by Chris Howard
Wilraven leaned in, glanced at one of Wendolyn’s screens showing a neat pattern of dark spots smeared across the sand. He made a quick guess at oil leaking from the Serina, even though her hull seemed intact, and anything that might have come from the engine room shouldn’t be found beneath the ship.
Turning to the set of screens Dess displayed as Jodi pushed the bottom thrusters to keep up with Serina’s ascent, Wilraven pointed at the pale, bulbous object. “Bring Dess above the bow; see if you can get us a top-down look at this thing.”
Behind him, Aro Taketa said, “I think they’re coins. Sunken treasure, kids.”
That brought everyone around, including Levesgue, who seemed to want to stare down Wilraven even when the captain wasn’t looking at him.
Without asking for direction, Taketa unfolded Wendolyn’s sift basket and went in for a big spoonful. Both ROVs had tools and claws for work in the depths, but Wendolyn, being the bigger of the two ROVs, had a box the size of a small trash dumpster it could deploy to scoop up large and heavy objects or a good quantity of loose seafloor.
Taketa had a full basket before Levesgue’s stay-on-task mentality could take over and bring everyone back to raising the Serina. The old soldier was watching things progress like the rest of them.
Dewayne on Crane One broke in over the comm with, “Got some unexpected silence here. Talk to me, people. Are we lifting this ship or not?”
Erich Hallidan on Crane Two added another possibility, laughing as he said in his Texan accent, “Did y’all go on break with me and De doing the work?”
Wilraven nodded at Inda, and she looked at another set of screens. “No, we’re going. Just a small distraction here. We’re good. Eleven hundred and nine meters. Keep her coming. Nice and easy.” Someone on deck, monitoring the stretch and alignment of the sling bags, said, “Slings are steady.”
Wilraven glanced over his shoulder at Levesgue, tried to read his expression, but the man was like a stone.
The two ROVs rose alongside the Serina, with the teams on deck guiding in the slack, winching the thick composite cabling back onto their spools.
Wilraven leaned over Taketa, scanning the video feed from Wendolyn’s basket cam. Then he shook his head and whispered. “Yup, those are coins. You definitely found some sunken treasure, Aro.”
He wasn’t happy about it.
It seemed that the Serina Beliz had fallen through twelve hundred meters of water to land right on top of an old, apparently unknown, shipwreck—nothing in the geo data or history of the seamount had specified a previous or historic vessel. Wilraven wheeled to the screens along the back wall of the shed to give the site scans another look, and what he and DuFour had taken to be debris shaken loose from Serina appeared to be the remains—the ribwork, and a piece of a mast—of an old ship.
Aro Taketa’s ROV, Wendolyn, was coming up with a big basket of money, and reviewing the video during the long ride up, he’d also spied a cannon on its side about ten meters from the cache of coins.
It would take a while for the lift to reach the surface, and the air suddenly felt difficult to breathe in the cramped shed. Wilraven shouldered past Levesgue to get out on the open deck.
There was tension all around him—even more than was typical during a critical stage in a job. That stress had spread to Levesgue’s team as well, and they were out in the open, armed, Goatee and Blockhead making purposeful courses around the two vessels. The third in Levesgue’s team rarely left their assigned quarters at the Marcene’s fore.
“Peace in the ocean.” Coming up behind him, DuFour laughed lightly, clapping Wilraven on the back. “What are the chances? Right on top of an undiscovered wreck?”
Wilraven gave him a distracted smile. He tried to keep up the facade of an ordinary salvage, but it was becoming more and more difficult. The dynamic of the job had shifted, and it felt as if he was losing control of it. Clark Seiffert had died senselessly, and Corkran wanted the Serina dropped in deep Cuban waters. Where no prying eyes and brains could figure out what had brought the ship down.
It was becoming clear that Levesgue was going to follow him around, and the other soldiers—who had remained mostly hidden so far—were now patrolling the decks of the Marcene and Irabarren, eyeing everyone with suspicion. Adding treasure into that mix was just going to fuel an already burning fire.
