“Bravo Two, Bravo One. Your team covers us, then rendezvous at evac point Alpha, over.”
“Roger that, Bravo One.”
Dawson and his team raced from the compound, rushing across the craggy landscape toward their former position, as a growing chorus of shouts and sporadic gunfire broke out behind them. Dawson cleared the berm first and hit the deck, immediately flipping over and scrambling up the embankment to assess their situation as another half dozen bodies thudded to the ground behind him. He could see over a hundred hostiles through the night vision goggles, and several technicals moving through the streets, gathering rebels in the rear of their improvised tactical vehicles.
“Let’s go!” he said, motioning for them to take a line along the berm that should keep them out of sight for a good portion of their egress. Dawson led the way at a crouch, the rest of the men following, when he heard Red’s voice over the comm.
“You’ve got two technicals coming straight for you, over.”
“Take them out, over.”
“Roger that, engaging.”
Dawson could hear the engines approaching, then suddenly a loud bang, followed by a cracking sound then the shouts of the occupants as their transportation was brought to a standstill. Seconds later this repeated itself on the second vehicle.
“Both vehicles out of commission. You’re in the clear, over.”
“Roger that, Bravo Two. Begin your evac, over.”
Red gave orders to his teams as Dawson continued the crouched sprint for another half mile, rounding a series of large rocks and feeling a sense of relief at the sight of the two Gen-3 Ghost Hawk “Jedi Ride” choppers waiting for them. He loaded his team on the first chopper, himself waiting for Red’s team as the helicopters pushed to full power, their remarkably quiet engines still a thrill to Dawson’s ears, having grown up with the thumping of Hueys and worse.
Red’s team rounded the same rocks and he directed them to the second chopper, climbing aboard his own. Seconds later the skids were off the ground, and they were pushing south toward the Israeli border and clear of Syrian airspace.
“Bravo Two, Bravo One. Sit rep, over.”
“All present and accounted for, no casualties, over.”
“Roger that, same for us. Over and out.”
The helicopter banked sharply to the right as they entered Israeli territory on their Israeli approved course, rushing toward the sea and the USS Arleigh Burke. Within minutes they’d be safely aboard, leaving the blame for the poor Israelis, who he was certain were used to it by now.
I wonder what it’s like to live surrounded by millions of people who want to wipe you off the face of the earth.
Dawson thanked God he lived in the United States, where to the south you had a country of people desperate to live where you did, and to the north a country of people so polite, if it weren’t for terrorist paranoia, the border could be left pretty much unguarded. Red and his family were going to Niagara Falls in a few weeks and had invited him along. He hadn’t decided one way or the other, but perhaps a vacation somewhere peaceful might be nice, and he had always wanted to see the falls, and besides, Red’s son Bryson was also Dawson’s godson, and he knew with his lifestyle, at his age, the chances of him ever finding somebody to settle down with besides the unit were next to nothing.
His mind drifted to the two professors who had caused him so much grief over the past few years, and on occasion had proved capable warriors when necessary. Jim was older than him, and he had found Laura. Under fire of all places. Dawson pictured the women he had encountered over the past few years under fire. Most were dead, or the enemy. In fact, he couldn’t think of one eligible woman he had met while on duty except for Laura Palmer.
The Chinese girl had been cute.
But she was dead.
Dawson sighed. Dead or enemies. He pictured his Xbox, 3D TV and beer fridge at home, and the unit where his team met, trained and socialized. His eyes rounded the chopper, remembering how he had met each of his team, then rested on Kane.
What would I do without these guys?
“You look a million miles away.”
It took a moment for him to realize Kane had spoken.
“What’s that?”
“A piastre for your thoughts.”
“Huh?”
“Piastre. It’s a Syrian penny.”
“Oh.” Dawson pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Nothing, just thinking about home.”
Kane’s head bobbed slowly, his eyes glassing over as he looked out the window. “Home. Sometimes I wonder if I even have a home anymore.”
“We all have a home.”
“I have an apartment outside of Langley that I barely see.”
The life of a spy.
“Forget what’s on your driver’s license. Where’s your heart?”
Kane looked at his old instructor. “I guess home is where I grew up. Where my parents still live.” He shook his head. “But that means home is where I have to lie to the ones I love about what I do.”
Dawson nodded knowingly. His family had no idea what he did, but at least knew he was in the military. He looked at Kane. “What do they think you do?”
“Insurance investigator.”
Dawson chuckled at the thought, then started to laugh out loud, Kane joining in.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Dawson covered his mouth and bit his forefinger, trying to stifle his laughter.
“I’m logistics, so I guess it’s not that much better.”
“At least you’re armed forces. I’m a glorified insurance salesman.” Kane scratched his chin. “Do you know last Christmas I spent most of my time giving my family advice on their property and life insurance?”
Dawson grinned. “Must have been a good test of your cover.”
“Thank God I represent Shaw’s of London, otherwise I’d probably have to sell them some policies.”
