6

SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES

EARLY JULY

The next morning began too early for Havok. The clucking of chickens roaming below the windows on both sides of his headboard woke him from an all-too-brief sleep. Moments later, sharp blades stabbed into his eyes as Apple turned on the lights. She was wearing her pink pajamas. Reluctantly, he rolled to his left, uncovered a sleeping body, and cracked his hand sharply against the firm white buttocks, startling the woman from a deep sleep.

Apple approached the stand next to her employer’s bed. She plunked down a steaming mug of black coffee without glancing at the woman.

“Here’s your coffee,” Apple said as she leaned over to kiss Havok on the cheek. “Go for a run, and I’ll get your breakfast.” She went into the bathroom.

Havok rolled over and reached for the gray cotton shorts on the floor. He picked them up, swinging his legs into them as he stood. “We gotta get you back to your room before your husband wakes up.” He spoke with his back to the woman.

June Johnson, half asleep, stared at the ceiling.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said as she stretched lazily on the bed. “When he goes on benders like last night’s, he’s out for a while, especially since you two had a dick-measuring contest yesterday and he lost. Did you enjoy what you did to him?”

“Sort of,” Havok answered slowly. “I got you as first prize, right?”

“Now you’re just being a jerk,” June said. “But did you have to do a victory dance on his corpse?”

“How’d I do that?”

“I’m lying in your bed wearing nothing but your old, smelly shirt.”

“I didn’t invite you up here. You could have stayed faithful to your husband.”

“You didn’t say it in words,” June said with a regretful sigh. “Marrying money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Havok said nonchalantly. He picked up the mug and sat on the edge of the bed, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan and the soothing warmth of the coffee.

June gave herself one more lazy stretch and sighed heavily. She looked at his back and ran a finger down his spine. “I hope you don’t think I do this sort of thing all the time.”

“Just some of the time?” Havok asked.

June did not answer right away. After a few seconds, she asked, “Can I call you a douchebag?”

“You’re gonna have to take a number,” Havok responded, looking at the black liquid in the cup. He felt June roll out of the bed behind him.

Wearing Havok’s polo shirt from the day before, June walked sleepily around the end of the bed to Havok, tousling his hair with one hand while taking the cup of coffee from him with the other. She looked at him with downcast eyes. “My husband and I have a silent understanding,” she said as she strolled about the room. “And when he’s capable, he has his occasional indiscretion as well.”

June fell silent and continued to survey the spartan furnishings and sip the coffee. She stepped toward the side of the room where the kitchenette and bathroom took up one wall. She heard Apple changing in the bathroom two feet away. Two wooden floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered another wall. A Victorian rolltop desk with a framed map of the world above it took up five feet of space between the shelves. Holding the cup with both hands, she tilted her head to read the titles of the books.

“You seem to have an interest in all kinds of subjects,” she observed. “History, language, literature, science, archaeology, dive manuals.”

“It came with the job,” Havok answered groggily.

While stepping around the wooden chair in front of the desk, June commented, “An uncluttered desk with a simple laptop and bargain-basement printer. You don’t possess much.”

“Sometimes having less means having more.”

June tilted her head again and read the spines of some of the leather-bound books on the bookshelf to the right of the desk. “I used to love to read, especially the classics like you have here. I also liked novels about female detectives on the hunt for international criminals, but I haven’t picked up a book in years.”

“Why’d you stop?” Havok asked, holding his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.

Still dwelling on the titles, she answered, “I guess I’ve been married too long to a man who worries more about business than about having a little adventure. I became jealous about having to live a life through fictional characters.” She paused to run her finger down the spine of one of the books. “I see that you live in the past: Dafoe, Poe, Melville, Stevenson, Verne, London, Dumas, H. G. Wells, Rice Burroughs, Fleming, Hemingway, Clancy.”

She stopped reading as her eyes fell on a row of books on the bottom shelf. She turned to Havok and threw him a glare. “Really? Cussler?”

“Sorry.”

With a sudden strike of inspiration, she blurted, “Why don’t you write a novel? I know you have enough life experiences to fill a whole room with books, and with you as the main character.” She placed the coffee cup back into Havok’s hands before reaching down to grab the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and balling it up in her hands. Standing naked, she brought the shirt to her nose and closed her eyes. “I can be one of your characters,” she purred, her eyes still closed. “A sexually frustrated homemaker whom you rescue from a boring marriage and ravage anytime you wish.”

“I couldn’t tell you the difference between a split infinitive and a sentence fragment. Besides, the protagonists in most novels are supposed to be some sort of good-looking and chivalrous knight in shining armor who, at no time, sleeps with another man’s wife, always puts the toilet seat back down, cooks the perfect eggs, and never burns the toast.” Havok shrugged his shoulders. “I have a habit of burning toast.”