All he wanted was the truth: why had the Serina gone down with all hands? No communications? What had happened to Captain Nersesian and the rest of the crew? Why no distress call or launch of the lifeboat? The prelim visual inspection from the ROVs had revealed nothing that looked like damage. The hull seemed to be intact—perfect. The Serina looked good enough to be brought up on filled sling bags, pumped out, and put back into service. Why had she gone under in the first place?
The mysteries tied Wilraven’s stomach in a knot, along with a churning anger at moving away from anything that might give him answers. Corkran wanted to bury all of it—any chance at discovering a cause—in much deeper water.
He gave DuFour a nod, and then looked around to find Levesgue standing, arms folded, in the middle of Irabarren’s deck, watching him.
Bury the evidence? Not while I have a fucking pulse.
Chapter Eighteen
Nine-seventeen
Andreden powered up the Janeth K13 and was racing toward land before he had completely raised the inspection ROV. The machine skipped and bounced on its lines, twirling in the powerboat’s wake. They were halfway to Knowledgenix before Andreden, pointing and shouting over the engines, explained the hoist controls to Laeina.
Somewhere off the portside, Theo sped along just under the surface, in a sleeker, unfolded configuration of the normally boxy autonomous machine.
Laeina had the ROV stowed in fifteen minutes, sideways but reasonably secure on the drain pan with the frame locks, and then she moved to the rail, leaning over to scoop up and taste the water rushing past.
She spit it out, disappointed in something.
Through the binoculars a plume of black smoke over Knowledgenix swelled to cover most of the main building—the central labs and offices of the complex, which were flanked by old warehouse buildings the company used mostly for storage and indoor testing, with docks and two levels of railed walkways running the length of the bay side. In one of the narrow gaps between the buildings, he caught the flash of blue, emergency vehicles and personnel already on the scene.
One of the Knowledgenix lines crew was waiting with a boat hook and braced feet for Andreden when he swung in a little fast. He grabbed the rail and pulled the Janeth up against the bumpers. Andreden thanked him, powered all the way down, and jumped the rail to the docks, followed by Laeina.
Halfway up the stairs, he turned to her. “You’re coming up?”
“Of course.” She looked surprised, taking a couple of steps two at a time to come alongside him.
“Okay, then you’re a consultant, working with me in our sub lab.” When she let the surprised look slide right off into confusion, he added, “There are going to be people investigating. Police, fire, likely explosives analysis. There’s going to be a lot of questions for anyone in or around the company.” Just before he reached for the door handle leading into the bay side of the main building, he whispered in despair, “I really hope this doesn’t have anything to do with you and who you’re looking for—who we’re looking for.”
It had to. Just from Theo’s description of a team of soldiers storming the building, setting off an explosion at the front entrance, and taking Martin and Rebekah, he couldn’t dig deep enough for another explanation. Everything pointed to Laeina’s search for her sister and this weird project, Lenient Luck. First the gunman tried to kill him the day before, now a full assault on the company—with Knowledgenix security people laying down their lives to protect the people inside.
Half an hour after pulling up with the Janeth, most of it spent explaining who he was to police—mostly members of Monterey’s Special Response Team, and a
handful of plainclothes detectives—Andreden led them down to the security department’s video center to review the feeds from the hundreds of cameras around the Knowledgenix buildings and grounds. They started with the obvious feeds for the front gates and main building lobby.
It wasn’t difficult to find. A couple of sharp, pinpoint gunshots from outside the camera’s view, and Amy Kinsinger falls in the doorway to the gatehouse, one hand raised in a slow-down gesture, the other going to the bolt of pain in her neck and upper chest. Two large SUVs running through the gates at close to forty miles per hour, the lead vehicle following the circle around the parking lot to build speed, slamming into Andreden’s coupe broadside and using it as a ram to push through the main building’s glass entranceway. The second truck following a few seconds later, tearing out more of the glass wall. The doors kicked open, with body-armored soldiers rolling out, carrying a mix of weaponry and gear in backpacks, all of them hooded and masked.
