Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (17 page)

He felt a tap on his boot. He glanced down at Koslov, whose eyes urged him forward. Dymovsky nodded and began the climb as the second boat positioned itself near the ladder.

Within minutes the entire assault team was aboard, hiding behind a large crate that provided them with perfect cover. About fifty meters forward they heard the chopper engines winding down and the yelling of crew members, their voices too indistinct to make out what they were saying.

Chernov turned to Captain Rakov and whispered, “You take your team up the starboard side, I’ll take port.”

Rakov nodded.

Dymovsky leaned toward both men. “Remember, we need prisoners.”

Both men nodded then positioned themselves on either side of the crate. Chernov raised his hand over his head, then pointed forward with two fingers, signaling the start of the assault. Rakov slowly rounded the container, his team heading out of sight as Chernov led his team around the port side. Dymovsky remained behind Koslov, and was second from the rear, which was fine by him. He glanced down the deck, realizing they were now exposed if any watchful eye decided to look this way.

That was when the lights flickered out, the entire ship immersed again in darkness, leaving them all blind due to the sudden lack of light. They froze, their eyes slowly adjusting, then, with no indication of activity, moved forward, this time a little more rapidly.

Suddenly a shout rang out from the other side of the ship, then gunfire.

“Damn!” he heard Chernov mutter as he bolted forward. The lights blazed on again and gunfire erupted all around them.

Koslov turned around and shoved Dymovsky to the ground. “Stay here!”

Dymovsky didn’t have to be asked twice. He crouched behind a crate as the rest of the assault team raced forward.

Shots rang out from all directions. He heard shouting, some of it sounding like it was coming from the assault team, but most of it sounding disorganized, almost panicked, not the types of shouts he would expect to hear from trained soldiers.

But there was entirely too much gunfire.

Prisoners! We need prisoners!

Nubian Desert, Egypt, UNICEF Camp

Mitchell pulled the jeep to the crest of the hill then hit the gas, pushing it over and down the other side as dawn broke. His heart immediately sank. The camp from the day before was gone, the only evidence they had ever been there foot prints and tire tracks, which the desert wind would make quick work of over the coming hours. He jammed the brakes on and skidded to a halt near the edge of the camp and jumped out, followed by a hesitant Jenny.

“What’re we looking for?” she asked.

“Anything,” muttered Mitchell. “Anything that might suggest she was here this morning.”

They wandered the former camp site for several minutes, but found nothing. Mitchell scanned the surrounding dunes and spotted indentations coming down the rise they had just come over. He ran over to the hill and climbed, following the trail.

“What is it?” asked a breathless Jenny as she followed.

“I think they’re footprints.”

He reached the top and turned around to pull Jenny up. They stood examining the surroundings.

“Look!” said Jenny, pointing to the right, at a set of indentations in the sand resembling a jumble of footprints. Mitchell walked over, careful not to step on the indentations. A trail of smaller indentations lead back to their camp, another, deeper set, approached across the hilltop, and then a third, even deeper set, lead away, turning into the indentations they had just followed.

“What do you make of this?” he asked aloud, not expecting an answer.

“Seems pretty obvious to me,” said a clearly excited Jenny. “Professor Palmer came up the hill, a man jumped her, then carried her down the hill to their camp.”

“How do you figure?” asked a skeptical Mitchell.

“Grad student, eh?” Jenny pointed at the smaller steps, then at the deeper steps. “The deeper steps mean the person is heavier, so obviously a man.” She pointed at the even deeper set leading into the camp. “There’s two sets of prints leading here, but only one leading away, and they appear to be even deeper, which suggests that he’s carrying something heavy.”

Mitchell nodded, impressed. “Good theory. Or,” he said, smiling slightly, “the smaller steps could be older, so the wind has filled them in more than the others.”

Jenny frowned. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

Mitchell pulled his cellphone out and started taking pictures of everything.

“What are you doing?”

“Documenting the evidence before it blows away,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t like my theory?”

“That’s not what I said, I merely proposed another,” replied Mitchell. “To be honest, I think you may be right.”

Jenny growled. “Blimey, you grad students are so frustrating sometimes!”

