Before the weapon was turned on him, Niner stepped forward, reaching out and wrist-locking the man before he could squeeze the trigger again, bending his joint painfully then removing the weapon. Niner placed a round in the man’s forehead then dropped to his knee, spinning, firing two more into the center mass of the second guard who had already drawn his weapon.
Is anybody actually unarmed?
The guard’s gun fired, his dead finger spasming on the trigger, sending a bullet through the fuselage. Alarms sounded and the plane suddenly began a steep dive sending Niner tumbling forward, coming to a painful halt against the wall lining the cockpit, his head slamming against something metal, his entire world suddenly engulfed in darkness.
Rosetta, Egypt
November 7th, 79 AD
The sails were full, the wind stiff but not overly so, leaving the sea calm enough for them to pull close. Dento grabbed a rope dangling from the side of the Roman vessel, its form quite familiar to these parts now that Egypt was part of the Empire, but rarely seen travelling alone.
And ignoring all attempts at communication.
From a distance men could be seen on deck, but none of the standard signals had been sent or responded to, and Dento was dispatched to investigate when the ship seemed to be heading into the mouth of the Nile without the customary docking required at the port in Rosetta.
Several of those in his boat grabbed lines, the Roman vessel rising far above their heads, it massive compared to their small harbor boat. They had called out many times on their approach but the unresponsive craft had continued to ply forward, their hails ignored, the only sounds the prow slicing through the water and the whipping of the cloth in the wind.
The vessel had an odd color to it, almost a dark charcoal, and Dento ran his fingers along the wood, wincing as he was pricked by a splinter. His fingers darted away and he looked curiously at the near black substance that covered them.
It’s like from a fire pit!
He hauled himself up the rope, as did several others, his old bones not keeping up with the less aged of his crew.
Which meant he wasn’t the first to see the evil that lay above.
Taurus, his trusted second screamed and dove into the ocean. Ralla, a young promising soldier who had never shown the brains to be afraid of anything cried out before he too let go of his rope, slamming into the hard deck of their own boat. Dento was certain he heard the snap of a bone, and the writhing pain Ralla appeared to now be in seemed to confirm it.
There only remained him and one other, who looked at his captain hesitantly.
“Wait for me,” ordered Dento, much to the relief of the other who scurried back down the rope and into the boat. Dento pulled himself up the rest of the way and with one final effort, swung a leg over the edge, straddling the rail running the length of the boat. Ahead he could see a man, on one knee leaning over the prow. He had been spotted earlier, but had appeared drunk.
Or worse.
He seemed to be a dull gray, and unmoving. Dento looked about the deck and gasped. Everything was covered in some sort of grayish black substance, including the crew.
And they were all dead.
Some still at their posts, some curled into balls on the deck.
But all dead.
And as pale as ghosts.
His foot, now on the planking, jumped into midair, as if under its own control, Dento instinctively realizing he shouldn’t be here. None of them should be. This was a ship of the damned. A crew, still manning their posts, all dead, all covered in something, unmoving, unwavering, as if made from stone.
And none with any signs of trauma.
Weapons didn’t kill these men.
He glanced to his right and saw the body of a woman, lying on her side, her face twisted in agony, her hand stretched out in front of her toward the man who still knelt at the prow.
A witch!
Women didn’t travel on Roman vessels. Not Roman military vessels such as this.
They must have been lured into rescuing her.
He shuddered and swung his leg back over the side.
And repaid their kindness with a curse.
Scrambling down the side, he jumped back into his boat just as Taurus was hauled from the water.
“Make for the harbor master, quickly!” ordered Dento. “We must warn them!”
“Warn them of what, Captain?” asked Taurus as he stood, dripping. “Is it as it appears?”
Dento nodded.
“I fear it is,” he replied.
“What, what is it?” asked one of his crew who hadn’t climbed the side, and now tended to Ralla’s arm.
Dento moved to the prow, his back to his men to hide the terror that gripped him.
“It’s a ghost ship,” he replied, his lip almost trembling as he said it, having never seen one himself, and having never met anyone who could claim different. They were things of legend, cursed vessels doomed to ply the waters for eternity in hopes of someday making shore.
And they were untouchable.
“What shall we do?” asked the young Ralla, his pain ignored, his terror not.
Dento risked one final look over his shoulder at the cursed vessel as it sliced through the water toward one of the many entrances to the mighty Nile.
“We shall let it be, for those who dare interfere are doomed to join them.”
Entering Sudanese Airspace
Present Day
Major Anatoly Kaminski, Omega Team Leader for this mission, strapped himself into one of the fold down seats that lined the rear cargo hold as the rapid descent continued. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. He was certain he had heard several gunshots just before the dive, and before he could open the door to the passenger cabin he had been thrown hard. Whatever was happening on the other side of that wall would have to wait.
As he yanked the lap belt tight the plane jerked to the left, sending his arms and legs forward, dangling in the air. The pallets of gold shifted slightly, the ratchet straps straining to hold their loads in place. The plane was at nearly a seventy degree angle and he was now almost looking down at the billion dollars of loot when a horrid thought occurred to him.
