Atlantis Storm

by Steven Moore

  Atlantis Storm

  A Ryan Bodean Tropical Thriller #1

  David Berens

  Steven Moore

  Contents

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  I. Legend

  1. Discontentment

  2. Facing Facts

  3. Drowning Sorrows

  4. Drinking Village

  5. Lost

  6. Kidnapped

  7. Mysterious

  8. Scolded

  9. Tantalized

  10. Eviction

  11. Surprise Visitor

  12. No More B S

  13. Digging

  14. Myth

  15. George Wyatt

  16. Opportunity Knocks

  17. Murder

  II. Harbinger

  18. Intruders

  19. Departure

  20. Voyagers

  21. Competition

  22. Voyeur

  23. Time to Die

  24. Man Overboard

  25. Another Murder?

  26. Stranger Things

  27. Nightmares

  28. Sabotage

  29. Betrayal

  30. Setback

  31. Philosophy by Bodean

  32. Harbinger

  33. Good News/Bad News

  34. Incentives

  35. William Wallace

  36. Hooked

  III. Atlantis Storm

  37. A Good Point?

  38. Priest of Light

  39. Guardian

  40. Slain

  41. Into the Darkness

  42. Lost & Found

  43. Kool-Aid

  44. Gone Girls

  45. Gracias, Santi

  46. Into the Breach

  47. Myth Busted?

  48. Goddess

  49. Disciple

  50. Sacrifice

  51. Atlantis Storm

  52. Emergence

  53. Salvation

  Epilogue

  From the historical record

  Afterword

  Also by David Berens

  Also by Steven Moore

  1. Hemingway Found

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  For Laura and Olivia.

  Everything I do, I do it for you.

  Part I

  Legend

  “But afterwards there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.”

  - Plato

  1

  Discontentment

  “Goddammit!”

  Megan Simons glanced over at R.B., who was hopping around the deck of their salvage vessel as if suffering a momentary loss of sanity. She almost laughed, but Ryan Bodean’s recent moods meant laughing at him probably wasn’t a good idea right now.

  “Goddammit!” he shouted again, then looked over at Megan, who was fighting hard to keep a straight face. He stared at her for a moment, trying hard not to laugh himself. Laughing—even smiling—was becoming increasingly rare these days, and stubbing his bare big toe on the immovable steel cleat certainly didn’t help. But Megan Simons was the one person that saw past his grumbling stomach, ignored him when he was feeling sorry for himself, as he was now. Megan not only understood his frustrations, but shared them.

  And as he looked at her now, resplendent in her greasy B S Salvage Incorporated work t-shirt and army-green bikini bottoms, he couldn’t help but smile.

  “So, what is it this time, Bodean?” she called over. “Middle-age getting the better of you?” They were adept at dishing out the banter to each other, and both usually took it in the right way. Usually. They’d been working together for almost a year now, and although business was slow and times were getting a little tough, they’d become each other’s best friend and most—perhaps only—trusted ally.

  “Speak for yourself, Simons,” he called back. But she had a point. He wasn’t yet middle-age. At least he didn’t want to think so. But now on the wrong side of forty, and with a certain malaise settling over him in recent months that brought with it a tendency towards the lazy, he had let himself get a little out of shape. Unlike Megan, of course, who was as trim and youthful as when they’d first met around fifteen years ago. Not that he’d tell her that of course. He wouldn’t want her to accuse him of flirting.

  “Stubbed my damn toe again ... third time this week.”

  “Well, it’s probably your fading eyesight ... you are almost fifty, after all. And how many times do I have to tell you to wear shoes on deck instead of flip flops?”

  “Almost fifty, huh?” R.B. put down his tools and approached his friend, a stern look on his face.

  Megan turned to face him, placing down the book she was reading. It was a novel about Atlantis by one of her favorite authors, Clive Cussler. Atlantis was a myth that had always fascinated her, and she had read every book she could find on the subject. She wasn’t sure what R.B. had in mind, but she took a defensive stance—he’d been known to try and throw her overboard before, but she was ready for him this time.

  “Almost fifty, Megan? May I remind you I’m forty-two. That’s nearer forty than fifty. Speaking of forty-two, um, it’s my birthday today. So, I guess I’m actually forty-three.”

  “Your birthday? Really? Oh, I’m sorry R.B. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Dunno. Guess I don’t much feel like celebrating to be honest. Just another number, right?”

  “Right. Though it’s a pretty big number to be fair.”

  “Alright, Simons, you asked for it.” R.B. then darted for Megan, forgetting the pain in his big toe, and grabbed her arms. Megan was short and petite, but she was strong from all the manual work she did, and R.B. couldn’t deny he’d lost some of his physicality over the last year or so. They grappled for a few seconds, before R.B’s sheer size advantage got the better of Megan. He hoisted her into a fireman’s lift and edged towards the side of the boat.

