Some People Die Quick

by JC Simmons

  Guy was at the helm. Sabado and George were playing with the GPS. I stood by the portside rail, hands in my jacket pockets, feet apart, braced against the motion of the boat, looking ahead at an imaginary spot in the ocean, below which lay a German submarine and deadly, man-eating sharks.

  Jumping with a start when someone touched my shoulder, I turned to find Vickey offering me a cup of coffee.

  "Not dreaming about sharks again, are we?"

  "Not the kind that swim in the sea."

  "I'm sorry about the way Bob acted." She leaned against the lifeline. "He's an okay guy. Don't worry, he'll do his job."

  Her splayed, callused feet held her firmly to the deck. Her eyes begged understanding about Sabado. I said nothing. She turned and went below.

  "Steer a heading of one seventy five degrees," George called out.

  "One seven five is what you get," Guy replied.

  "You get tired, I'll take her for awhile," I offered.

  "She's all yours. I'll get some coffee. Heading one seven five."

  Taking over the helm gave me something to do. Anna and I had worked everything out. If we'd forgotten something some innocent people could get hurt. One of them could be me.

  * * *

  The sun cleared the horizon. Dampness turned into warmth, the dew disappeared. Picaroon drummed along, the engine sound muffled and soothing. Remains of the wooden building of the old lighthouse on Chandeleur Island appeared off the starboard bow. We were close to the sub. George and Sabado were bent intently over the GPS receiver. Guy, Anna, and Vickey were below.

  George shouted, "We should be right on top of the sub. Start a tight circle. Bob, get the looking bucket. Mr. Jay, roll out on one hundred and eighty degrees and hold that for a minute."

  Rolling out on the heading, I looked at the greenish-blue water. It was hard to tell about the underwater visibility, as the sun was not yet high enough. Sea swells were steady at less than a foot. If conditions held, it would be a good day to dive.

  "This is it," George said. "Shut her down. Bob, pull in the painter to the Mako, use the looking bucket and see if you can spot the sub."

  Putting Picaroon into neutral, I let her lay ahull. Sabado jumped into the Mako. George, excited, followed him aboard. They let go the painter and drifted a little way from us. Anna and Vickey came on deck. Guy's head appeared in the hatch.

  "Anything, yet?" Anna asked.

  "Not yet," George said from the Mako.

  After ten minutes, I began to have doubts we would find the sub today.

  George and Sabado moved off about two hundred yards to the east. We all heard them at the same time. They had found it. Putting Picaroon into gear, we moved over to where they were.

  "Drop anchor," George said. "You're right on top of her."

  Guy went forward and let go the anchor. The depth sounder showed thirty feet of water under our hull.

  "About two hundred and twenty feet of rode," Guy said, more to himself than to us, as he set the anchor and let out line. "That will give us a good seven to one scope."

  Backing down on the engine for a moment, I let Picaroon drift until we could pay out enough line. Seven feet of rode for every foot of depth works well for a boat of this size.

  "Alright," George said, looking through the glass-bottom bucket. "The anchor is just on the north side of the sub and looks dug in well enough."

  I shut the engine down. The silence was deafening. George and Sabado eased up beside Picaroon, and climbed aboard. No one said anything for a long time. Maybe we were all thinking about what happened here two and a half years ago.

  Anna broke the silence. "Listen up, everyone. We need to go down first and look things over. Four of you can go. George and Vickey, you two dive together. Bob, you team with Guy. Jay will stay on board and help me. Locate a good place for the speaker, should we decide to use the sound stimuli, and a place for the cameraman to position that would provide the best protection. Bill Williams, who was with me on the first dive, said he observed no ordinance lying around. The navy has looked this wreck over pretty good, but still be careful. By the way, the last time I was here, there was a big old tiger shark hanging around. You may want to keep an eye out for him."

  Nobody laughed.

  Noticing that Guy wasn't looking to well, I eased up to him and asked, "What's the matter?"

