James Acton 01 - The Protocol (4 page)

Robbie smiled. “After seeing that thing, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for a while.” He opened the door and stepped outside. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night, Robbie.” Acton closed the door behind him and lay down on his cot. He didn’t think he’d be able to get any sleep, either.

Somewhere Over the Pacific Coast

The Chinook MH-47E helicopter raced toward the Peruvian coastline. Its two Textrom Lycoming engines pumped out four thousand shaft-horsepower and propelled it at over 180 miles per hour as Dawson, mission-designate Bravo One, took a knee amidst his men. He inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in the intoxicating smell of the fumes, a smell he would never tire of. His men leaned in, each cocking an ear for their final briefing.

“This is the primary target,” Dawson bellowed over the thunder of the rotors and the rattling of the hold. He held out a photo labeled Professor James Acton. “He must be captured alive so that we can recover the item. Eliminate the guards and any other resistance. Use your AK’s if necessary so that it looks like local rebels.”

“What’s the item, Sergeant Major?” asked Mickey.

“Need to know, Bravo Six!”

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” Mickey flushed a little. Dawson eyeballed him for a brief second. Mickey had hesitated to carry out an order on the last mission and an enemy combatant had got the drop on Smitty. He had taken a round in the vest and survived, but three inches higher he would have been dead. It hadn't been necessary to chew Mickey out, he had learned his lesson. Dawson knew Mickey would never hesitate or question orders again.

“The primary objective is to capture the target alive and recover the item. Video will be sent to Control and they will determine if the remaining targets are on the Termination List. Intel has them as members of a militant cult. If they are on the Termination List they will be eliminated as well. No residual footprint, gentlemen. It must look like a rebel raid. The camp is lightly guarded with hired private security, poorly trained and most likely to either surrender immediately or run. They are to be eliminated first by Overseer who will be dropped off one mile from the camp. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” they answered in unison.

“Five minutes to Overseer drop,” the pilot announced over the comm.

Dawson activated his tactical throat microphone. “Acknowledged.” Looking at his watch, he rose, ending the briefing. “Five minutes to the drop. Check your gear!”

Andes Mountains, Peru

Acton couldn’t sleep. He was too excited by their find. With one final toss in his sleeping bag, he reached over to his Coleman lamp and turned up the gas. The cabin flooded with light, his belongings casting eerie shadows on the plywood walls. He climbed out of his sleeping bag, shook out his boots to rid them of unwanted visitors that might have crawled in during the night, and put them on. He unlocked the cabinet, removing the case. He’d just lifted the lid when a noise outside made him pause. Carefully closing the case, he turned down the light and went to the door.

About one mile away, Niner, designated Overseer, and his spotter, Jimmy, had been dropped off by the Chinook and were already double-timing it into position. Jimmy, who’s name was actually Gerry, earned his nickname when the team found out he had been editor of his school newspaper. Red started calling him Jimmy Olson, and the name stuck. Jimmy wished they could have chosen another Superman character, but when Spaz joined the unit, he thanked his lucky stars.

The sniper team wore heavy Ghillie suits designed to make them undetectable to the enemy. Each was customized by the operator to their own liking. Since there was the potential of spending hours or days in these outfits, someone else’s idea of a one-size-fits-all suit just didn’t cut it. When they neared the top of the hill they hit the ground and crawled the rest of the way, the extra canvas in the front of the suits protecting them from the hard rock and dried brush underneath.

Niner quickly set up his weapon while Jimmy checked the camp below and completed his range card. In less than a minute, they were ready.

“Overseer in position,” Niner said over the comm as they surveyed the camp, Niner through the scope on his rifle, Jimmy through his finder. They were far enough from the camp that any shot would reverberate through the valley below, making them almost impossible to locate. Several cabins were clumped together not far from a ring of tents. The dig site was cordoned off about three hundred feet south. Jimmy filled the details in on his range card and picked the first target.

The Chinook helicopter had sound dampening technology, but it was still loud. As they approached the camp from the north Dawson activated his comm.

“Bravo One to Overseer, proceed.”

