The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  He passed through a doorway in the forward bulkhead into ‘tween hold #2. He flashed his light around. Wooden crates were stacked neatly atop one another and no crates impeded his passage along the perimeter. Frank persisted doggedly.

  His leg was jolted hard climbing into ‘tween hold #1. He grit his teeth and shined the flashlight into the ghostly darkness.

  A spilling mound of gold treasure glittered against the light beam.

  “Treasure for the devil,” he said.

  He crawled around the gold mound. Blood flowed steadily from his hands and knees. He struggled to think clearly. If he had his holds right, were he to continue fore, he’d hit a dead end as the compartment for’ard of ‘tween hold #1 would be the deep tank used for ballast and trimming.

  Getting up on one leg, he started up the ladder, took a step . . . another . . . At the deck above, a round hatch opened to upper ‘tween hold #1. He spun the dog latch and heaved it upward, the hatch slamming down on the steel deck overhead.

  Passing through, he endured on. Should have shot it out with the man back in the engine room. There wasn’t enough time for this.

  Frank got up wearily and hobbled for’ard to the next bulkhead, the assault rifle doubling as a cane. He moved through the doorway into the bosun’s store. He won the ladder and proceeded stubbornly up into the foc’sle, blood from his hands lubricating the rungs. Climbing took too long. He gained the foc’sle ‘tween deck. Light shined in through a porthole, and Frank threw off the flashlight, crawled to the foc’sle door.

  He pushed open the door and climbed up on one leg, using the AK as something between a crutch and a cane. The sunlight was nearly blinding, so he squinted. Shielding his aching eyes, he searched the superstructure for snipers.

  He glanced at his watch. In seven minutes the Pinisha would explode in an apocalyptic flash.

  Carrying the rifle, Frank began hopping furiously down the main deck. Pain clawed through his leg. He kept thinking about Luke.

  He was on a race against death and barely cared if the sniper was watching. He wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. But his pace was sticky, his good leg stiffening from glass cuts through the muscles. Haggardly, slowly, failingly, using the rail for support, he hopped one-legged, one step at a time, along the port rail. He kept going. Struggling. By the time he was half way across the main deck, he was crawling, his glass-cut hands and knees slippery on the metal decking and leaving a trail of blood. He wrestled his way down the length of the main deck. He felt groggy. Dizzy.

  Finally, laying hand upon the main superstructure, he climbed through the doorway on bleeding hands and knees. He climbed a stairwell to the accommodation deck like an animal. He adjusted the AK-47, which was now strapped around his neck and under his arm. Top of the stairs, he glanced at his watch.

  Five minutes.

  He pulled and grappled and finally managed to stand up on his good leg. He began hopping, using the rail for support, but again the grinding bones drove him onto his hands and knees. Onward he crawled, dragging his leg. Finally he arrived astern.

  Four minutes until the ship exploded into a fireball and dragged the Hector into the deep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Suffering for every inch, Frank staggered across the Pinisha’s stern. He travailed over the taffrail and realized he felt numb to pain now. Only adrenaline and a vision of his son kept him going. He began another ship-to-ship, hand-over-hand rope crossing. His arms were dead-man’s arms, stiff and numb, his grip weak and unsteady. His hands were soaked with hot and slippery blood.

  The ships were traveling at eighteen knots and the Pinisha’s churned up white water slipped rapidly beneath him as he put one hand in front of the other. He could feel the extreme tension in the three-inch rope. Half way across, the Hector sank into a wave trough, dipping Frank’s feet in cold seawater. A seism of pain burst through him, striking at his core. He held on, but his arms felt rubbery. His grip faltered. A churning froth of seawater raced beneath him and under the Hector, beckoning him unto the soft caress of easy surrender.

  His hands stung where rope fibers cut into his open wounds. One shaky hand at a time, he tussled for the crab boat.

  As the rope pulled tight again, it made squeaking, stretching sounds. He grappled on, his arms and shoulders growing toilworn, the ocean’s spray slapping him across the face, leaving salt in his mouth and wounds.

