CHAPTER TWO
The island of Guadeloupe
March 25, 2008
10:15 a.m.
Cole Thatcher steered his Boston Whaler dinghy through what passed for surf on the leeward side of the island, cutting his engine and lifting the outboard just before the bow nosed onto the black volcanic sand. He slid over the side and grabbed the line on the bow, then dragged the boat up the beach away from the tug and pull of the waves.
The small, isolated cove was familiar to him. He had been diving a search grid in the area for over two months now. After he peeled off his wet suit and booties, he stood still, leaning his leg against the bow of the boat, feeling the warmth of the late morning sun erase the cold from his naked body. The Caribbean waters were warm enough at the surface, but at the depths where he’d been diving, the chill reached right through the neoprene suit to his bones.
He closed his eyes. From habit, his hand clutched at the gold coin hanging from a chain round his neck, his thumb rubbing over the raised image. It was crazy diving alone and he knew it, but he’d had to let the rest of the crew go. It was down to just him and Theo, and though his first mate was born down here in the Caribbean, he didn’t even know how to swim.
Things weren’t exactly turning out the way he’d always dreamed. As a kid, Cole loved watching reruns of those old TV shows like Adventures in Paradise and Sea Hunt. He thought he’d grow up to be just like Mike Nelson, but here he was feeling more like Gilligan. This three-hour cruise had turned into months of fruitless searching, and after signing their checks over a year ago, his investors were beginning to demand results.
All the supposed experts in World War II maritime archeology claimed the French submarine Surcouf lay somewhere on the sea floor outside Panama where she sank after a collision with the freighter Thompson Lykes on February 18, 1942.
But Cole knew otherwise. He just had to prove it. And he was certain after all these months, he had to be close. But they knew it, too.
Not the academics or his investors. He’d fled the world of academia. But his doctorate and the time he’d spent working on the Ocracoke Shipwreck Survey had brought in most of the investors when he started his company Full Fathom Five Maritime Exploration. His credentials convinced them he was legit and not some paranoid, crackpot treasure hunter. He’d assured them the old man’s journals were the equivalent of a treasure map that would lead them straight to the wreck.
But today, he’d hit a dry hole. Again. Just as he had every day here in Guadaloupe for the last two months.
His investors weren’t the only ones waiting for news of the sub’s discovery, though. Cole knew there were poachers out there. The cutthroat scumbags waited, just over the horizon, letting guys like him do all the research and discovery work, and then they’d swoop in at the last minute, guns blazing to steal the find out from under him. Modern day pirates. It was the rumors of gold that drew them out of their dark little hidey-holes. He’d dodged a pair of them up in North Carolina, but they were still out there somewhere – he could feel them closing in like a school of sharks – and he wasn’t about to let them near his wreck.
And if it wasn’t the poachers? Then God help him. Pirates, he could deal with, but he wasn’t ready to deal with them yet. He didn’t even know who they were, but he was certain they knew of him. Okay, it wasn’t like he’d seen black helicopters following him around — he wasn’t that crazy — but he’d caught glimpses of them even if nobody else believed him. The strangers whose gazes lingered just a little too long in his direction. They were watching him — had been ever since his father’s death. Of course, if they’d thought the old man’s diaries contained any real intel, the volumes never would have made it to his hands.
He’d heard about what it was like the day they’d found his father’s body, how the local Brit constabulary had kept the press and the old man’s friends at the end of the lane while a fleet of unmarked black sedans had driven in and stayed for hours. He supposed the only reason the cleaners hadn’t taken the journals along with the rest of his father’s notes was because they seemed innocuous enough, personal memoirs and unintelligible rants kept only for the benefit of a distant American son the old man never really knew.
They should have known better.
After several minutes, the tropical sun had done its work and his naked skin began to feel the tingling heat of dried salt. Stretching his arms wide, he opened his eyes and followed the trickle of water that crossed the black sand from deep in the shade of the trees. A small stream flowed down the steep ravine into a pool just back from the beach. The water originated as rainfall up on the cloud-shrouded sides of the volcano, La Soufrière, and by the time it fell into the deep pool here, it was still cold as the depths where he’d been diving. But the water was fresh and that was why he’d taken to stopping here for a cool, revitalizing rinse after every dive.
Broad-leafed taro plants and lacy palm fronds sprouted from the black rocks that ringed the pool. Tall, old growth trees shaded the glen, and the water gurgled over a small waterfall on the far side, ruffling the surface of the dark pool. On the leeward coasts of most of the Caribbean islands, the vegetation was a combination of lush tropic growth deep in the valleys where the streams came down from the mountaintops, and drier cactus and bush high on the sides of the windswept cliffs.
Cole lifted the gold chain over his head and carefully placed the medallion on a smooth rock. He lowered his body into the pool and shivered. The depth was no more than four feet, so he slid his legs out toward the center and dipped his head back until the cold water covered his face. The noise from the waterfall sounded different underwater, louder and more immediate. Floating on his back, he watched the branches high up in the canopy where little bananaquit birds flitted among the still leaves. He closed his eyes, listening to the water roaring ever louder, wondering if he had enough of his father in him to see this thing through.
Cole bobbed his head back to the surface and rested his bare feet on the soft mud bottom. He shook the water out of his ears. That was no longer just the waterfall he’d been hearing. He stood up, the water streaming off his skin, and he looked over the black sand beach to the sea. A gray inflatable dinghy had rounded the point from the north and was already halfway across the cove heading for the beach at top speed.
“Damn!” Cole ducked down into a squat hoping they had not spotted him.
The noise of the outboard engine wound down and then stopped. He knew the boat was gliding in for a landing on the beach. Barely lifting his head above the beach level, he took another look. The dinghy slid to a stop on the sand and the men leaped out. There were two of them wearing full-body wetsuits complete with black hoods. Both were carrying spear guns.
Cole dropped back into the water, then looked around at the volcanic rock jutting out from the sides of the ravine. Beyond, he could see little but the green of the brush. He heard their muffled voices now. They saw his boat. They would know he was close by. There was nothing for it but to run.
He had both feet out of the water before he remembered the chain and coin. He stopped so abruptly, he lost his footing on the algae-covered rock and fell back into the water. The sound of the splash seemed to echo off the canyon walls. He stood, ran his hand over his face rubbing the water from his eyes, and in one smooth movement, he scooped the chain up, slid it over his head, and leapt out of the pool.
The sharp rock cut into the soles of his feet and the ferns and vines whipped at his bare legs. He couldn’t allow any of that to slow him down. He ran up a narrow animal path, but that route stopped at a huge boulder. He headed straight up the crumbling dirt wall then, dodged around the scattered prickly fruit of a soursop tree. In places, the side of the ravine was nearly vertical, but he grabbed at roots and branches to pull himself up. Crabbing his way across ledges and over rock outcroppings, he tried to keep under the tree canopy, seeking some sort of camouflage. His scrambling feet let loose a deluge of tumbling stones and dirt that would act like an arrow to point out his route to the men following him. His only hope, he thought as he heard their voices in the glen below, was that he had a good head start.