The Navigator (36 page)

The ROV quickly descended to forty feet. Zavala leveled the vehicle off and checked the TV monitor. Twin cones of light illuminated the muddy bottom. There was no sign of a wreck. He had the vehicle execute a series of parallel lines, as if he were mowing a lawn. Still no wreck.

“I hope our target wasn’t a NUMASat hiccup,” he said. He turned to Austin, who had been peering over his shoulder.

“Not a chance,” Austin said. “Set up a new search pattern to starboard. Keep it tight.”

Zavala activated the lateral thrusters and shifted the mini-ROV to the right. He started a new pattern with twenty-five-foot-long parallel turns. Halfway through the new search, the ROV’s lights picked out a dark, curving line that protruded from the bottom.

Zavala brought the vehicle to a hover. “That’s either a sea serpent rib or a ship’s timber.”

The image on the monitor brought a grin to Austin’s face.

“I’d say we’ve got ourselves a wreck,” he said. “Remind me to sacrifice a Hobbit to the Eye of Sauron.”

Zavala powered the ROV so that it moved past the object. More ship’s ribs came into view. The skeletal outlines of the wreck could be discerned. The timbers gradually diminished in size as the ROV passed nearer the bow section.

“The wood is pretty well preserved, except for the upper ends, where it seems to be charred,” Zavala said.

“That would account for the sinking. She burned to the waterline.”

“How long do you figure her to be?”

Austin squinted at the screen. “A hundred fifty feet. Maybe more. What’s that, off to the right?”

Zavala put the ROV into a quick turn. The lights picked up what looked like a long wooden animal snout. The upper part of the head was burned beyond recognition.

“Looks like part of a big hobbyhorse,” Zavala said.

Austin’s pulse quickened. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a waterproof folder of transparent plastic. Inside was the computer-generated ship rendering that the Trouts had given him. He held the picture close to the screen. The horse snout on the monitor and in the picture were almost identical.

“Guess again, amigo. We may be the first people in more than two thousand years to set eyes on a Phoenician ship of Tarshish.”

Zavala’s face lit up. “I’d trade a case of
anejo
tequila for a glimpse of this lady when it was still afloat.”

He moved the vehicle slowly along the port side of the wreck.

Austin saw a dark round shape lying about dead center in the hull. He tapped the screen. “What’s this?”

Zavala cautiously powered the vehicle inches forward.

The ROV’s lights picked out a metal grating partially covered by marine growth. He turned the vehicle around and used the force of its thrusters to clear away the sand around the object.

Austin said, “It’s a diver’s helmet.”

“I know the Phoenicians were clever, but I didn’t know they were into hard-hat diving.”

“They
weren’t.
Someone beat us to the wreck, and from the looks of it he’s still down there.”

Zavala put the ROV in a hover that would keep the helmet in view. Austin laid his scuba gear out on the deck. He stripped down to a bathing suit and got into a neoprene wet suit, boots, gloves, and hood. He pulled on his fins. Zavala helped him with his weight belt and air tank. Austin did a quick gear check and tested the regulator. Then he brought a mask down over his eyes and clamped the mouthpiece between his teeth. He sat on the gunwale and rolled backward into the water.

Austin sank several feet in a cloud of bubbles. He felt a quick chill before the cold water seeping between skin and suit warmed to body temperature. With powerful kicks of his muscular legs, he powered himself down through the darkening water toward the silvery green glow from the ROV lights.

Austin came down practically on top of the vehicle, then swam around in front of the ROV’s camera lens and gave a thumbs-up. Zavala tilted the front of the ROV up and down as if it were nodding. Austin waved back and swam over to examine the ribs. The wood was definitely charred.

He was turning back to the helmet when he saw a rectangular object lying nearby. He picked up what appeared to be a stone or clay tablet, about eight inches square and a couple of inches thick. Lines were cut into the surface on one side.

Austin slipped the tablet into a stuff bag attached to his buoyancy compensator and gave the helmet his full attention. He cleared the vegetation from around the base. The helmet was still attached to a breastplate. He dug into the muck. Shreds of rotting canvas could be seen fringing the outer rim of the breastplate.

