Concentrate! You’re so close to cracking this!
She kept on working the soft bristles, and more engraving began to appear.
Another O. No, wait! It was a D! T-O-L-E-D — it could only be one word: Toledo!
Of course! All the great metalworks in Spain were in Toledo! This bell was made there!
The exhilaration of discovery had her dancing around the tiny room. But she quickly returned to the bell. There had to be a date there, and she was going to find it.
* * *
Star, Kaz, and Dante clattered onto the wet porch, whooping and exchanging high fives.
“That was awesome!” Star crowed ecstatically. “Like riding a pterodactyl underwater!”
“It was so tame!” marveled Dante. “Who knew something that big and ugly could be so friendly?”
“Is that any way to talk about our dive guide?” Kaz grinned.
“You know what I mean!”
All at once, Adriana appeared at the pressure lock, smiling from ear to ear. She said, “Nuestra Señora de la Luz.”
The three stared at her.
“What are you babbling about?” asked Star.
“That’s our galleon! It means ‘Our Lady of the Light.’ It sailed from Cádiz in 1648, and was lost at sea in 1665 on its fifth Atlantic crossing!”
“It says all that on the bell?” asked Dante incredulously.
Star was disgusted. “Sometimes you ask the dumbest questions! How could it say when they sank? You think they were engraving it while they were going down?”
“There are two inscriptions,” Adriana explained breathlessly. “One says ‘Toledo,’ which means the bell was made at the metalworks there. And the other is ‘1648,’ the year it was cast. I checked the old Spanish records. Seven new galleons were launched between 1648 and 1650. One of them burned in the harbor, and took the dock and half the town with it. One’s on display at the Maritime Museum in Barcelona. Two disappeared looking for the Philippines, which puts them ten thousand miles from here. Two were sunk in naval battles off the coast of Europe. That leaves just Nuestra Señora de la Luz.” She quivered with excitement. “It was part of the 1665 treasure fleet — the only ship that never made it home. According to the rest of the fleet, it disappeared in a hurricane in the French West Indies — right around here!”
“Then that’s the only ship it can be!” Kaz exclaimed.
“And Cutter’s taken it from us,” added Star bitterly.
“Hold on a second,” Dante interrupted. He turned to Adriana. “Did you say treasure fleet?”
“You won’t believe it!” she crowed, eyes shining. “The web site showed the bills of lading. Nuestra Señora was a floating Fort Knox. You know that piece of eight we found? There were seven hundred thousand of them, freshly minted from South American silver! There were tons — tons — of gold! Chests piled high with pearls and precious stones! The total estimated value of that cargo today is one-point-two billion dollars!”
The whoop of celebration that escaped Dante was barely human.
“What are you so excited about?” asked Star. “A billion bucks, and we’ve found nothing but a bunch of spoons and plates!”
“I think I know where the real thing might be!” Dante babbled excitedly. “If you go past the wreck site, the seafloor falls away to deeper ocean. The bell came from the top of that slope. But when I looked, I could see stuff scattered way, way down there, almost out of sight. The treasure’s there! I know it!”
Adriana looked thoughtful. “It’s possible, you know. Nuestra Señora went down in a hurricane. Heavy seas could have separated the cargo and dragged it off the shoal.”
“We have to get to it before Cutter figures that out!” Kaz exclaimed urgently.
“I see,” came a cold voice behind them.
They wheeled. English stood at the pressure hatch to the wet porch, scowling at them. Every inch of his six-foot-five frame radiated deep disapproval. He tossed a dive bag crawling with live lobsters onto the stainless steel counter.
“So. Monsieur Cutter, he is the treasure hunter. And you are not? You cry for the destruction of the reef, and then you drool over gold like common bank robbers! You do not fool me!”
Star was genuinely distressed. “That’s not how it is!”
But English was carved from stone. “I have ears, me. I am not stupide!” With lightning speed, he reached out a hand and nudged an escaping lobster back into the bag. “Pack your gear. After dinner, we go into decompression. Then our association is at an end. Once we are topside, I do not know you.”
