James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (22 page)

“Hurry up, boys.”

He looked at the plane. The entrance near the cockpit was now open, and the rescue teams were inside, stretchers being handed in. He saw movement in the cockpit, and a minute later the first stretcher came down the ladder. A sheet covered the entire body. Two more stretchers emerged, both covered, then a fourth, fifth, and a sixth. All covered. He glanced back at the cockpit. The movement had ceased but he knew from his mental tally that there were still some of his crew aboard. Moments later a stretcher appeared, uncovered, and its two bearers raced toward his chopper. As they rushed by the cockpit, he caught a glimpse of the pilot’s face.

Charred pork.

He looked away quickly, gagging. The stretcher was shoved into the rear as the team piled in.

“All clear!” yelled the Lieutenant.

Riggs powered up and within moments they were airborne, racing back to Turkish airspace, the few Iranians that had survived still taking fire from the Apaches covering their escape. “Hornet’s Nest, Rescue One. We’re on route to Rendezvous Point Alpha, over.”

He glanced back at the writhing figure on the floor, crying in pain as the medics cut off his flight suit. From what he could see, the flames had traveled up the arms of his suit, and down the neck. His face was unrecognizable, the skin sagging, bone exposed, his eye sockets seared shut. Riggs sucked in a deep breath and gagged at the taste of the air. “Can’t you give him something?” he yelled.

“No, he’s not stable enough to risk it. It might kill him.”

Riggs looked back as a charred hand reached up and grabbed the medic by the arm, pulling him closer. Riggs couldn’t hear what the poor bastard was saying, but the medic shook his head.

“Please!” he heard the man yell in one last burst of strength.

“What did he say?”

“He wants me to kill him.”

“Then do it.”

The medic looked shocked. “I can’t do that! I could be court martialed.”

The Sergeant leaned forward and put a hand on the young medic’s shoulder. “You’ve never been in combat before, have you, son.”

The man—scratch that—boy, shook his head. Riggs recognized the hints of innocence, of the raw recruit, on his first mission, who still thought the world was mostly good, and that if you were good, then good things would happen to you.

And that killing one of your own was wrong.

The Sergeant glanced at the young, but experienced, Lieutenant, who nodded.

The pilot’s hand still gripped him by the arm as he repeated, “Please!” over and over, barely a whisper now.

“I can’t,” cried the medic, tears rolling down his face. “I can’t!”

“Let me give him something for the pain, son.”

The medic nodded, reaching into his equipment and pulling out a syringe, filling it with the fluid from one of the many vials revealed in a small case. “Inject him with this, in the leg.”

The Sergeant took the needle and without hesitating plunged it into the thigh of the crying carcass that was once a proud member of the United States Air Force, and a loving son with a wife and newborn. His pleas stopped, his lips still moving. The Sergeant leaned forward and whispered something in the man’s ear. His hand dropped from the medic’s arm, the writhing stopped.

The Sergeant rose and snapped to attention, as did the rest of the rescue crew. Without words, they saluted, then slowly lowered their arms, along with their heads, eyes closed, in silent remembrance of their fallen comrade.

“Rescue One, Hornet’s Nest. Do you have any survivors, over?”

Riggs tore himself from the scene and activated his comm.

“Negative, Hornet’s Nest, no survivors, over.”

Diyarbakir Airbase, Turkey

Laura looked out the window of the chartered Gulfstream V as they taxied to their debarkation point. Reading sat across from her, doing the same, and Giasson sat next to him. A separate plane was bringing the Vatican delegation, but Giasson had “volunteered” to go with Laura and Reading, thus granting their plane diplomatic status, and permission to land at the military airfield. Giasson had indicated after they were in the air the biggest benefit to travelling with them—they would get there far faster than the other plane. Apparently organizing a dozen cardinals and bishops took far too long for Giasson’s liking. As well, it had allowed them to bring the owner of the crashed plane with them, to see if he might be able to identify the pilot, but in mid-air they had been informed he had been identified, and Vitto Mancini was no longer necessary. Reading had whispered something about letting the known smuggler out at thirty thousand feet, but neither Giasson or Laura seconded the motion.

