“Sure,” said Terry, “and maybe he’s also the whale who swallowed Jonah.”
Isabella locked into his gaze. “Maybe.”
“Nonsense! I suppose the next thing you’ll tell us is that Jim’s lost ship will rise again, as the legend says.”
“Its name is Resurreccíon,” said Isabella softly.
“This is absurd,” declared Terry. “Do you really expect us to believe that there is some sort of fountain of youth down there?”
“Not a fountain of youth. Not exactly. More like a fountain of . . . creation. A place that breeds new life in things.”
“Enough.” He retrieved his tweezers. “I’m going back to work. You people can waste your time if you want to.” He dove again into the mass of cables and circuitry attached to the terminal.
Jim, deep in thought, lifted his foot off the desk. “Creation,” he muttered, rubbing his beard. “Do you really think that’s possible?”
“Theoretically, yes,” replied Isabella.
Focusing on a point somewhere beyond the walls of the tent, he said in a hushed voice, “Imagine . . . a power like that. What it could do. What it could mean.”
For a time, they were silent. The tent flap fluttered in the salty breeze, snapping like a flag in a storm.
A moment later Terry tugged on Jim’s sleeve. “Give me a hand here, will you? Hold these two cables in place while I check the current.”
The historian jolted, then rose from his chair. As Isabella and Kate looked on, Jim and Terry labored to make the final adjustments and connections. They tossed questions and commands back and forth as latches clicked, hinges squealed, keys tapped.
At last, Terry straightened up, walked over to the computer, and announced, “Now or never.”
He flicked a switch on a jerry-rigged control panel and pressed Enter on the keyboard. The computer hummed steadily but gave no other indication that anything was happening. Then, with a subtle flash, an image started to appear on the screen.
At first a hazy patch coalesced near the bottom of the screen, looking like nothing in particular. A few wavy lines formed above, tilting at steep angles. Numberless dots appeared, then receded, along the left side, as though something was moving in and out of focus.
As the group watched, the image on the screen wavered. It seemed to grow less, rather than more, recognizable.
“What is it?” asked Kate, perplexed.
“Whatever it is, it’s useless to us,” observed Terry. “Something is malfunctioning.”
“And we don’t have time to find it and fix it,” added Jim in a somber tone. “If only we . . . wait a minute. What’s that?”
Terry started to adjust the controls, then froze, staring at the screen.
Collectively, they held their breath as the resolution on the screen swiftly deepened. The patch near the bottom took on the dense, curved shape of a great hull. The wavy lines solidified into three masts, two straight, one broken near the base. The dots grouped themselves to the left of the masts, drooping like tattered sails.
“My God.”
“It’s . . . the Resurreccíon.”
Then, inexplicably, the picture began to shimmer, like a reflection in a quiet pool that is disturbed by a stone. All at once, the lines grew fuzzier, the solid places grew lighter.
Terry immediately banged several commands on the keyboard. “What the devil?” he cursed, pounding ever more vigorously.
To no avail. The image of the ship slipped steadily away. Within seconds, it melted to a ghostly shadow, then abruptly disappeared. The screen stared at its viewers, completely blank.
“How could that happen?” demanded Jim. “Is something disconnected?”
Terry shook his head slowly. “Can’t be. The terminal is still operating.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Don’t know,” muttered the geologist, activating the computer printer. “Maybe what we saw was captured in the memory.”
After a long pause, a page emerged from the printer. It too was blank.
Terry snatched the page and crumpled it. “I can’t believe it,” he stewed. “It was almost as if . . .” His words faded away, much as the picture had done.
“Yes?”
“As if . . . something erased it.”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t follow.”
Terry eyed him uncertainly. “The only way it could happen is if another set of sonic waves, from another source, canceled out the signals. And there’s nothing around here that could do that.”
“Oh, yes there is.” Isabella stepped forward. “Whales. Gray whales.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Terry. “Their echolocation isn’t nearly as powerful as my equipment.”
“What if a group of whales were to project a certain frequency together, in concert? That could do it.”
“But that would require a level of intelligence that’s never been proven.”
“Or disproven.”
“You’re saying they might be deliberately interfering with my sonar?”
“I’m saying it’s possible, eh?”
As Terry and Jim traded glances, Kate asked, “Why, though? Why would the whales want to eliminate the picture of the ship?”
“Only they could answer that,” Isabella replied.
Jim gazed unhappily at the blank screen. “And we won’t be around to ask them. The picture was our last chance.”
“We may have one more chance,” said a gentle voice.
Everyone turned to Isabella.
“We can try . . . the submersible.”
“But I thought you were worried about the whirlpool.”
“I am, believe me! We’re talking about Remolino de la Muerté.” She searched Jim’s eyes. “I saw the ship. So did you. We can’t leave here without trying.”
“How long will it take to get the submersible ready?”
“Several hours,” she answered. “We’ll need to check everything. Thrusters, fuel tanks, oxygen tanks, pressure housings, the works. And I’ll need to insulate the battery pack so the pressure from the whirlpool doesn’t cause seawater to short the electrical system. We’ll work through the night if we have to.”
“I’ll be your copilot,” volunteered Jim.
