Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (7 page)

Drake thought about the sprawling office they had just passed. Not surprisingly it had been crammed full of multi-colored screens, computers and other monitors. Was this station an electrical hub? If something was stolen—either physically or electronically—how would they know?

He saw the tripwire at the last minute, pulled up before the single glistening thread, and held an arm out. Kinimaka, almost inevitably, noticed way too late and had to launch his huge bulk through the air and over the wire. The Hawaiian crashed down, sliding, coming to a halt a hair’s-breadth from a second shimmering cable.

“Crap,” he breathed, nose almost touching the cord. With great care he shuffled back and tried to pull his feet underneath him.

“Wait!” Dahl suddenly shouted. “There’s another wire at shoulder height and it’s right above you!”

Kinimaka froze, left in an ungainly position. Drake examined one wire whilst Dahl leapt over to the second. Within a moment they had disarmed both. As Kinimaka finally gained his feet, the Swede made short work of the third.

“Thanks guys,” Mano said.

“None needed,” Drake said. “It’s what we do.”

The delay had cost them. By the time they traversed the rest of the corridor, moving slowly in case of further traps, their quarry was gone. One more merc lay bleeding out to the right of the farthest door, but Dahl categorically stopped anybody from approaching him, fearful that a grenade might have been wedged beneath his body.

“I guess that’s part of reaping what you sow.” Drake thought about the previous snares, still feeling a twinge of guilt at not being able to help the merc.

“Let’s move.” Smyth was with them again. “And quit being such pansy-ass pussies.”

The door opened into cool night air. Drake went first, gun up, checking every direction, squinting again in the harsh glare of artificial light. It took a moment for his vision to adjust.

“There,” he said.

They headed toward something that gleamed in the dark, the only thing Drake could see that didn’t quite fit. As they approached, a heavy motor coughed into life and rotors began to whir. A chopper rose, its cockpit blacked out, another shadow in the dark. Now Drake saw other choppers, maybe as many as five, most of which were redundant now so many mercs hadn’t made it. As they approached the rising bird cops and other forces streamed around the side of the building, yelling for all and sundry to “eat the fucking dirt and lace their hands together over their heads!” Drake knew there was no point arguing. He lowered his weapon.

The chopper banked as it rose, audaciously passing over the running cops. Then Drake saw why.

“Get down!” he cried. “Down! Now!”

Leaning out of one of the doors was a man holding a chain gun. Heavy caliber rounds thunked into the ground and the building, causing mini explosions wherever they hit. Mercifully the rounds all passed between the cops but the message was abundantly clear.

Stay the fuck down.

The chopper ascended and then took off to the north. Drake watched it go with a sense of unfinished business ricocheting around his mind.

“Your time will come,” he said under his breath. “And soon.”

CHAPTER NINE

In the aftermath they sat and stood around the SUV, taking stock of what potentially had been stolen.

Hayden stood washing her hands free of blood, using water she poured out of a small Evian bottle. “We have no idea what they took. Engineers are going over everything right now. Hopefully it will be glaringly obvious.”

Drake harbored doubts and said so. “Any news from the guys deciphering our own Z-box yet?”

“Not a squeak.”

Dahl nodded toward the overwhelmed facility. “I feel like we both won and lost here today. The amount of mercs we took down put a dent in their resources, but they still managed to escape with what they came for.”

“We lost,” Smyth said pessimistically.

“And remember, Beauregard told us
three
substations will be hit,” Dahl said. “Any clues as to which is next?”

Again Hayden shook her head, upending the rest of the bottle over her face. “The investigation is underway.”

She indicated Karin inside the rear SUV, already tapping away at a laptop with Lauren seated beside her. “It’s time to move ahead.”

Drake chewed his lower lip. “Do you think? Splitting our forces in the light of what we just saw? Is that wise?”

Hayden shrugged. “Like we said before: Grabbing a Pythian might end this entire fiasco. It’ll get us several steps closer, for sure. And right now we know where at least one of them is. We also have to cover this ghost ship angle in case it turns out to be even worse than the friggin’ Z-boxes. We can’t allow them to just take anything they find.”