Dawson leaned back and closed his eyes. “My mom takes credit for my supposed logistics capabilities. She says, ‘Keeping a family clothed and fed is the same as keeping an army clothed and fed, just a bigger family.’”
“Sounds like a strong woman.”
“You have no idea.”
Kane became silent, looking out the window again.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“How so?”
“Home is where the heart is, no matter how corny it sounds.”
As Dawson nodded, he looked at the water rushing past below, his mind thousands of miles away at a dining room table set for Christmas dinner. His mouth watered at the thought of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
And his stomach grumbled.
I think it’s time for a visit home.
The comm squawked, yanking him from his reverie.
“ETA two minutes. CAG wants to see you all for a debrief.”
Dawson activated his comm.
“Acknowledged.”
He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to regain the image of a family dinner, instead his mind insisting on showing images of sarin gas victims.
I definitely need a vacation.
Lord Carnarvon’s Room, Continental-Savoy Hotel, Cairo, Egypt
March 25th, 1923
George Herbert, the 5th Earl of Carnarvon, stroked his moustache in the mirror with satisfaction. It had been a good day. The dig at the Valley of the Kings continued to surprise, King Tutankhamen’s tomb, or Tut’s as some of the men had taken to calling him, proving more valuable than any had expected. The treasures were spectacular, this one of the few finds that hadn’t been at least partially looted. With the burial chamber completely intact, they were finding treasures like nothing ever seen before. Every day was an adventure that kept his aging, crippled bones alive.
“Another wise investment,” he mumbled to himself, clipping a stray whisker, then returning the tiny scissors to their case. A final inspection of his moustache in the mirror, and he returned to his bed chamber, cli
mbing into the lonely bed, his beloved wife Almina visiting family back in England. “Yes, another wise investment.”
But it was more to him. He justified the expense publicly as an investment, but in truth he could care less. They were discovering ancient treasures, ancient secrets, that could now be shared with the world. With his money this forgotten king that the professor had said appeared to be barely a boy, would now be known to the world.
If only we could find Cleopatra’s tomb! Now that would be something!
He turned down the light, then rolled to his side, tucking his arm under the pillow, closing his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself as the day’s excitement played across his eyelids like one of those motion pictures he had seen in London last year. He tossed and turned, the excitement of the day simply too much, finally sitting up and turning up the light.
He gasped.
Two men stood at the foot of the bed. One with a pistol aimed directly at him, the other holding what appeared to be a syringe. Both wore masks that resembled snake heads, much like that found entombing the child king. His heart hammered in his chest, fear gripping him like nothing he had experienced since his near fatal car accident years ago, a foolish incident he regretted every day since. But this was a terror that he knew would haunt him until the end of his days, his fear now that those days would be few, or none.
George was about to call out for help when the gun was cocked. He bit his lip, his racing heart refusing to obey his wishes of calming down to let him think.
“What is it you want?” he finally managed, his wavering voice not the model of British courage he would have preferred to portray.
“You are Lord Carnarvon? The funder of the King Tutankhamen expedition?”
George nodded to the one who had spoken, the one with the syringe, noting the accent was thick with the local Egyptian dialect.
“And what of it?”
“You have desecrated the final resting place of a Pharaoh, a crime punishable by death,” replied the one with the gun. His English was Oxford, but there was a hint of something else, probably Egyptian.
And pure, unmitigated hatred.
And it terrified him to his very core.
But he was British, and he’d be damned if he’d let his enemy know his fear. He took a deep breath, filling his stomach with courage, then slowly let it out, staring down the man in the Royal Cobra death mask.
“I apologize unreservedly if our expedition offended you in some way. We are merely explorers, archeologists who want to share history with the people of the world, so they can learn better about history—both theirs and yours. This King Tutankhamen had been forgotten by time, and now, thanks to our expedition, he will be forever remembered, perhaps more so than any that have come before or will come again. Surely you must see that we are not grave robbers, but preservers of the past. We have painstakingly documented the chambers, where every artifact, every speck of dust was, so that nothing will be forgotten.” He took another deep breath, slowing down his speech. “We have done everything we can to honor your Pharaoh.”
The man with the needle rounded the bedside, and George’s muscles tensed to scramble away, then relaxed, knowing there was no escape. He was an old man, an invalid by some accounts due to his accident, and would have no hope of fighting off two young, healthy men.
But they couldn’t take away his dignity.
The other man spoke, remaining at the foot of the bed.
“If you wanted to honor our Pharaoh, there was only one thing you needed to do.”
“Name it, we’ll do it.”
“Leave him to rest in peace.”
The man sporting the needle darted forward, plunging the device into his cheek. He gritted his teeth, then the needle was removed and the man stepped back.
“The curse of the Pharaoh’s has begun,” said the Oxford man. “Tell the others it will continue until the Pharaoh’s tomb is returned as it was, and all activity stops.”
George nodded. “I will deliver the message, but they won’t stop”—he pointed at where he had been jabbed—“not over this.”
