Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (21 page)

And
after extensive vetting he had been invited into the inner circle—the Omega
Team, assigned the most covert of operations under direct control of the
Russian President himself, though always through an intermediary to allow for
plausible deniability should something go wrong. When he had heard rumors of
Omega Team’s mandate—to restore the Soviet Union—he had ingratiated himself
upon anyone he could think of who might be part of the ultra-secret group.

And it
had paid off.

Many in
the West wondered how a unit as highly trained as Alpha Group could seem to
screw up on so many occasions, the most memorable the assault on the Dubrovka
Theatre where fifty armed Chechens had taken over 850 hostages. What most
didn’t realize is that life was thought of differently in Russia. Sacrifice was
acceptable of the few to benefit the many, and in this case the outrage that
ultimately resulted in the end had allowed Russia to pacify Chechnya with
overwhelming force—and overwhelming support from the citizenry of Russia.

His own
first mission was as part of Omega Team’s involvement in triggering the South
Ossetia war in Georgia, a former Soviet State with a substantial Russian
speaking minority. They had entered the country disguised as Ossetian
separatists and shelled Georgian positions. The Georgians responded, and in the
end lost the war, effectively losing not only South Ossetia, but the breakaway
region of Abkhazia as well.

Another
small chunk of the Soviet Union restored.

His last
mission had been in the Crimea, that short but violent mission allowing Russia
to reclaim what was rightfully its, and set the precedent of protecting Russian
minorities throughout the world. Eastern Ukraine was already on the agenda with
other regions such as Moldova and the Baltic Republics, and as long as Western
Europe was foolishly dependent upon Russian natural gas to heat its homes in
the winter, with leadership that seemed to either have not read their history,
or instead read it and embraced Neville Chamberlain’s ‘Peace for our time’
naiveté, Russia would be free to continue to pick apart the former breakaway republics
piece by piece.

With the
help of patriots like those of Omega Team.

Kaminski
felt the plane level out and he slid aside the false bottom of the coffin he
was inside then pushed the lid open. He knew the rear hold was supposed to be
empty and he had heard nothing beyond the engines since takeoff, but he rose
cautiously nonetheless. His position, tucked between two pallets of gold—a
spare coffin should anyone have asked—was fairly well concealed. He slipped out
of the coffin, his feet quietly touching the metal floor, then looked about to
confirm he was alone.

He was.

Leaning
back inside the coffin, he pulled the sidewall out of the way, the Velcro
holding it in place separating with ease, revealing nine Beretta 92 Compacts
and several dozen magazines, along with a nice supply of C4 to finish the job.
He grabbed a weapon, loaded it then stuffed it in his shoulder holster, putting
a few mags in his pockets.

He
pulled out his phone and sent a direct message over a Wi-Fi network set up just
for the job, the rest of his team now notified of his status. The Antonov had
been customized for jobs like this in the past. A pass-through had been
installed between the cargo hold and the adjoining bathroom in the passenger
cabin, it allowing for items to be passed back and forth surreptitiously.

Over the
next thirty minutes he would arm his entire team, then those aboard would be at
their mercy.

Offshore near Lucius Valerius Corvus Residence, Pompeii, Roman
Empire
August 25
^th
, 79 AD

Valerius felt himself continue to sink deeper into the muck, his
lungs screaming for relief as he instinctively held his breath, refusing to
give up without a fight lest his acceptance into Elysium be risked by
cowardice. His right side hit something and he rolled to his left. He shoved
his right hand out to his side, feeling it break through the thick goo he was
trapped in. Suddenly strong hands grabbed him, tugging at his arm and he slowly
began to feel himself rise, his lungs ready to burst, his eyes seeing hot white
spots on the backs of his eyelids. Suddenly he was free and he gasped, the air
anything but fresh, but at least it was air. The strong hands continued pulling
him up and moments later he found himself dumped unceremoniously on the deck of
a boat as those who had saved him turned their attention to others still in the
water. He took in several more full breaths, then rolled himself to his feet, stumbling
to the helm, climbing the few steps and gaping at the view in front of him.

The
entire city was engulfed in a thick cloud, the only light penetrating it the
harsh oranges of fires left unfought, and the mountain that had once provided
beautiful views and delicious grapes, now a boiling cauldron of reds and
oranges, steaming rivers of fluid rushing down its sides toward the city below.

“Set
sail, now!” he ordered, pointing to the captain of the boat. Orders were barked
and he could feel the boat begin to turn, the sails thankfully catching the
wind, it having turned during the night. “Head for sea!”

“But, my
lord, the other boats, they’re heading for Misenum!”

“Signal
them to turn. We need to reach the sea if we have any hope of surviving!”

“Yes, my
lord! But what about Prefect Plinius?”

“He is
dead.”

“But his
body!”

“His
orders were to save the gold. Hopefully in time we can retrieve him and bury
him with the honor he deserves.”

“Yes,
sire.”

Hearts
were heavy at the thought of leaving their Prefect, but none more so than
Valerius, who also left behind a friend, and the bravest man he had ever known.
Plinius had sacrificed himself he knew to not only save the gold, but to save
him, for Plinius would have known that Valerius would have stopped at nothing
to try and save his mentor.

