by Todd Downing
“Are these the zombis Louis told us about?” Jack asked as they traversed the milling human herd.
Doc nodded. “They seem docile enough,” she said. “But let’s not disturb them, just the same.”
Deadeye clutched the lever of the Winchester in battle-forged readiness. “I’m for that plan,” he deadpanned.
They wove through a number of blank stares and ragged bodies as they made their way to the outer gate, only to find that the left side had been pried off its hinges and lay to the side of the courtyard. Another pair of zombis trudged randomly around the garden, slowly going nowhere at all. Jack led Doc and Deadeye through the open front doorway, and he immediately knew someone else had been there before them. Jack shucked both .45s from their holsters, which signaled Doc to follow suit with her revolver. Deadeye took it as permission to ready the Winchester, which he braced to his shoulder.
The fort was ancient and dank, and smelled like a curious mixture of coffee, urine, sweat and sulfur. Even the heat of the noonday sun outside couldn’t penetrate the thick stone walls of the Spanish garrison. It remained at least twenty degrees cooler inside.
Jack led the way, cautiously leading with his twin pistols. Doc followed, her own pistol at the ready, lodestone dangling from the leather string around her neck. Deadeye brought up the rear, scanning down the barrel sights of the carbine. They searched the ground floor one chamber at a time, bypassing a curved stairway down to the prison area. The heavy oak doors to the great hall were ajar, and Jack waved his friends back while he peered through the gap between them.
He stepped in, pistols in outstretched hands to the left and right, scanning the room with sun-blind eyes. Four roughly human-sized shapes lay in crumpled heaps on the cold stone.
“Doc!” he hailed. “Get in here!”
Doc followed him into the room. She immediately recognized the smoldering remains of two of the shapes.
“Silver Star commandos,” she gasped.
Jack looked over his shoulder at the doorway. “Deadeye, take a look around upstairs. See if they left any more clues.”
“Affirmative,” said Deadeye, and he disappeared up the main stairwell.
Jack entered the center of the room and tried to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Doc was already checking the bodies. The two commandos were little more than piles of wet ash and uniforms. The body of a female zombi, her throat cut, lay near the hearth.
Then Jack saw the slightest movement from the last body and he rushed to check it out.
“Oh no,” he said, holstering his guns.
Doc rushed to his side. “Is that Oba?” she asked, kneeling to the floor and rolling the figure over into her lap.
It was indeed the Vodou bokor, painted markings smeared with his own blood. He’d been stabbed through the heart. His breath came and went as a labored wheeze. His eyes searched for Doc’s, and when they met, he reached for the lodestone around her neck. Although startled at first, Doc let him continue, wishing she could alleviate his pain.
“Av… avenge…” he pleaded through dry, chapped lips.
Then his head rolled back and he lost consciousness, hand still clutching the lodestone, which leaked spectral light through his dark fingertips. When at last he released it and slipped away into death, the stone shone a bright ice blue and almost hummed with the energy infused in it.
“He’s dead,” Doc announced.
But Jack was transfixed on the stone. “Look, Doc! It’s glowing like crazy!”
Doc let Oba’s body slump back to the floor. She undid the strap of the lodestone from around her neck and let it hang. The stone twisted back and forth, finally becoming still as it angled toward the cook hearth. “Over there,” she pointed. “It’s the hearth.”
Jack went to the hearth and gently rolled the dead zombi away. As he did so, he noticed the corner tile jiggle beneath the weight. He knelt, trying to pry it loose. Doc went to his side and fanned dust and cooking debris away. He flipped the tile over, revealing a simple, folded piece of tanned leather.
Doc opened the leather with eyes wide. “It’s a map!”
Jack led her to an exterior window and pulled the burlap curtain aside to let some light in. Together they pored over what appeared to be a primitive treasure map inked on pig hide.
# # #
Deadeye circled out of the stairwell into a gallery which looked over the entry of the fort on his right, and a line of former officer’s quarters on the left. Most were empty, save for the occasional roaming chicken, pecking at the hay-strewn floors. However one room—the centermost with double doors—was padlocked from the outside.
