Dragon's Triangle (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 2)

by Christine Kling

  “Are there any full-sized taxis?”

  “Nope, just tricycles.”

  Theo sighed. “I’m not taking the dog on my lap this time. It’s your turn.”

  Cole motioned to the driver of one of the tricycle cabs—which were really motorcycles with a small aluminum pod of a sidecar. Dozens of them were parked along the street outside the market. The driver jumped up and mounted his bike.

  “The Ryan Hotel?”

  The driver nodded.

  “I think he knows where to take us. Time to climb in.”

  Theo was a six-footer and slender, while Cole wasn’t as tall, but stocky. He always felt like an idiot when they stuffed themselves and the seventy-pound Lab into this favorite mode of Filipino transport. The seat was only four to five inches higher than the floor. Their knees were at the level of their ears, and the ceiling was so low Theo couldn’t straighten up his neck.

  Aparri was a bigger town than Cole thought. The driver dodged through traffic on roads four lanes wide, his bike’s engine groaning with the unaccustomed weight. The roads were full of potholes and the tricycle had the shocks of, well, a tricycle. Cole saw a cluster of young girls giggle and point at them as the bike slowed for a stop sign. Whether it was the dog, the black man (unusual in this country), or the sight of them all stuffed into the tiny sidecar, he wasn’t sure. But after several turns and a couple of traffic signals, the driver pulled up in front of a green two-story building with a neon sign and shut off his engine.

  Cole and Theo tumbled out of the sidecar. Theo straightened up to his full height and rubbed the back of his neck. “Every time, I swear I’m never gonna do that again.”

  “Not to worry,” Cole said as he paid the driver. “Once this guy leaves, it doesn’t look like there will be any other choice than to walk back.”

  Inside the door, Cole asked the woman behind the desk if she could help them find Skar. She pointed to the stairs.

  When they reached the top, Cole saw a large room full of tables with a bar along one side. A lone man sat hunched over the bar. He had dark blond hair that fell to his shoulder in long, greasy-looking clumps.

  Cole spoke quietly. “There’s only one guy in here. Must be him. What in the hell is Brian getting us into?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  They crossed the room and Cole stopped behind the man hunched over his drink.

  “Nils Skar?”

  The man did not turn around. “Who wants to know?” His English was strongly accented.

  “My name’s John Jones. Brian Holmes sent us.”

  The man’s head swung around and Cole saw from his profile that his eyes bulged grotesquely out of his eye sockets. “You’re friends of Brian? Then have a seat.”

  “Actually, would you be willing to sit at a table with us? We have something we’d like to show you.”

  The man tipped his head back and drained brown liquid from a shot glass, which he then slammed on the bar. The noise raised someone in the back room, and a man came hurrying out from a door at the end of the bar.

  Nils pointed them toward a four-top table. Even when the man stood, his shoulders remained hunched over, his chest concave. He staggered over to the table, pulled out a chair, and appeared to notice Theo and Leia for the first time as he collapsed onto the chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead launched into a fit of wet, gargling coughs that caused his whole body to convulse.

  “Are you all right?” Cole asked.

  Nils nodded and gradually the coughing subsided. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a dirty-looking handkerchief and a leather pouch.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, wiping at the corners of his mouth. “My health is not good.” Then he unzipped the pouch and the smell of cannabis engulfed them as he took out a package of papers and began to roll a joint.

  Theo said, “Am I smelling what I think I’m smelling?”

  Nils looked up at Theo with his bulging eyes. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Theo,” he said, and held out his hand toward a point about twelve inches to the right of where Nils was sitting.

  “You’re blind.”

  “Really?” Theo said with his hand still hanging in the air as an offer. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Nils grabbed Theo’s hand and shook it heartily. “Ha! I like you. And I may be like you, soon. It’s a brain tumor.” He picked up the joint and licked the paper to seal it. “This is for the headaches. They don’t mind here. They know me.”

