by David Wood
Inch by incremental inch, he drew himself up out of the water and was able to reach the grommet in the bow where the anchor was stored when the boat was under way. He got one hand around a protruding bracket, and let go of the cable altogether, bracing the soles of his dive booties against the mostly dry hull. He lingered there for a few seconds, gathering his strength for the final pull to the deck, and then with an effort that seemed almost superhuman, he heaved himself the rest of the way up.
He crouched low behind the anchor winch, mindful of not attracting the notice of any watchful eyes on the yacht, or for that matter, alerting the four gunmen holding Bones, Professor and Willis hostage. Voices drifted across the deck, low and indistinct at first, and then a very familiar deep rumble.
“Seriously dude, how long do you expect me to hold it?” Bones complained. “My kidneys aren’t what they used to be.”
“Shut up,” growled another voice, louder this time.
Dane decided that if Bones started talking again, he would use the distraction to move up. Bones did not disappoint. “Come on, man. If you’re gonna kill me, just shoot me, but at least let me die with dignity. Don’t make me piss my pants first.”
“Shut…the hell…up!”
“Just gag him,” suggested another voice.
Dane low crawled until he could just see the four gunmen, along with their hostages who were now bound with zip-ties and lying face down. Two of the gunmen were standing over Bones, discussing how best to shut him up, while the other two attempted to display at least a semblance of discipline; one of them was watching the dive platform, no doubt awaiting Scalpel’s return.
Bones started another round of protests, this time loud enough to distract even the latter pair. Dane figured this would be the last straw for the guards; they would either make good on the threat to gag Bones, or simply pummel him into submission. For just a moment, everyone’s back was turned away from where Dane hid, and he knew there wasn’t going to be a better chance than this.
He sprang up and ran, sprinting the remaining distance without attracting any attention. When he reached the nearest enemy, he drove the butt end of his dive knife into the side of the man’s head. The blow was hard enough to fracture bone and the man’s head snapped to the side with a sickening crunch. Even as that first man slumped, Dane was vaulting over him, drawing a bead on the next closest man. Once more he eschewed using the blade for a quicker and more decisive hammer blow with the knife hilt. He managed to crack a second skull before the remaining two men realized something was wrong and spun to face him, raising their pistols.
Dane figured he might be able to take one more before the last one killed him, but all of a sudden the gunman furthest from him rose from the deck like a missile, launched skyward by the booster rocket lift of Bones’ double-footed kick. The man crashed into the deck rail, and then toppled over, disappearing into the sea.
The last gunman managed to get a shot off, but Dane was already inside his reach, knocking the gun hand up even as the trigger was pulled, so that the bullet flew harmlessly out toward the horizon. Dane smashed his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose, and then delivered a close punch to the solar plexus that knocked him out cold.
Dane stayed alert as he knelt beside Bones, slashing his bonds with the knife, and then did the same for Willis and Professor.
“Better keep your head down,” Professor warned. “They’ve got a sniper on that boat. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw what just happened.”
“Took your sweet time getting here,” Bones grumbled, massaging his wrists. “When I heard you crawling up the anchor line, I figured you’d be along any second. Didn’t think I’d have to string them along for ten minutes.”
“You heard me?” Dane asked, skeptically.
“Had my ear pressed to the deck. It’s an old Indian trick. Saw it in a movie, anyway. Every grunt you made vibrated through the hull. Sounded like a humpback whale mooning over his long-lost girlfriend. Or Professor when he found out that one chick was a dude.”
“Hey! That’s not true,” Professor protested.
Dane smirked. “Haul the anchor up,” he told Willis. “Stay low. Don’t show yourself to that sniper. We’re getting out of here.”
As Willis crept forward to operate the anchor winch, Dane led the others to the relative shelter of the superstructure, but on the bridge with its large windows, they were careful to stay down.
“What about the mission?” Bones asked. “Are we still looking for the treasure ship?”
