James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (24 page)

“Then who’s flying the plane?”

“Looks like autopilot.”

“Who will eject the pods?”

Acton couldn’t see who asked the question, but Battista looked stunned.

“Does anyone know how?” he asked, looking amongst his companions.

Apparently no one knew.

Battista looked back. “Get them in the pods, then I need four volunteers to stay with me.”

“Why?”

“There is only enough air in those pods for one hour for four people. This plane will be in the air for hours.” He coughed, his voice now laboring against the lack of oxygen, his words freezing in the air as he spoke them.

“Why you, sire?”

“This is my mission, it is mine to die with. I will stay!”

“Then so will I!”

“And I!”

“And I!”

Acton counted, and figured all had volunteered. He watched Battista smile, nodding at his comrades. “You are all good servants of the Lord, and I am certain we are all destined to sit by his side in the Kingdom of Heaven. But not today, at least, not for all of us.” He pointed at three of his companions, including the one closest that Acton had a view of. You take charge of the captives, and deliver them to our brothers.” Hands were shaken, and hugs were exchanged. “Tino, you go with the professor,” said Battista, smacking one of them on the back. Acton was quickly joined by Tino in the cramped confines, and the two crawled to the rear of the plane to find three containers occupying a full height hold.

This is why the cabin seemed so much shorter!

A door to the container in front of him was opened, and he was shoved inside to find two pairs of bunk bed style cots lining either side. “Strap in, take an oxygen mask,” ordered his captor.

Acton, gasping for breath, didn’t need to be asked twice. He lay down on the lower bunk on the left side, and reached up, grabbing the mask attached to the underside of the cot above him. He placed it over his mouth and took a deep breath, his heart straining, desperate for air. His lungs filled, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He gasped a few times, then steadied his breath as his companion took a few lungfuls of his own air, then closed the door, sealing them inside.

Acton closed his eyes against the cold, and reached down, pulling a blanket he saw rolled at his feet, over his shivering body.

You’re alive!

Acton glanced at his captor as he too retrieved the blanket.

And now there are only three.

It was three against three now. Too bad they were in a plane about to crash, otherwise they might just get out of this.

Diyarbakir Airbase, Turkey

Reading leapt forward, catching Laura just before she hit the ground. The Colonel and Giasson ran over, and the three of them helped her back to the plane, sitting her in one of the deep leather seats. Reading directed the air nozzles on her, then looked for the stewardess who had just rushed in the cabin from the back. “Get me some ice water, and a cold cloth!” She nodded and disappeared, returning moments later with both. Reading took the cold cloth and placed it on Laura’s forehead. “Laura, can you hear me?”

She moaned, her head tossing back and forth, then her eyes fluttered open and she leapt forward.

“James!”

“Easy now,” said Reading as he gently pushed her back into her chair. “Here, take a sip.” He held the cool liquid to her lips and she took a drink, looking at him. She pulled her head away.

“Where’s my phone.”

Giasson stepped forward, holding out her phone. She took it, held it up to her face, then tapped the display several times.

“Look!”

She held the phone out for Reading. He took it and gasped.

      
we r alive

“What’s it say?” asked Giasson, as he and the Colonel leaned forward to try and read the display.

“It says, ‘we are alive’,” said Reading.

“How the hell is that possible?” asked Babcock.

All eyes turned to Mancini at the back of the plane, who immediately turned his head, looking out the window.

Reading marched toward him and leaned down. “This is your plane that crashed! What aren’t you telling us?”

The man turned to look at Reading, his eyes cold, as if he had no interest in what had been going on around him. He said nothing, but his look said everything.
You bore me.

Reading’s hand darted out and gripped the man by the throat. He squeezed. Hard. The man’s eyes bulged, and he raised his hands to try and break the hold, but it was useless. Reading, fueled by rage and over thirty years of police knowledge that grip was everything, refused to let go.

“Okay,” the man gasped. Reading loosened his grip. Slightly.

“What haven’t you told us?”

The man sucked in a lungful of air, then looked at Reading. “I might not have told you about the special alterations I had made to the plane.”

Unknown Location

4 Hours Earlier

They were turning. There was no mistaking it. And they were turning sharply. It flashed across Acton’s mind they had finally run out of fuel. That this was it. Then he felt the plane level out.

Somebody’s at the controls!

He glanced over at Tino.

He remained as silent as he had their entire voyage, but the exchanged glance conveyed the excitement he too felt.

We might just get through this alive.

Could they have got the oxygen in the cabin working? That made no sense. It had been hours. Anybody up there would be out cold by now, possibly dead. He racked his brain.
Could you remotely fly a Gulf V?
He didn’t think so. There was no way the FAA would allow that. Terrorists would have them flying into office towers daily.

No, somebody above them was alive, and in control.

Acton closed his eyes and pictured Laura.
I just might be coming home, babe.
He reached for his Saint Helen medallion, forgetting it had been taken.
Bastard.
He made a mental note to retrieve it when they landed. Suddenly he found himself drifting off, the thought of dying pushing away now that he knew someone was in control. He sank, rapidly, into a deep sleep, the drone of the engines only lulling him faster into slumber.

Something woke him.

He wasn’t sure what, but it might have been his feet sliding into the edge of the container as they were now pressed against the wall, the plane in a steep dive. He glanced at his companion and found him holding onto the bed above him with one hand, the oxygen with the other. Acton reached up and tentatively lifted the mask off, taking a breath. It was thin. He put the mask back on.
Airtight?
One of them had mentioned ejecting earlier.
Over the water?
If these were water tight, then they’d be airtight. Guaranteed to float. He looked about again. These containers hadn’t been hastily thrown together. And if they were able to eject them, this plane definitely had been modified.

Human smugglers.

