1

SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES

EARLY JULY, PRESENT TIME

Joseph Havok slouched in a broad-backed rattan chair, quaffing a draft beer. A ceiling fan mounted to an overhead beam hewn from tropical hardwood slowly rotated. However, the fan offered little respite from the tropical morning air. A rain shower had passed through earlier, leaving the sky a cloudless, dark blue, but the air heavy and damp. Over Havok’s left shoulder, a 1970s soft-rock tune streamed from a speaker mounted high on the rear wall of his bar. As he lifted the glass to his lips, a drop of condensate fell from the glass and stung the warm skin of his chest between the open V-neck of his white polo shirt. Lowering the glass, Havok savored the yeasty taste while wiping froth from his thick mustache with the back of his hand. A large yellow envelope lay on the glass-covered table in front of him. A bonded courier had just delivered the envelope, but Havok was in no hurry to open it. Instead, he simply looked at the envelope, anticipating its contents.

“Stone, it looks like we have another offer from SPAN Expeditions,” he said loudly, not looking up from the envelope.

“Where to?” asked a male voice off to his left. Havok’s longtime friend and business partner, Pete Stone, stood five feet, ten inches tall and weighed in around 175 pounds. He had steel-gray hair cut military-style short, as was Havok’s, and his eyes were grayish blue. Stone had a habit of talking and laughing out of the right corner of his mouth.

“Does it matter?” asked Havok.

“I know Costa Rica isn’t an option ever since you got us caught. Anyway, I’m getting tired of jumping from one tropical paradise to another. How about a job in the Baltic? Or Japan? It’s been a while since we’ve had some quality time in Japan.”

Havok clamped his eyes shut. Damn, will he ever forget about Costa Rica? After a deep sigh, he answered, “Let me look at the offer in a minute.”

“All right. I’m going into the shop to help Junior for a few minutes.”

Havok looked over the wooden handrail that lined the rear deck of his bar and across the shimmering bay, toward a row of lofty, verdant hills that formed the northern boundary of the bay. Immediately in front of him, a wooden dock extended from the deck and pointed north as if it were a compass needle. A fifty-foot wooden boat, moored to the right side of the dock, tugged gently at its mooring lines as the dissipating wake from an unseen boat disturbed its slumber. Even though he had owned the boat for a number of years, he never failed to appreciate its beauty: its hull consisted of rich reddish-brown mahogany planks; the upperworks built from teak. Brightly polished brass and chrome fittings enhanced the natural beauty of the varnished wood. On the transom, hand-painted bright green letters, resembling sections of bamboo, identified the boat. Its name was Outfit.

On the left side of the dock sat a low-winged, two-seat WWII Kingfisher seaplane. Aside from the central float, which was located under the plane’s fuselage, two smaller floats extended down from the wings’ tips. Two planked walkways protruded perpendicular to the dock, one in front of the starboard wing and one behind it. Mooring lines from the central float secured the plane to brass cleats on the dock. The upper halves of the plane’s fuselage and floats were painted sky blue; the bottom halves painted cloud white. Following WWII tradition, a vivid image adorned the stubby front-engine cowling on the starboard side. The woman in the mural had flowing black hair and bright red lips. She wore a black bikini and rode sidesaddle on a broom. She held on to the broomstick with one hand while holding a bottle of beer high in the other. A trail of flames followed the broomstick. The name Esmeralda was painted under the icon.

Havok used Esmeralda mostly for taking his and Stone’s customers up for joyrides and flying lessons. Esmeralda would have looked as if she had come straight off a 1941 production line if it weren’t for the tail numbers indicating current American registry. After surveying his gilded cage, Havok’s eyes returned to the envelope.

SPAN stood for Special Projects Archaeology Network, and the company conducted archaeological, architectural, and historical research. The last time he and Stone had worked for SPAN was about a year ago, when they were assigned to act as backup for German Navy divers working in conjunction with the History Channel. The purpose of that joint effort had been to investigate an IX-class long-haul U-boat that lay in two hundred feet of water off the coast of Sumatra and to document that investigation. The History Channel production team was following up on rumors that this submarine had carried Hitler to a secret hideout in May 1945 but had been sunk by British aircraft in transit. Havok knew that the program was a farce made to satiate conspiracy junkies who reveled in such innuendo and that he and Stone were simply props on the project. However, two weeks of paid diving and living on a German Navy salvage tug, drinking good German beer at the end of every day, and taking a week off in Bali was reward enough. But, at least for Havok, the real reward was not the pay or the revelry in Bali. The real reward was the opportunity to dive on an authentic U-boat. History and adventure meant more to him than money. It was his fix for a severe addiction. He craved adventure just as a heroin addict hungers for his deadly poison.

