They flattened themselves against the cliff and waited. In the shimmering light, Sanders caught an occasional glimpse of Treece’s face, of the shining knife blade in his hand.
Moving water disturbed sand at the entrance to the cave: something was coming out. Sanders saw Treece’s knife rise and hold steady.
The man on Treece’s side came out first, a few feet ahead of his companion. His head appeared, looking down at the sand, then his shoulders.
Treece jumped him: a flash of red-brown skin, an explosion of bubbles, a fist grabbing the man’s air hose and wrenching the mouthpiece from his mouth, drawing the hose taut, the knife slicing easily through the rubber tube.
The head of the second man emerged from the cave. Sanders raised his knife.
The man looked up and saw Sanders. His eyes widened, hands flew to his head as Sanders leaped.
The man knocked Sanders’ knife hand away and reached for Sanders’ mask.
Sanders dodged. His shoulder hit the man’s chest, and they tumbled to the bottom, clawing at each other. They rolled along the bottom, punching and kicking, each trying to keep his head away from the other’s grasp. Sanders breathed in spurts, holding his breath after each inhalation, fearful of having his hose cut when his lungs were empty.
They were several yards inside the cave now, floating and bumping on the sand in a grotesque waltz: the man held Sanders’ right wrist, keeping the knife away from his neck. Sanders’ left arm was wrapped around the man’s side, pinning his right arm. Sanders could not stab the man, could not cut his air hose; he was waiting for Treece. Frantically, he looked to the mouth of the cave, expecting to see Treece swimming toward him. Instead, Treece was poised in a fighter’s crouch, facing out of the cave, awaiting the two flashlights that moved swiftly toward him.
The man’s right arm wiggled free. His hand inched upward and slammed into Sanders’ groin, fingers clawing at his balls. Sanders kicked upward with his left leg, deflecting the hand. Then he saw the hole in the cave wall, a dark tunnel above a pile of stones.
He touched a foot to the bottom and pushed off, dancing the man toward the wall. The man’s heels hit a rock, and he tripped, but he did not release Sanders’ wrist. Sanders leaned against him, forcing him onto the wall, butting him to make him jerk his head back toward the hole.
The man’s head was a few inches below the hole. Sanders’ foot found purchase on a rock, and he shoved again, driving the man up, exposing the black flesh and puffed arteries.
The pig eyes—beads in the slimy green head—showed in the hole, the mouth waving hungrily, half open.
The moray struck, needle teeth fastening on the man’s neck, throat convulsing as it pulled back toward the hole. Blood billowed out the sides of the moray’s mouth.
The man’s mouth opened, releasing his mouthpiece, and roared a noisy shriek of panic.
Their arms parted. Sanders wondered if he should stab the man, to make sure, but there was no need: his mouthpiece floated behind his head. Half his throat was engulfed in the moray’s mouth, and already his flails were weaker, his eyes dimmer.
Sanders turned back to the entrance of the cave. Treece was still crouched, the two flashlights closer to him but not moving. He feinted toward them, and they backed away.
Sanders knew Treece was waiting for him. If Treece had wanted to escape, he could have swum off into the darkness. The lights would soon have lost him, and even if the men could have kept track of him, they could not hope to catch him underwater.
The flashlights flicked off; the figures faded into the darkness. Treece turned on his light and swept the area in front of the cave. Sanders tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was there. Treece pointed to the surface and turned off his light.
Rising through the glow cast by the floodlights in the cave, Sanders felt naked. He knew Cloche’s men could see him. He kicked hard, reaching for darkness.
Something rammed his back. Legs wrapped around his middle; his head was pulled back. He sucked on the mouthpiece and breathed water: his regulator hose had been cut. The legs released him.
The salt water made him gag. He clamped his teeth together and forced himself to exhale, fighting the physical impulse to gasp for air.
He reached the surface, coughed, and drew a ragged breath. A light shone on his face. He threw his head to the right and dove underwater as a bullet slapped the surface, ricocheted, and struck the stone cliff. Holding his breath a few feet below the surface, he saw the beam of light playing across the water. It moved to the left, so he swam to the right. His hands touched the cliff face and, slowly, he inched upward.
They had lost him; the light was sweeping the surface several yards to his left. It started back toward him. He ducked until it had passed, then rose again to breathe. He heard Cloche’s voice.
“Treece!” No answer. “We are at an impasse, Treece. You cannot stop us; we are too many. Leave while you can. We will take no more than is in the cave, you have my word. A fair compromise.” No answer.
Sanders felt something touch his foot. He jerked his leg upward and drew a breath, expecting to be dragged beneath the surface, determined to struggle, but fearfully, hopelessly convinced that he lacked the strength to survive.