  “No you don’t, Bodean. I’m sorry. You’re still young and handsome,” she yelled. “I’ll buy you a birthday beer. Three beers.”

  “Beers, huh? How about dinner?”

  “You think you deserve dinner? With me? I refuse to eat with such a grumpy old fart. Promise to cheer the hell up, and maybe I’ll shout you a burrito at Pepe’s.”

  “Done.” R.B. let Megan down from his shoulder, and once down she turned to face him.

  “Listen, R.B. Sorry about your birthday. I honestly didn’t know.”

  “I know. No worries. And thanks, Megan.”

  “Thanks for what?”

  “Just thanks. You know, for putting up with me. I know I’ve been down-in-the-dumps lately, probably difficult to be around. I’m just, well, I’m just sick of all this crap. We work hard, pulling these damn ordinary boats up for ungrateful clients, when we should be doing something far more exciting. You know?”

  “Exciting, like The Canary?”

  “Yeah, like The Canary, or The Santa Maria. Know what I mean? You and me, we’re wasted doing this stuff for hardly any reward, financial or otherwise.”

  Megan did know. A year ago they thought they’d found legendary explorer Amelia Earhart’s long-lost plane, The Canary. It turned out it wasn’t The Canary at all, but a Cuban mili
tary drone, and their discovery of that drone nearly got them both killed. A year on, and they were scratching out a meagre living hauling crappy tourist boats or wrecked fishing boats from the ocean, vessels that had little or no monetary value. Yeah, she understood R.B’s discontentment alright. Because she felt exactly the same.

  “Hey, why don’t we call it a day, eh? It is my birthday after all.” R.B. flashed Megan one of his trademark sparkly-white grins, and for a moment Megan saw the old Ryan Bodean. She just hoped it wasn’t forced.

  “Done. Let’s get the hell out of here. I could do with necking a beer or two myself.”

  And with that, Megan Simons and Ryan Bodean left the beaten up old salvage boat Ryan had bought from a salty old fisherman—it was a wreck itself, but all they could afford—and made their way along the short walk through the harbor to Pepe’s. An hour later they were settled in at the bar and three Coronas deep.

  “What were you reading on the boat, anyway?” asked R.B.

  “Oh, just another book about Atlantis, this one by Clive Cussler. You know him? Classic action writer, one of the best. You can read, can’t you R.B.?” she teased.

  “I don’t read much anymore. Hardly at all, to be honest. Lost my reading mojo years ago. Cussler? Think I’ve heard the name. Any good?”

  “Yeah, amazing actually. I love all of Clive’s books. This one’s about finding Atlantis. Imagine if we discovered Atlantis, R.B. We’d be so rich we could buy our own island in the Caribbean.”

  “Um, Megan, you do know Atlantis is just a myth, don’t you?”

  She turned to face him, her eyes a little blurry from the beers. “How can you be so sure? Just because it hasn’t been found doesn’t mean it’s not out there somewhere. Absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence? Wait, is that the right way round? Anyway, a girl can dream can’t she?”

  “Well, that’s definitely true. You just keep on dreamin’, darlin’. Actually, Meg, that’s one of the qualities I admire most about you.”

  “You admire me? Wow, never thought I’d hear Ryan Bodean utter such a thing. Well, what is it you admire? Other than my brains, good looks, and that I’m the only friend you’ve got?”

  “Ha! Well, you’re a dreamer, and I mean that in a good way. You never give up. You’re always positive, always believing the next big find is just around the corner. I admire your spirit, is what I’m saying.” He averted his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. But it wasn’t embarrassment about saying what he’d said. He truly meant it. No, it was more that he was embarrassed about his own lack of spirit, his own growing lack of enthusiasm for anything. In fact, R.B. was ashamed.

  Megan looked at R.B. for a few moments. She appreciated the compliment, and was glad to have heard it from R.B., a man not known for expressing his emotions. She also understood his current apathy. But it was getting a little worrying. He needed to snap out of it before it consumed him. When they’d reacquainted a little over a year ago, right before the incident with The Canary and the Cubans, he’d been in a similar mental state. She’d come to care deeply for R.B., and hated to see him that way.

  “Right, well, you listen to me, Ryan Bodean. Even if you don’t want to celebrate your birthday, I do. So I will have fun, either with you or alone. What’s it gonna be, eh?”

  R.B. turned to Megan now, and couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sorry, Meg. And you’re right.” He raised his Corona. “To you, Megan Simons, who keeps me on the straight and narrow. And to dreaming. May you never stop dreaming. Cheers.”

  “Cheers to that.” They each took a long swig of beer, then slammed their bottles down on the counter. “And R.B.?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s your round. Mine’s a tequila.”

