 
Cayman Cowboys

Reefs Under Pressure

#### By ERIC DOUGLAS

Cayman Cowboys

By Eric Douglas

Third Edition September 2017 by Eric Douglas

© Second Edition December 2013. First Edition May 2005. By Eric Douglas. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This is a Visibility Press original.

#### DEDICATION

To Lois Douglas—Mom. You taught me to love to read. It's something I will always treasure.

#### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read through this book throughout its development and offer constructive criticism. You are too numerous to name, but without your help, it never would have turned out to be half the story that it is.

## Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Flooding Hollywood

Chapter 1

Chapter2

About the Author

## PROLOGUE

"Mr. Thomas. Get more men on that sail. We need as much sheeting as we can get aloft if we expect to run from this storm," shouted Captain Alan Burnsworth of the brigantine _Firebird_.

"Aye, Cap'n. All 'ands 're on deck and workin' as fast as they can," first officer Thomas responded, his Celtic ancestry evident as the windswept his red hair across his face. "'Tis the worst storm I've ever seen. If we had to turn right now, I don't even think we..."

The wind tore the end of the sentence from Thomas' mouth. Those were the last words the captain heard from his first officer, but they would be telling ones.

A relatively small sailing ship in comparison to some on the high seas, the Firebird was a fast and maneuverable vessel with square rigging on both masts. She had earned her name after being burnt nearly to the waterline in a skirmish with the French. A shipwright had salvaged the keel and brought her back to life. When she left port the second time she sailed under her new name.

It was 1701 and battles between the major colonial powers were fought incessantly, both officially and unofficially. The Spanish had their marauders, so the English had drafted a group of privateers into service, harassing shipping lanes and generally wreaking havoc. Both groups made their living from piracy.

The _Firebird_ , however, fell into neither of those categories. She was a British flagship, and for that reason had to be especially careful when crossing through the western Caribbean. Unusually, in general, and specifically for the _Firebird_ , they were alone on this crossing. Ships carrying cargo from Mexico to England mostly traveled in close packs to fend off the buccaneers. This time, however, a series of mishaps and accidents among the other ships in the convoy had confined them both to port in the New World. One had a shipboard fire that nearly gutted the craft and killed half the crew. The other broke her rudder and had to make port for repairs, limping along as best she could, tacking with the wind. Still, the captain and crew of the _Firebird_ were under orders to proceed for home. They were needed in London, and the correspondence they were carrying from a British outpost was considered vital. So they went on alone.

While the trip from the Caribbean home to London was never an easy crossing, the _Firebird_ 's crew and captain were experienced and making good time. Hauling gold and other treasure from Mexico for the crown could be a dangerous task. The weight of a fully laden ship made even the best-laid brigantine slow and unwieldy. It took an experienced captain and ready crew to control a ship under those conditions.

British explorers had done well this time, trading with the natives, and taking when trading failed. The king would be pleased with their accomplishments. The gold and gems would fill the royal coffers. The spices and skins would fetch a good price on the open market.

England had just ended the war with France and the nation was poor in the aftermath of the bloodshed. Little did the sailors know, but the reigning monarch, William III, would soon die and the country would soon be embroiled in another war with France. All they knew or cared about at this point, having been away from home for more than a year, was that they had a full load of treasure and were looking forward to sailing down the Thames to London. They knew they had to face many obstacles to get there, but they assumed the challenges would come from other ships and the risks of crossing the Atlantic—not storms in the Caribbean.

Captain Burnsworth was a large man, burly with wiry hair that was dark in spite of his age. He had clear, bright eyes and a thin beard clipped tightly to his face. He had a bad feeling about what he was facing. Mid-November was not considered a time for storms—especially storms from the west. The warm water of the Caribbean spawned storms that moved toward the west from late summer till the end of autumn.

Regardless, he had a job to do...his last. He had been crossing the Atlantic for more than 30 years and it was time to retire. This was a young man's game. One more trip, be made a commodore, and remain in England. That was his future. Of course he would miss the excitement and the adventure; he would miss the sea. But he was also looking forward to spending some time on land. The admiralty had already made noises about him training junior officers. Burnsworth liked the idea of passing on his vast experience and knowledge to a new generation.

Suddenly, they came in sight of land. Not in the distance, but directly in front of them. The wind and the waves had conspired to reduce the crew's visibility to almost nil. When the lookout was able to see the island in their path, it was too late. The rudder couldn't bite into the waves. The captain's decision to run before the storm under full sail, a good one under most circumstances, had them moving too fast.

The ship was lost without a trace with all hands and its precious cargo.

## CHAPTER 1

##

"I'm going to work my way over to that building and see if I can get a better look at what's going on. This could be the story of a lifetime," Tom Stuart said.

"Okay, Tom, but keep your head down and be careful. I've had a few 'stories of a lifetime' and they aren't worth it if you can't tell 'em later. I'll try to work around from the other side," Mike Scott replied.

Tom Stuart was sandy-haired and of average height for an American. If he were at home, he wouldn't have attracted a second glance. In a place like the West Bank, however, he stuck out like a sore thumb—he was several inches taller than the average male and paler in skin and hair than just about everyone around. It wasn't just Tom's looks that made him stand out on his current assignment, however. He was an affable man who, as the saying goes, never met a stranger. Tom could talk to anyone. This generally helped in his job as a journalist.

Ultimately, journalism isn't just about reporting the news; it's telling stories about people that will touch other people. And in that regard, Tom was one of the good ones. He knew that to get people to open up and tell their stories, you had to open up to them. He could always relate to an issue from a human perspective.

Sometimes, however, Tom's openness aroused suspicion.

When men are suspicious and distrustful, they tend to think others should be that way too. Anyone who doesn't fit that mold immediately engenders distrust—and sometimes hatred. That was what brought Tom to the attention of dangerous men.

With a distinct air of foreboding, Mike watched Tom leave their observation post. Tom was an up-and-coming writer with _World Magazine_ , the publication that employed them both. He was no greenhorn, however. He had proved his mettle covering crime in Detroit for the Detroit Free Press before coming over to the news magazine. He wasn't green at all. He just didn't have the experience that Mike did, and that made Mike nervous.

But, as the saying goes, _if your photographs aren't good enough, you're not close enough_. He lifted his camera bag and made his way forward.

Mike Scott was not the polar opposite of Tom—they did have their similarities—but there was a lot about them that was different.

Mike was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a slightly dark complexion. Mike certainly couldn't denounce his American home either, but with the right clothes and the right attitude, he could blend in. And that was one of his strengths as a journalist. He knew how to become part of the picture. When he wanted to, or needed to, he could disappear in a crowd. He had walked down the streets of Istanbul, Turkey, and along Red Square in Moscow, Russia, many a time untouched and unnoticed.

At 6-foot-2, Mike was a large man, but not uncommonly so. His wiry hair was cut close to his scalp and his facial hair was quickly beginning to gain on it. He rarely wore a beard, but the present situation seemed to call for one. Not shaving also had its advantages—he had enough on his plate and he rarely got the chance to shower.

Mike would best be described as intense, especially when he was working. He could get so focused on his job that he would forget all other considerations. While he had survived his share of war zones—five in total—and had seen enough human cruelty to last a lifetime, he never grew afraid of this job, or entirely comfortable with it, either. It was just what he did, and he did it well. He had earned honors and awards along the way—enough that he could retire and teach, or write books if he wanted to. He didn't, though. He couldn't. He had to keep making photographs and shedding light into the dark corners of the world. He had to keep bringing the godforsaken, the unsanitary affairs of the world into people's houses and into their lives. He wasn't exactly what you would call a war photographer. He was just a photographer who happened to cover war zones from time to time. Mike had met other photographers over the years that identified with the action and adrenalin rush of working in war zones. The danger drew them in, along with the assumed nobility of entering a hot spot as a non-combatant, carrying nothing but a camera or a note pad. That didn't describe Mike. He covered what he felt was important, and that was what kept him at it. He didn't do it for the personal thrill.

The pair was covering the latest flare-up in violence in the Middle East between the Palestinians and the Israelis. Soldiers at a checkpoint had opened fire on a father and daughter in a car. That led to a suicide bomber on a crowded bus full of Israeli children on their way home after band practice. Neither side expected the latest violence, and neither knew how to slow things down. Nor did they seem to want to. Years of pent-up frustrations on both sides had caused this conflict to burn hotter and faster than anything seen in this region for years.

Tom had received a tip-off about a special meeting that was about to take place, and he wanted the story. There were rumors about a radical new terrorist group that had moved in. They wanted nothing more than the complete annihilation of the West and anyone who supported it—a radical Islamic group with ties to al Qaida and the Islamic Jihad. The story on the streets was that this group had bought a nuclear warhead from a former Soviet Republic with an Islamic majority population and was planning on sending the Jews to their God in grand fashion. That the warhead would probably kill hundreds of thousands of Palestinians didn't seem to have occurred to anyone yet. Likely, the terrorist group didn't really care. They just wanted another spectacular event like September 11.

As Mike moved into position to photograph the supposed meeting, angry shouts from the courtyard below made him realize that things had already gone sour. In the two or three minutes since Tom had left their post, he couldn't have gotten caught. But he had. It must have been a setup. They must have jumped on Tom as soon as he left Mike's sight. Two men were holding Tom's arms and he looked hurt. There was blood on his face and he could barely stand.

In all, there were eight of them, dressed in the uniform of the Palestinian army with kerchiefs around their faces. The men were standing in an open-air courtyard, just off a dusty street. The area looked halfway bombed-out already. As a matter of habit, Scott surveyed the scene through the viewfinder of his Nikon D4 digital camera. The consummate professional, he photographed the scene—moving from the broad overall scene to close-ups.

Two of the walls surrounding the courtyard were intact. They were walls to two-story buildings with small windows that opened out onto the courtyard. A third wall was damaged, but stood fairly solid. It appeared to have had a balcony that overlooked the square. Close to the wall directly opposite Mike, and farthest away from him, was a small fountain, long since broken and dry. In its heyday, Mike was sure the courtyard must have been a lovely spot where friends and lovers met—before wars and hatred had shattered everything.

He could hear the man who appeared to be in charge shouting at Tom. "Who are you? Who sent you?" was all Mike could make out with his less-than-perfect grasp of Arabic. When Tom didn't answer, another man hit him.

After a few more shouted questions, and the blows that followed when he didn't answer, Tom's captors pulled him to the fountain and laid him halfway on top of it, keeping him mostly upright. His knees were buckling, and it seemed as if the men didn't want to hold him up. In the half-light, Mike could see the sneers on their faces. Their eyes held nothing but hatred for the fair-haired American.

Mike was afraid he was witnessing the abduction of an American journalist. A few years before, just after the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., terrorists had kidnapped and murdered Daniel Pearle, a reporter for the Wall Street Journal. Since then, there had been other attempts on journalists. None of them had turned out as horrible as the Pearle kidnapping, but it was only a matter of time.

Mike pulled out a mobile phone and was dialing the authorities to try and get some help, when he caught a flash from the corner of his eye. Then the world exploded. With a spray of brick and dust, the back wall of the courtyard collapsed as the first rocket made impact. The second rocket from the helicopter gunship was closer to its intended target. It hit directly in the middle of the group of men, cutting one of the two holding Tom in half as it passed.

Mike hadn't heard the helicopter. It couldn't have been on a regular patrol or he would have heard it as it slowly passed back and forth. It must have come directly to this spot, and come up fast. The two rockets were followed by about 30 seconds of heavy machine gun fire. Everyone in the courtyard was dead.

The blast hurled Mike backward against a pile of stones. He lay stunned for a moment that felt like hours, before light and sound came rushing back in and he was able to focus again on the scene before him. In just under a minute, nine lives had been snuffed out—eight armed Palestinians and one American journalist.

There was no way of knowing who had organized this operation. Did the Palestinians set things up to kill a journalist? Did the Israelis set things up to kill the Palestinians? In this mad war and in this region of the world, anything seemed possible.

Numb and disoriented, Mike crawled away from the scene as Israeli soldiers moved into the courtyard. Through the haze in his mind, he sensed something was wrong and moved back. Regardless of what was released to the press about the incident, he would tell the story from his perspective.

****

"Ah. Welcome, Mr. Walker. Let me introduce you to the people you don't know. On your left is Mr. Davis, the minister of economic development. On your right is Mr. Barber, minister of finance. Thank you all for coming today. Gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Walker. I think you will be pleased with what he has to say."

"Thank you all for having me, and thank you, Mr. Akins, for setting up this meeting." With that, Gray Walker stood and began to address the officials. The host for the meeting, Mr. Akins, was the minister of tourism and the environment.

The meeting was in a small and exclusive café in George Town, Grand Cayman. It was patronized by some of the more exclusive clientele on the island, a place known for catering to the rich and exclusive. The café was private—so private, in fact it didn't actually have a name and only members could organize a meeting there. It just so happened that all of the participants in this meeting were members in their own right: three ministers from the island's government and one from its rich business elite.

The politicians were all dark-skinned and as varied physically as you could imagine. Davis was short and round; Barber was tall and round; the third, Akins, slim and of average height, with a pinched face that made him look more like a small dog than a man. They were all in formal three-piece business suits and spoke with a manicured island accent that was only possible to achieve after receiving schooling abroad.

The other thing all three had in common was a sense of duty. Not a sense of duty to the island, but a sense of entitlement owed by others to them in recognition for their position. Like politicians the world over, they too believed they were the best people for their positions. They also believed passionately that everything they did was for the betterment of the people and the island they called home. Two of them were especially proud of their long lineage on the island and how they had bettered themselves by hard work and determination. They were a long way from those roots, however, but they still liked to play the card when it suited them.

"I know of all of you, and I am sure you know of me by reputation, so I will not waste time," Walker continued. "Let me get to the point. The George Town dock is full to capacity. You bring in up to six cruise ships a day and thousands of tourists. The streets are filled with people during the day. The problem is you're wedged in. There is no more room for additional cruise ships to dock in the harbor and even if there was, you don't have the space or the shops to accommodate the additional tourists."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Walker. We know the problems of the city," said Barber, a man of imposing girth, through a bushy, thick mustache. "We have been living with the problems of our island since we were born here. You have only been here, what is it? Two years? How do you propose to alleviate our problems?"

"I am gratified to see you live up to your reputation for being a man of action instead of words. Forgive me for repeating the obvious," Walker responded, while seething on the inside. _How dare this man interrupt me_ , he thought. _I am bringing them more money than they could imagine and they want to make sure I know they were born here._

Walker was a businessman. He got things done. No matter what the situation, he got his way. Like many relatively short men, he had an ego to compensate. At 5-foot-4, he had a chip on his shoulder from a childhood where he grew up fighting to defend himself. Over the years, he had taken advantage of the mistake many people made in underestimating him because of his stature. He had gotten rich on some conventional and some less-than-legal dealings in the U.S. because of that underestimation.

Now, he was moving into a new world. He was going to take over the island. Herman Wouk's _Don't Stop the Carnival_ captured his imagination when he was a teen, and now he wanted to make his millions and continue to make money where the hero of that story had barely gotten out alive. He believed the people in the islands just weren't up to his level. He planned to take advantage of his own worldliness to make things happen as he believed they should. In two short years, using bribes and payoffs, he was able to insinuate himself into the business life of Grand Cayman. He had bought into several tourist operations—resorts, scuba diving operations, and restaurants. Now he was looking for more.

Once a fit man, ready to use his fists to defend against any perceived slight, he now found ways to take care of himself by more subtle means. Money was cleaner than fists. His increasing girth and receding hairline never kept him from what he wanted. He simply used his money to get his way. Playing on human greed was much simpler for him than force. He could always buy what he wanted. Ironically, that same corruptibility that he gladly exploited made him question everyone's motives. It annoyed him that some people would fawn on him simply for his money.

"I propose to build a new pier on the east end of the island. I have some architectural designs with me," Walker explained as he spread out the drawings and plans. "I designed it. And with your help, I plan to develop an array of shops and places for tourists to visit," Walker said.

After a few moments of stunned silence by the politicians, Akins responded, "This is very impressive, Mr. Walker. It all looks very well designed," as he stood to peer across the drawings. A pretentious man, Akins fancied himself to be an influencer, although others generally regarded him as a lap dog. He was already on Walker's payroll. "So what can we do for you?" he said as a means to move the conversation along.

"As you know, there will be tremendous start-up costs involved with building the new cruise ship dock and the infrastructure we will need. There will also be many permits and licenses to obtain. I need your help pulling all of this together. The sooner and easier this moves along, the better it is for all of us and for the island," Walker explained with an insincere smile.

"I believe we can help you expedite many of the things you request," said Mr. Barber, fiddling with his pen. "There is a grant program that provides interest-free loans for developers, such as you, with the best interests of the islands at heart. There is generally a requirement that one of the loan participants be from the islands, but I think, considering the scope of your investments and plans, we may be able to waive that requirement. Or at the very least, I think all three of us may be able to take part in underwriting this endeavor to make it work for all of us."

"I agree with my esteemed colleagues," said Mr. Davis as he knocked the ashes off of his Cuban cigar. A pudgy lump of a man who was often regarded lightly because of his appearance, he hadn't taken the defensive attitude that Walker had adopted. "There are ways we can be involved, on a quiet level, which could certainly expedite the development of some underused property on the island. Of course, there must be protections built in to provide for the people of the island—such as retraining and placement for those who may have to adjust to the development."

Walker could tell immediately that the three politicians before him were all angling to line their own pockets out of this deal. Frankly, he expected nothing else. Without even considering what it would mean to the people of the island, these men were calculating the money they could make by having companies they quietly owned do the construction, or by steering supply contracts to friends, or by the fees that Walker would pay them directly as "consultants." They simply saw money to be made and decided to jump on board. Obviously, Akins had already briefed them on the project and they didn't need the details explained to them, but the ease with which these men could be swayed spoke to nothing but money. Men of conscience didn't make decisions this quickly, Walker reflected quietly. All in all, he was happy about it—no discussions and no convincing, just doing.

On one level it made Walker sick that these leeches would attach themselves to his project so quickly and attempt to make money off his brilliance and innovation. On the other hand, their predictability made life simpler. Graft and corruption were just line items to factor into a project's budget.

"It is exciting for me to meet public servants such as yourselves with the best interests of the island and its people at heart. Of course, there are commitments and arrangements that each of you will need to make. To compensate you for your efforts, I propose that you all become silent partners in this effort—to keep an eye on the development and make sure everything is done correctly," Walker offered. "It is important that representatives such as yourself be involved to look after the interests of the people."

"It is settled then. We will move forward with this project," said Akins. "There will be a vote taken in the legislature, but with the support of the three of us, the government of the islands will certainly support this initiative to move Grand Cayman into the future," Akins said, proud that he had brought his friends around so quickly and easily, and expecting to wrangle a bonus from Walker.

****

"Sir, please wake up. You are disturbing the other passengers."

"What? What's going on? Oh, sorry. I must've been dreaming," Mike Scott apologized to the flight attendant. He realized he had been shouting. As he looked around, he realized that all of the other passengers were staring at him. The looks in their eyes told Mike they were just waiting to see if he was about to freak out on the plane. He had cleaned himself up after his time in the Middle East—he was clean-shaven and had gotten a haircut in New York. But he was still a large man, and that made people nervous. There had been too many occasions when people had turned violent on airplanes.

He had been dreaming about that day six weeks before when Tom Stuart died. There weren't any easy answers to what had happened. All sides were denying responsibility for the death of the American journalist, but Mike's photographs and the story that his magazine released stirred up a hornet's nest. It seemed as if everyone was responsible in some way or another. Ironically, Mike had been told he was a shoo-in for several more news photography awards including the Pulitzer—an award that had always escaped him. It didn't seem to help, though. Watching a friend die and not being able to do anything about it haunted him.

After the incident, he had gone back to New York immediately for debriefing and follow-up. He wasn't sleeping. Normally friendly and easygoing when he wasn't working, he had become introverted. He realized he needed some time off. Actually the company psychiatrist helped him realize it as part of the critical incident stress debriefings he was attending.

And that was how Mike found himself back on a plane again, only this time he was about 45 minutes out of Miami on a flight bound for George Town, Grand Cayman. He was going to get away, do a little diving and relax on the beach.

"Where do you think we are?" the woman in the seat beside Mike asked, an attractive woman of about 30 or so with a soft Georgian accent. She seemed to be trying to get Mike's attention and flirt a bit.

Mike glanced out the window, instantly recognizing his location from the outline of the islands below.

"It looks like we just passed over Cuba," Mike said. "If you look off in the distance, you can see Grand Cayman. By the way, I'm sorry if I disturbed you back there. I'm pretty tired and my dream just got the best of me."

"Don't worry about it, honey. Sometimes life just gets the best of all of us," she said with a smile that could melt butter. "The water is so beautiful from up here—except close to the islands. It's such a wonderful blue and blue green. And it changes so quickly. Just amazing."

"I agree. But why do you say the water doesn't look nice close to the islands?" Mike asked.

"Up close to the islands, the water looks muddy," she replied.

"The water depth and its clarity affect the way the water looks," Mike said. "When the water is so startlingly blue, it is extremely deep, sometimes measuring 2,000 feet deep or more. When the reef rises close to the surface, the water turns to shades of green as the light from the sun is reflected off the bottom. What you're seeing close to the islands isn't mud, but sand. The water is so clear that you can actually see the white sand from up here."

With the woman beside him quiet for a moment, Scott thought about the other passengers on the plane. On the face of it, they all had the same goal in mind: they were going to the islands to "get away." They were leaving their other lives behind and wanted a break from the stress. In most cases, people were headed to the island to find some adventure and excitement. In Mike's case, it was exactly the opposite. He was looking for a break. He wanted to slow down and relax for a while.

"Listen to this," Mike's companion said as she flipped through the complimentary tourist magazine the flight attendants gave to passengers as they boarded the plane. Mike had declined his free copy. "Grand Cayman is such an interesting place. The magazine says it's actually a mountain on the sea bottom that rises all the way up out of the water. It says that now Cayman is known for some of the most amazing wall diving anywhere in the Caribbean. Look at these pictures. The reefs are spectacular. They're covered with coral of every description and color. And just look at all of the different fish in these pictures. I'd love to learn to dive. That just looks so exciting."

"I'm a diver. It's great. You should check with the hotel where you're staying. They can easily set something up for you," Mike said, trying to be vague so the woman didn't think he was offering to help her. The last thing he needed on this trip was to spend time taking care of someone else. He needed to worry about himself.

Mike laughed to himself. The diving in Cayman is beautiful. But ask anyone who has been on the island for a while, or has been traveling there for years and they will all say, "You should have been here 10 years ago." But then again, anywhere you go the old hands always say that so they can feel more important. While the reefs might not be as virgin as they were 30 or 40 years ago, it is still hard to pinpoint specific damage.

"Oooh, look at this," the woman continued. "There are actually three islands. It says here that Christopher Columbus first discovered them in 1503 when he was blown off course. There is Grand Cayman and the two sister islands, Little Cayman and Cayman Brac. He first called them Las Tortugas for the large population of sea turtles he found there," she said, continuing to read aloud.

"It says that over the next 100 years, the Cayman Islands became a favorite stopping spot for sea captains making the long voyage across the Atlantic. They would capture sea turtles and keep them on board their ships for meat. Ewwww. The book says they can live a year on a ship and the sailors viewed them as a valuable source of meat for the long voyage."

"I'll bet the turtles weren't too happy about that," Mike joked, realizing the woman was going to insist on talking to him. He decided to play dumb, even though he knew the history of the island all too well.

"Since Columbus first discovered the island, there has been a lot of sailing activity around the island. And, over the years, there have been various shipwrecks, some caused by the weather or poor sailing, and others by the English privateers," she continued. "In the aftermath of one of the most terrible wrecks, the British Crown granted the islands freedom from taxation in perpetuity. It says here that because of that, they will probably always be a crown colony.

"An additional carry-over from the British association is driving on the left side of the road, similar to many of the other former crown colonies in the Caribbean," she finished. "However, with a nod to the many tourists who come to the island from the U.S., there are frequent reminders posted around the major roads to keep left."

Driving itself isn't the problem for most drivers unfamiliar with that reversed system, Mike thought. It's turning. Going to the other side of the road when passing through an intersection can be tough to remember, even for experienced travelers. Should be fun to see if I can still do it.

Mike finally began to relax. As he did, he thought about the growth of the tourist industry on Grand Cayman. The beauty and environment of the island attracted tourists by the thousands.

Cruise shippers, who the islanders ungraciously refer to as "newlywed, overfed, and nearly dead" take day trips out on boats to snorkel above the reefs or frolic with stingrays and see the splendor of the Caribbean. At the same time, the cruise ships these visitors arrive on drop anchor in the West Bay and literally destroy the very coral reefs the visitors arrive to see.

But that's the darker side of the island, and not uncommon in tourist areas around the world. _They don't service tourists out of the goodness of their hearts,_ Mike thought to himself as he drifted off to catch a couple minutes sleep before landing.

## CHAPTER 2

##

"I appreciate the trip to the islands and all. It's a beautiful place, and there are some amazing women here at the hotel, but why am I here?" Samson asked his new boss on the phone. He was staying at the elegant Cardin Beach Front Resort on Seven-Mile Beach, just west of George Town. Seven-Mile Beach was a beautiful strip of sugar-white manicured sand where the rich and beautiful came to play. There were places to parasail and rent wave runners. Guests could book dives on charter boats that pulled directly onto the sand behind the hotel so they didn't have to walk—or even get wet, ironically—until they wanted to.

Directly behind the Cardin's well-appointed lobby, with its couches for lounging and computers for traveling executives to stay in touch, was a curved pool. A bridge crossed over the middle. On one end was a swim-up bar and chaise lounges all around for relaxing sun worshipers. The actual beach was just 50 feet from the bar, and servers circulated to the people on the sand to make sure none of the guests got thirsty.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Take advantage of it," Walker responded. "You're here because I need someone to run an operation for me."

"What kind of operation?" Samson asked, knowing the answer, but wanting confirmation.

"I have a couple projects going on, and I need someone with your, ah, skills, to make sure they are handled appropriately," Walker responded.

"Care to give me a little more information?" Samson asked, prying for details.

Samson was tall and lean. Not thin, but muscular with long hair neatly tied behind his head in a ponytail. He looked like he knew how to take care of himself—people tended to shy away from him based on nothing but his dark, cold eyes and the way he walked. He seemed like a coiled snake, always ready to strike.

While the general impression of him was true, there was a deeper Samson. He was not a warm, fuzzy person by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't just a killer or criminal—a knuckle dragger. He was highly educated—both in and out of school—and intelligent. As a matter of fact, if he had allowed himself to be tested, his IQ would have come in even higher than he imagined it to be—and he was sure it was in the genius level. That intelligence usually made him somewhat condescending and impatient with his employers. He always felt he was smarter than they were. Why he never struck out on his own, masterminded his own enterprise, he wasn't exactly sure, but it just never seemed like the right time. He always felt as if his time was still to come.

"That's all you need to know for now. Enjoy yourself on me tonight and tomorrow. Tomorrow night we begin working, and I'll fill you in on all of the details then. Are you in? Or do you want to go home?" Walker asked, already knowing the answer. _People like Samson are predictable. They are always looking for the payoff_ , he thought. Samson came with the highest recommendations; he was one who did what it took to get a job done.

"I'm in. If nothing else, the working conditions here are better than in Jersey. It's still cold up there. You know my usual fees, right?" Samson asked.

"Don't worry, you'll be taken care of, I promise." And with that, the man's new employer hung up the phone.

Well, Samson thought, I've had some stranger beginnings to projects, but not many. At least it's warm and the drinks are cold.

He returned to the swim-up bar and ordered another drink.

****

The next night began relatively quietly. Coming in from an ocean swim, Samson picked up a message from his new boss. It instructed him to be ready at 9 p.m. and to be dressed appropriately. Not knowing exactly what "appropriately" meant, and considering the hour, he assumed it meant comfortable clothing that would allow him to blend into the darkness.

Standing outside of his hotel at the appointed hour, a car pulled up and the door opened. Samson got in. In the front was a driver who wasn't interested in talking. Other than that, he was alone in the car. Samson settled in for the ride. Approximately half an hour later, Samson's car pulled up beside a Lincoln Navigator on a darkened side road. The Lincoln was too large, in the extreme, for the island, but that didn't seem to matter to its owner. When a back window opened, Samson heard someone inside the Lincoln call his name and invite him to get in. Samson was beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Coming through airport security, he hadn't been able to bring a gun with him, and he hadn't had a chance to get one on the island.

Sliding into the spacious back seat of the Navigator, Samson relaxed. The short, pudgy man across from him presented no immediate threat to him, but he also instantly recognized the voice from the phone. So this was his employer.

"Hello, Mr. Samson. Please forgive the cloak-and-dagger routine of your pickup, but I had business to take care of that didn't involve you. Now, if you'll forgive me, I would prefer it if you refrain from asking any questions. I have some materials to read and prepare. I need the time for the rest of the drive," Walker said. "Just sit back and relax. I'll let you know what you need to know when you need to know it."

Samson didn't like the treatment he was getting, but for now he would tolerate it. He hated dealing with amateurs who probably watched James Bond movies. However, he was being well paid, so far, and was curious enough to see how it would all shake out, so he let himself relax—as much as he ever did, which wasn't much when he was on a job.

****

It was dark and quiet. Exactly the way the men liked it. Tough for anyone to see them or hear what they were up to, and easy still for them to see when the other car approached. They had things to discuss and plans that wouldn't bear scrutiny on the other end of the island, under the lights of George Town. And, all in all, it was more fitting that they would hold this clandestine meeting on the east end of the island, because that was the part of Grand Cayman they had to discuss.

The Lincoln Navigator pulled up the dark dirt road to join a dark car backed into the shadows off the path. There were three small shacks nestled back in the trees and scrub brush. It was obvious, even in the darkness, that they were unoccupied. As the big SUV stopped, a black man of average build got out of the car in the shadows and joined the three from the Lincoln as they stepped out. Of the four men, two were islanders and both had grown up on the East End. They knew each other peripherally, although they no longer ran in the same circles. One was the driver of the Lincoln and part-time muscle-for-hire. The other islander was Akins, the minister of tourism and the environment. Dark-skinned and slightly built with a receding hairline, he appeared to be nervous, even in the low light. Akins was the first member of the island's government who had agreed to serve as a "consultant" for Walker with special projects and assist with greasing the wheels of regulation. He was the first, but not the last. Akins himself had recruited many of the new additions to the "consultant" payroll.

"Who is this?" Akins demanded of Walker as soon as he got out of the Navigator. He looked skeptically at the powerfully built Samson.

"Mr. Samson works for me now. He is here to help me with some work I have going on," he replied, keeping his annoyance in check. He never bothered to introduce Akins to Samson.

"You should have told me you were bringing in someone else. I don't like for new faces to pop up all of a sudden when we're doing business," Akins said.

"Mr. Samson works for me and that is that," Walker said with a patronizing tone.

"I will accept it, but I don't like it. This is no way to treat a partner. And if he is coming in for a cut of the take from the construction project, it comes out of your end, not mine," Akins came back with a sneer.

"I will take care of Mr. Samson. You don't need to worry about him," Walker replied flatly and dismissed the other man. Still, he smoldered at having been challenged.

Out of the darkness, a third car slowly pulled into the drive behind the abandoned cottages and came nose to nose with the car already there. Two men got out. No one bothered with formalities or useless greetings. They had business. The men were both islanders and dressed in jeans, dark jackets, and hats. They did not want to be recognized by others. In the low light, it was nearly impossible to distinguish which one was speaking.

"Do you have the map?" Walker asked the new arrivals.

"Yeah, I got it. What do you think I'm here for? You got the money?" one of the men responded.

"You'll get it when I guarantee these are what we need. For all I know, you brought the wrong ones," Walker responded.

Walker turned and gave his driver an order. The man pulled out an electric lantern while the driver of the new car spread the maps out across the hood of his car.

"Here they are," said the driver of the third car. "Environmental surveys of the area. It shows everything you're looking for."

"These appear to be perfect. Exactly what we need," said Walker. "Do you have our map?" Walker asked Akins.

"Yeah, right here," Akins said.

"Bring it up and put it in the light. We need to make sure it matches the original," Walker instructed the politician.

"Don't worry, man. I had the same man who made the real map make this one. He worked at the government land office for 40 years and is trying to make it by on his retirement. He needs money to live here. His services are for hire," the passenger from the third car said.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from an abandoned house directly behind where the men were meeting, and they heard the sound of a young woman yelp in pain.

"Check it out and find out who's in there," Walker ordered. The Lincoln's driver and both men from the third car rushed toward the house. Samson started to go as well, assuming this was one of the duties his boss was paying him for, but Walker reached out his hand and held him back.

Seeing the men come rushing out of the darkness, the girl, who was just sleeping in the house, ran out the side door to get away.

All three men shouted after her and one fired a gun into the air, hoping it would make her stop. It didn't. Scared beyond all comprehension, the girl ran faster. She was a runaway, hiding out from her family and the law. Waking up from a sound sleep, she thought it was the police coming to take her back to her abusive father in the U.S. She had tried to run away before. When she was caught and taken home, the beatings were worse than they had ever been before.

Quite possibly the last thought the girl had was that these men would never take her back to her family, no matter what happened. She ran from the sandy soil that covered much of the island directly onto what the locals call iron shore, limestone rock left over from millions of years of coral buildup that has been eroded over the years by the rain to form jagged edges and crevices. Even in solid shoes, iron shore is treacherous. At night, with nothing more than sandals on her feet, no light, and fleeing in a panic, the girl didn't stand a chance. Not a local, she only set foot there just a few days before. Using money she had stolen from a small liquor store near her home to buy the ticket and a friend's passport to gain entrance to the island, she had fled during the night. She had read stories in magazines about the island and thought it sounded like a wonderful place to escape to. She hadn't had a chance to learn the land yet. She didn't realize just how treacherous running across the iron shore could be, especially down by the water's edge where the wave action had made things even more hazardous.

She fell. Hearing the men's voices, she stood up bleeding from her shoulder and tripped again just a few yards away. This time she tore a jagged hole in her leg. In agony, she struggled to her feet and tried to run again. Turning to look, she saw the lights the men carried swinging back and forth. Knowing she had to get away, she struggled to her feet one more time, pain searing through her body. Already dying from the increasing blood loss from a torn artery in her thigh, she fell for the last time in a crevice between the rocks at the water's edge.

She could hear the gentle sounds of the small Caribbean waves lapping against the rocks and the iron shore coast. When the waves hit the shore just right, the water would work its way through the rocks and blast straight up into the air, like a blowhole from a whale.

"Do you see the girl?"

"Nah, I don't see anything. I'm not even sure there was a girl."

"Someone was out here, but I can't find her," the men argued at the edge of the iron shore field.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not climbing across this stuff at night."

"You're right; she couldn't have gone this way. Let's check the other side of the road."

****

"It all started innocently enough, but things quickly got out of hand, Edward. A group of community members and locals were marching in front of an area where rumors abound about planned new developments," the TV reporter said to the anchor at the station, turning to look directly into the camera during her live, stand-up report. A native Caymanian, she was striking in her own right. She was constantly working to erase or minimize her accent to make her presentation more acceptable to a world audience, hoping to work for CNN International. "As the group got larger it turned into an angry mob, voicing frustrations about a number of topics, not just the new development rumors. What you are seeing now is footage shot earlier today as island police arrived to break up the demonstrators."

The video footage showed police moving in as protesters set fire to a piece of heavy equipment parked near homes of some of the island's poorer residents. The entire community appeared to be smaller island cottages occupied mostly by low-income residents. As police made their first arrests, the crowd grew angry, punches flew, and people got hurt—civilians and police alike.

"What's the status of things in the area now, Marian?" the anchor asked.

"Things are calmer now. Just a few people standing around, and the police have the area cordoned off," she answered as the camera came back to focus on the reporter on location with the site of the violent protest in the background. "Joining me now is Alex March, a lead detective with the national police force. Mr. March, what can you tell us about the situation here on the east end?"

March would have looked like a cop no matter where he was. He was a clean cut, square-jawed man with clear eyes that seemed to penetrate into people when he looked at them. "Unfortunately, not a lot at the moment, Marian," March replied. "We are still trying to get everyone cooled off and separated at the moment. We haven't had a chance to really sort this thing out yet."

"How about injuries? Were any police officers or civilians injured?" the reporter asked, trying to get March to open up a bit.

"The men who responded to the situation are well trained and did their best to keep a lid on the problem without using excessive force. I believe they did an excellent job, or things could have gotten much worse," March replied, giving the reporter a comment that said little or nothing, as he had been well-trained to do.

"What's interesting is that while we have just begun hearing about this possible development over the last few days, it appears as if the planning has been going on for quite some time. There are signs up and heavy equipment in place, although they haven't actually begun excavations," the reporter said, turning away from the police detective and facing the camera. "They just appear to be waiting on a place to dig. It seems as if it's sure to happen, but that no one is exactly sure where. From the people I have spoken to so far today, that seems to be one of the biggest complaints. They understand progress—many of them work at resorts—but the locals want to know exactly what's going on and what's going to happen to them. None of the government officials seem to know or want to talk about it, and none of my sources have anything to add. Back to you in the studio."

"Thanks for that report, Marian. You can be sure that we will keep our viewers informed of any breaking news on this situation in the days and weeks ahead. And with that, we go to..."

****

Newer boats and bigger operations had come along over the years, but the two old fishermen had been plying the waters around Cayman catching their limit since well before scuba divers had discovered the island and developers with their money had taken over some of the most beautiful pristine beaches.

Weathered from the years in the sun, both men were dark skinned. Their wrinkles, hair, hands, and walk betrayed the look of men who had worked hard every day of their lives. Unless you knew them personally, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Not brothers, or even related, the long years of working together had nearly melded the two men into one.

Just two old men in a boat, they could fill up the small craft's holds with lobster or fish and scratch out an honest living. Not that their children were interested in following in their footsteps. They went to colleges in the U.S., or worked catering to tourists at the resorts. The development on the island had raised the cost of living so high that many of the people born there had trouble making ends meet. Fortunately, the money coming to the island had given them surprisingly good schools, so the children had a chance to survive on the outside, but it didn't leave many interested in working and following the old ways to earn their keep.

Both fishermen knew it wouldn't be too many more years they could keep this up. But they both hoped they could provide for their families long enough to get them out on their own and successful before the strain of being up at dawn to get their nets in the water pushed them beyond their limits.

They were quiet as they approached the last trap of the day. If they talked about their thoughts, it would be clear that both men were contemplating the same thing—their retirement and the end of the lives they had known on the island—but neither was the sort of man who would open up and talk about what was on his mind, so it never came up.

It was about 10 p.m. The men had been delayed by problems with some of their traps and were out on the water later than usual. Slowly, from all around them noise seemed to rise up from below them. It took a minute for it to register on either man that there was anything out of the ordinary. The noise coming from the old outboard motor on the boat almost drowned out the strange noise out, until they saw the lights. There was a faint glow to the water. It got brighter as the noises got louder.

Both fishermen had had their experiences with scuba divers. There were times when divers would raid their lobster traps, or just open their traps assuming the traps were abandoned. They knew what diver's lights looked like and this was nothing like that. They hurriedly pulled in the last trap of the evening, but quickly realized it didn't matter; it came up much too fast. It was nearly destroyed. The remains of a lobster hung in what was left, but that was it.

The noise kept growling and getting louder. The water began to boil. The lights lit up the sea for a hundred yards around. All of that, combined with the shredded trap, was too much for the seasoned fishermen. With barely a word, they headed for shore and safe harbor without so much as looking back. They first fisherman pulled in the last trap they had in the water. The second quietly secured their gear and revved up the old outboard, steering for the dock. Neither man spoke on the way in.

Professionals that they were, they unloaded the lobster and packed the boat away for the night. Before the evening was out, the entire fishing community would know what the fishermen saw, because they both did something completely out of the ordinary. They went to the local bar to steady their nerves. If it had been someone young or inexperienced telling stories about the sea glowing and growling like a sea monster coming up from the depths, they would have been laughed at. But when two old men, more experienced than just about anyone around, told such stories, it got everyone's attention. Beyond the story and who was telling it, it was the look in the eyes of the men that made their story believable. They were both scared. These two fishermen had seen just about everything on the water and had faced it all down. But this was different.

Whatever this was, it got to them.

## CHAPTER 3

##

"Hello, Mr. Davis. I just wanted you to know that today is a great day for the people of the island," said Mr. Barber from the telephone in his office in the ministry of finance in George Town to his friend in the ministry of economic development. He had a cigar in his thick lips. The anti-smoking establishment hadn't taken hold on Grand Cayman, especially not in the offices of its politicians.

The two men maintained a very formal relationship, even though they had known each other since the early days—when they were both idealists in their 20s, set to change the world. Now in their late 50s, their idealism had stepped aside for pragmatism. At least that was how they saw it. They felt they knew what was best for the island, whether the people knew it or not. And if they benefitted or lined their pockets a bit in the process, so be it. Their earlier selves would not recognize what they had become.

"You are being very vague, and I am in a hurry at the moment, Mr. Barber. Can you be a bit more specific about why today is any more special than every other day on our island?" Mr. Davis replied.

"I have been able to secure some tremendous assistance for our mutual friend," Barber said.

"How so? What are we able to offer?" Davis asked.

"I thought it best if our financial package came from a variety of sources," Barber explained. "We have loans from our development fund, a package we created to encourage local business. We will also be able to provide additional funding through our environmental programs. In all, we will be able to provide approximately $100 million CI in interest-free loans and grants."

"That is excellent. I am sure our friend will be pleased," Davis replied.

"I believe so as well. After the developments are complete, we will also be able to put together a series of tax advantages and additional shelters so the new developments will be assured of success," Barber continued.

"Tremendous. I cannot report quite as much success yet, but soon I will have all of the necessary permits and approvals in place. We will be able to bring this together without a hitch. I look forward to sharing this information with our friend," Davis said.

"He will be pleased and I am sure it will benefit the island and us at the same time," Barber said, the excitement in his voice apparent as he mentally spent his share of the graft.

"Thank you for all your support," Barber said, flatly cutting the conversation off. He needed to free himself for the other calls he was now planning to make. He had other plans for the day, but Davis just raised the pressure on him and he didn't want to be surpassed in Walker's eyes. He needed to get to work.

****

Just a few months before Mike Scott's arrival, the island experienced a highly unusual hurricane. Under normal circumstances, hurricanes come up from Africa and usually miss Grand Cayman, but this particular storm had circled around and hit the island from the west. It did some significant damage, both above and below water, scouring reefs and destroying structures on the island, hurling them into the water to further clutter some of the corals.

Mike knew about the storm, but had hoped the damage wouldn't be too severe. He had his cameras with him. For him, relaxation was taking photos, especially photos he chose to take. If the reefs were stripped bare of life, it would simply tear the heart out of his vacation.

Checking into his hotel was a bit like going home for Mike. He was staying at Sunset House, a semi-resort that didn't worry about the high-spending vacationers who only wanted to dive from time to time. This place catered to divers, those who were primarily interested in being underwater. That is, if they weren't sleeping, eating or drinking. There was no place to rent jet skis, no manicured beaches for sunbathers—in direct contrast to the upscale resorts on Seven-Mile Beach. The dive staff members at Sunset House also had a bit of reputation, one they proudly reinforced at every opportunity. While other up-market resorts were mostly interested in nothing more than processing the tourists, the staff at Sunset House was known as a group of hardcore divers who took care of hardcore divers. They were also known as cowboys. They weren't reckless or unsafe. As a matter of fact, dive safety was one of the most important things to the staff. They did, however, like to challenge convention and every other rule placed before them. This reputation, and the way of being, was part of the mentality of the staff—even staff that had moved on to bigger and better things.

"Hi, I'm Mike Scott, and I'd like to check in," Mike said to the man behind the front desk.

"Good to see you, Mr. Scott. My name is Antwone. I hope you had a pleasant flight to get to our beautiful island," the man at the hotel's front desk said by way of greeting. Antwone was a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned Caymanian with a jovial face and a happy disposition that was immediately evident. This was in stark contrast to a physique that reminded Mike more of a professional American football player than that of a desk clerk at a hotel. Mike was a larger-than-average man himself, but he felt dwarfed by Antwone.