  Frank reached the Hector and strained every nerve climbing up on the bow.

  If the explosion detonated with the Hector’s hawser belayed to the Pinisha, he’d be plunging into the nadir of the ocean. The depths of the Kuril Trench would be a mausoleum for the Pinisha and an abysmal suboceanic catacomb for the gold…and him.

  He pulled the sword free and glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds.

  Grabbing the rail, Frank pulled himself up onto his good leg. Suddenly, a burst of gunfire ricocheted off an anchor winch.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Frank saw a hunched figure on the Pinisha’s wheelhouse wing deck.

  Frank dropped the sword. With only seconds till detonation, he swung the AK around and aimed it at the rope. He squeezed the trigger to no report. “Damn it!”

  Only seconds till detonation.

  He dropped the gun, swept up the sword, and lifted it high over his head. With a full swing stabilized on his good leg, he sank the blade in the three-inch rope. The crackle of automatic gunfire played at his nerves, but he was still standing. Into his second swing, he put all of his might. The blade severed the shaft. Rope exploded in a fraying whip out over the water. The Hector lunged against the water’s resistance and sudden halting of pull, sending Frank tumbling overboard and the sword splashing into the ocean.

  In mid air, Frank’s hands clamped onto the rail, his body swung down, slammed into the hull, flailed. Hanging over the ocean, he felt the electricity of adrenaline and a zap of pain through his leg and hip. Estimating no time till detonation, he exerted with everything left in him and climbed back onto the bow. He crawled haggardly across the foc’sle. Pulling himself erect, planting his hands on the railings on either side of the stairwell, he lifted his feet and slid down.

  A titanic blast sent a shock wave exploding outward from its source, striking the Hector with devastating force, blowing out every fore window. Sliding down the metal rails to the weather deck, Frank was thrown, twisted in the air, and landed on the steel deck, hitting his head.

  He regained consciousness with the painful realization that Luke and the others might already be dead. Then again, maybe there was still time. He slowly rose up onto his hands and knees. His world spun. Pain mocked his flesh. He grit his teeth and crawled for the rail.

  ***

  Kiska Island

  Ingrid opened the door to the emergency bunker and looked out across the meadow. Her eyes scanned the horizon carefully, spotting no sign of Frank or Brian. She felt Luke brush up against her.

  “Is he coming?” Luke said.

  “He will be,” Ingrid said. “But not yet.” She felt the moisture in her eyes as she thought of what Abby had told her about the Koreans taking Frank hostage. If she ever got off this island, she was never coming back. She turned and took Luke’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

  ***

  On the Hector, using all his resources, Frank stood up and staggered to the rail. His boat was drifting. The Pinisha gone.

  Fresh air blew over him and he breathed deeply. Fresh salt air on a gray ocean.

  He made his way to the wheelhouse and started the engines. He set a course and activated the autopilot.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Groggy. Mok Don was so groggy. But the pain was so intense he couldn’t sleep. He had been awake for several minutes, staring at his leg, unable to believe it was no longer there. He wanted to kill Murdoch, but felt powerless and hopeless. What would become of Mok Don now? The world as he’d known it was over with. Everything was different now. Nothing would ever be the same. He would see Murdoch dea
d if it took him the rest of his life.

  The three lifeboats were tied together, drifting in the waves. Mok Don looked around. Finally, his mind was clearing. The aftermath of the attack had been agony and shock and chaos--like a hallucination of some horrible monstrosity. He remembered being pulled into the boat--panic and hysteria among the men. He remembered only one man who had taken charge, one man who had remained calm, one man who acted to save his life. The rest had been totally incapable of decision. He remembered being sewed up. He had never known such suffering then or now—physical or mental.

  Now all the men were mute, staring at him as though nauseated. Shocked—that’s what they were, more than twenty seamen shocked by an abominable spectacle: Mok Don, their immortal leader, missing a leg.

  Mok Don must have been in shock himself. He was lightheaded and thought he might pass out.

