So it was back to the upstream end for another try. This time, midway along the course, Jack felt a tap on his wet suit hood. He looked up to see Tom excitedly pointing at the sand.
Just ahead lay the edge of a piece of wood, rotted and crumbling but still bearing unmistakable signs that it had been milled. This was no remnant of a sunken log. This had once been a plank.
4
"We've found her!" Tom said as soon as they broke the surface.
Their air tanks had been running low so they'd ascended to a depth of fifteen feet and hovered there, clinging to the anchor rope, for a brief decompression stop to clear excess nitrogen from their bloodstreams. They hadn't been deep enough to worry much about the bends, but why take the chance?
Well, Jack thought, we found something. Surprise, surprise. Too soon to tell if it was the Sombra. But he kept mum. No point in raining on Tom's parade.
They removed their fins and climbed the transom ladder to the deck. They decided on a beer break before strapping on fresh tanks.
Tom seemed to be a different person. His eyes danced, his movements were full of energy, he couldn't stop grinning.
"Got to be the Sombra." The mask had left a red ring across his forehead and around his cheeks. "Now we know where to concentrate."
Jack gave a noncommittal nod. His thoughts kept returning below, to the sand hole.
"What's up with the coral down there?"
"Yeah, I noticed that. Looks dead. Could be a pollutant, could be a disease."
"But even then, wouldn't you expect some algae or something to be growing there?"
Tom shrugged. "Could be a lot of things. It's a problem all over the world. They've got this starfish in the Pacific called the crown of thorns. A bunch of them can wipe out reef after reef."
"Okay, but no fish either. I didn't see a single fish."
Another shrug, plus a grin. "Neither did I, but that should make you happy: No fish means no sharks."
Tom just didn't get it.
"Maybe I'm being oversensitive and paranoid, but consider this: For the whole time we were down, you and I were the only living things in that sand hole. Don't you think that's just a little strange?"
Jack hoped nothing more than a blight or pollution was at work here.
"Whatever," Tom said, rising and starting to strap new tanks to the vests. He appeared to be vibrating with anticipation. Or was it greed? "Let's get back down there before the sun gets too low."
5
Concentrating the water stream around the plank they'd found, they turned up more wood, all equally rotted, crumbling at the lightest touch. But no treasure chest, no coins or jewels. Just sand, sand, sand.
With their tanks getting low and the light fading, Tom pointed to the surface. They were done for the day. Jack couldn't say he was sorry. He was tired and he was bored. He realized what he liked most about diving was the sea life. None of that here. He couldn't wait to get back to the surface.
But before he did…
Instead of hanging on the line with Tom for a decompression stop, he propelled himself to the rim of the sand hole and glided over the crest to see how far beyond the blight had spread.
He stopped and floated, gaping. Color… movement… life. He felt like Dorothy opening the door to Oz:
The area all around the sand hole teemed with darting, vibrant-hued fish, waving vegetation, and pastels of living coral. The die-off appeared to be confined to their sand hole. Whatever had killed all the sea life there hadn't advanced beyond it. Since coral predators and pollutants wouldn't have stopped at the lip of the hole, that removed them from the equation.
Something confined to the hole had killed off—and was continuing to kill off—all the sea life in its immediate vicinity.
And the only thing in the hole that wasn't anywhere else on the reef was probably the Sombra.
THURSDAY
1
Jack was driving Tom crazy.
He'd started yesterday as soon as they hit the surface after the second dive, yammering about how the coral die-off was limited to their sand hole, how every place else down there was teeming with life, going on and on and on about something being wrong, wrong, wrong.
He'd persisted in his inchoate ramblings during the trip back to Hamilton and all through dinner. Tom didn't think he'd ever been so happy to close a hotel room door behind him and collapse on a bed. Shutting off Jack's voice had been part of it; the vodka had contributed too. But mostly it had been the crushing fatigue. He led a sedentary life and the day's exertions had exacted their toll.
Were still exacting a toll. He had muscle aches in places where he hadn't known he had muscles.
Jack didn't seem to be bothered at all. They'd traded their empty air tanks for fresh this morning and he'd hefted them in and out of the truck bay as if yesterday had been just another day.
No doubt about it, little brother was strong.
And fast. Tom's belly still hurt from that punch the other night. He hadn't seen it coming, hadn't seen it happen. Once second he was standing there, the next he was doubled over in pain. Even though it had hurt like hell, the scary part was that he sensed Jack had pulled the punch, hitting him just hard enough to make his point. If he'd put everything into it…
Best to forget about it. He'd almost got them both killed. But who'd have believed they'd cross paths with a tanker? The odds were…
Never mind. He'd fucked up and deserved the punch. But admit that to Jack? Never.
Jack continued with his litany of doom this morning—like a woodchuck gnawing at his brainstem.
"I'm telling you, Tom. We need to rethink this whole thing."
"Will you give it a rest? I'm begging you, Jack, give it a rest. You're wearing me out with this shit."
Tom repressed an urge to tell him to talk about something else or not talk at all. He had to be careful. He needed Jack. He couldn't do this alone.
But he needed quiet too, so he could think. He couldn't get the bank out of his mind. Half a million bucks and he couldn't get to it!
Which made finding something in the Sombra crucial.
He clenched his jaw and tried to think as their pickup crawled through Paget with the rest of the traffic on South Road. He hadn't driven a manual shift in ages; what a royal pain in the ass. But at least they had wheels. No such thing as Hertz or Avis here. Bermuda didn't want tourists renting anything larger than a moped. That made the taxi drivers happy.
But that didn't prevent private rentals, and Tom had arranged a package deal for the truck and the pump.
Forget the truck, forget the traffic. The bank… the bank… what if he offered Dawkes—?
"Let's just go back to the beginning," Jack said.
Jesus Christ, he's like the paperboy in Better OffDeadl
"Jack—"
"No, hear me out. Let's recap what you told me: This wreck we're excavating ran the Cadiz-Cartagena route, right? But instead of naming it Santa Something, like every other Spanish ship I've ever heard of, the owner calls it Shadow. Doesn't that make you wonder?"
"Wonder about what?"
"About his mind-set."
Tom sighed. "Jack, the guy, whoever he was, has been dead over four hundred years. Who cares about his mind-set? Where's this going?"
"Just bear with me. The ship is on this route between Spain and South America but is way off course when it hits the reef out there and sinks into a sand hole. Yet somebody survives who knows enough about navigation to map out the location of the hole. Why?"