Black Flag: A Taskforce Story (2 page)

Knuckles waited until the door had been closed for five minutes, making sure Pike wouldn’t return, then said, “Blood, did you really study all this stuff?”

“Yeah, man. That’s what they’re paying us for.”

“I know, I know. Still aggravates me, though. I wanted to go fishing or diving or on some sort of Indiana Jones thing. I don’t want to waste my week in here studying charts, contracts, and pay scales.”

Brett laughed and said, “And I didn’t want the callsign Blood, but you don’t get to pick that. Or your mission. The enemy has a vote.”

“What enemy? If I’d known it would be this much work, I’d have taken real leave and gone to the Caribbean, whether the government was paying or not. This isn’t worth it.”

Before Brett could answer, the door opened and two men entered. Knuckles took one look and knew they weren’t from the United States, nor were they both from the same country. It wasn’t something glaring. Just a fashion sense that was a little off. The lead man was wearing a striped rugby shirt and chinos, with black shoes that were slightly pointed. The man following had on a battered short-sleeve shirt, baggy jeans, and running shoes. Nothing overt, but enough for a man whose life depended on identifying things that were a little off.

The lead man said, “Excuse me. Is this Grolier Recovery Services?”

Irish.

“Yes. It is. How can I help you?”

The man smiled, showing a lack of dental work over the years. “I’m Dylan Kinkead, and this is Stefan.”

Stefan said hello, and Knuckles couldn’t place the accent but guessed it was Eastern European.

“As you can see, we aren’t from the U.S. and we’re in a bit of a pickle. We could desperately use your services.”

Knuckles looked at Blood, who shook his head slowly, mouthing, “Don’t.” Knuckles went back to Dylan and said, “Well, let’s see how desperate you are. We don’t come cheap, and this time of year, we only go to locations that would be considered vacation spots. If you’re looking for help in Kazakhstan, you can move on out.”

Dylan said, “We are of the same mind. I’m looking for someone to help bring up the treasure of Edward Teach. Someone who can facilitate all facets of discovery. We don’t want to find something only to get it taken from us.”

Knuckles heard the words, the name a tease on the edge of his memory. Then it broke the surface, a vestige from his tourist trip to the Provost Dungeon no more than six hours before.
Edward Teach. Partner of Stede Bonnet. Otherwise known as Blackbeard.

“You want us to help you find the treasure of Blackbeard?”

Dylan broke into a huge smile and said, “Yes, yes. That’s it. I have some papers handed down from generations. I did some research here in Charleston, on the trial of Stede Bonnet, and it marries up. I think I know where the treasure is, but I don’t have the expertise to get it out, or the knowledge to protect custody. I heard that’s where you could help.”

Knuckles looked at Brett, who shook his head again and said, “Remember what Pike said. Don’t commit the business.”

Knuckles said, “Yeah, but this is my expertise. I’m the vice president of maritime operations.”

 • • • 

Dylan remained silent for the entire drive toward the safe house. Located twenty minutes north of Shem Creek on Highway 17, it was in a little rural neighborhood full of aging houses that had yet to be claimed and destroyed in the mad rush to build McMansions all up and down the coast. It had the added benefit of being right on the marsh of the inland waterway. Something he was sure they’d need shortly.

Cutting off Highway 17 to Rifle Range Road, he traveled a few more miles before turning onto Hamlin Road, a strip of asphalt that had yet to see the developer’s knife and remained as it had been since it was first paved. No sidewalks, no swimming pools, and no country club. Just a ribbon of tar flanked by houses that had been built around World War II. A perfect community to blend into.

He drove all the way to the end of the road until it stopped at the edge of the saltwater marsh, then pulled up a dirt drive to a small one-story clapboard house shaded by an immense live oak, its limbs drooping almost to the ground, as if it were burdened by some unseen memory.

Stefan hadn’t said a word the entire trip and continued this silent streak walking up the path to the front door. Dylan saw the window blinds crack and knew Dragos was staring at them over the barrel of a gun.

Damn Romanians. I should have never gotten wrapped up with them.

Stefan left the door open, and Dylan walked into the gloom, hearing the groan from the window-unit air conditioner and smelling the mold from the condensation drip that had been accumulating for years. He closed the door, and as his eyes adjusted to the murkiness he noticed two bundles of thick clear plastic sheeting, the top of each illuminated by a ray of light escaping through the window blinds, the dust motes dancing in the air above them.