"It was uneventful," Mike lied as he remembered his uncomfortable dream. His entire trip was anything but restful, but he was here now and he hoped to be able to unwind.

Fifteen years before, Mike had worked on the island for a few years, perfecting his photographic skills before deciding he really liked composing images of people more than those of marine life. He had worked at various dive operations at the time, but he spent the most time at Sunset House. He still thought of himself as one of the boys. Although he had left the island and gone out into the world, diving held a place in his heart. So did Cayman, and especially Sunset House. It was where he retreated when the things he saw in the world, or photographed with his camera, became too serious.

Diving poses many challenges to the frail human constitution. One constant concern is decompression illness or "the bends." You can't surface quickly after staying down for any length of time; the body needs time to decompress and to readjust to the reduction in pressure. If you don't give your body time to adjust, you could get "bent"—a crippling or even fatal condition. For Scott, however, diving offered another form of decompression—decompression from the pressures of the outside world. And if there was ever a time that he needed to decompress, it was now.

"Mr. Scott, I have you all checked in. Is this your first time to the island, or are you a repeat visitor?" Antwone asked.

"Oh, I've spent some time on the island. I can find my way around with no problem," Mike replied with a smile, shouldering his camera bag and hoisting a suitcase.

"Oh, that's right. A few of the staff members saw your name on the registration sheet and recognized it. I understand you worked here. My apologies for not recognizing you immediately," Antwone said.

"No problem. It isn't like I'm a celebrity or anything. I just have a lot of friends. It's nice to know I'm remembered, though. Anything interesting going on around here?" Mike asked to check up on life on the island.

"It's odd you should mention it. I wouldn't tell the tourists about something like this, but you're family," Antwone said as he stroked his big chin and looked thoughtful. "Just today there was a riot, of all things, on the east end of the island. Some developers are coming in to build hotels and things down there, and the locals are all up in arms. It seems no one is telling them anything. Not the developers. Not the government. It just seems like the bulldozers are tearing things down, but no one is talking to the people who live there. It is a shameful situation altogether," Antwone said shaking his tightly trimmed head.

"I can't believe it. A riot on this island! This place is supposed to be peaceful and restful, not full of turmoil," Mike said with a tongue-in-cheek smile. He knew very well that the island was not like the picture painted for visiting tourists. A great place to visit, sure, but it was an island filled with people, and any time you added people into the mix, there were bound to be problems. There were crime and drugs and greed on the island, like everywhere else in the world. "I'm kidding, but a riot is pretty amazing, actually. I hope no one got hurt," Mike said.

"I believe a few people got roughed up a bit, but nothing serious. A couple cops took a hit or two as well," Antwone said.

"Well, here I am trying to escape the world for a few days and it seems as if the world is already intruding," Mike said with a shake of his head and a laugh.

"Never fear, sir. We will do our best to make sure that you have a chance to run from whatever it is you are running from," Antwone said, coming closer to Mike's reason for being there than Mike thought comfortable. "If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know, and we will make sure it happens."

"Thank you, Antwone. I appreciate it," Mike said over his shoulder as he walked out of the hotel's lobby and back into the bright Cayman sunshine.

****

Considering its place on the island, and the limited space between the road and the water, everything a diver could want was located in an incredibly efficient amount of space at Sunset House. Beside the main entrance to the hotel was the dive shop. Down the sloping driveway about 100 feet was My Bar, a drinking establishment legendary among the dive staffs on the island.

Places like Sunset House and the other resorts along that part of the island rest on limestone rock, left behind as the coral multiplied and died over thousands of years. At some point, probably before the environmental movement got strong, workers literally cut and blasted the iron shore at the water's edge to resemble the edge of a pool. Divers just had to step to the edge; put their mask, fins and regulator in place; and step out into the beautiful clear Caribbean Sea.

After checking into his hotel room and dropping off his bags, Mike wandered back outside and walked down to the water's edge. Mike was trying to relax—he needed to relax. Fortunately for him, the first step in being able to shake off the stress was realizing the need to do so. He couldn't just forget about things and put them away: he needed to come to terms with his emotions and experiences.

In spite of everything he had seen he hadn't become jaded or immune to the horrors of the way humans could treat each other. In general, he had learned to deal with it, but he never wanted to develop the calluses as others he knew had done. He believed that he needed the ability to feel what was going on around him to be able to understand it and tell the story better. Unfortunately, sensitivity came at a price.

Standing by the water's edge, Mike lost track of time. He was debating getting his things together and finding someone to jump in the water with when he heard a throat clear behind him.

"Mike, are you going to dive or just look at the water all day?" a voice asked.

Mike turned around with a start.

"Kelly! Well, what do you know? Good to see you. What are you doing down here?" Mike replied as he turned around. He would recognize that voice anywhere. The old friends greeted each other with a strong hug.

It was one of Mike's oldest friends, Kelly Anderson. When they had both been younger and a little less wise, Kelly and Mike shared a tiny apartment when they worked for Sunset House. Kelly had understood Mike's reasons for leaving the island, although he didn't agree with them. He was living in paradise and would do just about anything to stay there.

Kelly was a wiry 5-foot-11 inches tall. Living on the island and being out in the sun every day had darkened his already dark complexion. An African-American, he had gray eyes, good looks, and an open expression that made people want to be his friend.

"I had to drop by Sunset House to take care of some business. I needed to get my oxygen cylinders filled for my first aid kits, and these guys take care of it for me. And then I looked up and saw your big ugly mug standing here. I thought I was having a flashback to the old days," Kelly laughed.

"I was going to call you as soon as I settled in, but it looks like you saved me the call. You got any free time? I need a dive buddy," Mike explained.

"Some. I manage Ocean Expeditions down on the east end. Pretty nice setup. A little more rugged than this end of the island, but good diving. I'm sure you remember," Kelly explained.

"Oh yeah. Sure do. Look, I'm dying to get in the water. I know you dive all the time, but how about let's get wet right now. You got your gear with you?" Mike said, almost pleading, showing an obvious desire that surprised Kelly. Mike had always loved to dive—had always been willing to get in the water at the drop of a hat—but Kelly had never seen his friend display this sense of urgency. He sensed something was a bit awry with his friend, but decided not to pry. Not yet.

"I have enough. The rest, I'll grab out of the dive shop. These guys owe me a favor or two. I'm sure they'll loan me some gear. And you'd be surprised. Managing the place, I don't dive near as much as I used to," Kelly said.

With that, the pair walked back up the slight hill to gear up. Within 15 minutes both of them were ready to go.

"You lead," Mike told his friend as they gathered up their gear and moved to the water's edge. The water was so clear it looked as if he could touch the bottom, but Mike remembered it was at least 20 feet deep at the entry area. "It's been a while since I've made a dive here. Besides, I'd hate to show you up," Mike said.

Kelly knew there was something bothering his old friend. He was too stiff. _Maybe it's a woman, or a job_ , Kelly thought. But he knew better than to ask. It would come out eventually.

"Sure," Kelly answered. "Since it's been a while since we made a dive together, let's do a buddy check."

Kelly wanted to run through the drill to make sure Mike's head was where it was supposed to be. Also, since both of them were using some borrowed dive equipment, he wanted to make sure everything was working properly. Mike and Kelly quickly reviewed each other's equipment, checking straps and connections and then testing each other's alternate air source—for use in an emergency. After giving a final okay, they also quickly reviewed the hand signals they would use to communicate underwater.

"Has anyone told you about the new underwater attraction?" Kelly asked after they had completed their review and found everything in order. "They sunk a bronze mermaid a few years ago. She's pretty cool. I'll lead you over by it, and then we'll drop off the wall for a little way. Nothing too stressful. I know your gills have just about dried up."

Mike simply snorted, pulled his mask in place and put his regulator in his mouth as an answer. With that, the pair plunged into the water, allowing their dive computers to monitor the time they could spend in the water, but both keeping close watch on their air pressure which dropped steadily as they breathed it from the compressed air cylinders on their backs. As dive professionals they had each brought divers to the surface who hadn't paid close enough attention to their pressure gauges and their remaining air. Those divers would suddenly suck a vacuum on their regulators and realize that they had just taken their last breath from their tanks.

The water was warm and clear, as it usually is in the Caribbean and almost always is on Cayman. And the marine life was there, after a while. But Mike could also see the damage caused by the freak hurricane a few months before. They quickly moved beyond the devastation, but the shallows down to about 30 feet looked more like a lunar landscape with dead coral, and the reef itself was stripped bare. And there was still debris everywhere from the damaged island buildings. The reef would recover fairly quickly, but the force of nature was formidable and was only surpassed by the destruction that could be wantonly inflicted by man.

Passing 40 feet, things began to change. They were deep enough and far enough from shore that the waves couldn't wreak their havoc: the reef looked as Mike expected it to. And so did the animal life. Yellowtail snapper, angelfish and more varieties than Mike could remember were everywhere.

Diving on Cayman meant simply moving from dive site to dive site. Spectacular coral reefs and walls surrounded the entire island. Depths immediately surrounding the island quickly dropped off as far as 900 feet. Coral reefs in tropical seas were analogous to oases in the desert. Gin-clear, relatively unfertile water in the tropical regions of the world was punctuated with patches and rings of coral in shallow sections surrounding land or islands, and these provided havens of life amidst the desert within the outer ocean. Most of the reef life was in the shallows and thus easily accessible from shore, although several coral outcrops—and sometimes the more pristine and protected dive sites—could only be reached by boat.

As the dive continued, Mike slipped back into the known—he was at home. Being underwater with no sound but that of your own slow, rhythmic breathing—what Cousteau dubbed _The Silent World_ —always helped him unwind. Mike loved to dive. It didn't matter if he was in the ocean or in a freshwater lake. It provided an escape like no other. He enjoyed the myriad life forms or the odd shipwreck he discovered in the ocean. Marine graveyards provided a particular attraction for him, and Mike would often speculate on, and investigate, the life and history of the people who had sailed the ships to their doom. Just the same, though, Mike liked to dive in lakes and springs, like the one he had learned to dive in near his home in West Virginia, many years before. There wasn't as much to see, but the feeling of being weightless made up for that.

At 60 feet, the mermaid loomed up from the depths magically, beautifully. She appeared as a subaquatic goddess surveying her reef and the fish that were her children. She had begun to acquire a light covering of marine animals, making her look slightly fuzzy. There were only two spots on her bronze body clean of the growth. Divers, who are mostly men, just couldn't resist the urge to keep her clean.

Aside from the reefs and the warm clear water, Cayman was famous for its wall diving. The volcanic activity that formed the islands also rendered underwater cliffs plummeting to the ocean floor. With a few quick kicks, the divers left the mermaid and headed out to sea and over the edge of the drop-off. This particular wall wasn't as dramatic as some around the island, but nonetheless, it dropped off quickly. Unprepared divers could easily make the mistake of being tempted deeper in the deceptive, clear, warm water and find themselves in 100, 200 or 2,000 feet of water in the blink of an eye. The depths provide an additional charm which adds to their allure: nitrogen narcosis, a little-understood condition caused by breathing compressed air at depth. It causes divers to think and act as if drugged or drunk and they can continue swimming down without realizing the danger and the need to turn around. Fully reversible, nitrogen narcosis immediately subsides if the afflicted diver simply ascends to shallower depths. But while trapped in the stupor—often called the "rapture of the deep"—divers are unable to make rational judgments and may end up paying the ultimate price.

Kelly, in the lead, leveled off at 100 feet—before the narcotic effect could take a strong hold on either diver. Remaining only briefly, they gradually began to ascend toward the surface. While Mike and Kelly hadn't dived together for years, they had made hundreds of dives together before that. Regular dive buddies soon understand one another intuitively and can communicate effectively in the mute subaquatic world with a simple nod or shrug. It all came back quickly.

All too soon for Mike, the dive came to an end. The pair had been underwater for close to 45 minutes. Neither one was out of air, but they knew it was time to head for shore.

Back on the surface, Kelly decided to take the rest of the day off.

"Really, I've got some time coming. In fact I had today off; I just didn't have anything else planned for today and thought I'd take care of business. So, what d'you say we go grab some lunch and I'll show you everything that has changed on the island since you left?" Kelly asked, giving Mike a friendly punch on the arm.

"Sounds like a plan to me. Should I bring my gear?" Mike asked.

"You never know what we'll get into. Throw it in the back," Kelly replied, pointing to his Jeep.

"I can't believe you still have her!" Mike said, laughing. "When I sold you my Jeep, I expected you would let it fall apart."

Kelly's tired but functional Jeep CJ5 had nothing more than a bikini top and half doors to protect its riders from the elements. However, the only elements they needed protection from were mosquitoes, the sun and the occasional afternoon rainstorm. The jeep was primer gray with slightly oversized tires. It was not an extreme, or lifted, 4-by-4, but one that could overcome most obstacles.

"It has some rust on it, but nothing structural," Kelly replied. "This is the Caribbean, after all. Sometimes, I think even plastic could rust with the heat, blazing sun and humidity. Most people around now, those who can afford cars anyway, have smaller cars with right-hand drive. They say it makes it easier to drive on the left side of the road. But I'll keep the Jeep. It does just fine by me and gets me where I want to go," Kelly continued. "There are even rental car companies on the island that specialize in renting new Jeeps so the tourists can have convertibles."

"I know. They were in the airport when I got here," Mike said, shaking his head and grinning.

"This one will never be confused for one of those pretty new rentals, but it does me just fine and suits my needs. Plus, it reminds me of one I had growing up in Indiana," Kelly continued. "And it's much more practical."

"Oh, I hear it coming now," Mike said, laughing at, and with, his friend. "All kinds of justification coming my way."

"Oh, it's fun to drive and gets looks, but do you really expect me to drive around with wet, smelly dive gear in the trunk of a car?" Kelly said. "But really, it works for me because there are times when I need to go places on the island that a car just can't go. Seriously, think about some of the roads on the east end of the island and in the interior. I don't even have to leave the roads to need high ground clearance and four-wheel drive. The politicians don't pay quite as much attention to that end of the island as they do to the resorts on this end."

"Look, pal, I love Jeeps, remember? This one used to be mine, and I think I gave you the same speech at one time, so you really don't have to explain it to me," Mike said as he slid into the passenger seat. "But on a different note, what's this I hear about a riot on the east end? Sounds like somebody is paying some pretty close attention to that end of the island at the moment."

"I just heard about that myself, but I'm not sure what's going on either," Kelly replied. "Some developer with lots of money wants to expand to that end and build a resort, I guess. Doesn't really affect me much," he shrugged.

"If you say so. Let's go," Mike said.

## CHAPTER 4

Heading east along the island, Mike and Kelly stopped for a quick lunch of fried conch and then went along the water's edge, eventually making it to the dive operation Kelly managed. The casual drive had allowed Kelly and Mike to catch up, although like many true friends, it was no time before they were finishing each other's sentences. It seemed to both of them that they had been apart only a few weeks, instead of years.

"Hi, Susan, it's Kelly," Kelly said into his cell phone as he drove along the coast. "Are there any spots still left on the afternoon boat? Great. Hey, hold those last two spots for me, okay?" he said to the phone after a brief pause. "We'll be there in about 15 minutes. No, it isn't Tanya. It is an old buddy of mine. You'll see," he said with a grin as he hung up.

"What was that all about?" Mike asked.

"Oh, Susan is one of my staff dive instructors at the shop. When I told her it wasn't Tanya coming along on the dive and that it was an old buddy, she asked if you were cute. I didn't want to let the poor girl down and tell her you were ugly, so I thought I would string her along," Kelly said, teasing his friend.

Mike shook his head. "Amazing. I haven't even been back on the island a whole day and you're already starting that again."

"It wouldn't be so funny, if it weren't true. Pal, you are just too naïve to understand the effect you have on women. Sorry to say it, but you turn heads when you walk in the door, and you're completely oblivious to it," Kelly said, smiling. "Tanya says that makes you even more appealing, but most of the time, women just can't figure out how to get through to you. When was the last time you were in a serious relationship?"

"Well, I'd hate to let the poor girl down, so I guess I'll have to avoid her gaze to keep from disappointing her," Mike replied, doing his best to ignore the question and change the topic away from him. Whether or not he was as attractive as Kelly always said, he really didn't know or care, but he did have trouble staying in a serious relationship. Generally, he was too focused on other things to spare the time.

"So tell me, Mr. Manager, isn't it bad business for the boss to take a trip out on his boat when it could be used for paying customers?" Mike asked.

"Oh, call it quality control, if you want. Sometimes it's good for the boss to go out on the boat and watch the staff and listen to what the other divers have to say. Obviously, the staff will treat me well, but I tell them not to treat me differently than any other passenger. That way, I get to listen to what the paying customers think," Kelly explained.

"Pretty shrewd. You have become quite the manager, haven't you?" Mike said, shaking his head. "And respectable from the sound of it. I'm impressed. What happened to the young, impressionable kid I took in under my wing so many years ago?"

"Puhlease," Kelly said. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but we are the same age."

"True, but I was here first, so I was the more experienced one. And you were the young hothead, trying to rush in and meet all the women and do all the deep dives—all in one night, if I remember correctly," Mike said. "The poster child for the Cayman Cowboy if I ever saw one."

"Fine, old-timer, I guess you were the voice of reason and experience. What about the time we..." Kelly said as Mike cut him off.

"All right, all right. So maybe I had a few wild oats left in me too," Mike laughed. "I'm just going to bust a gut, though, if someone calls you 'Sir' when we walk in there."

Arriving at Kelly's dive shop just in time to board, Mike and Kelly carried their equipment directly to the boat.

"Step aboard, gentlemen. Watch your step, sir," Shaun, the boat's divemaster, said to Kelly as he handed her his gear. Mike gave Kelly a smirking look that said 'I told you so,' but held himself in check, for the moment.

"Have a seat, guys. I was just about to give a general dive briefing before we left the dock," she continued. "Diving on the east end is a little rougher than on the west end of the island, but that makes it all the more interesting. Just off the coast is a second coral reef that acts as a breakwater, knocking down the waves a bit before they come in to the shore," Shaun explained. "To get to the dive site, we have to go through that breakwater and face the rougher sea. Realistically, though, diving on the east end of Cayman still isn't rough water. It's just a bit hardier than the easy walk-in diving on the other end of the island.

"Now, before we leave, I need to check everybody in. Please don't answer for your buddy. I need everyone to answer for themselves," Shaun continued. "I don't want anyone to get left behind. I often find that when we leave someone in the water, the other divers don't tip very well," she joked about the very serious subject. From there, the divemaster went on to discuss some of the basics of the boat, and then they got underway.

Arriving at the dive site, Mike and Kelly allowed the other divers on the boat to get geared up and in the water first. They were in no hurry and they wanted to stay out of the way.

Finally, once the way was clear, the pair donned their dive gear and moved to the stern of the boat. Mike had brought his underwater camera housings along to the island, but he hadn't had a chance to unpack them yet in his rush to get in the water. He regretted his haste to run off with his old friend immediately. The pair jumped off the back of the boat into the warm, clear Caribbean waters and suddenly they were surrounded. The reef was alive with fish of every color and description. As they descended along a permanent mooring buoy line to the edge of one of Cayman's famous walls, they could see all around.

They proceeded to the deepest portion of the wall that they planned to visit first and then traveled back along the reef and up. There was a slight current running, so they swam against the flow at the beginning of the dive, and planned to allow the water to slowly push them back toward the boat and the surface towards the end of the dive.

Dropping down to 90 feet, Mike could still see everywhere. At that depth, things take on a distinctive shade of blue, as even clear water absorbs the light from above—beginning with red and working through the spectrum until all that is left is shades of blue and gray. It didn't matter, however; it was still fantastic and peaceful.

Slowly the pair swam along, monitoring their depth gauges and dive computers to make sure they didn't overstay and allowed themselves the time they needed to move toward the surface. By the time their leisurely ascent had brought them up to 40 feet, it was time to return to the boat. Following the current, they continued on at a slow, lazy pace, just enjoying the scenery, with Mike wishing he had his cameras along the entire time.

****

The two older divers had been friends since they were finishing up their MBAs at Yale in 1959. It was only at this point in their lives that they were beginning to relax. One's life had led him to a career in the government; the other had left graduate school for Wall Street. Both had ended up being extremely successful, making more money than either one ever needed and taking care of their families as best they knew how. Through it all, the bond from their university days had stayed strong.

It had been an odd coincidence when six months before both their wives had passed away within just a few weeks of each other—one from a heart condition, the other in an automobile accident. And it was at a time when both men, Henry Toney and John Burnsworth, were wrapping things up and were planning to enjoy their retirements.

It took a while, but they both decided to continue on with their plans for the "around the world trip" they had planned to make with their wives on the yacht Burnsworth had purchased just the year before.

Waiting for the boat to arrive in the harbor at Grand Cayman—a storm had slowed it down by a few days—both men decided to go diving. They had both taken up the sport years before, but neither had been active in several years. They decided they should get back in the water because the yacht had a fully stocked dive locker on board. They should be prepared to take advantage of it, they realized.

A little rough and rusty at first, the men were adjusting to the dive and the preparations necessary to go underwater. In their own private worlds, they were reveling in the feeling of weightlessness.

As they swam along, in no hurry to get anywhere in particular, the men were following the contours of the reef. Just up ahead, they could both see a commotion, but couldn't determine what was going on. Not really stopping to consider what might be the cause, they signaled to each other and moved around a rise in the reef to investigate.

The first shark swam just over Burnsworth's shoulder like a torpedo, startling him badly. They could see three other sharks swimming around quickly in ever-tightening circles around something floating in the water. In most cases, divers feel fortunate to see sharks in the water: they signal healthy reef systems and are graceful animals to watch.

This time, however, the men were not thrilled. As they circled, the four sharks were taking erratic bites out of what appeared to be a bloody carcass, making it spin and flop in the water. The water immediately around the scene was murky. The agitated sharks had thrown blood and bits of flesh floating around.

Getting nervous about the feeding frenzy they were witnessing, the divers prepared to back away as quickly as they could, both thinking they were going to have a tremendous story to tell back on the boat. Then they saw it. A particularly vicious strike by one of the larger sharks caused the carcass to float clear of the murk. As it did, a human head lolled in the turbulent water and the men realized they were not looking at a dead animal.

****

About 100 yards from the mooring line, Kelly noticed two divers up ahead looking confused and stressed. Their movements were jerky and they were swimming close together; it seemed like they were holding on to each other. All of the other divers were still in relatively deep water—about 60 feet or so—as they were returning to the boat.

Kelly knew immediately what was going on. One of the divers, probably on vacation, was out of practice and had probably breathed more quickly than he or his buddy expected. He had run out of air. They were breathing together off of one cylinder—the out-of-air diver breathing out of his buddy's alternate air source intended just for that purpose.

Mike saw them as well, and Kelly signaled for them to swim over and keep an eye on the divers. While this could be serious, it appeared as if both divers were coping well with the situation. They would make it back to the mooring line and then make a controlled ascent to the surface. Their dive training had kicked in, and they were handling the emergency. Mike and Kelly had nothing to offer at the moment.

As Mike and Kelly got closer, the divers stopped swimming and began thrashing. The second tank was empty as well and panic had set in. They pushed away from each other, regulators out of their mouths, and began to bolt for the surface.

Panic deprives divers of rational thought and the benefits of their training. In their panicked condition, they knew they needed air and the only place they could think to find it was on the surface. The surface was safety. Ironically, their swim for the surface could have exactly the opposite effect. The two men were in grave danger.

Anticipating this possibility, Mike and Kelly had moved into a position just above the pair of troubled divers. Just as the two men began to bolt for the surface, Mike and Kelly each grabbed one roughly by their buoyancy control jackets and shoved their own alternate regulators into the divers' mouths. Already beyond rational thought, the divers struggled with their rescuers, attempting to break free. Kelly had given the diver he was assisting the air he needed, but the man couldn't relax enough to take a breath. He quickly jabbed his diver in the stomach to make him release the breath that was building up the pressure in his lungs. Kelly was rewarded with the sound of the man exhaling rapidly and then inhaling.

The other diver continued to struggle. Mike moved closer so that his mask was within inches of the other diver's face in an effort to get the other man to focus on him, but risking his own life in the process.

The diver twisted in Mike's grip, but Mike held him firmly. Panic is an extremely powerful emotion. It makes rational people do irrational things. They hurt people trying to help them. They don't take help that would save their lives, because it isn't what they are focused on.

This could have been the case for Mike and his out-of-air diver. The man moved, jerked and tried to get free. Eventually, however, recognition and understanding entered the eyes of the diver and Mike heard the reassuring metallic rush of air through the donated regulator as he began to breathe.

In the brief moments that it had taken Mike to regain control, Kelly had already moved to the boat's mooring line and was beginning to make a slow ascent with his diver in tow. Mike looked around and, reassured, he motioned his new charge toward the line and they began their ascent as well.

On the surface, Kelly signaled the boat's divemaster that something was wrong and pointed to the two divers. With a look and a couple practiced hand signals, Kelly was able to communicate to the boat crew what had happened underwater and that they should watch these divers closely.

"Well, that was an exciting way to finish a dive," Mike said to his buddy while they waited for Shaun to assist the other divers out of the water and back on the boat.

"Sure was. Been a while since I helped out in a rescue. How do you feel? Looked like you had more of a handful than I did," Kelly observed.

"I'm good, actually. When the adrenaline drops, I'm not sure how I'll feel. But, I do know these guys owe us one," was Mike's reply.

After stripping out of his own gear, Kelly walked across the stern of the boat to talk to the divers. They were both feeling pretty bad about what had happened—they were embarrassed and suddenly feeling very mortal.

"How are you two doing?" Kelly asked as he approached the two older men. He was glad to notice they had taken their gear apart and packed it away. He had seen divers in similar situations simply shut down and just quit. At least these guys were still doing what they were supposed to do.

"I'm... I'm okay," the first diver answered, shaking his head. "If you guys hadn't been there to rescue us, well..."

"Hey, don't worry about it. We were there and that's all that matters," Kelly said, trying to reassure the diver. He wasn't about to let the two divers off the hook for the nearly fatal mistake they had made, but at the same time, he didn't see any need to rub it in.

"So what happened down there?" Kelly asked, already knowing what he was going to hear.

"We saw sharks..." one of them said.

"Got you spooked a bit, did it?" Kelly said. "Don't worry, they aren't interested in eating people. They wouldn't have come after you."

"But you don't understand," the second diver chimed in. "We saw sharks eating a body. There was a dead body down there. It was absolutely horrible."

Kelly asked the divers to slow down and repeat the story. At the same time, he tried to determine the general direction from the boat and the distances involved so he could begin the search. He wasn't sure if he believed the men or not, but something had certainly scared them, and he was going to have to have it checked out.

They quickly called for the ocean rescue dive teams to begin searching the general area.

****

"Guys, I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that it could have happened to anyone and it was no problem. Obviously, you saw something terrible, but you also made some big mistakes." Kelly told the divers when he came back after speaking to the authorities to report the sighting. "The good news is you lived to tell about it and learn from it. There are a couple things I want to talk to you about, though."

"Is this going to hurt?" the second diver said, making a weak joke about the scolding he expected to receive.

"No. It won't hurt too much. But listen: first off, we need to keep an eye on you for a while. You ascended way too fast before Mike and I got there. You could've damaged something in your ascent that we just don't know about yet," Kelly explained. "I've talked to the boat's divemaster and she's going to keep an eye on you. If you start feeling anything unusual, like numbness, tingling, dizziness—anything like that—let her know immediately. She'll get you on some emergency oxygen if you need it. If you develop any problems after leaving the dive shop when we get back, call us or go to the hospital emergency room immediately. Understood? They'll tell you what to do.

"Thanks for the advice and reassurance. Well, I guess now we are up for the beating, aren't we?" asked the first diver, who seemed to be dealing with the situation a bit better.

"Just this. Obviously, what you saw would have been upsetting for anyone. It made you start breathing very heavily and caused you to use up your air supply faster than you expected," Kelly said. "I think you should consider taking a diving refresher course before you get back in the water again. It will restore your confidence after today and make you safer, more competent divers. We can take care of it at the dive shop. It will take about a day. And just to be on the safe side, we can arrange to have one of the staff make a dive with you to guide you around. No more diving today, please."

"No worries there. Thanks. And thanks again. You guys, eh, saved our lives." the second diver said.

"No problem," was the response.

After debriefing at the dive shop, Kelly filled out an incident report for his dive training agency to keep the lawyers at bay, or at least have better luck winning if there was a lawsuit. It took a couple hours at the dive shop to get everything settled, but when it was finally all over, Mike and Kelly jumped back into the Jeep, heading west, to get Mike back to his hotel. For the first few minutes after they left the dive store, Mike was unusually quiet and let Kelly do all the talking. Soon, Kelly began to realize he was keeping up a one-sided conversation.

"Hey, man, what gives? I like the sound of my own voice, but not this much," Kelly said.

"Just some things on my mind, and our little adventure at the end of the dive brought it all back home to me." Mike proceeded to tell his friend about what had happened in the Middle East with the death of Tom Stuart, and why he was taking a break from the action. "It just seems unfair that I was able to help save the lives of two guys I've never met before, but couldn't do anything to help a friend. And I was right there."

"It sounds to me like you would have been dead too if you tried to, so I, for one, am glad you didn't just barrel in, Mike."

Driving on in silence for a few more minutes, the traffic on the two-lane road headed back toward George Town began to slow. As the cars filtered by, Mike and Kelly pulled alongside a public dock area for smaller boats. Two boats were moored to the dock, and both were painted with Ocean Rescue down the side. Mike looked over in time to see two divers from one of the boats handing a body bag off of the boat to a waiting ambulance crew.

The body in the bag looked small and vaguely feminine, but the distance made it hard to tell.

Mike stared quietly at the grizzly scene unfolding in front of him. Considering everything on his mind at the moment, this just put the top on it, as his grandfather would have said. It was a quiet ride back to Sunset House.

"Mike, I know you got a lot on your mind right now, but you're going to have to deal with it and then let it go," Kelly said to his old friend when he pulled into Sunset's parking lot. "I've got some errands to run, but how about I come and get you about eight for dinner?"

"Sure. Sounds good. I'll snap out of it. It's just been a long day and I'm pretty tired. I'll probably go grab a nap and be ready when you get here. I tell you what, meet me at My Bar for a drink first and then we'll go out," Mike said.

## CHAPTER 5

##

"Okay, will you tell me what's going on?" Samson asked his new boss over the breakfast table. After the commotion the previous evening—when the girl had surprised them, but gotten away—Walker closed down and refused to answer any questions, deferring discussion to the morning. A man of ingrained training and discipline, Samson sat at quiet attention on the stiff patio chair.

Before Walker could answer the question, his wait staff entered the room to deliver breakfast. Walker liked to be pampered and refused to make any concession to that wish. Having a formal breakfast served in front of a hired henchman was not a move to impress or awe, it just followed his refusal to compromise. It didn't matter who was, or was not, there. He would have a formal breakfast. Samson was not invited to join him, however.

Walker took his luxury seriously and the opulence of his home reflected that attitude. Even on an island that catered to the rich and private, Walker's home ranked among the top. He had all the luxuries imaginable and a full staff of servants to meet his every whim. Whenever possible, he had his breakfast out on his patio with a full ocean view. That was where he met with Samson.

As the first server began to set down Walker's breakfast plate with Eggs Benedict and pineapple juice, his sleeve caught a glass of water and knocked it over, spilling its contents across the table. Walker exploded.

"You imbecile. You fool. Look at this mess you've made," he shrieked.

"My apologies, sir. I... I... I will clean this up immediately," the man stuttered, obviously terrified, aware of Walker's outbursts.

"No. No, you won't. I want you out of here immediately. You are fired. This is absolutely inexcusable. Get out of my sight," Walker ranted.

"But sir... I have a family. I need to work to take care of them," the man stammered.

"You should have thought of that when you came in here and been more careful," Walker replied with a cold glare. "Now get out of my sight," he finished, his voice getting shrill.

The man ran from the room, covering his head as if he expected Walker to throw something at him. Two other servers hurried into the room to remove the tablecloth and Walker's place setting. Quickly and efficiently, they replaced everything. It was as if the accident had never happened.

Returning his attention to Samson, Walker acted as if he had done nothing more significant than smash a bug under his heel. "After the scare from last night, I didn't think it was wise to talk about things out in the open. You never know who might be around with open ears," Walker answered. "By the way, this will be the only time you will come to my home. I have some visibility and standing on the island that I must protect. Do you understand?"

The thinly veiled implication that Samson would now learn that his role involved something less than legal neither disturbed or startled him in the least. In fact, it was reassuring that things were getting down to business and the menacing aura of mystery was about to end.

Most men carry the burden of conscience, morals ingrained from childhood. This was not Samson's problem. It is probably wrong to say that he didn't have a conscience; it was just his was shaped differently from one typical of the rest of the world. His conscience somehow gave him the necessary license to do what he needed to do to get a job done. No more. No less. It wasn't evil; it wasn't emotional or fired by some latent hatred for mankind; he was no psychopath. More accurately, he could be called a sociopath. As far as he was concerned, though, he was a trained and disciplined operator. There was neither spite nor remorse in his actions. He had a code of conduct that he never wavered from. This made him a professional. He was quite content with who he was and what he had to do.

"Sure, I understand. Now would you kindly dispense with the mystery stuff and let me know what this is all about?" Samson replied with a growing irritation.

"Let me begin by saying that the maps we got last night are the last piece to the puzzle. After I returned home last night, I checked them out. They're perfect. They will be the key," Walker replied.

"Perfect for what? If you can't tell me what this is all about and what's going on, I'm going to have to say thank you for the vacation and goodbye," Samson said.

"Patience, Mr. Samson...all in due time. I just wanted you to know that our little excursion across the island last night wasn't in vain. I have to admit that I'm also very excited, and it's sometimes difficult to contain my enthusiasm," Walker explained.

Walker's excitement was apparent. It took over his normal routine and, as his breakfast grew cold, Walker launched into the tale of the sinking of the _Firebird_. The _Firebird_ was a British crown ship heading back to England when it ran aground and sank in a storm off Cayman with a loss of all hands.

When he was finished, Samson responded, "That's a touching story. But what does it have to do with me?"

"About six months ago one of the locals brought me a letter he had found in his great-grandfather's papers when he died. He thought it might interest me. Most of the locals think I dabble in history and research as a way to give back to the island. I own the maritime history museum in George Town. While the history is interesting, I don't do it for the island, I do it for me. I believe there are lost treasure ships full of gold, ripe for the taking. I'm just quietly looking for them," Walker explained.

"Ah, a treasure hunter. It seems as if I saw somewhere that there have only been a few finds worth anything or that at least paid more than the cost of finding them," Samson responded bluntly.

"That's true and this is why it has remained a hobby rather than my primary source of income, which—as you can see—is not insignificant," responded Walker with a dash of sarcasm to parry with the hired hand for whom his respect was reluctantly growing. "I've always made my money in other ways and searched for gold on the side. And while the islanders and the government ministers think I run the museum to contribute to local island history, my little research machine—largely funded by admission fees—allows me the luxury of sponsored treasure hunting and even provides some great tax breaks. In fact I got a nice award last year," said Walker, relishing the moment of his display of business genius.

"Congratulations," Samson said with a wry smirk. "Now back to my reason for being here," he added, his tolerance at its limit.

"Back to where I started," Walker continued, feigning annoyance at the interruption, but internally pleased at being about to reveal his scheme. "The description is an eyewitness account of the sinking of a ship on one of the reefs off the island. I paid the man a small sum and took it to the museum. I have to keep up appearances, you know. In truth, at the time, I didn't think much of it."

"So what changed?" Samson asked, trying to hurry his new boss along a bit. Clearly this man thought a lot of himself and needed to make sure everyone else did as well. What Walker didn't understand about Samson was that he really didn't care.

"You may have heard about the hurricane that hit the island a few months ago?" Walker continued without waiting for the answer. "It was an unusual hurricane because it hit the island on the western end. Normally, when a hurricane approaches, it travels east to west and they rarely do much damage on the island. Well, this one came in from the other side and did a lot of damage. It really tore some things up and stirred up a lot of the reefs.

"This storm was just like the one described in the eyewitness account of the sinking of the _Firebird_ , although that's probably a coincidence. Regardless, since the storm, a few artifacts have turned up on the beaches. It got me thinking and suddenly a light went on for me.

"As you know, this island has been dived heavily. If you don't know how to dive, by the way, I would seriously consider learning. I own an interest in a few of the dive operations on the island. We can easily make arrangements for you. It's a skill I believe will be helpful in what I need you to do," Walker said.

"I don't dive, so I guess I'll probably need to learn then," Samson replied with significantly less confidence than he had to any of his employer's other requests. When he said this, he was thinking, _He wants me to go under the water? I can barely swim_.

"That will be fine. I'll set it up," Walker said as he made a note on a pad beside his breakfast that he always kept handy. "As I said, this island has been dived heavily, although that doesn't mean that divers have found everything under the water. The east end of the island isn't as sheltered from the ocean and doesn't get dived as much. I believe I know roughly where the _Firebird_ is, and it is right off the shore here."

Just then a man entered the room and walked directly to Walker. The stranger leaned over and spoke into Walker's ear, all the while keeping his eyes on Samson. Just as quickly and quietly as he had entered, he left without making a noise. Samson took an instant dislike to the man. He could tell by the look on the man's face that he was a small person. Not physically, where he was average, but on the inside. His bearing and demeanor reminded Samson of a rat—capable of saying anything his boss wanted to hear to get ahead.

"Anything I should know about?" Samson asked of Walker as he watched the other man leave. He didn't like the look on the visitor's face and didn't want things to go south without his knowing about it.

"No, Samson. That was nothing that concerns you. Allen is my assistant. He was bringing me a message about a visitor I will be receiving later today on a completely unrelated matter."

"So you want me to play Jacques Cousteau and find your shipwreck?" Samson asked to bring things back to where they had been before the interruption. "If you have clues to a shipwreck, there are investors who will swarm in and pay for the exploration. You don't even have to spend your own money." He said this last bit with tremendous confidence, and he was right, although it was based entirely on a documentary he'd seen while lying low in a hotel somewhere after exercising another of his "talents."

"Why don't you have your assistant pull this all together for you? You certainly don't need someone like me," he finished.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong. I could certainly get investors to come and look for the shipwreck, with probably less evidence than I have already given you—and I realize I have shown you very little—but the problem is I don't like to share. I really don't do it for the glory or the exploration. I do it for the money. I didn't get to my position in life by giving people my money. On the contrary, I usually try to take other people's money from them. And that is exactly what I am going to do here. I want to search for the shipwreck in secret and I am going to get the Cayman government to pay for it."

"How are you going to get the government to pay for something you are doing in secret? I just don't follow," Samson said, his frustration gradually turning into confusion at the intricate plan.

"Simple," Walker preened. "I have proposed a shiny new development for the general area of the shipwreck. There are several politicians who have agreed to support me with this project, although really, if they were using any common sense, they would have laughed me out of the room. But they weren't using common sense. They were using greed to shape their decisions and they have each calculated how much they can make," he said.

"As soon as I find the shipwreck, I will declare the area where it rests to be the perfect spot for the new cruise ship area and start construction, funneling money from the project to the underwater excavation. It will certainly cause the development to come in over budget, but that isn't my concern. I will take the gold from the wreck and give them a new dock. If the development project works, all the better for me. If it turns out to be a flop, so be it, I don't have any money invested in it and I get all of the treasure without sharing it with the island."

"Impressive in an overcomplicated sort of way, but it finally makes some sense," Samson said as he watched Walker flinch at the mild criticism. Walker would never acknowledge that his plan relied on more variables than anyone could even think of controlling. It had always been Samson's experience that even the best plan could be fouled up by a simple slip or a wrong turn. The more complex the plan, the more likely something simple would cause it all to fall apart.

"So why did we have to go get these special maps last night? And why in such a secret way?" Samson asked after thinking about the situation he was getting himself into for a moment. He didn't exactly like the way things were shaping up, but he didn't have to like it, he just had to accomplish the task set out before him and collect his money.

"These maps are very old. They are from an archive that most people don't even know about. That's the funny thing about this island. In their interest to modernize and make Cayman a tourist destination, they have forgotten much of their history. And that's to our benefit," Walker said. "The eyewitness account of the sinking of the _Firebird_ mentioned land features that don't exist anywhere on the island. I'd seen maps before that showed something similar to what the old man described. But I wanted the original survey maps from about the time of the wreck itself. They are kept in a special vault in the ministry of the interior in George Town. The gentleman from last night was kind enough to quietly bring me copies of those archived maps. I could certainly have requested and received permission to see the maps, but I doubt they would have let me copy them. And, if it became public that I wanted to see them, someone else might put two and two together. I wanted that kept as quiet as possible."

"What about your local partner? He wasn't very happy to see me there," Samson said.

"To do business on the island, you have to have a local partner, owning a certain portion of any company. He is my partner in the pier development project. Nothing more. I simply told him that these maps would help me to locate the perfect spot to build. He knows nothing about the shipwreck. Frankly, he doesn't care what I have to do, as long as he makes a nice healthy profit for nothing more than having been born on the island. He just assumed I didn't want things to be out in the open yet, so we did the map exchange in secret. Correct assumption, for all the wrong reasons," Walker said. "I keep all of my business operations as compartmentalized as possible. There is no reason for each group to know what the other is doing."

"It seems as if I am the only one, then, who knows the master plan," Samson said.

"Rest assured, Mr. Samson, you don't even know the half of it," Walker said. "If there is anyone on this island who knows all of my dealings, it is Allen."

"So why don't you have him run this project? Why do you need me?" Samson asked.

"As far as Allen goes, as I have told you before, I have my hands in several different dealings on the island, some legitimate and some less so. Allen is well known on the island as my representative and therefore anything suspicious he is involved with would automatically be linked back to me," Walker said. "You might be interested to know, by the way, that he actually wanted to conduct the project and I had to refuse him."

"Fine. So where is the treasure?" Samson asked.

"Even with the maps, it isn't quite that simple. I can't find an exact match on the map. Probably some changes that the mapmaker didn't even think as significant at the time. Also, unlike in the movies, there is no 'X marks the spot.' As the wreck sank underwater, it could have drifted, or been moved by storms. No, I am afraid we still have to search. But now, at least, we have a much better idea of where it might be," Walker explained.

"So what do you want me to do? I'm no explorer. I take care of things," Samson asked again.

"That is exactly what I want you to do. I have a crew of divers and boat captains who will do the actual searching. As a matter of fact, one of the crews has already been doing some underwater excavation work, but unfortunately without any success," he explained. "I want you to act as the foreman, so to speak, to keep them in line and keep them doing their jobs quietly. Secrecy is extremely important in an operation like this, obviously. I don't know what else might come up, but I might need some of your other 'special' talents in case someone gets too close," Walker said.

"Ah, finally, I get it. When do we start?" Samson asked

"We already have," Walker replied.

For all of Walker's arrogance, he wasn't sloppy. Before he put anything in motion, he did his homework and emphasized preparation above all else. Long before he arranged to bring Samson down to "take care of things" he began working the people on the island. He paid researchers to investigate unexplained happenings like lost fishing nets or unusual wave patterns that might indicate something submerged. He had divers and fishermen asking around about unusual sightings on and under the water.

All the while, he had three different people purchasing equipment for his search. One person acquired a boat exactly to Walker's specifications. The second person was buying specialized underwater search and excavation equipment. A third bought high-end, commercial-grade diving equipment for saturation diving and exploration.

The diversification spoke to Walker's intelligence. He knew, or at least had a very good idea, how much he could trust any one person before they began to put too much together and start making educated guesses. Walker wasn't a master sailor; he could barely understand a chart or keep his lunch down if the water got even slightly rough. He wasn't a skilled diver. He was certified, but never really learned to love exploring the underwater world. He wasn't an adventurer at all. He needed his luxuries and the concept of doing without them was inconceivable to him. What he was, however, was a master administrator and organizer. And that was all he needed to be.

While he was exceedingly impressed with himself, he also understood his own limitations. He knew that he couldn't do many of the things that needed to be done to pull off a project like this. He also knew he could easily afford to buy people who could.