Charlie leaned the Winchester against the wall and took a knee. Fishing his trench knife out of its belt sheath and a metal strip clip from another pouch, he inserted both into the archaic lock and began to wiggle the primitive tumblers into place.
The thick ring sprang open, and Charlie set the old lock down quietly, standing to open the door.
He pulled the right door open with the deep moan of wrought iron hinges, and his eyes grew wide.
The room was full of wooden crates, each stenciled with the words ACHTUNG - EXPLOSIVE. Thick cord fuses bound with tape extended upward to the ceiling and across to the door. The door Charlie had just opened, triggering a chemical reaction in the glass bulb set to go off if anyone attempted a breach.
Deadeye heard the hiss of multiple fuses burning, and he knew they didn’t have much time. He grabbed the Winchester and sprinted for the stairway.
# # #
Maria stormed up the gantry to the Luftpanzer radio room, furious.
Furious at Oba’s stoicism. Furious at her own failure to acquire the cross or any fresh clues as to its whereabouts. The radio officer could hear her coming outside the door, and readied himself for a quick break while Maria spoke with headquarters. He was standing when she entered, bowing slightly as he offered her the headset. Then he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Maria in private.
“Blutig,” she signaled.
“Maria,” came a reedy voice tinged with a posh English accent from across the wireless. “I need you to abort the current mission and bring your complement to the following coordinates: 2 degrees, 6 hours, 22.6 minutes north by 63 degrees, 12 hours, 10.5 minutes west.”
“But Master,” Maria protested. “The Cross of Cadiz was almost within our grasp. I just need a few more days…”
“You do not have days to spend, Maria,” said the voice. “Your failure to procure the Cross of Cadiz has cost soldiers and material. And your bombing of West End accomplished nothing.”
“But we had the Daedalus—”
“I will not tolerate excuses and I will not tolerate insubordination!” Crowley’s anger buzzed into her ear like angry hornets. “Your vanity and selfishness almost cost the Luftpanzer! You will listen to me and you will obey, or you will be punished.”
His words seared into her skull and they stung. Her eyes welled up with tears but she willed them dry.
“Yes, Master.”
Suddenly the voice on the radio was calm. “Very good, Maria. We do not look backward, do we?”
Maria sighed, “No, Master.”
“No indeed. We look forward. Your presence is required here, for the summoning.”
“Master, with respect,” Maria said through clenched teeth. “The Cross—”
“The Cross will soon be in the hands of the Daedalus crew.”
Maria fumed. It wasn’t like Crowley to abort an important project like this.
“We cannot just walk away…”
“Oh but you are walking away,” Crowley maintained. “But that does not mean the Cross of Cadiz will remain in the possession of our enemy.”
Maria swallowed dryly. While she respected Crowley’s foresight to stand back and let the Daedalus crew do the hard work in retrieving the artifact, he was going to send someone else—another team—to steal it back. She desperately wanted to be the one to do it.
“Please, M
aster…”
“You will do as I say, Maria, or bear the consequences.” The voice was calm, matter-of-fact, and those qualities more than the words themselves sent a chill down her spine.
Maria felt her heart thud deeply within her chest. This was a blow to her pride, but Maria had always played the long game. If Crowley needed her, she would play the good soldier. She would obey.
“Acknowledged,” she told him, clamping her eyes tight with shame.
“Very well,” buzzed the response. “We will expect you in thirty-six hours, no later. Over and out.”
# # #
Jack and Doc stood by the window in the great hall, a warm breeze drifting in from the river valley below. Although they were technically on the ground floor, the fort itself sprouted from the cliff sixty feet above the Mapou. They scanned the leather map for clues.
Jack pointed at one corner. “The picture on the legend appears to be…”
“A jeweled cross,” Doc finished, smiling.
Jack chuckled. “Well I’ll be darned.” He traced the aged ink line in a curious puzzle piece shape. “What’s this, here?”
