by Dan McGirt
“That’s what worries me.”
The guns fell silent.
“Go!” said Jack.
The duo sprinted out to the forecourt between the temple structure door and the head of the stairs. Their sudden appearance surprised the dozen soldiers creeping along the wall on either side of the door.
With a hum of rotors, the bright orange SARA-2 rescue drone swooped low over the pyramid, buzzing the six soldiers on the roof. SARA-2’s nose hit one man full in the chest, sending him spinning into the air. He landed hard on his side and tumbled down the north side of the pyramid. The other soldiers dropped prone or jumped aside, landing on their comrades below.
SARA-2 hovered before the temple entrance, fifteen feet above the platform. Two rescue harnesses descended from the drone’s belly, while a rotating nozzle sprayed the soldiers with fire retardant foam.
“All aboard!” said Jack, grabbing for the nearest harness.
Galahad tackled him to the ground.
“Incoming!” he shouted in Jack’s ear.
From the corner of his eye, Gal had seen the smoky trail of a rocket-propelled grenade launched from the plaza hundreds of feet below. He reacted on instinct, knocking Jack aside and throwing himself atop his friend.
The grenade struck SARA-2 mid-frame and exploded with a roaring rush of flame, instantly disintegrating the drone. White-hot bits of debris flew outward, shredding many of the soldiers still on their feet. The blast stunned and deafened Jack and Galahad.
All was still for a moment. Jack struggled to his hands and knees, his ears ringing from the blast.
He never saw the blow that knocked him out.
19: Be Our Guest
Jack woke up.
The sheets were long fiber Egyptian cotton, high thread count, smooth and cool. He recognized the pattern as one exclusive to a high end linens purveyor out of Dallas. Above him was the silk canopy of an antique poster bed. The furnishings of the bedroom – wardrobe, dresser, guéridon, armchair, the bed itself – were late nineteenth century pieces, American style, done in tropical hardwoods. Silk wall hangings in mustard yellow and royal blue. Fiber optic spy camera hidden in the antique tin-embossed steamer trunk. The wooden blades of a ceiling fan rotated slowly. The glass door to a balcony was closed. The windows were cracked open, admitting a sea breeze.
This was the Yellow Bedroom, one of the twenty in Delos House, the San Marcos presidential residence. A distinct improvement over his prior accommodation.
Yet much more dangerous.
He had been bathed, shaved, and dressed in silk boxers while he was unconscious, which was disconcerting. His wounds were cleaned and bandaged, which was thoughtful.
Jack found a stylish khaki linen suit and Italian loafers in the wardrobe. The fit wasn’t perfect, but close enough.
Dressed, he tried the brass doorknob. To his surprise the door opened and he found himself in a long, high-vaulted corridor that ran the length of this north wing of the mansion. No guards were in sight, but Jack spotted three security cameras. There were probably more.
A door across the hall from his room opened and Galahad emerged. Seeing Jack, he scowled.
“Look at me, man! I’m a damn mannequin.” He wore a navy blazer and tan slacks that did not fit so well as Jack’s. Galahad’s broad chest threatened to burst the buttons of his dress shirt. He had skipped the tie.
Jack chuckled. “At least they didn’t dress you like a cigar store Indian.”
“Hilarious. What is this hoyat? Why aren’t we back in prison?”
“Thought you cashed some travel points for an upgrade.”
“Kwichoda. Some damn mind game happening.”
“A good guess. Follow my lead.”
Galahad scoffed. “Yeah, that never goes wrong.”
“I expect there is a tactical team in at least one of these bedrooms,” whispered Jack.
Gal glanced down the hall. “They have nice stuff here, Jack. We’re not going to break anything, are we?”
“Not unless we have to.”
A domestic servant, stiff and proper in formal attire, down to the tails and white gloves, appeared at the far end of the hall.
“Of course this place has an English butler,” said Galahad.
“How do you know he’s English?”
The butler gave a slight bow. “Dr. Scarlet, Sergeant TwoHawks, if you will be so good as to follow me. President Corbett will receive you in the West Salon.”