  Cole spoke up. “Nils, the only reason we are here is because Brian told us you are very familiar with the Babuyan Islands. We need your help with a map.”

  Nils fished a lighter out of his pocket, lit the joint, and inhaled a lungful. After holding his breath for several seconds, he exhaled. “So,” he said, “you are treasure hunters. And I was just starting to like your blind friend here. Listen to me.” He leaned across the table, his bulging eyes staring at Cole. “There are no authentic maps. You have been cheated by some Filipino who has filled your head with stories of Yamashita’s Gold and sold you a fake map. Do you really think if there was gold around here these people wouldn’t have found it already?” He brought the joint to his mouth but another coughing fit stopped him from taking a drag.

  “Brian told us you already ran one salvage operation of a Japanese submarine out in the Babuyans.”

  “And did he tell you that I also found two other wrecks and between the three we didn’t even recover enough to pay our costs?”

  “He didn’t go into detail.”

  “I’ve spent enough of my life chasing after Filipino gold. I get a dozen guys a month contacting me with the same story. I guarantee you in a few months you’ll be broke, and you still won’t have found any gold.”

  Cole turned to Theo. “Let’s show him the map.”

  Theo pulled a sheet of paper out of his messenger bag. “This is just a copy, of course, but we do believe it is authentic,” he said.

  Nils took a deep drag on the joint, then said, “A blind guy can read a map.”

  Theo ran his fingers over the map. “Feel it. The lines are embossed.”

  Nils tentatively touched the surface and nodded. “Nice. I could use something like that already. How’d you do that?”

  Cole said, “Look, man, we didn’t come here to show you how to make embossed maps. Brian said you might be willing to help us. He said we could trust you.”

  Nils held up his hands. “Okay, okay. You know, in this business, it gets to be habit. There are so many amateurs that come to the Philippines looking for Japanese gold, for Marcos’s gold. This country is full of scammers, and I’m in the habit of pushing everyone away. Especially people with names like John Jones.”

  “Blame my mother. She was a patriot. It’s John Paul Jones.” Cole held the man’s stare. “We didn’t buy this document.”

  “Where did you get it then?”

  “From an old man. An American. He served over here, and he claims he got it during the war.”

  “Describe him.”

  As he described Peewee for the Norwegian, Cole saw a flash of something in the man’s face. Was it recognition? Then Nils closed his eyes. He started rocking and humming. “Yes,” he said. “I know! I will.”

  Leia whined softly under the table.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Theo said as he reached down to pat his dog. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. He’s sitting right here but it looks like Nils has left the building.”

  When the Norwegian opened his eyes, he looked disoriented. “Uh . . . um. What were you saying?”

  “Are you okay?” Cole asked.

  Nils shook his head, more to try to wake up than to say no. “I’m all right. Ugh. My head hurts.” He lowered his head, put his elbows on the table, and squeezed his head between his palms. “It’s been a while since that’s happened.”

  “Since what’s happened?”

  His voice was muffled when he spoke. “I see things—h
ear things.”

  Cole looked at Theo. At times like this, Cole really missed the silent communication they used to share with looks. His friend looked puzzled. He was trying to figure out what was going on.

  Nils sat up straight, his eyes wide and bulging out of the sockets. “I assume you have a chart with you,” he said.

  Cole was ready to throw in the towel and get out of there. Cole didn’t believe in psychics and this guy was about as fake as they come. But Theo produced his tablet and showed Nils how to read the electronic charts. Once the Norwegian was acclimated to the device, he brushed his finger across the touch screen and located the spot he wanted. He turned the paper drawing to reorient it, then adjusted the electronic chart again.

  “There,” he said. “I did my salvage work off Camiguin. That’s the area I know best. Your map doesn’t give me much to go on, but if I had to guess, I’d say that”—he pointed to the enclosed figure near the center of the page—“is Calayan Island and this obscene-looking shape down here is Dalupiri Island. I don’t know about the drawing of a little animal or what the hand or the star are all about, but there is an interesting note on the charts here.” He pointed to the screen, which showed the nautical chart of the two islands he had named. “Most of the water between these two islands is over a thousand feet deep. But tell me what you see off the northeast tip of Dalupiri.”