Drake saw her logic. “Okay, agreed. So I guess we’re headed to Arizona.” He glanced at Dahl. “You be okay without a hand to hold?”

The Swede grimaced. “Would you like a hug before you go?”

Drake raised both eyebrows, his expression deadly serious. “Considering the specter of where we’re going, the spookiness of what we’re chasing, and all those ghost stories and apparitions I think a hug might be good about now.”

He moved in. Dahl almost tripped over his feet in an effort to escape. Subdued smiles flickered across all their faces.

None of them wanted to split the family up right now.

CHAPTER TEN

Yuma was a city in the southwestern corner of Arizona, first settled by Native Americans whose reservations still exist in parts of the state. Expeditions later saw the trade and living opportunities offered by the narrowing of the Colorado River at this point, and during the California Gold Rush the Yuma Crossing became known as the gateway to California.

Drake found himself pacing the hotel lobby wondering where the hell the rest of the crew had gotten to before realizing this was it. This was all—the extent of his current team—Lauren, Smyth and Karin.

The decision had been made to arrive low key. There was no telling who the Pythians had enlisted or paid off, no guessing how many spies they had dug in around the area. Thus, the four-strong group were vacationers, stowing what military gear they may need in oversized backpacks. Once their rooms had been allocated they trooped into the elevators, all heading for Karin’s room.

Drake voiced everyone’s thought. “So give us a clue. Where do we start?”

Lauren spoke up. “Where did Nicholas Bell start? With stories, I guess. So short of flying over all of Arizona and California with a spotting scope we’d best put our resident genius to work.” She patted Karin’s shoulder.

Karin grunted, still far away. Drake wondered for the thousandth time if she should even be here. But then, where else? Grieving alone? Therapy? There were far worse places to be than following lost treasure.

Just ask Alicia.

Drake again found himself thinking about the Englishwoman and her endless march forward. It was at times like this that a separation of weeks felt more like years.

Karin silently plonked a laptop onto the room’s only table and logged onto the free Wi-Fi. The width of the room prevented the rest of the team from standing too close so Lauren offered to make a coffee run and Smyth elected to go with her. Drake found himself suddenly alone with Ben Blake’s sister, Komodo’s girlfriend.

“Anything,” he said. “Anything I can do to help just name it. Even if it means putting a gag on my stupid mouth.”

Surprisingly, Karin turned around to stare at him. “I’m starting to believe there may be something you can do,” she said. “But I’ll let you know.”

Drake nodded, a little taken aback. She was working through stuff and needed to ponder. He watched her pound the keys for a while and then stepped away. Lauren and Smyth returned, comfortable at each other’s side, and offered strong black coffee all round. Drake liked the new Smyth; the man seemed more at ease, though the old irascibility still hovered just underneath the surface. As the group perched awkwardly on the side of the bed, Karin began to speak.

“Ghost ships of Arizona,” she said. “It’s no more than a bunch of legends passed down from old Red Indian days. Scary campfire stories or lost treasure mythologies—your choice. The main story,” she breathed, “centers on an old Spanish galleon.”

Smyth leaned forward. “Was it haunted?”

Karin continued without an acknowledgement. “Stories started springing up after the great Colorado flood, sightings put it forty miles north of Yuma. Of course, that was back in the 1860s . . .”

Drake wasn’t sure whether to smile or knit his brows. Was she suggesting it might—somehow—have
moved?

“These places back then had various names—Indian Springs, Soda Springs, Bitter Springs. The Salton Sea is another popular place for myths since this grew out of an even larger inland sea over the centuries. There were and are many myths that said this galleon was none other than Sir Thomas Cavendish’s
Content
, filled with pirate booty. Now we’re talking—a pirate ghost ship.”

“Who relates all these old stories?” Lauren wanted to know. “And who remembers them?”

“Old timers.” Karin shrugged. “People who grew up listening to them. Ear-benders. Entrepreneurs.”

“What’s so special about the
Content
?” Smyth tipped his coffee back and drank.

