Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant, I’m not lighting it,” he said, as if reading Red’s mind. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have a match or lighter in the damned room.” His eyes drifted to the top-right drawer of his desk. “Now, I could shoot the tip off, that might light it, but then there’d be paperwork.” He sighed then opened the very drawer holding his sidearm.

  And tossed the unlit cigar inside, slamming the drawer shut.

  “It’s days like today where a man needs his vices,” he muttered.

  “What’s happened, Colonel?”

  “BD and Niner are missing, presumed dead.”

  “What?” Red couldn’t control his outburst, this information coming from as far left field as he could imagine. He knew they had been on a mission in the Ukraine, but that had been completed and they were on some babysitting mission for the UN. “What the hell happened?”

  Clancy shook his head, his entire face seeming to have aged ten years since yesterday. “It appears the plane they were on went down. There’s been no communication for several hours but ATC had them on a rapid descent before they went off radar.”

  Red dropped his head between his knees, his hands gripping his shaved head as flashes of better times played across the back of his eyelids. He suddenly sat up. “Has anyone notified his family yet?”

  Clancy shook his head. “We’re waiting for confirmation.”

  “So there’s still hope?”

  Clancy again shook his head. “Not from what we’ve been told.”

  The phone on Clancy’s desk chirped, demanding attention. Clancy frowned, hitting the button. “I said no interruptions.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a call I think you’ll want to take,” came Maggie’s voice over the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Professor Laura Palmer.”

  Clancy and Red both exchanged surprised looks. Palmer?

  “Get her number.” He jabbed the button, cutting off the conversation. “Professor Acton was on that plane.”

  “Huh?” This meeting was full of shockers for Red, enough to actually leave him at a loss for words.

  “I’m going to read you in because as soon as you talk to Professor Palmer, you’ll know everything anyway. BD and Niner were our representatives for a covert mission to transport over one billion dollars’ worth of gold from Eritrea to Italy. It was found at an archeological site, which is why the two professors were involved. It was top secret because of the amount of money involved. Palmer was on a flight with the dig site relics, BD and Niner were on a privately contracted Antonov with a group of unarmed UN observers, originally two from each of the permanent members of the UN Security Council countries, and two from Italy.”

  “Originally?”

  “The Ethiopians attacked the dig site, killing several of the observers.” He leaned forward, pointing his finger at the phone. “If she’s calling, either she knows something, or she thinks she knows something. My hands are tied since this was a UN op, and you know how useless they are.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suggest you give the woman a call, and should you feel it necessary, visit her personally to offer your condolences on her loss. Perhaps take a few of the boys with you.”

  Red knew exactly what was supposed to be read between those lines. He nodded, rising. “I’ll be sure to pass on your own as well, Colonel.”

  “You do that.” He flicked his wrist toward the door. “Enjoy your vacation, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Red exited the office, closing the door behind him so the Colonel would be able to honestly say he hadn’t heard any conversation between his secretary and a soldier under his command. Red rounded Maggie’s desk and leaned over, putting a hand on her shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

  Maggie’s eyes erupted with tears and she buried her face in Red’s stomach. He patted her head gently, not saying anything, as the woman who had only recently expressed her interest in Dawson demonstrated how much she had given of her heart. After about a minute she pulled away, dabbing herself dry with a tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice rough but still with a hint of the strength that Red thought Dawson found appealing. She had almost insinuated herself into Dawson’s life, and he had reluctantly accepted it, which delighted his friends and team. Dawson had always been a loner. In fact, Red couldn’t remember a relationship lasting more than enough dates to get a few romps, then his friend would close himself off, ending the relationship. Red knew why, they all did. Red himself was married initially due to a wonderful accident, his son Bryson—and Dawson’s Godson—and it had terrified him at first, getting married and having a family with a job so dangerous.

  But hundreds of thousands—millions—of servicemen the world over had married and had children, during peacetime and war. It was the human imperative, to bond and procreate, and he didn’t regret a single day of his relationship with his now wife and their amazing kid.

  But Dawson was so married to the job Red knew he was worried getting attached would cause him to ease up, to avoid taking the risks he always did, which Red was certain Dawson felt would put his men at risk.

  And Red had called bullshit on it a few weeks ago when talking with Dawson over a beer in his basement while watching the Rangers game. “You’re too good a soldier for that,” he had said to his friend. That had elicited a grunt, which in some cases for Dawson was a font of information. The more he saw them together, the more comfortable they seemed, and when he came to the range humming one morning, something his friend only did when he was particularly happy, fist bumps had been exchanged secretly by the team, everyone knowing the “boss had got some”.

  He didn’t let up on them that day, though.

  Maggie quickly wrote down a number on a pad and tore off the sheet, handing it to him. “This is Professor Palmer’s number.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Only that it was urgent she talk to someone.”

  Red nodded, holding up the sheet. “Thanks.” He rounded her desk and before opening the outer office door, looked back at her. “Don’t lose hope yet. If there was any way to survive this, BD would find a way.”