“Coast line,” said Doc. “It’s not labeled. We’ll have to match it to the charts, or find a local who knows the islands.”
“Perhaps Louis would know.”
“And if he doesn’t, he knows someone who would.”
Then Deadeye burst into the room at full speed. “No time to explain!” he warned. “We need to go! Now!”
- Chapter 10 -
The fort exploded in a sudden, almost pyroclastic display. The cliff side shook as the old fort collapsed on itself and its top half slid into the river. The sky became dark with smoke, and the water below churned with stones and human remains.
Louis watched from the dock and his heart sank. “Sacré bleu,” he whispered, quickly untying the boat and pushing away from the dock. If nothing else, he would retrieve the bodies of his comrades and return them to AEGIS officials. He felt it was the least he could do.
Merde, he cursed to himself. That is no way to think. They may be yet be alive and in need of aid.
Then the outboard engine sputtered to life and Louis sped toward the river bend.
Doc felt her stomach leap into her throat as she plummeted into the river from sixty feet up. She caught glimpses of Jack and Deadeye as she fell, then her world was completely dark and wet, and her mouth was full of algae. Bubbles cascaded from her throat and nose as she spat out the foul-tasting vegetation. She kicked for the surface, Deadeye clutching the rear strap of her suspenders as he helped her upward.
The small boat was just yards away, and Louis was ready to help haul them out of the brackish river. Deadeye pushed Doc toward Louis’ outstretched arms. She was just clearing the side when her eyes nervously scanned the water and she made a terrible realization.
“Where’s Jack??”
Jack could only see a swirl of green vegetation and bubbles as he tried to get to the river’s surface. But a great black shadow filled his limited vision and the saltwater crocodile turned and bolted right for him. The reptile hit Jack like a twenty-foot-long locomotive, and the only thing that saved him were the words of a French pilot he’d met during the war—a fellow who had done some big game hunting in the Congo. He recalled that, although a crocodile had a deadly, crushing downward bite, the muscles for opening its mouth were relatively weak.
His lungs already burning for air, Jack hugged the beast underneath its massive belly and unfastened his suspenders, quickly wrapping them around its snout a few times. Then he kicked away and swam for the surface.
The croc was loose in moments, shedding the makeshift muzzle and aiming for Jack again. All Jack could see among the murky green-black water was the enormous silhouette looming under him and the long jaws opening under his feet. Unwilling to have survived a world war, Italian fascists and an exploding Spanish fort, only to become lunch for a prehistoric throwback, Jack kicked a booted leg at the beast’s head—just as it was perforated by an aluminum harpoon. The projectile hit the croc between the eyes, and the bubbling water churned deep crimson with blood.
Jack didn’t feel his head break the surface, but suddenly he was in the light, being hauled into the small motorboat by two sets of strong hands. He coughed up brackish water and rolled into the bottom, turning over. As he looked up, clearing the muck from his eyes, he could see Louis standing amidships, tracking something underwater with a spear gun. The bloated corpse of the giant reptile bobbed to the surface and rolled over in the water, as Deadeye slapped his back and Doc made sure there were no other obstructions in his airway and field of vision.
“Holy…” Jack stammered. “B-big croc!”
Louis turned toward the engine at the rear of the small boat and stowed the speargun beneath his seat. “Close to twenty feet,” he observed.
“That was an amazing shot, Louis. Thank you,” Jack said.
“Merci, mon ami,” Louie smiled. “Many years of hunting big game.”
Deadeye clapped one final had on Jack’s shoulder. “Close one, Cap.”
Jack nodded. That was an understatement. He found Doc on the opposite seat.
“Still got the map?” he asked.
She produced a sopping folded piece of leather. “Right here.”
Louis peered over Doc’s shoulder. “May I see it?”
Doc unfolded the map and laid it out onto the sunbaked seat in the open boat.
Louis rubbed his jaw, squinting at the details. “Ah, yes,” he nodded. “About five kilometers off Monte Cristi, in the Dominican Republic. There are several wrecks in that area.”
