The Solomon Curse, page 12
“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.”
“More the merrier. How long do you figure you’ll need the boat?”
“Hard to say,” Sam said. “At least a couple of weeks. Depends on how it goes.”
“I’ll tell the crew and the bosses back home we’re here for the duration, then. We’re pretty self-contained. Just need to make shore runs for fruit and veggies. We’ve got a watermaker aboard and the sea’s lousy with fish, so we can stay as long as you like.”
Des gave them a quick tour of the specialized equipment along both sides of the bridge. Leonid and Sam nodded with approval. The electronics were cutting-edge, a floating laboratory and archaeological research department, with satellite Internet and communications. “We had a complete overhaul two years ago, so there’s little we don’t have aboard,” Des said with obvious pride.
“It’s certainly impressive,” Remi agreed.
When the Darwin arrived at the site, it orbited in a slow circle over the coordinates of the ruins, and both Des and Simms hovered around the monitors as the equipment detailed the anomalies along the bottom. Des ordered the anchor dropped at the edge of the complex, close enough to easily dive but far enough away so the anchor wouldn’t damage anything if it dragged. Soon four of the divers were suiting up for an initial exploration.
Once the men were in the water, everyone gathered in the bridge again to watch their progress on the screens. Their helmet-mounted cameras were sending color images in real time, recorded on hard disk for later study. Visibility was better than when Sam and Remi had dived, and soon the ruins appeared from the reef, the remains of a ghostly city swirling in the flickering light.
“There. What you’re seeing is the largest mound, and others oriented around it,” Leonid said.
“Makes sense. Probably the main palace, with the outbuildings temples and housing for the royal court and servants,” Remi said.
“I make out, what, forty structures? Maybe more,” Des said.
“At least. It appears to have been a significant compound in its heyday. Probably housed hundreds, depending on how many lived in each building,” Sam confirmed.
“Amazing that this wasn’t discovered during the war,” Simms said.
“The occupation forces had other fish to fry,” Remi said. “And the technology wasn’t really up to the challenge of exploring an underwater archaeological find.” She eyed the screen. “There’s been a lot of progress over the last seventy-something years.”
“Have you given any thought to how you want to operate?” asked Des.
Leonid stepped forward. “I have,” he said, and proceeded to detail the approach he intended to use for mapping the site. Sam and Remi exchanged glances several times—the Russian might have been ill-natured, but he was clearly a first-rate archaeologist and more than capable of running the expedition now that he had the tools to work with. When he was finished speaking, it was obvious the Australians were impressed.
Two sharks put in appearances during the dive, but the Aussies seemed unconcerned. Des pointed to the image on the monitor. “See that? Sharks typically avoid divers. Something about the noise of the bubbles startles ’em and nine times out of ten they’ll swim away as fast as they can.”
“What about the tenth time?” Leonid asked.
“Well, that’s when it’s best to have a powerhead. When we’re diving in waters with sharks, one of the team will always have one. It’s also known as a bang stick, a small air round affixed to a speargun shaft that detonates on impact, terminally injuring the target.”
“That’s good to know. Seems sensible,” Leonid allowed.
“But the chances of having to use ’em are low,” Des reaffirmed.
“How about crocodiles?” Remi asked.
“Same effect. The damage of a powerhead isn’t from the projectile, it’s from the explosive gasses entering the target. So even a relatively small round will kill a huge beast. It’s the blast, not a bullet, that does the trick,” Des explained.
“We could have used one of those the other day,” Sam said, and told him about the crocodile.
“Blimey! Twenty feet? We get ’em that big up north, but still. Did the bloke on the receiving end make it?”
“Lost a leg.”
“Damn. Well, I’ll alert the lads to be careful. Then again, working Australian waters, we’ve seen just about everything. I’m pretty sure we’ve got more dangerous creatures per meter than anywhere else on earth. Even the bloody pinecones will kill you down under. Our bunya pines drop a cone that can weigh ten kilos—imagine a bowling ball falling thirty meters onto your head.” Des offered them a smirk. “And those are just the plants.”
Sam nodded and turned to Des. “We’ve been there a few times and love it.” He glanced at his watch. “How can we get back to town?”
“Simms here can give you a lift in the skiff.”
Sam looked to Leonid. “You staying aboard?”
“Might as well. As you Americans say, it’s ‘prime time,’ right?”
Sam took a final look at the monitor and the ghostly outline of the sunken city.
“Yes, it is. And you’re in the spotlight, my friend. Front and center.”
CHAPTER 18
Sam and Remi drove to the airport the next morning to meet the American divers. Even with a chartered jet from Brisbane to Honiara, the flight time from Los Angeles had taken thirty hours, and they expected the men to be stiff and tired. They were surprised when the four divers descended the steps from their plane looking chipper and rested. The tallest of the group approached them without hesitation and extended his hand.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo? Pleased to meet you. I’m Greg Torres and this is Rob Alderman,” he said, indicating the man next to him, who nodded.
“Please. Sam and Remi,” Sam said, shaking Greg’s hand.
“And these two are Steve Groenig and Tom Benchley,” Greg said, looking to his right where the final pair of fit young divers was standing. None was older than early thirties, and Sam recognized the unmistakable bearing of former SEALs—battle-hardened veterans who would be as comfortable in the water as sharks.
The customs and immigration clerks sauntered out onto the tarmac and did a cursory inspection of the men’s dive gear and duffel bags before stamping their passports. The immigration clerk eyed the men and shook his head.
“You best be careful and stay in town, yeah? With what happened wit’ the aid workers, it’s not safe anywhere else,” he said in heavy patois.
“What happened with them?” Remi asked. All they’d heard the day before was that the two Australians had gone missing, with no official word of explanation.
