by David Wood
“Come, Sophie,” she called to the blonde. We must go quickly. There is no time.” Still Sophie shook her head and refused to move.
This time not bothering to muffle his curse, Rienzi moved to the woman’s side, his boots sliding on the damp decking. Gripping the oilcloth bag in his teeth, he used his free hand to pry Sophie’s fingers loose from the mast. He grasped her around the waist and heaved her onto his shoulder. He felt the other woman’s arms encircle him, steadying him as they stumbled together across the sloping deck.
The captain was waiting at the rail. Together, they helped the women into the smaller boat. A short distance away, the longboat awaited. Each craft overflowed with anxious sailors and travelers.
“That is everyone?” Covilha asked.
Rienzi nodded and tossed his oilcloth bag down into the boat. “Cast off. I will join you shortly.” He turned and left the captain gaping open-mouthed at the top of the rope ladder. He stumbled and skidded his way back down through the crewdeck to the opening that led into the hold. He dangled his lantern through the open trapdoor and felt his heart fall into his stomach. Everything was under water. All would be lost. It would be lost. He should have taken it from the hold when the ship first struck the rocks. Burn it all, he had not believed that the ship would truly sink!
A pitiful whimper snapped him out of his dark thoughts, particularly when he realized that it did not come from his own throat. He looked down to see a small dog furiously paddling through the icy salt water that sloshed through the flooded hold. How had it gotten there? The water level was so high that he was easily able to reach out and catch the pitiful creature by the scruff of the neck, and lift it to safety.
The Dourado lurched, and now he could actually feel the craft sinking. If he did not get clear before it went down, the suction could pull him under. He tossed away the lantern, ignoring the tinkle of shattering glass. Clutching the frightened dog to his chest, he stumbled to the ladder and clambered up onto the deck. Not even looking for the lifeboats, he dashed to the rail and vaulted it. The Dourado was sitting so low that he scarcely had time to brace himself for the shock of the cold water.
When he felt his feet touch, he kicked furiously, trying not to go too far under. He raised the yelping, clawing dog above his head and managed to keep the tiny creature above water. He broke the surface with a gasp and shook his head to get the stinging salt water out of his eyes. He was relieved to see the smaller boat close by, and heading in his direction. Ignoring his body’s instinct to curl into the fetal position, he fought to stay afloat as his rescuers rowed to him. His legs felt like lead, and his sodden clothes and heavy boots weighted him down. He kicked with desperate fury, but he was sinking. His shoulders sank beneath the surface of the water, then his chin, then his entire head. He was going to die.
Strong hands took hold of his shoulders and hauled him up. Covilha and the scarred sailor dragged him into the boat. He dropped to the bottom and slumped, exhausted, against someone’s legs.
“All of that for a dog,” a voice behind him whispered.
Rienzi was too tired and disconsolate to reply. Instead, he clutched the wet ball of fur to his chest, and watched with tear-filled eyes as the greatest discovery in the history of mankind sank into the depths of the sea.
Chapter 1
A dead ship makes better company than a live person. Dane Maddock propelled himself with two solid kicks through the gaping hole in the side of the sunken vessel. He drifted, careful not to upset the fine layer of silt that covered the boat’s interior. It would be the underwater version of a whiteout if he did, and it would spoil his exploration. A school of bright blue sergeant majors, so called for their dark, vertical stripes that made them resemble a sergeant's insignia, swam past seemingly oblivious to this intruder into their watery domain. Maddock greeted them with a mock salute and they scattered out into the sea. Another small flip of his swim fins and he slid deeper into the bowels of the wreck.
It was a tuna seiner, and not a very old one. The outside was white with broad bands of green striping down the side. He did not expect to find anything of interest inside, but he desperately needed a diversion after a long and fruitless day of searching for the remains of the sunken Spanish galleon.
He switched on the dive light strapped to his forehead and looked around. More than likely, this had been a drug runner’s boat. It was stripped down to bare bones on the inside, all of the trappings of the fishing trade absent. A fire extinguisher was still strapped to the wall, one of the few remaining accoutrements in this sunken tin can. He floated over to it and gently brushed away the silt over the inspection label to reveal the year 2002. He looked around a few moments more, his eyes taking in the crumbling upholstery on the seats and the bits of marine life that were beginning to homestead on the interior. There was nothing here to hold his interest. He took a quick glance at his dive watch and calculated that he had about ten minutes of air remaining. It was time to head back up.