“Wait,” cautioned Terry. “Are you sure about this? I’d like to stay and complete my work as much as either of you, but I don’t want anyone to get killed because of it.”
Kate felt a sudden surge of gratitude, a feeling she had not before associated with Terry. “He’s right,” she declared. “I’ve seen the whirlpool. You don’t want to risk going anywhere near it. Even for the ship. Even for the—”
Her father coughed loudly, cutting her off.
“We’ll avoid the vortex—the spinning wall of water—and try to slip underneath.” Isabella gathered in her arms a stack of nautical maps. “If the whirlpool doesn’t reach all the way down to the bottom, we might be able to hug the sea floor and avoid it entirely.”
“Not so fast.” Terry pointed at the maps. “The sea floor in this area is spotted with volcanic activity. And my seismograph has been acting strangely. There could be an eruption building. Maybe a major one. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere in the area.”
Jim pondered his warning. “What would an eruption do to the ship we saw?”
“If it’s sitting near the epicenter? Wipe it out, most likely.” Terry toyed with the rim of his glasses. “As it would anything nearby. Might even destroy the whirlpool itself, or do some strange things to it.”
Jim faced Isabella squarely. “It’s your call.”
She considered the blank computer screen for a moment. Then she planted her small hand on top of it. “Come. We have much to do before we sail.”
IX: The Eye of Light
By dawn, they were nearly ready.
As amber light streamed from the east, singeing the peaks of the waves in the lagoon, the ocean breeze blew stronger. Kate stood on the deck of the Skimmer. She leaned against the railing, wat
ching Isabella and her father crawl in and out of the silver submersible that floated beside the old trawler. One by one, each item on Isabella’s checklist was inspected, tested, adjusted, approved.
Navigation instruments. Depth sounder. Cable winch. Mechanical arm. Hoisting bitt. Batteries.
Watching the process under the steadily lightening sky, Kate knew she could do little to help other than load the odd case or find the occasional replacement part. Terry, meanwhile, had no need for her at all, or at least no faith in her abilities, as he labored to transfer much of his equipment to the metal stand on the Skimmer’s deck.
She felt deeply torn about this voyage. She wanted her father’s project to succeed. She wanted him to find the ship, to recover the lost Horn of Merlin, to put to rest forever the doubts of those who refused to believe that Merlin truly existed. In a way, his life’s work was at stake. Yet . . . so was his life. To imagine him and Isabella willingly flinging themselves into the waters around Remolino de la Muerté . . . She frowned, observing the heavy clouds to the south.
Scanning sonar. Camera forward. Camera aft. Viewing ports. Batteries, again.
Kate marveled at how much equipment was crammed into the submersible. Shaped like a bulbous fish, or as Isabella liked to joke, a fat football, it was no bigger than a standard minivan. Yet it held enough gear and supplies to support two people for five days at a maximum depth of seven thousand feet.
Emergency tether. Strobe lights. Floodlights. Titanium sphere. Hatch.
“That’s it,” pronounced Isabella, pulling herself out of the submersible’s hatch and onto the Skimmer. She moved to the railing and gently placed her arm around Kate’s waist. “Try not to worry,” she whispered.
“I’m trying.”
At that point, Jim’s head lifted out of the hatch. Wedging his shoulders through the narrow opening, he grumbled to Isabella, “Why do you have to drive a subcompact?”
The marine biologist watched him with amusement. “Next you will be knocking my choice of color.”
“Silver is fine,” he replied, clambering aboard the Skimmer. “I’d just like a little more legroom.”
Terry joined them. “All set.”
Eyeing the conglomeration of hardware Terry had assembled on the deck, Jim said, “You’ve made my old trawler look more like an oil rig.”
The stocky geologist pushed back his glasses. “I’ll strike oil before you do.”
Isabella regarded him quizzically. “What are you up to? Those are some of your most specialized instruments, aren’t they?”
Terry waved proudly at the metal stand. “I’m trying something completely new. Revolutionary, even. If it works, I’ll get a better fix on the volcanic activity on the ocean floor than we have ever had. Than anyone has ever had.”
“Let’s hope it’s calm down there today,” said Jim.
“Up here, too.” Isabella scanned the bank of dark clouds moving in. “I don’t like the looks of those clouds.”
“Nor do I,” agreed Jim. He tugged lightly on Kate’s braid. “See you by sunset. Let’s have Baja Scramble for supper.”
“Be careful,” was all she could manage to say.
He turned to Terry. “Turn us loose anywhere near the second buoy. Then hold tight to the steering wheel! I don’t have to tell you about the wicked currents out there by the whirlpool.”
“No, you don’t.” Suddenly Terry’s face fell. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I can’t stay at the wheel. After I release the submersible, I’ve got to operate my instruments.”
“But you can’t! Someone’s got to steer.”
“Someone else, then. Maybe you should ride on the boat instead of the submersible.”
Jim scowled. “Now wait a minute. This is my opportunity.”
“Mine, too.”
“You can’t do this.”
Terry folded his arms.
“Wait a minute, Dad.” Kate’s own voice surprised her. “I can do it.”
“Do what?”
