Gold Sharks Read online

  AN M-Y BOOKS EBOOK

  © Copyright 2005

  Albert Able

  The right of Albert Able to be identified as the author of

  This work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance

  with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library

  Published by

  M-Y Books

  187 Ware Road

  Hertford

  Herts. SG13 7EQ

  Layout, cover and eBook conversion by David Stockman.

  Introduction

  The Good Guys

  Alex Scott, the descendant of several generations of fighting men, is the man upon whose shoulders the ongoing battle against evil rests.

  He transferred from the Royal Navy to SONIC: Special Operations National & International Collaboration; an elite, covert NATO department, dedicated to the often amoral but vital role, of protecting the soft underbelly of democracy.

  Alex is not the flashy philanderer, as special agents in many fiction stories are portrayed. Alex lives in the real world of life and death where subterfuge and well-honed skills are the everyday tools of success and survival. So in spite of being a little over six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds, he deliberately keeps a low profile, preferring to blend quietly into any public gathering. He is uncompromisingly tough, very tough; he can kill without remorse, yet somehow still manages to disguise the inner turmoil of his dangerous occupation and retain a home-loving, caring life style and an essential part of his anonymity.

  Greg Sing is a stocky fair-haired young man who was born in Hong Kong. His Cockney born father, formerly an engineer in the British army, met and married his mixed race mother while on a posting to the region. The cheerful, energetic young boy grew up with army routine and spent most of his youth travelling from one posting to another with his devoted parents. They eventually retired in Hong Kong but Greg, their only son, could not throw off the nomadic habits they had adopted. So when he was old enough, with the spirit of adventure coursing in his veins, he left home and spent several years roaming the world. It was while he was on his travels that he learned of the mystery of ‘Yamashta’s Gold’

  Oscar Nippon was born in Tokyo and moved with his parents to Hong Kong soon after the war. Taller than average, he is extremely fit and passionate about all kinds of field sports. With the advantage of a first class education, he has become fluent in several oriental and European languages. His English in particular is precise and cultivated. He once lived and worked as a property developer in Hong Kong, where he had fallen victim to the curse of opium in his grief after his wife died tragically in childbirth.

  It had been entirely due the support and trust of his business partners that he was able finally to kick the habit and resume a full productive life.

  The Bad Guys

  The Syndicate, with its insatiable appetite for power, is the main enemy.

  An alliance of ruthless, ambitious criminals who, for their own gratification, are bent on bringing havoc to the financial structure of the Western democratic economies. They will cooperate in the short term with any local crime family, terrorist group or corrupt political entity in order to achieve their aims

  Badly mauled by Alex Scott in their last bloody clash, the Syndicate is looking to even up the score.

  The opportunists

  The greedy ones; these are the social parasites with the perfected skill of living from other people’s efforts or weaknesses.

  And occasionally the innocent opportunist. Why not?

  *****

  The legend of “YAMASHTA’S GOLD”

  At the height of its power in World War Two, the Imperial Japanese war machine controlled much of the Far East. Its early, almost unchecked conquests, allowed it to loot vast unrecorded hoards of treasure. These included countless precious works of art from museums, personal jewellery from imprisoned citizens and huge amounts of gold bullion from the banks.

  At the centre of their conquests lay the Philippine islands, which were chosen as a convenient staging point for these priceless artefacts.

  The last twelve months of the war, however, saw a rapid change in Japan’s military fortunes. Desperate for more resources to finance their dieing dreams of conquest, the Emperor gave the order to ship these accumulated treasures, especially the gold bullion, which was estimated in hundreds of tonnes, back to mainland Japan.

  Rather than take any unnecessary risk with such a valuable cargo and to ensure that such a vulnerable operation was executed efficiently, the Emperor sent his trusted first cousin, Prince Ticator Siniochi, to organise the operation.

  The vastly superior Allies’ military might, however, ensured that the task was doomed from the beginning. The Japanese air force was almost non-existent and the navy no longer had total control of the waters between the Philippines and the homeland.

  When the Prince reported the precarious military situation the Emperor reluctantly ordered him to hide the treasure on the islands - at least until it was safe to recover it. At the same time he despatched his most famous and hitherto undefeated commander, General Yamashta, ‘to assist the Prince in securing the treasure and to defend the island at all costs!’

  Tonnes of gold and silver were consequently buried, in one hundred and seventy five separate sites, including many of the deep caves that litter the Philippines.

  The victorious American army eventually captured General Yamashta but the Prince vanished without trace. Seeking revenge for their defeat earlier in the war, the Americans put the General on trial for war crimes. Unsurprisingly, having ordered the massacre of some thirty-five thousand Philippine civilians in the latter stages of the Japanese occupation alone, he was found guilty. Following an unconvincing appeal, he was rather too hastily executed and so the exact coordinates of the gold caches went to the grave with him.

