His heart raced as he pictured the future.
Now we are free. One more and we are secure.
He pushed aside the stone that had concealed the first bar, it smacking against the marble floor with a vibration substantial enough to cause Costa to freeze, listening for any evidence the house was about to shift on him again. Shoving aside some wood and straw, he found a narrow A-shaped opening created by two large portions of the roof having come to rest on a column at the far end. It was just large enough for a man.
Barely.
He shoved the torch ahead of him and began to crawl. The dust had him coughing, his eyes burning, his lungs desperate to suck in large breaths, but instead he forced in only shallow ones in an attempt to reduce the amount of dust and ash he inhaled.
Finally the need proved too much and he sucked in a deep breath, his chest heaving high and pressing into the stone above him.
He felt it shift.
He froze, slowly letting his breath out, which only exacerbated the problem, causing him to draw the next few in rapidly and hard as he tried to cover his mouth and prevent a coughing fit.
Finally under control, he opened his eyes and turned his head, looking up. Everything seemed stable for the moment, but with the near constant tremors, he knew he had to get out. He pushed himself back with his hands then reached for the torch and stopped.
Another bar!
It was just a few feet ahead, almost within reach. He pushed forward several times, careful not to touch anything, then reached out for the gold bar. Still out of reach.
And his right shoulder was now pressed against the stone above him.
He crawled his fingers forward, manipulating his body to lower his right side and managed to get a finger on the bar, but it wouldn’t move.
Just a finger-length more!
He let out all his breath, lowering his body further, and shoved with his toes against the floor, moving forward just enough to get his thumb and forefinger around the bar.
He pulled.
And it didn’t budge.
He tried jiggling it and it moved slightly, the sound of metal scraping on stone causing him to pause as he debated what to do next. It was clear that a piece of the roof was sitting atop this small bar of gold. The question in his mind was how catastrophic might removing it be to the delicate balance that had been established above him.
It’s for your family!
He vigorously wiggled it back and forth and with a triumphant cry it came loose.
The debris in front of him shifted with a thud. His heart nearly stopped as he froze every part of his body. A creaking sound overhead that rapidly became louder had him pushing back with both hands, the torch abandoned. The stone in front of him collapsed just as he yanked his hands clear, and he shoved as hard and as fast as he could, the gold bar in his right hand ineffectual against the marble floor, his left hand all that was providing the grip. The trusses used to build the roof began to separate, snapping one at a time from where he had pulled out the keystone holding everything, including his family’s future.
His breath was frantic now, his heart slamming against his chest, his hands, elbows and knees bleeding from the unforgiving shards of marble and stone he now slipped on as he tried to make his escape. He prayed to the gods he claimed to not believe in for forgiveness, promising he would never be so greedy in the future if they were to just let him survive this one stupidity, and as he neared the end of the narrow passage, he began to think his prayers might just have been heard.
And answered.
The entire tunnel collapsed just as his head cleared, but not before his hand. The hand that still gripped the gold bar. He cried out in pain as several hundred pounds of rock pinned his fingers, the rest of his body clear of the immediate danger.
The entire ground began to vibrate, a steady, growing rumble surrounding him. He pulled at his fingers with all his might, the agony incredible as he realized at least one of his fingers was broken. Lifting with his free hand, he managed to yank himself free, collapsing on his back, his chest heaving up and down as he caught his breath and tried to regain the focus lost to the searing pain.
The floor was shaking violently now, the roar intense and all consuming. He rolled onto his stomach then pushed himself to his knees. In the distance he could see an intense orange glow rapidly approaching. The archway behind him collapsed and he leapt out of the way, coming face to face with the second gold bar now under a man’s weight in stone.
A weight he was certain he could move.
If only there was time.
The sea was a heartbeat’s dash from where he now stood, and he could begin to feel the heat of whatever apocalypse was about to befall them all. His eyes fixated on the gold bar and what it could do for his family. He grabbed the stone with his left hand and pulled up with every ounce of strength that remained. He felt the stone lift slightly, and using his toe, he flicked the gold bar free, releasing the stone triumphantly. He bent over and grabbed it, then ran toward the terrace, leaping over the collapsed archway, then sprinting down the path the soldiers had maintained toward the shore. No boats remained except the abandoned cutter that Prefect Plinius had arrived on, but all he had to do was reach the water.
He felt the heat sucking at him, teasing him with delightful warmth, as if his entire body were sinking into one of Rome’s famous hot baths, then, with the water not ten paces away, he was engulfed in a raw heat that both deprived him of breath and life, as his entire body was seared into a single, solid charred piece of meat.
And as he collapsed, two gold bars, once held in the pockets of a robe now turned to ash, fell to the ground, both freedom and future lost to a moment of greed.
