Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (31 page)

“CAG, this is Light-House, we lost Knight-Hawk Two, over.”

“Acknowledged, Light-House, stay on course.”

Miller checked his watch. Thirteen minutes. His scope showed the remaining five Hornets behind him, now burning the air to catch up. Within minutes he reached the coast unmolested, the Yemini’s not risking any more of their aircraft.

“CAG, this is Light-House, I am now in international waters, recall the escort, over.”

A pause and then the CAG’s voice sounded over the comm, slightly more subdued than Miller was used to hearing him. “Knight-Hawk escort, return to base, over.”

“CAG, this is Knight-Hawk Three, request permission to continue with escort, over!”

Miller activated his comm. “Guys, this is Keith. Go home, please, go home.”

There was a pause as Miller pictured them all in their cockpits fighting their instinct to follow their comrade, and their training to follow orders.

“Good luck, old friend.”

Miller watched as Knight-Hawk Three and the others peeled off, returning to the carrier group. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes.

He reached into his flight suit and tore open the Velcro of one of the many pockets, removing a photo of his wife and daughter. He put the plane into a slow descent as he thought of his family. He took some comfort in knowing they would receive the letter he had written them on the carrier. As soon as he had heard about the mission, he knew it was probably a one way trip, but he went anyway. His life was a small price to pay to protect his family from the bloodbath facing the world.

He kissed the photo and again checked the timer.

Sixty seconds.

He activated his comm. “CAG, this is Light-House, I have less than sixty seconds on the clock, over.”

“Light-House, this is CAG, acknowledged.” A pause. “Major Miller…Keith…it’s been an honor.”

Miller smiled as he pushed the stick forward, placing the plane into a steep dive toward the ocean surface. “Jim, tell my wife and daughter I love them, and if they’re ever allowed to know about this, tell them I did it for them, and I did it with no regrets.”

“Will do, Keith. I promise they’ll know this wasn’t a training accident.”

Miller smiled.

“Ten seconds.”

The Harrier was now in a near vertical dive, the ocean floor rapidly filling his entire field of vision.

“Five seconds!”

The Lord’s Prayer started in his head as the final seconds ticked down.

“…hallowed be Thy name…”

The Harrier hit the ocean at over one thousand miles per hour, the surface as hard as concrete at this speed. The aircraft’s nose cone crumpled into the cockpit as Miller squeezed his eyes shut, the photo of his family clutched against his heart.

Deck of the USS Enterprise

“Look!”

Red pointed at a flash on the horizon. Acton and the others shielded their eyes instinctively, but at this distance were in no danger. Acton’s chest tightened as he realized the implications. Major Miller had succeeded. And now he was dead. He thought back on their hours-long conversation across the Atlantic, of the family Miller was so proud of, the daughter he adored and whose first piano recital was next weekend, and the leave he had booked off to make sure he wouldn’t miss it. He thought of the two lives now destroyed, the one life lost, the tens of thousands saved, and the future millions that would surely have been lost.

It was hard to feel it was worth it.

As if he knew what Acton was thinking, the man whom he had learned was named Dawson stepped up beside him.

“His sacrifice saved millions.”

Acton nodded. “I know, but…” He trailed off, afraid how it would sound if he said it.

“But was it worth it?”

Acton frowned. “I guess you guys deal with this a lot.”

Dawson glanced at his team standing nearby, their attention focused on the horizon where a comrade had just died. “Far too often.” Dawson turned to Acton. “It’s a cliché to say it’s our job. It
is
our job, but it’s more than that. Signing up and putting in four years so you get a free university education is not being a soldier. Serving your time then re-upping, sticking to it while men you went through hell with are wounded or killed, that’s not a job, that’s a calling. Every man in this unit would die for each other, and would die for their country. They wouldn’t hesitate. The bond made in combat is something that the average civvie can’t understand. They watch CNN and see a few minutes of footage from Iraq or Afghanistan and think they understand what a soldier goes through. They haven’t a clue. Sitting nice and cushy on your couch, watching TV, it never would occur to them to sign up and serve their country. And you know what? They don’t have to. They don’t have to because the generations before them did stand up, and did fight, and won a way of life that we now take for granted.

