Who had an interest in seeing that mission fail?
* * *
For Tad Cutter and his crew, frustration had begun to set in. They had been excavating the wreck site on the reef, and knew it to be the fabled galleon Nuestra Señora de la Luz. They had found a great many artifacts there — dishes, cutlery, medallions, crucifixes, weapons, and ammunition; even huge items like anchors and cannon barrels. There was only one problem. An estimated $1.2 billion in Spanish treasure was simply not there.
That amount of silver, gold, and gems didn’t merely get up and walk away. It was definitely down there somewhere. But where to look for it? That was the question.
The kids seemed to be after the treasure, too, with Braden Vanover helping them. But why had they taken a submersible into deep water when the shipwreck was right there on the reef, a mere sixty-five feet beneath the waves? Did the kids know something that Cutter didn’t?
It was infuriating, and not a little worrisome. The Californians hadn’t been out on the R/V Ponce de Léon in days. Their excavation was a dead end, but what were they supposed to do? Start from scratch?
Bide their time. That was Marina’s idea. But how long could they keep this up before Gallagher noticed that they weren’t mapping the reef anymore? How many hours could Cutter waste in the Poseidon laundry room, watching his socks tumbling by in the window of the dryer and praying for a jolt of inspiration?
The machine clicked off, and Cutter listlessly began to fold his clothes.
The laundry room door was pushed open so violently that it slammed into the wall, and English burst onto the scene, his face a thundercloud.
“English — what brings you — ?”
The guide crossed the room in two strides that would have been impossible for a normal-sized person. In a single motion, he pulled a large towel out of Cutter’s basket, wrapped it around the smaller man’s torso, and pulled tight, binding his arms to his sides.
Cutter was shocked. “What’s going on, man?”
His rage boiling over, English squeezed harder. “You will tell me how you killed Braden Vanover, monsieur, and I maybe take you to the police alive!”
Cutter was having trouble breathing. “What are you talking about? Nobody killed Braden! It was a sub accident! The shark — ”
“Enough!” The diver’s booming voice rattled every loose object in the room. “I see this ‘accident.’ Unless the shark is handy with the crowbar, this is no accident! This is le sabotage! And who has the motive for this? You!”
The look of astonishment on Cutter’s face was so complete that English released him at once. Surely such genuine surprise could not be faked.
“You’re serious?” Cutter was aghast. “Someone tampered with the sub? And you think it was me?”
“I am not blind, me,” English growled. “Do you think you can hide from me this thing you do? I see the coral you destroy to search for gold. I see you smash the reef with airlift and jackhammer. You do not fool me!”
“Okay, okay,” said Cutter. “We’re not saints. But we’re not killers, either.”
English glared at him. “We shall see.” He turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he had arrived.
Chris Reardon was horrified. “He accused you of murder?”
Cutter sat back in his chair in the small office space Poseidon had assigned to the team from California. “Pretty much. He said the sub was sabotaged, and that’s what killed Braden and got the girl bent. I think — I hope — I convinced him we didn’t do it.”
The bearded man shuddered. “English! I wouldn’t want to have that guy mad at me.”
“We already do,” Cutter said morosely. “He’s figured out what we’re doing here. For some reason, he’s keeping his mouth shut, or Poseidon would have bounced us by now.”
“He probably doesn’t talk to Gallagher,” Reardon observed. “Either that or he knows we haven’t found one red cent in that lousy wreck.”
Marina breezed into the office, waving a videocassette. “Hey, guys, ready for movie night?”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” grumbled Reardon.
“What’s that?” asked Cutter.
Marina flashed all thirty-two perfect teeth. “Nothing much — just a copy of the tape from Deep Scout’s onboard camera.”
Reardon was astonished. “How’d you get that?”
“The chief engineer in charge of the investigation — turns out he likes me.” She favored her two partners with a supermodel smile. “You want to know what Braden and the kids were looking for? If they found it, it’s on here.”
Cutter snatched the tape from her hand and popped it into the VCR on the desk. “Shut the door.”
The three treasure hunters huddled around the small TV screen. Deep Scout’s camera was triggered automatically as soon as the sub was in water. The monitor showed a steady descent from pale turquoise water, teeming with fish, to depths beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. It recorded the instant when the sub’s floodlights came on, and even the reaction of a startled octopus.
A counter on the top right kept track of elapsed time on the dive. Below that was a depth readout. By following the numbers, they could see that the descent to three hundred feet was quick and direct. But then the sub leveled off and began what appeared to be track lines along the sloped ocean floor.
“They’re looking for something,” Reardon murmured.
“This must be just past the excavation,” Cutter decided, “where the shoal drops off.”
They watched the sub’s lights play back and forth over the sandy incline for a few minutes. Marina hit FAST FORWARD, and they began to scan the tape at greater speed. The search continued for quite a while, and suddenly Cutter hit PAUSE.
“Look at that!”
All three stared. It was badly corroded and half buried in the sand, but it was easily identified: a cannon barrel.
“Keep going,” ordered Marina. “Let’s see what else there is.”
