The Thirteenth Legion (A James Acton Thriller, #15) (James Acton Thrillers) (25 page)

Laura
came up from behind, taking Acton’s hand and squeezing it tightly. She was
nervous. He was nervous. Hell, he was terrified. His entire body was shaking
with adrenaline, it having nothing to do with the skulls overhead, of that he
was quite certain.

Chaney,
the highly trained Scotland Yard detective, again noticed. “Professors, if you
want to leave, you can. We’ll take you to a safe distance. We’ll need to hold
you until we’re done, of course, since you know where we are, but after we’ve
finished our work, you are free to go with our thanks.” He smiled. “No one is a
prisoner here.”

Acton
looked at Laura and noticed her shaking her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes
imploring him to stay.

She’s
almost as obsessed with this as they are!

He
sighed. “We’ll stay.”

I
just hope it doesn’t get us all killed.

Off the coast of Iceland

The Triarii Proconsul, Derrick Kennedy, gripped the railing as their
boat skipped across the waves, racing toward the last known location of the two
professors. They would hold twenty kilometers offshore, it hopefully enough
distance should anything go wrong. He knew from their own history that three
skulls brought together had resulted in a massive explosion, or energy release,
that had wiped out everything around them, almost destroying medieval London in
the process.

And the
skulls had been unscathed, simply sitting in the center of the blast wave. If
the same were to happen tonight, Chaney and his people would be killed, and it
would be his team’s responsibility to get in there first and retrieve the
skulls before authorities arrived.

He just
hoped twenty kilometers was enough.

Though
if it weren’t, most likely no distance would be enough.

Life as
they knew it would probably be over.

The
motor began to throttle down and he glanced back at the pilot, who pointed at
the shore.

They
were here.

And
either nothing was going to happen, or history was going to be made. He
genuinely did hope for the latter, though the thought terrified him.

For if
things went wrong, there may be no one left to write that history.

Approaching Denier Installation, Iceland

Dawson tossed the rope aside and waved up at the chartered AS365N
Dauphin chopper overhead, the rope quickly retracting, the pilot banking toward
Reykjavik. He looked about to see his team and Leather’s taking knees, all
directions covered. He checked his tactical computer and motioned toward a
nearby hill.

“The
target is just over that rise. Niner, you’ve got point, let’s move.”

Niner
took the lead, the team of eleven quickly advancing toward the rise. It was
night, the light of the moon fading in and out as a partially cloudy sky
blocked the light. Between scanning his path ahead for anything that might
twist an ankle or worse, he had to admit he was enjoying the landscape. It was
so completely alien to anything he was used to, its barren nature was
intriguing. If he shut out what was happening around him, he could almost
imagine he was on the moon.

And
messing up his line, if you believed some of the conspiracy theorists.

That’s
one small step for
a
man, one giant leap for
mankind.

He
didn’t believe for a second the “a” had been said or intended. It just messed
up the flow of the sentence. Sure, it was probably more grammatically correct,
but historic lines like that were meant to sound good to the masses, not the literati.

His comm
squawked. “Zero-One, Control Actual. Do you read, over?”

“Go
ahead, Control.”

“Zero-One,
something’s happening.”

Dawson
held up a fist and took a knee, everyone else doing the same, weapons aimed to
cover all approaches. “Control, can you be more specific?”

There
was a pause. “It’s hard to describe, but, umm, have you ever seen You Only Live
Twice?”

Niner’s
head spun toward him with a grin and a thumbs up, Spock cocking an eyebrow as
high as Dawson could remember. “Ahh, you mean the volcano lair of Blofeld?”

“We’re
sending you images now.”

Niner
quickly joined him at a crouch, Atlas taking his place at point. He removed his
laptop and within moments they were examining new satellite images.

“Jesus
Christ!” hissed Niner. “Man, I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t that.”

Spock
glanced over his shoulder at the image. “Holy shit, is this for real?”

Niner looked
at Dawson. “BD, these guys look serious.”

“Seriously
deranged,” said Spock, already watching the landscape surrounding them.

Dawson’s
head bobbed, a deep frown creasing his face. “Deranged people with deep pockets
are dangerous. There’s no way they don’t have some significant firepower
defending that place. Control, have you had any luck locating any automated
defenses?”

“Negative,
Zero-One. And now that we’ve seen these latest shots, I’m guessing they’ll be
very
well hidden.”

Dawson
pursed his lips, pulling in a deep breath through his nose then blasting it
out. “Okay, we have a mission to complete. Let’s get in there, get our people,
and get the hell out.”

Niner
raised a finger. “Umm, one question.”

“What?”

