One Child

by Jeff Buick

  Trey nodded in agreement. "That's the key to this whole thing. Tripping the circuits is not an option."

  Petr Besovich studied the plans showing the utilities. He pointed to the entry points for the electrical lines. Six of them in total. "This is a problem," he said, his voice heavy with a Russian accent. "We need access to the sewer system in six different places. Then we need to find the main lines and splice in contactors. These are switches that we can open and close to allow or disallow the electrical flow. But there is some good news. Since the incoming power is split into six separate lines, the voltage and amperage on the lines is much lower than if the stadium was being fed by one line." He pointed to another section of the drawings. "Six hundred volts and three hundred amps in each line. That means the wires won't be too thick, which makes attaching the contactors much easier."

  "Well, that's good news," Trey said.

  Petr held up a finger. "But having six lines complicates things. Since we can't work on live wires, we need to cut the power on the incoming lines in order to make this happen. To do this once is difficult. To do it six times in such a short time frame is crazy. Someone at the stadium will notice the power losses and report them."

  Trey considered the words carefully. "Good point, Petr. Maybe there's a way around that. What if there was an advisory from the city to the stadium that they were conducting upgrades to part of the grid and needed to take the power down in different sectors at specific times. Always late at night, maybe two in the morning. And only for a short period of time. Half an hour, max. That way the guys working the night shift at the stadium are ready for the interruption."

  "That might work, but how do we get the city to send out that memo?" Androv asked.

  Trey grinned. "They don't send it. We do. We create a profile for a fictitious department head and e-mail the stadium. Then we set it up so any response from the stadium comes directly back to us."

  Besovich nodded. "That could work. If we had success with one interruption, the other five would probably be a run in the park."

  "Walk in the park," Trey corrected him. "It's a walk in the park, not a run in the park."

  Besovich looked confused for a moment, then turned to Maelle. "Maybe for most guys, but for me, it's a run." He tapped his barrel chest. "The girls like it when their man is in good shape."

  Maelle rolled her eyes.

  "Ahh," he grinned. "You want me for my mind, not just my body."

  "Oh, Christ," Maelle said.

  "We need an entry point to the underground system," Trey said, bringing the conversation back on track. "A safe place to cut through the concrete and brick so we can get into the storm sewer."

  "I've already thought of that," Androv said. "There's an empty retail space on Usaceva, just across Hamovniceskij Val on the north side of the stadium. I think it's the closest we're going to get. The space around Luzhniki is all parks and grass or parking lots, and the river is to the south, so there's no chance of coming in from that direction."

  "Can we access the storm sewer from there?" Trey asked.

  Androv nodded. "It runs directly underneath the building. The only problem is, getting from the entry point to the stadium is a fair distance."

  "How far?"

  "Between 150 and 200 meters."

  "That's doable," Trey said. "Once we're underground and moving there should be little to keep us from making good time. We'll be going in at night, so we won't have to worry about running into any maintenance workers."

  "There could be security gates," Besovich offered.

  "In the sewer system?" Trey asked. "That's pretty anal, don't you think?"

  "It's Moscow," Besovich shrugged. "You never know what you're going to run into here."

  "Okay, we can figure out how to get through them if it becomes a problem. I'm not going to worry about it right now." He turned back to Androv. "What are the chances of getting this place on Usaceva?"

  Androv dug into his leather briefcase and pulled out a legal-size document. "I think they're pretty good. This is a six-month lease. All we need to do is sign it and give them a bank draft for a hundred thousand rubles. We can get the key tomorrow."

  "A hundred thousand rubles," Trey said. "The conversion rate is about thirty to one right now, so that's around $3,200 US dollars. Reasonable for a deposit."

  "I thought so."

  "Okay, good work," Trey said, taking the lease and quickly scanning it. He glanced up at Androv. "We're putting in a chocolate shop?"

  "Seemed harmless."

  Trey handed the lease back to the Russian. "I'll give you the money in dollars and you can convert it and pay for six months. We'll need equipment to cut through the floor and the top of the sewer pipe."

  Petr Besovich said, "I'll get whatever equipment we need. We should make a list."

  "Sounds good." Trey turned to the lone woman in the group. "Maelle, once we're inside the sewers and have access to the electrical conduits, that will give you a direct link to the city and stadium computers. Once you're tied in, you'll be able to manipulate them as we need."

  She nodded. "Yes. That shouldn't be a problem."

  "She speaks," Besovich said.

  "Petr, you're going to fuck this up," Maelle snapped at him. "I don't want things going wrong because you're distracted, so get your mind out of the gutter."

  A tense silence settled on the table, until Trey said, "She's right, Petr. We need you focused. Wait until we're finished, then see if you met Maelle's criteria."

  Besovich measured the words for a minute, then smiled. "All right, that's a deal. No more comments until I take care of things, then I collect my reward."

  Maelle looked disgusted but didn't disagree.

