The Lazarus Moment Page 3

  Over the months, a bond had formed and not a day went by where they didn’t spend at least an hour together speaking of their homes and their families.

  It had been good therapy.

  It had kept him sane.

  But they both shared the same fate.

  Zokwana was dying, just as he was.

  And just as Khomenko’s family had meant everything to him, so did Zokwana’s, and it was his constant concern they would be left with nothing, he a poor man with little to show for a life of hardship.

  Khomenko pulled up a chair by the window Zokwana was sitting in front of, the afternoon sun pouring in, warming the chill out of the sterile room.

  “How are you today?”

  Zokwana shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”

  “Are you still heading home tomorrow?”

  Zokwana brightened. “Yes. It seems like I’ve been gone for years.”

  “I know how you feel. I guess you’re looking forward to seeing your family. Have you told them?”

  He shook his head. “No. That’s news you have to deliver in person.”

  Khomenko’s head bobbed as he watched a bee hop between the flowers outside. “True. How do you think she’ll take it?”

  “She’s strong, but I know she’ll be devastated.”

  “Of course.”

  “I just worry about her and the kids. We have nothing, and I’m afraid I used up all my collateral to get these treatments.”

  And it was that collateral Khomenko was counting on.

  For Zokwana was no ordinary South African.

  He was the cousin of its president.

  The family was huge, as were many in South Africa, so the wealth hadn’t spread to his portion of the clan, though when he had become sick, he had reached out and in a goodwill gesture, was provided with treatment, but quietly, out of the country, the president not wanting anyone to know he had helped a relative obtain expensive medical treatment.

  Unfortunately it had failed, and Zokwana was not long for this world.

  “What if I told you I had a way for your entire family to be taken care of? Forever.”

  Zokwana stared at him, his eyes narrowing. “I would ask you to share this wonderful revelation with me.”

  Khomenko smiled, Zokwana’s English at times interesting. He wondered if his own would sound just as strange to an American. He quickly explained what would be needed of his friend, then waited as Zokwana contemplated the offer. He finally spoke.

  “I sacrifice myself now, sacrifice my final days with my family, but in doing so, I save them all.”

  Khomenko nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve been promised a significant amount of money to reward your wife and children for their sacrifice. Once the job is done, you need never worry about them again.”

  A tear rolled down Zokwana’s cheek, his eyes glassing over as a pained expression took hold. “When?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Zokwana gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his chair. “Three weeks,” he whispered. “Three weeks.”

  “Three weeks to say goodbye. Cherish them. I had none.”

  Zokwana reached out and squeezed Khomenko’s hand, a move that a year ago would have probably resulted in a punch to the face. But not today. He squeezed back. “You are right, of course. Three weeks is an eternity. But they mustn’t know.” He smiled. “I won’t tell them I’m dying. I don’t want our last days together to be sad, I want them to be happy.”

  Khomenko smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. Let them think you died like the others, a victim of a terrible accident. Then my people will deliver your wife the money. We’ll tell her you had purchased life insurance when you were here.”

  Zokwana’s smile broadened and he wiped away the tears staining his cheeks. “That’s perfect.” He sighed. “I’ve known I was going to die for some time now, but I never dreamed it would be like this.”

  Khomenko looked at his friend. “Are you having doubts?”

  Zokwana shook his head. “No, I’d rather die on my feet any day than waste away in a bed alone.”

  Khomenko rose, extending his hand. Zokwana stood, clasping it in both of his.

  “To dying on our feet.”

  Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

  Two weeks before the Air Force One crash

  “Have you found the target yet?”

  Dudnik nodded, handing a file folder to Khomenko. “His name is Senior Airman Cameron Lennox. He’s twenty-six years old, has a wife and daughter and a baby on the way. He’s been serving on Air Force One for six months and is scheduled to be part of the crew for the South African flight.”

  “And he has access?”

  “Absolutely. He’s one of the two techs.”

  Khomenko smiled as he leafed through the rather thorough file. “He’s young.”

  “He’s perfect because of it.”

  Khomenko nodded. “Agreed.”

  “When will you execute the plan?”

  “The day the President leaves for South Africa.”

  “Very well.” Dudnik leaned forward, pointing at the file. “Are you sure you still want to do this? If it gets traced back to you, or more generally, to Ukrainian freedom fighters, America might enter the war.”

  “They already entered. The moment they allowed their citizens to fund the very weapons that murdered my family, they entered the war.” He shook the file. “It’s time for us to retaliate!”

  “You might lose all you have gained.”

  Khomenko inhaled. The possibility had occurred to him already. America might decide it was best to move twenty thousand soldiers in and secure Eastern Ukraine under the guise of the war on terror.

  But his homeland had one thing that Iraq and Afghanistan never had.

  A benefactor.

  He looked at Dudnik.

  “If they do, then Mother Russia will protect us.”

  Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

  Two days before the Air Force One crash

  “So you’re proceeding?”

  “It’s already in motion.”

  Arseny Dudnik sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not sure this is a wise move.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have provided me with the file.”

  “A man is allowed to regret his decisions, isn’t he?”

  Khomenko smiled. “Of course. I’ve made a few that I regret.”

  “In war we all regret things.”

  “And that’s what you need to remember. This is war.”

  Dudnik shook his head. “No, this is revenge.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  It was Khomenko’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps, once, I felt the same way. But my homeland is at war, and things are being made worse by the decisions made by this man. If he’s eliminated, all those whose blood stains his hands will rest in peace knowing their executioner has been himself executed.”

  “I still think your own loss is tainting your view of things.” Khomenko was about to object when Dudnik raised a hand, stopping him. “But, I completely understand your desire. Hell, if it were me, I’d probably want to do the same thing. I just don’t know if I’d have the balls for it.”

  “It helps when they no longer work.”

  Dudnik laughed, tossing his head back. “Too much information, my friend, too much!” He looked at Khomenko, the smile slowly fading. “I consider you a friend, you know that?”

  Khomenko nodded. “As do I. You’ve helped my people immensely.”

  Dudnik shook his head slightly. “No, forget the war. I deal with a dozen men like you day in and day out. But you are the only one to have invited me into your home, the only one I felt compelled to invite into my own home. I have met your wife and daughter, and I grieve with you at your loss. If it were any of the other commanders I deal with, your desires would have been left unfulfilled. Only be
cause it is you do I do this.” He paused, his eyes glassing over a bit before he rapidly blinked them clear. “We shared many a meal and many a drink over the past year. Your wife and daughter always made me feel like your home was mine. I feel as if I’ve lost a sister and a niece.” He leaned closer. “Your loss is my loss. You, my friend, are fortunate. You only have a few months left to feel that pain. I have a lifetime, and will honor their memory for as long as I have breath.” He reached into his pocket. “Which is why I give you this.” He handed over a memory stick.

  “Is this it?” asked Khomenko, his heart beginning to race.

  Dudnik nodded. “Yes. Give this to your Airman Lennox. All he needs to do is insert it into any terminal connected to the isolated avionics network on the aircraft, bypass the security protocols, then remove the device. Everything else is automatic.”

  Khomenko waved the stick between his fingers. “And you’re sure this will work?”

  Dudnik shrugged. “Our tech division says it will. We have an old 747-200 that’s been modified to match what we believe to be Air Force One’s configuration, including the latest upgrades that were just completed. In fact, it was those modifications that made all this possible.”

  Khomenko smiled. “You have to love progress.”

  “It’s their Achilles heel.” He motioned toward the memory stick with his chin. “If something should happen, you never got that from me.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “A very large bribe, paid for through my discretionary fund. Fortunately for you, my friend, I have millions of Rubles to spend on the Ukrainian situation. I’ve earmarked enough for your operation and the payment to your friend’s family. Everything will be taken care of, assuming you succeed.”

  “And if they catch you?”

  “The money has already been moved. There’s no stopping the plan now.”

  Khomenko smiled, holding up the memory stick. “What does it do?”

  “Let’s just say that once Air Force One takes off, it will never land again.”

  Madison Cove, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  One day before the Air Force One crash

  Cecilia glanced at her watch.

  You’re late.

  She sighed.

  Again.

  She patted her stomach, there no hiding the baby bump now. Four more months of getting fatter and puffier and slower and fatter.

  You said ‘fatter’ twice.

  She turned to her side, shoving her hips forward, exaggerating her bump.

  Then shrugged.

  So what? Pregnant is beautiful.

  At least that’s what her husband kept telling her, and she actually believed him. He hadn’t lost interest in her during her first pregnancy, and he certainly hadn’t lost interest in her yet.

  She flushed at the thought of last night’s romp. He was leaving for a week, his job sending him across the country and around the world on a far too frequent basis. Yet that was the military life, and she didn’t mind it. She had grown up in a military family so knew the sacrifices that were made, but also knew how amazing a community it was. When you were posted, dropped into a community where you might know no one, you were always welcomed with open arms, the soldier treated like a brother or sister by his unit, their spouse the same. And the kids were surrounded by others who had been through the same thing too many times.

  She credited the military with her ability to make friends quickly. It was a gift forced upon her. She had lived in six different places as a child, too often arriving late in the school year, though it had never mattered. The other military kids would embrace her and before the end of her first week, she’d always have a new best friend.

  And the same was true now.

  Some of the wives weren’t from military families and they sometimes found it difficult, and she always made an extra effort with them. Nobody arrived at a new base without someone showing up on their doorstep the first day to welcome them.

  Because they were family.

  She loved the military and all it had done for her family. Her father was still serving, he and her mother currently stationed in Okinawa. She would have loved to be there. She had met Cameron at college in California where her dad had last been stationed. It had been love at first sight.

