“Why’s that?” Book asked in an intimidating voice.
“Because I know trouble when I see it, and you two are it. In fact, if I hadn’t just lost my big summer charter I’d tell you two blokes to get back on the plane for Hawaii and forget you’ve ever heard of ole Capt’n Rory.”
Reyes had studied them both as they stood in the hot sun outside the terminal building. Book had switched into shorts on the plane, but Mercer was in khakis that were beginning to stick to his legs. “I’m not sure what your game is,” the boat captain said, “but I don’t think it’s archaeology like you said on the phone.”
“We’re looking for a wrecked plane,” Mercer assured him. “That’s all.”
“We’ll see.”
Before they could leave the airport complex, Mercer told Reyes that he had a package waiting in cargo customs. There he signed for a boxed-up duffel bag that had been express-shipped from the United States. The customs inspector made Mercer open the box and duffel so he could verify its contents against the bill of lading. Suspicious or maybe just bored, the Fijian then ran the box through an X-ray scanner, taking nearly a minute to ensure there was nothing suspicious in the grainy image. As stated, the American was picking up eighty pounds of bare copper wire that had been unspooled and repacked in a dense rectangular brick the size of a longish picnic cooler. He forced Mercer to pay a small import duty and sent them on their way. Where the customs man needed an assistant to manhandle the weighty duffel, Book carried it out as easily as if the box were packed with Styrofoam.
The next morning the three boarded Reyes’s boat. They motored out of Royal Suva Yacht Club and were soon beyond Fiji’s barrier reefs and into the open sea. The Suva Surprise could more than handle the ride. The humidity dropped away from land, and the sun and sea conspired to lull the two jet-lagged passengers to sleep for the first half of their four-hundred-mile trip to Futuna and Alofi.
When Mercer woke, he noted the seas had picked up slightly. The sun was still shining, but there was an edge to the wind that even a nonsailor like him could tell meant a storm was coming. He went up to the bridge. Rory Reyes sat relaxed at the helm, a liter bottle of water at hand and a half-smoked cigar clamped between large white teeth.
“Nice nap?”
“I’m like a narcoleptic whenever I get on a boat,” Mercer confessed. “We cast off and I’m out like a light.”
“Your big friend too?”
“No. He’s ex-military. He’s been trained to grab sleep whenever and wherever he can.”
“So, what are you two really, mercenaries?”
“No. We really are looking for an old plane wreck. The problem is there’s another group interested too. We’ve sent them searching in the wrong direction, but they are dangerous, capable men.”
“Dangerous?”
“I won’t lie. They’ve killed people looking for this plane.”
“What plane are you looking for?” Reyes asked. “And if you say Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Electra I’m adding an idiot’s tax to my charter fee.”
“Tack it on, Captain, because that’s exactly what we’re looking for.”
Reyes threw up his hands theatrically. “Lord save me from fools. It’s your money, mate. Your charter. But let me be the first or maybe the last to tell you she’s lost somewhere more than a thousand miles northwest of us in about twenty thousand feet of water.”
Mercer said, “When she left New Guinea, she was carrying a geological sample that messed with the plane’s navigation gear. She and Fred Noonan were off course ten minutes into their flight but kept on going because they didn’t know it. One of the most powerful computers in the world ran the numbers for me, and it says she ran out of fuel someplace close to Futuna Island, a place so far off the beaten trail that no one ever looked for her there.”
“So you’re treasure hunters looking for her plane like all the other blokes mucking about the South Pacific?”
Mercer shook his head. “Two weeks ago Amelia Earhart meant no more to me than she does to anyone else. But a friend of mine died for a sample of the mineral she was carrying, and the men who killed him are after the rest. I plan on denying them that prize.”
The two men regarded each other, assessing to see what was real and what was an act. In the end Rory Reyes said, “Fair enough.” He bumped the throttles a little to put on some more speed without jeopardizing too much of their fuel range. The twin Cummins diesels purred.
It took a total of twenty-four hours to reach Futuna and Alofi, and the last eight of them were spent battling rain squalls and wind gusts that would have made it miserable if they were on a sailboat, but the motor yacht had no problems bulling its way through the Pacific chop. Although it was morning when they arrived, the sky was dark and tempestuous. Rain fell in line-straight patches, and over the horizon flashed the electric cannonade of lightning.
“We’ll swing around and tuck into the channel between the two islands. It’s the best cover we can hope for before the real storm hits.” Reyes made to adjust the helm, but Mercer put a hand over the captain’s wrist. “Huh?”
“Booker needs to get to shore first. Then we can find cover.”
Reyes didn’t like that one bit. “What the hell for?”
“We were prepared to wait days for a storm like this,” Mercer told the man. “It would be a shame to waste this one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a theory that if Earhart’s plane is within reasonable distance of the island, there are going to be an inordinate number of lightning strikes over its resting place. To see that, Booker needs to watch the storm from the top of the tallest hill here.”
“Mount Kolofau.”
“If you say so.”
Booker just now appeared on the aft deck below the tall bridge. He had spent a great deal of the trip down in his cabin unwinding the block of copper wire and carefully respooling it around a length of broom handle he’d borrowed from the skipper. He wore jungle combat fatigues under a military-style poncho. His silhouette appeared misshapen, like that of a hunchback, because under his weatherproof cape he’d thrown a rucksack over his shoulder.
“Mercer!” he bellowed up over the sounds of the growing storm.
Mercer stepped out from under the fly bridge and into the warm rain. He descended the exterior ladder in shorts and a borrowed rain slicker, and in seconds his hair was plastered to his head. He had to flick it often to keep water from clouding his vision.
Sykes rubbed his own denuded scalp and grinned. “Bald is beautiful, baby.”
“You got everything you need?”
Book patted his hump. “All set. Give me a hand with the Zodiac and wait for my call.”
The ten-foot inflatable was stowed on its side along one gunwale. The two men waited for a break in the wind so they could unclamp it and get it into the water before a gust tore it from their grasp. Using the painter line, Mercer wrestled it to the transom while Booker Sykes opened the dive door and stepped down onto the platform. The Suva Surprise was bobbing on large swells, so as soon as Sykes’s feet hit the platform his legs were awash; no doubt some water overtopped his combat boots, no matter how tightly they’d been laced.
He turned to Mercer and called over the wind, “Next time you can have the cush bed and I get to stay aboard for this part.”