by K D McNiven
Shark Eater
Decker & Callie Adventure
Book Two
Written by
K.D. McNiven
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
All rights reserved Copyright © 2017
by K.D. McNiven
Cover design by Jared Shear
Dedication
Special thanks to my husband David, who is my loudest cheerleader.
To my family, Ryan and Brittany McNiven, and Sarah Thomas, for their continual support and encouragement to step out in faith to fulfill a dream, and for their help with editing and computer knowledge.
⁂
Introducing salvager, Dax Drake and crew of Shark Eater and
India Dymond. Both characters will be used in other series.
Prologue
Great Bahama Bank
1539
The fleet of six Spanish ships left the port of Panama and sailed north through the Greater Antilles toward the eastern tip of Cuba. From there they would sail on into the Greater Bahama Bank toward the Strait of Florida en route to Spain under the command of Captain Esteban Alejandro Ortega. Their hulls sat well below the frothy green waves.
The fleet had been commissioned by King Charles I to survey Panama to determine if there might be a viable passage between the two large bodies of water, the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean. If a passage could be found through this narrow isthmus, it could conceivably be a valuable discovery. A natural passage was not found, however, and building a canal was an impossible task.
Spires of golden sunlight washed across the wooden decks of the Spanish fleet, and a moderate, warm breeze pushed against the billowing white sails, transporting them back toward Spain. The survey of Panama had taken several months, and now the timing of their return trip was, unfortunately, coinciding with hurricane season. Since leaving port, though, it had been smooth sailing.
Having sailed through the breach of land between Cuba and Haiti, they would head toward Nassau and then across open seas to their final destination. It was here that they began to notice changing weather patterns. The winds grew erratic, changing from blustery to calm, then back again. The sea, which had been undisturbed beneath them, began to pitch and roll.
The day was hot and humid, and as the afternoon closed in around them, billowing black clouds piggy-backed each other along the horizon. Without much warning, rain pelted the crew as they scurried across the decks to light the stern lanterns, to ensure that they would not ram one of the other ships in the fleet because visibility was obscured by walls of rain.
The wind increased by the minute, forcing the captains to drop sail, batten down the hatches and prepare for what the storm would deliver. The crew worked diligently to tie down anything that could prove to be a deadly weapon in the hands of the wind.
The Nuestra Señora de Contessa was tossed like a feather over the giant mountains of water and was steadily being pushed back into the shallows. Fear gripped the captain’s heart. His efforts to steer clear were lost in the power of the howling northeasterly winds, now at over ninety knots and violently shaking the masts and the timbers of the hull. The ship careened dangerously to her side in the thirty-five-foot swells, repeatedly tossing the crew to the deck. Their fingers dug into the splintering wood of the decks in a desperate effort to not be swept into the furious black waters.
The captain clung bravely to the railing shouting out orders, though they were snuffed out in the ear-piercing squall. Even with the realization that his crew and his ship would almost certainly be lost, he continued to command his vessel, refusing to give in to the raging battle surrounding him.
The wooden casings complained agonizingly against the driving force that pounded against them with sledge-hammer insistence. The sails had been lowered, the yards stripped as the battering blows had torn them free. The main mast, followed by the mizzen mast, shattered with a resounding crack as it ripped through the top deck, crushing two of the scuttling crewmen. The force of the wind, rain and waves drove them further and further off course.
Even though she was a sturdy ship, she was fully crippled under the hurricane’s power and listed to her side. A wall of water cascaded over the decks carrying with it wreckage and cargo. Men clung desperately to the remaining timbers, fighting against time to save themselves but they could not compete with the forty-foot waves crashing over them. The men’s screams went unheard in the overwhelming shriek of the wind.
The ship could no longer hold her station, and she rolled onto her side, a tidal wave of water crashing over her decks and into her hold. Within moments, the mouth of the sea opened like the jaws of a giant whale and swallowed the Nuestra, sucking her mercilessly to the ocean floor.
Her prow pierced into the sand and rock floor, her hull breaking in half with the brittleness of an eggshell. The men could no longer fight the storm’s fury and surrendered to the boiling frenzy of water.
All but one ship was crushed, the wind picking them up and slamming them into the coral reefs and shallows, their hulls exploding violently into pieces. The tumultuous sea was scattered with jetsam that was tossed like matchsticks by the angry waves.
When the storm relented, more than three hundred men were drowned or determined missing. Spars, rigging and masts were pushed to shore along with sections of the broken vessels. Millions of dollars in cargo lay submerged under the unforgiving waves off the chain of islands in the Atlantic Ocean. The one ship, which somehow managed to survive the fury of the hurricane, made it back to Spain and informed the king of what had transpired on their voyage.
CHAPTER 1
Shark Eater
The face of a shark was painted clearly on the bow of the navy-blue salvage ship. Fingers of sunlight reflected off the protruding white teeth that were set behind a gray, rounded snout. There was an evil slant to the almond-shaped black eyes, and around its gaping mouth were splotches of red as if it had eaten its prey.
