by David Wood
Dog tags.
He reached out to touch one, rubbing it between a gloved thumb and forefinger. The rust crumbled away beneath his touch to reveal metal, embossed with words…a name, only partially legible, but written in familiar Roman letters. Howard? Edward?
American, maybe? Definitely Allied military. Was this a troop ship? If so, where were the helmets and guns?
Comprehension dawned like a spasm of nausea. These men weren’t troops on their way to the front lines. They had been prisoners of war, captured by the Japanese, destined for a brutal forced labor camps.
This was a hell ship.
The clanking sound came again, but because he was holding audience with the dead, the sound startled him. He twisted as if the skeletal arms were reaching out to grab him, and kicked away, swimming frantically for the opening where Bones—Dane grimaced around his regulator at the thought of his teammate’s nickname—was busy rapping the butt of his dive knife against his air tank.
Yes, thought Dane, flashing an eager thumb’s up. Time to go. Let’s get the hell out of here.
Just a few minutes after Maddock and Bones slipped below the surface, Willis glimpsed a dark speck on the horizon. He immediately pointed it out to Professor and in the sixty or so seconds it took for the latter to retrieve a pair of binoculars, the little dark spot grew larger; large enough for both men to recognize that it was another boat and that it was headed right for their position.
“Think we ought to prepare to repel boarders?” Willis asked, with only a little bit of sarcasm in his tone.
“Darn it. Forgot to pack the cutlasses,” Professor answered in the same uneasy tone.
They had kept a constant lookout during the search, mindful of the fact that their presence in internationally disputed waters might make them a target for a search or shakedown by military patrol, or worse, they might attract the notice of pirates rumored to be operating out of secret bases in the Spratly Islands. Unfortunately, their options for dealing with such an encounter were limited. They had made the difficult decision to limit their shipboard arsenal to a couple of rifles and one pistol apiece—enough, Maddock had explained, to fend off an opportunistic attack by poorly organized pirates, but not so much that an official Chinese or Vietnamese naval interdiction might lead to arrest, capture, or worse.
In the binoculars, the approaching vessel was revealed to be a sleek motor yacht, modern and far too expensive for outlaw mariners, though definitely not military. The radar put its approach speed at twenty-one knots. With divers in the water, running wasn’t an option, but even if the men remaining aboard Jacinta had been inclined to try, the yacht would have been able to easily overtake them.
“How are we gonna play this, Prof?” Willis asked, nervously.
Professor lowered his glasses. He wasn’t particularly bothered by the prospect of violence, but like any other SEAL, there was one thing that he was afraid of: failure…blowing the mission, letting his country and his swim buddies down.
“W-W-M-D,” he muttered. What would Maddock do? “Okay, let’s break out the rifles. Maybe if they know they we’re not toothless, they’ll hold back long enough to let Maddock and Bones finish the dive.”
Willis nodded and went off to retrieve the weapons while Professor maintained his vigil with the binoculars. He could see the silhouettes of men moving about on the approaching vessel, but little else. After a few more minutes, the yacht veered to port, and if the diminishing froth of its wake was any indication, cut its engines. Even as it coasted to a stop, a smaller vessel—Professor recognized it as a Zodiac, a civilian version of the Rigid Inflatable Boat that the SEALs often used—pulled out from sheltered side of the yacht and turned toward the Jacinta. There were five occupants, all wearing dark tactical gear and carrying assault weapons.
“Well, that answers one question,” Professor said, under his breath.
Willis returned a moment later with a rifle in each hand. He held one out to Professor, but before the other man could take it, there was a loud cracking sound, like someone smashing a hammer into the side of the boat. The bulkhead just behind them exploded in a spray of wood and fiberglass, and a couple seconds later, the report of a high-powered rifle echoed across the water.
Both men threw themselves flat on the deck, but Professor knew the shooter had missed on purpose; it was a warning shot from a sniper on the yacht, covering fire to protect the men on the assault boat.
Professor’s heart sank. They were outnumbered, outgunned…helpless. Worse, there was no way to warn Maddock and Bones about what would be waiting for them back on the surface.
CHAPTER 6
The memory of the skeletons haunted Dane all the way to the surface. At each decompression stop, he wondered if the men trapped on that ship had been alive, desperately holding one last breath, or already dead when they reached this depth. The closer to the surface he got, the more certain he was that those men had been alive when the doomed ship had passed through the water where he now floated; alive and terrified.
When they were just fifty feet below the glittering emerald surface, with the keel of the Jacinta a black gash directly overhead, a visiting tiger shark reminded Dane that perhaps not all of the men who had gone down on the ship had drowned; there were other ways to die. He and Bones ascended back-to-back, gripping unsheathed knives, for the remainder of the ascent. The shark swam lazy circles around them, its coal black eyes betraying nothing of its intent. Because Dane’s attention was focused on the shark, he didn’t notice the more immediate danger until it was too late. As he scrambled onto the low dive platform that hung from the boat’s left side, he found himself staring into the barrel of semi-automatic pistol.
