English and his fellow divers were used to decomps that lasted up to two weeks, but today their stay was short. After two and a half hours, the bell was opened, and the deep-water crew emerged. By this time, the sub’s titanium husk was suspended above the salvage deck. A single technician stood below, examining the vehicle and making notes on a clipboard.
English went to join him, peering up at the short, snub-nosed hull. He spotted the loose plates almost at once.
He pointed. “Here — this was the problem, yes?”
The man nodded. “The temperature gauge is behind there.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine how the plates came apart. It’s never happened before, and this boat’s fifteen years old.”
The native guide squinted for a better look. According to the interns, the damage had been done by a collision with the shark Clarence. But, alors, this seemed unlikely. The attack of a large tiger shark would batter the fiberglass, leaving dents from the rounded snout. These panels were intact except for the locking mechanism, which was bent apart.
A one-in-a-million shot from an angry predator?
No. Then the connection would be bent inward. This was bent outward — almost as if it had been pried apart….
“Sabotage?” he mused aloud.
The technician laughed. “What for? Who would go after a research sub? It’s got nothing but bottom samples and rare algae.”
It took a lot to surprise Menasce Gérard, but when his mind made the leap, he was profoundly shocked. Perhaps other missions were seeking sand and algae. But on this occasion, Deep Scout had been after sunken treasure.
Who had an interest in seeing that mission fail?
For Tad Cutter and his crew, frustration had begun to set in. They had been excavating the wreck site on the reef, and knew it to be the fabled galleon Nuestra Señora de la Luz. They had found a great many artifacts there — dishes, cutlery, medallions, crucifixes, weapons, and ammunition; even huge items like anchors and cannon barrels. There was only one problem. An estimated $1.2 billion in Spanish treasure was simply not there.
That amount of silver, gold, and gems didn’t merely get up and walk away. It was definitely down there somewhere. But where to look for it? That was the question.
The kids seemed to be after the treasure, too, with Braden Vanover helping them. But why had they taken a submersible into deep water when the shipwreck was right there on the reef, a mere sixty-five feet beneath the waves? Did the kids know something that Cutter didn’t?
It was infuriating, and not a little worrisome. The Californians hadn’t been out on the R/V Ponce de Léon in days. Their excavation was a dead end, but what were they supposed to do? Start from scratch?
Bide their time. That was Marina’s idea. But how long could they keep this up before Gallagher noticed that they weren’t mapping the reef anymore? How many hours could Cutter waste in the Poseidon laundry room, watching his socks tumbling by in the window of the dryer and praying for a jolt of inspiration?
The machine clicked off, and Cutter listlessly began to fold his clothes.
The laundry room door was pushed open so violently that it slammed into the wall, and English burst onto the scene, his face a thundercloud.
“English — what brings you — ?”
The guide crossed the room in two strides that would have been impossible for a normal-sized person. In a single motion, he pulled a large towel out of Cutter’s basket, wrapped it around the smaller man’s torso, and pulled tight, binding his arms to his sides.
Cutter was shocked. “What’s going on, man?”
His rage boiling over, English squeezed harder. “You will tell me how you killed Braden Vanover, monsieur, and I maybe take you to the police alive!”
Cutter was having trouble breathing. “What are you talking about? Nobody killed Braden! It was a sub accident! The shark—”
“Enough!” The diver’s booming voice rattled every loose object in the room. “I see this ‘accident.’ Unless the shark is handy with the crowbar, this is no accident! This is le sabotage! And who has the motive for this? You!”
The look of astonishment on Cutter’s face was so complete that English released him at once. Surely such genuine surprise could not be faked.
“You’re serious?” Cutter was aghast. “Someone tampered with the sub? And you think it was me?”
“I am not blind, me,” English growled. “Do you think you can hide from me this thing you do? I see the coral you destroy to search for gold. I see you smash the reef with airlift and jackhammer. You do not fool me!”
“Okay, okay,” said Cutter. “We’re not saints. But we’re not killers, either.”
English glared at him. “We shall see.” He turned on his heel and left as abruptly as he had arrived.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chris Reardon was horrified. “He accused you of murder?”
Cutter sat back in his chair in the small office space Poseidon had assigned to the team from California. “Pretty much. He said the sub was sabotaged, and that’s what killed Braden and got the girl bent. I think — I hope — I convinced him we didn’t do it.”
The bearded man shuddered. “English! I wouldn’t want to have that guy mad at me.”
“We already do,” Cutter said morosely. “He’s figured out what we’re doing here. For some reason, he’s keeping his mouth shut, or Poseidon would have bounced us by now.”
“He probably doesn’t talk to Gallagher,” Reardon observed. “Either that or he knows we haven’t found one red cent in that lousy wreck.”
Marina breezed into the office, waving a videocassette. “Hey, guys, ready for movie night?”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” grumbled Reardon.
“What’s that?” asked Cutter.
Marina flashed all thirty-two perfect teeth. “Nothing much — just a copy of the tape from Deep Scout’s onboard camera.”
Reardon was astonished. “How’d you get that?”
“The chief engineer in charge of the investigation — turns out he likes me.” She favored her two partners with a supermodel smile. “You want to know what Braden and the kids were looking for? If they found it, it’s on here.”
Cutter snatched the tape from her hand and popped it into the VCR on the desk. “Shut the door.”
The three treasure hunters huddled around the small TV screen. Deep Scout’s camera was triggered automatically as soon as the sub was in water. The monitor showed a steady descent from pale turquoise water, teeming with fish, to depths beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. It recorded the instant when the sub’s floodlights came on, and even the reaction of a startled octopus.
A counter on the top right kept track of elapsed time on the dive. Below that was a depth readout. By following the numbers, they could see that the descent to three hundred feet was quick and direct. But then the sub leveled off and began what appeared to be track lines along the sloped ocean floor.
“They’re looking for something,” Reardon murmured.
“This must be just past the excavation,” Cutter decided, “where the shoal drops off.”
They watched the sub’s lights play back and forth over the sandy incline for a few minutes. Marina hit FAST FORWARD, and they began to scan the tape at greater speed. The search continued for quite a while, and suddenly Cutter hit PAUSE.