Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  “Why do they call it ‘Fort’ Bay?” Emily asked.

  “Well, legend has it a French pirate tried to attack Saba and came ashore here, aiming to go up to the villages between those high cliffs there. The ‘fort’ was actually some retaining walls holding back a bunch of boulders. When the pirates got into the gut, the Sabans knocked the supports loose and avalanches killed half the pirates and their leader. Irony there is, most of the Sabans dumping those rocks were likely descended from pirates themselves.”

  “They ever have rock slides?” Boone asked, looking up at the terrain directly above the port, where the cliffs were littered with scree and boulders.

  “Don’t say that too loudly, the island might here you,” Lucky quipped. “There’ve been a few rock slides on the western slopes, but nothing too major. Mount Scenery is a volcano, you know… so there might be some kinda seismic activity from time to time.”

  “I thought I read somewhere it was dormant,” Boone said.

  “Well, it’s dormant until it isn’t. There’s some debate on this, but some are calling it ‘potentially active.’ There’re some hot springs near where we’re about to dive, for instance. Sensors picked up a burst of seismic events in 1992, but not much since then.” He suddenly barked a laugh. “I just remembered… Will Johnson? He’s our historian, lives up there on The Level above El Momo…” He pointed, and sure enough they were just passing below the cliffs that the El Momo cottages were set into. “Will was telling me about the time the University of the West Indies, down in Trinidad, called up Saba on the phone… saying ‘Oh my God, are you all right?’ They monitor seismic sensors in the Caribbean and they were acting like they thought Saba had been wiped out by an eruption.”

  “What happened?” Emily asked.

  “Cow kicked the sensor,” Lucky said, grinning. “Nah, the last full eruption was sometime before 1640. Actually, there’s a whole bunch of these stratovolcanoes in the area. Fair number of the Leeward Islands are built around one. You can see another one right over there.”

  Lucky pointed to the southeast. It was an exceptionally clear day and another island with a distinct cone on one end was in sight. Just beyond, another island was visible.

  “I think our WinAir flight stopped there on our way over here. That’s Statia, right?”

  “Yep. Statia—Sint Eustatius if you wanna be wordy. The volcano there is called The Quill. And beyond that you can see Saint Kitts… and it’s not in sight, but Nevis is down there, just past Kitts. Both of them are centered on stratovolcanoes as well.”

  “You seem to know a lot about volcanoes,” Emily said. “Are you a… oh, what’s the word… you know, like Mr. Spock?”

  Lucky laughed. “Vulcanologist? No. But for my oil rig diving work, I got a degree in geology. Just an area I’m interested in, is all.”

  They curved around the southeast corner of the island and started north. Boone found his eyes continuing to the east and he felt Emily’s hand slip into his. He looked down at her, nodding.

  “That’s where that submarine was, wasn’t it?” Lucky asked over the sound of the engine. “The one you two sank?”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly sink it,” Boone said. “We rammed it, and then they pretty much took care of destroying it themselves. Broke the back of the boat we were on.”

  Just then, the boat gave a hitch and Boone felt a quick double shudder in his feet before everything returned to normal.

  “Dammit,” Lucky muttered.

  “Feels like the transmission,” Boone said.

  “Yeah, probably. It happened last week but then didn’t recur. I guess I was just hoping…”

  “I can take a look at it when we reach the dive site,” Boone suggested.

  “And miss your first dive?” Lucky asked.

  “I’ll miss more than one if your transmission goes,” Boone said.

  “I’ll dive for Boone,” Emily offered. “I can fill him in on all the wonderful sights he misses.”

  “Em can take her GoPro down and show me the video later. I’ll dive vicariously.”

  “All right, fair enough. We’re almost there. Up ahead is Flat Point and the airport. In that little bay to the left, Cove Bay, you’ll find one of our two beaches. There’s also Well’s on the northwest side but that beach comes and goes. This one they’re trying to keep protected but the sargassum just loves to bunch up in there.”