Havok finally leaned over to open the envelope. He pulled out several typed documents and an old leather-bound book. A piece of stationery poked out from the pages of the book. He opened the book and saw that the author had written a note to President Chester A. Arthur on the inside cover. It was dated 1883. Havok turned the title page and read the brief note on the stationery. The cursive writing read, I hope you don’t already have one. Love, M.

Havok smiled while he held the book, feeling the embossed lettering on the binder with his fingertips. How many times have I read this book? he thought. He placed the first-edition copy of Treasure Island on top of the empty envelope and turned to the documents.

The first document laid out the plans of an expedition. SPAN was aiming to find and excavate a lost pirate fleet located off Panama’s Caribbean coast. As Havok scanned copies of old charts, survivor accounts, manifests, and contemporary drawings of what the ships supposedly looked like, he realized that this job would be extremely simple. Any well-trained underwater archaeologist with some competent students or shovel bums could easily map and excavate this site. Simplicity didn’t attract Havok, but he needed some relief from his stifling routine. A working vacation in the Caribbean would do nicely.

With a satisfied sigh, Havok grabbed his beer as he pushed his six-foot frame up from the chair. He stretched as he walked around the wooden deck, idly surveying his surroundings. Centered on the deck, a brass spiral staircase led to the sundeck above, where his customers, who occupied the guest rooms on the second story of the building, could sun themselves in beach chairs. Over the waist-high wooden railing of the lower deck, and beyond an eight-foot wide alleyway, was another building and patio similar in appearance to the one bordering Havok’s bar. Both cinder-block buildings, owned by Havok and Stone, were only two of a number of resort hotels that lined the stretch of Baloy Beach. The building in which Havok currently stood was a guest resort hotel and restaurant, with the first floor being the bar, known as P.J.’s to locals. The other building served as a dive shop, artifact conservation lab, and residence. The first floor of that building housed the dive shop and the lab, while the second floor was comprised of two studio apartments: one for Havok and one for Stone.

On the deck of the opposite building was a waist-high square steel table at which Stone had just sat down. Sitting in a swivel office chair, its stuffing poking out of cracked leather, Stone held a length of rope in his hands, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. On the table were his lighter, cigarettes, and cell phone.

Havok stepped up to the deck railing and spoke across the alleyway: “The job’s off the Caribbean coast of Panama, and we’re looking for Captain Morgan’s lost pirate fleet. We’ll be flying into New Orleans to pick up a boat and then crewing it to Pensacola, the Keys, and Panama.”

Looking up from his work, Stone pulled the cigarette from his mouth and tapped the lit end against the rim of a five-gallon trash bucket on the floor next to him. “Well, it isn’t Japan, but I know a good gentlemen’s club in each of those places.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Havok answered.

“Good, and did my Alabama chrome make it over there?” Stone asked as he popped his cigarette back into his mouth.

Havok’s eye darted around the deck. He spied a roll of duct tape sitting in the dirt of a potted palm tree. “Here,” he said, grabbing the roll and flinging it across the alley.

Stone reached to catch the roll of tape, then put it on the unpainted steel table and returned to splicing a loop into one end of the rope. “I’m making a new mooring line for Esmeralda, and I’ll preflight her in the morning. You’ve got three scheduled flights.”

“Thanks,” Havok said. “I’m going for a swim. You got everything under control for our charter tonight?”

Stone waved a dismissive hand.

Havok was happy to let Stone take care of the blue-collar side of the business. He went back to the envelope, replaced its contents, and laid it upside down on the table beside his now-empty beer glass. He peeled off his polo shirt, used it to wipe sweat from his face, and dropped it on his chair; and wearing only a pair of green board shorts, he stepped off the deck and onto the dock. He walked past his boat and his airplane, to the end of the dock.

Havok dove into the water and enjoyed the relief it offered from the humidity. Using a variety of strokes and kicks, he quickly reached a sandbar about two hundred yards out. He waded up to exposed, packed sand and knocked out twenty push-ups. Afterward, he dove in the water and was back at the beach within eleven minutes of having dived off the dock. Slightly out of breath, he sat in his chair at the table and heard the screen door that led into the inside bar and restaurant open. He turned to see one of his employees step through the open door to bring out his lunch, a T-shirt, and a towel.

