But Star was already limping toward the main companionway, calling, “Tad!” The others followed her, wet suits dripping.
Tad Cutter was seated at the foldaway table in the galley, poring over an endless data printout on continuous form paper.
“There’s a plane down there,” Star told him excitedly. “A German bomber.” She slammed the machine gun bullets onto the computer.
Cutter looked from the bullets to their earnest faces and laughed — full-throated guffaws that filled the salon.
“Hey!” Star was insulted. “You may think we’re a bunch of pests to be ignored, but we know what a plane looks like!”
“No!” the team leader managed, struggling to regain his control. “You guys are right. There’s a plane down there. But it’s not from World War II.”
“Yes, it is,” Adriana insisted. “A Messerschmidt bomber, propeller driven, with a swastika and German cross markings. The Nazis used them in the Caribbean against Allied oil-drilling operations.”
“And that’s exactly what the movie was about — a German bomber that crashed into the sea,” Cutter informed them. “The studio folks built an exact model of a Messerschmidt, towed it out here, and sank it on the reef. That’s what you found. Not a wreck — a Hollywood set.”
Star’s face fell the distance between an undiscovered wreck and an underwater phony. The others looked on in dismay. A minute ago it seemed as if they had earned the respect of Cutter and his crew. Now they were nobodies again.
The blond man picked up one of the bullets. “This isn’t nearly enough coral growth for an artifact from World War II. After sixty years, the whole shell casing would be covered, most likely. This looks about right for three years on the reef — the time since that movie got made.”
Marina appeared at the companionway. “Don’t take it so hard. You’re not the first divers to find that plane and think it was something special. I doubt you’ll be the last.” She smiled. “There are a lot of caves down there. We’ll need you back in the water as soon as possible. Use the oxygen to help you outgas. It’s topside — the tanks with the green labels.”
Since the body absorbs some of the nitrogen from compressed air at depth, it was important to expel that nitrogen before diving again the same day. Breathing pure oxygen sped up the whole process.
On deck, Dante pulled a tank from the rack, struggling under its weight.
Kaz frowned at the other boy. “She said green labels.”
“Yeah?”
“These are red.”
“Oh — right.” Embarrassed, Dante fumbled with the cylinder and dropped it. Kaz got his foot out of the way a split second before the heavy metal hit the deck.
Dante grimaced. “Sorry.” That was becoming a pretty useful word for him. Sorry for nearly shattering your toe; sorry for handing you a tank of God-knows-what that might have poisoned you; sorry for spotting the plane that almost became Star’s tomb. There was no question about it. He stank at this internship. And not just the diving part. Everything he did around here turned out to be wrong.
Kaz hauled out four of the oxygen cylinders and the divers divided them up. He placed the clear plastic mask over his mouth and nose and turned on the valve. “It isn’t so bad, right?” he asked, his voice muffled. “I mean, we look like idiots, but they still want us to tag caves for them. At least we didn’t lose our jobs.”
“I still say something’s fishy about that,” put in Star. “We’ve got two markers in the water. Have any of those guys even bothered to record their positions?”
In answer, a loud snore came from the stern of the boat, as Reardon continued his hunt for a prizewinning tuna.
Adriana placed the mask over her face and then withdrew it, licking her dry lips thoughtfully. “The only thing that bothers me is that they’re supposed to be doing a sonar scan, right? Mapping the reef. But the data Cutter’s studying isn’t sonar data.”
Kaz snapped to attention. “It isn’t?”
“One summer, the British Museum had a team searching for ancient Roman artifacts in the Thames River — shields, helmets, armor. They used a side-scan magnetometer to pick up signs of metal underwater. Well, the data from that scan is exactly like the data on Cutter’s table.”
Star snapped her fingers. “They’re looking for something in the ocean. Something metal.”
Dante was confused. “Then why do they want us down there marking caves?”
All at once, a wide smile of understanding appeared on the slight girl’s face. “It’s bell work!”
“Bell work?” repeated Adriana.
“When I was in fifth grade,” Star explained, “my teacher always put a few math problems on the board for when we came in after the bell. It wasn’t stuff we had to know — not on any test or anything. It was just supposed to keep us busy while she finished her coffee in the faculty room. That’s what this cave thing is all about — they’re keeping us busy while they’re searching!”
The four divers exchanged solemn glances. Could it really be true? They knew Cutter and his team had little respect for them, but could the researchers be manipulating them this way?
Kaz broke the uneasy silence. “Okay, let’s say both you guys are right. They’re jerking us around, keeping us busy doing nothing, while they’re scanning the Hidden Shoals for metal. That still doesn’t answer the biggest question — why all this secrecy? These people are scientists working for a top institute. Why can’t they just admit what they’re after?”
Adriana flipped her wet hair out of her face. “It seems to me,” she said slowly, “that there must be something very special about their work.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. “A government contract? Maybe top secret?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But whatever it is, we’re mixed up in it now.”
03 July 1665
At first, Samuel blamed the stink of the Griffin on the port of Liverpool. But as they sailed farther, in fair seas or rough, the overpowering stench was still with them. Worse, it seemed to be growing in intensity. It was a mixture of bilge water, cooking fires, the rotting food stores, and livestock smells from the goats, pigs, and chickens that were raised on board to keep up a supply of fresh milk, eggs, and meat for the captain and crew.
Mostly, though, it was the reek of people — two and eighty unwashed men on a long journey under a relentless sun. The acrid odor of seasickness could never be fully swabbed away. And as the barque was tossed by malevolent waves, even the most seasoned sailor would lose control of his stomach. Captain Blade himself was not immune. One time during a spell of rough weather, Samuel barged in on him on the floor of his quarters, retching into his chamber pot.
He leaped to his feet, scorching Samuel with eyes of fire. “You’ll not speak of this to anyone, boy, or I’ll have you flogged!”
It was not an idle threat. There were floggings almost daily on the crew deck of the Griffin. Captain Blade insisted on performing these himself, with his bone-handled snake whip.
“Ah, it feels good to stretch the old muscles,” he would grin as his victim sobbed in a pool of his own blood, his back crisscrossed with angry red stripes. “A man needs some physical activity.”
A regular recipient of Blade’s brand of “physical activity” was old Evans, the sail maker. The overpowering wind gusts of the Atlantic crossing relentlessly shredded the barque’s many sails. Though the silver-haired man labored night and day, sewing until he could barely see his stiff fingers before his failing eyes, he could not keep up with the damage.