  “Is that the yellow stuff floating on the top?” One of the Wisconsin divers was grabbing a cup of water and overheard them at the wheel.

  “Yeah,” Lucky said. “It’s a kind of seaweed—little gas bladders in the structure keep it afloat. Been seeing more of it as the ocean warms up. A lot of cool stuff living in it. If you’ve got plenty of air after your safety stop and there’s a patch of it overhead, take a moment to come up under and check it out. I’ve seen a bunch of camouflaged frogfish in sargassum.”

  They passed by the tiny airport, perched on an outcrop above them, and approached a single boulder thrusting up from the water on the north side of Saba.

  “Not exactly an island…” Emily commented.

  “Green Island’s actually the top of a pinnacle. You’ll be diving some pretty impressive ones out on the west side, by the way.” Lucky throttled back the engine as they neared a blue-striped white buoy. “Chad, get us moored. I’ll handle the briefing.” Grabbing a whiteboard, he turned to Boone and Emily. “You two have one of these in Bonaire? To draw the topography of the sites?”

  Boone chuckled. “Emily usually hogged it. Used every color of dry erase marker she could lay her hands on, drawing all the critters you might see on each dive.”

  “Hey, I like to express myself! Boone here, he never does anything fun.”

  “You put a unicorn in, one time.”

  “There are seahorses… why not a seaunicorn?”

  “Just don’t put any submarines in,” Lucky said as he began to sketch an image of the base of the Green Island pinnacle. “This is the only boat I’ve got.”

  Boone stood up from the cramped confines of the engine room—although “room” was a stretch, the dual engines being in a tight space in the bilge. He was fairly sure he’d diagnosed the problem and was about to close the compartment when movement up on the slopes caught his eye. Peering intently, he could just make out a flash of white—a T-shirt perhaps—disappearing from view beyond the edge of the cliff above the surf. He debated fetching the binoculars he always carried in his dry bag, but the familiar sound of a diver reaching the surface brought his attention back to the task at hand. He quickly pulled himself up from the bilge and slid the deck panel back into place, reaching the transom ladder to discover Emily grinning up at him.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, slipping out of her buoyancy compensator while in the water and offering the BC and tank to Boone. “Attend to my gear, cabin boy.”

  “How was it?” Boone asked, retrieving her tank and slotting it into the bench racks. “Any unicorns?”

  “Only two.” Emily ascended the ladder, passing her lime green fins to Boone. “Actually, I spotted something I never saw in Bonaire. Bottom was eighty feet, some dark volcanic sand down there. There were three flying gurnards! One fanned out its pectoral fins like two peacock tails!”

  A pair of fins sailed over the transom and Lucky came up the ladder, BC and tank in his free hand. “Chad’s bringing up the rear. Current was starting to pick up toward the end. We were lucky to get in when we did. By afternoon, this woulda been no-go.” He set his gear aside and returned to the stern, helping the remaining divers with their equipment as they came to the ladder.

  “Hey, Lucky… what’s that area up there with all the low grass?” Boone asked, pointing up to the cliff’s edge before reaching down for a diver’s fins. “I can see bits of a stone wall… some kind of mound of rocks.”

  “That’s where the old sulphur mi
ne is. There used to be a cable from up there to the Green Island rock, to shuttle down the sulphur. That mound is an old oven. You can’t see the entrance of the actual mine from here, though. There’s a cave opening down a little trail, to the left of the oven.”

  “Sid told us about the mine. Said it could be dangerous to go in there.”

  “I’ve been in once—hotter than hell and stinks to high heaven. Plenty cramped, too—had to crab walk in a couple places. Still a lot of sulphur in there. I slid along a wall and ended up with yellow streaks all over my clothes.”

  “So, people can go in there, then?”

  “Yeah, you can hike down from Upper Hell’s Gate, but they recommend you go with a guide and never go in alone.”

  “Huh. Guess someone didn’t get the memo.”

  “See somebody up there? Probably someone with the conservation or archaeology groups. They’ve been looking for other entrances, but after a tourist died in there, all the side tunnels were gated and locked.”

