by Evan Graver
Reaching up to his neck, Ryan unfastened the clamps holding the SuperLite to the neck dam forming the watertight seal against his skin. This was the hard part. He had to shut off the air to take off the helmet. Quickly, he drew in and exhaled several deep breaths, then twisted the knob shut on his air supply. He had already mounted a first and second stage regulator to one of the bailout tanks from the Humvee. It took another minute of fumbling to get the helmet off. When it came free, he hung it on a hook, and stuck the bail-out bottle’s regulator in his mouth, blew into it to purge the water, and took a deep breath.
The rubber diaphragm inside the reg sucked open and locked there. No air came out of the hose. He’d forgotten that he’d shut off that tank valve after testing the regulators. Panic bulged Ryan’s eyes and his gut muscles spasmed. His nostrils flared as he felt water flow into his nasal passages. He fought for control of his body and mind. They both demanded air. He grabbed the valve wheel on the tank and spun it open. Air blasted out of the purge and he took a deep breath. Water and air flowed into his mouth. He spit out the water and purged the reg again. His second pull was just air.
He dug his spare mask from his drysuit thigh pocket and fitted it over his eyes. With his fingers, he pushed against the top of the mask, looked up at the surface, and exhaled through his nose. The water blew out of the mask and a thought occurred to him as he watched his bubbles rise toward the surface. He twisted on the air supply to his SuperLite hat. The exhaust bubbles would fool watchers into thinking that he was still decompressing on the LARS.
Ryan shed his working BCD and harness before pulling on his rEvo III rebreather, the same one he’d used to escape from the wreck beneath him. Gripping the mouthpiece between his teeth, he opened the breathing loop and took a tentative breath. If the unit had flooded, he didn’t want to die from inhaling the caustic gas made when the scrubber material contacted sea water. The rebreather was functioning properly. After a quick check of the computer systems, Ryan hooked two forty-cubic-feet bail-out bottles to D-rings on the rebreather’s BCD. Then he hefted the EFP and hooked it to a D-ring on his waist.
He looked over at Greg, still floating beside the LARS with one hand on the basket rail. Greg gave him the finger. Ryan held up both hands in a “what the hell” gesture.
Greg grinned around the thick, black mouthpiece and made a circular motion with his hand. He then indicated with his other hand how Ryan should join him, holding his left hand straight out and bringing the fingers of his right up to his left wrist. Ryan adjusted his buoyancy and became neutral in the water beside the LARS. He gave Greg the OK sign. Greg fastened the scooter to his BCD and zoomed off before circling back. As he passed by the LARS, Ryan grabbed the handle on the butt plate of Greg’s BCD.
The scooter’s speed increased. Greg made an adjustment to bring them onto the correct heading. Ryan peered over Greg’s shoulder at the compass and GPS screen fastened to the top of the scooter. He tucked back in to streamline their bodies as the scooter increased to six miles per hour.
Ryan glanced up from watching the passing coral heads when the scooter slowed. The ripples in the sand looked like corduroy. A quick glance at his watch revealed they’d been motoring for thirty minutes. For the past five, Greg had been flying them just above the sea floor. Through the blue haze, he could see the black hull of Northwest Passage swinging at anchor in eighty feet of water.
Greg motioned for Ryan to watch the ship while they skimmed along the bottom. Ryan tapped him when they were underneath the vessel. Greg stopped the scooter, and they dropped to the sand. Nearby, a small coral head was ablaze with color, like a living bouquet. Blue striped grunts and French angelfish huddled under ancient purple sea fans while smaller fish darted in and out of the porous coral.
Ryan allowed a moment of silence for the small creatures that would die when the EFP detonated before slowly swimming toward the surface, staying in the shadow of the boat. He’d be easily spotted in the clear waters. Pausing, he drew the bomb up to hold in his hands. His computer warned of a rapid ascent as he finned to the rear of the ship. He ignored it, knowing he would be near the surface for only a minute or two before recompressing his body.
