Sam was intrigued by the possibilities, but glad Tom focused him to their initial dive-plan. A prolonged expedition inside the bowels of the J.F. Johnson could prove fatal without better preparation.
The ship was a 251-foot steel Tramp-Steamer, a cargo vessel built in Lorain, Ohio by the American Ship Building Company and launched in 1924. She was powered by a triple-expansion steam engine producing 2500 hp. Sam knew the rough layout of the ship from the plans they had studied prior to the dive, but because they’d been told only the wheelhouse was accessible he hadn’t bothered to really study and memorize the internal layout below decks.
They were careful not to disturb the ultrafine silt layer that lay on the walls-turned-floor that they now navigated forward toward the wheelhouse. If the dust became a cloud, their visibility would become zero and they could become disoriented or even separated. Aside from the flashlight, it was pitch darkness, so the men’s progress was slow and cautious. For added insurance, Sam trailed a small red guideline from a spring-loaded spool on his hip.
Sam turned left, swimming along the once steep metal steps which were now nearly horizontal due to the listing of the vessel, and into the large wheelhouse. The entire room still glowed with the eerie green glow of the luminescent stick he’d dropped minutes earlier. He made a mental note to stop using green and pick a less creepy color.
He carefully made his way past the four ghostly sailors. There could be any number of places to search. He shined his flashlight across the large, pine wheel, that looked perfectly intact. He slowly moved toward it, trying to see what the Senator’s son might have spotted.
Ignoring the bodies, he moved toward the navigation station – next to the captain’s quarters. He swam slowly, careful not to stir up nine decades worth of silt.
Reaching the navigation station, he shined his flashlight inside and then swore – because, written in large red letters, were the words –
STANFORD STOLE THE MESKWAKI GOLD SPRING. I CAN, TOO.
Chapter Five
Sam took another sip of the beef stew. It was thick and hot, but not too hot that it couldn’t be quickly consumed. He felt the contents warm him from the inside. When he’d finished, his hand continued to cup the mug in an attempt to extract its heat. It was doing the job, too. He noticed his hands no longer shook uncontrollably, and sensation resembling normality, had finally returned to his extremities.
Noticing that he and Tom had finally warmed enough to concentrate, the Senator asked, “Well, did you find anything?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, but I have no idea what it meant.”
The Senator’s jaw was set firm and his body tense. His voice was eager as he asked, “What was it?”
Sam heaped another ladle of stew into his mug. “Someone else – maybe your son – has been down there recently. Whoever it was, they left a clue at the navigation station within the wheelhouse. It was written in big, red, capital letters so that no diver who entered the room could possibly miss it.”
“What did it say?”
“Stanford stole the Meskwaki Gold Spring. I can, too.”
The Senator’s eyes widened and his face was suddenly drawn and pale. He tried to speak. Choked. Like his tongue was too try to talk. Swallowed. And then shook his head, collecting his composure, he said, “Any idea what the hell that could mean?”
“Not a clue. We were kind of hoping the words would mean something to you.”
Perry took a deep breath. “No. I’ve never heard any of it before.”
Tom said, “What about the Meskwaki Gold Spring? Weren’t you worried that David had run off in search of the ancient treasure – a local myth in these parts of the world dating back to early European explorers?”
Catching his lie with the speed of an adept politician, he said, “Yes, well, of course I’ve heard of that. But like you said, it’s merely a myth about an ancient treasure.”
“But your son was interested in it,” Tom persisted.
“Yes, but my son’s a fool. There’s nothing here that gives us any indication where this would have led David to search for the fabled treasure.”
“What about Stanford?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know any Stanford.” The Senator closed his eyes, as though searching old memories. He opened them again and sighed. “Besides, if Stanford did in fact steal the treasure years ago, it would indicate my son has no need to go searching for it.”
Sam smiled. “Unless he wants to steal it?”
“No. My son’s many things, but he’s not a thief. Besides, there’s nothing about this statement that indicates where the Meskwaki treasure – if it even exists at all – was taken.”
“You’re right,” Sam agreed. “So, we’ll analyze the photos we took inside the wheelhouse and then, if nothing comes up, we’ll plan a second dive. This one, a much more protracted one with significant decompression stops.”
“Why?” The Senator asked, his voice somehow tense and full of concern. “There’s nowhere else to explore except for the wheelhouse. I told you before, it’s the only hatchway locked permanently in the open position. The rest of the ship’s hatches have rusted in the closed position.”
“Yeah, about that…” Sam paused.
The Senator’s thick curly eyebrows narrowed. “What?”
Sam watched as the Annabelle May swung round on her mooring buoy, with the evening change in the wind. When it had finished, he fixed his penetrating blue eyes square on the Senator’s face, studying for a reaction as he spoke.
“We found an open hatchway leading to a set of stairs that descended into the main hull of the J.F. Johnson. What’s more, it looks like someone’s gone to the trouble of recently replacing the hinges so the door can be opened and closed at will.”
