The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Hello?”

  “Stephen?”

  “Yes? Is that you Professor Palmer?”

  “Yes it is. Where’s Terrence?”

  Stephen felt a hint of glee in being able to tell his teacher how Terrence had disobeyed her orders. Pathetic. What? Do you expect him to get sent to the corner with a dunce cap?

  “He’s not here. Umm…” Stephen searched for the words, then realized there was no getting around the truth. “He and Jenny took a jeep we found at the checkpoint and came back to evacuate you.” Then he suddenly realized something that had his heart slamming against his chest. “Aren’t they there yet?”

  “No.” There was a pause and he could hear the professor saying something with the mouthpiece covered, then an exclamation from what had to be Professor Acton.

  He sounds pissed.

  “Listen, whoever the second group is has arrived. I’ve sent an email to my account that has some letters and instructions zipped up. Should we not make it, open that email and follow the instructions, understood?”

  Stephen’s voice cracked as the lump in his throat threatened to burst forth.

  “Yes, mum. I’ll take care of it personally.”

  “I know you will. Hopefully all will go well—” There was a burst of static, then the distinct sound of gunfire and shouting.

  “Professor! Are you there!” cried Stephen, the second vehicle now emptied, everyone huddled around the phone. He turned to Naomi. “I can hear gunfire and screams,” he said, his shoulders shaking as he tried not to cry out in horror. “Professor!”

  “We’re under attack!” came the voice finally. “Under no circumstances are you to return. Get yourselves to Cairo and the British Embassy. They’ll take care of you. Good bye.”

  The phone went silent, and Stephen’s head dropped onto the steering wheel, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed at the horror of what he had just heard. He felt several sets of hands trying to comfort him, as the others too joined in his mourning, for in all of their minds, their mentors were already dead.

  Somewhere over Egyptian Airspace

  A particularly rough bit of turbulence caused the chopper to shake, rousing Dawson from the stupor he had managed shortly after takeoff. He looked around and saw most of the men either sleeping or resting, a couple of them entertaining themselves with their phones or various other electronic devices.

  Spock was reading on his eReader, a device Dawson had just picked up and had to admit loved. He kicked himself now for leaving it at home, it so new it didn’t yet occur to him to bring it on missions for the downtime.

  He looked at Kane, still apparently sleeping across from him.

  I’d kill to hear some of his stories.

  Dawson once had a chance to go CIA, but had turned it down. The idea of being a lone wolf didn’t appeal to him. The army was a family. You counted on each other, you socialized with each other, you fought and cried with each other. When someone lost a friend, you all lost a friend. It was a bond that most could never fathom, and it was something he could never give up.

  Bravo Team was his life, and he couldn’t imagine doing a one man op, knowing that after it was done, the next op would be one man as well, with no one to talk to about it, no one to celebrate its success with.

  And no one to watch your back.

  But Kane had been different. A bit of a loner from what he remembered. He had been consumed by 9/11, signed up to fight those responsible. Dawson remembered during training the young man seemed like he was on a mission to secure the country himself.

  There was a slight smile on Kane’s face.

  He seems happy.

  But Dawson knew he wouldn’t be. When he had been approached, he had turned them down cold, refusing to even sign the non-disclosure agreement that would tell him what job he was being offered. For he had known already. When two suits approach you in a parking lot, flash Company credentials, and ask you to come with them, you say no.

  Especially when you know you can kick their asses.

  They had insisted, and when he had said, “You’re here to offer me a job in Special Ops, right? Well I’m not interested,” they had quickly backed off. He never heard from them again after he told Colonel Clancy, his boss, about the incident, and told him in no uncertain terms to get them to back off.

  But Kane had apparently jumped at it the first chance he got.

  One of the flight crew entered their compartment, hunched over as he made his way toward him. He gave Dawson a nod, then shook Kane by the shoulder.

  Kane immediately awoke, looking up.

  “It’s time, sir.”

  Kane nodded then rose as the crewman turned and to Dawson’s surprise, opened the side door. Wind whipped through the cabin, waking the rest, and Kane stood up, checking his equipment and chute. Dawson rose, and spun Kane around, checking the chute himself, then smacking him on the back.

  “Tired of our company?” he asked.

  Kane smiled. “Consider me the first salvo in America’s retaliation.” He winked then stepped out the door without a moment’s hesitation. The crewmember closed the door as Dawson sat down and glanced at his watch. He did a quick calculation in his head.

  Somewhere near Cairo?

  Nubian Desert, Egypt, Just outside University College London Dig Site

  Terrence felt like they were inching forward, but no one was complaining. Leather had refused to let him put on his headlights, and at first he had wondered why, then realized they must be extremely close to the camp. Any light in this environment would be seen for miles, and the element of surprise was obviously critical to any plan Leather may have.

  He just hoped that plan included him and Jenny surviving the night.

  And it was night, or almost. Dusk had settled firmly in, and the stars were making their appearances, crisp and white against an unblemished night sky free of clouds and pollution.