Exiting Eritrean Airspace
Present Day
Major Anatoly Kaminski, Russian Federal Security Service (FSB), lay with his eyes closed, his body completely relaxed as he felt the vibrations of the Antonov’s mighty engines massage every square inch of his being, better than any coin operated bed in a cheap hotel he had ever experienced. As he waited for the plane to reach cruising altitude, he hummed the Soviet national anthem, its proud lyrics heroically challenging the world, unlike the timid lyrics now sung when Russia’s flag was raised. One of the many bold decisions made by Vladimir Putin was to restore at least the music of the Soviet national anthem though including the lyrics as part of that decision would have been unacceptable at the time. Kaminski was quite certain, however, that in time, those lyrics that had fired up a country to victory over the Nazi tyranny and to hold back the evils of Western imperialism for decades, would be restored.
Though he wasn’t old enough to have been a member of the FSB when it was called the KGB, his father was and had instilled in him a fierce sense of national pride that had been tested in his youth after the collapse of the USSR. But now, under a strong leader determined to restore Russia to its former glory, he loved his country so much it hurt, and when he had been made a member of the FSB’s Directorate “A”, or Spetsgruppa “A”, his father had actually cried with pride. Though his father was now dead, a victim of the harsh Russian economy where capitalism had failed miserably, enriching only those who embraced its full corruptness, he would never forget the day he arrived at home in his uniform, the Alpha Group emblem on his shoulder.
And after extensive vetting he had been invited into the inner circle—the Omega Team, assigned the most covert of operations under direct control of the Russian President himself, though always through an intermediary to allow for plausible deniability should something go wrong. When he had heard rumors of Omega Team’s mandate—to restore the Soviet Union—he had ingratiated himself upon anyone he could think of who might be part of the ultra-secret group.
And it had paid off.
Many in the West wondered how a unit as highly trained as Alpha Group could seem to screw up on so many occasions, the most memorable the assault on the Dubrovka Theatre where fifty armed Chechens had taken over 850 hostages. What most did
n’t realize is that life was thought of differently in Russia. Sacrifice was acceptable of the few to benefit the many, and in this case the outrage that ultimately resulted in the end had allowed Russia to pacify Chechnya with overwhelming force—and overwhelming support from the citizenry of Russia.
His own first mission was as part of Omega Team’s involvement in triggering the South Ossetia war in Georgia, a former Soviet State with a substantial Russian speaking minority. They had entered the country disguised as Ossetian separatists and shelled Georgian positions. The Georgians responded, and in the end lost the war, effectively losing not only South Ossetia, but the breakaway region of Abkhazia as well.
Another small chunk of the Soviet Union restored.
His last mission had been in the Crimea, that short but violent mission allowing Russia to reclaim what was rightfully its, and set the precedent of protecting Russian minorities throughout the world. Eastern Ukraine was already on the agenda with other regions such as Moldova and the Baltic Republics, and as long as Western Europe was foolishly dependent upon Russian natural gas to heat its homes in the winter, with leadership that seemed to either have not read their history, or instead read it and embraced Neville Chamberlain’s ‘Peace for our time’ naiveté, Russia would be free to continue to pick apart the former breakaway republics piece by piece.
With the help of patriots like those of Omega Team.
Kaminski felt the plane level out and he slid aside the false bottom of the coffin he was inside then pushed the lid open. He knew the rear hold was supposed to be empty and he had heard nothing beyond the engines since takeoff, but he rose cautiously nonetheless. His position, tucked between two pallets of gold—a spare coffin should anyone have asked—was fairly well concealed. He slipped out of the coffin, his feet quietly touching the metal floor, then looked about to confirm he was alone.
He was.
Leaning back inside the coffin, he pulled the sidewall out of the way, the Velcro holding it in place separating with ease, revealing nine Beretta 92 Compacts and several dozen magazines, along with a nice supply of C4 to finish the job. He grabbed a weapon, loaded it then stuffed it in his shoulder holster, putting a few mags in his pockets.
He pulled out his phone and sent a direct message over a Wi-Fi network set up just for the job, the rest of his team now notified of his status. The Antonov had been customized for jobs like this in the past. A pass-through had been installed between the cargo hold and the adjoining bathroom in the passenger cabin, it allowing for items to be passed back and forth surreptitiously.
Over the next thirty minutes he would arm his entire team, then those aboard would be at their mercy.
Offshore near Lucius Valerius Corvus Residence, Pompeii, Roman Empire
August 25th, 79 AD
Valerius felt himself continue to sink deeper into the muck, his lungs screaming for relief as he instinctively held his breath, refusing to give up without a fight lest his acceptance into Elysium be risked by cowardice. His right side hit something and he rolled to his left. He shoved his right hand out to his side, feeling it break through the thick goo he was trapped in. Suddenly strong hands grabbed him, tugging at his arm and he slowly began to feel himself rise, his lungs ready to burst, his eyes seeing hot white spots on the backs of his eyelids. Suddenly he was free and he gasped, the air anything but fresh, but at least it was air. The strong hands continued pulling him up and moments later he found himself dumped unceremoniously on the deck of a boat as those who had saved him turned their attention to others still in the water. He took in several more full breaths, then rolled himself to his feet, stumbling to the helm, climbing the few steps and gaping at the view in front of him.
The entire city was engulfed in a thick cloud, the only light penetrating it the harsh oranges of fires left unfought, and the mountain that had once provided beautiful views and delicious grapes, now a boiling cauldron of reds and oranges, steaming rivers of fluid rushing down its sides toward the city below.