He turned and swam out of the wreck. As he left the boat, a shadow passed over him, and something large and dark appeared at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see the thick, gray form of a bull shark circling above him. Maddock paused, watching the fierce creature swim back and forth. Aggressive and unpredictable, a bull shark was not to be trifled with. The best option was to wait until it went on its way.
The large creature swam a tight circle five meters above him. Maddock held tight, not wishing to draw its attention. Faint shafts of sunlight filtered down through the crystalline waters, shining on its tough hide. The beast’s angry eye seemed to fix on Maddock though he knew it was only his imagination.
Minutes passed, with no sign of the shark leaving. He could have sworn the thing was standing guard over him. Its jagged white teeth seemed to grin back at him, daring him to chance it. Again, he checked his watch. Six minutes of air left. He couldn’t wait much longer. He would have to chance it, but at least it was a shallow dive. The water was no more than thirty meters deep here if that, but it was safest to make a slow ascent, making a couple of stops to avoid decompression problems. His heart beating a bit faster, he suppressed the urge to strike out hard for the surface and began a slow, controlled rise.
He had read stories of men who had dived on bull sharks and had even met a few of the guys. Most of them were crazed adrenaline junkies. It was, however, at least theoretically possible to share space without provoking the beast. The problem was, it depended quite a bit on what kind of day the shark was having.
Holding his arms close to his sides, he stretched out, propelling himself with controlled kicks. He slowly drifted upward toward his waiting boat, remaining as still as possible and trying to resemble nothing more than a piece of floating debris. Don’t rise faster than your bubbles, he reminded himself.
The shark continued to patrol the area, showing no signs of agitation, or so Maddock hoped. He now had a good view of the marine predator. It was at least ten feet long, probably a female. Viewed through aquarium glass or from within a dive cage, she would be a real beauty. Sharks were fascinating creatures; all muscle, teeth, and stomach, his Dad used to say. So far she gave no sign that she had noticed him. He flipped his fins, and he was now gliding upward at a steep angle. Just then, the shark veered to her left, heading directly at him.
Maddock tensed. The dive knife strapped to his thigh would do him little good against her tough hide. Struggling against his instincts, he forced himself to remain still, feigning death, floating free. The wide, ugly snout and rows of glistening razor teeth filled his field of vision as the shark barreled toward him.
His natural survival response battered at his will, screaming for him to take out his knife and start hacking. Just as he was about to give in, the shark angled past him, brushing his shoulder with her rough hide as she swam past. As quickly as she had come, she was gone again.
Maddock closed his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer of thanks to the gods of the sea. Without looking around to l
ocate the shark, he hastily pinched his nose closed and blew, forcing his ears to pop, before resuming his gradual ascent. He looked down at his wrist. Five minutes. Glancing up, he was surprised to see two boats floating above him. His attention had been so focused on the shark that he had not heard the second craft’s arrival. He continued on with suspicious thoughts rising in his mind. The newly arrived craft floated directly above him. Warily, he surfaced just behind the stern.
The bright Caribbean sun danced on the cerulean water, and he squinted against the glare. The boat was an old Coast Guard cutter. Someone had repainted it an ugly shade of green with the Cuban flag emblazoned sloppily on the back. Four men stood with their backs to him, three of them holding rifles at the ready. One of them was talking to the crew of Maddock’s boat, the Sea Foam. The newcomers were armed with old AK-47’s and garbed in a motley mix of military uniform bits, as green and ugly as their vessel.
