Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4)

by Nick Sullivan

  “Good boy, Brix!” Boone took the items and affixed the vest to the pooch. “Okay, let’s go see what we can see. Or sniff. But no chasing those coatis, okay, buddy?”

  “Listen to Boone, Brixton. One of those little buggers bit me, remember?”

  Boone laughed. “When they say, ‘don’t feed the wildlife’…”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Especially if you don’t bring enough for everybody…”

  “You are never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

  “Hey, I have so few victories in this relationship, you gotta give me that one.”

  The Cozumel coati was a species of small mammal that may have been introduced to the island by the Mayans. Looking like a cross between a long-nosed raccoon and a cat, the animals lived in family groups and were known to hang around some of the southern resorts, looking for handouts. Shortly after they arrived on-island, Emily had made the mistake of offering her last bite of a banana… and when the other seven didn’t get anything, one decided to vigorously demonstrate his displeasure. A trip to the clinic had capped off the event.

  Boone let Brixton drag them down a path, the tropical foliage illuminated by a mixture of solar lights, some staked in the ground, others strapped to trees. A hermit crab slowly made its way in front of them and they paused to allow Brixton an exploratory sniff.

  “Better just eat a quick dinner and hit the hay,” Boone suggested. “Early day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you’re gonna want some extra time in the morning to spruce up. Need to look your best for the reincarnation of Aphrodite.”

  “You’re the only goddess I see on this island.”

  “Ooh, nice save. Point to Mr. Fischer.”

  “Are we doing a tennis thing now? I can never tell.”

  “Hey,” Em said, changing the subject abruptly. “What do you think of Calypso?”

  “Callie? I dunno. Sulky teen.”

  “Boone, she’s in her twenties.”

  “You know what I mean. She’s the youngest in the family. Probably got a chip on her shoulder.”

  “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She said some stuff… I dunno.”

  Brixton spotted a neighbor’s dog and strained against the leash. Boone waved and let the potlicker advance for a friendly greeting.

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh, nothing… just winding me up. You need to bone up on Devil’s Throat? Last time you dropped us in a hundred yards away from the entry.”

  “We didn’t have Ricardo with us that day,” Boone said, glancing at his smartphone and tapping an icon. “He’ll put us right on target. Here, take Brix a sec.”

  Emily took the leash from Boone, its length pulled taught as the dog greeted the neighbor’s Shih Tzu. “What are you looking at?”

  “Just checking the weather. Heard there was a system coming in, but I think it’s angling up into the Yucatán below us.” He pulled up the radar. “Yeah, it’s gonna soak the mainland, but we should be fine. Minimal wind. Devil’s Throat, here we come.”

  “Here we go,” Stallion said, as Angler wheeled the room service cart that had been left outside the door into the suite. “My steak better be rare this time, or me ’n’ the chef are gonna have words.”

  Tolstoy rose from his chair, tossing aside the room service menu he’d been perusing long after they’d ordered. “I cannot believe there is no Caspian caviar. This is a cruise for the most rich, yes? And they do not have best? It is inconsolable!”

  “Inconceivable,” Potluck said, lifting one silver lid after another, inspecting the meals.

  “Chto?”

  “The word you were trying to dredge up from your third-grade English classes is ‘inconceivable.’”

  Tolstoy wrinkled his brow. “Nyet. I do not think that means what you think it means.”

  Angler chuckled as he came in from the balcony. The way these two went at each other, he figured they’d have sex sooner or later. He was pretty sure they hadn’t yet; the suite was large but not very soundproofed. Stallion’s snoring was proof enough of that. He reached across Potluck and snagged the grilled snapper he’d ordered. Smothered in peppers and onions, the head was still on it, just the way he liked it.

  Stallion grabbed a knife and cut into his steak while the plate was still on the tray. “Dammit. Medium. I’m making them take this back.” He strode to the retro phone beside the bar but only raised the receiver an inch before Angler pressed it back into the cradle.

  “No, you’re not. Eat the damn steak. You got one more dinner after this, then we’re going to sea and we’ll do our job, and then you can go buy your own damn steakhouse.”