The smart cameras followed their motion across the lobby; several more gunshots, mostly suppression fire, shots through video screens, a few more into the central information desk to keep everyone on the floor. Walker Heling and Anton Bevelaqua—their names in highlight green above their moving forms in the video, both from Knowledgenix security—bolting out from the far side of the lobby, taking cover along two rows of seating and coffee tables. They were armed with small assault weapons. Ten seconds of an intense firefight across the lobby, with one in the assault team going down, followed by a long, thundering, heavy-caliber burst that left Walker, Anton, and most of the lobby furniture in pieces.
Andreden rubbed his eyes, held in a sob. When he glanced over at Laeina, she looked away.
Chunks of wallboard and ceiling tiles falling, the assault team moving in shifting cover formation through the big north doors and the labs beyond.
Andreden left that feed running and brought up the hallway feeds synched with the timing of the lobby feed. The team moving swiftly down the hall, bursting through doors in pairs, and killing Dom Hermez, an oceanographer from Cal State San Diego, after some shouted questions about Andreden’s whereabouts.
The intruders breaking, seconds later, into the back lab where Martin and Rebekah were shutting down the Aristotle construct, both of them startled by the sudden appearance of ten soldiers yelling at them. One of the gunmen shuffling through the bright rectangle of a wrist-mounted display, bringing up images of Martin and Rebekah.
One of the team kept shouting, “Where the fuck is Jon Andreden?”
Martin, apparently not agreeing with the man’s tone and telling him so. Another armored and masked soldier kicking Martin’s legs and giving him a short chop to the side of his neck, putting him on his back on the floor. Another stepping up with a short-barreled rifle, leaning over Martin to shoot straight down. A high-pitched punching noise, and Martin’s legs jumped and then went still. In one motion, the same gunman swung around and shot Rebekah, just above the collarbone.
Andreden turned to one of the detectives. “What was that? Didn’t sound like a gunshot.”
The two detectives exchanged a glance. “Tranquilizer round?”
The other pointed at the screen. “Probably. They’re taking those two.” Looking over at the names in the video’s highlight bars and then verifying them in his notes, he added, “Martin Allievi and Rebekah Kahley.”
The assault team—with Martin and Rebekah on foldable litters—moving out as quickly as they had stormed the building, shifting side to side down the corridors, fanning out to take cover as they crossed the lobby, and jumping into the trucks.
Two more from Knowledgenix security—Andreden knew one of them well, Grady Steenland, a father of two who lived down in Marina—moving into the lobby from the central hall, partially hidden by the curve of the information counter.
Both assault vehicles reversing out of the wreckage of the front entrance, one soldier leaning out from the passenger side window to toss two large metal canisters through the broken glass into the lobby. Grady standing up, getting a couple of shots off, hitting the bomb thrower . . .
And then the video feed went black.
One of the detectives standing behind Andreden said quietly, “Nine seventeen. That’s when the explosives went off.” He pointed to the fading green letters of the names. “Both of them were killed in the blast.”
Andreden leaned forward, put his face in his hands. He had worked with Martin for a decade and Rebekah for close to eight years, but he knew Grady and Dom, Walker and Anton. He chatted with or at least waved to Amy Kinsinger every morning.
And they were dead.
Chapter Nineteen
In the Dark
Suited up, Wilraven stepped onto the dive cage, a wet bell configuration—a steel-braced roof and floor with four vertical posts welded at each corner that could be lowered and raised by crane. It served as the below-surface base for a dive team, with all umbilicals running through it to each diver. The bell—painted bright yellow—was the place to kick for if trouble arose below.
Royce Cordell, one of the surface support team, rapped his knuckles on the captain’s helmet, getting his attention. “You sure you need to go down, Cap? I mean, one of the other divers can go for you.”
Wilraven just stared at him for a moment, reminded that he’d never liked Royce. Fucking pain in the ass. And it didn’t seem to be about the captain’s recent near-miss with a bullet. Something else had roused him, as if Royce was trying to interfere or spy on him. It was just a vibe Wilraven got. So he forced a smile and gave Royce back a thumbs-up. Last thing you wanted to do was piss off your surface support.