Aboard the Sea Foam, Maddock’s partner, Uriah Bonebrake, known to friends simply as “Bones,” stood facing the unwelcome intruders. A false smile painted his face, and his body was deceptively relaxed. The Carolina-born Cherokee, Maddock’s friend since their days together as Navy SEALS, carried a nine-millimeter Glock on his right hip, out of sight beneath his loose-fitting Hawaiian print shirt. Willis Sanders, Matt Barnaby, and Corey Dean, the other members of Maddock’s crew, stood behind Bones. Willis, the sun gleaming off his ebony skin and shaved head, stood with his muscular arms folded across his chest, staring coldly at the newcomers. Matt’s lean, tan face was drawn in concern while Corey looked frightened. His crew was outgunned, but Maddock knew that all but Corey were looking for an opening, ready to fight back the moment the opportunity arose.
“You are in Cuban waters, Señor,” the man without a rifle said. “We must inspect your boat for drugs.” One of his comrades snickered, and he shut him up with a wave of his hand.
“These here ain’t Cuban waters, Chief,” Bones said, his deep voice relaxed, almost friendly. “Like I told you, we’re marine archaeologists. This is a research vessel. If you’re looking for drugs, there’s this dude who hangs out on the corner near the Walmart by my house who can probably hook you up.”
Bones knew as well as Maddock that these clowns might be Cubans, but there was no way they were government agents. They were self-styled pirates, thugs who preyed mostly on private pleasure craft. He needed to help his crew, but how?
“You, my tall friend, are not so amusing as you seem to think. I suggest you cooperate. Do not force us to harm you.” The fellow’s voice was as oily as his skin.
“No need for any of that now.” Bones maintained his friendly tone. “We’ve got a cooler in the cabin. I don’t share my Dos Equis, but maybe you dudes would like a Diet Mountain Dew or a can of Bud?”
Bones was stalling for time, waiting for Maddock to do something to help them out. Hoping he would not be heard over the sound of the cutter’s idling engine, Maddock quickly submerged and dove back down to the tuna boat. He had an idea.
He re-entered the submerged vessel, scraping his shoulder on a jagged piece of metal. The salt water burned, but he had no time to think about it. He checked his watch again. Less than three minutes now. He had to hurry.
A quick swim through the dimly lit vessel, and he soon found what he was looking for. He hefted it and turned to find himself blind. In his haste, he had disturbed the silt on the bottom of the craft, and the interior of the submerged craft was now filled with a thick, opaque cloud of sediment.
More angry than concerned, he took a moment to orient himself. It was a small boat, and he should not have any problem getting out, but precious seconds were ticking away. He blew out a few bubbles just to make sure he knew which direction was up, and reached up to put a hand on the ceiling. He swam his way to the opposite side of the boat, the side in which the hole was rent, and hugged the wall as he worked his way back.
The way out appeared like a sliver of sky through gray clouds. Exiting the sunken craft, he made ready to return to the Sea Foam and his crew. Something moved in his peripheral vision. The shark again! This time he had no choice but to make a bolt for the surface and hope that the primordial creature would continue to ignore him. He set his jaw and swam to the surface as fast as he could. The shark ignored him, and he surfaced without drawing notice.
Tensions were at a peak. The leader of the intruders was waving his arms and shouting in Spanish. Maddock caught a few of the words, enough to know that they contained threats of bodily harm. Bones’ eyes flitted in Maddock’s direction for the briefest of instants. It was enough to let him know that Bones had seen him and was ready. Maddock kicked free of his flippers and slipped out of his dive tank just as the bull shark resurfaced on the other side of the boats and made straight toward him, its fin slicing through the calm gulf waters. The cut on his shoulder! It had scented him and now bore down on him. First things first, though.
This had better work, Maddock thought. He hefted the fire extinguisher he had retrieved from the drug runners’ boat and opened it up full blast on the pirates.
Surprised shouts rang out from the men on the cutter, and gunshots erupted as Bones used the diversion to draw his Glock and open fire. The two intruders farthest from Maddock went down immediately. The man in the stern opened up wildly with his AK, spraying the Sea Foam with a deadly torrent of hot lead.
The shark was ten meters away and closing fast. Flinging the fire extinguisher in its direction, Maddock grasped the side of the boat and heaved himself out of the water. He tumbled over the stern and sprang to his feet, freeing his dive knife as he went. Only a few paces away, the confused attacker, still struggling to keep his burning eyes open, spotted Maddock and turned, bringing his weapon to bear.
