Let the Music Play - 47. Endgame

“El Vohzd,” the young and earnest Paraguayan captain said, addressing his newfound leader in the manner he’d been instructed. “Two of your tanks have reached the Palacio Legislativo. Other than some sporadic small-arms fire, there has been no resistance. The tanks are accompanied by a brigade of infantry, and they have surrounded the building.” The Captain was repulsed by the man in front of him but hid that fact with great care.

The Scar frowned at the news. “And what of the other infantry brigade and the other two tanks?” he snarled.

Unnerved by The Scar’s volatile temper, the Captain stuttered twice before saying, “El Vohzd, two of the tanks broke down en route, and the second brigade is protecting them.”

The Scar stood up and paced, casting uneasy glances at the map every time he passed it. Two tanks and a battalion of troops were far less than he needed to hold the Palacio Legislativo and also send a force to the Presidential Palace a few blocks to the east. Deciding that the old maxim, ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself’ was true, The Scar snapped out an order, “Assemble the reserve force. I’ll lead it into the city myself.”

The young Captain, Urgarriza by name, snapped The Scar a swift salute and left the barn to do approximately as he’d been ordered.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Urgarriza returned to find The Scar busy with his phone and pouring over a street map of Asuncion. “The troops are assembled, El Vohzd.”

Carefully folding the map and slipping it into his uniform pocket – The Scar had appropriated a military uniform for himself, one to which he’d attached general’s stars ­– he humored his love of theatrics and said, “Onwards, ever onwards, into the fray. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war in this, our anointed hour. On Death's Ground, fight. Onwards, to victory or death!”

Biting back a grimace at the butchery of Shakespeare, Captain Urgarriza suppressed the urge to snicker at the six stars on each of The Scar’s shoulders as he followed his erstwhile leader outside, into the harsh sunlight of the dusty farmyard. The Captain knew there had never been any such thing as a six-star general.

Blinking in the harsh light, The Scar slipped on his cap, setting it at a jaunty angle, smiling until he saw his assembled force. Spinning around, he asked in a furious voice, “Where’s the rest?”

With an apologetic shrug, Captain Urgarriza replied, “These are all of them, El Vohzd. Some of the officers who have joined you have had some minor delays getting their men to move. They will join you in the capitol.”

Returning his gaze to the company of soldiers and the five old trucks in which they were carried, The Scar appreciated the irony of the situation. With a resigned shrug he declared, “I should have said, ‘unleash the Chihuahuas of war’, given the size of this force.”

Captain Urgarriza assured The Scar, “The commander of the Presidential Guard has agreed to your terms and his force is in position at the Presidential Palace, awaiting only your arrival.”

“That bastard demanded a quarter of a billion dollars for his miserable six tanks and half a division of infantry. Still, as the saying goes, location, location, location, and he is in place at the Presidential Palace, supposedly guarding the president and cabinet,” The Scar observed as he strode forth, mounting the lead truck with a theatric leap.

Taking his cap in his hand, The Scar waved it in a circle before gesturing forward, as the ancient engines sputtered to life.

As soon as The Scar’s small force, which Captain Urgarriza had personally selected for the mission, wheeled out of the decrepit farm, the Captain snapped open his phone. Dialing a number from memory, he smiled as he said, “He’s on his way. I hope he appreciates the reception we have planned.”

At the head of the small column of trucks, The Scar began to grow concerned; too many of his phone calls during the drive had gone unanswered. So too had his calls to Dimitri. Something, he felt, was up. He’d also noticed that the troops accompanying him were all unfamiliar; he couldn’t recall seeing any of them before, and he was certain he should have met the officers. His eyes narrowing as a vague suspicion took form in his mind, which caused The Scar to place a call to one of his trusted operatives.