With the shirt still against her nose, June opened her eyes. “Somehow, I think that you make it a habit of burning your toast.”

Havok raised his coffee cup in salute.

“Well, if I can’t read a book written by you, then can I have this old shirt?”

Havok raised his coffee in affirmation again.

After another sniff, she walked back around the end of the bed to the opposite nightstand to place the shirt on her handbag. “Are we still on for a flight lesson?” she asked, slipping on the dress she had worn the night before.

Havok affirmed by raising his coffee cup.

Apple came out of the bathroom, now wearing a bar T-shirt, cutoffs, and a pair of sandals. She walked to the door. June did the same, but only after giving Havok a kiss on the top of his head.

Havok nursed another cup of coffee for five minutes before finally deciding to go for a short run. He walked to the closet, opposite the bookshelves and desk, which ran the full length of the wall. He slid his clean but faded running clothes and shoes from a hook at one end of the closet and put them on, then left his room.

Under the awning in front of the shop, he stretched while remembering the conversation with Wheatley. With the anticipation of an adventure in the offering, he started into a slow trot, thinking about fuel, time, distance, and supplies while absentmindedly waving back at acquaintances who waved to him. Havok ran with a slow, steady gait and turned around after one mile. He relished the mild exertion.

When he got back to his apartment, he slammed down a bottle of water and took a shower, barely toweling himself dry before getting dressed, leaving wet skin to stain his light-colored shirt. He sat at his desk and removed the napkin that covered a fork, a bowl of sliced fruit, and a few chunks of sharp cheddar cheese on a separate plate. His breakfast and juice both sat next to his laptop, and he slowly ate while searching the internet for information on the Spratly Islands, specifically Terumbu.

According to the internet, the islands consisted of a wide-ranging collection of reefs, cays, and a few larger islands, including Terumbu Island centered in the South China Sea between the Philippines and Vietnam. Havok also knew, from keeping updated with international news, that the islands themselves were not significant in terms of providing natural resources, but the waters around these islands were rich fishing grounds and possessed a wealth of mineral and petroleum deposits. These resources had led China, Vietnam, Taiwan, the Philippines, Brunei, and Malaysia to establish military installations on some of the larger islands and to argue over boundaries. However, China, over the last few decades, had increasingly pushed for dominion over the entire region, claiming the South China Sea as its own sovereign territory. One couldn’t open an internet article or lift a newspaper without seeing photos of artificial islands, complete with airstrips, under construction by the Chinese. The South China Sea was also the major maritime shipping nexus between the Pacific Ocean and the countries that bordered it and the Indian Ocean and the countries that bordered it. Control of the South China Sea meant control of a major portion of the world’s international maritime shipping.

Havok poked through various sites and found several images of Terumbu on Google Earth. He could see that the island was round in shape, about five miles in diameter, and completely covered with a tropical forest except for a rocky ridge that ran from north to south along the western edge of the island. On the eastern side of the island were two bays. There was a long, narrow bay in the southeastern corner. Havok assumed that was where Wheatley’s father claimed to have seen Americans dumping the silver. There was a smaller, rounder bay farther to the north. Both bays ran east–west. The image was several weeks old but still useful.

Havok spent another hour reviewing more files and websites that referred to Terumbu Island. He printed out what he thought would be valuable, including an old US Navy report regarding the construction of a small base and a concrete wharf for the Philippine Navy back in the 1970s. The file also contained a detailed map on which two rows of single-story barracks ran from east to west, parallel to each other. A two-story headquarters building with a large front porch stood at one end of the barracks, while a single-story mess hall stood at the other end. Havok, judging by the number of rooms, estimated that the encampment was built to house about three dozen men. There was also some sort of single-story storage building off to the side.

The Americans had constructed everything out of cinder blocks and mortar, which gave permanency, but the Philippines had abandoned the encampment after only two years. The island had been unoccupied since. Havok looked back at the image of the island and could see that the tropical forest now covered everything, with no sign of the buildings that the map outlined. However, he could see what remained of the wharf. What was once a fine concrete pier where small ships and patrol boats could tie up was now two jagged chunks of concrete piling and slabs pointing out into the larger of the two bays.

Havok looked at the clock on his laptop. It was ten a.m., time to take his customers up for flight lessons. He grouped the papers together into a file folder and grabbed both the folder and his cell phone before walking downstairs and across the alleyway to P.J.’s. He saw that Apple had a glass of water and a coaster waiting for him on the table he had sat at the day before. He placed both the coaster and the water on the folder, along with his cell phone, before walking out onto his dock and to the side of his seaplane. Esmeralda bobbed ever so gently in the wake left by a passing banca boat. Her canopy was slid back, and he could see Stone sitting in the front cockpit. The back of Stone’s head bobbed with the rhythm of the seaplane. His steel-gray hair was dark with sweat.