  "Alexi, you get this lease signed and cover the front windows with construction paper. Petr, you secure the equipment we need to cut into the sewers. Maelle, I need you to go over every scrap of information we have on the city and stadium computer systems so you're ready when we need to hack into them." He folded up the plans and slipped them into his briefcase. "It's August 6th. We have nineteen days to do this. Let's get to it."

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  Chapter

  21

  Day 12 - 8.07.10 - Morning News

  Dabarey, Afghanistan

  Andrew grabbed Russell by the arm and yelled at him over the roar of the Stryker engines and the incoming small arms fire as they entered Dabarey.

  "We're going in hot. I want you to stay in the vehicle."

  Russell shook his head. "No way. I'm more of a target in this thing than on the ground with you guys. I'm coming with you."

  Andrew made an instant decision. "Okay, but they're shooting at us. You understand that?"

  "Yes."

  One of the crew members threw back the rear hatch and the men piled out of the vehicle. Andrew scrambled out and took a defensive position against the side of the Stryker, then yelled to Russell. "Let's go. Now. Now." He pointed to a six-foot mud wall on the right side of the road. "Get flat against that. Hurry."

  Russell jumped off the Stryker. The impact when he hit the ground sent a shock wave from his knees through his body to his skull and jarred his teeth. He almost collapsed but stayed on his feet and ran to the wall. He hugged the hot, rough-textured mud, his hands shaking so violently he hitched his thumbs under the camera-bag straps to keep them from vibrating. Andrew scurried up beside him.

  "Here's the deal. We're coming at these guys from three different angles. Left flank, right flank and the center. We're in the center. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  "There's an irrigation canal about a hundred and fifty meters ahead and we expect them to be dug in behind it. But we're going
to get face-to-face with them as we move through the streets. We want to engage them before they can drop back and regroup behind the canal wall." Andrew glanced both ways on the street. "Stay behind me. Don't get ahead. We won't push too hard or too fast or we'll be like a thumb sticking out of a glove and they'll come in behind our platoon and cut us off."

  "I understand."

  Andrew adjusted his helmet and snugged his M-4 tight to his chest. He indicated to the rest of the men from his Stryker that he was ready and the lead man started down the narrow street. Behind them the Stryker backed off far enough that it wasn't vulnerable to any RPGs coming from the nearby buildings. Inside the vehicle, the gunner checked the optics on the remote weapons station for the .50 caliber gun, ready to provide cover fire. They fell into formation, one of the soldiers taking up the rear so Russell wasn't the last man in the line, and moved down the street.

  It was quieter after the roar of the Stryker engines diminished. Still omnipresent was the steady crack of automatic gunfire and a constant wave of explosions. The two-way radios in their helmets crackled with short reports from the three platoons - their positions and what sort of resistance they were facing. Left flank, totaling twenty-three men, had the easiest route through the town. The spaces between buildings were wider, giving the enemy fewer hiding places. The thirty-eight men working the right flank had the toughest slogging. The roads leading through the town were narrower and shaped like crescents. The soldiers were constantly rounding corners and dealing with thin crossroads, not much wider than their shoulders. Enemy fire was steady and according to the radio, three troops were already injured. The talk coming back from the point men on all three platoons wasn't good. They were meeting fiercer resistance than expected. Intel had pegged the number of Taliban way too low.

  "Get the Strykers to circle the town and lay down some grenade fire on the irrigation canal," Captain Conroy, the officer in charge of the company, ordered over the radio. "Close the back door on these guys. Don't let the ones inside the village get into the canal. Target some of the shells on the back edge of town."

  Verbal affirmatives came in from the lieutenants in charge of the platoons. The Strykers were on the move, seven to the west, six to the east. The first Stryker to hit an IED was detouring on the left flank. The explosion tore off two wheels and it leaned precariously to the right. The commander and gunner were uninjured and they radioed in what had happened. Another of the light armored vehicles hit an IED a couple of seconds later. The Taliban had laced the ground surrounding the town with caches of explosives with pressure triggers. The disabled vehicles still had their firepower and the commanders set up firing positions from where they had been hit. Word came across the radio for the rest of the Stryker drivers to find a firing spot ASAP and pull up. They were caught in a minefield and moving anywhere in the area near the town was too dangerous.

  The three Strykers with the MK19 grenade launchers settled into position and the commanders input coordinates to the computers. They targeted the narrow band between the village and the canal, and the canal itself. Six minutes after the order to pull back and set up a barrage, they were lobbing grenades onto the rearmost Taliban positions.

  Fighting inside the town was intense. Of the seventy-eight men who had entered the town, six were wounded, two severely, and the entire right flank was pinned down by stiff resistance in the narrow alleyways that dominated that side of town. The left flank was moving ahead, but cautiously so that they didn't run ahead of the main force and allow themselves to be cut off from behind. The center force was under the most intense fire, from Taliban entrenched behind the walls bordering the canal and in the houses skirting the main road.

