James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (29 page)

Come on, Greg, work your magic!

Milton Residence

St. Paul, Maryland

“Sir, I must insist you stop calling, otherwise I’ll be required to report you to Homeland Security.”

“Good! Do that!” Milton took a deep breath. “Listen to me. You know and I know that the Delta Force operates from your base. This is no secret. The world knows it, it’s all over the Internet. Can we at least agree on that?”

“Sir, I cannot confirm or deny anything with you. Now I’m terminating this call.”

“Please, listen to me, and I’ll stop calling.”

There was a pause.

“Are you Catholic?”

“I’m sorry, sir—”

Milton cut her off. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.” He lowered his voice. “Have you been watching the news, about how the Pope was kidnapped, and the plane crashed, and he’s dead?”

There was silence.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes. Well, my friend, my best friend, Professor James Acton, was on that plane as well. So let me ask you this. If they’re all dead, why did I just get a call from him less than an hour ago?”

“I-I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you have to terminate the call. Can I ask you one question?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you were me, and you had this information, who would you call?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t answer that. Good bye.”

The line went dead for the fifth time that night. Milton pressed the off button, and searched in vain for a place to slam the cordless phone into something that wouldn’t break it.
What I’d give for an old fashioned phone with a cradle right now.

“Any luck?”

Milton shook his head. “No.” He looked at his wife, Sandra, sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. “I guess we can only hope that this Echelon system works, and works quickly.”

“What’s Echelon?”

Milton leaned back in his chair. “Jim explained it to me once. Apparently all phone calls, faxes, emails, pretty much every communication made into and out of the US, and around the world, is monitored. It’s some sort of computer system that converts everything to a readable format, then searches the conversations for key words like ‘bomb’ or ‘anthrax’, and flags them for human review. It also searches for voices it knows, monitors specific phones—you know, it’s basically Big Brother incarnate.”

Sandra sipped her tea. “Sounds awful.”

Milton nodded. “Agreed, but I guess it’s led to a lot of intelligence over the years that has saved a lot of lives.”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

Milton shrugged his shoulders. “Right now, if it saves Jim, I’m willing to live with the cost.”

Sandra nodded. “Of course.”

The phone rang. Milton nearly dropped it, not having found a place to put it down hard enough for his satisfaction.

“Hello?”

“Write this number down.”

The voice was barely a whisper. But he recognized it.

He picked up the pen sitting on the table and grabbed his notepad. “Go ahead.”

A number was slowly read to him, and he jotted each digit down.

“Thank you,” he said, but it was to a dead line.

“Who was that?” asked Sandra, leaning over to see the number.

“That was the base operator I was just talking to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty.”

“Did they say who that number belongs to?”

“No, and there’s only one way to find out.”

He dialed the number.

It rang twice.

“Colonel Clancy’s office. How may I help you?”

Milton quickly jotted down the name.

“Hello, my name is Professor Dean Milton. I need to talk to Colonel Clancy about a very urgent matter, regarding a Delta Force member named BD or Big Dog, as well as Professor Acton, and the recent crash of the plane carrying the Pope. It’s urgent that I speak to him.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it appears you were put through to this number by mistake. I’ll transfer you to the main switch—”

“No, please, wait. Listen, my friend, my best friend, Professor James Acton, Jim. He was the one involved in London with the crystal skulls. He was involved last year with the Russians and the nuclear weapon. He’s now a friend of one of your men, Big Dog. God, I wish I knew his real name, but I’m sorry, he forgot to mention it. He’s alive. He’s supposed to be dead, but he’s alive. With the Pope. They survived the plane crash, and I’m his only hope at—” There was a click on the line. “Dammit!”

“What?” asked Sandra.

“I think they hung—”

“Dean Milton?”

The voice was deep. Authoritative. The voice of someone who might actually be able to do something.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to hang up now. Please answer your door.”

The call ended, and before Milton could say anything, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Sandra, rising from her chair.