  "It's been over three years since I've made a dive. I'd rather not make the first one."

  "Not a problem. I'll talk to Anna."

  She understood. This would put Sabado and me as dive partners.

  We four got into the wet suits with the yum yum yellow stripes, and checked our gear.

  Wondering how much of a grudge Sabado really carried, I decided to test him early. Normally when preparing to dive, I attach my regulator hose to the air tank, turn the air valve on, and check how much pressure registers on the gauge. Satisfied there is enough air for the dive, I then go ahead and put the gear on, leaving the air valve open. This time, I turned it back off. Your diving partner is supposed to check all your gear for you. You do the same for him.

  Tapping Sabado on the shoulder, I turned around and let him check me out.

  "How much pressure you showing in your air tank?" he asked, sarcastically.

  "Forgot the air, did I?"

  "Yes," he sneered. His eyes were shrewd without intelligence, his smile foul natured without kindness. "Now check me out."

  At least I knew. He might not like me, may still hold it against me for what happened to his old man but, at least for the moment, he was playing it straight. There was something else about this lean, muscular man with the sun-bleached hair, something whose presence I sensed from the moment I looked at his young, partly ruined face; the aura of evil more complex and menacing than the pure evil of a simple shrimper turned boat burglar.

  George and Vickey were already in the water waiting for us. Sabado went first. I followed as soon as he came up. It had been over six months since my last dive, and I was glad we followed the anchor rode to the bottom. It's like a security blanket, something you can hold on to that leads to the surface, a way back to your world. Here, in the depths, you are in alien territory. A wet, cold, uncaring world. One that welcomes you but will not suffer fools, a world entirely unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity, or neglect.

  By the time we reached the bottom, I was comfortable again, at home in a world as beautiful and intriguing as any place on this planet.

  Visibility was excellent, a good fifty feet. The sub sat upright, looking like a huge toy some child had tired with and discarded. There were schools of fish around the sub. A lot of marine growth covered the hull, but there was little coral. It does not grow in the northern gulf in any abundance.

  Several large grouper in the two hundred-pound class, along with schools of grunt, snapper, speckled trout, and redfish had found a home around the sub. There were no signs of sharks.

  All four of us swam down the portside of the sub. When abeam the conning tower, I stopped and looked it over carefully. It would make a good position for the filming while offering protection. A name, still readable, painted along the bottom of the tower read: KRAFTIG. Not so tough, now, I thought.

  We were in forty feet of water. At the conning tower, it was only twenty feet. At this depth, we would not have to worry about bottom time and getting the bends. We could stay submerged as long as we wanted.

  Following in trail behind each other, we made a circle around the sub, and returned to the anchor rode. George motioned to all of us, asking if we'd seen enough. We had, and started toward the surface.

  I was last in line. Off to my left, I spotted a glinting flash. It was a big fish of some kind, though too far away for me to tell what species. Continuing upward, I suddenly had an eerie feeling something or someone was watching me. Turning slowly around put me face to face with the biggest barracuda I had ever seen. Sitting motionless, it looked me over, razor sharp teeth shining in the sunlight filtering down through the w
ater in slanting rays. Easing up the anchor rode caused the barracuda to follow, staring straight into my eyes, rhythmically opening and closing its mouth.

  Experienced divers say not to worry about the barracuda. They are not known to attack humans, at least not frequently. I personally knew a Pan Am pilot who was swimming off the docks in Key West and was bitten in the groin by a small barracuda, severing the femoral artery. He bled to death before medical assistance could be rendered. It was a great relief to reach the surface and watch the barracuda drift slowly off in the hazy water.

  Sabado slid his mask up on his forehead. "Did you see that old 'cuda following you around? He was huge."

  "You could have warned me."

  Sabado smirked. His eyes had no pity, no compassion, no feeling, except maybe for contempt at my being afraid of the barracuda. The muscles of his chiseled chin jerked into a shape resembling a sneer. "Cuda don't bother you. He just letting you know you in his territory."

