James Acton 01 - The Protocol (3 page)

Dawson had served with the Delta Force’s Bravo Team for over seven years and had been on missions in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, Serbia, the Sudan, Syria, Iran and others. All had been successes in two ways. One, the mission was accomplished and two, nobody knew they had been there. His men were fiercely loyal to him, having been through hell together too many times to remember.

Today was one of many family barbeques the team hosted behind their unit in the secluded complex on Fort Bragg, where they could train away from the prying eyes of the public or regular forces. Normally, they weren’t all able to be here, but today was a rare day. A roar of laughter erupted from one of the picnic tables, a reaction to a joke that likely couldn’t be repeated in polite company, a.k.a. the wives and girlfriends, who sat at another table talking amongst themselves. He had only ever been married to the unit.

He checked the burgers again.
Almost ready.
He laid the buns out on the grill to toast them. More laughter from the table. He looked over and saw the comedian was one of the two new guys, Mickey.
Speaking of bad nicknames.
Mickey’s huge ears stuck out of his head like Prince Charles. One comparison to Mickey Mouse during training and he had been saddled with “Mickey” ever since.

What’s so funny?
Sometimes he missed the old days when he wasn’t the boss. He’d be sitting at that table with his men, laughing and telling one of his blue jokes from his extensive repertoire.

Shit! The cheese.
He hastily peeled off slices of cheese from the stack next to the grill.

Mickey was laughing harder then he’d laughed in months. “So, what did Big Dog do?”

“Well, you’d never believe it, but Big Dog is a very chivalrous man,” said Smitty, a long-time member of the team. This elicited several guffaws from the men. “So, anyway, this hostage just wouldn’t stop screaming. He kept telling her to shut-up, that he was there to rescue her, but she wouldn’t believe him.”

“Yeah, and she had taken one of those self-defense courses,” chimed in Red. “You can see where this is going, eh?”

“Don’t tell me—”

“Yup, as soon as he cut her bindings she kicked him in the balls, kneed him in the nose then ran out of the building screaming at the top of her lungs,” finished Smitty.

“Luckily I’d already taken out the H.T.’s so she was safe, but the local Yemini’s had no fuckin’ clue what she was saying,” explained Niner, the unit’s sniper. Oriental, he had earned his nickname in a bar fight years ago. A redneck had called him “slant-eyed.” Niner embarrassed him by slinging back a few of his own nicknames including “Nine Iron.” The man was so irate he took a swing. The resulting brawl had resulted in several arrests—after the team had left the bar. From then on, he had insisted his nickname be “Nine Iron” which had been shortened to Niner over the years.

“She was half-naked in the middle of a bunch of burqa clad women! The locals—” Red's face now matched his nickname as he tried to stifle his laughter to tell the story. Losing the battle, he motioned to Smitty to continue.

“Yeah, the locals were about to start stoning her when Big Dog comes stumbling out of the building she’d been held in, cupping his boys.”

“So he grabs her, throws her into this piece of shit Toyota truck we’d commandeered, and drives away,” said Red. “But the chick starts screaming again and tries to get out of the truck.”

“Yeah, but this time Big Dog’s not havin’ any of it. He backhands her in the face and knocks her out cold!” said Niner.

“No shit?”

“No shit!” laughed Niner. “I'm tellin' ya, Mickey, I saw it through my scope. Out cold.”

Smitty nodded so hard his sunglasses fell off their perch on top of his head. “Yeah, so after we get picked up at the rendezvous, she’s nursing a bloody nose and Big Dog is nursing a set of sore balls. And you know what he said?”

“What?”

Everyone at the table said in unison, “From now on, I don’t go anywhere without a cup!”

Dawson smiled as his men exploded in laughter. His boys twinged as he remembered the story.

“Burgers are up!” he announced. Cheers from the kids preceded their stampede to the grill as he rationed the burgers onto Styrofoam plates. He was about to fill up a plate for Bryson when his cell phone rang.
Shit!

He flipped it open. “Speak.”

“Mr. Jones, I need you at the flower shop for a delivery.” The monotone voice on the other end signaled the pending end to the afternoon's festivities.