Thirty minutes later, as the trucks approached an intersection a few blocks from the Palacio Legislativo, a man standing on the street corner, trotted out in front of the column of trucks, smoking a cigar and wearing a business suit in spite of the heat and humidity. “Stop for a moment. I need to speak with him, he’s with us,” The Scar told the Major by his side.

The Major grew uneasy, and in broken English replied, “But, Senior… I mean, El Vohzd, my orders are to convey you directly to the seat of power.”

The Scar took note of the reply; it fit in too well with his concerns. “Major, I need that man. He possesses information critical to our cause. However, I would not wish to ask you to violate your orders, so please accompany us. We will be but a moment.”

The Major nodded, and followed The Scar as he jumped down from the cab of the truck. The platoon in back, having no orders to do so, made no attempt to follow.

The Scar jogged over to his contact, greeting him warmly, “Jose, good to see you. Come, we must be quick. I need what you have for me.”

The Scar led the Major and his contact into the recessed entryway of an old apartment building. As soon as they were all out of sight from the street, The Scar nodded at his contact, who turned to address the Major, a man he had never met before. “It is good to see you again.”

Puzzled, the Major looked into the face of the contact, not noticing The Scar’s seemingly casual move which placed him behind the Major. With practiced ease, The Scar withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket, looping his garroting wire around the Major’s neck from behind and cinching it tight.

Startled by the sudden pain, the Major thrashed, trying to twist around, his right hand reaching instinctively for his pistol at his belt. The Scar heaved on the wire, slamming the Major against a wall, thwarting the attempt to draw his gun. The Major’s struggles grew weaker as his vision blurred and consciousness faded for the final time.

As he allowed the Major’s corpse to sag to the concrete, The Scar dissembled, “Jose, there has been an annoying attempt at a double-cross. It seems a few of those legislators we have corralled have ideas of their own. No matter, they will be dealt with in due course today. I need you to change clothes with me. You shall take my place at the Presidential Palace while I proceed to the Palacio Legislativo. You and I look enough alike that we can pull this off if you keep your hat pulled low and your mouth shut. You will leave your phone on and the line open so I can hear what is taking place, and also relay my orders. I need to appear to be in two places at once, so you shall be the ‘me’ at the Presidential Palace while I deal with the troublesome politicians once and for all. The head of the Presidential Guard is on our side and is aware of this ploy, he will play along.” Giving Jose a warm smile, The Scar continued, not meaning a word of it, “Get used to the position of power, Jose. For your help today, you will be the new mayor of this city.”

Jose had his doubts but played along; exchanging his clothes for The Scar’s general’s uniform. He felt he had little choice; he’d been in The Scar’s employ for years and was thoroughly compromised. Jose’s recent actions as a liaison to offer bribes had made the relationship too widely known to deny. Their fortunes, he reasoned, were thus tied together.

Dressed in the business suit and now puffing on the cigar – Cuban, he noted approvingly­–­ The Scar stood on the street corner while Jose, now wearing The Scar’s generalissimo uniform and with the cap pulled down to partially obscure his face, jogged back to the truck.

Jose climbed into the idling truck and resumed the drive to the Presidential Palace. The Lieutenant in the following truck found it strange that the Major had not returned, but his orders were clear.

The Scar made his way on foot, covering the remaining blocks to the Presidential Palace at a brisk pace.

Reaching the open gates of the presidential compound, Jose wheeled the truck towards the main portico. Four Sherman tanks stood guard, angled towards the palace but with their main guns pointing away. Parking a dozen yards from one, Jose was relieved to see a man wearing general’s stars approaching, flanked by two soldiers wielding rifles.

For a moment, Jose assumed that the general, evidently the commander of the Presidential Guard, knew of the subterfuge. The General’s actions proved otherwise. The nearest Sherman tank, its engine running, began to swivel its main gun towards Jose with a clanking growl from the turret’s old gears.