For a second, he couldn’t identify the packages. It looked like a couple of pieces of furniture that had been wrapped for a ride in a pickup truck, with little bumps and jabs poking out. But something was leaking from the bottom one onto the floor. He stepped forward and saw a row of teeth and a single eye, wide open and staring.

“Jesus Christ.” He jerked his head to Dragos. “You fucking killed them? Now?”

In a thick accent, Dragos said, “Yes. You told me on the phone you had someone else that would work. They were becoming a troublesome loose end.”

“Have you lost your mind? We needed them to find the damn map. I can’t locate the chips without knowing what container they’re in. And they’re the only ones that know where the boat went down. We’ll now have to troll a bunch of different locations.”

“So troll.”

“Damn it, we might miss the window! I cannot believe you killed them. They didn’t know about their boss. All they knew was the boat was lost. Could you not wait until I got back?”

“Their purpose has been served. When they decided to back out, they were already dead. We’ll dump them in the marsh tonight. Let the crabs have an all-you-can-eat night for a change.”

Dylan stared at the plastic-wrapped bodies, seeing that the legs had been folded up unnaturally, as if each body had been sandwiched like a suitcase. He saw a potential reflection of himself. He wondered if his butchered business partners had realized they were doomed when they saw the plastic sheeting on the floor.

He said, “Maybe we should rethink this whole endeavor. It was one thing to use these guys to pass us the chips, but something else to go through this elaborate charade to hide the fact that we stole them.”

He saw Dragos lick his cleft lip like a lizard and heard him say, “Dylan. Look at me. I’m not losing this sale. It is worth way too much money. You’re the one who came up with this idea. Did you find an appropriate company?”

Dylan turned away from the plastic in a little bit of a daze. He said, “Yes. An archeological company here. They think they’re going on a treasure hunt. We need to purchase cabins for them on the container ship. I have the names.”

“And how will we ensure the trail is lost?”

“Stefan will stay here. I’ve convinced the company of the urgency, and they’re going to meet us in Kingston tomorrow. Stefan will break into their office and leave appropriate evidence after they’ve left.”

He saw Dragos wipe his brow and heard, “You had better make this good. You lost the first chance.”

Lost the first chance? You fucking killed the first chance, you greedy bastard. Now you’ve killed the location of the map as well.
He couldn’t believe how bloodthirsty the Romanians had become. Couldn’t believe how far things had spiraled. Instead of waiting in Charleston for the arrival of the container ship, they were now going to have to interdict it en route. A simple transfer had become a robbery as complex as any he had ever heard about.
All because these insane Romanians have no patience.

“It will be good. When we’re done, everyone will think the company is smuggling drugs into the port. They won’t look for anything else. As long as your men don’t go around killing everything they see, it will work. This isn’t Russia or Romania. It’s America.”

Dragos settled his flat eyes on Dylan and said, “You’d better hope this company you’ve picked causes no trouble. I’m done working with agitators who don’t produce. I want the chips. They’ll die quickly, like your traitorous friends. You will not.”

Dylan felt a tremble in his legs and said, “Don’t worry about that. The firm’s full of academics. They won’t cause us any trouble at all.”

“What the hell do you mean you committed us to a job? We were only gone for an hour.”

I saw the bartender glance our way, and I toned down my voice. “How on earth did that happen?”

We were on an outdoor deck at a place called Shelter, getting dinner. It was a gorgeous summer day, and I wanted to enjoy it. Now I was hoping I didn’t have an aneurism. I halfway believed Knuckles was just pulling my leg, but when I saw him lean back with a scowl, I knew he was telling the truth.

He said, “A guy thinks he knows where Blackbeard’s treasure is located and wants us to help him find it. He said it would take no more than four days. It’s good money, it’s the Caribbean, and it’s my leave. Hell, I’ll go do it myself.”

“Not with my fucking company.” I looked at Brett and said, “I thought I told you two to send anyone who came in packing. How hard was that to understand?”

He said, “Pike, look at it this way: It’s a real job using Grolier. We’re down here to understand the business, and what better way to do that than to actually do some work? It’s in Jamaica. We’ll get paid to go on vacation.”

I looked back at Knuckles. “What do you mean when you say you ‘committed’ Grolier to the job?”

“We signed a contract.”

I exploded again. “How on earth did you find a contract? And on what authority did you sign?”

He said, “Jennifer made us study all that stuff while you were messing around with the Jeep. And you made me vice president of maritime operations. Remember? This is a maritime operation, so I had the authority.”