Treece’s head broke the surface next to his. “Chuck your tank,” Treece whispered, unsnapping his own harness and letting his tank sink to the bottom.
Cloche called twice more, but Treece didn’t reply. He led Sanders toward shore, swimming a silent breast stroke.
“Die, then!” Cloche said angrily.
They reached the end of the dock, crawled out of the water, and when they heard Cloche order his divers to come aboard, dashed for the path.
Gail was waiting for them at the top of the hill. “What . . .”
Treece ran past her toward the house. “Come on!”
In the kitchen, Treece examined the shape charge. He checked the wires, then taped the magnet to the side of the bottle.
“Did you hear what Cloche said?” Sanders asked. “About the compromise?”
“Aye. Lying bugger. He’ll go for the lot; bet on it. But if we’re lucky, we’ll beat him to it. There’s the tank and a regulator out by the compressor. Get ’em for me. And one of the hand lights, too, while you’re there.”
Sanders hurried out the kitchen door, and Gail said to Treece, “Where are we going?”
“Orange Grove. We’ll take Kevin’s car.” Treece picked the shape charge off the table and held it in both hands.
“You’re going to plant that thing tonight?”
“No choice, not if we want to get rid of the ampules before Cloche goes for them.” He saw Sanders returning from the compressor shed and said, “Let’s go. If we don’t get there first, it’s all down the drain.”
As they hurried along the path, Sanders said, “What about the rest of the jewels?”
“If there’s anything left down there . . . well, maybe Philip’s ghost can have a romp with the good duchess. We can’t take a chance on the drugs.”
The dog followed them to the gate, but Treece stopped her there and ordered her to stay.
They heard the engine of Cloche’s boat chug to life and turn southwest toward Orange Grove. Treece broke into a run.
He drove the Hillman as fast as it would go, leaning his body against the turns in the narrow road, cursing when the small engine faltered on steep hills. Sanders sat beside Treece, Gail in the back seat, steadying the shape charge with her hand.
On a long South Road straightaway the speedometer nudged seventy. Bracing himself against the dashboard, his feet pressed against imaginary brake pedals, Sanders said, “Suppose a cop stops you.”
“Any police who values his life will not stop me tonight.” Treece did not speak again until he had parked the car in the Orange Grove lot and was running toward the stairs that led to the beach. “You run an outboard?” he said then.
“Sure,” Sanders said.
“Good. I need a chauffeur.”
The moon was high, and as they ran down the stone stairs, they could see the white hulls of the Boston Whalers on their dollies.
Treece looked out to sea, to the left, at the white lines of reef. “Light’s good. We’ll see him coming.” He handed Gail the shape charge, grabbed the painter of the nearest Whaler, spun the dolly around, and, alone, dragged the boat into the water. Then he took the charge from Gail and said, “Stay here.”
“No.”
“Aye, you’ll stay here.”
“I will not!”
Her defiance surprised him. “It’ll be hairy out there, and I don’t want you around.”
“It’s my decision. It’s my life, and I’m going.” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t care. She could not stay on the beach, a helpless observer.
Treece took her by the arm and looked into her eyes. “I have killed one woman,” he said flatly. “I’ll not be responsible for killing another.”
Gail glared back at him and, in anger, without thinking, said, “I am not your wife!”
Treece relaxed his grip. “No, but . . .” He seemed embarrassed.
Gail touched his hand. “You said it yourself. I’m here. I’m me. Protecting me won’t do a thing for her.”
Treece said to Sanders, “Get in the boat.” He helped Gail into the boat after Sanders, walked the boat into water deep enough for the propeller shaft, and climbed aboard.
They went over the reefs, to a spot above the remains of Goliath. There they let the boat wallow.
Treece rigged the scuba tank, put it on his back, and sat on the starboard gunwale, resting the shape charge against his thighs. The hand light hung from a thong on his wrist. “I’ll go rig the charge,” he said. “Be right back. Then, soon’s we see him coming, I’ll nip over again and set the timer.”
“Okay,” said Sanders.
“Now . . . an order. If anything happens, get the hell out of here in a hurry. Don’t play Boy Scout.”
Sanders had no intention of leaving Treece, but he did not reply.
Treece rolled off the gunwale, turned on the light, and swam for the bottom.
Moments later, Sanders saw the first splash—sparkling white eruptions of water over the bow of a boat that was moving full-speed along the outer reef. “Look!” he said, pointing.
Gail saw the boat, then looked overboard. Treece’s light was steady on the bottom. “How long will it take him to rig that thing?”
“I don’t know. Too long.”
Sanders heard the high whine of a bullet passing overhead, followed a second later by the crack of a rifle shot. He ducked, and another bullet whirred by.
As Cloche’s boat drew nearer, there were more shots, but the Whaler, riding low in the water, was a bad target. All the shots were high.
