by Jeff Buick
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 paNicking 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.
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Chapter
56
Day 27 - 8.22.10 - Morning News
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."
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Chapter
57
Nearing Moscow
The train was a milk run and took seven and a half hours to cover the distance between St. Petersburg and Moscow. Its estimated time of arrival was 05:30 on Sunday morning.
Despite Carson's passing out in the airport, Julie and he had made the flight out of Frankfurt. Julie's quick reaction to the situation, explaining to the security personnel that he suffered from low blood pressure but would be fine in a minute or two, defused a potential disaster. They flew into Stockholm and took a quick cross-border flight into Russia. After arriving in St. Petersburg they cleared Customs and Immigration and caught a cab to the train station and purchased two tickets to Moscow. Having missed the Express, which took less than four hours, there was only one option -Daily Train #29. The upside to traveling by rail was that, unlike flying, no identification was required. That ensured their trail, which Androv would be following, went cold in St. Petersburg.
They were sharing a private coach with a polite couple from Belarus, and as the train neared Moscow Carson stared out the window at the moonlit countryside, wondering how he had been so foolish as to put Nicki's life at risk. It would have been easy to rationalize his behavior and tell himself that Wall Street demanded certain things of people at high levels. But that argument didn't fly. He had screwed up and now the woman he loved was going to pay.
The economic meltdown from the sub-prime mortgage fiasco had swept across the country and then the world, but the traders on Wall Street had skimmed overtop the carnage, mostly untouched. Average people had lost their houses, their businesses, their savings. The people he worked with came out just fine. He had survived with barely a scratch. Not anymore. Pushing the computers too far had backfired and this time he was personally affected. The faceless masses had come home to roost. He closed his eyes and drifted into a tormented sleep.
Julie woke him when they were twenty minutes from the main station. He used the time to splash some water on his face and pound back
two cups of coffee. They talked for a few minutes about the situation with Nicki - which explained the panic attack in the airport - and Julie was surprisingly sympathetic. Her stance was that things always happened for a reason. That life's challenges had ways of working out. He was not at all convinced.
They reached the station and hurried through the throngs to the main entrance. A car was waiting for them at the curb and Julie introduced the man in the front seat, next to the driver, as Evan Lucas. One of her senior associates, Evan was capable of handling anything, no matter what. Evan was quiet and thoughtful as Julie explained why Carson was with her. Carson was content to settle into the back seat and listen as the two security experts talked.
"We've asked for permission to look in the tunnels around the stadium, but getting clearance is almost impossible," Evan said when Julie had finished.
Evan was mid-thirties and dressed in expensive jeans and tailored shirts that were fitted at his thin waist. Every hair was in place and he was clean-shaven. His home city was London, and when he had first applied for the job Julie had been reticent to hire him, given the distance from the United States, where most of her work was at the time. She had decided to give him a shot and considered it one of the best decisions she had ever made.
"What else do we have?" Julie asked.
"They could use gas. Nothing fatal, maybe a mild nerve agent that incites vomiting. Doubtful, as it doesn't really make Volstov look like the bad guy. We have three other possibilities." He pulled a file out of his leather briefcase, flipped it open and reviewed the final three scenarios.
"No," Julie said when he finished going through the list. "I have a feeling this has something to do with the main electrical feed. First thing tomorrow morning we need to check on the power outages the city scheduled for the area around the stadium. It's too coincidental."
