Tricking it out added to the respect shown as well.
His truck, purchased for only 125,000 Sudanese Pounds three years ago had been customized to mount a fifty-caliber machine gun in the rear, the weapon and mount hidden in a custom storage area welded underneath the vehicle. With it, he and his posse wielded significant power on the streets of the nearly lawless town of Hamashkoraib.
But that was Sudan today.
A mess.
It was quite often every man for himself, and he with the biggest gun usually won. And if there was a chance to get something for nothing, or little effort, the opportunity was taken, usually by the first to act.
And an explosion in the distance meant fuel, and fuel meant a vehicle, and perhaps people who could be rescued for a reward, or held hostage for ransom. Samir didn’t care which, both here were merely semantics. His men jumped in the back, his driver, Abit, already pulling out as the market resumed its previous business, most people simply wanting to finish their negotiations and get home safely.
Cash!
If it were foreigners, especially Westerners or rich Arabs, today could be the day that changed his life forever. Rescue someone, or ideally a group, and the reward could be quite handsome. He knew the American and European governments always claimed they never dealt with terrorists, but he also knew that was bullshit. They just used intermediaries, and the ransom was almost always paid. The key was to ask for a ridiculous amount, then negotiate down, allowing the fools to think they had been successful.
What most Westerners didn’t realize was ten million dollars here made you a target, not a king. But ten thousand dollars? That let you live like a king in a small town like Hamashkoraib. It meant women, alcohol, food and a nice roof over your head for years.
And respect.
He felt goose bumps on his skin as the thought of what could be surged through him.
Respect.
It was all he had ever wanted, and it was always so elusive. Respect in Sudan didn’t come from being polite or presentable, from being friendly or pious. It came from fear. It came from envy. If people feared you, if people envied you, then you were respected.
And if they did both, you were king of the world.
All he needed was one good score. A few tens of thousands in American dollars and he’d be able to buy or build a big house, fill it with women and temptation, then keep the party going for as long as the money lasted, and with women and friends, cheap drugs and alcohol if you knew the right people—and money always bought those introductions—he could live for years like an uppity British lord his great grandfather Mohammed had told him once ruled over them decades ago.
Grandfather Mohammed’s favorite story was of the hasty evacuation of British and Egyptian troops on January 1, 1956. After the Sudanese parliament had voted unanimously for independence only days before, the colonial forces left rather abruptly, probably, as his Grandfather said, with hurt feelings that their “children” had rebelled.
Mohammed had been a member of the Sudan Defence Force and was assigned to follow the column of British and Egyptian troops out of Sudanese territory and into Egypt, and then take over the manning of the border crossing. It had been a proud day for their country, and a proud day for his Grandfather Mohammed, but not so much for the British Governor, who rode in his prized Jaguar XK120, his uniform crisp yet dust covered, his expression one of stiff British dignity, none of his emotions revealed at the humiliating retreat.
That was until his prized car broke down and had to be hooked to a transport vehicle and hauled out of the country.
Every time Mohammed told the story when Samir was a child it became more and more elaborate, with the distinguished gentlemen kicking dirt at it, punching the hood with his fist, shooting it with his pistol. Samir didn’t know what to believe, or even whether or not any of it was true, the story so outrageous. As a child he had listened in awe, as an adult, his beloved Grandfather long dead, he looked back on the stories with fond memories, meant to entertain those gathered, the only thing now ringing true the breakdown of a Jaguar.
That part he could believe.
His driver, Abit, pointed ahead. “It looks like it’s coming from that old airfield!”
Samir grinned, a dentist’s ears in Khartoum itching at the possible business in his future.
“Let’s hope it’s an airplane that’s crashed.”
“With lots of passengers!” agreed Abit.
“Live passengers.”
“Rich live passengers!”
Samir grabbed his friend by the shoulder, shaking him hard with excitement. “What will you buy with your share, my friend?”
Abit answered without hesitation, as if it were a question he had been preparing to answer for years. “A house with six bedrooms!”
“Six? Why six?”
“One for each of my four wives,” explained Abit, holding up three fingers, the fourth lost years ago in a knife game.
“And the other two?”
“One for when you come to visit me.”
“And the sixth?”
“For my mistresses!”
Abit roared with laughter, Samir joining in. “A well thought out plan, my friend!”
They rounded a low hillside, the dirt road they were travelling on cut out of the valley over years of repeated use, and Abit skidded to a halt. In the distance was the abandoned airport, dark black smoke billowing into the sky still. Samir threw his door open and stepped out onto the running board, holding his binoculars to his eyes.
And he smiled at what he saw.
We’re going to be rich, even if nobody survived.
Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield
Professor James Acton unbuckled his lap belt the moment the plane stopped spinning, rushing toward the front of the cabin. Almost the entire right side of the fuselage was ripped open, leaving it exposed to the outside and revealing the horrific explosions that continued several hundred feet away. He grabbed Niner by the body armor and sat him upright, a deep gash in his forehead oozing blood liberally. Acton slapped him on the cheek and the man moaned, his eyes fluttering open.
