The Navigator

by Clive Cussler

  “What are the chances he told Jefferson the same thing?” Austin said.

  Paul said, “We think Jefferson knew it was murder all the time but pushed the suicide story, even though it diminished the reputation of his old friend.”

  “Jefferson was not above chicanery, but he must have had a good reason,” Austin said.

  Paul picked up the ship rendering. “We think he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he knew about this.”

  “I think our next step is clear,” Gamay said. “A trip to Monticello to see if we can learn more about young Zeb.”

  Austin was about to say he agreed with the suggestion when he excused himself to answer a phone call. It was Wilmut.

  “I’ve got it,” Wilmut’s excited voice said.

  “You’ve found the ship’s position?”

  “Even better, Kurt. I’ve found the ship.”

  NUMA 7 - The Navigator

  Chapter 36

  AUSTIN STOOD ON THE DECK of his catboat and gazed out at Chesapeake Bay. The bay was familiar territory to Austin. He had gunkholed nearly every cove and inlet on both shores in the twenty-four-foot-long shallow-draft sailboat he had restored. Despite its wide beam, the catboat was surprisingly fast and maneuverable, living up to its reputation to come about as “quick as a cat.” Austin had a penchant for speed, and liked nothing better than sailing tight to the wind with the big gaff-rigged sail close-hauled in a brisk breeze.

  But not today. Austin climbed out of the sailboat and walked back to the parking lot. He helped Zavala unload their bags from the Jeep. After the meeting at NUMA, they had picked up some gear and drove to the boatyard south of Annapolis. Austin had called ahead to arrange with the boatyard manager for the loan of a twenty-foot fiberglass powerboat.

  Zavala carried the duffel bags that held their scuba gear. Austin took charge of two plastic cases. They hauled the equipment out onto the slip dock and stowed their gear on board the powerboat. Then they cast off the lines and headed south into the bay. Zavala manned the wheel. Austin consulted the chart and handheld GPS.

  Chesapeake Bay is the largest estuary in the United States, stretching two hundred miles long from Havre de Grace, Maryland, where the Susquehanna River empties into the bay, to Norfolk, Virginia. The bay ranges in width from about thirty-five miles wide near the mouth of the Potomac River to less than four miles near Aberdeen in Maryland.

  Zavala scanned the wide expanse of sun-sparkled water. “What’s the wreck tally on the bottom of the Chesapeake?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the buzz of the motor.

  Austin looked up from the chart. “About eighteen hundred at last count. They range from a sixteenth-century wreck of TangierIsland to the Cuyahoga, a Coast Guard cutter that went down after a collision. But the historian at NUMA was clueless about the target the satellite picked up.”

  “What kind of depth are we talking about?”

  “The Chesapeake’s pretty shallow, for the most part,” Austin replied. “Averages about twenty-one feet, although it’s laced with troughs that reach nearly two hundred feet.” He tapped the chart with his finger. “From the looks of it, our target sank into one of these deep holes.”

  The powerboat continued south, skimming over the tops of two-foot seas past oyster boats and sailing craft. There was a steady stream of traffic in both directions along the Intercoastal Waterway, which ran down the middle of the Chesapeake.

  Less than an hour after leaving the boatyard, Austin again glanced at the GPS and signaled to Zavala, who backed off the throttle and steered the boat to follow Austin’s pointing finger. When they were on-site Austin pointed down toward the water and yelled:

  “Here.”

  The boat plowed to a stop and Zavala killed the motor. Austin set the GPS aside and threw the anchor over the side. The boat rocked in the waves a few hundred yards from a small island. The boat’s depth finder indicated that the water under their hull was forty-six feet. He and Zavala pored over the satellite photo Wilmut had provided. The faint outline of a ship was clear. It should be right under their hull.

  Austin opened a plastic case and lifted out a SeaBotix Remote-Operated Vehicle that was about the size and shape of a canister vacuum cleaner. NUMA had ROVs that were as big as a car, and Austin could have drawn upon an array of the sophisticated remote sensing devices, but he wanted to move fast. He had decided against a time-consuming magnetometer or side-scan sonar survey in favor of a shallow-water vehicle that was portable and easily transported.