The only thing I could get out was a strangled groan. Jennifer put her hand on my arm and said, “What makes you think this guy is telling the truth?”

“Nothing. But who cares? He’s paying whether we just dive around a little or actually find something.”

“Do you know anything about Edward Teach?”

“Yeah. I went to the Provost Dungeon today.”

“I mean anything besides something from a comic book. The consensus is that any hidden treasure from Blackbeard is a myth. He didn’t rob boats full of gold and diamonds. His plunder consisted of dry goods and livestock that he subsequently sold. There is no treasure.”

Jennifer was a resident expert on just about anything having to do with humanity’s historical record, and I had ceased to be amazed when she pulled some tidbit of trivia like this out of thin air.

I arched my eyebrows and said, “Well, what about that?”

“Like I said before, who gives a shit? So we get in some diving, making these guys happy. And we get paid. And we solidify the cover with us as employees.”

He did have a valid point about the cover. It would do us some good to get them a pay stub from an actual operation that didn’t involve some sort of clandestine counterterrorism work. But I was still pissed.

“I give a shit. It’s my company.”

“Come on, Pike. You’re just being petty now. You know I’m right. You can use the money from Brett’s and my salaries to fix up that piece-of-crap sailboat of yours.”

Without thinking of the ramifications, I said, “I sold it. I don’t have it anymore.”

“Sold it? Where are you living now?”

Oops.
I really didn’t want to go down this road.
How did I end up on the defensive?
After a pause, I said, “I don’t have a place yet. I’m crashing at Jennifer’s house until I find something.”

I saw him squint, wondering what that meant. Wondering a little too much. I saw Jennifer begin to blush and defensively said, “Just like I did when I got dinged up last year. Nothing’s going on.”

He said, “How long since you sold the sailboat?”

Before I could say, “Six months,” and doom our dinner to endless speculation, Jennifer cut in, saving our little secret by knocking him back on his heels. “Who cares about Pike’s living arrangements? What did this guy say the specific mission was? What are you—as VP of maritime operations—going to do to find Blackbeard’s treasure? What did you contractually sign us up for?”

He said, “It’s way easy. The first thing we need to do is find a shipwreck off of an island called Navassa. It’s a U.S. wildlife refuge in between Haiti and Jamaica.”

Now it was Jennifer’s turn to squint. “Shipwreck? This guy thinks Blackbeard went down in a ship by Jamaica? That’s absolute BS countered by the historical record. He was killed in battle off the coast of North Carolina.”

“No, no. He bought a map in Port-au-Prince that was supposed to lead to Blackbeard. On his way back to Kingston, Jamaica, his boat ran over a reef at speed. According to him, it ripped the bottom off and went down in seconds. He didn’t have time to do anything but save himself. So first order of business is to go get this map.

“I figured Pike and I could go do that. In the meantime, you and Brett could start poking around Kingston, seeing what the state of play is should we find the treasure.”

She said, “You’re not going to find any treasure.”

“I know, but he’s paying us as consultants. You and Brett work up a white paper on Jamaican and international law with regard to ownership. I mean, if he finds it, does he keep it? Does it go to whoever lost the treasure, like Spain or England, or does Jamaica get it because it was found in its territory? Just come up with the state of play.”

I said, “And when does this grand adventure begin? I need to get my Jeep out of the shop.”

Looking sheepish, Knuckles said, “Uhh . . . well, it begins tomorrow, actually. We’re meeting him in Kingston, Jamaica, at five o’clock.”

The sky was slate gray, looking exactly like the choppy ocean that was bouncing our chartered boat all over the place, starting to make me a little ill. Not exactly the vacation diving I was looking forward to when Knuckles sold me on this stupid trip.

We’d flown to Jamaica yesterday evening and had met our intrepid Indiana Jones wannabe—an Irishman named Dylan. He was working with a bunch of Romanians who didn’t say a whole lot but seemed to be decent enough people. He’d explained his predicament, and it was pretty much what Knuckles had said. Jennifer told him what she knew of international law regarding antiquities, and I told him our left and right limits. That was when I found my first hiccup, as apparently Knuckles didn’t know our left and right limits.