  “Roll call,” Chad called, grabbing a clipboard and reading off the names of their small group of divers. Even though a quick headcount had confirmed everyone was aboard, you always did a roll call.

  Lucky jerked a thumb toward the cockpit. “Boone, we good to go?”

  “Yeah, should be fine if you take it easy.”

  “All right. Release the mooring line, then come back here and tell me what you found. And Emily…” He gestured to the wheel. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Once they were underway, Lucky motioned Boone to join them. “So… thoughts on the engines?”

  “You had a loose shaft coupling. One of the bolts was missing and a couple others were loose. I tightened those up with the torque wrench. I also found a small amount of fluid pooled in the bilge. Not a lot, but it was there. I couldn’t pin anything down, though.”

  “All right. Well, that decides the next dive site. We’ll do Tent Reef, just outside the bay. You’ll go down with Anika and I’ll stay up top—get my mechanic to come down in a couple hours. The grocery ship comes in tomorrow, and Fort Bay can get a little cramped—better to get it fixed today. Maybe that missing bolt’s rattling around down there somewhere.”

  “She’s handling fine right now,” Emily said, gently turning the wheel to starboard as they made their way around the island.

  “Don’t jinx it, Em,” Boone said.

  “Not a chance. I have the magic touch,” she replied breezily. “All boats know and love me.”

  Lucky laughed. “I’ll take every good luck charm I can get. Keep at it. Once we reach Fort Bay, throttle down and I’ll guide you to the mooring ball. I gotta have a word with Chad and our divers. Probably gonna need to cancel the afternoon dive.”

  While Lucky headed over to Chad, Boone leaned in toward Emily. “You better have some good footage of those flying gurnards.”

  “I got three great videos… but maybe I’ll keep them for myself. Until you do something to earn it.”

  Boone reached up between her braids and gave her a neck rub. “This do it?”

  Emily was quiet for a few moments before mumbling something that Boone couldn’t hear above the engines.

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘That’ll get you one video.’ But knock it off, before I drive us into the rocks.” She shouldered him. “So, what do you think? We going to like it here?”

  Boone looked up at the towering island, its green flanks brilliant in the late-morning sun.

  “I think we’ve found a quiet little corner of paradise.”

  The blond man tucked the detailed trail map into a pocket before grasping a thick root and pulling himself up along a steep section of the Middle Island Trail. In moments, he crested the slope and reached the dead end of Ladder Hill Road. Removing his sweat-soaked shirt, he mopped his face and glanced at a nearby cottage, its red roof and white walls peeking out of the dense shrubs at the base of a massive gumbo-limbo tree. The tree was impressive, its reddish bark curled up in places. The man’s lip rose in a smirk as he remembered that locals on another island called it the “tourist tree,” because it was red and peeling, like the sunburned vacationers who visited the Caribbean. Taking a few steps to the side, he peered between the leaves of an elephant ear plant. At the end of the obscured driveway was a small white car of some sort; many of the vehicles on this island were subcompacts of one kind or another. No sign of anyone. Not that he was concerned. This trail was one of the less-frequented ones and he hadn’t seen a soul all morning.

  He had set aside his utility coveralls, opting for typical hiking garb for his morning reconnoiter. The old cistern was right where the map said it would be, tucked into the side of the slope, partially obscured by overhanging foliage. Its stone-lined, rectangular shape looked a bit like a little swimming pool. Or a water-filled grave.

  The man began walking back down the road to the unfinished house that he considered home base. The sun was approaching its zenith and his sculpted, sweat-soaked physique sparkled. He took great pride in keeping himself in peak physical condition. Yes, there was vanity in it, he knew… but the end result served a greater design. Most of those he selected were not keen to fulfill their purpose, but his phenomenal strength made their reticence irrelevant.

