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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Then they ran to the vehicles, taking both, leaving nine bodies behind for nature to reclaim.

  And if any of the three were to realize the firefight had been started by someone else, they might very well move the hostages.

  Dawson grabbed his gear and sprinted toward his van’s new hiding place, determined to get closer to town should it become necessary to follow them.

  He just hoped they didn’t take out their anger or fear on any of the hostages.

  Over Hamashkoraib, Sudan

  Red looked back at his men, all giving the thumbs up. They were on oxygen now, including the handpicked crew as well as Professor Palmer and Special Agent Reading. The luggage had been moved from the compartment they were now all huddled in and into the main cabin just in case some of it decided to join them on their HALO jump. With them now over the drop zone, the plane had been depressurized to allow the rear baggage door to be opened.

  At the moment the plane, a Gulf-V, was at about thirty five thousand feet, it normally at over fifty thousand. They had reduced altitude with Air Traffic Control approval due to imaginary turbulence. Red turned to Reading, speaking to everyone through the comm built into the headgear they now wore.

  “Remember, as soon as we’re clear, close this door like I showed you, then tell the pilot he’s ‘a go’. He’ll repressurize and return you to altitude. We’ll contact you in three hours. That should give you time to get to your hotel where your equipment is ready. Understood?”

  Reading nodded, giving a thumbs-up. “Understood!”

  “Good, now double-check your harness!”

  Reading yanked at the red harness hooked around his waist, then at the other end attached to the fuselage, and gave another thumbs-up. “Checked!”

  “Opening rear-hatch now!” yelled Red as everyone grabbed onto something. The emergency systems to prevent exactly this had been bypassed as soon as they had reached altitude, so opening the door was relatively easy, and its design, to open inward, meant they weren’t dealing with a door that might rip away from the fuselage if exposed to the outside stresses from the wind.

  The massive portside engine roared at them, its intake only feet away, but essentially even with them so as not to be a risk at sucking them in. But only so by inches. Red positioned himself in the small doorway then signaled the pilot. “Ready for jump on your mark, over!”

  The pilot’s voice came over the comm. “Khartoum ATC, Gulf Five 329, request to climb to flight level five-zero-zero, over.”

  There was a pause as the pilot waited for a reply to his request to go to 50,000 feet. A burst of static and accented English was heard. “Gulf Five 329, Khartoum ATC. Climb to flight level five-zero-zero and maintain, over.”

  “Khartoum ATC, Gulf Five 329, climbing to flight level five-zero-zero, over.” The comm squelched a couple of times then the pilot’s voice was heard once again. “Powering down now, jump on my mark.”

  Red could hear the sound of the engines change, their high-pitched whine dropping slightly as the pilot slowed the aircraft as quickly as he could without losing altitude, the idea that their relative airspeed would drop on the radar as they pushed to climb, hopefully hiding the fact they were slowing down dramatically to make the jump safer.

  Less than a minute passed before his voice returned. “Jump in five… four… three… two… one… Execute!”

  Red stepped out from the doorway, the wind grabbing him and tossing him down the length of the fuselage without any contact being made, and in a split second he was clear of the aircraft, arching his back to gain control, his Heads-Up-Display showing his location and altitude, as well as the rest of his team as they cleared the aircraft.

  “Jumper One away clean, over,” he said, waiting for the replies of the others, it not always obvious during the start of a HALO jump whether or not the team had exited cleanly. One smack of the head against the fuselage and a man could be out cold or disoriented, a spinning blip on the display and a completely controlled blip looking identical.

  “Jumper Two away clean, over,” came Atlas’ deep bass, the comm speakers not doing it justice.

  Spock was next. “Jumper Three away clean, over.”

  There was a pause, a little longer than Red was expecting and he was about to prompt Jimmy when his voice finally burst through the silence. “Jumper Four’s exit was a Charlie-Foxtrot but I’m feeling much better now, thank you.”

  Red shook his head with a smile. He could hear it in Jimmy’s voice that he was more embarrassed than hurt, but he had to be certain. He moved his arms slightly and slowly turned enough for him to turn his helmet and see the other three jumpers above him, staggered about a mile apart each. He could see Jimmy was fine, though a little lower than Spock, suggesting he hadn’t achieved his arch as quickly as he should.

  “Jumper Four, confirm your status, over?”

  “I’m fine, just caught my foot on the doorframe, sent me into a spin that took me a minute to recover from, over.”

  “Roger that. Everyone tighten up and follow me, over.”

  He turned back to face their target, a blip on his display below them as they dropped at over 100 miles per hour toward the ground in broad daylight. He would have preferred a night drop but that would have wasted at least twelve hours that they didn’t have. If there were survivors, and they were being moved, their trail would go cold extremely quickly.

  And that assumed they hadn’t been taken on the second plane or simply murdered when they had hit the ground. Even if they had been shot, recovering their bodies was still something he felt was a necessity, especially after everything he had been through with BD and Niner. And even the professor.

  “Jumper One, Jumper Three. I’m seeing ground activity, over.”