The rescue operation, or, as they were now told it was being called, recovery operation, had finished less than three hours ago. There were no survivors. Laura had steeled herself against the news, knowing it was coming. But inside, she had died a little. She had never loved anyone as much, and as hard, as she loved her James, and at this moment, was convinced she could never love again. If the loss of a love so intense it was worthy of marriage, hurt so much, she didn’t want to ever go through that again. But she didn’t want to think about the future. She wanted to think of now. To remember James. His laugh. His smile. His smell. Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly blinked them out.

The plane came to a stop.

Their flight attendant rose and opened the door, the stairs dropping slowly to the ground as the engines powered down. She knew the reason of the flight, and didn’t bother with the customary, “Welcome to Turkey!” announcement one might usually make.

Giasson rose and pointed at Mancini. “You stay here.”

Laura unbuckled her lap belt and followed Giasson down the stairs and onto the hot tarmac in front of a hangar, its massive doors opened about ten feet. A Turkish officer, along with an American Colonel saluted, the American stepping forward first.

“I’m Colonel Babcock, in charge of the recovery operation. This is my colleague and Base Commander, Colonel Tansel. I trust your flight was uneventful?”

Giasson nodded and shook the proffered hand. A quick round of handshakes and Babcock stretched his arm toward the hangar. “Shall we?”

They walked briskly toward the hangar and through the mighty doors. Inside was an assortment of vehicles and other equipment that Laura recognized in passing, but ignored. Her focus was on the line of gurneys laid out in front of them.

Five.

Babcock looked at Laura. “Ma’am, you might not want to see this. There was a fire.” He paused, as if searching for the words. “It isn’t something I’d want to see.”

She shook her head. “No, I have to see—” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, knowing she wouldn’t be able to maintain control if she continued.

Babcock, jaw squared, nodded.

They approached the first gurney and a young man, in a crisp Air Force dress uniform, snapped to attention, saluted, then slowly rolled down the sheet covering the body, revealing the upper half of the victim, badly charred, unrecognizable.

Laura turned away for a moment, then forced herself to look back.

Babcock pointed. “We believe this one is His Holiness, the Pope.”

Laura watched, as if a spectator in a theatre, as Giasson and Reading stepped forward. Giasson pointed to the papal ring, the Ring of the Fisherman, and nodded. “This is him.” He made the sign of the cross and immediately stepped away, pulling his cellphone from his pocket as he did.

They moved to the next gurney, and another young man, repeating the rituals of respect for the fallen, revealed the body. “We believe this to be Detective Inspector Chaney. He was several inches shorter than Professor Acton. We’ll confirm this when our forensics team arrives.”

Reading looked at the badly charred body, then pointed. “That looks like his watch, I’m not sure.”

Babcock nodded. “Most likely him, but forensics will confirm.”

They moved to the third body. He looked at Laura, his eyes focused on her, as if beseeching her to reconsider.

“Are you sure?” he asked gently.

No, I’m not.

She nodded.

The ritual was repeated, and the body revealed. “Based upon height, we believe this to be Professor Acton.”

Laura was on autopilot as she found her feet carrying her forward, whether she wanted to or not. Her nostrils filled with the smell of burnt meat, sickly sweet, her mouth, filling with bile, was ready to betray her as she felt her stomach churn. She grabbed her left wrist and shoved her thumb hard into the bundle of nerves on her arm, just above the joint, and slowly made a circular motion as she steadied her breathing. The repeated massage of the nerves slowly steadied her nausea, and she soon felt herself again, focusing on the body.

Unrecognizable.

How am I supposed to know?

There was nothing left. It was all meat on a tray. The clothes were unrecognizable. There was no undamaged skin left. Where a watch might have been there appeared to be part of a strap embedded in the skin, but nothing else. Her eyes travelled up his chest then she stopped, her hand darting forward. She pinched her fingers around what she thought she had seen, what she hoped she had seen. If she was wrong, she feared what she might actually be yanking at.

But if she was right, she was terrified at what it meant.