Crouching in the bottom of the Whaler, Gail said, “He said to go.”
“The hell with him.”
Treece’s head popped up beside the Whaler. He started to say something, but stopped when he heard a shot.
“Go!” he said.
Sanders said, “No! You . . .”
“Go, goddammit! I’ll set the timer and follow you in. Get into the shallowest water you can find.” Treece disappeared below the surface.
For a few seconds, Sanders didn’t move.
“We’ve got to go!” Gail said.
“But he’ll—”
“Do you want to die?”
Sanders looked at her. He started the engine and spun the boat toward shore.
Two more bullets chased the Whaler inshore. When he felt that they were out of practical range, Sanders slowed the boat and turned the bow seaward.
“He said to find shallow water,” Gail said.
“This is shallow enough.”
Cloche’s boat was stopped over Goliath. A light flickered on, then another, and, one by one, figures dropped into the water.
“Divers,” Gail said.
“Don’t pay attention to them!” Sanders snapped. “Look for Treece. If we don’t get him out of the water before that thing goes off, he’s dead. He must have finished by now.”
But Treece had not finished. A wire had come loose from the timer, and he was resetting it, using his thumbnail as a screw driver. He tightened the screw and turned the timer dial to five minutes. Then the first light found him.
Sanders could not wait any longer. “Screw this!” he said, and he pushed the gear lever forward, heading for the reef.
“What are you doing?” Gail screamed.
“I don’t know! We’ve got to get him out!” Sanders guessed they were five hundred yards from Cloche’s boat.
There were two lights around Treece now. He was holding his breath, for his air hose had been cut. He turned in slow circles, trying to keep both divers in sight.
They were quick. One man circled with Treece, keeping always behind him, and when he saw a chance for a move, he darted forward and plunged his knife into Treece’s back.
Treece felt a deep, fiery ache. He held the timer to his chest and turned the dial to zero.
The Whaler was three hundred yards from the reef when the sea exploded.
David and Gail saw the bow of the Whaler rise toward them, and then they were flying away from it. They spun through the air, aware of fragmented images that flashed by their eyes: the sudden mountain of water rising, then rupturing; bits of Cloche’s boat flying in every direction, pieces cast impossibly high; a body, spread-eagle, cartwheeling across the sky.
Sanders hit the water on his back. His eyes were open, but he was not truly conscious. He heard bits of debris falling around him, felt stinging sensations as pieces of rock and coral hit his face. His legs dangled below him, and as he exhaled, he sank a few inches, then rose again as he inhaled. He saw the stars and the shimmering shafts of moonlight, and he thought vaguely: This isn’t what they say death is like.
The gentle swells carried him slowly toward shore.
A voice that sounded faint and far away was calling, “David?”
He rolled onto his stomach and, testing his limbs with the first tentative strokes, swam stiffly toward the voice.
Gail was treading water twenty yards away. She saw him coming and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I don’t know. I can’t move one of my arms.”
He helped her to shore, and they staggered out of the water. The beach looked like an endless field, the elevator a mile away.
They turned and looked back at the water. There was a new gap in the reef line, and pieces of flotsam were washing up in the waves. Otherwise, the sea was unchanged.
Leaning against each other, they walked toward the base of the cliff, where a crowd was already beginning to gather.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. But while it is true that none of the characters bears any intentional resemblance to anyone living or dead, many of the facts about Bermuda, about shipwrecks, and about the Spanish trade with the New World were gleaned from historical sources.
It would be impractical to list all the reference works consulted, but a few were of particular help: Pieces of Eight, by Kip Wagner, as told to L. B. Taylor, Jr.; The Treasure Diver’s Guide, by John S. Potter, Jr.; Marine Salvage, by Joseph N. Gores; Diving for Sunken Treasure, by Jacques-Yves Cousteau and Philippe Diolé; Treasures of the Armada, by Robert Sténuit; Port Royal Rediscovered, by Robert F. Marx; and Diving to a Flash of Gold, by Martin Meylach, in collaboration with Charles Whited.
Finally, I am deeply indebted to a friend, mentor, and walking encyclopedia—Teddy Tucker.
P.B.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PETER BENCHLEY has been writing for a living since he was fifteen, when his father, the writer Nathaniel Benchley—himself the son of a writer, humorist Robert Benchley—offered to pay Peter a small salary if he would spend the summer writing. Peter did, and after graduating from Harvard he went on to write for Newsweek, National Geographic, The New Yorker, The New York Times Mag
azine, and other magazines. His interest in the sea began at the age of nine during summers on Nantucket, and led to his research into sharks and to the writing of Jaws. It also led to his research into marine archaeology that forms the background of THE DEEP.
The Deep Page 24