by Chris Howard
Wilraven gave her a grin, and would have welcomed a hug or a “howdy.” April punched him in the arm instead, returning the grin with some mischief in it.
“Here you go, Jayson, direct from Wade Corkran.” She was one of the few people on the planet who ever used his full first name, and she managed to make the charterer’s name drip with sarcasm. Fixing a smirk on her face, she handed over the bill before turning to oversee the transfer of a dozen watertight stack-boxes and big blue plastic sacks.
Wilraven scanned the unusual format of the sheet: two neat columns of supplies, mostly meat and fresh vegetables, with a separate block of non-edibles. It wasn’t the two-column format that threw him, it was the weird quantities. “Why are we getting thirteen pounds of cabbage? And seven pounds of broccoli? Exactly seven pounds? What the hell is this, April?”
She was only half listening, taking some questions from Olad and directing a couple of the ABs—able seamen—to carry supplies aboard the Marcene.
Over her shoulder, she said, “That’s how your asshole charterer wanted things itemized. Not the standard fives, tens, twenties, hundreds of usual shipments. Exactly like that.” She turned back to him with an irritated look on her face, jabbing a finger as if Wilraven had dragged her into some sort of lunacy. “He made that extremely clear.”
Wilraven tried to counter with an apologetic smile. “Yeah.” Corkran might be clinically paranoid. He was afraid to get near the water, but with a “hand-picked” security detail and seven fucking pounds of broccoli, he seemed to have no problem dictating every tiny action on the ship.
Idiot.
A few minutes later, Wilraven’s phone buzzed. “Corkran?”
“Did you get your supplies, Captain?”
“In the process.” He waited a moment to see if Corkran was going to explain the craziness. Another few seconds of silence and Wilraven tried to prompt him with, “A bit of an odd bill of lading.”
“Yes. That is my doing. I didn’t want to give you the longitude and latitude over the . . . ” He stopped as if distracted by something. A few seconds later, he finished. “Over the . . . air.”
The way he said the last word made Wilraven look around for enemies. There was a prickle up the back of his neck. Damn, the man was making him crazy, and even over the phone he could feel Corkran looking up and scanning the skies for winged spies or assassin drones.
Maybe ninjas?
Wilraven cleared his throat. “So what does the bill have to do with the location of the Serina Beliz?” He kept the word “insane” out of his question—and there were several places he could have fit it in. Even so, he was pretty sure it came across in his tone.
“Come on, Captain. Concatenation.” As if it should have been perfectly clear to any fool, Corkran said, “Column one is longitude, column two is the lat. Just stick the numbers together, and you’ll have your point on the map.”
Concatenation?
The whole thing was so childishly crazy; Wilraven hadn’t given any thought to the minus sign next to the eight on the first item in the second column, the number of cases of backordered lemon-lime juice packets. Because who needed more than one box of that shit? Never went bad, took years to finish a single box.
He quickly got off the call with Corkran, rang back Rusty at Ocean Eight HQ to see if the upfront amount had been wired, and then called over Angelo.
“Yeah, Cap? Did Rusty get the money?”
Wilraven nodded, always appreciating Angelo’s understanding of any operation—from first call through the business side with payments to planning the gear and people for the job.
Angelo Goriaga was a lean, sea-in-his-blood Mexican from Campeche who had once been a Guardiamarina in the Armada de México. In his twenties, he had commanded patrols of the PEMEX platforms in the Gulf. Now going a little gray around the temples and mustache, he had been with Wilraven’s crew on the Marcene for three years as first officer.
Wilraven put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to speak quietly. “Any sign of the security boys Corkran is sending?”
“Nothing yet.”
Maybe they could get the hell out of Lauderdale before they showed up.
Wilraven straightened, looked over the port rails to the broad parking lot next to a pair of cold storage facilities. A plain white GMC van was rolling through the lot toward them. He couldn’t make out the plates, but they weren’t from Florida.
“Shit.”
Angelo turned.
Wilraven tilted his chin toward the vehicle as it stopped along the dock. “That’s got to be them.”