“How was the swim?” The employee wore sneakers with white ankle socks, a pair of dark blue shorts hemmed to reveal a good amount of thigh, and a white blouse. The blouse was loose fitting and short sleeved and had her name, Apple, embroidered over the left pocket. The company name was embroidered over the right pocket in yellow: Peso Pete and Olongapo Joe’s Eco-Adventure Tours.

Apple dropped the towel into Havok’s lap, draped the T-shirt over his chair, and placed a tray on his table. On the tray, next to the covered plate, was a bottle of San Miguel beer and a glass of water with some ice cubes and a lemon wedge.

“I need to work on my swim time,” Havok replied as he finished toweling himself off. He put on his new shirt and looked at the plate heaped with steamed white rice topped with adobo, chunks of pork and potatoes stewed in a mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, and black pepper. To the side of the rice and adobo were pickled banana peppers, each about the size of his index finger. He realized suddenly how hungry he was.

“Thank you,” he said as he picked up a fork. “Now, get my clothes ready for tonight.”

“Yes, sir!” she replied with a smile, and turned to leave.

Apple was only one of Havok’s many employees, but all his employees were from one extended family with one patriarch. This system worked out well, as the patriarch could be trusted to run the business while Havok and Stone were not around.

Havok dove into his food while watching her walk away. Small and pretty, with straight shoulder-length black hair, Apple never failed to be attentive to all of his needs.

It took him only a few minutes to finish his lunch. As he munched on the last banana pepper, the screen door behind him opened again and a couple came out. The man was wearing an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt and beige shorts and had a beer in one hand and his cell phone in the other. The shirt was an overwhelmingly brilliant lime-green color, covered with images of colorful tropical birds. The woman behind him was petite and had green eyes and short red hair. Her skin was creamy and smooth, and it appeared she wore few cosmetics. She held a gin and tonic in one hand and a phone in the other as well.

The man looked over at Havok and spoke: “You must be Joe, the owner.”

“Yes, I am. And you are?”

“My name is Steve Johnson. This is my wife. Mind if we sit down?”

“Please do.” Havok noticed that the man did not introduce his wife by name.

“Thank you,” Johnson said, plopping into a rattan chair with a sigh. His wife sat next to him. “We just checked in, and I have to say, your website doesn’t lie. You have some toys, inside and outside,” he said, inspecting his surroundings and subconsciously brushing his thin, trimmed mustache with his index finger.

“Well, thank you.” Havok slowly sipped a glass of water as he watched Johnson appraise the boat and airplane. He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. She looked at Havok discretely.

Johnson turned his attention to the patio deck and then to the deck above him. “This entire patio seems to be made from mahogany. Must have cost you a fortune.”

“Not really,” Havok replied, looking at the thick planks that made up the deck and the eight-inch-square stanchions and ceiling beams supporting the deck above. “Over the last few years, my partner and I have had the occasion to salvage tropical-hardwood logs from shipwrecks. One reason the Spanish wanted the Philippines as a colony was that it was right between the Spice Islands to the south, or modern-day Indonesia with its spices, and China to the north with its silks and porcelains. The Spanish needed wood to build their ships, and the Philippines provided that wood.”

“I know what you’re talking about,” Johnson added after taking a pull from his beer bottle and straightening his shoulders. “We’re from northern Minnesota, and the salvaging of old-growth logs from the bottoms of lakes and rivers has been quite a gold rush up there. Some of those logs go for as much as twenty thousand dollars.”

“Same here,” Havok said, “but an old-growth teak log would go for a lot more than twenty thousand dollars.”

Johnson, his shoulders sagging slightly, turned his eyes from Havok and looked at his beer while Havok continued.

“Instead of floating log jams of harvested logs down rivers or across lakes, the Spanish would send men into forests on nearby islands to chop them down and process them just enough to get them craned aboard the decks of their ships. And sometimes these ships sank because of storms or running aground. Salvaging tropical-hardwood logs may not be as sexy as brining Spanish doubloons, but these logs will stand up to any typhoon, Teredo worm, or termite, and are sorely wanted by musical-instrument makers and millionaires.”

“What about that lovely staircase? Is that solid brass?” the woman asked. “By the way, my name is June.” She held out her hand and leaned forward, revealing her freckled bosom.

Havok shook her hand and guessed she was in her late thirties. He tilted his head toward a low-lying wooded island at the entrance of Subic Bay. “We took the staircase off an old steamboat. The Spanish sank it in the pass just south of Grande Island, trying to blockade the bay so the Americans couldn’t enter when Dewey came down in 1898 to fight the Spanish fleet in Manila.”

“It is in remarkable condition,” June said.

“My business partner is pretty good at restoring and fixing just about anything. He’s the one that finished processing our recovered teak and mahogany and put this deck together.” Havok turned to look across the alleyway. “That’s him over there.”

