James Acton 01 - The Protocol (6 page)

Shining the flashlight into the hole, he stuck his head in.
Definitely not a hiding place. This is a tunnel!
He took the pry bar, retrieved the case containing the skull and checked one last time on his prisoner.
He’ll survive.
He then lowered himself into the tunnel.

The chopper briefly set down to pick up Niner and Jimmy then raced toward the coast. The team was subdued, not used to leaving a team member behind, certainly not two in a single mission. Dawson looked at his team closely and noted that Jimmy wouldn't even make eye contact with him.

He switched his comm gear to isolate himself to Niner’s frequency and went to the front of the chopper. Looking into the corner, hiding his mouth from view, he used the throat mike so he could speak low. “Niner, this is Big Dog. I know you were observing. Control ordered the elimination. Make it clear to Jimmy. I don’t want any chatter on this. Squawk twice to acknowledge.”

Niner’s mind raced.
If it was orders from Control, why justify it to me?
Slowly reaching for his throat mike, he squawked twice.
What the hell is going on?

Andes Mountains, Peru

Crisp, cool morning air filled the valley as the local nocturnal fauna traded spots with their daytime counterparts. A slight breeze swept across the camp, gently swaying the low brush, the only sounds the chirping of the birds and the flapping of the canvas on the tents.

Halfway up the hill leading to the cave, some stones moved, sending several birds flying off in different directions. More stones moved then a clump of dirt gave way to reveal a hand. The hand disappeared then the head of an axe broke through. A few minutes later Acton’s head poked cautiously through the enlarged hole. Not seeing any movement in the camp, he forced himself through the hole and slid down the hill, dragging the case behind him. Dusting himself off, he made his way into the eerily silent camp. The bodies of five of his grad students lay in the center of the camp along with Garcia. Each had a bullet in the head.
My God, what have I done?
He collapsed to his knees and sobbed.
I was too pigheaded to listen! I should never have brought them here!

The gnashing of gears and the roar of a diesel engine caused Acton to leap to his feet and run for cover. He looked to the far end of the camp and watched the supply lorry lumber around the bend of the only road that led to civilization. When the driver came into sight he honked his horn several times and waved out of the window as he did twice a week.

Acton emerged from behind the cabin and ran to the body of his oldest grad student, Jason. He pulled his wallet out of his pants then ran to the truck as it pulled to a stop.

“Good morning, Professor,” hailed the driver, opening his door. “Sorry I am late.”

“Don’t get out!” Acton ran to the truck. The driver stopped halfway out of the cab, as Acton rounded the truck and jumped in the other side. “Let’s go, now!”

“Si, señor,” said the confused driver. He got back into his seat and closed the door, putting the still running truck into gear. “What is wrong, Professor?”

“They’re all dead,” muttered Acton. “They killed them all.”

“Who?” The driver’s face clouded in fear as his gaze darted to his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.

“I don’t know. Rebels probably,” lied Acton. He knew damned well who had done it.
But why would my own government kill for an ancient artifact?

Mickey had propped himself up against the altar when he came to. The batteries powering the floodlights were failing, the light gradually dimming as the hours passed. The sharp pain in his leg had eased to a dull throb. Now he had no feeling at all. The bleeding appeared to have stopped thanks to the professor. Every fifteen minutes he tried his radio again, to no avail. The hole in the floor the professor had used to escape was only ten feet away, but he was too weak to make the attempt. He knew his team wouldn’t leave him behind; it would just be a matter of time before they came for him.

In the meantime, he had plenty of time to think. At first it had been spent looking at his surroundings, trying to figure out if he could go out the same way the professor had appeared to. The fact he hadn’t returned suggested he had escaped successfully. He was of mixed feelings on the matter. If it wasn’t for the professor having attacked him, he wouldn’t be where he was. However if it wasn’t for the professor, he’d be dead now. The professor had treated his wound quite expertly, which was probably what had stopped the bleeding.
The guys will pick him up outside.

For the first few hours he had stared at the corpse of the professor’s partner. The eyes were still opened, and from his position against the altar, they looked like they were staring at him. He had finally tired of this at one point and struggled over to where the body lay and closed the eyes. This effort had exhausted him and he had been forced to lie beside the body for some time while he caught his breath.
This was just a kid.

After about twelve hours of waiting his comm crackled. He squawked his comm three times and waited. He heard three squawks come back at him.
They’re close!
About ten minutes later he heard the scraping of shovels at the cave entrance.

“Anybody in there?”

“Just me!” he tried to yell, just now realizing how parched he was.

“Identify yourself!” commanded the voice.

He tried to reply but couldn’t. A few minutes later, somebody broke through and entered the chamber. He didn’t have his weapon, the professor had taken it. A flashlight shone in his face and he squinted to see who was behind it. A moment later Red grabbed his shoulder.

“Good to see you, man. We thought you were a goner!” He held a canteen up to Mickey’s lips.

Mickey drank as much as he could without coughing. When he had enough he pushed the canteen away. “Spaz?”

Red shook his head. “Dead. We found his body under the rubble. He’d been shot.” Red helped him up. “The target?”

“Not here, he escaped out that tunnel hours ago,” Mickey said, pointing to the hole. “You didn’t get him?”

“No. But we will.”

St. Paul’s University, Maryland

Gregory Milton had been dean of St. Paul’s University for four years. As he sat in his high-back leather chair, his head against the sumptuous leather, he stared at the oak beam casings in the ceiling, his mind sifting through endless permutations on how to start yet another speech at an alumni dinner without it sounding like all the others.

While trying to pick a clean joke from his head, his preferred rude jokes came out instead.
They’ll kick me out of the state for some of those.
He pulled at his thinning hair in frustration.
This is the part of the job I hate.
He started at the buzzing of the intercom.

