One Child (32 page)

North of Kandahar City

The armored column met light resistance as they nearedKneh Gerd at 15:00 hours on Sunday afternoon, and the joint US-Canadian force cleared out the few Taliban hiding in the grape-drying huts on the near side of the river.

Across the Arghand, the village ofKneh Gerd was engulfed in vineyards, cornfields and olive trees. Beyond the village were a series of rocky peaks, thrusting another thousand meters above the fertile valley. The terrain was dangerous to the attacking troops on all levels. The low mountains provided an ideal spot for the Taliban to dig in their artillery, and the heavily foliated fields next to the river were a breeding spot for the insurgents to lie in ambush. The armored LAVs and Strykers were targets for RPGs and any routes in and out of the town were guaranteed to be rife with IEDs. The column slowed as it approached the access to the bridge. Crossing the river was going to be a challenge.

A team moved ahead of the main column, checking the surface of the road and underlying culverts for explosives. They found four IEDs and blew them in place. The craters the explosions left in the road were a couple of meters deep, but the vehicles had no problems navigating through or around them. They reached the river and the first vehicle started across the bridge. Taliban artillery from the hills to the west opened up immediately. Shells were dropping everywhere, and the stalled column took a couple of direct hits. One was a shaped charge, the copper cone transformed into a hot, molten jet on impact. The liquid metal pierced the half-inch armor on a LAV and sprayed the inside of the vehicle. The soldiers' flak jackets protected their torsos, but their legs, arms and faces were severely burnt. Screaming and the putrid smell of burning flesh erupted from the LAV as the men threw back the hatches and piled out. Choking smoke poured from the openings, staining the clear, blue sky. Medics raced up the column and were at the disabled vehicle in less than a minute.

The column thrust ahead across the bridge and moved into the town. The fire coming at them intensified. Infantry leaped from the Strykers and LAVs and spread out into the town, moving from house to house, clearing the way for the advancing line of armor. The slower-moving tanks, which had dropped back on the highway, caught up to the rest of the force and started shelling the artillery position in the hills. Puffs of smoke gave the tank gunners targets and they were deadly accurate with their return fire. The barrage of artillery slowed to a trickle. Choppers landed on the east side of the river to MEDEVAC the injured men. What had been a quiet Afghan village was now a vicious battleground. The house-to-house sweep by the infantry was proving costly, and radio reports were coming back with the casualties. There were numerous more injured and one killed. The Taliban were entrenched and not giving up ground without a fight.

Andrew
, Bobby and
Russell
were part of the force flanking the village on the south side. They had six other soldiers with them and their objective was to get through town quickly and circle back on the Taliban from the rear. Bobby was in the lead, two other men directly behind him, then
Russell
and
Andrew
and the final four men. They kept to narrow alleyways. If the enemy tried to come up in front or behind them they could only get one man in position to fire. Bobby was moving fast, his shoulders rubbing on the rough stone walls until the alleyway widened, then he slowed. Now, the buildings on both sides had windows and doors where the Taliban could hide and take potshots. The men split into two lines and moved cautiously. A door opened and eight guns jerked around. A woman stood in the doorway, a look of shock on her face. They waved her back inside and kept going.

They rounded a sharp curve and Bobby threw himself backwards into the wall. A split-second later, bullets chewed into the bricks on the opposing side of the street. Bobby held up three fingers, then motioned for the four men in the rear to cut into an alley leading to their left. Flank them. Come up from behind. Bobby spoke quietly into the radio. Watch for trip wires on the detour. The group divided into fours,
Russell
staying with
Andrew
and Bobby.

The street was bordered on both sides by single-story mud houses and
Andrew
backed up five meters to a door and tried the knob. It was locked. He stepped back a couple of paces and kicked the door. It flung inward on its hinges and he disappeared into the dark hole. Thirty seconds passed with no sound and he poked his head out.

"Clear," he said. "And it has an access to the roof. I'm going up to have a look."

Bobby nodded that he understood. "Radio us once you're in position."

Andrew
ducked back into the house and a minute later he called down to them from the roof. He was directly overhead, leaning over the edge. "These houses are all joined, and there are stub walls all over the place up here so I should be able to stay out of sight. I'm moving forward."

"Not alone," Bobby said. "I'm coming up."

He motioned for the last two men to stay put, then glanced at
Russell
as he headed for the door. "You comin'?"

