Sam’s lips curled into a wry smile. “You’re telling us that no one’s dived on her since she sank?”
Senator Perry shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of.”
“Is it strictly forbidden?” Tom asked.
“No. Just highly frowned upon. Only someone as stupid as my own son would even attempt to break it.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
The senator met Sam’s eye. “Forgetting the obvious implication of trespassing on the tomb of those pour souls who lost their lives?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Have you ever dived in Lake Superior?” the Senator asked.
“No, never.”
“Well. She’s a special kind of lake. Of the five Great Lakes, she’s the only one that’s composed entirely of freshwater, and as such, she likes to preserve and hold onto her precious shipwrecks, in a way that no other lakes are capable of.”
Sam was interested. “Go on.”
“As you know, it’s not just her depth that’s lethal. The real problem with trying to reach the inside of the J.F. Johnson is the temperature. The water is too cold to use Heliox because the helium enriched air freezes.”
Sam said, “So you’re confined to an extremely deep air dive.”
“Exactly. The locals call it diving to seven margaritas.”
Sam smiled at the analogy. “Because they reckon the nitrogen built up in their bloodstream for every thirty-three feet of water – or single atmosphere – is the equivalent of having another cocktail?”
“Yeah, something like that.” The senator continued. “Even if the nitrogen narcosis doesn’t cause you to do something really stupid that gets you killed, you still have the problem of bottom time. At 205 feet you’re going to have a maximum of about ten minutes to enter the J.F Johnson, get out and start your ascent – even then, you’re going to be uncomfortable as all hell in the cold for nearly a hundred minutes while you decompress.”
“At 200 feet oxygen becomes toxic.” Sam met the Senator with his jaw set firm. “Only a fool would try to dive the J.F. Johnson on air tanks. Very few divers would survive more than a few minutes at that depth, diving on straight air tanks alone. No, they would need to be using helium enriched, Heliox or better yet, a combination of helium, nitrogen and oxygen, called, Trimix.”
“Yeah, well, according to a couple cowboys who run the local SCUBA diving tours on the lake, there’s been a few who have made it on air alone…” the Senator sighed. “And a few who haven’t ever returned to the surface again.”
Tom thought about that statement. “I suppose if they managed the intoxicating effects of nitrogen narcosis at those depths, they might just get lucky and not die from oxygen toxicity. But you’d need a heck of a lot of dive tanks for the lengthy deco stops?”
Senator Perry shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter. At that depth, the lake remains a constant 36 degrees Fahrenheit all year round. I don’t care how thick your dry suit is, you won’t last a minute longer than that in the water without freezing to death.”
“What about an atmospheric dive suit?” Sam suggested.
“One of those big machines that make you look like the Michelin-man, used by commercial divers on oil rigs?” the senator asked.
Sam nodded and then shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”
“Too big. It would never fit inside the narrow confines of the wreck. No, to get inside the bridge, you would need to dive in nothing thicker than a dry suit.”
Sam nodded. He understood the problem. If he had to dive it, he and Tom had the knowledge and means to overcome it without getting themselves killed.
If they had to dive the J.F. Johnson.
“I’m not worried about the temperature or the depth. We can overcome those the same as any other professional tech diver.”
“Really?” The senator was surprised. “How?”
“We brought closed-circuit rebreathers instead of SCUBA.” Sam grinned. “And electrically heated undergarments, that directly heat the torso, back and abdomen. They were originally designed for use in the military, but in all things, as commercial demand increased, the technology moved toward the realms of the everyday consumer, recreational divers. Pretty much all the major players in diving equipment now offer their own version, including, Golem, DUI Blue Heat, and Santi.”
“Even so, the helium’s going to dry and cool your lungs until your entire body freezes from the inside out, and hypothermia kills you as quickly as drowning or the bends.”
Sam smiled, patiently. He’d heard this argument for decades. Fact was, helium feels colder on your skin than air, but it carries away less heat when you breathe it. “Actually, a recent study conducted by the British Navy concluded there’s no difference in core temperature heat loss in divers at depth using Heliox versus regular Air.”
The Senator smiled. “Sure. Try telling that to the local tech divers who visit the icy bottom of Lake Superior.”
Sam continued without taking the bait. “Besides, we’ll be using fully closed-circuit rebreathers.”
Senator Perry looked blank. “And that’s supposed to keep the cold out?”
Sam nodded. “In rebreathers, the scrubbing of CO2 from the breathing gas is an exothermic chemical reaction, meaning it produces heat. The reaction’s by-product is water vapor, making the overall result of the rebreather’s function causing the diver to breath warm, moist breathing gas. With rebreathers, the exhaled breath is re-circulated, which means that the moisture level is maintained. The loop gas is typically at 100% humidity and is much warmer than the surrounding water.”
“Sounds great. I’m still glad you’re diving it and not me.”
Sam barely considered the implications of such a dive. Instead, he returned to the image allegedly taken of the submerged J.F. Johnson.
He examined the shipwreck for a few seconds and then turned the photo over. There was a single, hand-written note on the back.