Mitchell ignored her and scampered down the hill and back into the camp, taking photos of what remained of the tire tracks and several odd indentations in the sand. Finished, he waved to Jenny, who was also taking photos. “Let’s go back to the dig.”

Jenny jumped in the passenger seat as Mitchell put the Jeep in gear.

“Maybe she’ll be there?”

“Maybe,” said Mitchell, unconvinced.
She’s been taken, I’m sure of it.
“If she’s not at the camp, I’m going to call Professor Acton. He’ll know what to do.”

MS Sea Maiden

Trubitsin and Yakovski crouched on either side of the hatch, each spraying alternating gunfire in the general direction of the assailants on the deck. They were trapped in a crossfire, with no hope of escape.

“What the hell are we going to do?” yelled Yakovski as he reloaded.

Trubitsin held his AKS-74 out and squeezed the trigger, sending a spray of 7.62mm shells in an arc across the deck, the ricochets bouncing harmlessly away, his enemy impossibly hidden.

Yakovski leaned in and fired a volley at the other side of the deck. Both volleys of gunfire were met with a steady wall of lead from their attackers, the bullets ricocheting off the metal wall surrounding the hatch, but none making it into the room they had holed up in. “They’re not trying to hit us!” yelled Trubitsin. “They must want prisoners.”

Yakovski nodded. “Da, interrogation!” He leaned out and fired another volley, apparently a little bolder now that he realized Trubitsin was right.

Trubitsin looked about the room. His eyes were drawn to a hatch at the back of the room, sealed. “Keep them busy!” he yelled as he scrambled over to the hatch and spun the wheel to open it. He pulled down the handle and pushed the hatch open slowly. He poked his head out to look, and saw no one. It led to a corridor he recognized as leading toward the crew quarters, and then out again to the deck.

Trubitsin looked back at his sergeant of over twenty-five years. Yakovski fired a volley then glanced over his shoulder at him. “Go! I’ll keep them busy. Just promise me one thing!” He fired another volley.

“Anything,” said Trubitsin.

“If I make it out of this alive, find me.”

“You have my word.”

Yakovski fired another burst. “And if I don’t, say goodbye to all the hookers on Tverskaya Street!” He laughed and fired again, then looked back at Trubitsin. “Are you still here?”

Trubitsin gave him a quick salute, and ducked through the hatch, closing it behind him, knowing he most likely wouldn’t see his comrade again.

He ran down the corridor, ducked through the crew quarters, then, reaching the end, he cautiously opened the hatch and peered out. He saw no one. He stepped out onto the deck, and slowly made his way toward the prow. As he rounded a crate he saw one of the crew hunched over, his back to him, as he sought cover from the gunfire at the other end of the ship.

Trubitsin stepped toward the man, reaching out to let him know he was there. His foot hit something. His eyes darted to the deck and he saw a small pipe roll away from his foot, the distinct hollow sound of metal on metal clearly heard in the tight confines of the stacks of crates. The man whipped around and Trubitsin opened his mouth to warn him off, raising his hands palm upward in a gesture of friendship, but the look of panic in the man’s eyes let Trubitsin know it was too late. As the man spun at him, Trubitsin saw the glint of a weapon held tightly against the man’s stomach. Trubitsin’s hands were now almost up, his assault rifle still in his right hand. His muscles twitched as he quickly changed the directions of his hands, signaling his body to drop his right hand to take aim. At the same time, his muscles tensed as he pushed his body to the right to avoid the shot he knew was coming.

His eyes trained on the now clearly visible weapon as his body moved and his weapon slowly lowered. Trubitsin’s eyes darted up to look at the other man as he yelled, “No!”

The man squeezed his eyes shut and Trubitsin knew it was too late. His eyes slowly traced from the man’s now shut eyes and, as if in slow motion, moved down the terrified, squinted features of the man’s face, to his chest and ultimately the weapon, which now belched lead at him, the muzzle flash unmistakable. He didn’t feel the first few rounds hit, but as his leap sent him flying off his feet, he hit the ground hard, his right hand now extended across the deck plating, his weapon pointed directly at the man who continued to fire where Trubitsin had just been. He squeezed the trigger, emptying what remained of the clip into the man, his body shaking as each bullet hit, his eyes opening in shock, his gaze now fixed on Trubitsin.