“What the hell happened?”
“There was a hijacking. We just crash landed.”
Niner’s eyes opened wide and he suddenly seemed to be much more alert. “Help me up.”
Acton pulled him to his feet then looked down at Dawson’s crumpled body, his chest tightening as a lump formed in his throat. Suddenly the cockpit door was thrown open, slamming against their comrade’s corpse.
Before they could move a gun was pointed in their faces as the leader of this fiasco stepped out, nursing a nasty bump on his head. He yelled something in what sounded like Russian and his few remaining men yelled acknowledgements as if roll call had just been taken.
Acton heard two from the rear, and two from the cockpit.
Five.
That meant on top of the two Niner had eliminated, two more were out of commission from the crash. Acton stepped back, hands raised, to let the three occupants of the cockpit exit. As he moved, he took the opportunity to survey the cabin and was relieved to find that all of the “innocent” passengers seemed to be okay, they being strapped into their seats when the plane made its dive then crash landing.
The leader of this group of terrorists—or whatever they were, Acton was leaning more toward profiteers—peered out the gaping hole in the fuselage, shouting in Russian and waving his arm at someone to join them. Acton heard more shouting outside, and it quickly became clear that the evened up odds that he knew not only he was thinking of, but Niner was as well, had skewed out of their favor once again.
This was obviously where they were always meant to land.
About the only good news he could take from that was the fact they didn’t seem to have gone that far off course, less than thirty minutes to the west of their original flight path if he were guessing right, which should mean they’d be easy to find if a standard search patte
rn were used.
Now they just needed to survive the theft of the gold.
“Everyone out the back!” ordered their captor, one of his men opening the supposedly locked door to the rear cargo space. “Hurry, before that fire reaches us!” he yelled, adding a little urgency to the cautious movements of the hostages. As Acton and Niner passed through the door, he took one last glance toward the front, but Dawson was out of sight, Acton’s view blocked by the chairs. He said a silent goodbye and stepped through the door.
Daylight greeted them inside the hold, the rear ramp down as far as it would go with the landing gear no longer attached to the plane. At least half a dozen men were standing outside, all armed, all dressed in Special Forces style equipment with no identifiable markings, all with masks pulled over their faces.
Which made Acton wonder why the men they were with now hadn’t bothered.
“They’re going to kill us,” he whispered to Niner.
“No shit,” replied the Korean American. “First chance you get, you make a break for it.”
“No talking!” yelled one of the guards, slamming Niner in the back with the butt of his machine gun. Niner fell to a knee, glaring at his attacker, but getting back up silently with the help of Acton.
They exited the plane and Acton gasped. Debris was scattered everywhere, one of the wings, torn from the fuselage and resting several hundred feet away was engulfed in flames with thick black smoke billowing out of it as the fuel burned. As they were led to the other side of the plane, Acton was relieved to find the other wing still intact, and as yet, free of any indication of fire.
As they all lined up along the side of what appeared to be a very old runway, Acton examined their surroundings. At the far end sat another plane, some sort of transport plane he thought might be a Hercules, its rear ramp down, a forklift racing from it and toward the crashed Antonov.
So that’s how they’re moving the gold.
But there was a problem. Several men were gathered around the front landing gear of the Herc and Acton smiled. The tires were flat, a smoldering piece of wreckage from the Antonov nearby apparently having sliced through the rubber.
“Can they repair that?” he asked, barely moving his lips.
“Not unless they brought some spares.”
“So they’re stuck here with us.”
Two men exited the rear of the Herc rolling spare tires.
“Shit,” muttered Niner.
“What should we do?”
“Forget the gold, our job is to survive,” replied Niner. “Let the UN worry about the cargo. They’re the idiots that let this mission proceed with these yahoos at the controls.”
Reese—the senior “idiot” on the ground—edged closer. “What do you mean? You think they knew this would happen?”
“Absolutely,” replied Niner. “Tell me, when was the gold considered delivered?”
“When we left Eritrean airspace.”
“And who insisted on that little piece of the puzzle?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. I was drawn in later, but they certainly seemed to take advantage of that clause in Asmara when insisting we take this plane instead of the one we had arranged. The clause allowed them to choose the method of transport out of the country.”
“So they bided their time until they could find the right people, then put them into position to steal the gold once they had fulfilled their contract. You still need to pay them their money, and then they probably split the actual gold, coming out even further ahead.”
“Good theory,” whispered Acton, “and we can play the blame game later. Right now we need to figure out how to survive. Once that gold is on the other plane, it just might be ‘kill all the witnesses’ time.”
“They never searched me. I still have the gun I took off the guy who shot BD. There’s at most eight shots left though.”
Acton sighed. “Better than nothing, I guess. How many do you think you could take before they get you?”
