Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (23 page)

Kaminski
looked out the windows, the ground whipping by at incredible speed, the sparse
vegetation and harsh landscape uncomfortably close. He decided not to ask their
altitude.

“Good
luck, my friend,” he said then exited, returning to the noise of the passenger
cabin. It was much quieter now, Shepkin just now fitting a seat cushion into
the hole, the equalized pressure allowing it to stay in place and muffle the
sound.

“Can I
have your attention please?”

The
entire cabin turned to look at him.

“Thank
you. In about fifteen minutes we will be landing. We will all disembark at that
point. We will be liberating you of some of your cargo, then leaving you
behind. Once we are safely at our final destination, the authorities will be
notified as to your location, and you will be rescued.” Kaminski stepped
forward, eyeballing those he knew were military. “
Any
resistance,
any
attempt to interfere with our plans, and I kill the civilians first, starting
with her.” He pointed at Reese, who glared back at him defiantly.

If
only I had a few minutes to spare.

He felt
a twitch, part of him yearning for the old days of Mother Russia where the
pillaging was accompanied by a little reward for the victorious troops.

She looks
like she’d be one hell of a suchka.

The
intercom crackled and Urakov’s voice came over the system. “Everybody buckle
up, this landing isn’t going to be pretty.”

Kaminski
knocked on the door and it was opened by the copilot Elkin, Urakov gripping the
controls. He strapped himself in the empty navigator’s chair, turning so he
could see the ground whipping by.

“There!”
yelled Elkin, pointing ahead. Kaminski leaned forward, straining to see as Urakov
banked slightly to the right.

A runway
was barely etched out of the sand, it an abandoned British airstrip built
before Sudanese independence. His team had scouted it only days before to
confirm the runway was still operational and found it in nearly perfect
condition, the dry desert doing little damage. As the nose pulled up slightly
to kill their speed he lost sight of the abandoned airstrip. The airframe began
to shake, violently, as Elkin called out their airspeed. He knew they were
coming in on a runway far too short for this plane to take off from, but it
should be long enough for it to land, even if the final few hundred meters were
beyond the “official” end. If the landing gear collapsed, they didn’t care.

This
plane was never taking off again.

“Oh
shit!” cried Urakov. “Dump the rest of the fuel!”

Elkin reached
forward, flipping several switches.

Kaminski
leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m
barely holding her together. Just assume your crash position and if you can—”

Urakov
stopped talking as the plane jerked to the right, a horrendous sound coming
from behind them.

“—kiss
your ass goodbye!” finished Urakov as the plane slammed into the ground, the
rear landing gear collapsing from the force. The front end immediately smacked
against the ground causing all their bodies to be forced toward the floor, then
the front landing gear sprung back, shoving them in the air, their restraints
the only thing keeping them from splattering against the roof of the cockpit.

Not able
to reach his ass to kiss it goodbye, Kaminski instead held on to his chair as
tight as he could and watched in dismay as Urakov’s hands flew off the controls
from the impact, the plane starting to skid as the rear landing gear broke
away. A tremendous creaking sound, like metal tearing from metal, filled his
ears causing his heart to slam into his chest even harder than it already was.

“What
the hell is that?”

Elkin
glanced over his right shoulder and out the window. “We’re losing the starboard
wing!”

With a
sudden jolt the horrendous sound stopped and the plane suddenly spun to the
left, the rear end pivoting counterclockwise, and as they all watched in
horror, Urakov no longer bothering to try and control the aircraft, instead
busy trying to power down, they were treated to a terrifying view.

The
entire runway behind them was engulfed in flames as the dumped fuel ignited,
racing toward the now torn off wing.

“Stop
dumping! Stop dumping!” cried Urakov as he realized the same thing Kaminski
had.

The fuel
was still pouring from their good wing, leaving a trail of flammable liquid
leading directly to their fuel tanks.

Kaminski
began to undo his restraints with the idea of somehow bailing from the aircraft
before it erupted into a fireball when another jolt sent the plane pivoting in
the other direction, Kaminski’s head slamming into the console, his entire
world soon engulfed in a billowing black fog of unconsciousness.

Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Samir spun as did they all, the entire market, a moment before
filled with the shouts of negotiations as goods were haggled over in a seemingly
never ending battle of wills between vendor and customer, and now silent, the
wail of a lone baby finally heard by its mother.

On the
horizon a large black cloud, roiling with fire and rage, erupted into the air,
an odd streak of flame extending for what looked like several miles across the
horizon quickly extinguishing itself, leaving nothing but a black trail the
wind quickly dissipated.

Samir
motioned to his men, jumping in the passenger seat of their old 1986 Toyota pickup,
its original bright blue paintjob a distant memory, the color almost blasted
clean over the decades from exposure to constant sunlight and blowing sand.

But the
engine still ran like a dream, none of those ridiculous computers to breakdown.
Any competent mechanic in town could fix it, and half his guys including
himself knew how to do the basics. It was a matter of pride being able to
maintain one’s own vehicle, and the older the functioning vehicle, the more
competent you appeared to those around you.

