Adriana dropped her voice to a whisper as the others gathered around. They hadn’t told anyone else about the artifact. If word of their find got back to Tad Cutter, they had no question that the treasure hunter would try to take it from them, just as he’d stolen their piece of eight, the Spanish silver coin. There was no way to be sure who they could trust at the institute. The only safe course was to trust no one.
Adriana pointed to the body of the message. “Right here.”
… I don’t think your artifact is the hilt of a sword or dagger, since there is no evidence of a guard or crosspiece. My best guess is that it is the handle of a walking stick, or perhaps even a whip (popular on ocean voyages for keeping both the crew and the rats in line).
I can’t identify the stone because of the coral encrusting it, but I’m sure you noticed the letters JB carved just below there. These are the initials perhaps of the artisan, but more likely the owner. Above you’ll see a design depicting a sprig of thistles. You’ll recognize this as the symbol of the Stuarts, British monarchs who ruled in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Therefore, the item must have been crafted in England at that time….
“Whoa,” breathed Kaz. “That thing is one heavy-duty museum piece.”
“And to think I’ve got it stashed in my underwear drawer,” added Star.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t tell us how much it’s worth,” put in Dante, who tended to view these artifacts in terms of dollars and cents. “Scroll down. Let’s see what else he says.”
“Oh, that’s about the carving in English’s window,” Adriana told him. “I sent Uncle Alfie a picture of that too.”
The native dive guide’s cottage window displayed a large fragment of what once had been a huge carving of an eagle. It was apparently some kind of family heirloom. English refused to talk about it.
Adriana scrolled down.
… Your other specimen presents somewhat more of a puzzle. One possible explanation for its European origin is that it may have broken off a ship. Old wooden vessels were festooned with elaborate sculptures, which their superstitious makers believed would ward off bad luck, evil spirits, hurricanes, fever, and pirates. The eagle may be of English style, so perhaps that’s why your friend is called English….
“Friend,” snorted Kaz. “With friends like him, who needs Ming the Merciless?”
“Hi, team.” Marina Kappas was working her way between the rows of computer desks toward them.
Instantly, Adriana closed her e-mail program. Marina was on Tad Cutter’s crew of treasure hunters. On the surface, she was affable, outgoing, and seemed genuinely concerned about the teens’ well-being. She was also flat-out gorgeous, which scored a lot of points with Kaz and Dante. It had far less effect on the girls. And all four had to bear in mind that, beautiful or not, friendly or not, as Cutter’s colleague, she was on the other team.
“I hear they’ve stolen you away for a few days at PUSH,” Marina went on. “We’ll miss you guys.”
“I can tell,” Star said sarcastically. “There’s something about getting up at four in the morning to take off without us that shows you really care.”
Cutter and company had been avoiding their interns since day one.
Marina shrugged. “Workaholics. Tad and Chris are crazy when they’re on a project. Hey, you’re going to love PUSH. Not much elbow room, but really fascinating.”
The four exchanged a meaningful glance. Marina Kappas didn’t care if they were fascinated or not. She just wanted them down on the station, out of the way, leaving her team free to continue the search for sunken treasure — with no prying eyes to watch them.
The bow of the R/V Francisco Pizarro cleaved the light chop of an otherwise flawless Caribbean. It was the interns’ first ride with Captain Janet Torrington, whose job it was to deliver them to PUSH for a five-day stay.
The captain was telling them about Dr. Igor Ocasek, the scientist who would be sharing the small station with them.
“The thing about Iggy is that he’s a genius, which means half the time he seems as dumb as a box of rocks. When his mind is on a problem, you can be three inches in front of his nose, screaming your lungs out, and he has no idea you’re even there.”
“What is he studying?” asked Adriana.
Torrington shrugged. “His specialty is mollusks, but right now I’d have to say he’s a Doctor of Tinkering.”
“Tinkering?” Kaz echoed.
“You know, fiddling with stuff. Retooling, refitting, rewiring. He can improve anything. Iggy designed a better paper clip last year, if you can believe it. Superior ergonomics, whatever that is. It’s up in Washington now, patent pending.”