Babcock gasped, and Reading stepped forward, but she waved them off. She pulled, and the sickly sound of tearing, melted skin, seemed to fill the hangar, but she knew it was just her imagination. Her heart slammed a horror filled beat in her chest as the rush of painful discovery filled her ears. She pulled harder, and finally, what she had hoped, and what she had feared, was revealed.

A gold chain.

She continued to pull at it, and soon several inches were revealed, then finally a pendant popped out from a patch of greasy skin.

“What is it?” asked Reading.

“Saint Helen, patron saint of Archeologists.”

“And that was his?”

She nodded, dropping it back onto his chest. “I gave it to him on our first anniversary.”

She was about to absentmindedly wipe her hand on her blouse, when Reading handed her a handkerchief. She flashed a smile and wiped her fingers, then handed it back. Reading carefully folded it, and placed it in a different pocket.

“And these two?” asked Reading.

“We presume they’re the kidnappers. Neither fit the height profiles we were provided with. We have one more on ice that was found in the cockpit, so obviously not one of the three that concern you.”

“Men or women?”

Laura caught the surprise on the Colonel’s face at her question.

“Men.”

Reading gave her a glance then turned away from the final two covered bodies, and returned to those of his friends. He lifted the sheet covering the legs of Chaney and waved off the honor guard member. “No, let me.” He slowly covered his partner and friend of over ten years.

Laura stepped over to her beloved James, tears filling her eyes, and pulled the sheet over him, covering the grotesque husk that remained, then collapsed on top, sobbing, her heart, broken, pounded as her chest heaved up and down, her body racked in sobs. She heard a foot scrape the ground behind her, then hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her away.

“Come.” It was Reading. She let go and turned around, burying her head in his shoulder, the tears she had held back, flowing rivers of pain, burned her cheeks. Reading didn’t say anything, simply held her, gently caressing her head as her sobs slowly waned.

Then she stopped.

She took a deep breath and gently pushed away, Reading releasing her from his arms.

“You okay?”

She shook her head. “No, but I will be.” She reached into her satchel and removed a handkerchief of her own, wiping the tears from her eyes and giving her nose a quick blow. She took one last look at the gurney that contained the man she had hoped to marry, and closed her eyes. “Take me out of here.”

She felt Reading’s hand on her arm, guiding her toward the hangar doors. Her eyes remained closed the entire short walk, until she felt the warmth of the sunlight hitting her face. She looked about. The others had followed them.

“What’s next?” asked Reading.

“A forensics team will be arriving within the hour. They’ll confirm the identities, then the bodies will be returned.”

“We’ll wait.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“We can have the body transported back to the States for you, ma’am.”

She shook her head, her chin buried in her chest. “No. He’s coming with us, in my plane. I need to bring him back to his parents.”
Oh my!
She lifted her head and looked at the Colonel. “Did you contact his parents yet?”

Babcock shook his head. “No, not until positive identification.”

“Okay, let me do that.”

Babcock nodded and stepped away to talk to Giasson who had just finished on the phone.

“It’s my fault.”

“Pardon me?”

She looked at Reading. “It’s my fault.”

“How the bloody hell do you figure that?”

“He was trying to save me. If we hadn’t split up—”

“Now listen here. Don’t be getting any daft ideas that this is your fault. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”

Laura looked up at Reading. “And how do
you
figure that?”

“I’m the one who shot at the plane. Obviously I’m the one who caused it to eventually lose pressure.”

“
That’s
daft. You were trying to save him.”

Reading harrumphed. “Yeah, by shooting at him.”

Laura sighed. “It’s not our fault, it’s theirs.”

Reading took a seat on a nearby forklift. “The question is, who are they? If we presume all of the Order are women, then this is definitely a different group.”

“They’ll pay,” whispered Laura.

Reading nodded. “Absolutely.”

Laura could feel the pain turning to anger inside, a fire in the pit of her stomach igniting, a hate she had no recollection of ever feeling building inside. “I want them dead.”

“I know how you feel,” said Reading. “But
justice
will prevail.”