Rogue Angel 46: Treasure of Lima
Page 5
A boat had been chartered to take them to the island and most of the supplies had already been loaded aboard. The rest, including those things that Annja had just added to their list, could be secured in the next few hours and packed at departure time. If all went according to plan, they could depart for Cocos later that morning.
* * *
ANNJA HAD BEEN expecting a tired old fishing trawler with just enough space on the deck to accommodate them and their equipment, so she was pleasantly surprised, delighted even, to discover that the Neptune’s Pride was a much more substantial vessel.
The captain, a portly man in his mid-fifties with a jovial smile but the hard gleam of a businessman in his eyes, caught her expression and smiled in return as she came up the boarding ramp.
“You like, yes?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“Yes. Yes, I do,” she said, and meant it, too.
“Excellent!” He was practically beaming as he extended an arm. “May I give you the tour?”
Annja slipped her arm through his. “By all means, please do!”
As it turned out, the Neptune’s Pride had been built in 1993 for the Japanese government as a fisheries training vessel, Annja learned. She had put in fifteen hard years of training work before running aground during a storm. Not wanting the expense of repairing an older vessel, the Japanese government had auctioned her off to a refitting company, who refurbished the vessel and then leased it out on a regular basis for short-term expeditions. Claire had hired the boat and had then gone in search of a captain with the skill to handle that size boat and knowledge of the area surrounding Cocos Island, eventually settling on Captain Vargas as her man.
Vargas had taken to the boat like a mother hen to a newborn chick and Annja quickly understood why. She was a marvelous ship—one hundred and twenty feet in length and boasting three full-size decks, two above and one below. Her hull was made of modern steel, providing both the durability and sleekness necessary for long-range cruising, and her single diesel engine could deliver a steady twelve knots. Best yet, the entire ship could be operated by a crew of less than five, a situation Vargas liked as much as Claire.
The captain was rightfully proud of his new command and was more than happy to talk a person’s ear off about it if they let him. Which Annja did. She wanted to know as much about the vessel as she could, for you never knew what little piece of information might save your life when you were in a bind. She received the full tour, top to bottom, and when it was over she had to admit the refitting company had done a marvelous job. The guest staterooms were wide and spacious, with so many modern amenities that Annja felt as if she was aboard a cruise ship rather than an expeditionary vessel.
Along with the usual pair of motorized skiffs, the ship was also equipped with a high-powered winch capable of moving several hundred tons and a small helicopter pad on the rear portion of the upper deck.
“Alas, no helicopter, though,” Vargas told her. “Someday.”
Annja knew how he felt. The things she could do with a ship like this at her disposal...
Her tour ended at the galley on the lower deck, where she found Claire and the rest of her team on a coffee break. They’d arrived after their morning meeting with Annja to supervise the loading of their supplies. Annja had already met the mustachioed Marcos Rivera. Joining him was a short, wiry fellow named Hugo Morales and a young, athletic-looking man they called Michael Reyes. Cursory introductions were made and then the men got back to work, leaving the women to coordinate their next steps.
“Why don’t we go up to the bridge and I’ll bring you up to speed on what I know about my husband’s movements before he lost contact?” Claire said to Annja.
“Sounds like a plan.”
The decks were connected by short, ladderlike stairways, and the two women quickly made their way up two levels to the bridge. Vargas and his crew were busy elsewhere, but that didn’t stop Claire from walking over to the plot table in the center of the room. Once there, she opened a drawer, removed a map and spread it out in front of her for Annja to see.
“Our destination,” she said with a smile. “Isla del Coco.”
Annja studied the map, letting the details sink in slowly. The island was roughly rectangular in shape, but a rectangle that had been partially canted to one side. It was divided into two general regions—the southernmost portion comprised of the area surrounding Mount Yglesias and the northernmost portion around an unnamed ridgeline that stretched perpendicularly across the island.
Much of the shoreline was nothing more than cliffs rising practically right out of the water, but on the north and northeast face of the island were two bays that would provide access. The first, Wafer Bay, was protected by a long isthmus that ran east-west and provided shelter from the waves that crashed against the northern shore. The second and smaller of the two, Chatham Bay, was on the northeast face of the island and was supposedly the place where Captain Thompson and his pirate crew had come ashore to hide the treasure.
A glance at the legend and some quick mental calculations told Annja that the island was roughly eighteen square miles, which made it roughly fourteen times larger than Central Park in Manhattan. Most of the land area was covered with dense tropical forest, and the lack of human habitation, with the exception of a single park ranger stationed there year-round, kept it in pristine condition. Pristine, in this case, meaning very difficult to navigate through, and the order not to damage the local environment would only increase that difficulty tenfold. Add to that the varied nature of the wildlife sure to be present under that forest canopy and you ended up with a formidable environment in which to operate. Sure, it didn’t hold the same degree of outright danger as the heights of Everest or the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, but help was a bit more than a phone call away, and that might mean the difference between life and death if it came to it.
