The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(73)

Solar peers back through his night-vision goggles as the Fortune’s Fool steams ahead in a straight line. “They’re directly west of us. About three miles.”

Dad and I each take an end of the Zodiac raft and set it in the water on the far side of the boat. It bounces around and knocks into the hull, but the inflatable raft doesn’t hurt it. We took the extra precaution of strapping everything down.

“Think they can see us?” asks Dad.

“I’m sure they can. The question is whether they’re paying attention at this moment. I imagine they’re watching us on thermal. Hopefully your little trick helps with that.”

Dad added some extra oil to the gas mixture so we’d be leaving a warmer exhaust trail behind the Fortune’s Fool. The goal was to allow us to drift away in the heat cloud and only start our motor after we were far enough away.

I sit on the edge of the boat and prepare to jump into the raft, praying that I don’t get bounced straight into the ocean.

“Time to go.”

Dad stands next to me while Solar grabs the release to the raft. “All set?”

I hop into the Zodiac, and Dad jumps after. George doesn’t even wait for the thumbs-up; he just yanks the rope, and we’re set free.

The raft slides down a large wave, then gets bumped into the air. I lie flat next to Dad with our tanks wedged in on either side.

“Just like the Vikings did it,” says Dad as we’re rocked around.

We stay put, riding the waves for a half hour as Solar chugs away on the Fortune’s Fool. Finally, Dad says, “I hope you trust that guy.”

“I don’t trust anyone,” I reply.

“Fair enough.”

I peer over the edge. The Fortune’s Fool is now only a tiny light on the sea. I can’t see the Vader.

The satellite phone tucked into a plastic pouch chirps, and a message appears on the display.

Still following me.

This is George’s signal to us. We know better than to use the terrestrial radios. The Vader will almost surely be listening in on radio traffic. Even an innocuous one-way message from George might sound suspicious—especially if it’s his voice. We might be a little paranoid, but the men on the other boat have guns and bad intentions.

“Start her up?” I ask.

“I think so,” says Dad. He takes out the GPS unit and checks our location. “About forty-five minutes south-southwest.”

I press the ignition, and the engine roars to life, drowned out almost completely by the crashing of the heavy seas.

“What’s the weather report?” I shout over the noise.

Dad refers to a small computer that gets updates. “Baker is kind of lingering, but another depression may change that. We’re good for a few hours, I think.”

I steer the boat up and over the rising waves and make gradual progress. It’s like driving over hills that sometimes go forward and other times backward.

This is seriously not good weather to be out in a raft, let alone scuba diving. Fortunately, Dad and I have plenty of experience with rough seas. Some intentional. Some accidental.

Sitting midboat, Dad watches the horizon and refers to the GPS often. He glances back at me, pats me on the knee, and grins.

He’s loving this. Whatever disagreements we had a day ago about my career choice, he’s in his element now. This is high adventure, and not the first he’s taken part in.

When Dad was a kid, Granddad took him on rough-and-tumble expeditions to places where piracy was still rampant and sharks followed boats in the hopes of someone falling overboard. He regaled us kids for hours with stories that seemed better fit for a novel.

“We’re about over it, Sloan,” he shouts over the roar of the sea.

I give him the okay sign, then cut the motor. We’re bounced around as the waves play catch with our tiny craft.

Dad, unperturbed, unfastens the anchor from its strap and heaves it into the water. The narrow cord slides through his gloved hands as the anchor plummets toward the seafloor.

In weather like this, we’ll have to try to hook it on something—a rock, a wreck, anything to keep the raft from drifting away.

The cord stops sliding, and Dad gives it a tug. We probably drifted twenty feet since he let it loose. The anchor appears to have caught on to something.

Dad gives it a few more tugs to make sure it doesn’t slide free. We’ll use the line as a guide on our way to the bottom so we don’t accidentally lose the boat.

“Ready to gear up?”

I nod and help him slide into his vest, double-check everything, then pat him on the shoulder. He does the same for me. We turn on the flashlights attached to our vests, and I give my pockets a final pat.

“Ladies first,” he says.

I roll into the water and give him the okay sign before descending below the waves.

As soon as he plunges in, I swim to the anchor line and attach a glow stick.

Dad, the designated divemaster, points down, and we begin to descend into the blackness below.

Strangely, despite the approaching storm, the death squad nearby, and whatever’s down here, I feel calm for the first time in days.





CHAPTER FIFTY

THE DEEP

I once chaperoned Jackie and her class on a field trip to the Miami Space Transit Planetarium and had my mind blown. We watched a presentation about exploring our solar system, including images of one of the moons of Jupiter, Europa.