For Ron Kurtz, Bubble Blower Extraordinaire
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Other Titles
Copyright
08 September 1665
When the explosion rocked the Griffin, young Samuel Higgins knew instantly that the boat was doomed.
Thirteen years old, and dead already, the ship’s boy thought to himself as the towering mainmast splintered in a shower of sparks.
The sail, now a billowing sheet of flame, settled down over the treasure that lay stacked about on the deck of the barque. Chests piled high with coins and jewels, silver bars by the hundredweight, ropes of pearls, chains of gold. Samuel watched it disappear beneath the burning canvas. He could feel the deck heaving under his feet as the Griffin began to break apart. A flood of gleaming pieces of eight poured through the gaping holes between the deck planks. It was more money than Samuel had ever seen, worth more, probably, than his entire village in the north of England, and perhaps the surrounding shire as well. It was a fortune that would have turned the head of the king himself.
And yet it could not buy five more minutes of life for the Griffin and her doomed captain and crew.
The voyage back to England would have taken at least three months. The descent to the bottom of the Caribbean took less than three minutes.
There lay the treasure, the spoils of a new world, silent, waiting….
The catamaran bobbed like a cork, even in the sheltered waters of the harbor on the Caribbean island of Martinique.
Kaz looked dubiously from the flimsy double-hulled boat to the young man who stood balanced on deck, holding out his hand to help the newcomer aboard. “If you want to kill me, why don’t you just shoot?”
It got a big laugh. “Come on, Kaczinski. Safest thing afloat.”
Swallowing hard, Kaz stepped onto the swaying craft. Putting aside unease was second nature to hockey players, especially in Canada, home of the best of the best. Some of the kids he skated against would go on to NHL careers. They said he’d be one of them — Bobby Kaczinski, the best young defenseman to come out of the Toronto area in the past twenty years.
All that was over now. He stumbled, his knees weak for a moment. It had nothing to do with the motion of the catamaran.
He had come to call it “the dream,” although it plagued him as often waking as sleeping. Game six of the Ontario Minor Hockey Association finals. Drew Christiansen — Kaz had not known the boy’s name then. Now he would never forget it.
Drew Christiansen, whose life he had ruined.
Drew had taken a pass in front of the Red Wings’ net. He was Kaz’s man, his responsibility. The check was completely legal, clean as a whistle. Everyone agreed on that — the refs, the league officials, even Drew himself. A freak accident, the doctors called it. A one in a million shot.
Kaz remembered the split-second play down to the slightest detail — the urgency to defend his goalie, the satisfaction of a heavy hit. And then a discordant note: He’s not getting up. And then, Why is his neck at that funny angle?
Followed by the nightmare truth: Drew Christiansen would never walk again.
The handshake of greeting came just in time to steady Kaz.
“Tad Cutter, Poseidon Oceanographic Institute,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m leading your dive team.”
“People call me Kaz.” He tried to size up the institute man. Mostly, he was searching for some hint as to why a world-famous oceanographic group had selected a beginning diver for a summer internship. A month ago, Kaz had never stepped into flippers in his life. It had been a mad scramble to get scuba-certified for this program.
But there were no clues in Cutter’s blond, blue-eyed features. He flashed white teeth. “Sit tight and start on your tan, okay? I’ve got one more to pick up.” He leaped onto the dock and jogged off.
Who am I kidding? Kaz thought. Poseidon didn’t pick me for my diving. Allagash got me this gig.
Steven P. Allagash was the sports agent Mr. Kaczinski had hired to guide his son’s career all the way to the pros. Ex-agent, Kaz reminded himself, since Bobby Kaczinski would not be strapping on skates again.
Allagash had been clearly alarmed at the possibility of such a hot prospect getting away. “Don’t make any rash decisions,” he had urged. “Forget about hockey for a while. Take some time off this summer. Do something you always wanted to do. I’ll set the whole thing up. Just name it.”
Kaz had drawn a blank. As long as he could remember, his entire life had been hockey. Camps all summer, games and practices all winter. He had never played any other sport. Why risk an injury that could take him out of hockey? He’d never even had a hobby.
“Come on,” Allagash had prodded. “What are your interests?”
The entire back wall of the agent’s office was an enormous Plexiglas fish tank. Kaz had always been fascinated by the dozens of brightly colored tropical species that moved through the artificial habitat.
“Fish,” Kaz had replied finally. “I like fish.”
Fish would do. Diving would do. Anything but hockey.
As he dropped his gear and seated himself on the boat, he realized for the first time that he was not alone. Fast asleep amid a mountain of luggage lay another boy, smaller than Kaz, but probably the same age.
The catamaran bumped up against the tires that lined the dock, and the sleeper shook awake.
He rubbed his eyes behind thick glasses and yawned. “You don’t look like Adriana, so I guess you must be Bobby.”
“Call me Kaz.” He indicated the many bags and cases that littered the deck around the other boy. “Diving equipment?”
“Camera equipment. Dante Lewis. I’m a photographer.”
“An underwater photographer, right?” Kaz prompted.