* * *
The lobster was delicious, but the four interns very nearly choked on it. The click and scrape of cutlery on their plates resounded in the steel-trimmed galley. There was no conversation. Every time English cracked a shell, his expression plainly said he would have preferred to be snapping one of their necks.
It was painful, but not nearly as torturous as the endless stay in the decompression chamber. The only reading material was a small library of scientific journals. Every time one of the teens spoke, the dive guide would soon extinguish the conversation with a look that would have melted the polar ice cap. Kaz made an attempt to start a word game, but the other three were too intimidated to join in. Sleep was reduced to a handful of claustrophobic catnaps. The metal floor of the chamber was painful, but not half as much as the burning of the twin laser beams of English’s eyes.
Over seventeen agonizing hours, the device brought them back to surface pressure, giving their bodies a chance to expel the excess nitrogen they had absorbed during their time at sixty-five feet.
At long last, they wordlessly gathered together their tiny pieces of luggage, their bags of artifacts, and the Nuestra Señora bell, and started up the habitat’s umbilical to the PUSH life-support buoy. Sunlight had never seemed so overpoweringly brilliant. There, waiting for them, was the Hernando Cortés. Captain Vanover was on the dive platform to haul them aboard.
“Hey, you guys, how was it? Iggy said you were having a blast!”
Star kicked off her flippers. “Yeah, well, Iggy left,” she said pointedly.
Vanover frowned. “Huh?”
English surfaced behind them, deliberately swam away from the platform, reached up to the forward gunwale, and hoisted himself aboard. He peeled back his hood, stepped out of his fins, and stormed below, without a word to anyone.
To tell or not to tell. That was the question.
One thing was certain: The interns had come up against a brick wall. Now that their stay at PUSH was over, they no longer had access to the wreck site. And they definitely had no way to investigate what Dante had spotted on the deepwater slope at the edge of the Hidden Shoals.
The next morning, in search of privacy, the four signed out bicycles and took to the dirt path that connected Saint-Luc’s tiny villages.
“We need help,” Kaz concluded, propping his bike up against a rock. “And that means we have to spill the beans to somebody. Who do we trust?”
Star laughed mirthlessly. “My mother, but she’s not here.”
Adriana adjusted her kickstand. “It has to be the captain,” she reasoned. “English hates us, Gallagher ignores us, Cutter’s the enemy, and Marina’s with Cutter.”
“We can’t trust anybody,” Dante said flatly. “Not with a billion dollars.”
“Then it stays down there,” Kaz argued. “And what good is that?”
Dante squinted out over the vast expanse of ocean visible from high ground. “How well do we really know the captain? So he’s a nice guy — so what? He could be in cahoots with Cutter. Or he could use our info to buy his way on to Cutter’s team.”
“Maybe,” Star nodded. “But I don’t think so.”
“Let’s put it to a vote,” decided Kaz. “Who says the captain’s in?” He raised his hand. Adriana was next, followed by Star.
Dante was distraught. “Do you guys realize how many zeroes there are in a billion?”
“If you’re so good
at math,” Star pointed out, “then you know you’ve already lost this election.”
Painfully, Dante’s hand crept up to join the others. “I hope we’re not sorry about this.”
* * *
“You’re absolutely positive you’ve found Nuestra Señora de la Luz?” asked Captain Vanover.
They sat on aluminum folding chairs, sinking into the sandbar where the portable restaurant was located. La Mouette, translation “The Sea-gull,” was established every morning at low tide in six inches of water on the soft shoal about a hundred feet off the beach at Côte Saint-Luc. It could only be reached by rowboat or motorized launch. And it had to be dismantled every afternoon before high tide. But the spot could not be more spectacular, with gentle whitecaps breaking all around, and thousands of gulls and pelicans lighting on the glistening water.
The captain had invited the four interns to be his guests at lunch. They were ignored by Dr. Gallagher, avoided by Cutter and his crew, and despised by Menasce Gérard. Someone, he felt, had to be nice to them. “People have been looking for that ship for three hundred years.”
