Archer's hand exploded and painted Charley's face with gore. A high-caliber rifle round took out his pistol.
He dragged Charley back with him to the ground and dropped out of Middleton's sight. The crowd was surging around them, thousands of people in a stampede to get out of the amphitheatre.
Middleton hunched and bent his knees to lower his center of gravity, being jostled as he went against the tide, making it over to where they'd fallen--nothing. Blood on the ground, Archer's pistol in pieces, no trail.
Middleton had made a career out of helping others. He'd never asked for anything in return. Right now, as the spooked crowd streamed around him, he wished otherwise.
Connie Carson and Wiki Chang sat in the cargo area of an MV-22B Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, U.S. marines around them, game faces on, M4 assault rifles ready. They took off vertically as a helicopter would, the flying style converting to that of an aircraft as the two massive engines charged forward for horizontal flight and they were hammering hard and fast to the north.
Squashed between a marine three times his size and Carson, Chang hugged his backpack so tight it seemed he wanted to crawl in there to escape the incredible noise inside the cabin, as two other Ospreys flew in close formation.
He'd held on but no more--Chang threw up into the bag he'd been given by the crew chief. Carson patted him on the back.
"You're . . . smiling?"
"Been a while since I've done an infil with marines," she said, cheerleader exterior masking a former door-kicker with the U.S. military. She was not so much taking to the situation like a duck to water, but rather felt a happiness like a pig rolling in filth. She scratched at the fiberglass cast on her arm. "It's not really like a computer game, is it?"
His teeth felt like they were rattling out of their sockets. As the marine seated next to him slapped a box of rounds into his M249 SAW and cranked a round into the chamber, Chang shook his head.
Chernayev called his name over the radio.
Middleton scanned around, stood tall and tried to look over heads and was almost knocked over--there, behind the press pool, the assembly still corralled in their cordoned-off area below and out of the sightline of the president, while POTUS was being evacced and the civilians exfilled en masse. Not even all the number of security personnel present were able to control this crowd moving as one.
"Over there!"
Middleton followed Chernayev's outstretched arm and pointed finger--
Archer dragging Charley back toward the raised VIP area, the sound of a helicopter behind him.
"Two minutes!" the marine CO yelled. "Masks!"
All the marines donned gas masks.
Carson looked to Chang, his face a mixture of apprehension and pure fear. Just twenty minutes ago, they'd been stopped at the major road checkpoint ten kilometers south of the dam, and she had managed to talk the Indian military sentries into letting her speak to the U.S. marine colonel, a man who now stood looking forward through the shoulders of the pilots.
"Wiki, are we in range yet?" Carson asked.
Chang shook his head and turned a new shade of sick, swallowed some vomit that rose up his throat. She put an arm around his shoulders. Saving not only their president, but also this region from a potential nuclear war . . . Yeah, that would do it to you.
The Secret Service had the president behind a tall wall of bulletproof glass that deployed whenever the commander-in-chief was giving a public speech. The protective detail, all with service firearms drawn, were scanning the crowd, some looking up at the sound of Marine One, the big Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King coming in fast toward the landing zone.
Middleton ran hard, carving a path through anyone in his way. Weren't for the flare in his knees he could have been back 35 years, a wide receiver at West Point. A gap in the crowd, another gunshot behind him, he didn't flinch, eyes searching, sucking in air.
There. Dead ahead.
Near where the base of the dam met the stairs up to the raised VIP platform, Archer turned to face him. Arm tight around Charley's waist, bloody stump of a hand to the front of her, his other hand out of sight behind her back. Could be a gun, could be a knife.
Middleton looked to his daughter. All thoughts of the running crowd left his mind. The bombs too. It was like he was in the eye of the storm, even the sound of the helicopter was silenced in this moment. People ran screaming all around them as he stood still and faced her. Charley's eyes pleaded with him. This wasn't her fight. His work had again put her into jeopardy. No way.
