The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  Water trickled against the far wall. Shivers of uneasiness ran up Frank’s neck. This was no ordinary Japanese supply tunnel.

  As Luke slowly turned the cup, Frank held the flashlight still, but its beam shook. The intricacy of detail was incredible: landscapes of animals and foliage etched into the cup; cylindrical foot; rose-bud knob on the lid.

  Frank reached out. “Let’s hold onto that.” He accepted the cup, then reached into the crate and removed the companion saucer stand. “We’ll bring them with us.”

  Pushing the set in his coat pockets, he found it wasn’t enough. He stuffed both their pockets and filled a gold burial urn with artifacts. Leading the way down the cave shaft with Luke close on his heels, he came to the next crate. It was full of gold too.

  “Where did all this come from?” Luke said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Then it occurred to Frank. The Musashi Maru.

  The connection should have been obvious. How long had he been trying to solve the mystery of the Musashi? How many times had he wondered about the empty cargo hold he’d scuba dived in? So these skeletons were the missing crew. The treasure came from Japan. Perhaps the Musashi was sinking and the crew managed to evacuate the cargo in time. War plunder? On Kiska?

  As they made their way down into the tunnel, Frank could still hear the blow faintly moaning through the crater at the cave entrance forty yards back. For a moment, after finding the gold, he’d nearly forgotten about his boat. But even if there was an aftershock, that didn’t mean a tsunami was imminent. He needed to get out of this cave, but he could take one more minute.

  He had to at least get a better idea of what they’d stumbled upon.

  Progressing deeper into the shaft, they came upon another skeleton. It’s crooked finger bones lay beneath a gold bracelet.

  Luke stepped back, pointing. “It looks like he died screaming.”

  Frank squinted his eyes.

  They walked farther into the shaft.

  “Cracks in the floor,” Luke said.

  When Frank got a look around the corner--he stiffened.

  The shaft widened into a steamy cavern. Four large crates backed up against the wall on the right. Broken sides spilled their contents, forming a three-foot high mound of pagodas, dishes, pots, crowns, swords, vessels, animals, dragons, Buddhas, eggs, tigers, tiger claws--all of it gold. More skeletons lay at the base of the treasure and sprawled on the stack as though the men died while crawling over the mound. A wide area reached around the mound on the left. Water flowed down the steep continuation tunnel on the far side.

  “It’s all treasure,” Luke said. “Japanese.”

  Frank held the light on a gold suit of armor at the far side of the chamber, standing erect.

  With Luke following, Frank walked to the far side of the chamber where the tube exited the back side, upturning and angling too steeply to stack any more crates.

  Frank flashed the beam around the cavern. The light stopped on the cave’s wall.

  “What’s that?” Luke said, pointing his finger.

  Frank stared at the cave wall. A huge petroglyph shown crimson against the inky black: A strange ship etched into the lava, a chiseled sculpture that could have been chipped out by a prehistoric hunter, if not for the vessel’s more recent cast in history. The old ship was propelled by oars and armed with cannons. Spikes studded her humped back, and a square sail rose high above the bowsprit that reached out like the head on a turtle.

  Luke reached up and touched the carving, which loomed high above him and stretched long to his left and right.

  A vibration shook dust particles from the roof. A rumbling quavered through the cavern. A stalactite broke free of the roof and hit the floor next to Frank. Jumping back, he grabbed Luke and held him tightly for a moment before letting go of him. The volcanic nature of the underworld manifested itself in Frank’s mind. He was strangely reminded that he was an unforgiven sinner, and he envisioned a river of blood boiling below him in the black volcanic depths . . .

  Frank felt Luke edging up close to him. “Let’s get out of here,” Frank said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After grabbing two survival suits from the storage locker, Frank ran up the stairs to the wheelhouse of the Hector. He sat in the captain’s swivel chair and tossed the suits on the chair next to him. Sparking the crab boat to belching life he eased her ahead, resisting the urge to go faster. He brought the Hector around, powering forth over watery ramps and then plunging down perilously close to the submerged Musashi.

