The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake 2) (6 page)

Hayden was quiet for one long moment. “The answer to the Bermuda Triangle phenomenon.” She said quietly. “But the damn thing’s ancient. Truly
ancient.
It may predate the dinosaurs.”

Drake frowned at her. “Eh?”

Kennedy grabbed a sheaf of papers off the floor, now tying her long hair back as she straightened. “Wasn’t Blackbeard called the
Blood King?”

“I don’t know,” Hayden looked startled. “Was he?”

“Maybe I got it from a movie,” Kennedy said, waving her flippant comment away. “Who knows?”

“Well, hopefully the Blood King ain’t
Blackbeard.
” Drake tried a chuckle which came out sounding more like a duck arguing with a frog.

“The problem is,” Hayden continued, “there may be a second part to the device. A more important piece. And
no one
knows where
that
is.”

Ben looked up from the litter. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

CHAPTER NINE

The CIA jet skimmed across the purple clouds, flying away from the dark and chasing the light. In a happy mood, Drake likened the allusion to himself and his friend, Ben - two good guys always chasing the light.

They were well on their way to Atlantic Beach, the small U.S. town close to where the decade-long salvage operation had been continuing on the Queen Anne’s Revenge, Blackbeard’s flagship. Sometime during the flight Ben and Hayden had taken themselves a few rows back for a little privacy, leaving Kennedy and Drake alone.

Drake was feeling a little tense. It wasn’t easy even for an
ex
-soldier to be so close to the action and not get involved. The mood wasn’t helped by Justin Harrison, who had placed himself at the front of the plane and was trying to lecture them.

Trouble was, the information he was imparting was imperative. The way he delivered it was somewhat shoddy.

“ . . . ship lies in twenty-three feet of water and took over two hundred and fifty years to find. Of course, it wasn’t being
searched for
all that time. Quite the opposite. The North Carolinan . . . ”

Drake zoned out. Harrison walked and talked faster than girls used to drop their pants at a Rolling Stones’ concert.
And still probably do,
Drake thought. Jagger still had it. He leaned in to Kennedy and nodded at Harrison. “Sympathy for the devil?”

Kennedy sighed. “
He’s
not
a man of taste and means
, that’s for sure.”

They both tried to listen carefully, aware that amidst the blather there might be a gold nugget or two.

“ . . . Blackbeard
surrendered
and accepted a royal pardon for himself and his men. What we don’t understand is
why
, for that brief period, because he soon returned to his pirating ways. It’s even more bizarre when you consider he purposely ran aground his flagship – QAR - to surrender in the first place. Act of a madman?” Harrison paused for a millisecond to breathe.

“Blackbeard’s various travels are well catalogued, as well as most of his routes. Early assumptions are that he traded the device and its controller along the way. At least once. Maybe many times.”

“How so?” Drake shot out the question just to get a break.

“Blackbeard’s
Claw.”
Harrison looked please with himself.

“He had a claw?” Mano Kinimaka, situated at the back of the plane, rumbled. “A bit like Captain Hook?”

“Errm, no. Blackbeard’s Claw was a man, so called because he was a fierce fighter who led all of Blackbeard’s boarding parties. He terrified all men. Blackbeard most likely sold the device for a
pretty penny
and then sent his second-in-command to take it back.”

No one laughed at the pirate half-reference. Drake was regressing and starting to wonder if the jet came equipped with parachutes, when Ben finally spoke up.

“So where did Blackbeard get it?”

Harrison shrugged faster than bolt lightning. “Who knows? Probably robbed it from another pirate. Maybe even from old Hornigold himself - the man who first made Blackbeard captain and gave him a ship called
La Concorde,
later to be renamed the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”

“So this device,” Ben continued, “you have no idea where it comes from? What exactly does it do?”

“Well, it’s a technology far beyond what we possess today,” Harrison told them, breathing deeply for a change. “And its origin predates the dinosaurs.”

Kinimaka gasped. “Is that possible?”

Drake was growing fond of the lovable jester. “Not unless you believe in aliens,” he paused. “Do
not
tell me this is another bloody
alien
theory, Harrison.”

“No. No. No. There’s only one theory-”

At that moment the TV screen behind the secretary’s aid switched itself on. “Ah,” the man went on, undeterred, “this is the ship as it looks today.”

Underwater scenes flashed past - undetermined objects covered in crustaceans, caressed and embraced by the jealous seas for hundreds of years. The scene then switched to what could only be a museum, jam-packed with artefacts.

“Thousands,” Harrison said to their surprised faces. “Anything from glass window shards to cannons and the great anchor.”

Drake coughed. “So you’ve figured out the Blackbeard angle. We get that. How about this Blood King? You got anything on him yet?”

Harrison’s face revealed the truth before his lips. “We don’t know who that is.”

Drake gave him a fake look of amazement. “But you’re the U.S. government.”

“The Blood King is a mythical figure. Doesn’t exist.”

Kinimaka sounded shocked. “What? Like the dodo?”

“No!
Like the damn clitoris!” Ben shouted without thinking, and then sank down in his seat when everyone turned round. Even Hayden forgot her recent trauma for a moment to smirk.

Drake turned the topic back around. “So you’re saying this guy’s a myth? After all that Hayden’s learned for you?”

“We’re actively searching for him and, believe me, that’s a
major
understatement. Information on Ed Boudreau, however, is flooding in. We’ll get updated when we reach the ship.”

