“Today, we lift the lid properly,” Vincent declared proudly. His wild black and gray hair whipped madly at his face in the cool morning air of the pre-dawn Mediterranean, while he nursed a cup of black coffee. “I can’t tell you how long I have waited for this day, David.” He looked up at the towering Purdue, his face beaming with contentment, contrasting with his bestial appearance. “Thank you. I know your funding is mostly for your own gain, but if it were not for your financial backing and resources made available to us, this excursion would take me months to complete.”
“You’re welcome, my friend,” Purdue replied, keeping his hands lodged in his coat pockets as he contemplated the cold abyss he soon had to brave. “But don’t thank me yet. Our permit is only valid for three days. That means we have to work hard and fast.”
“No problem,” Vincent replied confidently. “Is Sam diving with us? Is his equipment waterproof?”
“It is, yes,” Purdue answered. “But I don’t think we will need him to dive. Once you and I establish the perimeters of the dive and get the men to bring up what we assign to them for recovery, Sam will get footage of the inventory, whatever it is.”
“Good, good,” the skipper agreed. “It will go faster with fewer divers, at least until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Rather a sinister stance,” Purdue jested.
Vincent chuckled and dramatically lent Purdue a big-eyed glare. “I find the prospect of a hundred dead mariners quite sinister, don’t you? Who knows, truly, what we are dealing with? I ask you.”
Purdue suddenly felt the excitement of the exploration overwhelm him. It was indeed a macabre matter, but that only increased the probability of it being of historical magnitude. Right up his alley. There had to be some profound story behind such a scene, and that was what had spurred him to toss in his lot with the men of the salvage trawler, Cóndor. Their connection to the lore and heritage of the South American natives was pivotal and fascinating to Purdue. The links they held, by blood and tradition, to the legendary City of Gold, was no doubt rich, if puns were to be flitted about. In fact, Purdue envied them their exquisite cultural connection.
“Good morning, sunshine,” the blue-eyed captain suddenly roared, starling Purdue from his contemplative veneration. He turned to find a disheveled Sam Cleave, wrapped in an army blanket, leering at them as if their sanity had abandoned them.
“What is so goddamn good about it?” Sam complained. “Do you people ever sleep?”
“It’s the excitement of the day, Sam.” Purdue smiled and breathed in the warming air. “Can’t you feel it?”
“All I feel is a lack of caffeine in my system,” Sam replied casually, instantly provoking the skipper’s generosity. He shoved the coffee mug, still half full, in Sam’s hands. “Ah, God bless you,” Sam said happily and took a sip. “Jesus, man, what’s in this?”
Vincent looked at Sam with surprise. “You wanted caffeine. That is caffeine, not that dog piss you Europeans label caffeine just because it is a diluted remnant of the coffee bean.”
Purdue laughed, hoping he would not have to partake of what had made Sam pull the most hideous face. “That is sure to wake him up for a bloody week!” Vincent laughed with Purdue.
“What is this, really?” Sam asked, smacking his lips to find the flavor in the bitterness that assaulted his tongue.
Purdue kept laughing at Sam’s expressions. “Didn’t you learn your lesson with the Arak and the Peruvian Death Pepper snack Vincent has already tormented you with, Sam?”
“Hey, at least he makes an effort to join in the culture,” Vincent said, defending the flabbergasted journalist. “I would love to serve you some of this good shit, David, but alas, you are not a sport of Sam’s caliber, eh?” He winked at Sam.
“You know, I’ve never been one to fold to peer pressure,” Purdue retorted with a happy smirk as his pale blue eyes examined the beauty of the silver breakers that pulsed repetitively under the birth of the sun.
Overhead the banner of the Children of the Sun rapidly licked the wind as if it could feel the impending unveiling of a secret, the imminent revelation of a supernatural myth and its origins.
By 11a.m., all aspects of the first dive had been facilitated successfully. Purdue, Vincent, and two professional divers from the Cóndor were busy zipping up their diving suits, engaging in small talk about the weather and water. Sam felt strange being on the very geographical spot where he’d almost died a few days before. Like his personal Bermuda Triangle, it seemed to beckon him, but he busied himself with filming preparations instead, choosing to silence the voices of doom that threatened to attack his psyche. Apparently he was not completely over the horror of what had befallen him and the subliminal trauma came and went like the tides. Sam was very aware of this temporary psychological impairment, but he elected to think of it is a twisted form of nostalgia instead.
“Ready?” he called out to the four men in their diving suits. They turned and gave Sam a collective thumbs-up for a still photograph he took with his Canon long lens.
“With a bit of luck with the weather and the currents we’ll soon have more than a salute for your pictures, Sam!” Purdue cried. Vincent gave an approving crude roar before it turned into elated laughter. Sam smiled, but inside he genuinely hoped that the men would be safe. Perhaps he bought into the ludicrous legends of the doomed waters of the Alboran Sea because he’d almost fallen prey to its inexplicable madness himself, but he was deeply concerned for what was at play under the meters of water that surrounded the wreck. In his mind, thoughts and reminiscences of the tales told a few nights before prevailed. Could there really have been two German ships, unregistered, and equally doomed to sink at the same time? If so, what was it that had pulled them asunder?
The journalist shook his macabre musings off as the men fell backwards into the heaving seas, one by one. Sam’s thumb and index fingers cradled his stubble-ridden chin, pinching the thickening beard he was cultivating as he watched the four men sink beneath the white foam.
Under the waves, the world changed completely. For Purdue, Vincent, and the two crewmen, the environment was welcoming and quiet. Only the sound of their breathing apparatuses disturbed the silence of the swaying water, and its beauty was unparalleled by few reefs, even those found in the southern tropics. They’d expected the netherworld of the sea to be a tad murkier, especially on a day like this, where the air was cool and the wind strong enough to stir up the waves.
As they gently descended toward the blurry image of the resting hulk beneath, Purdue gave Vincent a favorable gesture. The tips of his thumb and index finger meeting and three fingers extended conveyed his appreciation of the stunning submarine topography. Gradually the wreck became clearer as they neared it. As Vincent had reported, it was indeed a German war ship, practically an exact replica of the infamous Admiral Graf Spee, one of a collection of armored ships commissioned by the Kriegsmarine of Nazi Germany.
The ship itself, or what was left of it after decades in the salt, stretched out over about 500 ft. in length, dependent on its decay. It would take a lot of time to even just scout the drowned vessel, but thanks to Purdue’s unique technology, they were able to determine the mineral values of each section. He led them straight to where the readings were highest, the screen of the locator device citing‘17: Au’ lit in red. It indicated the symbol and atomic number of the gold hidden from sight exactly where Purdue’s previous prying methods had yielded him the doubloon he’d brought to his yacht.