  Stallion’s look of annoyance transitioned to one of contemplation. “Maybe I will…”

  Tolstoy took a sizeable bite from the hamburger he’d ordered. Thus far, hamburgers had been the only thing the Russian had ordered.

  “Angler, this is Palantir, do you copy?”

  Angler reached to his earpiece and triggered it, the action activating the wireless lavalier microphone clipped to his shirt. The others followed suit, so the message would go out to all four members of the team. “This is Angler. Dinner is served.”

  “Uh…” The electronically modulated voice hesitated. “‘Dinner is served’? I don’t see that on the list of code phrases I sent you…”

  Unseen to the speaker, Angler rolled his eyes. “Negative, Palantir. That’s just basic English. Our room service arrived and we’re eating it.”

  “Ah. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

  Tolstoy and Stallion both opened their mouths, but Angler shot them a look.

  “Food’s great. But I’m guessing you didn’t call to check on our dinner.”

  “Correct. The helicopter crew have finished their maintenance checks and the hangar is locked for the night. Tolstoy, I want you to go up via the crew stairs that are situated four doors down the corridor on your right. Familiarize yourself with the controls. You did read over the manuals for the ach160, I trust?”

  Tolstoy rapidly chewed and swallowed the bite of hamburger in his mouth. “Da. Is piece of pie. I have flown the 145. Controls are similar.”

  “Good, but I still want you to go up and spend two hours in the cockpit. There is a keyboard lock on the hangar. The code is 1-2-3-5.”

  Tolstoy blew a raspberry. “Tupoy,” he muttered.

  “Say again, Tolstoy.”

  “He’s on the job, Palantir,” Angler butted in. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all for now. Palantir out.”

  “Pass code is like for children,” Tolstoy said after the members of the team killed their mics. “Oh well, at least I get to leave room.”

  “Again,” Angler said.

  “Chto?”

  “You get to leave the room… again. You snuck out last night for seventeen minutes.”

  Tolstoy’s look of innocence dissolved into an impish grin. “You are soft sleeper.”

  “Potluck, go with him. Make sure he doesn’t get lost on the way to or from the bird.”

  “Can I finish my pasta?” she asked.

  Minutes later, the Russian and the Wisconsinite slipped out of the suite, situated at the end of a passageway on the port side of the ship. Dressed in the expensive casual wear their employer had provided them, the pair went straight to the fourth door on their right, on the interior side of the corridor. Moving quickly, they climbed the single flight of stairs, which ended at a pair of doors. The door labeled “Bridge” was situated on the left. The “Hangar” door was to the right, on the stern side.

  Tolstoy stood before the keypad and sneered at the red light at the top. He affected a look of sheer stupidity on his face and punched each number slowly, speaking each one as he did so. “One… tw
o… three… and now I will be so clever and skip to… five.” The light switched to green and a metallic click sounded.

  Potluck suppressed a smile and pulled the door open. “Come on, Ivan.”

  Potluck entered the hangar with Tolstoy on her heels. Once inside, the Russian paused and took a black case from the inner pocket of his blazer.

  “Lockpicks?” Potluck asked. “I doubt they lock the helo if they lock the hangar.”

  Tolstoy smiled, opening the case, which was actually a flat box. Shiny gold paper caught the light and it was clear the box was some sort of cigarette pack. He extracted one and popped it in his mouth. The cigarette itself was black and the filter was wrapped in more gold paper.

  “What the holy hell is that?”

  “A Black Russian. You want?” Tolstoy handed her the box while he fished a lighter from his pocket.

  Potluck examined the black box, its edges gilded with gold. “Black Russian. It says London. These aren’t Russian.”

  “I know, but who cares?” He lit the cigarette and admired it. “It look cool, da?”

  “Where the hell did you get these?” she asked, handing the pack back to him.

  “Duty Free shop on main level. They had good vodka too.” He took a puff, then walked around the helicopter. “Airbus ach160. Corporate model. Is not on market yet and standard h160 not have folding rotor blades, so the ship owners must have influence. Or maybe is prototype.”

