Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4)

by Nick Sullivan

  “Nope.” Boone popped the last two slices of orange into his mouth and unfolded his long legs, rising to join Emily at the wheel. In Cozumel, the most spectacular dive sites were off to the south. That morning, they were headed for Maracaibo, a breathtaking wall dive near the southernmost tip of the island, sixteen miles from Cozumel’s town of San Miguel. Boone and Emily prided themselves on getting to the best sites before the “cattle boats” had even left their dive ops, leaving earlier than most of their competitors. On Coz, many dive ops operated a variety of boat types. Fast-boats took smaller groups of divers, striving to get to the best spots first for an additional fee. Cattle boats took larger groups, often gathered from the numerous cruise ships that flocked in droves to the piers of the Mexican island.

  Ahead, the rival dive boat bounced across a wave. Typical of many six-pack fast-boats on Coz, she had a pair of outboards and a rudimentary canopy to shield the crew and six divers from the brutal tropical sun.

  “It’s Marino Mundo’s fast-boat, Barco Rápido,” Emily noted. She snorted a laugh. “I love that they named it that. ‘Barco’ is actually a name for a big ship, which just makes it funnier.” She reached back and pinched a blonde pigtail from under her green paisley do-rag, popping it into her mouth for a contemplative chew. “She can hit upwards of thirty, I think.”

  “On a choppy day, that’d be a problem for us…” Boone began.

  “But not today.” Em grinned, her perfect teeth pinching the pigtail. She spat it out. “You lords ’n’ ladies wanted a fast-boat? You got one!” Em nudged up the throttle. Below, the Caterpillar C 12.9 rumbled and the Lunasea leaped forward. The engine was capable of 985 horsepower, but the Delta’s hull wasn’t designed to take full advantage of it unless the seas were calm. Fortunately for today’s group of divers, the seas were glassy.

  Boone fished his binoculars out of the compartment beside the wheel and leveled them on the horizon, bracing himself beside Emily. The Lunasea typically put to sea a full half hour before most other ops, to better compete with the ones that operated out of the resorts in the south. Most of those were only half the distance to the most popular dive sites. “No one else yet. Looks like we’ll be first on site.”

  “Natch.” Em increased speed, ratcheting the Lunasea up a few more knots to ensure they overtook the Barco Rápido. In minutes they were alongside. Across the way, the skipper sagged and shook his head, a smile on his face. This wasn’t the first time “Boonemily” had blown by them. He gestured toward Emily, beckoning as if he were requesting something. “Take the wheel for a tick, Booney.”

  “Aye aye, mi capitana.”

  Em stepped to the port side as they passed the Marino Mundo’s fast-boat. She struck a pose and started pulsing a fist, bobbing her head to a silent beat.

  “What is she doing?” Greg asked, his face a tapestry of rapt confusion.

  “Interpretive dance.” Boone throttled down a bit to give Emily a more stable platform. “Jorge over there took her out dancing and they had a ball. Now, every time we pass them on the morning run, he requests a dance.”

  “Oh… I thought you and she…?” Cecilia began.

  “I’m taking a sabbatical from night clubs,” Boone remarked with a half-smile. “I farm those dates out.”

  Em burst into a flurry of dance moves, spinning expertly as she swung her arms and pulsed her petite body. All the while, she kept her balance on the boat’s pitching deck. Over on the Barco Rápido, the skipper clapped to Emily’s inner beat and the divers aboard hooted and hollered, with more than a few cameras and GoPros capturing the performance. Abruptly, Em stopped and took a bow as Boone throttled up again.

  “Budge up,” Em prompted, hip-checking Boone aside and taking over the wheel. When Greg and Cecilia applauded, Emily dipped her head to them. “Thank you, thank you, no autographs please.”

  “You threw in some new stuff this time,” Boone said. “But I’m a little sad we didn’t get any twerking.”

  “How dare you, sir!” Emily huffed. “I would never debase my performance with such primitive bum-twitching. Also, I’d likely faceplant on the deck if I tried that while underway.”