The General gave an exaggerated bow in Jose’s direction, as the troops swarmed out of the trucks, their guns also coming to bear on Jose. The General smiled coldly as he said, “Greetings, El Vohzd. Did you really think that our intelligence service would remain unawares of your operation? You have served a purpose: exposing those within our ranks who would allow greed and avarice to sway their loyalty. You might be interested to know that your Swiss accounts, including those you gave to your hirelings in return for their treason, were frozen two hours ago. The payments you gave are worthless, and without them, you are nothing.” The General smiled coldly, looking forward to the firing squad that would soon dispose of the problem, once and for all – after a suitable interrogation, of course.

Jose blanched, knowing that he had no way out. The truth could not save him; of that, he was certain. No matter what, they would execute him, regardless of whether he was The Scar or someone in his service. Wishing to end it quickly, mainly in order to avoid what he suspected would be a very painful interrogation, Jose reached for his pistol. A volley of shots rang out before his hand had even touched the butt of his gun. The bullets slamming into his torso sent him falling from the truck, slamming into the ground as he breathed his last.

The Scar, listening in from two blocks away via his cell phone, tried to view the developments dispassionately. He could only assume that America was behind the freezing of his funds, no doubt via fierce diplomatic pressure. He was certain that they would have only done so if his bombs were no longer a threat. He used his cell phone to attempt to access one of his accounts, finding it frozen. With that fact confirmed, and knowing they would have never done so had they any intention of dealing with him further, The Scar withdrew the nuclear trigger from his pocket. He suspected that Dimitri’s disappearance meant that he had failed, and the Americans had discerned the location of the bombs. Their actions certainly seemed to indicate that the threat to them was at an end. On the off chance that one or both of the bombs could still be operational, he hit the key combinations to send the firing codes to both. With that done, he turned on his heel, strolling down the street towards the city’s busy heart. Two blocks further on, he tossed the now-useless nuclear trigger into a trash can and continued on his way.

The Scar reviewed his options as he walked. Clearly, he had to leave the country. That should not prove difficult, especially with the aid of a disguise. The more pressing issue was: what would he do then? He had barely four million dollars of personal funds remaining, salted away in offshore accounts under a number of aliases. He gave himself a mental kick for not having sequestered some of the twenty billion, but upon reflection decided that would have been pointless; it could surely have been traced and frozen. In order to resume his arms-dealing, he needed capital, and the four million would not suffice. The one thing which eased his troubled mind was the fact that he still had some very valuable assets to sell.

Twenty miles out to sea from New York and thankful for the calm seas, Major Glaspie supervised the final preparations for disarming the nuclear weapon. The demolition charges were still attached, and his plan was to x-ray the bomb, determine as best he could the location of the anti-tamper wire grid, and then use remote-controlled equipment to drill a hole a quarter-inch in diameter in the bombcase. Using the hole for access, he then planned to destroy the bomb’s control unit. He would have preferred to use the hole made by the rifle bullet, but it was located on the wrong side of the bomb.

The tiny anti-tamper wires proved very hard to detect through the thick steel of the bombcase. Taking his best guess, Major Glaspie selected a spot to drill, and waited while the remote-control gear was set up. With their preparations complete, he and his team evacuated, transferring into a skiff and then to a Coast Guard cutter before racing away upwind five miles towards the coast.

Major Glaspie figured that even if his guess had been incorrect, given the spacing of the wires seen in the Los Angeles bomb, he had a better than one in ten chance of not hitting one. He was right on his chances, but luck is a fickle thing. Five minutes into the remote-controlled drilling, the carbide drill tip grazed one of the wires, stripping it and causing a ground fault between it and the steel case. The bomb’s control circuit registered this event and initiated the detonation sequence.

On board the Coast Guard cutter, Major Glaspie was not watching the video feed from the drilling. Instead, he was watching the monitors for the passive electrical field sensors. He noticed the spike immediately; sure proof that something was happening inside the bombcase. Without hesitating, he slammed his hand down on the radio trigger’s large red button, detonating the demolition charges on the bomb. It was only a precaution; they had further distorted the explosive sphere using the bullet hole, but they hoped to avoid a radioactive release.