“Roger that, Bravo One, Overseer beginning to oversee!” Dawson smiled inwardly at the barely contained glee in the young man’s voice. It took a special kind of person to be a sniper and this kid had it.

“Two targets, Target One, Sector A from TRP I right fifty add forty!” said Jimmy rapidly in a harsh whisper as he looked through his binoculars. Niner shifted slightly, the ground racing by in his scope as he searched for the target.

“Roger, Sector A, from TRP I right fifty add forty.”

“Single target, dark fatigues, smoking cigarette carrying AK.”

“Roger, single target, dark fatigues, smoking cigarette, carrying AK,” repeated Niner as he looked for the target through the scope of his M24A2 SWS Sniper Weapon System. He located the target just as he stamped out the cigarette. “Target One identified! I have two mils crotch to head, confirm.”

“Roger, two mils crotch to head, dial five-hundred on the gun.”

Niner adjusted his weapon. “Roger, five-hundred on the gun, indexed!”

“Wind left to right, three mph, hold one-eighth mil left.”

“Roger, wind left to right, three mph, hold one-eighth mil left,” he repeated as he dialed the final setting. He gently squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammering into his shoulder. He loved that feeling. The target collapsed in a heap. Niner smiled. “Broke one-eighth mil left.”

“Center hit, stand by,” replied Jimmy.

“Roger, center hit, standing by,” acknowledged Niner as he waited for the next target from his spotter.

“Target two, Sector B, from TRP I left sixty add twenty.”

Acton peered out the door to see what it was that had drawn his attention. He scanned the camp and didn’t see anything out of order except one of the damned guards asleep on the job. Giggling emanated from one of the tents, clearly some extra-curricular activity going on in the shadow of the Andes. Several fires from earlier in the evening were now smoldering embers, wisps of smoke rising into the night sky. He looked to the other end of the camp where he knew a guard should be stationed. At first he didn’t see him, but a moment later saw him walking along the perimeter, smoking a cigarette. Acton breathed a sigh of relief and was about to go wake up the other guard when the one he was looking at dropped to the ground in a heap. Then he heard the rotors of a chopper.

Niner had radioed the all-clear, so the team began their insertion at the campsite’s edge. The chopper touched down and the team jumped out, crouching in a covering formation until the chopper pulled away. Dawson, using hand signals, sent his team off in twos in several directions to set up a perimeter. He, Red, Spaz and Mickey headed for the central cabin where Acton was supposed to be. In less than thirty seconds they reached it to find the door open.

Acton watched the chopper set down. He fought the instinct to warn his students, knowing there wasn't enough time and that he might get himself and others killed. So he ran. He knew the one reason they had come—the skull. He also knew that between the corrupt police and the various rebel factions, who were nothing more than gangs, there were plenty who would stop at nothing, including killing, to get their hands on something of value. That is why he had given the strict orders to his team to tell no one about their discovery. Someone had obviously not followed his order.

The best place to hide he figured was in the cave where the skull had been found. Behind the hole Garcia had dug had been a small chamber that led into a much larger one. If he hid in there he might have a chance. He took the long way to the entrance, a winding path shielded from the camp by brush and scattered trees. Running from tree to tree, he crouched in between each. Looking down at the camp, he saw the attackers setting up a perimeter as four of them raced to his cabin.

As he approached the cave entrance he saw Robbie sitting on the ground, leaning against a rock, sound asleep.
Won’t be able to sleep for a while, eh?
Acton had wanted one of his own he could trust to make sure no one else, especially one of the hired guards, went in the cave looking for more valuables. He bent over and shook Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie nearly jumped out of his skin. “Professor, what’s wrong?” he asked as he removed his iPod ear buds. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I thought you were asleep.” Acton helped Robbie to his feet.

Robbie shook his head. “You know me, Professor, I can’t live without my tunes!”

Acton cut him off. “Listen, the guards are dead and a chopper just landed in the camp. I think they’re here for the skull. Come with me.” They ran inside the cave and once far enough in that he felt safe the flashlights wouldn’t be seen from outside he turned his on and Robbie did as well.

“A chopper? Do you mean military? Whose?” asked Robbie as he ran behind Acton, his flashlight bouncing off the walls.