  Red activated the zoom on the HUD and spotted what Spock was talking about. The airfield was clearly visible below them, the crashed plane large on the enhanced display, but what looked like ants now were rapidly growing into humans, dozens if not more scrambling over the wreckage, along with a couple of dozen vehicles including transport trucks.

  “Looks military to me,” said Jimmy. “Must be the Sudanese.”

  “Looks like someone was hoping to collect some pay dirt,” observed Atlas, “otherwise they’d have reported finding the aircraft.”

  Red had to agree. “If our people are down there, they’re in Sudanese hands now unless they were moved.”

  “I’m not sure which I prefer.” It was Spock who voiced all their concerns.

  Suddenly Atlas pointed out the obvious. “The second plane is gone!”

  “That’s good,” said Red. “That means the gold is almost definitely gone, so the Sudanese will have no reason to kill any survivors. They’ll be able to claim it was a rescue mission.” He surveyed the area surrounding their target. “Let’s land north-west of the target so the sun is in their eyes.” He glanced at his altimeter that was rapidly counting down to two thousand feet. “Deploy in three… two… one… Deploy!”

  He pulled the cord, deploying his chute and felt his entire body jerk upward, the sensation merely an illusion as he was still dropping though far more slowly, terminal velocity no longer in the equation. He checked for a good chute then grabbed his toggles, orienting himself with his chosen landing zone. He looked around and found the others dangling under good chutes, all angling toward him.

  His altimeter was already showing less than one thousand feet, still dropping rapidly though now at a survivable speed. A glance over his shoulder showed the airfield in the distance, far enough away that he hoped no one would spot them, but not too far so they wouldn’t have to walk for several hours to get there.

  His HUD beeped and he returned his attention to the ground as it rushed toward him. Flaring his chute, he killed his forward momentum and hit the ground, collapsing his knees and rolling onto his side. Quickly gaining his balance, he pulled in his chute as quickly as he could, it now too easy to spot. In less than a minute he was rushing toward their target, the o
thers following him as they stripped off their jump gear. Dropping at the side of a low hill, they all began digging, burying their equipment. Red wasn’t too concerned about it being found, as long as it was after they had departed. It was all civilian gear, none of it traceable.

  “Everyone good?” he asked the others.

  Nods and grunts from the rest confirmed their status as he pulled out his phone, launching the map application. He pointed out their heading. “We’re about three klicks from the airport. Let’s move!”

  As they jumped to their feet, Red suddenly stopped, holding up his fist. He cocked an ear. “Weapons fire,” he whispered as he tried to get a bearing on it.

  Atlas pointed left of their intended destination by a good forty-five degrees. “Sounds like it’s coming from over there.”

  Red zoomed in on the satellite shots of the area. “There’s a town that way, but too far to hear gunfire from. There’s a pretty shitty looking road though that goes around that hill. It splits off from the main road.”

  Jimmy was leaning in, eyeing the screen. “Looks like the main road is pretty shitty as well.”

  “If I were moving hostages, I’d take them in the back way,” said Spock.

  Red nodded. “We can’t ignore it.” He pointed to Atlas and Jimmy. “You two head for the airport, see if any of our people are there. We’ll see if we can track down that gunfire.”

  They split off, Red and Spock sprinting toward what could be nothing, and with the looks of the hard landscape that surrounded them, possibly in the completely wrong direction.

  And as they ran, a question nagged at him.

  If the hijackers left on the other plane, then who has the survivors?

  Part of him wanted to ease up, to head for the safer bet of the airport, it not making any sense that the survivors, if there were any, would be transported somewhere else.

  Then a plausible explanation popped in his head, sending a surge of speed to his legs.

  What if they escaped during the chaos after the crash?

  Hamashkoraib, Sudan

  Acton stepped out from behind the curtain, relief attained. Niner was at the window with the Brit, one on either side, continuing to observe the guards. There had been a commotion outside almost an hour ago and the sounds of at least two vehicles departing had been heard. What it meant, they had no idea, but the behavior of their guards had changed. The disciplined rounds they had been making had slowed then eventually stopped, with a group of them now huddled nearby, talking in whispers.

  “Did he just say what I think he said?” asked the Brit.

  Niner nodded. “I think so.” He turned to the room, specifically Reese. “It looks like they’re planning on taking the women.”

  Reese immediately paled, looking at Acton. The Chinese observer, Lee Fang showed no emotion, but Acton was sure she must be terrified at the prospect, the stories of what happened to women in this part of the world well known he was sure to all of them.

  He just thanked God Laura wasn’t here.

  He held out his hand for Reese and she walked toward him, taking it. He put himself between her and the door. “We can’t let this happen,” he said.

  “Agreed,” said Niner. He pointed at Reese and Lee. “Get to the back corner.” Lee moved reluctantly, her partner pushing her toward Reese and Acton who had already retreated behind the curtain. “We need two men on the door. Pull the first gun in, shut the door on the rest, disarm the first, and maybe we’ve got a fighting chance. Let them come in after we’ve got a weapon, take out as many as we can, and maybe we get lucky. If we can at least stall them until their leadership gets back, that might be enough.”

  “You’re sure they’re gone?” asked Acton.

