They spent the next few days collecting whatever supplies they might utilize to reach Sydney Cove. He found a strange happiness in their plight. A thousand-mile adventure through an uncharted territory. It was the easiest way to forget about what he’d done back in England.
The days were long and hard. They had to carry large amounts of food stores using packs. Water was scarce, the vegetation sparse, and the trees enormous. The country had a number of unique animals. Although plentiful, the animals had little meat to offer. What meat they found was tough and gristly. It wasn’t an easy life, but they’d be able to sustain themselves.
After a week, the small party settled into the routine.
Occasionally, Jack caught a glimpse of a native watching them from afar. In general however, the aboriginals keep their distance.
It wasn’t until their third week that Jack first laid eyes on her.
The Mahogany Ship looked like a mirage in the distance.
She was so large that her prominent bow and stern were visible hours before the survivors reached her. From that distance, she looked like a grand ship sailing through the mountain. At first, Jack mistook their distance from the ship. It wasn’t until he was closer that he realized just how large the ship was.
“Christ almighty, I think we’ve just found Noah’s Ark!” Jack exclaimed with awe.
Chapter One
Gulf of Mexico, Present Day
The day was warm, even for summer. Sam Reilly looked at the sea below; it was calm, the rays of light glistening off the ripples beneath the helicopter blades. It was still too early for hurricane season, but all the same, he was keen to complete this case in time to be far away before they came.
In the water up ahead he could see what he was after.
It was painted sky blue. And along the ship’s steel hull, in large emerald writing, were the words MARIA HELENA and below in smaller writing – Deep Sea Expeditions. From the distance, it looked like nothing more than an oversized tugboat or possibly an old icebreaker converted into a science vessel. On the aft deck a helipad could be seen – the only indication that it was anything more than a tugboat.
What couldn’t be seen were the two most advanced submarines in the world. Both stored in its hold, Sea Witch and Rescuer One accessed the sea through a moon pool below the waterline of the Maria Helena. Nor could a casual observer know that it was loaded with some of the most advanced naval and observational equipment in the world, some of which would make the U.S., Russian, and Chinese navies jealous.
The sight of his ship made him smile.
Minutes later he was landing on the aft section of the ship, where several engineers eagerly awaited his arrival near the small helipad. Sam turned the main switches to off and waited for the whine of the rotary blades to settle, while his skipper, Matthew, approached. The man’s shaved head ducked well below the spinning blades high above.
Matthew’s hazel eyes and ordinarily serious face displayed a generous smile alongside his genuine pleasure. Holding out his hand, he said, “Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back,” Sam replied as he shook the skipper’s hand and then climbed out of the cockpit, beaming with pride.
At six feet exactly, Sam Reilly had a physique more resembling a gymnast than a marine biologist. He was solidly built, with perfectly proportioned muscles, the result of a lifetime of strenuous activities. Of all of his adventures, the ocean had the strongest pull. He had brown hair in wavy ruffles, which softened his piercing blue eyes. Underneath which, he wore a smile, which most adequately portrayed a man who had it all, and was smart enough to know it.
He’d missed his ship and the people who served aboard. The man was by far the most conservative of his crew. Somehow, Sam had often thought, he seemed to take the responsibility of the safety of all persons aboard, as a skipper is obliged to, much too seriously. Their views had come to blows a couple times in the past year as a consequence. That aside, he respected the man very much, as the expert he was.
“So, this is our new helicopter?” Matthew mused.
“Sure is. I’ve just taken possession of her at Florida Keys. A Sikorsky MH-60, AKA, ‘Knight Hawk.’ Her long range fuel tanks will come in useful, since Tom destroyed the last one a few months ago. It’s a little larger, and much more up to date. It also has a few additional toys, which Tom will like.”
