James Acton 01 - The Protocol (2 page)

Professor James Acton was on his knees, carefully brushing dirt away from what looked like an intact clay pot. One of his students, working in the same grid, carefully sifted the soil for any small shards. Students in other grids, each cordoned off with twine staked at the corners, were painstakingly removing over five hundred years of earth burying what Acton hoped would turn out to be an ancient Incan city.

He had just straightened up and leaned back to stretch when he heard screams from the cave. He rushed to the other side of the camp as Garcia burst from the entrance and tumbled down the hill to the camp below, striking his head on a small rock, opening a small gash on his forehead.

 “Señor Professor! El Diablo esta en la cueva! El Diablo is in the cave!”

Acton reached him as his eyes fluttered then shut.

“Get some water and a med kit over here, now!” He knelt beside the unconscious man, examining Garcia’s body for broken bones and finding none. A student arrived with a canteen of water and the medical kit. He opened it as he eyed the now moaning Garcia.

Acton soaked a cloth in water, then started to clean the wound. Garcia moaned louder as the cool water revived him. Gradually he came to and tried to sit up, but Acton held him down.

“Drink,” he ordered, holding a canteen to Garcia’s lips. He drank gratefully. “Now, tell me what you saw. And remember,” he said, looking down at Garcia with a gentle, reassuring smile, “you’re safe now.”

Garcia breathed a deep sigh. “Señor Professor, I see the Devil in the cave!” he said in his thick Peruvian accent, the fear still tingeing his voice despite Acton’s assurances of safety.

“Tell me exactly what happened.” Acton continued to smile as he tried to calm the man and stem the flow of blood.

“I was digging at the wall like you ask me to and I finally get through—”

“You got through?” Acton and the student looked at each other with excited smiles. “What did you see?”

“El Diablo, I see El Diablo! I look through the hole and I first could see nothing so I get my light and then I can see. I see two red eyes looking at me. It was the Devil, Señor. I swear! I run outta there.”

Acton was skeptical, knowing Garcia's superstitious nature. “Two eyes?”

“Yes. Come, I show you if you not believe me!” Garcia pleaded.

Acton knew the best way to calm Garcia was to humor him. “No, you rest here with Tom. I’ll go and look myself.” Acton rose and started up the path leading to the cave entrance. He motioned for a couple of students to follow him. “Grab some gear.” They soon arrived at the entrance and crawled through the narrow opening of the cave, discovered the day before behind a heavy growth of bushes by a couple of amorous students. Once inside, the narrow passageway opened up allowing the professor and his two students to walk upright, but single file, deeper into the damp, dripping cave. Two hundred feet in, they found the hole Garcia had been laboring at all day. Acton shone his flashlight through, coughing at the overwhelming stench. At first, he, too, saw nothing. Then, he gasped.

Fort Meade, National Security Agency Headquarters

Echelon chewed through, as was its mandate, every phone call, e-mail, fax and telex message sent either by land or satellite from its laboratory in the National Security Agency building. Its Dictionary watch list was programmed to listen and look for certain hot words such as “bomb” or “anthrax.” Any such messages or calls were flagged for review, which depending on the priority of the words and number of hits in a particular conversation or sequence of communication, meant either immediately reviewed, or put on a file to be reviewed possibly months later. The call from Peru at 17:52 Eastern Standard Time was immediately reviewed:

[CLASSIFICATION TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME]

[DICTIONARY HITS: CRYSTAL, SKULL, ACTON, NEW YORK]

[SOURCE ILC INTERNATIONAL LEASE CARRIER INTSAT-ALPHA]

[CALL ORIGIN: LIMA, PERU, ROAMING CELLULAR PHONE 212-555-7723]

[CALL DESTINATION: NEW YORK, NY, USA, LAND LINE 212-555-8838]

[# OF SUBJECTS = 2]

[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER1 = ANDREWS, ROBERT IDENT SRC = TELCO]

[SUBJECT IDENT: CALLER2 = ANDREWS, JOHN IDENT SRC = TELCO]

[START OF TRANSCRIPT]

[CALLER1] “John, it’s me, Robbie. Can you hear me?”

[CALLER2] “Barely, man. Where are you?”

[CALLER1] “I’m still in Peru, on the dig with Professor ACTON.”