As they approached the Hidden Shoals, Torrington slowed to a crawl, and the Pizarro began to pick her way gingerly through a minefield of marker buoys. These indicated coral heads towering so close to the surface that they presented a hazard to shipping. It was no joke. A living reef concealed a limestone core strong enough to rip open the hull of a boat.
Kaz pointed at the outline of another vessel undulating in the heat shimmer on the horizon. “Isn’t that the Ponce de León?” Tad Cutter’s boat.
Dante frowned at the silhouette. “I thought he was spending all his time over the wreck site.”
“That is the wreck site!” Star exclaimed. “I wonder how far away we’ll be.”
As if on cue, Captain Torrington cut power as the Pizarro bumped up alongside the PUSH life-support buoy. She sprang to the gunwale and tied on.
“Last stop, folks. Your home away from home.”
The four interns began the process of pulling on their lightweight wet suits.
“This couldn’t have worked out better,” Star said in a low voice. “It’s our perfect chance to check out the wreck site on our own.”
Dante worked the tight arm strap of his Nikonos past his elbow. “I don’t know, Star. That looks like a half-mile swim from here. Maybe you can make it, but we can’t — not there and back again.”
Star shrugged into her compressed air tank. “Then I’ll go myself.”
Adriana stared at her. “Alone?” The buddy system was practically carved in stone for divers.
“Cutter and his crew could be pulling millions of dollars’ worth of stuff out of that wreck, and we’d never know the difference,” Star argued. “This is the only way we’ll find out for sure.” She flipped down her mask. “Let’s go.”
With their watertight bags tethered to their B.C. vests, the four climbed down to the dive platform, stepped into their flippers, and jumped down to the waves.
Captain Torrington waved. “See you next week. Tell Iggy I said hi.”
Still on the surface, Star switched her underwater watch to compass mode and took a careful reading of the Ponce de León. Just past east-northeast.
They valved air from their vests and descended, slipping easily through the chop. The instant Star was underwater, she felt her disability vanish. Down here, there was no weakness on the left side — or any side. This was the medium that was meant for Star Ling. She was comfortable; she was graceful; she was home.
It wasn’t a recreational dive. In fact, all they were supposed to do was follow the buoy’s umbilical lines directly down to PUSH.
Star passed through a shimmering cloud of blue-and-white-striped grunts. She was already well ahead of the others. She was used to waiting for them. Kaz, Dante, and Adriana were inexperienced divers. It had baffled the interns at first — why pick a bunch of beginners for a prestigious internship? Now they understood perfectly. Tad Cutter had been betting that novices wouldn’t discover his secret plans. He’d also been convinced that Star’s disability would keep her from getting in his way.
Better luck next time, Tad, old pal.
As she passed a hovering sea horse, the sunlight from above provided an X ray of its pale brown translucent body. She’s pregnant! thought Star, and then quickly corrected herself. He’s pregnant. In a rare reversal of nature, male sea horses carried th
e young.
PUSH looked like a giant car engine on the ocean floor. At the center was the station’s main living space — a steel tube ten feet wide and fifty feet long. Star floated beside an underwater rack of compressed air tanks as the others joined her.
Since the station’s underbelly was mirrored, the entrance seemed like a square hole in the middle of the ocean, a magical portal to dry land sixty-five feet beneath the waves. The feeling of hoisting herself through the opening into the pressurized air was unreal.
A short metal ladder led up to the wet porch. There, the interns shrugged out of their gear.
“Check it out!” Star pointed to a rack of six diver propulsion vehicles, or DPVs. The scooters looked a lot like bombs. In reality, their “tails” were protective housing for the propellers that moved them through the water. “Transportation to the wreck site.”
The four unpacked their watertight luggage — nothing wet was allowed past the hatchway that led to PUSH’s living area. They each carried an armload of belongings as they passed barefoot through the pressure hatch into the entry lock.