In this case, he was right and had so far been very successful. He had people out searching for his shipwreck for him without really knowing what they were looking for. He had people collecting things for him that would never really know what he was going to use them for. Long before Samson came to the island, Walker was already planning and assembling. Things had been underway for quite some time. Now, with Samson's help, came the opportunity to pull it all together and make something of it.

## CHAPTER 6

##

The sun was just beginning to drop into the Caribbean when Kelly and his girlfriend of several years, Tanya, showed up. Mike was standing down at the water's edge just watching the sun go down and letting its warmth wash over him. He could feel the residual tension begin to evaporate. In spite of the excitement from the day—rescuing two divers who ran out of air—the warmth and the sunshine, along with the smell of the ocean, were working their hypnotic magic.

He knew he still had a long way to go, but he was beginning to feel human again. Mike scratched the stubble on his chin. The dark hair coming in gave his face a fuzzy look. He was around people who took him at face value and didn't expect a lot from him, and that was exactly what he needed at the moment.

"Hey, Mike! Good to see you. Kelly told me you made him play hooky today. Good for both of you," Tanya said warmly, as she walked up to him, the distinctive remains of her fading Russian accent adding to her charm. She had erased most of it over the years living around the world and now in the islands, but the subtle intonations that conjured up visions of cold desolate lands, fur, caviar and vodka were not complete eradicated.

"Zdrastvoytia, Tatyana," Mike replied, using her full first name and just about the only Russian he had picked up over the years. "Good to see you too," he said as he turned to give her a hug and a kiss. "So when are you going to dump this loser you've been with for so long?"

"It depends on when you decide to finally settle down," she flirted back. That was all there was to it—two old friends joking around. Mike had no interest in Tanya. Even though she was smart and attractive, she was his friend's girlfriend after all, and the boundaries were well understood and happily accepted. Tall and blond like many Russian women, she was slim, tan and toned. She and Kelly might as well have been married, even though they had never gotten around to it.

Dressing for an evening out in Cayman could mean any level of dress, from shorts and sandals to formal wear, depending on where they planned to go. Most of the time, however, unless they were planning to go somewhere special, they would be dressed for island comfort. Even in the winter, the island temperatures rarely dipped below 70 degrees so shorts, T-shirts and sandals were standard attire.

Kelly walked up with three Stingrays, a locally brewed beer, and the three sat down to enjoy the sunset at My Bar.

"So tell me, Mike, what have you been up to? Kelly didn't tell me much," Tanya asked. "I am so sorry we haven't kept in touch better over the last couple years."

"Well thanks, but it certainly isn't your fault. With my travel schedule and time on the road, I've been terrible about keeping in touch with anyone. I'm pretty much able now to live where I want to, as long as I can travel to the New York office when I need to. I just have to be near an airport. I have a beach house in Manteo, North Carolina, now. It's a great place. I'd love for you guys to come up and visit sometime. There's some great diving there too. Different from here, though. There are some amazing shipwrecks from as far back as the 1700s right through to a couple of German submarines sunk in World War II," Mike said. From there, Mike gave her the short version of his last couple of assignments, but didn't feel like getting into too much detail. Tanya knew enough not to push.

"You didn't mention love interests back in North Carolina, so I assume there isn't anyone there to take care of your house while you're away," she said. "You know I hate matchmaking, but I always wondered why you never settled down. There were certainly some prime candidates here when you left who were heartbroken."

"Tanya, you're taken and I just can't find anyone else who compares, so I guess I'm just destined to be single," he joked. "How about you, Tanya? What are you up to these days?" Mike asked, changing the subject from him.

"I'm involved in a great new project. The government has finally given in to a coral monitoring program, and I have been asked to direct it and get it running. After all of those years of making a living as an underwater tour guide, I finally get to put my education to work and do some good science."

"Who convinced the government that they needed to look more closely at the coral reefs?" Mike responded.

"I wish I could say it was me, but although I've been suggesting it for years, it just came up suddenly. Probably one too many articles in the dive magazines talking about how the reefs were degrading or something. And ultimately, it's about the money. Cayman is completely dependent on tourism and the tourists come to see the coral reefs. Not dead ones, but pretty living ones with lots of fish swimming around. I guess they decided it was time to be a little more proactive."

"Things look pretty good to me. Some damage caused by the storm, of course, but overall, it looks fine," Mike said.

"I agree. Things are going well. We just want them to stay that way," Tanya said.

"Good evening, Mr. Scott," Mike heard from behind him. "I hope you are enjoying your stay and your time with your wonderful friends. Hello, Kelly, and my lovely Tanya." It was Antwone from the front desk Mike realized as he turned around. He was kissing Tanya's hand.

"Things are going great, Antwone. Would you care to join us?" Mike asked.

"No, thank you, Mr. Scott. I am meeting some friends in a few moments, but thought I would stop by to say hello. If there is anything you need, anything at all, please let me know."

"I appreciate that, Antwone. I'm fine for now, but if anything comes up, you'll be the first one I call," Mike said.

"Please do and enjoy your evening," Antwone said as he looked up and noticed two beautiful women entering the bar and walked to join them.

"Well, I don't blame him for not wanting to join us," Kelly said, laughing. "Even the lovely Tanya can't compare to those two beauties."

"Is that so, Mr. Anderson? See where you sleep tonight," Tanya said as she kicked out her leg at Kelly.

"He seems like a really nice guy. Sure is big, though. He could easily play football in the States," Mike said.

"He did for a while, actually. Played for Green Bay for a couple of seasons. Made some good money, but then he blew up his knee. He is working to get some experience managing hotels now. He told me that he had enough money set aside to buy a hotel or small resort somewhere. He's just biding his time, learning how to run an operation. He's a big guy, but smart too," Kelly said.

"He may be big, but I think he's a big teddy bear. He wouldn't hurt a fly," Tanya said.

"It seems to happen that way. The really big guys are the most peaceful. They don't have anything to prove," Kelly said.

After two beers and an unusually spectacular sunset, as the setting sun reflected on some high cloud cover, the threesome piled into Kelly's jeep and headed off for Lone Star. The rather unimaginative name is the moniker for a restaurant/sports bar owned by an expatriate from Texas who makes no secret about his upbringing. Everything in the place is either Texas themed or -sized. There are T-shirts on the ceiling of every description and pictures, plaques, and flags on the wall that all celebrate the glory of Texas.

Lone Star was a place where divemasters from the various dive operations came to hang out and have a drink and chicken wings. The occasional tourist wandered in there, but not many. Considering Mike's return to the island, and Kelly's never leaving, they decided Lone Star would be a good place to celebrate.

Sitting around a table a few of the old hands stopped in to see Mike, but just about everyone said hello to Tanya and Kelly. They were well known among the Lone Star faithful.

"Hey, Kelly, what's up, lad? Heard about that grisly scene down on your end of the island. What happened?" asked Sean McKinney, another old-timer from Ireland who had moved to Cayman to escape the cold.

Grand Cayman, and the sister islands, served as a landing spot for divers from all over the world. The locals mostly left water sports to the expatriates. And they came from everywhere. There were Americans, but there are also Eastern and Western Europeans. They even came from the South Pacific and South Africa to work on Cayman.

"I don't know much about it. Mike and I took care of the guys who spotted the body and panicked when they ran out of air. Then, back on shore, we saw them taking the body away after pulling it from the water. Other than that, we're as clueless as you are. I'm not sure anyone knows much at the moment," Kelly replied.

"Oh, I do," chimed in Danielle, Sean's date, an Australian. "My roommate works at the hospital where they brought in the body. They aren't sure who she was yet, she was really torn up pretty bad."

"Well, the sharks could have done that," Tanya said.

"That's the funny thing," Danielle replied. "My roommate heard some of the cops at the hospital talking. They found blood all over the rocks near the blowholes. This isn't confirmed yet, but they're pretty sure it's all from the same person. It looks like she fell down, cut herself and got up to run farther. The last time she fell into the rocks, she must have been close enough to the water to get swept out to sea when the tide came in."

"Oh, that's horrible," Tanya said.

"What could make a person so scared that they would hurt themselves so badly and keep running?" Mike asked. "I have seen some pretty terrible things in war zones and around the world, but usually, when someone is hurt badly, they go down and stay down. There would have had to have been some major fright involved for her ignore the pain and keep going like that."

"I just can't imagine it," Danielle said. "That poor girl. I hope they find out who she was and what happened."

"That end of the island has been in the news a lot lately," piped in Sean. "In fact, I was buying some lobster from the local fishermen a few nights ago for the party we had. They were kind of spooked about something. Said they'd heard the ocean growling and saw strange-looking lights under the water. Like nothing they'd ever seen before and they've seen divers doing night dives. Besides, no one ever came back to the surface. I tell you, they didn't want to go near the water after dark again."

From that point, more people arrived ready to unwind after a long day of work and the conversation quickly turned to more mundane topics: who owned what dive operation today and who would own it tomorrow; the latest gossip on the beach about who was dating whom and on and on. On one level, Mike found it reassuring that even though many of the faces on the island had changed, the personalities hadn't. This was what he needed, to relax with people who had no pretensions about what they were doing. It was a refreshing change from his normal life. On another level, somewhere in the back of his mind, Mike's analytical journalist's mind and investigator's eye knew something was wrong about the death of the girl. It was just there in the dark recesses of his mind, but there was nothing he could lay his hands on, simply the feeling that something wasn't right. His subconscious continued moving pieces around in his mind while he chatted and made new friends.

By the end of the evening, Tanya had to drive Mike back to Sunset House and then she took Kelly back to their place. Both of the men had too much to drink, but at least they were smart enough not to drive. Tanya, with her Russian liver, could probably out-drink any of them anyway, but she had an early morning planned so had stopped at two drinks and then had water for the next several hours so she could get up and face the morning without regrets.

****

"Mr. Samson, we're ready to get underway," one of the divers told Samson. He hadn't learned all their names yet. He'd only been out with that diver once before and that was on the boat. He thought he was Ian or something like that.

Not yet a diver, Samson was not entirely comfortable with what lay ahead, but he had no choice. And he certainly couldn't show the divers he was uncomfortable. They were going out in a submarine. This was another of the arrangements Walker made and not told Samson about.

Divers handled much of the work for Walker's project. But for the close excavation, when they thought they might have found something, the submarine was invaluable.

The craft was a converted tourist submarine capable of descending to a depth of more than 500 feet of seawater, and it could carry eight people. Unlike its more mundane predecessors, Walker's modifications included the addition of excavation tools to its exterior. They were able to literally tear through the coral and rock to see what was below.

Its past life as a tourist sub was also a stroke of a genius for Walker and this operation. With its bright yellow color, and most of the excavation equipment mounted on the bottom, it would remain a tourist sub to the untrained eye and raise no suspicions. It allowed them to use the cover story that they were just in the process of completing the shakedown runs before they started operating it for the public. They could slip in and out of the harbor with no questions asked. Normally a small submarine like this would operate from a barge or a large boat, but this one was unique in that it had the long-distance ability to run for hours, at a respectable clip. They told questioners that the operation platform was coming soon, however.

"Watch your head, Mr. Samson. This is a big submarine, but your forehead will lose every time in a fight with the steel hatch," the sub pilot told him.

"I bet it would. Thanks for the warning," he said with a rueful grin as he ducked down. "Where do you want me to sit?" He was hoping for somewhere in the back.

"There's a co-pilot seat up front for you," the pilot said.

"Great," Samson said. In his mind he was cringing. They were going to be under the water and he was going to be right up by the big glass window.

"Now how does this thing work again?" Samson asked.

"It's all pretty simple, actually. It flies just like a plane. You use the stick to control it up and down and the pedals on the floor help you go from side to side, with the stick a bit. Across the front here are gauges that show your depth and distance from the bottom," the pilot explained. "I can also monitor the oxygen supply, carbon dioxide content in the breathing gas and various other things.

"Normally, this would be a one-atmosphere submarine. The inside would be under the same pressure as you would be standing on the surface. But since we will be locking divers in and out of the sub through that hatch," he said pointing at the floor, "and into a saturation diving bell and then out into the water, we also have the extra ability to pressurize the inside of the sub and slowly reduce it so none of the divers get bent."

Samson wasn't entirely sure what "bent" meant, although he had heard of it somewhere. He thought it had something to do with diving sickness. Probably heard about it on cable documentary somewhere. In his line of work, he had a lot of down time to watch TV.

"So how deep are we going to go today?" Samson asked.

"Most of the time we will be working at about 60 feet or so. But we will go down to 140 to get to the underwater lock," he said.

"Are you sure you can find the lock? I don't really want to be lost underwater," Samson said.

"The great thing about this sub is that it's all computerized. It has an autopilot that will take it directly to the diving bell and then return to here. I can even program in new places based on topside GPS coordinates and the computer guidance system will take us right there. GPS doesn't work underwater, but the computer can find specific locations based on fixed points it does know."

"So you are telling me that I could fly, errr, drive this thing?" Samson asked, warming up to the tool in front of him.

"Pilot is the word you are looking for. Assuming the coordinates were laid in, all you would have to do is punch a couple buttons and sit back and enjoy the ride. Locking to the diving bell and that sort of thing takes a bit more skill, but if you're interested, I'll show you how on some of our trips," the pilot said. "By the way, I don't think we've been properly introduced. The name is Steve."

"Samson. Nice to meet you," he responded. "I'd like to learn how to pilot this thing."

"Steve, the lines are all clear," one of the divers called down as he entered the sub.

"Okay, boys, let's rock and roll. Secure the hatch. We're burning moonlight. It isn't going to stay dark all night," he responded. With that, Steve set the coordinates and pulled out of the boat slip into the night and a sea of blank ink, glistening in the full moon. Just outside the harbor, he submerged the sub, turned the interior lights to red to allow the diver's eyes to adjust to the low light levels and settled in for an hour's ride to the diving bell. Using the automatic pilot, he moved through the black water without betraying their location to the surface.

"Samson, with your permission, I'd like to brief the boys on their job for tonight. I know you're in charge of the whole operation, but I think it's better if it comes from me for now," the pilot said.

"No problem. I agree," Samson said, mainly because he didn't think he could explain what they were going to be doing. He knew the mission, but not how to do it.

"All right, boys, listen up," Steve said to the seasoned group of military and commercial divers in the back. They all had a grizzled look that told Samson they were professionals and were not afraid of doing things covertly. There were four of them.

"I know I can count on you to do your bit, so let's get down to business," he said. "We are going to run in the sub for about an hour until we meet up with a diving bell. We will lock on to it and that is your cue to get going."

"You will transfer to the bell and lock out of it into the water where underwater scooters will be waiting for you. Once you are all in position you will follow me to the excavation site. We'll do most of the work with the sub itself, but I will need you to make sure everything runs smoothly and to get up close to guide me if we find anything interesting. We will have underwater communications, as before, and we will limit our conversation to the minimum," said Steve with the confidence that reflected both hard-earned respect and many hours of having done it himself.

"What are we looking for?" one of the divers asked.

"Need to know, I'm afraid. Anything that looks out of the ordinary, pick it up and put it in the basket on the front of the sub. If it looks too big for you to pick it up, signal me and I will see what I can do with the sub. Any questions?" Steve asked.

The conversation turned to operational issues including depth, time, and decompression concerns, which Steve explained in detail, while Samson tuned out. He didn't need to know the diving stuff. He was there to make sure everything was done properly and that no one hid anything they found. He was there to keep everyone in line, not make technical decisions.

All in all, though, he was impressed. This was a pretty sophisticated operation. Boats, planes, divers and informants. Not to mention the submarine. Samson attempted to do the mental gymnastics about the cost of this project, just to get it set up. He really couldn't. He knew searching for treasure was expensive, but he didn't think anyone had ever tried to do it in secret before.

****

Moving as quietly as he could, the man slipped around the corner of the dark building. While the place closed at 7 p.m., he had waited until well after midnight before he attempted this. He waited for two reasons. First, he wanted to make sure no one was around and second, he needed time to conjure up the courage.

Not a professional thief, the idea of breaking into a building in the middle of the night took more guts than he usually had, but his anger and frustration had driven him to this.

He doesn't realize what he has in me. And if he isn't going to reward me for it, I'm going to bring him down, he thought for the 500th time that night as he screwed up his courage.

Dressed in all the dark clothing he could find, he scurried toward the alarm box by the rear entrance. Having come to this building dozens of times before, he knew exactly how to work the security system and disable it. He had snatched the alarm's key override from the building the last time he was there, just a day before. He could disable the alarm without actually breaking anything and without using a pass code that would immediately signal who had entered the building.

With the alarm turned off, he slipped through the door using his own key. Low-level emergency lighting helped guide his way past the display cases and the maritime exhibits in the museum. Most of the stuff was junk or replicas of the real thing, but a few pieces were actually worth some money. However, he was there for one purpose, just one item.

They probably won't even notice that it's gone, he thought. At least not until I get a chance to use it to my advantage.

Headlights panned across the inside wall of the museum as he made his way toward the storeroom.

_Did I miss something? What did I do wrong? Is there another alarm? Did someone see me?_ the man questioned himself as he crouched down behind a display holding up the anchor from a Spanish Galleon that had wrecked nearby. Then he heard voices talking outside.

"I'm sorry, but I just have to go. It'll only take a second. Just hold on," a male voice said as the would-be thief saw shadows pass through the headlights.

"Well, hurry up. We're almost home. I don't know why you couldn't wait just another minute," a female voice responded.

The man began to relax as understanding dawned on him. It was even comical—almost. He refocused on his task and made his way down a hallway to the storeroom where the items not on display were in safekeeping.

He had just copied down the text from the book a few days before so he knew exactly where it would be. He quickly pulled it out of the drawer, carefully bundled it up in a knapsack he had brought for the purpose, and closed the room up behind him. The sound of squealing tires signaled the departure of the untimely patrons. Still, he waited another 15 minutes in the dark, his heart pounding like a drum inside his chest, before he slipped through the back door and reset the alarm.

****

...from the storm I saw the ship. I knew it was in trouble immediately. The crew fought to keep the ship under control. I knew the shoals... then they and I knew they didn't stand a chance.

It was clear that they hadn't even seen the island until it was too late. If they had, they could have corrected their course, even in the face of the storm. But they didn't. Almost didn't see them myself for the spray in the air. I couldn't see much past the beach.

Considering the beating... taking in this devil storm. I knew there would be no way to save anyone as we had done before. These men... own and there was no way they could survive. The ocean is a cruel master and this time it took its due.

Suddenly... hit the reef. There was nothing low about it. They crashed. Men were thrown overboard and the ship just exploded in the fury of the storm and the waves.

If it hadn't been for the debris washing ashore... never have known the name of the ship or her master. It was the Phoenix. Pieces of the master's ... She was a ship... and was headed home with treasure from Mexico. I buried the ones who washed ashore as best I could. These men deserved... Christian burial.

... _could see where the ship went down. The reef came right up to the top of the water. There was a small knoll just west of the wreck site where I would go to stand and could actually see down through the water a bit._

Some days I would take a small rowboat out of the... natural harbor about 100 yards distant to the east. On calm days, I looked the area over as best I could from above. I could see what looked like the... bottom, but there was no way for me to get down there. I... line to the bottom and found it was 12 fathoms. Much too deep to swim down. I tried to lower a hook, but never pulled up anything of importance. After that, I never gave it much thought, until... when I decided to write this down. I realized no one might ever have known the fate of these men if I didn't record it myself. These brave sailors... forgotten.

Ian Cook recorded these words in his personal diary. He had come to the island to manage a spice gathering operation for an English land company. An educated man, his superiors trusted him to run the company. They left him to do as he pleased as long as he delivered his goods regularly and ran an efficient operation. This gave him the ability to live where and how he pleased. Growing up on the coast of Scotland, he had long loved the ocean. The Caribbean was an entirely new sort of ocean for him, but he loved it. But the diary was now in the hands of another, to be used for a purpose other than the preservation of memories.

## CHAPTER 7

##

In spite of the alcohol, or probably because of it, Mike couldn't sleep late, or at least as late as he would have liked after the evening out at Lone Star. He had a rough night. In spite of being able to relax somewhat after his first day on the island, he was still having flashbacks to the day when Tom Stuart, the reporter he was working with in the Middle East, was killed in the ambush. Last night he had dreamed of Tom again. This time, however, he saw Kelly's face on the man captured by the gunmen. But just like in real life, he couldn't do anything to help his friend.

By 7:30 a.m., he was up and sitting out on the porch of his hotel room, looking out over the water. He had awakened many mornings in his travels with less attractive views. The porch area of his ground floor hotel room faced directly out over the ocean. To his right, he could see a gleaming white behemoth of a cruise ship anchored in George Town Harbor. The cruise ship passengers used small water taxis to get on shore, because the harbor wasn't actually deep enough for the mammoth ships to pull all the way in.

To his left, Mike could see the walk-in entryway where he and Kelly had made a dive the day before. He could also see the pool and the edge of My Bar, which was thankfully empty at that time of the morning. Mike could also see hardcore divers—who he hoped hadn't spent the night drinking, although he knew full well some had—already boarding the dive boats for a trip out on the more remote reefs and wrecks off shore.

Mike was lazily preparing his cameras and the waterproof housings that allowed him to pursue his photography underwater. This was actually his first opportunity to check out his cameras and make sure everything was working properly other than a quick glance when he arrived to confirm that everything was still there. As a seasoned traveler and professional photographer, he was extraordinarily careful with his cameras—the tools of his trade. With no one to fix them in remote locations Mike had developed an obligatory combination of care and skill to either prevent or remedy problems. Even though he was on vacation and relaxing, he needed to take some pictures. It was both his curse and his salvation.

With Kelly back at work, Tanya invited Mike along to see some of her coral reef survey work. She had some meetings that morning, but planned to pick Mike up around 10 a.m. That left him with time for a casual breakfast in the resort's restaurant and some time to stop by the dive shop to see about a dive boat trip or two for later in the week. Considering the nature of this trip, Mike wasn't terribly inclined to go out on an early morning boat, but if they were going out to one of the more interesting wrecks, he thought he could suffer the inconvenience of an early start to his day.

After completing his once-over on his cameras, Mike packed them back into the high-impact, waterproof Pelican case he used whenever he traveled, locked the case in his room and walked over to the dive shop. From Mike's hotel room, it was a short walk along the waterfront on a winding concrete walk toward the main paved area that runs through the middle of the hotel.

To his right was the crystal-clear water of the Caribbean. To his left, the hotel proper, the restaurant and the dive shop. From the water, looking up the hill, he saw the main building of the hotel, with the front desk, the offices and some of the rooms sat on the right of the paved entryway and main parking lot. On the left side, just off the road was the dive operation. The hotel was not an elaborate one; it couldn't compete with the excesses of Seven-Mile Beach. Rather, the simple series of small structures were clean and neat. And that was the way everyone liked it.

The dive shop was a small storefront. They offered the usual disposable dive gear that travelers inevitably lost and needed to replace: mask and fin straps, as well as other convenient products and curios like sunscreen, T-shirts, hats and other apparel. The rental equipment was arrayed on one side and the dive tanks stood on the other. There was a counter in the middle where the staff took reservations and conducted business.

"Hey guys. What's up?" Mike said as he stepped out of the bright morning sun into the shop's twilight. He really didn't know the dive staff, but he had met enough of them to feel at home. And the way a few of the people talked about him in hushed tones let the younger ones know that he was someone who had done his time on the island, someone who commanded their respect and attention.

"Oh, nothing much, Mike. Just getting the tourists in the water and trying to keep it all straight," Todd replied as he looked around to make sure there weren't any around to be offended. He looked like the typical California boy he was. Sandy-blond hair cut short, he was built like a swimmer—someone who spent his entire life in and around the water. He had just finally decided to spend some time where the water was warm and settled on this island for a while. However, he never made any secret where his life was and where he would return.

"Got any interesting dive trips later this week?" Mike asked as he stepped to the small counter and looked at the dry-erase trip board.

"Sure. We're taking a group of divers out to the Charleston the day after tomorrow. It's pretty deep, so only divers who are trained for deco or rebreathers can make that trip. The wreck sits on the rock wall at about 200 feet, but the structure goes up to about 75 feet. I understand it's pretty spectacular, but I've never seen it myself," Todd said.

"Well, I've got the training, but I'm not sure I'm interested in working that hard. Anything else?" Mike asked.

"Bailey is planning to go out tomorrow to check out a new wreck just offshore. Rumor has it that the storm turned it up," Todd explained, referring to the dive operations manager of the resort. "No one has made a dive on it yet, but the fishermen say there is something there. Not sure if they will find anything or not. You interested in a little hunting?"

"Actually, that does sound pretty good. Let her know I'd like to go, if you don't mind," Mike said.

"Sure. She's going out with a few staff members, but I don't think she would mind if you tagged along," Todd replied.

"I hope not. I taught Bailey to dive in the first place. Tell her she owes me one," Mike said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

As Mike stepped out of the dive shop back into bright sun and the quickly rising temperature, Tanya pulled up in her truck. "Ready to go diving, handsome?"

"Watch your mouth, woman. People will talk," Mike grinned as he replied. All in all, Mike was starting to feel better. He could feel the pressure gradually lifting from his shoulders.

He quickly jogged back to his room and grabbed his cameras and took his dive gear from a rental locker and tossed it into the back of the truck. He sat the hard case with his cameras behind the seat before he hopped in.

"So where are we off to? Or is it a secret?" Mike asked.

"Nothing so mysterious. We're working on a coral reef survey on an area just up the island that isn't dived much. We're going away from George Town, but not so far east as to get into the windward side of the island. I want to compare it to the surveys we've already completed in more frequented areas, like here in front of Sunset, for example," Tanya explained as they pulled out of the parking lot onto the left side of the street—making Mike slightly uneasy.

"We are trying to establish a baseline to compare the current conditions all around the island. Fair warning, by the way the entry here is a little tricky," Tanya warned.

Surveying the proposed dive site when they arrived, Mike understood why this area wasn't dived much. He also gained newfound respect for Tanya. He wasn't sure if it was because she referred to what he saw as a treacherous entry into the water as "tricky" or if it was because she had the nerve to call it that. Regardless, the divers, along with several members of Tanya's staff who met them on the site, were all casually gearing up to enter the water. Mike thought maybe he was rusty if no one else was concerned about getting in the water here.

He was looking at jagged limestone iron shore that went directly to the water's edge and then what appeared to be a seven-foot drop to the water with rocks perfectly visible just below the surface. Mike knew he could handle the drop. Every dive instructor made giant stride entries off the high dive to amuse students or show them that jumping from a boat was no problem. But the rocks before and after the drop were menacing. One slip on the shore above and you could twist an ankle, break a leg, or worse yet, damage a camera and housing. And then there were the rocks below the water. If one of those came up a little too close to the surface, it was diver-on-a-stick.

"So, Tanya, just how in the world do you plan to get in the water?" Mike said with a little hesitation in his voice.

"What? Oh, sorry. I forgot you haven't been here. We've made this dive several times. There's a path just over here that some of the local boys showed us. They use it to get close to the water to fish. It's a piece of cake," Tanya said with a mischievous wink that showed she knew what had been going through Mike's mind.

And Tanya was right. Still not a simple entry, there was a narrow path worn into the rocks that led to the water's edge. The water directly below the entry point appeared to be at least 20 feet deep. Not simple, but that was what kept it secluded and that was what Tanya and her crew needed.

"Okay, everyone. First, this is an old and dear friend of mine, Mike Scott. Mike is going along today on my invitation to help us document the changes to the reefs. He is an important photographer for _World_ magazine and he is going to write an article about what he sees," Tanya explained to her dive team.

"Hey great, Mike. Good to meet you."

"All right, Mike. We can use all the help we can get."

"Good to have your support, Mike."

And the welcomes went on for a few more minutes from the eight divers before they made their way toward the water. As soon as he could, Mike pulled Tanya aside.

"What was that all about? We never talked about any articles or about me joining your project!" Mike asked.

"I know. But you never could say no to me, anyway, so I thought I would enlist your help. And the rest of the divers would rather think of you as someone who was here to help, since they are all volunteers, instead of a joy-riding loafer and tourist," Tanya replied.

"Ouch, that hurts. Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do, but warn me about these things next time," Mike said, feigning resentment. He really never could say no to Tanya and it felt good to be doing something positive.

"All right, everyone," Tanya said as she turned back to the dive team. "You know the drill, but I'm going to repeat it anyway. No one is to dive deeper than 60 feet on this dive. All of your measurements should be taken between 45 and 60 feet. Work your way east along the shore. When any diver in any buddy team reaches 750 psi in their tank, it's time to begin swimming toward the exit point. Make slow ascents. I want everyone to make a safety stop at 15 feet for three minutes and I want everyone back on the surface with 500 psi, or you are filling tanks tonight.

"We've got some new volunteers with us today, and they have been through the training program, but I want to go over it again quickly for all of us," Tanya said, completely in charge. "Generally, there are two ways to count animal life on a reef. You can stay in one place for the duration of a dive and count every animal you see. Or, you can swim along specific lines and count every species and number you see over a broader area.

"We use the second option. When we decided to survey this area, we set up grid patterns mapped out on the reef based on coordinates and headings. But there aren't actual lines draped across the reef down there," she explained. "Once we get in the water, each team of divers will head along a designated heading from a specific start point. One of you will be responsible for navigation. You will always be responsible for keeping a careful watch on the underwater compass and for following points of reference. The second diver will spend the entire dive observing and recording animal species.

"It isn't perfectly scientific, but I know some of you would get bored if you had to navigate on every dive while your buddy always observed, so we do allow you to switch off on successive dives if you want. Some of the teams here switch off and some don't. It all depends on the divers," Tanya continued. "So you will know, we attempt to minimize other variations in our reporting by always making the dives at the same time of the day, or at least with the sun in the same part of the sky. We can adjust your reports based on tide levels and water temperatures. As you know, some marine animals respond better to warm water and others like it a bit colder. If we didn't pay close attention to those other variables, we might interpret a dramatic shift in animal population levels when it was nothing more than a seasonal migration or a reaction to a water temperature or light change.

"Got that, everyone? Fine, let's get wet," Tanya finished.

Quickly and efficiently, the dive teams donned their gear and moved to the water's edge. A dive controller stood by the entry point and checked every diver into the water, assuring and recording air pressures before anyone made a giant stride. In the water, another divemaster had an underwater chart and helped teams find their start points and coordinates before allowing them to begin their surveys.

"Hi, I'm Toni," a young, attractive female diver said to Mike. "Tanya said you're with _World_ magazine. That's pretty amazing. I'm studying journalism back in the States. I just took a semester off to spend a little time seeing the world. Are you an underwater photographer all the time?" It all came out in a bit of a rush.

"Good for you. The best teacher you can ever have is experience," Mike said as he prepared his cameras. "I used to photograph underwater all the time, but not anymore. I spend most of my time photographing people, but this is what I do for relaxation. As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've had my cameras underwater in a long time. I think I'll be able to pick it back up pretty quickly, though," he laughed.

"So are those underwater cameras? They look like normal cameras to me," the girl said, pointing to the gear in Mike's Pelican case.

"You can use cameras specifically designed for underwater use, or you can use topside cameras in special housings to protect them from the salt water. I prefer to use housed cameras," he said. "I know exactly what these cameras can do because I work with them all the time. I just have special housings made that allow me to use all of the controls while I'm underwater."

"Aside from the difference in type of cameras, you still have to do all the same work. You still have to worry about lighting and exposure. At the same time, there are a lot of preparations that go into underwater photography," Mike said as he slipped into lecture mode. He occasionally spoke to photography classes at the local community college when he was home, and it came naturally to him.

"If a piece of dirt, sand, lint or hair is in the groove with the 'O' ring when you close the camera, it can allow water into the inner workings of the camera. Under pressure, even the tiniest crack in the 'O' ring can create a catastrophic camera flood. If you think about it, the very act of taking a camera underwater is sort of contrary to the very nature of a camera in the first place. If you aren't careful, a very expensive camera will be ruined in a matter of seconds. You have to be a neat freak or you will face certain disaster," Mike continued as he finished his preparations.

"In general, there are two broad types of underwater photography—wide angle and macro, sometimes called close-up. In contrast to photography above the water, underwater photographers must plan the images they take before they ever begin the dive. You can't change lenses underwater. There are some basic cameras that allow the photographer to slip a close-up adapter on the outside of the camera during the dive, but those lens adapters don't work with a housed single lens reflex camera like these. That's why I set up two cameras for different situations so I can shoot in close or wide-angle when something big swims by. Also, these are both digital cameras so I can shoot hundreds of images on a dive, instead of the 36 we were limited to when we used film in cameras.

"After all that is prepared, then you have to throw in all the usual scuba diving considerations of buoyancy, air consumption, surge, currents, poor visibility and so on. In fact, because there are always floating particles in the water, we put the flashlights at an angle on both sides of the camera, so they don't reflect off them and ruin the picture. Underwater photography isn't for the faint of heart, or for those easily put off by failure."

"Oh... Okay....Eh, well, thanks. I'll see you in the water," Toni said as she backed away and walked back over to her dive buddy, another girl about the same age, and started exchanging what was obviously girl-speak.

"You geek," Tanya said as she came back over laughing. "That girl wasn't interested in your cameras; she was interested in you, dummy. So what do you do? You give her a dissertation on underwater photography!"

"Oh, come on, Tanya. She is 15 years younger than I am. What would she want from me?" Mike asked. "She was looking for help getting a job when she graduates is all."

"Mike. I adore you and you know it. But sometimes you're a little too focused on what you're doing and not paying enough attention to life around you. When it's work, I imagine you're on top of everything and don't miss a trick, but when it's personal, you are just on another planet sometimes."

"Are you ready to get in the water?" Mike asked, changing the subject. "It looks like everyone else is in."

"Come on then, let's get wet, too," Tanya replied, still laughing to herself.

After getting started, the teams of divers progressed slowly through the dive. They weren't in any hurry, and they knew they would have more luck counting animals if they took their time and didn't make erratic movements.

Performing this reef survey was exacting, and at times tedious, work. Tanya had developed a dedicated team of volunteers and professionals to help her out, and trained them thoroughly to recognize what they were looking at when making their counts.

The exit point was about a half a mile along the shore and just around a large rock outcropping. The divers had installed a rope ladder that went down into the water to help them climb out at the end of the dive.

Mike plunged into the warm, clear water and could instantly see why Tanya was so excited about this dive site and why she had wanted him along. It instantly reminded him of the way the island looked below the water line 10 years before. Maybe it was his "you should have been here when..." mentality kicking in. He had always hated the fact people didn't realize that their memories were better than reality ever had been. _But this place is certainly amazing_ , he thought.

Whatever his reason for thinking so, it was beautiful. And the sea life was everywhere. Fish of every description and color. The shallow nature of the dive prevented the water from leaching out the reds and oranges from the penetrating sunlight, which reflected off the vivid soft and hard corals, sponges, fish and other marine animals. It was a virtual fishbowl, and Mike slipped effortlessly into photographer mode. He quickly began choosing his shots and framing up his images in his mind long before he ever moved in with his camera.

It is often said that photographers are the worst dive buddies. They get so involved with the images they are making that they forget about everything else going on around them—including their buddy.

In the case of this dive Tanya was the perfect buddy for Mike. She wanted to show Mike her private reef, so she pointed out everything and helped him set shots up, and then stayed out of the way, hanging back and waiting—unless he wanted an underwater model. In those situations, her grace, natural beauty and comfort underwater allowed her to gracefully swim into frame with just a few simple hand signals from Mike and add just the right element to the image.

Mike had shot a lot on the dive, but still had room on his digital camera card as he and Tanya rounded the final bend underwater. What he saw made him glad he did. Incredibly, the coral reef appeared to have been scoured clean of all life. They were stunned by what they saw.

It looked as though someone had run a bulldozer underwater and leveled everything. There was absolutely nothing. No Elkhorn coral, no brain coral, nothing. No shape, texture or color, except for the pile of once-vibrant color mixed into a jumbled mess, like the colors of a bowl of kid's cereal floating in milk. Parrotfish were everywhere eating the broken coral. Mike photographed the scene to record the devastation.

When they finally surfaced after the long dive, Mike and Tanya discovered they were the last two up. The rest of the teams of researchers and volunteers had finished their dives, and most were already out of the water. From the sounds of their voices, they couldn't believe what they had seen any more than Tanya and Mike could.

"What in the world happened down there?" Tanya asked at the top of her lungs to no one in particular. She and Mike were floating on the surface of the water.

"You mean you haven't seen this before?" Mike responded. "When was the last time you made this dive?"

"It's been about a week since the team made this dive. We try to hit it regularly, but not so much as to attract attention. We don't want a lot of people coming down here messing up our research," Tanya explained. "I just can't believe it. That's a mess. Someone is going to pay for this."

"So you're saying that a week ago, this section of the reef looked exactly like the rest of it? Not this parking lot?" Mike said. "That's amazing. Have you heard of any groundings or anything that could explain it?"

As they talked Mike and Tanya swam toward the exit point.

They climbed up the rope ladder and on reaching the ledge, Tanya headed for the nearest rock that offered comfort to her outrage and grief and slumped onto it. She was sickened by what she saw, and as the reality of the destruction and its effect on her work penetrated more deeply, she became completely withdrawn, like someone who had just lost a loved one. "I just feel numb," she muttered as she finally stood up and stumbled across the rocks and back to her truck.

Tanya's staff of researchers went wild all around. Mike didn't know exactly how to handle things, so he quietly packed away his gear and disassembled Tanya's as well. Upon reaching the truck, she cast him a glance that showed that the fire had returned to her eyes. Her pain had turned to anger. There was going to be trouble. "I'm going down to Government House to find out what is going on here," she bellowed.

"You all go back to the lab and download everything. Log every single detail and record all your findings in the computer archives. Take extra time if you need. Don't leave out a single detail of what you saw. I want everything in the computer tonight."

Tanya looked at Mike who had remained silent, allowing her to formulate her thoughts without interruption.

"Someone did this on purpose, Mike. This is not like the damage caused by some cruise ship anchor or some other grounding. Sure damage occurs from time to time, but this is unbelievable. Usually it's only localized and relatively minor. Something that will recover over time. But this is extermination. It's scarred forever or at least for longer than I'm going to be around. This was deliberate, calculated, and systematic—almost neat. Besides, cruise ships don't come up here and there is nothing else I can think of that would have caused it."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Mike asked.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I didn't mean to take this out on you. I know this isn't exactly the dive I planned to show you, but I've got to find out what is going on. Do you mind if I drop you off at Sunset House?" Tanya asked.

"Not to worry, Tanya. I have some things to catch up on anyway," he lied. He had no plans for the afternoon, but it would serve no purpose adding guilt to her woes.

On the way back to the hotel, Tanya was quiet, but Mike could tell she was thinking—she was somewhere between finding a cause for the damage and planning a response.

"Sorry I haven't been good company, Mike," she said as they pulled up out front of the hotel. "Kelly and I will be by about 7:30 p.m. to pick you up for dinner. By that time I'll have cooled off some and will hopefully have some answers."

"See you guys tonight," he answered, intentionally keeping it short to give her an escape. _Anyway_ , he thought, _she probably didn't hear a word I said._

## CHAPTER 8

##

Tanya got to her office in a rush. The reality of the destruction was making her very angry. Her mind was blazing with a cold fury. Months of research were wasted.

"I've got to find out what happened out there," she said to herself as she flopped into her office chair. "Maybe Mr. Akins at the Ministry of Tourism and the Environment will know what happened."

She picked up the phone and quickly dialed the number she knew by heart. Her project was funded through the Ministry, and she was constantly in touch with them.

"Ministry of Tourism and the Environment," a receptionist said. That combination always seemed odd to Tanya. It was tough to look after those two different responsibilities. Many times they went hand in hand, especially in a place like Cayman, but other times there were competing interests.

"This is Tanya Demechev. I need to speak to Mr. Akins, please. Tell him it's urgent," Tanya said into the phone.

"Hold one moment," the receptionist replied.

"Hello, this is Akins," a voice said after a few minutes.

"Hello, sir. Thank you for taking my call," Tanya said.

"Hello, Tanya. You told the receptionist it was urgent. What's the matter?" Akins replied.

"Sir. I was just out diving on our research control location, the site we picked out as a baseline to compare the reefs around the rest of the island to..." Tanya said.

"I envy you. It's a beautiful day to be out diving. You must take me with you sometime," Akins said, interrupting.

"Yes sir. Certainly. I wasn't aware you were a diver," Tanya replied, somewhat confused by the interruption. "But that's what I wanted to talk to you about. As I said, I was diving this morning and as we finished we came upon an area that was devastated. The coral was broken up into rubble. It was a complete mess. It was the worst reef destruction I've ever seen," she said.

"And you say this was in the middle of your research area?" Akins asked.

"Right at the end of it, actually," Tanya replied.

"Well, you must've made a mistake then. I know the area you are talking about. That devastation was caused a few years ago when a fuel tanker struck the island. You must have been off course in your surveys," Akins said, scorn creeping into his voice. "Frankly, I expected more from you."

"With all due respect, sir, I know what we are doing and I know what we saw. This is new damage. If it were a few years old there would've been new growth coming up. This just happened recently. It has ruined all of our research. Everything is gone," she said, growing exasperated at his inability to grasp what she was telling him.

"I am sure you must be mistaken. I suggest you go back and check your data again. You said you have all of this documented in your offices?" he asked.

"Actually I didn't say, but that's correct. We have photographs and reports covering every inch of that area here in the lab," she said.

"Well, look, Tanya. I really must go. But do come around next week and I'll see what we can do about getting you some more money for your study," Akins said and hung up before hearing Tanya's response.

She sat stunned. He hadn't listened to, or cared about, anything she said. That was completely out of character.

"What's going on here?" Tanya asked herself out loud.

****

Back at the hotel, after Tanya dropped him off following their dive, Mike cleaned the salt off of his dive gear in the rinse tanks and hung it up to dry in one of the lockers by the dive shop. As he began to head back to his hotel room for a shower, he saw Bailey Tasker coming around the corner.

"Hey, old man, I understand you want to come along for a swim tomorrow," Bailey said by way of greeting.

"What's this 'old man' stuff? I'm not that much older than you, just wiser," Mike replied. "And sure, I'd like to go diving with you. I thought it might be interesting to try to find a new wreck."

Bailey was an above-average looking brunette, attractive in her own way. She was five feet six inches tall and fit. She worked out and swam almost daily, on top of her regular dive duties.

"I don't know if I should take you along. What's this about telling everyone you taught me to dive? I was a dive instructor before I moved to this island," Bailey countered with mock seriousness.

"Oh, I remember, but I taught you how to really dive, island-style. Not like the coldwater diver you were when you came here, fresh off the airplane and ready to set the world on fire, like every other new instructor who comes to the islands," Mike said. "I taught you to slow down and enjoy yourself, on the land and underwater."

"Okay, Zen master. I probably learned a few things from you. From the look of you, I could probably teach you a few things about slowing down. You look like you've been out in the world too long. You're not the same old Mike," she said, frowning slightly as she realized how true what she was saying actually was. Mike didn't appear to have aged, but he seemed to be carrying a burden.

"You're probably right. It's been a while, and it does feel good to get back on island time. Tell you what. I'll buy lunch if you teach me what I need to know about relaxing and maybe a little bit about why you think we're going to find a shipwreck tomorrow," Mike said.

"I've got a couple things to do. Give me about a half an hour and I'll meet you in My Bar for a sandwich. It'll be nice to have a chance to catch up," Bailey replied as she turned to go.

****

Gold Coins Show Up On Cayman Shore

Dateline: March 2003

He may not be the next Mel Fisher, but the gold bug has certainly bitten Ben Armstrong from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, U.S.

Here on a week's vacation, Armstrong is living the ultimate tourist fantasy. He happened upon a gold coin in the water, the value of which will easily pay for his entire vacation and then some.

"I was just wading in the water, nothing special, when I noticed something shiny. Without even thinking about it, I bent down to pick it," Armstrong said. "It was heavier than I expected. I just thought it was going to be a shell. But it was gold."