Trubitsin squeezed the trigger of the now spent weapon as he watched the life fade from the man’s eyes, his pupils dilating, the muscles once holding them in place having lost their strength as his blood spilt on the deck, rushing toward Trubitsin. He followed the path of the blood and pushed himself up to try and avoid it, when he noticed it had merged with another pool of blood. He looked down and saw the blood was coming from his stomach, his fatigues matted with the dark liquid, several wounds oozing onto the deck through holes ripped through his shirt.

He dropped his weapon and rolled onto his back, grabbing at his stomach with both hands as he tried to stop the rush of blood escaping his body. He gasped as a jolt of searing pain raced through him, tensing his muscles and forcing him to arch his back, leaving only his shoulders and feet momentarily touching the deck. His feet then slipped out from under him as his body collapsed back on the deck, the pain slowly fading. He looked up, searching for the stars, but couldn’t find them, the night sky giving way to the breaking dawn, leaving his last memory one of disappointment, as visions of his youth spent staring through a telescope with his father played out in his mind.

Chyort voz'mi!

St. Paul, Maryland

Acton sat at the kitchen table, laughing as Sandra Milton flipped pancakes with her daughter, Niskha. Acton turned to his friend. “I can’t believe how much she’s grown in just the past six months.”

Milton nodded. “It’s crazy. I don’t notice it as much, seeing it every day, but every birthday, when I make that tick on the door frame, I’m amazed.”

Acton looked over at the door that Milton had indicated and saw the marks, with the year scratched beside each one. Acton shook his head. “Hard to believe she was ever that small,” he said, watching her as she helped her mother carry the plates to the table. She barely cleared the height of the counter.

“Jim, is that your phone?”

“Huh?” He looked up at Sandra as Niskha placed a plate, filled with pancakes, bacon and eggs, in front of him.

“I hear a phone ringing, and it doesn’t sound like one of ours.”

Acton cocked his ear and listened to the faint ring. “Sounds like it.” He got up and quickly mounted the stairs two at a time to the spare bedroom where he had left the phone after calling Laura last night. As he entered the room the phone stopped ringing. “Damn!” He grabbed it and pulled up the last caller’s number. Unlisted. And they had apparently tried to call him at least ten times through the night.
I must have been really tired.
He stuffed it in his pocket, returning to the kitchen.

“Who was it?” asked Milton.

“Don’t know, call display says unknown, and they didn’t leave a message, but there’s about ten missed calls through the night. I must have slept like a log.”

“You certainly sawed at one,” laughed Milton.

Acton feigned a punch.

Sandra sat down at the table and clasped her hands in a moment of silent thanks, then opened her eyes and smiled. “I’m sure they’ll call back if—”

As if on cue, the phone rang again. Acton fished it from his jeans and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Is this Professor Acton?”

Acton frowned, not recognizing the voice, but, having spoken to people on satellite phone before, he knew he was doing so again. “Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“Oh thank God I finally reached you! This is Terrence Mitchell.” A pit formed in Acton’s stomach as he recognized the name.
Something’s wrong.
“I’m one of Professor Palmer’s grad students on the dig in Egypt.”

“Yes, yes, I remember her mentioning you.” He took a breath. “Has something happened to Laura?”

This brought the activity at the table to a stop, with the exception of Niskha, who continue to cut her pancakes deliberately with the edge of her fork, a look of concentration on her face as she diced the moist wedges of dough into near perfect squares. Milton and Sandra both looked at him with concerned expressions.

“Yes, ummm, I’m not quite sure how to say this, but the professor is missing.”

Acton’s stomach flipped and his heart pounded in his chest like a drum. “What? Did you say she’s missing?”

Sandra’s hand flew to her mouth. Milton’s eyes flew open for a moment then he leaned over to Sandra and tapped her on the arm to get her attention. She looked at her husband, tears filling her eyes. He motioned for her to take Niskha from the room.

“Yes, she’s missing.”