel might choose to abandon this area and move to a less intrusive location, one absent both the FBI and police. If I can anticipate his next move and beat him to the next location, I could possibly ambush him. The game would effectively be over.”

Sensing the urgency in his friend’s voice, Sergey was already heading for the rooms exit. “Follow me.”

The Capitols majestic white marble dome come into view as Peter turned off the Highway onto 13th street, only 2 Kilometers from his first objective. Eyeing the dome caused a shudder to run through his body with the realization sinking in.

From Peter’s previous discussions with Boris, he had stated the suitcase weapons initial blast would destroy the surrounding area up to and including the Capitol itself. The resulting explosion would effectively saturate the Capitol in a radiation bath, and provide a slow death for the unfortunate souls inside.

The light turned to red, allowing Peter to view the faces of people who potentially could be affected by his actions. He fixed his gaze on a group of young children crossing in front of him, evidently on some type of a field trip. They held onto a single rope to not get lost, the last child in line stopping to wave at him as he sat in his car. The little blond haired girl giggled as she strove to catch up with her group, her adult teacher now hurrying her across the street before the light changed.

It’s more than that, thought Peter, trying to block the mental image of the children. This one blast would cripple the United States, wiping out its White House, Treasury, Supreme Court and many other minor, but never the less prominent cogs to support its government’s existence. It was a mission to save his own countries children and their families. It was war, and in a war people had to die.

Peter focused on the plan. Once the suitcase was removed from its earthen tomb, he would adjust the unit’stimer for 10am the following Monday morning — this would allow maximum exposure of the weapon — catching most at their work areas. The big fish would also be in the pond. From news clippings and published schedules that were available on the Internet, the President would be giving a speech on the White House lawn at the same moment. This would allow the world to view the resulting explosion live on the Television a mere fraction of a second before the cameras melted from the searing heat that would accompany the thermal blast.

As he drove down 13th street,Peter noticed the heavy volume of traffic coming from the opposite direction — away from his target. Sensing something might be amiss, he searched the car’s radio for a news station. After several tries, he found one that kept running the top headline story of a gas leak forcing a 3–4 block area around the White House to be evacuated.

“Damn it,” he said aloud, banging his hand on the dashboard. Peter realized the Red Cross building was only two blocks from the White House.

He decided it would be more advantageous to ditch his car and scout the area around his target— maybe the gas leak could work to his advantage. Remembering what the Russian said in his emails, he described the area he would be digging in as surrounded by 6-foot tall arborvitaes. This would make his job unnoticeable except from the windows of the buildings top floor offices. Since it was Sunday, no one would be in the offices to see him. Perfectly planned.

Finding a parking spot for his borrowed auto was easy enough, pulling into a liquor store parking lot, abandoning the vehicle.

His objective lay only 5 blocks away.