by Evan Graver
Ryan loved being in the water. It was an old friend welcoming him back every time he dropped in. Diving required total focus to stay alive and it freed his mind of all the daily minutia. Diving provided food for the table, pictures for the wall, and endless hours of enjoyment. Every trip into the deep blue was a renewal of his fascination. This trip was no different as he watched a school of long silver barracuda track his every movement with their protruding lower jaws and rows of razor-sharp teeth. Ryan grinned back at them.
Back on the Fountain, Chuck had the cooler open and was making sandwiches. Water and soft drinks floated in the cooler’s ice, and Ryan grabbed a soda after shedding his rig. They hooked up new tanks to their BCDs and tested the regulators.
Emily turned to Ryan, a smile of immense pleasure on her face. “Maybe, I should start investigating these wrecks.”
He nodded in agreement while chewing a mouthful of sandwich. He swallowed. “This is a cakewalk compared to some wrecks I’ve been on. I do think it would be in the insurance company’s best interest to investigate them.”
The three spent a leisurely hour sitting on the Fountain, taking in the sun and the sights around the Dry Tortugas. Sailboats and powerboats, of all kinds, cruised through the waters of the glassy sea. Seaplanes took off and landed near Fort Jefferson, ferrying their passengers to and from Key West.
Ryan missed the cruising lifestyle he’d enjoyed on his around-the-world sailing adventure. He’d lived on his boat when the Navy had stationed him in Little Creek, Virginia, but it was not the same. He couldn’t see this: tiny palm tree-populated islands in crystal clear waters.
Ryan and Emily geared up for the second dive and were sitting on the gunwales, ready to roll in, when Chuck asked, “Why do divers always fall backward off the boat?”
Ryan was about to launch into a narrative about safety when Emily looked up at Chuck’s grinning face and appealed, “Why, Chuck?”
Chuck clutched his stomach as he laughed. “’Cause if they fell forward, they’d still be in the boat.”
Everyone laughed at the terrible joke, and Ryan was still chuckling about it as they fell backward into the water and dropped to the sailboat. He swam into the boat’s head, where he laid out his tool pack on the tiny counter. Inside the canvas roll was a small pry bar, a sledgehammer, a flat blade and a Phillips screwdriver.
He wedged the pry bar into a gap between the back of the cabinet and the cabinet’s frame. Levering up on the bar caused the wooden back to buckle, and a chunk of wood fell away. He took a new angle with the pry bar and forced the panel out of the cabinet. It floated beside him, suspended motionless for a moment, before slowly drifting to the deck.
He examined the frame of the cabinet. Someone had modified it so all they had to do was lift the panel straight up and pull the bottom out. In its slot, it was hard to tell the back wasn’t fixed in place. Behind the cabinet was a framed-in space between the head’s bulkhead and the boat’s fiberglass hull. He shined his light down into the hole. Inside was a black leather pistol case, a box of nine-millimeter cartridges, and a small book in a plastic zip-closure bag. He glanced over at Emily, who was hovering in the doorway. He motioned for her to hold the mesh goodie bag open while he dropped the three items into it. The book had a creased brown cover, worn from much use. Inset letters on the cover read: Journal.
Ryan motioned for her to exit the boat and he followed her up the anchor line.
Chuck hauled in their gear and held up the goodie bag. He said with whispered awe, “Treasure.”
Emily was first up the boarding ladder and Ryan watched her backside as she climbed aboard. He followed her without the grace and efficiency, and they helped each other tug off their wetsuits. They used the hose connected to the Fountain’s fresh water tank to wash the salt from their bodies and gear.
Chuck removed the items from the goodie bag and pulled the pistol out of its case. “It’s a Browning Hi-Point, nine-millimeter, T Series made in 1966. My old man carried one of these in Viet Nam.” He racked the slide, popping a cartridge high in the air. He caught it deftly with his hand. Then, he dropped the magazine from the handle. “Beautiful piece, too bad it got immersed in saltwater.” He used the hose to wash the salt away.
