“If you’re asking whether I can manage a dive or three, the answer’s yes.”
He inspected her cheek, which still had a trace of discoloration from bruising, and smiled. “You ready for breakfast?”
“With Comrade Chuckles as usual?” she smirked.
“It wouldn’t be the start of a new day on the islands without Leonid’s sunny disposition and sense of childlike wonder, would it?”
“He’s certainly got the market cornered on pessimism. Although I did get the sense that he was enjoying his dive experience, for all his grumbling.”
“Me too. But don’t let on that you noticed or it’ll ruin his whole morning.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Sam escorted her to the hotel restaurant, where Leonid was sitting at their usual table, his face sunburned, sipping coffee with an expression like the dark brew was laced with rat poison. He looked up as they approached and offered a humorless smile.
“Good morning, my friend,” Sam said cheerfully, slapping him on the back. “You’re looking sprightly.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve been drinking,” Leonid said sarcastically.
“I think the island pace agrees with you, Leonid. You’re positively glowing,” Remi beamed as she took a seat across from him.
“Make it a double,” Leonid muttered, but Remi caught a barely controlled flash of a smile.
“We come bearing good news,” Sam announced.
“Really?” the Russian asked, raising a distrustful eyebrow.
“The Darwin will be here in a few hours and then we can get this exploration kicked into high gear. And you can show off some of your newfound scuba moves.”
“As long as they consist of sitting on board and directing the divers, you won’t be disappointed,” Leonid assured him.
“I bet you’re like a fish in water,” Remi teased.
“A puffer fish. It’s all I can do to get into the pool, much less swim.”
“Well, fortunately, Selma called this morning to tell us that she’s got four ex — Navy divers flying in to help. They should arrive tomorrow,” Sam said.
They agreed to meet at the boat when it was scheduled to dock. Leonid still had one final dive to do before getting his certification. They watched him trundle out to the parking lot and Remi shook her head.
“You’d think he’d just found out he only had a few days to live. Has he always been like that?” she asked.
“As long as I’ve known him. What’s funny is that he’s had a relatively charmed life. There’s no logical reason for it. But that’s the way he is.”
“Thank goodness I didn’t marry Mr. Sourpuss.”
“How could anyone be married to you and do anything but smile?”
Remi grinned. “You’re showing promise, young man.”
The Honiara waterfront lived up to their expectations, with the pungent aroma of decaying marine life thick as fog. Rows of rusting cargo ships in various states of disrepair bumped against the concrete docks in the gentle swell, and Sam and Remi watched as a large power catamaran edged to a stop near the shipyard. The water shimmered with a sheen of oil and gas, adding a petroleum stink to the area, and Remi wrinkled her nose and leaned in to Sam.
“Charming, isn’t it?”
“Hope nobody lights a match around here or we’re all going up.”
Leonid arrived a few minutes later and they stood together, staring impatiently at the horizon. Leonid shifted from foot to foot as the sun blazed down unrelentingly, clearly anxious to get to the bay.
“How did the dive go?” Sam asked, eyeing the Russian’s still-damp hair.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The satellite phone trilled. When Sam retrieved the phone from his backpack, he didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“G’day. Sam Fargo?” The Australian accent of the cheery male voice was pronounced even over the noise of the wind and a rumbling motor in the background.
“That’s me.”
“Captain Desmond Francis. Des, to most. Wanted to see if you’re ready for a pickup?”
“Yes. We’re at the Honiara docks.”
“Brilliant. We should be rounding the point in ten minutes. I’ll send a tender for you, if that works.”
“Of course. How will we know you?”
Des laughed. “Hard not to spot us, mate. Bright red hull and a bad attitude.”
“We’ll be watching for you.”
Captain Des was right — they couldn’t miss the Darwin on approach. Painted neon red, it had a stylized gaping shark’s mouth emblazoned in yellow on the bow, replete with oversized teeth. Remi laughed when she saw it and elbowed Sam.
“What have you gotten us into this time?” she whispered.
“Blame Selma. I just asked for a boat.”
A crane swiveled on the ship’s deck and lowered a twenty-foot fiberglass tender onto the water and soon the small skiff was cutting across the small waves toward the wharf. Sam walked to the edge of the concrete dock and waved both hands over his head and the research vessel changed course to approach.
The skiff pulled alongside a metal ladder and the pilot, a twenty-something-year-old man with long unruly hair and a goatee, grinned up at them.
“G’day. Looking for a ride?” he called.
“You bet,” Sam said, and they descended the rungs to where the tender bobbed on the swells.
Once they were aboard, the young man introduced himself.
“Name’s Kent. Kent Warren. I’m the dive master aboard the Darwin,” he called from his position in the stern of the craft. “I’ll shake everyone’s hand once we’re on the ship. Which will be in no time.” With that, he twisted the throttle and the tender surged away from the dock, its bow slicing through the chop as it rapidly picked up speed.
When they neared the Darwin, they could see she was a serious research vessel, built for rough seas, her bow impressively high out of the water, her steel hull steady in the waves. Her pilothouse bristled with antennae, and as the skiff approached a tall man wearing a red shirt waved from the bridge.
They climbed aboard and the red-shirted man, Captain Des, introduced them to the rest of the crew — a dozen men in all. His mate, Elton Simms, gave them an orientation belowdecks as the captain pointed the bow west and the big ship lumbered forward.
“These are the guest cabins. I reckon you’ll be staying aboard while we map the site,” Simms said, his Australian accent so thick they could barely understand him.
Remi eyed the three simple staterooms, each equipped with four fold-up bunk beds bolted to steel support beams running from floor to ceiling, and glared at Sam, who smiled engagingly.
“To be determined. We may commute out to the site,” he said.
“Fair enough. But we’ve got room, if you’re so inclined. The galley’s over here, and the equipment room’s astern down that passage.”
They made their way to the bridge, where Des was standing in front of a wide console, eyeing the GPS and the chart plotter. He glanced at Leonid and the Fargos and stepped aside, leaving the helm to Simms.
“How was the trip?” Remi asked.
“Bit rough in the middle. Twenty- to thirty-footers in parts of the Coral Sea — but rollers, not breaking. This here’s a pond after that,” Des said.
“Glad you made it in one piece. We’re looking forward to diving the site and mapping the ruins. The gear on the island leaves something to be desired,” Sam explained. “I trust you’ve got a full complement of equipment?”
Des nodded. “We do. Compressors, rebreathers, wet and dry suits, a submersible, robotic cameras — the whole nine yards.”
“We’re going to be joined by additional divers tomorrow,” Sam said. “That will give us more bottom time as a group.”