Jack placed a working class Estuary accent. He also read his bearing as more military than Global Butler Academy of London. Ex-SAS was his guess. Or Royal Marine. The bulge of a holster under his jacket was the real giveaway.
Galahad smirked. “Lucky guess.”
“Lead on,” said Jack.
“I hope there will be hors d’oeuvres,” said Galahad. “I’m starving.”
“Dinner will be served,” said the butler. “If you please?”
He led them down a formal staircase to the main floor and a wide corridor decorated with antique maps, charts, paintings, and prints depicting San Marcos life in earlier eras.
The West Salon was stylishly furnished in a late nineteenth century style. It opened onto a columned veranda overlooking Corbett City and the harbor. On one wall was a mural of a fox hunt, replete with baying hounds, top-hatted riders, and a Maya pyramid in the background – Sina’an Muul, minus the scorpion detail on the roof comb.
President Jefferson Corbett II, in his late forties, was rangy, tan to the point of resembling beef jerky, and reeked of too much expensive aftershave. He wore a slightly rumpled white linen suit, cotton shirt, no tie, calfskin loafers sans socks. His face broke into a wide politician’s grin as Jack and Galahad were announced, a smile not reflected in his cold green eyes.
“Cousin Jack! Sergeant TwoHawks! Welcome to San Marcos!” he said, advancing with outstretched hand. Corbett had the typical soft San Marcos drawl.
Jack shook. Their eyes locked. Corbett meant to impress with a crushing grip. Jack gave as good as he got and refrained from doing any damage. After holding the grip a bit too long, Corbett relented and greeted Galahad with a more perfunctory shake.
The president exuded a casual air as heads of state went – and Jack knew a few. It was the studied casualness of a man confident in his own power. Jack well recognized that particular pretense.
“Cousin Jack?” said Galahad, giving Jack the side eye.
Jack raised his eyebrows, and said nothing.
“We do share blood, sir,” said Corbett.
Jack gazed up and to the left as he envisioned the Scarlet family tree. “True,” he admitted with a small nod. “Your great-great grandmother Elise was sister to my great-great grandfather Joseph Scarlet Jr.”
“Just so!” said Corbett. “And that makes us cousins. Not quite kissin’ cousins, I allow, but blood nonetheless. We are so glad to have you.”
“No doubt,” muttered Galahad.
A brief cloud flashed across Corbett’s features. He resumed his ingratiating smile. “I trust your rooms were suitable?”
“Quite.” said Jack. “We appreciate your hospitality. Not that we had much choice about accepting it.”
Again Corbett’s smile faltered. “I can assure you, cousin, that most trespassers into San Marcos do not sleep so well as you have.”
“As I say, we are most appreciative.”
“Say no more of it,” said Corbett. “I hope you boys brought your appetite. Y’all must be famished after what has been a strenuous day by all accounts.”
“Indeed,” said Jack.
“We will dine shortly. In the meantime, how ’bout I give you the two dollar tour?”
“That would be outstanding,” said Jack.
“Excellent!” said Corbett. “As you surely know, Delos House is the preeminent example of Greek Revival home architecture in the Western Hemisphere.”
“Who doesn’t know that,” said Galahad.
“The original wooden structure on this site w
as built in 1847 and unfortunately was destroyed by fire in 1853. The main house was rebuilt in brick, completed in 1856, under the supervision of the founding father and first president of the republic, Judson Corbett.”
Jack knew the history. As a holding of first the Spanish empire, then Mexico, the island of San Marcos joined the Texas independence movement in 1836 and was an offshore territory of the Republic of Texas until 1846. In that year, rather than accept annexation by the United States along with the rest of Texas, the wealthy white planters who ran the island, led by Judson Corbett, declared the Republic of San Marcos, which had maintained its independence ever since – with the Corbett family staying firmly in charge.
President Corbett led his guests through several formal rooms on the ground floor of the house – a ballroom, a library, several parlors – boasting all the while about various points of architectural excellence, and the pedigree of the furnishings and the art.