  It was one of his favorite things about the desert, and he found himself some nights lying out under the stars, staring up for hours at a view this city boy had never experienced until his first archeological dig with Professor Palmer.

  A dig that had ended in tragedy. He had been a freshman, an eager, promising archeologist according to a letter the Professor had shown him years later. First years weren’t allowed on expeditions, but an exception had been made for him as the professor had apparently taken a liking to him.

  It had been thrilling, exciting, terrifying and in the end, deadly.

  They were in Jordan, working on a well-established dig site with students and professionals from all around the world, when on their second last day, there was a cave in that nearly killed him. He was buried alive, nearly out of breath when he had felt hands on his ankles, pulling at him. He had wiggled his body, and within minutes was freed, greeted by none other than Professor Palmer’s brother, who made sure he was okay, then sent him toward the surface as he clawed desperately at the rocks in search of another student.

  The final collapse was massive. And unsurvivable.

  He felt his chest tighten at the memory. Professor Palmer’s scream had been heart wrenching, a sound he had never forgotten, and the only time he could recall ever seeing true grief, true horror, in his life. It was nothing he hoped to ever see again, to hear again, the one experience enough. Part of him had wondered if she blamed him for her brother dying. After all, if he hadn’t rescued him, and stayed to search the rubble for others, he would be alive today.

  But his mind was set at ease over the years as she continued to mentor him, continued to invite him on her expeditions, and continued to confide in him, sometimes talking of her brother, sometimes of her work, as she would an old friend.

  Until Professor Acton had come along. Terrence had to admit he had been jealous at first, her attentions turned to this new man in their lives, his boyish fantasy of he and her together dashed. But he quickly realized that his fantasies were just that, and he was pleased to see the Professor so happy these past couple of years.r />
  And Professor Acton had turned out to be one of the coolest men he had ever met, a father figure to them all when needed, and a blast around the campfire, his stories legendary.

  “Stop here and turn off the engine. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

  Leather’s voice cut through his reverie, snapping him back to the horror of the moment. He stopped the jeep and did as he was told, the security team exiting, he and Jenny climbing out, following them as they walked into the darkness. Jenny took his hand and squeezed. He returned the silent comfort, and wondered just what he had gotten them into.

  That’s when the gunfire began.

  Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

  Colonel Soliman looked across the camp at the Westerners on the other ridge setting up the decoy, and nodded with approval. They appeared to be done, beginning their return to the camp. He looked back at his own men who had returned the thick canvas over the crevice, then repositioned the rocks. They were now smoothing out the sand, removing any evidence of the tomb.

  The sound of approaching trucks, and the beams of headlights had him sprinting back toward the camp, shouting at his men to follow before they were seen. As he hit the valley floor the first truck had already come to a halt, the second and third pulling up beside it as men began to jump out from the backs, spreading to the left and right, their weapons trained on the camp, but the near complete darkness would be to everyone’s disadvantage.

  There appeared to him to be three trucks, each with a dozen men, the headlights slicing across the camp, revealing little, everyone within the beams huddled behind their reinforced positions. The man he had killed earlier had no radio, only a cellphone that didn’t work here. He wondered if there had been others that reported their strength.

  He had to assume yes.

  And the fact that nobody had yet fired a shot, had him wondering if those who had just arrived were indeed regular army, or the zealots causing chaos around the world. If it were regular army, they would probably face arrest for impersonating military personnel, which would mean there would be no one to protect the tomb.

  He took up position behind a pile of dirt that had been dug out of the desert floor by the archeologists during the course of their work, readying his weapon along with four of his men, all close relatives.

  He glanced back at the rise to the south, and save the footprints he had just left, visible only from the moonlight, there was no evidence of the tomb. A glance to the north and the decoy was prominent in its singularity, silhouetted against the night sky for all to see.

  The question was, if they were all killed, how long would these fanatics continue to search once they discovered it was indeed a decoy. He kicked himself for not having had the time to disguise the footprints he and his men had just left, and made a mental note that should he need to retreat, he would retreat up the rise to try and provide an alternate explanation for the prints.

  He glanced over at the Westerners’ location and saw the female on a phone, talking to someone, the other three men now having joined her, and for a moment admired her bravery. He admired independent women, and was proud that a once secular Egypt had given many rights to its women. Though by no means perfect, it had been far better for women in Mubarak’s Egypt than it was in countries like Saudi Arabia or Yemen.

  But now with the Muslim Brotherhood in charge, things were regressing rapidly. Already quotas for women representatives in the election had been completely ignored, their share of the parliament dropping from twelve percent to less than two, but it was the day to day actions that truly sickened him, with those women who still tried to assert their independence being harassed on the streets, sometimes verbally, sometimes physically, and all too often sexually. And it was coming from not only men of his age, but boys, barely old enough to have hair on their faces, using the new found acceptance of this behavior to assault women and girls alike.

  His Egypt now disgusted him, and if it weren’t for his sworn duty to protect the tomb and lead The Brotherhood, he would take his family to America or Canada, and leave this place, and the hatred, far behind.

