Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Jack…"

  "Okay, I'm ready," he said, then added, "You sure this is the place?"

  Tom nodded. "Sombra waits below."

  "If you say so. What if we see a shark?"

  Tom gave a dismissive wave. "If you do, it'll be a harmless variety. Now, here's how it's going to work. See the way we're pulling on the anchor line? That's the way the current is running. We're situated over the upstream end of the sand hole. That's the way we'll work: Start upstream and slowly move downstream. Got it?"

  "Sure. Instead of kicking sand in our own faces, it'll all float downstream."

  "Exactly. One of us handles the hose while the other stays low and watches for artifacts—preferably of the gold and silver variety."

  "And that's going to uncover the wreck?"

  "I know it sounds simplistic, but that's the way it's done. The intake hose brings seawater to the pump; the pump then shoots it through the outflow hose; the stream of water from the nozzle sweeps away the bottom sand a layer at a time. It's simple but ingenious."

  Jack looked around. The Sahbon sat alone on the glittering water. The coast of St. George's lay seven or eight miles to the south. To the north, past the outer rim of the reef, the bottom dropped off to six hundred feet, and then a couple of miles down to the base of the Bermuda rise.

  He felt exposed out here.

  And uncomfortable.

  Clear sky, clear air, clear water, gentle breeze, glittering waves… where did this vague unease come from?

  "Tom, what are we really doing here?"

  His brother's face was a study of innocent perplexity. "I don't know how to answer that, Jack. We're starting an impromptu archaeological excavation in search of long-lost treasure in an attempt to save my ass. What other reason could there be?"

  Jack couldn't think of one. But he sensed one.

  "All right. Let me ask you once again: If the Bermuda coast guard or navy or whatever they use to patrol these waters stops by and asks who we are and what we're doing, what are we going to say?"

  He'd posed this to Tom a number of times since this morning but had yet to receive a satisfactory answer.

  "They won't. No reason they should. We're anchored well outside the reef preserve, we're nowhere near any of the protected wrecks. We're just a couple of divers."

  "But just say they do a random check. We are, in a very true sense, illegal aliens. I don't want to end up in that prison."

  "Will you stop worrying? You sound like a nervous old biddy."

  Attention to details, anticipating potential problems before they became real… it had kept Jack alive and on the right side of jail bars. So far.

  Tom stepped over to the pump. They'd placed the heavy, steamer-trunk-sized contraption near the transom. The hoses were in the water and ready to go. The short feeder had a weighted end that hung over the port side and drifted a couple of feet below the surface; the coils of the longer one, a fifty footer, floated on the starboard side.

  A touch of the starter button brought the pump's diesel engine to sputtering life. The end of the longer hose began bubbling and snaking about as it filled with water drawn through its shorter brother.

  Tom fitted his mask over his face. "See you downstairs," he said in a nasal voice.

  He stuck the mouthpiece between his lips, waved, then fell backward into the water. He hit with a splash, righted himself, then grabbed the end of the hose. He motioned Jack to follow him, then kicked away toward the bottom.

  Jack adjusted his own mask, then took a test breath through the mouthpiece. Everything seemed to be working, but he hesitated. He was about to jump into a hole and couldn't help but remember another hole, the one in the Everglades, the one that had no bottom…

  Shaking it off, he seated himself on the gunwale, tank over the water and—here goes—toppled backward.

  He hit the water and let himself sink. Immediately the tank and the weight belt became weightless, the clumsy, unwieldy, uncomfortable gear became lithe and supremely functional. He held his nose and popped his ears, then kicked toward the bottom, following the hose down to where Tom hovered and waited forty feet below.

  This sand hole was a forty-foot-deep oblong depression in the reef, about half as wide as it was long. They'd anchored near the upstream edge, so as Jack dropped through the crystalline water, popping his ears whenever the pressure became uncomfortable, he checked out the nearby coral wall.

  Something strange here.