“I have not had the opportunity to visit your White House in the States,” said Corbett. “But I daresay Delos House exceeds it for grace and splendor, sir.”
“It is a beautiful structure,” said Jack. “Certainly a credit to its builders and maintainers.”
Corbett beamed at this praise, then frowned, perhaps wondering if Jack was making a veiled crack about Delos House being built by slaves.
Which he was. Jack was well aware San Marcos did not abolish slavery until 1874. He smiled innocently, encouraging Corbett to continue the tour.
“We call this our family hall,” said Corbett.
The frost green walls of the gallery were hung with framed oil portraits, tintypes, daguerreotypes, and photos of past Corbett family patriarchs, often posed with their wives and broods of children. Corbett took evident pleasure in pointing out a black and white photo of Elise Scarlet Corbett. A certain stubborn gleam in her eye reminded Jack of his sister Cat. Per family lore, Elise was disowned by her overbearing father after marrying Judson Corbett’s eldest son and future successor not long before the Civil War broke out. Their connection to the San Marcos dynasty was not something the Scarlets much discussed.
Jefferson Corbett, however, seemed quite proud of it. He led Jack and Galahad next to a trophy room where mounted marlin, shark, and other fish shared wall space with the stuffed heads of bison, lions, grizzly, Cape buffalo, jaguars, pronghorn, elk, and other big game that had gotten on the wrong end of a high-powered rifle. Interspersed among the trophies were photos of Corbett ancestors posing with their kills, including one taken on safari with Theodore Roosevelt. Jack understood the message being delivered. The Corbetts were hunters. Predators. Dangerous men.
“This one may surprise you,” said Corbett.
He directed Jack’s attention to a full length oil portrait of a scowling seventeenth century sea captain attired in a bright red sea coat belted with a broad black sash. His hair fell in unruly locks about his shoulders beneath a wide-brimmed slouch hat, and was matched by a curled black beard. The subject’s eyes were piercing blue. There was a familiarity to his features, confirmed by the blood red frigate depicted in the background.
Galahad gave a whistle of surprise. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Bloody Jack Scarlett himself.”
Corbett expression was smug. “Our most illustrious ancestor!”
Jack demurred. “He was a pirate.”
Bloody Jack, also called Red Jack, was an English sea dog who bedeviled Spanish and French shipping for many years, both with and without proper letters of marque and reprisal. Bloody Jack was not, strictly speaking, Jack’s ancestor, nor Corbett’s. He was the progenitor of the Caribbean branch of the family, which had kept the older Scarlett spelling of the name. But Jack felt no need to correct President Corbett on that point.
“He made his fortune with his own hands,” said Corbett. “That is always illustrious.”
“Like Judson Corbett.”
Corbett beamed. “You do take my meaning, sir. We all dine at a table set by our forbears.”
“But our deeds are our own,” said Jack.
“Every great fortune is built on bloody deeds that lesser men call crimes.”
“Piracy or revolution, take your pick,” Jack said wryly.
“Land grabbing either way,” murmured Galahad. “Old specialty of the white eyes.” Jack shot him a warning look.
“Bloody Jack was a bold and courageous leader, with the audacity to defy the powers of his age and the grit to succeed,” said Corbett. “He lived on his own terms to the end.”
“He died on his own terms too,” said Jack.
Corbett gave Jack an appraising look. “Bloody Jack sailed into the sunrise and was lost to history. There is much to admire about the man.”
“I don’t expect you plan to fade into history.”
Corbett grinned. “No, sir. I intend to direct it.”
Jack read the determined set of the president’s jaw and the harsh gleam in his eye. Corbett saw himself in the mold of the hunters, soldiers of fortune, and pirates whose images adorned the walls of his home. His choice of idols marked Jefferson Corbett as an ambitious man with few scruples as to how his ambitions were achieved.
Jack turned his eyes back to the scowling image of Bloody Jack, a man who painted his flagship blood red to inspire fear in the crews of the merchant ships he stalked. So what did it say about Jack that, centuries later, he chose the same name for his personal vessel?
