The Cylon Curse

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Leroux nodded in agreement. “It makes sense. He’d be concerned about the Amber Room, as I’m sure it’s his prize possession, but he’d likely take the opportunity to save everything. Perhaps even Cylon’s urn.”

  Randy spun again. “Cylon. Sooo cool!”

  Leroux turned to him. “Keep monitoring that plane. I want to know the moment it takes off, and where it’s headed. Since the Polish government asked for our assistance a few months ago in recovering it, and we failed, according to the director, it’s still an open op. Delta already has Bravo Team on standby, in theater, and depending on where that plane lands, we might be able to take it.”

  Kane pursed his lips, staring at the display. “Let’s hope it’s someplace we don’t care about offending the locals.”

  75 |

  Aviano Air Base, Italy

  Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson entered the room, his team of special operators, all members of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, or Delta Force to the common folk, spread about on various chairs and couches, a few playing a game of pool. Everyone turned expectantly.

  “What’s up, dog?” asked Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung. “Are we on?”

  Dawson nodded. “It looks like we’re getting a second shot at that Amber Room.”

  Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James’ impossibly deep voice boomed from the pool table. “You mean that big ass gold room that the Doc and his lady found?”

  Niner stared at him. “Hey, she has a name.” He grinned. “That will eventually be Mrs. Sung once the Doc’s out of the picture.”

  “Keep dreaming shit ball.”

  “With the way you treat me, sometimes all I have are my dreams.”

  Atlas stared at him. “As long as I don’t feature in them, then we’re okay.”

  “Well, there was this one where you were naked except for a flak jacket and a pair of panties—”

  “You’re dreaming about me, yet you want to marry the Doc’s wife. You’re confused, little man.” Atlas jabbed a meaty finger at Niner. “And don’t let the Doc hear you talk like that. It could get your ass capped.”

  Niner nodded. “He does scare me. He can shoot, oozes sex appeal—”

  “I’ll bow to your expertise in that area.”

  “Hey, don’t misinterpret the message. All I’m saying is he has to be sexy to women to get the one he’s got. She’s a stunner, funny—”

  “And can kick your ass.”

  Niner swooned, with a mock dreamy expression. “I know, that’s her most attractive quality. A woman that can deliver an ass-whooping. What a way to go!”

  Atlas’ eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you were laid? And not by the hand twins.”

  Niner stared at him for a moment, stammering to find a response.

  Atlas and the others laughed. “Uh huh. I thought it was that long. You really need to get out and work off some of that built up energy. Your brain is getting stupider by the day.”

  Niner dove across the pool table and leaped into Atlas’ arms like a bride being carried over the threshold. “Are you offering?”

  Atlas dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. “You’re not my type.”

  Dawson shook his head then turned as the door opened, a corporal entering with a message. He handed it to Dawson then left. Dawson read it, a smile spreading. “Well, if you ladies are done, we have a destination.”

  Atlas stepped over Niner, placing a boot on his chest in the process. “A fun one?”

  Dawson grinned. “Oh yeah.”

  76 |

  Ghardabiya Airbase, Libya

  “Zero-One in position.”

  Dawson stared through his night vision goggles at the Libyan airbase in front of him as Atlas cut the wires of the fence. The team had just HALO jumped from thirty thousand feet, and were now deployed in three teams with Niner and his spotter Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson, as a sniper team providing them with cover from a nearby hilltop.

  The sheik’s plane was a couple of hundred yards away, its engines winding down, as crews rushed from a nearby hangar, crews that, judging by their equipment, intended to offload the cargo.

  “Why would he leave it here?” asked Atlas as they pushed through the new opening in the fence.

  Dawson shook his head. “I’m guessing he thinks this is the last place we’d look.”

  Atlas grunted. “He’s right. A failed state is hardly where I’d expect to find a priceless art collection.”

  Dawson activated his comm. “Okay, gentlemen, that’s our ride, and we want the cargo, so let’s hit them before they get a chance to unload. Everyone in position?”

  “Team Two in position,” replied Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme, from the north end of the field.

  “Team Three in position,” echoed Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman from the southern end.

  Dawson surveyed the area once again for any surprises, then signaled the attack. “Execute-Execute-Execute!” He jumped to his feet, surging forward, hunched over, his team on his heels as they advanced as silently as they could, suppressed MP5s at the ready. Dawson glanced to his left then right, spotting both teams, when his eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

  Atlas caught up. “What?”

  “Check north.”

  Atlas looked and cursed. “I think it’s the hand of God.”

  Dawson activated his comm, not breaking stride. “Control, Zero-One. Care to let us in on what’s coming in from the north, over?”

  “Zero-One, Control. You’ve got a sandstorm coming in.”

  Dawson cursed. “ETA?”

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  Dawson shook his head, glancing at Atlas. “Might have been nice to know.”

  Atlas grinned. “I’m sure they just didn’t want us worrying.”

  Dawson raised his weapon, taking aim at the cluster of hostiles when one of them shouted. “We’ve been made.” He squeezed the trigger, his weapon set to single shot, and made quick work of those in his arc as the rest of his team did the same. Red’s team to the north was taking heavier fire, but Dawson let his best friend and second-in-command deal with it rather than interrupt him with a status update request. Gunfire from the south had him more concerned, the distinct sound of a .50 caliber opening up on Spock’s team, now dominating the field.