  Boone turned toward the stern railing of the flybridge and called down to the other four members of Greg and Cecilia’s group. “All right, folks, start gearing up! We’ll be there shortly.” Below, the other divers began pulling on wetsuits. At the stern, a local divemaster named Ricardo gave him a thumbs-up.

  The Lunasea was rated to carry up to twenty-two divers and crew, but Boone and Emily liked to keep things chill, usually booking smaller groups of six to twelve. Many ops were not in a position to make that choice, but the young divemasters weren’t hurting for money after their “endowment” from the Belizean government and several cultural institutions. They’d moved to Cozumel six months ago, and rather than signing up for another company and being beholden to someone else’s schedule, Boone and Em had struck out on their own, filling out the company with locals and bringing on Ricardo as part-owner. They offered themselves up as a “sub” to other dive ops; if one of them had a boat go down with maintenance problems, or if they simply overbooked, a quick call to Bubble Chasers Diving would bring the Lunasea from the Marina Fonatur, south of town. In addition to subbing, they chartered their own dive trips several times a week, catering to groups seeking an uncrowded experience on a roomy dive boat with fast-boat speed.

  As Greg and Cecilia climbed down the ladder, Boone slipped up beside Emily and traced his fingertips across the back of her neck, eliciting a shudder. “You wanna stay up top, or shall I?”

  “You and Ricardo can get wet on this one,” Em said. “I’ll do the second dive.”

  “You sure?”

  “Maracaibo can have tricky currents. Can’t have you running over our divers. I’ll be on bubble duty.”

  Situated off the coast of the Yucatán Peninsula, the Mexican island of Cozumel was renowned for its drift diving. In most Caribbean islands, dive boats would moor themselves at a site and the divers would enter and make a circuit, heading out from the mooring line against the current before turning around and making their way back to the boat. In Coz, the dives were made on the leeward side of the island, where the channel between the island and the mainland made for strong currents. Rather than mooring, dive boats here would drop the divers at one end of the dive site and then follow their bubbles and a surface marker buoy, picking them up as they surfaced. Some days, the current was strong enough that kicking was scarcely necessary; you reached your depth, adjusted your buoyancy, and just enjoyed the ride.

  “You want to do the briefing?” Boone asked.

  “I think you and Ricardo can handle it. I already drew the dive site on the whiteboard.”

  Boone descended the ladder to the deck and grabbed the whiteboard, clipping it temporarily to the ladder rails. Using a rainbow of dry-erase markers, Emily had drawn an elaborate representation of the dive site they had scheduled, complete with eagle rays, turtles, and a blacktip. True to form, she’d added a little fancy, in this case a bright green mermaid with a gold crown, hanging out at the bottom of the arch they’d swim through.

  “Okay, we’re coming up on Maracaibo! Anyone here dive this before?” Boone was pleased to see all the hands go up. “Well, all right then… I’ll give the abbreviated version. This is the southernmost dive site on Cozumel. It’s a wall dive, and it’s a deep one, so everyone stick close to me or Ricardo. I know you’re all advanced divers, but the current can be tricky down here. Fortunately, it’s been pretty manageable this week, so we’ll give it a shot. There’s plenty to see: some big green morays, lots of turtles and stingrays. Since we’re at the tip, there’s a decent chance you’ll see some bigger life down here, so check the blue from time to time. Emily saw some dolphins last time we were here.”

  That elicited some excited murmurs from the group; many a diver might dive every year for decades and never
see one underwater.

  “Em will drop us here”—Boone tapped a spot on the drawing—“and we’ll descend against the current, heading south along the wall. I’ll ask you to stick to the edge of the wall and not drop down until we near the arch.”

  Cecilia pointed at the mermaid. “Is that…?”

  “I have no idea what that is,” Boone deadpanned. “This, however, is the arch.” He tapped the drawing just above the fish-woman. “We’ll descend along the wall to the arch. The base is at 120 feet and that will be our max depth. Ricardo will swim down and up through the arch, following the fissures in the coral that ascend from it. I’ll stay above the arch, since I’ll have the dive float on a reel, so anyone wanting to remain shallow can stick with me.”