Even then, Armstrong said he assumed it was a gag of some sort—a trinket distributed for the tourists or some sort of party favor. It wasn't until he showed the coin to one of the bartenders at the hotel beach bar that he began to think he had something special.

"The bartender just looked at me like I was crazy when I asked what sort of party they had thrown with gold-looking coins. When I showed him the coin, he just about flipped out," according to Armstrong.

It turns out that Armstrong's new favorite—and honest—bartender Tom Bradley is an archeology student from the U.S. here to study some of the shipwrecks. He works on the side as a bartender. Bradley instantly recognized the coin for what it truly was and started making phone calls for Armstrong. He also helped Armstrong out in another way.

"When it dawned on me what I was holding, I started to get sort of nervous, so Tom poured me a drink. I don't drink much normally, but it really helped," Armstrong said. "You know, Tom was awful nice. If he had been a better liar, he could have said it was a free drink token and then 'found' the coin himself a week later after I left. But he didn't. He never even thought about trying to steal it from me."

While not completely unusual that a valuable gold coin should surface in Cayman, this is the first time in memory that a coin simply washed up on Seven-Mile Beach. The find has the beach buzzing, and every person with a metal detector is out combing through the sand.

According to Gray Walker, a local businessman who operates the Cayman Marine Archeological Museum, there may even be more coins out there somewhere, or there may be nothing at all.

"As you know, the waters around Cayman have been dived pretty heavily over the last 40 years. The odds on there being an undiscovered shipwreck close to the beach are pretty slim," he said. "More than likely, the coin came from a private collection somewhere. You never know, but it's very doubtful there are more coins out there. Regardless, if it helps boost tourism in these great islands we call home, well, why not play it up."

Whether Armstrong's coin is the only one around, or just one of a treasure trove, we may never know. However, things are not completely resolved for Armstrong who leaves the island tomorrow to return home. Government officials may not let him leave the island with the coin, citing its historical significance. If he is allowed to leave the island with the coin, there has also been speculation that he may be obliged to pay taxes on the coin.

****

Mike returned to his room for a quick shower, dressed in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and Teva sandals, and was just about to finish the national island newspaper, the Caymanian Compass, when Bailey showed up for lunch.

"I guess this is island time, but I thought you said a half an hour," Mike jokingly complained to his old friend. "I've been waiting for more than an hour for you to show up."

"Sorry. You know how things work around here. Every five feet someone else has another question," Bailey said as she shook her head and sat down.

"You know, the people up in the real world think you just lie in the sun all day, and dive whenever you want. You aren't being a very good poster child for the divemaster life in the islands," Mike teased her. "You make this sound like work. Responsibilities and everything."

"All right, all right. I guess I deserve this abuse for the 'old man' crack," Bailey said, smiling. "Can we call it even and move on now?"

Mike and Bailey were seated on a large concrete pad beside the oceanfront, just yards away from the divers' entry into the water. The bar/restaurant area was made up of a large grass-roofed hut covering the actual bar with tables and umbrellas overlooking the water. Over lunch Mike and Bailey spent time catching up from the last several years.

"All that aside, I think it'll be fun to find an undiscovered shipwreck, but what makes you think there is anything around here that hasn't been dived on?" Mike inquired, finally asking one of the two questions he really wanted to ask.

"There have been some signs and discoveries. Some of the local fishermen have lost nets in places where they never had a problem before," Bailey explained. "And right here in your paper is the next clue—gold coins have shown up in a couple places. I just have a feeling that the freak hurricane a few months ago uncovered something that no one has discovered yet."

"Interesting. So what's the plan?" Mike asked.

"We'll go out in the morning and do some exploring. We may make one dive, or we may make several, depending on what we see. We'll head east up the island, a couple miles past the bend. That's where the fishermen have told me about having problems and seeing things in the water."

"Funny you should mention that area. I just did a dive almost that far up with Tanya and saw something really strange. It really upset her," said Mike, and went on to recount the dive he had made that morning.

"That's bizarre. No one really dives in that area because it's so hard to get into the water there and there are so many other places to dive," Bailey said. "Maybe we'll see something when we go by there tomorrow."

"You know, it's really good to see you. I had hoped you were still around here," Mike said, smiling across the table. "I always enjoyed your company when you worked for me."

"Funny, you never acted like it," Bailey said, smiling back. "It always seemed as if I was doing something wrong around you."

"Well, remember the last half of that sentence—'when you worked for me,'" he said. "It just would have been too complicated. And frankly, you've grown a lot since then," Mike said with a meaningful gaze.

"Well, thank you. I think. Are you saying I was childish back then?" Bailey asked with a laugh.

"Let's just say you were still finding your place in the world. The experience looks good on you, though," Mike said. "Would you be interested in getting together later this week? I'd be interested in actually calling it a date," he said, asking the other question that was on his mind.

"A date it is, then," Bailey said with a smile that let Mike know she had been having similar thoughts. "Let me know when. The next two days are pretty full, but after that I have some time off. How about we have a picnic and catch up?" she said.

"Sounds good to me," Mike said, already letting his mind wander a few days ahead.

Just then, Bailey noticed the dive watch on her arm.

"Oh, I forgot. I have to take the Manta out this afternoon for a group of divers. I've got to go," she said as she hurried to leave. "Have your gear and be ready to go at 7 a.m. I want to get an early start."

And with that, she took off. Mike laughed to himself. He remembered his time on the islands and realized the difference between working in paradise and working in the world. In either place it was still work with deadlines, stresses and pressure. Just in paradise, the scenery was better.

****

"Hello," Walker said as he answered the phone in his office.

"Mr. Walker."

"This is Walker, Mr. Akins, what can I do for you?" His secretary had told him who was calling.

The Spartan furnishings in Walker's office were in direct contrast to his home and the luxury he provided for himself there. No gold fixtures or leather-covered desks here. It was also an extremely busy place. Assistants and partners constantly scurried in and out of the office. Walker's desk itself was covered with stacks of papers, neatly organized, reflecting a coolly efficient mind.

"I've just received a phone call from Tanya Demechev and it may spell trouble. Just what are you doing out there?" Akins asked.

"Please slow down, Mr. Akins. First, who is this Tanya person and, second, why should I care what she has to say?" Walker replied.

"Ms. Demechev is an environmental researcher working on a reef preservation grant for the Ministry. She is doing reef studies all around the island. She just called me with information about devastation in the area of one of her studies. Although she has no idea how it happened, she assured me that she has plenty of documentation—both what the area looked like a few weeks ago and what it looked like today," Akins explained.

"Could you please explain to me why you never bothered to mention this project to me?" Walker asked with a mixture of indignation and anger in his voice—a tone ringing with sarcasm he used to control many of his employees. "This is exactly the sort of information I pay you to bring to me. I expect you to deal with things like this before they become a crisis that you would even be tempted to bring to me. As a highly-paid consultant, I would have expected a bit more forethought on your part."

"My apologies, Mr. Walker," Akins said, cowering behind the receiver. "It must have slipped my mind," he sputtered, searching for an excuse. "Because of this new development, I believe you need to stop what you're doing this instant."

As a politician and influential person on the island for years, he was used to having his wishes met immediately. He was surprised at the response he received.

"You believe that, do you?" Walker asked, becoming quiet and still, like a snake about to strike. "That's what you think. You think I should throw away all of the money I've invested in this project, probably pay back the government for the loans advanced to me and just walk away from this development, simply because someone has turned up the heat a bit. Is that what you think?"

Before Akins could respond, although he probably wouldn't have, Walker sneered, "Let me tell you what we're going to do. You're going to hold up your end of the bargain, a job you are being well-compensated to do. You are going to head off any criticism that you may hear about this project. I expect your unquestioning support," he said as if addressing a small child. "In the meantime, I'll take care of this Tanya and her evidence."

Walker hung up the phone without waiting for any acknowledgment, knowing he would be obeyed. The riot on the east end had stirred up more attention than he could tolerate. The only solution he could see was to go on the offensive. He had an interview with a local reporter in a few minutes to promote the development. He needed to keep the heat off the cruise ship dock construction long enough so he could get out what he wanted. Then the rest of it could rot, as far as he was concerned.

Before he left, he picked up the phone. Samson answered after three rings.

"Yes?" he said.

"Mr. Samson. There is a development that will require some of your skills to resolve," Walker said.

"I understand, sir. Just let me know where and I'll take care of it," Samson replied with a professional confidence that made Walker smile.

"I'll be in touch soon with the details."

Both men hung up the phone without any further discussion.

****

Following lunch with Bailey, Mike spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing by the pool and going over his personal journal from the last several months. Even if things hadn't turned out the way they had in the Middle East, he was due for some personal time. Every so often, Mike took some time to himself to review his notes and put his mind in order with past events. Something kept distracting him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was bothering him.

Back in his room, he watched the evening news as he got ready to meet Kelly and Tanya for dinner. Without really paying attention, he saw various stories about the weather, the schools and a highly unusual theft on the island. Someone had stolen some rare parchment from the maritime museum. While there was crime on the island, it was rare for someone to steal something like this. People stole things from tourists, but not from places with security and guards.

One of the top stories was about a newly planned development. The local reporter—Sandra something-or-other—was doing a stand-up interview with the business leaders and government officials out on the site. Even for a newsperson like Mike, watching local news like this really didn't hold his attention. It seemed to be the same everywhere.

****

"Thank you, Anton, for that report," the news desk anchor said. "Now we'll turn to Sandra with a report on a major new development project planned for the east end of the island. She has an exclusive interview with Gray Walker, the developer and entrepreneur spearheading this new project."

"Thank you, Joseph. As you said, I am here with Mr. Gray Walker," the reporter began. The interview was along a desolate stretch of beach on the east end of the island. "Mr. Walker, please describe for our viewers your vision for the island and this latest project."

"Thank you, Sandra. I would love to do just that. Grand Cayman is blessed with beautiful waters, weather and watersports," he began, looking directly into the camera. "I am working closely with the island government to expose the wonderful place you and I know to the rest of the world. We all know Grand Cayman and the sister islands depend heavily on tourism, but I do not believe they have met their full potential.

"We are planning to construct a new cruise ship dock on the east end of the island. The docks in George Town can currently accommodate four or five cruise ships at a time. This new dock will bring in an additional six to eight ships, and all of the passengers they can off-load," Walker explained. "We are also planning to develop hotels, restaurants and infrastructure on this end of the island to entertain the visitors."

"How do you expect this will impact the existing shops and stores in George Town?" the reporter asked.

"Actually, I think it will help them. George Town is under a tremendous amount of pressure. This will relieve some of the crush of visitors and make it easier for tourists to enrich our islands in greater comfort," Walker explained in the matter-of-fact tone of a businessman doing something that made perfect sense to him and should to everyone else as well.

"The east end of the island is home to many people, some of whom have lived there all of their lives. Will this displace many local islanders?"

"We are still searching for the ideal location for the new dock and development. However, we will certainly attempt to minimize any negative affects and will work with the people of the east end to make sure they are compensated for their trouble. Sandra, as I said, this is a tremendous opportunity for the island and the people of Grand Cayman. We can bring in more visitors to the island and improve the job opportunities for everyone. This is a tremendous win-win proposition for everyone. We cannot afford to pass this up."

"How about the environment, Mr. Walker? As you know, tourism on the island revolves around the beauty of its natural places. How will this development affect the environment of the island?" the reporter continued.

"Please understand. The government has strict regulations about construction on the island. There will have to be environmental impact studies completed and permits obtained before we turn a spade of dirt," Walker answered, knowing in the back of his mind that he had already circumvented most of these regulations with his back door dealings.

"Thank you, Mr. Walker, for your time," the reporter said as she turned back to the camera.

"While Mr. Walker believes this project will help the island, it's not necessarily popular with everyone on the island," the reporter said as she turned to face the camera. "This scene was shot earlier today as protestors blockaded the earth moving equipment brought in to begin leveling the ground and preparing for the new development. This just days after the previous incident where violence broke out with the police. As you can see, from the scene recorded a few days ago, the police forcibly removed several of the protestors. The rest dispersed peacefully. Many, however, plan to continue fighting the development and plan to take their protest to the highest levels of government to make their case known.

"That's all I have to report on this situation, but we will be closely monitoring this story and report any new developments on this controversy. Joseph, back to you in the studio."

****

Kelly and Tanya picked up Mike right at 7 p.m. and headed out for dinner. They had originally planned to go out for a special meal, but Tanya was too distracted to appreciate fine dining. They decided to just enjoy the outdoor atmosphere of another place that catered to many of the expatriates on the island, the Lazy Lizard.

The Lazy Lizard was a mostly outdoor restaurant with some basic covering to keep the patrons dry during the odd, brief rainstorm that rolled through from time to time. It was basically an enormous deck with a large shade tree growing up through the middle of it. Surfboards were prominently displayed around the entryway to the restaurant and stored in the tree on accommodating branches.

After they settled in and ordered, Mike and Kelly chatted about changes on the island. Mike explained his dive the next morning with Bailey as a reason for simply drinking water. Tanya was silent and distracted. Finally, after letting her stew in her own thoughts long enough, Kelly tried to get her to come out of it.

"Honey, look. You're not being terribly good company at the moment. Do you want us to take you back to the house?" Kelly asked.

"What? No. I'm sorry. Sorry, Mike. I just can't get this morning out of my head. We went back to the office and pulled out all of the log notes and photographs of that area. Just a couple weeks ago, it was completely different. I have no idea what could have happened there," Tanya said. "And beyond that, I called several different government offices to ask if anyone knew what was going on and no one could tell me anything. The Ministry of Tourism and the Environment told me I must be mistaken, that that area was busted up several years ago when a fuel tanker ran aground. I told them that I had proof this area wasn't messed up before. We have all of our log notes, with maps and photographs cross referenced to it."

"Well, what did they say to that?" Kelly asked. "Did they want to look at your evidence?"

"It was funny. Normally Mr. Akins over there is very interested and helpful. I thought he would want me to come right over and show him. Instead, he just made some lame excuse and got off the phone."

"You don't think it has anything to do with the new cruise ship dock they want to put in on the east end, do you?" Kelly continued. "There are a lot of people pretty upset that they want to put that thing right in the middle of one of the older residential areas on the island. Most of the people who live there are pretty poor, too."

"I really hope it isn't. I don't want to think those guys are putting money over the environment on this island. After all, the environment is why most people come to this island in the first place," Tanya said.

"So what's the problem?" Mike asked.

"Well, they're planning to just rip up more coral reefs and, at the same time, displace a pretty large group of locals who live up there. They will have to build more infrastructure on that end of the island to handle it all, so that means even more homes will be destroyed," he said. "Frankly, I don't know of anyone who likes the idea, except for some of the government people and the developers."

"You know, now you've got me wondering," Tanya said. "I bet that thing does have something to do with it. I bet they were exploring places to put the pier, tore the reef up and then decided to look elsewhere. It probably didn't meet their needs for some stupid reason and then they were too embarrassed about the damage they had already done so they tried to cover it up."

After dinner, the trio walked along the George Town Harbor, just enjoying the evening. A classic bowl-shaped harbor, there are long docks and places for anchorages of all sorts. Tied up in the various marinas were local excursion boats ready to take visiting cruise ship passengers around the islands and off on their brief adventures. There were working vessels off-loading equipment and supplies for the businesses on the island and ocean-going yachts owned by visiting millionaires.

The appearance of many of private yachts had nothing to do with the presence of their owners. Professional crews operated the ships for the pleasure of their owners. Often, a yacht's owner notified the crew to be at a certain location in a few weeks. The crew would then pilot the vessel to the destination and wait for the owner to arrive.

Like most harbors, this one was much more peaceful at night than during the day. Pedestrians could hear the gentle sound of the waves in the evening, a sound completely obscured by the noise from the boat and car traffic, tourists and sales people crowding the water's edge.

Tanya was finally beginning to relax when her mobile phone rang. She answered it and stood in complete disbelief for just a moment.

"Oh no," was all that escaped her lips.

"The lab is on fire. We've got to get there now," she said as soon as she hung up the phone. "We've got to save the archives."

Arriving at the scene of Tanya's research office just two minutes later, they realized they were already too late. The building was fully involved. Smoke poured from every window and there were already holes in the roof. It was a complete loss.

## CHAPTER 9

##

Everything was destroyed in the fire. All of Tanya's research, notes, photographs, and archives from the environmental studies were gone.

Mike, Kelly and Tanya finally left the scene about midnight as the George Town fire department put out the last flames. The building was still much too hot for Tanya or anyone else to enter. The fire marshal was already investigating.

Standing on the street, they could see melted computers, piles of charred papers and destruction. Data servers appeared to be a twisted mess. It was a complete write-off.

****

The next morning, Mike was up early—for two reasons. First, he really couldn't sleep after the awful events of the previous night and the lingering feeling he had from it. There were just too many odd coincidences—events that didn't tie together, but somehow had to. In all of his experiences and travels, he knew coincidence usually wasn't. Secondly, he was going looking for a new shipwreck. The anticipation of the dive, and spending time with Bailey, kept intruding on his mind.

Without being able to put a finger on it yet, Mike was also getting a strange feeling, one he often got on assignments just before things got weird. Things still didn't add up. Even in the islands, where a lot of unusual things happened, there were too many unusual occurrences.

Unfortunately, he wasn't relaxing as much as he had intended to when he came to the island. On the other hand, he wasn't feeling too bad, either. The company psychiatrist back in New York who had ordered him to take some time off probably would have said he was the kind of person who had to be involved and needed to solve problems anyway. He just needed to find problems he could solve instead of looking for the meaning of life and other imponderables.

****

"Allen, come in here," Walker called from his office. He tended to simply yell for his assistant since he sat at a desk immediately outside his office door. He had an intercom and a phone to Allen's desk, but simply yelling for him seemed more efficient to Walker. It also seemed to him to set the proper tone of command—master and slave.

"Allen, the curator of the museum called to tell me that the eye-witness account of the wreck of the _Firebird_ has turned up missing," Walker said when his assistant scrambled in the door. "That wasn't even on display. I can't imagine how someone would know it was there to even steal."

"It's a mystery to me as well, sir," Allen said.

"I want you to check into it. Use your contacts around the island, but do it quietly. Find out who has access to the museum—especially after hours. The curator of the museum already alerted the police about the theft before he called me. It's already been on the evening news," Walker said. He hadn't seen it personally since he was conducting his own interview when it aired. "Anyway," he continued, "since the police will conduct their own investigation, I don't want my interest to be too obvious. I have all the information I need from the document. It won't make a difference in my plans, but I do want to know who took it and why."

"I'm on it," Allen told his boss, knowing the man respected brevity above all. He knew his boss would direct him to conduct the search as soon as Walker found out it was stolen.

****

"Good morning, Bailey," Mike said over fried eggs in the Sunset House restaurant as she approached. They began serving breakfast early in the morning to accommodate the divers venturing out on dive boats. While not exactly chipper first thing in the morning, Mike functioned well with the sunrise. He had showered and shaved this morning. Regardless of how he was planning to spend his day, a shower was a morning ritual that helped him wake up.

Bailey had her dark brown hair pulled back and was dressed simply in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Mike could tell she had her swimsuit on, revealing just enough hint of the shape underneath to spark his curiosity. In spite of her simple look and no makeup, Mike thought Bailey looked good. He was briefly distracted with his own thoughts. The sound of her voice brought him back from his musings.

"Morning, Mike. Glad to see you. Heard about the fire last night. Is everyone all right?" Bailey asked as she sat down.

"Yeah. Physically, everyone is fine. They couldn't find one of Tanya's researchers for a while last night, but he showed up. He was sitting at Sea View watching rugby. Tanya is pretty upset. She lost everything and will have to start from scratch, if they even let her project continue."

"I'm really glad to hear no one was hurt," Bailey said, and she meant it. Cayman was a small island and everyone knew everyone. "Do they suspect arson?"

"I don't know," Mike replied, a bit taken aback at the first vocalization of the thought that had been on everyone's mind since the first alarm. "The police are investigating. Standard procedure, I guess, for a fire like this."

She nodded her agreement. "I wasn't sure if you would still be up to making the trip this morning," she said, enough of a question in her voice to let Mike know she was checking out the situation.

"Thanks, but I feel fine. I was up late last night, so I probably didn't get as much sleep as I wanted to, but other than that I feel fine," he explained, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "Since everyone is okay, there isn't much for me to do. Kelly and Tanya will be trying to straighten everything out, and feeling guilty about worrying about me. It actually works out well that I have something else to do today," Mike said. "Anyway, I came here to relax and have some fun. I didn't expect them to take care of me the whole time."

Mike finished his breakfast and he and Bailey walked the 50 or so yards to where the boat was docked. He picked up his dive equipment from the locker on the way. He had taken his cameras and housings with him in the restaurant, having already given everything the once over in his hotel room before breakfast.

"Mike, these two animals are Dante and Todd. I asked them to come along, too," Bailey said, introducing the two other divers on the boat as they stepped aboard. "They are on staff here, but had the day off, so they begged me to come along."

"Guys, this is Mike. He's an old friend and used to work around here, before he decided to go back to the world," she said, giving Mike a wink. "You know Captain Gary. He'll be taking us out. If no one has any objections, I'd like to get started," Bailey finished in her usual matter-of-fact way.

Todd was the staff member Mike met in the dive shop the previous day. Dante, originally from Columbia, had the close-cropped haircut and solid physique that spoke to his time in the US Marines, where he had been before he decided to spend his time in the islands.

"Hey, Mike. Good to have you along," Dante said. "I understand you're one of the old hands around here. Are you the reason Bailey is in such a chipper mood this morning, I wonder?" he said with a smile and a wink.

"Glad to be along, guys. I'll try not to slow you down or get in your way," Mike said jokingly. He did his best to ignore the last comment. But a quick a glance at Bailey revealed she did seem to be in a good mood.

"Anything in particular I need to know about this dive? We aren't diving to 400 feet on snorkels or anything are we?" Mike joked.

"No, nothing quite that extreme," Todd said as he assembled his gear. "Just diving air. Bailey says the area is no more than 60 feet deep or so. No big challenges."

"We do have some new toys, though," Dante said. "I don't know where they came from, but Bailey has some underwater sonar units. We plan to use them to coordinate the search profiles. Pretty high end. Should be fun," he said.

Mike could feel his own mood lightening. In spite of the fire last night, he felt good. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful morning. He was going diving. It seemed as if a little romance was in the air. Yeah, he thought, things are going my way.

It was just the five of them on board. The dive boat was relatively small, and commonly referred to as a "12 pack" in diving circles because it was capable of carrying 12 divers. Because most dive trips around Cayman were short excursions to and from dive sites, this was more than enough space for the islands.

Bailey had loaded 16 tanks on board. Considering there were only four divers this was a lot, but since the boat didn't have an on-board compressor, she wanted to make sure they had the opportunity to search the area thoroughly if they found something. On the way to the dive site Bailey had selected to search, the divers all took time to set up their dive gear, check it out and prepare their cameras.

It took nearly an hour for the dive boat to make it to the area Bailey thought might prove successful based on reports from fishermen in the area. After Captain Gary set the anchor on a patch of sand, the two dive teams geared up and prepared for the dive.

"All right guys, settle down," Tanya said, calling them to order.

Mike marveled at her ability to control the situation. _She has really matured_ , Mike thought.

"Gary is showing 63 feet of depth under the keel on this spot. Things look clear as a bell, of course, but there does appear to be a bit of a current running," she said. Considering that none of them had actually dived on this particular spot, she couldn't describe what the divers would see, something divers would normally hear in a dive briefing.

"We'll dive in two teams. Todd and Dante, you'll dive together. Mike, you'll go with me," she said.

"Yes ma'am," Mike replied in mock submission, followed by the most innocent and charming smile he could muster without a mirror.

Unlike a pleasure dive where the buddy teams would create a dive plan based on the direction and maximum depth they wanted to travel along with the total bottom time they expected to achieve, the divers on this boat planned to conduct search patterns underwater and Bailey gave them specific instructions on how to do it. It wasn't as if they weren't having fun, but to make sure that the area they planned to search would be covered thoroughly and completely—no gaps in the search pattern—the teams had to work together and make sure they each knew what the other was doing.

"To keep things straight, both teams will carry wrist-mounted underwater sonar units. The units track off of a signaling device that we have suspended off of the anchor line. In case you get lost, you'll always be able to find your way back to the anchor line," she said. "We'll search different assigned areas. The sonar units will help us stay out of each other's way and not overlap. If you find something interesting, the sonar unit will give you an exact distance and heading back to the anchor line. You'll be able to guide the boat back to the new search location by plotting the distance into the boat's GPS."

GPS, or Global Positioning Satellite, systems had completely changed navigation forever, and diving for that matter. A series of satellites emitted trigonometrical positioning signals that could be accessed anywhere on earth. A simple and relatively inexpensive fixed or hand-held device no bigger than a mobile phone converted the information and becomes a homing device, taking you to a pre-assigned target or marking it.

Stepping off the stern of the dive boat into the water, Mike felt at home. The company psychiatrist was right. He needed to be involved. He had a mission on this dive and that made him focus even more. The cares and worries on the surface melted away. This was his therapy.

Mike and Bailey began their search at 50 feet on a reef structure just off shore. The area had been turned over somewhat by the storm, but it was deep enough that there wasn't a lot of damage. The gin-clear water allowed them to make fairly wide passes through their search patterns.

Both teams executed a U-search pattern in search and recovery diving. As a team, the pairs headed in separate directions. After a set distance, in this case 100 yards the pairs would turn to one side and swim a shorter distance—25 yards—and turn again, reversing the path they followed on the other long leg. This way, both groups could cover an area 100 yards wide thoroughly and quickly. To stay out of each other's way, the dive teams divided the area around the anchor chain into four quadrants: northeast, southeast, northwest and southwest. Mike and Bailey took the northeast quadrant to search while Todd and Dante took the southwest.

In both groups one diver watched and photographed anything that looked interesting while the other diver navigated through the search pattern, similar to Tanya's research divers. Although Bailey was a competent photographer, she turned the honor over to Mike. He was just carrying one camera for this trip, set up for wide angle shots. The digital camera gave him the ability to shoot virtually without limits. Bailey navigated.

The first dive lasted about an hour with no success, except for the discovery of a few new possible dive sites they could bring divers to visit. Many of the dive operations use the same dive sites over and over around the island. In spite of devices such as anchor balls to tie off the dive boats instead of dropping an anchor, some of the more frequently used sites began to show the wear and tear after a while. A careless fin brush here and a diver with bad buoyancy control crashing into the reef there all added up after a while. All of the dive operations were always looking for dive sites to give the other regular sites a break.

"Nice location, don't you think?" Mike said to Bailey as they stretched out in the sun on the boat after the dive.

"Actually, it is. There's some beautiful reef structure. If we don't find what we're looking for, I'll be adding these sites to our dive list. This will work great for our customers who don't mind spending a little more time on the boat, but want to see something really special," she said, halfway talking to herself. The lure of unknown, or virgin, dive sites always offered additional attraction, often allowing the dive operators to charge higher trip fees. All part of the diving economy on the island.

Mike was about to ask Bailey what she meant by "If we don't find what we are looking for." He thought she would be all the more inclined to visit the site if they did find a shipwreck, when an icy-cold blast from a rifle-sized squirt gun brought him screaming back to the present.

"Thought you both looked a little too peaceful, lying like big dogs soaking up the sun," Captain Gary said through the laughter as he brandished the Super Soaker. "I didn't want you to get too warm so I filled the gun up with water from the cooler."

"I appreciate you looking out for us," Bailey yelled back as she chased Gary around the small boat. "Now, now, Bailey. No exercising after diving," he yelled as he tried to avoid her.

The boat, however, was just too small and there was no room to run. She tackled him and they both fell off the boat into the warm clear water. Horseplay like this would never be allowed when paying customers were on the boat, so it was absolutely necessary for them to blow off steam when guests were not around. Mike didn't count. It made him feel good that he didn't. That meant they thought of him as family, instead of as a visitor.

After an hour's surface interval, both teams made a second dive, searching the other quadrant on their respective sides this time. As they began the dive, it seemed to Mike as if they were floating over just another nameless reef. Nothing spectacular to see. No outstanding special features. Just another pretty dive in paradise. It was a continuous carpet of coral and fish—colors run amuck.

Fifteen minutes into the dive, Mike and Bailey bumped into each other underwater. Her hand found his and stayed there. They finished the dive hand in hand—Mike smiling the entire time. Other than possibly each other, Mike and Bailey didn't find anything on this dive, either. Back on the surface, Dante and Todd reported that they found what appeared to be old beams, possibly from a ship. They were covered with several old fishing nets.

Back on board, the two pairs made plans to do a thorough search of the area to see what Todd and Dante had found.

"So do ya think we found the mother lode?" Todd joked. "I'm already spending my share of the gold."

"Well, you don't have anything yet," his dive buddy told him. "You never know, I might just see a shark, cut you and take all of the money for myself."

"Some buddy you are," Todd said with mock indignation. "How do you know I wasn't planning on doing the same to you?"

"Should look like a scene from a James Bond movie with the two of you knife fighting down there with sharks swimming all around," Mike interrupted, laughing.

"All right, all three of you. Let's plan this out," Bailey said. "We need to stay out for at least another hour. I don't want anyone to have to take a chamber ride over this one. If there is gold down there, it will stay put."

"Sounds like a perfect time to grab some lunch," Dante said. "Let's break it out. I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

"I'm hungry, but I'm fairly tired too. I didn't sleep as much as I wanted to last night," Mike said.

"Sounds like a pretty nice problem for you," Todd said, giving him a wink.

"I was with Kelly and Tanya at the fire downtown until late last night," Mike responded, being a bit defensive, and confused as to the reason why.

"Yeah, I drove by there last night on my way home. What a mess. Any clue on how it started?" Todd said, allowing Mike to change the subject. He liked the big photographer and looked up to Bailey as a big sister.

"None so far. Tanya was having a pretty bad day. Just a bad run of luck, I guess," Mike answered.

The four divers lounged in the shade of the cabin and ate lunch. Mike was able to doze off for a few minutes in the sun—until Bailey woke him with a shove.

"Mike, wake up, you're snoring," she said.

"No, I wasn't. I wasn't even asleep," he replied, a little bit groggy and confused for a second. The time underwater, coupled with the late night at the fire the night before, had taken its toll.

"I know snoring when I hear it, and you have been asleep now for about a half an hour," Bailey answered, teasing him.

"Oh. Well, I uh... So what's the plan?" he asked, trying to move on.

"Gary has just moved us on top of the new site and anchored up in a patch of sand. It's time to go see what we can find," Bailey replied.

After a moment, while Bailey spoke, Mike realized he had been sleeping. And there was something that was clear in his dream, but it was just escaping now that he was awake. Maybe if he had been able to sleep for just another minute he would have had it. He was awake and the thought was gone. Something in his unconscious was trying to intrude on his conscious thoughts, but it wasn't well enough formed yet.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his gear and got ready to make the dive. Visions of gold and treasure were sneaking into his mind as well.

This dive would only take them to about 35 feet. Descending along the anchor chain Mike couldn't see anything other than more coral formations and reef fish carrying out their daily activities. They were very close to a reef structure that rose nearly to the surface of the water. The shallower depths made this dive a bit trickier and more challenging because they could feel the wave action of the surf crossing the reef, especially while they were descending. The motion and pull of the ocean was less noticeable on the bottom, but there was a current running across the site.

Just as Mike began to slow his descent by adding air into his buoyancy compensator, his experienced eye noticed several straight lines. One thing about nature, and especially nature underwater, is that nothing forms in straight lines. Mike thoroughly photographed the area around the wood beams. Bailey was able to remove a small piece of wood through an opening in the coral. They couldn't tell if the timbers were from a shipwreck, or from a pier sunk 50 years ago. Only careful scientific examination would reveal that.

"Ship?" he wrote on an underwater slate.

"Wait," Bailey wrote back on the same slate with a shoulder shrug. While divers could communicate basic ideas with hand signals, these were naturally limited. Greater detail required writing, if they weren't able to speak underwater using special communications equipment.

"Which way?" Mike wrote. He had spent all of his time photographing the site and had lost his bearings a bit underwater.

Bailey consulted her compass and pointed out the direction with a chopping motion. Mike agreed and signaled that he would follow her lead.

Both teams had begun their third dives directly on top of the suspected wreck itself. After they completed their survey of the site, Bailey and Mike moved against the current and Dante and Todd moved down current. They were checking to see if the possible ship had broken apart as it sank and spread debris over a larger area instead of the entire vessel settling in one spot.

Normally divers plan their dives swimming against the current so the movement of the water will help return them to their starting point. This also helps keep them from getting worn out at the end of the dive trying to return to the boat. Todd and Dante brought along propeller-driven underwater scooters to help them return to the boat. These battery-powered torpedoes allowed the divers to move better than two knots underwater, dramatically better than they could swim on their own. They used their scooters very little as they moved away from the boat, except to play a little bit. This was their day off, after all, and scooters were a tremendous amount of fun.

Both teams found a few other interesting signs, such as a glass bottle and what appeared to be iron ballast from a wooden ship, but nothing that conclusively told them it was a shipwreck. More dives would be required to find out anything definite. Considering the storms over the years, coral growth, and how wooden ships break up when they sink, debris could be there in a pile, or it could be strewn across the ocean bottom for miles.

Mike and Bailey were finishing up their underwater search and Todd and Dante had already returned to the boat, when they heard the telltale sound of a boat engine and propeller underwater. The curious nature of sound traveling through water makes it impossible to judge speed, distance, or direction of a sound, but there was no mistaking the high-pitched whining of a propeller.

Looking up, Mike could see a boat slowing down and sliding up close to their dive boat. They surfaced to see what was going on.

As Mike and Bailey broke the surface of the water, they could hear angry shouts. Gary was arguing with men on the new boat. Climbing up out of the water, they heard one of the men say, "There are your last two divers. Now move along. This area is restricted, according to the Cayman Island Ministry of Tourism and the Environment."

"What are you talking about?" Gary replied. "You can't restrict an open piece of reef off shore like this. You can't own this. And even if you could, you would have to mark it with buoys or flags."

"I am telling you to leave. Now," said the second man on the other boat. With that, he pulled up the bottom of his T-shirt to reveal a gun in the waistband of his shorts. He pointed to another one, what Mike recognized as an AK-47, on board his boat. The threat was obvious, if unstated.

Gary's eyes widened and he paused. Then he regained his composure and started to argue, but Bailey stopped him. Better to report this to the authorities and check out the man's claims than to start trouble. Without so much as another word, the divers raised their anchor and left the area. The men in the second boat watched them as they pulled away, but didn't attempt to follow. Mike noted that the boat had very few markings on it. No registration numbers and no identifying name on the stern. He was able to take a few photographs of the men and their boat without them knowing it as he pretended to care for his camera gear.

Bailey was on her mobile phone before the dive boat reached the dock. She quickly verified what she already suspected, that there was no governmental restriction on any area around the island and the men had just used the name of the government agency to dissuade them from further exploration. Her next call was to the police to report the threats.

Mike stayed out of most of these discussions. It wasn't his island. He was just a visitor. He needed to let the island people handle this. He started to let Bailey know he had gotten a few photographs of the men, but he decided against it and retired to the bow of the boat to think while she talked to the authorities.

Something was going on here—a dead girl, the ravaged sea floor, the mysterious fire and now the threat against the divers by unknown armed men. Mike wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew he wanted to find out. In this case, since he wasn't living on the island, maybe he would be the best person to investigate. He was an unknown quantity.

Back at the dock, Mike gave his version of the incident to the police and took off. He needed to think.

****

"Mr. Walker, this is Mr. Akins. We need to talk," the Minister of Tourism and the Environment said over the phone.

"Why is it I only hear from you and your esteemed colleagues when things get a bit tough, I wonder?" Walker asked with sarcasm dripping from his voice. "What is it you want? Make it quick," he said, showing his impatience. Being short and fairly round, he rarely intimidated people physically, so he normally tried to intimidate using his voice. He got loud and sarcastic quickly.

"As you have correctly determined, things are getting more difficult. There is considerable resistance to the idea of the new cruise ship dock. I am sure you are aware of the protests and arrests. Also, there are rumblings about environmental concerns. Several environmental groups have contacted us already. People are complaining," Akins explained, trying to sound reasonable. "My 'esteemed colleagues,' as you have so eloquently described them, and I have decided that it would be best if we rethought this whole initiative. We need to place it before an open forum and do this through traditional channels. We realize this may take considerably more time, but we think it's for the best."

"Well, I appreciate your concerns, but I have one thing to say." Walker paused for effect before he barked out the next word. "Wrong. We have an agreement and you'll stick to it. There is no way out. You were more than willing to participate in this project when you expected compensation. You have already received payment for your support. Now, get back to work and make these problems go away. You led me to believe you could control the problems and make it all happen. Now do it. I'll not discuss this any further. Goodbye."

Walker slammed the phone down on his desk.

****

The divers sat around a small table in the cottage they called home when they weren't sleeping or diving from the submarine. They played cards and told stories about their past.

Samson sat off to one side with his eyes closed in meditation. He had just returned from a run and was cooling down. While he was doing something most of the macho divers really didn't understand, they didn't even think of saying anything to Samson about his unusual habits. His lean muscular body and the smoldering gaze from his steel-gray eyes told the men what they needed to know. This was not someone to mess with.

"Mr. Samson, you care to join us in a round of cards? We need another person," one of the divers asked.

When Samson didn't answer immediately, another of the divers hit his buddy on the arm.

"He can't hear you and it's probably a good thing. That one isn't the type to play cards with us," the second diver said under his breath.

A moment later Samson stirred from his trance and answered. "Thanks. But I don't play cards. Not much for games, really. I play chess and backgammon, but not cards," he replied.

After another pause, he continued. "By the way, the name is Samson. Not 'Mister' or 'Sir' or anything else, just Samson. Let's just say it's a working name," he explained, saying more about himself on a job than he had in a long time. Maybe it was because he was a bit out of his element in this situation, or that he felt at ease with the divers, but he felt relaxed around them. He respected their seriousness, professionalism and attention to detail. He had resolved to finish the dive lessons he had begun because of these men, although he really wasn't comfortable with it.

"Someone give you that name first, or did the hair come first?" a third diver asked, referring to Samson's long ponytail. He perked up and entered the conversation, interested in Samson's sudden willingness to talk about himself.

"Let's just say I earned the name for something I did several years ago and grew the hair to match. Vanity, I guess," he said, his mouth smiling, but his cold eyes still mirthless. "I was an altar boy when I was young and I was always fascinated with Old Testament stories. After a particular job I was on, when I..." a ringing sound interrupted Samson's uncharacteristic candor. _Just as well_ , Samson thought as he reached for the mobile phone on his hip.

"Samson," he said gruffly into the phone. "Sure. I can be there in 15 minutes."

When he hung up the phone, he returned back to the closed Samson the divers knew. They would probably never know how close they came to finding out more about Samson than they would even want to know.

"That was the boss. Gotta go see what is up. I'll give you all the run down when I get back."

He quickly picked up his keys and walked out the door, before anyone could ask any questions.

****

"What's the hold-up? I ordered you to get results," Walker said. "I need you to get results."

"Yes sir. I remember what you told me to do. Unfortunately, we just haven't turned up the wreck," Samson replied as he sat down somewhat tiredly. He was working nights, generally—the price of covert excavations and the need for secrecy. Unfortunately, his boss had forgotten the hours he was working and demanded to see him in the middle of the day, just when Samson would normally be sleeping. Walker had arranged for a private room at the Cardin Hotel on Seven-Mile Beach. _At least_ , Samson thought, _it's where my bags are staying_.

"Actually, the operation is going smoothly. The word hasn't gotten out, and we have excavated several places. Just no luck so far. You told me yourself that it would take some time. Even given the information you provided, it's still searching for a needle in a haystack," Samson said. He was not really in the mood to explain Walker's own operation to him, but he also understood Walker, and his lack of experience in situations like this. He was used to making things happen in the business world. He yelled and people jumped. Walker just wasn't familiar with projects where there were this many variables out of his control. While searching for sunken shipwrecks was a completely new situation for Samson, controlling covert operations that depended on luck as much as skill and organization was something he knew very well.

"The new information you just received from your informant is quite likely to be what we need. It sounds like things will be happening very quickly from this point forward," Samson reassured his boss.

"I cannot tolerate any more excuses or delays from you. I need you to work faster," Walker said. "The government people are starting to ask questions about when I'm going to begin construction on the new pier. The longer we delay, the more time the locals have to get organized and the environmentalists have time to look over the plans and ask questions. I need to move now."

"I'm sorry sir," Samson said wearily. "What would you have me do? You have ordered us to maintain secrecy and avoid attracting attention," Samson reminded his boss. "That means we have to work at night and slowly and quietly."

"Well, now I'm ordering you to do whatever you need. Put the men to work faster. Tear up whatever you need. Destroy all of the reefs, for all I care. I don't hug fish. I need money and I want that shipwreck," Walker said.

"What's the problem? You set up an elaborate system and now you want me to throw it all away? What gives?" Samson asked. "I thought you had all of the politicians paid off."

"The government gave me money to begin construction on the pier. I used that money to pay for all of the equipment you are using to excavate for the shipwreck. I planned to use the gold from the wreck to pay for the pier. You didn't think I would spend my own money on this, did you?" Walker asked with a rueful laugh. "I need some results soon or I will have to pay it back."

"Did you hear? They found the body of a girl in the water near the blowholes," Samson asked after a moment's silence in an effort to change the subject. "Turns out she was just some runaway. Not spying, just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. Nothing to worry about after all."

"I'd heard, actually. I have people all over this island with open eyes and ears who report to me," Walker responded. "Now just go and do whatever you need to do, tear up whatever you need to tear up and do your job."

Without another word, Samson stood and left the room. He was being ordered to change tactics—a mistake from his point of view. _The original plan was unusual,_ Samson thought, _but it had merit_. Now, for some reason, his boss was reacting to something. He had to make plans to adjust the work the men were doing, and step up the pace and the timetable. He also had to make some plans of his own, in case this all went sour.

He never left himself without a backdoor. _One thing's for sure_ , he thought, _I won't be getting any sleep today_.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Walker, but if you are having trouble with Mr. Samson, I can certainly step in and conduct the rest of the arrangements for the search," Walker's assistant Allen said to his boss as soon as the door shut behind Samson. The man had been waiting and listening in a side room. Allen believed he deserved a shot at running the operation and thought Walker was holding him back. Mostly, though, he blamed Samson for getting in his way when he felt he deserved the opportunity. Allen was the sort of person who usually found someone else to blame for his problems without ever taking responsibility for his own actions.

"No. Allen, we've had this discussion before and I'll not have it again. I need you exactly where you are and doing what you are doing. I can't spare you to run the search operation," Walker said—in his own way trying to mollify the feelings of his assistant. At the same time, he thought to himself that Allen was completely incapable of running the operation. _Allen just isn't capable of taking any initiative. He never takes any risks on his own. He expects me to give him everything without earning any of it. Too bad._

To cut off further discussion Walker got up and left the room and left Allen with his thoughts—not very pleasant ones, at that.

****

Mike couldn't get all of the strange happenings on the island out of his mind. He took off in his rental car, careful to drive on the left side of the road, even though his mind wasn't really on it. To keep himself straight, he followed the cars ahead of him and stayed in the same lane.

As he meandered around, he found himself close to the Owen Roberts International Airport as a small Island Air flight took off overhead, bound for Little Cayman or Cayman Brac. Divers who wanted to visit the sister islands had to fly into Grand Cayman and then take the local commuter airline to the smaller islands.

As Mike watched the small plane take off, he got an idea. Driving quickly to the Island Air terminal, he saw a sign for exactly what he needed. Along with commuter flights between the islands, the airline company also conducted flight-seeing tours. As luck would have it, the pretty Caymanian receptionist behind the desk told him there was a flight-seeing tour in about a half an hour and there was an open seat on the plane. He told the woman that he was a magazine photographer working on a story about the island and needed some aerial photographs. Considering the amount of publicity generated by the Ministry of Tourism and the Environment, it was very common for writers and photographers to be on the island. He wasn't sure who might be watching or what might be going on, so he chose to build a cover story instead of taking chances. He laughed to himself at his own paranoia, but he still thought discretion was the better part of valor.