“Well,
are we stopping them from doing whatever it is they’re doing, or just getting
our people?” He waved the laptop. “I mean, look at this thing! This is some
serious sci-fi, James Bondish shit. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

Spock
glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, BD, maybe we should be taking this thing
out. Didn’t you say the Triarii thinks doing what these guys are doing could
destroy the world or something?”

Leather
was now at his side, their comms not linked to Langley. He watched the images
flashing on the screen, shaking his head. “That’s like some space agency
looking stuff. What do you want to do?”

Dawson
shook his head. “This is where having someone else on the other end of the
earpiece making these kinds of decisions is worth it.” He activated his comm.
“Control, unless we hear otherwise, we’re leaving the facility untouched. It’s
not our mission. However, if the professors indicate there is a legitimate
danger, we’ll take it out.”

“Roger
that, Zero-One. I’m going to try and get a decision on this end on what to do.
But as soon as I do, this might go official, and Iceland may object to you
being there.”

Dawson
shrugged. “By the time they get here, we’ll be dead or done. Zero-One, out.”

Londinium, Britannia, Roman Empire
June 3
^rd
, 72 AD

“I need a woman.”

Roars of
laughter met Atticus’ proclamation, the two dozen that remained of the
Thirteenth Legion gathered in Flavus’ recently completed home. He smiled,
taking a drink of wine, everyone feeling pretty good at this point.

“I’m
sure there’s plenty willing to service you for the right price!” shouted Livius,
more laughter following.

Atticus
shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I had a girl back home, we were to be married.
It’s been eight years. I want to have sons who will carry on my name, a wife to
share my bed with, not some serving wench looking for extra coins to fill her
purse.”

There
was no laughter this time, Atticus’ words clearly echoing the deeply repressed
ones of the gathered men. Even Flavus felt it, though he had never known love,
he too young when he joined the army to experience the joys a woman could bring
beyond the bedchambers.

As he
looked about the room, he could feel the weight of leadership, leadership he
hadn’t been ready for, though had grown into, these men now accepting him as
their undisputed legate, this still a Roman military unit, despite its size.

Thousands
of men.

Dead.

It was a
shame.

No one
had followed them, Legate Catius and what remained apparently slaughtered. Word
had it only a few hundred had survived beyond those who had been sick,
retreating to Lugdunum, most of the officers dead. After Flavus and the Triarii
had left on their secret mission, the Gauls had apparently let the few that
remained leave unharmed.

The
curse of the skull?

Over the
years of exile in Britannia, he and his men had come up with many theories, and
most agreed that their misfortune indeed related to the skull they continued to
guard, though since they had arrived at their destination, nothing untoward had
happened to them. Their lives were normal. Uneventful. Boring.

Perhaps
it’s content with its new home.

There
had been questions about why they remained, especially now that Nero was dead,
however those were mostly settled when he described the meeting between their legate
and Nero himself, a meeting they were all impressed he had attended. The
emperor’s belief that the skull had caused the great fire that had consumed
much of Rome, and their own misfortunes on their travels, from dysentery to
unusually restless Gauls, had convinced them all the skull truly was cursed.

At least
at first.

But now with
years of no untoward happenings, even he questioned this wisdom.

And the
little old man who sat in the corner wasn’t helping.

He was a
curious creature. Clearly aged, yet unusually spry. He had followed them from
Rome, pressed himself upon them in Gaul, and survived the voyage across Oceanus
Britannicus. Things had gone their way since he had shown up, and the men had
started to think of him as a good luck charm. At the moment, he and Atticus
shared lodgings in this bastion of Rome that had sprung out of the barbary of
this desolate island, its constant gloomy skies enough to drive anyone used to
the sunny skies of Rome mad.

The old
man though seemed to take their situation in stride, he happiest when he was
within the presence of the skull, it still in its case, locked in a large chest
in the corner of the room. The skull was never spoken of in public, their true
identities never revealed to the masses that surged around them.

They all
had jobs, he himself following in his father’s footsteps as a blacksmith, a
trade he had learned as a youth and had been determined never to follow.

Life
sometimes has a funny way of working out.

As a brotherhood,
they pooled their resources, all living as equals, helping, sharing, slowly
establishing themselves to better not only their own lives, but those of their
comrades as well.

But the
problem put to him by Atticus’ frustrated utterance was one he had been giving
much thought to lately, Atticus not the only one feeling the emptiness. They
were soldiers, soldiers who would normally know no family until they retired or
left the service for some other reason. Yet here, now, they were in permanent
service until the day they died, in a land foreign to them. No families, no
lovers, nothing but their duty.