A guy, one of Chernayev's BlueWatch operators, had his pistol drawn and was coming at him--his head snapped back and he fell to the ground. Secret Service or marine sharpshooter. Middleton almost wished he'd ditched the Beretta but he'd instinctively tucked it into the back of his belt as he'd stood. Hopefully it wouldn't be clocked and seen as a threat.
"The controller, Middleton, or she dies."
Charley screamed as Archer pushed something into her back.
They were ten yards away. Middleton closed the gap to five. Stopped. Held the controller loose in his right hand, visible to Archer.
"You want this?"
"This ends here, you know it."
"Maybe for me and you," Middleton replied. "It's not going to end for her."
"Maybe not--for her." Archer gave a flick of his head over his shoulder. "What about your other bitch?"
Middleton followed where Archer motioned. At the top of the stairs that led up to the VIP area, Tesla gasping for breath, a stream of bright red ran out of the corner of her mouth, her face sunken and tired. She'd been trampled by the crowd.
"Let them both go, Archer," Middleton said, turning back. "Only deal you're gonna get. You think you can draw down on me and not get taken out by a sniper, go for it."
Sixty marines in full battle dress ran flat out in double-file, carving a path through the middle of the mass exodus.
Chang had a hand on the back of Carson's belt, as instructed, and he didn't argue or question when she peeled off from the stream of marines and ran up the stairs to the VIP area to their left.
"The only way this ends, Archer. You let my daughter and my colleague go. You give them time to leave."
Archer almost smiled. Charley winced as he shifted his grip and his warm blood pumped across her neck.
"The detonator, on the ground, and I let them run for thirty seconds," Archer said. "There's a clear path behind me, into the dam's maintenance area. They'll be spared from the blast."
Middleton knew he had no choice but to go along, even though Charley's eyes said no.
"Twenty-five seconds."
He scanned right--Marine One was coming in to land. He thought of Lespasse and Wetherby, two fallen comrades. He thought of Charley's mother. He thought of all those who left too early, who were taken by greedy men. This was what he'd formed the Volunteers to prevent.
"Twenty. Leave it longer and they won't make it."
Middleton looked around again--spotted a familiar face: Chernayev was coming behind him.
"OK," Middleton said. He held his hand out and put the remote detonator on the ground, a few paces from Archer. He let Charley go, shoving her toward Tesla, who was doing her best to hurry down the stairs.
"Run!" Middleton yelled at them. "Run!"
Tesla grabbed Charley by the arm. With all her remaining strength, she dragged her away, pulled her in a run toward the safety of the dam's reinforced concrete.
The crowd had broken through the barrier and the line of security at the landing area of Marine One. Still several thousand people were jostling for a chance to escape the amphitheatre, hundreds of them taking this new route.
Secret Service were forced to keep the president behind the bulletproof glass screen, some two hundred yards off their now-busy evac site. Marine One stayed on station, hovering directly above its LZ. They all donned gas masks, even the president and his bodyguards.
Archer squatted to the ground, revealed he had a small pistol, picked up the
remote in the same hand, nursing his mangled hand across his chest the whole time. Looked at the little plastic box. Smiled. Content. Flipped the cover off the switch. He thought of that place his father had told him about, a little town of pedigree goat herders in Kashmir where Pashmina came from. Alexander's caravan was said to have passed through there almost two and a half thousand years ago and the people there still have evidence of that today, with sandy hair and ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. Since a young boy he'd longed to see it--maybe death would bring him there. Suffering has its joyous side, despair has its gentleness and death has a meaning. Every death.
Hovering above the crowd, the side door of Marine One opened, an agent leaned out, fired three CS rounds directly below onto the LZ. The 40mm grenades from the M32 launcher took less than half a second to hit the ground fifty yards below. The tear gas had an immediate effect.
"No!" Chernayev shouted through a screen of running people.
Archer pressed the detonator.
Middleton closed his eyes. He thought of Charley.
Nothing happened.
