EDITORS’ NOTE: “Prince of Peace” brings Joe Ledger face-to-face with Jack Sigler, call sign King, leader of Jeremy Robinson’s Chess Team, who specializes in battling ancient myths reborn through modern science, pitting elite soldiers against the likes of the Hydra, Golems, and Dire Wolves and the madmen who conjure them from the past. The Jack Sigler series is currently in development as a major motion picture.
PRINCE OF PEACE
A JOE LEDGER/JACK SIGLER STORY BY JEREMY ROBINSON
1
As I stand before the window of my small but well-appointed hotel room overlooking the rich blue ocean of Micronesia, I find myself pondering a question I should have asked — more than once — before submitting myself to twenty-plus hours of traveclass="underline" What the hell am I doing?
The answer is simple enough: An old friend needs my help. Those six words propelled me around the globe to a volcanic island that seems to be mocking fate with its name. Pohnpei. The spelling is different enough from Pompeii, I suppose, but when I say it aloud, it sounds close enough. I left my girl, Junie Flynn, my dog, Ghost, and the job three plane flights behind me. For some, that might sound like a vacation, and I suppose it should be, but I’ve learned to depend on the people in my life. They keep me alive. And sane.
Working for the Department of Military Sciences isn’t exactly a low-stress job, and genuine vacations are hard to come by, thanks to the pervasive nature of the threats facing the world. I asked Mr. Church for some unstructured, unsupervised, unencumbered time off. He opened a fresh packet of vanilla wafers, selected one, tapped crumbs off it, and ate the whole thing before he answered me.
“The world is not currently on fire and there are no missiles inbound to the White House,” he said slowly. “Enjoy your vacation.”
I was on a plane three hours later, and back on the ground on one of the planet’s wettest locations, before the day was done. And that’s where things get complicated.
I came all this way, as I said, for a friend. Honestly, she was more than a friend. A lot more. But like the ruins that pock the outer fringe of this tropical Pacific island, she was ancient history. Was being the operative word. This morning — or is it yesterday morning now? — she leaped back into my present. Reading the morning news is a habit for many people, but I go deeper, scouring for hints that one of the DMS’s adversaries might be active again. While the DMS has MindReader — a globally connected supercomputer — for tasks like that, I think there are some things only the human mind can niggle out of a news report’s text.
But in this case, no niggling was required. The headline said it alclass="underline"
AMERICAN WOMAN, LAURA JONES, HELD ON SUSPICION OF TERRORISM
I didn’t believe the woman in question was my Laura Jones until I saw the photo topping the article. She looked older, and a bit tired, but there was no questioning her identity. Laura Jones, the girl who won over the Civilized Man in me, who stole my heart for three years in high school, who volunteered to feed homeless people on weekends, who wrote letters for Amnesty International, and who collected unicorn stuffed animals. This woman had been caught planting a bomb under the bleachers of a school gymnasium. Hundreds of kids could have been killed.
My bullshit meter pinged red, and I started making calls. The story seemed to check out, but was so far outside the DMS’s sphere of influence, and mission parameters, that I decided to take some personal time and step into my old detective shoes. Get to the bottom of it. Find out what really happened.
Two hours after touching down, I walked out of the Pohnpei State Police office feeling as though I’d been on the receiving end of a very elaborate prank. When I asked the receptionist about Laura Jones, I got a blank stare. When I asked about a bomb planted at a local school, the blank stare turned panicked. After assuring her I must have misread a news article, I checked in at the Ocean Breeze Hotel, confusion melting into anger.
On the far side of my third-floor window, there are palm trees, a sandy beach, the orange glow of a setting sun, and a view of the ocean that would lull most people into a relaxed state of mind. But until I can answer the question of what I’m really doing here, relaxation is the furthest thing from my mind.
After a quick speed-dial to the person best equipped to shed light on my situation, the voice of Jerome Taylor answers. “Hey, Joe, how’s the—”
“Go secure, Bug,” I say, using his call sign, which lets him know I’ve gone from “Detective Joe” to “the shit is about to go down, Cowboy.” I wait as a series of clicks indicate our phone call is being rerouted and encrypted.
“We’re secure, Cowboy,” Bug says. “What’s happening? Did she do it?”
“There is no she,” I say.
“They didn’t kill her…”
“I’m not sure she was ever here. Do me a favor and check on Laura Jones. From Baltimore. Married in ’04. Teacher. No kids.”
“Stalker much?” Bug says, trying to lighten the tone as his fingers clack over keys. “Got her. Annnd… you’re right. Financial records show her buying laxatives on Amazon two days ago — that’s embarrassing — and groceries earlier today. Probably prune juice. I can send someone to her house to confirm if you—”
A knock at the door interrupts him. I drop the phone on the bed’s comforter, reach for my sidearm, and find the holster not only empty but missing entirely. I’m here as a civilian. I flew internationally, on commercial flights. I’m a long way from my guns, but I’m far from defenseless. The hallway on the far side of the door is narrow, and gun or no gun, I excel at close-quarters combat. I lift my hard-shell suitcase in front of my torso and pick up the empty instant-coffee carafe seated atop the room’s minifridge. Armed like a hobo-gladiator, I give the door handle a twist and prepare to lunge.
The door creaks open and thumps to a stop against the wall. Aside from a small envelope on the floor, the hallway is empty. A quick glance in either direction confirms it. I crouch down, snatch up the envelope, and open it. It’s a dumb move, but I don’t think someone lured me all the way to the middle of South Pacific Nowhere to slip me an envelope laced with anthrax. There’s a stark white card inside, its front gilded with elaborate calligraphy reading: You’re invited.
Inside are two words and a set of numbers I recognize as coordinates.
I retrieve the phone from the bed. “Bug?”
“You realize I spoke to myself for like two minutes before I realized you were gone, right? What happened?”
“Send a team to Laura’s house. I need confirmation. ASAP.”
“On it.”
“And run these coordinates for me.” I read him the digits, suspecting they won’t be far from my present location.
“Nan Madol,” he says. “Ruins on the eastern side of the island. Capital city of the Saudeleur dynasty until 1628. Built in a lagoon. Lots of canals. Like Venice, but actually sunken. Pretty popular tourist destination. And not small. Nearly a mile from end to end.”
“So lots of places to hide?”
“If Nan Madol meant ‘Ambush City,’ it would be an appropriate name.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want backup?”
I consider the request for a moment. Even if backup left now, it would be nearly a full day before the team arrived. I’m not one for sitting around and waiting. But since I’ve clearly been lured here, probably for nefarious reasons, my little side mission is now official DMS business. “Fill in Deacon. It’s his call.”