One Child (30 page)

Chapter

55

Frankfurt, Germany

Carson
fiddled with his Blackberry. It was sporadically receiving e-mails where he and
Julie
were sitting in the Frankfurt airport. Its lack of reliability might be because he was on the other side of the Atlantic from his New York server, or maybe it was simply from being in the airport. He had no idea.

He slid the device back in its case and strolled down to view the massive departures board, scanning it until he found their flight. Lufthansa from Frankfurt to Stockholm, departing in a little over one hour. Booked at the last possible minute. Their itinerary was
Julie
's idea. She had immediately rejected flying directly from Frankfurt to Moscow. The moment immigration officials swiped
Carson
's passport through their machine, Androv and his partners would have their desTination. If there was a team on-site in Moscow, they would send someone to meet the flight. That was not an option. Instead, once they were in Stockholm, they would book a flight to St. Petersburg, then one to Moscow. The last time his passport would be put into the system was the arrival in St. Petersburg. After they were in Russia, he would no longer need to show his passport. The more circuitous route would likely take them an additional twelve hours, but
Julie
had deemed it necessary.

Carson
stood in front of the giant screen, wondering what had happened to his life. On Friday night he had arrived home from work and everything was normal. Now, Saturday afternoon, eighteen hours later,
Nicki
was in Virginia and he was in Germany, running from a trained assassin. His career with Platinus, and probably all the Wall Street firms, was in tatters. William
Fleming
had deemed him dangerous enough to hire someone to kill him. He had stumbled onto something of significance, but neither he nor
Julie
understood the scope of what Miller and his team were planning. Tucked in the back of his mind were the e-mails between
Fleming
and Jorge Amistav. Proof that
Fleming
was involved in an illegal arms deal. His life had unraveled at an unimaginable rate.

His traveling companion was constantly on the phone, communicating with her people on the ground in Moscow. They were trying to locate Miller but having no luck. As
Julie
described it, finding an ex-CIA spy who didn't want to be found would be next to impossible in a city like Moscow. Her crew had checked with the stadium staff for any unusual occurrences, but the only thing out of the ordinary was a series of scheduled electrical outages over the next few days. Red flags had gone up immediately, but
Julie
had learned that the building superintendant had called the city and confirmed the disruption was legitimate.

Carson
walked back to the departure gate and sat a couple of seats from
Julie
. From what he could hear of the conversation, she was talking to someone in Moscow. The band's equipment was en route from Horsens and was expected in Moscow early on Sunday. The initial prep for the stage was already underway and when the trucks arrived, the stage, sound and lighting would be together in twenty-four hours. That gave them a forty-eight hour window to deal with any problems that might arise and she seemed okay with that.

Julie
snapped her phone shut and shuffled over two seats so she was in the one next to
Carson
. "I've been talking with Evan. This is still a stretch, but if we make the assumption that
Fleming
and Miller are targeting the U2 concert to get back at
Volstov
, then they're not going to use anything like a bomb. If
Fleming
wants to settle a debt with
Volstov
, that's not how he'll do it."

"Makes sense,"
Carson
said. "Maybe he'll make it impossible for the band to enter the country."

Julie
gave the idea a few moments to settle in, then shook her head. "Too difficult. He'd have to trump Dimitri
Volstov
with Russian immigration and that's not likely to happen. We already have their visas in place. And even if the band
did
get stopped from coming into Russia,
Volstov
wouldn't take the hit for it, the authorities would."

"Of course."

"I suspect this will have something to do with the concert itself."

"Like what?"

She looked worn out. "There are so many possibilities. Admissions, lighting, sound - anything that would prevent the concert from happening. It's hard enough to put on a smooth concert at the best of times."

"Could they cut the sound? That would ruin things pretty quickly."

She shook her head. "I can't imagine how. The band has their own crew to set up the stage and all the sound and lighting. Miller would have to be in the thick of things as the crew was rigging the gear in order to sabotage it. I don't think that's possible."

"You said lighting and sound. They both require electricity. What about an electrical failure?"

"The electrical systems coming into a stadium that size are extremely complex. It would be difficult - probably beyond what a small team could do in such a short time frame.

"Sure would screw things up, though,"
Carson
said.

"If that was their intention and they managed to crash the power grid, it would be complete bedlam."

"People pa
Nicki
ng in the dark."

Julie
shook her head. "It wouldn't be completely dark. The emergency lighting would kick in. Each of the emergency lights is on its own backup battery."

Julie
returned to her paperwork, but the conversation with
Carson
had twigged with her. The issue of scheduled power outages was suspect. What were the chances of that happening at exactly this time? Slim to none. She made a note in her electronic daytimer to check with the city when she arrived in Moscow and verify that the outages were legitimate. She glanced back at
Carson
, who was fiddling with his Blackberry.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Sort of," he said. "There's a lot of stuff happening right now."