Stone looked up and waved.

June waved back, and her husband finished his beer just as Apple came out with a tray of refills.

Johnson perked his shoulders up again as he handed his empty bottle to Apple. “One reason we’re here is to see that boat of yours. We’re on our way to Hong Kong for a business symposium, and I saw your advertisement. If I am not mistaken, that’s a fifty-foot custom-built raised-deck express-cruiser-style 1930 Stephens gentleman’s motor yacht. Plumb bow and transom stern. Now that was a classic era of construction: everything square, the bow, stern, and upperworks all at right angles to the keel, and constructed completely out of mahogany and teak. But . . . it seems a bit different. Perhaps more robust than the ones I’ve seen back home.”

“It’s a 1926,” Havok answered. “And yes, it is a bit more robust than when it was originally built. We’ve had the occasion to be in places where we shouldn’t have been, and it has deflected more than one bullet.”

“I grew up on Lake Superior, and we have boat shows all the time. I always wanted a Stephens, but I’ve always been too damned busy with business.” Johnson sighed and dipped his chin slightly before straightening his back. “How did you come by it?”

“I salvaged it from a cove on Mindoro,” Havok said, turning to look at the boat himself. “It has quite a varied history. The boat company built it especially for a Canadian millionaire for his personal use, so although it’s built of tropical hardwood, it’s light in construction, for economic reasons. And it had rather basic diesel engines. But the millionaire soon realized that the American Prohibition Act could add quite a bit to his bank account, so he had it modified slightly to include beefier engines for speed and leased it out to a rumrunner called The Swede. Both The Swede and the boat proved to be quite successful. At least up until 1931, when the Coast Guard finally captured it.”

“You’re kiddin’!” Johnson exclaimed. “That’s The Swede’s boat? The Red Duck?”

“You’ve heard of him?” Havok asked as he sipped his beer.

“Nobody grows up along Lake Superior without hearing about The Swede, perhaps one of the most successful rumrunners in Prohibition history,” Johnson explained, pointing his bottle at the boat. “I can’t believe I’ve read about his exploits for so many years only to find myself sitting ten yards away from his boat, the infamous Red Duck.”

“Well,” Havok continued, “now it’s my dive boat. Are you scheduled to dive with us?”

“No. I got certified years ago but haven’t dived since,” answered Johnson, a hint of shame in his voice.

Havok noticed that June furrowed her brow, and he guessed the closest Johnson had ever gotten to a scuba tank was page 159 of an adventure novel.

“You said that boat can deflect bullets. How so?” Johnson asked.

“The Coast Guard, after capturing the boat in 1931, commissioned it for their own use. What better way to capture other rumrunners than to use a boat used by rumrunners? Anyway, after Prohibition was repealed in 1933, the Coast Guard had no need for it. But the Navy figured out that it would be of use to them, so they commissioned it and had it shipped to the Philippines. They had planned to use it as an early version of a PT boat, or high-speed gunboat, throughout the islands. However, when the Japanese invaded the Philippines in 1941, the Navy didn’t have time to use it. Instead, they stashed it in a cove on Mindoro Island, where it was forgotten. Over the years, the jungle claimed it and typhoons beat it up. We had to take it apart and bring it back up here to Subic in sections.

“Stone stripped it down to its keel and tried to save and reuse as much of the original wood as possible while rebuilding it, but even though the entire boat was built of mahogany and teak, it was still lightly built. Again, for economy and speed. Since we had access to tropical hardwood ourselves, we replaced what needed to be replaced with the same wood that we used for this patio deck. As we put the boat back together, though, we realized we were rebuilding something that would be quite substantial and needed special engines, as any basic diesel engine would not do. Stone managed to find two 1918 Liberty L-12 aircraft engines with extra parts.”

Johnson chimed in: “Twelve-cylinder aircraft engines with three hundred horsepower and a high speed-to-weight ratio.”

“Four hundred horsepower actually,” Havok said. “But with larger, more robust engines, we had to continue to strengthen the boat’s internal framing structure, which we covered with hull planking almost twice the thickness of the original planking.”

Johnson sighed. “So what you’ve Frankensteined together is a classic 1920s gentleman’s motor yacht on steroids?”

“That’s right,” Havok said, “and it has served us well over the years and has deflected quite a bit of small-arms fire when needed.”

The table fell quiet as everybody tended to their drinks. Meanwhile, Johnson seemed to drift off to another world. He took on an expression that Havok’s parents had accused him of having after reading a novel. It looked as if Johnson had suddenly been transported to a world a hundred years away. Havok could almost imagine the daydream taking over Johnson’s mind.

