Kurt vanished as another wave rolled in. Joe goosed the throttle and moved forward so the aqua sled wouldn’t be pushed back into the wheelhouse, then idled the sled in place.
Kurt reappeared just as the sound of the helicopter overcame the wind and the waves. It was turning sideways a hundred yards off. Its spotlights swung across the water and settled on the boat.
“Nice of them to give us some light to work with,” Kurt said.
Joe shielded his eyes. He saw a figure in the doorway with his legs slung over the side and a long-barreled rifle in his arms. “Get down!”
Flashes from the barrel of that rifle reached them a microsecond before tracer fire began screaming overhead. Red streaks against the leaden sky, five potentially lethal shells.
Joe ducked and pulled away as shells tore into the wheelhouse. A second burst was short and to the right, tearing into the stern of the boat.
Kurt reappeared with Morgan beside him. Joe moved the aqua sled into position, but as they were about to lift the metal trunk aboard another burst of gunfire rained down, this one accompanied by a 40mm grenade.
The grenade exploded as it hit the water amidships. The shock wave pushed the aqua sled forward and knocked Kurt’s and Morgan’s legs from underneath them. They vanished beneath the water.
“Get out of here!” Kurt shouted over the comm system.
“Not without you two.”
“You can’t help us if you’re dead. Go! That’s an order!”
Joe twisted the throttle to full and the aqua sled shot forward. He raced out over the bow, heading out toward deeper water.
As soon as he looked back, he noticed a problem. The helicopter was following him.
CHAPTER 12
Racing out into the channel, Joe gave Kurt the good news. “If your plan was to palm these fellows off on me, it’s working.”
“Sorry,” Kurt said. “But if you can keep them busy without getting shot, this could work to our advantage. We’re working on a plan.”
“Think fast,” Joe said. He sped down the face of one wave and then up the next. As he emerged near the top, the helicopter appeared in his rearview mirror. It was flying at a catty-cornered angle, crabbing along sideways so the sniper in the doorway could fire at him.
Out past the point, Joe had room to maneuver. He weaved to the right and swung in a wide circle, his path bringing him around to the nose of the helicopter. Even as it turned, Joe kept circling. And the gunman, with only the side door to shoot from, was always too far behind to get a bead on him.
Joe grinned at his own ingenuity. He wondered how many circles before the pilot and his sniper would start getting dizzy. “I can do this all day,” he said out loud.
Just then, the helicopter stopped its rotation and spun back the other way. Joe noticed the change a second too late, ending up directly in the firing zone.
A wave of tracers tore into the sea in front of him and he turned instinctively. “Or not,” he grunted, hanging on tight to the controls.
Suddenly the helicopter went dark and Joe lost track of it. He cut left and then right, trying to track the machine by the sound of its rotors. He assumed they had him on a night vision scope, which would give them a decided advantage, but there was little he could do about it.
He dropped down into another trough. When he came up to the crest, the helicopter was directly ahead of him. Spotlights came on, blinding him, and the sniper opened fire. One shell hit the windscreen, taking a section of plexiglass with it, another bullet blasted through the outside edge of the left-hand grip.
Joe pulled his arm back instinctively. His palm stung. His shoulder felt numb. Still rocketing forward, he raced directly under the hovering machine. If he’d had a spear, he could have thrown it inside and impaled the gunman.
One thing he could not do was continue to run and dodge.
Out in the clear, Joe tested his hand and found his grip strength okay. He grasped the shattered handlebar and turned once again. Good thing the throttle is on the right, he thought.
The helicopter turned to follow, but Joe had a new game plan. He was safe in the troughs because the crests of the rolling waves blocked him from the low-flying sniper’s view. This time he stayed down, traveling in the trough of the wave as it rolled toward shore.
Having lost sight of him, the pilot made an obvious choice and climbed higher. The lights swept over Joe and then vanished.
To Joe’s astonishment, the pilot had given up the chase. There could only be one reason for that.
