The Lost Throne by Chris Kuzneski Page B

rear table. On his head he wore a full-size bronze helmet that covered his entire face except for his eyes and mouth. Guarding his nose was a long metal strip that started at his forehead and widened near his nostrils, making his eyes look like two hollow sockets.
    The effect was more than menacing.
    A bronze breastplate hung from his shoulders, protecting his ribs and chest but not his brawny arms. This gave him freedom of movement, allowing him to swing his sword from side to side or reach the silver dagger he had tucked in his leather sheath. An empty scabbard clung to his back, waiting to be reunited with the weapon he held in front of him like a statue.
    A blade that didn’t move. A blade that didn’t tremble.
    As though he had been training for this mission his entire life and couldn’t be stopped.
    Somehow that was the scariest thing of all.

16

    MacDill AFB Tampa, Florida

    P ayne and Jones made the necessary arrangements as they drove to MacDill AFB . A cargo flight was leaving within the hour that would fly them to Ramstein Air Base in the German state of Rhineland-Palatinate, where they could catch a plane to any country in Europe.
    It was one of the perks of being special advisers to the Pentagon.
    From there, they would travel to Kaiserslautern, approximately 10 miles from the base. Known as “K-Town” to American personnel, it was a city of 100,000 people and could provide them with anything they required: weapons, clothes, or a good German lager. They had been there several times over the years and knew the layout of the city. The only question was which of their contacts they wanted to involve in such a hastily planned trip to Russia.
    That was one of the things they would discuss during their transatlantic flight.
    Another was Allison Taylor.
    She was the biggest unknown in a mission that was full of them. They had gleaned some information during their initial conversation with her, but when it came right down to it, they knew very little about her background—other than her supposed connection to Richard Byrd.
    Hoping to learn more, Payne called Petr Ulster and asked if Byrd had ever brought his assistant to the Archives. Ulster could remember three different females during the last year. All of them were young. All of them were attractive. But none of them was named Allison.
    “You know,” Jones said from the back of the cargo plane, “there’s no telling what we’re getting into, other than it’s dangerous and probably illegal.”
    “I know. But I’m a sucker for a crying woman.”
    “Yeah. Me too. I just want to kiss their boo-boos and make them feel better.”
    Payne laughed. “Define boo-boo.”
    “Not a chance,” Jones said with a smile. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this: I’m more concerned than normal.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Why? Because I can’t get arrested in Russia. Maybe you can with your big muscles and your white skin, but I can’t. I mean, there’s a drink called a Black Russian, but as far as I know, that’s the only black thing they’ve got. And I want to keep it that way.”
    “No problem,” Payne assured him. “If the cops are called, I’ll shoot you myself.”
    “I’m serious, Jon. I don’t want to be the black Yuri Gagarin.”
    “What in the hell does that mean? You don’t want to be a cosmonaut?”
    “No, I don’t want to be a guinea pig. There’s no telling what tests they’ll run on my black ass if I get caught. Not to mention everything else that’s done to a man’s ass in prison.”
    Payne laughed, knowing full well that Jones was joking about Russia. In fact, just about the only time race was mentioned by either of them was when they were joking around.
    And it had been that way from the very beginning.
    They had met a decade earlier when they were handpicked to run the MANIACs. After a rocky start—mostly because Payne attended Annapolis and Jones attended the Air Force Academy—they became good friends. That bond had