There he was, standing with legs spread wide while firmly holding the helm of the Red Duck as it powered its way across the black water of Lake Superior in the dead of night. Armed only with a crumpled captain’s hat perched jauntily on his head, a holstered M1911 .45-caliber pistol on his hip, and his guile, he was transporting over a hundred cases of Canadian Club to waiting trucks near Thunder Bay.

Suddenly the night disappeared as a spotlight targeted Big Johnson and his boat. Knowing that capture by the Coast Guard was out of the question, Big Johnson once again defied the law and the impossible. With one hand remaining on the wooden helm, Big Johnson pulled his pistol out of its holster and pointed it at the blinding glare. He fired four rounds at the spotlight, which was over two hundred yards away. Exploding in a shower of sparks, the light was suddenly extinguished, leaving the Red Duck in total darkness. Big Johnson returned his thoughts to his mission and the thirsty customers who would soon be imbibing the fruits of his adventurous exploits and cheering his name.

“What about a flight lesson?” June asked Havok, disturbing the quiet of the table. “Can you give me a ride?”

“Anytime you want. Just let me know when.” Havok kept his eyes on her while he asked Johnson, “Do you want to go up for a flight?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “After having flown halfway across North America and all the way across the Pacific, the last place I need to be is in another airplane just yet. We’re going to be here for only two days. We’re flying to Hong Kong for a symposium.”

“You mentioned that before,” Havok stated. “What’s up in Hong Kong?”

“I’m in manufacturing,” Johnson explained, a bit of pride in his voice. “Setting up a business venture between my company and China’s leading appliance manufacturers. By this time next year, I think I can have five plants up and running back in Minnesota.”

“Appliances,” Havok said slowly. “Huh.”

Johnson fell silent as he turned his attention to the airplane.

“We recovered it from Taal Lake, just east of Manila, a few years back,” Havok said, seeing Johnson inspecting the plane. “It’s a type of seaplane that battleships and cruisers launched from catapults. The pilot sat in the front seat, while a spotter sat in the rear seat. After we salvaged the plane, Stone restored it and installed an extra gas tank for long-distance flying. He also installed a gauge console, a steering yoke, and rudder pedals in the rear cockpit so I can give flying lessons.”

Johnson thought pensively for a moment and then asked, “Is it legal to salvage this stuff?”

“It’s the Philippines,” Havok replied. “Everything is legal as long as you have pesos.”

“It must be wonderful being a successful treasure hunter,” June said.

Havok shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Treasure hunting is a dirty word. I like to refer to myself and Stone as artifact-recovery-and-relocation specialists.”

Johnson looked as if he’d had a sudden realization. “I thought flying and diving weren’t a good mix.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to fly for a while after diving. You have to allow the body to off-gas,” Havok explained, adding, “I try to follow the rules most of the time.”

The table fell quiet for a few moments as Johnson, lost in thought, continued to look at both the boat and the plane.

Havok silently finished his beer while surveying Johnson. The man looked like one of those washed-up actors who had been a heartthrob in his heyday but was now simply a heart attack waiting to happen. In that moment, Johnson could have been David Hasselhoff, Erik Estrada, or Val Kilmer dreaming of earlier days, or even The Swede himself.

After a couple of minutes, Havok broke the silence. “Just let me or my staff know if you need anything. How are your rooms? I hope you sleep well and enjoy your stay.”

While her husband was still lost in thought, June spoke up: “I am sure we will, but if we . . . need anything, where do you sleep?”

Havok hooked his thumb over his shoulder and across the alley. “Second floor. Bedroom’s on the south side.”

Havok took a final sip of water and then grabbed the beach towel, the envelope, and his beer. “It was nice to meet you two, but Stone and I have guests coming in for a night dive. I have to help him get the boat and the dive gear ready.”

“Before you leave,” Johnson said, bringing himself back to the present, “let me give you my card. I own a restaurant supply company in Minnesota, and I think we can work out a deal when you’re ready to spring for an upgrade.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “It helps to carry a few of these around.” He pulled out a wad of cards.

June looked down at the table and put her hand to her forehead.

Havok accepted the business card. “Thanks.”

Once inside, he stepped past the door to the kitchen and into P.J.’s, stopping long enough to throw the card into a trash can just behind the bar. Upgrade my ass, he thought.

