The Blood King Conspiracy

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.