by Jeff Buick
"Nobody," Andrew said. "We have a problem." A slight pause, then, "Bobby, head straight down the hill. I'm going around on the east. RJ, take the right side and skirt those rocks."
"I've got them from the turret," the commander said from the Stryker.
"Hold on," Andrew said. If the Stryker gunner opened up with the .50 caliber there would be precious little left of the two men. "We don't need to shoot the crap out of this. Not yet, at least."
The three soldiers spread out and approached the two men standing midway down the hill. Russell followed behind them and shouldered his camera. He pushed the record button and began feeding images to his hard drive. Andrew was moving quickly now, circling the two men and coming in from below them. He and Russell stopped within twenty meters, and the man in the shirt and pants began backing up toward the rocks, his hands out to the side, in plain sight. They were empty - no gun.
"What have you got there?" Andrew yelled at the man in the tunic. "What's under your clothes?"
The man yelled back in rapid-fire Pashto. He waved his free hand around wildly and gestured at his midsection.
"What's he sayin'?" Bobby yelled, his M-4 leveled at the man. "What's he sayin'? I don't understand a word."
"It's Dari or Pashto. I don't have a clue," RJ yelled back.
"Shit," Andrew said, watching the man in the shirt and pants slowly recede into the dusky streetscape. "I can't see much. It's getting too dark."
The man in the tunic continued to yell. Frantic. Excited. Manic.
"This guy is freaking me out," RJ yelled. "I think he's got a bomb under there."
"More trouble," Bobby yelled. "I got guys with guns at nine o'clock. At least three. Behind the rocks."
"I see them," RJ yelled back. He jogged down the hill, away from the rocks where the men were dug in.
"Oh...fuck," Andrew yelled. The figures were moving away from them, rifles in hand, the barrels barely visible in the failing light. "We might have an ambush."
"Firing a warning shot," Bobby yelled. He aimed his M-4 low, at the rocks and to one side of the figures and pulled the trigger.
The first three-round burst fired properly. Bobby squeezed the trigger to send a second burst, but a flaw on the inside of the barrel caught the bullet and it jammed in the chamber. The gunpowder exploded with the round still inside the breech. With the bullet stuck and the gun unable to expel the spent cartridge, the trapped hot gases exerted immense pressure on the bolt carrier. It shattered and a chunk of shrapnel flew back, striking Bobby in the right eye and penetrating his brain. Bobby dropped, dead before he hit the ground.
"Shit, Bobby's hit," RJ screamed. He trained his M-4 on the figures behind the rocks. They scattered when they saw the soldier target them. "I got the guys with guns, you take the bomber." He opened fire as the men scampered up the short hill toward the city. The man in the shirt and pants dove over the rocks and disappeared.
Andrew sighted on the man in the tunic and fired. Two shots. Both hits. The man dropped to the ground and stopped screaming. He lay in a heap, moaning in pain. Silence settled over the scene. The men behind the rocks and the man in the pants and shirt had made the short run to the edge of the city and disappeared over the rise and into the labyrinth of houses and alleys. Andrew and RJ slowly approached the crumpled figure in the dirt. They looked for the explosive he had hidden under his clothing.
"I don't see any wires or shit," RJ said as they neared the man.
Above them, the remainder of the convoy lurched around the corner and soldiers piled out. Everything had come across their radios as it played out and they had a grasp of the situation. They ran forward, fanning out to secure the area. A medic headed directly to where Bobby lay motionless.
Andrew kept his gun trained on the figure lying in the dirt, his finger tight to the trigger. Half an ounce more pressure and a killing shot would leave the barrel. He was ten meters, then eight, then six. Darkness was closing fast, but as he drew closer the scene became visible. The man was on his side, in the fetal position. His head was resting on the ground and his arms were wrapped around something. One of the shots had hit him in the right arm, just below the shoulder. Five meters. Four. Andrew stopped, and silence descended on the darkening scene.
He could make out the form of another person curled next to the man. Smaller, with girl's shoes and a scarf wrapped around her head. Three meters. Two. One. Andrew stood silently, staring down. A bag was ripped open and clothes scattered on the ground. A red notebook and a pencil lay in the dust. The man was crying, cradling the girl's head in his arm. He was whispering something. A name. Andrew knelt down.
"Halima." His voice was a whisper, like a tiny gust of wind.
The girl wasn't moving. Andrew's eyes scanned her body. Blood was leaking from her chest and she had stopped breathing. Her eyes were closed and the color was draining from her face. He knew the signs. He'd seen them too many times to mistake what this meant.
"Halima," the man wailed. "Halima."
Andrew's head dropped onto his chest. His eyes teared up and he let the drops fall on the dusty road. "No," he said. "No, no, no." He closed his eyes and gripped his rifle until his hand went white. "Please, God, no."
He looked up. Russell was standing above him, the camera resting on his shoulder. The journalist slowly lowered the camera and touched a red button. The camera stopped recording.
