Diving Deep

by P D Singer

  “Bastard!” Rafe called after him. “We’re doing the Oregon.”

  Bobby couldn’t hear that without a twinge. He’d never dived the Oregon, and Rafe hadn’t said a thing about him coming along. Didn’t matter that he’d played keep-away with his dive site. He’d never said never to diving with the guy.

  However, the passenger liner had been there since 1886. It was on the charts, waiting for Bobby to get around to it.

  Hope to heaven Lee’s coordinates hid something good.

  Chapter 9

  THREE HOURS in the mild chop that was the universe’s gift to their diving expedition let Bobby rig gear with his chosen companions for this virgin dive site. All guys he’d known for years, and fortunately, only two of them had a history of diving with the Tech Tach.

  “Virgin site, guys,” Bobby reminded them while slipping lead into the weight pockets. “What happens at this dive site stays at this dive site if it’s anything better than some old pipe barge.”

  “Got it, Bobby,” grumbled Stuart, a dentist out of Washington, DC, who’d been out on the Bottom Hunter a good two dozen times, including that fateful trip to the Andrea Doria. Guess all he cared about that adventure was that everyone came back alive. “Lips zipped.”

  “Or you’ll install a zipper?” joshed Kent, who ran a dive shop inland about a hundred miles, and showed up on the Bottom Hunter a couple of times a year. Or had—Bobby had seen him last on the Tech Tach.

  “More like Darrell needs one installed on his crotch,” Eddy cackled. “That dry suit still a wet suit?”

  “Fuck you,” a fourth diver replied, with no heat behind it. Peeing in your dry suit during a long dive was one of those things that followed a guy around. “Try to remember not to reach into the nooks and crannies this time.” Getting bitten by a stone bass wasn’t quite as good a jest as pissing yourself but got mentioned just as often.

  Good bunch of guys, though. All experienced, all certified for trimix and wrecks, and all good enough Bobby didn’t expect anyone would need rescuing from anything. The ocean played tricks, but his companions today had plenty of deep cold-water entries on their dive logs. Penetrations, not just excursions. Not that he expected to enter the unknown wreck without a thorough survey.

  “How long before we’re there?” Eddy had his buoyancy compensator spread out across the deck, tugging on the straps and checking attachments for various pieces of gear. The orange safety sausage every diver lived in fear of needing to wave made a bright flicker under his hands. Better to have it and not need it. Bobby’d never inflated his, aside from dry checks. That and the whistle were a comfort, though, because the ocean was vast and a diver small. The last boat they’d seen was about twenty minutes out of port, heading more northeasterly than their own course.

  “Don’t know,” Bobby said, “I’m getting there the same time you are.”

  But it wasn’t long before the Bottom Hunter made a tight U-turn and headed back the way she’d come.

  “Guess we’re here” was the consensus, because the Bottom Hunter flipped course again in a few minutes, and again a few minutes after that.

  Tip clomped down from the wheelhouse. “Bobby, you’re wanted up top.”

  “All right.” Bobby barely kept himself from running up the stairs. He’d take them two at a time except for the swell. Falling on his face because the stair wasn’t there when his foot came down was entirely too possible. Seemed like they were getting about two feet more amplitude than they’d been seeing on the way.

  Worth the extra seconds, though, because Lee turned to greet him with a blinding smile and furious poking toward the bottom finder. The red, yellow, and green traces showed a ridge, long and with a fairly consistent variance from bottom. “Got something.”

  Bobby let out a low whistle. “Sure do. Too even to be anything not man-made.”

  “Damn right.” They stared at the green and yellow squiggles mapping out their target. “And not a lot of side shit. Could be pretty intact.”

  “Probably modern, then.” Lee frowned and turned the boat hard to starboard for another pass.

  “Mowing the hay” they called it, this mapping of unseen terrain. That bastard Johnny Ray must have made his one pass just to torment Bobby, but Lee swept past their target for more information. Not enough—it could never be enough—but there was something down there.

  “Please don’t be a garbage scow,” Bobby begged the ridge on the bottom.

  “I been asking any power that’ll answer for that same thing,” Lee mumbled, and maybe Bobby wasn’t meant to hear, but he did.