  Luke came in the wheelhouse.

  “There’s a survival suit if you need one,” Frank said, pointing to the two orange suits thrown on the seat next to him. “Do you remember how to use one?”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Luke answered.

  “Good.” Frank looked out at the storm. As the Hector broke over a wave and crashed into the next, glittering rivers poured over the bow, and spray froze on the windshield. “That was quite a find we made today, wasn’t it?”

  “I can hardly wait to show Brian and Clay.”

  “Son, we can’t let anyone know about what we found.”

  “Why not? It’s ours, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I need some time to figure that out, okay?”

  As they rumbled directly over the Musashi’s central deck, Frank glanced at the CRT monitor, which showed orange clouds of fish conglomerating over the wreckage. The hazard slept off the starboard beam, where the sunken ship’s superstructure and elliptical funnel rose dangerously near the surface. Glancing out the side window, he saw the menacing carcass looming beneath wave troughs. Luke joined him at the console, and Frank pointed out the sunken ship. He would be glad to get out of this cove and into deeper water. He shut thoughts of gold out of his mind and focused on getting his kid to a safer place.

  After building up speed, Frank moved levers on the control consul; the Hector accelerated through the surge of Musashi Inlet. As they approached the mouth of the inlet, they passed towering lava cliffs on either side. Waves swelled where they heaped up over the underwater shelf. The Hector dipped and doused onward. As she broke over a wave and crashed into the next, glittering rivers poured over the bow, and spray froze on the windshield.

  Frank guided her out into the open water where the sea was lifting and tossing his boat. White foam from breaking waves blew in streaks.

  He glanced at his watch and then over at Luke, who was peering through binoculars. If there was any trouble, Luke would tell him.

  Frank began to relax. Soon they would be in deep water. Gazing out at the ocean and storm play, he remembered the strange carving on the cavern wall. Something about it was familiar. But how could an eerie carving of a spike-roofed boat be familiar? What was it?

  “Now I remember.” Frank snapped his head around toward Luke. “Mr. Lee told me a story one night on his processor boat. It was about the spike-roofed ships of a famous Korean admiral. Something about ships resembling turtles. I think that cave carving is a Korean battle ship. From the 16th century, I believe.”

  “I thought it was Japanese.”

  “The Musashi Maru was. Those old rifles and bayonettes were Japanese. I’m not so sure about the old ship in the cave carving. I’ll have to do some research when we get home. Why don’t you go get us some hot chocolate and we can talk about it more then.”

  “Okay, Dad.” Luke ran to the door and took the steps down to the galley.

  As ocean sounds descended upon the wheelhouse, Frank looked at the anemometer. The wind peg was jumping wildly. His watch indicated four hours since they left the range station. Probably would take them another hour to round the island.

  A few minutes later, Frank noticed the seaward current strengthening. He grabbed the binoculars and looked at the shoreline, which was still only a couple hundred yards away. Visibility was shrouded, and he only saw a blur. The current was now a rip tide--worse than any he’d encountered on the west side of the island where they were not
orious. In this area that meant… His eyes opened wide.

  “Oh no!”

  The Hector upthrust on a monstrous swell. Frank’s knees buckled as millions of tons of water swept beneath them. At the crest the Hector caught air. The hull moaned out in ghostly distress. Frank heard pots and pans crashing in the galley.

  “Luke!” he yelled, “hold on!”

  “Dad!”

  The boat dropped down the backside of the titanic surge like a runaway elevator. Frank’s stomach sank as he braced himself for impact. The boat crashed and rumbled. Frank slid across the wheelhouse and slammed against the bulkhead. A bedlam of water imploded upon the Hector, swallowing her in the throat of the ocean.

  The submerged Hector heeled violently to starboard. White water churned furious. Frank expected the windows to implode under a flood of liquid, but his boat broke the surface. He rolled over and saw daylight behind a curtain of cascading seawater. To port, to starboard--the Hector heeled.