With his camera in hand,
Russell
fell in behind him. Little sunlight penetrated through the small windows, and the interior of the house was dark. A woman grasping two small children huddled against the far wall, watching but not making a sound.
Russell
wanted desperately to capture the look on her face - her eyes told him she would die to protect her children - but he let the moment go. This was her house and they were already violating her space. They spied a rudimentary ladder, constructed of scrap wood lashed together with dried hemp. Bobby went first, then waved for
Russell
to follow.

The sunlight was blinding.
Russell
's pupils had adjusted to the darkness inside the tiny house and he squinted to cut down the glare. Bobby was motioning for
Russell
to keep his head down below the level of the short mud walls that delineated each rooftop, and the journalist dropped onto his knees. Cisterns for storing water stuck above the walls at irregular intervals and laundry was hung out to dry, flapping in the low breeze.
Andrew
had cleared a couple of the short walls and was visible only when he stuck his head up. He waved them to come ahead.

They joined him on a roof a few houses ahead. He pointed due west. "Check this out," he whispered. "There's about five guys hanging out up here. I think they're working the remote detonators on the IEDs."

"Can we get them?" Bobby asked.

Andrew
stayed focused on the area where he had seen the Taliban. A head popped up, stayed in sight for ten or fifteen seconds, then disappeared. A minute passed and it happened again. The spotters were watching a specific location, ready to detonate the IED when troops were overtop.

"It's going to be tough to get close,"
Andrew
said. "If they look this direction when we're going over a wall, they'll see us."

"Shit, man," Bobby said. "This is bad. We gotta get close or they'll duck behind the wall and take shots at us."

"If we don't take them out, they'll blow up our guys."

"Let's split. I'm over there," Bobby pointed to the right, to the edge overlooking the road. "You're over there." He jerked his head to the left, into the warren of walls and cisterns. "When you're ready, I'll lay down some fire. They'll be all over me and not noticin' you."

"In theory,"
Andrew
said.

"Don't be theorizing' nothin' with me, dawg. This is gonna work."

"On three."

Bobby settled back into the wall, breathing fast. "Why always three? Why not two?"

"Okay, on two."'

"Naw, I'm just fuckin' with ya. Three's good."

The adrenalin was pumping and the quick one-liners helped with the incredible stress. "Okay, on three,"
Andrew
said. "You're sure."

"I'm sure. On three."

They split, Bobby angling toward the edge and
Andrew
scampering over the walls leading into the maze. Each time they cleared a wall, they waited until the Talib lookout peered down to the street then ducked out of view. It took almost five minutes for them to get into position.
Andrew
checked with Bobby on the radio.

"I'm about twenty meters to the southeast of their position. There are three more walls between me and them, including the one they're hiding behind."

"Roger that," Bobby said. "One, two, three..."

Both men emerged over the walls, Bobby in firing position with his M-4 and
Andrew
running hard toward the enemy. They felt the impact of his boots on the rooftop and five heads popped up. Their bodies started twisting toward
Andrew
, their guns leveling off. Bobby pulled the trigger. Nothing. The M-4 jammed. He pulled once more with the same result, then let go of the automatic weapon, his right hand moving at an impossible speed, yanking his pistol from its holster. The Talib had a clear shot on
Andrew
, who had reacted quickly to the lack of cover fire and was bringing his M-4 to bear. Bobby raised the pistol and started firing. The distance was over fifty meters, the targets mostly hidden by the mud wall. The bullets from his pistol slammed into the first Talib, then the second and a third. The fourth shot missed, but the fifth was deadly accurate, the bullet tearing a hole in one of the men's chests.

The lone remaining Talib tried to react to Bobby's fire, but
Andrew
had him in his sights and opened up with his M-4. Half a magazine riddled the man's body and he dropped to the roof.
Andrew
kept running until he reached the wall and peered over. All five Taliban were dead. He ensured the area was secure and waved for Bobby and
Russell
. They gathered at the gruesome site.

"What the fuck kind of cover fire was that?"
Andrew
asked. "I almost got my ass shot off."

"Fuckin' thing jammed," Bobby said, lifting up the M-4.

"How many bullets in your mag?"
Andrew
asked.

"Twenty-eight. Never put thirty. Things jam if you load them to the max." He pulled the clip and checked the bullets. They were fine. He pushed another magazine into the gun, aimed it away from them and pulled the trigger. It fired three shots in rapid succession. "Now it works. What a piece of shit."

"You get that from the new shipment that came in the other day?"

"Yeah. And this ain't the first time it jammed. Once on the firing range yesterday."

"Get another one."

"No shit."

"Hey,"
Andrew
said as they gathered around the detonator. "Nice shooting with the pistol."

"Thanks."