A rapid series of pops, like machine-gun fire, resounded in the confined space. Kaz, who led the way, was pelted by a barrage of hot, stinging projectiles.
He gawked. Popcorn littered the dark industrial carpet. At the center of the chamber knelt a young man with long flyaway hair. He held a blowtorch under an enormous conch shell that was overflowing with popped kernels.
Spying them, he quickly shut off the blowtorch. “Sorry about that. Welcome to PUSH. I’m Iggy Ocasek.” Unable to shake hands in greeting, he held out the shell. “Hungry?”
“No thanks.” Kaz performed the introductions. “Kaz, Star, Adriana, Dante.” The latter two were on their hands and knees gathering up clothing dropped during the snack attack.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Dr. Ocasek explained, setting shell and torch on a stainless steel counter. “Poseidon is about to authorize a major study of how mollusk shells conduct heat at depth. I figured, I’ve got mollusks, I’ve got heat, I’ve got depth, I’ve got — ”
“Popcorn?” finished Adriana.
“You learn to improvise down here,” the scientist admitted. “And you’ve got to admit that the shell conducted heat beautifully.”
While Dr. Ocasek vacuumed up the popcorn with a handheld portable vacuum, the four interns explored their surroundings. The habitat was laid out like the cabin of a commuter jet. A narrow hallway stretched from end to end, flanked by looming steel walls of switches, dials, and readouts. Bare bulbs provided harsh, unyielding light. There were occasional comforts of home — a microscopic bathroom ringed by a flimsy privacy curtain, a small refrigerator/freezer, a microwave, a built-in dining booth to seat six.
“Six hobbits,” put in Dante.
At the far end of the station, bunks were stacked three high on either side of the corridor. It wasn’t difficult to spot Dr. Ocasek’s berth on the bottom left. It was unmade, with tools, a roll of electrician’s tape, bits of cable, and a soldering gun scattered around the sheets. Beside it, the metal wall plate was gone. Through the opening, an electric blanket had been hardwired into the guts of the habitat.
“I guess it gets chilly at night,” Star observed dryly.
“That guy’s nuts,” said Dante with conviction. “If he short-circuits the station, no more air pumps, and we all suffocate.”
“He’s just eccentric, that’s all,” soothed Kaz.
“Maybe so, but I’m sleeping with my scuba tank.”
Star laughed. “Suit yourself. Come on, let’s go find a shipwreck.”
The double-tank setup was awkward and heavy, and Adriana struggled to get used to its bulk. The extra air supply made sense, though. Since they didn’t have to worry about decompressing back to the surface, PUSH aquanauts could dive for hours at a time.
As Dr. Ocasek swam around to help get the others outfitted with extra air cylinders from the underwater rack, a four-foot moray eel followed him like an adoring puppy. Every now and then, the scientist would reach into his dive pouch and toss the creature a lump of food.
“Peanut butter sandwich,” he explained into his regulator.
Peanut butter was the staple on the station. Adriana had checked the tiny pantry and found fourteen jars of the stuff, and precious little else.
That’s how you know when it’s time to leave PUSH, she thought to herself. When your tongue is permanently stuck to the roof of your mouth.
At last, all was ready, and the four yanked the trigger handles of their DPVs. The propellers whirred, pulling them forward. As Adriana glided silkily through the water, her awkwardness fell away. It wasn’t the speed that astonished her. In fact, she was only traveling a few miles per hour. No, what amazed Adriana was the total ease with which she moved over the coral and sponge formations of the reef. Diving had never been second nature for her, like it was for Star.
Hanging on to the handles of the scooter, she fell into line behind Star, who navigated by the compass on her dive watch. A pair of eagle rays raced her for a while before veering off, wings undulating. Even her breathing was easier — slow, natural breaths instead of her usual gasping sucks on the regulator. Kaz flashed her thumbs- up. Even Dante was grinning. This was the only way to travel.
She felt like a tourist, taking in the scenery and enjoying the ride. Freed from the mechanics of scuba, she vibrated with nervous anticipation. A seventeenth-century shipwreck!
