“Isn’t this a national park? How’d you manage to tag the wreck?”
“With all the bad weather, that jug hasn’t been noticed. But another day and it would have been.”
He eased back the throttle and held the boat steady. “I’ll keep above you with the engines. Careful with the props. Go ahead and gear up. Everything you need is down on the deck.”
It had been a while since I last dove. The Navy taught me. Pam learned in Cozumel a few years ago. But she’d only made two dives. On the second, an encounter with a nurse shark proved that being underwater was not her thing. So she’d spent the next three days on the boat, waiting for me, which seemed the story of our life.
I climbed from the bridge and found the gear. Standard issue. Nothing fancy. I screwed the regulator onto the tank and tested the pressure with a hiss. Then I adjusted the shoulder and waist straps and buckled on a weight belt. Overhead, lightning flickered and I flinched against another jagged stab that seemed like it was meant for me. The tumult of thunder and the beat of the rain remained steady. How many safety rules was I about to violate? Like never, ever go into the water with lightning. Or alone. In restricted waters. The deck tossed in violent, unpredictable lists and I decided this was no place to don heavy equipment. So I slipped on my mask and fins, tossed the tank over the side, and rolled off the gunnels into the water.
I dropped beneath the turbulence and found the sinking tank. Leaning forward, I inserted both arms through the shoulder straps inside out, then hoisted the weightless mass, bringing it up, over my head, and down on my back, keeping my arms out straight until the straps rested comfortably on my shoulders.
I found the regulator and purged it of water.
Ready to go.
I kicked toward the bottom where things were much calmer. Jansen had been right. The reef was shallow here. Maybe ten feet at most, then a sharp drop down to white sand and thirty-plus depths. A little farther out the real drop happened to deep blue water. The dingy day offered challenging illumination, but visibility was excellent.
The water teemed with life.
A barracuda appeared, hanging around with its mouth open, exposing some impressive fanglike teeth. With an incredible burst of speed, it disappeared into the blueness. A forest of living coral, in shades of tan, yellow, and brown, sheltered countless inhabitants. I recognized lavender triggerfish, banded butterflies, black and yellow angels, and red squirrelfish. I also kept watch for sharks at the outer limits of visibility.
And then I saw it.
The wreck, angled to its starboard side, the white wedge of a hull settled into the sandy bottom, its bow pointing skyward. What paint there was remained, as the hulk had not been down long enough for algae to take hold. It was every bit thirty feet long, and not all that dissimilar in configuration to the Isla Marie waiting above. A gash large enough to swim through ran down the length of the port side, confirming what Jansen said.
Reef hit.
I swam around to the stern, poking my head into the main cabin. Furniture and equipment lay helter-skelter. Not much there. The rear deck was likewise sparse, except for some diving equipment strapped to the bulkheads. No black waterproof case in sight. I took a moment to survey the sandy bottom surrounding the wreck and saw nothing there, either.
I stopped and gathered myself.
The warm water felt good, and my breathing had slowed to steady and calm. This definitely beat the hell out of a courtroom. I kicked toward the upper bridge and stopped at the door, which remained open on its hinges.
And there it was.
A black waterproof case, about eighteen inches square, just as Stephanie Nelle had said. I grabbed its handle and was surprised. Heavy. A bit too much to haul to the surface, especially since I wore no buoyancy vest.
Which raised a question.
What else besides a coin was inside?
I took a second and assessed things. The smart play was to move the case out to the seafloor, then head up for some rope. No sense trying to haul it up, then fight the storm to get it on the boat. So I worked the container free of the bridge, kicking hard, breathing harder, and finally gliding out beyond the wreck, settling the container on the sandy bottom. A quick glance up and I saw the Isla Marie’s keel bobbing on the surface, the engines grinding back and forth, maintaining its position.
I headed up for it.
Breaking the surface I spit out the regulator and caught Jansen’s attention with waving arms. “I need rope. Fifty feet or more.”
“We’ve got company,” he hollered back through an open window, motioning toward the stern.
I popped up as best I could to see over the rolling crests. A small boat was coming our way, closing fast. Could be the park rangers from Fort Jefferson.
“Get the rope,” I yelled again.
“We need to go.”
“There’s time. We can do this. Get the rope.”
I wanted these people to know I had nerve. If I was ever going to get out of JAG and into the action, I had to prove myself. I had a talent for sharp thinking in a crisis. Time to put it to good use. The other boat was coming, but I should be able to get down and back—if Jansen would just toss me the damn rope.
Which he did.
A coil of yellow nylon landed atop the water.
“The case is heavy,” I yelled. “I’ll tie it off and yank a signal, then you haul it up. I’ll be right behind.”
I grabbed the end of the coil, stuffed the regulator in my mouth, and plunged back beneath the waves.
Chapter Six
I clawed my way through the water, heading for the black case that lay beyond the wreck. On the way down, using some of my clear-thinking-in-a-crisis, I decided to wrap the rope around the exterior and not trust the handle. Its unexpected weight remained a puzzle. I was no stranger to working in the dark, as few people facing a court-martial ever leveled with their lawyer, especially someone who was an officer in the same Navy prosecuting them. So I was accustomed to half the story or, worse yet, total lies. Eventually, though, the truth always prevailed and I assumed that would shortly be the case here, too.
What an idiot I was.
I reached the bottom and saw I had plenty of slack in the rope, so I worked the yellow nylon beneath the case and wrapped it around a couple of times, forming a makeshift sling that should remain firmly attached. Overhead, I heard a new rumble of engines and saw the black outline of a second keel powering to a stop. Small, oval-shaped, like an inflatable or a dinghy. Out in this chop that had to be a rough ride.
Two divers entered the water.
Both carried spearguns, their fins kicking furiously as they headed toward me.
A little extreme for park rangers.
If I yanked the line, the divers would make it to the case long before Jansen could haul it to the surface. Knives were affixed to each of their legs—it would be an easy matter for them to cut the rope. So I abandoned the case and headed for the wreck. My pursuers were nearly to the bottom. I glided across the rear deck and into the main cabin just as a spear thudded into the wood behind me.
I hadn’t heard it coming.
Unlike in the movies, there were no whining sound effects signaling its path through the water. The thing just appeared.
Definitely not park rangers.