They checked out the remote detonator and the street below. The vantage point from where the insurgents were stationed was a major intersection with a small square, a well, some trees and a few wooden benches.
Andrew
called it in on the radio. They were going to blow an IED. They gave a description of the square and any troops nearby melted back into the adjoining streets. When they were all clear, Bobby pushed the detonator.

The explosion ripped apart the square, sending fragments of lethal shrapnel in a 360-degree arc. The house they were sitting on shook and threatened to collapse. The smoke cleared, revealing a three-meter deep crater. Surrounding buildings were scarred with jagged pieces of smoking-hot metal. The collateral damage from the bomb, if set off when troops were gathered in the square, would have been devastating.

"Whooee," Bobby yelled. "Holy shit, that was fuckin' amazing."

"You get that on film?"
Andrew
asked.

"Oh, yeah."
Russell
was shaking with adrenalin. "I got it." He sat on the roof, his camera in his lap.

Andrew
broke into a wide grin. "Yeah, that was fun."

Andrew
stomped on the remote and ground it into the baked mud. "Let's get back down to the street."

They retraced their steps to the opening in the roof they had come up through. The woman was still sitting against the wall, her children tucked tight to her. There was something else in her eyes now. Fear. There was no mistaking it. The same emotion showed in her children's eyes.
Russell
tried to imagine what it was like, cowering in your house while armed soldiers from the other side of the world kicked in your door. Nowhere to go that was any safer, and hoping - praying—that it would all simply stop. Knowing that it wouldn't.

He tried to imagine. But he couldn't.

Chapter

60

Sheremetyevo II Airport, Moscow

The flight from Heathrow arrived twenty minutes early, putting Alexi in Moscow a few minutes before six on Monday morning. On a commercial flight, New York to Moscow in eighteen hours was fast. It was morning and he had slept all the way from London. He was rested and ready to begin the search for
Carson
Grant.

He powered up his cell phone and headed directly for the main entrance, a small carry-on bag in his hand. Traveling without checked luggage was the key to catching last minute flights and making tight connections. He slipped into the back of a cab and asked for the Tverskaya Ulitsa district. There would be coffee shops open and catering to the Monday morning crowds in the upscale shopping and business district. He started when his cell phone rang at such an early hour. The number was prefixed with a 212 area code, which was even more unexpected. New York.

"Is this Alexi Androv?" the voice asked.

"It is."

"William
Fleming
."

"Good morning, Mr.
Fleming
," Androv said politely.

"It's ten at night over here,"
Fleming
shot back at him. "But you're in Moscow and that gives you one day less to find
Carson
Grant."

"I'm working on it," Alexi said. His tone was not quite as civil.

"I'm disappointed. Trey recommended you. He said you were reliable."

Alexi was quickly losing his cool. "I said that I would take care of it."

A few seconds of static swept across the line, then
Fleming
's voice was back. "Your word is of very little value to me right now. I expect you to be wrapped up in Moscow before the 25
th
."

"Or what?" Alexi asked. He was sick of the condescending tone in
Fleming
's voice. He was baiting the billionaire for a response.

"Or nothing,"
Fleming
said after a moment's silence. "No paycheck. No further work. You get nothing."

The slight pause before
Fleming
's response spoke louder than the words.
Fleming
was not saying what he was thinking. Not in the least. Alexi stared out the window at the city of his birth. A city stripped of its relevance by Peter the Great in the seventeenth century when he declared St. Petersburg the Russian capital. Two hundred years passed before Moscow lived up to its pedigree and was again the center of state. Patience and guile were second nature to Muscovites. Attempting to deceive a Russian was dangerous. And stupid. As Alexi saw it there were two ways to play this. One was to be polite and pretend he didn't understand what was going on in the man's mind. The other was to be blunt. The choice was easy.

Alexi stopped the cab in front of a favorite bistro, paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk. "Threatening me is extremely foolish," he said quietly. "If I think for one moment that you've hired someone to kill me, I'll be through your security and in your bedroom while you're sleeping. I am not the kind of person you ever - ever - want to threaten."

A long silence filled the line. Finally,
Fleming
said, "Find
Carson
Grant and kill him." The line clicked over to a dial tone.

Alexi shoved the phone back in its leather case.
Fleming
didn't bother him. Being stiffed on the quarter million dollar fee did. He had two days to find the American. Not much time, but he was on his own turf now. He knew the city, and his well-placed contacts could find almost anything or anyone, including
Carson
Grant. He would take great pleasure in killing him, and, if necessary, William
Fleming
.

He found a nice table facing the streetscape and ordered an espresso.