  Tantalizingly, some has since been recovered but the location of the great majority remains a mystery to this day. Consequently the legend of ‘Yamashta’s Gold’ still attracts scores of hopeful treasure hunters from around the globe.

  GOLD SHARKS is the exciting story of one such attempt to uncover a fortune.

  *****

  THE BEGINNING

  The war was gradually beginning to turn against the Japanese as American troops, supported by their mighty industrial war capacity, inexorably pushed back the increasingly demoralised Imperial armies.

  Well aware of the inevitable conclusion to the war, a growing number of leading political and military figures in the Japanese regime began to make new plans for their individual futures.

  On the main Philippine island. Luzon, a camouflaged convoy of heavily laden lorries ploughed and skidded its way through treacherous rain-drenched mountain passes, eventually descending into the bomb-damaged suburbs of Manila and onto the docks. The twenty-five vehicles in the convoy finally ground to a halt alongside the quay where the sleek black vessel was moored.

  The submarine, a long-range 9-C40 Class, the very latest German design and build, had be
en sent to their Japanese allies as part of the mutual support agreement and was intended to boost morale after the heavy naval defeats in the Pacific at the hands of the Americans.

  It was late afternoon and the sun had already settled below the low hills that formed the backdrop to the sprawling capital city.

  Officers shouted complex commands; men appeared and started unloading heavy wooden crates from the leading trucks and via two rickety wooden gangplanks onto the submarine’s deck where they were to be lashed with rope and lowered awkwardly through the narrow cargo hatches.

  The methodical procedure continued uninterrupted for about two hours when suddenly an Allied air raid was announced by the ear-piercing whine of the hand-operated sirens. The officers screamed further commands, urging the men to ignore the sirens and continue with their backbreaking task. The sky was filled with the drone of a multitude of invisible aircraft. Searchlights pierced the night; anti-aircraft batteries desperately spewed their shrapnel-filled missiles into the black sky. Moments later, the scream of the deadly cargo, ejected from the droning monsters, could be clearly heard above the shouts of the frantic officers and the pounding tropical rain that had chosen the same moment to visit the scene.

  The explosions started about two kilometres away. Inexorably they crept towards the harbour and the sweating men, still struggling to get the heavy wooden crates into the belly of the submarine. The lethal missiles sped with deadly purpose towards the harbour, exploding fifty metres apart.

  The terrified men inevitably noticed the approach of death. Two of them, balanced precariously on the swaying gang plank, panicked, dropped the crates they were manhandling and ran across the deck of the submarine to dive into the murky water on the other side and comparative safety.

  One of the crates landed on the hand rail of the submarine’s deck, poising on the edge for a moment before slipping between the hull and the quay to rest precariously on the hemp fender; the other fell back on to the quay, shattering its wooden case and scattering the contents across the concrete wharf.

  Ignoring the approaching shower of death, the men nearest to the broken box stopped in awe.

  “My God it looks like gold!” one exclaimed loudly as he ran his hand in wonder over the shiny metal.

  An officer ran up to the astonished soldiers.

  “Quiet,” he ordered, withdrawing his pistol. “This is the personal property of the Emperor and is being returned to our sacred homeland, where it will be used to help us destroy these barbaric Americans who, don’t forget, are also bombing your homes and killing your families!” He waved his pistol in defiance at the sky. “Now repack this crate immediately and put it with the rest aboard the sub. Understand?” he screamed loudly to make himself heard above the now continuous din. The men bowed nervously in fear of their lives at he mention of their Emperor God; they were even more aware that the Americans were indeed bombing Tokyo all the time.

  The officer sprinted across the gangplank to grab the other case. He missed it by a split second as it toppled over the fender and down the curved side of the submarine to vanish into the black water. The officer looked about in terror, fearing the inevitable retribution over the loss of such a precious crate.

  The next few explosions were so close that they drowned out all other thoughts and sounds, driving all and sundry, including the other hysterical pistol-waving officers, to the ground in abject terror. No one else had noticed the incident.

  Miraculously, the bombs had missed the submarine and the convoy. Dazed men slowly picked themselves up, only to be berated by the screaming angry officer and ordered to gather up the shattered box and its precious contents. Still in a state of shock, they mindlessly obeyed, scurrying up onto the ship and passing the broken pieces of wood and the shiny ingots down to the waiting hands in the submarine’s hold.

  Having against all the odds survived the first bombing pass unscratched; the submarine’s commander was not going to risk any further exposure.

  “You must finish loading now,” he ordered the officer in charge of the convoy. With only half the lorries unloaded a heated exchange ensued. The submarine commander was adamant that he was going to leave immediately. It was imperative that he kept the rendezvous with the cruiser and completed the transfer of the special cargo under cover of darkness. Stationary ships in the early dawn light would be sitting ducks for the numerous Allied submarines moving daily into the area. He would return the following evening for the rest, the commander promised the distraught officer.