Angelo agreed. “It’s not the Coast Guard.”
Coast Guard vans were also white, but had a big orange stripe and USCG insignia. This was attention-getting and low profile at the same time. In other words: suspicious.
The van’s side and back doors swung open, and four big American military types in black T-shirts and urban camo pants rolled out of the vehicle. Without checking with the captain or anyone onboard the Marcene to see if they had the right ship, they slid out two large, heavy boxes—big enough to carry a couple more people. Two of the team stacked them on top of each other and hefted the load toward the gangway. The other two security guys led the way, each with what looked like enough pack and gear for a month.
Wilraven came around to the port walkway, holding out his hand, meeting the eyes of the one he presumed to be in charge, a rugged older soldier with hard creases around his eyes and mouth, an even stubble of gray over his tanned head. The other three couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, all with the same extreme haircuts, one with a mustache and goatee.
“Jayson Wilraven, captain of the Marcene.”
“Levesgue. Mr. Levesgue. We’re the security detail Mr. Corkran has assigned to this little trip. I’m commanding. If you need anything, talk to me. I don’t want your crew talking to the others—I rep the team. Understood? We’re here to do a job. We will make sure the work isn’t disturbed in any way.” He got all of that out before taking Wilraven’s hand firmly and giving it a shake, releasing it quickly as if it was a quaint local custom that had to be followed, but had no real meaning for him.
Wilraven was breathing hard through his nose. He had to concentrate to keep the get the fuck off my ship behind his teeth, and then to remind himself that this job might mean real answers to Val Nersesian’s vanishing. He just nodded curtly and led the way to the cabins he’d set aside for security.
When Wilraven stopped to ask if they would need anything else, Levesgue shouldered by and was already rearranging things, pointing out where the gear should be stowed, and identifying the second room by some acronym that Wilraven didn’t catch. That’s where they placed the big rectangular cases, unstacking them and dragging them up against the far wall.
Pulling out his phone, Wilraven called Angelo.
“Cap?”
“Everyone’s aboard. Can you get clearance from the harbormaster for as near to 1400 as possible? Tell them we’re meeting with the other half of our team out of Tampa Bay for a job next week. Call the chief. Let’s get rumbling. Soon as Olad’s cool with the stores and April’s guys are done and she’s cast off, we’re out of here. I’ll call Adam as soon as we’re in the Atlantic.”
While he was relaying the priorities to his first, two of the silent soldiers in gray and black had popped the lids on both of the big cases, apparently to inspect them. He couldn’t see what was tucked in along with a bunch of foam in one of the boxes, but the other held half a dozen long cylinders, pointed at one end like missiles. Levesgue looked up, noticed Wilraven’s attention and shut the cabin door with a scowl, but without a word.
Chapter Seven
Diagrams and Deals
Tired and driven by the need for coffee, Andreden swung onto Del Monte off Route 1 and spent ten minutes looking for a parking space. The Starbucks on Alvarado was his usual stop, but he had blown by it in a caffeine-free haze, got on the freeway out of Monterey, and had to stop and order a couple grande
s at the Starbucks in Marina—for himself and Martin.
He had just paid and was stuffing a bill in the tip cube when he saw the haughty and mysterious submersible maker sitting at a small round table in the back, almost in the dark.
And her eyes were fixed on him.
He felt the gaze, and when he gave her a slow nod, she even smiled back. Not the creepy, arrogant smile from the night before. The creepiness and arrogance were still there. They had just moved into the look in her eyes, which remained locked on his.
How the hell did she know he’d be here?
He felt the pressure in her stare, like the weight of the ocean at a hundred meters.
Andreden froze, two grande cups of hot coffee in his hands, his backpack weighed down with gear—suddenly feeling like bricks of lead. Then her voice was in his head, a whisper of words that felt ice-cold, stirring up the edge of a headache. Come sit with me, Mr. Andreden. I would like to discuss a business deal with you.