[CALLER2] “Oh yeah? I didn’t think I’d hear from you until you got back. What’s up?”

[CALLER1] “ACTON shut down the dig and sent us all to Lima for the night so I thought I’d call and see how you and Dad are doing.”

[CALLER2] “We’re fine. Dad’s starting to recover from the stroke. I really wish you could be here but he understands how important getting to work for ACTON is. How’re things going there? Why the shutdown?”

[CALLER1] “He found something. Something pretty cool but we’re not allowed to talk about it. Only two of us have seen it.”

[CALLER2] “What is it?”

[CALLER1] “I’m not supposed to tell, John. If ACTON found out I’d be kicked off the dig!”

[CALLER2] “How would he find out? I’m you’re big brother man, come on!”

[CALLER1] “Okay, okay. We found a CRYSTAL SKULL, perfectly preserved in a hidden chamber. It’s incredible John, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

[CALLER2] “A CRYSTAL SKULL? What the hell is that?”

[CALLER1] “According to the professor a few of them have been found around the world but nobody knows who made them. He was extremely excited when he first found it but then he seemed to get scared.”

[CALLER2] “Scared?”

[CALLER1] “Yeah, I don’t know why. Maybe he doesn’t want to attract attention what with the problems down here. anyway, my cell phone is starting to die so I’ll say goodbye. Tell Dad I love him and I’ll see him as soon as I’m back in NEW YORK.”

[CALLER2] “Okay, you be careful down there.”

[CALLER1] “I will, bye.”

[END OF TRANSCRIPT]

Washington, DC

“What a day!”

James “Jimmy” Masters swirled his glass containing three fingers of an eighteen-year-old Ardmore single malt, the distinct aroma of smoke bringing back memories of his stay in Speyside, Scotland, several years ago with his wife. He raised the glass, toasting the empty rear of his limo, and took a long drag of the harsh liquid. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as he felt his reward begin its job, his entire body enjoying the effects. He leaned back into the plush leather and closed his eyes as he let a long sigh escape.

His phone rang.

“Shit!” He put the leaded Steuben crystal glass on the drink tray and retrieved his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket that lay tossed on the seat beside him.

“Masters.”

 “Sir, we have an Umbra Gamma Prime document here for immediate review.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and pressed the button to lower the glass partition separating him from the driver. “Jerry, turn us around, I need to get back to the office, fast.” His chauffeur of many years radioed the escort vehicles as he raised the partition, picked up his glass and gripped the overhead handhold.

The mini-motorcade’s lead Lincoln Navigator cut left, jumped the median and blocked oncoming traffic. The Town Car limo locked up its brakes and followed, jostling its well-prepared VIP as the trailing Navigator cut across, assuming the roll of lead vehicle. All three vehicles turned on their lights and sirens, leaving a trail of burnt rubber, smoke and a dozen confused drivers in their wake. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at his office.

“Sir, here is the communiqué.” A Marine aide handed him the dossier and took his jacket. The dossier was sealed and tied with a red and white ribbon reading “TOP SECRET UMBRA GAMMA PRIME – DIR SPC OPS EYES ONLY.”

“No interruptions.” His aide closed the door as he entered and headed for his desk. Sitting down, his leather-backed chair exhaling under him, he glanced around the large office to make sure he was alone, then removed a device from his top desk drawer that resembled a small tape recorder. He pressed a button to activate the Radio Frequency Interference Generator to disrupt any visual or audio bug in his office, which, despite the device’s effectiveness, was swept three times a day and after any visitor. The Umbra Gamma Prime document in his hands, however, demanded every possible precaution against someone eavesdropping.

Breaking the seal, he opened the dossier and scanned the identified keywords. His eyes shot wide open. He skimmed the conversation then read it again, carefully, making sure he hadn’t misinterpreted it. He hit the intercom button on his phone. Static. Cursing, he turned off the jamming device then hit the button again. His aide answered.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me Darbinger.”

“Right away, sir!”

The White House, Washington, DC

White House Chief of Staff Lesley Darbinger ran down the corridor leading to the Oval Office. He stopped just before the door and took several gasping breaths.
This is ridiculous. I need to get back into shape.
He used to jog five miles a day, but not anymore. No more time.
But winded at 200 feet?
These days he felt he did more running in the office than outside.  
And it clearly isn’t enough.