(Click here to watch this video)
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Chapter
66
Boston, Massachusetts
The time difference between Kandahar and Boston was eight hours. That was enough time for Russell's film to reach the television station and be edited for the nightly news on August 23rd, the same day it was shot on the other side of the world.
(Click here to watch this video)
There were hard decisions to be made about the video. It was graphic and clearly showed a US soldier killing a young Afghan girl. The light levels were adequate for viewing the images and understanding them in a general sense, but not substantial enough to make out all the details. The audio on the film was crude and needed to be censored for content, but its rawness gave it a powerful punch. The images of the M-4 backfiring and killing Bobby were deemed too bloody for network television. The decision came down from the top at ten minutes before the top of the hour. It was a go. The remainder of the video, minus Bobby's death, was put on the air at six o'clock.
The video went viral almost immediately. Once the network had aired it across the US, the edited footage was released to CNN and the other major networks. The moment it was in the public domain, it hit YouTube and a host of other video sites. By midnight on the east coast, the video had been viewed over twenty million times and the number was growing exponentially.
Chat rooms on the Internet were busy, people engaging in the incident. It was early in the discussions, but the trends were already establishing. Most viewers' sympathy extended not only to the father, but also to the soldier who had fired the killing shot. There was considerable talk about the unforgiving conditions the soldiers were facing. The more viewers waded in on the issue, the hotter it got. Halima's death was becoming a world-shaking event.
* * *
FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan
Russell lay on his cot in the FOB at Ma'sum ghar, staring at the ceiling. His computer was shut down for the night, but not before he had seen the reaction to his footage. Closing his eyes was useless. His mind continued to replay the images of what had happened. The quickness and brutal reality of the young girl's death. The senselessness. He turned his head slightly toward Andrew's bunk. The specialist was lying on his back, his eyes wide open.
"You okay?" Russell asked quietly.
Andrew slowly rolled his h
ead to the side. "Not really." His voice cracked with emotion. "She was just a little girl."
Russell could see the tears in the low light that filtered in through the windows. "Andrew, no one is going to believe you meant to kill her."
"But I did."
Russell didn't respond. What could he say to that? It was a simple and irrefutable truth.
"I didn't sign up for this," Andrew said. There was a hollow resonance in the words. "I just wanted to make a difference."
"You tried," Russell said. "You're here for the right reasons."
"Yeah." A long pause, then, "This is going to hit the fan, isn't it."
"It already has."
Andrew rolled slightly and propped himself on his elbow. "The press will dig into my life, won't they?"
"Like vultures on a carcass." Russell read Andrew's expression and continued, "It doesn't matter what they think. It's the guys inside the wire who matter. None of them are going to judge you."
Andrew remained propped up on his elbow for a minute, then slowly lay flat on his back. A tortured voice broke the silence. "I killed a little girl, Russell." The words could barely make it out between the sobs. His body was wracked with convulsions. "I killed her."
"You had no choice once Bobby went down."
"Fucking defective gun. If it hadn't jammed and backfired..."
"Yeah," Russell said. "Bad luck, that."
They lay alone in the darkness while the world watched their story unfold.
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Chapter
67
Day 29 - 8.24.10 - Morning News
Moscow, August 24th, 12:45 pm
"Have you seen this?" Carson asked.
Julie looked up from the diagram of the underground tunnel systems and focused on the television. It was tuned to the English-speaking CNN channel and a talking head was centered on the screen with a picture of a young girl inset on the upper right hand corner.
"Turn it up, please," she said. "I can't hear it."
Carson adjusted the volume until the woman's voice was audible through the hotel suite.
"Her name was Halima, and this video was shot by Russell Matthews, a freelance journalist embedded with troops in the Kandahar region of Afghanistan. This footage is graphic and it is real. It was shot yesterday, August 23rd, just before sunset on the southern edge of Kandahar City."
The screen changed. Gone were the uniform studio lighting and the carefully applied makeup. Instead, the cameraman was moving and the picture was grainy and shaking. The low light made it difficult to discern exactly what was happening. The voices coming through with the images were clear – at least three soldiers, all yelling at each other. An Afghan man in a tunic shouting frantically. A man in a white shirt next to him. Shadows moving in the background – silhouettes of men with guns coming towards them down the hill. Then shots. One soldier down and another firing at the man in the tunic. More yelling. Then silence. The soldier moving in on the fallen man with the camera following. The first images of a young girl lying next to the man. The man crying her name.
Halima.
The camera shifted to the soldier. He raised his hand to his head in disbelief at the scene before him.
The screen returned to the studio and the anchor.
"The soldier has been identified as Specialist Andrew James, from Pismo Beach, California. This is his second tour in Afghanistan and he has seen action many times throughout southern Afghanistan. The girl was Halima Hussein, and information on why she and her father were on the hillside just outside the city is only starting to filter in. What we're hearing, and this has yet to be confirmed, is that Halima had been sold and was being delivered to the man in the white shirt when the troops stumbled on them. We will update this information as things become clearer. In the meantime, one thing remains certain. Halima, who had recently turned twelve, was shot and killed yesterday in a tragic turn of events in Kandahar, Afghanistan."