  He pointed toward Team Three’s position. “Jagger, Mickey, give them a hand.”

  Jagger and Mickey split off, rushing the defenders’ position from behind, as Dawson, Atlas, and their pilot extraordinaire, Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser, continued toward the massive transport aircraft.

  An aircraft whose engines were now powering up once again.

  “He’s going to try and make a break for it.” Wings poured on the speed as Dawson opened fire on a new set of guards emerging from the hangar. The aircraft’s lowered ramp slowly rose, and once closed, there’d be no Tom Cruise style entrance through the side door, because Scotty wasn’t on the next ridge miraculously hacking into the plane’s automated systems to open it.

  It would be another failed mission to recover the half-billion dollar historical treasure.

  “Bullshit.”

  Dawson sprinted as hard as he could, switching over to fully automatic, spraying the area with lead as Atlas and Wings did the same. It kept their enemies’ heads down, and their returned fire unaimed.

  Dawson leaped, grabbing the lip of the cargo ramp, then flipped over the edge, rolling hard to the deck. Somebody yelled as they charged at him, always a stupid thing to do, giving him enough warning to unload two rounds into the man’s stomach, then advance, using him as a meat shield as he advanced through the hold, eliminating the three men still inside.

  He tossed the bullet-ridden corpse to the side and checked behind him to see he was alone, the others too slow. He smacked the button to lower the ramp, then made for the cockpit. It was locked, and the plane was still picking up speed despite the ramp lowering.

  He placed a smal
l charge on the lock and blew it as Atlas and Wings reached him. Atlas hauled the door off its hinges then Dawson and Wings stepped into the cockpit, both with weapons aimed at the crews’ heads.

  “How about we stop this thing?”

  The pilot powered down and they unbuckled themselves. Dawson and Atlas hauled them out of the cockpit and toward the rear ramp, Wings once again lowering it, the crew having overridden it from their position.

  Dawson tossed the pilot down the ramp as the rest of his team sprinted inside. “Everybody good?”

  Red nodded. “All present and accounted for, but I spotted three technicals on their way. We better book.”

  Dawson did a headcount as the rest got on board, then activated his comm. “Overseer, time to fly.”

  Niner responded. “Way ahead of you, Zero-One.”

  Dawson turned back toward the cockpit. “Let’s pick up Niner and get the hell out of here!”

  The wind was beginning to howl, sand whipping past them as Dawson raised the ramp. He pointed toward the side door. “Open that.” Spock and Jagger immediately opened it, taking up position on either side to retrieve Niner and Jimmy, as Dawson headed for the cockpit, taking the copilot’s position. He took a look through the window and his eyes bulged. “Holy shit!”

  Wings grunted. “No shit holy shit! We’ve got maybe two minutes.”

  Dawson scanned the end of the runway, visibility already poor, then pointed. “That’s them.”

  Wings nodded, guiding the plane toward their remaining two team members, Niner waving with a shit eating grin, shouting something at them that he thought was funny.

  Wings shook his head. “That guy really does need to get laid.”

  His two team members disappeared and Dawson turned to watch the retrieval through the cockpit door. A sniper rifle appeared, tossed through the side door, then Jimmy stumbled inside, and finally Niner, rolling onto his back, still laughing. The side door closed, and Wings turned the plane hard, aligning them for takeoff.

  “Everybody hang on, this ain’t gonna be pretty!”

  Dawson strapped in as the others in the rear searched for something to hold on to, the stolen art collection taking up most of the hold. Wings shoved the throttle forward and the plane surged as the wind and sand whipped around them. The runway ahead was shrouded in a writhing cloud of unforgiving sand, and Dawson found himself checking over his shoulder to make sure the engines were okay.

  “Hang on!”

  Wings pulled back on the stick and the nose lifted, then the rear wheels, cheers erupting from the back of the plane. Dawson breathed a sigh of relief as Wings continued to focus, struggling with the controls.

  Suddenly the storm cleared and there was nothing but pristine night sky ahead of them, Wings visibly relaxing, banking them to port.

  Jimmy appeared in the hatch. “Everything good?”

  Wings nodded. “Yup.”

  Dawson looked back at the others. “What was Niner laughing about?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Oh, something about how this is what happens when Atlas farts in the desert. You know how he gets with fart jokes.”

  Dawson chuckled. “He really does need to get laid.” He slapped Wings on the shoulder. “Good flying. Next stop, Poland.”

  Wings tapped the fuel gauge. “Umm, we might want to hit a Texaco. We’re kind of low on gas.”

  77 |

  Lask Air Base

  Lask, Poland

  Acton gave Laura an excited shake as the large transport aircraft came to a stop and the engines began to power down. He was pretty confident about what was on board, but nothing had been confirmed yet. All he knew was that he had received a message from Kane to be here, at this time.

  “Do you think they have it?”

  Acton grinned at Laura. “They have to! Look at the size of that thing.”

  The ramp lowered and a group of familiar faces were soon descending, broad smiles all around.