What if he banks the other way?
The load would shift back, and with the momentum built up from its current position, the straps just might fail, sending thousands of pounds of gold bars at the wall he now sat against.
And he had no intention of dying under a load of untraceable gold meant to clandestinely finance their destabilization programs.
He felt the plane begin to level out slightly, the angle improving almost imperceptibly at first, then with more momentum, the angle now fifty degrees, then forty. The tension on the belts holding the gold in place began to ease and he grabbed the latch to unlock his own belt should the need arise.
Just level out! Get it under control!
He knew the pilot at the controls was one of the best—he had handpicked the man himself. But the Antonov was massive, like flying an elephant by the ears. The fact the beast could get in the air was a miracle in itself. Landing it in an emergency was something else, especially on the airstrip they were aiming for.
I wonder if we can still make it.
It was driving him crazy not knowing what was happening on the other side of the wall. The plan had been simply to take everyone hostage at gunpoint and land. Once on the ground control would be easy, and within less than fifteen minutes everything would be over.
An emergency landing was not in the cards.
The plane leveled and he felt it begin to tilt toward his side. He snapped himself loose of his belt and jumped up, rushing toward the front of the plane as it began to level off again, the pilot apparently back under control, having overcompensated slightly. The air stopped whistling in the cargo hold and it didn’t seem as thin, leaving him to wonder whether there were any casualties on the other side of the wall.
With the plane apparently no longer in imminent danger, it was time
to take control. He pulled his Beretta out, flicking the safety off and unlocked the door. Yanking it open, he stepped inside the passenger cabin, quietly closing the door behind him as he surveyed their surroundings. A hole about the size of a basketball had been torn in the fuselage near the front, wind still blowing noisily from it. Four of his men already had their weapons out, pointing them at the passengers, some of whom had their hands up.
“Report!”
The entire cabin turned to see who had just taken command, his men it seemed out of relief, the others a mixture of fear and curiosity. He knew the eight remaining observers were highly trained Special Forces from their respective countries, so fear of being hijacked wouldn’t really be high on their lists. Fear of their plane crashing was another thing, and the fear he was seeing on some of the faces was most likely from that. There were two civilians, one his intel told him was a bureaucrat from the UN, the other a meddlesome archeologist who had an impressively thick file at FSB headquarters.
I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Professor Acton.
His third-in-command, Lieutenant Boris Shepkin marched toward him, concern on his face along with a little fear.
It better be from the plane nearly crashing.
“Sir,” said Shepkin with a nod of his head, placing his mouth near Kaminski’s ear so they wouldn’t be overheard. “The two American observers caused a problem. They discovered we were descending and demanded to talk to the pilot. Victor shot him. The second observer disarmed Victor, shot him and shot Andrie as well.”
“Are they dead?”
Shepkin nodded. “The second American observer was knocked out during the descent. We’ve secured him in a seat near the front.”
Kaminski glanced ahead and saw the Asian American handcuffed to the arm rest in the front row. “What caused the depressurization?”
“Andrie’s weapon discharged when he was shot.”
“Any word from the cockpit?”
“He’s got control again but Air Traffic Control is trying to contact him. Apparently we’re below radar and they think we’ve crashed.”
Kaminski grinned. “Wasn’t the way we planned it, but I guess it sort of worked out. Time to cut all comms to confirm their suspicions.”
Shepkin covered the door as Kaminski returned to the cargo hold. Opening a panel on the wall, he yanked half a dozen circuits for the various radios and transponders, the plane now running silent—only primary radar could pick them up now, and that was fairly limited in this part of the world.
And with us below radar, it won’t matter.
He returned to the passenger cabin and headed for the cockpit. He knocked three times, standing in front of the peephole and a moment later the door opened. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him.
“Status?”
Their pilot, Urakov, glanced over his shoulder as he gripped the shaking controls. “I’ve got her stable for the moment, but that could change at any second.”
“Are we still on their radar?”
“Negative. The emergency descent then the loss of control pretty much took care of that. I’ve altered our course as planned so if they’re looking for us on our previous flight path they’ll be wasting their time.”
“Good. ETA?”
“We should be at the airstrip in less than twenty minutes.”
“Okay, maintain radio silence.” Kaminski turned to leave then stopped. “And keep us in one piece until we hit the ground.”
“Oh, that I can do,” replied Urakov with a glance at his copilot Elkin. “It’s how many pieces we’re in once we hit that I can’t guarantee.”
Kaminski laughed, slapping Urakov on his shoulder. “Don’t crash, then. I’d miss your sense of humor.”
“You assume you’d survive?”
“No, I just don’t assume we’re heading to the same place in the afterlife!”
Urakov and his copilot Elkin roared with laughter. “Have you seen my apartment? Hell would be a vacation! Like Sochi in the winter!”
Kaminski shook his head, a grin spread from ear to ear. He grabbed Urakov’s shoulder, squeezing. “Just get us down in one piece, and your job is done.”