  Niner shook his head. “No, but when those vehicles left, the guys left behind immediately slacked off. I’m guessing whoever is here now doesn’t hold any sway over them, or just doesn’t care.”

  “Here they come,” whispered the Brit, still at the window. The two Italians took up positions on either side of the door, the Frenchman and Niner on either wall, ready to pounce, the rest forming a human shield around the two women.

  Acton was still holding Reese’s hand, her grip viselike, her body shaking noticeably. The sound of the door being unlocked from the outside caused Reese to yelp. He glanced at her then positioned himself directly in front of her, using his free hand to gently move Lee Fang farther out of sight, the proud warrior not happy about having to be protected like this, but even her fierce demeanor seemed shaken, cooperating completely with Acton’s attempt to shield her.

  The door was kicked open, one of the guards stepping in boldly, grinning gums revealed as his AK-47 led the way into the room. The Italian behind the door reached forward, grabbing the butt of the rifle and shoving it toward the floor, the barrel flipping harmlessly toward the ceiling as he then proceeded to bear hug the man, pulling him back behind the door as the Frenchman rushed forward, shoving the door closed. The Brit stepped forward, wrenching the weapon from the startled man’s hands then tossed it to Niner who immediately checked the weapon and dropped to a knee, aiming at the door.

  The Italian let his arms slide up and within moments he had the man’s head trapped in his arms, squeezing hard. He pushed the man’s head down, knocked his feet out from under him, and the snap of the spine almost seemed to echo through the room. The Italian tossed the body into the corner as the Frenchman holding the door let it open. Shots erupted from the liberated AK-47, tearing new holes in the first two men through the door. The second Italian grabbed one of the bodies, yanking it through the door, liberating him of his weapon and tossing it to the Chinese observer who dropped and opened fire. Several shots were fired randomly into the room, most hitting the ceiling, others tearing through the wood door, then nothing, shouts of what Acton assumed were “Retreat!” filling the air.

  The bodies were quickly pulled inside and disarmed then searched, several weapons and magazines liberated when the sound of vehicles arriving outside caused Acton to suddenly have hope.

  Something hit the ground, rolling into the center of the room from outside. Acton’s eyes immediately focused on it but for a moment his brain refused to accept what it was.

  “Grenade!” yelled the Brit as he spun from the window. The Frenchman jumped forward, diving on the grenade, covering it with his body as the Brit did the same, landing squarely on top of the Frenchman. Acton spun, shoving Reese to the floor as Lee Fang’s partner did the same to her, both men jumping on top of the women to protect them from the blast.

  The delay was interminable, time slowing with the adrenaline rush, to the point where Acton began to wonder if it were a dud or if the idiot outside had forgotten to pull the pin. He turned his head to look at the human shield protecting them, his mind thinking they would be okay, when there was a muted explosion, both bodies lifting from the floor several inches, the dirt floor vibrating horribly.

  Reese screamed in horror as the Brit rolled off the Frenchman, moaning in pain, but alive, at least for now.

  The Frenchman however wasn’t moving, and judging by the massive amount of blood spreading out from under him, he was mercifully dead.

  Niner pointed at the bodies of their enemy. “We need to block the window!” One of the Italians and Niner grabbed the body of one of the dead captors and shoved him into the window frame, ass first, effectively blocking the window from any free throws from outside, but not a carefully pushed through weapon. The liberated weapons were trained on the door and the window as shouting outside erupted then suddenly silence.

  “Americans!”

  The voice was from the other side of the door. It sounded like it was a good distance from the now shredded wood, as if the owner didn’t trust he wouldn’t be shot.

  He repeated his shout. “Americans! I want to talk!”

  The Brit, still lying on his back, blood seeping through his shirt, turned his head to Niner. “I think he’s talking to you, mate.”

  Niner f
rowned, approaching the door but staying out of the line of fire from both sides. “What do you want?”

  “It’s over! If you do not surrender, we will kill you all!”

  Niner looked around the room, his eyebrows climbing slightly. “Are you the one in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem to be.”

  There was a pause. “I was gone when my men attacked you.”

  “So you’re back in control?”

  “Yes.”

  Niner looked around the room, his eyes resting on Reese and Lee. “You know why we resisted?”

  “Yes, they were after your women.”

  “And you guarantee their safety as a man of honor?” Niner shrugged as the words came out, his expression one of “worth a try”.

  “Yes, I swear to Allah himself.”

  “Are we seriously considering this?” asked one of the Italians, his voice a harsh whisper.

  Niner shook his head, lowering his own voice. “They just have to toss one grenade against that door, then another half dozen will follow and we’re all dead. Hopefully this guy takes his god seriously.” He looked about. “I don’t see that we have many options here, but I’m open to suggestions.”

  It was Reese that stepped forward. “I don’t want anyone else dying because of me,” she said, her voice cracking as her eyes darted between the pool of blood surrounding the dead Frenchman, and the wounds on the Brit. “No one.”

  “I agree,” said Lee Fang, stepping out into the open once again. “No one should die because I am a woman.”

  Niner’s head bobbed as he sucked in a breath, his admiration for their decision clear. “Very well.” He raised his voice. “We’re going to open the door and toss our weapons out!”