  At one end of the bright red plastic housing was a high-resolution color camera and halogen lights. At the other end was a pair of powerful thrusters. The ROV had a lateral thruster that could shift it sideways and a vertical thruster for up and down. Metal frameworks on each side of the vehicle served a dual purpose as runners and housing protection.

  Zavala snapped open the lid on the other case, which contained the ROV’s eight-inch television monitor and controls. He was a skilled pilot, and the single-stick control would be easy to use. He and Austin connected the three-hundred-foot-long low-drag umbilical to the vehicle and control box. Austin lifted the ROV by the handle in the top of the housing and dropped it into the water. Zavala put the vehicle through a few tricky maneuvers to get a feel for the controls. Then he pointed the ROV toward the bottom in a shallow dive and powered the thrusters.

  The ROV quickly descended to forty feet. Zavala leveled the vehicle off and checked the TV monitor. Twin cones of light illuminated the muddy bottom. There was no sign of a wreck. He had the vehicle execute a series of parallel lines, as if he were mowing a lawn. Still no wreck.

  “I hope our target wasn’t a NUMASat hiccup,” he said. He turned to Austin, who had been peering over his shoulder.

  “Not a chance,” Austin said. “Set up a new search pattern to starboard. Keep it tight.”

  Zavala activated the lateral thrusters and shifted the mini-ROV to the right. He started a new pattern with twenty-five-foot-long parallel turns. Halfway through the new search, the ROV’s lights picked out a dark, curving line that protruded from the bottom.

  Zavala brought the vehicle to a hover. “That’s either a sea serpent rib or a ship’s timber.”

  The image on the monitor brought a grin to Austin’s face.

  “I’d say we’ve got ourselves a wreck,” he said. “Remind me to sacrifice a Hobbit to the Eye of Sauron.”

  Zavala powered the ROV so that it moved past the object. More ship’s ribs came into view. The skeletal outlines of the wreck could be discerned. The timbers gradually diminished in size as the ROV passed nearer the bow section.

  “The wood is pretty well preserved, except for the upper ends, where it seems to be charred,” Zavala said.

  “That would account for the sinking. She burned to the waterline.”

  “How long do you figure her to be?”

  Austin squinted at the screen. “A hundred fifty feet. Maybe more. What’s that, off to the right?”

  Zavala put the ROV into a quick turn. The lights picked up what looked like a long wooden animal snout. The upper part of the head was burned beyond recognition.

  “Looks like part of a big hobbyhorse,” Zavala said.

  Austin’s pulse quickened. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a waterproof folder of transparent plastic. Inside was the computer-generated ship rendering that the Trouts had given him. He held the picture close to the screen. The horse snout on the monitor and in the picture were almost identical.

  “Guess again, amigo. We may be the first people in more than two thousand years to set eyes on a Phoenician ship of Tarshish.”

  Zavala’s face lit up. “I’d trade a case of anejo tequila for a glimpse of this lady when it was still afloat.”

  He moved the vehicle slowly along the port side of the wreck.

  Austin saw a dark round shape lying about dead center in the hull. He tapped the screen. “What’s this?”

  Zavala cautiously powered the vehicle inche
s forward.

  The ROV’s lights picked out a metal grating partially covered by marine growth. He turned the vehicle around and used the force of its thrusters to clear away the sand around the object.

  Austin said, “It’s a diver’s helmet.”

  “I know the Phoenicians were clever, but I didn’t know they were into hard-hat diving.”

  “They weren’t. Someone beat us to the wreck, and from the looks of it he’s still down there.”

  Zavala put the ROV in a hover that would keep the helmet in view. Austin laid his scuba gear out on the deck. He stripped down to a bathing suit and got into a neoprene wet suit, boots, gloves, and hood. He pulled on his fins. Zavala helped him with his weight belt and air tank. Austin did a quick gear check and tested the regulator. Then he brought a mask down over his eyes and clamped the mouthpiece between his teeth. He sat on the gunwale and rolled backward into the water.