  “BD!” Acton extended his hand when Niner blasted past him, shoving him out of the way, and giving Laura a bearhug.

  “Hiya, darlin’!”

  Laura returned the hug, laughing. “Niner, not in front of James. He’ll get jealous!”

  Niner grinned. “Let him!”

  Acton shook Dawson’s hand, then they both headed for the ramp. “Well? I’m dying to know.”

  Dawson smiled. “We did some poking around while we were in transit, and according to Professor Google, there are a lot of things in here that you won’t be expecting.”

  “The Amber Room. Is it there?”

  Dawson paused dramatically, then nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  Acton turned back toward Laura, his fists pumping the air as she leaped into his arms, hugging him hard. He turned to Professor Aleksandra Lisowski, who had nearly died when the precious artifact had first been discovered only a few months ago. “Aleksandra, it’s here!”

  She was bouncing with joy too, already on her phone, probably letting the Polish authorities know the good news.

  Dawson stepped into the hold of the aircraft and pointed at a crate. “There’s something else here you might be interested in.” He popped the already loosened top off then stepped back. Acton looked inside, then carefully unwrapped the bundle, his heart hammering harder and harder as he anticipated what it might be.

  The blanket fell away and he gasped. “Cylon’s urn!”

  Dawson seemed pleased with his excitement. “It’s the only thing that we found that matched the description you gave us. So, what’s so special about it?”

  Acton gave them the executive summary of what was known, and what had happened in Athens, leaving the Bravo Team members shaking their heads once more at the incidents they constantly managed to get themselves into.

  Niner warily looked inside. “And you say this thing has a curse written on it?”

  “Yup.” Acton frowned. “You know, pretty much everyone who’s come into contact with this thing has been killed, kidnapped, or arrested.” He stepped back. “Maybe it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  Niner shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Doc. There’s no way your luck could possibly get any worse.”

  Acton laughed. “I agree.” He stared at the crate, becoming somber. “I do wonder, though, how it all happened. What made Cylon write what he did, and was it him that died in the necropolis all those years ago?”

  Laura came up beside him, wrapping an arm around him. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  He squeezed her. “But it is fun to speculate.”

  78 |

  Outside the Necropolis

  632 BC

  Cylon stepped from the shadows of the final resting place of so many that had meant so much to him, and sprinted across the open field toward the cover of the nearby buildings. He reached an alleyway and came to a halt, steadying his heavy breathing and listening for any signs of pursuit.

  None.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the sliver of light on the horizon. It would soon be daylight, and life would return to these now empty streets, a few carts already underway as shopkeepers prepared for their early morning customers.

  Covered in blood, he would make quite the spectacle.

  He only had minutes to escape to the countryside and find shelter from the sun while he plotted the death of the man responsible for the horrors that had befallen his comrades.

  Megacles.

  The archon had to know he would be coming for him, so he would likely have increased the number of guards surrounding him. It might take some doing to get close, but Cylon did have an advantage over most would-be assassins.

  He was willing to die to accomplish his goal.

  He winced at the forgotten amulet cutting into his palm, his grip so tight it was close to drawing blood. He opened his fingers and stared at the gift that had given him so much hope. Yet he had conveniently ignored the full breadth of what Pythia had said.

  “Wear this to give you the strength of Apollo. Should y
ou succeed, blessed will be all who wear it. But should you fail, all who possess it shall know nothing but misery.”

  He had failed, spectacularly, and he now knew nothing but misery, and Basileios, who had also possessed it, was now dead, suffering a horrible, painful, prolonged death.

  Pythia had been right.

  And so wrong.

  No, that was you.

  He had chosen poorly.

  If only you had listened to Basileios. He was right, it wasn’t the Olympics.

  He growled, hurling the amulet into the middle of the street, then set a brisk pace for the outskirts before the light of day revealed his presence.

  Somebody shouted behind him, a warning, and he spun to see a young boy rush out into the road and bend over to pick something up, oblivious to the cart barreling toward him. Cylon reached out a hand, futilely, his jaw dropping in horror as the horse and carriage rolled over the young boy, his screams of agony tearing at Cylon’s heart as he sprinted toward the carnage, the rear wheel coming to rest on the boy’s chest.

  And as the first rays of sunlight dawned, Cylon cried out with an anguish he had never before experienced as he recognized the mangled form of his own son, lying under the wheel of that which had crushed him.

  With a surge of strength surely provided by Apollo himself, Cylon lifted the fully laden cart off his son’s chest, and shoved it on its side. He dropped to his knees, lifting his son, still alive, though fading fast, each gasped breath a little quicker, a little shorter.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His son’s eyes fluttered open. “I-I followed Mother, then you. I-I wanted to see you.”

  Cylon stared at him, tears streaking his cheeks, as he finally realized the sounds he had been hearing all evening were that of his son’s slight frame following him in the shadows.

  “If only you had revealed yourself.”

  His son reached up and grabbed at his beard. “I-I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Father. Don’t cry.”

  Cylon ran his fingers through his son’s hair, straightening the messed tresses, forcing a smile when everything told him not to. “It’s okay, my son. I forgive you.”