SKELETON GOLD: Scorpion (James Pace novels Book 3) Read online

  Skeleton Gold

  Part 1

  Scorpion

  by

  Andy Lucas

  Published in 2015 by ALB

  Copyright  Andrew Lucas

  www.andylucasbooks.com

  First Edition

  Cover design by CC Morgan Creative Visuals

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Gripping the familiar reassurance of the heavy old revolver, Pace sucked in a deep, calming breath. The gun was fully loaded but he didn’t have any spare bullets. Even if he made each one a killing shot, there were going to be far too many of them coming.

  ‘Any last requests?’ he whispered, knowing his words would not be heard outside, above the howling fury of the blizzard. The smaller man huddled down next to him forced a grin, his bald head beaded with sweat.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Bring it on.’

  Skeleton Gold – Book 2: Dark Tide

  Final book of the Skeleton Gold duology

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks, once again, to Ian, for his continued support in preparing the final text of this book.

  For Joanna, James, Max, Daisy, Rysa & Smokie

  …and for everybody else who, like me, wanted the adventure to continue.

  Prologue

  The sun eased its way gently into the water that lined the distant horizon, descending within a richly spreading blanket of deepening red that stained the quiet ocean the colour of blood. A slight breeze; hot and dry, ruffled the man’s shoulder-length grey hair as he stood on the bow of his vessel, idly contemplating the magnificent solitude of their position, enjoying the slight motion as his boat wallowed, engines off, in a gentle swell.

  The sun was going down on the eighteenth day of their voyage. The day, not that it really mattered out here, was July 21st, in the year 1916, and they were on a mission so secret that few men outside the sacred walls of Number 10 Downing Street had any knowledge of it.

  The war and its evil clutches were far behind them for now, although he understood how important their mission was to the British war effort. Below decks, safety stored in multiple crates, tons of gold bullion waited to be exchanged for a top secret cargo. What it was, who knew? He was a captain in the Royal Navy and it was his duty to follow the orders that came from the Admiralty, without hesitation. He was not about to question higher authority and had personally overseen the midnight loading of the heavy wooden crates, into the specially fitted hold of his vessel.

  But, this was not a new situation for him. In fact, his vessel had been specially refitted to serve just such a clandestine purpose and this was their third run.

  ‘Captain.’ The voice that sliced through his reverie, from over his left shoulder, sounded gruff and deep as it resonated in the throat of the huge man that he knew would now be looming up behind him; hopefully bearing a tin mug filled with hot, sweet tea. ‘Tea, sir.’

  Turning to acknowledge his first officer, Captain William Barrett accepted the cup of steaming brown liquid and sampled a mouthful immediately, ignoring the brief sensation of burning and focusing on the familiar, friendly taste. Flicking the peak of his flat officer’s cap upwards with a jaunty movement, he found himself smiling broadly at his companion. The two men were similarly dressed in dark blue boiler suits and heavy, black duffel coats. The only indication of their military rank was in the Royal Navy, standard-issue officer’s caps that both wore.

  Like the tea, Lieutenant Paul Pringle was reliable and reassuring; he had a presence that oozed confidence from every pore. Adored by the crew for his no nonsense, yet caring command style, he had joined the boat at the same time as Barrett. They had learned the ropes of secret operations together and bonded the crew into a tight fighting unit within weeks.

  ‘Thanks,’ grinned Barrett, taking another mouthful. He had not heard Pringle approaching on the new, rubber deck covering. ‘Looks like this stuff works at suppressing footsteps,’ he added, casting a glance down at the black, ridged surface.

  ‘Lucky I was only bringing you a cuppa then, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, Number One. How long before the boilers are up to steam?’

  ‘Should reach temperature in about another half an hour,’ Pringle explained. He had taken the liberty of bringing his own cup of tea out with him. This might have been viewed as a liberty normally but the two men had taken to sharing a drink at dusk, while they waited for the oil-fired boilers to heat.

  ‘Is everything ready, down below?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The seals on the crates have all been checked by me. None are broken and everything is in order.’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Barrett thoughtfully. ‘It’s nice to be away from the grey of the Atlantic, or the icy cold of our last damned delivery.’ He shivered at the recent memory of the ice. ‘But these long runs always make me feel that we’re abandoning our fellow sailors.’

  Pringle understood completely. This was their third delivery, and the last one of the mission. They had been many months at sea, with multiple refuelling stops both mid-ocean and in friendly ports. After such a lengthy voyage from his beloved Plymouth, he wondered how many British lives has been lost in battle with the enemy while their own boat wasted its fighting potential skulking off to safer waters.

  The two men drank their tea and scanned the empty horizon as the red of sunset deepened into the darkness of night. Both men knew exactly where their vessel was but they were the only two who did. The rest of the crew, including officers, were deliberately kept oblivious of their geographical position. In the event of a catastrophe, Barrett and Pringle were under orders to scuttle the submarine, with all hands if necessary. Capture was not an option afforded to them. Should any of the crew survive, none of them would know their position, track or intended course. Even the submarine herself had no name – identified only by her code name; K45.