Dane shook his head. “There is no treasure ship. This whole thing is a sham. We were lied to.”
Bones eyebrows drew together as he processed this development. “So, what’s our next move? Head back to Coronado, and ask Maxie for a Whiskey Tango Foxtrot report?”
Dane had pondered that question during the ascent. “I trust Maxie, but until I know what’s going on, we’re going to stay under the radar. The SECNAV sent us on this wild goose chase, so until I learn otherwise, I don’t trust him or anyone working for him, present company excepted.”
Bones shrugged as if that limitation posed no real hardship for him.
“I want to know what’s so important about this particular shipwreck,” Dane added.
“Our friend with the penchant for silly code names mentioned a passenger—Hancock, I think it was.”
“That’s right. He said Lord Hancock. That’s a place to start. Can’t be too many people fitting that description who died on Japanese prison transports during the war. If we can figure out why Hancock is so important, maybe we can figure out who’s behind this mess.”
On the deck below, Willis had activated the winch and was reeling in the forward anchor. With the boat free to move, Dane didn’t hesitate to fire up Jacinta’s big diesel engine. No sooner had they started moving when they saw the motor yacht turning toward them as if to pursue.
“That yacht will run us down long before we make port,” said Professor. “She’s got a good five knots on us.”
“I don’t think they’ll try anything. I’m betting that sniper is all alone over there. Or at the very least that they’ve only got a skeleton crew left aboard. Besides, I’ve got an idea. Professor, take the wheel. Keep her pointed toward Manila. Bones, grab a few life vests.”
“Life vests? What the…?” Bones saw the mischievous gleam in Dane’s eye and suddenly understood. “Not bad, Maddock. There may be hope for you yet.”
The skeleton crew aboard the motor yacht did not pursue the Jacinta, at least not very far. They had their hands full picking up the men who had been thrown overboard in the shrimp boat’s wake. By the time they rounded up the last man, still unconscious, but alive thanks to the sun-faded life emergency flotation vest that Maddock had bundled him into, the Jacinta was over the horizon and not even a blip on their radar.
The delay proved serendipitous however when the sharp-eyed sniper, acting as a lookout, spied a fifth man in the water behind them, thrashing frantically while a menacing gray dorsal fin slashed through the water in ever tightening circles.
The sniper drove the shark away while the yacht came around to pluck the beleaguered swimmer from the sea.
The man who called himself Scalpel had still been very much alive when Dane had left him. Unable to see, he had nevertheless managed to find his air regulator and had used it to stay alive. After long minutes of fumbling in the darkness, uncertain of even which direction was up, he found the opening that led out of the ship, and then began clawing his way back to the surface. Without a functional buoyancy compensation vest, his equipment weighed him down like a sea anchor, and he had to kick and paddle beyond the point of exhaustion to reach the surface.
His tale of survival was not quite the miracle it seemed, for shortly after being rescued, Scalpel felt a dull ache in his shoulder. He thought it was a cramp, but instead of passing, the pain continued to intensify and spread, concentrating mostly in his joints. He writhed in agony, unable to find the slightest bi
t of relief.
In his haste to escape the depths, Scalpel had neglected to purge the excess nitrogen from his body. Upon returning to normal atmospheric pressure, the tiny bubbles of gas in his muscle tissue had expanded, creating a condition known as decompression sickness, more commonly called ‘the Bends.’
The only treatment—the only way to alleviate the incredible pain—was to spend long hours in a pressurized chamber, and the closest one of those was in Manila, more than a day’s journey away.
The suffering was almost unendurable. Only one thought kept Scalpel from simply blowing his brains out, and that thought was merely a word…a name…the name of the man who had left him to die at the bottom of the sea. Sometimes, he would howl it through clenched teeth until the ache in his joints relented, if ever so imperceptibly.
“Maddock!”