  She smiled weakly, he himself not buying the words coming out of his mouth. If there was any way… Who was he kidding? A plane in a rapid descent from tens of thousands of feet slammed into the ground nothing like a piano on a Disney cartoon character. You didn’t just push up from under the wreckage and walk away.

  You died.

  But why would Palmer be calling him?

  Correction. She was calling the Colonel, not him. And it was too soon to be passing on condolences to your secret friends in Special Ops.

  Which meant she knew something she felt they needed to know. He closed the door of one of their secure communications rooms behind him and sat down, dialing the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Professor Palmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is a friend of Mr. White’s.”

  “Oh, hi, I recognize your voice. What should I call you?”

  “Call me Mr. Black.”

  “You heard about the plane crash?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have something you need to hear.”

  “Go ahead.”

  A voicemail message from Professor Acton began to play, and his heart sank as he heard of Dawson’s death. But if this had started as a hijacking, it gave a plausible explanation as to why the plane had been lost on radar, and it meant Niner might still be alive. His mind raced as the voicemail ended.

  “I can’t get any action from the UN, they say their hands are tied because the Sudanese aren’t cooperating.”

  “I heard the same thing here.”

  “Can you do anything?”

  Red smiled, hoping this conversation was about to go where he knew only she could take it. He had no idea how rich she was, but he did know she was rich enough to make a difference. “With the right resources, yes.”
r />   “I’ll write you a blank check.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Rome.”

  “I’ll text you an account number. Put a hundred grand in there. I’ll see you before morning.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The call ended and Red leaned back, closing his eyes as he remembered the first time he had met his good friend. Then when he had asked if Dawson minded taking Niner on the latest mission since Bryson had a school play he was desperate for his father to see him in.

  He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty, but he did.

  And now if there was a chance at saving Niner, he would do everything he could to bring him home.

  And if not, he’d kill everyone involved in the death of his friends.

  Outside Hamashkoraib, Sudan

  Dawson’s body armor had been tossed long ago, the pants turned into shorts, one of the torn off legs fitted over his head like a bandana doubling as a hat, the other hanging over the back of his neck and shoulders to cut down on the sunburn. His first bottle of water was empty, the cap carefully replaced, the bottle tucked inside his shirt in the hopes condensation might form inside the bottle to give him a few drips later if desperate, and be uncontaminated by salt if he were to find a water source.

  A watering hole would be nice!

  He had his shades to help block the sun, his utility belt which included a multi-purpose tool, knife, mini-first aid kit, water purification tablets, matches and some plastic ties, not to mention two Beretta 92’s with six extra magazines and an AK-47 with another two mags.

  And no food.

  You can’t eat bullets.

  Though Atlas had once on a dare from Niner.

  He was following a dusty trail, not a road by any civilized sense, but it was a route that had been recently frequented by several vehicles, the tracks still fresh. If he were lucky, they might just lead him to where the hostages were now being held. He had taken several photos of the tire tracks with the satellite phone just in case he needed to compare later. The phone still had about half its battery power left, but was useless as a communications device so he had it shut off to conserve juice. If he had a chance later he would spend a few minutes tinkering, but was reluctant to risk frying the device as it had proven useful already. He had all of the hostages and hostage takers on video. Should he be rescued, he’d be able to hand that video over and they might be able to identify the locals involved and send in a team to retrieve his comrades.

  He stopped.

  The trail seemed to join up with another more travelled one, then split into two again, forming almost an elongated X, he currently on the bottom left of the X, the heavier traffic the right side. The tracks he was following were lost in the jumble, it clear traffic passed here regularly. The last discernable track that definitely belonged to what he was following showed no indication of turning hard right, so he had to assume they had continued forward.

  But had they exited left on the road less travelled, or right, on what appeared to be a fairly major road for the middle of nowhere?

  He knelt down and examined the tracks heading left and it didn’t take him long to spot the distinctive defect in one of the vehicles’ tires, a gouge at a forty-five degree angle that left a repeated gap in the sand with every rotation.

  A motor revving had him spinning, looking for cover. Several large rocks nearby were all that was available. He rushed toward them, ducking behind just in time as a beat up van, a Dodge Caravan if he wasn’t mistaken, faux wood paneling from the eighties still partially intact, crested a rise from the top right of the intersection. It appeared to have one occupant, a middle-aged man singing at the top of his lungs, his smile and demeanor befitting small town USA.

  Dawson jumped out from behind the rocks, pointing his AK-47 directly at the man’s head as he slowed to make the turn. The man’s eyes bulged as he saw the gun and he slammed the brakes on, raising his hands. Dawson flicked his weapon and the man nodded, turning off the engine then climbing out.

  With English one of Sudan’s two official languages, Dawson took a chance. “Do you speak English?”

  The man nodded.

  “Good, just do what I say and you won’t get hurt.” He motioned in the direction the van had just come from. “How far to town?”

