Hell Ship

by David Wood

  If he couldn’t make a match with the photos, he would have to go back to Hancock’s estate.

  He’d obtained the photographs three years earlier, learning about the secret chapel only after months of quiet inquiry and investigation. At first, he had hoped to join the secret fraternity; after all, who was a sacred warrior monk in the tradition of the Templars, if not he? He had discreetly approached some whom he knew to be among their number, and while none would confirm what he had discovered, their oblique refusals told him that he was being considered for membership. More importantly, they helped him identify other key figures in the ranks, including a rather shabby English lord with a run-down estate north of London. His surveillance of Edward Lord Hancock had paid off handsomely when, one summer evening, several of the men he suspected were Templars paid Hancock a visit, and took a walk in the nearby woods. When the meeting was concluded, Ray stole into the underground chapel and photographed everything. Soon, he had the whole story, but like the Templars themselves, had no way to decode the map and find the treasure vault.

  Further complicating matters, as he got closer to the truth, the doors that had once been opened to him began to close. His attempts to join the order were met with stony silence, and he realized that, in trying to pierce their veil of secrecy, he had unwittingly discovered their grand scheme for world domination. The modern Templars were not the guardians of a sacred trust as he had once believed, but the puppet-masters of Western civilization, manipulating wealth and power to enslave humanity.

  He was not alone in realizing this. For as long as the Templars had been spinning their web, others were actively working to disrupt their hegemony. This rival order, known simply as the Dominion, were the true holy knights; they were the spiritual heirs of the order, unlike the real Templars who had lost their way and become nothing more than avaricious bankers.

  Ray took out a magnifying glass and began studying each of the triangular glyphs in the pictures. Even though the scale wasn’t correct, the angles should be consistent. “I need a protractor.” He turned to Scalpel. “The pilot should have a protractor.”

  The other man nodded, but took advantage of the break in his employer’s concentration to address another concern. “John Lee, you should know that Hammer is overdue for a check-in.”

  “Hammer?” Hammer was the only member of the inner circle not present. Like the others, he had foresworn his true name in favor of the operational callsign Ray had given him when they’d been in Special Forces. Hammer had also been with Scalpel during the original failed mission to take over Maddock’s boat, and like Scalpel had a personal score to settle. “He’s hunting the rest of Maddock’s team, right?”

  Scalpel nodded. “He should have found them by now, or at least called in.”

  “There’s not much we can do about that now,” answered Ray, tersely. “He’ll turn up. But we need to get moving. And I need a damned protractor.”

  Scalpel shuffled away and Ray returned to perusing the photos. He was able to further winnow the selection, removing several that were obviously not a match. By the time Scalpel returned with the requested tool, he had figured out how to use the points of the gold triangle to check the pictures, and was able to start moving briskly through the stack.

  He froze. He had found a picture that perfectly matched one point of the triangle. He turned it, checking another corner.

  Yes!

  He checked the third, even though simple geometry ensured that it too would be a match. It was.

  Where?

  He flipped the photograph over, looked at the corresponding location…and burst out laughing.

  It was so obvious.

  CHAPTER 18

  South China Sea

  Without charts and navigational equipment to guide them, it was impossible for the three souls aboard the Zodiac to know with certainty if Dane’s one-hundred-mile goal had been achieved. Dane was confident that they had traveled at least that many miles, but there was a very real possibility that they had been going in circles all night. If so, at least they were going nowhere fast. A steady ten-knot breeze filled the kite-like sail Bones and Alex had crafted from the life raft’s nylon rain shroud, pieces of driftwood, and a loop of coaxial cable cut from Baby’s tether.

  For the first three hours after leaving the island behind, Dane had kept the nose of the Zodiac lined up with the North Star. At first, the drift current kept trying to sweep them west, further into the Spratly Islands. Dane used the quiescent outboard as a rudder and expertly manipulated the sail to counter this effect, but they were almost certainly being pulled in the wrong direction. After a while however, this effect diminished and at about the three hour mark, Dane felt a cross-current tugging them eastward, and turned into it. For the rest of the night, they sailed on in what Dane hoped was the right direction. Now, with the dawn breaking over the horizon, they had something on which to fix their course. Unfortunately, the sunrise also warmed the air ahead of them, changing the direction of the wind and forcing a weary Dane to tack at forty-five degree angles to the wind in order to keep them moving in the right direction.

  “Nap time, kemosabe,” announced Bones, crawling back to take the rudder. Dane crawled into the shadow of the sail and promptly went to sleep.

  It had been decided that, since Dane was better at celestial navigation, he would guide the ship at night, and Bones would take the daylight hours.

  He was awakened forty minutes later by a rhythmic clatter. He rolled over to find a smiling Alex at the rudder, and a grumpier looking Bones engaged in what looked like a battle-to-the-death with a contraption that was a sort of grease-gun ratchet-powered garden hose. One end of the hose trailed over the side of the Zodiac into the sea, while the nozzle end had been inserted into a collapsible plastic jug. Each squeeze of the ratchet grip delivered a dribble of water into the container.

  “Did you lose a bet or something?”

