Roddy waved back at him as Sergeant Nickens strapped him down for takeoff. The engines roared into full power and the chopper lifted off the ground, nosed forward and began to climb into the glowing night sky. Burke quickly checked his watch. It was 8:42. He looked around as the Sergeant handed him a helmet that was plugged into the intercom system. As he pulled it over his head, he heard Roddy's voice through the built-in earphones.
"We're about eight blocks out from the Capitol, Dutch. Let's fly a circular pattern around it. If we don't see anything on the first orbit, we'll shorten the radius. Keep a sharp eye out for a yellow dump truck with an air compressor hitched to the back end."
"Roddy, this is Burke. The 1812 Overture was just starting when I left the car. That was about three minutes ago. I don't know the exact timing, but I'd say we only have another seven to ten minutes."
"Roger on that. Any ideas on what to do if we find the truck?"
"Not if, when. We have to find that damned truck. Do you still have the Beretta?"
"Negative. The Security Police took it from me at Andrews."
"We've got a couple of M16s on board," Dutch said. "Don't know if we have any ammo, though."
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Nickens replied. "I have a couple of thirty-round magazines stowed away. Never thought we'd need them except for demonstration purposes. We're pretty well equipped. There's even a grenade launcher and tear gas aboard."
"We've been studying the possibilities for using Pave Lows to support law enforcement," Dutch said. "In areas like riot suppression and drug interdiction. With all the budget cutbacks, the Air Force is looking for new roles in the post-Cold War era."
"Better get the M16s ready," Burke advised. "We may need some heavy firepower. There should be three Peruvians, plus Major Romashchuk. Have you told your Air Force friends what's going on, Roddy?"
"I gave them a quick fill-in. They know who we're looking for and what's about to happen. What will happen unless we put a stop to it."
"Jerry," said Schuler, "how about putting Mr. Hill in the port minigun position. We don't have the guns hooked up, but he can help us look for that truck. Then get those M16s ready."
When he was plugged in at the door beside the minigun mount, Burke could see the Capitol out in front of him, bathed in floodlights, standing on its hilly perch. They were flying at minimum airspeed, just above the tops of the buildings, easing ahead slowly. He could see everything clearly on the streets below. They were coming around the east side of the Capitol, past the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court Building. The traffic appeared to be moving fairly well in this area. There was no sign of a yellow dump truck, but the flashing lights of several police cars and motorcycles could be seen heading west on Constitution Avenue.
When they were near Union Station, with a clear view to the southwest, Dutch Schuler came on the intercom, his voice filled with awe. "Holy shit! Look at all the blue lights flashing over toward the Monument. Half the cops in town must be over there."
"That's where the neurotoxin was released," Roddy said. "But they have no idea what's about to happen over this way."
Now that he was facing the west lawn of the Capitol, Burke could see the stage and the towers of lights bathing the orchestra from amidst the huge, spread-out audience. It looked like a blimp's-eye view of a football crowd, only there was no gridiron and the crowd was four times larger than had ever seen a football game. He saw the big guns lined up along the street beside the reflecting pool, awaiting the signal to add their deep-throated accents to Tchaikovsky's musical score. His watch showed 8:46. The orchestra was almost seven minutes into the Overture.
Cruising in a gentle turn, the chopper tracked west of the Municipal Building, heading over the monstrous structure that housed the National Gallery of Art. Below, Constitution Avenue was filled with traffic, including two ambulances that were dodging their way westward toward the Monument. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people crowded the Mall. Dutch dropped lower. The buildings here were not as tall. Lights about the striking structures and along the streets between them made it easy to distinguish the types of vehicles that swarmed the central area of the capital on this disarmingly warm and pleasant July evening. They saw no dump truck.
A few hundred yards to the east, seated on the large stage covered by a red and blue canopy emblazoned with white stars, nearly two hundred musicians followed the conductor's baton as the notes they played filled the night air. Strings and woodwinds alternated in a lilting, melodic segment, then the horns joined in as the music began to build with increasing intensity.
On the street beside the reflecting pool, a burly master sergeant walked briskly along the row of three-inch guns mounted on 105mm howitzer chassis. "Heads up, everybody!" he called out. "Prepare to fire."
The two-man ceremonial gun crews of the Third "Old Guard" Infantry Regiment from Fort Myer stood at the rear of the rubber-tired weapons, ready to fire the blank rounds that would produce thunderous blasts as background to the climactic ending of Tchaikovsky's famous work. At approximately eleven minutes and fifteen seconds into the piece, the five guns would each fire a round at one-second intervals. Two and a quarter minutes later, as the strings and horns and woodwinds were augmented by drums and chimes that produced the sound of cathedral bells, the stirring crescendo would conclude with the guns alternating in a volley of eleven more booming blasts.
In his room at the Presidential Plaza, Adam Stern listened to the frantic calls coming over the police scanner that sat on the table beside him. Barely audible in the background were the muted sounds of the 1812 Overture. The picture on the television showed the conductor's arms beginning to move with increasing vigor as the music built toward the climax. It was a brilliant plan, he realized. The shocking finale would take place right before the eyes of a nationwide TV audience.
What he was able to glean from the police radio was that a massive state of confusion existed. Ambulances were being summoned from throughout the city. One policeman had been killed, another injured. Several cars had wrecked in the area, with numerous injuries. And people by the hundreds were absolutely freaking out for no logical reason. There was speculation that the white smoke from the blue minivan, which was being sought in a massive hunt centered in the District's southwestern quadrant, may have had something to do with it. But the first victims were just now arriving at hospitals, and no one knew anything for sure.
"Attention all units," a dispatcher's urgent voice suddenly crackled over the scanner. "Cancel the search for two subjects in a blue minivan. The vehicle has blown up on Maine Avenue near M Street. Repeating, cancel—"
Stern smiled as he turned down the volume. Romashchuk's plan appeared to be unfolding on schedule. But there was always a chance for a slip-up. He would shift his full attention to the TV after one final check. He picked up the telephone from the bedside table and dialed the number for Haskell Feldhaus' cellular phone.
As the Pave Low circled just beyond the National Air and Space Museum, heading over the NASA Building, Colonel Rodman shouted over the intercom, "Look, down at nine o'clock, toward the end of the block. It's sitting right in that line of parked cars."