  Halfway to his hideout, a sharp ding sounded from a pocket of his shorts. Extracting a cheap burner phone he’d procured, he noted that he had a message. The cell signals were surprisingly good on much of the island, but the trail he’d just been on was fairly remote from most of the villages. He started to put the phone back in his pocket, but it rang in his hand. The man sighed and answered the call. There was only one person who had this phone’s number.

  “Yes?”

  “I called you an hour ago—vere have you been?” came a heavily accented voice, its tone brimming with irritation.

  “Busy.”

  “Listen, I can’t get a signal in there so every time I call you I have to crawl out of das verdammte Höllenloch. If I call, I expect you to answer!”

  “Sorry. I lost my signal as well. I just now got your message. Shall I listen to it?”

  “Nein, ve are talking now! I need more water.”

  The blond man did not respond, lifting his gaze up to the cloud-wreathed peak of Mount Scenery and enjoying a cooling breeze that chose that moment to kick up.

  “Did you hear me? Hallo? Gott im Himmel, did I lose you? I said I need more—”

  “I just brought you water. And food. And blankets. And extra batteries. And the map you asked for. We had an agreement. I wasn’t to visit you again until I have your passport.”

  “Do you have any idea how hot it gets in here? I’m going through the water faster than I expected.”

  “It was your choice to hide out in there.”

  “It vas the best choice! I have no idea if my partner talked and if he did, the authorities vill be looking for me. Ve have hidden things here before and I know much of the layout. But I confess, I don’t remember it smelling so much; it stinks like rotten eggs in here! And I know it’s hotter than the last time ve used it. I need more water. If you vant your money, you’ll haf to bring it.”

  The blond man was silent again for a moment. The trek to make these deliveries was not an easy one, particularly with a case of water bottles, and he risked exposure himself.

  “Very well. Another thousand.”

  “Anoth—” The other side of the conversation descended into a muffled torrent of Teutonic obscenities. “Ach…. agreed! Vhatever it takes to get out of dieser verflucht place.”

  “I will bring more in a few days then. And you will need to show me the money at that time—before I return with your new passport.”

  “Vhat, you don’t trust me?”

  “Of course not. You’re a smuggler. And from what I overheard around the island, when your boat was blown up a bag of money went down
with it.”

  “That vas Santiago’s share. He foolishly left it in the hidden compartment vhen ve vent into town for supplies. I haf my cut—and you vill haf yours vhen you deliver my papers. That is, assuming I’m not dead of dehydration. Believe me vhen I say this: You vill never find me in here unless I vant you to. Haf you met vith the forger yet?”

  “No, he’s off island. He’ll be back day after tomorrow and I’m meeting with him in the afternoon.”

  “Es ist gut. I vill call you after.”

  “Call me before six,” the blond man said. “I have work to do in the evenings.”

  He ended the call and resumed his walk, halting suddenly as the unfinished cottage came into view. There was a man there. Skinny, in his late fifties, dressed for hiking: a walking stick in hand, a slouch hat atop his head, and a pair of binoculars around his neck. The hiker examined the SUV and the buckets next to it, then walked to the side of the cottage and peered into the interior through the skeletal walls. After a moment, he stepped back, looking around the grounds.

  The blond man casually resumed walking, calling out with a wave as he neared the hiker. “Good day for it, huh?”

  The hiker looked startled. “Oh! Hello. Yes indeed, beautiful day.”

  The blond man advanced. “Looks like someone’s building a house.”

  “Yes,” the hiker said absently. “It seems that someone is doing some work on it. It’s just that I knew the owner. American fellow. Died last month. Odd. Ah well, I’ll give his niece a call. Maybe they sold the property.” He turned and offered his hand. “I’m Chris. Chris Brady.”

  The blond man smiled and took his hand, giving it a shake. “William.”

  “My goodness, you’ve got a grip.” He nodded at the blond man’s shirtless body. “You a weightlifter or something?”

  “William” laughed somewhat awkwardly. “Not really. I just go to a gym and try to eat right.”

  “You from the States?” Chris asked.

  “Yes, just a tourist, sad to say. Your island is beautiful.”