“Definitely three, maybe four or five, depending on the confusion. More if I can get to some cover. The key is what the others do. If some of our people can get the weapons of the guys I take out, they can join in. We just might have a chance at that point. And you two will have to hit the ground as soon as the shooting starts otherwise you’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Are you sure this is wise,” asked Reese, the only sound of reason among the small group that had gathered, adrenaline already fueling Acton’s thinking. “We could just get a bunch of us killed.”
“I’d rather die fighting, than on my knees,” replied the female Chinese observer, Lee Fang.
The sentiment was echoed quietly as the first load of gold was pulled out of the rear of the Antonov by the forklift.
“We don’t have much time,” said Acton, looking over at the wheel repair. “They’ve already got one of those spares on. One more tire and load of gold, and we’re expendable.”
“Why haven’t they killed us yet?” asked Reese, it an obvious question that even Acton had been wondering about.
“They’re not secure until they’re off the ground,” answered Niner. “If I were them, I’d secure my cargo, make sure the repairs were solid, load us all on the crashed plane, then blow it up, making it look like we all died in the crash.”
“And the gold? They can’t hide that,” said Reese. “Whoever finds us will know that for sure.”
“Not if they leave a few bars scattered through the wreckage. The UN might just assume the Sudanese got it, or some local militia.”
“Militia?” asked Reese, her eyes darting around nervously. “What do you mean?”
Niner smiled. “This is Sudan. There’s armed militia groups everywhere. They’re basically no better than gangs.”
“So no matter what, we’re back to killing the hostage takers before they kill us,” frowned Reese.
Suddenly gunfire erupted from the far end of the runway, a beat-up pickup truck racing toward them, its rear compartment filled with gun toting locals. Niner shoved Reese to the ground as Acton landed beside them.
This might be exactly what we need!
Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson was anything but dead. Sore as hell, yes, the two shots having slammed into the body armor he was wearing under his shirt and sending him sailing to the floor. His ribs were bruised for sure, cracked most likely, but it was every other square inch of his body that screamed for relief.
One thing you were trained to do when first awakening in a possible combat situation was to listen first, make sounds second. And that’s exactly what he did. He remembered getting shot and blacking out, but nothing after, and judging from the state of his body, much more had happened while he was unconscious. The lack of engine sounds told him they had landed, but the smell of smoke, aviation fuel and chemically treated carpet told him he was still on the floor of the Antonov and something terrible had transpired.
He opened his eyes a sliver and found no one in sight. Orders were being barked outside in Russian and English, those in English being shouted at the hostages, those in Russian at each other, apparently a transfer operation underway.
Probably the gold.
He turned his head slightly, making sure he was alone, then carefully rolled himself toward the first row of chairs so he’d have more cover. As each part of his body touched the floor he winced. He looked at the bulkhead he must have slammed into and saw blood in several places along with a good dent in the door to the cockpit.
No wonder I’m sore.
He wiggled his fingers and toes, then rotated his hands and feet. His entire right side was a little tender, but he didn’t seem to have any broken bones. Bending each knee carefully, drawing the leg up to his stomach then slowly back, he assessed his condition. Elbows and shoulders followed, all the while listening to their Russian captors. He was fluent in Russian—know thy enemy—but had made a point to not let any
one know on this mission. He wouldn’t be surprised if the other Special Ops members from the observer team knew his dossier but there was a decent chance their captors didn’t.
And if they did, that would indicate how well connected they were.
He rose to his knees, his lungs screaming in protest, then peered over the seats.
Holy shit!
A good chunk of the side of the aircraft had been ripped away, it appearing the wing was gone. The passenger cabin was empty except for a couple of bodies piled in the corner nearby, a bullet hole in the center of one man’s head quite clear.
Niner?
He scrambled over to the bodies and quickly began a search, relieving them of two Beretta handguns and half a dozen magazines. He did an ammo check on both then stuffed one behind his back, the other he kept in his right hand. He rounded the side of the airplane where he had been sitting with the Professor, it still intact, at a crouch. As he passed each row, he looked for bodies or wounded, but found none. As he passed one of the rows he saw a satellite phone on the floor.
He grabbed it, turned it off so it wouldn’t give away his position or waste the battery, then shoved it in the ball pouch just in case he was captured. Most men didn’t give that area a thorough search, and in his experience, Russian men were so homophobic they almost avoided the area like the plague.
He found two more bodies, apparently killed by whatever had happened aboard, bringing the total dead to four, all bad guys. He could live with that. Satisfied he was alone, at least for the moment, he fished the phone out of his crotch and turned it on.
No signal.
It’s a satphone! Why the hell isn’t there a signal?
He flipped the phone over to check the battery compartment when he noticed the antennae casing was cracked.
Shit!
It might be repairable, but not right now. He pressed a few buttons and activated the video camera, then positioning himself near the window, carefully held it up, slowly turning it for a full sweep then lowering the phone, back out of sight. He replayed the video and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Niner and Acton standing by the side of what appeared to be an old runway, along with several others including Reese and the Chinese observers. They were being watched by two guards, but not closely.
Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) Page 16