He checked his watch and figured he had been out for maybe half an hour.
We’re probably in Sudan, maybe an abandoned airstrip from the Brits.
But this plane wasn’t going anywhere, and he could hear sounds on the other side of the temporary wall that something was happening in the cargo bay. If they were after the gold, which obviously they were, then their plan must have been to transfer it to an alternate transport. Sudan was too barren for them to be going by truck, so there must be another airplane. He crawled to the other side of the plane and peered out from under the seats through the tear in the fuselage.
I hate being right all the time.
A Chinese Shaanxi Y-8, a rip-off of the Soviet Antonov An-12, sat several hundred feet away, its cargo ramp down. Several crew were replacing the front tires and appeared almost done, while what looked like the first pallet of gold was being loaded into the back by a forklift. If he was going to stop them, he didn’t have much time.
Why stop them?
The gold was of no concern to him now that it was out of Eritrea. These guys were Russian, so obviously stealing it either for themselves or some foreign interest, almost definitely not African, so destabilization was no longer a concern. His primary concern now was to save the civilians and Niner.
Gunfire erupted from the opposite end of the runway, the distinctive sound of AK-47s filling the air, a weapon he had already noted none of their captors seemed to be carrying.
He ducked back down as several rounds pinged off the fuselage.
Was a third party intervening?
Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield
Acton looked at Niner who nodded. Both of them jumped to their feet, rushing forward and tackling the two guards. Acton lost sight of Niner as his target hit the ground with a grunt, Acton landing on top of him. He punched the man several times in the face as quickly as he could to stun him, then leapt forward, placing his knee on the man’s neck, using his bodyweight to push down on the man’s carotid artery, slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain.
The man struggled under him, but the element of surprise had worked, and Acton had the upper hand, and with every second that elapsed, he knew his opponent’s resistance would weaken, Laura’s ex-SAS security team excellent instructors.
The slaps against his legs became weak and soon stopped, his man out cold. Acton grabbed the gun from his hand then retrieved several mags from his pockets. He looked up to find Niner already walking over to him, his man being secured by the two Chinese observers, the Brit and French having taken charge of Reese, moving her to better cover as the gunfire continued from the new arrivals, return fire now underway in earnest.
Niner grabbed the man by the shoulder, Acton gripping the other, and they retreated behind a stack of rusted out oil drums, any fuel they might have at one time contained long having leaked out and contaminated the soil. As they rounded the drums to join the others, Acton and Niner tossed their man to the ground, he immediately set upon by the Chinese who bound and gagged him within moments.
Acton poked his head up and saw the attacking vehicle veer to the right, beating a hasty retreat as the concentrated fire from the Russians scared them off. Niner tossed his spare weapon and two magazines to the surviving British observer.
“Thanks, mate,” he replied, readying the weapon. “How many does that make?”
Acton looked at his gun, not wanting to give it up but realizing there were others more qualified than him. “I’ve got a Beretta and three mags,” he said, holding them out. “Anybody more qualified than me?”
The Chinese observer Lee Fang held out her hand. “No disrespect, Doctor, though your file is impressive, I do believe I am more qualified.”
Acton smiled with a nod, handing her the Beretta. Niner held up the weapon he had relieved Dawson’s killer of. “I’ve got this and two mags. So that means we have three weapons and seven spare magazines. We need to make these last and hope that they’ll just leave with the gold if they think we’re too risky a target to take out.”
Acton felt naked without the weapon and his eyes began to seek out other sources of protection when he spotted the forklift racing back toward their position, several guards hanging off it, the others protecting the plane having retreated inside the cargo hold.
Something in Russian was yelled.
“They know we’re missing,” said Niner.
“You speak Russian?” asked Lee.
Niner nodded. “Don’t you?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Know thy enemy.”
Niner grinned at her. “Which is why I also speak Chinese.”
“And I English.” Her smile wasn’t as forthcoming, but it was there.
Now if we can all just keep getting along, we might make it out of here alive.
Two guards rounded the rear of the plane, scanning the area. One pointed to the drums they were hiding behind and raised his weapon. “Allow me,” said the Brit, squeezing off two rounds, each man dropping to the ground. The Frenchman and the other Chinese observer bolted forward, grabbing the weapons from the two fallen men as the three armed members of their party covered them.
Gunfire tore up the ground to their right and they were forced to abandon their search for ammunition, instead both rolling away from the shots, putting the massive cargo plane between them and the shooters. They scrambled back to the safety of the oil drums as the others conserved their ammo.
A shout from down the runway had Acton turning his attention to the other airplane. It appeared they had successfully replaced the front landing gear tires and the pilot was now powering up the engines. The forklift with the second and final pallet of gold was rushing toward the cargo ramp, and moments later it was swallowed up by the interior, the props now at full power.