  He struggled to stand up, but lost his balance and landed on his side and rolled.

  Thunder roared as a tsunami burst upon the rugged coast.

  The Hector rocked deeply, but Frank pulled himself up by the handrail. The boat was now turning in a huge whirlpool. The storm was still blowing, but for a moment, as the Hector swung around, Frank saw the entire coast engulfed in an unbridled torrent of white water wrath.

  “Luke!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From inside the log ranch house, Ingrid stared out the window at Opelia Harbor. Looking out the rain-spattered panes, through the gray fog toward the beach, she wondered why Frank and Luke weren’t back yet.

  Taking three logs from the alcove next to the giant river-rock fireplace she added them to the flames. Standing in the warmth for a minute, then walking into the kitchen’s big pantry, she picked up her list of long-anticipated supplies:

  200 pounds of flour

  75 pounds of sugar

  100 pounds of rice

  150 pounds of beans, soups . . .

  The list was seven pages long, all pre-ordered from a shipping supply company in Seattle, Washington, whose minimum order was 40 cases. They put out an inch-thick catalog that she knew by heart. As Luke’s nanny, ordering food was one of her chores.

  Twice a year Frank made the 1400-mile trip to Dutch Harbor to pick up the supplies ACME shipped from Seattle. He planned to leave in five days. Even though she longed for a taste of civilization after six months on Kiska Island, she would stay home and help Luke with his lessons and chores around the ranch. Sitting down at the kitchen table she added a few items to the list, but couldn’t concentrate. Luke should never have gone out during a storm.

  Why didn’t they call? One last look for the boat and then she’d try Frank on the radio again. The fire crackled, and she felt a wave of heat as she walked into the living room. From the window she saw the Hector docking. Luke was tying up. Ingrid sighed with relief.

  Back in the kitchen, she added logs to the wood stove. Luke charged in, almost running her over. His cheeks were red from the cold, but round as a plum from his smile.

  “I went on the boat with my dad! We almost sank!”

  Ingrid stared at him, unsure how to respond. She was afraid that if she did respond, she might start crying or even yell at him.

  Frank walked in. “Are you alright?”

  She nodded. “I was worried.”

  Frank looked at Luke.

  “I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I won’t do it again.” His shoulders sagged, and he looked down at the floor for a moment.

  “It’s okay.” Ingrid forced a smile.

  “Did you hear from Brian and Clay?” Frank took off his dripping rain coat and hung it on the back of a chair.

  “Karen came by an hour ago,” Ingrid said. “Brian radioed her from a bunker. He

  said a tsunami hit the east shore.”

  “Glad they made it.”

  Luke smiled. “The wave went right under us.”

  Ingrid looked at Frank.

  “Gave us a fair jolt, but we were in deep enough water and the tsunami hadn’t risen much yet.”

  Ingrid gasped.

  “The boat jumped,” Luke said.

  “Jumped?” she repeated. “You shouldn’t have left by yourself. You didn’t even ask. Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

  “Sorry.” His shoulders sagged and his chin touched his chest.

  “Boat got pretty roughed up,” Frank said. “I’ve got a lot more work than I planned on to get ready for the trip to Dutch.” Frank looked over at Ingrid and gave her a smile. “Luke can help me.”

  ***

  For three days Frank worked with Luke preparing the Hector for the voyage to Dutch Harbor. They attacked all the disarray in the galley, Frank’s office, and then the rest of the boat. Clay Krukov, Frank’s Aleut ranch hand, attended to the engines and electronics, fine-tuning, adjusting, cleaning. By the fourth day, they were stowing the boat with provisions, and Frank was moving dunnage into his stateroom. During this time, Frank thought about the problems he would face if their treasure discovery was revealed to the world.