  Boone went on to detail the remainder of the dive plan while Ricardo scanned the ocean with a practiced eye, looking for any unusual eddies that might indicate unexpected currents. Above, Emily throttled down as the Lunasea neared the entry point. With a final flurry, the divers finished gearing up. Minutes later, the group slipped beneath the waves.

  “How’d it go?” Emily called down from the flybridge, her voice pitched above the thrum of the engine, as she made adjustments to keep the boat near the ascending divers.

  “Great!” Boone brought his gear aboard and turned back to toss the dragline aft, then stepped onto the swim platform to assist the divers who were breaching the surface alongside the boat. Ricardo remained under, Boone having passed off the dive buoy to him. The orange tube bobbed in the waves a short distance off the starboard quarter. “No mermaids, though.”

  “Oh, they were there,” Emily shouted back, mirth coloring her voice. “You just aren’t as in tune with nature as I am.”

  Boone brought the divers up, one by one. They were all experienced, and it didn’t take long before everyone was aboard. Ricardo was the last to reach the stern ladder.

  “You see the dolphins?” he asked, handing up his fins to Boone.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I guess you didn’t, then.” The divemaster laughed, climbing up the ladder. Ricardo had been working for Cozumel dive ops since he was a boy, and Boone and Emily had been lucky enough to hire him. Although “hire” was probably the wrong word; Mexican labor laws were strict, and they’d actually brought Ricardo on as co-owner, asking him to staff the rest of the tiny company with locals he knew.

  “How many dolphins were there?”

  “Only two, in the blue. And they went wshhht!” He made a gesture to indicate they’d skimmed past.

  Boone had logged thousands of dives and had only spotted dolphins a handful of times. “Oh well, something to keep looking forward to,” he said.

  “Where do you want to go for the second dive?” Ricardo asked.

  “Paraiso. That right, folks?” Boone raised his voice for the dive group. “Paradise Reef, for the shallow dive?”

  “Yes!” Cecilia confirmed. “We want some photos of the splendid toadfish.”

  “Best place to find them,” Ricardo said.

  Boone ascended the ladder to join Emily at the flybridge helm.

  “Paraiso, yeah?” she queried.

  “Yep.” He began stripping off his wetsuit. “Hope there aren’t too many cruise ships in today.”

  “It’s a day that ends in ‘Y,’ so…”

  “Yeah, but maybe it’ll be a four-boat day, and not an eight.”

  “Aren’t we the optimist?” Emily throttled up and the Lunasea headed north.

  After a leisurely trip at a fuel-saving cruising speed of fifteen knots, the southernmost of the three cruise ship piers, Puerta Maya, came into view. There was one cruise ship there currently, and Boone could see a pair at the International Terminal to the north. Paraiso Reef was just to the south of the piers. Boone checked his Aquinus dive watch and went to the stern side of the flybridge so he could address all of the divers, since half were up top, and half below.

  “Last dive was a deep one, so we need another twenty minutes of surface time. Just relax for a bit, and I’ll let you know when to start gearing up.”

  “¡Ay, caramba!” Ricardo exclaimed. “Look at that one!” He pointed out to sea at a vessel on the approach to the piers, about a half mile out.

  Cruise ships coming and going were such a common sight that Boone hadn’t given this one any scrutiny, but now that he focused on the newcomer, his jaw dropped. The ship was sleek, long glass windows gleaming across the multi-leveled superstructure, the decks stacked in sloping tiers that climbed toward the bridge, and what were likely some impressive accommodations above that. Reaching down to a compartment beside the wheel, he retrieved his binoculars.

  “Is that a cruise ship or a yacht?” Greg asked, shading his sunglasses as he squinted west.

  “A little from Column A, a little from Column B,” Boone remarked, scanning the ship. “A bit small for a cruise ship, nowadays… but awfully big for a yacht.” He focused the binoculars amidships, scanning the ship’s side. “She’s named the Apollo.” He swung the lenses toward the stern, where he could make out a blue and white flag fluttering in the ocean breeze. “Greek registry.”

  “Well, Apollo’s a Greek god, right?” Greg pointed out.

