BLACK COBRA (Aaron Quinn thriller series, No. 2)

by John Avery

  ---

  After tossing blindly on the iron bunk for what felt like hours, Aaron heard the dismal echo of heavy footsteps in the corridor.

  He froze, tucking his legs up under his arms, straining to see through the bars into the corridor beyond.

  KaClank!

  The turnkey had unlocked the heavy lock on the cell door. He swung the iron gate wide and stepped into the narrow shaft of light. A giant of a man, the jailer stood seven feet at the shoulders, with the girth of an ox. He wore a leather vest with no shirt, revealing a massive chest soaked with sweat and crisscrossed with jagged scars. In lieu of pants he wore a rough leather kilt, held in place by a wide belt from which hung a long, straight sword and a coiled, leather whip. Legs like pier pilings ended in huge troll feet wrapped in leather.

  “The sun is high,” he boomed. “Come with me.” He stepped into the hall and waited.

  Aaron hesitated, frightfully perplexed. None of this made any sense, but strain as he may, he couldn’t wake himself. Knowing of no other option but to go with the man, he stood up from the bunk, pulled up the hem of his robe, and shuffled cautiously past the pit toward the door.

  ---

  Aaron followed the towering goon down a dark, narrow, stone corridor, hewn from and polished to the same smooth finish as the stone in his cell. Wrought-iron torches mounted at intervals along the way providing what little light there was.

  They passed other cells, and once again the sour stench of decay filled Aaron’s nostrils. Most of the cells appeared to be empty, but the ones that were occupied held sights that would chill a coroner’s blood — sights that Aaron would be long to forget.

  In one cell Aaron saw a nude woman with long, red hair, lying on her back strapped to an evil looking instrument of torture. As he passed, she turned her head and stared at him through blood-red eyes. Then she hissed at him, causing the hair on his neck to stand. He couldn’t help but imagine what the machine was designed to do to her, but he quickly pushed the horrid image out of his mind.

  In another cell Aaron saw a man sitting on the stone floor dressed in rags. He held a large knife in one hand, and it looked like he was attempting to chew his own arm off — and it appeared that he was succeeding. He looked up, and Aaron saw that his face was tattooed with a flower, but where his eyes should have been, there were only dark holes through which Aaron could see the very depths of hell.

  After that Aaron kept his eyes to himself.

  ---

  When at last they reached the end of the corridor, they climbed to the top of a long flight of steps. The turnkey shoved hard against a heavy door and the stairway flooded with sunlight. Aaron shaded his eyes from the painful glare, unable to see what awaited him outside.

  ---

  They stepped through the door into a large courtyard of packed earth strewn with straw. The hot sun hung directly overhead.

  Aaron saw a shiny new tungsten silver Aston Martin DBS parked near a stable with horses, but it meant nothing to him.

  A crowd had gathered, dressed like they were attending a Renaissance festival: the men in tunics, with leather belts and feathered hats; the ladies in flowing dresses, with flowers in their hair and their bosoms mostly exposed. But it wasn’t long before Aaron saw what the crowd had come to see — and it wasn’t a festival.

  Toward the back of the courtyard stood a large, wooden scaffold, erected from sturdy timbers with wooden stairs leading up one side. Standing on top of the raised platform, overlooking the crowd, was a large man wearing a black hood that covered his face.

  “Keep moving,” the jailer said gruffly, giving Aaron a hefty shove toward the scaffold.

  Surely that man’s not waiting for me, Aaron thought, looking around.

  The crowd had grown quite large, and as he and his jailer worked their way through, Aaron was spat upon, poked with sticks, and pelted with rotten fruit. At times he thought he might faint, but the harrowing thought of being underfoot in this mob motivated him to keep moving.

  When at last they reached the scaffold, the turnkey let go of Aaron’s arm, indicating the stairs with a wave of his hand.

  Aaron’s robes were drenched with sweat and covered with muck. He looked around in disbelief. What am I doing here? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Why can’t I make any sense of this? Who am I, really?

  He placed his foot on the first step, and then took another step, and another, and at last he reached top of the platform.

