David Golemon - Ancients

A driver stepped from the first moving truck and hopped up to the dock. He was carrying a clipboard and was wearing the livery colors of Mayflower Transit. He looked around and waited.

The guard-shack door opened and a man stepped out wearing a standard security uniform. He placed a cap on his head and stepped toward the man who was looking at him with a smile.

"We don't accept deliveries at this address, son," the man said as he eyed the two trucks.

"Actually, my boss called and said that we had a pickup at this building." He made a show of looking at his clipboard. "Yeah, says right here, the Freemont. There isn't another building with that name on this street, is there?"

"No, but you may want to check back with your--"

A seven-inch knife in between his ribs cut the guard's words off as effectively as if he had shut off a radio. The man who had come up behind the guard was the driver of the second truck. The first man laid his clipboard down and then reached out and raised the sliding door of the first large moving van. As he did so, thirty-five men exited quickly. All were dressed in black Nomex and all had black hoods on their heads. It was exactly the same uniform that Jack and his men had worn for their raid the night before in Katonah.

A three-man team ran to the guard shack and another group to the large sliding doors of the loading dock. The first group smashed the communications-and-monitoring console in the guard shack and the second group placed quarter-pound timed charges against the base of each of the two loading doors that led into the warehouse. Each thirty-five-man team from the two trucks lined up on either side of the two doors just as two loud pops sounded, freeing the doors from their interior lock slots. As one man from each team slid the doors up, the rest ran into the dark interior.

Lance Corporal Jimmy Sanchez had been part of the Event Group for four years and loved the detached duty. He was moving up fast and the work under Colonel Jack Collins was challenging, to say the least. Being a veteran of the Event in the desert and the expedition down the Amazon the preceding year, he had come to be a trusted member of the security team that Collins had forged since he'd begun work for the Group. He'd even heard from Will Mendenhall that he was to advance in pay-grade to sergeant in the fall.

As Sanchez started to move, the ceiling lights flickered just as the sound of automatic gunfire erupted somewhere below them. He immediately ran to the wall-mounted phone and picked it up. There was no dial tone. He then reached into his pocket for his Group cell phone and punched only one number. It would alert all Event Group personnel that an emergency had arisen, which meant that the security team should come running to their aid. It also sent an automated message via satellite to Nevada, where the emergency alert would be relayed to Group Center.

Sanchez tossed the phone to the nearest wide-eyed technician.

"Dial 911 and tell them we have a break-in and shots have been fired!"

Sanchez withdrew his holstered 9-millimeter automatic and ran to the door. The corporal was on the second floor of the thirty-story Freemont Building, placing him only three levels above the loading dock. As he rounded the corner heading to the large staircase, he heard the volume of gunfire increase. He heard the distinctive reports of his own team's XM-8 automatic assault rifles, which meant that they had responded quickly to whatever was happening. As he gained the balcony overlooking the first floor, he stopped suddenly. Below, just as his men came into the main foyer to meet the attackers, they ran into at least fifty men. They quickly overwhelmed his first-floor team. They were everywhere. Sanchez cursed and ran back the way he had come. He had to get the technicians and professors out of harm's way.

"Corporal, the phones aren't getting a signal. At first we could, and then they all suddenly stopped sending. We couldn't get the police," the field tech said as Sanchez ran by him.

"They are jamming the cell signals with independent microwaves! Get upstairs with the rest of security; this is a kill raid!"

As Sanchez was trying to rally what was left of the Group's security element, the attackers started making 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.