  Austin sank several feet in a cloud of bubbles. He felt a quick chill before the cold water seeping between skin and suit warmed to body temperature. With powerful kicks of his muscular legs, he powered himself down through the darkening water toward the silvery green glow from the ROV lights.

  Austin came down practically on top of the vehicle, then swam around in front of the ROV’s camera lens and gave a thumbs-up. Zavala tilted the front of the ROV up and down as if it were nodding. Austin waved back and swam over to examine the ribs. The wood was definitely charred.

  He was turning back to the helmet when he saw a rectangular object lying nearby. He picked up what appeared to be a stone or clay tablet, about eight inches square and a couple of inches thick. Lines were cut into the surface on one side.

  Austin slipped the tablet into a stuff bag attached to his buoyancy compensator and gave the helmet his full attention. He cleared the vegetation from around the base. The helmet was still attached to a breastplate. He dug into the muck. Shreds of rotting canvas could be seen fringing the outer rim of the breastplate.

  Austin felt a chill that was not entirely due to the water temperature.

  He unhooked a waterproof flashlight from his BC, snapped it on, and pointed the beam through the grate. Staring back at him were the empty eyes of a human skull.

  Austin pondered his next move. Like most men who follow the sea, he had the deepest respect for watery graves. He could surface and report the find to the authorities. But the heavy hand of police divers could destroy whatever secrets the wreck might have yielded.

  He wrapped his arms around the helmet and carefully wrestled it free. The skull dropped out of the bottom and landed upright. Austin took comfort in the fact that the dead diver was still grinning.

  He avoided the baleful eye sockets and took a lift bag from a pouch. He tied the lines from the bag to the helmet’s neck and inflated the lifter with air from his tank. He inflated his buoyancy compensator, grabbed the helmet, and slowly ascended to the surface.

  Zavala had watched the primitive salvage effort on the ROV’s monitor. He saw Austin’s head pop up at the surface and threw him a line. Austin tied the line to the helmet so it wouldn’t sink. He handed Zavala his air tank, weight belt, and fins, and then he climbed a ladder into the boat.

  They bent their backs to the line and hauled the helmet onto the deck.

  Austin pulled his hood off and knelt next to the helmet. “This is an old-timer,” he said. “Probably been down there for years.”

  Zavala examined the air hose fitting and the ear plates and face-plates. He ran his fingers over the metal dome. “The workmanship is incredible. It’s made of brass and copper.” He tried to lift the helmet and the attached breastplate. “This baby must weigh more than fifty pounds. The guy who wore this thing must have been as tough as nails.”

  “Not tough enough,” Austin said.

  “I suspected that was the case,” Zavala said with a glance over the side. “I wonder who he was.”

  Austin scraped growth away to reveal an oval piece of metal, engraved with the helmet’s manufacturer, that was riveted to the front of the breastplate. The engraving said that the helmet had been made by the MORSE DIVING EQUIPMENT COMPANY, of Boston. Underneath the manufacturer’s name was a serial number.

  “Maybe this will tell us.”

  He used a cell phone to call the maritime history division at NUMA. He identified himself to a researcher, who said her name was Jennifer, and gave her the information from the manufacturer’s plate. Jennifer asked for the numbers on the brail straps as well, and said she would run a search and call him back.

  Zavala had returned to the ROV control and brought the vehicle back to the surface. He hoisted the compact vehicle out of the water, and Austin coiled the umbilical and laid it neatly on deck, which was when he noticed his stuff bag. He opened the bag and pulled out the tablet. It had been greenish gray under water, but it turned to more of a brown color as it dried. Several intersecting straight lines were incised about a half inch deep on one side. He handed it to Zavala.

  “I found this near the helmet. I thought the lines were natural strata variations, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Zavala held the tablet at different angles to test the light on the surface. “These lines are too regular and deep to be natural,” he said. “The parallel sides are perfectly even. Definitely man-made. How’s your Phoenician?”

  “Pretty rusty,” Austin said. He retrieved the tablet and slipped it into the bag.