He positioned the penetrator on the hull beside a prop shaft. The electromagnets made a muffled clink when they attached themselves to Northwest Passage. Ryan plugged the acoustical sensor into the battery power. The tiny LED glowed in anticipation. An electronic jolt would detonate the C-4 packed in the pipe and blast out a cone of sheet metal, forming it into a projectile, which would rip straight through the ship’s hull and into the engine room. Ryan hoped Kilroy was standing in its path. The combination of the penetrator blowing a hole in the bottom of the ship and the UNDEX explosion would break the ship’s back and she’d sink quickly in the super-aerated water.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Ryan descended to where Greg lay in the sand. Greg pointed upward and used hand gestures to indicate Ryan should remain motionless. Ryan rolled over and stared up at the ship. He couldn’t see any movement. He glanced at Greg. Greg slowly brought his hand up and tapped his ear. Ryan strained to hear. Damn, tinnitus. The constant ringing dampened his hearing over certain frequencies. Then he heard what Greg had heard. The buzzing of motors.
A white hull cut through the blue water, twin outboard propellers leaving twisted white trails of bubbles.
Ryan pointed back in the direction of Peggy Lynn and motioned for them to go. Above them, the smaller boat was tying up to the ship, and with everyone distracted, it was the perfect opportunity to motor away. Greg grabbed the scooter. A minute later, they were cruising through the water, following the reverse heading to Peggy Lynn.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ryan let go of the scooter as Greg passed the LARS platform. He gave two strong kicks and was back at the basket. With Kilroy out of range, he didn’t need to swap back to the hard hat. His rebreather was pumping out almost pure oxygen as he rested on the LARS in fifteen feet of water. He paged through the screens on his dive computer, glancing at the tissue saturation analysis. The bar graph display indicated most of the nitrogen was gone, but it would take several more hours for his body to eliminate all of it.
Ryan gave the umbilical cord four hard jerks to indicate he wanted to ascend. He shut off the gas bubbling from the helmet and waited for the basket to move. Nothing. He waited a few more minutes and the basket still did not move.
“What the hell,” he said around his mouthpiece. He added air to his BCD to become neutral and swam under Peggy Lynn’s hull to the far side. If there was something wrong, he wanted to have the element of surprise on his side.
He stayed low in the water, his eyes just above the surface. Dennis and Stacey stood on the bridge with Don hunched over the computer screen. Travis and Emery sat in the shade of the awning over the dressing bench and recompression chamber.
Ryan shut his breathing loop and let it fall to his chest. He swam over to the boarding ladder, pulled off his fins, and shoved his hands through their straps. With his gear secure, he climbed the ladder. “Glad to see you guys are paying attention,” he said, swinging a leg over the gunwale.
“Calm down, whippersnapper.” Emery walked back to where Ryan was now shedding his rebreather. Emery helped him slip it off and carried it forward to the dressing bench. Travis helped Ryan strip off the drysuit.
Ryan couldn’t get the black trilaminate material off his body fast enough. Already sweat coursed down his skin. By the time he stepped out of his undergarments, they were dripping wet. He was glad to be in nothing but boardshorts.
Stacey came out of the bridge holding a bottle of water and handed it to Ryan. He drank the whole thing in several long swallows. Between the sweating, the long dive breathing dry air, and the lump in his throat, he was parched. He crushed the water bottle and screwed the top back on. Stacey went to get another bottle.
“How did it go?” Travis asked, hanging the drysuit on a hanger beside his.
Ryan spread out his underg
arments to dry. “The bomb is in place.”
Dennis stepped out of the bridge onto the narrow walkway. “Greg is back on Dark Water.
A determined look creased Ryan’s face. “Looks like it’s time to saddle up.”
Captain Dennis Law led the way down to his cabin where he’d laid out the twin H&K MP5Ns on his bunk. He and Ryan had loaded the thirty round magazines and test fired the German submachine guns off the stern of the boat while they were underway between Florida and Haiti. Now, their oiled black surfaces gleamed in the dull cabin lights.
“Ready to do this?” Ryan asked.
“Not really. I thought I’d put this life of adventure behind me.”
“No, you decided to feel sorry for yourself and quit living.”
