SKELETON GOLD: Scorpion (James Pace novels Book 3)

by Andy Lucas

  ‘I understand the need for secrecy,’ Sarah agreed. ‘But if we can’t search for the K-45 with proper equipment, how do we find it?’ She disliked the way that men always seemed to view pieces of machinery as being female. To her, the submarine was an it. ‘James, we have fins and scuba gear but nothing more than that.’

  ‘Don’t forget who we work for,’ Pace chuckled. ‘We won’t even be getting our feet wet if I have my way.’

  ‘We’re looking for a sunken submarine, possibly filled with gold, and you want to stay dry?’ Her mind cried out for a reasonable explanation.

  ‘Look,’ Pace granted her an explanation. ‘The K-45 is sunk around here somewhere. We know that and we also know when it happened.’

  ‘How do we know that again?’ she asked. Sarah hadn’t read the full diary herself, just a couple of pages when her father had first spoken to her.

  ‘Because the writer, a man called Paul Pringle, tells us as much in his last entries.’

  Grabbing up a sheaf of photocopied pages from the teak decking, comb-bound in white plastic, Pace flicked to the back until he found the entries that he sought. Skimming down the spidery scribbles made by a dying hand, his eyes settled on the lines he wanted.

  Handing her the diary copy, he pointed at the relevant text and took the opportunity to nip below decks for a couple of chilled beers. When he returned, the look of confusion had vanished from her faced. A more familiar visage of determination now greeted him.

  The final entries told the harrowing tale of a castaway who was watching infection eat away at his damaged leg and poison his body. Sometimes the words faded into oblivion and the sentences became rambling or pityingly homesick. Sarah guessed the most bizarre entries were written as the fever had tormented Pringle’s sanity.

  The very last entries, however, and the ones Pace had pointed out to her, were clearly written and earnest in their intent.

  Last night, as I swam in the ocean, I prayed that something would bite into my flesh and end this torment. The water was dark and cold ad it called my name like a thousand mermaids singing softly of a life after this one. I wanted to die. I needed to sink beneath the waves and be done with these trials.

  The light came out of nowhere and I saw the beauty of God. He was waiting for me, along with a hundred friends lost to this damnable war. But then I heard voices of living men, sharp and loud. German voices.

  The entry was dated August 12th, 1916, and it had finished at that point. The next entry was written in block capitals, as if Pringle had been struggling to hold the pen. There was no date. It was also the final entry.

  I THINK THEY HAVE GONE NOW. I HID IN THE BACK OF THE COLD STORAGE AREA ALL DAY. THEY NEARLY FOUND ME ONCE BUT THE SEARCHER WAS CALLED AWAY JUST AS HE WAS ALMOST ON TOP OF ME. THEY ARE LOOKING FOR THE SUBMARINE. MY GERMAN IS POOR BUT I UNDERSTOOD A FEW WORDS.

  THEY NEED TO RAISE THE SUBMARINE. THEY ARE DESPERATE TO RETRIEVE THE SECRET SHE HOLDS, AND THEY SPOKE OPENLY OF THE GOLD. THEY HAVE COME IN THEIR OWN U-BOAT AND THEY HAVE DIVING SUITS.

  I PRAY THAT CAPTAIN BARRETT HAS PUT THE K45 BEYOND THEIR REACH…

  There was a gap in the writing, with most of the last few words indecipherable. Only one short sentence was clear to her, and it sent a shudder coursing through her veins as suddenly as if someone had just thrown a bucket of iced water over her hot, bare skin.

  …..CANNOT FEEL MY LEGS NOW, OR MY STOMACH……TOO TIRED TO WRITE….SHOULD DIE LIKE A SOLDIER BUT I MUST TRY AND ESCAPE. GOD SAVE THE KING…

  ‘He died in fear,’ Sarah shuddered, despite the heat. ‘Alone, injured, and then suddenly hunted by the enemy. Why didn’t he just allow himself to drown when he was in the water?’ she wondered aloud. ‘He was prepared for death and yet he must have made it back to the base. That’s where they went to look for him, or to find a trace of the submarine.’

