Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (26 page)

Glancing
outside, he saw no one, the voices now coming from the cargo hold. Careful not
to cut himself on the torn metal and exposed wiring, he jumped down to the
ground, rolling to absorb the impact, his ankle twinging slightly, his ribs
screaming in protest. Rushing forward while scanning his surroundings, he took
up position at the front of the aircraft, the bottom ground into the runway,
its gear collapsed.

He
listened.

Still
only the voices from inside the plane. The oil drums would provide temporary
cover, but he needed better. Several hundred feet beyond was an abandoned
building, half fallen in on itself. If he could reach there with no one seeing
him, he’d be free to leave the entire area, using the building as cover.

But if
just one of the half dozen left behind looked out a window, he’d be done for.
With his ribs the way they were, a long distance chase was out of the question.
Any other day? No problem. But today it would end up being a shootout, six
against one, with him possibly in the open.

Not too
bad odds, but still not good if he hoped to save the hostages.

Taking
one final look, he dashed for the oil drums and hit the ground with a grunt,
his ribs screaming in agony and a puff of dust revealing his position. He
cursed himself for his stupidity, the pain overcoming his training for a
moment. Peering through the holes in the drums he saw no reaction from the
plane, the locals all aboard seeking whatever treasures they could.

Now
or never.

He took
a quick look behind him and saw some dried brush about halfway between him and
the collapsed building and decided to crawl it. Flattening himself, he pushed
the water bottles to the sides so they wouldn’t burst, then began to push
across the arid landscape as quickly as he could. Just as he was about to reach
the bushes he heard someone yell in Arabic, “There’s somebody out there!”

That’s
my cue!

He
jumped to his feet and hustled it toward the broken walls, his lungs demanding
he stop as his ribcage screamed in rage. Gunfire erupted, several rounds
bursting the stone in front of him as they neared their mark. With only feet to
go he leapt through the air, diving through one of the few remaining windows
and slammed into the ground, his hip smacking a pile of brick that had once
been part of an interior wall.

He
winced in pain, but forced it to the background as he swung around and took up
position by the window. All six men were storming his position, several with
their weapons firing on full automatic.

No
ammo concerns?

He hoped
they were just idiots not thinking they needed bullets to shoot after the
magazine they had emptied, but he couldn’t risk his life on that assumption.

He rose
up and squeezed off three rounds, the lead three hitting the ground, dead or
dying, before the other three could react, diving behind the oil drums. Blind
fire erupted from their position as they shot their weapons in his general
direction, most of the bullets missing blindly. Dawson knelt down, the hard dry
brick providing sufficient cover for now, content to let his enemy waste their
ammunition.

The
sound changed, one of the three weapons clearly shifting position as it fired.
Dawson moved to the right of the window and caught sight of the hostile trying
to take his left flank. The first shot caught the man in the shoulder, but he
kept running and firing, the next shot brought him down in a heap. Swinging
back for a quick look out the window, he saw the other two had taken advantage
of the distraction and were just disappearing out of sight to the right.

The
gunfire stopped and he heard rubble move on the other side of the wall. He
stepped through the window, crossing the front of the building and stopping at
the one-two corner. He took a quick peak and saw the second man disappear after
the first around the back. Weapons fire erupted and a quick look back saw puffs
of dust blow out the window as his previous position was sprayed with gunfire.
He took advantage of the noise to rush the two-three corner and just as the gunfire
stopped, he rounded the corner, weapon raised, and fired two shots into his
would-be killers.

They
never knew what hit them.

An
engine revved and gears shifted in the distance. Dawson peered out from around
the wall and saw an old World War II era jeep bouncing toward the wrecked
Antonov, several more gun wielding fanatics aboard. He grabbed an AK-47 from
one of the men, all of their ammo, of which there were only two mags, then ran
in the opposite direction, using the building as cover. He crested a small hill
and soon had nature to provide cover. Looking up at the sun, he determined the
direction the vehicles with the hostages had gone, and set out at a brisk walk
in pursuit.

As the
hot African sun beat down on him, still high enough in the horizon for him to
follow any trails, but not low enough for the air to cool, his mind began to
plan for possible contingencies.

Assuming
he could find them.

If
they went too far, I never will.

Fiumicino–Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, Rome, Italy

“What do you mean they lost contact with them?”

Laura’s
chest was tight, her stomach doing flips as she tried to maintain control. She
hadn’t expected much of a welcome when she arrived, the entire mission
hush-hush until the gold was secure, but what she found when she exited the
gangway were dozens of reporters, glaring camera lights, and microphones shoved
in her face and those of her colleagues.

“The
plane with the gold, it crashed!” cried one of the reporters, the glee in her
voice at having another story to capitalize on human misery evident. It made
Laura sick with rage, these hounds so eager to ambush people with the news of a
dead loved one, to stick cameras and microphones into the faces of the
bereaved, all to score higher ratings and perhaps advance an otherwise pathetic
career.

News
isn’t the news anymore.

Her
beloved James’ words echoed through her head. He was right for the most part,
though she still felt there were a few respectable news organizations out
there. CNN had lost all credibility for her with their coverage of the missing
Malaysian flight. For an anchor to actually seriously suggest wormholes? For
their prime time news hosts to actually run with stories that they had evidence
of it landing on a secret runway and that the passengers were alive? It was
irresponsible and an insult to journalists everywhere, not to mention an
atrocity to the families.