Mike quickly paid the fare and went back to his car to prepare his camera. He didn't know what he hoped to see, but he thought getting above the island might help him put some perspective into whatever was going on. Upon returning to the flight terminal, he grabbed a bottle of water and sat down to wait on the pilot.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait too long. The pilot, looking like a cross between a big game hunter and a surfer, entered the room with three tourists in tow. He was tanned, had long blond hair, and was dressed in jeans and a flight jacket. With him was a heavy woman with an overweight, early-teenage boy and slim younger girl.

"Mom, why do we have to do this? I want to go play video games in the room," the boy whined.

"We are doing this because I said so and that's final. Your father is off diving, but wanted us to do something exciting together," the mother said sternly, although she didn't exactly appear to be convinced herself. The daughter, about 11, was the only one who seemed to be genuinely interested in taking the flight. She watched excitedly as the planes taxied on the tarmac.

Mike stood up when the pilot called his name and walked over to the desk. He filled out a liability release saying he wouldn't sue if he ended up dead. Everyone everywhere was concerned about liability. When they walked out to the plane, Mike noticed that the Island Air tour plane had five seats. One for the pilot up front and then two rows of seats for the passengers. The Cessna Stationair normally had six seats, but the co-pilot seat had been removed to make room for cameras and the passenger's other personal gear.

The mother and son took the back two seats. Neither of them could see extremely well from those seats, but neither was terribly disappointed. Mike helped the young girl into the seat beside him and then took the last seat, turning to close the door behind him. From the middle row of seats, both Mike and the girl had an excellent view of the ocean and the island.

As the small plane took off, it had the inevitable bumps and jolts common among small airplanes. Mike could hear the pair in the back seat breathing heavily. Mike guessed that the only exercise either one got was making trips to the fridge. He hoped he wouldn't have a medical emergency to deal with on the flight.

In contrast, the young girl, who appeared to be athletic and bright-eyed, was glued to the window from the moment the wheels of the plane left the ground. She was as excited about the flight itself as she was about seeing the island from the air.

As the flight began, the pilot began giving his passengers a brief guided tour of the island, explaining the history of the island and pointing out the smaller islands in the distance. He also described the coral reefs that surround the island. From her rapt attention, Mike could tell the girl was extremely interested in the ocean, so he did his best to supplement the pilot's tour with his own knowledge of diving around the island, in spite of the many other things on his mind.

"You know, a lot of people believe the colorful creatures on coral reefs are plants," Mike said, to start the conversation. "The colorful creatures swaying back and forth with the water currents your dad sees when he goes diving are actually animals. They are just sessile, meaning they can't move."

"I know. We studied them in school, but you're right, my dad calls them plants," she said. "Our teacher told us about how they hunt for food. He said when a small fish comes close the animals fire stinging cells from their tentacles. They inject a poison, paralyzing the fish so they can digest it later."

"That's great. I couldn't have explained it better myself," Mike said. "Coral reefs are made up of billions of tiny animals. And the color in much of the coral actually comes from algae living inside the animals themselves. Researchers don't even attempt to count all of the animals, but they form opinions on how healthy the reef is based on how it looks. Things like silt in the water, chemicals and even temperature changes can make a difference to the reef."

"That's cool. Are you a diver? I want to be a diver when I get a little older. My dad said divers have to be able to carry their own gear, so I am practicing at home to get strong enough," she said.

"I'm a diver and I hope you get to learn soon. It's great. You get to see cool things," Mike said, trying not to sound too old.

As the flight took them away from the populated areas of George Town and toward the east end, Mike began to study the water more intensely. As they flew over the area he had dived with Tanya just the day before, he could clearly see a squarish-looking white space cut out through the reef. That was the devastation they had seen.

And then he saw a similar space. And another. Mike placed a polarizing lens on his camera and adjusted it to remove much of the glare cased by the sun on the water, effectively allowing him to see underwater. He quickly fired off several images, placing the destroyed sections in context with the coastline and close-ups, as best he could, of the areas themselves.

In all, by the time the plane cut across the island and started heading back toward the airport, Mike had seen five places where it appeared as if the reef had just been removed with a bulldozer. Each of the sites was in the same general area around the east end of the island. He didn't see anything resembling that devastation anywhere else. Following landmarks as best he could remember from his dives earlier that day, he saw there wasn't a torn-up area immediately around the site of the possible shipwreck, but it seemed as if someone was conducting a search of their own and tearing up the reef in a pattern. They seemed to be moving gradually in the direction of the newly found possible wreck site.

For the rest of the flight, Mike was lost in thought and completely distracted. The family was gone from the airport before he got a chance to offer any more words of encouragement to the young girl.

****

"Kelly, I'm not sure what's going on, but I want to check it out. People hearing strange noises, parts of the reef just stripped off the bottom, that dead girl and now armed men warning us away from a spot on the water that just happens to be over top of what may be a shipwreck. I'm pretty suspicious about last night's fire as well, coming just hours after we discovered the torn-up reef and Tanya letting her government contacts know about it. It's all adding up to something much greater than the sum of the parts. There's something going on up on the east end and I want to find out what," he explained to his friend over a cup of coffee in a small café in George Town Harbor. Mike had looked for his friend for the better part of two hours after his flight, before he finally found Kelly picking up a shipment for the dive shop. It was near the end of the day.

"Okay, what do you have in mind?" Kelly asked quizzically.

"I want to make a stake-out dive up there. We'll sit and wait to see if someone shows up in the middle of the night," Mike said, giving him the rough overview of his plan.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to call the cops and explain what's going on?" Kelly asked his old friend.

"It might make more sense if I had anything more than a gut feeling. If you don't want to help out, if you've slowed down in your old age, I'll understand," Mike said, ribbing his friend. He knew Kelly would never back down from a challenge like that.

He also knew that Kelly never really had any intention of not helping. He was just asking the questions that had to be asked.

"Pal, you have a look in your eye that I haven't seen in a while. When I first saw you standing by the water a few days ago, I was worried about you. But you've got it back now," Kelly said.

"You know, I was worried about me too, but a lot has happened since then. I agree, I've got it back, or at least it's coming back now. In an odd sort of way, I'm having fun again. It's just like old times when we were either in trouble or finding ways out of it," Mike said.

"You know I'm in," Kelly said to affirm what they both knew was inevitable.

"I knew you would be. That's why I came to find you," Mike replied.

"So how're we going to pull this off? How're we going to know where or when, for that matter? We could make a dive at 10 o'clock and whatever is going on could happen at midnight after we left," Kelly asked.

"First, I want to go back to the site where we were today. Seeing things from above, it seems as if whatever is causing the reef devastation is working in that general direction. The armed goons warning us away from the area are too much of a coincidence to ignore," Mike said. "Second, I want to make the dive using rebreathers. To begin with, we can stay down about four hours and we can hide a lot easier if no one sees our bubble trails."

"Okay, that makes sense. I've got an extra unit at the shop you can use, but how are we going to get there? If there is someone out there doing something, I'm sure they'll be watching out for a dive boat anchored up," Kelly asked.

"Hey, you live here. I can't come up with all the answers," Mike replied with a grin.

Finished with their coffee, they left the café and walked on around the harbor in silence as Kelly tried to think of the best way to get underwater without being noticed. He wasn't meeting with much success. Lost in thought, he almost stumbled into someone walking the other direction.

"Oh, sorry. Excuse me," he said. "Hey, aren't you the guy from the boat yesterday?"

"Oh, hello. Kelly, isn't it?" said the man, smiling. "Are you and your friend here to save our lives again?"

"Keeping us out of trouble again?" his friend joined in as he walked up. It was the two divers Kelly and Mike had rescued on the dive boat two days before.

Wetsuits, wet hair and dive gear had prevented Mike from taking a very good look at the two divers they had rescued. Now in street clothes, he could tell what the men looked like. Both men were white, around 60, fit without being muscular and well groomed. They frankly looked like money and power, men used to getting their way. It showed in the way they carried themselves. These two had to be retired or semi-retired corporate executives. They walked like captains on a ship with a professional, well-mannered crew awaiting their orders. They were relaxed and in charge of every situation. This was, of course, very different from the way they had felt the day before. And that made it all the more humbling. Fortunately, the men took it gracefully.

"You know, it just occurred to me... we never got your names," Kelly said. He made a note to himself that he would have to amend the report he had sent to his diving agency. In the rush to get Mike back to the hotel and with everything that had happened since then, he had just forgotten.

"Didn't we exchange names? I guess not. There just wasn't time for formal introductions when you were saving our lives and all," the second diver chimed in. "Well, let me start. My name is Henry Toney."

"And I am John Burnsworth," the first diver said, following the other's lead. They both extended their hands. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Kelly and Mike introduced themselves in return.

"Actually, I am glad we ran into you, literally it seems," Burnsworth said warmly. "I wanted you to know we took your advice and did a refresher with one of the instructors at your dive center. We really appreciated the professional way she handled everything. It had been too long since I was in the water and I had forgotten a few things. It really helped," Burnsworth continued. "Anyway, I just want you two to know how much we appreciate what you did for us and if there is anything we can ever do to repay you, please let us know."

"Don't worry about it," Kelly replied. "Just be safe and stay out of trouble. So what are you guys doing on this end of the island? I thought you were staying out at Rum Point."

"No, we were just there for a few days. We're actually waiting on John's pride and joy to show up. We've been planning a much-needed cruise throughout the islands," Toney said as he gestured to an amazing yacht just docking in the harbor. Gleaming white, it appeared to be more than 150 feet long. It was not an unusual boat for travel through the islands for the fabulously wealthy, but it was still impressive anyway. And far beyond anything Kelly or Mike could afford.

"Sure is beautiful, guys. Well, you all be safe and enjoy your cruise," Kelly said as he started to walk away.

"Hold on a minute, Kelly," Mike interrupted. "I have an idea. Did you really mean it when you said 'If there is anything we can ever do to repay you, please let us know'?" Mike asked.

"Of course, Mike. What do you need?" Burnsworth replied.

"Do you have time for a drink?" Mike replied. "It may take more than a minute to explain."

An hour later the strangers had become partners in the adventure. The previous awkwardness quickly gave way to camaraderie. They would meet at nine o'clock on the dock the next night. John and Henry would prepare the yacht. Kelly would prepare the gear and Mike would ready his cameras.

This was getting better by the minute.

## CHAPTER 10

For various reasons, Mike and Kelly had to wait until the next night to put their plan into action. As it turned out, the delay turned out for the best. It gave Mike and Kelly time to get together the equipment they needed to carry out the plan. It also just so happened that the next night was a full moon and the weather forecast was perfectly clear. There wouldn't be a cloud in the sky.

After setting things up, Mike, Kelly, Tanya, Bailey and a few others met to establish their cover story. They talked loudly in My Bar about being invited out on the yacht for an evening cruise as thanks for Mike and Kelly saving the owner's life. Just in case someone was watching, they wanted an excuse for the slow cruise up and down the island. Like all good stories, it was partly founded in truth.

"Bailey, you have to understand this isn't Mike's first experience with luxury yachts," Kelly said, blending the cover story they were creating into a war story. While he'd had no shortage of adventures, Mike rarely talked about his own exploits so Kelly felt compelled to tell stories at his friend's expense whenever he could.

"Kelly... " Mike growled at his friend.

"Oh, be quiet, Mike," Bailey said. "Come on, Kelly. You've got to tell this one."

The group had moved beyond establishing their cover story, with the exception of a few occasional references, and was just swapping tall tales.

"Once, in the early days, Mike was teaching a photo course here at Sunset, when this amazing girl came into the shop looking to learn about underwater photography. Our hero here quickly volunteered to help the girl out in any way he could," Kelly continued, beginning to warm up to the story.

"She was a good student and learned quite a bit, as I remember, but really wasn't giving Mike the time of day," Kelly continued. "She would show up in the morning, do the dives, hang around for the debriefs and then disappear. No one ever saw her leave.

"One day, after about a week of this, Mike had enough. He wanted to find out what was going on with this girl. Having nothing better to do that day, I tagged along while we staked out the front of the hotel right after we wrapped for the day. I was outside in the Jeep—it was Mike's at the time—when I see the girl walk out through the glass doors and come down to the road. Mike comes running and jumps in the Jeep as a car with black windows pulls up and the girl gets in really fast. It almost looked as if she was trying to hide herself as she got in the car.

"Being the hero that he is, Mike immediately thought something was wrong. He immediately started putting things together, comments she'd made that he construed to mean she was being held against her will," Kelly continued. "We followed the car as best as we could. I was driving. Pretty soon it was obvious we were heading toward the harbor. We pull up to the dock to see the girl get out of the car and walk over to this enormous yacht. Before she walked up the steps to the yacht and entered the boat, she glanced around suspiciously.

"Mike was sure she was in trouble. That was the only reason he could come up with that she wasn't interested in him," Kelly continued while Mike sat silently fuming at his friend. "So Mike decides to come back later that evening and sneak on board to find out what was going on.

"To make a long story just a bit longer, we came back that night after all of the activity had died down and he sneaks onboard," Kelly continued, becoming more and more animated with each sentence.

"There is no way you are talking about this Mike setting here beside me," Bailey exclaimed, laughing as Mike sat stonily silent, becoming more and more self-conscious.

"Oh, it is about this Mike," Tanya said, laughing. "But hold on. It gets better. I've heard this story several times and it gets better each time. It must be true, because the main part of the story never changes and Mike always gets really mad and quiet."

"Kelly, you've got to finish this," Bailey said.

"All right, all right. Let me get through it," he responded. "So anyway, Mike comes back and sneaks on board. He wants to talk to the girl and see if he can help this damsel in distress escape from bondage or something.

"Fifteen minutes later, I see him come running and two guys are chasing him. About halfway down the steps leading down from the yacht, he jumps off and into the water. The men chasing him shine their lights into the water looking for him, but Mike gets away," Kelly explained. "After his dramatic escape, I think he must have been right. The girl was a captive and we had to report it to the police.

"All Mike can say in the Jeep is 'no police' and for me to drive back to our apartment. He won't talk about it. He tells me to forget about it. It turns that the girl is the very young wife of an oil baron and wasn't being held against her will at all. Better yet, Mike stumbled upon them at dinner. They reported it to the police as a breaking and entering, but the girl never identified Mike even though he was sure she'd seen him. He only admitted all of this when I saw a story in the newspaper about the daring home invasion-style robbery attempt. I still have the clipping.

"Well, there you have it and here you have our Mike. Always trying to save the world," Kelly wrapped up. "He never did see the girl again either. The yacht left the next day. I guess they decided it wasn't safe in Grand Cayman," Kelly finished as he roared with laughter.

"So is that what it means to be a Cayman Cowboy?" Bailey asked. "Saving damsels in distress and drinking all the beer at My Bar?"

"Yeah, in a way. Being a Cayman Cowboy is about doing things your own way and not worrying about the consequences," Mike said for the first time since Kelly began his story. "It is also about honor and integrity. Doing what you know is right, regardless of what someone else tells you to think. What Kelly doesn't mention when he tells this story is that he thought I was right and was working on ways to smuggle her out of town and to safety while I was gathering information. He was in, hook line and sinker. We both were.

"We had our fair share of fun and were in and out of trouble, but the real spirit of being a Cayman Cowboy is always sticking together and backing each other up. If we thought our buddy was messing up, we would tell him privately, but if someone else said the same thing in public, they would have to deal with all of us," Kelly added

****

Later, Mike, Kelly and Tanya drove along the coast slowly, stopping frequently to watch for anything suspicious—lights in the water or growling sounds that would signal more excavation work.

****

"What is it?" Walker asked gruffly when he picked up his private phone line at home. Very few people actually had this number and he didn't feel the need to be polite when answering it. After all, it was late in the evening and he was ready for bed.

"I have some information that I think you will be interested in," the female voice on the other end of the line said.

"What is it then? Don't waste my time," Walker said, recognizing the voice as that of someone who gave him information from time to time. "If it's worth it, you will be compensated as with all of your other information."

"This is more important than anything else I have given you so far, as I think you will see. If you agree with that, I want double the going rate," the voice argued. "It's time for me to get out of here."

"If I agree it's that important, I'll pay you whatever is appropriate," Walker said in his neutral negotiating voice.

"I've just found out that two divers are planning on doing some snooping around on the east end. They've started adding things up and now they're curious about what's going on. They are planning to make a night dive to see what is causing the underwater destruction," the voice said.

"How can I find them?" Walker asked.

"I am not sure how they are planning to make the dive. The easiest way to get them will be to catch them when they come ashore afterwards, before anyone knows where they are. Their disappearance can be covered up as a dive accident," the voice said.

"Thank you. I agree, this information is the most important you have ever given me. I will double your rate," Walker said and hung up the phone. He would have paid 10 times for information like this.

Walker immediately picked the phone back up.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Samson, I have something I need you to take care of," Walker said without bothering with formalities. "There are a couple divers on the island who seem to be snooping around the operation a bit. I have received information that says they might be planning to make a dive around the excavation site. I want you to take care of them and make sure they don't discover what's going on. I need this to remain quiet."

"I understand, sir. I will make sure of it," Samson replied. "Should I delay the operation?"

"No. We can't have any more delays. If they see what's going on, that will just have to be, but make sure that's the end of it."

Walker hung up the phone without another word.

****

The plan was simple. Mike asked the yacht owners to take an evening cruise up the island. When it got to the point where Bailey had found the possible shipwreck, the boat would slow and Mike and Kelly would simply enter the water from the yacht's smaller run-about boat trailing behind and well away from the yacht's twin propellers. This way the yacht would barely have to slow down and hopefully not attract any attention.

The water around Cayman was so clear that the full moon lit up the reef at night, making it possible for Mike and Kelly to dive without lights. That way they could swim in unseen if there was anyone else around.

The pick-up would be trickier, however. The divers could either swim to shore in a safe place and Tanya would pick them up from the water's edge or, if possible, the boat would pick them back up on the return course four hours later. This would require Kelly to set off an electronic marker buoy to signal their location and the yacht would actually have to stop and the divers would then swim over to the boat. There was no way the divers could approach the yacht while it was moving. A boat that size would suck them under the bow toward the propellers—making it a fatal maneuver.

Leaving George Town Harbor, the yacht headed east along the island. Tanya was on shore in case she needed to pick up the divers after their dive. After leaving sight of the harbor, Mike and Kelly began to prepare their rebreathers and themselves for the dive. The passengers on board stayed out on the upper deck of the yacht, with drinks in hand and music playing—celebrating—until the yacht was completely out of sight from the harbor. Then, all thoughts of the supposed party went out the window.

"Hey, Bailey," Mike said as he was heading below to get ready to make the dive. "Sorry we still haven't gotten to spend any time alone together. Tomorrow for sure, we'll take that picnic."

"That's okay, Mike. I understand. Don't worry about it," she said as she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "We'll get together. You go be safe."

It was a shame that they weren't along to really enjoy the yacht, Bailey thought as Mike left. This would be a nice place to spend some time. Having been around the islands for years, Bailey had been on numerous yachts for various reasons. Some tended toward tacky, with all of the gadgets and extravagances placed on board by owners with more money than any sense of what a luxury yacht needed to have. On this one, the interior was as elegant as the ship was on the outside and as tasteful as the owner, who had impressed Bailey.

It had all of the necessary toys—a heli-pad, a diving locker with several complete sets of equipment and even a small, portable recompression chamber. It also had formal living quarters and common areas that would have been perfect for an Italian villa.

"Mr. Toney, this boat is just amazing. When can I move in?" Bailey joked to Henry Toney, the friend of the yacht's owner.

"Well, I'll have to speak to John about that, but I am sure we can find some space for you here somewhere," Toney replied. "We could use someone to show us around the reefs of the world."

"Wow. Wouldn't that be amazing?" Bailey laughed. "You'll probably be surprised to learn this, but my apartment on the island isn't quite this nice. Close, but not quite."

"It is rather well appointed, I have to agree with you. John did very well for himself over the years and always said he wanted a boat like this," Toney explained. "He had just bought it when his wife was tragically killed in an automobile accident. He thought about selling it for a while, but then we decided to go explore the world together. Two old men on the high seas."

"I really love the way... " Bailey started to say when her mobile phone rang. "Excuse me, Mr. Toney, I need to take this."

"Hello? Look, I am glad you called me back. I have something very important to tell you," she said as she walked away.

****

"So tell me about these re-breather units," John Burnsworth, the owner of the yacht, asked Kelly.

"Sure," Kelly said as he and Mike prepared their gear for the dive. "Rebreathers have been around since the beginning of modern diving—they aren't new inventions. Today, they are easier and safer than ever before. Like everything they have their purpose for specific situations, but they have their fair share of drawbacks that don't lend themselves to every situation.

"The air the diver exhales passes through a chemical scrubber that removes the carbon dioxide a diver's body produces and adds oxygen back in to make up for it. This allows the diver to carry smaller amounts of gas and stay underwater much longer. At the same time, it keeps the bubbles down to a bare minimum, making divers even more stealthy underwater. The military did much of the pioneering work with rebreathers, looking for ways to get men into tight situations.

"All of that makes the units sound really great. The problem is there is a lot of maintenance and preparation that goes into using rebreathers. They take time to set up and you have to disassemble and clean them thoroughly after each dive," Kelly concluded. "There is also a lot more training that you need to have, and you have to keep up-to-date with them to be able to use them properly."

"Thank you, Kelly. That's very interesting. I had thought about investing in those units for the dive locker on the yacht, but they don't seem practical for my purposes," Burnsworth said. "You men be careful. I am going to leave you to your final preparations."

"A bit formal, but he seems like a good man," Kelly said as he watched Burnsworth leave.

"When this is all over, I want to ask him what he did in his previous life," Mike chuckled. "I bet he ran a company somewhere. He listens well and takes it all in."

Even though the water around Grand Cayman was exceedingly comfortable, considering that they planned to be in the water for four hours, both divers wore heavy wetsuits, gloves and hoods. Under normal circumstances, vacationing divers wear little more than a dive skin. The water temperature often exceeds 80 degrees and a Lycra body suit is all that is required to protect them from the elements—no thermal protection at all really, just protection from jellyfish and other stinging creatures in the water.

Water that warm, though, still removes heat from the body. After four hours, unprotected, the human body can easily lose several degrees of body core temperature and a diver could easily slip into unconsciousness from hypothermia.

Mike and Kelly suited up and slipped into the rigid inflatable boat being towed behind the yacht as they prepared to ride to the dive site. A crew member from the yacht then let out some more of the securing line from the boat so it trailed about 50 yards behind the ocean-going vessel. This kept the dramatically smaller boat out of the larger one's wake and gave the divers a relatively easy ride.

One last piece of equipment they had brought along was a new digital video camera in a specially made underwater housing. The camera had a super low light sensitivity setting that relied on infrared light.

"So tell me about this new toy of yours," Kelly asked. "Was it worth having it shipped in just for this?"

"I hope so. Instead of trying to record fuzzy, dark images on standard video of whatever is going on out here, I plan to be able to capture details by moonlight," Mike answered.

When their plans began to come together, Mike had called a friend and cashed in a couple favors. The videographer had couriered the special camera to the island using one of the many flights that land on Grand Cayman out of Miami. That was the only way to get it through customs in time for the dive.

While Mike was a still a photographer by trade, he was also comfortable with video equipment and had spent a fair amount of time handling underwater video cameras when working on special projects over the years. He had helped develop a documentary on coral reef destruction and its myriad of causes that was shown on the National Geographic Channel and had also worked with some friends to shoot underwater training videos to teach dive safety early in his career.

As a habit from that experience, he set the video camera's microphone to capture the ambient sound. More than likely, especially considering the nature of this dive, there would be no sound to record—not even breathing sounds since they were using rebreathers and there would be no escaping bubbles. Ultimately, it was easier to remove useless information from the tape later in the editing process than it was to want it and not have it available.

"What do you think we'll see tonight?" Kelly asked his friend as they relaxed in the inflatable boat. He trusted his old friend's instincts completely, or he wouldn't have even been there in the first place, but he just wanted to see what was on his friend's mind. They also had to pass the time somehow.

"I really don't know, Kelly," Mike replied. "It's entirely likely we won't see anything this evening and this whole effort will be for nothing. Or we may see exactly what we came to see, although I am not even sure exactly what that would be."

"Well, I think it's a sea monster from the deep. Some terrible creature has risen up from the Cayman Trench to eat patches of coral and scare fishermen. It found out about the proposed cruise ship dock and is doing everything it can to stop it," Kelly said, with tongue planted firmly in cheek.

"You're probably right, Kelly," Mike said, rising to the situation. "I've heard that mythical sea creatures don't like cruise ships because of the noise, pollution and nuisance they present on the high seas. After all, cruise ships are too big to even notice your typical sea monster. How do you think that makes the sea monsters feel?"

They continued to joke for a few more minutes, some of the tension of the situation bleeding off as the divers made jokes about what they were doing, until a light on the stern of the yacht flipped on and off several times. That was the signal that it was time for them to prepare to go over the side and begin their dive.

It was approaching 10 p.m. when the yacht arrived at the area where Bailey and her team had discovered what appeared to be the shipwreck. Considering they had been warned off of this area, Mike thought this site made as much sense to check out as any other. Bailey had been able to give the captain of the yacht the GPS coordinates from the dive boat and he was able to go directly to the site. Almost imperceptibly, at least from a distance, the big boat began to slow. That was the final signal Mike and Kelly were waiting on. They rose up slowly in the boat and slipped over the side.

Even though the yacht had slowed to barely a crawl for a few moments, hitting moving water in full dive gear with the weight of the rebreathers, dive lights (that they hoped not to have to use) and the video camera along with navigation and signaling equipment made for a challenging entry. Normally, divers step into the water from a stationary boat. They hold their masks in place and bob to the surface before beginning their descent. In this case, both divers slipped over the sides and hit the water at about three or four miles an hour—pretty slow by walking standards, but still hard on the body.

When they hit the water, they tumbled. They both knew it was important to get below the surface quickly in case someone was watching. About 10 feet below the surface, both of them were able to get themselves completely under control and signal to each other that everything was fine. Next they checked their gear and were relieved to discover that everything was still in place. Nothing was dislodged in the less-than-gentle entry.

Having spent more than an hour in the small boat, it didn't take long for them to adjust to the light levels underwater. The area they planned to keep under surveillance was relatively shallow—40 to 50 feet rising up almost to the surface in some spots—so there wouldn't be much light loss either as the water absorbed the light from the moon. They continued their descent to the bottom, directly on top of the possible wreck site, and began a slow search of the area.

Mike checked the video camera to make sure it was working and was amazed to see the quality of the picture through the LCD port on the back of the video camera housing. Not wanting to waste batteries he didn't run it for long, but he quickly realized they would easily be able to capture whatever was going on—assuming they were there at the right place at the right time. From there, it was simply a matter of swimming and waiting.

About an hour passed before anything happened. Mike was beginning to have doubts they had guessed correctly. Both divers realized at about the same time that they were hearing the sounds of a small boat, or at least a propeller. Before long they realized there were several propellers churning through the water. Direction is hard to determine underwater, but the relative quiet and the concentration of noise from the multiple propellers gave them a general direction to search.

Kelly took the lead as the two divers slowly and cautiously moved toward the noise. Another 15 minutes of swimming passed before they found what they were looking for. And both of them were amazed. They saw four divers with scooters and what appeared to be a small tourist submarine hovering over a patch of coral. The sub had specially diffused lights that reduced the amount of light that leaked toward the surface.

But what amazed Mike and Kelly more was what the divers were doing. The submarine actually had claws mounted below it and it was ruthlessly tearing through coral. The divers were following along, pointing out things to the sub pilot and picking up items and putting them in baskets on the sub and attached to their scooters.

Mike was so stunned to see the cause of the destruction he had first witnessed with Tanya that he almost forgot to turn on the video camera. The light coming from the sub was almost too much for the video camera since it was prepared for extremely low levels of light. Mike quickly adjusted the settings on the camera and received a clear picture of the destruction.

"Believe?" Kelly scribbled to Mike on the slate.

"No. Amazing." Mike wrote back as he juggled the video camera.

Mike and Kelly moved as close to the demolition zone as they dared and Mike kept the camera going. Kelly kept a look-out and made sure they weren't noticed. After approximately a half an hour, and several moves to avoid detection and get better camera angles, the pair moved away from the scene. Mike had all of the evidence he needed to show something was going on.

Unfortunately, the masks the divers wore blocked out their faces so no one could be identified, but the submarine would be traceable. Regardless, they would be able to force the authorities to investigate and admit something was happening.

Underwater for about two hours, Mike and Kelly realized it was much too early for the yacht to return so they headed toward the shore. The swim to the beach took more than half an hour, but it still made more sense than waiting for two more hours, especially when there was something going on. They both wanted to get in and contact the authorities immediately. About 50 yards from shore, Kelly surfaced to find a good exit point. He saw what appeared to be a small beach area about 100 yards away to the right, took a compass heading and descended back to join Mike. The divers then changed course and headed for the beach. In full scuba gear, it is much easier to swim underwater than on the surface, so they swam on the bottom almost until their heads were sticking out of the water.

As they climbed up the rest of the beach through the light surf and out of the water, tired and a little cool, they were able to talk to each other for the first time. And while they kept their voices down, they could barely contain their excitement.

"Do you believe what we just saw?" Kelly asked.

"Not at all. What do you think they were doing?" Mike replied.

"I have no idea. But they were sure tearing up the reef. That sure helps to explain a lot of what's been going on around here lately," Kelly said.

As they moved up the beach, Kelly spotted a log for them both to sit down on. They both began to strip out of their dive gear.

"So how do we signal Tanya?" Mike asked. He hadn't thought about it earlier.

"I have my ways," Kelly said, playing with Mike.

"Care to share them with me?" Mike asked in response, with more than a little irritation in his voice. He really wasn't in the mood to play.

"I have a converted emergency signaling device. We use it from time to time around the shop on special dives. The moment we broke the surface, it began sending out a signal. This one, though, operates on a non-emergency frequency. Tanya will be able to track it using a direction finder. Considering how early we are, she'll have no doubt we are on the shore and come looking for us."

"Now I'm impressed. How'd you come up with that?" Mike asked.

"What? You think you have all the fancy toys?" he said as he gestured to the video camera Mike had sat on the sand beside the log. "Actually, I hate to admit it, but it was Tanya's idea. She had seen the personal EPIRBs that send out an emergency signal for lost divers, and the ones on the boats that send out a signal when a boat sinks so rescuers can find them. She got the idea to adjust one to a different frequency to use it in situations sort of like this."

"Are you in situations like this a lot?" Mike asked, somewhat surprised. "If so, I think there's a lot you aren't telling me about your life here on the island since I left," he said with mock seriousness.

"Well, not like this, but there are times when we need to find each other and can't just pick up the cell phone," Kelly said.

Before Mike or Kelly could react, two men jumped out of the shadows behind them. Both divers were knocked unconscious and bound tightly before they could struggle.

"So now what do we do with them?" one of the men asked.

"The boss said to bring them to him," the other responded.

## CHAPTER 11

##

Kelly was right about Tanya and the direction finder. As soon as she got a signal, she realized the guys were coming ashore. Estimating roughly where they were, she knew they would have to head for a beach area to make their exit. On either side, for a couple miles, was jagged iron shore.

She pulled up at the beach area just as a truck pulled out in a hurry from the other end about a half a mile away. Probably kids out past their curfew, she thought. She parked her truck and began to walk down to the water's edge. About the time she reached the water, a creeping feeling of dread came over her. She took off running down the beach and began to yell for Kelly. She switched on her light and began to furiously search for Kelly and Mike. She knew they had to be there.

When she came to the log, she saw a mask and a pair of fins scattered about. Both divers and their rebreathers were gone. There were signs that indicated something heavy had been dragged through the sand. She thought of the truck spinning its tires to leave the scene and guessed what had happened. Someone had taken them both.

In frustration she sat down on the log and cried. But just for a minute. She stopped when she realized the captors had missed the video camera. It was sitting in the shadows behind the log and in their haste they hadn't seen it. Then she realized they had taken the dive equipment. That meant Kelly's direction finder should still be working and she could track them down. She just needed help.

Picking up the video camera in its housing, she ran for her truck. Now she regretted yelling and turning on her light. She quickly switched it off in case someone was still watching the beach. What do I do first? she asked herself as she headed back toward George Town.

Quickly she switched on Kelly's direction finder and saw it was still giving off a signal. That was good news. Now what? Call the police? She didn't know who was involved with this and who wasn't. Obviously, some people were corrupt considering everything else that had gone on lately. She quickly decided that she just couldn't trust the authorities. She needed to rely on her own network, at least for the moment. Not the police.

"I need to see what's on the video camera. Maybe that'll help me get the guys back," she said out loud as she drove her truck back toward town.

Kurt. An old flame and now a friend. He and Kelly didn't really get along, but that didn't matter now. They had all worked together, with Mike, at Sunset House. She knew he would help.

****

"You idiots," Samson raged at the two men. Mike and Kelly lay unconscious on the cold floor of a warehouse. "You grabbed the two divers, but no camera. The informant said they were getting a video camera to shoot at night. On top of that, you knocked them out and I can't even ask them about it."

"As we were leaving we saw a truck pulling up to the beach. We had to leave fast," the first thug explained, somewhat sheepishly. "I bet it was someone coming to pick them up."

"I'm sure it was someone coming to pick them up, you moron," Samson continued. "It was probably this one's environmentalist girlfriend," he yelled as he kicked Kelly.

"If she found the camera, the first thing she'll do is look to see what's on it. Okay. Let's think. Our informant said the camera was special and coming to the island by courier. It's a safe bet that she won't have the equipment herself to see what's there. She'll need some help," Samson reasoned.

"All right, you two. Go through the phone book and figure out the places with high-end video equipment. We'll send teams to watch each place to see if she shows up there. And go back by the beach where you picked these two up. See if the camera, by some miracle, is still there," Samson said. "Now get to it and you two better hope we are in time."

****

A long-time island resident, Kurt ran the video operation at Crystal Blue Cove. He videotaped the guided dives with the local turtle population and sold DVDs to the divers. Not quite what he had studied to do in film school, but it turned out to be a pretty lucrative operation. Crystal Blue Cove was about a half an hour drive from where she was, so Tanya called Kurt to get him out of bed—hopefully not disturbing anything—and get him alert enough to help her when she arrived. Considering what had happened, she was more than a bit paranoid and watched for anyone following her, even taking a few unusual turns the way they do in the movies.

"Kurt. Open up, I'm here," Tanya whispered at the door when she arrived at the dive resort.

"What are you whispering for?" he asked as he sleepily opened the door to the dive shop. "Lucky for you, I just live upstairs. What's this video that you just have to see in the middle of the night? Did you catch Kelly at something?"

Kurt was a slim, tan man of 30. He was 5'11" with blond unruly hair and piercing blue eyes. Having been woken from a sound sleep, his hair was more of a mess than usual and he was in a ragged T-shirt and gym shorts.

"No. It isn't Kelly. I'm not even sure what it is, but it's certainly serious."

Quickly she caught him up on the night's events and the dive Mike and Kelly were making.

"Someone is ripping up the coral reefs and then that girl got killed. And now my whole office and lab burned down and the government people seem to think I made a mistake. Then Mike saw a bunch of places like the one we saw on my dive and now the guys made a dive to try and find out what was going on and now they are missing," she said as the details as she knew them came out in a rush.

"And you think whatever got them kidnapped may be on this camera? Wow. Okay, let me make a copy of it as we watch it. We may need a backup," Kurt said, actually following Tanya's stream of consciousness.

Kurt broke the seal on the video camera housing and disconnected the external controls from the camera. Then he lifted the digital camera out of the housing and connected it to his computer using the firewire connection. They began to watch as the video showed quick scenes of Mike setting up the camera and testing the housing. Their complacency turned to horror as they saw the underwater footage of the devastation and destruction caused by the divers working with the submarine. Both Kurt and Tanya remained speechless as they saw the destruction.

When they were finished, Kurt was quiet for a minute.

"While I agree what we just saw was horrible, I don't think I understand how it all ties in. And why would someone be willing to kidnap Mike and Kelly for it?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I understand what's going on either, but I intend to find out," she answered.

"Where do we go next?"

"Sorry, Kurt. I know you want to help, but I need you to work on that video footage. Can you edit it down into something we can show the TV station? And how about saving another backup just in case? I'm going to go get the guys from the yacht and see if we can find Kelly," Tanya said.

"Sure. I can do that. But how do you plan to find them?" Kurt asked.

Tanya explained the electronic signal Kelly had integrated into his re-breather unit and showed him the direction finder.

"Wow, that's great. It'll lead you right to them. Okay, I'll stay here and get to work on the video. Just be careful and let me know if there is anything else you need," he said.

Tanya gathered up the video camera, videotape and housing and reassembled it for safety before she took off for George Town. No more than half a mile from Kurt's place she realized in her haste she had forgotten the direction finder. She'd showed it to Kurt and then set it aside while she pulled the camera back together. She quickly turned around and headed back to the resort.

As she rounded the last turn before Crystal Blue Cove, there was a car in her way with the hood up. A man was leaning over the fender looking at the engine. As she drove around to get past the car, the man flagged her down.

"Hey, lady! You got a cell phone? I need to call for some help," he asked as he approached the car.

She rolled down her window to answer him. Suddenly an arm reached in her window from the shadows below and sprayed something in her face. A second man was just off the side of the road and had approached her truck while she was distracted by the broken down car. She had been set up.

"Looks like we caught her on the way to see this guy," the first man said.

"How do you know that?" the second replied. "There are teams staked out all over the island at places the boss thought she might go."

"She's headed that way," he said as he gestured toward the dive resort, "and the camera is still in her truck. Samson will be pleased. No one else knows about it. Get on the radio and let the other teams know we got her and they can call off the search."

## CHAPTER 12

"Oh, my head hurts. What in the world? Where am I?" Kelly groaned as he surveyed the scene around him. He was the first to wake up. He and Mike had both been knocked out on the beach following their dive.

"Mike. Mike. Wake up."

Mike was a few feet away, lying on the floor. He had a bruise and a welt on his head. Kelly was able to kick out at him and jar Mike. With that, his friend started to stir.

"Oh. I hurt all over. Where in the world are we?" he asked, echoing Kelly's question.

Both of the men were still in their one-piece wetsuits, although the suits had been pulled down to their waists. Their arms and legs were bound and they had been dumped on the floor of what appeared to be a warehouse. Their dive equipment lay not far away on the floor.

"Kelly. Over there. Behind you. They got Tanya. How did she get involved in this? And there's my video camera on the table behind her," Mike groaned. "It was all for nothing."

"I can't move. How does she look? Is she okay?" Kelly asked.

"I don't see any marks on her. She appears to be breathing, but she's out," Mike replied.

"If she's hurt..." Kelly said and stopped short.

"I know. It'll all work out all right," Mike said, trying to reassure his friend with confidence he didn't truly feel at the moment.

After a moment, Mike started to struggle—trying to get up.

"Mike, what are you doing?" Kelly asked.

"I want to check out the video camera. Make sure it's all right. Maybe I can still do something," Mike said.

By bracing himself against a pole, Mike was able to get himself in a standing position. His head swam when he did it. Bouncing and hopping, he was able to make his way over to the table and the camera.

The camera looked fine—although with his hands bound, Mike wasn't able to check it out much. As he was about to turn the camera over, he heard the sound of someone coming into the building. He was able to knock on the record switch on the camera as he did so and pushed the lens port of the camera in the general direction of where Kelly lay on the floor. He thought to himself that at least he could record whatever happened to them. With a quick look to make sure Tanya appeared to be okay—he could see her breathing—he quickly hopped back over toward his friend and flopped back down on the hard floor.

Mike wasn't on the floor two seconds before the door opened and Samson walked in with a couple of his thugs. Samson was dressed in dark clothing from head to foot. He was talking on his cell phone.

"Yeah, I got the two guys and the girl right here. They aren't going anywhere. Doesn't even look as if they've moved," he said into the phone with a fleeting glance at Mike and Kelly. "Couple of real tough guys."

"Are you sure you want to take things that far?" Samson asked after listening to the phone for a moment. "I mean, this raises this undertaking to a whole new level if you want me to take these three out and dispose of the bodies. It'll take some planning, as well. It ain't like in the movies where you throw the bodies in the trunk of the car and dump them in a ditch. The police find bodies all the time that are years old."

"Fine. Fine," he said after another pause. "Yeah, I've done this sort of thing before and I don't have a problem with it. It just raises the stakes a bit and you need to understand that. Here's the deal. I do this and I split. You'll never see me again. I don't wait around for people to get guilty and start talking to the cops. Also, this is going to cost you extra. Put another $50,000 US in my numbered Swiss account," he told Walker. He thought to himself that it was ironic he didn't want to use a Cayman account, because he wasn't sure it would be safe from Walker.

"Like I said, I'll take care of it and arrange for it to look like an accident. We found them out diving. I'll find a way to make it look like a boating accident. All three of 'em. It'll be done tonight. I know you can't get the money into my account until the morning, but make sure you do it quick. If not, I'll have an insurance policy."

"Of course I don't trust you," Samson said almost immediately in reply to a question over the phone. He wasn't sure if Walker was joking or not, but he never joked about situations where he was required to kill people. Not that it was that big of a deal to him, there were just too many variables and he didn't feel the need to laugh about it. Regardless, he didn't trust anyone, especially not the kind of people who would hire him for his services—an odd contradiction, but a necessary one, nevertheless.

"Fine. Consider it done. Remember, I have an insurance policy if you decide to back out on your end of the bargain. If you hold up your end, you'll never see me again. If not...well, just hold up your end."

Samson had never had to invoke his insurance policy before, but there was always a first time and you never knew when someone was going to try something cute. He had names, dates and documents that he could use to indict many of his former bosses. Even if he didn't succeed in taking Walker down, he would take down others while bargaining his own way out of trouble. At the same time, Walker would become a marked man by the other people Samson implicated, taking care of that problem at the same time. Or, he could just add Walker to the list of people who disappeared. He wasn't above doing either; it just didn't make good business sense for him to have to do that sort of thing—for him or his employers. With that, Samson shut off his cell phone and sat it down on a table.

"Check these three out and make sure they're still tied up," he said to one of the goons with him. "I don't want them out making trouble while we get things ready."

When the men had made sure everything was still secure, they all three left the warehouse. They turned out the lights as they left.

Neither Kelly nor Mike new exactly how much time had passed—it could have been 15 minutes or an hour. Gradually, they became aware of Tanya stirring on the floor. By calling to her, they were able to wake her up enough to bring her around. There was barely enough light in the warehouse to make each other out.

"Sweetheart," Kelly called out, concern filling his voice. "Are you all right?"

"No. I'm not all right. I may live, but I am most definitely not all right," Tanya answered, her accent thick at the moment. Her frustration and anger at the situation were getting the best of her.

"What happened to you? Do you remember?" Kelly asked.

"I was trying to find some help for you guys and then someone sprayed something in my face. It smelled awful. And now I'm here," she said.

They quickly explained the situation with Samson to Tanya so she was able to understand what was going on. She told Kelly and Mike about her visit to see Kurt and what she had seen on the tape before being caught.

"Do you think Kurt had anything to do with you being caught?" Kelly asked.

"No. There's no way he had anything to do with it. That's ridiculous," Tanya answered.

"Is it?" Mike asked. "Who even knew you were on that side of the island? Why would you be?"

"I don't know how they found me, but I'm sure it wasn't Kurt who tipped them off," she answered with less force. Doubt came creeping into her mind as Mike's question made sense.

None of them was able to do anything about their situation. They were bound tightly and, from sitting so long, were mostly numb. All in all, there wasn't much they could do except wait.

Two hours later, Samson returned to the warehouse. He flipped on the lights, temporarily blinding them.

"Since you're all awake, I'm sure you know what's going on. I'll not waste valuable time being overly dramatic here. I've been paid to make you all disappear and that's exactly what I'm going to do," he said without preamble when he entered the room. "In case you were expecting something more sinister, like you see in the movies, there won't be any long, drawn-out scenes where I explain the evil plan."

