Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (22 page)

Rosetta, Egypt
November 7th, 79 AD

The sails were full, the wind stiff but not overly so, leaving the
sea calm enough for them to pull close. Dento grabbed a rope dangling from the
side of the Roman vessel, its form quite familiar to these parts now that Egypt
was part of the Empire, but rarely seen travelling alone.

And
ignoring all attempts at communication.

From a
distance men could be seen on deck, but none of the standard signals had been
sent or responded to, and Dento was dispatched to investigate when the ship
seemed to be heading into the mouth of the Nile without the customary docking
required at the port in Rosetta.

Several
of those in his boat grabbed lines, the Roman vessel rising far above their
heads, it massive compared to their small harbor boat. They had called out many
times on their approach but the unresponsive craft had continued to ply
forward, their hails ignored, the only sounds the prow slicing through the
water and the whipping of the cloth in the wind.

The
vessel had an odd color to it, almost a dark charcoal, and Dento ran his
fingers along the wood, wincing as he was pricked by a splinter. His fingers
darted away and he looked curiously at the near black substance that covered
them.

It’s
like from a fire pit!

He
hauled himself up the rope, as did several others, his old bones not keeping up
with the less aged of his crew.

Which meant
he wasn’t the first to see the evil that lay above.

Taurus,
his trusted second screamed and dove into the ocean. Ralla, a young promising
soldier who had never shown the brains to be afraid of anything cried out
before he too let go of his rope, slamming into the hard deck of their own boat.
Dento was certain he heard the snap of a bone, and the writhing pain Ralla
appeared to now be in seemed to confirm it.

There
only remained him and one other, who looked at his captain hesitantly.

“Wait
for me,” ordered Dento, much to the relief of the other who scurried back down
the rope and into the boat. Dento pulled himself up the rest of the way and
with one final effort, swung a leg over the edge, straddling the rail running
the length of the boat. Ahead he could see a man, on one knee leaning over the
prow. He had been spotted earlier, but had appeared drunk.

Or
worse.

He
seemed to be a dull gray, and unmoving. Dento looked about the deck and gasped.
Everything was covered in some sort of grayish black substance, including the
crew.

And they
were all dead.

Some
still at their posts, some curled into balls on the deck.

But all
dead.

And as
pale as ghosts.

His
foot, now on the planking, jumped into midair, as if under its own control, Dento
instinctively realizing he shouldn’t be here. None of them should be. This was
a ship of the damned. A crew, still manning their posts, all dead, all covered
in something, unmoving, unwavering, as if made from stone.

And none
with any signs of trauma.

Weapons
didn’t kill these men.

He
glanced to his right and saw the body of a woman, lying on her side, her face
twisted in agony, her hand stretched out in front of her toward the man who
still knelt at the prow.

A
witch!

Women
didn’t travel on Roman vessels. Not Roman military vessels such as this.

They
must have been lured into rescuing her.

He
shuddered and swung his leg back over the side.

And
repaid their kindness with a curse.

Scrambling
down the side, he jumped back into his boat just as Taurus was hauled from the
water.

“Make
for the harbor master, quickly!” ordered Dento. “We must warn them!”

“Warn
them of what, Captain?” asked Taurus as he stood, dripping. “Is it as it
appears?”

Dento
nodded.

“I fear
it is,” he replied.

“What,
what is it?” asked one of his crew who hadn’t climbed the side, and now tended
to Ralla’s arm.

Dento
moved to the prow, his back to his men to hide the terror that gripped him.

“It’s a
ghost ship,” he replied, his lip almost trembling as he said it, having never
seen one himself, and having never met anyone who could claim different. They
were things of legend, cursed vessels doomed to ply the waters for eternity in
hopes of someday making shore.

And they
were untouchable.

“What
shall we do?” asked the young Ralla, his pain ignored, his terror not.

Dento
risked one final look over his shoulder at the cursed vessel as it sliced
through the water toward one of the many entrances to the mighty Nile.

“We
shall let it be, for those who dare interfere are doomed to join them.”

Entering Sudanese Airspace
Present Day

Major Anatoly Kaminski, Omega Team Leader for this mission, strapped
himself into one of the fold down seats that lined the rear cargo hold as the
rapid descent continued. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. He was
certain he had heard several gunshots just before the dive, and before he could
open the door to the passenger cabin he had been thrown hard. Whatever was
happening on the other side of that wall would have to wait.

As he
yanked the lap belt tight the plane jerked to the left, sending his arms and
legs forward, dangling in the air. The pallets of gold shifted slightly, the
ratchet straps straining to hold their loads in place. The plane was at nearly
a seventy degree angle and he was now almost looking down at the billion dollars
of loot when a horrid thought occurred to him.

What
if he banks the other way?

The load
would shift back, and with the momentum built up from its current position, the
straps just might fail, sending thousands of pounds of gold bars at the wall he
now sat against.

And he
had no intention of dying under a load of untraceable gold meant to
clandestinely finance their destabilization programs.