Ryan pulled the journal from the plastic bag. In the hot sun, condensation had formed inside the bag. As he riffled through the pages, five one-hundred-dollar bills spilled out and fluttered to the deck. Chuck and Emily watched him pick up the money.
“Are you claiming sunken treasure?” Chuck asked.
“Dinner and drinks are free tonight.” Ryan grinned and tucked the money back into the journal. He pointed to the pistol. “A souvenir for you, Chuck.”
Chuck beamed. “I like hanging out with you, Ryan. Fast boats, free guns, and beautiful women.” He gave Emily a lecherous grin which she didn’t return.
“Let’s make the run back to Key West,” Ryan said. “We can make it in time for sunset, margaritas, and steaks on the grill.”
“More reasons why you’re my favorite DWR employee. Next to Greg Olsen that is.” To Emily, he said, “He signs our paychecks.”
“I’ve never fully understood why a commercial dive operation is looking at our back cases. Shouldn’t law enforcement be working on catching the thieves?” Emily glanced between the two men as she dried her hair with a large towel.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, girl. Ryan knows what he’s doing.”
“Still, I’d like you to explain to me why you’re so interested in sunken sailboats.”
Ryan sat down on the Fountain’s gunwale. “We have a small group of people in DWR dedicated to working with the government on maritime security issues. We suspect these boats are being used to smuggle guns and other contraband into the US. My job is to track down the group, or groups, of people bringing them in.”
“Are you in on this, Chuck?”
“Only when Ryan needs me. Otherwise, I do what Greg Olsen tells me to do.”
Emily nodded in understanding then changed the subject. “I’m getting hungry, let’s go eat.”
They dropped the boat off at the marina, showered, and changed clothes at the hotel. After dinner at the Conch Republic Seafood Company, Chuck took off to find a party, and left Emily and Ryan standing on the sidewalk. While Ryan preferred the laid-back atmosphere of the Middle and Upper Keys to Key Weird, there was a magic about the southern most point in the US. He’d been here multiple times to train at the naval stations on Boca Chica Key and Fleming Island. He and his teammates had performed the Duval Crawl with every trip. It was a right of passage for the happy-go-lucky revelers clogging the streets. Ryan asked his companion, “Shall we join them?”
Emily smiled. “When in Rome.”
Ryan laughed, feeling an intoxicating rush of lust. They ended up at a table in the sand, at Lagerhead’s Beach Bar. They “oohhed” and “ahhed” at the sunset as it spread vibrant oranges, yellows, and reds across the horizon. Then they returned to their margaritas, laughing, talking, and people watching. Many drinks into the night, Emily asked if he had a girlfriend.
He put down his glass and turned to look at her. Feeling very drunk, he could not gauge the level of her seriousness. He said, “No.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, now I’m depressed. Thanks.”
“Another drink is in order then.” Emily motioned to the waitress for another round then asked, “Any prospects in sight?”
Ryan looked at her again, his vision blurring at the edges. He moved with deliberate slowness to pick up his almost empty glass. She was hitting on him, or maybe he was misinterpreting the signals. “Unfortunately for both of us, I am too drunk to properly answer that question.”
The waitress set down the next round. Ryan sipped the fresh margarita and told her it would be his last. She smiled and placed her hand on his forearm before agreeing with him. He gazed at her through beer goggles. She was even more beautiful, and he was too drunk to do anything ab
out it. He fished out his cigarettes, which he’d refrained from partaking in all evening, and lit one.
He finished the cigarette, took a long drink of the margarita, and stood. His legs were rubbery, and he wobbled, steadied himself with a hand on the table, and bid Emily good night.
She rose and took his arm. “You’re not leaving me here alone!”
Arm in arm, they stumbled back to the hotel.
Chapter Ten
Ryan’s internal alarm clock woke him at six a.m. His mouth felt like someone had shoved cotton balls into it and his head pounded. He glanced at his watch and over at Chuck’s bed. The pilot wasn’t there. Groaning, he tossed off the covers. Emily stirred. Ryan glanced down to see he was still wearing his clothes. He peeked under the covers. Emily was also wearing her clothes although her bra lay on the nightstand. Ryan rubbed his eyes.