  ---

  The man in the hood directed him to kneel in front of a large block of wood with a basket sitting next to it — both were soaked with fresh blood.

  The man selected a large, double-bladed axe from a rack full of such weapons. Its razor edges glinted in the sun. Aaron noticed that there was no blood on the blade. Clearly the man took pride in his work.

  The axeman had Aaron rest his forehead on the block — it felt warm and sticky against his skin. He could not believe that after all he’d been through he was about to die at the hands of a medieval executioner.

  “Do you have any last words?” the axeman said, his tone jaded, not at all sympathetic.

  The crowd stared at Aaron expectantly, some of them no doubt pondering what they would say in answer to that most provocative of questions.

  “No,” Aaron replied. “I have nothing to say.”

  A round of enthusiastic booing could be heard from the crowd. Aaron knew he had disappointed them. But he really didn’t have anything to say. What could he say? He had no idea why he was being executed, and he could think of nothing to give penance for.

  The axeman stepped over next to the block and adjusted the position of Aaron’s head so that he faced slightly to one side. To his dismay, Aaron could now see the people who had arrived early and secured the front row. Some of them had brought their children, the youngest of whom wouldn’t look squarely at him; but some of the older ones were obviously getting a kick out of Aaron’s dire predicament, and they had no problem making eye contact as they jeered at him with rotting teeth.

  At least the guy could have given me a hood, Aaron thought bitterly.

  He wanted to turn away, but he remained still, lest he not give the axeman a clean shot at his neck.

  The crowd cheered wildly, feathered hats flying through the air.

  Why are they in such a frenzy? Aaron thought. What are they hoping to gain from this experience? What do they expect their kids to gain from it? Where is their compassion? Their humanity?

  The axeman rested his hand briefly on Aaron’s shoulder, as if to say ‘It’s time.’ Then a hush came over the crowd as he raised his shiny axe high overhead.

  Then WHACK!

  ---

  Aaron didn’t feel a thing — his executioner was obviously an expert.

  He had read somewhere that human heads lived for a few seconds after being severed, and now, flipping face first into the woven basket, and he knew that they did.

  He felt strangely safe and secure in his basket. At least I don’t have to look at them, he thought. I’ll just wait here till Death takes me away forever.

  But then, to his infinite horror, the executioner leaned down and grabbed him by the hair and lifted him out of the basket, holding him aloft, to the morbid delight of the hysterical mob. They screamed and danced in perverse ecstasy. Several women swooned and fell, only to be trampled underfoot as the crowd surged forward in a communal frenzy that had reached a fever pitch.

  Aaron tried to scream, but of course he had no lungs with which to do so. He could only close his eyes and pray for a swift, sweet death.

  But sadly, Death wouldn’t come.

  ---

  SMACK!

  Aaron jerked awake and sat up holding his cheek, and for a second he was disoriented. But then he saw Brandy Fine standing in front of him and he knew he was back on the Cayman Jewel.

  “What did you do that for?” he said, wishing she had brought him out of his wild dream with a bit more finesse. But then it dawned on hi
m why she might be angry with him.

  “Oh — shut up,” Brandy said, disgusted. “You were flying all over the bed acting like a fucking lunatic. ‘They all stare!’ you said. ‘Make them stop!’ you said. What was I supposed to do? Bring you warm milk and a cookie? You’re a grown man, Aaron. If you can’t take a fucking nap after getting high without freaking out, then forget the damn naps. Otherwise, we’re dropping you off at the next fucking nursery school!”

  She walked out.

  Dazed, Aaron rubbed his cheek and flopped back down on his bed, grateful to be rid of that insane dream but unable to remember a word Brandy had just said.

  Chapter 31

  Due to a log jam at the locks on the Pacific side, the canal crossing ended up taking two days.

  Jason’s canal agent said goodbye in Panama City, and at last the Cayman Jewel sailed out into the Pacific Ocean.

  Detective Harness and his partner had waited a day and a half in Panama City, but by the time they figured out that they’d been given bad information by their own canal agent, the Cayman Jewel had already gone.