Austin felt a chill that was not entirely due to the water temperature.

He unhooked a waterproof flashlight from his BC, snapped it on, and pointed the beam through the grate. Staring back at him were the empty eyes of a human skull.

Austin pondered his next move. Like most men who follow the sea, he had the deepest respect for watery graves. He could surface and report the find to the authorities. But the heavy hand of police divers could destroy whatever secrets the wreck might have yielded.

He wrapped his arms around the helmet and carefully wrestled it free. The skull dropped out of the bottom and landed upright. Austin took comfort in the fact that the dead diver was still grinning.

He avoided the baleful eye sockets and took a lift bag from a pouch. He tied the lines from the bag to the helmet’s neck and inflated the lifter with air from his tank. He inflated his buoyancy compensator, grabbed the helmet, and slowly ascended to the surface.

Zavala had watched the primitive salvage effort on the ROV’s monitor. He saw Austin’s head pop up at the surface and threw him a line. Austin tied the line to the helmet so it wouldn’t sink. He handed Zavala his air tank, weight belt, and fins, and then he climbed a ladder into the boat.

They bent their backs to the line and hauled the helmet onto the deck.

Austin pulled his hood off and knelt next to the helmet. “This is an old-timer,” he said. “Probably been down there for years.”

Zavala examined the air hose fitting and the ear plates and face-plates. He ran his fingers over the metal dome. “The workmanship is incredible. It’s made of brass and copper.” He tried to lift the helmet and the attached breastplate. “This baby must weigh more than fifty pounds. The guy who wore this thing must have been as tough as nails.”

“Not tough enough,” Austin said.

“I suspected that was the case,” Zavala said with a glance over the side. “I wonder who he was.”

Austin scraped growth away to reveal an oval piece of metal, engraved with the helmet’s manufacturer, that was riveted to the front of the breastplate. The engraving said that the helmet had been made by the MORSE DIVING EQUIPMENT COMPANY, of Boston. Underneath the manufacturer’s name was a serial number.

“Maybe this will tell us.”

He used a cell phone to call the maritime history division at NUMA. He identified himself to a researcher, who said her name was Jennifer, and gave her the information from the manufacturer’s plate. Jennifer asked for the numbers on the brail straps as well, and said she would run a search and call him back.

Zavala had returned to the ROV control and brought the vehicle back to the surface. He hoisted the compact vehicle out of the water, and Austin coiled the umbilical and laid it neatly on deck, which was when he noticed his stuff bag. He opened the bag and pulled out the tablet. It had been greenish gray under water, but it turned to more of a brown color as it dried. Several intersecting straight lines were incised about a half inch deep on one side. He handed it to Zavala.

“I found this near the helmet. I thought the lines were natural strata variations, but now I’m not so sure.”

Zavala held the tablet at different angles to test the light on the surface. “These lines are too regular and deep to be natural,” he said. “The parallel sides are perfectly even. Definitely man-made. How’s your Phoenician?”

“Pretty rusty,” Austin said. He retrieved the tablet and slipped it into the bag.

They reran the pictures taken by the ROV on its initial pass over the wreck and came up with a new estimate for the length of the ship. After his dive, Austin put it more at two hundred feet.

“One thing’s sure,” Zavala said. “This was no rowboat.”

Austin’s cell phone jingled.

“Looks like you snagged yourself a real prize,” said Jennifer, the NUMA researcher. “You’ve got an authentic twelve-bolt, four-light navy MK diving helmet. Morse was a Boston brassware company that started fiddling around with helmet designs during the Civil War.”

“This looks much newer,” Austin said.

“It
is.
Your helmet was made in 1944. The MK design has been around since the turn of the century. They improved it through the years. It was a real workhorse for the navy, used for all submarine recovery work during World War Two.”

“Does that mean it was last used during the war?”

“Not necessarily. Someone could have found it at a surplus warehouse or store. If it’s in good shape, it could bring serious money on the collectors’ market.”

“Too bad we don’t know who the owner is,” Austin said.

“I can’t tell you who the diver is, but I tapped into naval records and found out who used it during the war. Navy diver named Chester Hutchins. Navy records say he bought the helmet as surplus after the war. Hometown listed as Havre de Grace, Maryland.”