Tricking
it out added to the respect shown as well.

His
truck, purchased for only 125,000 Sudanese Pounds three years ago had been
customized to mount a fifty-caliber machine gun in the rear, the weapon and
mount hidden in a custom storage area welded underneath the vehicle. With it,
he and his posse wielded significant power on the streets of the nearly lawless
town of Hamashkoraib.

But that
was Sudan today.

A mess.

It was
quite often every man for himself, and he with the biggest gun usually won. And
if there was a chance to get something for nothing, or little effort, the
opportunity was taken, usually by the first to act.

And an
explosion in the distance meant fuel, and fuel meant a vehicle, and perhaps
people who could be rescued for a reward, or held hostage for ransom. Samir
didn’t care which, both here were merely semantics. His men jumped in the back,
his driver, Abit, already pulling out as the market resumed its previous
business, most people simply wanting to finish their negotiations and get home
safely.

Cash!

If it
were foreigners, especially Westerners or rich Arabs, today could be the day
that changed his life forever.
Rescue
someone, or ideally a group, and
the reward could be quite handsome. He knew the American and European
governments always claimed they never dealt with terrorists, but he also knew
that was bullshit. They just used intermediaries, and the ransom was almost
always paid. The key was to ask for a ridiculous amount, then negotiate down,
allowing the fools to think they had been successful.

What
most Westerners didn’t realize was ten million dollars here made you a target,
not a king. But ten thousand dollars? That let you live like a king in a small
town like Hamashkoraib. It meant women, alcohol, food and a nice roof over your
head for years.

And
respect.

He felt
goose bumps on his skin as the thought of what could be surged through him.

Respect.

It was
all he had ever wanted, and it was always so elusive. Respect in Sudan didn’t
come from being polite or presentable, from being friendly or pious. It came
from fear. It came from envy. If people feared you, if people envied you, then
you were respected.

And if
they did both, you were king of the world.

All he
needed was one good score. A few tens of thousands in American dollars and he’d
be able to buy or build a big house, fill it with women and temptation, then
keep the party going for as long as the money lasted, and with women and
friends, cheap drugs and alcohol if you knew the right people—and money always
bought those introductions—he could live for years like an uppity British lord
his great grandfather Mohammed had told him once ruled over them decades ago.

Grandfather
Mohammed’s favorite story was of the hasty evacuation of British and Egyptian
troops on January 1, 1956. After the Sudanese parliament had voted unanimously
for independence only days before, the colonial forces left rather abruptly,
probably, as his Grandfather said, with hurt feelings that their “children” had
rebelled.

Mohammed
had been a member of the Sudan Defence Force and was assigned to follow the
column of British and Egyptian troops out of Sudanese territory and into Egypt,
and then take over the manning of the border crossing. It had been a proud day
for their country, and a proud day for his Grandfather Mohammed, but not so
much for the British Governor, who rode in his prized Jaguar XK120, his uniform
crisp yet dust covered, his expression one of stiff British dignity, none of
his emotions revealed at the humiliating retreat.

That was
until his prized car broke down and had to be hooked to a transport vehicle and
hauled out of the country.

Every
time Mohammed told the story when Samir was a child it became more and more
elaborate, with the distinguished gentlemen kicking dirt at it, punching the
hood with his fist, shooting it with his pistol. Samir didn’t know what to
believe, or even whether or not any of it was true, the story so outrageous. As
a child he had listened in awe, as an adult, his beloved Grandfather long dead,
he looked back on the stories with fond memories, meant to entertain those gathered,
the only thing now ringing true the breakdown of a Jaguar.

That
part he could believe.

His
driver, Abit, pointed ahead. “It looks like it’s coming from that old
airfield!”

Samir
grinned, a dentist’s ears in Khartoum itching at the possible business in his
future.

“Let’s
hope it’s an airplane that’s crashed.”

“With
lots of passengers!” agreed Abit.

“
Live
passengers.”

“
Rich
live passengers!”

Samir
grabbed his friend by the shoulder, shaking him hard with excitement. “What
will you buy with your share, my friend?”

Abit
answered without hesitation, as if it were a question he had been preparing to
answer for years. “A house with six bedrooms!”

“Six?
Why six?”

“One for
each of my four wives,” explained Abit, holding up three fingers, the fourth
lost years ago in a knife game.

“And the
other two?”

“One for
when you come to visit me.”

“And the
sixth?”

“For my
mistresses!”

Abit
roared with laughter, Samir joining in. “A well thought out plan, my friend!”

They
rounded a low hillside, the dirt road they were travelling on cut out of the
valley over years of repeated use, and Abit skidded to a halt. In the distance
was the abandoned airport, dark black smoke billowing into the sky still. Samir
threw his door open and stepped out onto the running board, holding his binoculars
to his eyes.

And he
smiled at what he saw.

We’re
going to be rich, even if nobody survived.