Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (25 page)

He
checked his watch and figured he had been out for maybe half an hour.

We’re
probably in Sudan, maybe an abandoned airstrip from the Brits.

But this
plane wasn’t going anywhere, and he could hear sounds on the other side of the
temporary wall that something was happening in the cargo bay. If they were
after the gold, which obviously they were, then their plan must have been to
transfer it to an alternate transport. Sudan was too barren for them to be
going by truck, so there must be another airplane. He crawled to the other side
of the plane and peered out from under the seats through the tear in the
fuselage.

I
hate being right all the time.

A
Chinese Shaanxi Y-8, a rip-off of the Soviet Antonov An-12, sat several hundred
feet away, its cargo ramp down. Several crew were replacing the front tires and
appeared almost done, while what looked like the first pallet of gold was being
loaded into the back by a forklift. If he was going to stop them, he didn’t
have much time.

Why
stop them?

The gold
was of no concern to him now that it was out of Eritrea. These guys were
Russian, so obviously stealing it either for themselves or some foreign
interest, almost definitely not African, so destabilization was no longer a
concern. His primary concern now was to save the civilians and Niner.

Gunfire
erupted from the opposite end of the runway, the distinctive sound of AK-47s
filling the air, a weapon he had already noted none of their captors seemed to
be carrying.

He
ducked back down as several rounds pinged off the fuselage.

Was a
third party intervening?

Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield

Acton looked at Niner who nodded. Both of them jumped to their feet,
rushing forward and tackling the two guards. Acton lost sight of Niner as his
target hit the ground with a grunt, Acton landing on top of him. He punched the
man several times in the face as quickly as he could to stun him, then leapt
forward, placing his knee on the man’s neck, using his bodyweight to push down
on the man’s carotid artery, slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain.

The man
struggled under him, but the element of surprise had worked, and Acton had the
upper hand, and with every second that elapsed, he knew his opponent’s
resistance would weaken, Laura’s ex-SAS security team excellent instructors.

The
slaps against his legs became weak and soon stopped, his man out cold. Acton
grabbed the gun from his hand then retrieved several mags from his pockets. He
looked up to find Niner already walking over to him, his man being secured by
the two Chinese observers, the Brit and French having taken charge of Reese,
moving her to better cover as the gunfire continued from the new arrivals,
return fire now underway in earnest.

Niner
grabbed the man by the shoulder, Acton gripping the other, and they retreated
behind a stack of rusted out oil drums, any fuel they might have at one time
contained long having leaked out and contaminated the soil. As they rounded the
drums to join the others, Acton and Niner tossed their man to the ground, he
immediately set upon by the Chinese who bound and gagged him within moments.

Acton
poked his head up and saw the attacking vehicle veer to the right, beating a
hasty retreat as the concentrated fire from the Russians scared them off. Niner
tossed his spare weapon and two magazines to the surviving British observer.

“Thanks,
mate,” he replied, readying the weapon. “How many does that make?”

Acton
looked at his gun, not wanting to give it up but realizing there were others
more qualified than him. “I’ve got a Beretta and three mags,” he said, holding
them out. “Anybody more qualified than me?”

The
Chinese observer Lee Fang held out her hand. “No disrespect, Doctor, though
your file is impressive, I do believe I am more qualified.”

Acton
smiled with a nod, handing her the Beretta. Niner held up the weapon he had
relieved Dawson’s killer of. “I’ve got this and two mags. So that means we have
three weapons and seven spare magazines. We need to make these last and hope
that they’ll just leave with the gold if they think we’re too risky a target to
take out.”

Acton
felt naked without the weapon and his eyes began to seek out other sources of
protection when he spotted the forklift racing back toward their position,
several guards hanging off it, the others protecting the plane having retreated
inside the cargo hold.

Something
in Russian was yelled.

“They
know we’re missing,” said Niner.

“You
speak Russian?” asked Lee.

Niner
nodded. “Don’t you?”

“Of
course,” she smiled. “Know thy enemy.”

Niner
grinned at her. “Which is why I also speak Chinese.”

“And I
English.” Her smile wasn’t as forthcoming, but it was there.

Now
if we can all just keep getting along, we might make it out of here alive.

Two
guards rounded the rear of the plane, scanning the area. One pointed to the
drums they were hiding behind and raised his weapon. “Allow me,” said the Brit,
squeezing off two rounds, each man dropping to the ground. The Frenchman and
the other Chinese observer bolted forward, grabbing the weapons from the two
fallen men as the three armed members of their party covered them.

Gunfire
tore up the ground to their right and they were forced to abandon their search
for ammunition, instead both rolling away from the shots, putting the massive
cargo plane between them and the shooters. They scrambled back to the safety of
the oil drums as the others conserved their ammo.

A shout
from down the runway had Acton turning his attention to the other airplane. It
appeared they had successfully replaced the front landing gear tires and the
pilot was now powering up the engines. The forklift with the second and final
pallet of gold was rushing toward the cargo ramp, and moments later it was
swallowed up by the interior, the props now at full power.