  “I’ll dive your damn garbage scow, Lee.”

  “Once.” Lee stared at his instrument panels, or maybe he was memorizing the curls and watermarks on the silly sign Bobby had given him years before. “Marriages performed by the captain of this vessel are valid only for the duration of the voyage.” They’d found it funny then, when it was the only ceremony they could hope for. The “grooms” had kissed on the way out of harbor every single trip. A lot of things had changed since, not least that Bobby hadn’t been on board.

  Bobby refused to dwell on the sign, or on the temporary wedding kisses they no longer shared. “Once, yeah.” No point in wasting trimix if it wasn’t any more interesting than that. “If it is a garbage scow.” But it might be more, even if it was recent enough not to have disintegrated into a featureless hulk, one with the ocean floor. “Let’s take one more swing past, ’cause I’d like to know how long this is.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  One promise of diving and cue the suggestive jokes? Bobby lightly thwapped Lee across the back of the head, Gibbs and DiNozzo style, because… because that’s what he always did when Lee pushed his buttons. Maybe he should thwap himself a whole lot harder, knock some sense into his hard head, because this was diving. Just diving. Even if it had been more once and hurt like hell not to reach for again. “Turn the boat, Captain.”

  “Aye, aye, Commodore, sir.” Lee set hard to starboard once more, and the image on the bottom finder grew another fifty feet of details. “I think we have us, hmmm, about 200 feet of hump.” Guess the smack, however light, was enough to keep the snickering at the adolescent jokes inside—Lee didn’t so much as crack a smile even though Bobby could have made the joke with him.

  No, they had no hump whatsoever, and it would stay that way. Bobby pointed out details on the monitor instead. “Okay, looks like our average depth at the top is about 120 feet, and at the sides, closer to 140 feet, so let’s set a couple of safety lines, here and here.”

  Whatever this thing was, it deserved hugs and kisses and whooping, because they’d just found something weird and unknown, not marked on any chart, and it was theirs, all theirs, and to be treasured right up until they discovered how well banana peels and chicken bones composted in seawater. And it might be something more interesting. Gold, too much to hope for. Cargo, possibly salvageable, and they were in international waters. Could be a lot of things, and Lee’d made it possible for Bobby to be the first one to see it. Damn, but that deserved a blowjob at the very least, but there wouldn’t be so much as a hug because Lee and Bobby didn’t hug each other anymore.

  Bobby could change that right now.

  “I’ll go tell the guys to get dressed.”

  DAMN IT all, two steps forward, one step back. At least Lee’s favorite diver was involved in this expedition. Even the swat on his scalp was worth something, because Bobby had touched him.

  First time in a year, and if it wasn’t a hug, it was something of old times. How often had Bobby batted at him for outrageous comments? How often had the nonexistent damage been followed by kisses “to make it better”?

  Maybe this would be too, just later? Once they’d seen what was on the end of the anchor line? Lee signaled Tip to drop the grapnel-shaped anchor and pulled backward at Tip’s thumb jerk once line quit paying out. Back, back, until they bit on something solid.

  Definitely solid—divers in various stages o
f equipping lurched with the impact. Hope they could get the anchor back out when it was time to leave. Lee hated leaving metal on the ocean floor. Maybe they’d drop some cinder blocks for permanent nav lines. If they found something good down there. Please, let it not be a garbage scow.

  Once they’d set the second anchor line, Lee cut the engines. He checked their position on the chart—miles from other known dive sites. Better yet, out of the usual shipping lanes. Confident they’d be out of the area by dark and that they’d see any potential Titanic coming, he left the automatic identification system off. He’d cut the transponder about ten miles beyond the US territorial limit, and the Coast Guard might be a little pissy with him if they ever had reason to know. Much more important not to appear on Bert Guldbrandsen’s instruments. Lee didn’t need a nosy captain with a big clientele showing up right now.

  If it was a garbage scow, he’d “slip up” on his secrecy. Just to see Bert and Rafe’s faces.

  His mind set at ease, Lee came down to the dive deck. Making a bet with himself, he offered “Need a hand?” to the group at large.