They’d made it to his room, and she’d come in with him. After she’d asked him which bed he was sleeping in, and he’d pointed it out, they’d taken turns in the bathroom. When Ryan had come out, he’d seen her snuggled in the covers. He’d lain down beside her and closed his eyes. She gave him a long, lingering kiss and then rolled over.
Ryan turned on the coffee maker, and stood in the shower, running the water as hot as he could stand. When he walked out of the bathroom, Emily wasn’t in the room.
He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when the door opened. Chuck fell through it straight onto his bed. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes.
“Have a good night, Captain?”
“What happens in Key West stays in Key West, boss. Besides, I figured you needed a little room to operate on Emily.” Through a yawn, Chuck said, “I take it that didn’t work out for you?”
“Worked out just fine. We got drunk and went to our neutral corners.” Ryan’s thoughts lingered on the kiss as he pulled on board shorts and a DWR polo shirt.
“A wasted opportunity there,” said Chuck.
Ryan shook his head. “Just laying the groundwork.”
Chuck laughed. “Don’t wait too long.”
Ryan picked up the thermos he’d filled with coffee and said, “Let’s go spend another day in paradise.”
They collected Emily, who had bloodshot eyes and wet hair from her own shower. She kept asking them to keep their voices down. On the way to the marina, they stopped at a convenience store for a six-pack of beer, and each drank a cold brew after they were on the boat.
“Oh yeah, baby, hair of the dog!” Chuck grinned and cracked open a second one.
Emily looked pale with a tinge of green. She sat so she could easily lean over the rail.
Operating with a hangover came naturally to Ryan. It was hard to count the number of times he’d stayed up partying with his teammates before hopping on a boat and racing off to blow something up.
“Just the thought of going out today makes me sick to my stomach,” she moaned.
“Here, suck on this for a few minutes.” Ryan handed Emily a small scuba tank filled with pure oxygen. He kept oxygen on the boat in case of a decompression sickness emergency. Today, it was also a hangover tonic. She put the regulator in her mouth. She stayed anchored to a seat in the shade of the covered half-tower while Ryan idled them out of the marina and ramped up the throttles on the big fishing boat. They ran east toward Marathon.
Chapter Eleven
Chuck Newland called out the GPS coordinates as they closed in on their target. He looked at the vast expanse of open sea with no land in sight and asked, “How did they find this thing way out here?”
From their vantage point, the top of the lighthouse marking Sombrero Reef was just visible on the horizon.
Emily, who was feeling better with the help of the oxygen and drinking plenty of water, explained, “The story I heard was that some fishermen found it with their fish finder. They started fishing it and told some diver friends of theirs. After they dove the wreck, they reported it to the Coast Guard who ran the HIN and reported it to us.”
Ryan idled the boat and had Chuck take over the controls while he went forward and dropped the anchor into sixty feet of water. He paid out most of the anchor rode as Chuck backed the boat up to set the hook. The Fountain was just outside the barrier reef, and the heavy current tore past the hull. Ryan tried to gauge the water’s speed. A fully laden diver could swim at three knots. The water looked to be moving closer to four.
He rigged a rope to run from the anchor line to the back of the boat. He pointed at it and said to Emily, “Use the tag line to pull yourself to the anchor line. When we come back, follow it to the back of the boat. Don’t let go or you’ll be halfway to Maine before we can pick you up.”
The current ripped past their bodies as they made their descent. It threatened to tear them loose and was strong enough to carry their legs out straight, like a flag in a stiff breeze. He thought about calling the dive or at least sending Emily back to the Fountain, but she was already halfway down. He should have followed his gut instincts.
The current was much stronger on the bottom than at the surface. Ryan sped up his descent to catch Emily before she reached the anchor. He’d gotten it close to the wreck of the thirty-six-foot Beneteau, but there was still ten feet between the anchor and the stern of the boat. They knelt in the sand, each holding the anchor line with one hand. The swiftness of the water was like being caught in a river rapid. Concern clouded Emily’s eyes. Ryan clipped a rope to the anchor line, and he motioned for her to stay low to the sand and to grip his BCD strap. Together, they let go of the safety of the anchor line and the current swept them downstream to the sailboat.
