Chapter 47: The Treasure Hunt
We get to the boat around 10:00am. TC gives me a short history lesson on shipwrecks and what dive equipment he has for us.
He states that more than 2,000 ships have gone down along the coast of the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida between 1600 and 1900. He also says that salvage hunters have only discovered a very small percentage of those ships. This means there are still quite a few available for us to find.
One of the supposedly treasure-filled ships that went down off the coast of Pawleys Island was The Queen Beth around 1680. TC says the coins he has are from that same era. I can tell by TC’s attitude that he has fallen in love with shipwreck history and salvage work. He says the ocean, its wide expanses, its endless blue, and its changing moods enthrall him. He also states the ocean has a way of surprising you at times. She can be a real bitch.
As far as equipment is concerned, I am impressed. He has two JW Fisher Pulse 8X hand-held metal detectors. They come with a rating depth of 200 feet and highly mineralized salt water, coral, and rocks with high iron content or magnetic (black) sand, will not affect them. He has eight fully filled Faber High Pressure Steel Dive Tanks and a diesel powered blower that can blow a 15-inch hole in the sand. We’ll use the blower when we find something with the hand-held detectors. He also has the CRS to run sweeps if need be. There also is a pulley- mounted Wave Runner in case we decide to try that sport for a while. He has a cooler full of sandwiches, Diet Pepsi, and a few beers for the trip back. This is going to be fun.
We proceed to the location where he and Freddy made their discovery with the CRS. Once we arrive at the location, I opt to show TC the .45 and ammo clips I brought with me. He smiles, goes below, and comes back with a Remington 30-30 lever-action rifle and a full box of shells. He laughs and tells me that his is bigger than mine is and to never take a peashooter to a gunfight.
We both laugh. I seem to remember my neighbor Jimmy telling me the same thing. At this rate, I am going to end up with a severe complex.
TC says he will take the first shift and puts on his gear. After thirty minutes on the ocean floor, which is only about forty-feet deep at this location, he returns to the surface and shakes his head. He finds nothing. He tells me he marked off the grid area he checked with red flags. He says I can go any direction from the marked grid, just be sure to mark the area with flags.
Now it’s my turn and I am a little bit apprehensive. I have not dived in more than fifteen years and I probably am not in the best of shape. I suit up and step off the boat and into the water. A brief flash of claustrophobia strikes me flat in the face. I try my best to adjust and ignore it. I know it is just a bare animal reaction, a triggered survival instinct against drowning. I breathe steadily past the momentary twinge of anxiety as I sink deeper into the warm Atlantic Ocean.
Once I get to the soft, sandy ocean floor, I relax and just enjoy the underwater beauty pageant, the multi-colored fish and the trickle-down effect of the sunlight filtering down through the water. I spot TC’s flags and proceed to the closest edge of his grid area to begin my search.
Thirty minutes flies by and it is time to go up. I surface next to the boat and just like TC I shake my head in a negative way. I even test the metal detector to make sure it is working. It checks out fine.
We each do four dives and then with no success, we stop for the day. TC says he is going to check some maps he has at home before we try again tomorrow.
I brought extra clothes because he invited me to stay at his house instead of driving back and forth to Little River, which makes a lot of sense to me. Too bad the twins won’t be sitting around the pool when we get there.
I realize by the time we return to the house that I have not thought about someone trying to shoot me all day long. My demons stayed in their boxes. Today was great therapy. I hope tomorrow will be just as good.
Our second day is no better, nor is the third. We have done twenty-four dives and have spent twelve hours in the water with nothing to show except withered skin and sunburn.
On the fourth day TC elects to move our location about one-half-mile further out to sea. He tells me he found an anomaly on one of his maps which does not fit in with the contour of the surrounding area and he wants to check it out. We anchor and set up at our new location.
He takes the first shift and while he is in the water, I notice a large cargo ship moving parallel to our location and toward Myrtle Beach. I look for and find TC’s binoculars. I take a closer look. Just looks like a big, not fully loaded, cargo ship with the name The First Strike painted on her bow. What a strange name for a cargo ship.
I take a second look and think they must have just painted her name because the paint is running down the side of the ships body. I take a third look and I see a man in a boson’s chair actually doing the final changes on the name. He is either new or just a sloppy painter.
All of a sudden, TC pops up out of the water and he starts waving franticly. He takes off his dive mask and yells out, “I found it! I found it!”
“You found what?” I yell back.
“A wreck, put on your gear, grab the blower and come on down.”
As I am getting into my gear I keep glancing over toward the cargo ship. Something is not right.
I get into the water with the blower and follow the guide rope down to where TC is shoveling sand with his bare hands. The water is clear and I notice the anomaly as soon as I get close to the sandy bottom. It looks like a large nose protruding out from the ocean floor.
TC is waving his arms and motioning me to come over to where he is hovering. I look where he is pointing and I see what looks like the head of a statue attached to a piece of wood. Could it be the bow of a ship?
He wrestles the blower from my hands and fires it up. Sand and silt go everywhere. After a few minutes, he turns it off and we wait for the sandy mist to settle.
Oh, my god, it is a ship!