“Five minutes.” He snapped the phone shut and motioned to Red, his friend and comrade for over ten years. “I have to go, you take over.”

“No problem, B.D.” Red took the lifter from Dawson’s hand and smiled at his boy Bryson as he held out his plate. “I’ll hold down the fort ’til you get back.”

The White House, Washington, DC

Billy stood in a line that zigzagged like an international arrivals area and threatened to spill out into the hallway if any more arrived. Surrounded by the excited buzz of dozens of young interns getting to know each other, he was near the back of the line because of his tardiness, but soon realized he needn’t have worried about being late his first day. Everyone was being fingerprinted, photographed, swabbed for DNA, and retinal scanned. Even a voice sample was taken.
Man, what’s next, a semen sample?
His watch beeped NOON as he arrived at the front of the line.

“Name?” asked the bored clerk.

“William Augustus Guthrie.”

“Guthrie?” The clerk snapped his gaze up. “As in the former Speaker of the House?”

Billy nodded and lowered his voice. “Look, I’d kind of like to keep that quiet.”

The clerk nodded. “Yeah, good luck with that.” He waved him on. “Next!”

Billy moved down the line and placed his hand on an electronic palm scanner. Giggles from behind him drew his attention. Two girls still in line ogled him. They giggled again. He blushed. One of them pointed at his feet. Looking down, his left pant leg was partially tucked into his sock. And it didn’t match his other sock.
Shit!

Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“What’s up, sir?” asked Dawson as he entered the Colonel’s office. An impressive array of medals and awards decorated the walls, an antique humidor occupied a prominent position on his desk revealing his one last vice. Colonel Thomas Clancy, the head of Dawson's unit, sat behind his desk, fishing a cigar out of the humidor. Never being one for formality when within the confines of his office, he grunted an acknowledgement. He ran the cigar under his nose, inhaling the intoxicating smell.

“I don’t know.” Clancy motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dawson sat down. “You don’t know?”

“You were specifically requested by Control.” Clancy snipped the tip off his cigar. “Beyond that, I have no idea. I’m out of the loop on this one, Sergeant.”

Dawson didn’t like the sound of this. “When do I get briefed?”

“He’s waiting now.” Clancy flicked his butane lighter and carefully lit the cigar, rapidly puffing until he was satisfied it was completely lit. Placing the lighter back on his desk, he took a long drag and exhaled, letting the smoke waft over his face, allowing him to enjoy the fragrance one more time. His ritual finished, he turned back to Dawson. “Report to the comm center and then don’t report back to me until Control says to. Understood?”

Dawson rose and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

The White House, Washington, DC

Billy studied every room and corridor in awe, his chest pounding in excitement as the White House intern tour wound through the building. He had been here years before with his father, but had been too young then to appreciate it. When the administration changed, his father didn’t take him back to the White House again. “When they’re voted out and our people are in, then you can go back,” he recalled his father saying. That had taken eight years. Now he was back, but to work.
Eighteen years old, working in the White House. Shit yeah!

“Rough morning?” a voice asked from behind, startling him out of his reverie. He spun on his heel to see one of the girls who had been laughing at him earlier. Blushing again, he nodded.

“Yeah, my power went out, so…you know?”

“My name is Rachel,” she said, extending her hand.

“Billy.” He shook her hand nervously, realizing he was probably as crimson as a lobster.

“Next time you do the laundry, Billy, you should match your socks after they dry,” she said smiling. “That way that doesn’t happen,” she said as she pointed at his feet. She laughed again and walked back to her friend who was trying to cover her laugh with her hand.

Bitches.

They giggled some more then he heard Rachel say “But he
is
kinda cute!” to which the other one nodded and laughed again as she tugged her friend toward the group that had moved on.

Very hot bitches.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Dawson pulled up to the unit, not looking forward to what he was about to do. He strode up to the party and noticed a couple of burgers warming on the grill. Red walked up to him.