Karin also drank, her mind engaged in the task. “Well, Cavendish was an English explorer and privateer. He purposely tried to emulate Sir Francis Drake by raiding Spanish towns and ships and then returning triumphantly to England by circumnavigating the globe. Successfully. He became a rich man, capturing rich prizes in silk and treasure from Spanish ships he attacked. He captured a six-hundred-ton ship called the
Santa Anna
, and this was all on his
first
raiding run. Queen Elizabeth I knighted him upon his return.”

“And the
Content
?”

“During Cavendish’s second run and circumnavigation he encountered a little more than he bargained for. The man died at the age of thirty-one from an unknown illness whilst his navigator sailed on to discover the Falkland Islands. But the story of the
Content
actually arises from the first voyage. Cavendish had two ships near the Gulf of California—the
Content
and the
Desire
—and both were put to good use chasing down the
Santa Anna
, which was a so-called Manila galleon. Now, firstly these Manila galleons only sailed once or twice a year and carried
all the goods
accumulated through an entire year’s trading. Goods from the coin mints in Peru and Mexico to the Chinese for silk, spices, gold and other luxurious materials.”

“All on one ship?” Drake said.

“Yup. In any case Cavendish got wind of this Manila galleon and hunted it for days, at last spotting and then capturing it. The
Santa Anna
struck her colors and then the English swarmed aboard, taking enough treasure to fill
both
their ships. Cavendish did allow the Spaniards food, water and weapons and put them ashore, then he set fire to the
Santa Anna
, before sailing away to continue their voyage across the Pacific. The
Content
was never heard from again. The
Desire
spent the remainder of her voyage hiding from every skirmish.”

“Never heard from again?” Drake repeated. “How could that be with a ship carrying so much loot?”

“Is anybody else here wondering how a Spanish
galleon
ended up wandering the friggin’ desert?” Smyth grouched. “And especially how this
English
entrepreneur and privateer
sounds like nothing more than a marauding pirate?”

“Ships being marooned in the desert is not unheard of,” Drake said. “Storms. Great tidal bores. Even hurricanes and typhoons can deposit ships miles away from where they were. And that includes onto solid ground.”

“A tidal bore is most likely in this area,” Karin stated.

Now Smyth shook his head. “I’m lost again. What’s a tidal bore?”

“A wall of water moving fast up the stream bed.” Karin finished her coffee and deposited the cup in the bin. “The Gulf of California’s topography, incoming tides and river outflow produced the potential for unparalleled tidal bores. The basin was more than two hundred and seventy feet below sea level, perfect for flood waters. The flood could have skipped the land barrier, cresting over the natural dam and down into the Salton or Cahuilla Sea. In addition, it seems that the Salton Sea and Gulf of California were once connected.”

Drake whistled. “I bet those poor sailors had a bit of a shock.”

“Early surfers,” Lauren agreed. “But without the boards.”

“I never heard of such a great tidal flood,” Smyth said with suspicion. “Surely it can’t only have happened that one time.”

“These days a tidal bore can no longer occur,” Karin read. “Due to the depletion of water from agriculture and municipal use before it reaches the gulf.”

“Gah. Always a freakin’ answer.”

Karin glanced around at him. “You can always try this yourself.” She picked up the laptop.

Smyth quickly held his hands out, muttering an apology. Lauren frowned in his direction.

Karin sighed. “Sorry. I’m not myself at the moment. Bores occur in relatively few locations worldwide and are generally nothing to write home about. You only hear about them when a tragedy occurs or a rag newspaper needs some sensationalism to help sell a few extra copies.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “So in the right conditions the ship in a desert phenomenon could occur. What we have to do now is to find it. I know you said ‘old timers’, but where in particular have all the ghost stories come from?”

“The Red Indians,” she said. “Or Native Americans, as they’re now called. They started it. Legends were expanded when the local prospectors and explorers of the time decided to make their own investigations. One man named Charley Clusker. Another named Colonel Albert S Evans. Another called Fierro Blanco. These men knew natives from every tribe of Baja California of that time and attest that the local tribes never once lied to them. The kicker here is that—just like the peculiar worldwide dragon myth—everybody tells the same story and offers the same descriptions. The myth has persisted. It’s always similar, and survives both in Native American and frontier lore. It’s spookily uncanny.”