At that moment, the enormous guide chose to break his silence. “Yes — and no.”
“Yes and no?” Dante queried.
“Saint-Luc, this is always French. But, alors, in the old times — ” He shrugged again. “Yes and no.”
“He means everybody was everywhere in the Caribbean, way back,” Vanover supplied. “Pirate crews came from all nationalities. Merchants too. There were raids, shipwrecks. You could never be sure where an Englishman or anybody else might end up.”
“But in those days a shipwreck was pretty much a death sentence,” Adriana pointed out. “None of the sailors even learned how to swim. That was on purpose. They preferred to drown immediately rather than prolong the agony.”
“Thank you, Miss Goodnews,” put in Kaz, stashing his dive knife in a scabbard on his thigh.
The captain was genuinely impressed. Like the others, he had pegged Adriana as a rich kid who happened to dive because she collected hobbies the same way she collected designer clothes. “Not a lot of people know that,” he said to her. “Been reading up on the Caribbean?”
Adriana flushed. “My uncle is a curator at the British Museum in London. I’ve spent a couple of summers working for him. You pick stuff up.”
Her brow clouded. This year the job had fallen through because Uncle Alfie was in Syria on an archaeological dig. Worse, he had been allowed one assistant, and had chosen Adriana’s older brother, Payton. That had left the girl at loose ends, which was a condition never tolerated by the Ballantynes. Adriana’s parents spent their summers traveling to hot and trendy places to rub elbows with supermodels, dukes, rock stars, and dot.com tycoons. In all the years she could remember, there had been no summer vacation that she or Payton had spent with the family.
Adriana had a mental picture of her parents shopping their daughter to every museum and research outfit that was prestigious enough to deserve a Ballantyne. Good thing her scuba certification was still current, because Poseidon was about as prestigious as it got. She’d naturally assumed that her family’s connections had cinched the job for her, but now she wasn’t so sure. None of the others seemed any more qualified than she was, except maybe Star.
As they approached the boundary of the Hidden Shoals, Vanover cut power, and English climbed up to the crow’s nest to scan for coral heads that might present a danger to the boat. Here on the reefs, it was not uncommon for towers of coral, reaching toward the sun’s nourishing light, to grow until they lurked just below the surface. Over the centuries, many a ship had been fatally holed by such a formation.
At last, they anchored, and preparations for the dive began in earnest. Kaz thought the equipment checks would never end. Tanks charged? Weight belts on? Compressed air coming out of the regulators? Buoyancy compensator vests inflating and deflating properly? It was just like certification class, where they treated you like kindergartners. Did divers ever dive? Or did they spend all their time getting ready?
Dante broke rule number one by trying to walk with his flippers on. He fell flat on his face, nearly smashing his Nikonos underwater camera, which was tethered to his wrist. English helped him up, looking at him pityingly.
Finally, they took to the water, gathering on the surface to pair off.
Kaz spit into his mask to prevent it from fogging. He placed it over his eyes and nose and inhaled to create the watertight suction. He bit down on the regulator and deflated the buoyancy compensator around his neck until he slipped beneath the waves, squeezing the nosepiece of his mask and blowing out to equalize the pressure in his ears.
Underwater. This was only his third dive, and each time he was amazed all over again by this silent alien world, so close at hand, and yet so hidden. People talked about “escaping” into a book or movie. But this was real escape. Down here, hockey was a million miles away, an obscure pastime attached to another life.
His two certification dives had been in cold, murky Lake Simcoe, north of Toronto. So the clear sunlit seascape beneath the surface of the Caribbean was dazzling. The visibility seemed almost infinite, but that wasn’t the astonishing part. It was just so busy down here, so alive! Steven Allagash’s wall-size fish tank was a foggy wasteland by comparison. Thousands of fish of every shape, size, and color darted in all directions.
A tiny, brilliantly striped angelfish ventured up to investigate him. Kaz was fascinated. The curious little creature seemed completely unafraid of the much larger animal that had invaded its ocean. It continued to nose around the bubble stream that rose from his breathing apparatus.