It was the only explanation. But high-value humans. This was not a fifty thousand dollar a head operation. Those were jammed into sea containers, the backs of trucks. This was a private jet, with a state of the art transport system. This was meant to avoid customs, to get their cargo
from
Point A, but Point B was not the final destination of the aircraft, rather it was the destination of the cargo containers.

Visions of Gadhafi’s family played through his head. He could picture them lying in these cots, fleeing the onslaught of the revolution.
How many dictators’ families escaped in this very plane, in this very container?

He heard something. A voice. It was faint, above, probably the pilot. He couldn’t make out the words, but they were starting to level out. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer. He thought of the other passenger behind him.
He’ll probably have more success getting through.

The plane continued to descend, just not as rapidly. Then the nose pulled up, tipping him slightly backward. He slid back, his head hitting the metal of the container.

Then they hit.

The jolt sent him bouncing up, the lap belt he had discovered earlier and secured, holding him in place at the waist, the rest of his body free to jerk around. He glanced over at Tino who hadn’t been as wise, his belt unfastened. He was reaching up with both hands, trying to protect himself from the bed above, as blood flowed freely from a cut above his eye.

Seatbelts save lives.

The plane continued to bounce, then there was a terrific jerk and Acton felt the room spin before coming to a halt, then a roaring sound filled the container, the walls beginning to smoke. Acton reached out and touched the side nearest him. Hot. Incredibly hot. He gripped his mask, debating if he should pull it off or not. If the oxygen were to ignite. It could send flame shooting through the tubes feeding him.

He took a deep breath and pulled the mask off his head, still holding it in his hand. The roaring outside died down, both engines now out. He slowly exhaled, and took a breath. Acrid, and still thin. Apparently some of the skin on the inside had begun to melt, but no fresh air was able to get in. Acton’s lungs finally gave out and the air he held burst forth. Covering his face with the mask, he took a deep breath, and sighed in relief they still had oxygen. He lay there for a few minutes, catching his breath, his companion apparently out cold from a blow to the head.

Acton unclasped the lap belt, and swung his legs off the bed, sitting up, still hunched over from the bed over his head. As his ears adjusted to the eerie silence, he thought he heard something. He jumped up and pressed his ear against the wall and yelped, the metal still hot. His second approach was more cautious. He placed his ear mere inches from the metal, and listened, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears. There were definitely sounds.

A helicopter?

His heart leapt. His experience had indicated that was almost never good.

Then there was yelling. There was no doubting that.

Then gunfire.

Gunfire?
But it sounded distant. Not as if it were coming from the plane. He raised his fist to pound on the container, when he felt something press into his back. He spun his head and saw his companion, his captor, standing beside him, his weapon pressed against Acton’s back, and a finger over his lips.

Acton frowned, and sat back down, listening to the sounds of footsteps and yelling overhead, gunfire and explosions outside. He eyed Tino.

Could I jump him and get the gun before it’s too late?

As if reading his thoughts, the man shook his head, raising his gun to point directly at Acton’s face.

And then it was over. The shouting stopped, the footfalls overhead disappeared, the gunfire died down, and the unmistakable sounds of helicopters leaving could be heard.

Then nothing.

Diyarbakir Airbase, Turkey

Reading bound down the few steps to the tarmac, then ran inside the hangar, the Colonel and Giasson following. Flipping the sheet covering Chaney’s body aside, he grabbed the wrist and removed the watch. Underneath was perfectly preserved skin.

And no tattoo.

The Triarii tattoo on the underside of his wrist, covered by his watchband for all the years he had known him, was nowhere to be found. Giasson and Babcock trotted up as he held the wrist in the air. “This”—he shook the arm—“is
not
Chaney.”

“How can you be certain?” asked Babcock.

“He had a tattoo under his watchband, on his wrist. It isn’t there.”

Both men leaned in and nodded.

“Okay, if we presume they’re alive, then where the hell are they?” asked Babcock.

“Perhaps they were never on the plane?” suggested Giasson.

“That’s possible,” said Reading, putting the arm back on the table and reaching for his handkerchief, remembering at the last moment he had given it to Laura, and what she had used it for. “I saw who I assumed was Jim getting on the plane. It might have been someone else.”

“You’re forgetting one thing gentlemen.” They all turned to Laura as she walked up behind them, handing Reading a clean handkerchief. “The medallion was on him when we he was captured at the Vatican. This leaves two possibilities that I can think of. One, the medallion was taken before this man”—she motioned to the body of the man they had thought was Acton—“boarded the aircraft, or two, the medallion was taken after this man boarded the aircraft.”

Reading nodded. “Agreed. So the man could have taken it from Jim then boarded the plane himself, leaving Jim behind, meaning he is alive somewhere, most likely Rome.”

“Or it was taken from him on the airplane, which means James was in that crash, and somehow survived.”

“If it were option number one, then we would be assuming that they had time to not only search him and take this medallion, but also to confiscate the radio he had with him. And I know for a fact I heard three clicks come from the radio.”

“Meaning?” asked Babcock.

“Meaning James was on that plane,” answered Laura. “That was the SOS signal we had arranged with Hugh if something went wrong. Two clicks, we’re okay, three clicks, we need help.”

“If he was able to send that signal, that means he hadn’t been searched, which means they wouldn’t have taken the medallion.”

“Which means he was on the plane,” said Babcock, completing the thought.

Giasson held his chin, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. “Colonel, is it possible they were missed?”

The Colonel nodded. “Absolutely. Our rescue party was not looking for people hidden in a smuggler’s customized cargo container. They were looking for people sitting in passenger seats.”

“We have to go back,” said Laura.

“Impossible,” said the Colonel, shaking his head. “That place will be crawling with Iranians by now.”

“We need to let the Iranians know that we know they’re alive.”