  With the coming of night, the air temperature cooled dramatically and the two men returned to the inner sanctum of the hull. Barrett turned the boat over to Pringle, who had first watch, and retired to his cramped cabin.

  Pringle ordered the extendable smoke stacks to be raised and received confirmation from the engine room that the boilers were ready. Unseen in the thickening cloak of darkness, the twin stacks that now protruded from just behind the conning tower began to belch smoke as the world’s largest steam-powered submarine kicked up her heels and surged across the still water like a thoroughbred racehorse suddenly released from her starting stall, leaving a vivid, foaming white wake behind her.

  Although capable of an impressive twenty-five knots when running on the surface, generated by twin 10,500 shp Yarrow boilers feeding Brown-Curtis steam turbines, linked to twin, seven-foot high triple-bladed screws, Pringle ordered a cruising speed of only fifteen knots. He set a slightly zigzagging course, shifting direction every thirty minutes before returning to the original bearing. Satisfied that all was well, he returned topside and settled in for a few hours of chilly, monotonous observation.

  The sky was clear and a magnificent full moon helped to illuminate the ocean brightly; visibility stretching to the horizon. Using his binoculars, Pringle could see for miles but they were alone. Far from any known shipping lanes, he’d expected
to see nothing. Tomorrow they were scheduled to reach their destination. They would trade a fortune in gold bars for a secret cargo and then make best speed for England. Like Barrett, Pringle felt the weight of guilt upon his shoulders, almost a sense of cowardice at leaving the war to be fought by others.

  Down in his cabin, Barrett tried to ignore an uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. It was unusual for him. He was a veteran of submarines from their very inception and rarely felt trepidation, even when engaging enemy ships in the heat of battle.

  He could not understand why his sixth sense was clamouring for his attention. After all, he thought, out here there is nothing but ocean and sky to contend with unlike the past few weeks which they has spent dodging icebergs to make their second exchange; each mission involved three separate drops where an unknown box was swapped for one third of the bullion boxes loaded in Plymouth.

  Even a small iceberg could have opened up the submarine like a can of sardines, killing them all, and they were taking enough of a chance sailing in a K-Boat as it was.

  The K-Class submarines were huge vessels which were notoriously dangerous, measuring 338-feet in length and displacing over two thousand tons. With a complement of sixty crew, they were prone to leaking and sudden sinking and been nicknamed the Killer class by British submariners. His boat, however, had been specially adapted by expert designers and also received far more than its fair share of maintenance. He had no doubts about its ability to carry them to their various destinations and then return them to home waters safely.

  Pushing aside the rising sense of doom, he rolled over in his bunk and fell into a fitful sleep. Above him, his second-in-command kept a watchful eye upon the ocean, unaware of the danger that lurked a few feet below his heavy boots.

  At a little after four o’clock the next morning, as the sun began to lighten the sky with the vaguest hints of a pink, pre-dawn, the boilers were shut down and the smoke stacks ceased to draw their wispy lines against the dark sky. The speed quickly bled away until the submarine once again rolled quietly within the soft grip of calm water.

  Barrett was back on the conning tower, having relieved his first officer at two o’clock. Pringle should have gone down to get some sleep but he did not feel tired. He wanted to help with their final delivery.

  Although Barrett had made a half-hearted attempt to persuade him to go below, he was secretly quite pleased to have his first officer next to him. His sense of impending doom had strengthened worryingly but it was eased just a little by Pringle’s solid presence at his shoulder. For the first time, on one of these runs, he was also glad to feel the reassuring weight of his Webley service revolver, tucked snugly beneath the brown leather flap of his belt holster.

  The coastline was clearly visible now, directly in front of the submarine’s impressive bow. Flat and featureless, the yellow sand and similarly coloured scrub behind the dunes gave a sense of desolation to the picture, in stark contrast to the warm familiarity of the crystal blue ocean surrounding them.

  Barrett belonged to the sea and hated to be away from it. The sight of arid, featureless desert looming just a thousand yards off their bow, added to his sense of disquiet. Angry with himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him for a second, he raised his own binoculars to his eyes and scanned the forbidding coastline carefully. They were at the right co-ordinates, at exactly the right time, and he formed a satisfied grin when he noted the small shadow heading out to towards them.

  Slowly, the shadow solidified as it drew nearer and the sun crested the dark horizon; its warming rays lifting the gloom in an instant. It was a small wooden motorboat, about twenty feet in length, powered by an innovative new diesel inboard engine. It carried three people.

  Barrett ordered the front hatch, leading down into the cargo hold, to be opened and he watched as two seamen appeared on the gently rolling deck and made their way forward. When they were about fifteen feet from the tip of the bow, they knelt on the rubberised surface and opened the standard-sized hatch. The gold was crated up in small boxes that just fitted through the hatch, which had prevented the need for major restructural work on the submarine’s hull.