He radioed Kurt. “Sorry, amigo, decoy season is over. They must have realized I’m not carrying any loot. They’re heading your way.”
“You did what you could,” Kurt replied. “Get out of there. We’ll take it from here.”
“Tell me you’re in the water and swimming.”
“Not exactly.”
As Kurt replied, Joe noticed the helicopter climbing, then lowering its nose and setting itself in a firing position.
Before Joe could utter a warning, it unleashed a furious barrage of missiles from pods connected to the stubby wings just below the cockpit. Five, ten, twenty—the projectiles kept coming. They tore into the partially submerged trawler in an unrelenting bombardment, blasting it apart. The deck was shattered, the wheelhouse obliterated. Orange explosions of fire erupted fore and aft. In the middle of it all the fishing booms toppled like trees cut down in the forest.
By the time the onslaught finished, the helicopter was shrouded in a cloud of smoke. As the smoke cleared, the helicopter’s spotlights focused on the smoldering wreckage. They probed here and there and then suddenly went dark.
Lights off, the helicopter turned and rode with the wind, quickly vanishing in the deepening gloom.
CHAPTER 13
“Kurt, do you read?” Joe called out over the radio. “Give me a sign, amigo. I know you’re out there somewhere.”
Traveling slowly, his eyes scanning in front and to the sides, Joe circled the smoldering area of submerged wreckage in search of Kurt and Morgan.
“The helicopter is gone,” he said, holding down the TALK switch. “I repeat, the helicopter is gone. I’m not picking up any transmission from your end. If you can hear me, send up a flare and I’ll come over and pick you up.”
Joe listened intently, but there was no response, not even a garbled or static-filled attempt.
He would ride the waves for another twenty minutes, crisscrossing the area, with the aqua sled’s subsurface lights on, hoping to spot Kurt or alert him to his presence. He continued transmitting messages and getting nothing in return. Finally, with the storm worsening again, and the low-fuel light on the sled blinking, he set a course for shore.
Arriving onshore, he climbed off the sled and ran to the trailer where the spare fuel was kept. Carrying a two-gallon container down to the sled, he opened its cap and poured the high-octane fuel in the sled’s tank.
Running back to the truck, he opened the door, grabbed the key from under the mat and started the engine. With darkness nearly absolute now, he’d need to shed some light on the surf. He turned on the headlights and the auxiliary lights mounted on a bar on the roof of the cab. They lit up the beach and the white water thrown up by the crashing waves, but the sea beyond remained pitch-black.
Knowing that the tide had turned and would now be dragging Kurt and Morgan out to sea, Joe didn’t waste a second. He grabbed another packet of flares, shoved them in a pocket and pushed the sled back into the surf.
He was just about to charge out when he spotted something coming out of the water a hundred yards down the beach.
Not one something but two somethings. Divers in gear, with pinpoint lights on their harnesses. As the undertow drew back, he could see that they were carrying something between them. From the way they stumbled, it looked heavy and bulky.
Joe turned the sled and sped toward them, every light on the machine blazing. He saw a wave knock them down as they came forward, but they dug their feet into the sand
and held on to the object they were carrying.
Joe arrived as the water swirled away from them once more.
Too tired to speak or even gesture, Kurt and Morgan heaved the metal trunk up and dropped it on the back of the sled. As soon as it was secure, they grabbed onto the sides of the sled.
“Hold on!” Joe shouted.
He eased the sled forward and then sped up to avoid the next wave, which was rushing in behind them. They made it halfway up the beach before Kurt and Morgan let go.
Twenty yards beyond, the aqua sled beached itself, sliding to a stop once more. Joe jumped off and ran to Kurt and Morgan.
He found Kurt sitting on some loose stones, looking exhausted. He disconnected his oxygen line and pulled off his helmet, which he tossed away. Morgan was struggling to do the same.
“I looked for you,” Joe said. “I had all the underwater lights on. Didn’t you see me?”