  I let it go.

  "Anyone see signs of sharks?" Vickey asked.

  No one had.

  "The wreck is a home for multifarious sea life," she continued, excited about the things she'd seen. "Anyone see that big moray eel wrapped around the propeller of the sub? He was at least six feet long and menacing looking."

  "I saw the moray," George said. There are a lot of fish down there. I went into a school and they closed around me, couldn't see my hand in front of my face. It was eerie."

  "What do you want to try first, Anna?" I asked, anxious to get this operation underway. "The chum or the sound stimulus?"

  "The chum. It's natural food for the sharks. If we don't get the desired results, we'll try the speaker. If all else fails, I've brought some of the attractant, ay-sa-x."

  A look of surprise showed on both George and Vickey's faces. They had read the published papers on the protein and knew that it was unstable and uncontrollable. No one here should know that Anna's wet suit was soaked in it when she was attacked, except Guy and me, and of course the one who had put it on the wet suit.

  Sabado and I dragged the drum of horsemeat and blood to the stern of Picaroon. Guy and George did the same with the drum of fish scraps. Positioning them against the lifelines, we began to ladle both into the water. It was messy and smelly work. We would give it an hour to see what happened.

  Vickey climbed into the Mako to observe through the looking bucket. With little swell running, hardly any wind, and less than a one-knot current, it would take a long time for the slick to dissipate in the sea.

  "Two sharks," Vickey cried. "There's two more. Looks like two small bulls and two hammerheads. There's a sand tiger. They're starting to come."

  We continued to ladle the chum for another hour, but no other sharks appeared. Anna decided to try the sound stimuli. This was merely a battery-operated tape recorder that played the sound of struggling fish, and had worked well in bringing oceanic reef sharks to the bait in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.

  George and Sabado volunteered to take it down and place it near the stern of the sub. We discussed the cruising sharks that were already present, but no one thought there was any danger in entering the water with them. They were not feeding and did not appear to be agitated. The sand tiger was dismissed, as it had never been known to attack humans. They can be dangerous if provoked, but left alone are no threat. The hammerhead and bull sharks were a different story. They would keep an eye on them.

  Vickey remained in the Mako, watching them descend. The sharks paid no attention to the divers until they were on the bottom, then one of the bull sharks came over to investigate. George had a shark billy, or bang stick, a three-foot long pole rigged to fire a twelve-gauge shotgun shell. It could be used as a club or gun.

  Vickey kept up a running play by play. The bull sharks were both young males about five feet in length. The first one came straight in at the divers. George smacked in on the nose with the billy and it turned away. The hammerheads paid no attention to the divers as they secured the recorder, turned it on, and returned to the surface.

  Anna wanted to give the recorder a half an hour, which was as long as the batteries would last. It quickly began to work. More and more sharks came into the area. Vickey said she could see duskys, lemon, nurse, and a large blacktip. All were milling around looking for the struggling fish.

  Without finding food, most of the sharks which now numbered around twenty quickly lost interest and started to circle further and further away from the sub. We decided it was time to give them something to nibble on. Several large pieces of horsemeat, weighing ten to fifteen pounds each were lashed to heavy lines and dropped overboard.

  Things began to happen fast. Sharks were increasing in numbers and in size. They were also showing signs of becoming more and more aggressive. Now our plan could begin.

  It was time for me to get into the water with the video camera. Guy had decided not to dive, so George would be my partner on this trip. Remembering his earlier comments about the cameraman being eaten, I thought it brave of him.

  We geared up, got the cameras ready, took an extra air tank, and slipped cautiously into dangerous waters.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  George and I followed the anchor rode to the bottom. Sharks milled around at all depths. Most of them were around four or five feet in length, except for a blacktip that was about eight feet.

  Once on the bottom, we eased along the portside of the sub until reaching the conning tower. There we crouched on the forward side and, looking straight up overhead, we could see the outline of Picaroon and the Mako runabout tethered to her, a giant whale and its offspring lying peacefully on the surface.