  Three noes, one “got it, thanks” from Bobby, one silence, and one “keep your fucking hands off my gear.” More polite than he’d expected, really. Usually he got two responses including “fuck” in a group this size. Solo divers the lot of them, big boys who expected to take care of themselves above and below.

  Bobby did have it under control—fully suited, he was examining his gauges. He looked up from his rebreather. “I’ll go down, tie us in. You wanna send down a cinder block on each line? I’ll rig us.”

  Hot damn, did Bobby really think they’d found something worth rigging a permanent guideline for? Maybe not—a sideways apology for not celebrating the find was more likely. Lee sighed and dug some metal rings and carabiners out of a gear locker to aim the salvaged masonry at its new watery home. “Try not to drop them on your silly foot.”

  Bobby snorted his reply.

  “Got your cups?” Lee brandished a sleeve of white Styrofoam.

  “Yes, Ma.” Bobby paused to pat his chest pocket before swinging a hundred pounds of tanks and equipment onto his shoulders. He made it look so easy. But that very motion was why Bobby’s shoulders were so broad and his torso thick with muscle. Lee wanted to drink in the words and stare at the vision on his dive deck. Had Bobby ever looked better than he did now?

  “Don’t you two ever stop bickering?” Chuck didn’t even look up from refolding his haul bag.

  A year without the banter was a damned lonely year. Kicking Chuck overboard for interrupting seemed reasonable. Without his gear, he’d hit bottom in about…. Lee released the cinder block and tried not to imagine his charter client dropping down the anchor line instead. “That’s how you know it’s us, buddy.”

  “Give me ten minutes, guys.” Bobby settled his goggles over his face, the GoPro camera sitting like a wart above his right eye.

  “Aw, you get first look.” Darrell mock pouted.

  “Divemaster’s privilege. Goes with doing the heavy lifting.” He raised his regulator to his lips. “But you can have the joy of unhooking us.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Darrell gushed, his eyes unnaturally wide. “I’m so thrilled!”

  Chuck just shook his head. “It’s contagious, isn’t it?”

  “You betcha. Just listen to you moaning. We have to put you underwater just to shut that off,” Stuart jibed.

  Chuck retrieved the slate jammed into his dry suit pocket to scribble a quick note. FUCK YOU TOO, he displayed to the group, and in the laughter that followed, Bobby stepped off the dive platform at the stern. He bobbed in the swell at a cautious distance from the platform, making last adjustments. “Nobody’s penetrating on this dive, remember?” he yelled, and he didn’t offer an A-OK until he’d heard everyone yell back. Lee had to thunk Kent’s arm to get an agreement out of him. Asshat shouldn’t be futzing with his gear instead of responding, keeping Bobby at the surface.

  “And no cameras, guys,” Lee reminded them so Bobby could hear.

  Almost more seal than man now, Bobby offered a thumbs-down and disappeared. Not even bubbles marked his descent after he’d degassed his dry suit—his rebreather scrubbed carbon dioxide out of his exhalations and kept the rest. Acid swirled in Lee’s gut. Out of communication for the next hour and a half was gonna up his Tums intake to “all of it.”

  This was why he drank. Because the uncertainty chewed away at him. Even if he were down there himself, the not knowing. And yet the knowing—because Bobby was good. Bobby was the best. All his divers knew their shit. He hadn’t lost a one of them. Yet. Close as it had come. That once.

  Comfort called from the freezer. He could nip down the hatch, swallow the pitifully small mouthfuls, and take the edge off. Soothe himself. Just enough to hold him until Bobby got back.

  Because Bobby would come back. He would. The ocean was his home as much as if he were a seal or a dolphin. Bobby always came back.

  Lee gripped the railing until his fingers cramped, scanning for cups. Too soon: Bobby could barely have reached bottom, let alone moved a cinder block away from the line and set the anchor. Ten minutes, he’d estimated. And if things went south in ten minutes, like a line snapping so Bobby couldn’t follow it back to the boat….

  Fire surged up his esophagus. Antacid and liquor made a Phillips screwdriver, right? Fix his anxieties. One swig from each bottle.

  Wouldn’t fix what would go south once Bobby surfaced and smelled his breath. Lee didn’t let go of the railing.