Entering the maintenance deck on the way towards the mission room, Sam handed the helicopter’s maintenance book over to Veyron Blanc, his chief engineer. Having no relationship to the car whatsoever, the French engineer held a separate Doctorate in Mechatronics and in Submersibles. He was also one of the sharpest minds Sam had ever encountered, and in his line of work there were an abundance of extremely intelligent people. The man had little to do with the maintenance of the helicopter, but liked to be kept up to date with anything within his fleet of expensive machines.
Veyron took the logbooks, nodded at Sam, a gesture that he’d come to understand meant, I’ll talk to you later – I have a new toy to look at. Like many engineers Sam had met, Veyron had more interest in mechanical contraptions than people. However, Sam was starting to discover that there was a lot more to his engineer than an almost autistic obsession with machinery. It was a side of him that few on board the Maria Helena realized.
Sam made a mental note to catch up with him shortly.
Genevieve Callaghan approached with thick European hot chocolate. “Here, boss. I thought you might like one of these after your flight.”
“Thanks, Harry – you’re wonderful. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” he said, embracing her tightly and kissing each of her cheeks.
“I missed you too, handsome.” Her big brown eyes and long lashes, like those of a gazelle, greeted him with a look that appeared almost seductive with affection. Although, Sam knew that she, of all people on board, had no interest in him that way. “Of course, what you meant to say was that you missed my cooking!”
“That too.”
Genevieve was a kind of Jack of All Trades on board, who managed the kitchen with an ability bordering on divinity. She’d once trained under a Three Michelin Star chef, but that was where, much to her parent’s chagrin, her feminine attributes finished. Everyone on board called her Harry – after the violent cop, Harry Callaghan, AKA Dirty Harry – whom her personality and surname more accurately reflected. She was excellent at everything she did, an expert martial artist, athletic, and short-tempered as hell. For some reason that no one aboard had yet to determine, she also spoke perfect Russian.
Sam sat down with Matthew and opened his computer tablet.
Harry took the sign it was time to work. “Be sure to catch up soon, and tell me all about this beautiful girl I hear has stolen you.”
“I will. You can bet on it.”
Matthew smiled.
It wasn’t like him to pry into Sam’s personal business. “How was your sojourn in the Caribbean with that beautiful girl? What was her name, Aliena?”
“Aliana,” Sam corrected him. “And it was great. But, now I’m here again, and that means it’s time to get back to work and solve this disaster – before hurricane season really takes off and it becomes a problem for all of us.”
“Understood.”
Sam looked around the otherwise empty mission room and asked, “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Tom Bower.”
“He’s still below on a dive – should be up soon.”
“Good, get him back up here. I want him to bring me up to speed with our problem and what he’s done about it.” Sam looked at Matthew and said, “What have we got so far?”
Matthew gave a quick whistle, and a man monitoring the dive gave the signal for Tom to return to ship.
Matthew then turned on the overhead projector.
“As you know, summer can be a tough time for many species in the Gulf of Mexico, when the combination of nutrient-rich river runoff and warm temperatures can rob coas
tal bottom waters of oxygen. Where that happens, shrimp, fish, and other creatures can be forced to flee to fresher waters, leaving a so-called ‘Dead Zone’ behind.”
“I read the report. I’ve heard about them, but didn’t know a lot about those that affected the Gulf of Mexico. Here, the Dead Zones are caused by runoff from land rich in nutrients such as nitrogen and phosphorous. These elements aren't toxic, but they are potent fertilizers. In fact, in the Mississippi River, which drains about forty percent of the continental United States and most of its Midwestern farmland, agricultural fertilizers are the main source of these elements. Air pollution and urban development also increase nutrient runoff. When these nutrients find their way to the Gulf of Mexico they cause unnaturally large algal blooms. The algae then die and sink to the bottom, where they're decomposed by oxygen-consuming bacteria. During the warm summer months, when there is little mixing in the water column, the bottom water can stagnate and become hypoxic, or low in oxygen. If the hypoxia becomes severe enough, you have a Dead Zone.” Sam wasn’t reading from notes – he had a memory bordering on photographic. “So, what’s so different about it this time?”
