dive, screaming down toward the scrubby little island. This was the most dangerous part, the part where you could easily “red out,” as pilots called blacking out.
He smelled the fire before he saw it. He heard popping noises behind him, electrical, and smoke started to fill the cockpit. The missile must have clipped one of the transponders dangling from the belly of the plane. Now, in addition to the Stinger, he had an electrical fire on his hands.
Well, the fire would have to wait. He just hoped it would wait long enough.
“Bastard,” he shouted, craning his head around and seeing the missile gaining on him. The ground was rushing up so fast, he could literally see crabs scurrying across the sand. Do-or-die time. If he was to have any chance at all, he had to wait until it was too late to pull out.
Then one of two things would happen. He would be obliterated. Or he wouldn’t.
Now! He hauled back on the stick and accelerated out of the dive. He’d come within mere feet of the earth and the plane was slicing through the tops of scrub palms. As long as he didn’t hit anything solid before he got a little altitude—
WHUMPF!!!
The Stinger hit the earth and exploded.
Hawke, busily avoiding the taller palm trees by banking hard left and right, managed a quick look over his shoulder toward the rear of the small cockpit. Flames were licking at the back of his seat and the smoke was starting to burn his eyes. The fire hadn’t waited. It was seconds from spreading out of control. He had to get to the fire extinguisher mounted very inconveniently on the portside bulkhead behind him. The fire was directly between Hawke and the extinguisher.
It’s these little design flaws that make life so interesting, Hawke thought, struggling out of his shoulder belts. He leveled Kittyhawke, flipped on the autopilot, and climbed out of his seat.
There was nothing for it but to wade into the flames, grab the Halon extinguisher, and use it before he was incinerated. The legs of his vintage flight suit caught fire instantly, and he ripped the suit off with one hand while stretching out his other to grab the Halon.
He put out his flaming jumpsuit, then emptied the canister’s contents into the heart of the blaze. Wonder of wonders, it actually worked! The fire was out as quickly as it had started. Now all he had to do was open the cockpit windows on both sides and get all the bloody smoke out of the plane. And hope the fire hadn’t damaged any of his critical controls.
Climbing back into his seat he saw that, while all the hair on his legs was singed off, he wasn’t badly burned. He flipped off the autopilot and banked hard left. He’d make a pass over the island and see if he could spot the bastard who’d almost killed him.
Flames and black smoke from the crashed Stinger had already climbed into the sky, and a brush fire had started to spread at the heart of Hog Island. The Russian was nowhere to be seen. But Betty, thank God, was now safely offshore, swimming blindly around in a sea of apples.
Hawke allowed himself a deep sigh of relief.
Betty had saved his life. If she hadn’t knocked the little cretin down and he’d gotten that first shot off, Hawke would surely be a dead man.
“Toast,” as the Americans would have it.
19
“If you’ll join me in the library, Inspector Sutherland?” Congreve said, after Hawke was safely airborne and they had entered the hangar elevator. “Scotland Yard, Caribbean Section, namely you and me, suddenly has a great deal of work to do in the next few days.”
“Yes. These Russians are a bad lot, sir.”
“Oh, it’s not the Russkies we’re on to. That’s purely Hawke’s affair for the time being.”
“What then?”
Congreve touched the button for the main deck and said, “Oh, we’re on to much more thrilling stuff, I assure you.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Pirates. Golden doubloons buried under silver moons. Skulls. Crossbones, and dead man talk. All that sort of thing.”
“Sounds fairly exciting.”
“It does have that potential, yes.”
The elevator came to a stop and the door slid open. As the two men walked toward the ship’s library, Congreve said, “Do you remember hearing stories about Blackhawke the pirate in your childhood?”
“Of course. Everyone did. Silver skulls braided into his beard, as I remember. Fond of decapitating chaps and hanging their heads in the rigging as a warning sign.”
“That’s the fellow. It may surprise you to learn that our dear friend and benefactor Alex Hawke is a direct descendant of that notorious pirate. Alex has acquired a treasure map from his grandfather drawn by Blackhawke himself just before he was hung for piracy and murder.”
“Astounding! I like this already,” Sutherland said, following his superior into the library. He was literally rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“The map is in that box on the table. Have a look.”
Sutherland went to the table and peered into the open box. He pulled back a chair, sat, and stared at the contents for several long moments before speaking.
“Good Lord, Ambrose, you can still read the thing,” Sutherland said, excitement in his voice.
“Astounding, isn’t it? Over three hundred years old and entirely legible.” Congreve put his old leather satchel on the table beside the box and pulled out a thick file, yellowed with age.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an old CID file, Ross,” Congreve said, looking at the man thoughtfully. “A cold case, almost thirty years old now. Murder. An unsolved double homicide, in fact.” Congreve looked away, and pulled a pipe from his tweed jacket.
“Is something wrong?” Sutherland said, looking at his superior, for clearly there was.
“It’s a delicate matter,” Congreve said, tamping tobacco into the pipe’s bowl. “I’m probably one of the few people left alive who even know of this file’s existence.”
“Well, sir, if you’d rather I not—”
“No, no. Sit, please. I need your help here, Ross. But I must ask for your absolute assurances that this matter will not be discussed outside this room. And that includes the owner of this vessel. Am I clear?”
“Certainly. You have my word,” Sutherland said, puzzled. He simply couldn’t imagine any secrets between Hawke and his lifelong friend Congreve. “I will not discuss anything you share with me with anyone.”
Congreve looked at the man carefully. He was one of the best of the Yard’s new generation, that much was certain. And the young fellow had enormous respect for Hawke, his squadron commander in the Navy and the man who literally saved his life during the Desert Storm affair. Still, it was a risky business.
“Well, good,” Congreve said finally, and opened the file. “You see, Ross, I suspect that the contents in this file and the map in that box are connected in some way.”
“A three-hundred-year-old map and a thirty-year-old murder case? Connected?”
“Yes, I rather think they are.”
He pushed the file across the table toward Sutherland.
“You’re free to read it in its entirety after we’re done here. You will see that the murders took place aboard a yacht moored in these very waters.”
“And the victims?”
“The mother and father of Alexander Hawke.”
“Good Lord,” Ross said, taking a deep breath. “Any witnesses?”
“Just one. A seven-year-old boy. Alex Hawke himself.”
Well after midnight, Congreve and Sutherland were still in the ship’s library.