Dante shrugged. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Kaz was amazed. “Are you telling me that you’re new at this too?”
Dante stared at him. “Are you?”
“I got certified, like, ten minutes ago!”
Dante was wide-eyed. “I figured they only took me because they needed a photographer. What about you? Any special skills?”
Kaz searched his mind and came up empty. “I used to be a hockey player.”
Dante took in the heat shimmer over the endless turquoise Caribbean. “I don’t think the rink freezes hard enough down here.”
“That’s okay,” Kaz deadpanned. “I didn’t bring my skates.” He frowned into the colorful sails in the harbor around them. Poseidon was one of the top ocean research outfits in the world. Renowned scientists begged to get hired on. Fellowships went to graduate students who were proven geniuses. When they threw open four summer internships for kids under sixteen, they must have gotten thousands of applications. Maybe tens of thousands. They had their pick of the universe.
Why choose us? It didn’t make any sense.
They’d been waiting for half an hour when Cutter returned with the third team member. Adriana Ballantyne was a tall, slender thirteen-year-old girl who was dressed more for the deck of a luxury liner than a weathered island-hopping catamaran that smelled of diesel and fish.
Kaz had never seen anyone so color-coordinated. Her deck shoes matched her belt, the temples of her designer su
nglasses, and the leather handles of her luggage.
“Diver, right?” he asked as she stepped aboard.
“Right,” she confirmed. “I guess.” And even less certainly, “Sort of. I did some scuba in the south of France this past Easter.”
What was going on here?
* * *
The catamaran may not have been the most elegant craft in the seven seas, but it got the job done. They covered the distance from Martinique to Saint-Luc in two hours. As they rounded the curve of the shoreline, Cutter damped down the engine to slow their speed.
“Hey,” he called in the comparative quiet that followed. “There’s Star. She’s on our team too. Look at her go!”
Three pairs of eyes focused on the clear blue water a couple of hundred yards out from an isolated cove. Star Ling was diving in just mask and snorkel, moving with a strength and expertise that was obvious to any observer. She cruised just below the surface with the pointed, unerring trajectory of a torpedo. When she dove, her descent was crisp and quick, easily conquering her body’s natural buoyancy. She sounded deep, unhurried by the need for her next breath — a sign of superior lung capacity.
“She’s awesome!” breathed Adriana.
As the catamaran angled in toward the harbor half a mile up the coast, Star took to the surface and swam in to the beach. They watched her rise and step out of the water and onto the sand.
At first, Kaz thought she’d stumbled. But then it happened again. And again.
“She’s limping!” he exclaimed out loud. “She’s a — ” He was about to say “cripple” when the image of Drew Christiansen cut into his mind like a jagged fork of lightning. You can’t use that word, Kaz thought to himself. You’ve forfeited the right.
“She’s handicapped!” Dante exclaimed in wonder.
Cutter laughed. “Don’t let her hear you say that! She’s the toughest kid I’ve ever met.”
Three beginners and now this, Kaz reflected.
Who was making the decisions at Poseidon Oceanographic?
Dr. Geoffrey Gallagher raised his pointer to the bleached skeleton mounted on the wall beside his desk — the gaping jaws of a great white shark, measuring three feet across.
“We see that the teeth are serrated,” Poseidon’s director lectured to the red light of the video camera that was trained on him, “and angled distinctly inward so that each bite directs the prey down the gullet. Carcharodon carcharias has been called nature’s perfect predator, the apex of the ocean’s food chain. And from personal experience, I can attest to that fact.” He tapped a razor-sharp tooth.
With a crack like a rifle shot, the upper jaw fell shut to the lower, snapping the pointer cleanly in two.
Dr. Gallagher jumped back with a very un-macho shriek.
“Cut!” roared the cameraman, doubled over with laughter.
There was a knock at the door.
“Later,” called Gallagher, fumbling around for another pointer.
The knock came again, this time louder and more insistent.
“Not now!”
The door opened, and in marched Bobby Kaczinski, Dante Lewis, Adriana Ballantyne, and Star Ling.
At first, Gallagher had absolutely no idea who the four teenagers were. Saint-Luc was not a major tourist island like Martinique or Aruba, so the only kids around were locals. Then he remembered the summer internships.
Oh. Those kids. He had begged the head office in San Diego to place them somewhere else. But no. It had to be here. Poseidon had even sent a team from California to run the program — Tad Cutter and his crew.
“Welcome!” he beamed, hiding the broken pointer pieces under some papers on his desk. “This is going to be a very exciting summer for you young people. I’m sure you’ll be participating in a lot of important research.”
They waited, as if for more detail. He stared at them, willing them to go away.
Finally, Star stepped forward. “But Dr. Gallagher, what do we do?”
“Poseidon Saint-Luc is a tremendously busy place,” Gallagher explained, “with dozens of different projects all going on at the same time — ”
“I mean now,” she persisted. “What do we do today?”
Gallagher was taken aback. “Well, what does Mr. Cutter say?”
“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” supplied Kaz.