The “Shark Eater” was a salvage ship, a seventy-seven ton, eighty-two-foot vessel, equipped with research capabilities, including a dry and wet lab. Aft were patches of rust, some significant dents, and buckles from age and use, but all in all, she was a seaworthy vessel and solid as a tank.
The sturdy ship was cruising steadily at ten knots south of the Turks and Caicos, loaded with salvaged freight that the crew had recovered from an overturned cargo vessel. A slight breeze was blowing astern, gently nudging her across the indigo swells.
Linus Hinrick was brimming with excitement when Dax Drake, owner of the Shark Eater, and Captain Manny Auclaire entered the pilot house. “Look at this!” Linus said, enthusiasm emulating in the depths of his sea-green eyes. “The side sonar detected an image on the ocean floor. It appears to be a sunken ship and looks to be around thirty meters down.”
Linus was a graduate of hydrography, and also educated in marine geography. He was more than happy to accept Dax’s offer to join the salvage team when he had called Linus five years ago.
He readjusted his red-rimmed glasses that had slipped down his slender nose while he had been leaning over the charts. With his other hand, he brushed back long, unruly strands of coppery hair that had fallen over his glass lenses, obscuring his vision.
Captain Manny rested his hand on Linus’s shoulder while he studied the sonar chart. “Definitely a shipwreck,” he concurred. “Looks like the ship went nose first into the bottom. Look over here. These could be the mainmast o
r the foremast. And these…” he trailed his finger across some other shapes. “Could be the main-royal yard. We’ll know for sure when we have more pictures.”
“None of the data from the NOAA’s nautical charts showed any record of shipwrecks in this vicinity that bear these same coordinates,” Linus said. “But I do know that for centuries, this was a well-traveled route used by Spanish ships on their way back to Spain. This area is also known for its many shipwrecks because of the hurricanes and the shallows.”
Linus tapped his lips with his forefinger. “Treasure is still strewn across the ocean floor waiting for the likes of divers and treasure seekers alike to take up the task of finding it.”
Dax grinned, a flash of amusement reflecting in his eyes. “You wouldn’t be thinking about us, now would you Linus?” Dax chuckled, sorting through his knowledge of shipwrecks over the past one hundred years. The sunken ship could be one of any number of sailing vessels that still remained undiscovered.
Dax began listing off names of ships lost at sea near these coordinates, and Linus looked at him in surprise. There were several to speak of, especially near the Inagua Islands and Ambergris Cays. “You remember the names of the ships off the top of your head?”
Dax laughed. “Looked it up on my cell phone.”
Linus rolled his eyes, grunted and shook his head.
“If your information is correct, Linus, this is undoubtedly an incredible discovery,” said Captain Manny, stooping even lower to examine the sonar reading.
“There was also the USS Wasp that sunk somewhere in the Atlantic in 1814. She was a sloop-of-war used by the Navy,” Linus recalled, not to be outdone by Dax.
Dax pressed in, his face animated with deep interest. “This is stupendous!” he remarked in his Australian accent. “Mark all the coordinates Linus. Unfortunately, we aren’t able to dive for this right now. But after we unload the dredged cargo, I’ll apply for a grant from either the OCHI or the USRF. It could be tough though. Financing for salvage has been tight,” he figured. “I hope someone is willing to spring for it.”
Dax felt the Oceanic Cultural Heritage Institute and the Underwater Salvage Research Fund would be his best hope to gain the grants he would need to return and try to salvage the sunken vessel.
“I can’t imagine either of those offices letting a probable historical find like this go without further investigation,” Manny said. “They’re going to want a listing of any artifacts at the very least.”
At the thought of returning to recover a shipwreck, Dax’s adrenalin began to flow. His deep slate-blue eyes, set behind a curtain of sweeping black lashes were fixed on the nautical charts, and his mind raced with excitement. Historic wrecks were an added bonus for his salvaging company. They gave in-depth details of events that might otherwise be buried in the murky depths forever. They also told stories.
He had worked hard his whole life and put every penny of his earnings into buying the Shark Eater. Her destiny had been a trip to the scrapyards, but Dax saw the possibilities and bought her outright with a generous financial loan from his Uncle Jack. It took several years to make her seaworthy, but he’d been steadfast in restoring her, and he couldn’t be happier with the payoff.
His love for the ocean had laid claim to his heart from an early age. He’d watched his father work on the docks, leaving before the sun rose and returning home long after the sun had set. He was a hardworking man. When Dax was old enough he hired on with a salty seaman named Gordy, who taught him everything there was to know about the ocean. Thus, began the love affair. The ocean, diving, navigating from port to port had become his wife in a sense. Once the ocean set her hooks into his soul, there was no turning back—she owned him.
Going top deck, he walked port side to gaze at the drumming waves with their hypnotic beckoning. Because of the new discovery, Dax didn’t want to leave for Florida, but he had to. He was under commission, and frankly, he needed the money. Shipwreck archaeology was not cheap by any means—without funding, near impossible, but Dax was a barracuda when it came to obtaining financing. He’d not relent and allow this incredible opportunity to pass by him.
