their way upstairs.
Waiting below with a five-man protection team, the well-dressed blond woman looked at her watch, impatient for the long morning's work to be finished. She turned to her personal bodyguard.
'I want at least four of these people alive to answer questions. In addition, after we are finished here I want a man stationed outside to take photos of everyone who comes into the building. Police, medical teams--I want everyone documented, with particular interest taken in subjects in civilian attire.'
As the last of the pallets containing the maps and scrolls were rolled into the vast cargo hold of the giant air force C-130 Hercules, Jack was approached by the aircraft's commander.
'Colonel Collins, a man by the name of Compton is on the radio. He said he couldn't get through to you on your cell phone, there isn't much signal here in the cargo hold. So he's been patched through the tower.'
Jack followed the air force captain into the cockpit and took the offered headphones.
'Collins,' he said, holding the headpiece to his ear.
'Jack, we have some major problems.'
Jack heard the strain in those few words from Niles Compton.
'What've you got, Niles?'
'Jack, listen ...' Niles hesitated. 'Agent Monroe has been murdered.'
'What?'
'He was tortured and killed in his house. His wife was ... well she's dead also, Jack. That's not all I'm afraid of. William Krueger was hit this morning inside his secure holding cell at the federal courthouse out on Long Island.'
'Dammit! How in the hell could this have happened?'
'Jack, you and Carl get back to Manhattan. We had an emergency alert from Sanchez. We don't know what's happening at the warehouse and we've been unable to establish contact. We had no choice but to bring in the local authorities. Their cover as a National Archives depot will hold up to scrutiny, so act accordingly when you arrive. Now move, Jack--move!'
Jack didn't comment, as he had already tossed the headphones to the aircraft's pilot.
'Get this bird in the air ASAP and don't stop for anything. You'll be given instructions in flight on your way to Nellis. Clear?'
Again, he didn't wait for an answer. Two minutes later, he, Everett, and Mendenhall were on their way back into Manhattan.
Collins, Everett, and Mendenhall were met at the front of the building by a police captain from the NYPD. Jack gave him identification stating that he was a field supervisor for the National Archives in Washington. The captain looked it over and then eyed Jack closely.
'I didn't think the National Archives Security Department carried firearms?' he asked, still holding Jack's ID.
Collins stared at the man and did not blink. Nor did he offer any explanation. All he knew was that this man was stopping him from checking on his team inside the building.
Everett stepped up and offered an explanation: 'When you are used to guarding little documents like the Declaration of Independence, firearms are desirable, Captain. Now may we check on our people?'
The captain relaxed and returned Jack's identification.
'It's not good, gentlemen. We have paramedics working on the only survivor. It looks like a straight robbery. If you have information on what was being stored here, my detectives would be interested.'
Jack didn't wait, he just brushed by the captain and went through the front doors. What he saw inside was like a scene from a battlefield. He noticed the covered bodies strewn about like so much dropped laundry. He counted thirteen on the first floor alone. He was joined a moment later by Everett and Mendenhall.
'Jesus, who in the hell hit this place?' Everett said as he turned to face the police captain.
'As far as we can tell, it was at least a fifty-man raid. So far, only your people are accounted for. Due to the fact that around each of the bodies are several expended rounds, we must assume that your security put up a fight, and bloodstains show that the suspects must have carried off their wounded and dead.'
'You said there was a survivor?' Mendenhall asked, looking ashen, as he knew personally all the men in the security team they had left there. Jimmy Sanchez was a close personal friend.
'Second floor.'
The three men left the captain and trotted hurriedly up the stairs. Everywhere they looked, the walls and doors were riddled with bullet holes. Technicians were lying about where they fallen after being hit. A few of the academics had been dispatched execution-style in one of the offices. Four of the scientists and assistants looked as if they had been tortured. The artifacts, as far as they could tell, were all missing.
'Over here, Jack,' Everett called out.
Jack looked up and saw three paramedics close to the second-floor elevator. They had a single soul on a stretcher and were fiercely working on him. As they approached, Mendenhall froze as he discovered who it was who was fighting for his life: Lance Corporal Sanchez.
'Oh ...' was all the stunned Mendenhall could say as he looked on sadly.
Everett placed a hand on Mendenhall's shoulder and watched helplessly as the medics worked furiously.
Jack's eyes never blinked as he watched another one of his men slowly slide away from the living. As Sanchez took his last breath, Collins closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the stairwell that still sported the blood where Sanchez had made a stand against the overwhelming odds he had faced.
One of the bodies closest to the corporal was a full-time archaeologist assigned to the main complex in Nevada. The boy was taped into a chair, and Collins could tell by the missing fingernails that he had been tortured in the most brutal manner possible. He closed his eyes, knowing that the poor kid would have given information on the Group. He didn't have to look far to find his proof. His eyes locked on a portion of the wall above just as Everett joined him. They examined the four words written in the blood of Corporal Sanchez, declaring the Event Group fair and open game. They dripped and ran red down the white wall above the stairwell.
NOT SO SECRET ANYMORE!
A man who had been taking pictures most of the morning from across the street changed his position and climbed the stairwell inside the building. He went to the second floor, where he was surprised to find a great location to shoot directly into the Freemont Building. He adjusted the telephoto lens and framed three men standing on the second-floor landing. A large blond man, a black man, and a man who stood ramrod-straight were glaring at the message left on the wall. As he clicked away, the hard-featured man turned to the landing's large window and seemed to look right at the camera's lens. The shooter abruptly stopped snapping pictures, as he could have sworn that the man was looking right at him. He lowered the camera and swallowed. He decided that what he had was enough.
Dahlia would have to make do with what he had learned, because, for some reason, the man on the landing scared the living hell out of him.
With the situation in Korea growing steadily worse, the Russian navy was on deployment alert. Every man in the Pacific Fleet, both surface and subsurface, had been recalled and awaited sailing orders.
Of the serviceable surface combatants, the fleet was in a sorry state, to say the least. Only three of her large battle cruisers were operational, and only one of them could ship a full-crew complement of trained seamen. The rest were out-of-date and undermanned light cruisers and destroyers. Still, the Russian navy was a proud entity and could still draw blood when needed.
The crew of the Russian heavy battle cruiser
The surrounding harbor was full of antiquated warships, but the