Middleton opened his eyes. Archer looked at the remote, incredulous. He tucked the pistol into his belt, pressed the button again. Nothing. Again.
Again.
"Nice try, Archer," Carson said.
She came down the stairs with Chang, who held up the POLENA handset that was wired to his backpack.
"He jammed the signal," Middleton said. He'd seen Connie Carson and Chang in the brush nearby, signaling to him that it was all right to give up the remote control. Saving him from the very difficult decision: his daughter or the president.
Chang nodded, looked worn-out and relieved, like he might faint with the passing of the adrenalin. For all his advanced computer and science degrees and language skills that had aided the Volunteers from the comfort of his desk in D.C., never was a sight so welcome in the field as this slightly built Taiwanese-American before him.
"First, I thought they might be using a garage-door opener, but then I realized that the Secret Service must be wise to that sort of thing, from all the IEDs and stuff in Iraq," he said, holding up his handset. He was taking comfort in tech-speak. "So I barrage jammed all frequencies as soon as the marines dropped us off."
Middleton smiled, looked to Archer, who was now standing up, pistol still tucked in his belt, radio detonator in his useful hand. His eyes were darting around, then he seemed to relax.
"Nice work, Wiki."
"No problem, boss," Chang replied. He looked over at the commotion of Marine One hovering to land, the bubble of security protecting the president. "Holy crap," he said, "it really is the president . . .
"And for the record," Chang added, "there was no heavy water. The copper bracelet referred to the organization."
"Yeah," Middleton said. "I figured that one out too."
He saw Chernayev approaching, a couple of his security guys with him. Looked like this was working out as a victory after all.
"Hacked into Bicchu, that search engine?" Chang said. "And you'll never guess who it's owned by--Hey!"
Middleton turned. He saw Wiki Chang on the ground, rubbing his jaw.
Chernayev had taken the backpack jammer from him. Walked over to Archer, flicking switches on the handset as he went.
"Owned by one of my corporations," Chernayev said. He dumped the jammer by Archer's feet and took the detonator from him. As a dozen heavily armed BlueWatch security men pushed onto the grounds, he glanced down at the younger man. "This should work now. Almost time..."
"And I'll see your hands please, Colonel Middleton."
POTUS was being ushered to his helicopter. A hundred and fifty yard dash. The marines were at the LZ now, a wall of 100 percent pure American muscle to keep the crowd away from the raised landing area. The gun-ships were close in too, their immense sound adding to the message to those below: this is not the way out. The press corps kept their cameras trained on the LZ, waiting for the money-shot of a gasmask-wearing president to headline the news services.
Middleton's world was spinning.
Chernayev.
He'd set this up. He built this dam to attract a U.S. official. He set it all up . . .
He lied about the communique from the State Department--and, of course, never sent the email to Charley. And the reference to Tampa on Balan's computer--it wasn't one of Devras Sikari's companies, but Chernayev's. Sikari was probably worried about what it meant and was going to send Balan or someone there to check it out.
And Chernayev was responsible for the death of his dear friend and colleague, Lespasse.
"Originally, I was going to choke Pakistan into being more submissive to what I could provide them," he said, his eyes drifting from Middleton to the scene of the president's detail moving through thick CS smoke. "I'm afraid I'm not that patient."
"We knew some of your Volunteers would make it here," Archer said. "In fact, we were always going to have you here, Harold, dead or alive."
"Oh?" Middleton felt Connie brush close against him. He made sure he kept his hands out front, in view of Chernayev, who had a silenced pistol pointed at them, concealed under his jacket.
"It was clear you'd come to me." Chernayev said. He motioned for Archer to see that the president was almost in the kill zone. The tear gas was dispersing, blowing to the south, chasing at the heels of the evacuating crowd.
"Even dead, which you'll be soon enough, you serve a purpose. Today's events will reshape not only this area, it will be a final nail in the coffin for your little group. Pakistan, as the world knows it, will end. Afghanistan too, Kashmir, some of India. Maps drawn up by old colonial masters will be redrawn again. This is the beginning of the end--for your Volunteers too, buying us the time we need to build up."
