by David Cline
She gave the wall of trees a dubious glance. They buzzed with the chorus of thousands of chirping insects. Their tall branches reached high over the street toward their brethren on the opposite side. In a few more years if left alone, they would intertwine and form a tunnel.
With one last look in the direction she had come, she shouldered the snorkel gear and stepped into the green fray. She fought her way through the entanglement as sweat soaked through her shirt. Her face stung where sharp branches snagged her skin. When she heard the soft sound of gentle waves breaking nearby, she quickened her pace and stepped through the last layer of trees into the fresh air.
The scene was straight out of Swiss Family Robinson. A beautiful sandy beach arched in a horseshoe cove. The tree line stood only 20 feet above the embankment. The turquoise water sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. A group of birds ignored her as they wobbled down the beach and entered the water.
Amara looked out toward the open ocean and tried to visualize a German U-boat parking offshore somewhere nearby. The entrance to the cove was narrow. She held a hand up to shade her eyes and tried to estimate the cove’s depth based on the varying shades of blue. If the water were deep enough, Amara thought a submarine could squeeze through.
If nobody had been around back then, this secluded location would have been perfect for a clandestine operation. The steep cliffs on either side provided the perfect barrier to prying eyes. Someone could have smuggled anything onto the continent undetected.
She tried to visualize a dark shape heavy laden with personnel and equipment silently making its way toward shore. Was it possible such a vessel could have transported one of the most dangerous men in human history across the ocean as he escaped war torn Europe? Amara walked down to the water’s edge and looked up the beach. Maybe he had landed where she stood now. The thought made her shiver despite the hot sun beating down on her.
She suddenly wanted a distraction from her wild imagination. She slipped out of her clothes and draped them over a slender branch hanging over the sand. The swimming suit she had purchased back at the resort in Brazil did not fit quite right. She spent a minute fidgeting with the straps. When satisfied, she adjusted the goggles over her eyes and tried to breathe through the mouthpiece. It was uncomfortable but doable.
Amara grimaced when she entered the ocean. The water was cold against her skin. She waded up to her waist and sprung forward drifting horizontally like a piece of driftwood. She was surprised how easily she floated without a lifejacket supporting her. If she remained flat, hovering on the surface was effortless.
Amara straightened the tube with the air valve at the end. Her breaths slowed as she relaxed. She hadn’t snorkeled much in her life but soon found herself enjoying the underwater ambience. Because the water was so clear, her view was unobstructed in all directions.
What had the police report said? The officers on scene had not entered the water but reported seeing scuttled boats not far from shore. She wondered if those boats would still be around so many years later.
With a swift kick of her fins, she began to make systematic passes looking for any unnatural shapes. Small schools of fish darted between rock formations as she glided high above them. The steep angle of the shore continued down through the water. It was not long before she was at least 30 feet above the bottom. She looked far ahead and saw the depth only increase. If guided properly, a submarine could have easily entered the cove concealed underwater. She thought back to the captured German and guessed he would have somehow communicated the coordinates along with instructions on how to safely enter via Morse Code.
She paused and stared down at a peculiar oval shape on the seafloor. How long would a boat last before it succumbed to decay? She swam a few feet and looked again from a different angle. It was just a boulder covered in a green organic substance.
After her sixth or seventh pass, she began to feel discouraged. Was she even at the right location? The Argentina coast stretched for over 3,000 miles. She remembered reading somewhere that it was the 26th longest coastline in the world. Her teeth sank into the mouthpiece as she mulled it over.
Danville had led her to Necochea for a reason. The police report from the 1940’s was too coincidental not to have a profound significance. She knew she had to be close. But was it this cove? The isolation and physical properties made it the perfect location. She decided to give it one last pass before calling it a day. She could return tomorrow and, if she came up short, maybe explore the next beach down the coast.
As she floated in place, her eyes followed a slender fish meander above the seafloor. It swam lazily between rocks and plants before disappearing into a hole. She thought nothing of it, until the same fish appeared 10 feet away as it continued its lethargic journey. She focused back on the spot where the fish had disappeared. The shape was a perfect square. Her mind raced for any natural explanation. Was there anything in nature that caused perfect squares to form, besides chance? When she could not think of one, she swam until she hovered directly over it.
From above, nothing besides the square looked out of the ordinary. Amara guessed the distance was approximately 20 feet to the bottom. The seafloor rose a little allowing her to possibly reach the bottom. She unclipped the snorkel from the goggles and let it float beside her. She did not want the long valve to get in the way as she dove.
After a few long breaths, Amara kicked hard with the fins and dove straight down. Her ears ached as the weight of the water increased. She was a few feet above the square when panic briefly paralyzed her and she kicked hard toward the surface. Her lungs felt like they were going to explode as she raced upward. She broke the surface and gasped for air. The goggles restricted airflow through her nose, so she ripped them from her head. She turned on her back and floated until her breathing began to normalize. She knew she could hold her breath for a long enough amount of time. But there was something about the depth, and the idea of running out of air that had caused her to panic.