When she looked away, took a sip from the mug in her hand, the chill in his head was gone. The shift in his thoughts was so abrupt he nearly dropped the coffees. The backpack slipped off his shoulder, hooking heavily at his elbow. He just managed to spread his stance and keep his balance, clutching the thick paper cups as firmly as he dared.
Andreden elbowed out the chair across the table from her, and she pushed two blank pieces of paper across the surface, neither of them a standard size, too narrow, too tall. Andreden set the coffee cups down and took his seat. Paper sizes didn’t typically catch his attention, but there was something strange and fish-out-of-water about this woman—everything about her, everything she touched, from the weird, organic, autonomous submersible down to the shapes and sizes of the paper she used. It wasn’t simply that she didn’t seem to be from around here—the world was small and travel was easy. He just couldn’t put a finger on where on the planet she could be from.
He started. “Okay. I’m here. You know what I want to talk about. What do you want to talk about?”
She reached out with one hand, her fingers cupped tightly together, thumb curled under as if she was hiding something, the nails tapping at the edge of one sheet of paper. Without any other movement, breath of air, unseen wires, or gust from an open door, the sheet flipped over and flattened on the tabletop. There was a face of a woman drawn or painted on it, a very detailed waist-up portrait—intense eyes, a hint of a frown on her lips, long dark hair pulled back into two or three braids that disappeared off the bottom edge of the paper. Andreden looked up with his first thought— it was a picture of this woman.
She shook her head.
“Her name is Adista. My name is Laeina. She’s my sister, and I want you to help me find her.” Andreden bent to the side, slipped out of the backpack’s strap and set it down to lean against his leg.
He didn’t exactly know how to respond, but one thing was clear. “I’m not a detective. I’m an engineer.”
As if expecting him to say it, her hand pivoted, and she tapped the other sheet of paper. It flipped over—on its own—to reveal detailed plans that snapped up Andreden’s attention. There were a dozen finely drawn, very complex technical drawings for the little submersible he and Theo had caught the other day. Neat blocks of text in tiny writing—it looked like handwriting—filled the spaces between component and build illustrations, diagrams of internal systems architecture, workflow and sequence graphs. It appeared to be everything he would need to make one, on a single sheet of strange, tall and narrow paper.
“I do not require a detective, Mr. Andreden. I require someone who can search for things in the depths of the sea and in the depths of your government.” She gestured to him with a closed hand. “Help me search for my sister, and I will give you the plans for athurmata thalassan.” She tapped on the plans with one finger. “And more. This is simple for me. If we succeed, I will give you ideas and plans to build far more sophisticated toys.”
Then she slid the picture of her sister Adista on top of the plans and pushed them toward him. With a gentle thrust of her chin at the cups on the table, she said, “Your coffee is cooling down. Martin is waiting in your sea lab. Please go. Take the plans and the image of Adista. Think about my offer.” She picked up her own mug of what looked like green tea. “I will be in touch, Mr. Andreden.”
He got up, slid the papers into his pack, and slung it over one shoulder. Then picked up the cups. “You won’t tell me where you’re from?”
Her smile was back, but not quite as sharp. “I thought I had.”
“Yeah, home in the sea.” He made half a shrugging motion with the hot coffees. “I heard you the other night. Just don’t believe you.”
“I understand, Mr. Andreden. It is more than most people would accept.” The disturbing toying-with-prey vibe was gone. Suddenly she sounded like a woman who had lost someone she loved and needed his help. His help. She set her teacup on the table and opened her hand palm up, spreading her fingers apart.
And he nearly dropped the coffee cups.
There was a sheer web of skin between each finger. She only gave him a moment to take that in. Folding her hand into a fist, she looked up at him. “There are more things in heaven and earth—and in the depths of the sea . . . ”
Andreden’s thoughts raced, and he gripped the cups harder to hide the shaking in his hands. “Not exactly how Shakespeare put it.” His voice had an angry edge. “Do you know what ‘Tel-keenays’ means?” he challenged.
She seemed mildly surprised, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Where did you hear that?”