“Today we don’t need huge numbers to defend our country, but this country will always need a military to protect it. Those few proud men and women that do sign up, who are career soldiers, they are the ones that keep all of this together. If it weren’t for them, America’s enemies would have long since taken her down. It is men like Major Miller, who made the ultimate sacrifice, to save hundreds of thousands of people he has never met, who will never know what he did, and who would just as soon kill him where he stood if they had found him alone on the very streets he saved, it is men like him that make me proud every day to be in the service of my country.
He
is why we fight, because
he
is the best of us, and we need to preserve our country, and our way of life, so more like him can be born to serve future generations.” Dawson leaned forward and gripped the railing in front of them. He turned and looked Acton in the eyes. “I’m sorry for what happened in London. You’re a good man.”

Acton leaned on the railing, staring at the churning water below, then out at the horizon where Major Miller had once been.

“It takes all types to preserve a way of life. Us civilians to take it for granted, and people like you to keep it that way.” He sighed. “It’s just”—his voice cracked—“I just don’t know how you get used to seeing someone you know die. My students last year, one of them right before my eyes, Major Miller, these people you get to know, sometimes love, and they are snuffed from the face of the earth through no fault of their own, leaving us behind to try and honor their memories.” He stared at the deck. “So much pain.”

Dawson looked back at the carrier deck now loaded with planes. “You never get used to it. You just learn how to deal with it. You push through the pain, and honor them by being a better person, and if you have faith, believe that they’re in a better place. But never dishonor them by feeling sorry for yourself because you were left behind when they weren’t. That’s selfish. Honor them every day by remembering them through your deeds and actions, and the pain will go away, and you’ll realize that their sacrifice did make a difference, even if only in some small way. Everyone can make a difference, no matter how short a time in this world they have, or how small a perceived contribution they make.”

Acton looked at Dawson. “You’re quite the philosopher.”

Dawson chuckled and slapped Acton on the shoulder.

“I’m glad I didn’t kill you, Professor. I think the world’s a better place with you in it.”

Acton had to smile. “That makes two of us.”

Dawson leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms, all joviality wiped from his face.

“Now we need to find that lady of yours.”

MS Sea Maiden, Red Sea

Dymovsky leaned against the railing, staring at the RFS Pyotr Velikiy, sitting several hundred meters off the port bow. She was an impressive ship, a ship that harkened back to a time when Russians had something to be proud of, regardless of how misguided they may have once been.
Now there is nothing to be proud of. A history of shame, and a future of corruption.
But he wouldn’t give up. He’d continue to do his small part, to try and protect Mother Russia from her enemies, both external and internal, and try to clean it up a little bit. Hopefully, in time, others would join him, and fight back. Fight back against the corruption, against the gangs, against the politicians who would take them back to a past that failed once, and was doomed to fail again.

It had been a frustrating day. Troops from the Pyotr Velikiy scoured the ship for evidence, Yakovski was interrogated time and again, and calls were placed to the highest sources to find out more information, but for now, they were stuck at a dead end. They knew the weapon was sold, apparently to Americans, but had no idea of the destination.

Suddenly the entire horizon in front of him flashed, the sky lighting up as if he were staring directly into the sun, then moments later, it was gone.

“What the hell was that?” asked Koslov.

Bile filled Dymovsky’s mouth and he leaned over the railing and vomited. He wiped his mouth and turned to Koslov.

“What direction is that?”

“I don’t know?” Koslov looked up at the sun. “South.”

Dymovsky spun to Chernov and pointed at his radio.

“Find out where that detonation took place!”