Doc squinted at the florid Spanish calligraphy. “This specifies the Nuestra Señora de la salvación,” she pointed out.
Jack set his jaw. “Then that’s where we’re going. We can only hope the Silver Star didn’t get the wreck’s location from Oba.”
Louis steered the boat back down the river whence they came, as Jack watched the flames and billowing smoke dance in the shell of the old Spanish fortress.
# # #
Louis brought Jack, Doc and Deadeye back to the Daedalus, and sailed his yacht to Cap Haïtien, where he bought a few drinks, asked a few questions, and hired a salvage crew that very night to take them out to the wreck. The ship was perhaps 20 years old, complete with rusty welds and an asthmatic diesel engine. Her name was L’arlequin and she was held together with baling wire and profanity. The following day found them anchored near a reef miles from the nearest port, Daedalus flying a patrol route above.
Jack shrugged his shoulders in the heavy confines of the treated canvas dive suit. It was fitted with buckles and straps and weights, and sealed at the boots, gloves and collar. A heavy brass helmet with glass portholes would be fitted onto the yoke and have air pumped into it via one of two sputtering compressors on the aft deck.
Doc smiled at him, swimming inside her own diving suit and looking like a little girl playing dress-up in adult clothes.
A crew of ten swarthy men—mostly shirtless and running the gamut of adjectives from sweaty to emaciated to drunk—roamed the decks, tending to various stations and chores. Their chatter was a hodge-podge of French and Creole and there might have been a hundred teeth among the lot of them. Jack couldn’t have imagined a shadier-looking bunch outside of a pirate novel.
Louis double-checked the air hoses running from the compressors to the matching dive helmets, as Jack listened to a report from the portable two-way wireless set they’d taken aboard the salvage vessel to communicate with the Daedalus.
“Patrol complete, Cap,” said Rivets over the speaker. “You’re all clear.”
Doc leaned in and Jack keyed the TALK button on the handset for her. “You sure there’s no sign of the Luftpanzer?” she asked.
Duke’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker coil. “We’ve done several sweeps with the radio detector at altitude,” he explained. “The only thing matching the Luftpanzer’s radio signature is headed south-southeast i
n a hurry.”
“Affirmative,” said Jack. “Captain out.”
“I wonder what they know,” Doc mused.
Jack signaled Louis for help with the dive helmet. “We’ll find out after we find the artifact,” he said.
Louis hefted the cumbersome helmet onto Jack’s shoulders with his help, explaining as they worked. “I will stay on ze radio with Daedalus while you are below. Zese men will keep your air flowing and pull you up when you tug three times on ze tether.”
Jack’s helmet was sealed down, followed by Doc’s. Each nodded at Louis when they felt the compressed air fill the chamber. Giving each other an OK sign, they trudged down the ship’s ladder and into the depths.
“Bonne chance, Capitaine,” Louis saluted as the pair disappeared in a fountain of bubbles.
Only a dozen feet down, the reef was alive with a rainbow of color. Striped tropical fish darted in schools from coral branch to coral branch. Blood-red seaweed fronds and brilliant yellow tube sponges waved gently in the current. A spotted moray eel peeked out from its lair among the rocks and anemones, “sniffing” the water with its open mouth, then disappeared.
The reef itself ran north-south, gently sloping away into deeper waters to the west. If Our Lady of Salvation had encountered this jagged reef in calm seas—let alone a storm—it would not have gone well for her. The wreck would be close by, in those deeper waters. As their air hoses and tether lines payed out behind them, the two divers hopped slowly from the reef to the white sand below. Jack led the way with a sealed lantern, Doc following with the lodestone held out in front of her. She thrilled to the alien world laid out before them.
At thirty feet, the sunlight from above was so diffuse as to appear like evening. A school of blue tang whisked past them, fleeing a reef shark prowling above. The sand here was dusty white and kicked up into small clouds around the divers’ feet. A pair of stingrays erupted from the sea floor and flapped away into the dark. The ground continued to slope down, toward a field of seagrass which waved lazily before them.