  ---

  Jason waited until they were far from shore and then set the ship to autopilot. He joined Brandy and Aaron on the aft deck.

  “Two years ago I promised you we’d marry,” he said to Brandy. “Well, today’s the day.”

  Brandy was floored. “What?”

  “I wanted to wait until we made it safely through the canal,” Jason said.

  Brandy gave him a big hug and kiss. “Oh, Jason. I can hardly believe it!” She stopped and looked at him. “But we’re miles from anywhere. Who will marry us?”

  “I’m a ship’s captain, right?” Jason said. “I will preside." He knew he wasn’t actually qualified to marry anyone, but he figured what Brandy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Aaron had heard about captains marrying people and he was pretty sure it wasn't legally binding back in the States. But he’d also heard of an unwritten law that said if you truly think you’ve been married, you have, and he had no reason to believe otherwise.

  Jason looked at him. “Aaron will be our witness.”

  “Awesome!” Aaron said, truly happy for them. “Do you have a ring?”

  Jason reached into his pocket and produced a ring box with two rings and a slip of paper. He gave the rings to Aaron and faced Brandy, reading from the prepared notes.

  “Do you, Brandy Fine, take me, Jason Beckham, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  Brandy paused for a moment; it all seemed rushed and very unromantic, not at all what she'd dreamt it would be. She searched Jason for the faintest sign of true love, but it wasn't there. She couldn't see herself in his eyes.

  The idea of marriage suddenly felt trite: the vows, the rings, the kiss. More than ever before, she deeply regretted never having had the chance to marry Johnny Souther. In spite of his faults, he had loved her truly. And she had loved him.

  She began to wonder what she'd been thinking, going on this wild adventure with a man who didn’t love her. And did she love Jason enough to be a good wife for him? Even if the feelings weren’t mutual? She wasn’t sure. But she had nowhere else to go, nothing else to live for. She may as well take a chance on being Mrs. Jason Beckham.

  “I do,” she said at last, adding a brief, silent prayer.

  Jason gestured for her to continue.

  “What? Oh — um, do you, Jason Beckham, take me, Brandy Fine, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  She waited, smiling to herself, savoring the moment she’d yearned for her whole life.

  “I do,” Jason said.

  Brandy searched his eyes. Do you mean it, Jason? Is there even a small part of you that means it?

  Aaron handed them the rings and the newlyweds placed them on each other's fingers.

  I will pretend that he loves me, Brandy thought. Where is it written that I can’t pretend?

  “I now pronounce us husband and wife,” Jason said.

  “You may kiss the bride,” Aaron added.

  Brandy giggled and closed her eyes again, and then she and Jason kissed.

  ~ PART II ~

  Friday

  Nine Days Later ...

  San Diego Bay

  Chapter 32

  It was early afternoon on a Friday when at last Jason, Brandy, and Aaron left Mexican waters and crossed into the United States, about 3 miles offshore. The trip had taken longer than planned — with the delays in Costa Rica and Panama, and refueling issues in Cabo San Lucas — and they were running late.

  They cruised a short way up the coast of California with Jason pointing out the San Diego headquarters of the U.S. Navy Seals and the Hotel Del Coronado which could be seen just east of their position, on the south side of Coronado Island.

  Jason recalled a story about a famous long-time resident of the hotel: the ghost of Kate Morgan.

  “I believe it was November 24th, 1892,” he explained, “A woman named Kate Morgan checked into room 304, now 3327, to meet her husband ... but he never arrived. Five days later she was found dead on the steps leading to the beach. They determined she had shot herself. However, it was reported that during the coroner's inquest, the bullet found in Kate’s head did not match that of her own gun — but that was never proven. And since that day, guests who have checked into room 3327 have frequently reported ghost sightings and other paranormal events.”

  “Remind me not to stay in that room," Aaron said.

  “Me, too,” Brandy said.

  “Many famous people have stayed at the Hotel Del,” Jason said. "Thomas Edison and Marilyn Monroe to name just two.”

  ---

  Jason prepared to sail through the entrance to San Diego Bay. "Would you like to take the helm?” he asked Aaron.