  “Yeah, but that’s probably a ‘flag of convenience,’” Emily interjected. “A lot of ship-owners will register their vessels with other countries for fewer regulations or lower taxes. Take that one there.” She pointed to the ship docked at the pier nearest to the dive site. “Nordic Starr… but that flag’s Liberian. Not very ‘Nordic.’ We see a lot of Liberian flags… Panama and The Bahamas, too. And Greece.”

  “That looks like a Mexican flag, to me…” Cecilia said, shielding her eyes with her hand as the Apollo grew closer.

  Boone shifted his binoculars to the superstructure of the newcomer. “That’s the courtesy flag,” he said, spotting the flag in question flying from the starboard halyard, situated alongside a bulbous radar dome and radio mast. “Ships coming into port fly that as a sign of respect.”

  Emily pointed. “And below that, you can see a yellow flag, yeah? That’s the Q flag. You fly that when your vessel is free of any quarantinable disease.”

  “So, if you were one of those cruise lines with an outbreak of norovirus on board… you wouldn’t fly that.” Greg surmised.

  “Three points to Greg!” Em said.

  “She’s got a helicopter pad,” Boone noted, as the Apollo angled slightly to port, aiming toward the berth opposite the Nordic Starr. “Looks like a raised pool area, too… just aft of the…” He trailed off.

  Underneath a canopy and alongside some deck-planted palm trees, a stunningly beautiful woman stood with a pair of binoculars of her own, their lenses pointed right at Boone. The Lunasea and the Apollo were close enough now that the binos weren’t necessary, and as Boone lowered his pair, she did the same.

  She appeared quite tall, with jet black hair, sunlight shining off it in places. Her lightly tanned skin stood out in sharp contrast to a cobalt blue bikini. As the ship angled toward the pier, the woman turned slightly, stepped down to the rail, and waved to Boone. When he lifted a hand in reply, her face broke into a brilliant smile.

  “Give me those.” Emily snatched the binoculars from Boone’s nerveless fingers. After tucking her lime green sunglasses into the neck of her shirt, she raised the binos to her eyes. “Cor blimey, she’s fit ’n’ tidy,” she breathed.

  Greg looked over at her. “She’s what?”

  “Gorgeous…” Boone said, translating.

  Em lowered the binoculars and slapped them to Boone’s bare chest. “Right, well, enough gawping. Rehinge your jaw and take the wheel. Time to get wet!”

  As Emily descended the ladder to wrangle the divers, Boone looked back toward the Apollo, whose bow was now partially obscured as it passed behind the end of the pier. Another woman was standing beside the r
aven-haired beauty, and apparently she’d done as Emily had with Boone, snatching the pair of binoculars from her counterpart. This one stood a full head shorter than the other woman, her face obscured by a floppy sunhat and oversized sunglasses. The Apollo swung slightly to starboard, water frothing from the side of her stern as transverse thrusters below the waterline aided the captain in maneuvering the vessel against the pier. Suddenly both women turned, seeming to speak with someone before walking away from the edge, vanishing from view.

  Lyra Othonos breathed out an audible sigh as the Apollo neared the dock, and the shirtless young man on the gently rolling dive boat below came into better focus. He was exceptionally tall and lean, his well-defined musculature evident even from a distance. An unruly mop of brown hair was frosted with blond highlights, no doubt from his time working in the sun. That this man was a divemaster for the boat was an assumption, of course, but Lyra was fairly sure she was right. As she watched, the man raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  “What are you looking at?” a young woman in a floppy sunhat asked from poolside, a note of petulance in her voice. “You’ve been staring through those things for the last ten minutes.”

  “He is beautiful,” Lyra murmured, her speech kissed with a light accent. And he’s looking right at me.

  Calypso craned her neck around to glance at her older sister. The statuesque beauty had lowered her binoculars and was walking down from the raised pool area toward the starboard rail. With an impatient sigh, Calypso rose from the deck chaise and followed.

  Lyra reached the rail of the promenade deck and lowered the binoculars. She waved to the young man and after a moment he raised a hand in reply. Quite of its own accord, her face lit up into a smile.

  “Oh, Lyra… found another one, have you?” Calypso said, her voice half-teasing, half-not.

  Across the way, a petite blonde snatched the binoculars from the young man’s hands and trained them up at the sisters.