With that, Samson turned to say something to one of his men and broke off communication with his captives. The two goons moved forward and stood Mike, Kelly and Tanya up. They began moving them toward the door. The three had no idea what was about to happen to them. They were stiff and slow to move after being tied up for hours. While they had talked about overpowering their attackers and making a break for it, it just wasn't possible in their physical condition.

Samson led them to the door and stopped.

"We'll take them out to the car one at a time. I don't want to see you guys moving until I have this one in the car," he said as he pointed to Kelly. "You never know who could be outside and it might raise some suspicions if we all go parading out of here together. And you. Go get the video camera. We can't leave it here."

The two men nodded their acceptance without saying a word. While they had redeemed themselves by finding the camera, they'd had a rough night and were in no mood to challenge Samson.

Samson took Kelly out the door first, quickly guiding him to a late-model minivan. Samson strapped Kelly in the back seat and quickly moved to the driver's seat. The door to the warehouse opened and both goons came through the door with Mike and Tanya. Samson started to grumble something about not following orders when two more men appeared out of the shadows. They struck from behind and Samson's two goons were unconscious and lying on the ground before they knew what was going on. Mike and Tanya were just as confused.

Seeing his plan ruined, Samson slammed the van into drive and quickly drove off. In the confusion, neither Mike nor Tanya was able to say anything about Kelly fast enough, nor could they run after Samson and the van. As he drove off, Samson noted that one of the unknown assailants was enormous.

"Are you all right, Mr. Scott? Tanya, are you okay?" a familiar voice asked from the darkness.

"Yes, Antwone. We're okay," Tanya answered. "But that van took off with Kelly."

Without another thought, Antwone took off running in the direction Tanya had pointed. He was already too late.

The second rescuer stepped forward then. He had just finished tying up Samson's goons to make sure they didn't go anywhere. It was Kurt.

"Kurt. It's great to see you, but how did you know where to find us?" Tanya said.

"You left the finder for the homing beacon in Kelly's dive gear at my place. When you didn't come back for it, I knew something was up. I called up Antwone and we came looking for you. We followed it here," he said as Antwone came jogging back, breathing heavily.

"I am sorry, Tanya. I wasn't fast enough to catch the van. But I did get a good look at it and saw the license plate. At least that's something," Antwone said.

"Guys, did you bring any help or did you just decide to rescue us on your own?" Mike asked.

"Truth be told, we didn't come to rescue you at all. We were just looking for you. We hadn't discussed it between ourselves, but if we had discovered something like this was going on, I would have called the cops and let them come to us," Kurt said. "We were just coming around the building, looking for a way in when we saw the door open and those two guys lead you all out, tied up."

"We didn't think about it. We didn't have time," Antwone said. "We just hit these guys."

"Well, we appreciate it. But let's call the cops now and get these guys in the hands of the professionals," Mike suggested.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Tanya asked, still skeptical about whom to trust.

"Hold on. I have an idea," Kurt said as he pulled out his cell phone and made two phone calls. Within a matter of minutes police cars came pulling up quietly, without lights or sirens. Just in time, too, because the goons were starting to wake up.

Ten minutes later, a man in plain clothes came walking up and shook Kurt's hand. After a few minutes of talking and gesturing, Kurt brought the new man over to Mike and Tanya who were being checked out by the local paramedics. As quickly as he could, Kurt made introductions. The stranger was Alex March, a special investigator with the Cayman National Criminal Division. He was a 40-year-old dark-skinned Caymanian of medium height and build. After the medics finished up and left, March explained the situation to Mike and Tanya.

"These guys work for Gray Walker. I have been investigating him for two years now. We have been following him through a number of shady deals, but nothing we could pin on him. Tonight, we recorded him on a phone tap ordering Samson, his hired assassin, to take you three out and kill you," March explained. "The problem was, we didn't know where he was calling or who he wanted killed. There was nothing we could do about it. And then I got a call from Kurt."

"I met March a while back when he asked for some help with some of his video surveillance equipment. I didn't know who he was investigating, but I thought he might be able to help," Kurt explained. "If there is anyone who I am sure isn't on the take, it's March."

"But why would he want to have us killed?" Tanya asked.

"We aren't entirely sure yet. We know he brought Samson in to do some work for him. Samson is an operator for the New Jersey mob. That's not his real name, by the way. He does their dirty work," March explained. "We aren't entirely sure what the project is all about, but we know he is developing this new cruise ship dock and has a lot of money tied up in it. He has a number of the local politicians in his back pocket making things go smoother for him."

Mike listened patiently to the explanations, thinking. Finally he spoke up. "So what do we do now?" he asked simply.

"We take these two into custody and see what information we can get out of them, for starters," March answered. "And we also work on trying to find your friend."

"Fine. I understand that. But what about us? I am pretty sure I was able to record Samson's conversation on this end on the video camera. That should pull it all together nicely for you," Mike said, explaining how he had set up the video camera. "Look. I've got an idea. We know this guy; you said his name was Samson, right?" Mike asked.

March nodded.

"Anyway, we know this Samson was planning to disappear as soon as he was done with us. Why don't we make Walker think he was successful? Maybe we can get a few extra hours out of this and make him make an even bigger mistake," Mike suggested.

Quickly the group began to formulate a plan.

## CHAPTER 13

In the confusion, after things fell apart at the warehouse, Samson started to call Walker to let him know that everything had gone wrong, but then he reconsidered. If he told Walker about the mess-up now, he wouldn't get his money. Things were beginning to fall apart because Walker changed the plan. _If he had stuck with the original plan, things would be okay_ , Samson thought. _I'm not going to lose out because of him. I'll hold off telling him about this foul-up until I get my money. If I ever tell him._

In the interest of covering up what had happened so far, Samson decided he would proceed with his original plan, at least for the one guy he had. It was a bit melodramatic, but he really didn't have a way to dispose of a body on the island. _You couldn't dig down very far into the concrete soil_ , he thought.

He would see if he could find a way to get to the other two, and his own goons, later. Probably some more conventional method, but that would have to do. After all, he couldn't have people walking around who could identify him. When he reached his destination, Samson got out of the van, leaned in the side door and sprayed the same gas in Kelly's face as the other men had sprayed in Tanya's earlier that evening.

****

March was able to quietly move Mike and Tanya to their friend's yacht in the harbor. Not sure how long they could keep everything secret, he instructed the local police and EMS personnel who had responded to the call to forget exactly what they had seen.

****

Kelly slowly regained consciousness. He could hear water dripping somewhere off to his left. As he began to come to, he realized he was lying on a cot. The light was very low. He could barely make out his surroundings. As he started to talk to himself, the sounds around him seemed muffled. He reached his hand out and touched the wall. It was cool and metallic. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was someplace he hadn't been in a long time.

Before coming to work in Cayman, he had spent some time as a commercial diver. That profession took a toll on the body and Kelly chose to get out early, take the money he'd made, and have some fun. Regardless, he knew where he was. He was in a saturation diving bell. The interior of the bell was pressurized because there was an open hole to the water for divers to enter and exit the bell. He was somewhere underwater.

****

After putting Kelly in his final resting place, Samson returned to the island using the excavation submersible. In the several trips he had taken in it during the excavations, he had learned to operate it, at least enough to maneuver it around. The regular pilot was always willing to hand over the controls to the boss, especially when they were commuting back and forth to the next dig site. He didn't feel like he was an expert, but the sub was sophisticated enough that it had an autopilot. It stayed docked at a private boat slip Walker rented, next to one of the topside support boats. It had been an easy thing for Samson to slip the lines and take it out.

It was relatively simple to dock the sub to the diving bell. The divers used the bell to get out of the sub and into the water without being seen. Walker's plan was to use it when it actually came time to excavate the shipwreck from underwater without anyone else knowing about it. The hardest thing about the whole procedure was moving Kelly's lifeless body around—onto the sub and then onto the diving bell. It had taken several hours to accomplish everything.

Samson knew Kelly would simply suffocate. It was like being buried alive—something that had happened to one of his associates one time. It would take Walker several days to get the dive crew reorganized after he left and they could deal with the body. He would have his money by then and he wasn't terribly concerned.

Coming back into town, Samson was tired. The adrenalin that had kicked in earlier was gone. It was near dawn and he hadn't slept in more than 24 hours.

He wasn't sure if the police would be on to him or not. He decided to drive through town and by the warehouse to see if anything was still going on, or if things had died down. He really had no idea how things had turned out at the warehouse, but he doubted it would be good. Not realizing how fast the former professional football player could run, he didn't think anyone could have seen the van well enough to identify it.

He drove slowly and carefully through the streets of George Town. There didn't seem to be much going on. He knew the goons he had working for him felt no sense of loyalty toward him and he was certain they would turn over information on him as soon as they got the chance. But it was strange; he couldn't find any sign of a search. Calls to his hotel signaled nothing unusual. The streets were empty. Everything was quiet.

At a stoplight, patiently waiting for the light to turn green, he was satisfied that no one knew anything about him. He was headed back to the boat to stretch out in relative quiet. Then he would figure out a way to get off the island and back to his life. He glanced up in his rearview mirror just in time to see a police car come flying down the road behind him. The light turned green, and Samson's first instinct was to drop the gas peddle to the floor and run. The only problem was, he was in Cayman. He wasn't in New York City.

He didn't know the streets and he wasn't completely comfortable with driving on the left side of the road. His exhaustion was getting to him as well. As he turned through the intersection, the police car went speeding straight through. It's not after me at all, he thought smugly. These idiot police couldn't find me unless I wanted them to. As he watched the car speed by over his shoulder he crashed head on into a car coming the other direction on the same street. In his fatigue and unfamiliarity, he had crossed the line and ended up on the side of the street where he was comfortable driving, but unfortunately, it didn't help in Cayman. The last thing he remembered was glass flying through the cabin of the van and seeing the airbags in both vehicles deploy.

****

"Mike. We need to be looking for him. We just can't sit out here," Tanya yelled at Mike.

"I know, Tanya. You need to calm down. Yelling and getting all worked up just isn't going to help," Mike replied, trying to remain calm himself.

"You. You. You just don't..." Tanya stuttered, and then seemed to deflate. "I know, Mike. I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just so worried about him. What're we going to do?"

"I'm not sure. Look, this is a small island. They can't have gone very far," Mike said, trying to console Tanya, but not really feeling it himself. "Without us, it just doesn't make sense to do anything to Kelly. And that's why we have to stay here. We have to keep ourselves out of danger so the bad guys won't have any reason to kill Kelly."

"When you say it, it all makes sense. I'm so glad you're here," Tanya said. "I love him so much and we've never been separated like this before. I'm just about to go crazy."

"Don't give up on him, or us, yet," Mike said again. "I haven't given up. You know Kelly and me. We're a team. Nothing can get between us. After all of the scrapes we have been in, this is minor."

"Thanks, Mike," Tanya said with a laugh, remembering the good times.

"I plan to get him back," Mike said. "Maybe this isn't exactly the right time to tell you this story, but I lost a friend of mine on my last assignment."

"I'm not sure it's the right time either," Tanya said with a bit of a laugh. "Doesn't sound like an encouraging story to me."

"Well, the story isn't all that encouraging, but the result might just be. We were checking out a lead in the Palestinian state. He got this tip about outside instigators. Anyway, it doesn't matter, but we were there. Tom took off and I was too far away to help. I watched him die. All I could do was photograph the action. Intellectually I know there was nothing I could do to help him, but it still hurts...a lot."

"Mike, I'm so sorry. Kelly said he knew something was bothering you, but he couldn't tell what. He said to give you time, and we both thought the cloud over your head was thinning a bit," Tanya said.

"It was and it is. I've just resolved to myself that I'm never going to let a friend die like that again. I'm going to get Kelly back," he said, the determination showing through the glint in his eye.

"Do you promise, Mike?" she asked, knowing that he might not be able to keep his promise and knowing what it would do to him if he couldn't.

"I promise, Tanya. You know I never could say no to you," he answered with a wink, trying to look reassuring.

It was five in the morning and Mike and Tanya were still talking in quiet whispers, much too anxious from the events of the evening to get any real sleep. Their hosts, the two businessmen on holiday, were dozing on the sofas of the yacht's main living quarters. They had done everything they could to make Mike and Tanya comfortable after March had brought them to the yacht. That was what made it all the more startling when the phone rang.

Toney and Burnsworth were both instantly alert.

"They've found Kelly," Tanya gasped.

Burnsworth picked up the phone. After a brief moment, he hung up. "There isn't any word about Kelly. But they just found Samson, the man who was supposed to kill you."

"That's great. He can tell us where Kelly is," Mike said quickly.

"No. Unfortunately, they found Samson because he turned into the wrong lane on the road and ran head on into another car. Kelly wasn't in the car. Samson is unconscious and pretty beat up so they won't be able to get any information from him for a while. March wants you two to come to the crash site and confirm that it is Samson," Burnsworth said.

****

"So how in the world did I get here?" Kelly said out loud, still trying to clear his head as he explored the cramped quarters of the diving bell.

Commercial divers used saturation bells when worked at extreme depths for long periods. The bells save them from having to return to the surface. They simply saturated their bodies with the nitrogen at depth and stayed there until they were ready to return to the surface. Usually after the work was done. Depending on the depth, it could take days or even weeks for the divers to safely return to the surface after a saturation dive, but it kept them from worrying about decompression on each trip.

Kelly's exploration of the diving bell confirmed his worst fear. It wasn't an active system. There was no external power coming to the bell and no communications to a topside support ship or surface operations of any sort. The only light illuminating the bell was from low-level emergency lights near the floor. There were portholes in the bell, but they didn't tell him much. When the sun came up, if he was near the surface, he could probably estimate his depth. If he were in relatively shallow water, he could probably swim to the surface. However, if he couldn't see the surface itself, he would never know how deep he was.

Another grim realization dawned on him. Many diving bells receive a constant supply of air from the surface, but they also have back-up supplies in tanks arrayed around the outside of the living quarters. If this bell wasn't connected to the surface, and he wasn't receiving surface air, he would eventually suffocate. More accurately, he would pass out from the buildup of carbon dioxide and simply die.

Kelly looked around and found a gas control panel. It had a mixture of analog and digital gauges on it.

"Okay. According to the tags on the panel, the gas pressure from the external feed is at 0," he said out loud. "That means there's no pressure coming into the system."

He opened the valve to see if it was just shut off, but didn't hear anything.

"Well, at least there is pressure in the backup cylinders attached to the bell," he said as he scanned the pressure gauges. "But there is no way of knowing how big the cylinders are and how long they will last.

"Come to think of it, I might not even be able to use the backup gas," he said, still talking to himself for the reassurance of hearing his voice. Without knowing his depth, the planned use depth for the bell, or the last time it had been used, the gas mixture in those tanks might not be suitable for breathing at this depth. It could have too much oxygen for his depth, or not nearly enough.

Oxygen has a toxic effect on the human body under pressure. At approximately 200 feet, simple air can become toxic to the human body, causing convulsions and seizures. It can even cause death.

To counteract this situation, deep divers breathe gas mixtures that have lower concentrations of oxygen. Usually, the oxygen is replaced by another gas, like helium. If the reserve tanks were filled with a gas mixture with a low oxygen content, he could be rendered unconscious nearly immediately if the bell was in shallow water. If he was extremely deep and the reserve tanks were filled with simple air, he could immediately have a seizure.

He thought to himself that his voice would sound funny, like Donald Duck, if he were breathing a helium mixture, but he still couldn't be sure. He did sound a bit odd, but that could simply be from the built up pressure in the air itself. Unfortunately, the digital gauges on the control panel were the depth gauge and the oxygen sensor and with no power, he couldn't tell what he was breathing or how deep he was.

Then it hit him. The air he was breathing was growing stale. His heart was beginning to race and he was breathing faster—sure signs that the carbon dioxide levels were beginning to rise.

****

Mike and Tanya arrived at the crash scene 15 minutes after March called them. Paramedics were loading Samson into the ambulance as they arrived. He had taken a severe blow to the face and head, but they both quickly confirmed it was the man who had abducted them. Samson went to the hospital with a police escort.

"Now that they have him out, I'm just about to take a look at the car and see if there's anything that offers any clues to where your friend might be," March said.

"Do you mind if we take a look as well?" Mike asked, thinking keeping busy might help Tanya feel like she was helping to find Kelly.

After some thought, March agreed. "If you two promise to stay out of the way, you can take a look. You never know, you might notice something that I don't," March said.

"Wow. This thing is pretty beat up," Mike said with dismay as he surveyed the rental van. "How is the driver of the car he hit?"

"Both of the vehicle's occupants are doing okay, actually. They're in better shape than Samson is. Both cars had air bags, but Samson wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He got blasted pretty hard by the bag," March answered. "The interior is a complete mess. There is stuff everywhere. I don't guess he actually cleaned out the van."

"It was probably his home and office," Mike said. "When I travel, sometimes I spend more time in my rental car than I do in the hotels or actually on the job. Everything goes in there."

"Guys, look at this," Tanya said, spreading out a piece of paper on the ground. "It's a map."

"It shows the island and there are places out in the water marked off," Mike said.

"Right here is where we were doing the ocean survey that you saw. The square here shows exactly where they excavated," Tanya explained.

"If that's your site, each of these squares looks like another place they had torn up," Mike said. "That looks like the same pattern I saw from my flight-seeing tour. It's too close to be random."

"If you guys are right, this is evidence. It could help us tie Samson and Walker together into whatever has been going on around here," March said while he made notes in a small, pocket-sized notebook.

"If these are all the places they've excavated, what's this marking out in the deeper water a ways? It just says 'bell,'" Tanya said.

"Beats me," Mike said, shrugging his shoulders. "Anything else in the van?"

"Some clothes, food wrappers and drink cans. Can you guys tell me what these things are?" March asked, holding up what appeared to be wrist-mounted gauges.

"These are wrist-mounted sonar units," Mike said, taking one from March. "They're designed to show the relative direction to a sender unit on the other end. You place the sender somewhere you want to return to and the wrist unit tells you the direction and distance to the sender. I used one when I was diving with Bailey a few days ago."

"Why would Samson have them? There isn't anything else in the car that looks like dive gear," Tanya asked.

"Beats me, again," Mike said.

"Wait a minute, Mike. You and Kelly saw a submersible doing the underwater excavations, right? Let's go back to the map for a minute," Tanya said.

"Here it is. What if this thing marked 'bell' is a diving bell? There were other divers in the water on scooters, right?" Tanya asked, looking at the markings on the map. The bell was in about 140 feet of water.

"Yeah," Mike said, not quite putting it all together as quickly as Tanya had.

"Most subs don't have air locks on them. It would take up too much space and add a tremendous amount of weight that they can't spare. But you saw this sub working with divers in the water and there weren't any boats on the surface to bring those divers to the site, right?" Tanya asked again as she worked her way through it all.

"Right. I think I see where you're going with this. What if Samson and his men were using the diving bell as a stationary air lock? They dock the sub to the bell and the men swim into the bell and then climb into the sub," Mike said. "The divers would use the wrist-mounted sonar units to find the diving bell, in case they got separated from the sub or had to go back on their own. It makes sense. The only problem they would have is recharging the batteries on the scooters, but if they have all of these toys, they can work something out. Maybe they have them set somehow to surface themselves later and someone comes by on a boat and picks them up and drops them off the next night. That really doesn't matter, I guess."

"Interesting, and I will certainly check this out later when I'm building the case, but what does it have to do with Kelly?" March asked.

"Maybe nothing and maybe everything," Mike answered. "A diving bell out in the middle of the ocean that no one knows about would be a great place to hide something you never wanted found. Especially if you were about to make a quick and final exit, and that was the way Samson sounded when he was talking on the phone."

****

"Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?" Kelly asked out loud. "And since when did I start talking to myself like Mike? Probably just after I got kidnapped, knocked out and left in a diving bell on the bottom of the ocean, but that's just a guess," he finished with a rueful laugh.

Man, the air in here is getting rough. All right, smart guy, what are your options? he thought. I can do nothing and suffocate. Or I can turn on the reservoir and possibly have a seizure. Or pass out from a lack of oxygen.

"Or I can swim for it. If this thing is in 40 feet of water I can make it, probably, but if it is under 400 feet of water I'll be dead halfway up," Kelly said, talking out loud again. "I guess I can wait for the cavalry to come and find me, but that might take a while."

Kelly realized he was seeing more and more light, gradually, through the portholes in the sides of the diving bell. "Well, it looks as if it will be light soon. Maybe then I'll be able to see some reference points that will help me put my choices in perspective."

****

"How can we know if Samson went to the bell and took Kelly there?" March asked.

"Mr. March, it looks as if Samson was headed back into the marina when he made his bad turn. Has anyone checked it out yet?" Tanya asked.

"I have two city police officers speaking to the night manager of the marina right now. Let me find out if they have discovered anything yet," March replied as he reached for a radio.

A minute later, he had an answer.

"A company owned by Gray Walker has a couple slips in this marina, but he's never been here. There is a boat and a sub docked in there. A man fitting Samson's description has been seen around here a lot. I think we've found what we're looking for," March told them.

"Well, let's go," Mike said.

"You two can come with me, but only because I don't know anything about subs or dive equipment. I normally don't allow civilians to be involved with ongoing investigations," March replied. "Come on."

In five minutes Tanya was talking to the marina's night manager while Mike checked out the sub and the boat. He had some experience with submersibles from stories and documentaries he had worked on.

"They said they were using the sub for scientific experiments on the reefs," the manager explained. "They took it out pretty regularly, mostly in the evenings. Usually half a dozen or so divers around. That sub has a pretty impressive range on a full set of batteries. It can cruise for hours and makes pretty good speed, too, from what the divers told me."

"Don't you usually lift subs out of the water and sit them on a support vessel?" March asked.

"Normally, that's true. But this sub is bigger than most scientific vessels so it's harder to lift. If you don't have to do it, then you don't," the marina night manager explained. "Usually they put them on platforms when they need the sub to be transportable, but if the work site is close enough to commute to, why not drive it there?"

"Do you know where they go when they take it out?" Tanya asked before March could get his next question out.

"About all I know is they stay on the surface until the entrance to the marina and then they submerge. It always appears as if they turn east, but I can't be sure," the manager said.

"Did the sub go out tonight?" March asked, taking back control of the conversation.

"You know, I think so. I saw that guy's car, what did you say his name was?" the manager asked.

"Samson," was the answer from March.

"That's right. I saw Samson's car come in this evening. Actually, it did go out. It went out twice. Once early in my shift

– about 9 p.m. All of the divers were here then. I saw it come back in then and they buttoned it up tight. But I noticed it was back out of its slip again just a few hours ago as well," the night manager explained.

"It did go out," Mike said as he walked up to the group as they stood outside of the marina manager's offices. "Do you normally do anything to the sub for the owners? Maintenance, that sort of thing?"

"No. They have a bunch of boys who take care of it. Always do a real thorough job of it too. When it's sitting in the marina, it always looks exactly the same," the manager said, scratching his hairy chin.

"I just looked both the sub and the boat over. The engines on the boat are cold and it's wrapped up tight as a drum. The sub, on the other hand, is still warm. It hasn't been wrapped up all that tight—definitely not tight enough to be described the way the manager just did. I also checked out the controls on the sub. It has a form of autopilot and it was set to the coordinates of the diving bell we saw on the map."

"Then he must have taken it out in the last few hours," Tanya said. "Let's take it back out and get Kelly."

"Hold on, guys," March interrupted. "This is a criminal investigation now. I can't have you guys out there getting in the way. I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait for the professionals on this one."

"Are you kidding me?" Tanya asked, her temper getting the better of her. "Kelly could be dying out there and you want us to wait on your people. What are you trying to do, cover your own butt?"

"My decision is final, Tanya. I know you're just upset, so I'm going to ignore that, but I will not have you getting involved in this investigation and that's final," March said, more forcefully.

What do you... " Tanya started to respond.

"Tanya, that's enough. I think we need to listen to March. He's the expert in these matters," Mike said.

"After what you said to me earlier, you're just giving up. I can't believe you. What kind of coward are you?" Tanya said and stormed off to the water's edge.

"Detective March, I'm sorry about that, but Tanya is very upset and emotional right now. You know how women are. She isn't thinking rationally. I'll calm her down and talk to her. Let me take her back to the yacht and get her out of the way," Mike said to smooth over the situation. "As far as I'm concerned, I don't see that the game plan has changed. We will follow your lead."

"Thanks, Mike. I appreciate that. Don't worry. I know she's upset. No hard feelings. Just take her back to the yacht and try to get her to sleep."

"I will, man, and thanks for your help," Mike said as he turned to walk to Tanya.

"Tanya, I need to talk to you," Mike said as he approached from behind. He could tell she was crying.

"Go away. I don't have anything to say to you. I can't believe you're going to just sit on your butt and do nothing while Kelly could be out there dying somewhere," she yelled at him.

"What on earth gives you the impression I'm going to do that?" Mike said with a sly grin.

"What? But you just said..." she stuttered as she turned to look at him.

"Obviously, he wasn't going to let us go, so I didn't see any point in arguing about it with him. It would just make him more suspicious or he'd put guards on us or something, exactly what we don't need," Mike said reasonably.

"You mean you were conning him all along?" she asked.

"Of course. Like I said before, I'm not going to stand by and do nothing. Now are you going to help me or not?" he asked.

"What do you have in mind?" she asked quietly, trying to calm down and shift her mental gears.

"The batteries on the sub need charged up. They have about a third of their total power left. There wouldn't be enough juice left to get there, much less get back," Mike said. "Looks to me like we need to find another way to the diving bell and in a hurry."

"How about the yacht? They have a full dive locker and tanks so we don't need equipment and they even have a portable chamber on board in case something happens," Tanya asked.

"Sounds like a plan to me. I'll call the guys on the way back to the yacht," Mike said. "But considering the depth and since we don't know what shape Kelly is in, we will need some extra gear to get him out of the water."

"How will we find the bell?" Tanya asked. "March kept the map."

"I remember the general coordinates, but we also have this," Mike said as he held up one of the underwater sonar units. "I took this from Samson's car. It should help us out."

## CHAPTER 14

##

"Mike, we've got to find him. If we don't, I don't know what I'll do," Tanya said to Mike as he drove them back to the harbor. The sun was just beginning to rise and neither one of them had gotten any rest.

"I know, Tanya. We'll find him. You know Kelly. He's probably relaxing somewhere just taking it easy and laughing to himself about the whole situation. He'll be fine," Mike replied.

****

"Man, it's getting worse and worse in here. The air just smells bad," Kelly said out loud again. He was talking to himself all the time now. Beyond that, his thoughts were getting cloudy from the reduced oxygen in the air he was breathing.

He kept watching out one of the portholes of the diving bell to see what he could see, but the sun wasn't high enough and all he saw was shades of blue, gray and green. Water, even the clearest water, absorbs light. By about 60 feet down, all of the reds have been absorbed. From there they disappear in relatively rapid succession following the colors of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. "Until I know more, I just can't make a swim for it. The air in my lungs doesn't have a lot of oxygen in it, so I don't think my body is in any condition to make a long swim. Unless it's a short one, I'll black out before I get to the surface," Kelly said out loud. "I'm just going to have to risk letting some air from the reserve tanks into the chamber."

_Honey, I hope you know how much I love you, in case this doesn't work out_ , he said in his head, with his head pointed toward the chamber's ceiling with his eyes closed in prayer, hoping Tanya could hear him. _I'm sorry I never married you. I guess I was too scared, but you deserved better than that. If I get out of this, I promise I'll make it up to you._

With that last silent thought on his mind, he slowly opened the valve to release air from the reserve tanks into the chamber. He immediately began hearing air whistling into his underwater cell. It took a minute, but then Kelly could begin to feel the air. It was cool and smelled good. Whatever the air, it was good for whatever depth he was at. He reached over and opened the valve some more to let in good air and purge out the bad air. He knew he would have to vent some air out of the underwater chamber or the pressure inside would continue to increase. Eventually, he could actually build up enough pressure to push the water all of the way out of the wet lock that allowed divers to pass in and out of the bell.

Kelly reached for the control panel to open the vent valve and let some air flow out of the chamber, but his vision and mind weren't exactly clear yet. He mistakenly grabbed the dump valve instead of one that would allow him to slowly vent air. The roaring sound of air rushing through the vent pipes came to his ears as soon as he flipped the valve. He closed it back as quickly as he could, but the damage was done. There hadn't been much gas left in the reserve tanks, and now he had just vented most of it into the water. Fortunately, he had cleaned out the gas in the chamber, but he watched as the pressure gauges stopped moving. The reserve tanks were empty. He quickly shut the valve off so the gas wouldn't flow backward.

Well, isn't that just great. I have clean air again, but I'm back in the same position. If someone doesn't find me soon, I'll have no choice but to make a swim for it, he thought, trying to conserve his breath this time around. I can't wait as long as I did this last time either. Obviously my mind wasn't working very clearly. I need to have it all together if I have any chance of surviving and not blacking out on the way up.

****

In the few short minutes it took Mike to run Tanya back to the yacht, he had a plan in place.

"Tanya, I need you to do a couple things," Mike said. "First, explain the situation to Burnsworth and Toney and ask them if they will help. If they won't we need to find another boat and fast."

"I'll ask as soon as I get inside. But where are you going to be?" she asked.

"We will need some extra rigging to suspend some tanks in the water for Kelly to breathe on and decompress on, just in case, along with some extra gear to hold extra tanks for decompression diving. I don't think they have anything like that on board. Do you know where I can get that stuff, close by?" Mike asked.

"The closest place to here with that sort of set up will be Crystal Blue Cove—Kurt's place," she said after a moment's thought.

"Would you call him and tell him I'm coming to borrow some gear?" Mike said.

"I'll do that right now," she said.

"Okay. I don't want to attract March's attention, so I'm going to grab Kelly's Jeep. It's still parked in the harbor. Hopefully I can make some better time going by a little more direct route," he said.

"Makes sense. But wait, I don't have keys to the Jeep," she said.

"Doesn't matter. You forget that Jeep used to be mine. I know how to get that thing started without keys," he said. "Look, Tanya. Try to get some rest. If you can, start working on the coordinates with Burnsworth and Toney along with their captain so we can take off as soon as I get back. Don't worry, we'll get there in time."

"Mike, how're we going to pull this off? I hadn't even thought about all this stuff, but we're going to need a whole team of divers."

"Don't worry, Tanya. We'll find a way," Mike said.

"Thanks, Mike," was all she could say.

****

Mike sprinted off before the conversation got any more emotional. He found the Jeep in just a few seconds. Considering the time of the morning, there weren't a lot of cars in the parking area and the big gray Jeep stood out.

Mike quickly popped the Jeep's hood and wiggled one of the wires on the ignition pack. He had discovered this particular short in the electrical system that bypassed the ignition switch late one night when he had lost his keys. He didn't think his friend would have had a reason to fix it and he was right. After a moment's hesitation, the Jeep roared to life. Mike quickly jumped in and took off.

To get to Crystal Blue Cove as quickly as possible, he planned to go off-road a bit. The area between Mike and the resort was filled with low-rent houses and undeveloped land. There was also one of the more famous natural attractions on the island—Hell. Hell was a place where the iron shore was exposed to the rain. It had eroded over time and looked like jagged black flames rising up from the ground. A local resident had even put up a tourist shop and a post office so tourists could send home postcards from Hell.

Just moments after leaving the parking area, Mike noticed a car behind him. It seemed to be closing on him. He wasn't sure if he was just being paranoid, or if the car was chasing him. Considering the events of the day, it wasn't out of the question, so he decided to make an unexpected turn. The car stayed with him.

Mike pushed the Jeep. It's relatively short wheelbase, oversized tires and three-speed transmission enabled the Jeep to accelerate very quickly. It didn't have much for top end speed, but off the line and out of a curve it could do well.

Mike made a few more rights and lefts, still working his way toward his objective, but not in a direct path. The car stayed with him. He began to get nervous. Mike didn't know whether a cop sent by March to keep him out of trouble drove the car, or bad guys wanting to finish the job they had started earlier.

Understanding the capabilities of the Jeep, Mike sought out roads that were in poor repair. He hoped the greater ground clearance of the Jeep might allow him to miss bumps and humps that the car couldn't handle. He was right. The car fell behind. But the car's greater power allowed it to catch up to him quickly.

He was running out of options. He knew very soon he would be at the dive resort and he had wasted too much time in this cat and mouse game. As he passed a road sign, Mike knew exactly where he was and had an idea. He made a sharp right, his tires sliding on the gravel as he whipped into the parking lot. He turned out the lights on the Jeep and sped forward. He could just make out the building on his left in the early morning half-light. Quickly, Mike grabbed the emergency brake and spun the steering wheel to the side. Just as quickly, he released the emergency brake and straightened out the wheel. He had performed most of a J turn—something he had learned about while working on a story about limo drivers for people who need to make fast getaways. But instead of turning all the way around, Mike only spun the Jeep far enough to make a 90-degree turn on a dime. The Jeep leapt forward around the rest of the building. He made another 90 degree left-hand turn and out through the parking lot, and then turned right back onto the road.

His maneuver worked. His sharp turn and turning off his lights had disoriented the driver of the car. When the driver corrected onto the gravel covered parking lot, he didn't realize exactly where he was heading. He accelerated the car much too hard for the parking lot that was only 100 feet long. Unable to stop, he careened through the parking lot and out onto the jagged rocks and eroded iron shore. Mike had sent his pursuers to Hell.

****

Mike made it the rest of the way to the dive resort without incident.

"Kurt. Kurt...where are you, man?" Mike was trying to keep his voice down, but find his friend as quickly as possible as he came running up to the apartment.

"Hey. I'm over here. Keep your voice down. People are trying to sleep around here," Kurt said. "Not me, obviously, but other people."

"Sorry about the call, but we need some stuff now. Can you help out?" Mike said.

"Sure. Tanya called and I pulled a bunch of equipment together. She told me what you're planning to do. I'm in," Kurt said.

"Look, we've already asked too much of you and it could be dangerous. Even if it isn't, we just might be in a bunch of trouble when we get back," Mike explained. "I can't ask you to come along."

"I didn't hear you ask at all. I told you I was coming. Unless you want to waste more time arguing, let's get a move on," Kurt shot back.

"All right. Thanks, Kurt. We can use the help," Mike said.

"Hey, one old Cayman Cowboy to another, right? We've all been through way too much together," Kurt said. "I know Kelly and I don't really see eye to eye, mostly because of Tanya, but that stuff is in the past. It isn't real anymore. Kelly's in trouble and I'm here to help."

"Let's go," Mike said.

****

Mike and Kurt loaded the Jeep quickly and took off to get back to the harbor. They weren't followed as Mike drove. He called ahead on his cell phone to let Tanya know they were on their way. This allowed the yacht captain to get the engines warmed up. Burnsworth hadn't hesitated to help.

Pulling back into the parking area, the sun was beginning to rise and people were stirring, preparing for another day.

"Come on, Kurt. Let's get this stuff in the yacht and get out of here," Mike said.

"Hold it, you two. You aren't going anywhere," a voice said.

Mike turned around to face one of his abductors from the night before. The man was holding a gun.

"Look—this thing is over. The police have your boss. You can't do any more, so don't stand in our way. Let us save our friend," Mike said. He noticed the man looked dirty and tired. His clothes were torn in several places—probably from walking back through Hell.

"I don't care what you say. I am going to finish this," the goon said, but didn't complete his sentence. As he crumpled to the ground, out of the darkness Antwone appeared behind him with a baseball bat. The man was out cold.

"Wow. I don't think I've ever been happier to see your face then right now," Kurt said to his old friend.

"This is the second time you've pulled me out of scrape with this guy. I don't know how I'll ever repay you. How did you know?" Mike asked.

"A little bird with a Russian accent called me," Antwone laughed. "I came as soon as I heard what was going on."

"That's great, Antwone. With your help, we might just be able to pull this off," Mike said.

"What about us?" said Todd as he walked up with Dante and Gary as well. "Come on, guys, we're wasting time. Let's get this show on the road. Our stuff is already loaded on board."

"What are you all doing here?" Mike asked, dumbfounded.

"Come on, Mike. Cayman Cowboys stick together, right?" Dante said. "Besides, Kelly has helped every one of us out of tough spots before. This is our chance to repay him."

"Look—you may've been out in the world too long, but this is how we take care of each other in the islands," Gary said. "We brought a bunch more gear along. You don't have to do this all yourself."

"Thanks, guys. Let's do it," Mike said.

As they entered the yacht, Tanya was standing there to greet them.

"Tanya, this is amazing," Mike said. "I wouldn't have even thought to call them. I guess I wouldn't have even known who to call."

"That's what I'm here for," Tanya said. "I tried to call Bailey too, but I couldn't track her down."

"Well, I don't have time to worry about that now," Mike said. "One crisis at a time."

****

Gary, captain of one of Sunset House's charter boats, went to the bridge to help the yacht's captain find the location using distances and locations from the sonar unit. He obviously knew the area better than the yacht captain.

"So what's the plan, Mike?" Kurt asked as the rest of the group gathered in the dive locker.

"I'd like for Antwone and Todd to be support divers. We'll need extra tanks suspended underwater and someone to get in the water after we bring him up to make sure we don't need anything," Mike said. "Kurt, I want you to come to the bell with me and bring him up."

"No, Mike," Tanya said. "I'm going down to get Kelly and that's final. You've pulled this together and I thank you for it, but you aren't going to leave me on the boat when Kelly is down there. Not all Cayman Cowboys are men, you know. We all stick together and support each other."

"Tanya, but, but..." Mike stumbled. He never could say no to her, but he really wanted to this time. Then he relented after they locked eyes and he saw her resolve.

"Okay, Tanya and I will make the dive. The rest of you will be the support divers," Mike said.

"Mike, I was a corpsman in the army before I came to the islands. I help out with dive accidents at the local hyperbaric chamber. I'll stay up here and get the portable chamber set up and ready in case you need to get Kelly into it quickly," Todd said.

"That's great, Todd. I didn't know you could do that. Sounds as if you guys had all this worked out all ready. Why are you even asking me?" Mike asked with a laugh.

"We hope you don't mind, but you're right, we took the liberty of discussing the best way to pull this off. Everything else you said is fine with us," Antwone said.

****

"Guys, we're about 10 minutes from the coordinates you gave the captain. Give him about two minutes after he stops to secure the engines and find a good location for the anchor and you'll be free to get in the water," Burnsworth said as he leaned through the door of the dive locker.

"Thank you, sir. You don't know how much I appreciate your help in this," Tanya said.

"Don't worry about it. We owe Kelly and Mike here our lives, so I would do anything to help him. And besides, this is the most excitement we've had in years. Just bring him back alive," he said.

"We'll do our best, Mr. Burnsworth," Mike answered. "Okay, Tanya. Let's get ready to get in the water."

There are generally two types of dives: Dives planned as decompression dives and no-decompression dives. No decompression dives are dives where the diver can make a direct ascent to the surface at any time. In dives like these divers do not stay down so long or go so deep that their bodies absorb more nitrogen than they can handle.

To make a dive to 140 feet—Kelly's expected depth according to the mapped location of the bell—as a no decompression dive would limit the pair to approximately eight minutes before they would have to ascend or risk getting into trouble themselves.

Decompression dives were dives where the divers planned to stay down longer than conventional tables allowed. After completing their task, they ascended to proscribed depths and waited while the reduced pressure released the nitrogen in their body tissues. In some situations, divers also changed the gasses they breathed at different depths to aid the removal of the nitrogen—eventually switching to 100 percent oxygen at the shallowest depths.

For the dive, Mike and Tanya were both carrying two large cylinders on their backs and one more slung along each side of their bodies. They would use the tanks on their sides during the descent. They were filled with air. At 90 feet, they planned to switch regulators so they could breathe from the cylinders on their backs. In the two large cylinders Kurt and Todd had prepared a special breathing gas called TriMix—a mixture of oxygen, nitrogen and helium. This special mixture would help them remain clear-headed, avoiding the narcotic affects of nitrogen at depth. Often divers use this special mixture to lower the oxygen concentration in the gas, in cases where they are diving extremely deep, but that really wasn't an issue here. The TriMix would also give them extended bottom time because of its lower amount of inert nitrogen. Having all of the extra cylinders gave them some extra leeway in case they needed to stay down longer, however long it might take to get to Kelly and get him to safety. They really had no idea what they were facing on this dive.

The pressure of the water at 140 feet would make the gas in the scuba cylinders last about 1/5 of the time it would last on the surface. And that is with just one diver breathing off of the cylinder. Add a second diver and the time is at least cut in half, although probably more considering the stress of the situation. They might need additional breathing gas for the three of them.

Fortunately, the yacht had an extremely complete diving locker. While the owners themselves didn't truly need some of the higher end equipment they had on board, they had reasoned they might be in some remote location and need something specialized so they had best be prepared. They had invested in the best equipment money could buy—a great decision considering the circumstances.

The yacht had a diving platform built through the hull of the ship. After the yacht was stopped and everything prepared, the captain opened the door to the diving well and the divers simply had to make a giant stride into a pool of seawater and begin their descent.

## CHAPTER 15

##

Suited up and ready to go, Mike and Tanya made a final check of each other's gear before stepping in the water—their regulators in place and working properly, weight belts set and secured. Mike had the sonar unit strapped to his wrist. He was also carrying an extra dive mask for Kelly. The water was warm, but both divers were wearing lightweight wetsuits. They were both wearing dive computers able to adjust their decompression needs as the dive progressed. After assuring each other that everything was working properly, their eyes met for a moment. "Tanya, if he's here, we'll bring him home," Mike said.

"I know, Mike. But I'm still going to be scared until I can hold him," she answered.

"I know. Let me ask you one more time before we do this. Can you concentrate? This dive could get tricky and I need to know that you're with me. This may sound cold, but remember, it just isn't your life, or Kelly's, but my life's riding on this, too. You're my dive buddy and I need to know I can count on you. I need to know you're going to keep it all together," Mike said, more to jar her into thinking than anything else.

"I know, Mike. I know. I've thought about it myself. I'm your buddy and I have your back. I'll be there if you need me," Tanya said.

"That's good enough for me," Mike answered with a smile. "Now, let's go bring him home."

They pulled their masks into place, fitted their regulators into their mouths and stepped forward into the entry pool. Hitting the water, they both began to descend immediately. As soon as they got out from under the shadow of the yacht, they could see a beautiful reef down below them. Neither one, however, was much interested in sight-seeing. They both turned head down and began swimming toward the bottom, descending as fast as they could clear their ears.

As soon as Mike and Tanya hit the water, the rest of the team began setting up their own gear and lowering the extra cylinders into place.

****

There was no more air left in the reserve tanks in the diving bell. What was inside was getting stale and breathing was becoming a chore. Looking out the porthole didn't tell Kelly much. He couldn't see the surface so he knew he was deep, but he really couldn't tell how deep. Everything appeared to be shades of green, blue and brown, so he guessed he was at least 80 or 90 feet down. He could be further, but there was just no way of knowing.

It looks like no one is going to get here in time. I've just got to believe they're looking for me, though. Maybe they're somewhere in the area, Kelly thought. If I can just get to the surface, even if I am not conscious, maybe they can rescue me. Whatever happens, it will be better than slowly suffocating.

In his search of the diving bell looking for anything useful, Kelly found a life preserver seat cushion. And he began to hatch a plan. He would make what is commonly referred to as a buoyant emergency ascent—the navy referred to this as a blow-and-go. He would leave the bell and swim as quickly as he could for the surface. He would probably run out of air on the way up and might just pass out. The life preserver, though, should float him to the surface, even unconscious. He knew he would need serious medical attention as soon as he got to the surface, but still, he reasoned, it was better than dying without trying.

When this plan was hatched, he was thinking clearer and had good air in the bell. Now as things were getting worse and his thinking was slower, things seemed to get a bit confused. He wasn't quite sure he could do it. But he knew he needed to try.

Extremely fit, Kelly had long since given up the party lifestyle. In his few nights with Mike, he had more alcohol than he had in months. He was also just as happy free diving as he was scuba diving. He actually taught free diving from time to time.

Time to get prepared to care for yourself, Kelly thought. He sat down on the floor of the diving bell, beside the water's edge, and calmed himself. He attempted to relax every muscle in his body and slow down his heart rate and breathing so he would use as little oxygen as possible.