  Maybe second sight.

  She smiled as she remembered how awkward he had been that first day, asking her out for coffee after class. It wasn’t until their second date, an actual dinner date, that he had confessed he was in the ROTC program, the Air Force paying for his education in exchange for four years of service after.

  That was when she knew he was the one.

  They married straight out of college, just before his first posting, and little Janice had been born less than a year later.

  And now whoever you are.

  She stared at her stomach then shrugged.

  Embrace it!

  She touched up her lipstick then headed down the hall, poking her head into Janice’s room. “Are you ready?”

  The little four-year-old nodded, looking anything but ready.

  The doorbell rang.

  She frowned.

  “Who could that be?”

  “I’ll get it!”

  Little feet pounded on the parquet floors as Cecilia rushed after her. “Don’t open the door, honey, let Mommy do it.”

  Janice stopped short of the door, turning toward her mother. The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” She hated when people were impatient. She had half a mind to not answer, but she was already late for the meet-and-greet.

  It’s probably Betty wanting a ride.

  Betty was her neighbor.

  Her chronically late neighbor.

  She opened the door, surprised to see two men in suits standing on the doorstep. Immediately her heart raced.

  Something’s happened to Cameron!

  She looked again.

  There was no chaplain. And they weren’t wearing uniforms.

  He’s okay.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Mrs. Cecilia Lennox?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Something sprayed in her face and her world went black.

  Air Force Base Waterkloof, Outside Pretoria, South Africa

  One day before the Air Force One crash

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson laughed at his best friend and second-in-command, Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme. “You drew the short straw.”

  “I always draw the short straw.”

  “Then you shouldn’t let me hold them.”

  “You mean you’ve been cheating all these years?”

  “Nobody’s that unlucky.”

  Red’s face screwed up as he eyeballed his friend. “Bullshit. You’re the most honest guy I know. There’s no way you’ve been cheating.”

  Dawson shrugged. “Then I guess you’re the unluckiest bastard ever.”

  Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung poked the air with a finger. “My money’s on that. Have you ever been to Vegas with Red? He puts it on red, it comes up black. Puts it on black, comes up red. Keeps putting it on red, black has a streak like you’ve never seen. He switches. It’s red.”

  Red nodded. “That’s why my wife won’t let me play poker with you guys anymore, she’s afraid I’ll lose the car.”

  “We play for nickels,” boomed Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James, his impossibly deep voice filling the room. “I think it’s safe.”

  “Have you seen his car?” asked Niner. “If that thing’s worth more than a buck-ninety-five I’ll renounce my Korean family.” He turned to Atlas. “They’re starving, you know, so clearly I must really believe his car’s a piece of shit.”

  “You’re South Korean,” groaned Sergeant Jerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson. “And you’re not even that! You were born two hundred miles from where I was for Pete’s sake!”

  “Did you read that in your school paper, Jimmy Olsen?”

  Jimmy flushed, his moniker earned
when someone had discovered he had been editor of his school paper. “I can tell you one thing, there was a hell of a lot more truth in that rag than what’s coming out of your mouth.”

  “So you think the car is worth more than a buck-ninety-five?”

  “Can we please stop talking about my car? I like my car.”

  Niner nodded toward Red’s normally bald scalp, orange stubble showing. “Look, the poor man can’t even afford razor blades for his head.”

  Red pulled his bowie knife. “I use this. It’s also good for castration.”

  Niner snapped his knees together, covering his boys. “So what do you think your car’s worth?”

  “More than a moment’s silence from you, that I can assure you.” He examined himself in the blade’s reflection then ran his hand over his head. “I feel like I’m out of uniform.”

  “Something bothering you?” asked Dawson, his friend usually religious about keeping his head shaved.

  Red shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about growing it back.”

  Everyone froze. Niner broke the silence. “You shittin’ us?”

  “No.” Red sighed. “We were watching something on the news the other day about white supremacists. Bryson pointed and said they looked like me then asked if I was a racist.”

  “Want me to talk to him?” asked Atlas. “I’m black and you’ve treated me with nothing but respect. You’re the least racist man I know.”

  Red smiled slightly. “Thanks, buddy, that means a lot. But it just got me thinking about how impressionable young kids are. The last thing I want is my son thinking his dad’s a racist.”

  Dawson leaned forward. “He’d never think that, not if he knew what the word truly meant.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He rubbed his hand over his head again. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  “You better,” said Niner, nodding toward the orange stubble. “You’d stand out like a damned airport beacon with that head of hair in the desert.”

  Dawson laughed with the others, Red shaking his head. “I still have my knife out.”

  Niner nodded toward his boys. “And I’m still covering them until you don’t.” He twisted his legs to the left, putting the side of his hips between his jewels and the knife. He motioned toward Red’s head. “Didn’t you start shaving that thing because you were going bald at twenty-five?”