The Irishman wanted Grolier Recovery Services to charter the boat and rent the dive gear, saying that’s what Knuckles had agreed to. I’d looked at him with daggers, and he’d only shrugged, which is why he wouldn’t be signing anything in the future but the checks for our bar tabs. I was explaining to Dylan that the customer bore all expenses, preparing for a fight, when I was surprised to hear him say he’d pay but still wanted
us
to do the charter. It was a little odd, but I did it, putting my name on the dotted line for two complete scuba rigs, six tanks, and a Bertram 540 fishing/dive boat—something that any sane person would describe as a fifty-four-foot yacht complete with kitchen. I was able to save some money by not paying for a crew, thanks to a captain’s license Knuckles had obtained on his off-duty time. I was sure he’d now try to get Navy reimbursement for the license as some type of mission requirement.

This morning we’d left Jennifer and Brett to their library chores, laughing at the fun we were going to have as we motored out of the Royal Jamaican Yacht Club. We’d swung around Port Royal and headed east, toward Haiti; then the weather had progressively taken a turn for the worse, making me wonder if I was going to wish I was in a library with Jennifer.

Knuckles kept his heading, the latest one in our grid search for the shipwreck, and I kept my eye on the scope. We chopped over a swell, and the fish-finder sonar chirped. I read the screen, seeing an anomaly, and shouted at Knuckles, “Hold what you got. We just passed over something.”

Dylan and his crew perked up and I said, “Might not be anything, just like last time. Don’t get your hopes up.”

We were just outside a reef about sixty meters off Navassa Island, a small, rocky outcropping in the middle of the ocean. Only about two miles square, the island was apparently some sort of wild bird sanctuary. Other than a lighthouse compound that had been abandoned decades ago, there were no other structures.

Knuckles dropped a sea anchor and I began suiting up for my second dive of the day. Knuckles said, “Depth?”

“About forty feet.” He stripped his shirt and Dylan said, “This looks more like the place. I think this is it.”

I didn’t say anything, but it was downright weird that he couldn’t remember where he’d wrecked his boat. I mean, you’d at least think you’d know which side of the island you’d gone around, but Dylan said he had been so frightened from the accident he just couldn’t remember. We’d been trolling all over the place, homing in on known reef beds, and so far had found nothing. We’d stopped about thirty minutes earlier for an anomaly and actually dove but come up empty. Hopefully, this one had something.

We went through our precombat checks, with me letting Knuckles take the lead. I was combat-dive qualified from the Special Forces school at Key West, but Knuckles was a SEAL. I routinely gave him a ration of shit about his supposed expertise in land operations, because I was naturally better than him, being Army and all, but here in the water I was more than glad to let him run the show.

He flashed me a thumbs-up, then went over backward, splashing into the ocean. I followed suit, located him under the surface and gave him a circle with my index finger and thumb, and we set out.

The water was pristine, with visibility out to a hundred feet, and it didn’t take long to find the anomaly. It was a boat, twenty-five to thirty feet long, lying on its side on the sandy bottom. Various artifacts were scattered in a circle around it, twinkling in the light like some giant hand had thrown them from the heavens to have them sink to the ocean floor, forming a wreath around the wreck. We were looking for a section of PVC pipe capped off on both ends, but nothing like that was lying in the sand next to the boat.

Knuckles pointed to the bow and I nodded, letting him take that section. I went to the stern. The first thing I noticed was a blackness all around the inboard engines, like the boat had caught on fire, then I saw a gaping hole in the rear of the engine housing. It didn’t look like something that would occur from having the bottom sheared off, especially if the boat had sunk immediately. It looked like the boat had blown up, then burned a little bit before going down.

I swam to the hull and saw that it did have a large hole in it, but it, too, was ringed with blackness, as if the hole had been caused by an explosive force instead of a kinetic contact at speed with a reef.

I heard metal on metal tapping and looked for Knuckles, knowing he was trying to get my attention. I located him and saw him pump his arm up and down, then hold up a section of PVC. He’d found the pipe.

He signaled that he was going topside, and I told him I was going to poke around a little bit more. He looked a little confused behind his mask and signaled once more that he was going topside. I nodded and signaled again that I was staying under. He shook his head and began to ascend.

I poked around the boat for another twenty minutes, finding absolutely no evidence that it had run aground on a reef, which I’d honestly been wondering about since we’d entered within range of Navassa Island. The reef in question was a good seven feet from the surface, which I suppose could have been halved during some tidal-type surge, but even so, this boat’s draft was probably two or three feet. It didn’t make a lot of sense.