Amara gritted her teeth and tightened the goggles once again around her head. She pursed her lips and breathed long steady breaths. This was a mental game she was not going to lose. When ready, she kicked hard and dove like a hawk onto prey. She arrived at the bottom and reached out with a hand. The surface felt slimy, but it was clear that a human had cut the shape. The edges were too straight. She followed an edge until it ended at a point a few feet away.
Now that she was closer, it was evident that at some point in the distant past, the object in front of her had once been a boat. The strong undercurrent must have shifted it over the years until pinning it where it rested now between a string of boulders.
With one final glance, Amara kicked hard off the bottom and rose to the surface. The sun had begun to set and large shadows dominated the cove. Soon it would be impossible to see underwater without a light.
After a quick rest, she dove again. When she reached the boat, she found a spot under one side that she could place both hands. She planted her feet against a rock and heaved upward. The heavy frame protested, but after a moment flipped over right side up.
After another break to the surface, Amara examined the interior. She was disappointed to find nothing but rotten wood. It was getting harder and harder to see. She was about to surface again when she spotted something. She rotated the boat around so what light was left reflected onto a specific spot. Engraved into a section of wood, just below the stern were the words, “Vierte reich 1945.” Amara just stared for a moment. A sailor must have used a knife to carve those words into the boat as it went back and forth between the submarine and shore.
Amara smiled at her good fortune. Those three words confirmed she was in the right location. Without them, that boat could have belonged to a local fisherman or hobbyist. There was a good chance every bay around the world had a sunken raft or canoe rotting somewhere below the surface.
The find encouraged her to spend the last few minutes of twilight combing through the rocks on the sea bottom. She s
wam in widening circles around the sunken boat as she rifled between the boulders. She was about to head back when a cylindrical shape caused her to doubletake. The top half jutted out between two rocks. She hurried and pried it out. The material was metal and about the size of a Pringles can.
When she surfaced, she removed her goggles and treaded water. The canister had rusted over the years. Patches of red and orange clumps varied in thickness. Evenly spaced ribs like on a tin trash can were carved around the center. A metal clip hinted of once supporting a leather or cloth strap that had long since rotted away. She turned the canister on its end and searched for a way to open it. Two heavy latches kept the top sealed tight. She tried to get a fingernail under one to pry it up. The rust around the latch was like cement. As she made her way back to the beach, she committed to memory the distances from various landmarks so she could find the same spot again the next day if she decided to return.
Amara squinted through the darkness trying to locate the tree where her clothes hung. The cove had been pleasant during the daylight, but now felt eerie in the dark. The foreboding feeling of solitude rushed back to her like an unwanted illness. Goosebumps spread all over her body. Was it the cool breeze against her wet skin, or the feeling she was being watched? She glanced at the dark foliage standing ominously still but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
She spotted the slender branch hanging over the sand where her clothes still hung. It was further down the beach then she had remembered. She hurried over and dressed herself. Amara was not excited to slog back through the vegetation and make the trek back into town. For a moment, she thought about spending the night on the beach. The absence of a blanket and her grumbling stomach, however, convinced her otherwise. She sat cross-legged in the sand facing the ocean and turned her attention to the rusted canister.
Amara used her fingernails to scratch away some of the rust that had hardened over the latches. After a few minutes, she cleared enough away to get two fingers under and pry outward. The seal around the top hissed as air escaped like a soda can. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the other side until the second latch opened. If the air inside had been pressurized, that meant the contents should still be intact.
The sky was dark and she could barely see what she was doing. Very gently she turned the canister diagonally and shook out a piece of paper. It had been rolled up for so long it kept closing every time she tried to open it. The last thing she wanted to do was to tear the old document. When she finally had it unrolled, she brought the paper within inches of her face. She squinted and recognized random groups of lettering. It looked like complete gibberish.
The sound of a branch breaking further down the beach caused her to jump. Amara spun around but only saw the tall dark silhouettes of the trees swaying in the night breeze. An alarm went off in her mind warning there was a threat nearby. Her heartbeat quickened and she felt an oncoming adrenaline spike. Something was not right. She hurried and folded the document and placed it in her back pocket. She scooped up the snorkel gear and jogged up the beach. She grinded her teeth as she tried to remember what direction would take her back to the city. With such a paralyzing feeling of peril, she became disoriented in the dark. She scanned the tree line looking for any familiar shape she could use to orient herself.
She heard fast footsteps from behind and spun around. A dark figure only a few feet away was running full speed directly toward her. Before she had time to react, the hulking form tackled her at a dead sprint. Her head snapped back and for a minute, she could not catch a breath. She lay on her back in the sand, gasping for air.
A blinding spotlight appeared and lit up the night around her. She grimaced and turned searching for its source. A pickup truck materialized and headed her direction. The grumble of sand being parted by the tread of tires grew louder until it stopped within arms distance from her head. She tried to roll away but two more figures appeared and stood over her like hunters who had killed a prize buck.
“¿Es ella?” A rough voice asked.