“Ready to go?” Havok asked.

Stone popped his head up. “Gas tanks are full, did the run-up and radio check, and your flight bag is on board.”

“Great,” Havok replied.

“Oh, by the way,” Stone added, “Catalina said the Johnsons checked out early, so you’re down one lesson.”

Havok thought for a minute about their sudden change of plan. Maybe Mr. Johnson had a sudden attack of jealousy.

Voices from the patio interrupted Havok’s thoughts. He turned and saw the same six divers from last night enter the patio with glasses of juice or water in their hands. Apple seated them at one table and gave them all menus. The women accepted the menus but turned to look at Havok.

“Looks like we’re going to get busy,” Havok said. “Be back in a few minutes.”

He went to sit with the group to go over the flight plans, starting with briefing them on what to expect, and allowed them to pick who would go first, second, and third. Minutes later, Stone was strapping the first passenger into the rear observer’s seat while fitting her with a set of headphones. He slid the rear canopy forward as Havok grabbed a handhold high on the fuselage, pulled himself up, and stepped onto the wing, then slid into the pilot’s seat. He donned his headset and then fired up the original Pratt & Whitney radial engine. After letting the engine warm up and seeing that all the gauges read normal, he gave Stone a thumbs-up. Stone untied the mooring lines and pushed the plane out of the dock socket. Havok taxied away from the dock with his canopy still slid back.

Havok took his passenger for a thirty-minute flight over Subic Bay, and after a series of demonstration air maneuvers, gave her the controls, talking her through the flight, but taking the controls back when it came time to land. He repeated the process for the two remaining women passengers, and by noon, the last passenger had climbed out of the plane. On the dock, the three women huddled around Havok for pictures, which Stone took with their cell phones.

After the tourists left, Stone met Manny at the dive shop so they could run errands together. Havok returned to his folder of papers that he had left on the table and sifted through them idly while sipping a beer. As he did, a plan was coming to fruition. He also tried to estimate how much silver might still be sitting on the bottom of that bay. He reached for his phone to place a call to a friend and realized it was almost one p.m. He had missed seeing the Wheatleys off.

Well, he thought, I can always get their address from the owners of their hotel. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a last-minute visit accompanied with a cashier’s check.

Havok punched in his friend’s number and left a message on his voice mail. He also called Stone’s cell phone and left a message.

An hour later, Havok was still sitting in his chair, mulling over the silver cache, his plan to retrieve it, and one small discrepancy that he noticed during his research. The discrepancy offered an air of mystery, and it excited him.

Returning to his room, Havok got back on his laptop and scrounged the internet for additional information. Finally, the sun had inched its way toward the western horizon, casting long shadows through the windows by his bed. He estimated travel times, distances, stops, fuel, and water requirements. A paramountcy of foreseen variables pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle. The unforeseen variables made only a brief pit stop in Havok’s mind. If he could not control something, he did not worry about it. The often-unpredictable tropical storms did not concern him, nor did the fact that somebody may have already recovered the silver.

Havok was interested, however, in the minor discrepancies that had grabbed his attention earlier. An old US Geological Survey map identified the island as Bass Island, not as Terumbu. Some English sailor or explorer probably inspired the name Bass long ago. Additionally, an obscure college text identified the island as Karipot. Havok inwardly laughed at the name, which loosely translated to “cheapskate” in Tagalog, or “someone who refuses to give up his wealth.” But the island’s international name, as printed on modern nautical charts, was Terumbu. Havok’s subsequent research did not reveal any recent occupation or interest by any of the countries who claimed the Spratly Islands, but his biggest concerns were naval patrols and pirate ships from disputing countries. At convenient times, the naval patrols and pirates were the same, and the last thing Havok wanted was to have any recovered goods confiscated by some opportunistic naval commander turned pirate. He thought about the bullet holes in the engine-room housing on board the Outfit.

Havok stopped riffling through the files on the laptop and his papers. He stared at the pages in front of him as if they could tell him something that wasn’t written on the pages. His mind kept going back to the word karipot. Sitting back in his chair, Havok realized that although he had quite a bit of textual information, firsthand information was also crucial. He considered two options for obtaining firsthand information. One of the options would mean he’d have to fly down to the island himself for reconnaissance. The other would merely mean he’d have to meet with his friend.

Twenty minutes later, Havok walked up the staircase that led to the door of the Matacumbe Key Resort Hotel, which was about a half mile down the road from P.J.’s. This hotel was a three-story concrete structure. It was painted white, trimmed with dark red accents, and had a wide front porch. While the theme at P.J.’s represented Havok and Stone’s lifestyle, the theme here represented its owner’s lifestyle: it had a carefree vibe and a Key West atmosphere.