He continues to blow sand away from the side of our newly found bounty. Quickly letters appear on the side, but only three, eth. Could this actually be The Queen Beth? What are the odds, first of even finding a shipwreck and second that it could possibly be the one for which you are searching?
My mind goes back to the cargo ship. My gut, military feeling is that something is not right with that ship and I need to get back to the surface, right now. I give TC a hand signal, my hand cutting across my throat and I point up. He looks at me funny but shakes his head that he understands. He grabs the blower and his metal detector and we ascend to the surface.
Once on board, I pull up the guide rope, I tell him to plot our location, and that we are going to take a boat ride. I point toward the cargo ship in the distance and try to explain why I want to get closer to her. He is not happy about pulling up the anchor and argues against leaving our dive site.
After a very stern look from me, he precisely plots our location. As we depart, he is beaming from ear to ear. I can tell he believes he has found his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
I ask him to catch up gradually to the ship, which is just limping along at, I estimate, less than five knots. I don’t want anyone on board The First Strike to think we are spying on them. As we get closer, I get the binoculars and from behind the cabin window, I start to look more intently at The First Strike.
Then I see what must have caught my eye before. I spot the muzzle of a .50-caliber machine gun sticking out about one foot from under what looks like a canvas cover. I spent a lot of time in the Army firing that weapon. I would know it anywhere. So why would a cargo ship have a machine gun mounted on the deck? Even around Somalia, where all the pirates are, the ships do not carry such weapons. Moreover, guess what, I don’t think pirates infest these waters.
As we get closer, I see men moving around on the deck. They are dressed in some form of military fatigues. I call up to the bridge for TC to take us toward the shoreline away from the ship. If this were a movie, my next line would be, Houston I think we have a pr
oblem.
Instead, I say. “I’m going to be very blunt about this. I think that cargo ship is full of terrorists.”
“Gee, Mickke D; tell me what you really think. Damn, that’s heavy. Can you prove that? Should we call someone?”
I think back to my military training. I was once told in a survival class when an operation begins to go bad, anything can hurt you, including doing nothing and that action is doing something, reacting is making it happen.
“No and yes,” I answer, “My phone has no bars out here, does yours work?”
“It sure does, I have it hooked up to an exterior antenna. We can also use the ship to shore radio onboard.”
“They could be monitoring the ship to shore. I need to call an old friend at Fort Bragg, so let me use your cell phone.”
I find the number in my cell phone and then use his phone to make the call. Colonel Townsend answers after about five rings. “Townsend here,” he barks out.
“Colonel T, it’s Mickke D. How are you?”
“Mickke D, how the hell are you? Say, I was sorry to hear about what happened between you and Barry.”
“Thanks Colonel, but I don’t have time for small talk. I need a favor.”
“You got it. How can I help?”
“I need you to contact some of your Marine, Navy, or Coast Guard friends for me. There is a cargo ship off the coast of South Carolina near Myrtle Beach. I think it’s full of terrorists with machine guns and I have no idea what other weapons could be on board.”
“Don’t you think that should be a call to Homeland Security?”
“I don’t know anyone at Homeland Security and I can’t prove what I just told you.”
“So you want me to get my head chopped off, is that right?”
“Yes, sir, couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, Colonel.”
It’s quiet on the other end for a few seconds and then he says, “Okay, but I hope you’re right. What’s the name of the ship, any ID number and exactly where is she located? Also, what makes you think she’s a threat?”
I give him the information I have and he says he will get back to me. Just as I hang up TC yells at me, “Mickke D, you had better look at this.”
I take the binoculars and don’t believe what I am seeing. The men on board are rolling what look like fifty-five-gallon drums off the deck of the ship into the peaceful blue Atlantic.
TC sheepishly says, “Maybe they are going to pollute the beaches with used oil.”
“Or maybe the barrels are filled with explosives. Do you have a tide chart with you?”
He goes below and returns with a chart in his hand. “The tide is going in toward the beach.”
I am now in full-alert mode. “How long do you think it will take those barrels to reach the beach?”
He thinks for a minute and then replies, “I would guess less than two hours.”
“So by the time they get to shore the boat will be long gone. I need to find out what is in those barrels.”
“And how do you plan to do that, or do I really want to know?”
“Is that Wave Runner full of gas?”
“Yes it is. What are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to ride over and take a look at one of them.”
“And what if they decide to start shooting at you?”
“Well, if they do, I’ll have the answer to my question.”
Just as I start towards the Wave Runner, TC’s phone rings. It is Colonel Townsend. “Mickke D, I just got off the phone with the Coast Guard. They tell me there is an area around Myrtle Beach where two different radar systems don’t quite meet. They actually were tracking the ship on radar but it is gone now. They said it must be in that void area. They should have it back in about thirty minutes. They seem to think there is nothing strange about the vessel except that the crew is experiencing radio problems. The Coast Guard cannot communicate with them.”
“Well Colonel, that not so strange ship is now dumping fifty-five-gallon barrels into the ocean about one every thirty seconds. We figure those barrels will reach shore in less than two hours.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I would like you to stay on the line while I take our Wave Runner over and look at one of the barrels. You need to scramble a squadron of fighter jets right away. If I’m correct about the terrorists thing, they are going to have to take out The First Strike.”