He leaned against the wooden railing and inhaled the fresh salty air. Closing his eyes, he listened to the gentle rumbling of the sea speak to his soul. The hull groaned as the anchor was being drawn and once again the bow parted the dark indigo waters, continuing its northwestward push towards the eastern shores of Florida.
“Hey sailor, how are you doing?” a soft voice came from behind. “I heard about the wreck. Exciting!”
The familiar voice was one of Shark Eater’s divers, Karina Gustoff, a Russian exchange student who had recently graduated from the University of Florida in Gainesville with a degree in marine biology. She had also received her bachelor’s degree as a marine scientist. She was no more than one hundred and ten pounds soaking wet and his six-foot two frame towered over her.
The breeze lifted a few black strands which had fallen loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and he brushed them from his face with a calloused hand. Turning in her direction, he smiled, a glint of admiration sparking in his eyes.
“I have every intention of returning once we unload the salvaged merchandise. Don’t suppose you’d like to tag along?”
Her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t miss a chance like this for the world! I haven’t gotten to use my diving skills on a shipwreck before. I’m all for it.”
“Keep your fingers crossed that I can come up with the money to finance the trip back.” There was skepticism ringing in his voice. He knew how much it would cost to recover the ship. But the historic significance of finding a Spanish galleon with the notable, squared off raised stern, was hopefully enough to convince one of the archaeological research centers to give him a grant.
“The OCHI has given several grants in the past,” Karina said. “And this is going to be an amazing campaign, with lots of archaeological relevance to be found. How could they refuse?”
“I love your optimism, Karina.”
“You can also tell them that having Karina Gustoff on board is an added benefit for them
as well,” she said. “I can do biological oceanography and give them my research on the study of marine organisms, microscopic algae and marine life in this location. It’s more than taking notes on a sunken galleon.”
“You make a good point,” he agreed. “Perhaps you should come along when I fill out the applications and speak with some of the supervisors in charge.”
“On your heels!” She gladly accepted and lifted her delicate fingers for a high-five. “However, I insist having one day to surf.” Surfing was one of the ways Karina relaxed when they landed long enough for her to enjoy the sport.
He laughed, knowing how much she enjoyed the sport. “You’re heading toward being a surfie, I suppose?”
Karina had heard him use the Australian term “surfie” when he teased friends who were zealous for surfing. She knew what he meant. Surfers desired to throw their boards on the waves far more than going to their jobs.
“You should know by now, that isn’t the case, Dax Drake.” She pushed her shoulder into him in fun knocking him a bit off balance and laughed. “I scarcely see anything but a lab and a microscope. Climbing onto one of those boards and sliding down a wave is exhilarating for me.”
“And you look quite gutsy doing it,” he chuckled with a broad smile.
Ottomar Benedickt, known as Otto among the crew, rounded the corner of the pilot house, his arms loaded down with miscellaneous diving gear he’d been cleaning. He whistled a cheerful tune in greeting and then proceeded to drop the equipment into some nearby bins. He wore a blue t-shirt, jeans, with his usual waterproof, insulated cap that was an eye-popping orange, pushed down on his unruly brown mop of curls, that created tufts of hair on either side of his long, thin face.
“You two conspiring again?” he teased with a short laugh.
“Every chance we can, Otto,” Dax said
.
Ottomar was a maritime archaeologist—a whiz on the study of submerged cultural environments and coastal settlements. Not to mention, a genius in surveying and the recording of artifacts and structures. He was also near genius with database systems. He studied for six years at Dublin University—another two years in Florida. Ottomar walked to the beat of a different drum. Some might even consider him a nerd, or at the very least eccentric but it didn’t seem to bother him. Whether nerd or eccentric by today’s standards, he had been an asset to Dax in more ways than one, and Dax was thankful whenever Ottomar was available for a salvage trip. And no one was more loyal than Otto, which made him irreplaceable.
“Be good to have my feet back on the ground for a couple of days,” Ottomar shouted over the noise of the engine, a German accent hanging in his voice. “It has been too long since I felt the good, hard earth beneath me.”
“Yes, it has,” agreed Dax. “You can set off on that motorcycle of yours for a couple of days. Camp out in the wilds with the deer and antelope—a few days of kayaking and trail blazing and you’ll be ready to cast off again.”
“Ja, sounds good,” Otto chuckled. He had told Dax how much he enjoyed rebuilding motorcycles. He loved riding fast and hard and loved antique bikes. He relished opportunity to enjoy his hobby, but if he had to make a choice, his love for the sea would always win out.
“After we reach Miami maybe I can catch a little sun and surf.” Karina looked at Dax with her head cocked. Her green catlike eyes glinted with humor. “But I know what you’ll be doing, Dax Drake and it isn’t going to be taking time for play. You’ll be digging deep into executives’ pockets for money, I’d venture.”
“You know it, Kat. I’ll put my information packet together from Linus. Then I can lay out an irresistible painting of intrigue and adventure they won’t be able to refuse.”