  He drifted over for a closer look. The coral looked bleached and barren—no sea grasses, no algae, no vegetation at all. No sponges or anemones, no starfish or sea urchins. A closer look showed not a single living coral polyp.

  The reef was dead.

  Jack had heard of coral blights that wiped out entire reefs. Maybe that was the story here. He looked around and could not find a single fish. Even in the shallow water by the dock he'd been accompanied by a wide variety of brightly colored fish. He'd been able to identify a parrotfish and an angelfish, but the rest were strangers.

  Here, on this reef, however… no movement, no color.

  In a way that made sense. The coral polyps were the bedrock of the reef ecosystem. When they died, the hangers-on went off in search of greener pastures.

  But you'd think you'd see at least one fish.

  Jack did a full three-sixty. Nope. Not one. Nothing alive in this sand hole except Tom and him.

  He shook off the creeps crawling up his back and kicked down toward where Tom was impatiently motioning him to come on!

  When Jack reached him, Tom signaled him to sink closer to the bottom. When Jack was down, almost prone, Tom aimed the hose at the floor. The invisible stream of water stirred up the sand, billowing it up to then drift downstream, leaving a smooth depression in the floor.

  Although Tom had explained it to him, he'd needed to see it in action to appreciate the simplicity of using a stream of seawater to move undersea sand.

  Holding the hose at a low angle, Tom swept it back and forth in slow arcs, removing a thin layer, then stepping forward to repeat the process along the center of the sand hole's long axis. Sort of like power washing a patio or walk, except that it exposed no clean surface, just more sand.

  Wondering how far down to the bottom of the sand, Jack hovered behind, checking the newly exposed layer for anything that might be man-made. It was slow going, and on their first pass they found nothing.

  So it was back to the upstream end for another try. This time, midway along the course, Jack felt a tap on his wet suit hood. He looked up to see Tom excitedly pointing at the sand.

  Just ahead lay the edge of a piece of wood, rotted and crumbling but still bearing unmistakable signs that it had been milled. This was no remnant of a sunken log. This had once been a plank.

  4

  "We've found her!" Tom said as soon as they broke the surface.

  Their air tanks had been running low so they'd ascended to a depth of fifteen feet and hovered there, clinging to the anchor rope, for a brief decompression stop to clear excess nitrogen from their bloodstreams. They hadn't been deep enough to worry much about the bends, but why take the chance?

  Well, Jack thought, we found something. Surprise, surprise. Too soon to tell if it was the Sombra. But he kept mum. No point in raining on Tom's parade.

  They removed their fins and climbed the transom ladder to the deck. They decided on a beer break before strapping on fresh tanks.

  Tom seemed to be a different person. His eyes danced, his movements were full of energy, he couldn't stop grinning.

  "Got to be the Sombra." The mask had left a red ring across his forehead and around his cheeks. "Now we know where to concentrate."

  Jack gave a noncommittal nod. His thoughts kept returning below, to the sand hole.

  "What's up with the coral down there?"

  "Yeah, I noticed that. Looks dead. Could be a pollutant, could be a disease."

  "But even then, wouldn't you expect some algae or something to be growing th
ere?"

  Tom shrugged. "Could be a lot of things. It's a problem all over the world. They've got this starfish in the Pacific called the crown of thorns. A bunch of them can wipe out reef after reef."

  "Okay, but no fish either. I didn't see a single fish."

  Another shrug, plus a grin. "Neither did I, but that should make you happy: No fish means no sharks."

  Tom just didn't get it.

  "Maybe I'm being oversensitive and paranoid, but consider this: For the whole time we were down, you and I were the only living things in that sand hole. Don't you think that's just a little strange?"

  Jack hoped nothing more than a blight or pollution was at work here.

  "Whatever," Tom said, rising and starting to strap new tanks to the vests. He appeared to be vibrating with anticipation. Or was it greed? "Let's get back down there before the sun gets too low."

  5

  Concentrating the water stream around the plank they'd found, they turned up more wood, all equally rotted, crumbling at the lightest touch. But no treasure chest, no coins or jewels. Just sand, sand, sand.

