The Ironclad Covenant

by Christopher Cartwright

  “Sure,” Sam said, his face still not showing any sort of recognition.

  “Minnesota is one of the thirty-six states that utilize Gubernatorial Appointment in this circumstance. Basically, it means the governor is allowed to appoint the interim Senator for the remainder of the term or until the following November when a formal election must be held.”

  “Okay. How does the Governor choose?”

  “He or she doesn’t choose so much, as refines the list of current pre-selected candidates.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The candidates must be of the same political party as the Senator who vacated the seat. If the vacancy occurs before a specific number of days prior to the regular primary – in Minnesota this is six weeks – the election is held the following November. If it occurs within that period of days before the regular primary, the election is held on the second November election after the vacancy occurs. And lastly, but possibly most importantly, the governor makes the appointment by selecting from a list of three provided by the party.”

  A worried frown formed between his brow. “Who were the other two candidates?”

  “What?” Virginia asked.

  “You said the party needs to provide a list of three candidates.” Sam shifted on his seat to take another look at the new Senator. “Obviously she was one of those people. Who were the other two?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Can you find out for me?”

  “Should be able to. It should be public domain.” Virginia opened her smartphone and Googled the list of possible candidates. Three names immediately came up. She ran her eyes across the list. “It says here that the three candidates included Rachel Murphy, who’s the cute, vivacious redhead and Senator Appointee, and two others. It says here, the first of the other two candidates had voluntarily excused himself from the list, citing recent diagnosis of a significant medical illness.”

  “And the second pre-selected candidate?”

  “A man named Malcolm Bennet.”

  Sam glanced over Virginia’s shoulder at her phone, taking in the image of an elderly man with the typical stately appearance of a lifelong politician. “Why wasn’t he selected?”

  “I don’t know.” Virginia clicked on the link next to the man’s name. “There’s an article here that says Mr. Malcolm Bennet stood down as a candidate after the recent loss of his son, who died of a heroin overdose in New York. Bennet is currently in the process of challenging the coroner’s findings, making a statement that his son had never touched heroin in his life and that there must be a mistake. His believes his son was murdered and he intends to find out.”

  An image of the candidate’s son was displayed on the phone. Virginia’s skin paled, her lips parted in a panicked breath. Eyes wide with fear, she dropped her phone down on the table as if it had burnt her fingers.

  Sam picked it up, glanced at the image. “You know this guy?”

  “That’s the suspected drug dealer who overdosed in New York. The same person who I stole a million dollars from.”

  A blank look on his face, Sam silently stared at the picture of the clean cut, young, healthy man. He appeared to be of a similar age as the Senator’s son. Did they go to the same school? Run in the same circles? Were they both killed by the same paid assassin?

  “Don’t you see? This means I was right, the kid wasn’t a drug addict. In fact, if that’s the case, it means it’s more than likely the candidate’s boy was murdered. But why did they leave the cash? For dirty cops on a mob payroll perhaps? Remember, I also found the map in that bag. Was it also left as payment to cover up the crime?

  Sam thought about that for a second, but new implications suddenly struck him like a match set to gasoline. “With the two other candidates already out of the running, that would mean Rachel Murphy already knew she was a sure thing! She must have been responsible for the murder of the Senator and second candidate’s son, just to get into power.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean that Senator Murphy was in on it,” Virginia protested.

  “You don’t think she just murdered two people to place herself in the position as next senator of Minnesota?” Sam asked.

  Virginia expelled a deep breath of air. “If not Rachel Murphy, then it means someone murdered two people to place her there.”

  Sam swore. “Either way, we have a senator who’s a murderer or one who’s being significantly coerced to vote a specific way.”