“Perhaps not tomorrow,” said the first, his voice almost smiling. “But after your agonizing death, they may feel differently.”
And it was an agonizing death.
At first it seemed like nothing, and the next morning he could have been forgiven for thinking the entire episode was a dream, save one thing. The small mark on his face where he had been injected.
Each morning in the mirror it grew. But he felt fine. He tried to ignore it, dabbing his face with shaving cream, covering up the welt, as he performed his morning ritual, and with a hiss and a wince, he realized he had sliced the top off the growing welt.
Blood spilled over the blade and down his cheek, mixing with the foamy white soap. Cursing his stupidity, he finished shaving, then administered to the blemish by holding a handkerchief on the spot until the bleeding stopped. It took some time, but eventually it did, and he was able to depart for the dig site.
It would be the last time he saw it.
His wife was sent for, and she arrived in time to say goodbye, his days filled with fever and cough, pneumonia having set in. And one week later, on the 5th of April, he met his maker, after a week of agonizing pain and hallucinations, all the while crying of the Curse of the Pharaohs, and the king cobras that had visited his bed chamber to deliver a warning.
All who disturb the Pharaohs, shall die.
Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site
One Day Before the Liberty Island Attack
Acton’s lungs were sucking air at an alarming rate and he knew if the massive cover stone didn’t start to move soon, he would have to call a halt to the operation. The cavern they had found yesterday was a good size, but it seemed crowded now. He and Laura were accompanied by Chaney, half a dozen students, and another half dozen Egyptian laborers. A pulley system had been set up, a massive pile of sand had been transferred in overnight and piled on either side of the stone doorway, and a dozen men were grunting as they pulled on the ropes.
And it wasn’t working.
He exchanged a quick glance with Laura who was directing the operations. She nodded as if she read his mind.
I’m going to die if we don’t stop!
“One last time, give it everything you’ve got!” she yelled, one of the Egyptian supervisors screaming it in Arabic.
Everyone eased off on the ropes then snapped them back, hard, pulling with all their might. Acton started to see spots as he pulled with every ounce of strength he could muster, and still nothing.
Then suddenly, something.
It was a scraping sound, stone scraping on stone, and it sent a surge of adrenaline through him, and from the smiles he saw on the other sweat streaked faces surrounding him, the others as well. Everyone was pulling hard, everyone giving it everything they had. They all wanted to see what was inside, to see if what could be the greatest archeological find in centuries was still intact. When Acton’s flashlight had first lit the cover stone, he had known immediately what this was.
The lost tomb of Antony and Cleopatra.
Why it was out here in the Nubian Desert, so far from Alexandria, was beyond him. But he didn’t care if he was in the middle of Nevada; if the find were genuine, it would be the most exciting, incredible thing he had ever laid eyes upon in his entire career.
But they needed to move this damned stone first.
“Again!” yelled an excited Laura, and they all pulled with renewed vigor, and again the scraping sound, louder and longer. The stone, laying against the cavern wall, at about an 80 degree angle from the ground, was moving, finally, and soon would come the difficult part. The skill part.
“This time both crews! Again!”
And this time the two crews pulled in unison, his crew the brute force crew, the second the guiding crew, tasked with not only preserving any gains made by the first crew, but to guide the stone when it finally came free, which w
as why the second crew were entirely students and Chaney. They had to be certain the instructions had been understood, and assurances from a translator weren’t enough.
The stone began to tip, passing the 90 degree mark, and the momentum they had built had it tipping outward and toward those manning the ropes.
“Everyone toward me!” she yelled, her Arabic echo shouting the same.
Acton dug his heel into the ground and began to pull to his left instead of away from the wall, and he realized immediately that Laura’s insistence on the instruction being “toward me” rather than “to the left” was the right choice. He wasn’t certain the laborers would know their left from their right, and in his own exhaustion, he couldn’t be sure he knew either.
But he knew exactly where the most lovely voice in the world was coming from, even if it were barking orders like a slave driver. He felt the stone start to swing, the grinding sound echoing through the chamber, terrifyingly loud. A glance over his shoulder showed the massive stone now turning away from the cave wall, and toward the huge pile of sand that Laura stood near the top of, on the side away from the stone, and as it continued to swing around, he lost track, his exhaustion taking over, when he heard a shout.
“Let go!”
He tossed his rope and stepped away from the stone as it collapsed slowly toward the mound of sand, Laura stepping back quickly as the enormous stone picked up speed.
It hit with an almost anti-climactic thud, the sand serving its purpose of cushioning the fall, preserving the cover stone bearing the carved symbols indicating whose tomb this was for future generations to enjoy. A smile spread across his face as he collapsed to the ground and the chamber filled with cheers. He felt arms around him as Laura rushed over and hugged him.
“Are you okay, Dear?”
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he moaned.
“Lethal Weapon.” She grinned, seemingly pleased with herself that she had picked up the reference to one of his all-time favorite series. “And sorry, Darling, but you’re more Riggs than Murtaugh, so you don’t have any excuses.”
The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 10