  The boat was soon alongside. The same crewmen grabbed the tether line that was cast to them and tied it to a stanchion close to the open hold. Helping the men aboard, two of the visitors disappeared down into the hold whilst the third was escorted up to the conning tower.

  Barrett greeted the man with a cordial handshake; he was a civilian and did not warrant a salute. Pringle shook his hand in a similarly professional manner. For a moment, the three men eyed each other in silence before the visitor broke the moment.

  ‘I hope you had a good trip, gentlemen,’ he said, in clipped tones that suggested a wealthy, upper-class upbringing. The British accent was accompanied by neatly brushed, short black hair and trimmed moustache, perfect teeth and a monocle set into the socket of the man’s left eye. He was a little under six feet tall and very slight in build – Pringle guessed him to be little more than nine stone in weight. ‘I am delighted to see you.’

  ‘My orders are to unload the cargo to you only upon receipt of a return cargo.’ It was a standard line he had to use. This was the third time he’d been through this routine this trip, and the third time that he had stood on his conning tower and addressed a similar visitor with the same protocols. They both knew that etiquette had to be followed, however, and played out the scene.

  ‘Of course,’ replied the visitor, smiling. ‘The cargo is in the boat and will be transferred immediately.’

  With that, he turned and made his way back down to the deck. Crossing to the hatch, he leaned his head down and had a brief exchange of words with his unseen companions below. Obviously satisfied, he nodded and then headed over to the boat. Timing a nimble jump perfectly, he quickly retrieved a small, wooden crate, about the size of a large briefcase, bound with multiple leather straps and secured with a large padlock. He stepped back onto the deck of the submarine, carrying it with exaggerated care like a serving tray, by two leather handles set into the ends.

  Pausing again by the open hatch, he stooped and handed the box carefully down to somebody inside, straightening up a second later with his hands now empty.

  Barrett let out a soft sigh and nodded imperceptibly to himself. Things were moving quickly, which was good. He wanted to be away from this place as quickly as he could and had already ordered the boilers to be readied for immediate action.

  Out on the deck, the man suddenly stopped, mid-stride, as he began turning back towards the conning tower. Barrett watched in surprised fascination as a look of horror spread over the man’s features, barely a second before his head dissolved in an explosion of red and grey matter that sprayed high into the air, the dull crack of a gunshot sounding flat against the vast open spaces around the submarine a split-second later. Thrown backwards viciously by the force of the bullet entering his forehead, the lifeless body landed on its back on the polished bow of the motorboat before slipping into the water between the two vessels.

  Further gunshots rang out, unaccompanied by any other sound; no screams or cries. Snapped from his stupor, Barrett barked at Pringle to follow him down the hatch but stopped, almost immediately when he noted that the hatch had been closed and dogged tightly while his attention had been distracted. Together, he and Pringle attempted to open it, but it had been secured from the inside and jammed shut.

  ‘Come on!’ Barrett yelled, seething with sudden rage. ‘The hold!’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ barked Pringle. Vaulting up and over the guard rail, both men dropped the fifteen feet to the decking. Up and running, they watched with fury as hands leaned up, gripped the hatch cover and pulled it down, clanging it shut against its metal rim with a finality that echoed far beyond the physical vibration of the sound waves.

  Trapped outside the hull of their own submarine, Barrett felt his stomach lurch with a sickening realisation. He had been looking for danger in the waves b
ut the danger had either come aboard in the form of the dead man’s two companions, or it had already been aboard, manifested in a member, or members, of his own crew.

  ‘What should we do, sir?’ asked Pringle steadily. His voice was calm and edged with steel. His eyes blazed with barely contained anger at the thought of a traitor having taken over one of the Royal Navy’s submarines.

  ‘Unless somebody kindly opens a hatch and asks us to come inside, there’s nothing we can do,’ replied Barrett, regaining his composure. Now that the danger was real, and not imagined, he reverted instantly to his calm, methodical self. ‘And I do not see that happening because as soon as I know who has dared to act against us, I will have them summarily shot on this very deck.’

  ‘At least they cannot submerge, Captain,’ Pringle added. ‘The stacks are still locked in their topside positions. If they try to dive, water will flood the pipes and the seals are not designed to stand much pressure.’

  Three K-class boats had already been lost in the previous year in accidents linked to submerging with smoke stacks out. No member of the crew would take the chance – it would be suicide.

  ‘At least the boat would be lost, with all hands aboard, including the traitor,’ grinned Barrett, humourlessly.

  ‘Or traitors,’ said Pringle. ‘I doubt one man alone could have overcome our crew.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Barrett sombrely. ‘There must be more than one. Those two who came aboard would not be able to seize the boat on their own either, they will have had help, you are quite correct, Number One. This treachery has been well planned, so the outcome is doubtless already decided, as is our own fate.’