  “That means before our seven days are up, we also need to find out which one of those statements is correct – and who’s doing the coercing.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Dog Lake, Ontario

  Sam pulled back on the stick of the rented De Haviland, a Canadian-built DHC-3 Otter, climbing above the craggy mountainous coastline laid out below. It was a single engine propeller-driven seaplane, known for its suitability to the rugged Canadian conditions. Tom and Sam had picked it up from Duluth Aviation, under the guise of a week-long fishing and sightseeing vacation.

  Built to seat ten, the plane had been converted to four seats and a substantial cargo area. In the second row, Virginia was checking over the sonar buoy they had brought with them. Tom was entering the co-ordinates of the lake into the onboard navigation screen.

  Sam listened to the steady growl of the 450-kW Pratt & Whitney R-1340 geared radial engine, searching the tone for irregularities or out of place sounds that might spell foreseeable trouble. Finding none, he relaxed and focused his mind on the task ahead. To the left of him, Tom methodically scrutinized the gauges, while searching the horizon.

  Adjusting the plane’s attitude, Sam slanted a casual glimpse at his industrious friend. Comfortable with Tom by his side, Sam thought it reassuring that they were of the same mind, as usual.

  Turning his head, Sam glanced back at Virginia as she absent-mindedly examined the yellow kettle-bell shaped float in her hands. It was heavy, and it made the muscles in Virginia’s biceps and forearms ripple like a set of eels. It was about the size of a basketball, with a tow hook attachment at the front. It had 2 ports for USB, and an old-fashioned video RC cable with rubber grommets on its top.

  “It’s a narrow-beam bathymetry and sonar buoy,” he said over his shoulder, raising his voice above the cabin noise.

  “That’s what I thought it was,” she replied, a wry smile cracking her face.

  Despite her good humor, Sam saw a hardness in her eyes he’d never noticed before. The stress of her father’s situation was starting to tell on her. He thought she must have squared off against thousands of horrors in her lifetime of service to others.

  Up ahead, Sam spotted where the end of the Michipicoten River system flowed into Lake Superior. He banked to the left and pushed the throttle in farther to increase power to the engine. Commencing his climb, he used the river, which originated at the southern outlet of Dog Lake, as a guide.

  The surface of Dog Lake was roughly 1083 feet above sea level, which fluctuated depending on the requirements of the local hydroelectric dam.

  It wasn’t long before they spotted the southern tip of Dog Lake. The large body of water was an irregular shape with multiple islands and basins spread throughout. To the south a series of rapids and falls between Dog Lake and Little Dog Lake could be seen to create a confluence with the Matawin River to form the Kaministiquia River.

  The name Kaministiquia came from the Ojibway First Peoples’ word, meaning, “Where the rivers meet.” It was there, at a crest of a ridge that separated Big and Little Dog Lake, that a large effigy of a dog had been found, from which the lakes took their names. Dug out of the ground, and mounded up with debris, it had been carved out of the crest to form a crude depiction of a dog-like creature.

  Sam checked the topographical map that Yago had given him. A hand-written note identified the location of Jack Holman’s seaplane toward one of the northern arms of the lake, where the Lochalsh River entered from the north. The water was moderately clear to slightly turbid, taking on an
overall yellow-brown color.

  “There it is,” Tom said, pointing over the nose of the plane and down to his left.

  Sam glanced at the shallow beach at the end of the basin, where several boats and another floatplane were tied to a dock. It was summer, and despite the remoteness, the entire region welcomed throngs of adventurers and fishermen who vacationed there.

  He banked to the left, setting up to do a reconnaissance fly-past to rule out any floating logs, small boats, sand bars, or surface debris. He flew over a long distance, making sure his waterway was clear and long enough. The surface of the lake wasn’t rough, a condition that would make it hazardous to land. Worse, though, the water was dead calm.

  A glassy, flat surface reflects like a mirror – one of the most dangerous conditions a seaplane pilot can face. This made it extremely difficult for Sam to judge actual height. When landing on water, one can’t rely on an altimeter. The difference between one foot and ten was a thin line between a safe landing, or flying your plane with power straight into the water and sinking.