“It’s all over the web. Rebels got them.” The clerk shook his head. “It’s bad. They threatening to kill them, they are.”
“Kill aid workers? They’re here to help.”
“These fool rebels say they all part of the foreign plague. Dat’s what they calling it. Fools blaming everything on others, like none of our problems is our doing. But they saying all the foreigners gotta go or there goin’ to be big-time trouble.”
“So they kidnapped unarmed humanitarians who are here to help the underprivileged and they’re going to kill them?” Remi said, her tone disbelieving.
“Dat what they saying. Crazy in the head, dese fools be.”
Sam’s eyes hardened as he studied the divers. “Well, looks like you flew into the eye of the hurricane. All of this just happened.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Greg said, his words clipped, his tone flat. Sam believed him.
“You’ll be on the boat all the time in any case, so any local issues shouldn’t affect the expedition.”
Greg shrugged as if it was all part of the job.
Sam and Remi had rented a four-wheel-drive Toyota van from a different agency and the men loaded their gear in the cargo area before wordlessly taking their seats. The drive to the site took an hour longer than the day before. They were stopped three times by uncomfortable-looking policemen at makeshift roadblocks, who, after searching the van, cautioned them against proceeding any farther into an area of the island that was out of official control. Sam and Remi remained courteous, but firm, and each time the lead officer shook his head when he waved them past as though he were directing them through the gates of hell.
Sam looked over at Remi from the driver’s seat. “They seem pretty wound up, don’t they?”
“Sounds like we were lucky we didn’t meet the aid workers’ fate on our little drive the other day,” she said.
“That occurred to me. But it wasn’t for wont of the bad guys trying.”
When they arrived at the bay, Greg’s team moved quietly and efficiently to set their equipment out on the sand as they awaited the arrival of the skiff. Remi fished a two-way radio out of her bag and called the ship. She was rewarded by a burst of static and then Captain Des’s cheerful voice.
“Good morning to you both,” he said. “Ready for a ride?”
“We are. Six of us, and enough gear to sink the boat.”
“We’ll make room. Be there in a jiffy.”
Once they were on board, Simms showed the men to the guest quarters while Sam and Remi joined Des and Leonid on the bridge.
Leonid looked up from a photograph he was studying when they entered and grunted before returning to his project. “About time,” he grumbled.
“I hope you were able to get something accomplished without us,” Sam said, ignoring the Russian’s barb.
Des nodded. “Two dives so far. We’ve got the layout nicely mapped now. Leonid here was just going over the images so we could work on each building in a systematic fashion.”
Leonid tapped a finger on the glossy printout. “This is by far the largest ruin. We should start there. It’s easily double the size of any of the others, which indicates it was the most important.”
Remi inched closer. “That would make sense, given the orientation.”
Sam nodded. “It’s east of the one we were looking at.”
“It looks to be in better shape than many of the others. Next dive, we’ll go over it carefully and see what’s under all the sea life,” Leonid said.
Kent Warren, the dive master, tromped up the steel steps and entered the pilothouse. “G’day. Just met the new lot. Serious gents, they are,” he announced.
Leonid pushed the underwater image away and stood. “I want to clear as much of the surface area of this large structure as possible by nightfall. The more bodies in the water, the faster it will go.”
“Too right. Let me run the calcs on bottom time and I’ll put together some dive schedules,” Warren explained.
“How many surface supplied air rigs do we have?”
“Only two,” Warren said. “We’re usually in shallower water and don’t use ’em much. But this seems ideal, so we’ll keep two men down for as long as feasible. Between them and the scuba, we should be able to make short work of clearing the worst of the clutter.”
“We don’t want to damage anything. And every step needs to be captured on film so we have a record,” Leonid reminded.
“Absolutely.”
Half an hour later, the on-deck compressor was clattering away as a member of Warren’s crew fed out hoses carrying air to the divers below. They were accompanied at the bottom by a pair of the recently arrived American divers in scuba gear and their slow approach to the sunken ruin flickered on the bridge monitor, where Leonid, Sam, Remi, and Des watched.
The image was high-res, creating the illusion they, too, were peering through dive masks as the swimmers approached the mound. Light filtering from the surface lent the scene a spectral quality. They watched as the lead diver moved near the closest surface and twisted the valve on a hose, directing a blast of high-pressure air at the crust of barnacles and seaweed.
The camera distorted in a cloud of debris as the water instantly turned opaque from centuries of accumulation being blasted off. Leonid had researched the best way to clean the structures with the least chance of damage and had hit on the idea with Des—use the compressor’s power to clean them.
The downside was that visibility was only a foot, and the divers had to give it a rest so the sediment could settle. The camera feeds flickered in the brownish cloud, and after a few minutes everyone could begin to make out the unmistakable shape of large limestone blocks.
Two hours later, enough of the wall had been cleared so they could appreciate the scope of the ruin—the wall measured at least one hundred feet long.
“It’s huge. Hard to believe that was built by the islanders,” Leonid said, his voice hushed. “Nothing hints at them having the means to construct anything like it.”
Remi peered at the screen and turned to Des. “Can you communicate with the divers?”
“Yes. The surface breathers have a comm line.”
“Ask them to zoom in on the area to the far right of what they’ve cleared.”
Des lifted a microphone to his lips and gave the instruction, and they waited as a diver moved in slow motion to the section that interested Remi. As the camera closed in on the block, Sam and Remi smiled and Leonid nodded.
Remi was the first to break the silence. “Looks like glyphs, and, if I’m not mistaken, that’s a totem of a sea god,” she said. “And look there. Looks like a depiction of a column of men. Hauling cases.”
Leonid squinted and Des cleared his throat. “What do you make of that?”
Remi sat back and smiled.
“Unless I’m completely garbling the glyph, it’s a group of warriors carrying something into a temple.”
