Strong hands took hold of his shoulders and hauled him up. Covilha and the scarred sailor dragged him into the boat. He dropped to the bottom and slumped, exhausted, against someone’s legs.
“All of that for a dog,” a voice behind him whispered.
Rienzi was too tired and disconsolate to reply. Instead, he clutched the wet ball of fur to his chest, and watched with tear-filled eyes as the greatest discovery in the history of mankind sank into the depths of the sea.
CHAPTER 1
A dead ship makes better company than a live person, Dane thought as he propelled himself with two solid kicks through the gaping hole in the side of the sunken vessel. He drifted, careful not to upset the fine layer of silt that covered the boat’s interior. It would be the underwater version of a whiteout if he did, and it would spoil his exploration. A school of bright blue sergeant majors, so called for their dark, vertical stripes that made them resemble a sergeant's insignia, swam past seemingly oblivious to this intruder into their watery domain. Dane greeted them with a mock salute and they scattered out into the sea. Another small flip of his swim fins and he slid deeper into the bowels of the wreck.
It was a tuna seiner, and not a very old one. The outside was white with broad bands of green striping down the side. He did not expect to find anything of interest inside, but he desperately needed a diversion after a long and fruitless day of searching for the remains of the sunken Spanish galleon.
He switched on the dive light strapped to his forehead and looked around. More than likely, this had been a drug runner’s boat. It was stripped down to bare bones on the inside, all of the trappings of the fishing trade absent. A fire extinguisher was still strapped to the wall, one of the few remaining accoutrements in this sunken tin can. He floated over to it, and gently brushed away the silt over the inspection label to reveal the year 2002. He looked around a few moments more, his eyes taking in the crumbling upholstery on the seats and the bits of marine life that were beginning to homestead on the interior. There was nothing here to hold his interest. He took a quick glance at his dive watch and calculated that he had about ten minutes of air remaining. It was time to head back up.
He turned and swam out of the wreck. As he left the boat, a shadow passed above him and something large and dark appeared at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see the thick, gray form of a bull shark circling above him. Dane paused, watching the fierce creature swim back and forth. Aggressive and unpredictable, a bull shark was not to be trifled with. The best option was to wait until it went on its way.
The large creature swam a tight circle five meters above him. Dane held tight, not wishing to draw its attention. Faint shafts of sunlight filtered down through the crystalline waters, shining on its tough hide. The beast’s angry eye seemed to fix on Dane, though he knew it was only his imagination.
Minutes passed, with no sign of the shark leaving. He could have sworn the thing was standing guard over him. Its jagged white teeth seemed to grin back at him, daring him to chance it. Again, he checked his watch. Six minutes of air left. He couldn’t wait much longer. He would have to chance it, but at least it was a shallow dive. The water was no more than thirty meters deep here, if that, but it was safest to make a slow ascent, making a couple of stops to avoid decompression problems. His heart beating a bit faster, he suppressed the urge to strike out hard for the surface, and began a slow, controlled rise.
He had read stories of men who had dived on bull sharks, and had even met a few of the guys. Most of them were crazed adrenaline junkies. It was, however, at least theoretically possible to share space without provoking the beast. Problem was, it depended quite a bit on what kind of day the shark was having.
Holding his arms close to his sides, he stretched out, propelling himself with controlled kicks. He slowly drifted upward toward his waiting boat, remaining as still as possible and trying to resemble nothing more than a piece of floating debris. Don’t rise faster than your bubbles, he reminded himself.
The shark continued to patrol the area, showing no signs of agitation, or so Dane hoped. He now had a good view of the marine predator. It was at least ten feet long, probably a female. Viewed through aquarium glass or from within a dive cage, she would be a real beauty. Sharks were fascinating creatures; all muscle, teeth and stomach, his Dad used to say. So far she gave no sign that she had noticed him. He flipped his fins, and he was now gliding upward at a steep angle. Just then, the shark veered to her left, heading directly at him.
Dane tensed. The dive knife strapped to his thigh would do him little good against her tough hide. Struggling against his instincts, he forced himself to remain still, feigning death, floating free. The wide, ugly snout and rows of glistening razor teeth filled his field of vision as the shark barreled toward him.
His natural survival response battered at his will, screaming for him to take out his knife and start hacking. Just as he was about to give in, the shark angled past him, brushing his shoulder with her rough hide as she swam past. As quickly as she had come, she was gone again.
Dane closed his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer of thanks to the gods of the sea. Without looking around to locate the shark, he hastily pinched his nose closed and blew, forcing his ears to pop, before resuming his gradual ascent. He looked down at his wrist. Five minutes. Glancing up, he was surprised to see two boats floating above him. His attention had been so focused on the shark that he had not heard the second craft’s arrival. He continued on with suspicious thoughts rising in his mind. The newly arrived craft floated directly above him. Warily, he surfaced just behind the stern.
The bright Caribbean sun danced on the cerulean water, and he squinted against the glare. The boat was an old Coast Guard cutter. Someone had repainted it an ugly shade of green with the Cuban flag emblazoned sloppily on the back. Four men stood with their backs to him, three of them holding rifles at the ready. One of them was talking to the crew of Dane’s boat, the Sea Foam. The newcomers were armed with old AK-47’s and garbed in a motley mix of military uniform bits, as green and ugly as their vessel.
Aboard the Sea Foam, Dane’s partner, Uriah Bonebrake, known to friends simply as “Bones,” stood facing the unwelcome intruders. A false smile painted his face, and his body was deceptively relaxed. The Carolina-born Cherokee, Dane’s friend since their days together as Navy SEALS, carried a nine-millimeter Glock on his right hip, out of sight beneath his loose-fitting Hawaiian print shirt. Bones was outgunned, but Dane could tell that his friend was looking for an opening. Matt Barnaby and Corey Dean, the other two members of Dane’s crew, stood behind Bones. Matt’s lean, tan face was drawn in concern, while Corey looked frightened.
“You are in Cuban waters, Señor,” the man without a rifle said. “We must inspect your boat for drugs.” One of his comrades snickered, and he shut him up with a wave of his hand.
“These here ain’t Cuban waters, Chief,” Bones said, his deep voice relaxed, almost friendly. “Like I told you, we’re marine archaeologists. This is a research vessel. If you’re looking for drugs, there’s this dude who hangs out on the corner near the Walmart by my house who can probably hook you up.”
Bones knew as well as Dane that these clowns might be Cubans, but there was no way they were government agents. They were self-styled pirates, thugs who preyed mostly on private pleasure craft. He needed to help his crew, but how?
“You, my tall friend, are not so amusing as you seem to think. I suggest you cooperate. Do not force us to harm you.” The fellow’s voice was as oily as his skin.