  When he was ready, Sam opened his side window, making a sharp bank to the left. Removing his cap and dropped it out the window. His hat fell straight downward, confirming there was no wind within the basin. It landed with a splash, sending a series of circular, undulating ripples flowing outward.

  “Why did you drop your hat?” Virginia asked.

  “Ripples,” he curtly replied, utterly focused on landing his craft.

  Sam flew a sharp, 180 degrees turn and set up for his final approach. He set the flaps to thirty degrees, reduced power, and brought the de-Havilland DHC-3 Otter into a glide. Using peripheral vision for cues, he observed the height of trees on shore, his eyes carefully observing the ripples on the water.

  Just above the surface, he raised the nose. This made the aircraft flare, meaning to lose lift and stall, slowing its descent, causing its twin pontoons to softly hydroplane for a moment before it sank gently into the water.

  “Nice,” Virginia murmured. “I barely felt that.”

  “Sam knows planes,” Tom observed, a note of pride in his voice.

  Sam reduced the engine to an idle, before powering off. The engine coughed and the propeller stopped spinning. Unclipping his belt, he opened the door, and climbed down the ladder. Holding onto the wing support, he reached down and picked up his hat that was floating on the surface of the water.

  Sam shook the excess water off his cap, jauntily placed it back on his head. Stunned, surprised, and a little awed, Virginia, standing at the door to the plane, laughed out loud. Tom muttered, “Show off,” under his breath, but he chuckled, too.

  “All right,” Sam said, beaming a crooked, boyish grin. “Let’s go find Holman’s sunken aircraft.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sam idled the DHC-3 Otter to the edge of the silty, sandy basin. Once there, he and Virginia used a set of ropes to secure the aircraft, tying it between the base of two conifer trees. Tom opened the luggage hatch at the back of the aircraft, and nudged the container for the self-inflating twelve-foot Zodiac out the door into the water.

  On landing onto water, the sensors in the casing fired the carbon-dioxide and nitrogen canisters. This inflated the boat in a matter of seconds. The three climbed in, and Tom started the two horsepower Suzuki outboard. He lowered the propeller, and headed out into the deep water of the basin.

  Once they were about fifty feet out, and the water was deep enough that Sam could be confident that they wouldn’t snag anything on the shallow reeds, he dropped the sonar transducer buoy and commenced towing it in a large grid formation.

  Closing in on the third grid, less than twenty minutes into their search, Sam spotted the outline of a metal object beneath the water. The sonar started to ping, indicating something man-made had been located. Sam increased the frequency of the sonar’s soundwaves, which improved the quality of the image. It was good, but nothing like the bathymetric equipment used on board Sam’s salvage vessel, the Maria Helena.

  “Our luck is in.” Sam grinned. “That’s never happened before!”

  “What?” Virginia asked.

  “Luck… we’ve never found something on the first run,” Tom answered.

  Sam shook his head. “He’s right. That honestly never happens. After all these years of silence, who would have thought old Yago was telling the truth?”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It took nearly forty minutes to set up their closed-circuit rebreathers and diving paraphernalia. They carried additional oxygen tanks and dropped spare oxygen tanks at multiple pre-arranged safety decompression stops from a dive line attached to a large orange buoy.

  There was a reason Yago never tried to reach his father’s plane, and it wasn’t just the depth of the wreck. Altitude diving was dangerous – even for a trained diver. Diving a hundred feet at altitude was much different than being submerged to a hundred feet at sea level.

  Few dive charts existed to correctly identify the rate in which compressed nitrogen dissipated from one’s blood stream. The charts that did, such as those produced by the U.S. Navy, showed decompression sickness rates with a base line of sea level. None give depths at altitude.

  Jack Holman’s plane was buried under 350 feet of water, but also 1083 above sea level. Thus, the rate of decompression sickness would be in the realm of an educated guess.