A burst of gunfire then the sound of bullets pinging loudly off the drums in front of them had everyone hugging the deck, the thieves retreating toward the waiting transport, pouring heavy fire onto their hiding place.
The two Chinese observers returned fire, emptying their magazines. Lee tossed a spare to her partner, reloading her second last mag as the Brit and Frenchman took over. Several more guards dropped, speeding along the retreat of the others, the last of them jumping onto the rear deck as the ramp rose, the plane beginning to taxi to the end of the runway.
The engines roared, the plane holding in place as the pilot applied the brakes while the power continued to build. Gunfire from the other end of the runway coincided with the plane suddenly bursting forward, rushing toward the return of the locals.
In far greater numbers.
Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield
Samir gripped the seat with one hand, tight, the other balancing his AK-47 on the side view mirror as he pumped lead toward the massive aircraft roaring toward them. Whatever was onboard must have been valuable, the two planes here the biggest he had ever seen, and the amount of fire power impressive enough to cause him to order their initial retreat.
Luckily several others had arrived to investigate the fire just as they had found cover over the crest of a hill, and after quick negotiations, the owners of the vehicles had agreed to a three-way split and resumed the attack.
But if the plane left the ground, not only was any cargo lost, but so were the valuable hostages. And as their weapons pumped away at the military transport, he realized it was of no use, the thickened skin designed to resist small arms fire.
The nose lifted off the ground, then the rear wheels with a puff of smoke, leaving them all to duck as the massive plane passed over them. The three vehicles screeched to a halt, most of the men turning to continue firing at the rapidly departing plane. The gunfire began to wane and eventually stop, everyone dropping back in their seats disappointed at an opportunity lost.
“Look.”
Samir turned to look where his driver Abit was pointing. Beyond the wreckage of an even bigger transport plane lay about a dozen fuel drums, and through the
rusted out holes it was quite evident that at least one person was hiding behind them.
He jumped up in his seat, poking his head through the window and pointing toward the drums, yelling, “Hostages!”
His driver hammered on the gas, their Toyota racing toward what Samir hoped would still be a generous pay day, though now split three ways. He would need to figure out a way to rid himself of the others but there was time for that later. As they rushed toward the oil drums and a possible retirement fund, he motioned for the others to break off and surround whoever might be hiding.
Abit brought them to a skidding halt as Samir and the others jumped out, their AK-47’s aimed at the drums, the other trucks doing the same.
A man stood up, his arms raised.
A white man, dressed in Western clothes.
Samir smiled.
When the other ten stood, almost all white, his smile turned into an outright grin as he exchanged triumphant looks with the others.
We’re rich!
Dawson retreated deeper into the plane after watching the Shaanxi Y-8 take off under fire. As his friends and the others were surrounded, he used the phone to take a quick video of what he was facing, then turned it off again as shouts in Arabic were barked by what appeared to be competing chefs, no one man seeming to be in charge.
That could prove useful.
Somebody shouted for the plane to be searched. Dawson stuffed the phone, guns and mags in one of the seatbacks then rushed to the back corner and dropped to the floor, dragging the body of one of the dead Russian hijackers over top of him. He knew it wouldn’t hide him from their sight, but it might just make them ignore him if they thought he was merely another dead body.
Shouts from the cargo hold in the now quiet deserted airport neared, the door between the cargo and passenger areas thrown open only feet away. Shouts in Arabic of “Hands up!” and “Look for valuables!” filled the air and he felt the body covering him moved as someone yelled “I’ve got some bodies over here!”. A hand grabbed his shoulder and he forced himself to relax, slowly breathing lest the red face of a held breath give him away.
“There’s nothing here!” yelled another near the front. “Let’s go back outside!” His shoulder was let go and the voices and footsteps faded, leaving him once again alone with the dead.
And perhaps the only hope for his comrades now held at gunpoint.
Yelling outside had him pushing the body on top of him aside and he carefully looked out the window. The hostages were being searched then loaded into the back of the vehicles. When the last were aboard the gunmen who could fit climbed on then the three vehicles peeled away leaving six men behind, looking at each other and the ground as they kicked at rocks, none willing to acknowledge how low on the totem pole they really were to have been left behind.
“Let’s search again. Maybe there’s something that they missed,” suggested one, his loud, probably khat fuelled voice carrying through the torn opening in the fuselage. The others nodded and Dawson realized these men had nothing left to do but a thorough search since they had no ride home. He scurried forward, retrieving his weapons and magazines along with the phone, then rushed over to the huge opening. Sitting nearby were two small bottles of water, held against the fuselage by some netting. He grabbed them both and shoved them down his shirt.
Glancing outside, he saw no one, the voices now coming from the cargo hold. Careful not to cut himself on the torn metal and exposed wiring, he jumped down to the ground, rolling to absorb the impact, his ankle twinging slightly, his ribs screaming in protest. Rushing forward while scanning his surroundings, he took up position at the front of the aircraft, the bottom ground into the runway, its gear collapsed.