Carson
's Blackberry vibrated and he checked the e-mail for the sender's name. When he saw who it was from, he excused himself and walked over to an empty boarding gate. He sat in a chair overlooking the jetways and stared at the sender and the subject line. It was from Sympatico,
Nicki
's heath care provider. It was marked high priority and the subject line said,
Your upcoming lung transplant
.
Carson
opened the file with shaking hands. This was it. The news that would give
Nicki
a new lease on life. There was no reason for Sympatico to send a high-priority e-mail unless they had found a donor. The file downloaded and the text appeared on the screen. The color drained from
Carson
's face as he read the words.

It explained that Sympatico was a subsidiary company of Benediem, which had taken a huge hit on its stock price in the last week. The meltdown had wiped out billions of dollars in value and the parent company had filed for bankruptcy protection. There were no longer funds to pay for surgeries and until they reached an agreement with their insurance company, all scheduled transplants had been indefinitely postponed.
Nicki
's surgery was on the attached list. The communique ended with a sterile apology.

Carson
slumped back in the chair, his chest pounding, his head threatening to explode from the pressure. He grabbed his temples and pushed, trying to stop the throbbing. Nothing worked. He was hyperventilating and the room began to spin. He tried to stand, but the ground was unsure and he teetered for a moment before crashing to the carpet. He lay on the airport floor, unable to move, darkness flooding over him.

His last thought before he passed out, was that he had killed his fiancee.

Chapter

56

Kandahar, Afghanistan

They pulled out of Ma'sum ghar at dawn Sunday morning and took Route Fosters to Kandahar.
Andrew
and
Russell
's Stryker was fifth in a column of armored vehicles. The force was evenly split between US Strykers and Canadian LAVs. Empty pop bottles were lashed to the antennas in distinct patterns that identified which armored squadron the vehicle belonged to. The soldiers inside the armored vehicles were serious and conversation was rare. This one was going to be tough.

Their mission was to jar the Taliban loose from their entrenched positions in and aroundKneh Gerd, about ten miles north of Kandahar. Another armored division, with tanks and infantry, was joining them on the north side of Kandahar city. Then they would roll up the Arghand River valley together. The time of arrival was slated for eleven in the morning. As things were, they hadn't even left Kandahar by eleven.

"We'll never make it back in time. We're gonna get stuck outside the wire overnight," Bobby said, chewing on a fingernail. "Shit, I hate spendin' time out there. Fucking spiders and snakes everywhere."

"Taliban, too,"
Andrew
said.

"Nah," Bobby grinned, "they'll all be gone by then. Dead or running like hell."

"Wishful thinking,"
Andrew
yelled over the hum of the tires on the asphalt.

They were making good time now that they had linked up with the other division on the main road. It had been cleared earlier that morning and they were averaging forty miles an hour. To their left was the river, a jagged line of blue water fringed with green on both sides. Pomegranate and grape fields dominated the foliage. Conical-shaped grape-drying huts punctuated the farmland - perfect places for the Taliban to hide and take potshots at them. Harmless enough so long as it was small arms fire and they weren't bogged down and crawling along the road. As
Russell
had found out, very dangerous if they stalled long enough for the enemy to bring in mortars or artillery.

"What tier are these guys?"
Russell
asked.

"All Tier One. These are some of the best they have. And they're well armed. Lots of shoulder-fired missiles and RPGs. If we don't secure our position quick, we could be in some trouble."

"It seems you're always in trouble,"
Russell
remarked.

"Just like at home." Bobby checked the magazine on his M-4. "I was always in trouble in Augusta. That's why I ended up here. It's a good way to stay out of jail."

"What sort of trouble?"
Russell
asked.

Bobby grinned and opened his mouth to reply. A second later the Stryker in front of them hit an IED. The force of the explosion lifted the armored vehicle two meters off the ground and folded it almost in half. The concussion wave from the explosive hit
Andrew
and
Russell
's Stryker and threw them into the walls like dice in a cup. Their driver slammed on the brakes and all eight soldiers in the back were thrust into the wall at the front of the cavity.

The Canadian LAV directly behind their Stryker swerved to avoid rear-ending them and veered onto the sand and rocks next to the road, its front tire hitting the second IED. It flipped on its side and slid sideways for thirty meters before grinding to a halt. Smoke poured from both damaged vehicles and tongues of fire licked at the underside of the Stryker. The rear hatch on the overturned LAV opened and Canadian soldiers slithered out onto the dirt. Soldiers from nearby vehicles were on the road, wielding fire extinguishers and setting up a perimeter. The gunners on the LAVs and Strykers swiveled and locked in on the strip of green bordering the river. Moments later the small arms fire started, followed by the first mortars. The US and Canadian troops returned fire, their 25mm cannon chewing into the Taliban's defensive positions.