“Da, da,” replied Urakov. “Now get out of my cockpit, you’re distracting me.”
Kaminski looked out the windows, the ground whipping by at incredible speed, the sparse vegetation and harsh landscape uncomfortably close. He decided not to ask their altitude.
“Good luck, my friend,” he said then exited, returning to the noise of the passenger cabin. It was much quieter now, Shepkin just now fitting a seat cushion into the hole, the equalized pressure allowing it to stay in place and muffle the sound.
“Can I have your attention please?”
The entire cabin turned to look at him.
“Thank you. In about fifteen minutes we will be landing. We will all disembark at that point. We will be liberating you of some of your cargo, then leaving you behind. Once we are safely at our final destination, the authorities will be notified as to your location, and you will be rescued.” Kaminski stepped forward, eyeballing those he knew were military. “Any resistance, any attempt to interfere with our plans, and I kill the civilians first, starting with her.” He pointed at Reese, who glared back at him defiantly.
If only I had a few minutes to spare.
He felt a twitch, part of him yearning for the old days of Mother Russia where the pillaging was accompanied by a little reward for the victorious troops.
She looks like she’d be one hell of a suchka.
The intercom crackled and Urakov’s voice came over the system. “Everybody buckle up, this landing isn’t going to be pretty.”
Kaminski knocked on the door and it was opened by the copilot Elkin, Urakov gripping the controls. He strapped himself in the empty navigator’s chair, turning so he could see the ground whipping by.
“There!” yelled Elkin, pointing ahead. Kaminski leaned forward, straining to see as Urakov banked slightly to the right.
A runway was barely etched out of the sand, it an abandoned British airstrip built before Sudanese independence. His team had scouted it only days before to confirm the runway was still operational and found it in nearly perfect condition, the dry desert doing little damage. As the nose pulled up slightly to kill their speed he lost sight of the abandoned airstrip. The airframe began to shake, violently, as Elkin called out their airspeed. He knew they were coming in on a runway far too short for this plane to take off from, but it should be long enough for it to land, even if the final few hundred meters were beyond the “official” end. If the landing gear collapsed, they didn’t care.
This plane was never taking off again.
“Oh shit!” cried Urakov. “Dump the rest of the fuel!”
Elkin reached forward, flipping several switches.
Kaminski leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m barely holding her together. Just assume your crash position and if you can—”
Urakov stopped talking as the plane jerked to the right, a horrendous sound coming from behind them.
“—kiss your ass goodbye!” finished Urakov as the plane slammed into the ground, the rear landing gear collapsing from the force. The front end immediately smacked against the ground causing all their bodies to be forced toward the floor, then the front landing gear sprung back, shoving them in the air, their restraints the only thing keeping them from splattering against the roof of the cockpit.
Not able to reach his ass to kiss it goodbye, Kaminski instead held on to his chair as tight as he could and watched in dismay as Urakov’s hands flew off the controls from the impact, the plane starting to skid as the rear landing gear broke away. A tremendous creaking sound, like metal tearing from metal, filled his ears causing his heart to slam into his chest even harder than it already was.
“What the hell is that?”
Elkin glanced over his right shoulder and out the window. “We’re losing the starboard wing!”
Wit
h a sudden jolt the horrendous sound stopped and the plane suddenly spun to the left, the rear end pivoting counterclockwise, and as they all watched in horror, Urakov no longer bothering to try and control the aircraft, instead busy trying to power down, they were treated to a terrifying view.
The entire runway behind them was engulfed in flames as the dumped fuel ignited, racing toward the now torn off wing.
“Stop dumping! Stop dumping!” cried Urakov as he realized the same thing Kaminski had.
The fuel was still pouring from their good wing, leaving a trail of flammable liquid leading directly to their fuel tanks.
Kaminski began to undo his restraints with the idea of somehow bailing from the aircraft before it erupted into a fireball when another jolt sent the plane pivoting in the other direction, Kaminski’s head slamming into the console, his entire world soon engulfed in a billowing black fog of unconsciousness.
Hamashkoraib, Sudan
Samir spun as did they all, the entire market, a moment before filled with the shouts of negotiations as goods were haggled over in a seemingly never ending battle of wills between vendor and customer, and now silent, the wail of a lone baby finally heard by its mother.
On the horizon a large black cloud, roiling with fire and rage, erupted into the air, an odd streak of flame extending for what looked like several miles across the horizon quickly extinguishing itself, leaving nothing but a black trail the wind quickly dissipated.
Samir motioned to his men, jumping in the passenger seat of their old 1986 Toyota pickup, its original bright blue paintjob a distant memory, the color almost blasted clean over the decades from exposure to constant sunlight and blowing sand.
But the engine still ran like a dream, none of those ridiculous computers to breakdown. Any competent mechanic in town could fix it, and half his guys including himself knew how to do the basics. It was a matter of pride being able to maintain one’s own vehicle, and the older the functioning vehicle, the more competent you appeared to those around you.
Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) Page 15