Dennis’s sharp glance told Ryan he’d hit a nerve. Ryan picked up a gun, ensuring the fire selector switch was on safe. The N, or Navy model, was developed in 1986 for the U.S. Navy and it had a unique four position switch: safe, semi-automatic, three shot burst, and full automatic. Ryan had used one of these weapons multiple times during his naval career. It was a favorite of special operations forces around the world. The last time he’d slung one across his body to do battle was when he’d helped take down Guerrero’s pirate ship in the Gulf of Mexico. The gun felt like an old friend in his hand.
“You have an adventurous streak in you, just like I do.” Ryan fed a magazine into the receiver and slapped the charging handle down. The bolt snapped forward, loading a 9mm hollow point into the chamber.
“I never had to use a weapon during my career as a salvage diver.”
“First time for everything, Captain.”
“Yeah,” Dennis mumbled, picking up the other MP5.
Ryan stuffed four magazines into the pockets of his cargo shorts. His Walther pistol was snug on his hip in a Kydex holster.
“Suited up and ready to dive on the hook, Captain,” Emery shouted from outside.
Ryan said, “This is a simple transfer of gold and a hostage. Once we get her onboard, we take off. When we’re a safe distance away, I’ll blow the EFP.”
Dennis nodded. He turned and walked out of his cabin with Ryan on his heels. Dennis went to the bridge and started the twin diesel engines while Ryan continued to the rear deck. Stacey stood on the gunwale dressed in scuba gear. She had a regulator in her mouth and her mask pulled down over her eyes. She watched Dennis for his signal to dive while clinging to a support line for the crane tower. Her hair was devoid of any purple.
From the bridge, Dennis yelled, “Dive, dive, dive.”
Stacey took a giant step off the gunwale. She had one hand over her mask and regulator to keep them in place. She kept her other arm wrapped around her torso. Ryan and Travis watched her level off and swim to the chain rode attaching Peggy Lynn to the sunken wreck of the Santo Domingo.
Travis moved up on the bow, keeping a close watch on his girlfriend. “She’s at the clevis.”
Ryan let the gun dangle from his chest harness as he walked up to the bow. Far down, he could see Stacey working on the clevis he’d installed to hold Peggy Lynn to the wreck. A few minutes later, she held a fist straight out from her body and used her whole arm to make up and down motions.
“Give her some slack,” Travis called.
Dennis eased the boat forward until Travis told him to stop. Stacey pulled the clevis pin loose and the old crane cable dropped to the sea floor. Stacey began ascending along the chain. Dennis cut the engines and let Peggy Lynn drift. Travis and Emery dragged the chain and bridle onto the foredeck.
Ten minutes later, Stacey was back on the boat. “Did you see those barracudas?”
“Yeah,” Travis said. “They’ve been hanging out around the anchor line. It’s like the storm blew a bunch of life over to the wreck.”
They broke down Stacey’s gear and stowed it away. Ryan pulled out his satellite phone and dialed Kilroy’s number.
“Who’s this?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.
“Put Emily on the phone.”
“I assure you, Mr. Weller, you don’t need proof of life.”
“Humor me.”
A minute later, he heard Emily say, “Hello?”
Ryan asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.”
“We have the gold. We’re coming for you.”
“You better have my gold,” Kilroy said.
“It’s right here. We’re on our way now.”
“Hurry up.” The line went dead.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Graffiti and old advertisement posters littered the razor wire-topped concrete block wall surrounding Hugo Chavez International Airport. Many of the airport’s signs still read Aéroport International de Cap-Haitien. Rick Hayes kept his head on a swivel as they drove down the street running parallel to the wall. The driver, and Joulie Lafitte’s pilot, David Pinchina, stopped the old Ford Bronco at a reinforced iron gate. Rick eyeballed four groups of men standing along the sidewalk. One man was sitting with his feet propped up against the wall, back to the street, and returned Rick’s stare.
“They’re unemployed,” David said. He showed his identification to the guard, and the gates swung open. The guard carried an Israeli IMI Galil. Rick recognized it from his time in the Middle East. As soon as the truck was inside the gate, the guards closed it. Rick turned to watch them push a man back into the street.