  ‘He was a man of honour and he had pledged to fight the enemy. But,’ he added, ‘he had made a promise to his superior officer to try and escape, to get a message back to the Admiralty. He was duty bound to stay alive as long as he could. So, we know they didn’t have the submarine at the start. Maybe they found her later but I don’t think so.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Sarah quizzed, accepting the offered bottle and tasting a cooling mouthful.

  ‘Germans have always been sticklers for keeping detailed paperwork, especially military records. If the K-45 had been sailed away by the German military, there would be a record of it somewhere, but there isn’t. The secret files from that war have been open, from both sides, for decades already. The K-45 is either sunk, close by, and the Germans were damned pissed off that their hijack plan had failed, or the submarine was taken by forces acting outside of the normal chain of command. In which case, it could have been sailed away successfully and the gold removed, with no paper trail,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well there’s no trail from the British side either. We could be wasting our time?’ Sarah felt a little deflated and took another, consoling swallow. Perhaps the submarine was not even there to be found.

  ‘Look,’ Pace explained, smiling softly. ‘This ship is crammed with secret, hidden equipment that allows it to monitor the skies, land and beneath the seas. We will have all the resources of one of those big commercial salvage ships but with the benefit of being able to keep it all hush-hush.’

  ‘It is very well hidden,’ Sarah ventured. ‘No deck cranes, deep sea submersibles, ROVs. How will we lift anything secretly, even if we do find the wreck? One gold ingot at a time?’ she quipped, cocking an eyebrow at him quizzically.

  As it turned out, further discussion on the treasure hunt would have to wait. Pace had just slipped his hand into hers when a shrill, electronic alarm suddenly sounded from deep within the bowels of the small ship.

  Immediately, shouts of crewmen added to the din and there was a noticeable rumble below their feet as the powerful diesel engines were flung into reverse, bringing their forward momentum to a halt within a few seconds.

  Rushing forward, Pace saw the captain heading their way. He was dressed immaculately in white uniform, shouldered with gold braiding, and his cap sat perfectly straight on his head, despite his headlong dash toward the stern.

  ‘What’s happening, Captain?’ Pace asked quickly, stopping the man’s flight purely with the tone of his voice. ‘What’s the big emergency?’

  ‘Nothing that will sink us, don’t worry,’ explained the captain quickly. ‘Something has been spotted in the water. The watch officer thinks it’s a body.’

  ‘Out here?’ asked Sarah, having paused to shrug on a bright pink vest-top.

  ‘I know,’ agreed the Captain, scratching the back of his head uncertainly. His breath was ragged and sweat trailed visibly down his brow and dripped into his eyes. Irritated, he wiped them away with the back of one hand. ‘We are one hundred and seventy miles from the nearest shipping lane and the coastline around here is deserted for hundreds of miles in each direction. I don’t know where it might have come from.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t even a body?’ suggested Sarah quickly. ‘It might just look like it from a distance.’

  ‘I hope so, miss. Fishing out bodies from the water leads to a hell of a lot of paperwork and the last thing we need is to attract the attention of the authorities in this neck of the woods.’

  Without being asked, Pace and Sarah both joined him and three crewmen as they resumed their journey to the stern. Once there, the body was clearly visible, bobbing up and down furiously in the white foam thrown up by the slow thrashing of the big propeller blades. Neither knew what to expect but Pace had it in mind that it would be a bloated, fish-nibbled corpse of some poor unfortunate fisherman.

  Immediately he could see this wasn’t the case. The body was Caucasian, dressed in dark-coloured, western style business suit; complete with collared shirt and tie. It was a white male, heavy-set, and most definitely fresh. Pace judged the corpse to have been in the water for no more than a day.

  Sarah vomi
ted over the side and Pace gently rubbed her back as his mind steeled itself against an ominous sense of doom that suddenly welled up within him, warning of a dire future and reminding him of his recent, numerous narrow escapes in the Amazon.