  George was close by my right side with the bang stick. Vickey could see us through the looking bucket. When we were in position, she would tell the others and they would put the horsemeat over the side.

  George seemed calm; not the least bit concerned about the perfect eating machines swimming all around us. There was a tingling in my hands and arms as adrenaline surged through my body and an empty sensation in my stomach as if I was in a stalling, spinning airplane. The first of the horsemeat splashed into the water at the stern of Picaroon.

  Several more blacktips appeared. They were the first at the bait. One grabbed a mouthful and started to shake it like a dog with a bone. The meat parted as if severed with a band saw leaving a crescent-shaped hole. The next blacktip took the rest of the bait in his mouth and began thrashing about. The half-inch, braided line holding the bait parted as if cut with a knife. The second bait hit the water. Suddenly all the sharks were trying to get at it. They numbered at least fifty by now, and we knew that just out of our sight, in the dim haze of the water, were more sharks. How big and what kind we did not know.

  Things were now getting serious. The second piece of meat was gone in an instant. The third piece hit the water. It was bigger than the others and kept coming down, down, headed right for us. All the sharks were fighting for the bait, swirling around, bumping into us. George was fighting with everything he had. I stopped filming and used the camera as a weapon, hoping that George had enough sense not to use the bang stick as a shotgun. If he did, we were goners as the other sharks would attack and devour the wounded shark and probably us as well.

  Someone on board Picaroon must have realized what they had done and pulled the bait back up to about ten feet below the surface. The sharks followed, giving us some relief. Looking around, I saw that George had a grin on his face. Grace under pressure. I liked that. The submarine's tall conning tower had saved our lives. Any other place would not have afforded the necessary protection.

  Another bait hit the water, and more sharks arrived. Then two big tiger sharks appeared. These were deadly animals at least ten feet in length. Their stripes were clearly visible and their blunt, square nose made them easily recognizable. Other sharks parted and let them through.

  Suddenly a bullet-shaped shark swam past us so fast that it appeared only as a blue blur. It was a mako, one of t
he fastest and deadliest open ocean sharks in all the waters of the world. When hooked, it fought like a game fish and, in fact, was listed as one. If you have ever seen the jaws of a big mako, you would know why it is so feared. The bottom teeth are long and spike-like, the uppers triangular, serrated, and scalpel sharp. Another smaller mako sliced through yards from us. If we wanted a feeding frenzy, we had one.

  There were at least a hundred sharks, now, and they were all fighting for the bait. A tiger bit a lemon shark almost in half, the injured shark sinking with a pack following it down, biting and tearing until nothing was left but bits of debris.

  George and I had been down for forty-five minutes with sharks constantly swimming around our heads, bumping us, testing to see if we were edible. We both pushed and shoved the sharks away, filming long since forgotten, but we were safe as long as we did not have to leave the protection of the conning tower.

  It was now, if Anna's plan was to work that it should happen. If Vickey and Sabado were the guilty parties, then they would try and be the direct participants in the repellent being tested on the feeding frenzy. It would matter not that Anna Yillah discovered, or invented, the repellent, they would be the ones who proved and tested it. The media coverage would give them the publicity they needed. It would be worth a fortune; make a career, even if it were shared.

  But unknown to everyone except Anna and I was the fact that there was no repellent. Everything we brought was attractant. When the move was made, the exposure would be absolute. Instead of repelling the sharks, the chaos would result in a feeding frenzy of such intensity it would shake one to their very soul. It would also reveal a killer.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw an unbelievable sight, something I had never seen in the Gulf of Mexico. Swimming easily from out of the depths were two white sharks, Carcharodon Carcharias. They were big ones, both female, and about twelve feet in length. They came low, down by the sub, searching with black, bottomless eyes.

  George spotted them, his grin fading. These were the ultimate predators, the most vicious animals in the sea; complete eating machines.