  Cole leaned in to examine the screen. “There’s an area marked with a dotted line and it says 181-foot depth recorded in 1996. Interesting.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You know,” Cole said, “there are always weird anomalies like that on charts. Most of the time it was just something that went wonky on a ship or surveyor’s equipment.”

  “Yeah. Most of the time. But something is telling me not this time.”

  Cole rubbed his fingers through his beard. “Something?”

  “Or someone.”

  “Okay.” Cole stood and Theo collected the map and the tablet. “Thanks for your help, Nils.”

  The man launched into another phlegmy coughing fit. The dog’s nails clicked on the wood floor as she scrambled to her feet. Nils called out, “Won’t you stay for lunch?”

  As they walked back toward the center of town, neither man spoke for the first ten minutes.

  Cole was the first to break the silence. “It doesn’t make sense that the depth would go from like twelve hundred feet to a hundred and eighty feet in that one little area.”

  “No, it could be an underwater mountain, but it’s more likely something down there caused a funky reading.”

  “Something really funky—like radioactive?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  A Cave in Luzon

  The Philippines

  June 26, 1945

  One of the enlisted men was the first to break rank. He lowered his gun, walked over to the barrel of gems, and thrust his hand inside. His fist rose into the air, spilling a showering cascade of colored stones that glittered in the beam of Ozzie’s flashlight.

  “Jesus!” the man said.

  “Sailor!” Westbrooke shouted. “Back in line.”

  One of the men at the rear of the party took off at a trot, headed for the mountain of gold bullion. The chamber opened up like a half circle on their right. The golden dragon was against the far wall and the crates were stacked in such a way as to leave several walkways radiating out from the dragon. Ozzie shone his flashlight around the chamber. About one hundred feet ahead on the far side he saw a black opening. The beam of his light wasn’t strong enough to see beyond the far wall, but Ozzie assumed that was the tunnel that would lead on to the next chamber. The one where Masako’s men now slept. He wished Westbrooke would lower his voice.

  The skipper continued to shout orders, but it had no effect on the men. One by one they wandered off through the aisles between the crates toward the center structure of gold bricks that appeared to support the dragon. Westbrooke followed them, but his orders did not seem to register.

  Prince Masako touched Ozzie’s sleeve. “That dragon is early Qing dynasty. You cannot blame your men for being drawn to it. Even though the statue is hollow, it is made of more than three tons of pure gold.”

  The snakelike body of the statue was about five feet in diameter, and it stretched back, rising and falling in an S curve. The beast’s huge head reared up, fangs bared in his gaping mouth. The forelegs reached outward with razor-sharp talons. “How did you get it here?” Ozzie asked.

  “Our soldiers discovered it in a temple in Thailand. It was transported here on a ship, then off-loaded by crane out in the cave where your submarine is. It rests on a wood cart behind the bullion. When it is safe to transport it back to the homeland, it can be hauled back out to the dock.”

  “And these other crates?”

  “Let me show you.” The prince walked over to one of the smaller crates and spoke to Ben. The young man pried up the lid.

  “Precious metals and gems are not the only treasures.” The crate was filled with straw-like packing material, but Ben dug down about a foot and pulled out a porcelain jar that stood about one foot tall. The paintings on it depicted a fierce stylized dog along with whiskery fish and pale blossoms. “Many of these contain this Chinese porcelain like ginger jars and vases from the Ming dynasty.” He pointed at other crates. “Some contain paintings or ancient scrolls. There are jade and stone carvings, jewelry, tapestries. Whatever our men believed was of value.”

  Ozzie walked over to one of the larger crates. “And what about these big crates with the writing on them?”

  The prince grinned and Ozzie turned away with a shiver.

