The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit)

by Andrew Mayne

  The surfaces are spotless. Not even any water spots. The deck is free of scuff marks, and from what’s visible through the windows, the interior is equally well kept.

  We go up a flight of stairs, and Irro takes us onto the bridge. Large flat-screen displays show everything from a map of the vessel’s current position to weather to a hundred other details.

  I go over to the navigation and check out the system. It’s a KVVM positioning system that uses GPS and the European Galileo satellites not only to tell them where they are, but also to steer the boat. A box on the screen is asking for a password. That’ll be tricky. George notices this and gives me a slightly raised eyebrow.

  Next to the KVVM is a screen showing several views of the harbor with colored rectangles around other boats and the dock. I’ve never seen that before.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “OceanEye,” responds Irro. “Vision-based automatic navigation. It can pilot the boat in the harbor.”

  “Hmm. Can you operate the radar?”

  “Which one? Weather? Short range?” he replies.

  “Weather.”

  Irro sits down at a console across from the KVVM and types in a password. The screen changes to a map of South Florida, and a line begins to sweep around, illuminating pixels of storm clouds in the area.

  I turn my scanner up, and it makes a blip sound every time the antenna points in its direction. “We’ll need to try this from the deck.”

  Irro gets up and heads to the door. “This way.”

  I step after him, then stop. “I’m being stupid. I need to get a GPS fix. George, did you get one?”

  “I left the unit at the office.”

  “Oh, I can help,” Irro offers. He quickly types a password into the keyboard on the KVVM.

  I don’t catch it, but I notice out of the corner of my eye that George is recording it with his phone. What a tricky dog.

  Irro reads out the numbers on the screen. “Latitude: 25° 47′ 27.18″ North. Longitude: -80° 11′ 5.20″ West.”

  George types that into his phone. “I’ll send that to you.”

  A moment later I get a text message. Password = mermaid.

  A bit obvious. I guess they weren’t too worried about people hacking them from the bridge.

  “Can you take us to the aft deck?” asks George. “That’ll give us the best line of sight.”

  “Certainly.”

  Irro begins to lead us down the steps. When we’re halfway there, I stop. “I forgot the scanner.” I conveniently left it on a chair when Irro wasn’t watching.

  “I’ll get it,” he replies.

  George grabs him gently by the elbow. “Actually, can you show me where the bathroom is?”

  Irro seems torn. He’s faced with two people roaming the ship. One going back to the bridge, the other wandering the interior.

  “Go ahead and show him. I’ll meet you right here.”

  George starts walking toward a sliding door. Irro chases after him.

  I hightail it up the steps and back into the bridge. The KVVM is back to requiring a password, since Irro logged out.

  I enter it and go straight to the dropdown menu and find a tab for historical data. There’s an option that says, Past 30 days.

  A list of GPS data flies across the screen, and I start to panic. I’d been hoping for a map with a dotted line. This is raw data.

  While it’d make sense for criminals to wipe their GPS history every chance they get, coast guard and customs require that they keep records going back several months.

  I’m sure they have a wipe switch in case they thought they were being investigated for smuggling; otherwise they’d keep only the current data or remove data for specific trips.

  I shove the thumb drive on my key chain into the port and download the raw data file. It takes two seconds to transfer, but closing the window trips me up.

  I hear footsteps on the deck outside and the sound of men talking in another language.

  Damn. Earlier this afternoon, news broke about a tropical storm forming in the Atlantic. The crew could be coming back early to prep the ship.

  I check the screen again, trying to find a “Close” button. Nothing.

  They’re climbing the stairs.

  Think . . .

  I reach behind the KVVM and find the power switch.

  Screw it.

  I flip it off, then on again.

  The screen displays a boot-up sequence.

  Ugh. It’ll have to do.

  I grab my scanner from the chair, flip it back on, and stare at it, ignoring the captain and a crew member as they enter.

  “Alo?” says the captain.

  I hold up a finger, asking him to wait a moment, and hold the radio scanner to my ear. I figure it’s better to pretend I own the place than act afraid.

  Another set of footsteps, these running to the bridge. Irro bursts in with George behind him.

  Irro exchanges rapid-fire Finnish with the captain, who looks at George and me suspiciously.

  George returns the stony gaze with a “you’re in serious shit” expression. He’s playing the part of bad cop extremely well.

  “We’ve had our radar checked extensively,” says the captain. “I insist that we call in our own technician if you’re going to persist in this matter.”

  I covertly turn the dial of the scanner, and the beeping stops. “Is your radar still on?”

  The captain walks over to the console and stares at the screen. “Yes.”

  “Huh,” I reply. “Mr. George, I think it must be something else.”

  “Let me see that?” He grabs the scanner and makes a dramatic show of changing the frequencies, with no effect, then thrusts the device back at me. “Fine.” He pushes past a crewman as he heads toward the door.

  “Captain, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll get this matter sorted out.”

  I follow George down the steps and gangplank. The sound of the captain yelling at Irro reaches us all the way to the dock. I’d feel bad, but he knows who he works for.