  With their tanks getting low and the light fading, Tom pointed to the surface. They were done for the day. Jack couldn't say he was sorry. He was tired and he was bored. He realized what he liked most about diving was the sea life. None of that here. He couldn't wait to get back to the surface.

  But before he did…

  Instead of hanging on the line with Tom for a decompression stop, he propelled himself to the rim of the sand hole and glided over the crest to see how far beyond the blight had spread.

  He stopped and floated, gaping. Color… movement… life. He felt like Dorothy opening the door to Oz:

  The area all around the sand hole teemed with darting, vibrant-hued fish, waving vegetation, and pastels of living coral. The die-off appeared to be confined to their sand hole. Whatever had killed all the sea life there hadn't advanced beyond it. Since coral predators and pollutants wouldn't have stopped at the lip of the hole, that removed them from the equation.

  Something confined to the hole had killed off—and was continuing to kill off—all the sea life in its immediate vicinity.

  And the only thing in the hole that wasn't anywhere else on the reef was probably the Sombra.

  THURSDAY

  1

  Jack was driving Tom crazy.

  He'd started yesterday as soon as they hit the surface after the second dive, yammering about how the coral die-off was limited to their sand hole, how every place else down there was teeming with life, going on and on and on about something being wrong, wrong, wrong.

  He'd persisted in his inchoate ramblings during the trip back to Hamilton and all through dinner. Tom didn't think he'd ever been so happy to close a hotel room door behind him and collapse on a bed. Shutting off Jack's voice had been part of it; the vodka had contributed too. But mostly it had been the crushing fatigue. He led a sedentary life and the day's exertions had exacted their toll.

  Were still exacting a toll. He had muscle aches in places where he hadn't known he had muscles.

  Jack didn't seem to be bothered at all. They'd traded their empty air tanks for fresh this morning and he'd hefted them in and out of the truck bay as if yesterday had been just another day.

  No doubt about it, little brother was strong.

  And fast. Tom's belly still hurt from that punch the other night. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't seen it happen. Once second he was standing there, the next he was doubled over in pain. Even though it had hurt like hell, the scary part was that he sensed Jack had pulled the punch, hitting him just hard enough to make his point. If he'd put everything into it…

  Best to forget about it. He'd almost got them both killed. But who'd have believed they'd cross paths with a tanker? The odds were…

  Never mind. He'd fucked up and deserved the punch. But admit that to Jack? Never.

  Jack continued with his litany of doom this morning—like a woodchuck gnawing at his brainstem.

  "I'm telling you, Tom. We need to rethink this whole thing."

  "Will you give it a rest? I'm begging you, Jack, give it a rest. You're wearing me out with this shit."

  Tom repressed an urge to tell him to talk about something else or not talk at all. He had to be careful. He needed Jack. He couldn't do this alone.

  But he needed quiet too, so he could think. He couldn't get the bank out of his mind. Half a million bucks and he couldn't get to it!

  Which made finding something in the Sombra crucial.

  He clenched his jaw and tried to think as their pickup crawled through Paget with the rest of the traffic on South Road. He hadn't driven a manual shift in ages; what a royal pain in the ass. But at least they had wheels. No such thing as Hertz or Avis here. Bermuda didn't want tourists renting anything larger than a moped. That made the taxi drivers happy.

  But that didn't prevent private rentals, and Tom had arranged a package deal for the truck and the pump.

  Forget the truck, forget the traffic. The bank… the bank… what if he offered Dawkes—?

  "Let's just go back to the beginning," Jack said.

  Jesus Christ, he's like the paperboy in Better OffDeadl

  "Jack—"

  "No, hear me out. Let's recap what you told me: This wreck we're excavating ran the Cadiz-Cartagena route, right? But instead of naming it Santa Something, like every other Spanish ship I've ever heard of, the owner calls it Shadow. Doesn't that make you wonder?"