The Californians watched in awe as the ocean bottom gave up its secrets before their very eyes. Beyond the cannon, a vast debris field opened up, stretching hundreds of feet down the gradient.
The silence in the room was total, because none of the three was breathing.
“That’s impossible!” Reardon blurted finally. “The wreck is on the reef, under tons of coral! How did this stuff get all the way down here to” — he checked the readout — “five hundred feet?”
“Deeper,” amended Marina, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Look.”
It was true. Not only did the debris continue down the slope, but there seemed to be more of it the farther the sub descended.
“This is unreal!” Cutter exclaimed, more as a complaint than anything else. “I’m looking right at it, but I can’t believe my eyes.”
And then came a full view of what Deep Scout’s occupants had seen before the accident. Far below the surface, lodged on a muddy shelf at 703 feet, the debris field came to an abrupt end in the remains of a ship.
To three trained treasure hunters, the sight was unmistakable. Even some of the wooden ribs of the old hull were visible, packed in the wet sand.
“Another ship?” Reardon exclaimed in consternation. “That’s impossible!”
“Which one is Nuestra Señora?” asked Cutter.
“Who cares?” snapped Marina. “The treasure’s not up on the reef. It stands to reason that it must be down there.”
Reardon stared at her. “Are you going to dive to seven hundred feet?”
“There are ways,” Marina reminded him.
“There’s a time factor here, too,” the team leader pointed out. “We’re just finding out about this. The kids have known for a week.”
“The kids wouldn’t dare,” said Reardon. “After what happened to them, they won’t even be stepping in puddles, let alone diving.”
“Maybe not,” said the team leader, “but they can still talk. Braden may be gone, but there are plenty of other people on this isl
and who could find a use for a billion dollars.”
Marina hit STOP, and the screen went blank. “Speaking of poor Braden, some of the locals are putting on a memorial service on the beach tonight. We can’t miss it.”
Cutter turned pale. “Are you crazy? I can’t go to that! English thinks I killed the guy!”
“All the more reason why we have to be there,” she argued. “We’ve come so far, and we’re so close. Let’s not lose sight of the prize just when it’s in our reach.”
It was not yet dark, but the bonfire was flaming high into the dusky sky over the beach at Côte Saint-Luc. About forty people were in attendance when the three interns made their way in from the road, hanging back where the mangroves gave way to the flat sand.
Dante, whose color blindness also gave him excellent night vision, squinted at the crowd.
“Who’s there?” asked Adriana. “A lot of institute people?”
“All I see is English. He’s twice as big as everybody else. The second we get there, he’s going to give us the boot.”
“Gallagher?” asked Kaz.
“I don’t think so,” Dante reported.
“Jerk,” muttered Adriana. “He won’t come to pay his respects because fixing Deep Scout is going to cost Poseidon money.”
The crowd was mixed. There were sailors and scientists from the institute, and quite a few locals as well. The atmosphere was more subdued than a party, but it was no funeral, either. People talked quietly, sharing reminiscences of Braden Vanover, and adding mementos to a small table where pictures of the late captain were displayed. There was even occasional laughter, as the memories were often funny.
As the three teenagers joined the group, the first familiar face they encountered belonged to Marina Kappas.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” she greeted them. “It means a lot. What do you hear from Star?”
“She’s not good,” Dante admitted, dazzled by the dark-haired beauty. “They’ve got a physiotherapist working with her, but she’s still not walking. Mr. Ling wants to take her home to the States.”
“What a terrible accident.” Marina’s voice was warm with sympathy. “Braden gone, and Star — ”
“Star will be just fine,” Adriana said curtly.
“Come on, Adriana — ” Kaz began.
“No, you come on!” The girl had never been one to look for a fight. But right now she was picturing Star standing with them. Star had always been suspicious of Marina’s outward show of friendliness. Cutter and his crew were not their friends. Magazine-cover looks did not change that fact.
“Don’t pretend you care about Star,” Adriana told Marina bluntly. “Don’t pretend you care about any of us.” And she literally marched Kaz and Dante away from the Californian, past Cutter and Reardon, and over to the crackling bonfire.
“You’re right, you know,” Dante said to Adriana. “Star would have done the same thing.”
“Star would have bitten her head off,” Kaz amended with just a touch of pride. He added wistfully, “Star belongs here more than anybody. She was trying to save the captain when she got herself bent.”
The three interns were saying hello to Captain Janet Torrington when they suddenly found themselves in the company of English as well.
Adriana began stammering apologies. “We’re sorry, Mr. English. We know we’re not invited, but we just couldn’t miss this.”
“I must speak with you,” the big man said gravely. He pulled the three of them aside and walked them to the edge of the group.
The interns exchanged an uneasy glance.
Kaz found his courage. “We have every right to be here. The captain was our friend, too.”
English nodded. “Certainement, you are right. I owe you this apologie, me. You were not to blame for Braden’s death. I know this. This is fact.”
Dante breathed a sigh of relief. “We thought you were going to kick us out.”
“There are many people here you do not know,” English told them. “Come. I will introduce.”