There were two men on the platform, both wearing black tactical gear and matching balaclavas. Their captors didn’t say anything at first, but merely gestured with their pistols. Dane and Bones both held their hands up and climbed the rickety staircase up to the main deck where three more gunmen waited, along with Willis and Professor who were kneeling, hands behind heads in a classic hostage pose. Dane was relieved to see that his friends had suffered nothing more than wounded pride.
Bones shook his head ruefully. “Come on, Professor, I thought you were the responsible one. I specifically said no parties while we’re gone. You put him up to this, didn’t you Willis?”
“Very amusing,” remarked one of the gunmen.
The speaker was, Dane noted, one of the men that had accompanied them up from the dive platform. The man was tall and broad, and carried himself confidently. He didn’t have a discernible accent, which meant he was probably American, and given his professional comportment, Dane figured him for former military, probably Special Forces, now working as a mercenary. Crime was of course an equal opportunity career path, but Dane’s instincts told him that this wasn’t merely a hijacking.
“What do you men want?” he asked, trying to put a little quaver in his voice.
“You found the ship, right?”
Dane sensed it wasn’t really a question.
“Wow, straight to it,” Bones said with a disappointed sigh. “No foreplay.”
No kidding, thought Dane. The ship. These men definitely knew who the SEALs were and what they were looking for.
The gunman nearest to Bones lashed out with his foot, catching Bones behind his left knee. As Bones folded onto the deck, a pistol swiped across the back of his head. A trickle of red appeared from beneath Bones’ dark hair and spattered on the deck. Dane knew from experience that it took a lot more than that to put Bones down, but to his credit, the tall Indian suppressed his instinct to fight.
“How do you like that for foreplay?” snarled the gunman, jamming the muzzle of his pistol against Bones’ neck for added emphasis.
“The ship,” repeated the leader.
There was nothing to be gained by playing coy. “It’s the wrong one,” Dane confessed. “You guys should have given us a little more time to look. There’s a wreck down there, but it’s not the
Awa Maru.”
The leader stared at him for a moment, his expression mostly hidden behind his mask, and then burst out laughing. “Maddock you poor dupe. Is that what they told you to look for?”
Dane was more surprised by the reaction, and the fact that the man knew his name, than by the simple fact of the assault team’s presence. Up until that moment, he had suspected that this was might be a group of treasure hunters trying to frighten off a rival. Or perhaps that there had been a leak in the SECNAV’s office, alerting some outside interest or perhaps even a foreign power, to their clandestine search.
Now he saw everything differently.
There was a leak, and it wasn’t merely a case of loose lips sinking ships. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. The SECNAV had lied to Maxie, sent them out armed with bad intel. The Awa Maru story was completely bogus; the ship below was the ship they had been meant to find, and the reason for the search had nothing to do with recovering war treasure or appeasing China.
“You seem to know more about this than we do,” Dane ventured. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten us. Maybe start with just who the hell you actually are.”
“You can call me ‘Scalpel’.”
Bones made a choking sound that Dane recognized as an attempt—not a very good one—to stifle laughter.
“Something funny?” Scalpel snapped.
“No, I was just thinking I should set you up with my cousin, Surgical Mask.”
Scalpel ignored him. “Just answer my question. You found a ship, right? A Japanese ocean liner?”
Dane nodded slowly. “I think they were using it to transport POWs.”
“Any remains?”
Dane nodded again.
The eyes behind the balaclava studied him for a long moment. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to go back down there and find something for me. We’ll stay up here with your friends, and as long as you’re cooperative, everyone will walk away when I have what I’m looking for.”
Dane’s first impulse was tell Scalpel exactly where he could stick his instructions, but decided that wouldn’t improve the situation; his second was to feign cooperation in order to buy time. Scalpel’s demand was patently absurd, and bespoke an unfamiliarity with the difficulties inherent in deep diving and marine salvage. That was something he could use to his advantage, but he would have to tread very carefully. “I don’t know what it is you expect me to find down there, but you do understand that at that depth, max time on the bottom is about twenty minutes. Last time, we didn’t do much more than look in the windows.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?” There was a dangerous edge to Scalpel’s voice.
Dane held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Just tell me what you’re looking for.”
He sensed that the man was smiling behind his mask. “There was a very special passenger aboard that ship. I want you to find him.”
“There were hundreds of skeletons.”
“I think you’ll recognize Lord Hancock when you see him.”
“Is he related to Graham Hancock?” Bones interjected. “You know, the dude with all the theories about aliens and ancient civilizations?”
“Keep that up and I’m going to shoot you in the head just to shut you up,” Scalpel said. He turned back to Dane. “Lord Hancock has a metal plate in his skull.” The man tapped the side of his head, just above his right ear. “Right here.”
Dane accepted this with another nod then gestured toward Bones. “He can’t dive with that cut. There are sharks down there.”
Scalpel shook his head. “Just you. The rest of your crew will stay here to insure your cooperation.”
“I can’t dive alone. It’s not safe.”
“Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll be going down with you.”
Dane hung his head, as if in weary resignation, but managed to shoot a meaningful look in Bones’ direction. Bones met his gaze and winked.