Chapter Six
“It can’t be!” Senator Perry didn’t even attempt to hide the fear in his voice. “The ship was supposed to be permanently sealed. Any hatches leading inside the main hull were welded shut more than ten years ago.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. It might cost my son his life – if it hasn’t already.” Perry stood up, took two paces and then stopped. “Oh David… what have you gotten yourself into!”
Sam stood up to support the Senator. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry gentlemen. I need to leave straight away.”
“Leave?” Sam asked. “Where?”
“New York.”
“Why? What do you have to do in New York?”
Senator Perry swallowed hard. “Plead for my son’s life.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
“No. I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry to have wasted your valuable time. I’ll contact my pilot, who can come and airlift me to Duluth, where I can catch a flight to New York immediately. If you two would be so kind as to return the Annabelle May to her mooring, my house manager will arrange for someone to pick you up. Better yet, stay on board for a few days. I’ll let my house manager know you’ve got the Annabelle May. Have a short vacation at my expense. It will look better that way. What do you say?”
“Senator Perry,” Sam said. “Please, there must be something we can do to help?”
“No. Really, the best thing you could do for me now is forget the entire thing has ever happened. Forget about my request for you to search for my son, forget about Stanford, and for God’s sake forget about what you found on board the J.F. Johnson!”
Sam thought about it for a moment, watching sweat drip off the Senator’s neck in the icy cold wind. The man’s face had turned ashen, and for a moment Sam thought the man was about to have a heart attack.
“All right. We’ll forget about it. Look, you have my number. If there’s anything we can do to help, just give me a call.” Sam offered his hand. “I realize that you have powerful friends and ample resources at your disposal, but if you need help, I have a lot of connections who can help in… how do I put it… difficult times.”
; The Senator took his hand and gripped it with a firm shake. “I appreciate that. Really, I do. Look, send me a bill for your time up until now and I’ll send you the money.”
Sam shook his head. “It’s not about the money. I don’t need your money. I was here because I was genuinely intrigued by your prospect of finding your son who’d considered himself a bit of a treasure hunter and disappeared on the trail – but now I’m genuinely worried about you and your son. So, I don’t offer my services lightly. I have people who can help. No matter what your son’s stumbled into.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. But I’m hoping I can go fix this myself.”
“All right.”
Thirty minutes later, Sam watched as the Senator’s private helicopter whisked him away, leaving Sam and Tom in possession of the Annabelle May.
Tom expelled a deep breath of air. “Well, that was a surprise, wasn’t it?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, who would have thought that we’d see something stranger than the bottom of Lake Superior today!”
“Did you see the Senator’s response when you told him about the second opened hatchway?”
“Yeah, he practically screamed, let me out of here.”
“I’d love to know what he’s really doing in New York.”
Sam untied and then dropped the mooring line. “Yeah, whatever it is, I don’t think the Senator’s off to have a good time.”
They made their way up to the bridge. Sam pressed the start button and the twin MTU diesel-electric marine engines roared into life. He set a course for Duluth, pushed the twin throttles all the way forward, and the Annabelle May quickly started to aquaplane until she was cruising just shy of forty knots.
“You still want to work for him?” Tom asked, his voice serious.
“Who said anything about working for the Senator?” Sam grinned. “I’m interested in what happened to his son and this ancient Meskwaki Gold Spring.”
“So, we’re not leaving Lake Superior yet?”
“No way in hell. There’s answers hidden deep inside the wreckage of the J.F. Johnson that someone’s gone to great lengths to keep hidden – Senator Perry included – and I want to find out what those are.”
Chapter Seven
Sam and Tom spent the better part of the next day in Duluth.
They spoke to a local pilot named Jeff Gads, who chartered his floatplane for scenic tours over Lake Superior. The man had said that he’d met David Perry a few months ago after the two of them got to talking about nearby lakes on the Canada side where a pilot could put down easily if he had to. Jeff had said that the kid seemed like a genuinely nice guy – particularly for a rich kid.
Sam had steered the conversation toward the Meskwaki Gold Spring. The pilot told him he’d heard of the legend, but as far as he knew, no one had ever found it, although some had claimed to find large amounts of gold in the rivers leading into Lake Superior.
Next, they headed over to the local dive shop that offered guided dives to tourists on any of the estimated six thousand shipwrecks lying in pristine waters at the bottom of Lake Superior. Out in front of the dive shop, someone was getting into a Lamborghini Urus. Sam recognized it only because of its hubris combination of Lamborghini’s traditional supercar being jammed into an attempt at an everyday SUV for millionaires. He waved at the driver – a young guy who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five – who politely waved back. Beneath the brake lights was a bumper sticker that read, I dive Lake Superior looking for treasure.
Tom laughed at the arrogance. “Looks like he must have found some.”
Sam looked at the remaining car parked in the front of the dive shop – a Porsche Cayenne Turbo, with the same stupid bumper sticker. “Looks like the treasure hunting business is booming.”
They walked into the building. Inside, it was no different than any other dive-shop they’d been in around the world, with the exception that there was more emphasis on heated dry suits due to the freezing climate.
A young man with a convivial smile greeted them. “Can I help you gentlemen with anything?”