  George points to dark clouds in the distance. “That doesn’t look good. Get what you need?”

  “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  LOGBOOK

  “It looks like they spent about nine hours offshore near Hobe Sound,” Dad says over the speakerphone.

  George and I are in the hotel room overlooking the Morning Sun. We don’t want to leave until we’re sure we have the data that we came for. Sending it to Dad seemed the best way to make sense of it, and he didn’t let me down.

  “Can you give me the coordinates?” I ask.

  Dad calls them out, and I put an X in the location, then draw a line from it to the submarine tunnel on Turtle Isle.

  George turns from the hotel-room window. “Does that help?”

  “It’s twenty-one miles from Turtle Isle to there. So . . . um, there’s that,” I reply.

  “How about if we use sonar and retrace the route? Could we pick up the sub?” asks George.

  Dad makes a snorting sound on the other end of the line. It’s the same problem I face doing a dive search—I’m limited by how far I can see and how fast I can swim.

  I explain the problem to George. “Assuming only a one-mile drift on either side of the route—and that the Kraken followed a straight line—the sonar on the Fortune’s Fool can only cover a band about five hundred feet wide. And the Fool has the best sonar you’ll find on any vessel of that size anywhere,” I hastily add, because Dad is listening.

  “That’s twenty passes to search a two-mile-wide corridor,” George says after doing the math. “And a twenty-mile route means four hundred miles to cover.”

  “Assuming no false positives,” my dad says over the speakerphone. “You’re looking at a six-day job. And that’s assuming it followed a straight line. Which it didn’t, it being the ocean and all and not space or whatever. Without looking at tide tables and currents for the time, I’d call it a six-mile-wide c
orridor, which means twelve hundred miles of seafloor to search. So basically it’s like finding something between here and New York City.”

  “I get it,” says George. “So, what do you suggest we do?”

  “Figure out where Raul wanted to sink it,” I reply.

  “I’m sure he told Bonaventure before they killed him.”

  “And I’m sure he only had a rough estimate of the spot.”

  “That’s the part I don’t understand,” Dad interjects. “How was Raul going to find the submarine after he sank it?”

  “Good question,” George replies, then turns to me.

  “Maybe a short-range transmitter beacon? Something only good for a couple of miles?”

  “Underwater?” asks Dad. “That has to be some transmitter.”

  “I guess. But first we need to know the area where the sub went down. We don’t even have that.”

  “Maybe you do,” says Dad.

  “You onto something?” asks George.

  “Me? No. But maybe you should talk to somebody who understands the currents and area better than anyone else I know. He could probably tell you the best place to try to sink and recover the sub—also where it might have drifted to.”

  “And where do we find this person?” George asks.

  “The FCI in Miami,” I tell him. “He’s talking about Uncle Karl.”

  George makes a loud groan. “Something tells me you shouldn’t go in there and tell him you’ve partnered up with me.”

  “You think?”

  “He’ll help Sloan out,” says Dad. “Or he’d never hear the end of it from me.”

  “I don’t know.” George is shaking his head. “I’m not sure if we can give him this data.”

  “You told me,” replies Dad.

  “I know where you live. And you’re not serving time with a bunch of other undesirables who would kill to know this.”

  George raises his binoculars to the window.

  “I think I can trust him.”

  “No good,” says George.

  I’m about to disagree when I realize he’s watching something in the marina. I stand up to look over his shoulder.

  “Shit,” I say when I see DIA Jane strutting down the dock away from the boat, flanked by three men wearing jackets in warm Florida weather.

  I spot a flash of black gun metal inside one of their jackets. “Are those . . . ?”

  “Probably MPX machine pistols. That’s a hit squad.”

  “Which way . . .” My words freeze in my mouth as DIA Jane glances at the hotel where we’re staying.

  “We’ve been made. Time to go,” says George.

  “Later, Dad!” I grab my phone and throw everything from the table into a duffel bag.

  George is already at the door. He holds it open for me. I start running to the stairs.

  “Negative,” he replies. “The first thing they’ll do is put someone there. We take the elevator to the floor below, then take a different one down.”

  I trust his judgment over mine. The elevator doors open, and we rush inside. Mentally I’m counting how far away DIA Jane and her crew were from the hotel. They’re probably entering the lobby now.

  We switch on the next floor and take the adjacent one down. Our elevator is almost at the lobby, and my anxiety is building. “What are we going to do? Your truck’s in the parking garage across the street.”

  “We’re going to walk out of here,” he replies. “They’re not stupid enough to do anything in the lobby. But I am . . .”

  Before I can ask him what he means, the doors open, and George steps out, raises his weapon in one hand and his badge in the other, and shouts, “Freeze, UIU!”

  DIA Jane is in the middle of the lobby with her hired guns. She looks confused, and the goons don’t know what to do. One of them brings a hand to his jacket, but Jane pushes it back.

  “Hands up,” says George as he approaches them.

  He gets within five feet, and Jane finally responds, “Come any closer, and we drop you.”

  “Doubtful,” George replies, but he doesn’t come any closer. “McPherson.” He nods to the front door.