  Sam and Tom had no desire to push the limits, so they decided to make a bounce-dive. Racing to the bottom, searching the wreck and getting the hell out of there. It would then take nearly four hours to complete the decompression stops and reach the surface. Sam just hoped the batteries for his undergarment infrared heating system lasted that long.

  He finished checking his equipment and turned to Tom. “Are you good to go?”

  “Good to go,” Tom confirmed.

  Virginia said, “I’ll have a fire going and some soup heated by the time you get back. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said, noticing her anxious expression. “We’re going to find this thing and then we’re going to get your father back.”

  “I know,” she said. “Just don’t get yourself killed in the process.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Sam rolled backwards into the water, letting himself fall free from the Zodiac. He checked his gauges, searched for Tom, and confirmed that all was ready to go. A moment later, he deflated his buoyancy wing and began the long journey to the bottom of the lake.

  It took nearly twenty-five minutes to reach the bottom of the lake. At a depth of 350 feet the pressure exerted on their bodies was the equivalent of a little more than ten atmospheres, which meant their time at this depth needed to be short. The dive line deposited them just about right on top of Jack Holman’s wrecked aircraft.

  Sam fixed his flashlight on the seaplane.

  The visibility was excellent – surprisingly better at this depth than on the surface. The icy cold water made the perfect environment for preserving the aircraft. Sam recalled how the float plane had never crashed, but as Yago had told him, Stanford had intentionally sunk it after murdering Holman. Now, the sunken seaplane looked like a museum grade display of a 1920s aircraft lying in a bed of marine life to make the focus point of a manmade reef.

  On the lakebed beside the open hatchway, a small pile of equipment, books, and personal belongings could be seen strewn across the ground. Despite their disordered clutter, as though a kid had simply thrown them out of the aircraft, they appeared amazingly well preserved.

  He kicked his fins and headed toward the still open hatchway midway down the fuselage. Shining his beam across the aircraft, he noticed there was a fine layer of silt which had built up over the metal structure over the decades. It was to be expected, no matter how cold the environment. He stopped at the opening and spotted something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  A single hand-print in the soft silt, indicated someone else had tried to open the door recently.

  Sam’s eyes raked the internal
edge of the fuselage and the hatchway. There were another three handprints there. Tom’s beam flicked across the hatch and then stopped.

  Sam entered the aircraft. The inside of the entire fuselage, aft cargo bay, and cockpit were all stripped bare. Anything that wasn’t bolted down had been removed. He swam up to the cockpit. Maps and maintenance books, which would have ordinarily been stored in the open console between the two pilot seats, were all missing. He flicked his flashlight around the cockpit. There was nothing else to see.

  He turned around in the narrow compartment and headed back out through the opening.

  Tom met him at the hatchway. “Let me guess… we weren’t the first to reach the wreck?”

  “It looks like it.”

  Tom turned his focus to the pile of junk that lay next to the languishing float plane. “It looks like someone else was looking for Holman’s journal, too.”

  Sam sighed. “Yes, and it looks like someone else beat us to it.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It took nearly four hours to reach the surface.

  They weren’t taking any chances with decompression stops, given their altitude. It was a long, slow, and cold process. Sam felt hypothermia start to encapsulate him by the time they reached the surface and Virginia met them with the Zodiac.

  Tom climbed on board first and then helped pull his friend up.

  Sam removed his facemask.

  Virginia met his eye. “You didn’t find it, did you?”

  “No. Someone else beat us to it. Must have been recent. Maybe even in the last few days.”

  Her face became instantly etched in pain and fear. “It’s all right. We’ll work something out.”

  “Yeah. I’ll have Elise track down the rest of my crew from the Maria Helena. They were owed some hard-earned vacation time and are currently scattered throughout the globe. They’re an eclectic bunch, each professional to their core. Holiday or not, my crew will come running if I tell them I need help. Together, we’ll come up with a plan to find your dad.”