This time, the superheated jet from one of the shaped charges impacted on a detonator. The resulting explosion was not symmetrical so it did not produce a nuclear blast; it was however more than sufficient to shatter the inner core. The plutonium scattered, turning the fireboat into a radioactive hulk. It would not matter for long; the force of the explosion had punched a hole in the steel hull, near the boat’s keel.

Major Glaspie watched through binoculars as the smoldering fireboat slipped, stern first, beneath the waves, thanking fate that he hadn’t had to attempt to disarm the bomb inside Penn Station. He had no doubt that, had he tried to do so, several blocks of Manhattan would have been rendered dangerously radioactive for decades.

Major Glaspie was not the only one to notice the sinking of the fireboat. The press, finally having stumbled onto the story, responded like a pack of rabid wolves. Their quarry, for the moment, was any government official unfortunate enough to find himself in their sites. Every TV news station had gone to continuous coverage, airing the same tired loops of footage from Los Angeles and New York.

A few enterprising reporters, fueled by a few leaks and tips, combined with the cellular outages, figured out the role General Bradson had played, and only the assiduous efforts of his base security detail had managed to keep the reporters away from the harried General.

General Bradson leaned back, swinging his feet up to rest them on the edge of his battered desk. He glanced at the sheaf of paperwork in his hand, and with a wry chuckle dropped it into his wastepaper basket. As he’d expected, the political leadership in Washington was far from pleased that he’d bypassed them. Word had arrived that, after a discreet amount of time, his resignation would be expected. General Bradson had been amazed to find out how little that prospect bothered him. He knew in his heart that his decision had been the correct one; there simply had not been time to follow procedure and bounce the decisions on up the ladder. His career, he mused, would have been over in a few years anyway. That thought led to another, fed by the anger he was feeling over his looming dismissal. He bore no ill will over his dismissal itself; he knew that he had indeed been insubordinate. What irked him was the arrogance in Washington; he’d been treated as if he had no choice but to comply with their plans to make his resignation appear willing. A slow smile crossed his lips as he decided to derail that particular set of assumptions, and not go quietly. With that decision made, he strolled out of his office and hopped into his car, whistling contentedly to himself as he drove to the air base’s main gate. One lucky reporter was about to get the scoop of a lifetime.

In the lobby of a Telluride hospital, Brandon and Chase left most of their strange combined security detail of Airborne Rangers and Hells Angels behind. General Bradson had dispatched a small army to Instinct’s ranch, led by fifty paratroopers who had dropped nearby and shown up unannounced. The General’s inclination had been to take Instinct into protective custody, but the four members had adamantly vetoed that idea. Remembering the debacle with the Sheriff’s department, the bikers had been included in the new arrangements. Fortunately, the bikers got along with the military a lot better than they did the Sheriff’s Department.

Edging through the door, Brandon and Chase squeezed past Wilde, Joe, and Zeke to reach Steve’s bedside. Steve glanced up with a wan smile, waved a greeting, and then flicked a thumb at his throat as he slowly shook his head. Wilde told Brandon and Chase, “He can’t talk for a few days, doctor’s orders. That sliver of rock pierced his vocal chords. They say he’ll be able to talk again, but probably not sing for at least a year.”

Knowing how much of a loss Steve had suffered and thinking it also spelled the end of The Shadows as a group, Brandon reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Wilde read the concern and added, “We just had a discussion about the band. Thanks to our tour with you and all the publicity lately, we've got an offer to headline a tour of our own. Steve can play guitar, so all we needed was a new lead singer. I’d introduce you, but you already know him, he used to be the lead singer of Instinct.”