  This is where it gets interesting, he told himself, watching intently as the crew busied themselves preparing to lower a launch over the side. Ten minutes later and the body was aboard, covered with a blanket, and taken below by the crew to be put on ice, escorted by a fretful captain. From the way the limbs flopped at awkward angles, it was clear to see that the man’s death had been a traumatic one.

  Sarah excused herself and retired to her bed, still looking a shade green, leaving Pace suddenly alone on deck.

  ‘Here we go,’ he muttered to himself quietly, hardly daring to break the peaceful silence that had descended. ‘Another riddle.’ He wondered how long it would be before the murderer would show his hand, for he had no doubt at all that the body now aboard had not found its way into the water all by itself.

  As the captain had suggested, they were too far away from the shipping lanes for the currents to have brought a body that far, not that quickly. By the time nature would have delivered a corpse this far down the coast, the water, heat and sharks should have reduced it to tatters.

  Pace couldn’t feel any sense of surprise. He’d been sent there to investigate a missing treasure, and try to uncover a military secret of the darkest nature. Death was a visitor that Pace had been expecting.

  But that was what the McEntire Corporation did, after all. Britain’s member in an exclusive international club of ultimate espionage and national security, operating above and beyond any kind of legal constraint or accountability.

  It was time to earn his salary.

  10

  The disaster had been averted, although the death toll on wildlife and human beings was unacceptably high. It could have been worse, he knew, and so he forced himself to feel grateful. The media had been kept in the dark and a secret clean-up operation would ensure that the outside world never knew what had happened.

  Munambe sipped at a cup of strong, sweet coffee, and mulled over the events of the last few days. He had remained in the hotel because leaving the conference would have aroused suspicion. Contact had been maintained over the telephone, with Kaoni only, in order to minimise risks of a leak.

  The feared epidemic had not materialised but the reserve had lost over six hundred animals. Ground teams of soldiers, normally used to hunt down poachers and protect the animals, had been rapidly redeployed to the task of collecting and burning carcasses. Worse than the animal losses, one human settlement, close to the outbreak, had been decimated. Every living soul had died but a cordon was in place and the army was handling it.

  It was nearly noon and the heat outside would be oppressive but he was used to it, so decided to get out for a few hours and stretch his legs. Hopefully, fresh air and city hubbub might distract his mind from thinking about those poor dead villagers.

  For Deborah Miles, this assignment was about the worst one she could have been lumbered with but it was one she had to get the most out of. Her editor, sitting comfortably in his air-conditioned office in London had told her that this conference was actually important. Africa was on the ascendance, with its wealth of natural resources and increasingly stable politics. There were always the exceptions, like Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone, but generally international big business was looking to Africa as a possible new powerhouse to drive global recovery and challenge China’s vice-like grip on the mass manufacturing market.

  Not only did Africa have untapped reserves of fossil fuels, gold and diamonds, but it was more than a match for the far eastern nations in terms of having an endless supply of cheap labour. True, the recent Ebola issues had put a damper on things but the horror of the most recent outbreak was now passing from the headlines and would soon be forgotten.

  Still, this particular job sucked as far as she was concerned. Alone for two weeks already, suffering perpetual heat, flies and a city virtually as chaotic as her own, she was looking forward to the closing meetings running their course so she could get back home.

  Sitting under a colourful red and white striped awning, outside a popular little coffee shop, she sipped very strong black coffee from a small white cup and cast her gaze aimlessly over the scene in front of her. Directly opposite the main hotel, she routinely spent the early hours of each afternoon sitting and watching, ever hopeful of spotting something that might lift her daily reports to a level that might pass as vaguely decent journalism. A delegate sneaking out to meet a lover, or to horse-trade secrets with an opposing nation, anything out of the ordinary. Sadly, in nearly a week she had seen nothing but heavy traffic, news crews and politicians, all perfectly well behaved.

  Until now.