“Since yesterday?” The director was completely mystified.
The silent man in the room, gray haired and stocky, had been lounging on the couch, observing the videotaping with some amusement. Braden Vanover was one of several ship’s captains who worked for Poseidon. He spoke up now. “Cutter and his crew went out at first light on Bill Hamilton’s boat.”
The director’s voice was shrill with frustration. “Why didn’t they take these kids? That’s the whole reason Cutter’s people are here! Without the kids, what are they doing — sunbathing … ?” He spied the videographer watching with interest, and fell silent. Jacques Cousteau never had a tantrum when the camera was on him.
Captain Vanover stood up. He had no official connection with the internship program, but he felt bad for the four teens. It was fairly obvious Cutter was ignoring them. “Tell you what. I’ll grab English and take them out to get their feet wet.”
Gallagher looked pathetically grateful. “Great, great! Did you kids hear that? You’re diving today.” He put his arm around the shoulders of the girl with the limp. “And I’m sure you’ll make an excellent tender while the others are in the water.”
Star’s eyes flashed. It was obvious to everyone in the room except the director that he had said very much the wrong thing. She was about to speak, was already opening her mouth, when Kaz jumped into the fray.
“Star’s a diver like us, Dr. Gallagher,” he said quickly. “In fact, she’s the best we’ve got.”
“Yes, of course,” Gallagher mumbled, and busied himself with resetting the upper portion of the great white’s jaw. He very nearly sacrificed a finger as the thing slammed shut again.
It was on the gravel path that led to the guest cabins that Star turned on the big hockey player.
“Where do you get off fighting my battles for me?” she demanded. “When I’ve got something to say, I say it myself!”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the problem,” Kaz retorted. “If you called Gallagher an idiot — which he is, by the way, so you would have been A-one right — you could have gotten the head of the whole institute mad at us. I wasn’t protecting you; I was protecting me.”
“Even so,” she muttered, “mind your own business.”
“Count on it,” he assured her.
“Hey,” said Dante. “We’re getting a chance to do something. Let’s not blow it.”
Star sat on the deck of the R/V Hernando Cortés, watching the harbor at Côte Saint-Luc disappear in the glare of an overpowering Caribbean sun.
“The reefs northeast of the island are pretty spectacular,” called Captain Vanover from the cockpit. “They’re part of the Hidden Shoals of the French West Indies. Best diving in the world.”
Star felt a shiver of excitement. “I know!” she exclaimed. Not from personal experience. But before this trip, she had read everything she could get her hands on about the coral formations around Saint-Luc. This was a great opportunity and she was going to make the most of it.
Kaz, Dante, and Adriana were already struggling into lightweight tropical wet suits. And struggling was the word for it. They looked like three fat ladies trying to squeeze themselves into undersized girdles. Were these guys divers or circus clowns?
Star could slip into a wet suit as easily as putting on a glove. It was a three-second job for her, bad leg and all. Her secret: liquid dish detergent to lubricate her skin. The thin rubber material slid right on.
She made a face, still smarting over Dr. Gallagher’s assumption that she couldn’t possibly be a diver. People were such idiots about handicaps. They stared at you, pitied you, tried to smooth the way for you. For Star Ling, that limp was
normalcy. A mild case of cerebral palsy, that was all — a certain amount of weakness on the left side. She couldn’t remember, of course, but her very first step had demonstrated that limp. It was a part of her and always had been.
It wasn’t nothing. She didn’t delude herself about that. She wouldn’t win any footraces or dance with the Bolshoi. But in the water, everything changed. There was no weakness, no asymmetry. She had felt that on her first trip to the county pool, age four. And she still felt it every time she slipped off the dive platform of a boat. The laws of physics that held her back on dry land melted away in a rush of familiarity and comfort that seemed to say, “You’re home.”
Her eyes wandered aft, where Captain Vanover’s lone crew member was hefting heavy scuba tanks as if they weighed nothing. Menasce Gérard was a hulking six-foot-five-inch native dive guide who went by the puzzling nickname “English.” No one seemed less English than English, a young West Indian man whose first language was French. Secretly, Star had assigned him a different moniker — Mr. Personality. The guy was just about the most humorless human being she’d ever encountered.
They’d been on the boat for nearly half an hour, and he had yet to crack a smile. In fact, she wasn’t sure she could confirm that he had teeth, since he rarely opened his mouth at all. He answered most questions with a series of gestures, shrugs, and grunts.
That didn’t stop Adriana from spewing a line of chitchat at him. Maybe that was how things worked at whatever snooty country club her family belonged to. You kept talking without bothering to notice that you weren’t getting any answers.
“But why do they call you English?” Adriana burbled on. “You’re French, right? I mean, people from Saint-Luc are French citizens.”
English barely shrugged as he checked the pressure gauges on the cylinders of compressed air.
“Your name isn’t English,” she continued. “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to call you that.”
“Will you give it a rest?” Star groaned. “I once knew a guy named Four Eyes who didn’t wear glasses. So they call him English. What’s it to you?”
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