Austin was familiar with the waterfront town near the mouth of the Susquehanna River. “I know the place. Thanks. Maybe his relatives still live there.”

“At least one does. A Mrs. Chester Hutchins. Got a pen handy?”

Austin found a ballpoint in a box of spare parts and jotted the number down on the margin of the chart. He thanked Jennifer and relayed the information to Zavala.

“Sounds like a solid lead,” he said.

“About as solid as they get,” Austin said. He dialed the number. A woman answered the phone. Austin hesitated. He didn’t want to give anyone a heart attack. But there was no gentle way to break the news.

He asked if she were related to Chester Hutchins.

“I am. I mean, I
was
. He’s been dead for many years. Who is this, please?”

“My name is Kurt Austin, with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. A friend and I were diving on a wreck in the Chesapeake today and we found a diving helmet. We traced it to your husband.”

“Dear God,” she said. “After all this time.”

“Would you like us to bring you the helmet, Mrs. Hutchins?”

“Please, yes. I’ll give you my address.”

They spoke a few more minutes before Austin hung up.

Zavala had been listening to the conversation. “Well?” he said.

Austin crooked his forefinger and thumb.

“Bingo,” he said with a grin.

CARINA FELT AS IF she were walking on clouds.

The lunch with two exhibition organizers in the Metropolitan Museum of Art garden café had gone far better than she had expected. Things were going her way.
Finally.

The organizers had enthusiastically embraced her suggestion that the well-publicized theft of the
Navigator
would bring people into the museum. They could barely contain their excitement as she traced her long search for the statue, described the attempted theft and the successful one.

The organizers had tossed ideas back and forth like table tennis players and jotted notes down in their electronic organizers.

The
Navigator
would have its own room. It would be an exhibition within an exhibition, filled with giant
National Geographic
photographs of the statue being excavated in Syria. Photos of the Iraqi museum. The Egyptian Pyramids. The containership. The Smithsonian. All pieces of the puzzle. The centerpiece would be an empty stage, reserved for the statue, adding an air of mystery.

The exhibition’s theme was a natural:
Missing.

The show would be the supreme achievement in museum parlance. A
blockbuster.

As Carina took the elevator down from the roof café she smiled inwardly.
Americans.
They may have their problems competing in a global economy, but they hadn’t lost their ability to sell air.

The thought of Americans reminded her to call Austin.

She was tempted to explore some of the museum’s impressive exhibitions, but a glance at her watch told her that the luncheon meeting had gone longer than expected.

She walked briskly through the Great Hall and out the main entrance. She stood between the tall columns at the top of the wide stairway that spilled down to Fifth Avenue and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She scrolled down but stopped short, as she remembered Austin throwing his phone into the Turkish sea.

Carina called directory assistance and asked for the main NUMA number. She was pleased when a real person answered the phone. Admiral Sandecker had hated automated voice mail, and NUMA was probably the only government agency in Washington that still used human telephone receptionists.

She left a message on Austin’s answering machine, saying that she was about to take a cab to Penn Station and would call from the train or when she arrived in Washington. She left the same message at the boathouse. If they couldn’t make contact, she would take a taxi to her hotel and wait for Austin to call.

As Carina made her phone calls, her every move was being watched from the front seat of a Yellow Cab parked near the museum’s main entrance.

Keeping his eyes glued to his target, the driver spoke into a hand radio.

“Picking up fare at the Met.”

Carina tucked the phone back into her purse and descended the stairs.

The taxi moved slowly forward, and the driver lit the roof sign switch to show that the cab was free. With precise timing, he stopped in front of Carina just as she reached the curb.

She couldn’t believe her good luck.

Carina opened the door and got in the backseat. “Where to, ma’am?” the driver said over his shoulder.

“Penn Station, please.”

The driver nodded and slid shut the plastic window divider that separated the front seat from the back. The cab pulled away and joined the busy traffic flow along Fifth Avenue. Carina gazed out the window at the street scene. New York was one of her favorite cities. She loved the city’s energy, its culture and power, and its endless variety in people.