“Mickke D, I hope you’re right. My ass is going to be in a sling if you’re wrong.”
“Thanks Colonel. I’m on my way.”
I look at TC and say in a very authoritative tone of voice, “If something happens to me, tell the Colonel to bring in the planes and take that ship out. Do you understand?”
He shakes his head yes. He then lowers the Wave Runner into the ocean. I push the start button and it roars to attention. Thank god, I wore my cut-off jeans and not my regular swimming trunks to dive in today. I always wear a belt with my cut-offs. I stick my 45 under my belt on the left side and my two ammo clips under my belt on the right side.
I start by running circles around TC’s boat. If they are watching, I want them to think I am just playing around with the Wave Runner. Then I spot a barrel about a hundred yards away and I gun the Wave Runner. I want to take a quick look and then get out as fast as possible.
I make it to the barrel with no problems. It is indeed a fifty-five-gallon barrel. It is old and rusty but watertight. I can plainly see one big flaw on the barrel. I doubt if it came with a battery operated detonator on the lid. The barrel is sitting too high in the water to have anything heavy inside. Whatever is inside must be light and small. I’m guessing C-4 or one of those new plastic explosives.
I know the only way you can detonate C-4 is with an electrical charge. Therefore, if I’m right they can be several miles away and still detonate the charges. They will probably wait until the barrels get close to the tourist-filled beach.
I see the bullet hit the water next to the barrel just mille-seconds before I hear the shot. I don’t think. I just react. I pull my .45 and fire a shot at the detonator on the lid of the barrel. The detonator is shattered into bits and pieces and the barrel does not blow up. It has to be C-4. Bullets are peppering the water around the barrel and the Wave Runner. They are getting my attention.
I wheel the Wave Runner around and move quickly back toward TC and the boat. As I approach, I see TC with his rifle firing back at the cargo ship. I motion for him to stop.
I pull alongside the boat and tell him, “Save the ammo, you can’t kill that big boat with that little rifle. But thanks for making them keep their heads down for a couple of minutes.”
“Colonel Townsend said he was calling the Marine base in Beaufort to send up some F-18s to help us out. He said they will be here in about fifteen minutes.”
“Great, are they still dumping barrels?”
“Yes they are still dumping barrels about as fast as they can unload them.”
“TC the barrels have C-4 in them with a detonator on each barrel. We need to fire at the barrels and sink as many as we can the sooner the better. I’ll take the Wave Runner and you take the boat.”
The next sound I hear is the sound of a .50-caliber machine gun. Whoever is operating that gun is a good shot because he hits TC’s boat at least twice. It is time to leave. We are sitting ducks.
“Move in toward the shoreline and then come back head on to the barrels. That way you will be a smaller target. I guess I should ask you, are you up for this?”
“You bet, those guys are pissing me off. They are shooting up my boat.”
“Okay, but keep moving from side to side. Don’t give them a good target. In addition, don’t get real close to the barrels. They can detonate them from the ship. Once you get a good distance, just let her drift and start firing. Since the tide is going in, you will stay farther away from the ship but in front of the barrels. And for God’s sake, keep your head down. We need to get back to that wreck.”
I
look at my watch. I figure we have ten minutes before the fighters arrive. We need to sink as many of the barrels closest to shore as we can before they get here.
As we depart, the .50 caliber is firing as fast as it will fire and the men on board are shooting at us with what sound like AK-47s. I have TC follow me and then after we get a good distance away, we move slowly toward the floating barrels. As we get closer, I figure the people on board the cargo ship realize their mission is no longer secret and start detonating the barrels. I motion for him to back off. The only living creatures they are going to kill out here are fish. I wonder what all those tourists on shore are thinking right now. Maybe they think it is some sort of a training drill.
Then I hear the sound of fighter jets coming up from the south. The Marines have finally arrived. I have never been so happy to see a Marine in my entire life. They make their first pass without firing. The bad guys on the cargo ship aren’t very smart, instead of waving and acting friendly, they start firing the .50 caliber at the planes. Not very smart.
On the next pass, the fighter jets fire air to surface missiles at the ship. They also strafe the ship with cannon fire. The battle is over. The cargo ship explodes in a huge ball of fire. We watch as it slowly sinks into the sea and disappears.
On their next pass, the F-18s tip their wings and head back to their base. Mission accomplished. I’m just glad they realized the good guys were in the small boats because they did a real damn-damn on the big boat. The First Strike just struck out.
The next sound I hear is a Coast Guard cutter. She is coming full speed toward our location. I take the Wave Runner over to TC’s boat and we load it back onto the crane and place her onboard.
I look at TC and say, “Are there any beers left in your cooler, I could sure use a drink.”
After a few minutes, the cutter pulls alongside TC’s boat and asks if we are okay. I tell them we are fine and that they need to either sink or retrieve the remaining barrels in the ocean and that they probably contain C-4. The commander of the ship says to me, “Are you Mickke D?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
Murder on the Front Nine Page 21