“Yes, Rita?”

“Two men here to see you, sir.”

“Send them in.”
More damned alumni. Time to kiss some ass.

He rose to his feet as his two guests entered. He covered his surprise with a smile. Both were clearly government. Dark suits, ties, shoes and glasses.
Suits and shoes too cheap to be alumni.
He offered his hand.

“Hello, gentlemen, I’m Dean Milton. Call me Greg.” The first agent shook his hand, the other hung back at the door.

“Dean Milton, I’m Special Agent Jasper and this is Agent Lambert,” said the first agent. “We’re from the State Department.”

“State Department?” Milton motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“It’s about the archaeological team you have in Peru,” said Jasper as he sat down. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”

“Incident?” Milton froze behind his desk, his fingers spread across the blotting pad there more for decoration or the occasional scratch pad for numbers rather than its original purpose.
Incident. Not accident.
“Are they okay?”

Jasper took a deep breath. “I’m afraid not, sir, they’re all dead.”

“They’re dead?” Milton collapsed into his chair, his mind reeling at the news. “All of them? How? How did it happen? When? Who did it?”

“It appears that there was a rebel attack on the camp. There were no survivors however Professor James Acton is missing. Have you heard from him?”

“They’re all dead?” Milton shook his head, trying to come to grips with what he had just heard. “All of them?”

“Except the professor, sir. Have you heard from him?”

Milton took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, just last week, his regular weekly check in. He sent me a Blackberry message from Lima once a week. It was cheaper than a phone call. There was no service where their dig was so he drove into the city once a week. The expedition was on a shoe-string budget so there was no money for a satellite phone.”

“Did he mention anything unusual in his last message?” asked Jasper.

“No, he said the dig was going well and that there were some interesting finds, ancient Incan I believe.”

“Anything in particular?”

“No, nothing. What does any of this have to do with their deaths? I thought you said rebels did this?”

“Nothing, sir, just routine questions. Perhaps if the rebels had thought they had found something of value, it may explain why they raided the camp. As it is, they took all the supplies and vehicles, but not before killing everyone.”

Milton placed his forehead in the palm of his hand and massaged his temples. “The families. Have they been notified?”

“Not yet, sir. We can take care of the notifications for you,” replied Jasper.

Milton shook his head. “No. They were all students here, it should fall on me. The bodies?”

“They’ll be arriving in Houston this afternoon. We’ll then coordinate with the families to have the bodies sent to the appropriate locations.” Jasper rose from his seat. “Here’s my card, sir. If you hear from Professor Acton please contact us immediately.”

“Yes, yes I will.” Milton shook his head in disbelief. Jasper placed the card on his desk, then he and his partner left.

“Is it done?” asked Jasper.

“Yes, while you were talking to him,” replied Lambert as they exited the administration building. “We now have complete audio, video and electronic surveillance of his office. Any phone call, email, anything, and we’ll know it.”

“Excellent. Now we wait.”

Lima, Peru

Acton peered around the corner of the dilapidated warehouse. The dock bustled with cranes loading massive containers onto even more massive ships, forklifts and transport trucks moved around in organized chaos, and crew chiefs yelled at their teams in their quest to keep the docked ships in port no longer than necessary. It had taken him hours to get here, his Peruvian driver having abandoned him on the road outside the camp out of fear of the rebels Acton said had committed the massacre.

Despite there being hundreds of people in sight, he figured none would notice him if he acted with purpose. He strode briskly toward the gangplank of a massive container ship he had confirmed earlier was heading to Mexico and with one final look around he raced up the stairs. He cringed with each step as the entire structure swayed and scraped against the hull, making a noise that, if it hadn’t been for the incredible din coming from the loading docks, would have been heard by everyone. Once at the top he again scanned the docks for anyone watching then sprinted between some containers. Just as he ducked between the containers, two crewmen came around the corner, talking animatedly in a mix of English and what he recognized as Tagalog.

He pressed himself into the rusted grooves of the containers, trying to disappear. They walked by his position, apparently only interested in their tall tales of the previous night’s activities, oblivious to his presence. When they were gone he breathed a sigh of relief and tried to relax.
Only a few more hours until we leave harbor.
Once at sea he would worry about how he was going to survive. For now, he knew he just needed to get out of Peru and back to where he had friends who could help him.

He moved deeper into the maze of containers and sat on the deck where he was sure he couldn’t be seen. He gazed up at the stacks of containers towering above him, the sky barely visible above. Opening his gym bag, he surveyed his provisions. Half a dozen bottles of water and two PowerBars.

Three days to Mexico.

Washington, DC

“William Guthrie, this is Mr. Darbinger, the White House Chief of Staff,” said the orientation leader assigned to him. Billy gulped and extended his hand. After two days of orientation, Billy was finally introduced to his boss.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise, Mr. Guthrie,” said Darbinger, as he shook Billy’s hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I met you at your father’s house about three years ago for his retirement party.”

“Of course, sir, I remember.” Billy flashed back to that night, desperately trying to remember Darbinger. It had been a whirlwind of disinterest for him, being paraded around as the brilliant son who would one day carry on the legacy. It had been the end to an illustrious career for his father, though, after having served in the Air Force for ten years then turning to politics, first as mayor, state assemblyman then congressman. His last five years he had been Speaker of the House and had retired when his wife had been diagnosed with cancer.

“It was that night I asked your father to have you come work for me when you were old enough,” said Darbinger. He looked at Billy closely. “You don’t remember that at all do you?”

Billy blushed and shook his head. “I’m really sorry, sir, but I met so many people that night.”

Darbinger laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I was a teenager once too.” He turned back to the orientation leader. “Get William set up at a desk and make sure he’s well looked after.” He then turned back to Billy. “If you need anything, feel free to come see me. I told your father I’d look out for you.”