But the feeling stayed with Wilraven for a few minutes.
It was odd for Royce to voice his concern for someone else. Self-centered seemed to be the only mode the guy understood. Royce was a complainer. He worked when he had to. He griped about his own state of affairs all the time—lack of money, time, women. But apparently, somewhere in his whiny bastard’s mind, Royce had suddenly found a thread of sympathy, concern, or whatever it was, and that made something click in Wilraven’s mind—something was wrong with this picture. Royce was usually a total dick. He knew his job, the hoists, rigging, and operations of the smaller cranes on both vessels, but that just allowed others to tolerate him. Didn’t mean they had to like him.
Wilraven had been a hard-hat diver long before he captained any ship. He went under with the crew on many jobs. Sure, this was a weird one, with Levesgue and his killers stalking their platform and decks, but there was no reason he couldn’t get in the water.
The captain shook it off. Deep diving and focus had to go together, or you’d quickly end up in trouble. Or dead.
Flexing his gloved hands a couple times, Wilraven reached out and got a good grip on the bell’s railing. Telly was on his right, and Damien was behind him on the cage’s westward facing side.
The cool water rose up his legs, along with the mild squeeze of a thicker world working its way through the dry suit. He quickly went over his harness and gear, checking for his bailout bottle and tool pack, then ran his fingers along the head unit, his trusty Kirby helmet, tapping on the lights.
There was a jerk in the cage as it stopped at about ten feet below, and he braced against it.
“Gentlemen?” He glanced over at Telly, signaled that everything was good, then twisted around to exchange the same gesture with Damien.
A moment later, the voice of Andres came over the helmet comm. “Give me a status, divers.”
Wilraven glanced up at the stabs of Caribbean sun coming through the surface, dancing ropes of light that rolled over their suits and helmets. Damien came back, his voice harsh and compressed, the pitch high with the gas mix, “I am good.” Telly answered next, and a moment after Wilraven’s response, the bell started lowering into the dark.
Cold light washed over them for a few more minutes, fading quickly to vivid blue, like angles and folds of brightly dyed tissue paper, and then it vanished. There was qu
iet for a long while, just the rough brushing sound of breathing and Andres’ voice cutting in every ten meters to tell them how deep they were.
Wilraven felt the ache in his shoulder growing, the wound complaining through the veil of painkillers and whatever local anesthesia Dr. Kozcera had used. He made a circle with his arm, raising and lowering his shoulder. The wound was starting to hurt, but it was still livable.
All three divers had their helmet lights on. Damien had two big cold ovals on either side of his hat. Telly’s light setup was thriftier, one small spot and one wide-angle light that he switched on to test, then cut off, leaving on the spot to dart around the cage with his motion.
A few minutes later, Wilraven waved for their attention and pointed at the masts and bridge communications towers of the Serina Beliz coming up on their left, pale yellow stalks and the radome—like a big golf ball sitting on the roof of the bridge.
Wilraven alerted topside. “We’re here. Give us another five meters and we’ll be level with the main deck.”
Damien made a fist-clenching motion, pointing to the dive bell’s floor, his voice coming across the comm channel crisp and crackly, French-accented. “I will deploy the anchor line?”
Wilraven nodded. “Yes.” The line would act as a guide for continued dives down to the suspended ship.
He noticed Telly twisting to look down along the vertical of the Serina’s hull, and looked down as well. Even without seeing his face, he knew Telly was grinning. It was weird to see a ship underwater, floating, nothing but the abyss under her, but not sinking. The cables from Irabarren’s cranes held the ship at a steady depth.
The sight reminded Wilraven of old tales of ships going down but only sinking to a certain depth in the water, never reaching the bottom, and because of a misunderstanding—or just a general lack of scientific study on ocean depth and pressure—the stories told of ships with crews still caught in the rigging, riding deep ocean currents around the world. For centuries.