As Havok crossed the porch to enter the building, he saw his friend Scott Kilgore. Kilgore sat with a Caucasian customer at the square island bar in the center of the large room. Havok, now standing in the doorway, touched the arm of a passing server. The female server wore white capris pants and a red short-sleeved blouse with a Caribbean island print.

“Hi, Mercedes,” Havok said. “Can you get me a Duval Crawl and tell Scott I need to talk to him?”

“No problem, Joe,” she said, turning toward the bar.

Havok went back to the porch to select a newspaper from a pile stacked on a small table just outside the front door. Grabbing an empty table in the corner farthest from the other customers, he scanned the front page of the World Tribune while listening to Caribbean music coming from a speaker mounted somewhere above him.

He also thought about June Johnson but didn’t know why. After all, she isn’t the first married woman I’ve slept with.

He forgot about June and put the paper down when he heard Kilgore’s voice.

“Hello, Joe,” Kilgore said. His teeth flashed in a broad smile that went perfectly with his blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and beachboy looks. Although he was in his forties, Kilgore’s tanned and velvety-smooth skin made him look ten years younger, masking his years as a decorated Navy SEAL and combat veteran. Havok and Kilgore had first met at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California. Kilgore was with SEAL Team 5. He was a good operator and an even better friend. After twenty years of service, he had retired from the military and relocated to Subic, opening two businesses‍―his bar and a marine-repair facility‍―as a front for what he was really doing. In reality, he was a field agent for the CIA.

Now, Kilgore held two Duvall Crawls, which were quart-sized Mason jars, each containing ice cubes, a wedge of lemon, and high-octane lemonade. “Come to spy on the competition?”

Havok feigned revulsion. “Spy on an old dump like this?”

Even though the two men pretended to compete like two old dogs trying to own the same backyard, their friendship was real enough. Havok replaced his look of horror with a genuine smile. “No. I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

“Thought so,” Kilgore said as he placed the drinks on the table and sat down.

Havok grabbed a jar and took a pull while reclining in his chair. “Have you heard of any action about the Spratlys, specifically a rock called Bass, Karipot, or Terumbu Island?”

“What kind of action?” Kilgore asked. “The Chinese view the entire South China Sea as their own private lake and, as a resource-rich waterway, claim it as such. They’ve been occupying a number of islands and creating artificial ones as airbases. Ever since the Hong Kong Accords last November, China has bullied the leaders of all the countries surrounding the South China Sea into uninviting any US presence, which is why I’ve been looking out my office window at a Yantai-class guided-missile frigate.”

“Well, at least their crew is helping me stay in business,” Havok replied.

“Although Chinese sailors have been enjoying this place as well, it would make me feel better if it were American sailors spreading the wealth. Anyway, nothing has crossed my desk lately about that specific island, but if you want, I can make some calls.”

“That’s fine,” Havok said, accepting the offer.

“Is there something special going on there?”

“I’m gonna fly Esmeralda down there for a recon, then go back with the Outfit for a few days. Ran into an Aussie last night, and he gave me a hot tip about some World War II silver.”

“Off on another treasure-seeking adventure,” Kilgore joked.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with getting outta town for a couple of days and getting some air under my ass,” Havok responded in kind.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” Kilgore said. As he placed his drink on the table, he looked past Havok, at the steps behind him. “Oh my god!”

Havok turned as Stone bounded up the steps. His partner was wearing banana-yellow shorts and a bright blue aloha shirt covered with pink flamingos and islands of the Keys. Behind Stone, the sun had set and Grande Island was backed by a rich orange-blue, cloudless sky. Stone stepped up to the table. He pulled a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, his phone, and his wallet from the pockets of his shorts. After placing the items on the table, he sat down.

“Would our meeting have anything to do with the Aussie from last night?” Stone asked.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier,” Havok replied. “But he told me about a cache of silver. Figured we could take a few days off and take the Outfit to check it out. Are you in?”

“You know I don’t let you take that boat anywhere without me,” Stone answered. “You might burn out the engines.”

“Good,” Havok responded. “And I also need you to preflight Esmeralda for me.”

“No problem with Esmeralda,” Stone replied, “just as long as this little distraction won’t screw up our trip to the Gulf.”

“All I know is if you’re dressed like that when we get to New Orleans, I don’t know you,” Havok said, looking down his nose. “Do you and Johnson shop at the same thrift store?”

“Remind me to remind you that you’re still a douchebag,” Stone said, pulling a cigarette out of the pack on the table.

Havok downed the last of his drink and stood. “I’ve gotta get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.” He placed the empty jar on the table as Mercedes returned. She smiled as Stone looked at her.

“Hi, Mercedes. I’ll have a full serving of Louisiana Viagra, a double order of spermicide, and a big-ass beer.”

He winked at her as she giggled and twirled away.