  He glared at the man directly in front of him. “What did you do to me?” he demanded.

  “I fixed your leg if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You’re a cook, a steward—a scullion worker!”

  The cook’s head dropped humbly, then lifted. “I brought the first aid kit, so I thought I should be the one to sew you up. There was no time for anything else.”

  Sitting next to the steward, Shipmaster Chung nodded. “He’s the only one who knew how to sew.”

  The steward nodded. “Occasionally I’ve trussed this or that in the galley. Stitching you up was more difficult, the way you were thrashing and cursing. But I got it closed and stitched up tight. My only concern was saving your life. The bleeding nearly stopped after you passed out. The first aid kit had lots of codeine. That’s what I gave you for the pain. You may be feeling tired from the pills and blood loss.”

  “Will I live?”

  “I found an antibiotic in the first aid kit. Hopefully that should stop any infection. I’m no doctor, but I had to do something. I couldn’t let you bleed to death.”

  The cook lifted a plastic water jug to Mok Don’s lips and poured. Only then did Mok Don realize how thirsty he was, and he drank greedily. When he was satisfied, he nodded, and the cook put down the water jug. Mok Don’s head was spinning. Dizzy. Groggy.

  “What about food?” he asked.

  The cook shook his head shamefully. “Lost overboard during the panic of abandoning ship. I expect we’ll be rescued soon.”

  Suddenly, the water thrashed not far off. Mok Don recoiled in horror. “What was that?”

  “Ever since the attack,” Shipmaster Chung said, “the sharks have been following us, swarming around the boats.”

  Coldly with a threatening tone, Mok Don said, “So we have no food to go around, and those monsters are looking upon us for a meal?”

  The men were petrified by the prospect of Mok Don’s wrath. Mok Don glared at Shipmaster Chung and then at the cook.

  “Is there anything more you can do for my leg?” he asked the cook.

  “Not unless you need more sewing.”

  “You ought to be thrown to the sharks for losing the rations,” Mok Don said. “But since you saved my life and might be called on to do so again, I’ll let you live.” Mok Don glared down at his leg as pain shuttered through him. “Give me more pills!” he demanded.

  The cook obeyed, and Mok Don washed the pills down with more water.

  “How much water do we have?” Mok Don demanded.

  “Five gallons,” said the cook.

  Mok Don made rough calculations. With twelve men, they’d be lucky to survive a week. It could take several weeks to be rescued. There were too many thirsty mouths.

  He looked across a miserable lot of stony faces until his eyes found Hyun. As his eyes bored wrathfully into Hyun, Mok Don watched his face mask suck in and out more and more rapidly.

  “Someone will pay for this tragedy,” Mok Don said. “The Kim brothers—Chull-su and Hyun—have plunged into the cesspool of shame and dishonor. Chull-su let the Americans escape; Hyun has also demonstrated gross insubordination. Now let every eye see how Mok Don deals with incompetence; let every ear hear and remember. It’s only fitting that Hyun should feed the sharks because it was his blood that whet their appetite.”

  Hyun’s eyes expanded to rounded orbs. His face mask stretched as his mouth opened wide and he made a terrified gasping sound. His head began shaking rapidly. “No, Mok Don, no, no. Please. Not that.”

  Mok Don nodded at the sailors next to him and said, “In with him. We’ll waste no water on the disgraced.”

  Two sailors grabbed his arms at the shoulders and lunged the runt into the water. He splashed into the ocean and began thrashing against his sinking body.

  “Help me. Please. You don’t under--”

  A fourteen-foot form raced at him--cutting the surface with a menacing fin. Hyun began screaming, but the fish took him in crushing jaws—took him underneath into a slicing, thrashing whitewater. Suddenly, sharks converged on the prey from all over. Under several feet of water, they shot at Hyun like torpedoes. Contact was made with terrifying ferocity as the beasts sank their teeth and spun violently—several sharks at a time ripping meat off their prey.