A burst
of gunfire then the sound of bullets pinging loudly off the drums in front of
them had everyone hugging the deck, the thieves retreating toward the waiting
transport, pouring heavy fire onto their hiding place.

The two
Chinese observers returned fire, emptying their magazines. Lee tossed a spare
to her partner, reloading her second last mag as the Brit and Frenchman took
over. Several more guards dropped, speeding along the retreat of the others,
the last of them jumping onto the rear deck as the ramp rose, the plane
beginning to taxi to the end of the runway.

The
engines roared, the plane holding in place as the pilot applied the brakes while
the power continued to build. Gunfire from the other end of the runway coincided
with the plane suddenly bursting forward, rushing toward the return of the
locals.

In far
greater numbers.

Abandoned 250 Sudan Squadron Royal Air Force Airfield

Samir gripped the seat with one hand, tight, the other balancing his
AK-47 on the side view mirror as he pumped lead toward the massive aircraft
roaring toward them. Whatever was onboard must have been valuable, the two
planes here the biggest he had ever seen, and the amount of fire power
impressive enough to cause him to order their initial retreat.

Luckily
several others had arrived to investigate the fire just as they had found cover
over the crest of a hill, and after quick negotiations, the owners of the
vehicles had agreed to a three-way split and resumed the attack.

But if
the plane left the ground, not only was any cargo lost, but so were the
valuable hostages. And as their weapons pumped away at the military transport,
he realized it was of no use, the thickened skin designed to resist small arms
fire.

The nose
lifted off the ground, then the rear wheels with a puff of smoke, leaving them
all to duck as the massive plane passed over them. The three vehicles screeched
to a halt, most of the men turning to continue firing at the rapidly departing
plane. The gunfire began to wane and eventually stop, everyone dropping back in
their seats disappointed at an opportunity lost.

“Look.”

Samir
turned to look where his driver Abit was pointing. Beyond the wreckage of an
even bigger transport plane lay about a dozen fuel drums, and through the
rusted out holes it was quite evident that at least one person was hiding
behind them.

He
jumped up in his seat, poking his head through the window and pointing toward
the drums, yelling, “Hostages!”

His
driver hammered on the gas, their Toyota racing toward what Samir hoped would
still be a generous pay day, though now split three ways. He would need to
figure out a way to rid himself of the others but there was time for that
later. As they rushed toward the oil drums and a possible retirement fund, he
motioned for the others to break off and surround whoever might be hiding.

Abit brought
them to a skidding halt as Samir and the others jumped out, their AK-47’s aimed
at the drums, the other trucks doing the same.

A man
stood up, his arms raised.

A white
man, dressed in Western clothes.

Samir
smiled.

When the
other ten stood, almost all white, his smile turned into an outright grin as he
exchanged triumphant looks with the others.

We’re
rich!

Dawson retreated deeper into the plane after watching the Shaanxi
Y-8 take off under fire. As his friends and the others were surrounded, he used
the phone to take a quick video of what he was facing, then turned it off again
as shouts in Arabic were barked by what appeared to be competing chefs, no one
man seeming to be in charge.

That
could prove useful.

Somebody
shouted for the plane to be searched. Dawson stuffed the phone, guns and mags
in one of the seatbacks then rushed to the back corner and dropped to the
floor, dragging the body of one of the dead Russian hijackers over top of him.
He knew it wouldn’t hide him from their sight, but it might just make them
ignore him if they thought he was merely another dead body.

Shouts
from the cargo hold in the now quiet deserted airport neared, the door between
the cargo and passenger areas thrown open only feet away. Shouts in Arabic of
“Hands up!” and “Look for valuables!” filled the air and he felt the body
covering him moved as someone yelled “I’ve got some bodies over here!”. A hand
grabbed his shoulder and he forced himself to relax, slowly breathing lest the
red face of a held breath give him away.

“There’s
nothing here!” yelled another near the front. “Let’s go back outside!” His
shoulder was let go and the voices and footsteps faded, leaving him once again
alone with the dead.

And
perhaps the only hope for his comrades now held at gunpoint.

Yelling
outside had him pushing the body on top of him aside and he carefully looked
out the window. The hostages were being searched then loaded into the back of
the vehicles. When the last were aboard the gunmen who could fit climbed on
then the three vehicles peeled away leaving six men behind, looking at each
other and the ground as they kicked at rocks, none willing to acknowledge how
low on the totem pole they really were to have been left behind.

“Let’s
search again. Maybe there’s something that they missed,” suggested one, his
loud, probably khat fuelled voice carrying through the torn opening in the
fuselage. The others nodded and Dawson realized these men had nothing left to
do but a thorough search since they had no ride home. He scurried forward,
retrieving his weapons and magazines along with the phone, then rushed over to
the huge opening. Sitting nearby were two small bottles of water, held against
the fuselage by some netting. He grabbed them both and shoved them down his
shirt.