The picture on the monitor cleared as the
Sounder
backed off, showing a man-size black hole that Susan Hartley had cut into the hull. Lane plugged in his temporary comms link.
“Good job,” he said. “Have you ever thought about going into construction?”
“Only when a paper I submit to a research journal gets rejected for another rewrite.”
“I'm told that doesn't happen much.”
Susan Hartley laughed. “Our skids are about eight feet off the bottom, and it looks as if we got luckyâit's sand, not much silt.”
“Don't leave without me,” Lane said. He unplugged his comms link, grabbed the overhead hand rails, and stepped out into the well. When he was in position, he let go and sank slowly into the ink black water lit only by the powerful lights on
Sounder'
s bows.
His buoyancy was only slightly negative so his landing was easy, and he headed immediately for the stern of the
Maria
, less than thirty feet away.
When he was out from under the submersible, he looked back. Susan Hartley waved from the left bubble and he waved back.
“Copy?” he asked.
“You sound like you're underwater,” she replied, her voice distorted but understandable.
“What was your first clue, Doc?” Lane laughed. He turned,
made his way across to the ship and shone his lantern into the opening. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. He was not particularly claustrophobic, but there were seventeen dead men entombed here. And he had come very close to being one of them. Now he was back.
The hull plate had fallen away from the ship, indicating there might have been an air bubble inside the hull, but Captain Zimmer's body, which was on the other side of the ship, had not been forced out.
Lane gingerly jumped up to the lip of the hole, steadied himself for a moment, then ducked inside. He was on the port side of the bilge deck at the stern, his back facing the bow. He took a few moments to orient himself; his underwater light penetrated only fifteen or twenty feet and the ship was lying partially on her side. But there didn't seem to be much damage back here, or at least none that he could see, and very little debris.
He turned to face the bow, when a hand reached out and touched his face plate. He scrambled back, his heart in his throat, and swung his flashlight in an effort to ward off the apparition floating in front of him.
It was Captain Zimmer, the back of his head partially blown away, his eyes open, his mouth gaping as if he were screaming in shock and horror.
Slowly Lane's heart slowed down. Bile was bitter in the back of his throat. This was Speyer's doing. The entire affair. There was no way he would let the bastard get away with it. No way in hell.
Lane eased the captain's body aside, and the beam of his flashlight fell on the fire equipment locker where he had stashed the box.
He half shuffled, half slid down the sloping walkway to it, released the catch and opened the hatch. The box was where he had placed it, wedged behind a large coil of fire hose.
Clipping the light on his right arm, it took him only a few moments to pull the box out of the closet, turn and struggle with it back to the strong lights at the opening in the hull. He let it fall outside to the ocean floor, then jumped out after it.
He gave Susan Hartley the thumbs-up sign. “Got it,” he said.
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Twenty minutes after they had first spotted her, the Cuban navy cutter with the number 193 painted on her bows was stopped one hundred feet off
Deep Sound'
s starboard side. Riggiro and Lenz
studied her through binoculars. There were at least a dozen armed men on deck in addition to four or five they spotted on the bridge and bridge wings.
“Should we try to call them?” Lenz asked.
“Not yet. They're here and watching us. They can see the cable so they know that we have something down. And we're not trying to run. But we're in international waters so we have just as much right to be here as they do.”
“Where I come from the guys with the guns usually have the most rights,” Lenz said. He was an ex-Special Forces sergeant, and he'd been born and raised in the Bronx.
Riggiro called down to the
Sounder
. “Susie, is Bill back aboard yet?”
“He's under the skirt now. He's got the box.”
“The Cuban navy is parked right next to us. We're going to start pulling you up as soon as Bill's aboard.”
“Give us a couple of minutes.”
“Will do,” Riggiro said, and replaced the mike. He turned to Lenz to tell him to have the winch operator stand by, when the Cuban cutter hailed them by radio.
“
Deep Sound Two
, this is the Cuban patrol vessel off your starboard side. We are sending a boarding party across to check your documents. Lower your ladder.”
“Negative, negative,” Riggiro radioed. “We are a scientific vessel engaged in legal pursuits in international waters. Permission to board is denied.”
“
Deep Sound Two
, we will fire on your vessel if you do not comply immediately.
Comprende
?”
“Oh, oh,” Lenz said.
Two large rubber boats were launched over the side of the warship. They both started across. In one were a half-dozen armed men and two officers in white uniforms, sidearms strapped to their hips. In the other were a man at the outboard, and two men outfitted with diving gear.
“Okay, call the Key West Coast Guard,” Riggiro told Lenz. He got on the ship's PA. “Scotty, we're going to have company. Lower the starboard ladder and then stand by the
Sounder
's winch. We'll be bringing them up.”
The others on the bridge and in the Research Center were looking at him.
“Nobody raises so much as a finger,” Riggiro said. “If they ask a question, answer it, and then shut up.”
They nodded.
He got on the comms link to the
Sounder
. “Is Bill aboard yet?”
“I'm here,” Lane came back.
“They're sending over eight armed men to check our papers. But it looks like they mean to put a couple of divers into the water, too.”