  Bones glared at him. “I was wrong about you,” he growled. “It’s not so much that you don’t have a sense of humor. It’s just calibrated wrong, so you have no idea what’s really funny.”

  “I thought it was funny,” chirped Alex. “And actually, he did lose a bet.”

  Bones promptly removed the jug from the nozzle and splashed its contents onto Dane and Alex. She squealed in protest, but Dane savored the feeling of the fresh water sluicing away the crust of salt from his skin.

  The device Bones was using—with somewhat limited success—was a manually-operated reverse osmosis pump; an innovative device that forced salt water through a membrane to produce fresh drinking water. The filter was part of the survival equipment package from the life raft, and with it, they would be assured a nearly limitless supply of fresh water. Food would be a little more problematic since there were only a few days worth of dehydrated rations, but Dane didn’t anticipate being at sea nearly that long.

  When the impromptu baptism was complete, Alex turned her mock-ire on Dane. “So, you two just decided amongst yourselves that you would take turns being the Skipper, and I would just automatically be the water girl?”

  “You were asleep,” protested Bones.

  “There’s this thing you can do; it’s called ‘waking me up.’” She made a face at them.

  “Duly noted.” Dane inclined his head. “I guess this isn’t exactly how things were supposed to work out.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Well, it hasn’t been dull. And we did find the treasure.”

  “Correction. We found the key to the treasure, which was what we were looking for.”

  “Do you think there is a treasure?”

  Dane stared at the triangular red outline on his right palm, where much of the detail from the golden tag remained. Dehydration had its benefits. As soon as he could, he’d carved a detailed wooden reproduction, perfectly scaled and representing each element with precision. When the opportunity arose, he’d create something more permanent.

  “People have gone to an awful lot of trouble over thi
s. I don’t know if that means there’s really something to be found, but you have to ask: why go to the effort to protect something that doesn’t exist.”

  “People do crazy things for stupid reasons all the time,” interjected Bones. He nodded at Alex. “You’re a historian; am I wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  Dane wasn’t swayed. “Our friend John Lee Ray thinks it’s real and he’s on his way to find it right now. If we operate under the assumption that the treasure is real, I think we can all agree that it would be a bad thing if he got his hands one it. And even if it isn’t real, he’s still going to follow the clues and go where ever the Templar map leads him. So I say we get there first.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Alex made a sweeping gesture. “We’re out here in the middle of nowhere. He’s already on his way.”

  “You make a good point.” Dane rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We need to make up some time. Bones, how about we try to get the outboard started?”

  “Don’t know how much good it will do. Might be enough fuel for a half-hour; think we’ll reach the land that soon?”

  “We don’t need to reach land. We just need to reach that.” Dane answered, extending his arm and pointing to the north where a tiny black speck, trailing a whisper thin cloud of white vapor, marked the otherwise featureless horizon.

  It was a ship.

  The outboard coughed to life after the third pull, and Bones, who had nudged Alex aside, took the tiller. As they closed the distance, the vessel’s outline became more apparent, and Dane guessed it was a small freighter—what would once have been called a ‘tramp steamer’—making its way toward Manila. In open water, there was less risk from being discovered by a Chinese or Vietnamese naval vessel; out on the sea, they were merely castaway survivors of a wrecked boat. Nevertheless, Dane was heartened to see that the ship was a commercial vessel; their story would not be scrutinized as closely, nor would they be held up by red tape upon reaching port.

  When they were still a few miles away, Dane fired off one of their signal flares and the freighter responded with a blast from its horn. Half an hour later, they were plucked from the sea by one of the ship’s loading cranes, and welcomed aboard by the captain, an American and a grizzled old sea veteran, who’d evidently gone soft in his twilight years.

  “Do you kids need a lift, or is this some kind of hazing stunt?”

  “A lift would be nice,” Dane answered affably. “Are you headed for Manila?”

  “The old salt shook his head. “Hong Kong. Will that do?”

  “Anywhere is better than here.”

  “You sure about that?” muttered Bones, taking stock of their new environs. The freighter, which inexplicably flew the Iranian flag, was a dilapidated rust-bucket, stinking of decay and neglect.

  “Our mess hall is in a bit of state,” explained the captain, escorting them into what Dane assumed was a rec room for the crew. It too was ‘in bit of a state,’ decorated with depressing clown paintings on velvet and thrift store reject furnishings.

  “We don’t take passengers as a rule,” continued the captain. “So I’m afraid our creature comforts will leave something to be desired, but we will put you on the dock in Hong Kong by sunrise tomorrow, and I’ll wager that’s better than you could have hoped for in your little raft.”

  Dane put on his most winning smile. “That it is, sir. And if it’s not too much trouble, could I make a ship-to-shore call, to let folks know we’re still alive?”

  The captain seemed about to demure, but then his expression softened. “Come with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dane followed the man through the dingy corridors of the ship, up a set of stairs that creaked noisily under their weight, and finally to a cramped compartment full of antique-computer and radio equipment. A young crewman sat hunched over what looked like a 1960’s era HAM radio set, but the captain shooed him away, and pointed to a surprisingly sophisticated looking telephone handset. “Use that. Just tell the operator what number you’d like to call.”