The shark still circled lazily as Dane descended along the anchor line half an hour later. Scalpel, now wearing the wetsuit and equipment that had originally been purchased for Willis Sanders, was just a few feet behind him. Dane’s new diving partner carried a harpoon gun, but Dane didn’t have so much as a knife; his had been confiscated as soon as he and Bones had returned from the first dive, and Scalpel did not seem inclined to let him have it back. That was fine with Dane; let the other guy worry about the local wildlife. He was focused on the task at hand.
It took only a few minutes to reach the bottom. This time Dane didn’t pause to take in the scenery, but swam directly toward the dark opening on the main deck. He glanced back just once, verifying that Scalpel was right behind him, and then pulled himself through the doorway.
On the swim down, he had rehearsed this moment in his head a dozen times, recognizing that there would be only this one opportunity to act and no second chances. As soon as he was through, he switched off his light and pulled to one side, pressing his body tight against the bulkhead. For a moment, he was in total darkness, but then a rectangle of illumination appeared above him as Scalpel shone his light through the opening.
Dane didn’t hesitate. When Scalpel poked his head through, Dane struck like a viper, tearing at the other man’s mask and regulator. A cloud of bubbles enveloped them both, momentarily obscuring Dane’s field of view, but he fumbled blindly until his fingers closed around his foe’s equipment harness. He hauled the struggling man through the doorway.
Amid the oddly muted sounds of the struggle, Dane heard a loud snap and felt something brush his arm. It was the trident-tipped harpoon from a spear gun. He ignored the dull throb of pain that followed and continued grappling with Scalpel, tearing at loose equipment and doing everything he could to keep the man from finding his air supply. One hand found the familiar knurled grip of a dive knife, sheathed and strapped to Scalpel’s calf. He ripped it free and stabbed it into the yellow flotation bladder of his foe’s buoyancy compensator.
Through another rush of bubbles, Dane saw the dark silhouette of the other diver struggling ineffectually as he settled toward the tangle of skeletons below. Dane didn’t linger to assess the results of his attack but hauled himself through the opening and began kicking furiously away from the wreck.
In his haste to put some distance between himself and Scalpel, Dane blew through the first two of his decompression stops. He’d spent only a few minutes at depth, so the danger was probably minimal, but he added a few extra seconds to each of the remaining stops. The time passed by quickly. There was no sign of the other diver, and if by some miracle Scalpel had survived, the chance of him actually catching up to Dane was just about nil, unless of course the mercenary was willing to risk a debilitating bout of decompression sickness.
It was only when Dane was halfway to the surface and saw a dark shadow moving in the green expanse overhead that he remembered being hit by the harpoon. Sure enough, there was a hole in the neoprene of his wetsuit, and beneath it, a stripe of red. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was nevertheless an open wound, leaking blood into the water. He tugged his wetsuit sleeve up to cover the cut and swam up another ten feet to the next decompression stop.
The shadow turned his way; the tiger shark had smelled his blood.
The shark’s movements were hypnotic and as it circled closer, Dane had to force himself to look away long enough to check other avenues of approach; if there was one shark, there might be others.
As he moved up another ten feet, the tiger made its move.
It was big, easily fifteen feet, which probably explained why there weren’t any of its relatives in the neighborhood. Its jaws gaped wide, and Dane found himself staring into a maw that was almost big enough to swallow him whole. He twisted out of the way at the last instant, felt the beast’s rough skin scrape against him, the solid muscular body underneath striking him like a full body tackle. The blow shuddered through him, driving his breath out along with his regulator. His mask was knocked askew and co
ld water splashed into his eyes, blurring his vision, and despite all his training and experience, Dane felt a rush of primal panic.
He slashed the knife back and forth blindly, encountered nothing. He could imagine the shark just hanging back, waiting for him to wear out or drown.
Calm down, damn it. Focus. You need to see. You need to breathe.
He straightened his mask, blowing through his nostrils to clear the water, and even as he pressed it tight to his face to seal out the salt water, he began looking around, frantic to locate the monstrous predator.
The shark was gone.
He didn’t question this bit of good fortune, but instead found his regulator and jammed it between his teeth. After several calming breaths, during which time he kept a constant lookout for the tiger, he resumed his ascent.
He soon located the outline of the Jacinta, and subsequently found its anchor line which he followed back to the surface. After his final decompression stop, he shrugged out of his equipment harness and after taking one last deep breath, allowed the nearly spent tanks to sink into the depths. He swam up the remaining length of cable, breaking the surface an arm’s length from the Jacinta’s overhanging bow.
He trod water there for a few seconds, scanning the bow rail above to make sure that no one had noticed him. To the south, perhaps a mile away, he spied the outline of the motor yacht that had brought Scalpel and his team. Hopefully, the crew wouldn’t notice one lone figure trying to steal aboard; if they did, he was sunk.
He kicked off his flippers and then began ascending the taut anchor line. The neoprene of his suit and the rubber soles of his dive booties gave him a little bit of traction on the greased metal cable, but it was still probably the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. Every time he trapped the line between his feet and pushed up, he felt himself sliding back almost as much as he was advancing, and with each minute of struggling, his strength waned and the lactic acid in his muscles burned hotter.