I checked my gauge and saw I had just over 500 PSI left. That meant about ten minutes, given my breathing rate, which was inside my reserve threshold. I started powering to the surface, running the ramifications through my head.

The sea anchor had let our boat drift, so when I broke the surface I was a little disoriented. I did a circle and found it about twenty meters away. With Knuckles in the bow holding his hands in the air.

What the hell?

I said not a word and began swimming toward the boat, keeping my eye on my partner, wanting to see that I was mistaken. Instead, Knuckles punched one of the Romanians in the face, and I stopped my movement, treading water. He turned and dove over the side away from me while the other Romanian assholes started digging into a duffel bag they’d brought with them. They rose and started firing what looked like MP5s. I saw Dylan holding his arms over his head like a child, cowering on the deck, then I went under, clearing my regulator. I started swimming toward the location I’d seen Knuckles enter the water, seeing the rounds slice through the ocean. I went deeper.

Bullets lose killing capacity very fast in water, mainly because it’s a hell of a lot thicker than air, but they’re still deadly up close. I got under the hull and saw Knuckles stroking hard to get out of the range of the rounds. Going deeper and deeper like a free diver. What the hell he thought he was going to do once he was out of range was a mystery. He could stay under for only about four minutes before he had to surface.

I started powering my fins, overtaking his swim. He went to the right, near the reef, thinking he could evade the firing by hugging the coral. I jerked his leg and he swung around so hard he almost ripped my mask off. I ran my hand down my side and brought up my emergency regulator, attached to the octopus at the top of my tank. He shoved it in his mouth, cleared it, and took a deep breath. I waved my hand in front of his face in a cutting motion, then pointed to my gauge.

We had about five minutes of air left between us. I pointed to Navassa Island and he nodded. We started stroking, cresting the reef bed at ten feet and drawing more bullets from the air bubbles in our tank. We reached the island and looked for a way up.

Completely circled with limestone cliffs of about eight feet, the island had no beach to roll into. We poked our heads above the water and immediately drew a fusillade from the boat, all most likely from some type of 9mm submachine gun. The range was too great for any chance to hit us with a precision aim, but it wasn’t too great for a lucky break, and they were liberally trying to make that happen.

I found an alcove and pressed into the rock. I looked over my head and saw a shallow niche rising to the island, a five-foot climb over limestone.

I spit out my regulator and said, “Great clients. I think we’ll really solidify your cover in Grolier with these assholes.”

Knuckles said, “Spare me. Can we get out of the beaten zone, please? Sooner or later, they’re going to hit us.”

I braced myself on the rock and ditched my tank, then scampered up the cut. I reached the top and was visible from the boat, drawing another fusillade. I dove into the dirt at the same time Knuckles made it to the top. I low-crawled through the vegetation for about thirty meters before stopping.

Where we’d surfaced was scrub, with bushes and trees that topped out at five feet. If we stood, we’d be visible from the coast, which forced us to snake our way forward like a couple of animals.

Knuckles reached my position, and we both focused on the boat, seeing it powering into our position. I said, “What the hell happened?”

He said, “I don’t know. I got back on the boat, pulled off my gear, and gave them the pipe containing the map. While they were all jumping up and down cheering, I saw an itinerary for a container ship out of Jamaica. It was a reservation for four rooms on the boat, and it was all of us, including Jennifer. Lying on top of the duffel bag full of weapons.”

“What are you talking about? Reservations on a cruise ship?”

“No, no. A freighter. One of those giant container ships. You can book passage on just about any ship crossing the ocean, and it’s pretty cheap, considering. Someone booked us passage on a container ship out of Kingston, Jamaica. When I saw that, they turned nasty.”

The boat continued toward us, but slower due to the rocks. I watched it inch forward and said, “They aren’t going to quit. We need to get the fuck out of here.”

I started duckwalking deeper into the island, finding a game trail and sticking to it, the vegetation ripping into my exposed skin. When we reached an expanse of flat terrain, I crouched and said, “I don’t know what you triggered, but they’ve got a plan. They’re going to come here and hunt us. You want to go separately or stick together?”

Knuckles said, “Splitting up is probably the best way to take these guys, since we have no weapons. Make them separate, then take them out.”

I said, “Okay. I’m sticking to this game trail. You go somewhere else.”

He looked at the intimidating rocks, sticker bushes, and other foliage, then at his bare feet and said, “Maybe we should stay together.”

“Yeah. This is going to be like the worst episode of
Naked and Afraid
.”