“Susan, are we secure to start back up, even with the lower hatch open?” Lane asked.
“My board is green,” she said.
“Okay, we're bringing you up,” Riggiro said. “And we're calling Coast Guard Key West.”
“Good, the timing should be just about right,” Lane said. “Listen to me, Tony. Don't give those guys any trouble. Do exactly what they tell you to do.”
“That's my plan.”
“And no matter what happens, keep hauling in the tether.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They want the box, but I'm not going to give it to them. Just keep hauling on the cable, no matter what.”
Â
Sounder
started up almost immediately. Riggiro was wasting no time. Down here they were vulnerable, but as Lane hurriedly stripped the diving suit from his body he understood that the captain of the Cuban warship was covering all his bases by not only sending someone aboard the
Deep Sound
but by sending a couple of divers down to meet the submersible on the way up.
“Are you ready to depressurize and come up here?” Susan Hartley asked.
“No,” Lane said. “Can they monitor our conversation topside?”
“Not now.”
“Good, then this is exactly what we're going to do ⦔
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As the Cuban boarding party came up the ladder, the two divers in the other inflatable entered the water and disappeared.
“Bill, the divers are in the water,” Riggiro phoned the
Sounder
. But the circuit had been switched off.
“What the hell is he up to?” Lenz asked.
Riggiro shook his head. “I don't know, but whatever it is, it'll be good.” He watched as the six Cuban navy ratings stayed on deck
while the two officers made their way up. “Just make sure that Scotty keeps hauling on the cable.” He looked at the others. “Keep your cool, folks. Our coast guard is on the way.”
The two officers came through the door, looked with interest at the equipment and technicians in the research center, then came forward to the bridge. The taller one, lieutenant's bars on his shoulder boards and an insolent sneer on his narrow mouth, came first.
“Who is the captain of this vessel?” he demanded.
Riggiro looked the man up and down. “I am,” he said at length. “And I will register a complaint with my government about this illegal boarding. We are a legitimate research vessel on a scientific mission.”
The officer was unimpressed. “You are diving on a wreck that is the property of the Cuban government.”
“Not in international waters.”
“We'll see,” the Cuban said disdainfully. “Come with me.”
Lenz stepped forward, but Riggiro held him back. “Where are you taking me?”
“Down to the main deck to await the arrival of your submersible,” the Cuban said. “Where else,
Capitán
?”
“We have notified our coast guard.”
“We know that. But our business here will be finished before they arrive.” The Cuban officer stepped aside. “After you,
Capitán.”
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The depth gauge approached a hundred feet. Lane had donned scuba gear including mask and fins. The water in the open well at his feet was a bright swimming pool aqua. He checked to make sure that the large dive knife was free in its sheath on his chest.
“I see them,” Susan called down. “They're just above us. Maybe thirty feet.”
“Count to ten and then get out of here.”
“I think you're crazy.”
Lane chuckled. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Doctor,” he said, and he stepped out into the well and started down.
Before he cleared the
Sounder'
s skids, he adjusted his buoyancy control vest so that he was slightly negative, then he curled up in a fetal position as if he'd been injured, or as if he was suffering from the bends. His right hand curled around the grip of the dive knife.
At the count of ten he heard the
Sounder'
s electric motors come
to life, and felt the backwash from her propellers. He let his body go completely limp and he slowly tumbled in the turbulence.
The two Cuban divers were about twenty feet above him now and to the right. They watched as the untethered
Sounder
headed to the north, away from the
Deep Sound
and the Cuban warship whose hulls loomed directly overhead.
Lane continued to turn slowly end over end. The next time he was upright the divers were heading his way. They were about five feet apart, one of them a little above the other.
When he was facing downward he slipped the foot-long razor-sharp knife from its sheath, and tensed, ready to spring.
The first diver to reach him grabbed his vest and pulled him around. Moving deceptively slowly, Lane reached up and cut the diver's air hose. The man reared back, his eyes wide in panic, but Lane held him as a shield against the other diver who realized what was happening and was bringing his spear gun to bear.
He fired wildly, the spear embedding itself in his dead partner's thigh. Lane cut the man's weightbelt free and the body shot toward the surface.
The second diver frantically tried to reload his speargun as Lane came at him. At the last moment he dropped the gun and reached for his knife, but it was too late. Lane batted the diver's hand away and cut his air hose.
The Cuban fought like a wild man, knowing that his only hope for survival was getting free and making it to the surface. But Lane spun him around and held him by the valve on his tank so that he couldn't pull himself free.
This was no innocent navy diver, Lane told himself. These bastards were working with Helmut Speyer. Thirty-five hundred feet below them seventeen men were locked forever in the wreck of the
Maria
. And these two had come down here to make sure that Lane and Susan did not survive.
After a minute the diver's struggles stopped. Lane cut the man's weightbelt and the body shot to the surface as the first one had.
Â
One of the Cubans at the rail shouted something and pointed to large air bubbles coming to the surface.
The officer with Riggiro ran over to the rail as the first diver's body came to the surface facedown, arms and legs splayed out. He was obviously dead.