Jeddah-Makkah Highway, Saudi Arabia

Cole squeezed the trigger twice, the shots muffled by the seatback the gun was pressed against. The driver groaned and fell forward against the steering wheel, his head hitting the horn. Cole reached forward and pulled him back against the seat, silencing the blare, then climbed out the back door of the Mercedes G55 AMG he had commandeered. Getting out of Mecca was far easier than getting in. Security could care less about those leaving, they were more worried about Christians and other infidels getting in and causing trouble.

Unfortunately for the camel jockey now dead in the front seat, security didn’t pay attention to one man driving his burqa-clad wife, dutifully silent in the back seat, leaving Mecca. After liberating the burqa from the woman in the hotel, Cole had stepped out into the street, anonymous amongst the onlookers racing toward the excitement one block away, and had climbed into the back of the Mercedes, much to the shock of his soon to be chauffeur. Fortunately for Cole, the man spoke English, and they were soon out of Mecca, and on the coastal highway, heading back to where some of his men should be waiting for their return.

He had kept an eye on the rear window, praying for the sky to light, for that beautiful mushroom cloud that would signal the beginning of the end of the Islamist tyranny, but it hadn’t come. A bright flash too far on the southern horizon to be Mecca, sank his heart.

All of this for nothing.

He thought of his friends dead in the alley, of this once in a lifetime opportunity that had failed. He could think of no other way to trigger the war he knew was needed to begin the cleansing of the West. He had lost the chance to destroy Mecca. And Islam had no figure like the Pope he could assassinate to trigger a war.

But what if
—

His thought was cut off by a burst of gunfire at his feet.

He dove to the ground, behind a small dune.

“Stop shooting, it’s me, Cole!”

Another burst of gunfire, and the sand inches in front of him exploded into tiny sand storms, showering him in the grit, but shielding him at least until they repositioned themselves.

“Goddammit, stop shooting, it’s me, Cole!”

“Cole, is that you?”

Cole breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of Jack Brown’s voice, a trusted friend. Cole waved his hand over the dune. “Yeah, it’s me. Hold your fire, I’m coming out!”

Cole pulled the hood of the Arab monstrosity off his head, and slowly poked it out above the dune.

Brown waved and dropped his gun to his side. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Cole got to his feet and strode toward Brown. “An oppression suit.” Cole pulled it over his shoulders and tossed it to the ground. “Let’s get out of here.”

Brown looked up the hill Cole had descended.

“Where are the others?”

Cole walked past him, toward the small boat waiting on the shore. “They’re all dead.”

Brown pushed the boat into the water, and climbed in with Cole. “What happened? I didn’t see any explosion, just a flash.”

“We failed.” Cole started the outboard motor and steered them for the yacht offshore. “They knew we were coming, right from the start.”

“But how?”

Cole gunned the motor, the boat skipping along the waves now.

“I’m guessing our partners had friends.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Plan B.”

“We have a Plan B?”

“We do now.”

Saint Peter’s Square, Vatican City

Acton checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
Thirteen seconds later than the last time you looked!
He stood near a fountain to the side of the obelisk that dominated the center of St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican. He held a tourist guide book in one hand, and his other held a video camera he occasionally pretended to film one of the many sites with, but in reality, was filming the crowds, the image transmitting to the Vatican central security staff, manned as it always was by the Pontifical Swiss Guard, and today a special guest, Interpol Agent Hugh Reading.

Acton knew he wasn’t alone out here. Amongst the crowd were dozens of undercover security officers, all waiting for the appointed time, and the hoped for opportunity, to fulfill their objective—the safe recovery of Laura Palmer.

It had only taken two days for him to get the call. ‘Only’ probably wasn’t the right word for it. Those two days were the longest of his life. Not knowing where she was, if she was safe, if she was even alive. It had driven him crazy. He had decided to stay in Europe in case word arrived, and this had proven wise.

The call came direct to his cellphone and lasted ten seconds.