“Steer the boat. I’ve done it before.”
He caught his breath. For a moment he stared at her, swaying to the rhythm of the rocking vessel, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that. We’ll be out there near the . . . No, Kate, no.”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”
“Sounds like she’s willing,” said Isabella.
Jim observed his daughter, then touched her nose with his finger. “I’m tempted to say thanks.”
“Hold it,” said Terry. “What if the water gets rough? I’ve got my best instruments on board. Are you sure she can handle it?”
Kate’s torso stiffened. “I can handle it.”
“I believe you,” declared Jim. “Let’s get going. You take the wheel when Terry goes to release the cable. Got it?”
She nodded.
“And if the waves get heavy, turn into them. That way you won’t capsize.”
She nodded again.
“And don’t forget to put on your life jacket.”
“All right,” growled Terry. He faced Kate. “Just keep away from my instruments.”
“Let’s go.” Isabella raised her voice above a gust of wind. “The weather’s looking meaner.”
She scampered over the side and down the hatch of the submersible. Jim followed, more awkwardly. An instant later, his hand reached up and pulled the hatch closed with a clank.
Without a word to Kate, Terry raised the anchor, checked the cable connecting the two crafts, and stepped into the cabin. As he turned on the engine, she cast her eyes toward the rising waves beyond the breakers and the heavy bank of mist beyond. She remembered her life jacket, then realized it was in the cabin with Terry. She grasped the railing securely, even as the first drops of rain struck her face.
Slowly, the trawler and its gleaming silver cargo slid into the lagoon. On a good day, with a favorable wind, the Skimmer could cruise at seven or eight knots. With a heavy load like this, Kate knew, it would be lucky to make half that speed, although that was still faster than the submersible could move under its own power. As she listened to the straining, sputtering engine, she wondered how long it would take before that noise would be joined by the ominous humming she had heard once before.
The water grew increasingly rough as they reached the mangroves. Submerged in high tide, the trees seemed now less a forest than a green labyrinth concealing many dark mysteries. A massive wave slapped the boat, jostling Kate. She staggered to one side, wrapping her hands more tightly around the railing.
Regaining her balance, she saw the last dune come into view. Soon would come the breakers. And beyond . . . She did not want to think about it. But she could not help herself. Her body tensed, just as another wave flooded the deck, spraying water into the air, soaking her jeans and cotton shirt.
She tried to distract herself by focusing on the submersible, bobbing along behind. How bad was the ride for its passengers? They couldn’t be comfortable in there. What would it be like for them to travel below the surface, way below, where light never shines? Someday, perhaps, she would find out. In another ocean, another time.
The boat shook violently as they entered the breakers, twisting her stomach into knots. Feeling nauseous, she looked toward the lagoon. Shreds of swirling fog had started to consume everything, making the camp less and less visible. The rain pelted harder. Before long she could see only the top of the flagpole above the mist, then nothing.
As the Skimmer chugged past the first buoy, a brown pelican dropped out of the darkened sky. The bird plunged into the frothy waves, surfacing an instant later with a struggling, squirming fish.
Farther from shore, nearer to death. The words echoed in her head to the cadence of the wheezing engine. Farther from shore . . .
Waves of water, waves of fear. The boat pitched wildly from side to side. Wind roared. Lightning exploded in the air, followed by the rumble of thunder, booming between sea and sky, melding with the humming sound that dri
fted over the sea.
Terry threw open the cabin door. “It’s time!” he shouted above the storm.
Kate stepped toward him but slipped on the deck, careening some distance before she could catch herself on the railing. She righted herself awkwardly, then stumbled to the doorway.
“Get the wheel,” he commanded. Without closing the door, he hurled himself onto the deck.
Grabbing the steering wheel, Kate twisted the boat into an immense wave just as it swallowed the bow. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see Terry crawling the last few feet to the lever mounted at the stern where the cable attached. Once he released it, Isabella could retract the cable and descend.
Bracing herself, she held tight to the wheel despite the violent swaying. Wave after wave crashed against the hull. Yet she remained firmly planted, holding the boat on course.
It’s been more than two minutes, she realized with a start. Swinging her head toward the stern, she could see Terry struggling to move the lever. He was straining, throwing all his weight into the task. A wave washed over him. He strained still harder. Yet the lever did not budge.
He started to pound at it with the heel of his hand. Then, seeing Kate through the doorway, he called to her.
“The hammer! Bring me the hammer!”
She began letting loose of the helm, when she realized that to do so was to risk a disaster. Grasping the wheel firmly with one hand, she shoved the cabin chair underneath as a brace, scraping her knuckles in the process. She stepped back. It would hold, but not for long.
Pulling her father’s old hammer from the box of tools in the corner, she worked her way across the deck, fighting to stay on her feet. At last she reached the stern and handed Terry the hammer. He smashed the lever several times, to no avail.
Just then a great wave collided with the port side. The metal stand bearing Terry’s instruments slid perilously close to the railing. He leaped to it, hauled it back, then staggered over to Kate.
Mist wrapped around them, so tightly that they could no longer even see the submersible at the other end of the cable. The swells heaved, the Skimmer tossed.