Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (3 page)

But he
did have to admit he felt a lot better when the two American observers had been
introduced to him. Dawson and one of his Delta Force cohorts, a Korean-American,
Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung, were well known to Acton. He trusted them with his
life despite an inauspicious beginning to their relationship years ago.

He
looked back out the window, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him, he
too now certain they were descending. “There
is
a reason, isn’t there?
Some air traffic issue?”

There
was no reply.

Acton
looked away from the window and was surprised to find the two seats beside him
empty, Dawson and Niner walking toward the front of the aircraft. It had been
configured with several dozen seats at the front for the passengers, and behind
a temporary wall was the hoard of gold bars they had retrieved. Another transport
with his fiancée on board had lifted off only moments before them, carrying the
remains of the ship that had contained the gold and its hallowed crew, the
origin of which was astonishing.

In fact,
he had found it almost impossible to believe when he had put the pieces
together.

Raised
voices from the front had him focus on what was going on. Dawson was jabbing a
finger toward one of the private security that the Eritreans had insisted upon,
someone Dawson had identified as ex-Russian Spetsnaz.

Suddenly
the man stepped back and pulled a weapon, squeezing two shots off into Dawson’
chest. His body sailed backward half a dozen feet, his chest shoved back, his
arms and legs stretched out in front of him like a marionette that had been
suddenly yanked by its master.

Acton
gasped, jumping to his feet as Niner stepped forward, using a combination of
moves so fast Acton’s mind couldn’t even process them, a mere split second
later resulting in Niner with the man’s weapon and a round pumped into the previous
owner’s head, Niner dropping to a knee and spinning to his right, firing two
shots into another guard before he could react.

But his
weapon did, the man’s finger clenching on the trigger, firing a single round
through the fuselage. Wind howled through the cabin as alarms began to blare.
The plane suddenly plunged into a rapid dive, tossing all those aboard around,
Acton bear hugging the seat in front of him as the oxygen masks dropped.

He
pushed himself back into his seat, grabbing the lap belt and fastening it,
yanking it tight as he reached up for a mask. Fitting it over his mouth, he
leaned into the aisle and his heart sank.

The body
of Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson had tumbled forward against the front of
the cabin.

Lifeless.

And as
the plane continued its rapid descent, his thoughts turned to the one person he
wished he was with this very moment, but thankful he wasn’t.

The love
of his life, Laura.

He
reached into his pocket and pulled out the satellite phone. With one hand
pressed against the seatback in front of him, he dialed with the other. It rang
several times then went to voicemail, her voice, so beautiful, the last one he
would hear in this lifetime.

He took
a steadying breath then removed the mask from his face.

“Hi
babe, it’s me!” he shouted over the whine of the engines, pausing to take
another breath through the mask. “I don’t have much time. There’s been some
sort of hijacking attempt on the plane and we’re going down. Dawson was killed
by the private security and a stray bullet caused us to depressurize.” He
sucked in another breath. “We’re in a steep dive, so hopefully we’ll be okay.”

Another
breath, and one final thought.

“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—”

The
plane jerked to the left, the pilot apparently losing control, tossing him
violently, causing the phone to fly from his hand and bounce along the left
wall of the fuselage toward the front of the plane. He battled to straighten
himself, finally succeeding, their angle now giving him a clear view of the
ground below, and the impossibly close road that had only minutes before seemed
so far away.

He
closed his eyes, gripping the arms of his seat hard, his mind filled with only
one regret.

A regret
that at this moment seemed terribly selfish.

And as
the engines whined, the cries of some of the passengers competing with the
turbines, he thought of all the heartache that was about to be caused.

As
Pompeii claimed its last victims.

“Pliny the Elder” Residence, Misenum, Roman Empire
August 24
^th
, 79 AD

“Uncle, what do you make of it?”

Plinius,
standing on the veranda he hadn’t left since the Emperor departed for Rome,
turned to see his young nephew, Gaius, emerge from the house, scroll and stylus
ever present. Plinius extended his hand and the young man took it, standing
beside his uncle. They both stared across the bay at the sight before them. The
ground continued to shake, the frequency making the pauses between tremors
almost unnoticeable, and the sky across the bay continued to darken, far too
early for this time of day.

Across
the water the mighty Vesuvius continued to spew its innards skyward, a straight
plume firing high into the sky then outward, like a tall palm tree, whatever it
was ejecting eventually falling back down to earth in all directions.

Plinius
looked at his nephew, a mere seventeen years old, and already about to begin
what he was certain would be a successful legal career. His gaze returned to
the plume that now dominated the horizon.

“I don’t
know what to make of it. I’ve never witnessed such a thing before. I’ve heard
of it, of course, but never seen a volcano erupt with my own eyes.”

“It’s
beautiful,” murmured Gaius. “Terrifying, but beautiful.”

Plinius
nodded, uncertain he shared his young nephew’s opinion. “It
is
terrifying.” He motioned toward the scrolls. “Your studies?”