She had
changed the channel and never gone back.

I
hope the BBC never gets that ridiculous.

She had
no idea what was going on now, and she just pushed her way through the throng
and into her waiting limo, several others from the flight joining her.

“What
the hell are they talking about?” she asked, looking at the IMF’s Reginald
Wangari.

He shook
his head. “I have no idea, give me a minute.” He pulled his cellphone out as
the car pulled away, the noise of the reporters fading. Laura pulled her own
from her purse and turned it on. As it connected to the network her phone
vibrated indicating a message. She quickly hit the button to listen, entering
her code then pressing
1
.

She
immediately recognized James’ voice, and knew right away he was in trouble.

“Hi
babe, it’s me! I don’t have much time. There’s been some sort of hijacking
attempt on the plane and we’re going down.” Her heart slammed against her chest
as she pressed the phone against her ear, holding up a finger for everyone else
to be quiet. “Dawson was killed by the private security”—she gasped, her
stomach tightening—“and a stray bullet caused us to depressurize. We’re in a
steep dive, so hopefully we’ll be okay.”

Tears
rolled down her cheeks as she realized that if what the reporters had said,
this would be the last words she would ever hear him say. A cry erupted from
her as she pictured him in his final moments, his words breaking her heart.
“But if we don’t make it, know that I love you, and that I treasured every
moment we’ve spent together. These last few years have been the greatest of my
life, and if I die today, you’ve made my life worth living. Give my love to Mom
and Dad, and to Greg and his family. I love you, hon, and I’m sorry I—”

There
were several bangs and screams then the message ended.

And she
knew the only man she had ever truly loved was dead.

“What is
it?” asked Wangari, his voice gentle as he leaned forward and touched her knee.

“A
message from James,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She replayed it,
putting it on speaker, everyone listening in silence. When it was done, she
hung up and curled into the corner of the seat, her eyes watching the streets
pass by blindly as she sobbed gently to herself. Wangari was on his phone, and
after a few minutes of getting connected to the right person, put it on
speaker.

“Go
ahead, Adam, you’re on speaker. Tell us what you know.”

“Hello
everyone, Adam Lee here, UN. All we know is this. The plane went into a slow
descent near the Eritrean-Sudanese border and ignored all hails from Air
Traffic Control. At about twenty thousand feet, it went into a steep dive and
disappeared from radar. We received no SOS, however the transponders were still
sending telemetry indicating the plane was leveling off, then we lost all
contact, including transponders.”

“What
does that mean? They crashed?” asked someone, Laura still not focusing.

“We
believe they had some sort of malfunction, then either a depressurization that
required an emergency dive, or an engine failure resulting in the same. Then
once they regained control, the plane either exploded or broke apart.”

“Can you
be sure of that?” asked Laura, turning toward the phone, her mind still a haze
of grief and confusion.

“Not
yet,” replied Lee. “We’re trying to get search crews in there now, but the
Sudanese aren’t cooperating. We think they’re going to make an attempt at the
gold.”

“How did
the word get out?” asked Wangari.

“The
Eritrean president made an announcement in front of the press about it as soon
as the plane left their airspace, which technically meant they had fulfilled
their part of the bargain.”

“So
everybody in the world knows there’s a billion dollars of gold possibly
scattered across the desert of Sudan,” muttered Wangari.

Laura
winced, then replayed the voice message, searching for some comfort, some hope,
in James’ last words.
We’re in a steep dive, so hopefully we’ll be okay.
That meant the depressurization was about to be dealt with. There was no way
there was a bomb on board—why blow up the gold? Hijack the plane absolutely,
but don’t blow it up—the retrieval effort would be insane.

And
wasn’t this some huge
military
transport? How could a
military
plane be taken out by a single gunshot? It didn’t make sense. She put the phone
back in her purse, returning to the conversation.

“I don’t
think they crashed,” she said, interrupting whatever was being said.

Nobody
spoke for a moment, then Wangari smiled sympathetically. “We all hope that, but
the evidence—”

“Tells
us that they were slowly descending, that there was a gunshot, they
depressurized, there was an emergency dive to deal with that, and then all
communication was lost.”

“What
gunshot?” asked Lee over Wangari’s phone still on speaker.

“I have
a voicemail from my fiancée, Professor James Acton. He said there was an
attempted hijacking, some shooting that caused the plane to depressurize and
then they went into a dive. This plane was hijacked. They were obviously
descending to land somewhere they weren’t supposed to when they were
discovered. A gunfight ensued, they depressurized, the pilot took action, then
they shut off all communications.”

“That’s
quite the assumption,” said Lee.

“Only
the last part, and frankly, no more so than your assumption they broke apart in
the air. Isn’t this a military transport? Are you telling me a single bullet
can break it apart?”

There
was silence on the other end of the line, everyone in the back of the limo
staring at the tiny Blackberry held in the palm of Wangari’s hand.

Lee
finally spoke. “Even if we assume they landed, there’s not much we can do. The
Sudanese aren’t cooperating, and we have no idea where the plane is to even
start looking.”

“Wouldn’t
they land somewhere along their flight path?” asked Wangari.

“If we
assume a hijacking, highly unlikely. My guess is they were going to descend
smoothly until they were below radar, cut communications, then change course.
They could fly for hours in any direction, which I’m certain is what they did
if they didn’t crash.”