  As a reclusive former crab fisherman and sheep farmer, he was invisible to the world, and that’s how he wanted it to stay. Trying to secure a claim on a high-profile archaeological discovery while remaining anonymous would be near impossible. Since Kiska Island was a national historic monument, Frank, as owner, had a copy of the state laws and regulations regarding cultural resources. Included in that package were the state laws applicable to archaeological finds. Going over these, he reasonably assured himself that since the treasure was found on his private property, his claim was superior to that of the state government. Still undetermined was whether his claim was superior to that of the federal government or a foreign government. The treasure had probably been on the island for less than sixty years, unlike typical artifacts which may have spent hundreds of years or more buried underground. And the treasure was far removed from its cultural heritage.

  From the Hector’s wheelhouse, Frank anonymously called an attorney in New York by radio-telephone on the single sideband.

  “So you want to pay me to talk about a ‘hypothetical’ ship,” the lawyer said. “As I understand, you’re dealing with treasure trove, finders, and lost possessions. In a matter like this, I need all the information available to formulate an opinion you can rely on.”

  “I just need an opinion of where I would stand,” Frank said, “whether or not my claim is defensible.”

  The lawyer gave a long sigh. “There would no doubt be a contested court proceeding. I’d need to know more about the events surrounding the disappearance of the ship. Why and when was the cargo moved ashore? Who owned the ship? Under what circumstances did the cargo disappear? Were efforts made to find the treasure or was it abandoned? Is the original owner still alive? Where was the discovery made? I need hard information--the more, the better.”

  “The owner of the cargo might have been Japanese or Korean. Let’s say the ship had a vague and mysterious background.”

  “I’m not in the business of making assumptions. However . . . false documents could strengthen your position or complicate matters. If there was anything clandestine about that shipment, finding information might prove extremely difficult, if not impossible. Shady details might work in your favor, or they might snap back on you later like a trap.

  “If you want to proceed, you’ll certainly have to be a lot more candid with me. Naturally, I’ll need my retainer and a signed fee agreement before I do anything.”

  “You’ve already been helpful. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

  Frank went to his cabin, sat at his desk, and took off his boots. Thinking about all that had just occurred, memories of his dark past, his wife, and her tragic death entered his mind. Shame filled him, and he ached with agony. How did his life end up this way? He was just trying to raise his kid right, keep him from the horrors he experienced. Frank’s own parent
s had tried to protect him, but as a missionaries’ son in Guatamala who’d befriended the local rebels, the CIA took an interest in him. At first it was simple information gathering, but then the stakes got higher.

  Frank tried not to remember. He went ashore and walked over to the barn. In the tack room, he removed the false bottom from his walnut seaman’s chest. He flipped through several passports and credit cards with alternate identities accompanying his photograph with altered appearances. Finding the passport for John Blake, he looked at it closely. Flashbacks splashed across his mind like a tragic documentary. A dark cape of regret shaded certain images. He snapped the passport shut and put it down. He carefully picked through a collection of hair tints and dyes, trays of theatrical cosmetics and make-up brushes, toupees, wigs, fake mustaches, spectacles, color-tinted contact lenses. Everything was in order, and he set a few items aside.

  Not prepared to tell a total stranger where the treasure was and other details he might later regret, he realized he must go to Korea and Japan to research the facts himself.

  Going to Japan didn’t bother him. South Korea, on the other hand, did. His three previous trips there were conducted under various umbrellas for very high fees. What occurred on his last visit was the capstone of a stained life, but this visit would be different than the others. He would go under the cover of an American tourist. There was danger in going back, but Frank had once been the best in managing danger. If he could get the information he needed, he might be able to accomplish the impossible. He would stake everything on seizing it.

  There was one person Frank trusted who might be able to help him. After getting his cabin in order, Frank returned to the wheelhouse and called him by radio-telephone.

  “What’s all that static, Frank? Where are you calling me from this time? Argentina, or is it Brazil?” Mr. Lee laughed heartily.

  “I’m in Alaska. I don’t travel as much as I used to.”