  Dane thanked him and took a seat at the console. He gave the operator Maxie’s personal cell phone number and waited for the connection to be established. When Maxie’s groggy voice murmured over the line—reminding Dane that it was the middle of the night in San Diego—he quickly said, “It’s Maddock. This line is not secure.”

  Maxie was instantly alert. “Maddock? Speak of the devil. I was just talking to Sanders and Chapman, and your name came up.”

  Dane was relieved to hear that Professor and Willis had successfully reached port. “How are my old friends?”

  “They’re fine. Where are you?”

  “You might say I’m on the slow boat to China.”

  “China?” There was genuine concern in Maxie’s tone.

  “Hong Kong,” Dane amended hastily. “And this boat’s actually moving a bit faster than the last one I was on.”

  “Glad to hear it. Can’t wait for you to get back here and tell me all about your trip.”

  That gave Dane pause. He had hoped that, once the situation was explained, Maxie would give him the go-ahead to see things through to a conclusion. “I’ll think about it.”

  Maxie’s response was stern. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say. I would love to tell you to take some time to visit with your friends Charlie and Mike, but your boss wants you back home, pronto. Do you understand?

  Charlie and Mike were the phonetic alphabet equivalents of C and M, and were commonly used together as shorthand for “continue mission.” Maxie was saying that, if it were left up to him, he’d give Dane the green light, but the word to curtail their activities was coming from higher up, no doubt from the same person who had sent him out in the first place. Implicit in the message was the warning that if he didn’t come back promptly—if he continued to pursue the matter—Maxie would be unable to protect him from the consequences.

  “I understand. I’ll make my way back by the best route possible. Maddock, out.” He hung up without letting Maxie ask him to explain what he meant by “best route.” Dane’s best route would neither be the quickest, nor the most direct.

  CHAPTER 19

  England

  Although Hancock Manor had most certainly entered the twilight of its prosperity, it was currently in the midst of a modest surge in activity. Outwardly, it did not look much different than when Alex had first walked up the drive almost a week earlier, but there were three cars parked near the main entrance and lights were burning in several of the rooms on both the ground and upper stories.

  “I think we’re expected,” Alex remarked, staring out from the cover of the tree line, more than half a kilometer away.

  “They’re expecting somebody,” agreed Dane, as he swept the grounds with a pair of binoculars. “They know that people are actively looking for their treasure, and they control access to the map.”

  “Do you think Ray has been here already?”

  That was the question that preoccupied Dane’s thoughts during their journey from Hong Kong to London.

  It had been a long, expensive and time consuming journey. Dane had almost completely exhausted his supply of cash. He didn’t even bother with the money belt; the remaining bills fit easily into the wallet he’d bought to hold his newly acquired driver’s license and credit cards—the license was an expert forgery and the credit cards issued to his alias had only a token amount of available credit, just enough to pass the registration process at a hotel or car rental agency. Their false identities had been easily enough procured in Hong Kong, where the business of creating such documents for Chinese nationals hoping to escape the island colony before the British government returned it to China before the end of the century, was booming. Just like with Chinese food, you could get it fast, cheap, or good, but not all three. They needed documents that would stand up to close scrutiny and they needed them in a hurry, so…they paid. Their standby plane tickets had been less expensive, and perhaps more d
iscreet than rushing out on the first available plane, but the trade-off had been another full day lost.

  Ray was now at least three days ahead of them. If he had visited the chapel, perhaps without attracting the attention of the Gatekeepers, then he might already have found the treasure vault. Dane left Alex’s question unanswered.

  With dusk deepening around them, they crept through the woods toward the hill which concealed the entrance to the Templar chapel. Bones had scouted ahead, channeling the woodcraft of his Cherokee ancestors, and moving with complete stealth despite his size. Dane and Bones each carried a small walkie-talkie, with an ear bud and lip mic to minimize noise, and Bones had reported seeing a foot patrol, in the form of a game-keeper walking an old hound, but there was no sign of permanent surveillance in the area. That left Dane with an uneasy feeling, however there was no putting off what had to be done.

  He keyed the mic. “We’re moving. If anyone comes along, make a ruckus.” He knew from experience that a radio signal probably wouldn’t work once they were underground.

  There was a scritch of static and Bones soft answer. “Roger.”

  Dane took Alex’s hand and led her out of the woods. The covering rock had been rolled back into place and he took a moment to inspect it, ensuring that no booby traps or motion sensors had been placed beneath, before rolling it out of the way.

  So far, so good.

  He lowered himself inside and lit their way with a red-hooded Mini MagLite. Alex was similarly equipped and they moved through the passage much more quickly than they had during their earlier escape.

  The red lights added to the surreal atmosphere of the chapel, giving the decorations an almost hellish cast. Dane took out two metal triangles, identical to each other and hopefully to the medallion he’d found with Trevor Hancock’s remains, except for the fact that these facsimiles were made of copper instead of alloyed gold. Dane had even used an iron stylus to inscribe approximations of the Templar cross on the original, and drilled through each to simulate the nail hole that had been used to affix the medallion to Trevor Hancock’s skull.