"The ICC and UN will be all over this."
"I don't think so," Chernayev said, a smile on his face. "We kill you Volunteers and more will come--better organized, more resourced. I get that. But we implicate you in this and your organization will be as dead as you."
Middleton looked at the president, at the hundred-yard line from Marine One, about to come into view of the assembled press, the only group here who seemed to be enjoying what was going on around them.
"My men," Archer said, "all fifty of them are pointing their cameras at your president now. Behind their lenses, copper discs."
They'd be concave, up to an inch thick. Shaped charges, designed to penetrate armored vehicles, like in Iraq and Afghanistan. Middleton knew all about them, he'd seen what they could do. It will be like fifty sabot tank rounds going off: nothing would be left. Nothing. Shaped charges kill with kinetic energy, such incredible force that converted to heat, blasting and melting through anything and everything. Game over.
Chernayev lifted his sleeve, revealing above his watch a thin copper bracelet, slightly different than the one Middleton had seen on Balan's wrist. "This bracelet? Nothing more than off-cuts from the process, made into intricate gifts, worn with pride by those involved."
"Chernayev, think about it," Middleton said. "This will start a war. . . ."
He shook his head, resolute. Took the remote detonator from Archer. Thumb over the button.
"This region will need many peacekeepers--I have a proposal with the UN right now for a hundred thousand of my BlueWatch contractors to move in to fill the security void. Where else would they come from? The U.S.? I don't think so."
A hundred thousand--that was a big army in any nation's book. Middleton couldn't imagine that the Russian had that many boots to field. But he had the money.
Then he understood. "China," Middleton said. "This is ultimately all about China, right?" His stalling tactic was tinged with genuine interest. China's secret political leadership, the Te-Wu, must have been behind the schooling of the three men. "This is so that China can move in on Kashmir?"
"They already run part of it and there's no doubt they need the living space. And water. The giant panda is dying of thirst."
China was doi
ng the same thing here as they were with the Tibet situation in trying to choose the next Dalai Lama: back in the mid-'90s they took in the child, Gyaincain Norbu. Now a young man, he's believed by China to be the next incarnation of the Panchen Lama, a position second only to the Dalai Lama in the hierarchy of Tibetan Buddhism. He will help to choose the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama and given he's been brought up to obey the Chinese Communist Party, it will undoubtedly lead to the creation of a pro-Beijing power in Tibet. Call it insurance.
Devras Sikari, Archer's father, was part of their insurance for gaining Kashmir and maybe even more following what was set to transpire here.
"And these guys you've got out there, these bombers? And Umer? Sanam?" Middleton asked.
"They all had a purpose, as do you."
Chernayev's men from BlueWatch were hovering around. Middleton had no chance of stopping him from pressing the detonator--he'd not make it more than two paces and it was a dozen away at least.
Archer gasped, reeling from the gunshot wound, and called out in a rasp, "My father wanted your investigation cleared up. And he was right. For that, and for the future, we can't have anyone in our way. We didn't care if you came here dead or alive, so long as you were here for the crescendo."
"What?"
"The death of the president, who's nearing the kill zone now."
They looked across--Marine One was coming in to land, POTUS was in his protective bubble of Secret Service men, sixty seconds out.
Archer said, "Why not discredit the Volunteers while we achieve our objective?"
Middleton understood--he himself would get the blame.
Chernayev said, "Right now, the FBI is searching your house in Fairfax County. They're finding all kinds of IED-making material there. Including the lathe that made the concave copper discs, of which these are a by-product."
The copper bracelet on Chernayev's wrist glinted in the sunlight.
"Why the intricate carvings? A ruse, to get us here? To make us believe in something that this place was not?"
"It's more like a hobby of mine," Chernayev said. He walked over to Middleton and passed him a small Russian nesting doll that fit in the palm of his hand. It was solid, the innermost doll.