“Hey, B.D., burger?” he asked as he put one together. Red, nicknamed for his red hair he shaved off with a bowie knife whenever a hint of it showed, was actually named Mike Belme. Dawson had met him over a decade before and counted him as one of his closest friends. Dawson had been named godfather to his son Bryson. “What’s up?”

Dawson looked at his friend's face as he took the burger and knew Red could tell something was wrong. He took a monster bite, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. “We’ve got a mission.”

“When do we leave?” asked Red, turning toward the group now in the third inning of a softball game.

“Now.”

“Okay, I’ll break the news.”

Dawson stopped his friend. “No, I’ll do it.” He walked into the group of operators, better halves and children. “Hate to break up the party, folks, but we’ve been called up.” A string of “aws” came from the kids, this not being the first time they had been disappointed. His men gave hugs to their families then headed into the unit to be briefed.

Darbinger Residence, Washington, DC

“What’s on your mind, dear?” Nora Darbinger looked at her husband of over twenty-five years with concern. She knew him well enough to know something was wrong. “Anything you can talk about?”

Darbinger swirled the cognac in his glass, watching the viscous fluid stick to the edges.
Good legs.
He looked up at his wife and smiled. “Oh, nothing wrong,” he reassured her. “Just finishing up some old business.”

“Old business?” She frowned and sat down beside him. “You don’t mean—”

He cut her off with his finger. “Remember, we don’t say their name.
Ever
.”

He could see the color drain from her face as she nodded, a look of fear clouding her eyes he hadn’t seen in years.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“They can’t touch us now,” he replied as he patted her hand. “But a thirty year journey may finally be about to end.”

“You promised me it was over before, Lesley,” she said, her tone firm. “After that Smithsonian incident, you promised me. I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Like I said,” repeated Darbinger, “they can’t touch us now.”

She rose and left him alone.

His thoughts drifted to the Smithsonian incident that had changed their lives almost ten years ago. Ten years of lies and deceit might finally be coming to an end.

Andes Mountains, Peru

Acton entered his cabin, followed by Robbie Andrews. Though austere, the cabin was the only bit of luxury in the camp. Its plywood walls had narrow gaps between each board that let the cold Andes wind whistle through during the night, his kerosene heater merely taking the edge off. Acton walked over to the only cabinet with a lock in the entire camp. Taking out the key, he unlocked it and carefully pulled out a case from the bottom shelf. Placing it on a table, he sat down at the lone chair and opened the case. Inside was a package carefully wrapped in cloth. He gently unwrapped it, revealing a translucent life-size crystal skull. Holding it up to the light, he gently caressed the smooth cranium.

“It’s beautiful,” gushed Robbie. He had returned earlier in the day and this was the first chance he had had to see the skull. Acton had sworn him to secrecy so he wasn’t even allowed to talk about it with the other students on the dig. After the evening campfire, where they ritually collected together and discussed the day’s discoveries, had broken up, he had pretended to need to talk to the professor about something so as not to raise suspicions. Acton saw through his intentions immediately, but decided to indulge his young protégé.

“Yes, it is.” Acton rotated the skull, the light from the gas lantern reflecting off the crystal, casting a breathtaking display of ever changing colors and iridescent shapes on the plywood walls.

“Can I hold it?” asked Robbie. Acton nodded and handed it to him. Robbie carefully took the skull with both hands and held it up to the light. Brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow resembling a stunning sunset on a perfect night collected in the eyes, the design of the crystal making it appear as if it were staring directly at him. Robbie shuddered. He handed it back to the professor, slightly shaken.

“Are you okay?”

Robbie nodded unconvincingly. “Yeah, just a little creeped out, that’s all. I can see why Garcia flipped out when he first saw it.”

Acton nodded. “Yes, it can be very unsettling in the right light. It was probably used by ancient priests to instill fear in their subjects.” He carefully placed it back in the case then locked it in his cabinet.

“I have no doubt it worked,” said Robbie as he rose. “I’m going to go relieve Paul at the cave.”

“Okay, if Sandy doesn’t relieve you in two hours go get him,” said Acton. “You know he’s got a habit of sleeping through his alarm.”