He listened.
Still only the voices from inside the plane. The oil drums would provide temporary cover, but he needed better. Several hundred feet beyond was an abandoned building, half fallen in on itself. If he could reach there with no one seeing him, he’d be free to leave the entire area, using the building as cover.
But if just one of the half dozen left behind looked out a window, he’d be done for. With his ribs the way they were, a long distance chase was out of the question. Any other day? No problem. But today it would end up being a shootout, six against one, with him possibly in the open.
Not too bad odds, but still not good if he hoped to save the hostages.
Taking one final look, he dashed for the oil drums and hit the ground with a grunt, his ribs screaming in agony and a puff of dust revealing his position. He cursed himself for his stupidity, the pain overcoming his training for a moment. Peering through the holes in the drums he saw no reaction from the plane, the locals all aboard seeking whatever treasures they could.
Now or never.
He took a quick look behind him and saw some dried brush about halfway between him and the collapsed building and decided to crawl it. Flattening himself, he pushed the water bottles to the sides so they wouldn’t burst, then began to push across the arid landscape as quickly as he could. Just as he was about to reach the bushes he heard someone yell in Arabic, “There’s somebody out there!”
That’s my cue!
He jumped to his feet and hustled it toward the broken walls, his lungs demanding he stop as his ribcage screamed in rage. Gunfire erupted, several rounds bursting the stone in front of him as they neared their mark. With only feet to go he leapt through the air, diving through one of the few remaining windows and slammed into the ground, his hip smacking a pile of brick that had once been part of an interior wall.
He winced in pain, but forced it to the background as he swung around and took up position by the window. All six men were storming his position, several with their weapons firing on full automatic.
No ammo concerns?
He hoped they were just idiots not thinking they needed bullets to shoot after the magazine they had emptied, but he couldn’t risk his life on that assumption.
He rose up and squeezed off three rounds, the lead three hitting the ground, dead or dying, before the other three could react, diving behind the oil drums. Blind fire erupted from their position as they shot their weapons in his general direction, most of the bullets missing blindly. Dawson knelt down, the hard dry brick providing sufficient cover for now, content to let his enemy waste their ammunition.
The sound changed, one of the three weapons clearly shifting position as it fired. Dawson moved to the right of the window and caught sight of the hostile trying to take his left flank. The first shot caught the man in the shoulder, but he kept running and firing, the next shot brought him down in a heap. Swinging back for a quick look out the window, he saw the other two had taken advantage of the distraction and were just disappearing out of sight to the right.
The gunfire stopped and he heard rubble move on the other side of the wall. He stepped through the window, crossing the front of the building and stopping at the one-two corner. He took a quick peak and saw the second man disappear after the first around the back. Weapons fire erupted and a quick look back saw puffs of dust blow out the window as his previous position was sprayed with gunfire. He took advantage of the noise to rush the two-three corner and just as the gunfire stopped, he rounded the corner, weapon raised, and fired two shots into his would-be killers.
They never knew what hit them.
An engine revved and gears shifted in the distance. Dawson peered out from around the wall and saw an old World War II era jeep bouncing toward the wrecked Antonov, several more gun wielding fanatics aboard. He grabbed an AK-47 from one of the men, all of their ammo, of which there were only two mags, then ran in the opposite direction, using the building as cover. He crested a small hill and soon had nature to provide cover. Looking up at the sun, he determined the direction the vehicles with the hostages had gone, and set out at a brisk walk in pursuit.
As the hot African sun beat down on him, still high enough in the horizon for him to follow any trails, but not low enough for the air to cool, his mind began
to plan for possible contingencies.
Assuming he could find them.
If they went too far, I never will.
Fiumicino–Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, Rome, Italy
“What do you mean they lost contact with them?”
Laura’s chest was tight, her stomach doing flips as she tried to maintain control. She hadn’t expected much of a welcome when she arrived, the entire mission hush-hush until the gold was secure, but what she found when she exited the gangway were dozens of reporters, glaring camera lights, and microphones shoved in her face and those of her colleagues.
“The plane with the gold, it crashed!” cried one of the reporters, the glee in her voice at having another story to capitalize on human misery evident. It made Laura sick with rage, these hounds so eager to ambush people with the news of a dead loved one, to stick cameras and microphones into the faces of the bereaved, all to score higher ratings and perhaps advance an otherwise pathetic career.
News isn’t the news anymore.
Her beloved James’ words echoed through her head. He was right for the most part, though she still felt there were a few respectable news organizations out there. CNN had lost all credibility for her with their coverage of the missing Malaysian flight. For an anchor to actually seriously suggest wormholes? For their prime time news hosts to actually run with stories that they had evidence of it landing on a secret runway and that the passengers were alive? It was irresponsible and an insult to journalists everywhere, not to mention an atrocity to the families.
Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) Page 17