by Albert Able
The US Attack Class submarine surfaced within minutes of the two vessels vanishing below the waves.
The scene as the commander peered over the brim of his dripping conning tower was horrific; dozens of pitiful charred carcasses littered the sea, drifting amongst dozens of singed life vests and other flotsam. The first sharks were already nudging the silent corpses, testing for resistance before tearing them apart.
There were only two live survivors to be found in the weak morning light.
“OK, Bring them on board before the sharks get them, then let’s see what we’ve got!” the Texan voice drawled. The two men, both still unconscious, were dragged not too gently aboard. One appeared to be a deckhand from the cruiser. The other, the enemy submarine’s commander, his leather map case still looped around his shoulders. The recovery crew prepared to lower the survivors gently through the open hatch in the foredeck.
Below the surface, the Japanese submarine was settling into its rocky grave; the ocean silt disturbed by its arrival was already clearing in the powerful current. A mixture of bubbles and oil continued to stream from the torn and fractured hull. There was no longer any sign of human movement; the remaining seamen had already choked their lives away inside the shattered tube.
A number of sharks were assembling and peering inquisitively at the new arrival. Several cruised silently around the wreckage, casually tasting the new flavours disturbed by the intruder.
Suddenly, as if in a final act of rebellion, the last dry electrical circuit flashed a weak arc of current. The bow tube opened silently, the release control operated effortlessly and its special self-seeking torpedo ejected gracefully from the one remaining undamaged tube. Its electric motor hummed happily, the propeller thrashing eagerly at the water. Speeding away in a cloud of bubbles, the deadly missile arched upwards in a gentle turn as the powerful current made its presence felt. Suddenly the auto-sensors detected its prey; the torpedo responded, corrected its direction slightly and then raced greedily to the kill.
The sharks, panicked by the rush of compressed air from the dying submarine, retreated well out of sight in a flash of acceleration.
The sonar man in the American submarine screamed into his microphone, “Torpedo launch Sir. One hundred metres and closing!”
The captain looked instinctively into the water surrounding his boat, shouting into his own head set at the same time, his senses numb with the reality.
“All ahead full. Give me a direction?”
“Oh God!” was the reply and the last human sound he was ever to hear. The torpedo struck the hull a few metres from the bow, exploding in the torpedo room. The chain reaction from the blast disintegrated the whole forward section of the craft, killing everyone in there and in the adjoining control room. The remains of the boat dipped forward, rapidly filling with water.
Amidst screams of panic, the surviving men scrambled frantically out through the rear hatches and the remains of the shattered conning tower. Within seconds, the submarine listed and began to sink. Like her former targets, she was so badly mutilated that she could no longer resist the inevitable ingress of the sea and vanished quickly below the waves.
The sharks, initially scattered by the explosion, soon recovered their courage and angrily returned to examine their latest tormentor.
Cruising at a safe distance around the newest settling hulk, they gradually formed into a large shoal as oil and bubbles continued to escape erratically from the dead tube. Warily, the beady-eyed predators circled, waiting patiently for their chance to examine the latest visitor to their hostile environment.
Soon their senses noted the wonderful taste of blood, followed by a familiar splashing in the water from the roof of their world: that wonderfully tantalising sound of creatures in distress. Inquisitive, some cruised gracefully to the surface, where closer cautious examination revealed the mighty feast awaiting them. Blood from the many wounded seamen poured into the water caressing their senses like a pre-lunch appetiser; soon there was more much more blood.
The screams of the terrified dying men fell on deaf ears. There would be no help, just a horrifying nightmare as the struggling survivors were systematically picked off and ripped apart.
Later that evening a native dhow heading home from its fishing ground slowed and stopped. The water was littered with hundreds of seagulls picking over the multitude of flotsam from the combined tragedies.
The collection of empty life jackets from lost vessels of all nations were all too common a sight these days and had no obvious value to the fisherman. One rather different floating object, however, caught his sharp opportunist eye. Reaching down with the boat hook, he pulled a leather map case from the water; the strap had somehow looped around an empty wooden packing case and remained afloat. He had no idea of its real purpose nor did he care.
“It may be worth something in the market,” he mused as he opened the flap. There was nothing inside; he hung it indifferently over the lifebelt by the wheelhouse door to dry and resumed his journey.
f
Almost sixty years later Oscar Nippon, an ageing Japanese businessman, sat with his younger friend and partner Greg Sing at a quayside café on the Singapore waterfront sipping cold mint tea. Oscar was tall and slim, a striking looking man in his early sixties. It was just over a year since they’d sat at the same café celebrating their safe arrival in Singapore following their hair-raising escape from Manila after completing their successful ‘Treasure Hunt’ for a great hoard of gold and platinum. Now, amazingly, they had finally completed the legitimate sale of the precious metals they’d so successfully spirited out of the Philippines.
Their hunt for ‘Yamashta’s Gold’ had been a long and tragic story, involving a costly and painful tangle with some of the Syndicate’s most ferocious and violent enforcers. On top of that, they’d also had to fight off the cunning attention of corrupt local officials as well a traitor from within the legitimate law enforcement agency SONIC (Special Operations National and International Cooperation).