“I don’t know. Rebels, Peruvian police. Definitely professional and well-equipped.” Acton stepped through the hole and into the first chamber. It was perfectly cubic, ten by ten by ten feet. The walls as well as the floor and ceiling were made of one-square-foot tiles. Some of the ceiling tiles that had fallen centuries before lay broken on the floor. In the center was a tall, narrow altar on top of which the skull had been discovered.

“Why don’t we just hide the skull and go back out? They’ll never think to look in here.”

“Because I think they’re here to kill us.”

Robbie stopped. “Kill us?” he stammered.

“They’ve already killed the guards and we’ve seen before where camps have been wiped out just so that no witnesses are left,” replied Acton as he turned around and grabbed Robbie by the shirt to get him moving again. “That’s why I gave strict orders to tell no one about this. It’s too dangerous.” Acton watched Robbie's face turn gray as if he were about to vomit. “What's wrong?”

Robbie hesitated. “It's my fault. I told my brother, John. He must have told someone.”

Acton shook his head. “I doubt it, not unless he knows some Peruvian police or paramilitaries.” Acton moved to what had once been a hidden chamber in the floor and placed the case inside. “Give me a hand.” Together he and Robbie moved a large tile that had been pried away earlier in the day back over the hole in the floor. It had been discovered by accident when someone dropped a canteen, the hollow sound underneath demanding further exploration.

With the skull hidden to his satisfaction, Acton grabbed a pickaxe left on the floor then began looking for a hiding place for him and Robbie. There was another chamber beyond this one, exactly twice its size. They went in and crouched behind a large stone altar that stood in the middle, the only structure in the room. They turned off their flashlights and listened, as the stench in the air made breathing difficult. Robbie’s breaths came faster and faster as panic set in.

Dawson and Mickey searched the cabin while Red and Spaz stood watch outside. Dawson flipped over the cot as Mickey tipped the cabinet over to see if anything was underneath. A complete search for Acton and the package yielded nothing. Dawson radioed his other men. “Bravo One to Bravo Team, does anyone have eyes on the target?” A string of “negatives” replied. “Start rounding everyone up for interrogation. Bravo One out.”

He triggered his comm and switched channels. “Bravo One to Control.”

“Control here, go ahead, Bravo One.”

“Bravo One to Control, package and target not located. Beginning interrogations, over.”

“Bravo One this is Control. Targets are on the Termination List. Eliminate when interrogations complete, over.”

Shit. This isn’t going to be pretty.
“Roger that, Control. Bravo One, out.” Dawson stepped out of the cabin to begin the grim task ahead of him.

Somewhere in the White House

Control smacked his fist on the desk in front of him as he watched the assault via a satellite feed from an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle ten thousand feet over the campsite. Its infrared sensors showed people being woken up from their tents and herded toward the center of the camp. On the screen one tried to run away and was soon shot, though not fatally; the form writhing on the ground. Two Bravo Team members dragged the green shape back to the group.

“Where could he be?” he wondered aloud, a hint of desperation in his voice.
If that thing falls into the wrong hands!
He stabbed a button in front of him and was immediately connected to the White House Situation Room where a select few actively managed the mission. None knew the true nature of the mission; they had been told it was an anti-terrorist operation. “Report! Where is he?”

“We confirmed with an over-flight before the assault that he was in his cabin,” answered General Norman J. Russell, a longtime friend to the President. “We had some technical difficulties with the infrared sensors so we deployed a replacement drone. It didn’t arrive until the assault had already begun. At that time the Target was no longer in the cabin but he couldn’t have gone far.”

“How can you be sure?”

“All vehicles are accounted for and he’s in the middle of nowhere, sir,” replied Russell. “Rest assured, it’s just a matter of time.”

London, England

In a dimly lit, underground room on Fleet Street in downtown Old London, twelve people sat at a long, oval-shaped marble table. They faced a series of integrated eighty-inch plasma displays mounted on the wall at the foot of the table. Six high back leather chairs lined either side of the table with a thirteenth chair at the head. Behind that chair a large symbol had been carved into the slate wall—two thin horizontal lines on top of each other with a third, thicker and heavier line below, curved slightly upward.