  There were several shots, and they all looked up as flares lit the night sky, then hit the dirt as dozens of guns opened fire on them to the fanatic screams of “Allahu Akbar!”.

  Allah protect us from those who would corrupt your teachings.

  Imam Khalil tried to remain calm as they rounded the bend, the camp revealed below them. His eyes immediately took in the sight. A group of men running from the south down into the camp, disappearing behind a pile of dirt, another group running from the north and hiding behind something near the center of the camp.

  His eyes immediately looked to the north and saw something silhouetted against the sky, and smiled.

  That must be it!

  He stepped out of the truck as his men spread themselves out in front of him, he remaining with one foot on the running board, his body behind the metal door of the truck, his shaking hands gripping the frame where the rolled down window would be.

  Flares fired into the night sky, lit up the landscape, and to the shouts of “Allahu Akbar” his men opened fire, and he found himself filled with pride and power, his adrenaline beginning to flow, his flight instinct giving way to his fight instinct.

  As he surveyed the well-lit scene below, he noticed the hill to the south again.

  Why had they been there?

  His mind raced, and it occurred to him that there might be reinforcements behind that hill, or something hidden that these infidels didn’t want found. He made a mental note to check the south of the camp thoroughly once they were victorious.

  Watching his men pour their fire on the camp, so far completely unopposed, he began to wonder why he had been scared at all. Perhaps his fears had been unwarranted, and they were facing cowards who wouldn’t fight back. It would be in typical apologist Western fashion.

  But why weren’t the army troops firing back? Could they be unarmed? It made no sense. He tried to remember what Adel had said after his first report. He was sure the boy had said they were armed.

  Of course they’re armed!

  It was just wishful thinking that they weren’t. But why weren’t they firing back?

  Acton sat with his back against the dirt dugout, Laura huddled beside him, Chaney and Reading next to her, all crouching to avoid being hit, but so far their defensive position had proven itself. The only problem was they had no way of knowing what has happening without someone literally sticking their neck out.

  We have to know.

  He flipped around, and crawled on his knees slightly away from the pile of dirt, much to the shock and horror of Laura.

  “What are you doing!” she hissed, loud enough for him to hear over the gunshots.

  “Checking to see what’s happening.”

  He looked to his left, and could see no movement, then to his right, more of the same revealed. He scampered back to the safety of the dirt as a few shots he was convinced were unaimed tore at the dirt several feet away. He then poked his head up for a split second, then dropped, repeating it and looking at the attackers’ position, then again dropping down.

  “What did you see?” asked Reading, apparently not at all upset with his antics.

  “Not much. Our attackers don’t seem to be moving in, but The Brotherhood doesn’t seem to be fighting back.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Laura, her voice slightly incredulous. “You mean all that gunfire is from the bad guys?”

  Acton nodded. “Seems so. The Brotherhood doesn’t appear to be firing a shot.”

  “Could they be dead?” wondered Chaney aloud.

  “Can’t see that. It’s too soon.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Acton, “unless they’re trying to get the nutbars to use up all their ammo.”

  “That’s mighty presumptuous,” replied Reading. “For all we know they could have a truck full of ammo. However, there is something to be said for keepi
ng your head down and letting the enemy waste some of it, as long as they’re not advancing, and not picking you off slowly.”

  “I haven’t heard anybody get hit yet,” said Laura. “At least wounded, I mean. I’m sure we would have heard something if somebody was wounded.”

  “Agreed. But what do we do?” said Reading. “Do we fight back?”

  Acton shook his head. “No, this isn’t our fight. We were forced into this. We’ll fight to defend ourselves so we can make our escape, but right now, let’s keep our heads down, and see what happens.”

  The flares suddenly sputtered out, and the gunfire stopped.

  As did Acton’s heart as he heard the shouts of “Allahu Akbar”, and boots pounding on the rock and sand.

  “Here they come!”

  Colonel Soliman hid behind a pile of stakes with four of The Brotherhood, all with their heads down, flinching as each bullet hit the wood. He had half a mind to start digging a hole to hide in, but instead gripped his weapon tightly, wondering if any of them had any real combat experience. Most had been in the army at one point or another, something The Brotherhood encouraged to get some self-defense training, then once out, they would go about their daily lives. They were shopkeepers, teachers, artisans and public servants.

  The only difference between these men and any others in Egypt were that they were all moderates, and they were all descendant from the same line of brothers who had founded The Brotherhood two thousand years ago with the aim of protecting Cleopatra’s tomb.

  He was proud of his fellow brothers tonight, resisting the temptation to fire back, knowing the shots would be wasted. Their orders were to fire once the enemy was advancing, and to conserve their ammo, for all they had were two clips each for their Kalashnikovs, and whatever bullets they had in their handguns, if they had them.

  He cursed himself for not having arrived better armed, but the reality was they were supposed to scare a group of kids and teachers into getting on a truck and leaving, not engage a well-armed group of fanatics.