“Well, I’ll show you. See here? This is a normal graph of a typical summer Dead Zone. See the purple markings? They represent the Dead Zone for last year.”
Sam followed the graph along the coastal region of up to two miles off shore from the numerous landfalls, which make up the Gulf of Mexico, “And this year?”
“Check this out…”
In front of him, the projector displayed an image of the entire Gulf of Mexico covered in red.
There must be a mistake. If this is right, the world is in for serious trouble!
“Are you sure that’s right?”
“It’s right – and to make matters worse, normally this only affects ground feeding fish, such as shrimp, crustaceans, etc. But this year we’re talking about widespread devastation of sea life.”
“And at the current rate, if we can’t stop the progression?”
“The world’s oceans will be rendered inhospitable to all but the most resilient of sea creatures within two to three years.”
“Do we have any idea what’s causing their demise?”
“Yes, and no.” Matthew looked worried.
Sam knew why. He was a kind boss, but he wanted answers, and had little time for people sitting on the fence. “All right, what do we know?”
“Analysis of the dead sea creatures show that they have been affected with hydrogen cyanide.”
“The Mexican silver mines?” Sam realized instantly.
“Probably, but it will be hard to prove.”
“Why? Where’s the primary source of the contamination?”
“Tom’s managed to trace the source of their original contamination to a location below us – about three hundred feet to be exact.”
“Someone’s been dumping something they shouldn’t?”
“That’s what we thought at first, but not necessarily. It looks like something way more interesting than that.”
“What is it?”
“No, Tom would kill me if I took away all his thunder,” Matthew complained.
“Forget Tom. I’m the one paying for this project.”
“Who wants to forget me?” Tom said as he walked in, his dive suit still dripping wet.
“I do, you tall bastard.”
*
Tom was stoked to see Sam again, and his big, cheeky grin beamed from ear to ear while he shook Sam’s hand. It was solid. Not the type of handshake where a man tries to impress another with the strength of his grip, but instead, simply the firm handshake of a man whose hands were as strong as a vice.
It had only been a week, but the project just didn’t feel right without Sam. And then, after his most recent dive, he couldn’t believe his buddy missed it. Sam was going to be pissed when he discovered this was more than a simple case of someone dumping something they shouldn’t in an environment that couldn’t deal with it.
His wetsuit was still dripping, having come straight up from the ship’s moon pool. When his boss said come now, he didn’t wait to get dry.
“Good to see you, Sam,” he said, giving his friend a giant bear hug.
“You too, Tom. Now, what have you got for me?”
He expected such a reply from Sam – the man was focused when he started a new project.
“You’re not going to believe what we’ve found.”
“Try me.”
“Okay, so the cause of this year’s apocalyptic Dead Zone was hydrogen cyanide…”
“Yeah, yeah…” Sam interrupted his thunder. “Often used in mining, probably one of the local Mexican silver mines.”
“Okay, so I see Matthew’s filled you in. But the next part is what you’re going to find really interesting, my friend.”
“What?”
“The sources of the contamination weren’t dumped here at all, as we expected. Instead, it came from an underwater tunnel, and guess who owned the tunnel?”
“Michael Rodriguez, the owner of the closest silver mine?”
“Good guess, but no. A man by the name of Ajtzak Wikea.”
He waited for the name to ring a bell in Sam’s ear, but it didn’t.
“Never heard of him. What does he do?”
“Not what he does, but what he did.” Waiting for the words to sink in, Tom continued, “He lost the future hope of the Mayan empire, after losing its greatest weapon at the Ciudad Del Carmen in 1443 to an unknown enemy.”
Sam’s eyes focused and his smile turned radiant, “The Ark of Light – I’ve read about it, and often wondered if there was any truth to the stories. Myth has it that it was a powerful scepter, covered with ornate jewels, and at the center a giant diamond, which had the ability to regulate the direction and intensity of the sun. Enough power to destroy ships with one shot – but it’s never been found, and neither has any evidence of its existence. Like all longstanding myths, I can imagine that its origins had some semblance of truth.”