Inside the cool barroom, rotating ceiling fans offered comfort for the several customers sitting at the long wooden bar or at a few of the dozen tables on the barroom floor. Havok saw Apple’s mother, Catalina, sitting on a tall stool behind the end of the bar. One of Catalina’s wrinkled hands was busy making tally marks in a notebook. She was counting the number of drinks served so far that day. The inside bar was Catalina’s domain, and she took excellent care of this part of the business.

Havok put his empty beer bottle on the polished tropical-hardwood bar and walked toward the front wall, where an open window allowed sunlight to enter. Next to the street-facing window stood four uniformed Chinese sailors ogling the contents of a wall-mounted display case. The men spoke in Chinese and pointed to shiny gold doubloons lying on black velvet inside the case.

Indeed, space that was not taken up by the long bar or the dozen tables was occupied by shelves and display cases filled with curios of the sea: an old Spanish conquistador helmet, a Japanese samurai sword, various types of ordnance that Stone had rendered inert, brass fittings salvaged off historic wrecks, even a collection of rum bottles. Each rusted, dented, or coral-encrusted artifact represented a slice of Havok’s past, as if its purpose were to record his life.

Havok nodded to the sailors as he passed them on his way to the front porch. From there he watched Filipinos race by in the unique multicolored jeepneys that roared down National Route 1 until a mostly red jeepney, which was dragging a trail of dust behind it, came to a screeching halt in front of the bar. The spring-mounted chrome horses on the sun-faded hood still jostled for position as their driver, Manny Magsaysay, bounced out from behind the steering wheel and up three cement steps to the porch. Dressed in hiking boots, khaki shorts, and a green bush shirt with Peso Pete and Olongapo Joe’s logo, Manny weighed just over one hundred pounds. At seventy-five, Manny still had a full head of thick, short hair. He ruled his clan with an iron fist, making sure everybody in his family pulled their load. Havok and Stone relied on the patriarch, and Manny was extremely loyal to his two employers. In return, his employers offered everybody in Manny’s family well-paying jobs.

Manny leaned against the concrete railing of the veranda and pulled a pack of Champion cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He popped one into his mouth and lit it as he watched two of his sons, and Apple’s brothers, get out of the back of the jeepney.

“Did you get everything?” Havok asked.

“Sure did, boss,” Manny answered. “I’ll go back to the Marvista Hotel to get our night divers as soon as we are off-loaded.”

Cases of beer and soda were stacked in the back of the jeepney. The two young men started lugging them into the bar.

“Looks like you got it under control, Manny,” Havok said as he treaded down the steps to walk next door.

Havok climbed the stairs at the back of the dive shop and entered his apartment. He stripped and entered the small bathroom. After a leisurely shower, he toweled himself dry and walked naked to his bed. Sunlight shone through the open windows on either side of the bed, warming the sheets and the clothing that Apple had set out for him to wear: briefs, khaki shorts, leather flip-flops, and a green company shirt. Next to his clothing was Apple’s favorite pair of pajamas: pink shorts and a pink tank top, both with white bunnies. Havok quickly ran a comb through his short brown hair and long reddish-brown mustache before leaving the room.

A few minutes later, he was standing on the back deck of the dive shop, pulling his dive gear from a drying rack and placing it into his dive bag. As he pulled on the zipper, closing the gear bag, he heard muffled voices coming from inside the shop. He looked through a window and saw customers for the night dive charter. They were Japanese and all wore the typical tourist uniform: new, name-brand tropical attire. Junior, one of Manny’s other sons and the company’s divemaster, was assisting the group with checking out their dive gear. Although Havok could speak and read a sufficient amount of Japanese and was a certified scuba instructor himself, he chose to delegate as much as possible so his employees could max out on tips. Not only had Junior attained scuba instructor certification, he had learned Japanese along the way, and was certainly well rewarded for it with extra income.

Once all the Japanese divers filled their gear bags, Junior led them out to the Outfit, where both he and Manny, who was already on the boat, stowed their gear bags on top of the raised roof of the engine room. The engine-room structure took up the center-aft portion of the deck. It was three feet high and ringed with circular brass portholes on the sides. The raised structure vibrated slightly from the idling engines inside. Scuba tank holders lined both sides of the boat. Once Manny and Junior had secured the gear for sea, Manny went into the pilothouse and nodded through the windowpanes to both Havok, who was on the bow, and Junior, who was on the stern, indicating that he was ready for them to bring in the mooring lines.

Apple had staked Havok out for herself, and her mother, Manny’s wife, controlled the bar, but the Outfit was Manny’s domain. When not attending to other duties, he spent every second taking care of the old vessel. He doted on the boat. The only downside for Manny was that Stone still took care of the engines. Manny would fume at the greasy fingerprints Stone managed to leave now and then throughout the boat. Havok suspected that Stone left the marks on purpose just to mess with Manny.