“Set sail, now!” he ordered, pointing to the captain of the boat. Orders were barked and he could feel the boat begin to turn, the sails thankfully catching the wind, it having turned during the night. “Head for sea!”
“But, my lord, the other boats, they’re heading for Misenum!”
“Signal them to turn. We need to reach the sea if we have any hope of surviving!”
“Yes, my lord! But what about Prefect Plinius?”
“He is dead.”
“But his body!”
“His orders were to save the gold. Hopefully in time we can retrieve him and bury him with the honor he deserves.”
“Yes, sire.”
Hearts were heavy at the thought of leaving their Prefect, but none more so than Valerius, who also left behind a friend, and the bravest man he had ever known. Plinius had sacrificed himself he knew to not only save the gold, but to save him, for Plinius would have known that Valerius would have stopped at nothing to try and save his mentor.
Thank you, my friend.
The ship turned further still and soon was bearing south-west, but as Valerius scanned the horizon, no other ships were following, all heading north-west to their home port.
A ripping sound, as if the ground itself had been torn open and all manner of hellish beasts released with a roar, signaled the Armageddon he had feared being unleashed. As he turned toward the sound he saw the entire top of the mountain was now missing, an intensely bright display of reds, oranges and yellows streaked the sky as rocks the size of houses were tossed in the air as if by Jupiter himself, raining hellfire on the entire area.
Massive explosions ripped apart entire neighborhoods, huge fires engulfed entire swaths as these flaming boulders hit the ground and continued to roll like juggernauts of evil.
And it wasn’t only the land that was hit with the devastation.
On the horizon he could see at least two of his boats aflame, the cries of their crews carrying over the water, those safely on his ship all turned, silently watching the horror unfold as they sailed untouched toward the open sea, alone.
“Look!”
He turned toward the voice, that of the young female slave he had saved, and looked to where she was pointing. A massive burning, churning cloud of fire rushed down from the mountain in every direction, the speed incredible, easily dozens of times faster than the swiftest of steeds, enveloping everything within its path in an intense flame, a fire so hot that everything in its wake glowed from the heat, and as it continued to spread outward, toward the shore, he noticed the shoreline receding dramatically, as if it were in a race to escape the horrors befalling the entire area.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and his heart hammered in his chest, fear gripping him as he watched the water continue to retreat, then get lost as the tidal wave of fury burst past it, engulfing the water in its red hot heat, the sound of the water instantly boiling, hissing like hot rocks tossed in a cauldron of water, filling the air. The humidity shot up dramatically and he could feel the heat as the boiling, roiling horror sped toward them, the ship valiantly racing toward the sea as fast as it could, but the gods proving more swift.
It hit the aft end, those standing there screaming out in pain as he rushed toward the prow, but it was too late, the intense heat licking at his back for an instant, searing every bit of his body into a mass of bubbling tissue. His cry of agony was muffled as the heat rushed into his lungs, sealing his ability to process oxygen instantly, leaving him gasping for a moment, until he collapsed over the prow, his entire being racked in quickly receding pain.
And as the last vestiges of the souls aboard the only ship that had stood any chance of escaping Pompeii made their way to the Elysian Fields, the heat wave sucked back toward it source, leaving nothing alive, nothing burning.
And a heavy deposit of ash covering every surface, including the bodies of Valerius and his compatriots, and the ship that now carried them out to sea.
Exiting Eritrean Airspa
ce
Present Day
Niner’s eyes were closed, resting, but still aware of everything going on. As he silently meditated, trying to create a black ball in the center of the white noise of his thoughts, he heard the voices of his seat mates in the background, almost a distant echo as if he were sitting on the bottom of a pool.
“We’re descending.”
It was Dawson’s voice, a hint of concern there. It yanked him from his alternate reality as the explanation was given, and with a glance at Dawson they were both up, walking toward the front of the airplane to find out just why they were descending over what was supposed to be Sudan. They approached one of the private security guards at the cockpit door.
“I need to speak to the pilot, please,” said Dawson in as pleasant a voice as Niner had ever heard him use with a Russian.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not permitted,” said the man, his accent thick but his command of the English language clear.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” replied Dawson. “I’m here under authority of the United Nations Security Council and as a representative of the United States. I must speak to the pilot. It will only take a minute.”
The man turned his back on them, activating his comm and speaking quietly to someone. He turned back around and shook his head. “Nyet. Return to your seats, now.”
Dawson stepped slightly closer, jabbing at the air with his finger. “I can’t do that until I know why we are descending.”
A flash of fear appeared on the man’s face, his eyes flaring for a split second, a sudden inhalation of breath. He stepped back two paces, reaching behind him. At first Niner thought he was reaching for the cockpit door but suddenly the man grabbed something from behind his back. Dawson stepped forward to halt him but it was too late, the Beretta suddenly appearing, the safety already off, the trigger squeezing. Two shots erupted from the barrel hitting Dawson squarely in the chest sending his body hurtling backward, hitting the aisle with a sickening thud.
Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) Page 14