  2

  Facing Facts

  Nursing a gentle hangover, R.B. eased himself up from the bed and into the kitchen. He’d been living with Megan since his houseboat was destroyed a year ago, and although it was meant to be indefinite, he’d been there ever since. It was an arrangement that suited them both, and they were good, compatible housemates.

  R.B. put some water on the stove for coffee, then went into the lounge and flicked on the television. He rarely deviated from his favorite station, the Discovery Channel, and settled into the same spot on the couch where he spent most of his time these days. Despite the malaise shrouding R.B. lately, a veil that kept his trade-mark Bodean smile largely under wraps, he was still obsessed by watching TV shows that discussed mysterious shipwrecks and long-lost treasures. He also read a lot of online articles and stories about conspiracy theories and government cover-ups. Other than the fact that they were interesting, truth was R.B. was hoping to find some spark of an idea, something he and Megan could go after and locate themselves. He was determined to make the business work. But shipwrecks didn’t just announce themselves. They had to have at least a hint of an idea of where to look. So R.B. spent most of his spare time in front of the TV or with his computer on his lap, hoping to find something worth searching for.

  That was, when they didn’t have another mindless salvage operation to undertake. Work was drying up, and R.B. didn’t miss the pun. Their job was to pull boats from the water. Well, the boats were still wet of course, and the only thing drying up was their income. Things were getting tight, that was for sure. And if things didn’t pick up soon, R.B. feared they’d go under.

  In the main bedroom, Megan sat on her bed surrounded by paperwork. It was the day of the week when she went through their accounts and bills, and it was never something she looked forward to. Not that she minded the paperwork. In fact, she was a dab hand with spreadsheets and numbers. It was just that there was never any good news. Work was diminishing, but unfortunately the bills never did. In fact, despite her diligence and caution with money, they’d fallen behind on several of their monthly outgoings. Quite literally, if they didn’t find a big score soon, they’d be completely broke.

  She leaned back on the pillow and closed her eyes. She had the hint of a headache from last night’s impromptu birthday celebrations for R.B., though it wasn’t bad. Her headache was more from not knowing what to do about their financial predicament. For a few months now she’d been managing their finances by operating their business on credit. But her two credit cards and R.B.’s one were all but maxed out. Even their friend Jimmy, who managed the dock where R.B’s docked his boat, had told them that, while he was sorry, he needed the next month’s mooring fees up front or they’d have to pull the boat from the water. They simply didn’t have that kind of money, and Megan was going to have to face facts; they were in real trouble.

  She stood from the bed and stretched, then went to the kitchen. She heard the TV on in the lounge, and didn’t need to look to know R.B. was in his usual spot on the couch and watching yet another show about shipwrecks or conspiracy theories. She shook her head. Those things fascinated her too, and she knew R.B. was genuinely watching to try and discover something that might finally turn their fortunes around. But TV shows didn’t pay the bills.

  Megan grabbed herself a coffee, then returned to the bedroom. She closed the door quietly and pulled her cellphone from her purse. It was time to call her mother.

  “Mom? Hi, it’s me. Listen, we need to talk.”

  “—Yeah, I know. I am careful, Mom.”

  “—He’s fine. We ... well, we’re trying our best. It’s just not that easy.”

  “—I know Mom, I do. Listen ... I think I need to move back home for a while. It won’t be for long, I promise. Just until—”

  “—Ryan? Well, he’s a big boy Mom. He’ll work something out.”

  “—No, I haven’t told him yet. I will. Later. Listen, thanks Mom.”

  And with that, Megan Simons went through to the lounge.

  It was time to let R.B. know just how bad things were.

  3

  Drowning Sorrows

  “Hey R.B. How’d you feel this morning? It was quite a night.”

  R.B. averted his eyes from the televi
sion. “Oh hey, darlin’. I feel pretty good thanks. And thanks for last night. I really appreciated it. I probably needed a bit of a blowout.”

  “You’re welcome. So, how does it feel to be forty-three? You don’t look much older.”

  “Ha. Well I feel precisely one day older than I did yesterday. How’re you doing?”

  Megan’s smile slipped away, and she cast her eyes to the floor for a moment. “Listen,” she said without looking up. “We need to talk.”

  R.B. had known Megan long enough now to recognize the seriousness in her tone. She finally looked up and they locked eyes. “Why don’t you come and sit down, eh? Tell me what’s up.”

  Megan joined R.B. on the couch. She took a deep breath to compose herself, then shifted her butt so she was facing him. “Listen ... I ... " Megan faltered. This was going to be hard to take for R.B., and she was reluctant to kick him while he was down. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. We’re flat broke, R.B. We have nothing. Nada. Not two pennies to rub together. We can’t pay the rent here anymore. We can’t afford the mooring fees for the boat at the dock. I ... well, I’m moving back in with my mom for a while, just until we get sorted. And you’ll ... well, you’ll—”