A strong hand gripped Amara by the chin and forced her to look up. Her eyes restricted in the bright light. The headlights were pointed directly in her face. After a moment, they adjusted, and she recognized the outline of the policeman she had bribed earlier in order to look at the police archives.
“Si, es ella,” he said.
She was picked up and put over someone’s shoulders like a bag of concrete. They carried her around the truck and tossed her into the bed. Her forehead slammed against the wheel well. Hot sticky blood trickled down her face from a cut above her left eyebrow.
Her mind was too fuzzy to translate the quick words exchanged by the figures around her. Amara wondered if she was in shock. The smell of thick diesel exhaust was nauseating. After a minute, one of them jumped up and joined her in the truck bed as the other two leapt into the cab. The gears ground as the truck lurched forward. The truck made a three-point turn in the sand and headed back the direction it had appeared.
Chapter 16
Wood awoke suddenly and coughed until his sides seethed in a crippling pain. He lay on his stomach, his face against the sand, which had cemented both nostrils shut, blocking any air flow. He winced and tried to get his arms beneath him to roll onto his back. They did not respond so he was forced to make the best of the situation as it was. His mouth was so dry, every breath in and out felt like breathing tear gas. When he exhaled, a sound like wind blowing through a hollow pipe emitted from his throat.
He tried to blink but realized his eyes were glued shut with water and grime. He let out a miserable groan and tried to fall back asleep where pain could be temporarily forgotten. The hot morning sun, however, would not let it be so. Already its merciless rays were being absorbed by his black wetsuit and cooking him alive.
He tried to think back to the previous night. He remembered the pain in his ears when the basketball sized device with the blinking red light had exploded underwater. He remembered the amused look on Wilkin’s face when they had surfaced and heard the furious screams from the boat they had disabled. Where was Wilkins? Wood again tried to open his eyes but forgot they were still stuck together. He tried to free a hand to help clear the muck from his face but was still unable to move. His entire body was numb.
He gave up for now and continued to think back. Night had fallen soon after they had decided to make for the Saudi Arabian coast. The next few hours were a blur. Sometime during the night, severe exhaustion and dehydration must have set in. They had tried to swim for land as fast as possible using the stars as their compass. With a grimace, Wood remembered fighting a headwind. At some point, he must have lost consciousness. The thick full body wetsuit must have acted like a life jacket and kept him afloat. Otherwise there was no doubt he would have drowned.
Wood could only guess where he was now. Did they make it to the shores of Saudi Arabia, or did the wind and current push them somewhere else? His face felt hot and tight. Like leather stretched tightly over a drum. He shuddered and was grateful he could not see a reflection of himself. Any exposed skin was most likely the same color of a lobster. He thought he could feel blisters already forming. As soon as he was able, he would have to pop them and clean the sand out to avoid infection.
Time stood still as he lay there unable to move. The only sound came from his unusual breathing and the water lapping the shore. His internal temperature continued to rise. If he didn’t find shade and water soon, it was game over. He gritted his teeth and heard the crunch of sand in his mouth. He tried to spit but only hot air escaped his cracked lips.
With enormous effort, Wood rolled onto his back. The sunlight hit his face with a fury. Without the ability to see, Wood couldn’t tell for sure, but he sensed he was parallel to the water and that the shore had a steep incline he could use to his advantage. Maybe the tide had receded, leaving him high on the shore.
After a quick series of painful breaths, he threw his weight downhill and rolled the rest of the way down into the water.
The instant coolness was such a relief, Wood could not help but smile. His cracked lips opened and filled his mouth with the taste of blood. He didn’t care. A hoot that sounded like an excited toad escaped his mouth as he felt the will to live rush back into his soul.
His arms began to obey the pulses from his brain. He dunked his head underwater and gently rubbed the crusty filth from his eyes and face. He filled his mouth and swished it around like mouthwash. He blew his nose into his hand one nostril at a time. He watched in awe as enough sand came out to fill an hourglass.
When Wood thought he was ready, he was careful to open his eyes slowly and look around. The bright glare from the water blinded him so he turned and looked landward. Dark clumps of seaweed littered the sand. A little further down the coast, he saw greenish brown shrubs growing in thick patches just beyond the reach of the tide. Further inland, tall barren mountains rose above the sea like menacing castle walls. Not a single sign of civilization could be seen in any direction.
A peculiar shape caught his eye about 50 yards down the coast. He rose out of the water to get a better look. From where he stood, it appeared to be a beached seal, but the geography did not make sense. As Wood’s eyes regained their ability to focus, he saw the head was bright red. What a strange creature, Wood thought. He was about to settle down again into the cool comfort of the water. “Wilkins!”
Wood hobbled down the beach as fast as his rubbery legs would permit. He fell twice. Each time his body pleaded not to rise again, but Wood ignored the supplications and soon knelt over Wilkins body. Scabs and blisters covered Wilkin’s face. He resembled an alien character from Star Trek. He placed two fingers over his carotid artery and located a strong pulse.