Sam’s eyes rolled across the words and his lips curled into a grin.
Dad, I found it! This changes everything. History will need to be rewritten!
Chapter Two
Sam glanced out the window that looked upon the glistening water of Lake Superior. He put the photo back on the table, still trying to make sense of it.
His gaze turned to the senator. “Your son dived to Lake Superior’s bottom and entered the wreckage?”
“Like I said, only my son would go off and do something this stupid,” Senator Perry replied. “That was the last photo he sent to me.”
The large Minnesotan sat across from Sam and reclined into a mahogany trimmed, green leather desk chair that was clearly custom made to suit his ample frame perfectly. Though he had not stood when Sam and Tom had entered the office, Sam guessed his height at six feet six inches. His tailored suit and vintage Bolo tie portrayed everything a Minnesotan voter expected from a Senator, and his demeanor was benevolent and engaging. His reputation as an accomplished politician appeared well-deserved.
“Do you know what he was referring to?” Sam asked.
“Not a clue.” The Senator held his hands facing upward in a supplicant gesture and sighed. “What I do know is that my son was obsessed with the story of a man named Jack Holman, who had come out here in the early twenties after the war to get away from civilization. Holman owned a custom-built float plane, which he used to deliver cargo throughout the Great Lakes and into Canada in the North. One day he made reference to finding the remains of a Meskwaki Native American campsite where a natural spring flowed with gold.”
“It flowed with gold?” Sam asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
The Senator grinned, revealing his own cynicism. “Hey, I’m just telling you about the legend.”
Tom asked, “Did Holman ever return with the gold?”
“No, but he tended to always have money, so the legend continued to grow.”
“But no one ever found the Meskwaki Gold Spring?”
“No.”
Sam no
dded. “And you think this is what your son is after?”
“It’s the only guess I have so far,” the Senator replied.
“What about this Holman character?” Sam asked. “Whatever happened to him?”
The Senator stared at the lake, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but his mind appeared much further away. “Jack Holman was a local hero and a legend who was larger than life. Some have even argued that he never existed at all. That he was just the manifestation of every token adventurer and traveler, but the British War Records would argue differently.”
“British War Records?” Sam asked.
“Yes. Holman received a number of medals flying a Sopwith Tabloid as a scout during the First World War. At the time, it was one of the fastest floatplanes in the world. When he came back, he built his own modified version, and flew it all across the U.S. – Canadian border for nearly a decade.”
Sam persisted. “What happened to him?”
“Rumor has it he crashed in the late twenties into a lake. No one ever found the wreck of his plane, or his body.”
“What was your son’s interest in him?” Sam asked. “Was it just idle interest in another man who wanted to get away from the world, delving into the pristine landscapes of the secluded Canadian mountains?”
“No. There was more to it, too.”
“Go on?”
“Holman was a flying ace. In 1925 he won the Schneider Cup. Do you know what that is?”
Sam nodded. “Set up by Jacques Schneider, the son of a well-known French steel and arms manufacturer who believed that floatplanes were the most practical military and civilian design, since they could fly to any country with a coast, a river, or a lake without the construction of expensive airfields. On December 5, 1912, he declared a competition in which he appealed to manufacturers of marine aircraft to develop the world’s fastest airplane.”
The Senator nodded. “Like I said, Holman was really something of a legend. During prohibition, it was said that he flew cases of alcohol for a local bootlegging mob. The police wanted him, but he was never caught.”
“There’s more to it?” Sam asked.
“In 1931 Holman reportedly found the Meskwaki Gold Spring. He even brought back some small pieces of gold to prove it. Apparently, before he could bring a team in to recoup the gold, he had an accident and crashed. But others have suggested that maybe he was killed, his floatplane intentionally shot down.”
“Because of the gold?”
Senator Perry nodded. “Some think it could have been because of the gold, but others think it might have been a rival bootlegging mob. They killed him in a violent organized crime driven turf-war.”
“And your son thinks something from the wreck of the J. F. Johnson revealed the truth?”
“It appears so.”
Tom said, “And it will change history…”
“What happened to Holman?”
“He found it, but apparently there was too much for him to carry out on his little plane, so he sent a team back to Oshkosh, Wisconsin to bring in an expedition to retrieve the gold.”
Sam smiled. “Let me guess. They came in on board the J.F Johnson?”
The Senator nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“So, you think your son might have found this gold?”
“I don’t know, but that’s why you two fine gentlemen are here.”
A silence hung in the air as Sam and Tom mulled over what the Senator had said. Tom gave Sam a look which intoned he was interested and Sam should start asking some questions.
Sam finally broke the silence. “Sir, do you want to start from the beginning here?”
Senator Perry sighed. He rose from his chair and moved to a sideboard where a pair of crystal decanters stood on a silver platter with matching heavy based whisky glasses. He poured himself 3 fingers and raised the decanter to the two men in offer. Again, both waved a polite no thank you.
