Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (28 page)

Red knew
that Colonel Clancy would do whatever he could to save his men, even if Washington
told him to do nothing.

But
today Clancy looked tired. He stared at his screen for a moment longer then
leaned back in his chair, running a cigar under his nose. Red’s eyebrows shot
up at the sight. The Colonel had been trying to kick his cigar habit for the
past couple of years on the urging of his wife, and this was the closest he had
seen him come to failing in that endeavor.

“Don’t
worry, Sergeant, I’m not lighting it,” he said, as if reading Red’s mind.
“I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have a match or lighter in the damned
room.” His eyes drifted to the top-right drawer of his desk. “Now, I could
shoot the tip off, that might light it, but then there’d be paperwork.” He
sighed then opened the very drawer holding his sidearm.

And tossed
the unlit cigar inside, slamming the drawer shut.

“It’s
days like today where a man needs his vices,” he muttered.

“What’s
happened, Colonel?”

“BD and
Niner are missing, presumed dead.”

“What?”
Red couldn’t control his outburst, this information coming from as far left
field as he could imagine. He knew they had been on a mission in the Ukraine,
but that had been completed and they were on some babysitting mission for the
UN. “What the hell happened?”

Clancy
shook his head, his entire face seeming to have aged ten years since yesterday.
“It appears the plane they were on went down. There’s been no communication for
several hours but ATC had them on a rapid descent before they went off radar.”

Red
dropped his head between his knees, his hands gripping his shaved head as
flashes of better times played across the back of his eyelids. He suddenly sat
up. “Has anyone notified his family yet?”

Clancy
shook his head. “We’re waiting for confirmation.”

“So
there’s still hope?”

Clancy
again shook his head. “Not from what we’ve been told.”

The
phone on Clancy’s desk chirped, demanding attention. Clancy frowned, hitting
the button. “I said no interruptions.”

“Yes,
sir, I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a call I think you’ll want to take,” came
Maggie’s voice over the intercom.

“Who is
it?”

“Professor
Laura Palmer.”

Clancy
and Red both exchanged surprised looks.
Palmer?

“Get her
number.” He jabbed the button, cutting off the conversation. “Professor Acton
was on that plane.”

“Huh?”
This meeting was full of shockers for Red, enough to actually leave him at a
loss for words.

“I’m
going to read you in because as soon as you talk to Professor Palmer, you’ll
know everything anyway. BD and Niner were our representatives for a covert
mission to transport over one billion dollars’ worth of gold from Eritrea to
Italy. It was found at an archeological site, which is why the two professors
were involved. It was top secret because of the amount of money involved.
Palmer was on a flight with the dig site relics, BD and Niner were on a privately
contracted Antonov with a group of unarmed UN observers, originally two from
each of the permanent members of the UN Security Council countries, and two
from Italy.”

“Originally?”

“The
Ethiopians attacked the dig site, killing several of the observers.” He leaned
forward, pointing his finger at the phone. “If she’s calling, either she knows
something, or she
thinks
she knows something. My hands are tied since
this was a UN op, and you know how useless they are.” He leaned back in his
chair. “I suggest you give the woman a call, and should you feel it necessary,
visit her personally to offer your condolences on her loss. Perhaps take a few
of the boys with you.”

Red knew
exactly what was supposed to be read between those lines. He nodded, rising.
“I’ll be sure to pass on your own as well, Colonel.”

“You do
that.” He flicked his wrist toward the door. “Enjoy your vacation, Sergeant.”

“Thank
you, sir.” Red exited the office, closing the door behind him so the Colonel
would be able to honestly say he hadn’t heard any conversation between his
secretary and a soldier under his command. Red rounded Maggie’s desk and leaned
over, putting a hand on her shoulder. “How’re you holding up?”

Maggie’s
eyes erupted with tears and she buried her face in Red’s stomach. He patted her
head gently, not saying anything, as the woman who had only recently expressed
her interest in Dawson demonstrated how much she had given of her heart. After
about a minute she pulled away, dabbing herself dry with a tissue.

“I’m
sorry,” she said, her voice rough but still with a hint of the strength that
Red thought Dawson found appealing. She had almost insinuated herself into
Dawson’s life, and he had reluctantly accepted it, which delighted his friends
and team. Dawson had always been a loner. In fact, Red couldn’t remember a
relationship lasting more than enough dates to get a few romps, then his friend
would close himself off, ending the relationship. Red knew why, they all did.
Red himself was married initially due to a wonderful accident, his son
Bryson—and Dawson’s Godson—and it had terrified him at first, getting married
and having a family with a job so dangerous.

But
hundreds of thousands—millions—of servicemen the world over had married and had
children, during peacetime and war. It was the human imperative, to bond and
procreate, and he didn’t regret a single day of his relationship with his now
wife and their amazing kid.

But
Dawson was so married to the job Red knew he was worried getting attached would
cause him to ease up, to avoid taking the risks he always did, which Red was
certain Dawson felt would put his men at risk.

And Red
had called bullshit on it a few weeks ago when talking with Dawson over a beer
in his basement while watching the Rangers game. “You’re too good a soldier for
that,” he had said to his friend. That had elicited a grunt, which in some
cases for Dawson was a font of information. The more he saw them together, the
more comfortable they seemed, and when he came to the range humming one
morning, something his friend only did when he was
particularly
happy,
fist bumps had been exchanged secretly by the team, everyone knowing the “boss
had got some”.

He
didn’t let up on them that day, though.