  Talk on the radios was confirming something they already suspected. They had been set up. The Taliban had brought in hundreds of men under the cover of darkness. Some of the soldiers had tried ducking into houses for cover and found some of them occupied by scared women and children hiding from the fighting, other buildings were crammed with Taliban. Training, and their ability to react immediately to the volley of fire coming at them, had saved them from being killed. Calls for MEDEVACs were coming in from every squad. They were bogged down and in the fight of their lives.

  "RPGs."

  The voice came over the radio a second before the first Rocket Propelled Grenade hit one of the Strykers. It bored into the armor between the driver's hatch and the turret, knocking out their communications and disabling the gun. Additional RPG fire came from the canal, peppering the Strykers as they laid down a withering barrage of cannon fire.

  Russell was tucked up tight to Andrew, in a small compound just off the main road. A Talib manning a machine gun at the north end of the street, about fifty meters from the canal, had them pinned down. Russell slipped his video camera around the corner and focused it down the street, shooting footage that he couldn't see. Andrew grabbed him by the shoulder and he pulled the camera back.

  "Here," Andrew said. He pulled his 9mm Berretta from its holster and handed it to the reporter. "Do you know how to use one of these things?"

  "Yes," Russell said, taking the gun.

  "When this is over, you hand me the gun and I put it back in my holster. This never happened. You understand?"

  "I understand."

  Andrew's grip on the reporter's shoulder strengthened. "We're in trouble. Serious trouble. If you see a bad guy, shoot him."

  "Got it."

  Andrew and two men from his Stryker conferred for a minute, then he took a couple of deep breaths and ran out from behind the wall. The two soldiers ducked out and laid down covering fire on the machine gun. Andrew's legs pumped hard and he wove from side to side toward the Taliban position. He started taking fire and ducked into a doorway. He disappeared inside the house and there was more gunfire from his M-4. Then silence.

  In the distance the grenades from the Strykers were targeting the Taliban positions at the canal. Deadly accurate, the rounds were decimating the entrenched Talibs with hot shrapnel. The amount of fire coming from the canal was lessening. Another RPG hit a Stryker, destroying the gun turret. The casualties were mounting - quickly. Radio talk indicated they were down to eight functioning vehicles out of thirteen.

  But the tide was beginning to turn. The artillery fire from the Strykers had the Taliban pinned down behind the canal, allowing the soldiers to move up the streets without taking as much fire. They were clearing each house they came to, finding Taliban in many of them. Training in how to enter occupied buildings surpassed the advantage of being dug in, and the US troops cleared the houses with almost no casualties. Both right and left flanks were moving fast now. The problem was in the center where the men were bogged down by the machine gun positioned in the house at the end of the street. They needed to take out the gun, a tough job considering how well entrenched it was.

  Andrew's voice came over the radio. "Drop smoke on the street in front of the gun."

  Seconds later two plumes of red smoke billowed across the road ten meters in front of the machine gun nest. The heavy thumping of the machine gun followed as the Talib shooter panicked and blindly sprayed the road with lead. Andrew waited until the gunfire stopped, then sprinted toward the smoke. He wove hard left and right in case there were other shooters in the neighboring houses. Nothing. He made it to the smoke and disappeared.

  Once inside the smoke screen he ducked hard to the right and rolled until he slammed into a mud wall. He oriented himself, gained his feet, injected a new magazine and lowered his gun. "Cover fire directly up the middle for five seconds," he said into his radio. Small arms fire erupted behind him and he counted. One - two - three, the heavy machine gun opened fire, aiming straight down the road - four - five. He lunged forward as the smoke dispersed, his M-4 on three-burst automatic and aimed at the nest. He cleared the smoke and pulled the trigger again and again. Twenty-seven rounds spit out in three-round busts. His accuracy was
perfect. The first shots cut into the men manning the gun and the remaining twenty were overkill. Andrew jammed a new magazine into his gun and jumped through the window the Taliban had been firing from. Three bodies lay splayed out on the dirt floor. One of the men was still alive and grabbing for a rifle. Andrew squeezed the trigger and the Talib's body jerked as the bullets slammed into his chest. He lay motionless on the floor. Andrew double-checked the room and the area outside the rear door.

  "Clear," he said into his radio.

  The smoke screen had blown off in the afternoon breeze and he looked out the window to see the remainder of his squad moving up the road. Bringing up the rear was Matthews, his camera bag banging against his side as he ran. He clutched the pistol firmly in his right hand, scanning the peripheral buildings for any sign of the enemy.

  "You'd make a good soldier," Andrew said as Russell entered the house and fell against the wall next to the door. The reporter was sucking in deep breaths and his face was flushed. His hands shook with nerves and adrenaline.

  "You are completely fucking crazy," Russell gasped.

  Andrew grinned and checked the mag on his gun. "Completely fucking crazy gets you dead. Sort of crazy gets the job done."

  Russell shook his head and pulled his video camera from the bag. He switched it to record and hit pause. He waited as the squad regrouped, radioed in their position and got the news back on the situation. With the threat in the center of town eliminated, the flanks were pushing to the canal and meeting limited resistance. The grenades from the stationary Strykers were raining down on the canal and the enemy was retreating, using the canal walls as cover.