Milton shook his head. “No, it’s for me, apparently.”

Her eyes narrowed as she cocked her head, looking at him. “Now how could you possible know that?”

He wheeled himself out of the kitchen, toward the front entrance. “I’ll explain later.” He opened the door, and a man whose wardrobe oozed government, stood there.

“Dean Milton?”

“Yes.”

“This is for you.” A phone was handed to him. It immediately rang. The man turned on his heel, and walked down the path to the street, where a plain black car idled, its tinted windows hiding its occupants.

Milton closed the door and answered the phone as he rolled back into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Dean Milton?”

“Yes?”

“This is Colonel Clancy. We’re now on a secure line.”

“Oh, okay.” Milton was still trying to wrap his head around what was going on. “How did you—”

“Your first phone call was monitored, and a secure line was dispatched to you right away, almost an hour ago.”

Milton wasn’t sure what to say. “Wow.”
Are you kidding me? Did I just say ‘wow’ to a Delta Force Colonel?
Milton squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “If you monitored my call, you know what’s going on?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to do something about it?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“That I cannot say.”

“I don’t need details, I just need to know if you’re going to save my friend.”

“Rest assured action will be taken. For now, I need you to sit tight, and stop calling people.”

Milton’s ire was piqued. “If it was your friend—”

“I would have done exactly what you did. And now please leave it in our hands.”

Milton slowly exhaled. “Okay, I understand.”

“Thank you, Dean. Good night.”

The line went dead, and Milton put the phone down, his hands trembling. He lay his head down on the table, cradled in his arms, and closed his eyes. He felt his wife’s hands on his shoulders, gently squeezing. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Please, God, save Jim.

Somewhere over Turkish Airspace

I love this life.

Dawson watched as wind whipped around the cargo hold, the ramp at the tail of their C-130H Hercules transport slowly closing as several of his men wrestled with the gear they had just skyhooked from the ground. They had received the call almost an hour ago. His men were exhausted from just finishing the mission in Iran, but when they heard who they were rescuing, each to a man had insisted they take part. Some were Catholic, so were doing it to save their Pope. He was doing it because he respected Professor James Acton, as did most of his team. And all were doing it because it was the right thing to do.

The ramp closed and he stepped forward to watch his men unload the gear. They had been extracted as planned from Iran without incident, and instead of flying south to Kuwait, they had flown north toward Al Sahra Airbase in Iraq, where the Hercules they now occupied had been dispatched. Their choppers hadn’t even hit the tarmac when he and his men had jumped off and raced in columns of two into the back of the Hercules. The moment the last boot had left the ground, Dawson had yelled for them to take off. The plane, already in position on the runway, rolled forward as the ramp closed, and was airborne less than a minute later.

He had formulated a plan based upon the intel he had been provided en route, and the necessary gear had just arrived. He stepped forward and took a knee, twirling his hand over his head. His platoon took knees in a circle, all ready for their final briefing. Dawson’s eyes circled the group and rested on his friend, Red.

“Okay, ladies, here’s the situation. Our three hostages are three miles inside the Iranian border. Our mission is to eliminate any HT’s, rescue the hostages, and escort them to the border, eliminating any local resistance if necessary.”

“Why the wingsuits?” asked Niner.

“We can’t let the Iranians know what we’re doing. This plane will not enter their airspace. The Primary Team of six will wing in from just over the Turkish border to their location, the Secondary team will parachute onto the Turkish side of the border, and be prepared to hoof it in if we need help.”

“That puts help sixty to ninety minutes away with the type of terrain we’re talking about,” said Red.

Dawson nodded. “You’ll be leading the Secondary Team. Get your boots on the ground, in a position where you can cross without being detected, then sit tight for my signal. If it looks like we’re going to need help, head in. Hopefully we’ll have closed some of that distance ourselves.”