The TV screen behind Harrison changed picture and suddenly Secretary of Defence, Jonathan Gates, was sat there, staring at them all.

“Can you hear me on the plane? Hello?”

Harrison died and went to heaven. “Ah, Jonathan. Good to see you. So to speak . . . haha. Well, yes, we hear you, umm . . . loud and clear!”

Gates addressed the team. “Miss Jaye and Mr Kinimaka? Just wanted to say - job well done - under the harshest of conditions. My thoughts are with you, and your lost men, and their families.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hayden whispered. Kinimaka offered a grunt.

“That being said we now know the kind of enemy we are up against. The notion of an actual
Blood King
is being looked at very carefully. You guys know the saying - ‘the Devil’s greatest trick was in convincing the human race that he
didn’t
exist?’ Well, I guess we’re treating this guy as the devil.”

“Wise move,” Drake said. “From all I’ve heard.”

“I want your input,” Gates said.
“I
do. Not the United States government,
me.
There are too many bureaucrats clinging on to this Blackbeard thing right now, and not enough
real
men. I’ll authorise your access and give you what you need to investigate where you see fit. We . . . we all owe you a huge debt of gratitude for the ‘Odin thing’.”

Drake was fascinated how even a United States senator referred to their previous world-saving quest as the ‘Odin thing’. He also concealed a large slice of respect for this man. “We’ll start as soon as we land, sir.”

The aeroplane started to lose altitude. Drake felt his ears pop.

Jonathan Gates said: “Take a look around the salvage area. Then, we’ll transport you to the highly secure area where the device is being overhauled. Let’s see what you can do.”

Gates smiled. Harrison’s return smile would have scared off a T-Rex. Drake sat there, wishing he could answer Wells’ most recent call but wary of American ears until he reached the safety of solid ground. A soldier’s obstinate principle - and not easily overcome.

And, more importantly - wishing he could answer Mai’s latest call. He already missed her delicious, cultured tones caressing his eardrums. And the information she might have, of course.

CHAPTER TEN

After leaving the plane, Drake and the others were transported immediately to a small town called Atlantic Beach. It was offshore of this town, near a preserve called Fort Macon, that Blackbeard’s infamous ship lay waiting in shallow water for hundreds of years.

The CIA were pushing this thing hard,
Drake thought
.
By all accounts the so-called ‘device’ was secured aboard a U.S. Destroyer and guarded by a veritable army of marines. At the airfield they had been cautioned to absolute secrecy and bundled into sleek, black vehicles. Drake didn’t mention his recent calls to Wells and Mai, didn’t have to. People of that calibre would already know.

Right now, they were passing Fort Macon, a busy state park that surrounds a coastguard base and, despite its seeming remoteness, claimed over a million visitors per year.

“The operation’s continuing right over there,” Harrison pointed. “We’ll take a quick look and then we’re heading over to the U.S.S. Port Royal, sent over from its homeport, Pearl Harbor, to take part in the operation.”

Kennedy raised an eyebrow at Drake. “By take part, I guess he means commit overkill.”

Drake grinned, not only at the comment, but at the way she looked today. Since the death of Thomas Kaleb, Kennedy had become increasingly more outgoing and accessible. Gone were the body-concealing bland suits. Gone were the torture devices that used to pin her hair back.

Now she sat with her long black hair framing her shoulders, an open smile on her face, and a nice pair of black hipsters that showed off her legs. She sensed Drake staring overlong at her. “What? Seen something ya’ like?”

He shrugged his shoulders and made a rocking motion with his hand. “Meh.”

They stopped parallel to the big salvage project that was underway around where
Intersal Inc.
had discovered the Queen Anne’s Revenge. It gave Drake a few moments to wonder how to approach the great pair of white elephants: the only things coming between Kennedy and him.

Only things . . . and so far insurmountable.

It had only been six weeks or so, but she hadn’t mentioned Kaleb once. Sometimes, at night, he heard her Skype-ing, or on the phone. He fancied she was still in contact with the serial killer’s victims’ families. Was that a good thing? Would it bring closure?

Or would it bring despair?

His own demons were no less brutal. The memory of Alyson walking out the door, tears in her eyes as she walked to the car. No goodbye. No last wonderful memory. Just those tears, clouding her vision . . . as she drove rapidly towards her fatal accident.

He focused on the present. The salvage crew were aboard a medium-size boat that swayed in choppy seas. There wasn’t a whole lot going on, and after a few minutes everyone just looked at Harrison.

The Secretary’s aid just shrugged. “It’s Blackbeard’s ship.”

Then he spoke into a wrist-mic. “Let’s go.”

They sped off, heading for the U.S.S. Port Royal and its world-shaking cargo.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Forty-five minutes later they were being taken board the U.S.S. Port Royal, a
Ticonderoga-class
cruiser, something Drake knew to be a part of the Navy’s ballistic missile defence initiatives. These babies had been commissioned to help intercept and shoot down incoming ICBMs.  On the water they were a genuine floating fort, 9000 tons and six hundred feet of sensors and processing systems, armaments and even a few Sikorsky helicopters.

A grey billion-dollar monster, a turbine-propelled death and defence machine.

When they hit the deck Harrison was saying: “This thing’s equipped with more sonar and surveillance equipment than anything in the vicinity, even more so than some newer missile cruisers, to be honest. We’re lucky it was so close.”

Drake stared at the cold steel, the cold eyes of the crew watching them, the hard men with their fingers already on triggers.