“We’re positive,” Adriana confirmed. “Every single artifact we took from the wreck was Spanish — all except for the JB hilt, which someone must have stolen or traded for, I guess. And according to the Spanish records, there’s only one galleon it could be.”
“If you’re right, you’re rich,” said Vanover.
“Or Cutter is,” added Dante mournfully.
Vanover scowled. It had been hard for him to believe that Tad Cutter, a Poseidon scientist, was abusing his credentials in order to hunt for treasure. But earlier that day, Menasce Gérard had said the same thing. “I should have listened to you the first time you told me he was up to no good. But I don’t think he’s found any more than you have yet. I’d notice if the Ponce de León had a heavy load in its hold. She’d wallow to the gunwales.”
“Then there’s still time,” urged Kaz. “Come with us when we tell Gallagher! He won’t listen to us, but he’ll have to pay attention to one of his own captains.”
Vanover took a bite of his seafood stew and chewed thoughtfully. “We could try that. But what good would it do? Poseidon fires Cutter — and then what? He’ll just find another boat and keep digging. Right now you have a real advantage over him. He doesn’t know that you know.”
“And he doesn’t consider us a threat,” added Adriana.
“He doesn’t consider us at all,” Star said bitterly.
“That’s a plus,” Vanover pointed out. “Right now he must be banging his head against the wall, wondering where the treasure is. In his wildest dreams, he’d never believe you kids are as close to it as he is.”
“Maybe even closer,” Kaz told him. Slowly, he explained Dante’s sighting of what looked like a trail of scattered objects, and his idea that the treasure might lie down there. “It’s just a theory,” Kaz finished, “but Dante’s never been wrong about what he sees underwater.”
The captain sat forward. “How deep was it?”
“I was at ninety feet when I spotted it,” Dante replied. “And it’s hard to judge, but it looked a whole lot farther away than the surface. English was with me, and he didn’t see anything.”
Vanover whistled between his teeth. “Sounds like two-fifty, three hundred feet. Out of diving range — at least, with standard scuba. But we might still be able to take a look.”
“How?” asked Star.
“Don’t ask me.” Vanover sat back and grinned. “Ask an old friend of yours.”
* * *
Dr. Igor Ocasek was thrilled to see them, and even happier to be asked for his expertise. “I’m kind of at loose ends while my lab is being repaired,” he explained.
The problem: how to examine a seafloor too deep for conventional diving.
The solution: lower a video camera to three hundred feet, and look around from the safety and comfort of the R/V Hernando Cortés.
The eccentric scientist was already making notes before they had finished telling him what they wanted.
“You’ll require floodlights at that depth,” he decided, “so there should be some kind of mounting platform. And weights for stability. Let’s see — four wide-angle cameras will provide a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sweep. Three hundred feet of coaxial cable — no, better make it four hundred. Wouldn’t want to be caught short if we have to go deeper —”
“Don’t you want to know what we need it for?” asked Kaz in amazement.
“Mmmmm.”
And then there were six people on the face of the earth who knew about the mysterious objects on the edge of the Hidden Shoals.
The more the information spread, the greater the chance that someone would betray the secret. But the interns had no choice. Dr. Ocasek had to be aware of what he was looking for.
When they told him, he hardly even looked up. One-point-two billion dollars was the same as one-point-two cents to a man who cared only for science.
30 August 1665
If Samuel had thought the surrender meant the end of the bloodshed, he was sorely mistaken. Now in firm control of the settlement, the privateers went completely berserk. For nearly four months they had been trapped aboard ship — mistreated, malnourished, and, on top of their discomfort, bored to the brink of insanity. Now this sealed cauldron of frustrated energy boiled over onto the hapless citizens of Portobelo.