He felt
the plane begin to level out slightly, the angle improving almost imperceptibly
at first, then with more momentum, the angle now fifty degrees, then forty. The
tension on the belts holding the gold in place began to ease and he grabbed the
latch to unlock his own belt should the need arise.

Just
level out! Get it under control!

He knew
the pilot at the controls was one of the best—he had handpicked the man
himself. But the Antonov was massive, like flying an elephant by the ears. The
fact the beast could get in the air was a miracle in itself. Landing it in an
emergency was something else, especially on the airstrip they were aiming for.

I
wonder if we can still make it.

It was
driving him crazy not knowing what was happening on the other side of the wall.
The plan had been simply to take everyone hostage at gunpoint and land. Once on
the ground control would be easy, and within less than fifteen minutes
everything would be over.

An
emergency landing was not in the cards.

The
plane leveled and he felt it begin to tilt toward his side. He snapped himself
loose of his belt and jumped up, rushing toward the front of the plane as it
began to level off again, the pilot apparently back under control, having
overcompensated slightly. The air stopped whistling in the cargo hold and it didn’t
seem as thin, leaving him to wonder whether there were any casualties on the
other side of the wall.

With the
plane apparently no longer in imminent danger, it was time to take control. He
pulled his Beretta out, flicking the safety off and unlocked the door. Yanking
it open, he stepped inside the passenger cabin, quietly closing the door behind
him as he surveyed their surroundings. A hole about the size of a basketball
had been torn in the fuselage near the front, wind still blowing noisily from
it. Four of his men already had their weapons out, pointing them at the
passengers, some of whom had their hands up.

“Report!”

The
entire cabin turned to see who had just taken command, his men it seemed out of
relief, the others a mixture of fear and curiosity. He knew the eight remaining
observers were highly trained Special Forces from their respective countries,
so fear of being hijacked wouldn’t really be high on their lists. Fear of their
plane crashing was another thing, and the fear he was seeing on some of the
faces was most likely from that. There were two civilians, one his intel told
him was a bureaucrat from the UN, the other a meddlesome archeologist who had
an impressively thick file at FSB headquarters.

I’ll
be keeping an eye on you, Professor Acton.

His
third-in-command, Lieutenant Boris Shepkin marched toward him, concern on his
face along with a little fear.

It
better be from the plane nearly crashing.

“Sir,”
said Shepkin with a nod of his head, placing his mouth near Kaminski’s ear so
they wouldn’t be overheard. “The two American observers caused a problem. They
discovered we were descending and demanded to talk to the pilot. Victor shot
him. The second observer disarmed Victor, shot him and shot Andrie as well.”

“Are
they dead?”

Shepkin
nodded. “The second American observer was knocked out during the descent. We’ve
secured him in a seat near the front.”

Kaminski
glanced ahead and saw the Asian American handcuffed to the arm rest in the
front row. “What caused the depressurization?”

“Andrie’s
weapon discharged when he was shot.”

“Any
word from the cockpit?”

“He’s
got control again but Air Traffic Control is trying to contact him. Apparently
we’re below radar and they think we’ve crashed.”

Kaminski
grinned. “Wasn’t the way we planned it, but I guess it sort of worked out. Time
to cut all comms to confirm their suspicions.”

Shepkin
covered the door as Kaminski returned to the cargo hold. Opening a panel on the
wall, he yanked half a dozen circuits for the various radios and transponders,
the plane now running silent—only primary radar could pick them up now, and
that was fairly limited in this part of the world.

And with
us below radar, it won’t matter.

He
returned to the passenger cabin and headed for the cockpit. He knocked three
times, standing in front of the peephole and a moment later the door opened.
Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him.

“Status?”

Their
pilot, Urakov, glanced over his shoulder as he gripped the shaking controls.
“I’ve got her stable for the moment, but that could change at any second.”

“Are we
still on their radar?”

“Negative.
The emergency descent then the loss of control pretty much took care of that.
I’ve altered our course as planned so if they’re looking for us on our previous
flight path they’ll be wasting their time.”

“Good.
ETA?”

“We
should be at the airstrip in less than twenty minutes.”

“Okay,
maintain radio silence.” Kaminski turned to leave then stopped. “And keep us in
one piece until we hit the ground.”

“Oh,
that I can do,” replied Urakov with a glance at his copilot Elkin. “It’s how
many pieces we’re in once we hit that I can’t guarantee.”

Kaminski
laughed, slapping Urakov on his shoulder. “Don’t crash, then. I’d miss your
sense of humor.”

“You
assume you’d survive?”

“No, I
just don’t assume we’re heading to the same place in the afterlife!”

Urakov
and his copilot Elkin roared with laughter. “Have you seen my apartment? Hell
would be a vacation! Like Sochi in the winter!”

Kaminski
shook his head, a grin spread from ear to ear. He grabbed Urakov’s shoulder,
squeezing. “Just get us down in one piece, and your job is done.”

“Da,
da,” replied Urakov. “Now get out of my cockpit, you’re distracting me.”