After Manny guided the boat away from the dock, Junior opened an old fifties-era metal Coca-Cola cooler and passed around sodas, bottled water, and small bags of pretzels. Junior, like his father, was small in stature but muscular. He wore his jet-black hair short like his father. After passing out the Cokes and snacks, Junior began his mandatory dive brief as everybody settled down for the trip out to the site.

This was not the Japanese divers’ first dive with Havok. The day before, he and Junior had taken them out to Grande Island for a leisure shore dive and then for a more intensive dive. The object of the intensive dive had been the sunken USS New York, a 1890s-era battle cruiser. Tonight the divers had signed up for a dive to explore a Japanese WWII destroyer. Junior finished his briefing and was about to order the divers to suit up when one of them interrupted him.

“Excuse me, please,” said the Japanese diver, who appeared to be about forty. “This is nice boat, but why do you have those holes? They look like bullet holes.” The man pointed to a line of thumbnail-sized holes that scarred the length of the starboard side of the engine-room structure, which was part of the original construction.

Junior looked down at the holes. An application of clear varnish sealed them. “Yes, they are. Mr. Havok and Mr. Stone had a run-in with some pirates a couple of years ago down Mindanao way.” He paused and looked at his audience. “Yes, we still have to be careful.”

The Japanese diver turned to his companions and spoke to them in Japanese. They all looked at the bullet holes and remarked quietly to each other as they started to assemble their gear.

Havok, meanwhile, went below to the forward cabin, changed into his swim trunks, and slipped on a pair of faded dive booties. Afterward, he went up to the bow. This was the best part of the trip for him. He sat on the deck, leaned against the front of the pilothouse, and gazed into the purple-orange sunset that separated the blue sky from the South China Sea. The throbbing hull massaged him. The air rushed at his face, tugging at the flowing ends of his mustache. He raised his hand to push the ends of his facial hair down, and as he did, his thumb ran across the scar on the left corner of his mouth. He smiled inwardly at the thought of the scar, which was a result of the time he and Stone had been in the custody of the Unidad de Intervención Policial, Costa Rica’s militarily trained, and best-trained, police force. It was only after his contact at SPAN made some quick moves, transferring a substantial amount of money into certain foreign bank accounts, that the police had seen fit to release him and Stone.

Havok turned his attention to other scars on his body, rubbing one on his right forearm and touching one on his left leg. The scars were to him like the lines parents draw on a kitchen doorframe to record the height and events in the lives of their children. Like the relics at his bar, each scar on Havok’s body marked an adventure in his life. He felt proud of them, except for the scar on his lip. Although he never cared much what people thought of him, refusing to be enslaved by other people’s opinions, he did feel self-conscious about that particular scar; hence, the audacious mustache. The mass of reddish facial hair clashed with his short brown military-style haircut, which accentuated strong Nordic facial features.

Havok stretched and relaxed. He felt the dying rays of the sun on his shoulders. He looked at the mountains to the north. The sun had set to the west, behind Grande Island, and the last of the rays escaped the hold of the setting sun, illuminating a line of clouds that surrounded the lofty mountain peaks. Beneath the awe-inspiring sky, steep mountain slopes covered with green tropical forests stretched all the way to narrow strips of beach, which were strewn with rocks that had tumbled down from the heights above.

It was seven thirty p.m. when the Outfit approached the wreck site. Havok stood and moved to the bow. Manny, using three lines of sight‍―the northeast corner of Grande Island, a tall coconut tree on low-lying Chiquita Island, and the end of the old ammunition pier‍―and using two throttles, positioned the boat over the wreck. He raised his hand, and Havok reached down to the six-foot chain shackled to the stock of the boat’s anchor. He grabbed the chemical light stick clipped to one of the links on the chain by a metal shower-curtain clip and bent it with both hands until it snapped and started to give off a rich blue aurora. He released the pelican hook that held the fifty-pound anchor in place and stepped back. The anchor splashed into the black water below, the six-foot length of chain and anchor rope racing noisily after it.

As soon as the line slackened, indicating that the anchor had hit bottom, Havok snatched the line up. He waved his left hand in the air, signaling for Manny to reverse the engines. The Outfit idled backward, dragging the anchor until it bit into the bottom of the bay. Manny continued to reverse the boat while Havok played out another hundred feet of anchor line. He cinched the line around the cleat and raised a fist. Manny moved the throttles to their neutral position. On either side of the boat, about twenty yards away, were two pre-positioned white Styrofoam buoys, one tied to the stern of the wreck and the other to the bow.