Sam was struck by the size of the man, he was overweight, and on his frame, Sam guessed his weight at around 400 pounds. A big man. Probably once a powerful man, but now political luncheons as a way of life had taken their toll. His skin was red compared to the light tan of his suit, and his fingers thick and bloated.
Replacing the crystal stopper, the Senator spoke “I blame myself. If my wife, God rest her soul, was still alive today, none of this ever would have happened.”
Sam made a thin-lipped smile. “Go on.”
“We’re a wealthy family. Always have been. My grandfather worked hard, so did my father. I went to Stanford Law for the betterment of my fellow Americans.”
“But your son wasn’t interested in the family tradition?”
The Senator sighed, heavily. “No. Fact is, my son’s an incredibly intelligent man and a lousy student.”
Sam and Tom remained silent.
The Senator finally continued. “He completed school as a solid C average student. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t disappointed, but after my wife passed away, I viewed things very differently.”
“You wanted him to go to university?”
“Of course I wanted him to go to university. We’re Perrys, we all have law degrees. But my son was never going to get through law. He might have achieved a C average in high school simply by showing up, but not law. No, I could have paid to get him in of course, but he never would have completed it.”
“So, what happened?”
The Senator expelled a deep breath of air. “Well, I gave him something none of the Perry fathers gave their sons.”
“What was that?”
“I let him choose what he wanted to do.” The Senator studied their impassive faces, searching for signs of a rebuke. When none were forthcoming, he continued. “We come from old money. That was never my concern for my son. Fact was, he never had to work a day in his life. I told him as much. I didn’t even care. Hell, my wife was a good woman, a hard-working person, and look what happened to her – she died before she got to have any time for herself. So I let my son choose.”
“What did he choose?”
“Well, like his hero Mr. Jack Holman he bought himself a floatplane.” The Senator paused again, his eyes squeezed tight as though the memories alone were painful. “He started spending a lot of time flying and diving the Great Lakes.”
“What was he looking for?” Sam asked.
“Nothing really. A good time. He saw himself as an adventurer. A wild treasure hunter. It was all fun and games. I figured I’d let him go and enjoy himself. At least he was doing something. He got his pilot’s license with a floatplane endorsement. Then his diving ticket. He told me he got into something called tech-diving, which went well and beyond the depth of recreational divers.”
“And that’s what brought him out here?” Sam asked.
The Senator nodded. “Yes. I believe he came up here to search for something related to that damned ship. But what he found on board led him to something completely different, where no one has seen him for nearly three weeks.”
“Why us?” Sam asked.
"Mr. Reilly your reputation precedes you as one of the most inventive and indeed successful treasure hunters on the globe. You may name your price, Sir, and I will meet it if you are successful. My interest is with the welfare and whereabouts of my son, but I also believe there's a decent chance you may find a prize to equal any of your previous conquests during the course of the investigation.” The Senator turned to face him. “I need your help.”
“But you’re already rich,” Sam said. “You’re not interested in the gold.”
“No. I’ve lost my son. All I’m interested in is my son.”
“What about the Police? Have you filed a missing-persons?”
“They’re not interested. There’s no sign he’s dead. He just hasn’t made contact with anyone for three weeks.”
“Is that unusual for him?”
“It is. He usually asks me to send money to his bank account when it runs out, which it does often.”
“He
spends big?” Sam asked.
The Senator sighed, sheepishly. “I send him what he needs and not a penny more. He has a shared bank account. I deposit money when he runs out.”
“You keep him on a short financial leash?”
The Senator nodded. “It’s the only way I can be certain he’ll be in contact with me.”
Sam nodded, it was a noncommitted gesture. He wasn’t there to judge, just to find the kid. “What about the bank account?”
“What about it?”
“You said it was a joint account?”
“Yeah, why?”
“So, you can see if he’s been spending anything lately?”
“Yeah. There’s nothing.”
“When was the last withdrawal?”
“Three weeks ago. It was a mighty big one, too. Nearly two hundred thousand dollars in cash, leaving the account nearly empty.” The Senator shook his head. “I expected my son to ask for more money – I’d even prepared my response that he was being frivolous and I was tempted to cut him off – but instead, he never called.”
“What would your son have wanted with two hundred grand?”
“I have no idea.”
Sam looked at the photograph of the old shipwreck. “Look. From what you’ve told me, your son was involved in a lot of high risk-taking activities. Flying floatplanes through the alpine lakes, and tech-diving wrecks are both pretty dangerous activities.”
“I know what you think,” Senator Perry sighed, heavily. “My son’s most likely dead.”
Sam nodded. “It’s a possibility.”
“I can’t explain it. But I don’t think my son’s dead.” The Senator put his palms outward in a placating gesture. “I know, you’re going to assume I’m a father who lost his son, and is hoping for the best. But I just know, the way only a father could, that my son is still alive.”
“What do you think happened?”
“My guess. He found a new lead on board the J.F. Johnson shipwreck, and that led him off on a completely different tangent.”
Sam said, “Find that lead, and we might find your son.”
The Ironclad Covenant (Sam Reilly Book 10) Page 4