Maggie
quickly wrote down a number on a pad and tore off the sheet, handing it to him.
“This is Professor Palmer’s number.”

“Did she
say anything?”

“Only
that it was urgent she talk to someone.”

Red
nodded, holding up the sheet. “Thanks.” He rounded her desk and before opening
the outer office door, looked back at her. “Don’t lose hope yet. If there was
any way to survive this, BD would find a way.”

She
smiled weakly, he himself not buying the words coming out of his mouth.
If
there was any way…
Who was he kidding? A plane in a rapid descent from tens
of thousands of feet slammed into the ground nothing like a piano on a Disney cartoon
character. You didn’t just push up from under the wreckage and walk away.

You
died.

But why
would Palmer be calling him?

Correction.
She was calling the Colonel, not him. And it was too soon to be
passing on condolences to your secret friends in Special Ops.

Which
meant she knew something she felt they needed to know. He closed the door of
one of their secure communications rooms behind him and sat down, dialing the
number.

“Hello?”

“Professor
Palmer?”

“Yes.”

“This is
a friend of Mr. White’s.”

“Oh, hi,
I recognize your voice. What should I call you?”

“Call me
Mr. Black.”

“You
heard about the plane crash?”

“Yes.”

“I have
something you need to hear.”

“Go
ahead.”

A
voicemail message from Professor Acton began to play, and his heart sank as he
heard of Dawson’s death. But if this had started as a hijacking, it gave a
plausible explanation as to why the plane had been lost on radar, and it meant
Niner might still be alive. His mind raced as the voicemail ended.

“I can’t
get any action from the UN, they say their hands are tied because the Sudanese
aren’t cooperating.”

“I heard
the same thing here.”

“Can
you
do anything?”

Red
smiled, hoping this conversation was about to go where he knew only she could
take it. He had no idea how rich she was, but he did know she was rich enough
to make a difference. “With the right resources, yes.”

“I’ll
write you a blank check.”

“Where
are you now?”

“Rome.”

“I’ll
text you an account number. Put a hundred grand in there. I’ll see you before
morning.”

“Consider
it done.”

The call
ended and Red leaned back, closing his eyes as he remembered the first time he
had met his good friend. Then when he had asked if Dawson minded taking Niner
on the latest mission since Bryson had a school play he was desperate for his
father to see him in.

He knew
he shouldn’t feel guilty, but he did.

And now
if there was a chance at saving Niner, he would do everything he could to bring
him home.

And if
not, he’d kill everyone involved in the death of his friends.

Outside Hamashkoraib, Sudan

Dawson’s body armor had been tossed long ago, the pants turned into
shorts, one of the torn off legs fitted over his head like a bandana doubling
as a hat, the other hanging over the back of his neck and shoulders to cut down
on the sunburn. His first bottle of water was empty, the cap carefully
replaced, the bottle tucked inside his shirt in the hopes condensation might
form inside the bottle to give him a few drips later if desperate, and be
uncontaminated by salt if he were to find a water source.

A
watering hole would be nice!

He had
his shades to help block the sun, his utility belt which included a
multi-purpose tool, knife, mini-first aid kit, water purification tablets,
matches and some plastic ties, not to mention two Beretta 92’s with six extra
magazines and an AK-47 with another two mags.

And no
food.

You
can’t eat bullets.

Though
Atlas had once on a dare from Niner.

He was
following a dusty trail, not a road by any civilized sense, but it was a route
that had been recently frequented by several vehicles, the tracks still fresh.
If he were lucky, they might just lead him to where the hostages were now being
held. He had taken several photos of the tire tracks with the satellite phone
just in case he needed to compare later. The phone still had about half its
battery power left, but was useless as a communications device so he had it
shut off to conserve juice. If he had a chance later he would spend a few
minutes tinkering, but was reluctant to risk frying the device as it had proven
useful already. He had all of the hostages and hostage takers on video. Should
he be rescued, he’d be able to hand that video over and they might be able to
identify the locals involved and send in a team to retrieve his comrades.

He
stopped.

The
trail seemed to join up with another more travelled one, then split into two
again, forming almost an elongated X, he currently on the bottom left of the X,
the heavier traffic the right side. The tracks he was following were lost in
the jumble, it clear traffic passed here regularly. The last discernable track
that definitely belonged to what he was following showed no indication of
turning hard right, so he had to assume they had continued forward.

But had
they exited left on the road less travelled, or right, on what appeared to be a
fairly major road for the middle of nowhere?

He knelt
down and examined the tracks heading left and it didn’t take him long to spot
the distinctive defect in one of the vehicles’ tires, a gouge at a forty-five
degree angle that left a repeated gap in the sand with every rotation.

A motor
revving had him spinning, looking for cover. Several large rocks nearby were
all that was available. He rushed toward them, ducking behind just in time as a
beat up van, a Dodge Caravan if he wasn’t mistaken, faux wood paneling from the
eighties still partially intact, crested a rise from the top right of the
intersection. It appeared to have one occupant, a middle-aged man singing at
the top of his lungs, his smile and demeanor befitting small town USA.

Dawson
jumped out from behind the rocks, pointing his AK-47 directly at the man’s head
as he slowed to make the turn. The man’s eyes bulged as he saw the gun and he
slammed the brakes on, raising his hands. Dawson flicked his weapon and the man
nodded, turning off the engine then climbing out.

With
English one of Sudan’s two official languages, Dawson took a chance. “Do you
speak English?”