All at once, a shadow passed overhead. In a flash of sudden violence, a round, fat grouper swooped down like a dive-bombing eagle and snapped up the hapless prey.
Whoa. Sorry, guy. Got to keep on your fins. It’s a jungle out here.
Almost as an afterthought, he looked around for Dante, his dive partner. To avoid wearing his glasses underwater, the photographer sported a prescription dive mask that distorted his features into a mountainous nose under saucer-wide, staring eyes. It was a shocked, almost crazed appearance. Kaz chuckled — and swallowed water in the process. Concentrate, he reminded himself with a cough.
Dante was obviously very impressed by his surroundings, because he was firing off pictures of every shrimp and minnow. Six minutes into the dive, the photographer was officially out of film.
Even through his mask and a cloud of bubbles, English’s disgust was plain. Impatiently, he grabbed the two novices each by a wrist and began to swim them toward the reef. Off to the side, they could see the girls moving in the same direction.
As the reef loomed up, the detail of the coral formations began to come into spectacular focus. The colors were unbelievable, almost unreal, like the product of some Hollywood special effects department. The shapes were positively extra-terrestrial: huge plumes of lettuce coral; branched spikes of staghorn; mounds of brain coral the size of dump trucks, all stacked upon each other in a mountain that rose to a summit that was perhaps ten feet below the glittering surface.
Kaz checked the gauge on his diver’s watch and realized with some surprise that they had descended to forty feet, which was twice as deep as he’d ever ventured before.
Adriana reached out to touch the coral. In a flash, Star’s hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist. The experienced diver gestured with a scolding finger.
I knew that, Kaz thought to himself. The reef was a living organism, composed of uncounted millions of tiny animals called polyps. Even the slightest touch would kill the outermost layer of creatures, damaging the reef. Not to mention that the polyps would sting you.
English flashed the hand signal for descent and led them down to sixty feet, to the base of the coral edifice. Kaz adjusted his B.C. to neutral buoyancy to stop the descent. I could get good at this, he reflected, pleased to be developing a talent that had nothing to do with skating, shooting, and attempted murder.
Here the coral formations gave way to a variety of sea flora growing out of a firm sandy bottom — the Hidden Shoals proper. Life was everywhere, although not quite as colorful as higher up on the reef. At this depth, the sun’s rays could not fully penetrate the water. It was a land of twilight.
Kaz’s attention was drawn to a small hurried movement below. At first, it seemed as if the sand itself was boiling up into little aquatic dust devils. He angled his body so that his face mask was positioned just above the disturbance and took a closer look.
All at once, the swirling sand was gone, and a large eye was looking back at him.
“Hey!” His cry of shock spit the regulator clear out of his mouth.
It was amazing how loud his voice sounded underwater. And not just to himself, either, because Dante headed straight for him.
A dark slithering blob exploded out of the seabed, leaving a thick cloud of black ink in its wake.
“Octopus!” cried Dante, losing his own regulator in the process.
The identification was unnecessary. Kaz could see the eight undulating arms trailing behind
the fleeing body. It was so fluid that the size was hard to guess — maybe a baby pumpkin at the center of a two-foot wingspan.
English flashed out of nowhere, placed himself in the creature’s escape path, and allowed it to come to him. He grabbed it by two flailing tentacles. Instantly, the thing turned an angry orange before cloaking itself and the dive guide in a second, much larger emission of ink.
Fumbling for his mouthpiece, Kaz lost sight of them, but caught a glimpse of English, much higher up, carrying his prize to the surface.
Dante pulled a five-by-seven underwater slate out of his B.C. pocket. With the tethered pencil, he scribbled a quick message on the rigid plastic, and showed it to Kaz. It read: DINNER?
Kaz just shrugged.
The dive guide was back almost immediately, but the dark face inside his mask yielded no clue as to the octopus’s fate.