  “Just more valuables, Lieutenant.” He called for Ben to return to his side.

  Westbrooke returned without the sailor guards. “They won’t listen to me. They’re trying to stuff gold bricks into their pockets. It’s mutiny.” His voice sounded whiny, petulant. It was little wonder the men didn’t give him more respect.

  Ozzie shook his head. “No, sir, it’s just greed. Give them a few more minutes. Let them explore. They’ll be back.”

  Westbrooke stepped between Ozzie and the prince and spoke in a low voice. “We may not have a few more minutes, ExO. How long until the soldiers back there wake up?”

  “I doubt your shouting just now helped, Westbrooke.”

  “Come on,” the skipper said. “Let’s go round them up.”

  The man might as well admit he can’t control his own men, Ozzie thought. He followed him to the far side of the cave and stood staring up at the dragon’s gaping mouth. The workmanship was extraordinary. The value of the statue would go far beyond its weight in gold.

  “H2O. Try your hand,” the skipper said. “See if they’ll listen to you.”

  One sailor had taken off his shirt, spread it out on the cave floor, and piled gold bricks on it. He was now tying the cloth around it to make a bundle he could carry in one hand while he held his flashlight in the other. He was just a kid, no more than nineteen years old.

  Ozzie walked up and shoved his shoulder. “Sailor!” he barked.

  The young man jumped up and saluted.

  A loud bang echoed in the stone chamber, and a hole appeared in the kid’s forehead. His flashlight hit the ground first and his body crumpled after it.

  Ozzie drew his weapon and crouched, looking all around him, but he didn’t see anyone other than their own men. The shot seemed to have come from very close by. The gold now forgotten, the other sailors grabbed their rifles. The skipper scrambled for cover behind one of the larger crates.

  “Turn off your flashlights,” Ozzie said.

  The other lights clicked off except for the one lone beam that still lit the cave floor next to the dead sailor.

  Jensen, a machinist first class, stood with his rifle to his shoulder and began advancing on the dragon. One of the others clicked a flashlight on. As he shone the light around the platform and the pile of gold bricks, a dragon-shaped statue danced on the wall.

/>   Another shot sounded. The sailor dropped his rifle and pitched forward onto the pile of gold bricks. The flashlight clicked off, leaving the cave in the eerie half light from that single flashlight beam.

  The shots seemed to be coming from somewhere on the other side of the dragon. The prince had said the statue was on a cart. Ozzie wondered if the shooter could be under it.

  Ozzie began to crawl backward, staying as close as he could to the side of the walkway next to the wood crates. If he could just locate the prince he could get him to put a stop to this. He cursed himself for not keeping the man close to him when he went with Westbrooke.

  He heard the skipper’s hushed voice calling out to his remaining men. “Can anyone spot the shooter?”

  Still on his knees, Ozzie lifted himself up to look over the top of the crates next to him. He saw some movement. One of the sailors had hung his shirt on his rifle barrel and then raised it up above the crate he was hiding behind. Ozzie shifted his eyes to watch the back of the cave wall. With another loud pop, a bullet tore a hole through the fabric. Ozzie hadn’t seen any movement or muzzle flash, but he was certain that was where the bullets were coming from. Where the hell was the shooter hiding?

  “Captain Westbrooke.” Prince Masako’s voice sounded loud in the silence following the shots. “Unless you want my men to kill you one by one, I suggest you order your men to lay down their arms.”

  Westbrooke stood with his hands in the air and issued the order.

  Ozzie joined the others as they lined up and placed their weapons on the ground in front of them. Ben appeared and pointed at Ozzie’s flashlight. He handed it to the boy. Ben walked over to the pile of weapons, picked up a pistol, and disappeared back into the darkness.

  There was movement back where Ben had gone. It was the prince in his white uniform. He stepped out from behind one of the large crates and spoke what sounded like an order in Japanese. A flashlight clicked on, blinding the Americans lined up with their hands in the air.