  "Sure," Aaron said, surprised. Jason had never let him near the wheel this close to shore before. But he was confident he could handle it.

  “Pay attention to the channel markers,” Jason said. “Red, right, returning."

  Aaron was familiar with the mnemonic and quickly spotted the buoys.

  "The nuclear submarine base is on the west side of the channel, and North Island is to the east, to starboard,” Jason said. “These are restricted areas.”

  “What happens if we enter a restricted area?” Brandy asked.

  “They U.S. Navy will blow us out of the water,” Jason said. "No questions asked."

  Brandy's eyes went wide at that thought.

  “Duly noted,” Aaron said, and then he carefully guided the Cayman Jewel through the narrow channel entrance to San Diego Bay.

  “That’s Naval Air Station North Island to starboard, on Coronado Island. To port is Naval Base Point Loma, one of America's largest and most tactically important nuclear submarine bases. Its facilities include the Fleet Antisubmarine Warfare Training Center, Fleet Combat Training Center Pacific, and Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command, among others.”

  Aaron was impressed but disappointed that the awesome submarines were hidden from his view by some kind of huge floats.

  “Follow the channel as it turns east,” Jason said. “After Harbor Island, roughly nine nautical miles east of here, we'll jog north again. We’re heading for the A-9 Cruiser Anchorage, for 'out of town' boats like ours. It'll be off your port bow, just south of the U.S. Coast Guard Station, across from the Maritime Museum of San Diego.”

  Aaron nodded and took them the rest of the way in.

  ---

  As they approached the anchorage, they passed the MMSD on their right.

  Jason pointed out one of the submarines on exhibit at the museum. "That’s b-39, code name Cobra," he said. “That's why I’m here.”

  Brandy looked down at the 284-foot hunk of black iron moored at the dock along side the museum. “We sailed all the way here for that?” she said. The submarine had obviously seen better days and looked very unsafe.

  “She’s a former Soviet attack sub,” Jason said. “A Foxtrot-class hunter killer. She’s about to undergo a t
op to bottom restoration, and I’ve been hired as a technical consultant."

  Aaron glanced down at the submarine, hoping to see it close up later. Then he concentrated on his job at the helm, carefully guiding the Cayman Jewel into the anchorage.

  ---

  Jason tied up at a mooring buoy and joined the others on deck. “Talk about cutting it close,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s 3:45 p.m. I’m scheduled to meet Uri Ruden on board Cobra at 4:00.”

  He looked at Aaron. “Captain Ruden is one of the Russian submariners who actually piloted Cobra during the Cold War back in the Seventies. Would you like to meet him and check out the sub?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Aaron said.

  Jason turned to Brandy. “The mooring office will be expecting us to contact them for an inspection and a permit. Their phone number is up on the chart table. We shouldn't be long.”

  Brandy nodded. She was happy to stay behind and relax on deck while the men had their fun.

  San Diego Waterfront

  Chapter 33

  Jason and Aaron lowered the Cayman Jewel’s dinghy, an 18-foot Zodiac inflatable outboard, into the water and motored across the basin to the MMSD. At 4 p.m. sharp, they walked up Cobra’s gangway to meet Uri Ruden.

  “Welcome to San Diego,” Uri said, shaking Jason’s hand firmly. “I trust your trip was a pleasurable one.”

  Jason hesitated then decided not to mention the pirate attack that almost ended their voyage. “It was a relaxing cruise, thank you. Uneventful.”

  He gestured toward Aaron. "Uri, this is my good friend Aaron Quinn. Aaron, meet Captain Third Rank, Uri Ruden, a former Soviet submariner. Uri is here to help whip Cobra into shape.”

  Aaron couldn't imagine what Jason meant by “whip Cobra into shape”, as if that were even possible. He stepped forward and shook Ruden’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Captain,” he said.

  “You as well, Mr. Quinn,” Uri said.

  "Aaron’s a SCUBA instructor down on Cayman Brac," Jason said. “He’s an accomplished sailor himself and owns his own boat. He crewed for me on our trip up here — very capably, I might add.”