Both were called Marisa.
20: Like Gentlemen
The forced pleasantries continued at dinner, where the men were joined by Corbett’s wife and daughter. Corbett introduced Jack as “our cousin from the States,” to the evident delight of the women. First Lady Aileen Corbett was cool and stylish. Daughter Delphine, nineteen, was starstruck by Jack and obviously intrigued by Galahad. Something to rib Gal about later. If there was a later.
After dessert was cleared, Corbett directed Jack and Galahad to the veranda while the ladies retired for the evening. It was time to talk business.
The rocking chairs, Corbett bragged, were crafted by a master chair maker in the mountains of Tennessee. The cigars were Cohiba, a personal gift from Fidel Castro, of a diplomatic blend not available for public sale. Jack, a non-smoker, declined. Galahad accepted gratefully. The butler – Tavers was his name – produced a lighter, did the honors, and withdrew a discreet distance down the veranda.
The lights of Corbett City and the harbor beyond twinkled below. They watched a small jet land at the San Marcos International Airport, four miles outside the city.
Corbett took a long puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring. The only sounds were the creak of the chairs against the floorboards, muffled traffic noise from down the hill, the distant crash of the waves, the cries of night birds.
When the smoke fully dissipated, Corbett said, “Why are you here, sir?”
“Your men brought us, I presume,” said Jack.
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“We are part of a search and rescue effort for a missing scientific research ship, Sandpiper, last known to be in or near San Marcos waters,” said Jack. “A search with which your government has refused to cooperate.”
“So you took it upon yourself to violate San Marcan sovereignty and trespass in our waters anyway?”
“Something like that,” said Jack.
“My friends at LiquiOil tell me you infiltrated their drilling platform. Did you expect to find a ship there?”
“No,” admitted Jack.
“Or at a restricted and sensitive archaeological site in the middle of the island? Do you suppose a ship was hidden there? Is that what you are telling me?”
“Not at all,” said Jack.
“I can tell you, cousin, there is no such ship in our waters. Nor in our jungle. I’m aware of the search and rescue operation. But that could be for show. My brother believes you are spies and saboteurs for the American government.”
That would be Taylor Corbett, the secretary of war. The
Corbetts liked to keep the fingers on the triggers all in the family.
“I discussed that notion with one of your brother’s men earlier today,” said Jack. “A Major Anson.”
“Oh?” said Corbett.
“You didn’t get a full debrief on our visit to Fort Jackson?” said Jack.
Corbett glowered. No, thought Jack, little brother didn’t share all the details. Interesting.
“Go on,” said the president, recovering his aplomb. “I want to hear straight from your own mouth what your business was on that platform.”
“We strayed into San Marcos waters following the last known course and position of the missing ship. When we happened on the LiquiOil platform, I will confess I became distracted when I recognized the BOLD apparatus they have installed there.”
Corbett frowned, either not comprehending, or not wanting to admit he knew what Jack was talking about.
“The boron laser drill,” Jack added. “Experimental cutting edge equipment. Professional curiosity got the better of me and I decided to swim over for a closer look.”
“So you admit to spying,” said Corbett.
“Not at all. I thought we might also ask the Deepfire crew if they had any information about Sandpiper. Alas, their security team was trigger happy and things got out of hand – until your coast guard showed up.”
Corbett grimaced. “Your account omits much.”
“I aim to be concise,” said Jack. “May I ask a question?”
“You can ask. I might not answer.” Corbett fussed with his cigar.
“What is LiquiOil doing in San Marcos?”
Corbett settled back in his chair. “They’re helping develop our energy resources. We’ve as much right to drill in the Gulf as the U.S. does.”
“I agree,” said Jack. “But you’re not dealing with LiquiOil main. You’re in bed with the Special Engineering Group. I know SEG. They’re want something other than oil and gas.”
“And what might that be?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Mr. President.”
Corbett’s smile was smug. He took a puff from his cigar, exhaled, and said, “Afraid that’s a state secret, cousin.”