Kelly was facing two different forces on his ascent—both of them revolved around the decreasing pressure. Surfacing, the pressure would decrease, allowing the air in his lungs to expand. If he failed to exhale as he swam up, the air in his lungs would expand to five times its size while in the bell. That air would have to go somewhere. It could tear a hole in the lining of his lung and send an air bubble directly to his brain.

The second pressure-related problem for Kelly was that as the pressure decreased, the oxygen in his system was used up. At five atmospheres, just breathing air, his body was getting the equivalent of 100 percent oxygen. On ascent, as the pressure dropped, the oxygen equivalent in his lungs would decrease just as fast. As his body used up the oxygen for the swim, the oxygen in his lungs could drop off to 14 or 15 percent by the time he made it to the surface. He could lose consciousness and drown.

He didn't even have fins or a mask to let him see in the water. He was going to be slow and blind. If it weren't for the float, he knew there would be no way he would ever make it to the surface. When he was ready and completely relaxed, he wrapped his arms through the straps of the seat cushion and gently slid into the water. To get out of the bell, he was going to have to swim down about five feet or so he guessed, and then out from under the bell. This would actually take some of his much-needed energy to get the float down underwater, but it couldn't be helped.

Before he slipped his head underwater, he began breathing deeply, getting the last of the oxygen from the bell into his system and purging the carbon dioxide. With that he said a brief prayer, mostly for Tanya, and slipped his head underwater.

****

Mike knew it was time to switch to the special TriMix breathing gas on his back without even looking at the dive computer on his wrist. He could feel the fuzzy, euphoric feeling of the nitrogen beginning to take effect. The feeling was still mild and well within his comfort limits, but he knew he was going to need all of his wits about him on this dive. He looked down at his dive computer and confirmed that he was coming up on 100 feet. He signaled to Tanya to make her gas switch. No reaction. Mike signaled to Tanya again. Still nothing. The stress and anxiety of the day, coupled with the lack of sleep, was obviously compounding the narcotic affect of the depth. She didn't comprehend the signal or the trouble she faced.

Mike switched to the TriMix breathing gas and was instantly clear-headed again. It was amazing to him just how fast the helium in the breathing gas could make a difference and just how much of a change he actually felt. Becoming instantly sober made him realize just how much of an affect the "rapture of the deep" was having. Glancing at his depth gauge, Mike realized they were approaching 110 feet with still no recognition from Tanya. He had to act fast. Mike grabbed Tanya's regulator that would supply the TriMix. He then roughly grabbed Tanya by her buoyancy compensator jacket, hoping to jar some awareness into her. Still no response. Mike did the last thing he knew to do. He reached up and pulled the regulator supplying air to Tanya from her mouth. She looked at him with a surprised look, but still didn't react. He shoved the TriMix regulator into her mouth. She wouldn't breathe. Mike was getting desperate. He was there to rescue one friend and was in danger of losing a second.

Passing 115 feet, Mike had a last ditch thought. He sharply jabbed Tanya in the stomach, as he had with Toney several days earlier, knocking the wind from her for a second. Her first reaction was to breathe in. Almost immediately, the helium worked its magic and she snapped out of the daze that had controlled her. After a moment, Tanya gave Mike the okay sign by making a circle with her thumb and forefinger. She checked her depth gauge and began to reassess her situation. She realized she had been lost for a moment, but she was back now.

Mike pulled out his dive slate.

"You okay?" he wrote.

"Better now," she wrote back. "Find Kelly."

Mike could see her smile from behind the regulator and he could see the sparkle returning to her eye. Her head was most certainly clear from the nitrogen in her system now, but everything that had happened in the last 12 hours, and few days, was still clouding her mind a bit. At least Mike felt as if she was under her own control and wouldn't need his help. She might not be a lot of help to him, but he wouldn't have to try and rescue her as well.

When Mike and Tanya jumped in the water, the wrist-mounted sonar automatically came on, focusing in on the sending unit attached to the dive bell. As the divers continued to descend—now passing 120 feet and about 20 feet from the bottom—Mike consulted the sonar to see which direction he would need to go. The sonar indicated the diving bell was about 40 yards away and just to their right. They were extremely lucky to have narrowed down the area so well. Mike pointed the proper direction out to Tanya and they began swimming in that direction. Mike took the lead.

After about 50 yards, the arrow on the digital display of the sonar unit began pointing behind him. They had been looking intently at the reef, but had missed the bell.

How in the world did that happen? Mike thought. As he turned, he saw the problem. The bell was resting in a crevice in the coral and was naturally camouflaged. Mike signaled to Tanya that they needed to turn around and pointed down to the bell. They could see it clearly from the new angle, but not at all from the angle of their original approach. They almost made it to the bell when a cloud of bubbles suddenly burst from beside it.

Mike quickly realized there was something inside the bubbles—and moving fast. He was the first to react. Kicking as hard as he could with his fins he ascended 20 feet before making contact with Kelly. Unfortunately, Kelly didn't realize what was going on. He had relaxed himself into a trance-like state so he could focus on exhaling and swimming.

The sudden ascent had caused the air in Mike's buoyancy compensator to expand, making him even more buoyant. He had only seconds to grab Kelly, dump air from his BC and get things under control. If he couldn't, he would risk shooting himself to the surface and creating two people who needed rescuing and not just one.

He caught Kelly and grabbed him roughly over his shoulders with his right hand. With his other hand Mike reached up and pulled down as hard as he could on the release on the shoulder of his buoyancy jacket. Air billowed out of the shoulder vent.

Kelly began to struggle. I can't believe this. They were waiting outside for me to swim. They are going to kill me, was the first thought that came to his irrational mind.

He didn't know what was going on, but he knew he needed to get to the surface. He needed to get to Tanya.

Kelly began to struggle, twist and fight.

Mike knew if he didn't get his friend under control quickly, he would be in danger himself. He knew he had to find a way to calm his friend down and get him breathing from a regulator.

Mike continued to rise. He was still positively buoyant because of the float Kelly had taken from the bell.

And then Kelly felt it. A gentle hand on his face. Then a pair of soft lips pressed against his. He opened his mouth slightly and felt clean air enter his mouth and lungs. It tasted sweet to him after the stale air of the chamber.

His eyes flew open in the salt water. Through the watery blur, there she was. It was Tanya. He knew her touch immediately and relaxed.

Tanya placed a regulator against his lips and he took the offered breath of air. He blew out the last of the air from his lungs to clear the regulator and took a deep breath. He began to calm down. He was alive and with his friends again. He was going to make it.

Mike still held Kelly from behind. When he saw Tanya move in position in front, he began to worry about controlling their depth. Mike knew she would be able to control Kelly and calm him down.

After purging his BC of the quickly expanding air and dislodging the float from Kelly's arms, they slowly began to sink again. By kicking and adding air back into his BC, Mike was able to achieve weightlessness and keep the group at one depth. He reached around and placed the extra mask he had brought along over Kelly's head.

Kelly exhaled air through his nose and cleared the water from the mask. He could see.

The entire ordeal had taken about 10 seconds, but had felt like hours for all three people involved.

Mike moved the group toward the anchor line, about 50 feet away. He glanced around and could see tears in Tanya's eyes. From his position behind Kelly, he could see his friend breathing and exhaling so he assumed everything was all right.

At the anchor line, Mike was able to move in front of his friend and look him in the eyes for the first time as well. Kelly was crying. Mike didn't realize it, but so was he.

"Thanks," Kelly wrote on the slate Mike handed to him.

"Owe me money," Mike joked, trying to shake off the emotions of the moment.

"Marry me?" Kelly wrote and showed the slate to Tanya.

Tanya didn't respond. She just smiled.

Mike directed the other two to ascend further up the line to the first set of decompression bottles. They would ascend as slowly as they could, allowing Kelly to breathe the bottles hanging at each stage as low as they dared, without letting him get too cold before they moved up to the next stage.

Watching from above, Dante descended to get a status report. Mike quickly assured the team on the yacht that Kelly was all right and told Todd to get the portable re-compression chamber ready. He wanted to get Kelly back under pressure within a minute or two of reaching the surface—before the gas bubbles had a chance to form.

Finally, they had spent as much time underwater with Kelly as they dared. He was starting to shiver. Fortunately, they had been able to spend an hour underwater with the last half an hour on 100 percent oxygen at 15 feet before they had to surface. Dante and Kurt met them at the 15-foot hang bar and helped them all back to the swim entrance through the hull of the yacht. As soon as Kelly's head broke the surface of the water extra hands grabbed him and hurriedly slid him into the chamber. The decompression stops Mike and Tanya had made with Kelly allowed them to surface without any decompression sickness of their own. Their computers were clear.

The portable chamber had steel ends on it, but the sides were made from a ballistic Kevlar that could withstand the pressure necessary for recompression. The flexible sides allowed for easy storage when the unit was not in use. It was only big enough for one person. There was a hose and mask inside that would allow Todd to supply Kelly with more 100 percent oxygen to help wash the nitrogen from his body. There wasn't room for another person to enter and provide care. All they could do was simply get him back under pressure.

On the other hand, it was small enough, and once pressurized, it was portable enough, that the entire chamber could be loaded onto a helicopter and evacuated to the mainland. And that was what they did. A quick call to Detective March arranged for a flight and within 45 minutes, Kelly was touching down at the hyperbaric chamber at George Town Hospital. March was furious with Mike and Tanya for their interference, but got over it quickly when he realized they had saved Kelly and delivered him another eyewitness.

## CHAPTER 16

##

Waking up in the hospital, Samson began to tell his story. Being a contract employee with little or no conscience, he held no allegiance to anyone but himself. He was physically beaten up from the car accident and didn't feel like lying. He had no intention of spending any more time in prison than he would absolutely have to, so he began to provide information on Walker and several other select clients in an effort to save his own hide.

Samson was careful not to tell any secrets about the ones who could track him down later, but he had worked for several clients, such as Walker, who were not professional criminals, but mere dabblers who had needed Samson's overall experience. When he was removed from the picture, their organizations would collapse. By turning over evidence on these individuals, he had no fear of reprisal.

Besides, he had made a tidy sum of money with his special talents and he didn't want to lose his ability to enjoy it.

With what the police already had on Walker, including information from another informant, what Samson turned over to them, and what Mike had begun to figure out, March was able to put together a case very quickly that would put Walker, and several others, away for a long time.

****

Kelly was recovering nicely after his stay in the hyperbaric chamber. He had been compressed with the pressure equivalent to 60 feet of sea water in the portable chamber. When he arrived at the chamber at George Town hospital, the entire smaller chamber was placed inside the larger chamber. Once the two were brought to equal pressures, Kelly was moved into the larger one without returning to surface pressure and opening the door.

Since no one knew exactly how long Kelly had been exposed to the pressure at depth, the physicians providing the care had to assume the worst. They decided he had been in the diving bell chamber long enough for his body to be completely saturated with five atmospheres worth of nitrogen. Over 36 hours, they slowly reduced the pressure in the chamber and supplied him concentrated oxygen. Finally, they were able to bring the chamber back to surface pressure.

****

While Kelly was in the chamber, Mike and Tanya stayed on the yacht for their own safety. For both, it was a gilded cage. While it was certainly a nice place to be kept out of the way, neither one was happy about it. They were both restless and wanted to be elsewhere—namely at the hospital with Kelly. There wasn't much they could have done, but they both wanted to feel as if they were doing something other than relaxing in the sun.

Three days after they had rescued Kelly from the diving bell, March showed up with Kelly at the yacht.

"What are you bunch of slackers doing here?" Kelly said as he walked into the salon of the yacht. "I'm dying in the hospital and you guys are nibbling caviar, no doubt."

"Kelly. Kelly!" Tanya shouted. She had just been pouting to Mike that no one would tell her what was going on with him.

Everyone ran to him, nearly knocking him down. It was a joyous reunion for all and it took a half an hour for March to get everyone calmed down enough for them to pay any attention to what he had to say.

Considering that Tanya and Mike had provided him with crucial evidence to solve a major investigation, and Kelly had almost gotten killed in the process, March decided it was only fair to lay the case out for them. He detailed the information Samson had given up explaining the politicians who were on Walker's payroll, the plans to steal the gold from the shipwreck, if they ever found it, and build the pier, pocketing money from both.

"There's probably more to come, but that's everything for now. We may not have everyone who's involved with this plan, but we've gotten all of the key players. We have another informant on the inside who's giving us information as well. That's how we know to trust everything that Samson is telling us. We've heard most of it before. There are politicians and business people involved in this at one level or another. We don't think they all know everything that's going on, but most of them have been involved with enough to indict them," he said.

"That's just shocking. I can't believe some of the people who are involved. They really should know better," Tanya said.

"What's really amazing to me is that Walker was planning to use government money to fund the search for the sunken gold and then keep it all for himself, using part of the gold to finance the pier. Pretty wild scheme," Mike said. "He had to be working so many angles that I don't know how he could ever keep it all straight."

"We agree," March said. "It's pretty astounding that he kept it all together, and it probably wouldn't have fallen apart if you two hadn't seen something fishy and investigated on your own. We had him under surveillance, but not for this. We didn't even have wind of this plot. We were looking into tax evasion charges, like we do with most of the big players."

"It is mind-boggling how quickly he escalated things from corruption and fraud to murder. He must really think he's above it all," Kelly said. "So what's next?"

"Next we pick him up and start criminal proceedings," March said with a sly grin.

"The fun part is we've been able to keep a lid on all this for three days, to the point where he hasn't changed his routine a bit. It turns out Samson never told Walker about things falling apart at the warehouse. We got the two guys who were helping him, so we were able to keep a lid on that as well. Walker moved one of his other henchmen into Samson's place, but he knew he was going to have to do that because Samson said he was going to leave after the murder. Other than that, he's going about his business as usual."

"Detective March, I know you don't owe me, but I'd like a chance to confront Walker about this before you arrest him," Mike said. "I know I'm being dramatic, but this guy plotted to kill me and nearly killed Kelly. I would like to look him in the eyes when he realizes he's lost."

"Look, Mike, this could be pretty dangerous. You never know how he'll react. He might try to do something stupid," March replied.

"I know. Understand, I've been there before. I've been through danger," Mike replied as the two men locked eyes.

After a moment, March slumped his shoulders in resignation. "Yeah, I know. I had you checked out. Considering how you handed us this one on a platter, I guess I owe you one. But this is only going to happen on my terms."

March quickly laid it out for them. Mike would wear a wire and his men would be all around. March would have back-up within feet of where Mike was. This wasn't going to be a cowboy maneuver.

"Hey, Mike," Kelly said, interrupting March's explanation of the way they would corner Walker.

"Check this out. Walker is having a reception tonight to announce the construction of the new dock," he said as he read from the paper March had brought to the yacht. "It seems as if all of the protests have been washed away and all of the government people have fallen in line. Looks like the perfect opportunity to me."

"Detective March, is the case ready? It sounds as if we need to move now before they do any more real damage and actually begin construction," Mike asked.

"It's close enough and it sounds like we are on. You never know, you might just get something else out of him," March said.

****

The party was on the grounds of the community concert hall. Like many evenings in the islands—even in the middle of winter—it was mild but still somewhat humid. The air had an almost silky feel. The thin layer of sweat on his forehead wasn't a result of the air temperature or the moisture in it, but the anticipation Mike was feeling as guests arrived at the party. There was the usual assortment of island movers and shakers, politicians and business people. The guest list included a fair mixture of men and women, both in the position of trophy escorts and the movers themselves. The very nature of the small island dictated that many of the island's influential crowd attended this party. They were there in spite of the fact that they hated each other, hated Walker and weren't involved with the project. Most stood nothing to gain by being there, but that didn't stop them from attending the party. In the middle of it all were a few of the divers, dive instructors and dive operation managers on the island who had worked their way into a free party.

"So how are you going to play this, buddy?" Kelly asked his friend in the parking lot as the detectives checked the cordless microphone strapped to Mike's body.

"As cool as possible, but I'm going to go right at him. Try to get him angry and a bit off balance. See if I can't get him to do something foolish," Mike said. "I hate to do it, but I've done ambush interviews outside of courtrooms and office buildings. I will treat this as the same thing. Except I'm holding all of the cards and I've never had a half a dozen cops backing me up before."

"That's got to give you an extra little bit of confidence," Kelly laughed.

"You be careful, Mike, but get this jerk. Make him realize it's all fallen apart and we did it to him," Tanya said, still the angriest of the three. Where Mike and Kelly had just nearly lost their lives, Tanya had also lost all of her research. She was personally safe, but she was still angry about the damage Walker's plot had caused.

Mike waited a bit until the sun set and many of the guests had a drink or two in them before he made his entrance. He brought his camera as cover and worked his way around the crowd to survey who was in attendance and who was on the inside and who was on the outside in this deal.

Mike didn't know Walker from his time on the island—he had left before Walker arrived—but the man was easy to pick out from the news reports he had seen and the crowd around him. Mike moved in. Over the next few minutes, he managed to get in Walker's way several times as he took his picture, firing the flash directly into Walker's eyes to distract him. With each flash, Mike could see Walker becoming more and more agitated.

Finally Walker reached a breaking point. He had just turned to his left to move toward a drink tray when Mike fired his flash. At first the heavy photographing had flattered Walker and appealed to his ego. He liked being the center of attention. Eventually, though, it got to the point where he was insulted. _This photographer isn't giving me the respect I deserve_ , he thought to himself. Instead of asking security to remove the annoyance quietly, he had to confront the nuisance and belittle the man. Mike stood nearly a foot taller than Walker and that goaded Walker into trying to assert his superiority over the other man. After all, he thought he was actually paying Mike to be there. The real event photographer had been warned away.

"Blast it, you fool! Just what do you think you are doing?" Walker fairly screamed at Mike with a tone and volume intended to attract attention. Mike said nothing in response. He simply kept his camera up to his eye and took another photograph.

"What do you think you are doing treating me like this? Don't you know who I am?" he yelled as more people turned to watch Walker in action. "This is my party and I'm the man who is going to make more money for this island than everyone else here combined. I own this island. Don't you realize that?"

Mike finally spoke, but didn't fully lower the camera away from his face. He didn't actually think Walker would recognize his face, but he didn't want to spoil the game just yet. The authorities had not released much information about Mike and Kelly's disappearance. It was being covered up as a weekend jaunt and hadn't hit the news yet.

"Sure, I know who you are. That's why I'm here, to take your picture," Mike replied.

"Why are you taking my picture? And even if that's the case, you need to take a step back and give me the respect I deserve," Walker responded, a little more quietly. He was somewhat confused because Mike wasn't backing down. He wasn't accustomed to being challenged.

"I need the photos to illustrate an article I'm working on for _World_ magazine. We are doing an article about you," Mike said, telling something of a half-truth. In his three days of enforced isolation, he had contacted his managing editor to tell him a bit about what was going on, offer him the story and swear him to silence until it all came out.

"Oh. No one told me about an article about me," Walker said, somewhat perplexed. This confrontation just wasn't going the way it was supposed to go.

"I haven't contacted you about it yet. The article will be about corruption, greed and environmental destruction in the name of money. Would you care to go ahead and make a comment?" Mike asked, baiting Walker.

"I... I... Well... I..." Walker stuttered. "Just who do you think you are?" he screamed again as he found his voice. "You come into my party and imply that I'm corrupt. I'll have you know I have done more for this rotten little place... Just who do you think you are?" he repeated. Walker was red-faced. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead, he was so angry.

"When I command, people jump," he bragged. "I don't have to take this from you. There is no politician that would say anything about me. None of these sniveling party crashers would say anything about me. They are just hoping to make some money, kiss my ring and benefit from my superior intelligence and business power. I have made people and I have made people disappear. Just who do you think you are?" he repeated for the third time.

Before Walker could go further, a voice came over the public address system.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Please direct your attention to the video screen. We have a special short film to show you regarding the promotion of the new development brought to you by Gray Walker."

Walker stood completely still. Used to being in control of every situation, he was at a loss. First this photographer, now a film was starting that he didn't know about. This wasn't anything he had commissioned.

The video began with some general scenes of Grand Cayman and views of the crowds of tourists in George Town. The scene changed as news footage of the protests crossed the screen. Then the images turned dark. They were clear, but grainy and colorless. It was the video that Mike had shot on the night dive. Kurt had taken the footage and edited it into a brief preview of the damage.

The crowd grew quiet. There were uncomfortable murmurs as the divers and the submarine tore up the reef.

Suddenly, the music in the background changed to voices talking. As they became audible, the images changed to the view of Mike and Mark tied up in the warehouse and Samson talking into the phone. The audio captured him agreeing to kill the divers. Lieutenant March from the Cayman police had also given Kurt the tape of the wiretap they had on Walker.

Walker had screamed at nearly every person in attendance at the party at one time or another. They all instantly recognized his voice. The shock of what they heard stunned them all completely quiet.

As the video screen faded to black, all eyes turned to Walker.

"Allen. Call security to remove this man from my sight," Walker said, oddly quiet, though, as he said it.

Allen came up and stood beside Walker, but didn't say a word or take any action. He recognized Mike.

As Mike lowered his camera fully from his face, he answered Walker's question. "Fortunately, there won't be a next time, but when you decide to make someone disappear, you should make sure it actually happens. It's sloppy to trust something that important to someone else. I'm the man who is going to help the authorities bring you, and all of the people in your pocket, down," Mike answered.

"What do you mean?" Walker asked, barely a whisper now. "Who are you?"

"I'm one of the people you ordered murdered. And now I'm here to make certain you understand just how badly you've lost—you and all of your friends," he said with an arm sweep toward the crowd.

For a second, it appeared as if Walker might attack Mike. He stepped forward menacingly, but then he stopped. Suddenly, he appeared to deflate.

"Allen. If you won't do something about this man, then at least get my car. I'm leaving, now," Walker said.

"No," Allen replied. "If you'd treated me with respect and trust, I could have pulled all of this off for you. But you didn't and now it's coming back to haunt you. Enjoy prison."

"Allen, this is no time to argue about..." Walker stopped in mid-sentence. "What do you mean 'enjoy prison'?"

"You didn't give me the time of day, so I found someone who would. I have skills and talents, but you ignored me and treated me like a servant. Well, look who is laughing now," he said. "I've told the police everything that I know, and I know quite a lot. I gave them a complete list of all of your informants and the bribes you paid to them. I even took the diary from that old man about the wreck you were looking for as evidence. I thought it was funny that you ordered me to look for it after I stole it, but I knew you would do that anyway. You always turned to me when you needed something, but never trusted me and treated me like a partner. Like I said before, enjoy prison."

He turned and quickly walked away. For a brief second, the party started to deteriorate into mayhem, but then, just as quickly, the noise stopped and everything got eerily silent. The island's governor, the Honorable Johnston Pickett, strode into the crowd surrounded by his entourage and security. Using the booming voice of a man born to politics and well-versed in settling down unruly opposition, he took control of the crowd and the situation.

"Everyone please hold still. I want to address this crowd," he began with a flourish of his hand, nearly gleaming in his white three-piece suit, his dark skin making a striking contrast. "Detective March brought this deplorable situation to my attention earlier this very day."

March had finally told the governor, after holding back the information as long as he could for fear of a leak in the government tipping off an accomplice before he got a chance to gather all of his evidence.

"Greed, corruption and vice are sins committed by men that only God can forgive. My government will take swift action against these perpetrators. But when these same grievances are committed by men entrusted with the public's money and care, these sins are unpardonable in my eyes," he said as he began to warm up to the situation, his roots as a preacher coming through.

"Mr. Walker here has been accused of his crimes in front of this group, and formal charges are waiting for him at the police station. But, I want you to know that this man had help with his schemes. He had help from three officials of my government. Three men I called friends and three men who were commissioned to serve the people of this island and protect their interests. Whether or not those men will be charged criminally or not remains to be seen and will be up to the solicitor general. However, charges for abuse of power and dereliction of duty are already being brought before the island legislature.

"After hearings, if these men are found guilty, they will be stripped of power. That I promise you. My government will not tolerate corruption at any level. Anyone in the government service who aided these men in their efforts will be brought before the legislature on similar charges. You will be able to believe in the government of this island again."

Pickett looked around the crowd with a defiant, angry eye and turned and strode from the grounds of the party. Seconds later, the party was swarming with police. Kelly, Kurt and Tanya were allowed to enter as soon as everyone involved was arrested.

"We heard the whole thing from the command truck. How'd it look from up front?" Tanya said when the threesome reached Mike.

"You could see it dawn on him that the game he played was over. His elaborate plan was falling down all around him," Mike answered.

"Hey wait a minute, March," Mike said, his attention quickly shifting. "Why are they taking Bailey away? She isn't involved. She's a friend of mine," he said as he watched the Cayman police place handcuffs on Bailey.

"Actually, Mike, she is involved. Samson and Allen told us all about her and we checked her out. She's on Walker's payroll. She had been feeding him information about a number of people on the island—sleazy, but not a crime at that point. But we recorded her telling Walker about you and Kelly and the dive you'd planned. We're not sure how she found out about it, but she tipped him off and he sent his goons. From my perspective, that makes her an accessory to kidnapping and attempted murder."

"We told her our plans to make the dive. She actually helped us out. I just can't believe it. What would make her do that?" Mike asked, thinking out loud to himself as much as anyone else.

"Money is a strong motivator. Maybe she was looking to improve her status, or for a way to get off the island. We may never know," March replied.

## CHAPTER 17

##

"Okay, buddy, it's time for me to leave," Mike said as he threw his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the customs agent in the airport.

It was two days after the big arrest and the fallout from the implosion of Walker's operation was still settling. Walker had his fingers in operations all over the island, but his arrest and the nature of his offenses meant he could not keep his holdings. Everything was being sold off. All of his partners and accomplices were still being rounded up. Quickly others were moving into the vacuum.

"I really hate to leave you in this situation, but I'm sure it'll all work out," Mike said.

"That's what I have been trying to tell you while you were packing, but you haven't stopped to listen," Kelly responded. "It's all working out already."

Mike stopped, with a confused look on his face. He wasn't able to respond immediately, so Kelly took the opportunity to continue.

"I've been offered Sunset House," Kelly said.

"But you're already running a dive operation. Why would you want that one?" Mike asked.

"Well, Sunset House is a great operation, but I wouldn't leave my job just to run it. I'm buying it," Kelly said. "Walker owned it and his partners are liquidating his assets. I have some backers, but they're making me the managing partner."

"Pal, that's a great opportunity for you," Mike said. "You're gonna do great."

"It gets even better. You guys found a real shipwreck out there. The government has contracted me to operate the dive operation surrounding the archeological excavation of the site. It promises to be a major find," Kelly said. "It's a tremendous contract and it's going directly into my new company. With the profit from this project, I'll be able to pay off my partners well ahead of schedule and own the Sunset House dive operation outright in about a year. I finally get to do it my way, the right way. You know, the way we always talked about in the old days."

Just then, Tanya pulled up in her car with Burnsworth and Toney along.

"Thank you all for coming to see me off. I really appreciate it," Mike said, somewhat taken aback at the growing group.

"Wouldn't miss it. You've certainly given us some amazing stories to tell," Burnsworth said.

"Excuse me, guys. Before Mike leaves, I need to do something," Kelly said, interrupting the conversation. He turned to Tanya and went down on one knee.

"Sweetheart. We've been together a long time and I love you. I know you will say it isn't necessary or important to you, but I think you're just saying that for my benefit. While I was in the diving bell and then in the chamber, all I could think about was you. I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?" Kelly asked.

"Yes," was all she could say as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Well, I guess this means I'll be coming back to Cayman for a visit," Mike said as he joined in the congratulations.

After a few minutes, Tanya pulled herself away from Kelly and took Mike's arm.

"I need to speak to you for a minute," she said.

"What is it?" Mike asked.

"It's about Bailey. I know you were warming up to her, and her being involved in this must have been a hard blow for you," Tanya said. "How are you doing?"

The police and prosecutors had decided not to press charges against Bailey, but her mere involvement with Walker and his schemes had discredited her with the Cayman government. She had already lost her work visa and been flown to the United States. The corruption involving government officials was sending shock waves through the government. The governor had followed through on his vow to clean house within the government ministries. Anyone involved with the schemes was immediately declared a persona non grata and deported if they weren't Cayman citizens.

"I was pretty disappointed about it, but I'm doing all right," Mike said with an easy smile to show he really meant it.

"Okay. I was just concerned you might shut back down," Tanya said.

"I could have done that, but saving Kelly and breaking up this whole plot made me realize that I love what I do and I couldn't live my life any other way. I can't hide under a rock. Grief is a natural thing, but then you have to let it go. I have," Mike said. "To tell the truth, I've slept better the last few nights than I have in months."

"All right, you two. I just proposed to her, Mike, you can't try to take her away," Kelly said.

"I wouldn't dream of it, pal," Mike said. "What about you two? When are you going to begin your "round the world cruise," or whatever you are off to do?" Mike asked Burnsworth and Toney.

"Actually, we're going to stay here for awhile. We've found something interesting to get involved with. It just so happens one of my forebears was Captain Alan Burnsworth. We were going to retrace his last voyage and see if we could find out where he was lost at sea," Burnsworth explained, "but it turns out the shipwreck you found was his ship. I plan to stay right here and help with the excavation, if Kelly will let me."

"Glad to have you," Kelly said with a laugh. "It'll let me keep an eye on you."

"Thanks again for seeing me off, but now I really have to go," Mike said.

"Mike, there is just one more thing," Tanya said. "I was running late to get here because Detective March called. Your office was trying to get in touch with you, but they didn't know how. They called him because of the story you filed and he called me," Tanya said.

"Oh, by the way, I hear things are going well for you, too," Mike said to Tanya, as he was still distractedly trying to get through security.

"Yeah, things are great. The government is suddenly taking reef restoration very seriously and wants to find a way to restore the reefs that Walker destroyed," she said. "But Mike, I have something to tell you."

"That's great. It really seems like things are looking up for all involved," he said, not really listening to Tanya as he checked over his bags.

"Mike. You're not listening to me. I have something to tell you," Tanya almost yelled.

"What? Oh. I'm sorry. What is it?" Mike said.

"As I said a minute ago, your boss called. They need you to get back to your office immediately. There were two things. First, they said they wanted to talk to you about the story from all this."

"I thought they would be interested in that. I need a vacation from my vacation. I probably do need to get back to work," he said, interrupting Tanya. "What was the other thing?"

"You won a Pulitzer Prize for photography for the article you were working on before you came to Cayman. They said you would want to know," she replied.

Stunned, Mike turned and left. Later he would realize he had forgotten to actually say goodbye to his friends. He had just found out he had won the one award that had always escaped him during his very successful career. He thought to himself that it was a fitting way to honor his friend Tom Stuart.

After being processed through customs and checking his bags, Mike climbed on board his plane, bound for Miami and then home. He was finally beginning to come out of the shock from Tanya's announcement as he made it to his seat on the plane.

Getting settled in, he didn't notice his traveling companion at first. When he turned to look at the person beside him, he realized it was the young girl, Toni, from the volunteer research dive team. He smiled at her.

"Oh. Hello, Mr. Scott," she said sheepishly.

"Hi, Toni. Listen, the last time we met, I did a lot of talking," Mike said. "Why don't you tell me about yourself..."

###

# Read the first two chapters of the next Mike Scott thriller:

# Flooding Hollywood

# Fanatics at the Dam

#### ERIC DOUGLAS

## CHAPTER ONE

##

The lights of southern California lit up the coastline, making it look more like dusk or dawn, rather than the midnight it actually was.

The old fishing trawler made its way north slowly, staying close enough to see the coast, but never getting close enough to be spotted from it. The men on board wanted to see where they were, but didn't really want anyone else to see them. The trawler's twin diesel engines were running slow, just droning along, barely making headway against the current. Only one light inside the boat illuminated the cabin, although it was running with its required external lights. The captain knew better than to run without those lights. He didn't want to get caught without them on, and sometimes there was nothing more obvious than a completely dark hole moving along.

It was somewhat unusual for a boat of this size and design to be running at this time of night, since most commercial trawlers did their work early in the morning. It wasn't just that it was an unusual time of the day for the trawler, the location would have raised eyebrows for those familiar with the area as well because fishing boats rarely plied these waters—the shipping lane between the Channel Islands and the southern California coast—although just a few miles further west, toward Catalina Island, sport fishermen still went out.

At a predetermined point, the Captain of the trawler altered his course from due north to slightly northwest. He wanted to come closer to Catalina. He knew it was there; he could see it on his radar, but the lights of the largest community on the island, Avalon, still weren't visible.

Only one man sat behind the wheel of the fishing trawler—he was the Captain and had been since the boat came from the shipyard new. The console in front of him gave him an unearthly, ghoulish glow. Once, he had been a successful fisherman, and then a charter captain when the commercial fisheries collapsed. But hard times, an up-and down economy and a tendency to drink too much had led him where those things had led a lot of people. He was run down and tired. There just wasn't much more he could do.

So when, out of the blue, two men had offered him good money to make this run a few nights a week, there was no way he could turn it down. He hadn't seen that amount of cash in a long time. He didn't know, or even begin to care, why they had him do what they had him do; as long as they kept paying him.

He passed Avalon by. As the boat quietly moved away from the hamlet, the Loran guidance system on his console told him he was where he needed to be. Just about every boat captain on the water now used a Global Positioning System (GPS) to place themselves accurately on the water, but the old Captain hadn't been able to update the boat. The money these men were paying him had begun to give him hope, though. He hadn't turned back to the bottle. He had been in the marine store a few days before pricing out electronics and he had talked to the dock master where he kept his boat, the _Laura_ , tied up. He wanted to see about getting her hauled out of the water into dry dock and fixed up. _Who knows_ , he thought to himself, _I might even try to contact my daughter_.

His family and marriage had been doomed by his work as a commercial fisherman and the time it required on the water and away from his family. He was divorced and his daughter gone from his life when he got this boat, his pride-and-joy. In an effort to keep some small part of his daughter with him, he had named the boat after her. He never wanted to forget her. In his memory, he was riding high on life at that time, but the stress of losing his family and some bad turns in the fishing fleets had pulled the rug out from under him.

Laura had to be about forty now, but he really didn't know what had happened to her. Still, he thought, he would like to see her again. Just a few more of these runs and he would fix up the boat, clean himself up and track her down. A girl ought to know her father. Even at forty.

In spite of his less-accurate guidance system, the old captain knew where he was—experience told him. It was time. He growled out loud to the two men below. "You two. Get up here."

He didn't really like the men who had hired him, but they kept to themselves and stayed out of his way. It was a simple trip to run up from Mexico every evening and let the men do what they needed to do. He was back on the water and in control of his own vessel. And the money was good.

As the men came on deck, the old captain reached forward and adjusted the engines. He pulled back on the throttles and slowed the boat down to where it just wallowed along with the waves. Quickly, the two men moved to the rail holding several packages the size of small cakes.

Softer this time, the captain said, "It's about time."

The men stacked solid packages against the gunnels of the boat on the port side and waited for their mark. They didn't make a sound as they prepared for the evening's task—a task they had completed several times before. The two men picked up each package a final time and pressed a button in the center. A light blinked once and then went dark. Once they had completed the task, the first man spoke quietly to the captain.

"These're all ready to go," he said.

With that, the captain slipped the powerful Detroit diesels into neutral. The men heard and felt the change in the trawler before they heard the captain confirm it. They each picked up a package and lowered it over the side, letting it slide into the water. The bundles slipped under the water with barely a sound. The men repeated the process for each package resting at their feet.

When all the packages were in the water, one of the two spoke to the captain. "We're done," he said.

The captain slipped the trawler back into gear and continued on his way, the pause imperceptible to all but the most intense scrutiny. He would head a little further north before he turned the boat around and headed back to Mexican waters.

The two men headed back below decks to make themselves comfortable for the rest of the trip.

"Before long, we'll be finished. Four or five more trips should do it. All of the material will be in Los Angeles," the man said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was a cool night on the water, but this job always made him nervous.

"It won't be too soon for me. It's cold and wet out here. I don't like the water," the second man agreed as he flopped down on a cot.

"When it's done, we'll need to find a way to make the captain disappear."

"I followed him like the old man told me to," the second man said. "I saw him talking to some guy at the harbor. I think he's planning to use the money we've given him to fix up this boat. But I also found out that he used to be a drinker. We'll make it look like he was drunk behind the wheel. Maybe we'll throw him overboard. I'd like to do it before he spends all of the money on this ancient tub. I want to take it back."

"Keep watching. I hope we can make all of the deliveries before he spends it. Wouldn't the old man be impressed if we brought back money to use for the cause?"

****

These things are never in the nicer parts of town, Mike Scott thought to himself as he watched the men around him prepare for their task. Professionals all, the members of the antiterrorism task force were relatively quiet as they prepared their equipment and readied themselves for whatever they might encounter.

Mike was a professional as well, just not a military one. He was a seasoned photojournalist. War zones—he had done that. Combat—he had seen that, too. He personally was never interested in carrying a gun, but he had tremendous respect for this team, and others like it—civilian or military. These were men and women with a purpose, an esprit de corps and a camaraderie that couldn't be approached by people who didn't rely on their fellows in a firefight. When the difference between going home and seeing your kids that night might be the man or woman beside you, it broke down all barriers.

In a way, Mike almost envied the closeness of the team. Almost. He also had a job to do, however. He was a teller of stories; a photographer; a reporter; a documenter of the world. It was his job to point his lens into the dark crevices around the world and bring back images of the things he saw there. To do this, he had traveled the world. The images he found and brought home had earned him honors.

That was how he found himself preparing to follow a group of heavily-armed troopers into a building for a raid on a terror cell. The group was operating out of Mexico but, in an unusual move, the Mexican and American governments had agreed to trade intelligence. And because the American antiterrorism group was stronger and better-equipped, the Mexican Federales had given the green light for them to go in and break it up—with local observers attached, of course. The Mexicans wanted to learn what to do so they could handle situations like this on their own in the future.

Mike looked around at the crumbling warehouses. This part of town had seen better days. No doubt about it. But terrorists rarely rented high-profile apartments or homes in upscale neighborhoods to build bombs or practice firing their weapons. Such activities required privacy and seclusion, but they also needed space. So old, run-down warehouses it was.

This group of terrorists had an unusual twist, different from many such groups. While they had a core belief that held them together and justified their actions, they believed in commerce. So while they had their own, supposedly noble or revolutionary goals, and had no compunction about using terror, murder and destruction to support those goals, they also realized the need for hard currency. In order to meet that need, they sold their expertise and their materials to support their network.

The terror cell had been able to purchase more explosives than they needed for their objective and had actually sold a portion of the material to another, unrelated group bent on destruction. That they didn't know or agree with the goals of the other group meant nothing to them. That sale, though, brought them to the attention of the Mexican Federales and, consequently, the antiterrorism unit from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The group that bought the material got away, but not before leaving the terror cell open for a raid.

The antiterrorism team had set up a base of operations for the raid a few blocks away from their objective. Spotters were already in place watching the building, accompanied by sharpshooters in case things got out of hand. The bad guys weren't going anywhere without the good guys knowing it.

As the team members prepared their equipment, so did Mike. He needed to make sure everything was ready to go. He had to move and capture images quickly. He couldn't waste time on a faulty piece of equipment. For his own protection, Mike was dressed in battle fatigues and body armor, loaned by Commander Light, the leader of the antiterrorist team. At 6 feet 2 inches, with broad shoulders and closely-cropped hair, Mike looked as if he could very easily fit in with the group.

Once the team was ready, the members moved as a single unit to a back entrance of the warehouse. They maneuvered into position to get as close as possible to the second-story room where the terrorists were holed up. Waiting in a stairwell, just below the door that led to the intended target, Mike did his best to stay out of the way and let the troopers do their job.

"Man. You're nuts," one of the men whispered to him out of the side of his mouth, without taking his eyes off the door ahead of him. The first men that would go through the door were using electronic surveillance cameras to confirm how many men were inside the room and where they were. They didn't want any surprises when they burst inside. "At least we have guns when we do this. They shoot at us, we shoot back. You can't even do that. You're either crazy or ballsy. I'm still not sure which. Maybe, it's both."

"You do what you do and I do what I do. That's how it goes," Mike replied, just as softly. "I've been shot at before. Can't say I ever get used to it, but I just think about doing my job and I trust that I'll be all right."

"You say so, man," the trooper replied with a shake of his head and a slight grin.

"I'm not the one going through the door first, you are," Mike said to break the tension a little bit. "You guys break up the problems and I let other terrorists know you're out there doing your job. I want the good guys to know what you're doing, too," Mike explained as he checked over his cameras one last time, a little bit self-consciously. "Like I said, you have your job to do and I have mine. I don't even think about it."

The other man chuckled, smiled, and turned his attention back to the door above them. Mike Scott was very serious about his work and his words came from the heart.

While they waited, Mike took a few images of the team. The whisper-quiet shutter on his Nikon D4 digital cameras held no risk of the noise giving away the position. He was able to capture, he hoped, some of the tension, and determination, on the faces of the team as they waited. It occurred to him that he could be photographing the last minutes of someone's life and he felt the responsibility of doing it right.

Above, by the door, Commander Light gave the signal. The team members were all tense, but ready to move. This was what they trained to do. As one body, they stood and moved up the stairs. The first two men advanced and positioned themselves on either side of the door, with a battering ram held between them. The rest of the team members prepared their weapons, and disengaged the safety mechanisms. They slid their blast goggles into place. On a final signal from Light, the two men with the battering ram smashed the flimsy wooden door off its hinges.

The noise created by the single stroke from the heavy ram was the signal for a second team of men to enter the room from the outside. That team consisted of three men who crashed through the windows after they had repelled down the outside of the building from the roof. As they came through the glass, these men fired stun grenades into the room careful to avoid the explosives in the room, timing their entrance to minimize their own exposure to the detonations.

Mike ran as quickly as he could up the stairs, but, for his own safety, he was at the end of the line. After the initial thunder from the grenades faded, he heard shouts directing the men inside to drop their weapons and get down on the floor. Then he heard the distinctive sound of the response when one of the terrorists inside decided not to comply quickly enough and opened fire with a fully-automatic machine gun. It had to be one of the terrorists, Mike reasoned. Soldiers and professionals never use full auto for handheld weapons. It's too difficult to control. Then Mike heard the response as several of the troopers crashing through the door returned fire with tight, controlled bursts. The raid was over almost before it started.

A moment later, Mike heard the "All Clear" signal from inside and he stepped into the small room. The smell of cordite from the weapons and the stun grenades was still acrid in the air. Mike had a camera to his face, photographing the scene.

None of the antiterrorist team members were injured in the raid, but three of the terrorists lay dead on the floor. Two others—they must have been right on top of the stun grenades when they went off—were still alive, but they were rolling around on the floor holding their ears. Their hands, faces and ears were bloody from the concussion and shock.

Surveying the room, Mike noted the cheap furniture strewn around. Tables covered with bomb-making equipment were knocked over and the room was a shambles. Mike realized that the room was probably somewhat of a shambles before the team members entered. It had the look of a college dorm room where several young men lived for an extended period. Food boxes and trash littered the floor.

A few of the tables, though, were neatly arrayed and arranged.

"Hey Mike, come here. Let me show you what we got," Commander Light said as he motioned Mike over. Tall and dark-skinned, Light was a Marine Corps officer who was on temporary assignment to the Department of Homeland Security. He had been brought in to train this team. Not thrilled at first about Mike's presence, like most operators Light was also smart enough to realize the need to have the public on his side. In spite of the initial wariness, Mike spent several weeks with the team and the two had developed a good relationship.

"Do you know what this stuff is?" Light asked, gesturing with one hand toward the neatly arranged table.

"Oh yeah. I saw it in the Middle East last year and in Africa in '99," Mike replied, his eyes taking it all in, and moving in close with his cameras to document the look and placement of everything he saw. Mike knew he would get to publish whatever he saw, but he also knew Light would want copies of his images for his reports. It was an exchange they had agreed on and one Mike was happy to accommodate.

"Plastic explosives. Some cruder stuff over there. They were probably building a car bomb. Simple and easy to prepare. That's all it takes. This much stuff could easily blow up this entire building," Light explained. "Probably planning to drive the stuff through a small border crossing and trash some federal building. Maybe even blow up the border station itself. Figuring out the target is up to the intelligence guys. It's my job to make sure they don't get the chance to hit it."