The purpose of their informal meeting today was essentially symbolic and to acknowledge that their promise to the partners, murdered by Syndicate agents, had been fulfilled and “possibly to exchange ideas for their own individual plans for the future” as Greg teasingly suggested.
They had been very fortunate because, even after losing a considerable quantity of the recovered bullion to the Syndicate, the remainder would eventually provide a substantial fortune for each of them, and their dead colleagues’ families.
Most people would have been satisfied with this - but Greg Sing’s effervescent adventurous spirit, in spite of all they had endured, wanted to pursue more of the gold, which was, he was convinced, still hidden in the Philippines.
On the other hand, the older and undoubtedly wiser Oscar was quite content and pleaded, “I need no further excitement thank you!”
The two friends sat quietly sipping their tea and reminiscing over the last two years.
It was Greg, who had always enjoyed collecting odd bits of wartime memorabilia, who had found an old map case in a street market in Jakarta. Unaware of its hidden potential at the time he took it home and enthusiastically polished and refurbished the tired old case. That was when he discovered the secret pocket in the back, which contained some faded old military maps. Because it was written almost entirely in Japanese characters, he was not initially able to decipher what the various markings really implied. His imagination in the meantime conjured up colourful Treasure Island fantasies until he was convinced that somehow he was looking at a detailed map of some of the many suspected hiding places, of the fabled Yamashta's Gold.
One hand-marked position in particular encouraged him. It was in fact the only note in English. ‘Bingo!’ it declared with a cross well away from all the other land born positions.
Some months later his dream became reality when, financed by Oscar, he eventually found the ‘Bingo’ location. It turned out to be a large cave about one hundred kilomet
res inland from Manila. In it were three large rusting World War Two Japanese military lorries, each loaded with rotting wooden cases filled with rough cast gold ingots.
The hoard consisted of about fifty tonnes of gold, five tonnes of silver and almost five tonnes of Platinum.
After a desperate and tragic adventure, Greg and Oscar finally managed to salvage a little over one tonne of gold and all of the platinum. It had now been converted into over fifty million American dollars.
Utilising sixty percent of the proceeds, they’d just completed setting up the promised trusts for each of the families of their murdered business partners. The balance would be divided between Greg and Oscar.
“I have to say,” Oscar smiled, rubbed an imaginary beard on his smooth chin. “I often wondered if this day would ever come.” He looked at his friend. “Now here we are! Quite honestly I still get a shiver when I think of those Syndicate killers. The whole episode was like a prolonged nightmare. I feel a great sense of relief knowing that now we can avoid any more confrontations with the forces of evil.” He shook his head slowly. “We are comfortably well off, yet I don’t feel elated. The memory of our dear friends fills my every waking moment.” He looked sad. “Without them and their faith in me, I would never have been able to kick my drug addiction; in fact I would certainly have been dead long ago.”
Greg smiled understandingly.
“Sadly, we can’t change the past but we have honoured our friends’ memories and ensured that their families are financially secure - for a couple of generations at least - haven’t we?” He looked seriously at Oscar. “So, isn’t it time to make further use of our share?”
Oscar looked at his friend cautiously.
“Just what harebrained scheme have you in mind?” he replied slowly.
“Well,” Greg started, clearing his throat. “You remember the old map?”
He looked up questioningly. Oscar nodded without speaking.
“Then you’ll remember when you translated those notes written in Japanese just near where the Island of Corregidor appears on the map?” He wrinkled his eyebrows and looked cheekily at Oscar.
Oscar raised his hand.
“Oh no, not another treasure hunt.” He shook his head vigorously. “Count me out, I told you before, I simply couldn’t cope with any more of your style of excitement!” He paused, thinking desperately for something to say. “Haven’t we enough money now? We can buy homes and put funds in trust that will ensure you have everything you need for the rest of your life.” He raised his hands in supplication.
“I hear you Oscar but it’s not the money. You know very well that it’s the thrill of the chase and the urge to succeed that we love. That gold is down there somewhere, of that I’m certain. After all we did find the stuff they left behind on land, well at least some of it didn’t we?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It does mean that we would be starting with much more certainty of success, yes?” he reasoned with a wry smile.
“But the odds of finding some treasure at the bottom of a shark-infested sea are pretty poor. That makes it a much more perilous proposition than scratching around in the foothills doesn’t it?” Oscar protested. “Who’s to know if that location was correct? It could be miles out,” he added hopefully trying to suppress the bubbling enthusiasm. “We don’t even know if that’s the position of a rendezvous or of a wreck.” He tried again to cool down the conversation.
“You are well aware of the report! Damn it, you translated it!” Greg persisted. “On the night that last submarine left Manila harbour, there was a huge explosion reported in the general area of that location and the sub never returned,” Greg smiled encouragement. “So with the modern sophisticated equipment available these days at least we could scan the seabed for a wreck.”
“There’ll be hundreds of wrecks out there surely?” Oscar protested. “How could we be sure we had found the right submarine - the one supposedly full of gold?”