  They reran the pictures taken by the ROV on its initial pass over the wreck and came up with a new estimate for the length of the ship. After his dive, Austin put it more at two hundred feet.

  “One thing’s sure,” Zavala said. “This was no rowboat.”

  Austin’s cell phone jingled.

  “Looks like you snagged yourself a real prize,” said Jennifer, the NUMA researcher. “You’ve got an authentic twelve-bolt, four-light navy MK diving helmet. Morse was a Boston brassware company that started fiddling around with helmet designs during the Civil War.”

  “This looks much newer,” Austin said.

  “It is. Your helmet was made in 1944. The MK design has been around since the turn of the century. They improved it through the years. It was a real workhorse for the navy, used for all submarine recovery work during World War Two.”

  “Does that mean it was last used during the war?”

  “Not necessarily. Someone could have found it at a surplus warehouse or store. If it’s in good shape, it could bring serious money on the collectors’ market.”

  “Too bad we don’t know who the owner is,” Austin said.

  “I can’t tell you who the diver is, but I tapped into naval records and found out who used it during the war. Navy diver named Chester Hutchins. Navy records say he bought the helmet as surplus after the war. Hometown listed as Havre de Grace, Maryland.”

  Austin was familiar with the waterfront town near the mouth of the Susquehanna River. “I know the place. Thanks. Maybe his relatives still live there.”

  “At least one does. A Mrs. Chester Hutchins. Got a pen handy?”

  Austin found a ballpoint in a box of spare parts and jotted the number down on the margin of the chart. He thanked Jennifer and relayed the information to Zavala.

  “Sounds like a solid lead,” he said.

  “About as solid as they get,” Austin said. He dialed the number. A woman answered the phone. Austin hesitated. He didn’t want to give anyone a heart attack. But there was no gentle way to break the news.

  He asked if she were related to Chester Hutchins.

  “I am. I mean, I was. He’s been dead for many years. Who is this, please?”

  “My name is Kurt Austin, with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. A friend and I were diving on a wreck in the Chesapeake today and we found a diving helmet. We traced it to your husband.”

  “Dear God,” she said. “After all this time.”

  “Would you like us to bring you the helmet, Mrs. Hutchins?”

  “Please, yes. I’ll give
you my address.”

  They spoke a few more minutes before Austin hung up.

  Zavala had been listening to the conversation. “Well?” he said.

  Austin crooked his forefinger and thumb.

  “Bingo,” he said with a grin.

  NUMA 7 - The Navigator

  Chapter 37

  CARINA FELT AS IF she were walking on clouds.

  The lunch with two exhibition organizers in the Metropolitan Museum of Art garden café had gone far better than she had expected. Things were going her way. Finally.

  The organizers had enthusiastically embraced her suggestion that the well-publicized theft of the Navigator would bring people into the museum. They could barely contain their excitement as she traced her long search for the statue, described the attempted theft and the successful one.

  The organizers had tossed ideas back and forth like table tennis players and jotted notes down in their electronic organizers.

  The Navigator would have its own room. It would be an exhibition within an exhibition, filled with giant National Geographic photographs of the statue being excavated in Syria. Photos of the Iraqi museum. The Egyptian Pyramids. The containership. The Smithsonian. All pieces of the puzzle. The centerpiece would be an empty stage, reserved for the statue, adding an air of mystery.

  The exhibition’s theme was a natural: Missing.

  The show would be the supreme achievement in museum parlance. A blockbuster.

  As Carina took the elevator down from the roof café she smiled inwardly. Americans. They may have their problems competing in a global economy, but they hadn’t lost their ability to sell air.

  The thought of Americans reminded her to call Austin.

  She was tempted to explore some of the museum’s impressive exhibitions, but a glance at her watch told her that the luncheon meeting had gone longer than expected.

  She walked briskly through the Great Hall and out the main entrance. She stood between the tall columns at the top of the wide stairway that spilled down to Fifth Avenue and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She scrolled down but stopped short, as she remembered Austin throwing his phone into the Turkish sea.