They were surprised to find that Star was famous among the oil-rig divers. Word had spread that the Antilles platform’s hospital was home to a young girl who had gotten the bends while attempting to save Captain Vanover. As Star’s friends, Kaz, Adriana, and Dante were famous as well.
“The bends,” groaned Henri Roux, Diver 2 on English’s team. “I see too many good guys retire into the wheelchair. You make your living at nine hundred feet, sooner or later, the bends gets you, too.”
Kaz whistled. “Nine hundred feet! English and I went a third that deep, and we had to carry a hundred pounds of tanks and hang off the line for two hours.”
“This is different kind of diving,” English explained. “Saturation diving with the hard hat — helmet. Very deep, very dangerous. No tanks. The breathing gas comes from the hose from topside. You decompress in the bell or a chamber, sometimes for many days.”
“How far down can you go?” asked Dante in awe.
English shrugged. “Me, the deepest, one thousand three hundred feet. But Tin Man, the one atmosphere suit, it goes deeper. Or the submersible — ”
He fell silent. The mention of a submersible brought everyone back to the reason for this gathering.
English clapped two enormous hands together, and the assembly came to order. His voice resounded across the beach.
“We are all the friends of Braden, so you know he was a man of deeds, not words. And if you know me, you see I speak even less. So I just say merci.
“Maybe nobody tell you there is a hero in this sad story, a young American girl in the hospital on the main platform. She is sick because she tried to help Braden. If you work on the rig, visit her. She has much courage.
“Merci also for the pictures and souvenirs. They will be sent to Braden’s family. Tomorrow in Florida they have the funeral. According to Braden’s last wishes, it will be a burial at sea.”
Kaz’s head snapped to attention. “At sea?” he blurted in dismay. “We almost got ourselves killed getting him out of the sea!”
English caught his pop-eyed stare. The Caribbean dive guide and the Canadian hockey player shared a moment of exquisite humor, secure in the knowledge that the man they mourned would have been laughing, too.
The water was cold. Star could feel it, but the wet suit kept the icy chill at bay. Besides, she was so amped about her first real scuba dive that she wouldn’t have noticed a cryogenic freeze.
Her breathing was fast but controlled, the hiss of compressed air louder than she remembered from certification class. It was the Saint Lawrence River in upstate New York — cloudy as pea soup compared with the pristine turquoise of the French West Indies. But back then it was Fantasy Land, a hidden world opening up for Star Ling.
She loved everything about it, and right away. She loved feeling her disability vanish underwater. She loved that there was no law of gravity here, that with the help of her B.C., she could fly.
When the wreck came into view, an excitement took hold that electrified her entire being. She held out her glove to touch a corroded porthole, but the murk made distance difficult to judge. Kicking forward, she reached for the ship’s iron skeleton, but the muddy Saint Lawrence held the image just beyond her grasp….
* * *
Star shook awake, and the dream popped like a bubble. The first few seconds were like this every morning. Disorientation, followed by depressing reality.
I can’t dive. I can’t even walk….
She sat up in bed, propping the pillow behind her. In the guest quarters of the humongous platform, she knew, her father was on the phone with the airlines. Ever since his arrival, Dad had been trying to convince her to return to the States for treatment.
She had resisted. “They know more about the bends here than they do at some hospital up in Boston,” she had argued. But the fact was, leaving Saint-Luc felt a lot like quitting.
But quitting what? The internship? This had never been a real internship. Cutter and his tea
m were phonies, Gallagher didn’t care, and Captain Vanover was gone forever. Kaz, Adriana, and Dante had become real friends, but let’s face it — they were just marking time now. It was only early August, yet the summer was over.
And anyway, Star’s condition wasn’t improving. If the oil-rig doctors couldn’t help her, she had to give someone else a chance. Getting back on her feet again — that was the most important thing. Dad was right about that.
Last night she had given him the okay to book tickets home. It was the smart thing to do. Still …
* * *
The picture was always the same: a muddy shelf in the ocean’s depths, the remains of an ancient vessel. And somewhere in the decayed wreckage —
Don’t think about that! she ordered herself. That makes you no better than Cutter!
But it wasn’t the treasure that tantalized her. It was the challenge. Like climbing Everest, or walking on the moon. A goal worthy enough to lend this tragic summer some meaning.
She heard footsteps and looked up to see that she was no longer alone. English stood in the doorway, his expression inscrutable.
He said, “I think maybe today you walk.”
Her face flamed red. “What are you telling me? That I’m here because I’m not trying hard enough? I’ve hit that floor so many times even my bruises have bruises! I want to walk — I just can’t do it!”
In answer, the huge dive guide snatched her out of bed and carried her, cradled like a baby, into the bustling hallway.
Star flailed her arms against his strength. “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
He pulled over a rolling cart of instruments and an IV pole on wheels. Then he set her on her feet, her right hand resting on the metal tray, her left grasping the pole.
“I’m gonna fall — ”
“Alors, fall, mademoiselle.” English backed away. “Prove me stupide.”
Her whole body was trembling. Surgical clamps rattled in the tray. A fluid bag on the pole swung like a pendulum. But Star remained upright.