The boat lay on its port side with the cockpit facing the current, and they each grabbed the stainless steel lifeline surrounding the boat’s deck. Ryan tied off the line to the rail and shoved Emily down the ladder to the cabin. Inside, they could feel the hull trembling as the water rushed by. The hairs on the back of Ryan’s neck stood up. It was an eerie wreck occupied by a five-foot-long goliath grouper, who had taken residence in the forward V-berth. Unlike the last two boats they’d seen, the interior of this one was still intact. Ryan didn’t bother to search for hidden treasures. He wanted to get Emily safely back to the Fountain.
Using sign language, he told Emily to go out to the cockpit. She headed out of the wreck, and he took a last look around before following her. Ryan looked toward the anchor line but couldn’t see her flowing, blonde mane. Twisting in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, he still couldn’t locate her. Adrenaline shot through his body as he slowly made a second circle.
Ryan took a deep breath and peered into the down current gloom. He saw flashes of yellow as she kicked her fins. He thrust himself over the railing, kicking as hard and as fast as he could. She was struggling to swim back to the boat, and he knew she was just depleting her air reserves.
When he reached her, it was too late to swim back to the wreck. Emily was exhausted. He could see it in her eyes. Ryan grabbed the shoulder strap of her BCD and hauled her down to the reef. He used a large chunk of coral to block the current and give them some relief. A look at his dive computer told him they’d dropped from sixty-three feet, at the wreck, to seventy-five feet.
Emily’s blue eyes were as big as saucers, and her breathing came in quick, ragged gasps. Her gauge showed she’d sucked down most of her air. She was breathing so hard the gauge needle quivered. Ryan felt guilty for allowing her to dive in conditions unfavorable for a diver of her experience. He made eye contact with her to help her regain her composure and used hand signals to get her to breathe slow and steady.
He clipped one end of a six-foot nylon strap to her and attached the second carabiner to his BCD. He would normally secure the Jon Line to an ascent line during long decompression stops or in strong current conditions. Now, he was using it to keep them from being separated.
From a D-ring on his BCD, he took a reel containing two hundred and fifty feet of bright orange line and clipped it to a lift bag. Using his secondary regulator, he t
riggered a burst of air into the bag. It rose toward the surface, stripping line off the reel. On his wrist-mounted dive slate, Ryan wrote instructions for Emily. She shoved her hands into the cummerbund of his BCD and got a tight grip. He puffed air into his BCD and they slowly rose from the sea floor. The line would help control their ascent and hold their position in the strong current while they did their safety stops. Ryan hoped Chuck Newland was paying attention to the time and had already started to look for them.
It took more time to ascend than Ryan would have liked, because he had to reel in line, control their buoyancy, and deal with a wiggling passenger. Partway through their three-minute safety stop at fifteen feet, to eliminate residual nitrogen from their bodies, Emily began thrashing wildly with her hands and feet. When Ryan pulled her back down to him, she jerked his regulator out of his mouth and shoved it into hers. She knocked his mask askew. Panic clutched his brain as water swirled up his nose and stung his eyes. Involuntarily, he tried to breathe through his nasal passages. He stopped himself just before he sucked in a lungful of water. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his training to take over. He grabbed the secondary regulator, hanging on a necklace beneath his chin, and shoved it in his mouth. He took a deep breath, repositioned his mask, and cleared it.
When he looked up from blinking away the saltwater, Emily was staring at him in horror. She was frantically motioning for them to go up. Ryan grabbed the shoulder strap of her BCD and pulled her close to him. They had yet to finish their safety stop. She gesticulated wildly at her pressure gauge. It read zero. He gave her the OK sign with his fingers, looked at his computer and then held up one finger, showing her they had one minute left. The last thing they needed was to get the bends from a nitrogen bubble expanding in their joints or brains. Able to breathe again, she was calming down.