“That’s the one…”
“What else do we know about Ciudad Del Carmen?”
“Not a lot. So far, all we know is little more than what the tourist brochure says – that what was named “Ciudad Del Carmen” in the 16th century by the Spanish invaders, was a Mayan fortress dating back thousands of years that served as a trading outpost between the Aztec and Mayan civilizations.”
“Do we have the archeological maps of the Mayan fortress?”
“Sure do. It took some work, but we convinced someone from the University of Mexico to email them to us.”
“And what did they show?” Sam asked.
“Nothing that would indicate an underground passage deep below the sea.”
“So what we’ve found is an entirely new section of the building?”
“Looks like it.”
“Okay, so how did our fifteenth century friend get involved in all this?” Sam asked, shaking his head.
“That I don’t know. But the tunnel leads somewhere, and I think it’s time you and I find out where – so we can stop this before it destroys most of the planet’s sea life.”
“Sounds like a plan. When do we dive?”
“The Rock will be ready in two hours.”
*
A crooked smile crossed Sam’s face, as he thought about diving the unexplored, ancient Mayan tunnel.
This was more like the environment he wanted to work in: dangerous, mysterious, and ancient. He went through the dive plan with Tom, and although he now took over the control of the mission, he was happy with the plan.
They would use the dive bell to reach the seafloor, 300 feet below. The Maria Helena housed a technologically advanced dive bell. It was capable of supporting up to five divers at any one time for up to five days without shipside support, or indefinitely with a shipside tether.
The Rock, as the bell was affectionately known, had a potential bottom depth range of 1000 feet, although Sam would be reluctant to att
empt to work at such depths without the aid of a mechanical atmospheric dive suit. It was also equipped with a hyperbaric chamber, making rapid ascents possible, if required.
Once on the seabed, Sam and Tom would set up for a deep dive and enter the tunnel. Wearing fully encapsulated diving helmets, the two men would be protected from the lethality of the hydrogen cyanide, which is most dangerous when breathed or ingested. At that depth, the two men would have a dive time of less than fifty minutes in which to locate the source of the cyanide contamination and seal it. Returning to the outer chamber of the Rock, the two men could then begin the decontamination process, which involved scrubbing each dive suit with a neutralizing agent before entering the dive bell and then having the dive suit washed again before the men removed the equipment and entered the main living area of the bell.
Or that was how it was supposed to go.
At the bottom of the seafloor Sam shook Tom, who, lying flat on his back in the relatively cramped space, was snoring soundly. It took more than a light shake to rouse the man, “Hey, we’re here. It’s time to get ready.”
“What time is it?” Tom’s voice was groggy.
“1410. The dive time is set to commence at 1430.” Shaking his head, Sam said, “We’re about to dive in 300 feet of water. Our bodies will be under 30 times their normal atmospheric pressure. As though that isn’t dangerous enough, we’re going to do so in the hope of sealing a catastrophic leak of hydrogen cyanide, in a tunnel that will compete with the extreme depth to kill us… and yet you sleep like a baby?”
Tom shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve always been a good sleeper – you never know when you’ll need the extra energy later. You want an egg sandwich before we dive? I packed you one too,” he said casually, taking a bite.
“I’ll be all right, but make it quick.”
Sam put his legs through his dry suit and checked both of their twin dive tanks. By the time he looked up, he caught a glimpse of Tom shoving the remaining half of his sandwich in his mouth. His boyish grin was displayed behind the mouth full of food.
Ordinarily, Sam would remain on the ship as the director of the operation. But when Tom had spoken of an ancient tunnel, he wouldn’t hear a word about missing out on it. Consequently, Matthew would take over his role. He had direct access with several doctors from the CDC, who could provide real time answers to any question Sam or Tom asked while they were in the tunnel.
The Sam Reilly Collection Page 29