“We did,” Kurt said. “But we couldn’t get to the surface with that crate in our hands—it weighs a ton—and we didn’t feel like leaving it on the bottom to disappear.”
Joe could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You walked all the way back to the beach carrying it by hand?”
Kurt nodded. “Once we went overboard, we really didn’t have much choice.”
“It was a brilliant idea,” Morgan added, holding up a hand and getting a weary high five from Kurt. “Truth be told, we were fine until we got closer to shore. Then all at once the tide changed and every step was a fight. If it wasn’t for the extra weights we put on—and this bloody anvil of a trunk—we’d have been pulled back out to sea.”
“Thanks for turning on the lights,” Kurt said. “They helped us keep our bearings.”
Joe grinned. “Every once in a while, we get something right.”
“I’ll bet it’s more often than that,” Morgan replied. She looked over at the aqua sled, eyeing the crate. “Now, let’s open this thing and see what’s inside.”
CHAPTER 14
They carried the stainless steel trunk to the pickup truck and set it down in front of the lights. As Kurt stored their tanks and the rest of the gear, Morgan produced an extensive array of locksmith’s tools from her bag.
“You came prepared,” Kurt said.
“I was in the Scouts,” she replied. “And smugglers are known to be fond of locks.”
“That must have been an interesting Merit Badge,” Joe said, grinning.
Morgan allowed a faint smile to cross her face and then went to work on the crate. She picked the lock with surprising ease, put the tools away and flipped the lid open.
The contents were far less exotic than any of them expected. In the center, supported by purpose-crafted foam, lay a stone object. Four-sided and narrowing to a point, it looked like a miniature pyramid. But the bottom edge was chipped where it had broken off of a larger piece.
“It’s the tip of an obelisk,” Morgan said.
Hieroglyphics were visible on each side. Kurt noticed a chiseled oval frame with markings inside it. “That looks like a cartouche. Possibly a royal name.”
Morgan looked up at him. “You know your ancient Egyptian symbols. I’m impressed.”
“Only enough of them to get into trouble,” he replied. “I couldn’t tell you what it says.”
“Neither can I,” Morgan said. She sounded disappointed.
Placing the pyramid-shaped stone aside, she pulled other items from the metal trunk. Slotted into the foam on either side of the obelisk were fragments of a stone tablet. They were wide and flat and perhaps an inch thick. A quick exam revealed more hieroglyphics and faded artwork.
Pulling the fragments out, Kurt and Morgan held two of them together. They connected like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
“Two halves of a whole,” Joe said.
“Not quite halves,” Morgan said. “Parts are still missing. And judging by the writing, I’d say a substantial part below the bottom edge.”
A full search revealed more fragments, eleven in all. Some were thin, others thicker. “Parts of the tablet,” Morgan suggested.
“More like several different tablets,” Kurt said.
Joe shook his head. “After all we’ve been through, I was expecting nothing less than the golden mask of King Tut’s brother. Or at least a second cousin once removed.”
“This makes no sense,” Morgan added. “If my informant is telling the truth, Bloodstone paid nearly half a million pounds for this. But you could find items like these at any underground antiquities market for a few thousand.”
Kurt noticed something held in a mesh pocket on the inside lid of the crate. He pulled it free and found an object wrapped in waterproof plastic bags.
Opening the bags, Kurt risked a look inside. Faint writing in faded pen was visible, but the papers were dry and brittle. “Handwritten,” he said, turning further pages and finding entries describing equipment and costs. “Logbook or journal.”
“That’s not from the Eighteenth Dynasty,” Joe kidded.
“Definitely not.” Kurt laughed. He leafed through the book and then handed it to Morgan. “Not sure how this connects with these other items, but it must have some value.”
She closed the log, wrapped it up in the protective bags it had come in, then slid them back into the mesh flap in the top half of the trunk.
“Could there be more relics out on the trawler?” Joe asked.
“If there were, they’re gone now,” Kurt said.