  Water churned white and red. Fins raced around in a soulless frenzy--thrashing wildly. Savage. Feasting. Splashing. Tearing. Bumping into lifeboats. Deranged, bloodthirsty chaos.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Kiska Island

  Chull-su was thrilled. Surely the women and the boy were hiding in the cabin. He’d visit them and get off the island. Deal the cards and get out--that’s all he wanted now. His own survival was at stake.

  His feet sank in the snowy powder as he struggled down the side of the massive hill. Near the bottom, the blanket of swallowing whiteness began its blinding reaches. He made the hike to the cabin quicker with an oncoming second wind. Knowing they’d be caught by surprise, he kicked in the door and jumped inside, rifle swinging, ready to send blood flying.

  Nobody. Empty.

  Chull-su cursed. Depression snapped loose in his head. His second wind vanished. He nearly collapsed in the doorway of exhaustion. He lifted one leg after another toward the bed. He collapsed.

  ***

  Moving slowly around the Hector, Frank got a crowbar from the tool room and tore up several planks from the iron-bark deck. Back down in the tool room, the big engines booming into his numbness, he made a wooden splint which he duct-taped to his leg. He cut two planks to crutch size, cut out handles which he chiseled round for solid grip, and screwed plate-size square boards on for feet.

  For a test run, he crutched up and down the stairs to the wheelhouse. The plate-size wooden feet were cumbersome on board, but otherwise, no problem.

  ***

  Chull-su didn’t know how long he was out. He must have fainted, blacked out or something. He was on the bunk. More rest would restore him. He bunked down for the night. Next morning he was too sick to go on and snow was sifting down again. His legs were too sore to walk. He spent the day feverish and shaky, finally regaining his strength the second night. Morning came again and now he was ready. He resumed his hunt for the women and the boy.

  ***

  Frank anchored the Hector in 25 fathoms with a sand bottom, a mile South of Witchcraft Point. He rowed ashore. The plate-size boards attached to the feet of the crutches gave a snow-shoe effect, sinking in the snow, but not into the tundra beneath. He started the three-mile hike to the bunker. Frank crutched along the beach of the west shore. Fortunately, the sand was packed hard, but his shoulder muscles burned from the exertion. When the beach played out, he headed inland, and he hadn’t gone more than half a mile when he heard an anguished groan. On instinct, Frank dropped to the ground and stayed still. After a minute, he got up on his knees for a better look but saw nothing. He left his crutches behind and began to crawl in the direction from which he’d heard the noise, dragging his broken leg, wincing from pain, the smell of rancid sweat filling his nostrils. The collapsed tunnel slowly came into view. Frank heard another moan, so he crawl
ed up to the edge. The first thing he saw was the fur pelt of a caribou. It was Clay Krukov’s coat.

  “Are you alright?” Frank said.

  “I feel like hell, but I’ll survive if you get me out of here.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “I was looking for them when this happened.”

  It took an hour to rig up a rope and haul Clay out. It was not easy because Clay’s shoulder was still in pain and he was weak from the loss of blood.

  Sitting next to his old friend, Frank said, “You go to the ranch and look for them there. Get yourself patched up. I’ll go back to the bunker. I’ll meet you back at the house tomorrow.”

  ***

  For hours, Chull-su continued the hunt despite his sickness. The wind started blowing again, and by the horizon, he guessed another killer storm was moving in. He knew he wouldn’t survive another storm if he didn’t find shelter.

  He was moving inland along the base of the volcano through a valley that appeared to lead all the way across the island. Thirst and dehydration were inflicting their ravages upon him. He came to a lake only partially frozen over. Approaching the water’s edge very carefully so he didn’t slide in, he reached down, filled his cupped hands and greedily drank a mouthful. Swallowing, he tasted the salt in the water. Spitting and cursing, he continued on, suffering worse than before.

  He hiked for another stretch and came to several arms of lava that reached out across the tundra. He wearily plodded through each of the meadows between the arms. He was surprised to find wild horses resting in the protective meadows.