"So where does this stuff come from?" Mike asked, as he continued to work, one of the team's Kevlar helmets resting backward on his head so it didn't interfere with his camera's viewfinder.

"Depends. Some of this is pretty high-quality, probably stolen from a U.S. military base. At least we know that makes it pretty stable. We're safe standing here. With some of the stuff we see, I would immediately call in the bomb squad and you and I wouldn't be in the room," Light continued.

Walking to the table, Light picked up a cake of plastic explosive. "Here is one they've assembled. This is a new variety of plastic explosive. It only takes one detonator and it all goes off. You just have to wire them together. The good news is, all you have to do is pull the detonator out and it can't hurt anyone. On the other hand, if this one detonator went off and set off this piece of explosive, it would all go off. You get a chain reaction," he said.

"So, a detonator is basically a small bomb itself, right?" Mike asked, leading Light into giving him more information.

"Exactly. It's a small but powerful charge. A detonator could easily blow off your hand or your arm," Light explained. "It begins the process and they all begin exploding. Remember, the whole chain reaction only takes milliseconds. You certainly don't have time to run when one goes off."

****

"Detective Banks," Tommy whispered into his cell phone. "I think they're finally going to let me in. We're going to hear the 'old man' speak tonight and then afterwards, the guys tell me he is going to tell all of us his big plan." He was sitting behind the wheel of an old truck he had driven to the meeting site.

"Do you have any idea what he's planning?" the detective asked his undercover officer.

"Nothing yet, but they tell me it's big. They say this is going to make Oklahoma City look like a firecracker. These guys are serious," the operative answered quietly, sneaking a look around to make sure no one was nearby.

"Look. You be careful. We know these guys are nuts. Up until now, they haven't done anything serious, just scared some people— protested and picketed and made some noise—but everything we hear is they're planning on setting the world on its ear. I don't know what they're capable of. You watch your back," Banks replied.

"Hey, Tommy, are you ready to go? What are you doing? Setting up a girl for later? You know the man said not to use cell phones around here—they can be traced," another man called out to the operative from the front steps to the old abandoned "church" the group was using as a meeting site.

"Gotta go, honey. See you later," Tommy said into the phone as he snapped it off. "Hey, you know I like to have a girl waiting for me. It was a short phone call, I promise. No way anyone could've traced me," he said to the man calling for him.

"Well, don't let it happen again. If the old man caught you, you'd never get to be part of what's going on here," the other man grumbled as he stepped out of the shadows.

"I know. I know. Sorry, man. It's just so hard to believe I'm this close. It's really time we stuck it to the evil in this world. We have got to let the queers and the Jews know who's really in charge of this country," Tommy replied, trying to change the subject to one of the favorite topics of the group he had been assigned to infiltrate.

Domestic terrorism had become a chief concern all across the country, especially since 1995 with the bombing in Oklahoma City. Terrorism in general was a priority for every law enforcement agency since 9/11. In vast convoluted cities like Los Angeles, every minority group was present. Every group that was hated by extremists, religious and otherwise, and every group that did the hating, religious or otherwise, was represented there. All those contrasting elements tended to escalate differences into an all out war. And that was why the city's antiterrorism task force was involved.

Word on the street over the last few months had it that this group, called the Brotherhood of the Holy, headed up by a character always referred to as "the old man," was planning something more than rallies and fund raisers. It had built a core of people who had the skills necessary to do more than talk. However, that core group was pretty well camouflaged in the larger group whose main skill was parroting whatever the old man said. The core group led from the back and didn't take risks.

Now that the group members had raised the money they needed, using whatever means necessary, they were dangerous. They had worked themselves into a frenzy. It was only a matter of time until they pulled something off. But unfortunately the word on the street didn't know what was going on.

Detective Karl Banks had been named head of the city's antiterrorism task force a year before. He had operatives working to track down suspected terror cells from Al Qaeda and other external groups, but this was the only domestic terror threat on his radar at the moment. For personal reasons that he never divulged to his men, he took domestic terrorists more personally than he did international ones. Not that he took the outside groups any less seriously, but the domestic ones bothered him more. His upbringing in a military home and his own service to his country, both in the military and then law enforcement, made it more offensive to him when his fellow Americans turned against his country. Banks was not single-minded about his country—he knew there were things wrong in the U.S.—but he also truly believed it was the best place in the world to live and that anything that was wrong had to be changed peaceably from inside, by Americans. Killing innocent civilians was never the answer.

And that was why he worked directly with the agent he had on the inside. As the head of a task force he was, or should have been, anyway, much more of an administrator and a policymaker than a field cop. But it was his background, again, that wouldn't let him stay out of the field. He took it personally.

As his agent—known as Tommy to the other fanatics—hung up the phone, Banks was already giving orders to tighten up the surveillance. He didn't want anything to go wrong this warm evening. He hoped he could shut down the entire operation later this same night. All he had to do was get the "old man" giving out details of his plans and he would raid the church where the Brotherhood was meeting and charge everyone present with conspiracy. He wasn't going to stand by and watch anyone die.

The "church" was an old, rundown structure in the hills overlooking

L.A. It had once been a community center, the kind of place you find in small towns all over the country. There was a common misunderstanding about L.A. that the city was one huge carpet of people, but there were actually small communities just outside the city limits that hadn't been swallowed up by the sprawl of the city in the valley below. You just had to search for them.

The "old man" was Ike Runyan, a felon who had gone into prison as nothing more than a common thief. A second trip into the California Penal System—for a murder he was able to plea bargain down to manslaughter—he had come out a man transformed; but not in a good way. He had slowly built a core of believers who followed him blindly. He hated everything. And he preached about it with the power, conviction, and authority of a man possessed.

As part of the efforts to raise money and obtain manpower for whatever it had planned, Runyan's group had begun actively recruiting more and more people. That had given Banks the chance to get Tommy inside the organization. The Brotherhood didn't have the ability to investigate all the new followers thoroughly.

Unlike other domestic terror groups, Runyan's growing organization wasn't a white power group. It was more a phobic group. While it was made up mostly of white men, that wasn't Runyan's line of hate and rhetoric. He seemed to have chosen a select few special causes from history to emulate, while holding the whole thing together with a general message of "us versus them." Members hated homosexuals. They hated the Jews, because they felt that group had God's glory and then denied him. They hated abortion to the point that the idea of killing people in protest made sense. They hated everyone but their own members. Instead of espousing white power, the group was really fanatically religious and misguided. Its members had turned away from the doctrine of any religion known to man, and created their own twisted ideology and faith justifying their personal need to hate. Every one of the major religions in the world teaches love for others and compassion. But that was conveniently forgotten by Runyan. He preached hate. And fear. And loathing.

"Well, it looks like it's time to go inside, Tommy," the man said as they waited by the door of the "church." They were standing guard and were the last two to enter. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready. And excited. This is going to be it, right?" the undercover agent asked nervously. "We're finally going to find out the master plan to strike at the heart of the nonbelievers, right?"

"That's what the old man said. Now, let's go."

Inside the building, there were more than thirty men, sitting on folding chairs, talking quietly among themselves. It was a warm evening outside, and the air inside was oppressive. The tension in the air was palpable. Tommy realized he was sweating and willed himself to relax. As he looked around, Tommy noticed that most of the others in the crowd were sweating as well.

The "church" itself had been chosen for its convenience. It sat back in the hills, but had a commanding view of the surrounding area. It was easy to defend and difficult for others to see what was going on inside. As Banks surveyed the situation, he realized he couldn't hope to get his men close without being spotted. Runyan had security personnel on the roof and in the trees that came close to the structure, Banks noted. Tommy had been standing guard by the door, but had been called inside. Those men didn't appear to be moving, however.

As a result, Banks was forced to keep his police task force members back and monitor the meeting using laser listening devices that picked up vibrations in the windows. Tommy wasn't wearing a wire for fear of being discovered. Banks wasn't too far away, though. He had his men stationed on the next hill over and planned to move closer as soon as he got proof of what was going on. He guessed he could have men entering the house within five minutes of giving the signal.

"My people," Runyan began before he even stepped to the pulpit, positioned three feet above the floor where the rest of the men sat. "My friends. Give me your attention."

All eyes in the room turned to face Runyan. While not truly old, his long gray hair, flowing loosely around his shoulders, his long beard with gray streaks in it and his simple robes made him look older than his actual 50 years. It was a look he affected purposely. He wanted to look more like a prophet than the criminal he was. Whether he truly believed in his divine guidance or was just using it for his own benefit was up for debate.

When he wasn't recruiting or working up his followers, he was normally casually dressed with his hair in a ponytail and his beard trimmed back. He could easily fit in on the streets of L.A. and Hollywood, looking like an agent or a movie producer. While he didn't actually have anything to do with the entertainment industry, he often enjoyed the irony in passing himself off as if he did.

"My friends. Thank you for coming here tonight. Thank you for your donations to our cause and thank you for being true believers," he began slowly. He was already worked up, so it didn't take him long to break into the passionate rhetoric of this speech. "Without men like you who believe in the sanctity of life and marriage and all the things we hold dear, we could not exist. This evil world we live in needs a wake-up call. The heretics and followers of Mohammed provided that call, but we didn't listen. AIDS provided that call, but we didn't listen. Those messages weren't strong enough. The people of this great nation of ours need to know what is going on. The gays and the Jews are taking over. They are bringing in the Mexicans to take our jobs." Runyan had the cadence of an old-time revivalist and was in full swing, pounding on the pulpit to emphasize his points of hatred.

"I know a few good people died on September 11. Some of you in this room lost loved ones on that day. But I say, 'Thank you, God, for that day. Thank you for beginning the process we are blessed to continue. Thank you for taking the good people home to be with you, while you destroyed the gays, the lesbians and the Jews who were in that building. Thank you for showing us the extent of the evil in this land and making it apparent that more has to be done." A few of the men in the room, including Tommy, blanched at what he said, but most had the rapt attention of devout followers.

"We need to rid our country of those vile influences. We need to take back our land and get this country headed back down the road of righteousness. To do that, we need to destroy the influences that are tearing this nation apart. We need to clean out the pestilence and evil, just like God did when he brought down the rains and destroyed the world," Runyan continued. He had worked himself into a furor. He thundered around the room. He held the men in the palm of his hand as he shouted, barked and commanded them. "I know, as do you all, that God promised he would never destroy the entire earth with floods again. But he never said he wouldn't allow his followers, his true believers to use water and flood as tools to remove evil. When you have a wound, don't you clean it out before you bandage it? When you have dirt and filth around your home, don't you wash it away? That is what we are going to do."

The men in the room were completely enthralled. They would have done anything Runyan told them to do. The group literally breathed as one. They were all completely in his control.

"I know you all came here to find out God's plan for us to rid this nation of the cancer that eats at our very hearts," Runyan said, over shouts of agreement and encouragement from the men in the audience. Runyan's very own core group of followers encouraged the outbursts and enthusiasm from around the room as well.

This is all extremely well set up, Tommy thought to himself. He has plants all over the room; it's like a political rally, getting the volunteers wound up before sending them out into the streets.

"But, my friends, before I can tell you just how I plan to begin erasing the pestilence, I must tell you, we have a problem," Runyan said, a masterful presenter, lowering his voice as if taking the entire group into his confidence. "There is one among you who is not here to support us, but is here to stop us."

The men in the room quickly began looking at each other, wondering who was the traitor to their cause. Tommy did his best not to look suspicious and peered around as well, trying to guess who Runyan was talking about.

Suddenly, heavy rock music started blaring out of the speakers. The pounding beat shook the very walls and floor of the structure. The effect the music had on the men was startling. They all stood up, surprised and began talking loudly to each other.

"Men," Runyan shouted to be overheard. "The one among us needs to be dealt with and quickly. He must not be able to tell anyone about our plans. I will leave you now, but I will be in contact tomorrow. Then we will try again to discuss our plans and move forward."

"But who is it?" shouted one man.

"Just show us who," another one yelled.

One of Runyan's trusted associates quickly grabbed Tommy by the shoulders and threw him to the floor at the front of the room. He didn't say anything and didn't have to. Runyan had already turned and walked out of the building into a waiting car.

The loud pounding music had effectively negated Banks' ability to listen. It canceled out the ability of the laser microphone to detect vibrations. He paused for a minute, trying to figure out what was going on, until he saw a car leaving the scene. He gave the order for his men to move in, but he was afraid he was already too late.

He was. In their anger and passion and without thinking, the men in the room quickly grabbed Tommy. Normally rational people will do irrational things in a mob and these men weren't exactly rational to begin with. About the only positive thing that could be said for Tommy's death was that it was quick. The men savaged his body, but only after he had been quickly dispatched with a simultaneous blow to the head and a knife between his ribs.

Banks' men arrived on the scene, guns drawn. None of the men in the room escaped. It hadn't occurred to them that they had been set up to kill the police officer, or that Runyan didn't want to be present when it all happened. It also didn't occur to them, or at least not until later, that Runyan never intended to tell them his plans. The only way to run a covert operation was to keep it as small as possible. He never needed any help. He already had his team in place—men he trusted from prison and elsewhere. They had all been with him for years. The men in the house simply provided him with more money, like a grotesque pyramid scheme where the participants never get anything. They were pawns to take the blame for killing the cop. Runyan escaped into the night.

From Banks' perspective, the operation was a complete disaster. One undercover cop dead. Thirty suspects for the murder and none of them talking. No information on what was going on. None of the leaders in custody.

Banks knew it wouldn't go well for him. This big of a screw-up was a career-ender. There was no way the mayor and the chief would allow him to keep the task force now. He would be lucky if he kept his job.

****

The woman was stunningly beautiful as she spun and leaped, striking out at her two masked Ninja assailants, her long auburn hair fanning out around her. They traded blows, but neither side appeared to get the upper hand. Finally, the woman dropped one ninja with a vicious kick to the stomach.

The second Ninja realized he was no match for the woman. In desperation, he charged forward, trying to catch her off guard. If he couldn't win with help, there was no way he could win one-on-one. What the woman didn't realize was that it wasn't a fair fight. The masked assassin pulled a special knife from underneath his tunic. It glistened with poison dripping off the end. One tiny scratch would kill.

As the Ninja lunged forward, the woman leaped into the air, spinning gracefully and avoiding the man and his deadly weapon. She rotated through her spin kick and caught the man in the back of the head. He tumbled forward and fell on his own knife, instantly dead.

The woman landed from the kick gracefully and stared down at her dead and incapacitated opponents. "Maybe you'll listen the next time I say freeze," she said, as she pointed down at them, every hair perfectly in place.

"Cut. Good job, everyone. Great job, Diane," the director said as he ended the scene. "All right, everyone, that's it for this location. I want cameras moving to scene 41 B now."

The film crew began to hurry in and move sets, cameras and equipment around on the sound stage. Diane Taylor reached down and helped up the Ninja she had just knocked to the ground. The one that had died on his own poisoned blade stood and dusted himself off, smiling as he did so.

"Great job, Diane. You've really got that spin kick down," the first man said as they walked off the set together. The Ninja pulled off his mask to reveal his red hair and freckles.

"Thanks, Phil. You're a great teacher," Diane replied as she looked down slightly on the two men. She was nearly 6 feet tall and both of the stuntmen were two or three inches shorter.

"Yeah, that was great. I thought you were actually going to get me with that last move," the other Ninja chimed in as he too began taking off his costume, breaking the image of the Japanese Ninja and reinforcing the unreality of the movie business. "Made a believer out of me."

"Thanks, guys. That means a lot," she responded, a little embarrassed at the compliments, but thrilled just the same. "This action stuff is new to me. I need all the help I can get. You're the best."

The two men headed toward their trailer to get cleaned up and change clothes for the next stunt they would have to stage. Diane moved off toward her own trailer, only to be joined by her agent.

"Di, that was great. You looked great. The camera just loves you," the agent said. "Now look, honey, I've got a couple of things lined up for you. It's been a couple weeks since anyone heard anything about you. If we're going to catch this right, we need some major media coverage to keep the attention on you."

Diane remained quiet as she opened the door to the trailer and entered. She slumped down in a chair and suddenly, she felt very tired. She was only in her mid-20s, but her schedule and the pressures of being constantly on display got to her after a while.

"I understand what you're trying to do for me, Ann, but you promised me some time off," Diane complained. "I need a break. I've been working sixty and seventy hours a week on this movie, and then making public appearances. I'm tired. I need some time for me."

"That's why this opportunity is great. I've lined up an interview with _World Magazine_. The interview is in about a week, but they want to send out the photographer ahead of time to spend a few days following you around," Ann replied, attempting to smooth the feathers of her latest discovery. She knew Hollywood talent could be high strung and very high maintenance. That wasn't the case with Diane. She rarely complained, applied herself to her work and focused her energy. For her to complain, Ann knew it must be real, not just more acting.

Still, the agent knew from experience that this was a critical time for Diane. She couldn't get overexposed—like too many other young stars with their personal problems and temper-tantrums or drug and weight problems—but she had to stay in the public eye. "Look, honey, this'll be a great time to show the world how Diane Taylor relaxes. Do whatever you want, but the photographer goes with you."

"If you say so, Ann. What do you want me to do?" Diane asked.

"Do something exciting. You like to dive, right? Go diving for a couple days," Ann responded, trying to find a way to make this a positive situation. "Does the photographer dive?" Diane wondered out loud. "No clue. I don't even know who they'll send."

## CHAPTER TWO

##

The dive shop was clean and neat, although fairly small. It was apparent it was a new business. Everything, including the shelves themselves, and what was on them was brand-new. Nothing appeared worn or dusty.

Like many dive operations, the staff relaxed in the back after closing. The main business was running the charter operation, so all three were tired from running the boat and taking care of customers and passengers. It could be demanding to be ready before the sun came up, prepared for a two-hour boat ride, then make everyone comfortable and organize the diving; only to finish the day with another couple hours on the boat riding back to the dock, before cleaning it up to do it all over again.

The staff at this particular dive operation prided itself on going the extra mile for clients. In the few short months since the shop opened its doors, the three owners had already developed a reputation with local divers for providing exemplary customer service. They specialized in small groups, so their boat was never crowded. Anything they could do for a client they would do, as long as it was legal, of course. They charged extra for the extra service, but many divers were willing to pay for it. They wanted to be taken care of and this dive operation was the best at doing that.

It simply turned out that the extra steps these three men took to accommodate their passengers also worked to their advantage. Beyond running a dive charter operation, they were doing things on their boat they didn't want anyone else to see. By being quiet and secretive—by staying out of the way of the divers on board—they could take care of their own business and the passengers thought they were just being respectful. The charter operation was simply a cover. It gave the men an opportunity to do what they needed to do without anyone else catching on.

None of the men were from California. All three spoke with a flat dialect that directed listeners to somewhere in the Midwestern United States. That, however, was not all that unusual as southern California has always attracted people from all over the country to come there and take their shot. All three men were as physically nondescript as their voices implied—average in both height and weight. None was particularly muscular and none was particular thin or fat. In fact there was very little to distinguish any of them.

The man who chose them for this assignment picked them for that reason. They needed the ability to blend in. They shouldn't look different, nor be memorable. He had also picked them from the under-educated and disaffected lower classes. They were the easiest to control. But to help them fit in, he also had to teach them proper grammar, etiquette and customer service—like at the best finishing schools. The men spoke formally or uncomfortably as they chose their words.

"Every day we go through this, I love this plan more and more. We get to use their own inflated egos against them," Lee said with a wave of his arm around the room. "We make them feel like they are special and charge more for it. They want their privacy and they give us the perfect cover to do what we want."

"Too true, my friend. It gives us the perfect excuse to avoid attention," Darryl replied. "They are paying us to bring about their own destruction. This is the greatest idea ever. And the best part is, we're actually making money at this. The old man sent us here with enough money to do what we needed to do, but we'll be able to send most of it back and use it for other projects. We can use this again wherever God send us next."

"The funniest part of this whole thing is that their own obsessive need for security doesn't extend to hardworking business people who enter and exit the harbor every day," Lee replied with a laugh.

"If they stopped every boat coming in and out of the harbor, they would never get anything done," Jack joined in. "It just makes our life easier."

****

Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport was always busy. A saying went that if you're going to Heaven from the East Coast, you have to go through Atlanta to get there. While that wasn't entirely true, it didn't seem that far off the mark to Mike Scott, judging from the diversity of people around him.

He was on the last leg of his trip home from Mexico covering the antiterrorist team, waiting for his flight back to the Raleigh-Durham airport. From there, he would jump in his old Jeep CJ-7 and drive to his beach house in Manteo, North Carolina. It was time for a well-deserved break.

Mike entertained himself by watching other travelers in the airport, trying to guess the reason they were going wherever they were headed. His cell phone rang. He had almost forgotten about it. It didn't work in Mexico, so he had been without a phone for a couple weeks. He hadn't missed it.

He took the device off of his belt and looked at the display window. It was his editor calling.

"So, you got the images of the antiterrorist team? Pretty good stuff, huh? I think the final images from the takedown in the hall and immediately afterward are pretty powerful," Mike said into the phone without preamble.

"Hi, Mike. Welcome back. You're right, as always. Those are the most dramatic images and that's exactly what we've already decided to lead with for the next issue. Good job," the editor replied.

"Thanks, Leo, I appreciate that," Mike said. "It's nice to be back in the United States, though, and I'm really looking forward to getting home."

"About that, Mike, I'd like you to take a little detour on the way home for just a couple days. It will be a quick assignment, I promise," the editor asked, hoping the photographer wouldn't completely rebel.

"Look, Leo, I'm due for a break. I've been on this assignment a month. I need some time at home on my couch. I want to dig my toes in the sand, drink a beer from the brewery down the street and watch the waves roll up the beach," Mike replied, getting a little tense, sitting up straighter in his seat and gripping the phone a little tighter.

"Mike, I'm sorry and I wouldn't ask this if I weren't really up against it, but the bosses above me really want this story. They're chasing some different demographics for the magazine and this is the only week it can be done. I don't have anyone else to turn to. I really could use your help," the editor explained.

Mike's shoulders slumped before he responded. He knew he had already lost. In truth, the editor was very fair with him and gave him a lot of latitude to pursue his stories. Every once in a while he had to give something back. Recognizing that this was one of those times, he asked his next question. "What's the job?"

"Mike, we need someone to take some feature photos of Diane Taylor. I know you don't watch much TV or go to many movies, but she's a rising star out in Hollywood," Leo answered, bracing for the reaction he knew would come.

"You want me to go to L.A. to photograph some spoiled starlet? She's probably some high-maintenance twit who will only let me shoot her from a certain angle under special lighting conditions," Mike growled. "What happened to Randy? He usually does these assignments. He actually likes L.A."

"He was headed out there, I promise, but then he got sick. Turns out his appendix needed to come out, immediately," Leo explained. "He'll be laid up at home for another week or so and then on limited duty for another couple. Look, you know I hate to ask you to do this, and I wouldn't do it if I had any other alternative, but please do this for me. Call it a personal favor if you want. I'll owe you one."

"Oh, that's pretty bad," Mike replied. "I hope he gets better. Look, if I take this, when I'm finished, I'm taking a month off. I mean it. You can bet you'll owe me one and you can make an even stronger bet that I'll cash it in—and soon."

"Absolutely, Mike. I understand and I won't ask you to take any more assignments for a month. I am writing it into my schedule right now," the editor replied, the sounds of scribbling actually audible over the phone.

Mike immediately began issuing instructions. "All right. You'll need to ship me some extra digital memory cards and some extra gear. And have someone rebook my tickets. I'll go straight there, but I don't want to deal with it."

"Don't worry about it, Mike. I've already taken care of everything," Leo said before he realized what a mistake he had just made.

"You've already done it?" Mike barked into the phone, his face turning red. "Glad I had a choice in this one. We'll talk about that next time I see you," he growled as he angrily slapped his phone shut and continued to grumble to himself. "I can't believe. Of all the...when this one is over, I'm gonna..."

Mike got up to check the ticket counter and see when his new flight left and where he needed to go. He hoped he had time for a good meal. He hadn't planned on eating in Atlanta, but now he wanted to find an expensive dinner he could put on his expense account. He figured Leo owed him that much. He knew the man wouldn't question it.

****

In six days, it would be the tenth anniversary of Runyan's new life— the day when his old "new" life had ended. He planned to make a big splash in its honor.

That day 10 years before had begun much like any other day for most other working stiffs. He had been out of jail for six months and was getting by, working odd jobs and trying to pull his life together. He had served his time for armed robbery—knocking off a liquor store to get cash for some of his other bad habits—and now he was back on the streets. He had found religion in prison. While he didn't really believe the whole process, the prison chaplain had been helpful to him finding work and a place to stay once he was released. The chaplain only worked part-time at the prison. The rest of the time, he led an inner-city church where he helped newly-released convicts get their lives in order.

For that, if nothing else, he was willing to put up with mouthing some words each week and helping the man clean up the church from time to time. It looked good to his parole officer that he was willing to volunteer his time. Besides, the guy was a veteran, just like Runyan, and there was some faithfulness to other people who had served in uniform—especially those who had seen combat.

Arriving at his day job, things went downhill quickly. As he walked in the door, fifteen minutes late, again, Runyan's boss yelled for him. The small Asian man had beady eyes, Runyan thought, and compensated for his size by bellowing a lot.

"Ike, you white scum. I gave you a chance. I gave you several chances, as a matter-of-fact, but I'm out of gifts for you. I'm going to let you go. I've got ten illegal Mexicans lined up who will work for half of what I pay you and I promise you, they won't show up late. They'll be here on time," the man had said. "And they can't complain about how I treat them, either."

That was how Runyan recalled the conversation anyway. Runyan had yelled back at the man, calling him names and threatening him, until some of the other workers there—Mexicans, blacks, and Asians—had stepped in. He left the auto shop angry at everyone around him. Walking the streets of the city, the old angers and urges started coming back to him—the very thoughts that got him in trouble in the first place.

Nearing the end of the day, Runyan had avoided getting himself in trouble so far. There were two reasons. One, he thought the chaplain at the church might be able to help him out again and two, there was a woman.

She wasn't the sort of woman Runyan would have met under any other circumstances. She didn't drink, smoke, do drugs or dance in a bar. She was nice, sweet and dedicated to the men at the church. She was, in fact, the daughter of the chaplain and helped out wherever she could.

Runyan couldn't take his eyes off of her, although he really didn't know how to talk to her. She was nice to him, but they didn't have a relationship.

Standing on the front steps of the church, Runyan hadn't gone in to tell the chaplain what had happened. He was slightly ashamed. Then he saw her, the chaplain's daughter, standing at the street corner. He stopped and stared. As she started to move, Runyan resolved that he was going to talk to her. He wanted to ask her out—for coffee, maybe a movie. Runyan called to her and waved. She looked his direction— away from the intersection—and waved back.

It all happened in an instant. The car blew through the red light, its lights flashing and horn honking. In spite of the noise and attempted signals, the girl didn't see it coming. She was waving at Runyan. He would never forget her face.

Runyan ran to the car. It finally stopped fifty feet later, with the girl pinned below. She was killed instantly. Runyan was in a blind rage when he got to the scene. He tried to pull the girl out, but quickly realized it was impossible. He stood up and wrenched the car door open. He grabbed the driver and pulled him out of his seat.

Without thinking about his actions, Runyan threw the man to the ground and began beating him. Three minutes later, when the police arrived, the driver was already dead, but Runyan kept pounding away at the driver's head. The first cop on the scene tackled him. It took two others to join in and completely subdue Runyan. Struggling, lying on the ground, the cop's Irish accent stuck in Runyan's mind and his Catholic St. Christopher medal hung down, hitting Runyan in the face. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the cross of the church. Lights and sirens blotted out everything else for him.

It turned out later, that the car had lost its brakes and couldn't stop as it came down the hill to the intersection. The old Jewish man behind the wheel had tried to stop while warning others out of his way.

Runyan went back to prison. All he could remember later from the day was the Asian man who started his troubles, the Mexicans and Black who had stolen his job, the Jewish man who killed the woman he loved and the Catholic man who had arrested him. Returning to prison, Runyan's hatred and anger festered like a wound on his soul. He quickly began developing his own religion of hatred.

****

Six hours after the phone conversation in Atlanta, but only three according to the clock, Mike Scott walked in the front door of the Jamison Hotel in Los Angeles like he knew exactly where he was...because he did. While he rarely photographed the entertainment industry, it didn't mean there weren't loads of stories in the City of Angels. He had been there many times before and had stayed in this same hotel on several occasions.

With his camera bag and computer over opposite shoulders, Mike walked up to the front desk to check in and immediately addressed the clerk at the counter.

"Hi. I'm Mike Scott. My magazine made a reservation for me," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Scott. Good to see you again. It's been awhile since you stayed with us, but we always appreciate our repeat customers," the clerk said professionally. While he didn't personally recognize Mike, his database told him Mike was a repeat customer.

"Nothing personal, but I'd rather be at home," Mike replied, somewhat gruffly, but he chuckled and had half a smile on his face to show the clerk that he wasn't mad at him.

"If there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please let me know. Here's your room key. A package was delivered for you. I'll have it sent to your room. Also, I have a note here for you. I believe it's from the person you have been contracted to meet," the clerk explained.

Mike opened up the note and quickly scanned it.

To: Mike Scott, guest at the Jamison Hotel

From: Diane Taylor

Please meet me tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. at the Longboard Coffee Shop in Santa Monica.

After realizing what it was, he folded it up and tucked it into this pocket. He got serious for a second.

"I understand you make it your business to know what your clients are doing so you can offer them assistance, but please don't reveal that I'm here to meet to anyone. I'd rather not have to fend off the paparazzi while I'm trying to do my job, if you don't mind," Mike said sternly.

"Please forgive me, sir. I took the message and was merely attempting to prepare you for the note. Privacy is our strictest policy here. The hotel pays me well enough that I would never be tempted to reveal any information to the press," the clerk said.

"Fine, and thank you for understanding. I believe you," Mike said, relaxing. "I'm sorry. I'm just not thrilled about this assignment and don't want it to get any weirder than I expect it to be."

Making money isn't why I watch the guests in this hotel, the clerk thought as Mike turned to go.

****

After traveling from Mexico to Atlanta, and then from Atlanta to California, Mike was exhausted. He went straight to his room. He barely noticed the room service he ordered and ate before he fell into bed. He was glad his subject hadn't wanted to meet or he never would have made it.

Santa Monica, where Diane lived, was right next door to the city of Los Angeles, but in some ways it was a world apart. While it was a thriving city that melded directly into its larger cousin, the pace was a little bit slower. There were more places to walk and relax and less of a car culture than in LA. The beaches were wide and flat and were groomed nightly to keep them pristine for visitors.

Walking along the boardwalk the next morning, before most of the beach-goers had shown up, Mike finally spotted the outdoor café he was looking for. The Santa Monica Pier, with its amusement rides and Ferris wheel out over the water reflected the morning sunlight in the distance. The café looked like any one of a thousand different places in the city, offering designer coffee and juice drinks. Mike immediately saw three young, attractive women seated around a table and assumed one of them must be Diane Taylor, the actor he was there to meet. They were all three busily talking to each other. All three also had mobile phones out and were carrying on conversations through their phones, as well. Mike wondered briefly if they weren't actually talking to each other on the phone attempting to look important.

Mike hadn't spent a lot of time following the popular media over the last several years. He spent most of his time chasing stories from war zone to foreign country to middle America, covering the news in his own fashion. Aside from spending time in hotels, he rarely sat around. Even when he was home, Mike spent his free time diving on the wrecks off the North Carolina coast, playing with his dog, or reading books. Watching TV was not a major draw for him. Because of that, he really didn't know who Diane Taylor was or what she looked like. The staff at the magazine hadn't had a chance, or hadn't thought, to send him a photo. His editor probably assumed everyone would know what she looked like.

Standing tableside for a moment, waiting for one of the women to notice him, Mike grew impatient and said, a bit too loudly, "Excuse me. I'm looking for Diane Taylor."

One of the women looked up at him, appalled that he had interrupted their conversations.

"Sorry. That isn't any of us," the woman replied with a haughty tone. She quickly turned her back on him, in an abrupt move of dismissal.

Annoyed, Mike walked over to an empty table and sat down. He was tired and not in the mood for games. One of his bad habits was talking to himself when he was frustrated and it was coming out now. He grumbled away for a few minutes staring off into space. In his own little world of aggravation, he didn't notice the young woman in a tank top and board shorts who had come over and sat down at his table. She had a ball cap on her head and her hair was pulled through the opening in the back.

"You must be Mike. I'm Diane," she said smiling with a twinkle in her eye. She extended her hand across the table. "Do you always do that?"

"Well, you aren't what I expected. You look more like a surfer than a starlet. And do what?" he asked, caught off-guard and somewhat amused at the interruption and the situation.

"Come on. No one uses that phrase any more. I'm an actor. Not really a surfer, either, although I try. These clothes are comfortable and I live close to here. You never know when it might be in my best interest to blend in. Plus it helps me live my life and go to the store without being recognized," Diane replied. "And I was referring to you talking to yourself."

"Ahh. That. Yeah, I guess I do talk to myself when I get fed up or aggravated. Don't worry, though, when I'm really mad, I get very quiet," Mike explained.

"I'll remember that," the woman laughed as a wisp of her long auburn hair fell in her face after pulling loose from her ponytail. "You almost blew it for me over there, by the way. Fortunately, those women didn't even listen to you."

"How's that?" Mike asked, growing serious.

"I like to be anonymous. If they'd paid attention to you, it might have gotten out that I live around here and hang out down here at the beach. Then photographers would be chasing me down. I just hate photographers," Diane said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Nothing personal."

"No offense taken," Mike said reeling slightly from this meeting. It wasn't going how he had expected it to go at all. He was having a normal conversation. "So you said you try to surf. Are you a local?"

"Nah, not at all. These guys gave me a job when I moved here from West Virginia. I was the standard story, I guess. I did well in local dramas, and then got a few small parts in New York so I packed up my bags and came out here to give it my shot. I still help out around the shop from time to time," Diane explained. "You know, keeping my day job."

"You're from West Virginia? That's pretty amazing. So am I. Haven't been back there in a while, but I'm from Charleston," Mike replied, very surprised. The state was small and mostly rural. For the two of them to meet up in L.A. was somewhat ironic, even though he was several years older than Diane.

"I'm from Sistersville up along the Ohio River. Beautiful place to be from," she said, laughing.

"Well, Diane. Nice to meet you. I'm guessing you don't want me to ruin your cover by photographing you here on the beach then. What else do you do? How do you want me to show the real you?" Mike said to focus the conversation back on why he was there. Suddenly, he was beginning to feel very chummy and comfortable with this girl. Given his last romantic debacle, he quickly shifted gears and went into professional mode.

"The real me?" she said with a laugh. "I'd hardly want published pictures of that."

For some reason this seemed like an odd thing for the young woman to say, but Mike wasn't sure why.

"Sometimes, I go jogging at the Hollywood Reservoir. It's a lake built up in the hills that looks down on North Hollywood. It's a great place to escape, right in the city. It actually reminds me of home a little bit. Nice trees and the lake itself is pretty peaceful. Other than that, about every morning I take a walk here on the beach to start my day, unless I have to be on a movie set, of course. But, you know what I would really like to do for a few days?"

"What's that?" Mike asked cautiously, looking around at his surroundings a bit. He was a little wary about what he could be getting into. Especially considering her comment about the "real her." His mind switched into overdrive as he ran through the possible list of options; from endless shopping trips to more sinister things. Therefore, he was pleasantly surprised when she said...

"Scuba diving. I want to get out to Catalina and spend some time flying through the kelp. I need to decompress a little bit. Please tell me you dive? That would be perfect," Diane said, with the slightest bit of desperation in her voice.

The pleasant surprise buried Mike's suspicions and reservations about this assignment and raised humor in its place.

"Can't do it. I get deathly sick even looking at boats," Mike replied, doing his best to hold a straight face. He was a dive instructor, an avid wreck diver and a former underwater photo pro. He had worked on Grand Cayman at Sunset House several years before deciding he preferred to photograph people instead of fish and returned to the world of news photography. He had recently had an underwater adventure there of his own, but that was a different story.

"Oh. That's terrible. Well, how about..." Diane responded, trying to be sympathetic, but not doing too well. Mike could see the disappointment evident on her face.

"Sorry. I can't do it," Mike burst out laughing. "I don't know you well enough yet to play games. I'm a diver. I've been diving for years. Even worked as an underwater photographer."

"Okay. I can tell you're going to be trouble," she said as she threw a wadded-up paper towel at him. "You've got plenty of experience on me. I just finished my rescue diver class a few months ago but haven't been diving since then. It was a lot of fun, but a lot of work too. Pretty rewarding experience."

"I was a dive instructor when I worked in the islands, mainly so I could teach underwater photography classes. I haven't been active in a few years. You're right about the rescue class, though. It's a lot of work, but a lot of fun, too," Mike explained further. "Listen, I have some friends out here. I can borrow an underwater housing for my camera and get some real action shots as well. I'll find us a local dive boat. Give me your cell number and I'll call you later today with the details."

"Sure. That'd be great. Counting you, we'll need three spots on the boat. I have a friend I want to bring along," Diane said as she took out her pen and scribbled down the number on another napkin on the table. "He took the rescue course with me. Actually, it would probably be best to charter the whole boat. We can set our own pace and avoid hassles that way."

"I assume this is a boyfriend. Is he fair game for the camera, or should I try to avoid getting him in the pictures to avoid rumors?" Mike queried, feeling a little bit let down at the prospect of sharing Diane with another man and not knowing why. He had, after all, just met the woman.

"Nope. Sorry to disappoint you, but most guys can't handle my career," she explained, ruefully, with a shake of her head. "They don't tend to make it very long. This friend loves me like a sister. Actually, we are sisters."

"But I thought you just said your friend was a he," Mike said, confused. "Oh. Forget I asked."

"Like I said, we're sisters," she explained, laughing. "Sometimes, I think he has better fashion sense than I do."

"Fair enough. Hmmm....," Mike said, scratching his chin and brightening a bit. "Spending a couple days diving and making a few pictures. And getting paid for it. This might actually be a fun assignment after all," his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, I'm glad I can make things bearable for you," Diane replied.

****

After making some other arrangements, Mike began looking into charter boats for the next couple of days with Diane. Contrary to how he felt just a few hours earlier, he was in a good mood. He was actually whistling as he walked, although he wasn't even aware of it.

Instead of just making phone calls, Mike decided to go check out a few of the operations and their boats in person. While it took more time and was less efficient, he knew that not all dive boats were created equal. He needed space to move around and wanted a solid, comfortable boat. It was only going to be three of them, but it didn't matter. He didn't want to reserve a boat, only to find out it was a floating rust bucket.

The Port of Los Angeles, commonly referred to as L.A. Harbor was in San Pedro Bay twenty miles south of downtown Los Angeles. The port encompassed more than 7500 acres and had more than forty-three miles of waterfront with twenty-six cargo terminals. Different sections of the harbor accommodated different types of boating and commercial traffic. Some areas support container ships or tankers and one entire section provided dock space for cruise ships. Smaller sections provide slips and marinas for fishing boats and other charter operations, like dive boats. Originally built for commercial vessels, the original roadway was elevated well above the water level. The marinas that provide space for the smaller passenger vessels have docks built down the water's edge. Surrounding those docks, there are small shops, boating stores and dive businesses that handle the business end of sending out the boats—collecting money and providing rental gear. Mike walked into the first few operations he had checked out in the phone book and online.

"Hello, sir. How can I help you?" the man behind the counter greeted Mike as he walked in. Pleasantly surprised at the greeting and attention to service, Mike didn't waste any time getting to the point. The shop itself was open and brightly lit, just like a dive shop should be. Mike could tell the staff members took great pride in presenting themselves professionally. The man was of average height and build, sandy brown hair and average looking— _just like half of southern California_ , Mike thought to himself with a smirk.

"I'm interested in chartering a dive boat for the next few days. There will only be three divers, but I want to reserve the entire boat. Are you available?, uh, Darryl?" Mike asked as he looked down at the man's nametag, fully aware that it was a somewhat unusual request and very last-minute.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we're not available. I've already got passengers booked for each of the next few days. My on-board air compressor is also broken at the moment, so I have to carry tanks for every dive, but that wouldn't matter with such a small group," the man explained.

"Ahhh. That's too bad," Mike replied, and turned to leave. "Well, I appreciate your time."

"You might want to check with Kelp Fish Divers down the street. They have a very nice boat," Darryl said. "Their owner just told me they lost a charter for the next couple days. It may work out that they are available."

"Hey, thanks for the tip," Mike smiled. As he headed for the door, Mike nearly tripped over a dive gear bag on the floor.

"Sorry about that sir," the counter man said to Mike. Then he turned to snap at another staff member, and the only other person in the store at that time. "I told you to move that bag."

"No problem," Mike said, addressing the second man in the shop and trying to diffuse the situation. He could sense some real underlying tension, but wasn't sure what was causing it. "Looks like you got some mud on your gear. Where've you been diving?"

"I've been doing some freshwater diving at a reservoir in Hollywood. We were doing some training," the man said nervously. He quickly picked up the gear bag and carried it to the back room. As the man opened the door to the back room, Mike saw a third man stacking scuba cylinders onto a cart. One of the tanks made a dull thud instead of a clank.

Mike paused for a second. There was something odd and out of place about the dive operation, but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"Sorry about the mess, sir. We just got back from running a charter for the day and Lee and Jack are putting away the gear. It is just the three of us here and we take turns running the shop and the boat for the day. If you ever get a chance to come back or want another private charter, please stop by. We would love to take care of you," Darryl said, doing his best to ensure repeat business.

"Sounds like a lot of work for the three of you, but good luck at it. Well, thanks anyway," Mike said, still somewhat puzzled about the strange impression he got from the place. Everything was in order, and was, generally speaking, more professionally run than many dive operations he had been in, but there also seemed to be something not quite right as well.

As Mike stepped back into the bright California sunshine, the man called after him "Like I said, check with Kelp Fish Divers down the street. I think they can help you," the man called, almost too happy and eager to make a good impression.

##

## Download **Flooding Hollywood: Fanatics at the Dam** to keep up with the next Mike Scott thriller.

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## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eric Douglas spent his childhood Sunday nights watching "The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau" and dreamed of diving alongside the Captain. He became a diver, and then a dive instructor, meeting his goals and pursuing a life of adventure and travel.

Through his fictional works, Eric takes readers on adventures of their own. His stories have everything thriller junkies crave; action, adventure and intrigue, set against a backdrop of beautiful locations, the ocean and the environment, and scuba diving. The fast-paced stories are exciting, but Eric also hopes to inspire future generations of explorers and adventurers like Cousteau did for him.

After completing a program at the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University, Eric jumped into documentary work, creating nonfiction works on lobster divers, war veterans, and cancer survivors.

Eric talks about adventure and taking time to be creative, along with diving and writing, on his blog at www.booksbyeric.com. He would love it if you dropped by to say hello.

You can also follow him on Twitter, get in touch on Facebook or through  Google+. Lastly, you can always send him an email: eric@booksbyeric.com

Mike Scott Adventures

  * Cayman Cowboys

  * Flooding Hollywood

  * Guardians' Keep

  * Wreck of the Huron

  * Heart of the Maya

  * Return to Cayman: Paradise Held Hostage

  * Oil and Water

  * The 3rd Key: Sharks in the Water

  * Turks and Chaos: Hostile Waters

  * Water Crisis: Day Zero

Children's Books

  * Sea Turtle Rescue and Other Stories

Withrow Key Short Stories

  * Tales from Withrow Key: Eight Thriller Short Stories from the Florida Keys

  * Lyin' Fish

Non-fiction

  * Dive-abled: The Leo Morales Story

  * Heart Survivor: Recovery After Heart Surgery

  * Capturing Memories: How to Record Oral Histories

  * Keep on, Keepin' on: A Breast Cancer Survivor Story

  * Common Valor: Companion to the multimedia documentary West Virginia Voices of War

  * Russia: The New Age

  * Scuba Diving Safety

Other books:

  * River Town

## 