CHAPTER 7
Manila, Philippines
Bones rolled the longneck bottle between his palms. The cool glass and the beads of condensation felt good on his skin, but the bottle was getting a little light. He was trying to decide whether to ask the bartender for another. After surviving this latest scrape with the grim reaper, he was in the mood to celebrate, but unfortunately, the mission wasn’t over by a longshot, and he had a strict personal rule about staying sober…mostly…when on duty.
During the long trip back to Manila, Maddock had outlined the next phase of the operation. He and Professor would travel to the United Kingdom where, presumably, they would be able to get a little more information about the mysterious Lord Hancock and hopefully figure out why a team of mercenaries—to say nothing of the Secretary of the Navy—wanted him found. Bones and Willis stayed behind in the Philippines to resume exploring the wreck, only this time instead of diving, they would be using a remotely operated vehicle, equipped with a camera and a metal detector, provided of course that they could secure such a unique piece of high tech equipment.
Bones had made a few discreet inquiries and a meeting had been arranged at a bar near the port. With a little luck and a lot of discretionary funding, they would get the ROV, find the remains of the much sought after Hancock, and return for that long postponed victory drink.
Still…one more now couldn’t hurt, right? He waved to the bartender and nodded.
“You the guy looking for a ROV?”
The high-pitched voice came from beside him but when he turned to look he saw no one.
“Down here?”
He lowered his gaze about forty-five degrees and saw her; a slight figure, five feet tall if she stood on her tiptoes and perhaps ninety pounds if soaking wet and wearing winter clothes. She wasn’t wearing winter clothes now however, just a grubby T-shirt and cut off denim shorts that showed off a lot more of her chestnut skin than was concealed. Her short black hair framed a pixie-like face that was cute in a juvenile way.
He found himself momentarily at a loss for words.
“You wanted to rent my ROV, right?” she repeated. She spoke clear English, but with a sing-song Filipino accent.
“I…uh… I wanted to rent a ROV.”
“Cool, because it just so happens that I’ve got a ROV.” She hoisted herself onto the barstool next to him. “Buy a girl a drink?”
“A girl,” he echoed, still a little tongue-tied.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’m twenty-two. Never mind.” She reached over, grabbed the bottle that the bartender had just set before Bones, and knocked it back.
Bones shook his head and found his voice. “Slow down, little one. A lightweight like you should pace herself.”
She slammed the half-empty bottle down on the bar. “Lightweight? I’m a university student. Binge drinking is practically part of the curriculum.”
“A student? Back up. I thought you said you had an ROV for rent?”
“That’s right.” She stuck out a hand. “Gabrielle Sandoval. Call me Gabby; everyone does.”
Her proffered hand disappeared inside Bones’ massive paw, but he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m Bones. Call me Bones, everyone does. So, how did you recognize me?”
“You kind of stand out in a crowd, Bones. Literally.”
He accepted that with a nod. “Tell me about your ROV.”
“I call her ‘Baby;’ built her from a Sea Perch platform. She’s good to three hundred meters, with a five hundred meter tether which will allow for plenty of maneuverability. She’s a workhorse. I built her for my research, but sometimes we rent out for odd jobs. I designed her to be a multi-purpose instrument platform; plug and play, as it were. Speaking of which, what kind of instrument package are we talking about here?”
“Metal detector.”
“Ah.” Gabby’s smile was both knowing and accusatory. “So you’re a treasure hunter.”
“No. I—”
“Hey, I don’t judge. As long as you pay up front and don’t ask me to do anything illegal, I’m your girl.”
“Nothing like that,” Bones assured her. “And I’m not a treasure hunter. I just don’t want to call a lot of attention to what I’m looking for.”
“It’s your money. Besides, treasure hunting sounds like a lot of fun. When do we start?”
“We?”
“Baby and I are a package deal. She’s the Remotely Operated Vehicle, and I’m the remote operator.”