  “Pretty enough,” Potluck noted. “So, did you read the stats our employer sent us?”

  Tolstoy smiled, taking another drag of the cigarette before speaking.

  “Composite airframe, strong but light. Twin Turbomeca Arrano turboshafts and the tail rotor is shrouded for to be silent. Blue Edge rotor blades cut noise up to fifty percent from conventional rotor shape. Can hold twelve passengers, but with vip seating is more often five to eight. Cruising speed is just over 150 knots, maximum speed 175. Range is…” He thought for a moment. “At cruising speed, range is 530 miles. Less with full load.”

  “Wow, you actually read it.”

  Tolstoy grinned, the gold filter pinched in his teeth. The ebony cigarette waggled as he spoke. “Nothing else to read but shitty menu with no decent caviar.” He bypassed the cockpit door and moved closer to Potluck, reaching around her to slide open the passenger door. “You know… helicopter is very roomy. We have two hours. For to learn controls… I only need thirty minutes.”

  A faint glimmer of pink suffused the eastern sky as Boone’s yellow Thing puttered to a stop in the marina parking lot beside Emily’s Bug. Ricardo stepped out unsteadily and Emily burst into laughter as she exited her vehicle.

  “Another successful transit from Point A to Point B, with no loss of life or limb! How’s the tailbone, Ricardo?”

  “It’s still there, I think.”

  “Har dee har har,” Boone muttered amiably. “Did you get the tanks?”

  “Yes indeedy. Already wheeled them down to the boat. Brixton settled in?”

  “Elvis was still asleep,” Boone said, “so we snuck Brix into the guest room.”

  Ricardo yawned. “Coffee?” he asked hopefully.

  “Boone and I tanked up at our flat but there’s a thermos up top with your name on it.”

  “Gracias!”

  “De nada. Y’know, I realize we get up at the arse-crack of dawn a lot, but there’s something magical about it, yeah? Well… provided you get enough caffeine into you so your brain can properly enjoy it.” She thrust out her arms in a Y and took a lung-filling breath, tilting her head back, breathing in the pre-dawn air with a smile on her lips.

  Watching her, Boone felt his own breath taken away. He’d known Em for a few years now, but there were still times when her beauty walloped him anew. Em wasn’t wearing anything particularly alluring, having selected an oversized Baja hoodie to keep out the early morning chill. The shorts she wore were faded from sun and salt and below them, the lightly tanned skin of her legs picked up the soft glow of the impending sunrise. She had braided her hair into two cords that twined together into a short length of ponytail at the back, the better to avoid tangling her copious hair in her mask.

  Em abruptly dropped her arms and retrieved her green sunglasses from the neckline of her hoodie. “Here comes the day,” she said, looking east over the interior of the island: an expanse of squat, tropical trees and low scrub for the most part. As pinks shifted to oranges, she slid her sunglasses atop her nose and headed down the pier. “C’mon, Booney. Time to make the crumpets.”

  Boone grabbed two bags of gear from the Thing and hustled after her.

  “We have company,” Ricardo called out from the flybridge, coffee thermos in hand.

  A black suv from a motor pool in San Miguel drove into the marina parking lot. The windows were rolled down and Boone could make out the Othonos sisters in the rear seats.

  “They’re early,” Em said.

  “Fine by me.” Boone walked back up the pier, leaving Emily to arrange their gear. As he neared the shore, he watched the driver—a local clad in a white dress shirt and black slacks—open the hatchback and extract four tanks, two with bcds and regulators already attached. That’s odd. It was unusual for divers to provide their own tanks, particularly ones who hadn’t brought their own for the last three dives. No yellow and green markings, though, so not labeled as Nitrox. Frowning, Boone joined the sisters at the lot.

  “You brought tanks? We’ve got plenty. Just air, though. Devil’s Throat is too deep for Nitrox.”

  “Oh, these are air,” Calypso said. “We have a full dive shop and compressor on board the Apollo.”

  Lyra laid a hand on Boone’s forearm. “I hope it is all right. Callie told me that Nicholas insisted we have our own tanks and gear for such a dangerous dive.”