“We dive down and take a look!” Greg concluded simply, looking up sporting his most infectious grin.
2
Stiletto knife in hand, the attacker lunged forward in a head down rugby style charge. Alex dropped to his knee and fired two rapid shots into the man’s massive chest, killing him instantly but in spite of the impact of the soft nosed .38 slugs, the momentum of his vast bulk was not hindered. Alex staggered under the weight and fell back. The knife sliced into his groin as the man fell on top of him. Yet in spite of searing pain in his abdomen, it was the nausea brought on by the halitosis stench from the gaping mouth that dominated his senses, giving him an additional burst of strength to heave the massive dead body to one side.
“Hey, take it easy big guy! You don’t have to wrestle with me. I’ll submit willingly!” Rosie called out as she hauled herself up from the floor where Alex had pushed her in his rambling nightmare.
Alex returned instantly to consciousness with perspiration soaking his body and face and peered blearily towards Rosie’s voice. A sharp pain in his groin reminded of his dream.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded quietly, realising what he must have done.
It was almost twelve months since that bloody brawl with the Syndicate enforcer and it was not the first time that he had relived the heart-stopping moment.
“Perhaps you’d like to get back into bed and I’ll try to make it up to you?” his face set in a cheeky grin as he quickly recovered his composure.
“Some chance young man. You go back to what ever you were trying to do - I’ve got more important matters to attend to.” She moved away haughtily.
Alex knew Rosie too well so, smiling inwardly; he lay back and closed his eyes. About ten minutes later Rosie re-appeared carrying a tray of fresh coffee; she slipped off her flimsy dressing gown and jumped into bed. Alex stirred slowly and placed his arms around her.
“That coffee looks far too hot to drink,” he suggested slyly.
Rosie scowled.
“So?” she teased.
“So come here.”
He pulled her gently towards him and kissed her softly on the lips.
“I hope it’s very very hot and needs lots of time to cool,” he whispered.
Rosie understood only too well the inner pain her beloved man frequently endured and knew that only time and loving understanding would ever purge his memory of all the unspeakable things he had been obliged to do in order to survive.
“Who cares,” she purred and nuzzled into his arms.
f
Special Operations National and International Co-operation (SONIC), was a top-secret NATO organisation with the task of “Protecting the soft underbelly of Democracy” or “Nipping trouble in the bud” as The Boss euphemistically explained the role to a recently elected Prime Minister. “And that Sir means fighting the enemy by a set of rules somewhat removed from the politically correct image that any democratic country would want to be associated with!”
Sir Adrian Jordan, known to his colleagues and closest friends simply as The Boss, was head of SONIC. He ruled the department in his own unconventional style and reported only to the Prime Minister or the Minister of Defence.
Alex Scott was SONIC’S senior operative.
“How has Agent Scott survived for so long in such a dangerous environment?” the Prime minister asked in wonder as he gradually learned about the secret killing machine that only he and the Minister of Defence had knowledge of and authority over.
“Alex is a quiet man who always engages his brain before opening his mouth or flexing his trigger finger.” The Boss thought for a moment more. “That’s as well as being a thoroughly tough bastard.”
In the days of the ‘Cold War’, SONIC’s role had occasionally included the neutralizing of troublesome dissidents. Now it all too frequently involved skirmishes with terrorist regimes and political pariahs but increasingly with The Syndicate, a powerful and vicious international crime organisation. Uncompromisingly ruthless, they made sure that opposition was almost always fatal.
The leader, his name unknown by the authorities, and founder of the Syndicate was in fact a trained lawyer and former industrial tycoon. He had fallen from grace when his plan to corner the world supply of titanium was revealed as a giant scam and caused one of the greatest stock market scandals, sending numerous relatively innocent men to jail and causing others to commit suicide.
The four others who formed the Syndicate hierarchy were also disillusioned former business or professional men, filled with hate and vengeance against a system that they believed had cheated them in one way or another.
SONIC had been badly embarrassed during its last clash with the Syndicate during Oscar and Greg’s earlier Philippine adventure. Not only did SONIC fail to fully protect them - in the event the Syndicate managed to steal almost twenty tonnes of gold from under everyone’s noses and murdered four other partners as well as causing the death of several innocent bystanders.
The final embarrassment for SONIC was when they discovered that their operative, Chris Williams, was a double agent who had very nearly succeeded in killing Alex Scott.
Determined to even up the score, Alex finally managed to lure two of the Syndicate’s directors into a terminal trap. Although it was not known at the time, the loss to the Syndicate of two of its most active partners caused severe disruption to their organisation from which they never fully recovered; in fact the ultimate destruction of the organisation was probably triggered at that time.
Alex, unsurprisingly, was now at the top of their “most wanted” list. The Boss had therefore deemed it wise for Alex and his new wife to stay out of sight for some time. “At least until the heat dies down,” he had reasoned.
They had chosen the wonderful backdrop of Alaska as their temporary new home, assuming new identities while happily leading a normal domestic life. Their son, now a healthy nine months old, had been born there.