  Several soldiers and one senior officer were ordered to climb aboard the vessel to escort the cargo. The remainder of the saturated and completely exhausted men returned to their vehicles. Now they would have to find a safe though temporary location to hide the remains of the convoy until tomorrow.

  “Take those trucks back to the cave!” the submarine commander quietly ordered a bedraggled Lieutenant, pointing to three trucks, which had arrived after the main column and parked away from the others. “I think we may have to stand off for a few days before it’s safe to re-enter this harbour again. Guard them well!”

  He patted the lieutenant reassuringly on the shoulder; they held a particular interest for him.

  When the submarine commander had agreed to transfer the special cargo, he’d calculated the loading time required for about fifty metric tonnes plus enough space for his own personal shipment. So when one hundred tonnes was presented to him he knew at once that they would have to make a second trip to accommodate the extra crates. Even now the current gross weight was well in excess of his vessel’s technical maximum capacity.

  The bombing raid had conveniently interrupted the loading, providing him with a legitimate reason to terminate the exercise. Even then he found to his horror that an inordinate number of the crates had been distributed forward of the conning tower. The eight bow tubes had been loaded with torpedoes and the resulting space used to store some of the heavy crates, so even as the mooring lines were being cast off the commander ordered his crew to start redistributing the awkward boxes.

  The dark submarine moved silently away from the quay just as the next hail of death started raining from the sky. Excessively low at the nose, the submarine headed slowly under its diesel engines to the open water of Manila Bay. The seamen below, sweating in the tropical heat and the cramped passageways, struggled to manoeuvre some of the heavy boxes towards the stern of the ship. The adverse trim meant that the captain had to maintain the forward hydroplanes at maximum elevation to keep the submarine’s attitude level the effect however was to force the vessel’s speed down to a maximum of ten knots.

  Thus they sailed away from the maelstrom in the harbour and set a course for a position South West of the island of Corregidor and their rendezvous with the cruiser.

  The submarine commander and the Japanese army officer who’d boarded the sub in Manila were the only people who knew the ultimate destination of the precious cargo.

  It wasn’t Japan.

  The Imperial Japanese navy cruiser was one of only a handful of serviceable ships still operating in the area and was now charged with the responsibility for the next leg of the secret journey.

  As the cargo was gradually redistributed, the submarine assumed a more stable attitude in the water and the speed increased to almost fifteen knots. They were late for their rendezvous. Reluctantly, radio silence had to be broken to allow the briefest of messages confirming their later rendezvous time.

  The first pinkish streaks of dawn were creeping into the horizon as the two ships finally met and tied up together. The derricks on the cruiser were already beamed out ready with their net slings swinging gently in the swell; even as the submarine secured her lines the slings were being lowered into position over the hatches. Men scrambled around on the decks of both vessels making preparations to transfer the cargo. The commander meticulously completed his log entry, carefully noting the exact latitude and longitude of their meeting according to the navigator’s dead reckoning. He caref
ully added the same information to his personal maps of the Philippines.

  “Ready to commence transfer!” the petty officer on board the submarine called out to the commander who had just appeared on the conning tower platform, his leather map case strapped across his shoulder.

  “Carry on!” he confirmed, relieved to have finally made the rendezvous and eager to divest his vessel of its excessively heavy cargo. He prepared to cross over to the cruiser, where he had arranged to meet with the captain and confirm the precise orders for the next stage of the secret journey. Seconds later the cruiser appeared to be lifted out of the water as if she were on a gigantic wave. The percussion from the first torpedo as it tore the guts of the ship apart was more devastating than the sound of the actual explosion and the accompanying shock wave, which sucked the air out of the doomed sailors’ lungs.

  Moments later two more torpedoes struck; their impact was almost simultaneous and the collective effect orgasmic. The magazine of the cruiser, packed with its lethal ordnance, ignited, blowing the mid-ship part of the vessel into thousands of pieces of flying metal and flesh.

  The submarine secured to the cruiser on the lee side of the first torpedo’s impact was not physically affected but the second and final detonation totally consumed the conning tower and mid section of the heavily laden craft. The commander, still clutching his map case, was blown cart wheeling high into the air to fall unconscious into the sea over one hundred metres away.

  The submarine literally folded in two, snapping the relatively feeble mooring lines, and sank quickly to the ocean floor some sixty metres below.

  The cruiser, ripped into two grotesque shattered hunks of twisted iron, sank within minutes, the two halves going into a gradual dive, spewing a great stream of debris as it plunged. Then, gripped by the ferocious current, the separate sections drifted, rolling and skidding towards the subterranean cliff where the buckled submarine had become lodged. One of the sections of the cruiser paused briefly, then gracefully slipped over the edge. It wouldn’t stop until it hit the bottom of the ravine, over one thousand metres below the surface. The other half remained precariously balanced on the very edge of the chasm.