"It's on every station," Carson said, hitting the power button. "All the Russian networks are carrying it."
"Horrible," Julie said. "What was that about her father selling her?"
Carson shrugged. "No idea. It's the first I heard about it."
Julie shook her head and looked back at the drawings. "Today is the 24th. We have until tomorrow night at eight to dismantle Miller's handiwork." She glanced up at Carson. "Evan and one of my field crew are taking the tunnels west of Eframova Street. You and I will concentrate on the ones to the east."
"Got it."
Julie pushed her hair back from her face and straightened up. "Are you sure you're up to this?
He nodded emphatically. "Getting out of here and doing something is exactly what I need."
"It's illegal." She glanced at him. "Do you understand how dangerous this is? If we get caught, we'll be in prison. Dimitri Volstov can probably get us out, but there are no guarantees."
"I understand."
The door opened and Evan entered, accompanied by another man who would be heading into the tunnels with Evan. They gathered around the table. Evan set a cloth bag on the table.
"It's exactly what you asked for," he said.
Julie picked up the bag and slipped her hand inside. She pulled out a Glock 17C pistol. She set it on the table and shook the bag. Four clips, loaded with bullets, spilled onto the drawings. She picked up the gun, looked to see if it was loaded, then spent a minute checking the trigger pressure, the slide and the other working parts. Satisfied, she set it on the edge of the table.
"Good work," she said. "Did you manage to find one for yourself?"
"I sure did," Evan said. "Glocks are easy to find in Russia."
"How about me?" Carson asked. "I'm feeling a bit left out here."
"Nice try," Julie said. "Not a chance."
"We have the rest of the equipment. Bolt cutters, portable GPS units, backpacks, waterproof boots, walkie-talkies and halogen lights. And," he held up a small screen about the size of an iPad, "I bought this as well. It's a mobile tracking unit so that someone on the surface can see where our GPS units are at all times. That way, you won't get lost. Or if you do, we'll be able to find you."
"Well done." She checked her watch. "It's one o'clock. Thirty-one hours until the band steps on stage. Let's go."
They bundled up the plans, tucked the guns in their backpacks, shouldered the rest of the gear and headed down to the street where an SUV with a driver was waiting. They drove to a park near the sports complex, parked in a remote corner of the lot and suited up. The grate was set back into a large group of shrubs, which hid them from view as they cut off the padlocks. Once they were in, the driver closed the metal grill and slipped the severed locks back in place. Only a close examination would reveal they had been cut. The driver remained above ground with the vehicle and the GPS tracking unit.
They paired up, switched on their lights and Julie led the way underground. A steep set of stairs led down, the temperature dropping quickly and the light fading until it was completely dark. The two groups went in opposite directions at the first fork in the tunnel. Carson followed Julie, who was moving at a fast clip, GPS unit in hand. She seemed to know where she was going and didn't slow through the dark and confusing maze. Finally, she stopped and had Carson help her unroll the drawings.
"Okay, we're here," she said, marking a spot on the paper with a fine-tip red felt pen. "The tunnels that handle the electrical conduits converge with the storm sewer we're in right now in about a hundred meters. From here on, we should be looking for any recent activity. New or disturbed mortar, or bricks sticking out a bit so they can find them again. Things like that."
"Okay."
Carson adjusted the
light so the beam splayed out a bit more, illuminating the sides of the tunnel better. Julie concentrated on the left side of the underground channel and he scanned the right. They continued at a much slower pace until they reached the convergence point. It turned out to be a solid wall of concrete between the two tunnels - there was no chance Miller and his team had used this point to tap into the electrical system.
"Damn," Julie said. She pulled the drawings out and checked for the next place where the two tunnel systems ran parallel. "This way," she said, starting out down a fork to the left.
Carson fell in behind her, wondering if she knew where they were and how to get out. Water dripped from the ceilings and in places their footing was treacherous. Entering the tunnels had only increased the danger in his life. Now, in addition to being tracked by a psychotic killer, he was at risk of running afoul of the Russian police or getting lost in the concrete and brick labyrinth.
At least he had a chance. He couldn't say the same of Nicki. Her chances of survival had dropped to zero, thanks to him. He had played his cards for an uncaring and greedy man. He only had himself to blame. Of everything, that was the most difficult to take.
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Chapter
68
Moscow, August 24th, 1:30 pm
Thirty hours had passed since he had arrived in Moscow and Alexi had yet to locate Carson Grant. It was making him crazy.
He sipped an espresso, smoked a thin cigar and watched people walk past the trendy bistro as he played out the situation in his mind. Grant would stay off the radar, but Julie Lindstrom would show up somewhere. And when he found her, he would find the Wall Street banker. He wasn't worried about locating Grant, but he was worried about running out of time. They were less than thirty-six hours from crippling the U2 concert and he needed Grant dead before then.