Gaius
nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

Plinius
pursed his lips. “Perhaps today it would be better to record what you see here.
I fear history is being made, and we are to become pawns to the gods’ wrath.”

“I shall
record everything diligently, Uncle.”

Plinius
put his arm around his young protégé, he himself a dull yet successful lawyer
for many years while the dreaded Nero held the throne, during which it was best
to keep a low profile lest the head that stood above the crowd be lopped off in
one of his tantrums. When Vespasian had finally won the throne during the civil
war, or as it had become known, the Year of the Four Emperors, Plinius had
reemerged, eagerly sought after by the emperor as a man he could trust that was
also capable.

It had
eventually resulted in him being named Prefect of the Fleet, and his station
here in Misenum. As he gazed out at the harbor housing the dozens of vessels at
his command, he quickly came to a decision.

He
snapped his fingers.

A
servant rushed forward.

“Have my
cutter prepared. I wish to observe what is happening across the bay.”

The
servant bowed then ran off as Plinius turned to his nephew. “Do you wish to
accompany me? It could be of historical and scientific interest.”

Gaius shook
his head. “No, I think I’ll remain here with Mother, you know how she is.
Besides, I have a feeling observing from a distance will give me a better
perspective on what is truly happening.”

Plinius
smiled, knowing his nephew was right. Charging into the midst of this curious
phenomenon was probably foolhardy, but curiosity was always one of his
weaknesses. He knew Gaius was incredibly curious as well, but he also knew his
mother would never allow him to head toward the danger regardless of whether or
not his uncle was foolish enough to do so.

“I think
that is wise,” said Plinius, who then motioned toward the scrolls. “And make no
mention of our guests today. No matter what happens, history must never record
that our Emperor was present.”

“Understood,
Uncle,” said Gaius with a slight bow.

And as
if to emphasize the point, the ground jerked suddenly, knocking them both off
their feet.

Outside Omhajer, Eritrea
Present Day, Six weeks before the crash

Birhan absentmindedly swatted at the flies competing for access to
his rotting teeth. They didn’t bother him, and if any got in and were eaten, so
be it, his stomach welcoming any nourishment, no matter the form. He tapped his
cane on the ground at one of his herd that was straying from the road, the
goat’s bleat of protest preceding a leap back into the group.

Birhan
chewed on his khat, it’s mildly stimulating effect keeping him alert, the near
constant habit making him numb to the reality of his existence if he went
without. For that’s all it was, though he knew little better. Existence. His
wife was dead years ago from famine along with five of his six children, his
only remaining child a daughter he couldn’t marry off, a dowry so far out of
reach it wasn’t even a dream.

He had
arranged to sell her two years ago, the burden of providing for her simply too
much, but she had begged him not to, and once he had met the beast of a Saudi
that was looking to purchase some of the village’s girls, he had backed out of
the deal, realizing he’d be unable to live with himself knowing such a man
would be bedding down his daughter against her will.

Feeding
two mouths was difficult, especially off the small percentage of the seasonal
profits he was paid by the land owner whose heard he tended, but it was nice to
have someone at home at the end of the day to prepare the miserly meals and
keep the humble single room home they lived in clean and tidy. Abrihet was a
good girl, though not terribly attractive, the poor girl cursed with his looks
rather than her mother’s.

Which
meant she would be doomed to a lonely existence unless he could find some way
to come up with a dowry so one of the men of the village would find it worth
their while to take her on as a wife.

And it
would have to be soon, she getting older by the minute.

A bleat
behind him had him spinning, the khat having him on the razor’s edge of
giddiness. A goat had somehow been left behind. He cursed and shuffled after
it, the creature disappearing over the nearby embankment. As he climbed the
rise he paused a moment upon reaching the top, taking in several deep breaths
and enjoying the sight of the Tekezé River below. On the other side of the
river marked Ethiopian territory.

Birhan
spat on the ground at the mere thought of their enemy.

He had
lost many friends and relatives in the war, but fortunately for him he was too
old to fight. Sighing at the thought of why anyone would fight over desert, he
spotted the runaway about twenty paces away. Clicking at the creature, he
rounded it from the opposite side of where he wanted it to go, then gave the
cane a flick, the snap as it smacked the ground had the creature rushing back
toward the herd, and Birhan following.

His foot
stubbed something in the sand, causing him to pause and wince in pain.

What’s
this?

He knelt
on one knee and moved some sand aside. An old, dry piece of wood was revealed.
He was about to dismiss it when rivulets of sand began to slowly cascade down
the hill toward the river below, revealing more of the piece of wood he had
just stumbled upon.

A
boat?

The
piece of wood was curved, like the hull of a boat might be. A jolt of
excitement raced through his worn body at the thought of his daughter’s dowry
possibly being buried right here, underneath the sand he walked by on a daily
basis. He quickly swept away more of the sand, revealing more of the buried
wood, and within minutes there was no doubt that this was a buried boat, and if
it were seaworthy, it was a boat he could sell in town and provide the money
necessary to marry off his daughter so she could begin her life.