The cruelty was beyond imagination. As the towering sails of the privateer fleet moved into the captured harbor, screams rang out from every house in the shattered town. Even the church was no sanctuary. Torture and murder became an entertainment. Looting followed naturally, as the dead had no use for possessions. Every ring, every bracelet, every cross, even of base metal, found its way into an English pocket.
Samuel was assigned to York to help with the wounded privateers. The barber was in his customary condition — blood-soaked. The saw he used for his terrible amputations looked like a utensil from a slaughterhouse.
Samuel hated any time he was forced to spend with York. But today it was a mercy, because it kept him away from the plunder and carnage all around him.
Right now York was attending to Patchett. The chief gunner had sustained a sword slash to the shoulder. It was almost a stroke of good luck. A few inches lower, and the man would certainly have lost his arm to York’s saw. But a shoulder could not be amputated. It had to be treated, and the treatment was this:
The barber brought out a small tin from the pocket of his greasy vest and handed it to Samuel. As Patchett howled in agony, York reached filthy fingers into the wound and separated the torn flesh. It was Samuel’s job to pour the contents of the tin into the long cut.
Samuel lifted the tin and recoiled in revulsion. Instead of healing powder, the container was crawling with maggots.
“Sir!” he cried. “The worms have eaten the medicine!”
York roared with laughter. “The worms are the medicine, Lucky! They’ll eat the bad flesh and leave the good intact. Now pluck out four lively ones and drop them inside.”
Samuel did as he was told, then ran behind the back of the Casa Real and vomited until there was nothing left to come up.
Then the shouting began, Captain Blade’s voice louder than any other. Samuel followed the sound, fully aware that he should probably be running in the opposite direction. The throng of privateers was assembled in front of the large storehouses at the waterfront. The wealth of the New World was collected in these buildings — precious metals from the mines of the natives to the south, and unimaginable riches from the Orient. The treasure was carried overland by mule train from Panama on the Pacific side of the isthmus to this very spot. Here it waited for the great galleons to convey it to the Spanish king.
Samuel had heard the sailors of the Griffin speak of this place on their journey. It was, quite simply, the richest acre on the face of the earth.
The huge doors had been thrown open, revealing the contents of the legendary storehouses. Even from a d
istance, Samuel could see that they were all empty.
He had witnessed many displays of ill temper and homicidal rage during his time as James Blade’s cabin boy. But never had he seen his captain in such a state. The mayor of Portobelo cowered on the ground before him, offering information in exchange for his life.
“The galleons, they leave — four days since! Take all treasure! We hide nothing! I swear!”
Captain Blade drew out his lash, and the mayor shrank away in terror. The whip cracked — not at the pitiful Spaniard, but over the heads of the privateer crew. It was a call to attention.
“Back to the ships, you scurvy rats! Those galleons are wallowing low with our treasure! Keep your swords handy, lads! The killing’s not over yet!”
By the light of the moon, the Hernando Cortés chugged quietly out of Côte Saint-Luc harbor, just before eleven o’clock. There were no witnesses. But even if the departure had been observed, it was unlikely that anyone would have been able to identify the apparatus lashed to the foredeck.
The thing looked like the window display of a camera store that had been struck by lightning, fusing cameras and floodlights into a tightly packed mass.
“Does it work?” asked Adriana timidly.
Dr. Ocasek seemed vaguely surprised at the question. “It worked perfectly in my bathtub.”
At the wheel, Vanover brayed a laugh. “Don’t worry. If Iggy built it, it’ll fly.” He frowned as the vessel bounced through the oncoming waves. “Choppy tonight. We could be in for a rough ride.”
When they reached the coordinates of the wreck site, Vanover cut their speed. They proceeded slowly until the sonar told them that they were passing over the point where the Hid-den Shoals sloped down to deeper ocean. Dr. Ocasek’s camera array was then winched up and over the side. As it disappeared beneath the surface, the floodlights came on. Everyone gasped. The illumination was so powerful that the sea lit up like an aquarium. The light dimmed as the contraption descended. But even at the search depth of 250 feet, the watchers could still make out a faint glow coming from beneath the waves.