  "Wonder about what?"

  "About his mind-set."

  Tom sighed. "Jack, the guy, whoever he was, has been dead over four hundred years. Who cares about his mind-set? Where's this going?"

  "Just bear with me. The ship is on this route between Spain and South America but is way off course when it hits the reef out there and sinks into a sand hole. Yet somebody survives who knows enough about navigation to map out the location of the hole. Why?"

  "Obviously because the ship was carrying a lot of valuables and he wanted to be able to locate it later for salvage."

  "Who in the sixteenth century could salvage anything from a wreck forty feet down?"

  "Maybe they didn't know how deep it was."

  Jack shook his head. "You're not seeing the big picture. You said Bermuda was uninhabited back then—not just uninhabited, avoided because of its dangerous reefs. The Sombra's survivors were stranded with no hope of rescue. So I ask again: Why make a map?"

  "But they were rescued—obviously. Otherwise how could the map end up in a monastery in Spain?"

  "Right. Obviously rescued. But who picked them up? They were off the trade lanes with no radio to call for help."

  "Who cares who picked them up? Who cares how the map got to Spain? The important thing is it got to me and yesterday we found proof that it isn't a fake."

  "Which worries me even more."

  "Why?"

  I can't wait to hear this.

  "What… what if the Sombra was meant to go down?"

  "What? Are you—?"

  "Hear me out, okay? What if the ship was scuttled because it was carrying something that someone wanted to get rid of, or hide forever in a place where no one would ever find it? The Isle of Devils would be the perfect spot: Everybody avoids it, and I'll bet no one in those days ever conceived the possibility that it would one day be settled."

  A wave of discomfort swept through Tom. Jack was blundering near the truth—at least part of it. He had to turn him in another direction.

  "That's crazy."

  "No, what's crazy is the dead zone in that sand hole. Something that went down with that wreck is either killing or repelling every form of life around it. Who knows what'll happen to us if we hang around it too much longer?"

  Tom forced a laugh. "You mean there's something eeevil down there?"

  "Maybe not evil, but something strange, something best left alone."

  He pushed another laugh. "Sounds like a bad movie where the explorer or scientist is warned against '
delving into secrets man is not meant to know.' Give me a break."

  Jack crushed his empty coffee container and tossed it onto the floor of the cab. His expression was unreadable.

  "I know it sounds crazy, but things aren't always what they seem. There's more going on out there than we know."

  "You mean in the sense of, 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy'?"

  "Yeah. Call me Hamlet."

  This was interesting. Tom had never experienced anything paranormal, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. And now, considering what he hoped to find, he prayed it was.

  But he couldn't let Jack get spooked.

  "Oh, come on. You don't strike me as the kind who believes in mumbo jumbo."

  "Who said anything about believing?"

  Tom glanced at his brother. "What are you trying to tell me?"

  "That I used to laugh off a lot of things. Now I'm very choosy about what I dismiss out of hand."

  "And this is because…?"

  Jack stared straight ahead. "Experience is a great teacher."

  "Wait-wait-wait. You're not really telling me you've seen a ghost or spoken to God or had an out-of-body experience of something like that?" He laughed. "Come to think of it, I've had a few out-of-body experiences myself, usually with the help of a lot of Grey Goose."

  He expected at least a courtesy grin from Jack. Instead, the haunted look in his brother's eyes chilled him.

  "What are you saying, Jack?"

  "That things aren't always what they seem."

  "Hell, you think I don't know that? Everybody knows that."

  "No, I mean in the larger sense." He swept his arm at the world beyond the windshield. "Ever get the idea that this is all a set, and the real action's going on behind the scenery?"

  Another chill. Had Jack really experienced something paranormal? Tom hoped so. Because if there were inexplicable occurrences out there, events and objects linked to unknown powers or forces, then maybe what he'd learned about the Lilitongue was more than a madman's delusion.

  "Care to elaborate?"

  Jack shook his head. "You'll think I'm crazy."