Bullets buzzed past Maddock’s ear as he closed the gap between himself and the Cuban. He lashed out with his left hand, smacking the barrel of the weapon to the side. Simultaneously, he thrust hard with his right. Still gripping his rifle, the Cuban could not protect himself. Maddock drove his knife into the man’s chest. Giving it a quick jerk to the left, then back to the right, he yanked the weapon free, and shoved the dying, self-styled pirate away.
The last enemy was down on one knee, exchanging gunfire with Bones. He was armed with a .38-caliber revolver, of all things. Gritting his teeth, Maddock dashed toward him. The brigand must have espied him in the corner of his vision. He turned and leveled his pistol at Maddock, and pulled the trigger. The hollow sound of a hammer striking repeatedly an empty cylinder seemed deafening to Maddock as he charged in. Cursing in Spanish, the man threw the useless weapon at Maddock’s head, and then jumped up to meet his attacker.
Maddock thrust low and hard at the man’s midsection, but his opponent was a skilled fighter. The Cuban spun to the right, grasping Maddock’s left wrist in both hands, and tried a shoulder throw. Maddock saw the move coming and managed to grab hold of the man by the loose fabric of his uniform pants behind his left thigh. He yanked up hard, throwing them both off balance. As they tumbled to the deck, the Cuban struck Maddock’s wrist, sending his dive knife sliding across the deck. He rolled away, came nimbly to his feet, and lunged at Maddock again.
Years of combat training kicked in. Maddock dropped into a long stance, bending at the knees. He wrapped one arm around the man’s waist and the other around his thigh. Allowing the attacker’s momentum to carry him, he heaved the man onto his shoulder like a log. Ignoring the pain from his wound, he turned and dropped his opponent over the side of the boat and into the water.
The Cuban broke the surface, shouting angrily, but his cries quickly turned to frightened shrieks as the water around him began to churn and froth. The bull shark ripped into him in an eerie, silent assault. The man shrieked and beat at the shark with his fists, but to no avail. Maddock saw Bones, who had held his fire during the fight for fear of hitting the wrong man, raise his pistol and take aim at the shark. Just then, the Cuban ceased his struggles. Great gouts of blood erupted from his mouth as
the ferocious predator carried him under, leaving a crimson pool spreading between the two boats. It was surely his imagination, but Maddock thought he could smell the coppery scent of carnage.
The strength left his legs, and he leaned heavily against the rail
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” he called across the intervening waters to his friends.
“Hey man, just because he didn’t see the shark doesn’t mean we all missed it,” Bones yelled back. “The guy was a moron, anyway.” The big, ponytailed native leaned his muscled, six-foot-five frame over the rail, cupped his hands, and shouted down at the water, “How many shots in a revolver, pal?”
“That’s cold,” Maddock said, feeling a touch guilty at his enjoyment of the dark humor Bones had adopted as a means of coping with the realities of combat they had experienced in the service.
“Yeah, but I’m right.” Bones’ mirthless grin reminded Maddock too strongly of the action they had seen in the SEALS. Bones was a good man, but a remorseless killer if he felt he had good reason to take a life.
Willis and Matt burst from the cabin, both carrying pistols.
“Man, y’all didn’t save us any.” Willis’ shaved head and deep voice reminded Maddock of Dennis Haysbert’s character, Cerrano, in the Major League movies. He turned to Matt. “After all we’ve been through together, these boys still don’t know how to share.” Like Bones, Willis was a former SEAL who loved a good fight.
“It’s not our fault you left your weapons belowdecks. Some of us are prepared.” Bones grinned.
“I thought Maddock was the Boy Scout in this group,” Willis said.
“Where’s Corey?” Maddock spoke a little more sharply than he’d intended. “The fight had him on edge and he was already fretting over the damage done to his boat.
“Downstairs. He put a call in to the Coast Guard when we first saw these guys coming, and now he’s following up with them.” Matt said, leaning against the rail of the Sea Foam. He ran his long, tan, fingers through his spiky brown hair, and scanned the horizon. The condition of his hair was always of paramount importance to him. “They should be here any minute.” Matt was a former army grunt, but the skinny mate and engineer had proven himself an able seaman.