“The charter Richard hired to carry his team to the island docked here, in Chatham Bay,” Claire told her, pointing out the location on the map even though Annja had already seen it for herself. “The expedition had permission to be there for two weeks but couldn’t afford to keep the boat on station for that long. So the captain waited overnight, giving the team time to unload their gear and establish a camp on the beach, and then he headed back to the mainland the next day.”
“Did Dr. Knowles have a prearranged time that he expected the boat to return or was there some means by which he was going to contact the captain?”
Claire reached into the pocket of her cargo shorts and pulled out a satellite phone. “Richard carried a sat phone just like this one. The plan was for him to call Captain Swanson two days before Richard and his team broke camp, so that the boat would be waiting by the time they needed it.”
Annja knew that it was roughly a thirty-hour journey by boat from Puntarenas, where they were now and from where Richard’s expedition had set out, as well, to Cocos Island. Two days before breaking camp was more than enough time for the boat to arrive.
“Was that call ever made?” she asked.
Claire shook her head. “Richard only made a few calls from the island and all of them were either to our home number in Baltimore or to my cell phone.”
“You know that for certain?”
This time the other woman nodded. “I’m listed on the same account, so it was easy enough to check,” she explained. “The last call on record was the one he made to me prior to trying to excavate the chest they’d found.”
In Annja’s view, it seemed likely that Dr. Knowles had suffered some kind of injury while the team was investigating the find, but it could be a simple matter of equipment failure.
“Was there a backup plan in case the satellite phone was lost or damaged?”
“Yes. Richard’s second in command, David Mathers, also had a satellite phone. I tried calling that line as well, but it goes straight to voice mail. I’ve left several messages and now all I get is a ‘mailbox full’ reply when I try to do so.”
Something must have shown on her face because Claire said, “I know. It’s not a good sign, is it?”
Annja tried to smile reassuringly. “We could come up with a thousand different scenarios and still not even come close to the truth, so speculating doesn’t do anyone any good. Try to relax. We’ll be there soon enough.”
She just hoped they were in time to help.
7
The boat left Puntarenas and took a little over thirty hours to reach Isla del Coco. The first part of the journey passed without incident. Annja spent several hours reviewing the topographical maps of the island, tracing the route Claire had indicated her husband had taken inland before vanishing and trying to anticipate the obstacles that they might face, in turn, when they followed suit.
Thinking that perhaps Dr. Knowles had sought assistance from the Costa Rican park ranger that lived on the island year-round, Annja wandered back up to the bridge and asked permission to use the shortwave radio. Her earlier research had given her the ranger station’s frequency and call sign; it seemed only common sense to make use of them. If the ranger didn’t know Dr. Knowles’s current location, perhaps he could shed some light on what might have happened.
Unfortunately, she was unable to raise the station.
She had just replaced the microphone and was turning away from the radio station when her gaze fell across the radar plot. As if on cue, two blips suddenly appeared at the edge of the radar screen north of their position. Annja watched them and waited for the information from their transponders to come up on the screen, but it never did. The small boxes designed to display such information remained blank.
Whoever they were, they were coming on fast.
Annja glanced over and found the captain frowning at the screen in unconscious imitation of her own expression.
“Trouble?” she asked.
Vargas shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
But his expression remained thoughtful and a few seconds later he ordered a slight course change to take them out of the path of the incoming vessels.
No sooner had the Neptune’s Pride changed course, however, than the two blips on the radar screen changed course as well, putting them squarely back on a direct intercept.
An uneasy feeling rolled through Annja’s gut.
There were probably half a dozen legitimate reasons why another boat might approach them so quickly, but two? It just didn’t seem right and she could feel herself tensing up as the two blips drew closer to their position on the radar screen.
Vargas moved over to the radio position, standing almost exactly where Annja had been. Picking up the microphone in one hand, he used the other to double check that Annja had returned the set to the standard nautical frequency, which she had. Satisfied, he flipped a few switches and then brought the microphone to his lips.
“Attention approaching vessels, this is the Panamanian vessel Neptune’s Pride. Do you need assistance? Over.”
Vargas repeated the message in Spanish and then released the mike and waited for a reply.
None came.
He tried a second time, once more in both English and Spanish.
“I repeat, Neptune’s Pride to approaching vessels. Do you need assistance? Please state your intentions. Over.”
Still nothing.
The other two vessels were now roughly two miles away and closing in fast.
Vargas reached up, changed the frequency on the radio to an emergency channel and tried again. The lack of response must have been getting to him, for this time he was a bit more abrupt in his message.
“Neptune’s Pride to inbound vessels. You are on a collision course. I say again, collision course. Bear fifteen degrees to starboard immediately to avoid contact.”