Thank
you, my friend.

The ship
turned further still and soon was bearing south-west, but as Valerius scanned
the horizon, no other ships were following, all heading north-west to their
home port.

A
ripping sound, as if the ground itself had been torn open and all manner of
hellish beasts released with a roar, signaled the Armageddon he had feared
being unleashed. As he turned toward the sound he saw the entire top of the
mountain was now missing, an intensely bright display of reds, oranges and
yellows streaked the sky as rocks the size of houses were tossed in the air as
if by Jupiter himself, raining hellfire on the entire area.

Massive
explosions ripped apart entire neighborhoods, huge fires engulfed entire swaths
as these flaming boulders hit the ground and continued to roll like juggernauts
of evil.

And it
wasn’t only the land that was hit with the devastation.

On the
horizon he could see at least two of his boats aflame, the cries of their crews
carrying over the water, those safely on his ship all turned, silently watching
the horror unfold as they sailed untouched toward the open sea, alone.

“Look!”

He
turned toward the voice, that of the young female slave he had saved, and
looked to where she was pointing. A massive burning, churning cloud of fire
rushed down from the mountain in every direction, the speed incredible, easily
dozens of times faster than the swiftest of steeds, enveloping everything
within its path in an intense flame, a fire so hot that everything in its wake
glowed from the heat, and as it continued to spread outward, toward the shore,
he noticed the shoreline receding dramatically, as if it were in a race to
escape the horrors befalling the entire area.

It was
unlike anything he had ever seen before, and his heart hammered in his chest,
fear gripping him as he watched the water continue to retreat, then get lost as
the tidal wave of fury burst past it, engulfing the water in its red hot heat,
the sound of the water instantly boiling, hissing like hot rocks tossed in a
cauldron of water, filling the air. The humidity shot up dramatically and he
could feel the heat as the boiling, roiling horror sped toward them, the ship
valiantly racing toward the sea as fast as it could, but the gods proving more
swift.

It hit
the aft end, those standing there screaming out in pain as he rushed toward the
prow, but it was too late, the intense heat licking at his back for an instant,
searing every bit of his body into a mass of bubbling tissue. His cry of agony
was muffled as the heat rushed into his lungs, sealing his ability to process
oxygen instantly, leaving him gasping for a moment, until he collapsed over the
prow, his entire being racked in quickly receding pain.

And as
the last vestiges of the souls aboard the only ship that had stood any chance
of escaping Pompeii made their way to the Elysian Fields, the heat wave sucked
back toward it source, leaving nothing alive, nothing burning.

And a
heavy deposit of ash covering every surface, including the bodies of Valerius
and his compatriots, and the ship that now carried them out to sea.

Exiting Eritrean Airspace
Present Day

Niner’s eyes were closed, resting, but still aware of everything
going on. As he silently meditated, trying to create a black ball in the center
of the white noise of his thoughts, he heard the voices of his seat mates in
the background, almost a distant echo as if he were sitting on the bottom of a
pool.

“We’re
descending.”

It was
Dawson’s voice, a hint of concern there. It yanked him from his alternate
reality as the explanation was given, and with a glance at Dawson they were
both up, walking toward the front of the airplane to find out just why they
were descending over what was supposed to be Sudan. They approached one of the
private security guards at the cockpit door.

“I need
to speak to the pilot, please,” said Dawson in as pleasant a voice as Niner had
ever heard him use with a Russian.

“I’m
sorry, but that’s not permitted,” said the man, his accent thick but his
command of the English language clear.

“I’m
afraid I must insist,” replied Dawson. “I’m here under authority of the United
Nations Security Council and as a representative of the United States. I
must
speak to the pilot. It will only take a minute.”

The man
turned his back on them, activating his comm and speaking quietly to someone.
He turned back around and shook his head. “Nyet. Return to your seats, now.”

Dawson
stepped slightly closer, jabbing at the air with his finger. “I can’t do that
until I know why we are descending.”

A flash
of fear appeared on the man’s face, his eyes flaring for a split second, a
sudden inhalation of breath. He stepped back two paces, reaching behind him. At
first Niner thought he was reaching for the cockpit door but suddenly the man
grabbed something from behind his back. Dawson stepped forward to halt him but
it was too late, the Beretta suddenly appearing, the safety already off, the
trigger squeezing. Two shots erupted from the barrel hitting Dawson squarely in
the chest sending his body hurtling backward, hitting the aisle with a
sickening thud.

Before
the weapon was turned on him, Niner stepped forward, reaching out and wrist-locking
the man before he could squeeze the trigger again, bending his joint painfully
then removing the weapon. Niner placed a round in the man’s forehead then
dropped to his knee, spinning, firing two more into the center mass of the
second guard who had already drawn his weapon.

Is
anybody actually unarmed?

The
guard’s gun fired, his dead finger spasming on the trigger, sending a bullet
through the fuselage. Alarms sounded and the plane suddenly began a steep dive
sending Niner tumbling forward, coming to a painful halt against the wall
lining the cockpit, his head slamming against something metal, his entire world
suddenly engulfed in darkness.