“Is he in?” he panted as he stepped into the outer office.

The fifty-something woman behind the desk looked up and stuck a pencil in the tight bun on top of her head. “Yes, sir.” She picked up the phone. “Mr. Darbinger to see you, Mr. President.” She hung up and nodded toward the door. “Go on in, Mr. Darbinger.” A Secret Service agent opened the door to the oval office and Darbinger stepped through.

Stewart Alfred Jackson sat behind his desk reading a briefing paper. He tossed the paper on the oak desktop and laid his glasses down as Darbinger entered. They had met at Yale over thirty years ago and had been close ever since. Darbinger had worked on his gubernatorial, senate and presidential campaigns. With everything they had been through together over the years, Darbinger knew Jackson trusted him implicitly. He was his friend, his confidant, and his sounding board. He was the man he told all his secrets to. He was the man Jackson trusted more than his own wife.

And today, both of their lives were about to change, forever.

“What’s on your mind, Les?” Jackson asked as he circled the desk and motioned to one of the leather couches.

Darbinger sat down on a couch to his friend’s right and glanced around the office, making sure they were alone, and taking in the history represented by every object that adorned it at the same time. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as he realized he was about to add to that history.

“Mr. President, I just had a conversation with the Director of Special Ops.”

“Jimmy Masters?” Jackson asked, as he sat on the opposite couch.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Darbinger lowered his voice further. “He thinks they found it.”

Jackson leaned forward. “Found what?”

“The final missing skull.”

17
^th
Street, Washington, DC

Billy sat up in bed and looked around to see what had woken him, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Sunlight poured through the window. A little too much sun for 6:00 a.m. A glance at his alarm clock showed a flashing 12:01.

“Shit!” He jumped out of bed, realizing it was the sound of nearly every electronic device in the apartment beeping as the power came on that had woken him. Running to the dresser, he grabbed his Tag Heuer watch.
8:15
. “Shit!”

He rushed to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face then ran his wet fingers through his sandy-brown hair, trying to make it look not too obvious he had skipped the shower. Swishing some mouthwash he found a clean pair of slacks on the floor and thrust his legs in. Running back to the bathroom he spat the mouthwash into the sink, grinned at the mirror to check his teeth for last night's dinner, then pulled on a pair of socks from the floor. He grabbed the dress-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door he had planned to iron the night before, but had put off, and tried to will the wrinkles out with his hands. Tossing a tie around his neck and a blazer over his shoulder, he bolted from his apartment with his electric shaver, trying to shave a weekend’s worth of growth off before his first day on the job.
This is all I need, to be late on my first damned day! Dad will kill me.

He hailed a cab and jumped in.

“Where to, buddy?” asked the cabbie in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“The White House.”

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Command Sergeant Major Burt Dawson expertly flipped each of the several dozen burgers on the charcoal grill while sweat glistened off his chiseled chest, partially revealed by a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt. The aroma of grilled meat filled his nostrils and his stomach growled.
I love barbeque.
It was a perfect summer day. The sun shone down out of a crystal clear sky, a light breeze taking the edge off the heat. As he flipped the final burger something hit him in the back of the head.

He swung around, ready to defend himself.

“Sorry, Mr. Dog, I didn’t mean to hit you.” The small boy grabbed the beach ball that had gone astray and ran back to the group of waiting kids.

“No problem, Bryson,” he called after him.
Mr. Dog. Now that’s funny.
His buddies in boot camp over 20 years ago, had filled out his initials, B.D., to “Big Dog”. At first he couldn’t stand it, but eventually it grew on him. It was better than some of the other nicknames he’d heard over the years. He now led Delta Force’s Bravo Team; a team of the most highly trained black ops specialists the U.S. Military had to offer. The 1
^st
Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, a.k.a. Delta Force, had been created in the 1970’s as an answer to the growing problem of international terrorism. Since the Iran Hostage Crisis debacle, which, if you asked insiders, had more to do with political interference than poor training, they had served with distinction in many operations the American public knew nothing about. This was their lot in life—to do spectacular things, under the radar, for no credit, and the promise of complete deniability if something went wrong.