If the other vessels could hear him, there was no sign of it. Their course remained exactly as it had been moments before. At this rate of speed, they would be on each other in less than five minutes.
Vargas swore in gutter Spanish, tossed the microphone onto the radio table and snatched a pair of binoculars from a stand to his left. He moved over to the window at the front of the bridge and brought the binoculars to his face, searching back and forth across the horizon for any sign of the incoming vessels.
Annja stepped up beside him.
“Anything?”
“No. Nothing yet.”
The minutes ticked slowly by.
Beside her, Annja felt Vargas stiffen. Then he handed her the binoculars, pointing slightly to the right. “There,” he said.
Putting the binoculars to her eyes, Annja adjusted the lens until the scene in front of her swam into view. At first all she saw was open water, but then the spray from the oncoming boats caught her attention and she focused in on her targets.
What she saw did not relieve any of her unease.
The radar blips turned out to be two interdiction-style patrol boats, similar to those used by the Port Authority Police in New York Harbor. Roughly forty feet in length, with a three-quarter wheelhouse sitting just aft of a bow-deck gun mount that, thankfully, seemed to be missing on this particular model, the boats were capable of extreme speeds over a fairly decent range.
Neither boat was flying a flag, which was another bad sign; if they were legitimate patrol craft, they would definitely have colors flying high, if for no other reason than to indicate their authority to those they were approaching. The boats were coming directly toward them and so Annja was unable to see if there were any markings or identification numbers on the hull of either craft, but she suspected there were not.
She could see that the boats were carrying at least half a dozen men each. It might even be more; she had no way of knowing yet how many were behind the wheelhouse itself. Those she could see lined the rails on either side, their attention focused on the ship before them. Something about the way they were standing bothered Annja, but they weren’t close enough yet for her to make out what it was.
Judging from how fast they were coming on, that wouldn’t be a problem for long, she knew.
Vargas hurried back over to the radio station and changed several settings on the control panel. This time, when he spoke into the mike, his voice was broadcast out across the water through the loudspeakers mounted on top of the bridge.
“Neptune’s Pride to unidentified vessels. Reverse course immediately or suffer the consequences. You have been warned.”
As before, the message was repeated in Spanish.
Vargas glanced over at Annja. “Anything?”
She brought the binoculars back up and looked out at the approaching patrol boats, now less than a quarter of a mile away. She could make out individual faces at this point and what had been bothering her about the way the men aboard the patrol boats had been standing was immediately obvious at this distance.
Each and every one of them was armed.
She could see several automatic weapons—a couple Russian Kalashnikovs and an Israeli Uzi—and a smattering of handguns. Those without firearms were carrying makeshift weapons of all kinds, from clubs with nails driven through them to machetes, their blades gleaming in the sunlight.
As if the presence of the weapons weren’t bad enough, several of the men carried coils of rope looped over their shoulders, and from where she stood, Annja could see that at least one of those ropes ended in a steel grappling hook.
Annja finally understood the unease she’d been feeling.
These men were pirates and they were going to try to board the Neptune’s Pride.
8
Aboard the Neptune’s Pride
One hundred miles offshore
Annja was just about to
let Vargas know what she was seeing when she spotted a man in the lead boat raise his automatic rifle and point it in the direction of the Pride’s bridge.
“Get down!” Annja shouted, throwing herself at Captain Vargas and tackling him to the floor just as the gunman opened fire.
Bullets struck the bridge windows, blowing them inward in a shower of shattering glass and blazing-hot lead. Annja curled up against one of the bridge consoles and tried to make herself as small a target as possible. She wasn’t worried about the gunman being able to hit her—she was below his line of sight, after all—but a ricochet could be just as deadly and she didn’t want to take any chances. Nearby she could see Captain Vargas doing the same.
Unfortunately, not everyone who was on the bridge had heeded her warning. One of Vargas’s crewmen—Annja hadn’t even had time to learn his name since she’d come aboard—took a bullet right through the throat and was dead before his body hit the floor. She could see him from where she lay, his eyes open and staring but not seeing anything.
Soon the shooting stopped.
Annja stayed where she was, waiting, even going so far as to yank Vargas back down to the ground when he started to get up. If the gunman had simply run out of bullets, he might start shooting again as soon as he swapped out the gun’s magazine, and she didn’t want either of them to be caught in the open when he did.
When nothing but the roar of the motor launches’ engines reached their ears, Annja scrambled to her feet and let Vargas do the same. Keeping as much of herself below the edge of the bridge controls as possible, she peeked out the now-shattered window.
The pirates’ boats were to the port side of their bow and would be on them shortly. The men aboard were cheering and brandishing their weapons, no doubt thinking they’d already won the battle.
Annja intended to show them there was lot more fight left in this opponent than they’d ever imagined.
“Keep your head down,” she barked at Vargas, when, glancing around for a particular item she knew had to be here somewhere, she saw him starting to get to his feet.