Inside
Andrew
's Stryker, the men were slow to react. The explosion had concussed the four soldiers sitting closest to the front and they were in shock and bleeding from their ears. Both
Russell
and
Andrew
had substantial ringing in their ears but no bleeding.
Andrew
levered open the hatch and he and Bobby helped the other men out. They huddled against the sheltered side of the Stryker on the side facing away from the river. There was a constant sound of bullets pinging off the armor.

"Are you all right?"
Andrew
asked
Russell
.

"I think so."
Russell
checked himself up and down to see if he was bleeding. Nothing. "Yeah, I'm good."

"I'm going over to the disabled vehicles."
Andrew
snugged his M-4 against his chest and motioned for Bobby to follow him. "Let's go." They rounded the front of the Stryker and ran the short distance to the crumpled mess blocking the northbound lane of the road.

The fire was under control and two Canadians were working on the hatch. They managed to pry it open and a thick stream of smoke drifted with the breeze. They waited for a minute until the cavity was clear enough to see and to breathe, then one of the men lowered himself in.
Andrew
followed. The interior was quiet. It was covered with blood and it took
Andrew
and the Canadian a minute to assess the situation. Two dead, four injured and unconscious and one severely injured and trapped.
Andrew
radioed in the information and asked for a MEDEVAC. They handed the injured first, then the dead up through the hatch to Bobby and others who were waiting, then turned their attention to the soldier who was trapped.

When the Stryker folded, it had collapsed like an accordion, crushing the man's legs just above the knee between two sheets of metal. The damage was catastrophic. The bones were smashed and the flesh pinched down to a quarter of its thickness. The only positive aspect of the injury was that the pressure of the metal pressing against his flesh sealed the arteries and stemmed the blood flow. Without that, he would have died.
Andrew
took stock of the situation and knew he had to wait. Relieving the pressure would start the blood flowing and kill the man. The response to his request was answered - medics were on the way. He sat next to the soldier in case he came to. Outside, the sounds of bullets and mortars peppering the convoy were diminishing, then it stopped. Return fire continued for a few minutes, then silence settled in. The Taliban had hit them while they were stalled, then run back to their caves. At least two dead and the man next to him forever changed.

Andrew
loosened his helmet and ran a dirty hand across his forehead. The temperature inside the damaged Stryker was intense and rising quickly. He hoped the docs arrived soon - he needed to get out. Away from the shattered body and the smell of death.

The injured soldier stirred and opened his eyes. He was disoriented and his eyes flicked about the destroyed cabin, trying to understand what had happened. He looked down and saw the metal across his legs.

"Hey, buddy,"
Andrew
said. He cradled the man's head in the crook of his arm and tried to get him to focus on his face. Anything but on the damage. "You're going to be okay."

"What happened?" His voice was thin and quivery and his body started to shake. Shock was setting in.

"You hit an IED,"
Andrew
said. He held the man tighter.

"Shit, man. Look at my legs." Some level of coherency was returning, and with it, reality. "Look at my fucking legs."

"The medics are on the way. They'll get you out of here."

"I can't feel anything." Panic was in every word and growing. "I can't feel my legs." He reached down and grabbed at the sheet of metal that had pulverized the flesh and bones in his thighs. He ripped at it with his bare hands, trying desperately to free himself.

Andrew
hugged the man's upper body against his. The soldier thrashed about, trying to break free, but
Andrew
kept his grip. He could feel the man's heart beating wildly. Blood started to seep out of the wound. The harder the soldier struggled, the tighter
Andrew
clutched him. Sweat poured off
Andrew
's brow and he could barely breathe in the hot, confined space. His strength was waning, his grip on the man loosening. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, the man stopped writhing about. He lay still, letting
Andrew
hold him. His eyes stared up at
Andrew
, fear and confusion in command.

"Medic."

The voice came from the open hatch and
Andrew
looked up. A face was framed in the opening. Young. Too young to be a doctor,
Andrew
thought. He let up on his grip, reassured the man everything was going to be okay and pulled himself up and through the hatch. The open sky, with its sunlight and a soft breeze felt strange after the dark, scorching confines of the destroyed Stryker.

Andrew
leaned against the twisted metal and stared down at his feet, his breathing fast and shallow. He knew that only a few meters away, the medics were cutting through flesh and bone, taking off the man's legs. He wanted to scream. To run pell-mell into the grape fields and flush out the cowardly bastards who had done this and empty his magazine into them. To kill them with the same savage indifference they showed the foreign troops who opposed them. To slaughter them without the slightest tinge of guilt or remorse.

Instead, he simply stood up, looked at
Russell
and Bobby, and said, "Let's go."