“I hope so. My name’s Sam Reilly and this is Tom Bower. We’re looking for a friend who came up here to do some diving recently. We’re kind of hoping you might have seen him around here and better yet, have some idea where he’s headed.”
“Sure. Who’s your friend?”
“David Perry.”
The dive operator’s lips curled into a broad grin. “Senator Perry’s kid?”
Sam matched his smile. “That’d be the one. Have you seen him?”
“Sure have. He was in here… gosh… let me think, a little over three weeks ago. He filled up some tanks with Trimix and straight Oxygen. He likes to use a rebreather. Increases his bottom time, although how long he could possibly want to stay down in Lake Superior, beats me.”
Sam took the hook. “Did he say where he was headed?”
“No.”
“Did he come in here often?”
“Sure did. He dived pretty much every day for about a month through Summer.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Did he mention what he was looking for?”
“No. But it was pretty obvious. He was after treasure – even offered to hire someone to help him go searching for a wrecked seaplane.”
“Did you?”
“Did we, what?”
“Help find the wrecked seaplane?”
“No. In the end, he didn’t have the faintest idea where to look.” The diver made a wry smile, like the kid was an idiot. “Fact was, he was a rich kid out on a treasure hunt with no knowledge and no experience for how to find what he was after.”
“Right…” Sam was starting to get the picture. “Did he mention where he was headed three weeks ago?”
“No.” The diver paled. “Do you think he’s all right? He was just some dumb rich kid, but he was a good man.”
“I don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.” Sam wrote his cell phone number on a dive pad and left it with the man. “If David happens to stop in or anyone you know sees him, can you please give me a call?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What was your name?” Sam asked.
The diver offered his hand, “Mark Smith.”
Sam took it, glancing at the Rolex on the man’s wrist. “Thank you for your time, Mark Smith.”
They were about to leave, when Tom asked, “Have you ever dived the J.F. Johnson?”
“No. Never. It’s not really the sort of dive tourists like to be taken.”
“Why’s that?” Tom asked.
“For starters it’s a very deep, cold, technical dive. But more importantly, it’s considered bad taste to visit. Four men lost their lives when she went down back in 1931. Those who have dived her, report seeing the four men still at their positions keeping spectral watch from the wheelhouse. No, my recommendation to anyone interested in diving her, is to leave those men to rest in peace.”
Tom lowered his head, respectfully. “Of course, that sounds reasonable. I only ask because I’d heard David mention it a few times over the years, so I wondered if he may have dived it.”
“He could have.” Mark sighed. “And if he did, it’s very likely it might have cost him his life. It’s a difficult dive and extremely dangerous. I wouldn’t recommend diving it.”
Sam ended the conversation, before Tom could continue it any further. “We’ll take that into consideration. Thanks again for your help.”
Thirty seconds later, Sam and Tom stepped out of the dive shop and started walking back to the Annabelle May.
Sam said, “Anything seem odd about that?”
“Anything not seem strange?” Tom blinked. “Yeah, what’s a local dive operator charging less than a hundred dollars a dive running a multi-million-dollar Beneteau as a dive yacht?”
“Exactly.”
Sam walked a few more paces and then grinned. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“It’s been staring
at us in the face all this time.”
“What?”
“Don’t you see. The expensive boat, European cars, the Rolex watch… the tourist dive boat is shipping contraband.”
“On board the J.F. Johnson?”
“No. But something inside it betrays their secret involvement.” Sam paused for a moment and then grinned. “And Senator Perry knows about it.”
A wry smile formed on Tom’s lips as he thought about that. “Sure, that fits. But how are you going to prove a thing like that?”
“I don’t have to. Just watch this.”
Tom had a bemused smile on his face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
Sam turned around and walked back into the dive shop.
Mark, the dive operator greeted him. “What did you forget?”
“One more thing I just remembered I meant to ask you about.” Sam’s voice was intentionally soft, timid, almost meek. “Do you have time?”
The dive operator nodded. “Shoot.”
Sam’s lips formed a coy smile of indifference, but his eyes focused on the dive operator’s face, waiting for a reaction. “When David Perry – Senator Perry’s son – dived the wheelhouse of the J.F. Johnson a little over three weeks ago, he wrote his father, telling him he’d found some sort of irrefutable evidence regarding the location of the Meskwaki Gold Spring.”
“Okay…” the dive operator said, noncommittally.
“Any idea what that could have been referring to?”
“No, not a clue.”
Sam took a deep breath, holding it for just a moment and then made a theatrical sigh. “We’re thinking about diving the J.F. Johnson tomorrow morning, see what we can find. Do you want to join us?”
Mark’s eyes widened and he visibly took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we already have clients booked to dive the Lafayette tomorrow. But please, let us know how you do.”
“Okay, great, we will – and if you think of anything, let us know.”
“Of course.” If there was still any doubt about his involvement, the dive operator squashed it when he then lied. “By the way, I’ve never even heard of the Meskwaki Gold Spring.”
The Ironclad Covenant (Sam Reilly Book 10) Page 6