  I chase after him as he heads out of the lobby. The guests are still in shock, trying to figure out what just happened. So am I.

  I check over my shoulder, but we’re not being followed. When we reach the parking garage, I finally break my silence. “What was that?”

  “A distraction. They were coming to talk to us. I don’t know what they would have done if they got us in the hotel room. I didn’t want to find out. I also didn’t want them to try to arrest us in the lobby. We were outgunned.”

  “So you threatened to arrest them?” I reply.

  “It was worth a shot. Let’s go talk to your uncle. Chances are they know what we do about the Morning Sun, and we’re running short on time.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  BAIT WELL

  Karl’s eyes narrow as he enters the room and he sees George Solar sitting next to me at the table. When I contacted Karl, he told me flat out that Solar had to ask him himself. Somehow, through the prison grapevine, Karl had already found out that the two of us were working together, and he wouldn’t see me without him.

  Having lost my patience for family drama, I told him fine. I was lucky enough to be able to get him on the phone in the first place, let alone arrange a meeting. George had to pull some strings, because someone high up had been putting pressure on limiting access to inmates who had information about Bonaventure or the current situation.

  Most likely the Department of Justice was trying to gain an information advantage. George was so paranoid he swept the marshal’s office in the prison for bugs with a scanner.

  “McPherson,” George says, greeting my uncle.

  “Solar,” he replies, taking his seat. He glances over at me. “Sloan. So, let’s have it. What’s the offer?”

  “Offer?” I repeat.

  He taps the charts on the table. “Isn’t that how it works? I help you. You offer to take time off my sentence.”

  I’ve never heard him sound this cold. “I’m asking you for help.”

  “Are you? Last time you said that and pleaded for me to help you for Jackie’s sake. When, actually, I was talking to a cop using whatever angle she could.”

  I grab the charts. “This is bullshit.” I stand up and turn to George. “I can talk to Zhang over at FIU. He knows these currents too.”

  “Sit down, Sloan. Please,” says George. “Your uncle is right. We’re asking him for something without offering him anything in exchange. What would you do in his situation?”

  “This is ridiculous. I’d help family,” I reply.

  “That doesn’t mean much when you’re in here, does it, Karl?” says George. “The problem is, we’re not in much of a position to offer anything.”

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard you have a direct line to the governor.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” replies George. “Do you think I can call and ask him to pardon a narco trafficker with multiple parole violations and a high risk of recidivism? How will that go over? A DA might ask a judge to reduce your sentence, but I’m not friendly with many of them. The problem is, I don’t have a lot of friends in general. I can’t pull that kind of weight.”

  Karl searches my face for an explanation. I don’t have one. He shakes his head. “So why the hell are you here?”

  “Because your brother said you could make sense of this data.”

  “My brother. Right. It’s a family affair,” Karl grumbles.

  “So? Can we have your help too?”

  “Did you not hear yourself speak? No.” His eyes drift toward me. “No.”

  This is his revenge. All that pent-up frustration and anger are now directed at me. The man who protected me from bullies and taught me how to throw a punch. The man who a few days ago told me he thought of me as his daughter . . . now he’s treating me like dirt because his hatred for George Solar is so intense.


  I dab at the corner of my eye. “Let’s just go.”

  “Fuck this guy,” Karl growls. “Fuck you, Solar, and your manipulative bullshit. I’m not letting you do this.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” George says mildly.

  “It’s all fucking head games with you. Goddamn it.” He turns to me. “And now he’s got you playing along too.”

  “What are you talking about?” I’m experiencing emotional whiplash right now.

  “Just give me the damn charts and tell me what you know.”

  I lay them back out, and Karl studies the tables and data in the folder. After a long silence, Karl sets down the paper and glowers at George. “If anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.”

  “Now you’re worried about my well-being?” I reply, exasperated.

  “It takes a while to process things.”

  “Have you considered talking to a psychologist?” I ask.

  “The ones in here will make you even more batty,” Karl says. He points to a spot on the map three miles from the location of the Morning Sun around the time when the Kraken went missing. “Here. This is where I’d try to sink it. Assuming the sub was going about seven miles an hour—which, from Winston’s original specs, is what I’d estimate if it were fully laden—and I rounded the time to the nearest minute, then this would be the spot. It’s about eighty feet and fairly calm. I’ve been there. It’s kind of a dead zone.”

  “So, look here?” I ask.

  “I didn’t say that. That’s where I’d try to sink it, but there was a big rain runoff and an easterly current. I doubt this Raul character is much of an oceanographer. The sub probably went farther out before it hit sand and then drifted.”

  Karl traces his finger down the map to an area 110 feet deep. “It probably got dragged into this basin. Remember when they tried to make a reef out of tires, and they had a tropical storm? A few hundred ended up here. It’s a couple miles to search, but that would be the best bet.”

  “Thank you.” I start to gather up the maps.

  “There’s one more thing. One of the guys here had a visit from his brother—a former SEAL, like the actual go-in-the-water kind, not a desert rat. He said that his brother was working on some kind of secret search-and-recovery operation. Sound familiar?”