Red nodded, handing the wingsuit he had been holding to Niner. “I guess I won’t be needing these.”

Niner took the wingsuit and hugged it. “If the superman suit came with these, they wouldn’t need to put the label on it warning kids it won’t make them fly.” His voice was dreamy, wistful.

Chuckles filled the hold and Atlas smacked Niner on the back, sending him tumbling forward. Chuckles roared into laughter as Atlas helped him up. “Sorry, Niner, sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

Niner made a show of dusting himself off. “Well you should, you’re built like Ahh-nold.”

“Governator or Terminator?”

Niner knocked on Atlas’ body armor. “Terminator,” he said in his best Schwarzenegger impression.

Dawson smiled. The back and forth jabs may not be tolerated by some, especially when going into a mission, but they were returning from one, heading straight into another. He cut them a little slack, but there wasn’t much time. “May I continue?”

“Sorry, Sergeant Major!” echoed Niner and Atlas.

“Niner, Jimmy, Stucco, Casey, Spock, you’re with me. The rest are with Red. Primary team will wing in to our targets’ last known location, parachute in the rest of the way, take out any HT’s, secure what we assume are three hostages, then escape on foot to the Turkish border three miles away. If we meet resistance, we take them out. Any questions?”

“No, Sergeant Major!” yelled the chorus.

“Okay, suit up. ETA ten minutes.”

3 Miles Outside the Green Zone

Iran

Gunfire erupted from the entrance of the hollow created by the three mighty stones they had discovered earlier. He had screwed up. He had made the assumption that Tino wouldn’t leave the hostages alone, and he had been wrong. After spotting the Iranian convoy, he had made it back toward the camp and literally bumped into Tino coming around a rock, apparently having just relieved himself. The man had yelped and run, spraying bullets behind him, forcing Acton to dive for cover. By the time he was able to get himself up again, Tino was secure in the cave, and he discovered a stray bullet had ruined the Beretta he had liberated from Federico, leaving him only with Navario’s handgun.

And now Tino was in a panic.

The gunfire stopped while the panicked man reloaded.

“Stop firing!” yelled Acton. “You’ll give away our position to the Iranians!”

He heard the echo of the cocking handle slide back. But no more gunfire.

“They’re coming?”

Acton breathed a sigh of relief.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend?
“Yes, only a few miles out. Douse that fire, make sure there’s no smoke.”

“How do I do that?” It was clear from the man’s voice he was more scared of the Iranians than he was of Acton.

“Use sand, not water.”

There were pockets of sand all around them amongst the rocks, but it would mean Tino would have to come out of the cave. Acton debated shooting him. Then made up his mind. He positioned himself, weapon in hand, and took aim at the cave entrance. This was an opportunity he couldn’t miss. A shadowy figure emerged slowly, hands raised.

“Don’t shoot, it’s me!”

Acton dropped to his haunches, turning around so his back pressed against the cold stone, its stored heat already radiated out into the night. He closed his eyes while pressing the equally cold barrel against his forehead.
Chaney!
His heart was racing as he realized he had almost killed his partner in all this. He slid over and peered around the rock. Chaney was bare chested, his shirt lying on the ground. He scooped handfuls of dirt and dropped them into the bright white dress shirt, then grabbed the four corners made from the sleeves and tails, and hauled the dirt inside. Within minutes the small fire was noticeably dimmer, then dark.

It was pitch black now. Acton looked to the east and the headlights were clearly visible. He had no way of knowing if they were simply following a road that might take them right by, or if they were weaving in and out of the very rocks he now hid behind, on their way to where they had traced his satellite phone call.

No matter what, they were only minutes away.

His mind reeled as he debated what to do. He could try to convince his captor to let him rejoin the group. There was strength in numbers. But he doubted the man would agree to it, and there was little hope that they could hold off an entire platoon or two of Iranian soldiers for very long. Besides, fighting back would only get them killed. They would run out of ammo long before the Iranians would.