  He stayed frozen in place until three white Styrofoam cups bobbed to the surface, Bobby’s signal that anchors were fixed and a line strung from block to block. They might recycle a lot of masonry if this site panned out. Lee had the demolished building all scoped out—let him please need a shitload of mini-anchors…. He forced his hand to relax while his divers spat in their goggles. “Hands off my fucking gear” didn’t extend to tanking up—he helped Tip hoist their double tanks into position, all the while eyeing them for anything obviously missing. Nothing, nothing…. Which only meant anything they were missing didn’t show and would be that much bigger a problem when they discovered it.

  “‘No cameras’ is a bitch, man,” Stuart complained.

  “Oh darn,” Lee mocked. “Captain’s rules for first dive.”

  “Bobby’s got his GoPro,” Kent grumbled. “Guess you gotta blow the captain or something.”

  “Guess you gotta be the divemaster, shithead,” Lee snarled, and half the heat was for the lack of blowjobs. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Kent. You can risk your equipment when we know there’s something to see.” Darrell added his own stink eye to Lee’s. “His boat, his rules.”

  They were all going to shit themselves over the “no booze” ruling he might have to make. Because Lee hadn’t even thought about celebrations for a big find. Boozy affairs, and all he’d dreamed about was the private congratulations due in the captain’s cabin. Fuck this sobriety shit. More loopholes than a court case.

  One by one the men toppled off the dive platform, each waiting until the swell brought the platform close to the water’s surface or dipped it below. Thirty thousand bucks from now, Lee would put in a submerging lift platform. He’d make the Bottom Hunter that much more versatile for commercial gigs and, not that he felt much like catering to this particular group, attractive to the charter crowds.

  If he didn’t need to overhaul some other system first. He loved his boat, even if she was basically a hole in the water where he poured his money. Plumbing was next on the list—he’d have a bunch of pissy charter customers if the hot water gave out midtrip. Good thing PVC pipe was cheap.

  Five dark heads with goggles bobbed in the water. Five A-OKs, and then the surface of the ocean lay empty again.

  Waiting fucking sucked.

  COLD SALT water lapped at the few patches of exposed skin on his face, the familiar caress of the sea. Bobby kicked down, war
y of currents, with one hand on the anchor line. Lee was good, Lee was one of the best. He could drop anchor damn near on top of his targets. He needed to, because visibility could be so bad Bobby could miss an entire wreck if he came down forty-five feet off target.

  He glanced at his dive computer—eighty feet now—and popped his ears again. As he descended, his garbage scow hove into view. Big. Real big. Long and curved. No features obvious in the iffy visibility. Sixty feet of visibility could hide a lot, but his heart raced anyway—there was something here, something more real than a trace on a bottom finder’s screen. Covered with sponges and worms, small fans and anemones. Furry with millions of invertebrates, all the mussels and barnacles that clung to any hard surface that didn’t get scraped down. Painted in shades of gray and brown, dappled with silver flashes of baitfish. Nothing like a tropical reef for color, everything like it for the exuberance of the sea life that took advantage of something big, hard, and stationary. A crab scuttled sideways over the surface. Dash away, little delicacy—Bobby wasn’t underwater to capture dinner.

  Moving with practiced skill, Bobby tested the anchor. Lee’d set it like a champ. Hope Chuck could dislodge it tomorrow. He willed his breathing to slow while he wrestled the cinder block off the anchor line and ground it into a stable resting spot, grunting with the effort. He couldn’t see the other anchor line, but he could orient himself even in the moderate visibility—thataway to the other anchor point. Clipping his reel to the block gave him a reference point—he could get back to the anchor line and the boat. Coming loose and getting buffeted by the current could put him at the surface two miles from here. He added a strobe, just in case.

  Hundreds of silvery anchovies scattered in his path, brilliant distractions in the strobe’s pulsing brightness. Only the hiss of his breath mixed with the pops and crackles from the abundance of marine life and the thuds and thumps from above. Bobby swam about four feet above the target, looking for any kind of landmark that might tell him what he’d found. Wall-to-wall invertebrates—the encrustation could be a foot thick.