Bones frowned. He didn’t want to involve a civilian, especially not when there was a good chance of another attack from the mercenary thugs, but time was of the essence. They needed to get back on the site, ASAP. “This won’t exactly be a pleasure cruise. Rough accommodations. Lousy food. And the company won’t be so great; me and one other guy, and I’m the better looking one.”
She gazed up at him, the devious twinkle in her eyes undiminished. “Well, you’re not too hard on the eyes. I like tall guys.”
Bones let that pass. “Listen, I’ve used ROVs before. You don’t need to come along.”
She shrugged. “I want to.”
He drummed his fingers on the bar. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”
“Hey, why so serious?” She scooped up the bottle again and emptied it in a long guzzle. She set it down on its side and gave a whoop of triumph. “The night is young. Let’s have some fun, and tomorrow we’ll go treasure hunting!”
Bones placed a hand over hers. “Let’s save the celebration for after we find it.”
She smiled again. “Is that a promise, Bones?”
“You have my word on it.”
CHAPTER 8
England—30 miles north of London,
Alex stepped down off the bus into Baldock, a small town near the edge of Hertfordshire, and as close to her destination as public transportation would take her. Over the past five days, she had used planes, buses, and trains to get from the District of Columbia to London and ultimately to this place. The actual cumulative travel time was only about fourteen hours, but with a killer on her tail, she was traveling cautiously. It had taken her two days just to establish a false identity for getting out of the United States. She had spent another full day walking around London checking to make sure that she wasn’t being shadowed, eventually crashing in a youth hostel near Piccadilly Circus for the night.
She was now, at last, satisfied that no one was following her, but if her suspicions were correct, she might very well be walking into the lion’s den. A few miles up the road lay the manor house where Trevor Lord Hancock had lived until, at age twenty-six, war had taken him away forever. That much, at least, she had been able to learn from her initial Internet searches in Washington, searches which had, she now realized, led the killer right to her. But if Hancock was as important as she believed him to be, his ancestral home would be a likely target for surveillance. Instead of the killer finding her, she might very well find him or his accomplices.
Or she might find nothing at all. All of her suppositions were predicated on the belief that everything that had happened—Don’s murder and the attempt on her life at the hotel—was a response to that one specific
piece of information. If she had deduced wrong, then this trip would be a colossal waste of time.
Using her tourist map, she oriented on the road which would lead her to her destination, and struck out on foot. She considered trying to hitch a ride, but doing so might attract unwanted attention. Instead, she set a brisk pace walking along the roadside, careful to stay well clear of the lanes, particularly when the occasional vehicle sped by. She took this latter precaution partly to avoid being hit but mostly so that she could bolt for cover or make a hasty overland escape if trouble found her.
Trouble did not find her though. Two and half hours after leaving Baldock behind, she reached an unpaved road that led off into the countryside. Forty-five more minutes, in which she saw no cars and very little evidence of human habitation, she reached the gated entry to the Hancock property. The gate was unlocked and she slipped through, continuing down the gravel road toward a small manor house that had perhaps once been elegant but now looked almost run down.
She lingered there for several minutes, studying the unkempt grounds for some hint of watchful eyes or a menacing presence, but if anyone was there, they were well hidden. As she drew near the house, she could hear music—something classical—punctuated occasionally by a sharp clicking noise. The sounds seemed to originate from behind the house, so she circled the perimeter and found herself on the edge of an expansive English-style garden, gone mostly to seed.
The source of the music was a battered old boom box which rested on a well-weathered wrought iron patio table. Despite its age, the portable stereo player was the only piece of modern technology in evidence. The clicking noise came from a pair of pruning shears, wielded by an older man—she guessed him to be in his early seventies—who was humming along with the music as he snipped runners from a rose bush, in an effort to bring the landscape under a semblance of control. Judging from his doddering pace, it was a Sisyphean labor. She paused about twenty yards from him and called out. If her greeting startled the old man, he gave no indication. He merely looked up and waved her over as if he had been expecting such a visit.