Andreden drew a deep breath, holding onto that part of him that wanted to tear down the arrogance and disdain she had used like a weapon the night before. “Your sub spoke to mine as we were taking it back to the lab. It told Theo that’s where it belonged. Or possibly the name of the maker.”
She rolled her hand over, pulling up the long sleeve of her shirt to reveal a gold bracelet of fine links of chain and a nameplate that curved with her wrist, stamped with the Greek letters: ΤΕΛΧIΝΕΣ
She sounded tired, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “Telkhines is my house. Not my family name, but that is what I am.” Her whisper turned bitter and detached, as if it wasn’t directed at him, but at something distant or long ago. “I am one of them.”
Chapter Eight
On Site
Wilraven met up with the deepwater lift platform Irabarren and her crew of eighteen almost a hundred and fifty miles west of the Florida Keys. The Marcene was a much faster vessel, covering almost twice the distance the Irabarren platform had made straight down from Tampa in the same time.
Adam DuFour captained the Irabarren, which looked like an upside-down dining room table cruising south from Tampa across the Gulf, a broad, flat surface with telescoping towers almost twenty meters at each corner—like the legs of the table. A block of cabins topped with the pilothouse jutted into the sky at the fore. A row of shipping containers along the stern acted as stores, tech stations, and machine shop, and back-to-back in the middle of it all were two of the biggest mobile cranes in the Gulf.
DuFour was a salvage master, originally from Trinidad, who had worked for some of the largest rescue companies in the world, saving enough from his pay to buy a piece of his own operation. He had been reckless and lucky in his youth—and smart enough to stow the cash. Now, as an investor in Ocean Eight Salvage, he was careful, always wearing his hardhat, a beat- up orange bowl with a full brim covered in stickers. He had seen some deadly head injuries on the job and wasn’t about to put everything he had worked for in jeopardy. DuFour specialized in deep-ocean solutions. He and Wilraven had worked a dozen salvage jobs together, from simple groundings to the raising and pumping of a sunken Argentine frigate.
Levesgue and his mystery squad stayed mostly in their cabins, occasionally coming into the galley for coffee, which was fine with Wilraven; it put the inevitable off for a bit. He knew he’d have to introduce them to the combined team when they reached the site
.
After a few hours rigging the platform to the Marcene, the two vessels headed south toward a point on the chart specified by the quantities in the columns of his supply bill.
This was the strangest job Wilraven had taken on in all his years at sea.
With the Marcene towing the Irabarren—boosted by the platform’s own thrusters—the salvage team hit the location just after dusk the following day, a big full moon becoming bolder in the sky as the sun’s light faded to orange and purple wedges across the water.
The wind coming off the sea was warm and gusty, felt like a storm blowing up from the south, but there was nothing to see of it on the horizon. Standing out on the Marcene’s starboard bridge wing with his first officer, Wilraven turned to see Captain DuFour making his way up to them. Wilraven leaned back against the big panes of the bridge windows to make room for Adam on the narrow platform.
DuFour tilted his sticker-covered hardhat forward. “Captain.”
Wilraven started to smile. “Old man.”
“Don’t you old man me.”
“Don’t you captain me.”
DuFour jabbed thumb over his shoulder at the work already in motion on the Irabarren. “This is your job, Jayson. I just brought my big-ass cranes, and we’re doing some soundings—long-range scans. Should be done in an hour. Otherwise, I’m only here to anchor the Ira and lift some ship off the ocean’s floor. The rest of it’s yours.”
Still grinning, Wilraven turned to lock onto the tiny spark of light from the Faro de Roncali light at the western tip of Cuba. DuFour followed his gaze, made a snapping sound with his tongue. “Man, we’re close.”
Wilraven nodded, then gave a hopeful shrug. “This is the lonely end of the island.”
DuFour’s look soured. “Or the dangerous end. Lots of hiding places along that coast.”
Angelo scanned the horizon with the smart-binoculars, his voice quiet but edged with doubt. “Is Cuba really going to be a problem?”