“They are desperate to leave Haiti. If they could sneak onto an airplane, they would.”
“What about you?” Rick asked, turning back to face the windshield.
David shrugged. His big aviator sunglasses reflected the sun and his black skin shone with perspiration under his white pilot shirt with captain epaulets. The rest of his uniform consisted of black slacks and polished dress shoes. The Army had measured Rick at five-feet-three and three-quarters of an inch, and every fraction counted for Rick. David was three inches taller, with a polished black head, and the man was gaunt where Rick was stocky.
“How long have you been flying for Joulie?”
“I flew for Mesye Bajeux. Then he died, and now I work for mambo Joulie.”
“What’s a mambo?”
“A mambo is a vodou priestess.”
Rick whipped his head around to stare at David. “She’s a what?”
“A vodou priestess.” David grinned with uneven rows of stained teeth.
“Like dance around and put a spell on you while sticking a doll with a pin vodou?”
Still smiling, David shook his head. He turned the SUV onto a dirt road and accelerated toward a large, metal building that housed the helicopter. “That is evil, bokor. Mambo Joulie is a good priestess.”
“How is she as a warlord?” Rick muttered.
“She is very good.”
Rick laughed.
David stopped the SUV at the hangar and shut off the engine. They stepped out into the roar of a jetliner taking off. David unlocked a door and the two men stepped inside.
Before Rick’s eyes could adjust to the darkness, a heavy blow struck the side of his head. He raised his hand to touch his temple but found he was falling over. Rick Hayes was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Peggy Lynn approached Northwest Passage on Passage’s port side, her bow toward the Passage’s stern. Travis and Stacey had hung the bumpers and were standing by with the fore-and-aft lines to tie the boats together. Off their starboard stern quarter in the seven o’clock position, Dark Water, and her snipers, provided cover.
Ryan stared through the lenses of his wraparound sunglasses at the figures on Kilroy’s boat. Emily had a small suitcase at her feet. Her ankles were not bound, but her wrists were behind her back. Ryan surmised her hands were tied. Both Kilroy and Damian wore holstered pistols and Damian held a shotgun. A third man, armed with an AK, kept watch on the bridge wing.
Ryan stood beside the metal strong boxes, one hand on the pistol grip of the MP5. His thumb flicked the selector to three s
hot burst. Moving his left hand from the top of the rusty metal box, he placed it on the forward grip of the sleek black gun. He had the collapsible stock extended and the suppressor screwed on.
Travis and Stacey secured the lines and Ryan stepped to the rail. He had to look up as Northwest Passage’s freeboard was three feet higher. “I’ll send over one box and then you send over Emily. The second box will follow when she’s on my boat.”
Kilroy said, “Fair enough.”
“Let me shoot him now, Mista Kilroy,” Damian said.
“No.”
Ryan said, “Swing your crane over and we’ll hook up a box.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw a crewman cross the deck and scale the massive pillar to get to the crane’s control station. The crewman swung the crane arm over the side of the ship and lowered the cable. Emery dragged the hook to the first steel box and threaded it into the straps.
The crane operator raised the strong box and swung it aboard Northwest Passage. When it was on the deck, Kilroy undid the straps and the operator swung the hook back over Peggy Lynn’s stern.
“Moment of truth, Emily,” Kilroy said. He pushed the straps off the box, unlatched the clasps, and flipped the lid up. Ryan could see the rush of gold fever cross the man’s face. His features physically changed, lifting and tightening. When he turned to look at Ryan, his eyes danced. Ryan had experienced the exact same jubilation when he’d found the first strong box among the carnage inside Santo Domingo.
Travis looked forlornly at Ryan. Ryan knew exactly how he felt. The elation of finding the gold and devastation of losing it were powerful warring forces inside their bodies. Kilroy had tossed out the rule book when he’d involved Emily, but he would soon pay the price. The gold would be reclaimed by the rightful salvors, and they would know the elation of gold fever once again.
Ryan motioned for Travis to hold fast and not hook the crane to the second box. Turning to Kilroy, he shouted, “Send her over.”