At that point, the team had been down for half an hour. English directed them to another section of reef — a gradual upward slope where they could be closer to the surface when their air began to run low. It was important to ascend slowly to avoid decompression sickness. If a diver went up too quickly, the sudden lowering of water pressure was like popping the top on a soda can. Nitrogen gas in the bloodstream could fizz up like a Pepsi. It was no joke — the bends could cripple you for life or kill you.
As he watched the sunlit surface draw closer and closer, Kaz was growing increasingly comfortable. With every passing minute, technique and mechanics became more automatic, allowing him to enjoy the reef and its many inhabitants. If this keeps up, he thought, semi-amused, I could get to like scuba.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when he saw the silhouette. Alien, yet at the same time familiar, it was approaching from dead ahead — the triangular dorsal fin, the black emotionless eyes, the pointed snout.
Shark.
In a split second, his mind sifted through thousands of pictures and diagrams, the nightmare images of a personal library of shark books. A nurse shark, probably. Maybe a reef shark. About four feet long — puny by Jaws standards.
But when you come across one, the real thing, with all the fearsome features, all the weapons in the right places —
It never occurred to him to try to swim away or to scramble for the surface. He just hung there, turned to stone, watching the big fish’s unhurried approach.
Go away, he pleaded silently. Don’t come near me.
He could see the teeth now. And he knew, in the absolute core of his being, that this predator was coming for him and him alone.
He would never have believed himself capable of such panic. Before he knew what he was doing, the dive knife was in his hand, and he leaped at the shark, plunging the blade into the soft underside. Strong arms grabbed him from behind, but nothing could stop him now. With a vicious slash, he slit the shark’s belly open from stem to stern.
The creature convulsed once, jaws snapping. Then it began to sink, leaving a cloudy trail of blood.
Kaz was spun around, and found himself staring into the furious eyes of Menasce Gérard. The guide gestured emphatically for the surface.
Kaz shook his head. Couldn’t he see? The danger was over; the shark was dead.
English did not waste a second command. He placed an iron grip on Kaz’s arm, inflated his B.C., and dragged the boy to the surface. They broke to the air thirty yards astern of the Cortés.
“Get on the boat!”
Kaz was bewildered. “But it’s okay! I got him!”
The guide was in a towering rage. “The boat! Vite!”
The five divers moved toward the ship, swimming through the light chop.
As he stroked along, Kaz was still shaking from the excitement of his shark encounter. He felt terrified and pumped up at the same time. He had spent years playing a sport at the very highest level, and yet nothing could have prepared him for the raw exhilaration of a life-and-death struggle. The world had never seemed so vividly alive.
English pulled ahead, his flippers kicking up foam like a paddlewheel. He scrambled onto the dive platform, shed his gear with a single motion, and began hauling his charges out of the water, bellowing like a madman.
Captain Vanover appeared on the deck above them. “What happened?”
English turned blazing eyes on Kaz. “Why do you do this idiot thing? You are maybe crazy? Fou?”
Kaz gawked at him. “I was protecting myself!”
“That petit guppy wouldn’t attack you!”
“How could you know that? He was coming right at me!”
“You move out of the way, alors!” English roared. “This is not the rocket science!”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Kaz said defensively. “I’m sorry I interrupted everybody. Let’s go back and finish the dive.”
“Oui, bien sûr!” the guide agreed. “A wonderful idea! After you, monsieur.”
Kaz frowned. “What’s the problem?” But then he saw it, boiling up from the ocean where they had been diving only minutes before — churning white water around a mass of flailing fins, tails, and sleek bodies. A feeding frenzy — dozens of sharks going after the carcass of the dead one, creating even more carnage with a barrage of snapping jaws.
“Blood in the water, kid,” the captain said mildly. “It’s like ringing the dinner bell.”
All of Kaz’s heroic exhilaration morphed into a wave of queasiness. If it hadn’t been for English, they would all be in the middle of that, being torn to pieces, thanks to Kaz’s mistake.
Now the guide turned on Vanover. “I have not nine lives, me! Why do you send me down with babies? Except the girl.” He indicated Star. “She is good. But these three — pah!” And he picked up his equipment, hopped onto the deck, and stormed below.