  This was the day that Munambe chose to slip out of the hotel and head across the road to the very same coffee shop, choosing a seat at the table next to her and ordering an identical cup of coffee. Deborah had seen him several times over the past few days, in conference. She was a dedicated professional, whatever her feelings about the assignment, and had done a detailed background check on all the main delegates. Consequently, when she leaned over and introduced herself, she already knew his name before he offered it.

  ‘Deborah Miles,’ she offered, smiling. ‘I’m here covering the conference for the London Tribune. It is very nice to meet you, Mr..er?’

  Munambe sighed and felt a slight tightening in his gut as he realised the beautiful woman choosing to engage him in conversation was one of those infernal newspaper journalists that increasingly targeted the conferences like hungry cats at a landfill site. Still, he had been very careful so far and he was an old hand at playing the political game. Sure that he could handle her, he relaxed a little and took a small sip of his drink.

  ‘Solomon Munambe. Namibian delegation, at your service, Miss.’

  In truth, she was lovely. Although difficult to gauge while seated, he guessed that she was quite short, no taller than five-feet six inches. Shoulder-length blonde hair, softly curled, framed an intelligent face viewing the world through golden eyes. Her nose was a little prominent but the lightly coloured lips pouted with a suggestion of passion. She wore a light summer floral dress that rode half way up a shapely pair of thighs when she was seated, the skirt flared and the top was tight yet modestly cut; sleeveless and with the front buttoned up almost to the base of her slim neck.

  Munambe usually avoided getting involved with professional women, fearing their intellect, but this one was already captivating him. He often took pleasure in having a few indiscretions during the conferences, usually with local girls where there was little chance of being caught out. Not that he needed to hide his actions. He had been married for nearly thirty years, since his late teens. In his twenties, already with two children by then, both he and his wife agreed on an open arrangement. Both were regularly tempted and neither wanted to risk their family home, so it had worked out well. After all, they were still married and never took each other for granted.

  ‘How do you find the conference, my dear?’

  ‘Very interesting,’ she lied fluidly. ‘It keeps getting bigger and better each year. My readers will be fascinated by how well the African nations are doing, at a time when Europe and America seem to be struggling to stay in the global driving seat.’

  ‘Very true,’ he agreed. ‘Africa has so much to offer the world. It seems perfectly natural that we are finally coming into our own.’

  ‘And where do you see that going?’ Moving automatically into interview mode, Deborah instantly regretted her words, as Munambe slid his chair over to her table, bringing his coffee with him. She was an astute operator and easily read the hunger in his eyes. Never too strong on morality, she had been known to sleep her way to a good story on more than one occasion but only if it offered the chance of a promotion, or a pay rise.

  This meeting would likely offer nothing that she wanted, so she decide
d to quickly finish her drink and simply try to pick up a few titbits from him to fill a few lines of print. She was just about to rattle off a few more standard questions when her mobile phone went off, filling the hot air all around them with a ringtone of Elvis Presley’s Suspicious Minds.

  Excusing herself from the table, Deborah withdrew to the cool interior of the shop to take the call.

  At his desk, in London, Philip Ravenswood heard the familiar voice come on the other end of the line and smiled grimly to himself. He had sent Deborah Miles to Africa for two reasons. Firstly, because he needed the story covered, and secondly, because he considered her an uppity, overbearing and arrogant woman who thought she was a far better journalist than she actually was. Unfortunately, what was meant to be a miserable, lifeless assignment looked like it was now about to take a turn for the better, for her, which Ravenswood did not like one little bit. That said, he had a newspaper to sell, and a readership that needed to grow. Putting personal feelings aside, he swallowed his distaste.

  ‘Miles,’ he said slowly. ‘Have you heard of any problems with the Namibian delegation?’ On the other end, Deborah’s heart froze in her chest.

  ‘I haven’t, Mr Ravenswood, no. Everything seems to have been trundling along normally here. Very dull. Why?’

  ‘I don’t have anything concrete for you but there’s been some reported McEntire Corporation interest down there. You know how huge a business they are, and if Doyle McEntire sees something useful down there, others are bound to follow.’