Her brow clouded a little. After two straight summers working with her uncle at the British Museum, the job had fallen through this year. Alfred Ballantyne could only bring one assistant to Syria on his archaeological dig. He had chosen Adriana’s brother, Payton. The Poseidon internship had been almost a consolation prize.
But a three-hundred-year-old wreck! That beat a Middle Eastern dig any day — or at least it would have if it hadn’t been for Cutter and the team of treasure hunters.
By the time she noticed the roar, she realized she’d been hearing it for a while already. She peered past Star, trying to identify the source of the noise. But up ahead the water had become murky, almost opaque.
They had seen this effect before. Something was kicking up tons of mud and silt, churning the clear blue Caribbean into a turbulent blind tunnel of swirling brown.
An explosion? Cutter had done this before — dynamiting the reef to get at what was underneath the coral.
But no. The sound was steady, not a sudden blast. And it was increasing in volume. Whatever the source of the roar, it was getting closer.
And then, directly ahead, an unseen power grabbed hold of Star and flung her contemptuously aside.
Adriana froze as she tried to wrap her mind around what had happened. By the time she could react, the irresistible force had pounced on her.
The ocean itself was moving, a deep-water riptide. With overwhelming strength, it hurled her — up, down, sideways? It was impossible to tell. Rocks and chunks of flotsam battered her, caught up in the whirlpool. The mask was torn from her face as she whipped violently around. All sensation ceased to be. There was only pure motion, pure speed.
When she struck the coral, the collision sucked the wind out of her and knocked the regulator from her mouth. She lost her grip on the DPV. The scooter fell away, its auto-shutoff cutting power. Everything went dark.
Am I dead?
Her next gasping breath drew in a lungful of water. The choking was violent, desperate.
No — alive — The thoughts were fragments, half formed, rattling around the darkness of her mind. Alive — and drowning —
With effort, she forced her eyes open against the sting of salt water. She flailed for her mouthpiece, finding it at last and biting down hard. The rush of air brought her back to herself. Her body ached and her eyes hurt like crazy.
Can’t close them! Have to see!
Dante was taking the brunt of it now. Fins windmilling wildly, he spun out of control, striking a mound of brain coral. Was he okay? Where
was Kaz? And what had happened to Star?
All at once, the roar ceased. As the silt storm began to resolve itself, Adriana could just make out a silhouette standing near the source of the disturbance.
Too big to be Star … Kaz?
She reached up to wave, but an iron grip held her arm in place. Strong hands pulled her behind the stout base of a coral head. There crouched Kaz and Star.
Then who is the silhouette?
Star scribbled the answer on her dive slate: REARDON.
Adriana squinted. She could make out the stocky diver’s beard below his mask. Chris Reardon, Cutter’s other partner. The third treasure hunter wielded what looked like an enormous hose, a foot thick or more. Was that what had tossed the interns around like wisps of algae?
Her eyes were killing her. She had to find her mask! Wincing with pain, she searched the bottom. Where had it fallen? And then she spotted it, nestled in a growth of pink anemones.
Reardon hit a switch, and the roar returned. In less than a second, the mask disappeared in the blizzard of silt. Adriana squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to protect them from the swirling particles that were everywhere in the water.
She was stuck. They were all stuck.
Aboard the R/V Ponce de León, the noise was earsplitting, far louder than it was underwater.
The device was known as an airlift, but Cutter and his team called it Diplodocus. The long, thick hose stretching over the gunwale of their boat into the water resembled a sauropod dinosaur, its long neck drooping in a lazy arc as it drank from some Jurassic lagoon.
The contraption was basically a souped-up vacuum cleaner, strong enough to suck chunks of coral all the way from the ocean bottom. It was definitely not a toy. It had the power to break up limestone, or to rip a person’s arm clean off. Handling the airlift’s nozzle was no easy task. Reardon had to dive with weighted boots and a sixty-pound lead belt to avoid being tossed about at the end of the massive hose.