The four teens remained rooted to the dive platform, unsure of what their next move should be.
The captain couldn’t help but notice their intimidation. “Would it make you feel better if I told you he has a heart of gold?”
“He’s okay,” Star conceded.
“That’s because he said you’re good,” Dante accused.
“I am good,” she retorted.
The stocky man reached over and began helping them up to the deck. “I could throttle those pinheads in Hollywood for getting the whole world so hung up on sharks. There’s nothing on that reef for a diver to be afraid of. You run into a shark down there, rest assured he’s more scared of you than you are of him. Except maybe old Clarence.”
Four pairs of ears perked up.
“Clarence?” Kaz echoed, pulling off his dripping flippers.
“Five or six years back,” Vanover related, “we had a rush of marlin. You couldn’t put a foot in the water without stepping on a fin. The sharks came a few days later. Tiger sharks. Big. They shut this place down for two weeks. Nobody dove, nobody swam, nobody even fished. One pigheaded scientist took a sonar tow out. It came back chicken wire. When the marlin moved on, the sharks followed. No one knows why Clarence didn’t go with them. Maybe he was too old to keep up.”
“You mean he’s still here?” Adriana asked timidly.
“Every few months or so somebody spots him,” the captain replied. “He never hurts anyone. Still, you don’t fool around with an eighteen-foot tiger shark. But these other reef rats around here — they’re harmless.”
The teen divers gazed out over the water to where the feeding frenzy was in full swing.
“Oh, well,” Vanover conceded, “if you’re going to put blood in the water, all bets are off. Sharks are only human, you know. Your dive knife isn’t supposed to be a weapon. It’s for cutting your way out of fouled lines and hoses in an emergency. You use it as a last resort. And don’t ever pull it on a barracuda. All he’ll see is a flash of silver, just like half the fish he eats. He’ll take a bite — don’t think he won’t.” Vanover smiled at them benignly. “Now, get out of those wet suits before you roast.”
It was a very chastened dive team that sat in a row along the starboard gunwale as the Her
nando Cortés carried them back to Côte Saint-Luc harbor.
“I knew all that stuff about sharks and barracudas,” Star commented. “I just didn’t want to be a brownnose.”
“Me neither,” put in Kaz. “That’s why I got the Furious Frenchman mad at me.”
“He’s scary,” Adriana agreed fervently. “Given a choice between him and the sharks, I’ll take my chances with the sharks.”
“Not me,” Dante said feelingly. “Did you catch that story about the tiger shark? They attack humans, don’t they?”
Star snorted. “There’s a lot of nasty stuff in the ocean. But if you let it spook you, it’s like never leaving the house because you never know when a bear is going to wander out of the woods. People dive their whole lives with no problem. So there’s a tiger shark somewhere. Big deal. The ocean’s full of animals. That’s why we take the plunge.”
Kaz’s eyes fell on an odd piece of equipment mounted on the bulkhead at the base of the Cortés’s flying bridge, behind a stack of orange life vests. It looked like a baby’s crib that had been taken apart, only the slatted panels were larger, and made of titanium. He had noticed it before, and reflected that the thing was kind of familiar. Now he recognized it — an antishark cage, complete with ballast tanks and control panel.
If sharks are so harmless, why do they need an antishark cage?
Dante interrupted his reverie. “Speaking of animals …”
Kaz followed his pointing finger to a large metal bucket sitting just astern of the cockpit. It was filled to the brim with water that kept spilling out with the movement of the boat. They watched, fascinated, as a slate-gray tentacle that matched the galvanized metal of the pail probed tentatively over the rim. A moment later, the octopus hoisted itself up to the edge of the bucket and dropped to the deck. Immediately, it began a quick, amoebalike oozing motion toward the nearest exit. When it spied the four teenagers, it froze for a moment, eyes fixed on them as its body assumed the olive-drab color of the planks.
“Go for it, dude,” whispered Dante. “He’s going to cook you.”