  “Dangerous is a bit harsh. Challenging, yes. But look, I can assure you, all of our gear is carefully maintained. We use the most reliable fill station on-island and—”

  “I’m sure your gear is fine,” Calypso interrupted. “My brother’s a paranoid… ‘wanker’? Is that the word your girlfriend would use?”

  “Callie, be nice,” Lyra chided.

  Boone shrugged. “Hey, s’okay… the customer is always right.” Except when they’re not, his brain added. He reached down and snagged the two outfitted tanks. The driver grabbed the other two as Lyra and Callie retrieved their gear bags. Together, the group made their way to the end of the pier, Boone well in the lead.

  “What’s with the tanks?” Emily asked.

  “Tell ya later,” Boone said quietly, lifting one across to her.

  Once aboard with their gear arranged, Boone went to Callie and Lyra’s stations and checked their rigs. Both women had integrated dive computers. While some recreational divers used simple dive computers on their wrists, many opted for one that replaced the pressure gauge on the first stage of the regulator. The advantage was that all of the data you’d need was in one place: current depth, time at depth, ascent/descent rates, and air in the tank. “Wristies” would have to look at two different readouts.

  Em slipped over beside Boone as he opened the valve on one of the tanks and checked the pressure. Seeing what he was up to, she opened the valve on the other. Some fill ops might give you a tank with a stingy 2800 psi. For most divers and dives, that would be fine, but an air hog might burn through that too quickly. And for Devil’s Throat, Boone liked to make sure each tank was topped off at 3200; the ones he and Emily had on board were already verified to be at that pressure.

  “I’ve got thirty-three,” Boone said.

  “Same here.” Em shut the valve to conserve the air.

  “They are good tanks.”

  “Ours are fine,” Emily muttered.

  “Callie said their brother insisted,” Boone explained. “No biggie. Oye, Ricardo! Let’s head out!”

  Em w
atched as Boone pulled himself up onto the swim platform, his long arms cording with muscle for the brief moment of exertion. Her lanky fella had just free-dived down a short distance to confirm the current. Dripping saltwater, he flashed her a quick thumbs-up. Emily smiled back as the young man toweled off.

  “All right, ladies… Em has asked me to handle the briefing…” Boone looked back at her to confirm.

  Because Little Miss Sunshine Floppy Hat doesn’t like my style, Em thought. Know your audience. But she just smiled and waved him on, focused on finishing up the white board drawing of the dive profile.

  The Lunasea floated near the southernmost tip of Cozumel, above a dive site known as Punta Sur (Southern Point). Once they were finished with the briefing, Em would head up to the flybridge to take the wheel from Ricardo, while he headed down to the bow to eyeball the drop point. Lyra and Calypso had donned their wetsuits, and the younger sister had taken her floppy sun hat off. During their southward passage, Em had been silently willing the breeze to whip that thing off, sending it sailing into the ocean to join the schools of flying fish.

  “You are about to experience El Garganto del Diablo, The Devil’s Throat.” Boone gestured to the water around them. “Because of the depth of this dive, we don’t want to burn too many bubbles finding the entrance to the swim-through, so we’ll locate the exact entry point when we’re geared up and ready to jump in.”

  Lyra smiled and sat forward on the bench in front of her tank and bcd. “I’m a little nervous,” she admitted.

  “No need to be,” Boone said. He nodded to Calypso as well. “You both have plenty of dives under your belts and the current is being surprisingly cooperative today.”

  “Plus, there’s only two of you to wrangle, so we’ll have a close eye on you both at all times,” Emily chimed in. “And thanks to our arse-crack-of-dawn departure, looks like we have the place all to ourselves!”

  “Always a plus,” Boone acknowledged. “So, Ricardo will get us above the entrance, and we’ll drop to the sand. You’ll see a number of coral heads there and I’ll guide you to the first opening to the swim-through, situated at about eighty-three feet. Watch your entry and don’t kick the sponge that’s growing in front of it—just drop down into the first chamber. It’s a large, sandy-bottomed cavern called The Foyer.”