Junior gathered his charges under the darkening sky while Manny flipped switches on the boat’s helm console, turning on the deck lights. Havok looked around as he walked aft. He saw a couple of narrow outrigger boats anchoring twenty to thirty yards off.

Havok put on a rash guard before slipping his arms through the straps of his buoyancy compensator. Standing up with the load on his back, he met Junior by the portside dive gate. He and Junior divided the group into two teams, with Havok taking three divers to the bow marker and Junior taking the other three to the stern marker. This methodology allowed each dive leader to keep control of his group while decreasing the risk of confusion from crowded diving conditions and the stirring up of the bottom sediment that came with it. Each diver stood hunched over to support the weight of the scuba tank and weight belt, and each had a glowing chemical light stick tied to his mask strap. Under the shadow of darkness, they looked like Navy SEALs getting ready to jump out of a C-130.

“Is your shotgun ready?” Havok asked Manny while surveying the narrow-hulled outriggers bobbing in the darkness around them. A weak bow light marked the location of each one.

“Don’t worry,” replied Manny, holding up a Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun.

The divers’ eyes widened at the sight of the shotgun, and they all looked back at the bullet holes on the engine-room structure.

“Pirates!” Havok emphasized with a mischievous grin.

He stepped up to the open gate that gapped the bulwark, pushed a button on a strobe light, which was tied to the handrail by a ten-foot piece of rope, and watched the light flash several times before he dropped it into the water. The beacon would serve as a reference point for the divers. He then turned to his group of divers and ordered, “Iki massho.”

The divers obediently fell in line behind their leaders. Havok placed his right hand over his mask and regulator, put his left hand over the gauge console looped under the waistband of his buoyancy compensator, and then stepped out into open space. On the other side of the boat, Junior followed the same routine with his team.

Manny’s responsibility was to remain topside in case of emergencies, to assist divers, and to keep an eye on the boats that bobbed in the darkness. The boats in this bay were owned and operated by simple fishermen, but given the opportunity, the fishermen would paddle silently over to unattended boats to take everything that was not bolted down. Manny lit a cigarette and made one complete round of the main deck, stopping for a brief moment under each deck light. The two boats had pointed their bows toward the Outfit, but after seeing Manny, they pulled up anchor and left the area.

Neither Havok nor Manny worried about these harmless pests, most of whom probably already recognized the vessel as Havok’s; they were simply anglers looking for an extra peso. Real pirates would not have stopped because of a single guard. Fierce Asian cutthroats would board their victims’ boats and do as they wished. Piracy still existed in many parts of the world, including Southeast Asia, where pirates found safe operating bases among the islands that made up the Philippines, Indonesia, and Malaysia. Operating from secret lagoons, villages, and towns, the latter two of which openly supported the trade, the pirates could pillage with impunity.

After about thirty-five minutes, the first of the Outfit’s divers surfaced near the blinking strobe light Havok had dropped into the water earlier, and Manny assisted each diver up the short ladder until all were safely on board. It took another thirty minutes for the divers, including Havok and Junior, to gear down and stow everything away for the trip back. As the divers stood on the fantail, toweling themselves dry, Manny motored the boat toward the anchor while Havok, on the bow, brought in the slack of the anchor line. Once the anchor line tended straight up and down, Havok threw up a fist, cinched the line around the cleat, dove headfirst into the water, and pulled himself down the anchor line to the other end, which was sixty-five feet below. Reaching the anchor chain, he grabbed at the fuzzy blue light in front of him, snapped the clip, and, with the plastic light in his hand, returned to the surface. The watching tourists applauded and spoke quietly among themselves as Havok held up the faint blue light.

Manny began steering the Outfit home while Junior passed around drinks. Havok remained in the background with a beer, listening to the excited babble. The divers talked and gestured, bragging to each other about what they had seen and who had used the least amount of air. Havok forgot about his customers and turned to look at the eerie shadows in the valleys of the Zambales Mountains. He watched as the clouds became luminescent under the full moon. He never failed to appreciate the natural beauty of the Philippines.

Arriving back at the shop, the tourists returned their dive gear and migrated to P.J.’s for drinks and food, and to talk about their adventure that night. Havok went to his bedroom for a shower and a change of clothing. He decided to see how things were going at the bar, so he walked across the alley and onto the deck at the rear of P.J.’s. He opened the screen door and walked into the beginning of his own adventure, not knowing that a chance encounter that evening would drag him into a life-and-death struggle with others thousands of miles away.