  “About five kilometers.”

  “Are you healthy enough to walk it?”

  The man nodded rapidly, his eyes still bulging with fear.

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  The man nodded. “In my glove box. Only a fool travels here without a weapon.”

  Dawson motioned to where he thought the hostage takers had gone. “Where does that lead?”

  “To town, but the north side. It’s rarely used, very rough.”

  “The name of the town?”

  “Hamashkoraib.”

  “How big?”

  “Not very.” The man’s eyebrows narrowed. “Are you American?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are there any Western representatives there? Government, embassy, church, companies?”

  The man shook his head. “No. This is a very poor town, mostly controlled by gangs. The government leaves us alone, we leave them alone.”

  “Phones?”

  “A few of the warlords have satellite phones, but they won’t help you.”

  “So there’s no way to communicate with the outside world?”

  The man shrugged. “We have an Internet café.”

  Dawson’s head dropped slightly, his eyes rolling up. “You have no cellphone coverage, but you have Internet.”

  “It uses satellite I think.”

  Dawson opened the passenger door, retrieving a piece of paper and a pencil from the glove compartment, along with the gun, an old six-shooter Remington with four bullets. He tossed the paper and pencil on the hood. “Draw me a map on how to get to this café.”

  The man nodded and quickly mapped out the twists and turns that were necessary. Dawson took the map, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He flicked his gun toward the trail the man had just come from. “Start walking, don’t look back.”

  “What about my van?” asked the man, his eyes pleading, it obvious it was as precious to him as any child.

  Dawson frowned, then took out the map. “Write your name down and your address. If I can, I’ll get word to you where your van is when I’m done.”

  The man eagerly jumped forward, taking the pencil and paper. “Do you have email?” he asked.

  Dawson chuckled. “Of course.”

  “As do I.” He quickly wrote down a Hotmail address. “Email me here when you are done.”

  Dawson smiled as he read the address. “Isn’t that The Camel Man 76 in Arabic?”

  The man’s head bobbed eagerly. “I started out selling camels. Now goats, horses, you name it, I sell it.” He frowned. “I have deliveries in the back. What will you do with them?”

  Dawson had visions of Noah’s Ark stuffed in the back of his commandeered vehicle. “What kind of deliveries?”

  “eBay purchases. I buy for people and arrange delivery for a commission.”

  Dawson didn’t bother asking how this worked in the middle of nowhere, but with families splitting up and immigrating around the world, he wouldn’t be surprised if this man had a brother in New York handling one end of the operation.

  “I’ll leave everything in the van unless I need something.”

  The man nodded slowly, not exactly pleased with the “unless” rider.

  “Now start walking,” repeated Dawson, flicking his weapon at the man, “and don’t come looking for me or I’ll be forced to kill you.” Reluctantly the man began to walk back to town, cresting a rise within minutes. Dawson jumped in the van, fired up the engine, then turned the vehicle around, taking the left hand road to where he hoped he might find evidence of the final destination of the local criminals who had taken his friends and colleagues.

  A
s he followed the trail, there no indications of any vehicles having turned off it, he was careful not to travel too fast; he could miss a turnoff, or worse, run headlong into the dozen or so armed men holding the hostages, or into yet another group that as of yet had no involvement.

  His eyes scanned the sky for any sign of a contrail, anything airborne, but again came up empty. By now for certain the authorities knew the plane had gone down—it had been hours. And with a carrier off the coast of Eritrea, sending in search aircraft or even drones should have been an easy matter.

  But there had been nothing.

  He could have missed a drone, that he could accept, but not an aircraft. They were too loud, and the billowing smoke, a hint of which had still been on the horizon to the south before the sun began to set would have been visible for hundreds of miles in the air. Even if they had gone off course, they couldn’t have gone that far since he had only been out for about half an hour. That meant at most three to five hundred miles from their intended course, and a wide search pattern from altitude would have spotted the thick black smoke of aviation fuel.

  There could only be one explanation.

  Nobody was looking.

  Now the question was why. If he had to guess, it was that the Sudanese weren’t letting anyone in their airspace because they wanted the gold. The Sudanese should be arriving soon, if they hadn’t already. When they did they’d discover the gold was gone, and would hopefully at that point let the search begin since they had nothing to lose and everything to gain through goodwill.

  He came around a bend and saw the town of what he assumed was Hamashkoraib before him, lights just starting to dot the landscape, some electric, some natural fires and candlelight. It was a quaint, peaceful sight from his perch, but somewhere in the mix of this small town were almost a dozen Western hostages, including two of his friends. With the dusk quickly settling in he decided to leave the trail and find a place to hole up so he could renew the search tomorrow.

  Parking behind a large outcropping of rock carved out millions of years ago by a forgotten river, he flicked the light on in the back of the van and started to look through the goodies left behind by its owner. A grin spread across his face when he found several boxes taped together—two Froot Loops and one Cap’n Crunch.