“We looked,” Morgan added. “Not everywhere, admittedly, but even if there were other crates hidden somewhere, it was this crate the captain and Vincennes chose to move first. Considering the situation, I have to believe they started with the most valuable items.”
The three of them fell silent for the moment, gazing at the objects as if some answer might jump out at them. Before anyone offered another thought, Morgan tilted her head upward and began scanning the dark sky.
Kurt followed her gaze. He saw nothing but soon picked up the sound of rotor blades.
“Hope that’s not our friends coming back for round two,” Kurt said.
“Bigger bird, by the sound of it,” Joe said. “Military or Coast Guard.”
Kurt glanced at Morgan. “Friends of yours?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Let’s pack this up and be ready to move just in case.”
With Joe holding the trunk open, Kurt and Morgan placed the stone items back inside where they’d found them. Each layer of fragmented stone was encased in foam and the tip of the obelisk rested in its niche on top. As he slid the obelisk into place, Kurt noticed a symbol that looked odd to him. He’d been speaking the truth when he told Morgan he only knew enough about Egyptian hieroglyphics to get himself into trouble, but the fact was they had a certain look to them and as Kurt stared at the marks he was convinced they weren’t Egyptian.
The first visible signs of the approaching helicopter were red and green navigation lights on its side and a red beacon flashing under its belly. It came toward them from the south, rumbled across the mouth of the loch and then passed overhead.
Kurt recognized it as a Royal Navy Sea King. It touched down on a flat section higher up on the beach. As the side door opened, the exterior lights came on. A civilian wearing a life jacket stepped out of the craft and marched toward them, escorted by an armed enlisted man in a Royal Navy uniform.
As they grew closer, Kurt noticed something in the civilian’s hand. At first, he thought it was a cane, but then he realized it was a swagger stick, a relic of British Army tradition.
“Be careful, now,” they heard him say to the enlisted man. “Treacherous footing here.”
Morgan stood to meet the new arrivals, stiffening her bearing and straightening her hair. “Colonel,” she said in greeting, though she didn’t salute.
With details of the man’s face illuminated by the pickup truck’s headlights, Kurt saw he was about fifty, with gray hair, cut close on the sides, and a thin mustache on his lip.
&nbs
p; “Ms. Manning,” the Colonel said. “You’ve stirred up quite a hornet’s nest with this latest operation. I understand heavy gunfire and a barrage of missiles have been unleashed on this tiny hamlet.”
Morgan didn’t shy away. “I warned you about the Bloodstone Group. I told you they’d become desperate and aggressive. This is the proof. They wanted what Vincennes was smuggling and they wanted it badly.”
“Yes,” the Colonel agreed. “Badly enough to start a war, apparently. The question is, why?”
Morgan shrugged and shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you. After seeing what they smuggled in, I’m more baffled than ever.”
Kurt and Joe were just bystanders at the moment, watching the action from the sidelines. It was an arrangement that had never suited Kurt. “Information,” he said bluntly.
Morgan and the Colonel turned his way.
“That’s what they’re after,” he said. “The items in the crate aren’t worth much, in and of themselves, so their value has to be what’s written down on them.”
With the Colonel’s steely gaze focused on him, Kurt offered a hand. “Kurt Austin,” he said. “And this is Joe Zavala. We’re partially to blame for some of the chaos out here tonight. But you can rest assured we didn’t fire the first shot.”
The Colonel shook Kurt’s hand with a grip of steel. “I’m aware of who you are,” he said. “I must admit, you look about as I expected.”
“How’s that?” Kurt asked.
“I’ll explain later,” the Colonel said. “For now, let me say I’m glad to make your acquaintance in person—though it’s a bloody awful night to do it on. Foulest weather I’ve seen in years.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Kurt said.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow. “You could say that about most things,” he replied. “But at least you won’t have to walk to London.”
“London?”
“Yes,” the Colonel said. “You’re all coming with me.”
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 8