Brandon and Chase snapped their heads around to stare in surprise at a smiling Joe. Chase arched a suspicious eyebrow and glanced at Wilde, and then at Steve. Joe read the look and said, “I’ve learned my lesson. You guys and The Shadows have been good to me in spite of the crap I’ve pulled. I’m staying clean, and as for Steve and Wilde’s relationship, that’s none of my business. If they can accept me and my past, plus what my so-called father has done, then I sure ain’t going to object to them."

Zeke grinned and added, “Joe’s style is pretty well suited for our music. We need him, and he needs us.”

With ill-concealed surprise, Chase nodded, and returned his gaze to Joe. After a few moments pause, Chase extended a hand and said, “Congratulations, Joe. I mean that, and as far as I’m concerned, the past is the past.”

With a relieved and gratified smile, Joe shook Chase’s hand. Wilde broke the awkward silence that followed by saying, “I’m really sorry about Helen. We all are.”

Eric had always hated these grim edifices, with their somber airs of fear, grief, and mourning permeating every aspect of the place. The flowers, the austere pillars, hallowed names engraved in endless rows, and above all else, always there, lurking just beyond the carefully projected bright and clean surface, was death, masked and sterilized.

The feel of an imposed though trampled silence filled the halls. Eric caressed Helen’s hand and glanced across the sterile sheets at Jon. Meeting his brother’s eyes, Eric asked in a strained whisper, “Why’d she do it? It should be me laying there, not her.”

With an understanding, pained smile, Jon fingered the sling which held his arm as he replied, “Why did you tell Brandon to shoot you? You did that to save Chase. Helen stepped in front of that bullet to save you. I saw the shot; it would have hit you in the upper back. If she hadn’t done that, you’d probably be dead. What she did, she did out of love.”

After an easy escape from Paraguay, The Scar, in disguise and with a clean set of credentials, strolled towards the Buenos Aires dockyards. The contents of his shipping container were easily worth tens of millions to anyone seeking nuclear fabrication technology, and that money would, he believed, set him up quite comfortably in his prior occupation.

Two days later, in a rented warehouse, The Scar began to unpack the container in order to allow their inspection by his two customers, who would be arriving within the hour. They, he assumed, were likely the representatives of a government, though which one he neither knew nor cared. They had expressed an interest in the entire contents, including the bomb designs. The Scar had been more than happy to oblige.

Using a forklift, assisted by his one remaining hireling, the former Spetznaz by the name of Yuri who Dimitri had picked to deliver the cameras to the American Embassy in Canberra, The Scar removed the crate containing the lens-grinding equipment that the engineer had crated back in Toowoomba . He then greeted the arriving representatives of the prospective buyer, and began unsealing the first machine with the aid of a crowbar. It never occurred to him that there might have been more to the engineer’s plans than stealing some gold and substituting the bomb firing codes. The other thing Vladimir had taken care to hide away was a little of the high explosive, which he’d sequestered in the massive lens-grinding lathe. The engineer’s plan had been simple enough; if he was alive, he could give a warning. If he wasn’t, the simple booby-trap would be his last chance for retribution.

The Scar never noticed the tiny wire within the crate. There really wasn’t much to see, just the thin, insulated wire, one of several the engineer had attached to the crate’s inner surface. The Scar, wielding a crowbar, began to pry open the wooden crate, and his second heave severed a wire. It was to be a costly oversight. The circuit closed, and a single detonator triggered half a pound of high explosive within the base of the massive piece of equipment.

The resulting explosion tore through the building, shattering it and sending a guttering column of fire and smoke high into the hazy Buenos Aires sky as The Scar fell victim to the dead hand of the man he’d betrayed. The Scar, or what was left of him, regained consciousness moments later, pinned flat under a pile of debris, as the flames began to lick at his face. Unable to move, he could only scream as he burned alive. From beyond the grave, Vladimir had exacted a measure of revenge.

© 2008 C James

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Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.

Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.

A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice, and to Captain Rick for Beta-reading and advice.

Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.

Any remaining errors are mine alone.